# The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll

The Dresden Edition, twelve volumes, complete.

Published by C. P. Farrell, New York, 1900–1902.

Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/

177 works total. Run `pandoc dresden-complete.md -o dresden.epub` (or `-o dresden.pdf`) to convert this single file into the ebook or print format of your choice.

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# About Farming in Illinois
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1877_
I AM not an old and experienced farmer, nor a tiller of the soil, nor
one of the hard-handed sons of labor. I imagine, however, that I know
something about cultivating the soil, and getting happiness out of the
ground.

I know enough to know that agriculture is the basis of all wealth,
prosperity and luxury. I know that in a country where the tillers of the
fields are free, everybody is free and ought to be prosperous. Happy is
that country where those who cultivate the land own it. Patriotism is
born in the woods and fields—by lakes and streams—by crags and plains.

The old way of farming was a great mistake. Everything was done the
wrong way. It was all work and waste, weariness and want. They used
to fence a hundred and sixty acres of land with a couple of dogs.
Everything was left to the protection of the blessed trinity of chance,
accident and mistake.

When I was a farmer they used to haul wheat two hundred miles in wagons
and sell it for thirty-five cents a bushel. They would bring home about
three hundred feet of lumber, two bunches of shingles, a barrel of salt,
and a cook-stove that never would draw and never did bake.

In those blessed days the people lived on corn and bacon. Cooking was
an unknown art. Eating was a necessity, not a pleasure. It was hard work
for the cook to keep on good terms even with hunger.

We had poor houses. The rain held the roofs in perfect contempt, and
the snow drifted joyfully on the floors and beds. They had no barns. The
horses were kept in rail pens surrounded with straw. Long before spring
the sides would be eaten away and nothing but roofs would be left. Food
is fuel. When the cattle were exposed to all the blasts of winter, it
took all the corn and oats that could be stuffed into them to prevent
actual starvation.

In those times most farmers thought the best place for the pig-pen was
immediately in front of the house. There is nothing like sociability.

Women were supposed to know the art of making fires without fuel. The
wood pile consisted, as a general thing, of one log upon which an axe or
two had been worn out in vain. There was nothing to kindle a fire with.
Pickets were pulled from the garden fence, clap-boards taken from the
house, and every stray plank was seized upon for kindling. Everything
was done in the hardest way. Everything about the farm was disagreeable.
Nothing was kept in order. Nothing was preserved. The wagons stood
in the sun and rain, and the plows rusted in the fields. There was
no leisure, no feeling that the work was done. It was all labor and
weariness and vexation of spirit. The crops were destroyed by wandering
herds, or they were put in too late, or too early, or they were blown
down, or caught by the frost, or devoured by bugs, or stung by flies,
or eaten by worms, or carried away by birds, or dug up by gophers, or
washed away by floods, or dried up by the sun, or rotted in the stack,
or heated in the crib, or they all run to vines, or tops, or straw, or
smut, or cobs. And when in spite of all these accidents that lie in wait
between, the plow and the reaper, they did succeed in raising a good
crop and a high price was offered, then the roads would be impassable.
And when the roads got good, then the prices went down. Everything
worked together for evil.

Nearly every farmer's boy took an oath that he never would cultivate
the soil. The moment they arrived at the age of twenty-one they left
the desolate and dreary farms and rushed to the towns and cities. They
wanted to be bookkeepers, doctors, merchants, railroad men, insurance
agents, lawyers, even preachers, anything to avoid the drudgery of the
farm. Nearly every boy acquainted with the three R's—reading, writing,
and arithmetic—imagined that he had altogether more education than
ought to be wasted in raising potatoes and corn. They made haste to get
into some other business. Those who stayed upon the farm envied those
who went away.

A few years ago the times were prosperous, and the young men went to the
cities to enjoy the fortunes that were waiting for them. They wanted to
engage in something that promised quick returns. They built railways,
established banks and insurance companies. They speculated in stocks
in Wall Street, and gambled in grain at Chicago. They became rich.
They lived in palaces. They rode in carriages. They pitied their poor
brothers on the farms, and the poor brothers envied them.

But time has brought its revenge. The farmers have seen the railroad
president a bankrupt, and the road in the hands of a receiver. They have
seen the bank president abscond, and the insurance company a wrecked and
ruined fraud. The only solvent people, as a class, the only independent
people, are the tillers of the soil.

Farming must be made more attractive. The comforts of the town must be
added to the beauty of the fields. The sociability of the city must be
rendered possible in the country.

Farming has been made repulsive. The farmers have been unsociable and
their homes have been lonely. They have been wasteful and careless. They
have not been proud of their business.

In the first place, farming ought to be reasonably profitable. The
farmers have not attended to their own interests. They have been robbed
and plundered in a hundred ways.

No farmer can afford to raise corn and oats and hay to sell. He should
sell horses, not oats; sheep, cattle and pork, not corn. He should make
every profit possible out of what he produces. So long as the farmers of
Illinois ship their corn and oats, so long they will be poor,—just so
long will their farms be mortgaged to the insurance companies and banks
of the East,—just so long will they do the work and others reap the
benefit,—just so long will they be poor, and the money lenders grow
rich,—just so long will cunning avarice grasp and hold the net profits
of honest toil. When the farmers of the West ship beef and pork instead
of grain,—when we manufacture here,—when we cease paying tribute to
others, ours will be the most prosperous country in the world.

Another thing—It is just as cheap to raise a good as a poor breed of
cattle. Scrubs will eat just as much as thoroughbreds. If you are not
able to buy Durhams and Alderneys, you can raise the corn breed. By
"corn breed" I mean the cattle that have, for several generations, had
enough to eat, and have been treated with kindness. Every farmer who
will treat his cattle kindly, and feed them all they want, will, in a
few years, have blooded stock on his farm. All blooded stock has been
produced in this way. You can raise good cattle just as you can raise
good people. If you wish to raise a good boy you must give him plenty to
eat, and treat him with kindness. In this way, and in this way only, can
good cattle or good people be produced.

Another thing—You must beautify your homes.

When I was a farmer it was not fashionable to set out trees, nor to
plant vines.

When you visited the farm you were not welcomed by flowers, and greeted
by trees loaded with fruit. Yellow dogs came bounding over the tumbled
fence like wild beasts. There is no sense—there is no profit in such a
life. It is not living. The farmers ought to beautify their homes. There
should be trees and grass and flowers and running vines. Everything
should be kept in order—gates should be on their hinges, and about all
there should be the pleasant air of thrift. In every house there should
be a bath-room. The bath is a civilizer, a refiner, a beautifier.
When you come from the fields tired, covered with dust, nothing is so
refreshing. Above all things, keep clean. It is not necessary to be a
pig in order to raise one. In the cool of the evening, after a day in
the field, put on clean clothes, take a seat under the trees, 'mid the
perfume of flowers, surrounded by your family, and you will know what it
is to enjoy life like a gentleman.

In no part of the globe will farming pay better than in Illinois. You
are in the best portion of the earth. From the Atlantic to the Pacific,
there is no such country as yours. The East is hard and stony; the
soil is stingy. The far West is a desert parched and barren, dreary and
desolate as perdition would be with the fires out. It is better to dig
wheat and corn from the soil than gold. Only a few days ago, I was where
they wrench the precious metals from the miserly clutch of the rocks.
When I saw the mountains, treeless, shrub-less, flowerless, without even
a spire of grass, it seemed to me that gold had the same effect upon
the country that holds it, as upon the man who lives and labors only for
that. It affects the land as it does the man. It leaves the heart barren
without a flower of kindness—without a blossom of pity.

The farmer in Illinois has the best soil—the greatest return for the
least labor—more leisure—more time for enjoyment than any other
farmer in the world. His hard work ceases with autumn. He has the long
winters in which to become acquainted with his family—with his
neighbors—in which to read and keep abreast with the advanced thought
of his day. He has the time and means for self-culture. He has more time
than the mechanic, the merchant or the professional man. If the farmer
is not well informed it is his own fault. Books are cheap, and every
farmer can have enough to give him the outline of every science, and an
idea of all that has been accomplished by man.

In many respects the farmer has the advantage of the mechanic. In our
time we have plenty of mechanics but no tradesmen. In the sub-division
of labor we have a thousand men working upon different parts of the same
thing, each taught in one particular branch, and in only one. We have,
say, in a shoe factory, hundreds of men, but not one shoemaker. It takes
them all, assisted by a great number of machines, to make a shoe. Each
does a particular part, and not one of them knows the entire trade. The
result is that the moment the factory shuts down these men are out of
employment. Out of employment means out of bread—out of bread means
famine and horror. The mechanic of to-day has but little independence.
His prosperity often depends upon the good will of one man. He is liable
to be discharged for a look, for a word. He lays by but little for his
declining years. He is, at the best, the slave of capital.

It is a thousand times better to be a whole farmer than part of a
mechanic. It is better to till the ground and work for yourself than
to be hired by corporations. Every man should endeavor to belong to
himself.

About seven hundred years ago, Khayyam, a Persian, said: "Why should a
man who possesses a piece of bread securing life for two days, and who
has a cup of water—why should such a man be commanded by another, and
why should such a man serve another?"

Young men should not be satisfied with a salary. Do not mortgage the
possibilities of your future. Have the courage to take life as it comes,
feast or famine. Think of hunting a gold mine for a dollar a day, and
think of finding one for another man. How would you feel then?

We are lacking in true courage, when, for fear of the future, we take
the crusts and scraps and niggardly salaries of the present. I had
a thousand times rather have a farm and be independent, than to be
President of the United States without independence, filled with doubt
and trembling, feeling of the popular pulse, resorting to art and
artifice, enquiring about the wind of opinion, and succeeding at last in
losing my self-respect without gaining the respect of others.

Man needs more manliness, more real independence. We must take care of
ourselves. This we can do by labor, and in this way we can preserve our
independence. We should try and choose that business or profession the
pursuit of which will give us the most happiness. Happiness is wealth.
We can be happy without being rich—without holding office—without
being famous. I am not sure that we can be happy with wealth, with
office, or with fame.

There is a quiet about the life of a farmer, and the hope of a
serene old age, that no other business or profession can promise. A
professional man is doomed sometime to feel that his powers are waning.
He is doomed to see younger and stronger men pass him in the race of
life. He looks forward to an old age of intellectual mediocrity. He will
be last where once he was the first. But the farmer goes, as it were,
into partnership with nature—he lives with trees and flowers—he
breathes the sweet air of the fields. There is no constant and frightful
strain upon his mind. His nights are filled with sleep and rest. He
watches his flocks and herds as they feed upon the green and sunny
slopes. He hears the pleasant rain falling upon the waving corn, and the
trees he planted in youth rustle above him as he plants others for the
children yet to be.

Our country is filled with the idle and unemployed, and the great
question asking for an answer is: What shall be done with these men?
What shall these men do? To this there is but one answer: They must
cultivate the soil. Farming must be rendered more attractive. Those who
work the land must have an honest pride in their business. They must
educate their children to cultivate the soil. They must make farming
easier, so that their children will not hate it—so that they will not
hate it themselves. The boys must not be taught that tilling the ground
is a curse and almost a disgrace. They must not suppose that education
is thrown away upon them unless they become ministers, merchants,
lawyers, doctors, or statesmen. It must be understood that education
can be used to advantage on a farm. We must get rid of the idea that a
little learning unfits one for work. There is no real conflict between
Latin and labor. There are hundreds of graduates of Yale and Harvard
and other colleges, who are agents of sewing machines, solicitors for
insurance, clerks, copyists, in short, performing a hundred varieties of
menial service. They seem willing to do anything that is not regarded as
work—anything that can be done in a town, in the house, in an office,
but they avoid farming as they would a leprosy. Nearly every young man
educated in this way is simply ruined. Such an education ought to be
called ignorance. It is a thousand times better to have common sense
without education, than education without the sense. Boys and girls
should be educated to help themselves. They should be taught that it is
disgraceful to be idle, and dishonorable to be useless.

I say again, if you want more men and women on the farms, something must
be done to make farm life pleasant. One great difficulty is that the
farm is lonely. People write about the pleasures of solitude, but they
are found only in books. He who lives long alone becomes insane. A
hermit is a madman. Without friends and wife and child, there is nothing
left worth living for. The unsocial are the enemies of joy. They are
filled with egotism and envy, with vanity and hatred. People who live
much alone become narrow and suspicious. They are apt to be the property
of one idea. They begin to think there is no use in anything. They look
upon the happiness of others as a kind of folly. They hate joyous folks,
because, way down in their hearts, they envy them.

In our country, farm-life is too lonely. The farms are large, and
neighbors are too far apart. In these days, when the roads are filled
with "tramps," the wives and children need protection. When the farmer
leaves home and goes to some distant field to work, a shadow of fear is
upon his heart all day, and a like shadow rests upon all at home.

In the early settlement of our country the pioneer was forced to take
his family, his axe, his dog and his gun, and go into the far wild
forest, and build his cabin miles and miles from any neighbor. He saw
the smoke from his hearth go up alone in all the wide and lonely sky.

But this necessity has passed away, and now, instead of living so far
apart upon the lonely farms, you should live in villages. With the
improved machinery which you have—with your generous soil—with
your markets and means of transportation, you can now afford to live
together.

It is not necessary in this age of the world for the farmer to rise in
the middle of the night and begin his work. This getting up so early in
the morning is a relic of barbarism. It has made hundreds and thousands
of young men curse the business. There is no need of getting up at three
or four o'clock in the winter morning. The farmer who persists in doing
it and persists in dragging his wife and children from their beds ought
to be visited by a missionary. It is time enough to rise after the sun
has set the example. For what purpose do you get up? To feed the cattle?
Why not feed them more the night before? It is a waste of life. In the
old times they used to get up about three o'clock in the morning, and go
to work long before the sun had risen with "healing upon his wings," and
as a just punishment they all had the ague; and they ought to have it
now. The man who cannot get a living upon Illinois soil without rising
before daylight ought to starve. Eight hours a day is enough for any
farmer to work except in harvest time. When you rise at four and work
till dark what is life worth? Of what use are all the improvements in
farming? Of what use is all the improved machinery unless it tends to
give the farmer a little more leisure? What is harvesting now, compared
with what it was in the old time? Think of the days of reaping, of
cradling, of raking and binding and mowing. Think of threshing with
the flail and winnowing with the wind. And now think of the reapers and
mowers, the binders and threshing machines, the plows and cultivators,
upon which the farmer rides protected from the sun. If, with all these
advantages, you cannot get a living without rising in the middle of the
night, go into some other business. You should not rob your families of
sleep. Sleep is the best medicine in the world. It is the best doctor
upon the earth. There is no such thing as health without plenty of
sleep. Sleep until you are thoroughly rested and restored. When you
work, work; and when you get through take a good, long, and refreshing
rest.

You should live in villages, so that you can have the benefits of social
life. You can have a reading-room—you can take the best papers and
magazines—you can have plenty of books, and each one can have the
benefit of them all. Some of the young men and women can cultivate
music. You can have social gatherings—you can learn from each
other—you can discuss all topics of interest, and in this way you can
make farming a delightful business. You must keep up with the age.
The way to make farming respectable is for farmers to become really
intelligent. They must live intelligent and happy lives. They must know
something of books and something of what is going on in the world.
They must not be satisfied with knowing something of the affairs of a
neighborhood and nothing about the rest of the earth. The business must
be made attractive, and it never can be until the farmer has prosperity,
intelligence and leisure.

Another thing—I am a believer in fashion. It is the duty of every woman
to make herself as beautiful and attractive as she possibly can.

"Handsome is as handsome does," but she is much handsomer if well
dressed. Every man should look his very best. I am a believer in good
clothes. The time never ought to come in this country when you can tell
a farmer's wife or daughter simply by the garments she wears. I say to
every girl and woman, no matter what the material of your dress may be,
no matter how cheap and coarse it is, cut it and make it in the fashion.
I believe in jewelry. Some people look upon it as barbaric, but in my
judgment, wearing jewelry is the first evidence the barbarian gives of
a wish to be civilized. To adorn ourselves seems to be a part of our
nature, and this desire seems to be everywhere and in everything. I
have sometimes thought that the desire for beauty covers the earth with
flowers. It is this desire that paints the wings of moths, tints the
chamber of the shell, and gives the bird its plumage and its song. Oh
daughters and wives, if you would be loved, adorn yourselves—if you
would be adored, be beautiful!

There is another fault common with the farmers of our country—they want
too much land. You cannot, at present, when taxes are high, afford to
own land that you do not cultivate. Sell it and let others make farms
and homes. In this way what you keep will be enhanced in value. Farmers
ought to own the land they cultivate, and cultivate what they own.
Renters can hardly be called farmers. There can be no such thing in the
highest sense as a home unless you own it. There must be an incentive
to plant trees, to beautify the grounds, to preserve and improve. It
elevates a man to own a home. It gives a certain independence, a force
of character that is obtained in no other way. A man without a home
feels like a passenger. There is in such a man a little of the vagrant.
Homes make patriots. He who has sat by his own fireside with wife and
children will defend it. When he hears the word country pronounced, he
thinks of his home.

Few men have been patriotic enough to shoulder a musket in defence of a
boarding house.

The prosperity and glory of our country depend upon the number of our
people who are the owners of homes. Around the fireside cluster the
private and the public virtues of our race. Raise your sons to be
independent through labor—to pursue some business for themselves
and upon their own account—to be self-reliant—to act upon their own
responsibility, and to take the consequences like men. Teach them above
all things to be good, true and tender husbands—winners of love and
builders of homes.

A great many farmers seem to think that they are the only laborers
in the world. This is a very foolish thing. Farmers cannot get along
without the mechanic. You are not independent of the man of genius.
Your prosperity depends upon the inventor. The world advances by the
assistance of all laborers; and all labor is under obligations to the
inventions of genius. The inventor does as much for agriculture as he
who tills the soil. All laboring men should be brothers. You are in
partnership with the mechanics who make your reapers, your mowers and
your plows; and you should take into your granges all the men who make
their living by honest labor. The laboring people should unite and
should protect themselves against all idlers. You can divide mankind
into two classes: the laborers and the idlers, the supporters and the
supported, the honest and the dishonest. Every man is dishonest who
lives upon the unpaid labor of others, no matter if he occupies a
throne. All laborers should be brothers. The laborers should have equal
rights before the world and before the law. And I want every farmer to
consider every man who labors either with hand or brain as his brother.
Until genius and labor formed a partnership there was no such thing
as prosperity among men. Every reaper and mower, every agricultural
implement, has elevated the work of the farmer, and his vocation grows
grander with every invention. In the olden time the agriculturist
was ignorant; he knew nothing of machinery, he was the slave of
superstition. He was always trying to appease some imaginary power by
fasting and prayer. He supposed that some being actuated by malice, sent
the untimely frost, or swept away with the wild wind his rude abode.
To him the seasons were mysteries. The thunder told him of an enraged
god—the barren fields of the vengeance of heaven. The tiller of the
soil lived in perpetual and abject fear. He knew nothing of mechanics,
nothing of order, nothing of law, nothing of cause and effect. He was
a superstitious savage. He invented prayers instead of plows, creeds
instead of reapers and mowers. He was unable to devote all his time to
the gods, and so he hired others to assist him, and for their influence
with the gentlemen supposed to control the weather, he gave one-tenth of
all he could produce.

The farmer has been elevated through science and he should not forget
the debt he owes to the mechanic, to the inventor, to the thinker. He
should remember that all laborers belong to the same grand family—that
they are the real kings and queens, the only true nobility.

Another idea entertained by most farmers is that they are in some
mysterious way oppressed by every other kind of business—that they are
devoured by monopolies, especially by railroads.

Of course, the railroads are indebted to the farmers for their
prosperity, and the farmers are indebted to the railroads. Without them
Illinois would be almost worthless.

A few years ago you endeavored to regulate the charges of railroad
companies. The principal complaint you had was that they charged too
much for the transportation of corn and other cereals to the East. You
should remember that all freights are paid by the consumer; and that
it made little difference to you what the railroad charged for
transportation to the East, as that transportation had to be paid by
the consumers of the grain. You were really interested in transportation
from the East to the West and in local freights. The result is that
while you have put down through freights you have not succeeded so well
in local freights. The exact opposite should be the policy of Illinois.
Put down local freights; put them down, if you can, to the lowest
possible figure, and let through rates take care of themselves. If all
the corn raised in Illinois could be transported to New York absolutely
free, it would enhance but little the price that you would receive.
What we want is the lowest possible local rate. Instead of this you have
simply succeeded in helping the East at the expense of the West. The
railroads are your friends. They are your partners. They can prosper
only where the country through which they run prospers. All intelligent
railroad men know this. They know that present robbery is future
bankruptcy. They know that the interest of the farmer and of the
railroad is the same. We must have railroads. What can we do without
them?

When we had no railroads, we drew, as I said before, our grain two
hundred miles to market.

In those days the farmers did not stop at hotels. They slept under their
wagons—took with them their food—fried their own bacon, made their
coffee, and ate their meals in the snow and rain. Those were the days
when they received ten cents a bushel for corn—when they sold four
bushels of potatoes for a quarter—thirty-three dozen eggs for a dollar,
and a hundred pounds of pork for a dollar and a half.

What has made the difference?

The railroads came to your door and they brought with them the markets
of the world. They brought New York and Liverpool and London into
Illinois, and the State has been clothed with prosperity as with a
mantle. It is the interest of the farmer to protect every great interest
in the State. You should feel proud that Illinois has more railroads
than any other State in this Union. Her main tracks and side tracks
would furnish iron enough to belt the globe. In Illinois there are
ten thousand miles of railways. In these iron highways more than three
hundred million dollars have been invested—a sum equal to ten times
the original cost of all the land in the State. To make war upon the
railroads is a short-sighted and suicidal policy. They should be treated
fairly and should be taxed by the same standard that farms are taxed,
and in no other way. If we wish to prosper we must act together, and we
must see to it that every form of labor is protected.

There has been a long period of depression in all business. The farmers
have suffered least of all. Your land is just as rich and productive as
ever. Prices have been reasonable. The towns and cities have suffered.
Stocks and bonds have shrunk from par to worthless paper. Princes have
become paupers, and bankers, merchants and millionaires have passed into
the oblivion of bankruptcy. The period of depression is slowly passing
away, and we are entering upon better times.

A great many people say that a scarcity of money is our only difficulty.
In my opinion we have money enough, but we lack confidence in each other
and in the future.

There has been so much dishonesty, there have been so many failures,
that the people are afraid to trust anybody. There is plenty of money,
but there seems to be a scarcity of business. If you were to go to the
owner of a ferry, and, upon seeing his boat lying high and dry on the
shore, should say, "There is a superabundance of ferryboat," he would
probably reply, "No, but there is a scarcity of water." So with us there
is not a scarcity of money, but there is a scarcity of business. And
this scarcity springs from lack of confidence in one another. So many
presidents of savings banks, even those belonging to the Young Men's
Christian Association, run off with the funds; so many railroad and
insurance companies are in the hands of receivers; there is so much
bankruptcy on every hand, that all capital is held in the nervous clutch
of fear. Slowly, but surely we are coming back to honest methods in
business. Confidence will return, and then enterprise will unlock the
safe and money will again circulate as of yore; the dollars will leave
their hiding places and every one will be seeking investment.

For my part, I do not ask any interference on the part of the Government
except to undo the wrong it has done. I do not ask that money be made
out of nothing. I do not ask for the prosperity born of paper. But I do
ask for the remonetization of silver. Silver was demonetized by fraud.
It was an imposition upon every solvent man; a fraud upon every honest
debtor in the United States. It assassinated labor. It was done in the
interest of avarice and greed, and should be undone by honest men.

The farmers should vote only for such men as are able and willing to
guard and advance the interests of labor. We should know better than
to vote for men who will deliberately put a tariff of three dollars
a thousand upon Canada lumber, when every farmer in Illinois is a
purchaser of lumber. People who live upon the prairies ought to vote for
cheap lumber. We should protect ourselves. We ought to have intelligence
enough to know what we want and how to get it. The real laboring men of
this country can succeed if they are united. By laboring men, I do not
mean only the farmers. I mean all who contribute in some way to the
general welfare. They should forget prejudices and party names, and
remember only the best interests of the people. Let us see if we cannot,
in Illinois, protect every department of industry. Let us see if all
property cannot be protected alike and taxed alike, whether owned by
individuals or corporations.

Where industry creates and justice protects, prosperity dwells.

Let me tell you something more about Illinois. We have fifty-six
thousand square miles of land—nearly thirty-six million acres. Upon
these plains we can raise enough to feed and clothe twenty million
people. Beneath these prairies were hidden millions of ages ago, by
that old miser, the sun, thirty-six thousand square miles of coal. The
aggregate thickness of these veins is at least fifteen feet. Think of a
column of coal one mile square and one hundred miles high! All this
came from the sun. What a sunbeam such a column would be! Think of the
engines and machines this coal will run and turn and whirl! Think of
all this force, willed and left to us by the dead morning of the world!
Think of the firesides of the future around which will sit the fathers,
mothers and children of the years to be! Think of the sweet and happy
faces, the loving and tender eyes that will glow and gleam in the sacred
light of all these flames!

We have the best country in the world, and Illinois is the best State
in that country. Is there any reason that our farmers should not be
prosperous and happy men? They have every advantage, and within their
reach are all the comforts and conveniences of life.

Do not get the land fever and think you must buy all that joins you. Get
out of debt as soon as you possibly can. A mortgage casts a shadow on
the sunniest field. There is no business under the sun that can pay ten
per cent.

Interest eats night and day, and the more it eats the hungrier it grows.
The farmer in debt, lying awake at night, can, if he listens, hear it
gnaw. If he owes nothing, he can hear his corn grow. Get out of debt
as soon as you possibly can. You have supported idle avarice and lazy
economy long enough.

Above all let every farmer treat his wife and children with infinite
kindness. Give your sons and daughters every advantage within your
power. In the air of kindness they will grow about you like flowers.
They will fill your homes with sunshine and all your years with joy.
Do not try to rule by force. A blow from a parent leaves a scar on the
soul. I should feel ashamed to die surrounded by children I had whipped.
Think of feeling upon your dying lips the kiss of a child you had
struck.

See to it that your wife has every convenience. Make her life worth
living. Never allow her to become a servant. Wives, weary and worn,
mothers, wrinkled and bent before their time, fill homes with grief
and shame. If you are not able to hire help for your wives, help them
yourselves. See that they have the best utensils to work with.

Women cannot create things by magic. Have plenty of wood and coal—good
cellars and plenty in them. Have cisterns, so that you can have plenty
of rain water for washing. Do not rely on a barrel and a board. When the
rain comes the board will be lost or the hoops will be off the barrel.

Farmers should live like princes. Eat the best things you raise and sell
the rest. Have good things to cook and good things to cook with. Of all
people in our country, you should live the best. Throw your miserable
little stoves out of the window. Get ranges, and have them so built that
your wife need not burn her face off to get you a breakfast. Do not make
her cook in a kitchen hot as the orthodox perdition. The beef, not the
cook, should be roasted. It is just as easy to have things convenient
and right as to have them any other way.

Cooking is one of the fine arts. Give your wives and daughters things to
cook, and things to cook with, and they will soon become most excellent
cooks. Good cooking is the basis of civilization. The man whose arteries
and veins are filled with rich blood made of good and well cooked food,
has pluck, courage, endurance and and noble impulses. The inventor of
a good soup did more for his race than the maker of any creed. The
doctrines of total depravity and endless punishment were born of bad
cooking and dyspepsia. Remember that your wife should have the things to
cook with.

In the good old days there would be eleven children in the family and
only one skillet. Everything was broken or cracked or loaned or lost.

There ought to be a law making it a crime, punishable by imprisonment,
to fry beefsteak. Broil it; it is just as easy, and when broiled it is
delicious. Fried beefsteak is not fit for a wild beast.

There is no reason why farmers should not have fresh meat all the year
round. There is certainly no sense in stuffing yourself full of salt
meat every morning, and making a well or a cistern of your stomach for
the rest of the day. Every farmer should have an ice house.

Make your homes pleasant. Have your houses warm and comfortable for the
winter. Do not build a story-and-a-half house. The half story is simply
an oven in which, during the summer, you will bake every night, and feel
in the morning as though only the rind of yourself was left.

Decorate your rooms, even if you do so with cheap engravings. The
cheapest are far better than none. Have books—have papers, and read
them. You have more leisure than the dwellers in cities. Beautify your
grounds with plants and flowers and vines. Have good gardens. Remember
that everything of beauty tends to the elevation of man. Every little
morning-glory whose purple bosom is thrilled with the amorous kisses of
the sun, tends to put a blossom in your heart. Do not judge of the
value of everything by the market reports. Every flower about a house
certifies to the refinement of somebody. Every vine climbing and
blossoming, tells of love and joy.

Make your houses comfortable. Do not huddle together in a little room
around a red-hot stove, with every window fastened down. Do not live in
this poisoned atmosphere, and then, when one of your children dies, put
a piece in the papers commencing with, "Whereas, it has pleased divine
Providence to remove from our midst—." Have plenty of air, and plenty
of warmth. Comfort is health.

Let your children sleep. Do not drag them from their beds in the
darkness of night. Do not compel them to associate all that is tiresome,
irksome and dreadful with cultivating the soil. In this way you bring
farming into hatred and disrepute. Treat your children with infinite
kindness—treat them as equals. There is no happiness in a home not
filled with love. Where the husband hates his wife—where the wife hates
the husband; where children hate their parents and each other—there is
a hell upon earth.

There is no reason why farmers should not be the kindest and most
cultivated of men. There is nothing in plowing the fields to make men
cross, cruel and crabbed. To look upon the sunny slopes covered with
daisies does not tend to make men unjust. Whoever labors for the
happiness of those he loves, elevates himself, no matter whether he
works in the dark and dreary shops, or in the perfumed fields. To work
for others is, in reality, the only way in which a man can work for
himself. Selfishness is ignorance. Speculators cannot make unless
somebody loses. In the realm of speculation, every success has at least
one victim. The harvest reaped by the farmer benefits all and injures
none. For him to succeed, it is not necessary that some one should fail.
The same is true of all producers—of all laborers.

I can imagine no condition that carries with it such a promise of joy as
that of the farmer in the early winter. He has his cellar filled—he has
made every preparation for the days of snow and storm—he looks forward
to three months of ease and rest; to three months of fireside-content;
three months with wife and children; three months of long, delightful
evenings; three months of home; three months of solid comfort.

When the life of the farmer is such as I have described, the cities and
towns will not be filled with want—the streets will not be crowded with
wrecked rogues, broken bankers, and bankrupt speculators. The fields
will be tilled, and country villages, almost hidden by trees and vines
and flowers, filled with industrious and happy people, will nestle in
every vale and gleam like gems on every plain.

The idea must be done away with that there is something intellectually
degrading in cultivating the soil. Nothing can be nobler than to be
useful. Idleness should not be respectable.

If farmers will cultivate well, and without waste; if they will so build
that their houses will be warm in winter and cool in summer; if they
will plant trees and beautify their homes; if they will occupy their
leisure in reading, in thinking, in improving their minds and in
devising ways and means to make their business profitable and pleasant;
if they will live nearer together and cultivate sociability; if they
will come together often; if they will have reading rooms and cultivate
music; if they will have bath-rooms, ice-houses and good gardens; if
their wives can have an easy time; if their sons and daughters can have
an opportunity to keep in line with the thoughts and discoveries of
the world; if the nights can be taken for sleep and the evenings for
enjoyment, everybody will be in love with the fields. Happiness should
be the object of life, and if life on the farm can be made really happy,
the children will grow up in love with the meadows, the streams, the
woods and the old home. Around the farm will cling and cluster the happy
memories of the delighful years.

Remember, I pray you, that you are in partnership with all labor—that
you should join hands with all the sons and daughters of toil, and that
all who work belong to the same noble family.

For my part, I envy the man who has lived on the same broad acres from
his boyhood, who cultivates the fields where in youth he played, and
lives where his father lived and died.

I can imagine no sweeter way to end one's life.
---
# Heretics and Heresies
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1874_
WHOEVER has an opinion of his own, and honestly expresses it, will be
guilty of heresy. Heresy is what the minority believe; it is the name
given by the powerful to the doctrine of the weak. This word was born of
the hatred, arrogance and cruelty of those who love their enemies, and
who, when smitten on one cheek, turn the other. This word was born of
intellectual slavery in the feudal ages of thought It was an epithet
used in the place of argument. From the commencement of the Christian
era, every art has been exhausted and every conceivable punishment
inflicted to force all people to hold the same religious opinions. This
effort was born of the idea that a certain belief was necessary to the
salvation of the soul. Christ taught, and the church still teaches,
that unbelief is the blackest of crimes. God is supposed to hate with
an infinite and implacable hatred, every heretic upon the earth, and the
heretics who have died are supposed at this moment to be suffering the
agonies of the damned. The church persecutes the living and her God
burns the dead.

It is claimed that God wrote a book called the Bible, and it is
generally admitted that this book is somewhat difficult to understand.
As long as the church had all the copies of this book, and the people
were not allowed to read it, there was comparatively little heresy in
the world; but when it was printed and read, people began honestly to
differ as to its meaning. A few were independent and brave enough to
give the world their real thoughts, and for the extermination of these
men the church used all her power. Protestants and Catholics vied with
each other in the work of enslaving the human mind. For ages they were
rivals in the infamous effort to rid the earth of honest people. They
infested every country, every city, town, hamlet and family. They
appealed to the worst passions of the human heart They sowed the seeds
of discord and hatred in every land. Brother denounced brother, wives
informed against their husbands, mothers accused their children,
dungeons were crowded with the innocent; the flesh of the good and true
rotted in the clasp of chains; the flames devoured the heroic, and in
the name of the most merciful God, his children were exterminated with
famine, sword, and fire. Over the wild waves of battle rose and fell
the banner of Jesus Christ. For sixteen hundred years the robes of the
church were red with innocent blood. The ingenuity of Christians was
exhausted in devising punishment severe enough to be inflicted upon
other Christians who honestly and sincerely differed with them upon any
point whatever.

Give any orthodox church the power, and to-day they would punish heresy
with whip, and chain, and fire. As long as a church deems a certain
belief essential to salvation, just so long it will kill and burn if it
has the power. Why should the church pity a man whom her God hates? Why
should she show mercy to a kind and noble heretic whom her God will burn
in eternal fire? Why should a Christian be better than his God? It is
impossible for the imagination to conceive of a greater atrocity than
has been perpetrated by the church. Every nerve in the human body
capable of pain has been sought out and touched by the church.

Let it be remembered that all churches have persecuted heretics to the
extent of their power. Toleration has increased only when and where the
power of the church has diminished. From Augustine until now the
spirit of the Christians has remained the same. There has been the same
intolerance, the same undying hatred of all who think for themselves,
and the same determination to crush out of the human brain all knowledge
inconsistent with an ignorant creed.

Every church pretends that it has a revelation from God, and that this
revelation must be given to the people through the church; that the
church acts through its priests, and that ordinary mortals must be
content with a revelation—not from God—but from the church. Had the
people submitted to this preposterous claim, of course there could have
been but one church, and that church never could have advanced. It might
have retrograded, because it is not necessary to think or investigate in
order to forget. Without heresy there could have been no progress.

The highest type of the orthodox Christian does not forget; neither
does he learn. He neither advances nor recedes. He is a living fossil
embedded in that rock called faith. He makes no effort to better his
condition, because all his strength is exhausted in keeping other people
from improving theirs. The supreme desire of his heart is to force all
others to adopt his creed, and in order to accomplish this object he
denounces free thinking as a crime, and this crime he calls heresy. When
he had power, heresy was the most terrible and formidable of words. It
meant confiscation, exile, imprisonment, torture, and death.

In those days the cross and rack were inseparable companions. Across
the open Bible lay the sword and fagot. Not content with burning such
heretics as were alive, they even tried the dead, in order that the
church might rob their wives and children. The property of all heretics
was confiscated, and on this account they charged the dead with being
heretical—indicted, as it were, their dust—to the end that the
church might clutch the bread of orphans. Learned divines discussed
the propriety of tearing out the tongues of heretics before they were
burned, and the general opinion was, that this ought to be done so that
the heretics should not be able, by uttering blasphemies, to shock
the Christians who were burning them. With a mixture of ferocity and
Christianity, the priests insisted that heretics ought to be burned at
a slow fire, giving as a reason that more time was given them for
repentance.

No wonder that Jesus Christ said, "I came not to bring peace, but a
sword."

Every priest regarded himself as the agent of God. He answered all
questions by authority, and to treat him with disrespect was an insult
offered to God. No one was asked to think, but all were commanded to
obey.

In 1208 the Inquisition was established. Seven years afterward, the
fourth council of the Lateran enjoined all kings and rulers to swear
an oath that they would exterminate heretics from their dominions. The
sword of the church was unsheathed, and the world was at the mercy of
ignorant and infuriated priests, whose eyes feasted upon the agonies
they inflicted. Acting, as they believed, or pretended to believe, under
the command of God; stimulated by the hope of infinite reward in another
world—hating heretics with every drop of their bestial blood; savage
beyond description; merciless beyond conception,—these infamous
priests, in a kind of frenzied joy, leaped upon the helpless victims of
their rage. They crushed their bones in iron boots; tore their quivering
flesh with iron hooks and pincers; cut off their lips and eyelids;
pulled out their nails, and into the bleeding quick thrust needles; tore
out their tongues; extinguished their eyes; stretched them upon racks;
flayed them alive; crucified them with their heads downward; exposed
them to wild beasts; burned them at the stake; mocked their cries and
groans; ravished their wives; robbed their children, and then prayed God
to finish the holy work in hell.

Millions upon millions were sacrificed upon the altars of bigotry. The
Catholic burned the Lutheran, the Lutheran burned the Catholic, the
Episcopalian tortured the Presbyterian, the Presbyterian tortured the
Episcopalian. Every denomination killed all it could of every other; and
each Christian felt in duty bound to exterminate every other Christian
who denied the smallest fraction of his creed.

In the reign of Henry VIII.—that pious and moral founder of the
apostolic Episcopal Church,—there was passed by the parliament of
England an act entitled "An act for abolishing of diversity of opinion."
And in this act was set forth what a good Christian was obliged to
believe: First, That in the sacrament was the real body and blood of
Jesus Christ.

Second, That the body and blood of Jesus Christ was in the bread, and
the blood and body of Jesus Christ was in the wine.

Third, That priests should not marry.

Fourth, That vows of chastity were of perpetual obligation.

Fifth, That private masses ought to be continued; and,

Sixth, That auricular confession to a priest must be maintained.

This creed was made by law, in order that all men might know just what
to believe by simply reading the statute. The church hated to see the
people wearing out their brains in thinking upon these subjects. It was
thought far better that a creed should be made by parliament, so that
whatever might be lacking in evidence might be made up in force. The
punishment for denying the first article was death by fire. For
the denial of any other article, imprisonment, and for the second
offence—death.

Your attention is called to these six articles, established during the
reign of Henry VIII., and by the Church of England, simply because not
one of these articles is believed by that church to-day. If the law then
made by the church could be enforced now, every Episcopalian would be
burned at the stake.

Similar laws were passed in most Christian countries, as all orthodox
churches firmly believed that mankind could be legislated into heaven.
According to the creed of every church, slavery leads to heaven, liberty
leads to hell. It was claimed that God had founded the church, and that
to deny the authority of the church was to be a traitor to God, and
consequently an ally of the devil. To torture and destroy one of the
soldiers of Satan was a duty no good Christian cared to neglect. Nothing
can be sweeter than to earn the gratitude of God by killing your own
enemies. Such a mingling of profit and revenge, of heaven for yourself
and damnation for those you dislike, is a temptation that your ordinary
Christian never resists.

According to the theologians, God, the Father of us all, wrote a letter
to his children. The children have always differed somewhat as to the
meaning of this letter. In consequence of these honest differences,
these brothers began to cut out each other's hearts. In every land,
where this letter from God has been read, the children to whom and for
whom it was written have been filled with hatred and malice. They have
imprisoned and murdered each other, and the wives and children of each
other. In the name of God every possible crime has been committed, every
conceivable outrage has been perpetrated. Brave men, tender and loving
women, beautiful girls, and prattling babes have been exterminated in
the name of Jesus Christ. For more than fifty generations the church
has carried the black flag. Her vengeance has been measured only by
her power. During all these years of infamy no heretic has ever been
forgiven. With the heart of a fiend she has hated; with the clutch of
avarice she has grasped; with the jaws of a dragon she has devoured;
pitiless as famine, merciless as fire, with the conscience of a serpent:
such is the history of the Church of God.

I do not say, and I do not believe, that Christians are as bad as their
creeds. In spite of church and dogma, there have been millions and
millions of men and women true to the loftiest and most generous
promptings of the human heart. They have been true to their convictions,
and, with a self-denial and fortitude excelled by none, have labored
and suffered for the salvation of men. Imbued with the spirit of
self-sacrifice, believing that by personal effort they could rescue at
least a few souls from the infinite shadow of hell, they have
cheerfully endured every hardship and scorned every danger. And yet,
notwithstanding all this, they believed that honest error was a crime.
They knew that the Bible so declared, and they believed that all
unbelievers would be eternally lost. They believed that religion was
of God, and all heresy of the devil. They killed heretics in defence of
their own souls and the souls of their children. They killed them
because, according to their idea, they were the enemies of God, and
because the Bible teaches that the blood of the unbeliever is a most
acceptable sacrifice to heaven.

Nature never prompted a loving mother to throw her child into the
Ganges. Nature never prompted men to exterminate each other for a
difference of opinion concerning the baptism of infants. These crimes
have been produced by religions filled with all that is illogical,
cruel and hideous. These religions were produced for the most part by
ignorance, tyranny and hypocrisy. Under the impression that the infinite
ruler and creator of the universe had commanded the destruction of
heretics and infidels, the church perpetrated all these crimes.

Men and women have been burned for thinking there is but one God; that
there was none; that the Holy Ghost is younger than God; that God was
somewhat older than his son; for insisting that good works will save a
man without faith; that faith will do without good works; for declaring
that a sweet babe will not be burned eternally, because its parents
failed to have its head wet by a priest; for speaking of God as
though he had a nose; for denying that Christ was his own father; for
contending that three persons, rightly added together, make more than
one; for believing in purgatory; for denying the reality of hell; for
pretending that priests can forgive sins; for preaching that God is an
essence; for denying that witches rode through the air on sticks;
for doubting the total depravity of the human heart; for laughing
at irresistible grace, predestination and particular redemption; for
denying that good bread could be made of the body of a dead man; for
pretending that the pope was not managing this world for God, and in the
place of God; for disputing the efficacy of a vicarious atonement; for
thinking the Virgin Mary was born like other people; for thinking that a
man's rib was hardly sufficient to make a good-sized woman; for denying
that God used his finger for a pen; for asserting that prayers are not
answered, that diseases are not sent to punish unbelief; for denying
the authority of the Bible; for having a Bible in their possession; for
attending mass, and for refusing to attend; for wearing a surplice; for
carrying a cross, and for refusing; for being a Catholic, and for being
a Protestant; for being an Episcopalian, a Presbyterian, a Baptist, and
for being a Quaker. In short, every virtue has been a crime, and every
crime a virtue. The church has burned honesty and rewarded hypocrisy.
And all this, because it was commanded by a book—a book that men had
been taught implicitly to believe, long, before they knew one word that
was in it They had been taught that to doubt the truth of this book—to
examine it, even—was a crime of such enormity that it could not be
forgiven, either in this world or in the next The Bible was the real
persecutor. The Bible burned heretics, built dungeons, founded the
Inquisition, and trampled upon all the liberties of men.

How long, O how long will mankind worship a book? How long will they
grovel in the dust before the ignorant legends of the barbaric past?
How long, O how long will they pursue phantoms in a darkness deeper than
death?

Unfortunately for the world, about the beginning of the sixteenth
century, a man by the name of Gerard Chauvin was married to Jeanne
Lefranc, and still more unfortunately for the world, the fruit of this
marriage was a son, called John Chauvin, who afterwards became famous as
John Calvin, the founder of the Presbyterian Church.

This man forged five fetters for the brain. These fetters he called
points. That is to say, predestination, particular redemption, total
depravity, irresistible grace, and the perseverance of the saints. About
the neck of each follower he put a collar bristling with these five iron
points. The presence of all these points on the collar is still the test
of orthodoxy in the church he founded. This man, when in the flush of
youth, was elected to the office of preacher in Geneva. He at once,
in union with Farel, drew up a condensed statement of the Presbyterian
doctrine, and all the citizens of Geneva, on pain of banishment, were
compelled to take an oath that they believed this statement. Of this
proceeding Calvin very innocently remarked that it produced great
satisfaction. A man named Caroli had the audacity to dispute with
Calvin. For this outrage he was banished.

To show you what great subjects occupied the attention of Calvin, it is
only necessary to state that he furiously discussed the question as to
whether the sacramental bread should be leavened or unleavened. He drew
up laws regulating the cut of the citizens' clothes, and prescribing
their diet, and all those whose garments were not in the Calvin fashion
were refused the sacrament. At last, the people becoming tired of this
petty theological tyranny, banished Calvin. In a few years, however,
he was recalled and received with great enthusiasm. After this he was
supreme, and the will of Calvin became the law of Geneva.

Under his benign administration, James Gruet was beheaded because he had
written some profane verses. The slightest word against Calvin or his
absurd doctrines was punished as a crime.

In 1553 a man was tried at Vienne by the Catholic Church for heresy. He
was convicted and sentenced to death by burning. It was apparently his
good fortune to escape. Pursued by the sleuth hounds of intolerance he
fled to Geneva for protection. A dove flying from hawks, sought safety
in the nest of a vulture. This fugitive from the cruelty of Rome asked
shelter from John Calvin, who had written a book in favor of religious
toleration. Servetus had forgotten that this book was written by Calvin
when in the minority; that it was written in weakness to be forgotten
in power; that it was produced by fear instead of principle. He did not
know that Calvin had caused his arrest at Vienne, in France, and had
sent a copy of his work, which was claimed to be blasphemous, to the
archbishop. He did not then know that the Protestant Calvin was
acting as one of the detectives of the Catholic Church, and had been
instrumental in procuring his conviction for heresy. Ignorant of all
this unspeakable infamy, he put himself in the power of this very
Calvin. The maker of the Presbyterian creed caused the fugitive
Serve-tus to be arrested for blasphemy. He was tried. Calvin was his
accuser. He was convicted and condemned to death by fire. On the morning
of the fatal day, Calvin saw him, and Servetus, the victim, asked
forgiveness of Calvin, the murderer. Servetus was bound to the stake,
and the fagots were lighted. The wind carried the flames somewhat away
from his body, so that he slowly roasted for hours. Vainly he implored
a speedy death. At last the flames climbed round his form; through smoke
and fire his murderers saw a white heroic face. And there they watched
until a man became a charred and shriveled mass.

Liberty was banished from Geneva, and nothing but Presbyterianism was
left. Honor, justice, mercy, reason and charity were all exiled, but
the five points of predestination, particular redemption, irresistible
grace, total depravity, and the certain perseverance of the saints
remained instead.

Calvin founded a little theocracy, modeled after the Old Testament, and
succeeded in erecting the most detestable government that ever existed,
except the one from which it was copied.

Against all this intolerance, one man, a minister, raised his voice. The
name of this man should never be forgotten. It was Castalio. This brave
man had the goodness and the courage to declare the innocence of honest
error. He was the first of the so-called reformers to take this noble
ground. I wish I had the genius to pay a fitting tribute to his memory.
Perhaps it would be impossible to pay him a grander compliment than to
say, Castalio was in all things the opposite of Calvin. To plead for the
right of individual judgment was considered a crime, and Castalio was
driven from Geneva by John Calvin. By him he was denounced as a child of
the devil, as a dog of Satan, as a beast from hell, and as one who, by
this horrid blasphemy of the innocence of honest error, crucified Christ
afresh, and by him he was pursued until rescued by the hand of death.

Upon the name of Castalio, Calvin heaped every epithet, until his malice
was nearly satisfied and his imagination entirely exhausted. It is
impossible to conceive how human nature can become so frightfully
perverted as to pursue a fellow-man with the malignity of a fiend,
simply because he is good, just, and generous.

Calvin was of a pallid, bloodless complexion, thin, sickly, irritable,
gloomy, impatient, egotistic, tyrannical, heartless, and infamous. He
was a strange compound of revengeful morality, malicious forgiveness,
ferocious charity, egotistic humility, and a kind of hellish justice.
In other words, he was as near like the God of the Old Testament as his
health permitted.

The best thing, however, about the Presbyterians of Geneva was, that
they denied the power of the Pope, and the best thing about the Pope
was, that he was not a Presbyterian.

The doctrines of Calvin spread rapidly, and were eagerly accepted by
multitudes on the continent; but Scotland, in a few years, became the
real fortress of Presbyterianism. The Scotch succeeded in establishing
the same kind of theocracy that flourished in Geneva. The clergy took
possession and control of everybody and everything. It is impossible to
exaggerate the mental degradation, the abject superstition of the people
of Scotland during the reign of Presbyterianism. Heretics were hunted
and devoured as though they had been wild beasts. The gloomy insanity of
Presbyterianism took possession of a great majority of the people. They
regarded their ministers as the Jews did Moses and Aaron. They believed
that they were the especial agents of God, and that whatsoever they
bound in Scotland would be bound in heaven. There was not one particle
of intellectual freedom. No man was allowed to differ with the church,
or to even contradict a priest. Had Presbyterianism maintained its
ascendency, Scotland would have been peopled by savages to-day.

The revengeful spirit of Calvin took possession of the Puritans, and
caused them to redden the soil of the New World with the brave blood of
honest men. Clinging to the five points of Calvin, they too established
governments in accordance with the teachings of the Old Testament. They
too attached the penalty of death to the expression of honest thought.
They too believed their church supreme, and exerted all their power to
curse this continent with a spiritual despotism as infamous as it was
absurd. They believed with Luther that universal toleration is universal
error, and universal error is universal hell. Toleration was denounced
as a crime.

Fortunately for us, civilization has had a softening effect even upon
the Presbyterian Church. To the ennobling influence of the arts and
sciences the savage spirit of Calvinism has, in some slight degree,
succumbed. True, the old creed remains substantially as it was written,
but by a kind of tacit understanding it has come to be regarded as a
relic of the past. The cry of "heresy" has been growing fainter and
fainter, and, as a consequence, the ministers of that denomination
have ventured, now and then, to express doubts as to the damnation of
infants, and the doctrine of total depravity. The fact is, the old ideas
became a little monotonous to the people. The fall of man, the scheme of
redemption and irresistible grace, began to have a familiar sound. The
preachers told the old stories while the congregations slept Some of the
ministers became tired of these stories themselves. The five points grew
dull, and they felt that nothing short of irresistible grace could bear
this endless repetition. The outside world was full of progress, and in
every direction men advanced, while this church, anchored to a creed,
idly rotted at the shore. Other denominations, imbued some little with
the spirit of investigation, were springing up on every side, while the
old Presbyterian ark rested on the Ararat of the past, filled with the
theological monsters of another age.

Lured by the splendors of the outer world, tempted by the achievements
of science, longing to feel the throb and beat of the mighty march of
the human race, a few of the ministers of this conservative denomination
were compelled, by irresistible sense, to say a few words in harmony
with the splendid ideas of to-day.

These utterances have upon several occasions so nearly wakened some of
the members that, rubbing their eyes, they have feebly inquired whether
these grand ideas were not somewhat heretical. These ministers found
that just in the proportion that their orthodoxy decreased, their
congregations increased. Those who dealt in the pure unadulterated
article found themselves demonstrating the five points to a less number
of hearers than they had points. Stung to madness by this bitter truth,
this galling contrast, this harassing fact, the really orthodox have
raised the cry of heresy, and expect with this cry to seal the lips
of honest men. One of the Presbyterian ministers, and one who has been
enjoying the luxury of a little honest thought, and the real rapture of
expressing it, has already been indicted, and is about to be tried by
the Presbytery of Illinois. He is charged—

_First_. With having neglected to preach that most comforting and
consoling truth, the eternal damnation of the soul.

Surely, that man must be a monster who could wish to blot this blessed
doctrine out and rob earth's wretched children of this blissful hope!

Who can estimate the misery that has been caused by this most infamous
doctrine of eternal punishment? Think of the lives it has blighted—of
the tears it has caused—of the agony it has produced. Think of the
millions who have been driven to insanity by this most terrible of
dogmas. This doctrine renders God the basest and most cruel being in
the universe. Compared with him, the most frightful deities of the most
barbarous and degraded tribes are miracles of goodness and mercy. There
is nothing more degrading than to worship such a god. Lower than this
the soul can never sink. If the doctrine of eternal damnation is true,
let me share the fate of the unconverted; let me have my portion in
hell, rather than in heaven with a god infamous enough to inflict
eternal misery upon any of the sons of men.

_Second_. With having spoken a few kind words of Robert Collyer and John
Stuart Mill.

I have the honor of a slight acquaintance with Robert Collyer. I have
read with pleasure some of his exquisite productions. He has a brain
full of the dawn, the head of a philosopher, the imagination of a poet
and the sincere heart of a child.

Is a minister to be silenced because he speaks fairly of a noble and
candid adversary? Is it a crime to compliment a lover of justice, an
advocate of liberty; one who devotes his life to the elevation of man,
the discovery of truth, and the promulgation of what he believes to be
right?

Can that tongue be palsied by a presbytery that praises a self-denying
and heroic life? Is it a sin to speak a charitable word over the grave
of John Stuart Mill? Is it heretical to pay a just and graceful tribute
to departed worth? Must the true Presbyterian violate the sanctity of
the tomb, dig open the grave and ask his God to curse the silent dust?
Is Presbyterianism so narrow that it conceives of no excellence, of no
purity of intention, of no spiritual and moral grandeur outside of its
barbaric creed? Does it still retain within its stony heart all the
malice of its founder? Is it still warming its fleshless hands at the
flames that consumed Servetus? Does it still glory in the damnation of
infants, and does it still persist in emptying the cradle in order that
perdition may be filled? Is it still starving the soul and famishing
the heart? Is it still trembling and shivering, crouching and crawling
before its ignorant Confession of Faith?

Had such men as Robert Collyer and John Stuart Mill been present at the
burning of Servetus, they would have extinguished the flames with their
tears. Had the presbytery of Chicago been there, they would have quietly
turned their backs, solemnly divided their coat tails, and warmed
themselves.

_Third_. With having spoken disparagingly of the doctrine of
predestination.

If there is any dogma that ought to be protected by law, predestination
is that doctrine. Surely it is a cheerful, joyous thing, to one who is
laboring, struggling, and suffering in this weary world, to think that
before he existed; before the earth was; before a star had glittered in
the heavens; before a ray of light had left the quiver of the sun, his
destiny had been irrevocably fixed, and that for an eternity before his
birth he had been doomed to bear eternal pain.

_Fourth._ With failing to preach the efficacy of a "vicarious
sacrifice."

Suppose a man had been convicted of murder, and was about to be
hanged—the governor acting as the executioner; and suppose that just
as the doomed man was about to suffer death some one in the crowd
should step forward and say, "I am willing to die in the place of that
murderer. He has a family, and I have none." And suppose further, that
the governor should reply, "Come forward, young man, your offer is
accepted. A murder has been committed and somebody must be hung,
and your death will satisfy the law just as well as the death of the
murderer." What would you then think of the doctrine of "vicarious
sacrifice"?

This doctrine is the consummation of two outrages—forgiving one crime
and committing another.

_Fifth_. With having inculcated a phase of the doctrine commonly known
as "evolution," or "development".

The church believes and teaches the exact opposite of this doctrine.
According to the philosophy of theology, man has continued to degenerate
for six thousand years. To teach that there is that in nature which
impels to higher forms and grander ends, is heresy, of course. The
Deity will damn Spencer and his "Evolution," Darwin and his "Origin
of Species," Bastian and his "Spontaneous Generation," Huxley and his
"Protoplasm," Tyndall and his "Prayer Gauge," and will save those, and
those only, who declare that the universe has been cursed, from the
smallest atom to the grandest star; that everything tends to evil and to
that only, and that the only perfect thing in nature is the Presbyterian
Confession of Faith.

_Sixth_. With having intimated that the reception of Socrates and
Penelope at heaven's gate was, to say the least, a trifle more cordial
than that of Catharine II.

Penelope, waiting patiently and trustfully for her lord's return,
delaying her suitors, while sadly weaving and unweaving the shroud of
Laertes, is the most perfect type of wife and woman produced by the
civilization of Greece.

Socrates, whose life was above reproach and whose death was beyond all
praise, stands to-day, in the estimation of every thoughtful man, at
least the peer of Christ.

Catharine II. assassinated her husband. Stepping upon his corpse, she
mounted the throne. She was the murderess of Prince Iwan, grand nephew
of Peter the Great, who was imprisoned for eighteen years, and who
during all that time saw the sky but once. Taken all in all, Catharine
was probably one of the most intellectual beasts that ever wore a crown.

Catharine, however, was the head of the Greek Church, Socrates was
a heretic and Penelope lived and died without having once heard of
"particular redemption" or of "irresistible grace."

_Seventh_. With repudiating the idea of a "call" to the ministry, and
pretending that men were "called" to preach as they were to the other
avocations of life.

If this doctrine is true, God, to say the least of it, is an exceedingly
poor judge of human nature. It is more than a century since a man of
true genius has been found in an orthodox pulpit. Every minister is
heretical just to the extent that intellect is above the average. The
Lord seems to be satisfied with mediocrity; but the people are not.

An old deacon, wishing to get rid of an unpopular preacher, advised him
to give up the ministry and turn his attention to something else. The
preacher replied that he could not conscientiously desert the pulpit, as
he had had a "call" to the ministry. To which the deacon replied, "That
may be so, but it's very unfortunate for you, that when God called you
to preach, he forgot to call anybody to hear you."

There is nothing more stupidly egotistic than the claim of the clergy
that they are, in some divine sense set apart to the service of the
Lord; that they have been chosen, and sanctified; that there is an
infinite difference between them and persons employed in secular
affairs. They teach us that all other professions must take care of
themselves; that God allows anybody to be a doctor, a lawyer, statesman,
soldier, or artist; that the Motts and Coopers—the Mansfields and
Marshalls—the Wilberforces and Sumners—the Angelos and Raphaels, were
never honored by a "call." They chose their professions and won their
laurels without the assistance of the Lord. All these men were left free
to follow their own inclinations, while God was busily engaged selecting
and "calling" priests, rectors, elders, ministers and exhorters.

_Eighth_. With having doubted that God was the author of the 109th
Psalm.

The portion of that psalm which carries with it the clearest and most
satisfactory evidences of inspiration, and which has afforded almost
unspeakable consolation to the Presbyterian Church, is as follows:

Set thou a wicked man over him; and let Satan stand at his right hand.

When he shall be judged, let him be condemned; and let his prayer become
sin.

Let his days be few; and let another take his office.

Let his children be fatherless and his wife a widow.

Let his children be continually vagabonds, and beg; let them seek their
bread also out of their desolate places.

Let the extortioner catch all that he hath; and let the stranger spoil
his labor.

Let there be none to extend mercy unto him; neither let there be any to
favor his fatherless children.

Let his posterity be cut off: and in the generation following let their
name be blotted out.

But do thou for me, O God the Lord, for Thy name's sake; because Thy
mercy is good, deliver Thou me.... I will greatly praise the Lord with
my_ mouth_.

Think of a God wicked and malicious enough to inspire this prayer. Think
of one infamous enough to answer it.

Had this inspired psalm been found in some temple erected for the
worship of snakes, or in the possession of some cannibal king, written
with blood upon the dried skins of babes, there would have been a
perfect harmony between its surroundings and its sentiments.

No wonder that the author of this inspired psalm coldly received
Socrates and Penelope, and reserved his sweetest smiles for Catharine
the Second.

_Ninth._ With having said that the battles in which the Israelites
engaged, with the approval and command of Jehovah, surpassed in cruelty
those of Julius Cæsar.

Was it Julius Cæsar who said, "And the Lord our God delivered him before
us; and we smote him, and his sons, and all his people. And we took all
his cities, and utterly destroyed the men, and the women, and the little
ones, of every city, we left none to remain"?

Did Julius Cæsar send the following report to the Roman senate? "And we
took all his cities at that time, there was not a city which we took not
from them, three-score cities, all the region of Argob, the kingdom of
Og in Bashan. All these cities were fenced with high walls, gates, and
bars; beside unwalled towns a great many. And we utterly destroyed
them, as we did unto Sihon, king of Heshbon, utterly destroying the men,
women, and children of every city."

Did Cæsar take the city of Jericho "and utterly destroy all that was
in the city, both men and women, young and old"? Did he smite "all the
country of the hills, and of the south, and of the vale, and of the
springs, and all their kings, and leave none remaining that breathed, as
the Lord God had commanded"?

Search the records of the whole world, find out the history of every
barbarous tribe, and you can find no crime that touched a lower depth of
infamy than those the Bible's God commanded and approved. For such a God
I have no words to express my loathing and contempt, and all the words
in all the languages of man would scarcely be sufficient. Away with such
a God! Give me Jupiter rather, with Io and Europa, or even Siva with his
skulls and snakes.

_Tenth_. With having repudiated the doctrine of "total depravity."

What a precious doctrine is that of the total depravity of the human
heart! How sweet it is to believe that the lives of all the good and
great were continual sins and perpetual crimes; that the love a mother
bears her child is, in the sight of God, a sin; that the gratitude of
the natural heart is simple meanness; that the tears of pity are impure;
that for the unconverted to live and labor for others is an offence to
heaven; that the noblest aspirations of the soul are low and groveling
in the sight of God; that man should fall upon his knees and ask
forgiveness, simply for loving his wife and child, and that even the act
of asking forgiveness is in fact a crime!

Surely it is a kind of bliss to feel that every woman and child in the
wide world, with the exception of those who believe the five points, or
some other equally cruel creed, and such children as have been baptized,
ought at this very moment to be dashed down to the lowest glowing gulf
of hell.

Take from the Christian the history of his own church—leave that
entirely out of the question—and he has no argument left with which to
substantiate the total depravity of man.

_Eleventh_. With having doubted the "perseverance of the saints."

I suppose the real meaning of this doctrine is, that Presbyterians are
just as sure of going to heaven as all other folks are of going to hell.
The real idea being, that it all depends upon the will of God, and not
upon the character of the person to be damned or saved; that God has the
weakness to send Presbyterians to Paradise, and the justice to doom the
rest of mankind to eternal fire.

It is admitted that no unconverted brain can see the least particle of
sense in this doctrine; that it is abhorrent to all who have not been
the recipients of a "new heart;" that only the perfectly good can
justify the perfectly infamous.

It is contended that the saints do not persevere of their own free
will—that they are entitled to no credit for persevering; but that
God forces them to persevere, while on the other hand, every crime is
committed in accordance with the secret will of God, who does all things
for his own glory.

Compared with this doctrine, there is no other idea, that has ever been
believed by man, that can properly be called absurd.

_Twelfth_. With having spoken and written somewhat lightly of the idea
of converting the heathen with doctrinal sermons.

Of all the failures of which we have any history or knowledge, the
missionary effort is the most conspicuous. The whole question has been
decided here, in our own country, and conclusively settled. We have
nearly exterminated the Indians, but we have converted none. From the
days of John Eliot to the execution of the last Modoc, not one Indian
has been the subject of irresistible grace or particular redemption.
The few red men who roam the western wilderness have no thought or care
concerning the five points of Calvin. They are utterly oblivious to
the great and vital truths contained in the Thirty-nine Articles, the
Saybrook platform, and the resolutions of the Evangelical Alliance. No
Indian has ever scalped another on account of his religious belief. This
of itself shows conclusively that the missionaries have had no effect
Why should we convert the heathen of China and kill our own? Why should
we send missionaries across the seas, and soldiers over the plains?
Why should we send Bibles to the east and muskets to the west? If it
is impossible to convert Indians who have no religion of their own; no
prejudice for or against the "eternal procession of the Holy Ghost," how
can we expect to convert a heathen who has a religion; who has plenty
of gods and Bibles and prophets and Christs, and who has a religious
literature far grander than our own? Can we hope with the story of
Daniel in the lions' den to rival the stupendous miracles of India? Is
there anything in our Bible as lofty and loving as the prayer of the
Buddhist? Compare your "Confession of Faith" with the following: "Never
will I seek nor receive private individual salvation—never enter into
final peace alone; but forever and everywhere will I live and strive for
the universal redemption of every creature throughout all worlds. Until
all are delivered, never will I leave the world of sin, sorrow, and
struggle, but will remain where I am."

Think of sending an average Presbyterian to convert a man who daily
offers this tender, this infinitely generous, this incomparable prayer.
Think of reading the 109th Psalm to a heathen who has a Bible of his own
in which is found this passage: "Blessed is that man and beloved of all
the gods, who is afraid of no man, and of whom no man is afraid."

Why should you read even the New Testament to a Hindu, when his own
Chrishna has said, "If a man strike thee, and in striking drop his
staff, pick it up and hand it to him again"? Why send a Presbyterian to
a Sufi, who says, "Better one moment of silent contemplation and inward
love, than seventy thousand years of outward worship"? "Whoso would
carelessly tread one worm that crawls on earth, that heartless one is
darkly alienate from God; but he that, living, embraceth all things
in his love, to live with him God bursts all bounds above, below." Why
should we endeavor to thrust our cruel and heartless theology upon one
who prays this prayer: "O God, show pity toward the wicked; for on
the good thou hast already bestowed thy mercy by having created them
virtuous"?

Compare this prayer with the curses and cruelties of the Old
Testament—with the infamies commanded and approved by the being whom we
are taught to worship as a God—and with the following tender product
of Presbyterianism: "It may seem absurd to human wisdom that God should
harden, blind, and deliver up some men to a reprobate sense; that he
should first deliver them over to evil, and then condemn them for that
evil; but the believing spiritual man sees no absurdity in all this,
knowing that God would be never a whit less good even though he should
destroy all men."

Of all the religions that have been produced by the egotism, the malice,
the ignorance and ambition of man, Presbyterianism is the most hideous.

But what shall I say more, for the time would fail me to tell of
Sabellianism, of a "Modal Trinity," and the "Eternal Procession of the
Holy Ghost"?

Upon these charges, a minister is to be tried, here in Chicago; in
this city of pluck and progress—this marvel of energy—this miracle
of nerve. The cry of "heresy," here, sounds like a wail from the Dark
Ages—a shriek from the Inquisition, or a groan from the grave of
Calvin.

Another effort is being made to enslave a man.

It is claimed that every member of the church has solemnly agreed
never to outgrow the creed; that he has pledged himself to remain an
intellectual dwarf. Upon this condition the church agrees to save his
soul, and he hands over his brains to bind the bargain. Should a fact be
found inconsistent with the creed, he binds himself to deny the fact
and curse the finder. With scraps of dogmas and crumbs of doctrine, he
agrees that his soul shall be satisfied forever. What an intellectual
feast the Confession of Faith must be! It reminds one of the dinner
described by Sydney Smith, where everything was cold except the water,
and everything sour except the vinegar.

Every member of a church promises to remain orthodox, that is to
say—stationary. Growth is heresy. Orthodox ideas are the feathers that
have been moulted by the eagle of progress. They are the dead leaves
under the majestic palm, while heresy is the bud and blossom at the top.

Imagine a vine that grows at one end and decays at the other. The
end that grows is heresy, the end that rots is orthodox The dead are
orthodox, and your cemetery is the most perfect type of a well regulated
church. No thought, no progress, no heresy there. Slowly and silently,
side by side, the satisfied members peacefully decay. There is only this
difference—the dead do not persecute.

And what does a trial for heresy mean? It means that the church says to
a heretic, "Believe as I do, or I will withdraw my support. I will not
employ you. I will pursue you until your garments are rags; until your
children cry for bread; until your cheeks are furrowed with tears. I
will hunt you to the very portals of the tomb, and then my God will do
the rest I will not imprison you. I will not burn you. The law prevents
my doing that. I helped make the law, not however to protect you, nor
to deprive me of the right to exterminate you but in order to keep
other churches from exterminating me." A trial for heresy means that the
spirit of persecution still lingers in the church; that it still denies
the right of private judgment; that it still thinks more of creed than
truth, and that it is still determined to prevent the intellectual
growth of man. It means that churches are shambles in which are bought
and sold the souls of men. It means that the church is still guilty of
the barbarity of opposing thought with force. It means that if it had
the power, the mental horizon would be bounded by a creed; that it would
bring again the whips and chains and dungeon keys, the rack and fagot of
the past.

But let me tell the church it lacks the power. There have been, and
still are, too many men who own themselves—too much thought, too much
knowledge for the church to grasp again the sword of power. The church
must abdicate. For the Eglon of superstition Science has a message from
Truth.

The heretics have not thought and suffered and died in vain. Every
heretic has been, and is, a ray of light. Not in vain did Voltaire, that
great man, point from the foot of the Alps the finger of scorn at every
hypocrite in Europe. Not in vain were the splendid utterances of the
infidels, while beyond all price are the discoveries of science.

The church has impeded, but it has not and it cannot stop the onward
march of the human race. Heresy cannot be burned, nor imprisoned, nor
starved. It laughs at presbyteries and synods, at ecumenical councils
and the impotent thunders of Sinai. Heresy is the eternal dawn, the
morning star, the glittering herald of the day. Heresy is the last and
best thought. It is the perpetual New World, the unknown sea, toward
which the brave all sail. It is the eternal horizon of progress.

Heresy extends the hospitalities of the brain to a new thought.

Heresy is a cradle; orthodoxy, a coffin.

Why should man be afraid to think, and why should he fear to express his
thoughts?

Is it possible that an infinite Deity is unwilling that a man should
investigate the phenomena by which he is surrounded? Is it possible that
a god delights in threatening and terrifying men? What glory, what honor
and renown a god must win on such a field! The ocean raving at a drop; a
star envious of a candle; the sun jealous of a fire-fly.

Go on, presbyteries and synods, go on! Thrust the heretics out of the
church—that is to say, throw away your brains,—put out your eyes. The
infidels will thank you. They are willing to adopt your exiles. Every
deserter from your camp is a recruit for the army of progress. Cling to
the ignorant dogmas of the past; read the 109th Psalm; gloat over the
slaughter of mothers and babes; thank God for total depravity; shower
your honors upon hypocrites, and silence every minister who is touched
with that heresy called genius.

Be true to your history. Turn out the astronomers, the geologists, the
naturalists, the chemists, and all the honest scientists. With a whip of
scorpions, drive them all out. We want them all. Keep the ignorant,
the superstitious, the bigoted, and the writers of charges and
specifications.

Keep them, and keep them all. Repeat your pious platitudes in the drowsy
ears of the faithful, and read your Bible to heretics, as kings read
some forgotten riot-act to stop and stay the waves of revolution.
You are too weak to excite anger. We forgive your efforts as the sun
forgives a cloud—as the air forgives the breath you waste.

How long, O how long, will man listen to the threats of God, and shut
his eyes to the splendid possibilities of Nature? How long, O how long
will man remain the cringing slave of a false and cruel creed?

By this time the whole world should know that the real Bible has not yet
been written, but is being written, and that it will never be finished
until the race begins its downward march, or ceases to exist.

The real Bible is not the work of inspired men, nor prophets, nor
apostles, nor evangelists, nor of Christs. Every man who finds a fact,
adds, as it were, a word to this great book. It is not attested
by prophecy, by miracles or signs. It makes no appeal to faith, to
ignorance, to credulity or fear. It has no punishment for unbelief, and
no reward for hypocrisy. It appeals to man in the name of demonstration.
It has nothing to conceal. It has no fear of being read, of being
contradicted, of being investigated and understood. It does not pretend
to be holy, or sacred; it simply claims to be true. It challenges the
scrutiny of all, and implores every reader to verify every line for
himself. It is incapable of being blasphemed. This book appeals to
all the surroundings of man. Each thing that exists testifies of its
perfection. The earth, with its heart of fire and crowns of snow; with
its forests and plains, its rocks and seas; with its every wave and
cloud; with its every leaf and bud and flower, confirms its every word,
and the solemn stars, shining in the infinite abysses, are the eternal
witnesses of its truth.
---
# Humboldt
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1869_
GREAT men seem to be a part of the infinite—brothers of the mountains
and the seas.

Humboldt was one of these. He was one of those serene men, in some
respects like our own Franklin, whose names have all the lustre of a
star. He was one of the few, great enough to rise above the superstition
and prejudice of his time, and to know that experience, observation, and
reason are the only basis of knowledge.

He became one of the greatest of men in spite of having been born rich
and noble—in spite of position. I say in spite of these things,
because wealth and position are generally the enemies of genius, and the
destroyers of talent.

It is often said of this or that man, that he is a self-made man—that
he was born of the poorest and humblest parents, and that with every
obstacle to overcome he became great. This is a mistake. Poverty is
generally an advantage. Most of the intellectual giants of the world
have been nursed at the sad and loving breast of poverty. Most of those
who have climbed highest on the shining ladder of fame commenced at the
lowest round. They were reared in the straw-thatched cottages of Europe;
in the log-houses of America; in the factories of the great cities; in
the midst of toil; in the smoke and din of labor, and on the verge of
want. They were rocked by the feet of mothers whose hands, at the same
time, were busy with the needle or the wheel.

It is hard for the rich to resist the thousand allurements of pleasure,
and so I say, that Humboldt, in spite of having been born to wealth and
high social position, became truly and grandly great.

In the antiquated and romantic castle of Tegel, by the side of the pine
forest, on the shore of the charming lake, near the beautiful city of
Berlin, the great Humboldt, one hundred years ago to-day, was born, and
there he was educated after the method suggested by Rousseau,—Campe,
the philologist and critic, and the intellectual Kunth being his tutors.
There he received the impressions that determined his career; there the
great idea that the universe is governed by law, took possession of
his mind, and there he dedicated his life to the demonstration of this
sublime truth.

He came to the conclusion that the source of man's unhappiness is his
ignorance of nature.

After having received the most thorough education at that time possible,
and having determined to what end he would devote the labors of his
life, he turned his attention to the sciences of geology, mining,
mineralogy, botany, the distribution of plants, the distribution
of animals, and the effect of climate upon man. All grand physical
phenomena were investigated and explained. From his youth he had felt a
great desire for travel. He felt, as he says, a violent passion for
the sea, and longed to look upon nature in her wildest and most rugged
forms. He longed to give a physical description of the universe—a grand
picture of nature; to account for all phenomena; to discover the laws
governing the world; to do away with that splendid delusion called
special providence, and to establish the fact that the universe is
governed by law.

To establish this truth was, and is, of infinite importance to mankind.
That fact is the death-knell of superstition; it gives liberty to every
soul, annihilates fear, and ushers in the Age of Reason.

The object of this illustrious man was to comprehend the phenomena of
physical objects in their general connection, and to represent nature as
one great whole, moved and animated by internal forces.

For this purpose he turned his attention to descriptive botany,
traversing distant lands and mountain ranges to ascertain with certainty
the geographical distribution of plants. He investigated the laws
regulating the differences of temperature and climate, and the changes
of the atmosphere. He studied the formation of the earth's crust,
explored the deepest mines, ascended the highest mountains, and wandered
through the craters of extinct volcanoes.

He became thoroughly acquainted with chemistry, with astronomy, with
terrestrial magnetism; and as the investigation of one subject leads
to all others, for the reason that there is a mutual dependence and a
necessary connection between all facts, so Humboldt became acquainted
with all the known sciences.

His fame does not depend so much upon his discoveries (although he
discovered enough to make hundreds of reputations) as upon his vast and
splendid generalizations.

He was to science what Shakespeare was to the drama.

He found, so to speak, the world full of unconnected facts—all portions
of a vast system—parts of a great machine; he discovered the connection
that each bears to all; put them together, and demonstrated beyond all
contradiction that the earth is governed by law.

He knew that to discover the connection of phenomena is the primary aim
of all natural investigation. He was infinitely practical.

Origin and destiny were questions with which he had nothing to do.

His surroundings made him what he was.

In accordance with a law not fully comprehended, he was a production of
his time.

Great men do not live alone; they are surrounded by the great; they are
the instruments used to accomplish the tendencies of their generation;
they fulfill the prophecies of their age.

Nearly all of the scientific men of the eighteenth century had the same
idea entertained by Humboldt, but most of them in a dim and confused
way. There was, however, a general belief among the intelligent that
the world is governed by law, and that there really exists a connection
between all facts, _or that all facts are simply the different aspects
of a general fact_, and that the task of science is to discover this
connection; to comprehend this general fact or to announce the laws of
things.

Germany was full of thought, and her universities swarmed with
philosophers and grand thinkers in every department of knowledge.

Humboldt was the friend and companion of the greatest poets, historians,
philologists, artists, statesmen, critics, and logicians of his time.

He was the companion of Schiller, who believed that man would be
regenerated through the influence of the Beautiful; of Goethe, the grand
patriarch of German literature; of Weiland, who has been called
the Voltaire of Germany; of Herder, who wrote the outlines of a
philosophical history of man; of Kotzebue, who lived in the world of
romance; of Schleiermacher, the pantheist; of Schlegel, who gave to
his countrymen the enchanted realm of Shakespeare; of the sublime Kant,
author of the first work published in Germany on Pure Reason; of Fichte,
the infinite idealist; of Schopenhauer, the European Buddhist who
followed the great Gautama to the painless and dreamless Nirwana, and
of hundreds of others, whose names are familiar to and honored by the
scientific world.

The German mind had been grandly roused from the long lethargy of the
dark ages of ignorance, fear, and faith. Guided by the holy light of
reason, every department of knowledge was investigated, enriched and
illustrated.

Humboldt breathed the atmosphere of investigation; old ideas were
abandoned; old creeds, hallowed by centuries, were thrown aside; thought
became courageous; the athlete, Reason, challenged to mortal combat the
monsters of superstition.

No wonder that under these influences Humboldt formed the great purpose
of presenting to the world a picture of Nature, in order that men might,
for the first time, behold the face of their Mother.

Europe becoming too small for his genius, he visited the tropics in
the new world, where in the most circumscribed limits he could find the
greatest number of plants, of animals, and the greatest diversity of
climate, that he might ascertain the laws governing the production and
distribution of plants, animals and men, and the effects of climate
upon them all. He sailed along the gigantic Amazon—the mysterious
Orinoco—traversed the Pampas—climbed the Andes until he stood upon the
crags of Chimborazo, more than eighteen thousand feet above the level of
the sea, and climbed on until blood flowed from his eyes and lips.
For nearly five years he pursued his investigations in the new world,
accompanied by the intrepid Bonpland. Nothing escaped his attention. He
was the best intellectual organ of these new revelations of science. He
was calm, reflective and eloquent; filled with a sense of the beautiful,
and the love of truth. His collections were immense, and valuable beyond
calculation to every science. He endured innumerable hardships, braved
countless dangers in unknown and savage lands, and exhausted his fortune
for the advancement of true learning.

Upon his return to Europe he was hailed as the second Columbus; as the
scientific discoverer of America; as the revealer of a new world; as the
great demonstrator of the sublime truth, that the universe is governed
by law.

I have seen a picture of the old man, sitting upon a mountain
side—above him the eternal snow—below, the smiling valley of the
tropics, filled with vine and palm; his chin upon his breast, his eyes
deep, thoughtful and calm—his forehead majestic—grander than the
mountain upon which he sat—crowned with the snow of his whitened hair,
he looked the intellectual autocrat of this world.

Not satisfied with his discoveries in America, he crossed the steppes
of Asia, the wastes of Siberia, the great Ural range, adding to the
knowledge of mankind at every step. His energy acknowledged no obstacle,
his life knew no leisure; every day was filled with labor and with
thought.

He was one of the apostles of science, and he served his divine master
with a self-sacrificing zeal that knew no abatement; with an ardor that
constantly increased, and with a devotion unwavering and constant as the
polar star.

In order that the people at large might have the benefit of his numerous
discoveries, and his vast knowledge, he delivered at Berlin a course
of lectures, consisting of sixty-one free addresses, upon the following
subjects:

Five, upon the nature and limits of physical geography.

Three, were devoted to a history of science.

Two, to inducements to a study of natural science.

Sixteen, on the heavens.

Five, on the form, density, latent heat, and magnetic power of the
earth, and to the polar light.

Four, were on the nature of the crust of the earth, on hot springs
earthquakes, and volcanoes.

Two, on mountains and the type of their formation.

Two, on the form of the earth's surface, on the connection of
continents, and the elevation of soil over ravines.

Three, on the sea as a globular fluid surrounding the earth.

Ten, on the atmosphere as an elastic fluid surrounding the earth, and on
the distribution of heat.

One, on the geographic distribution of organized matter in general.

Three, on the geography of plants.

Three, on the geography of animals, and

Two, on the races of men.

These lectures are what is known as the Cosmos, and present a scientific
picture of the world—of infinite diversity in unity—of ceaseless
motion in the eternal grasp of law.

These lectures contain the result of his investigation, observation, and
experience; they furnish the connection between phenomena; they disclose
some of the changes through which the earth has passed in the countless
ages; the history of vegetation, animals and men, the effects of climate
upon individuals and nations, the relation we sustain to other worlds,
and demonstrate that all phenomena, whether insignificant or grand,
exist in accordance with inexorable law.

There are some truths, however, that we never should forget:
Superstition has always been the relentless enemy of science; faith has
been a hater of demonstration; hypocrisy has been sincere only in its
dread of truth, and all religions are inconsistent with mental freedom.

Since the murder of Hypatia in the fifth century, when the polished
blade of Greek philosophy was broken by the club of ignorant
Catholicism, until to-day, superstition has detested every effort of
reason.

It is almost impossible to conceive of the completeness of the victory
that the church achieved over philosophy. For ages science was utterly
ignored; thought was a poor slave; an ignorant priest was master of the
world; faith put out the eyes of the soul; the reason was a trembling
coward; the imagination was set on fire of hell; every human feeling was
sought to be suppressed; love was considered infinitely sinful; pleasure
was the road to eternal fire, and God was supposed to be happy only when
his children were miserable. The world was governed by an Almighty's
whim; prayers could change the order of things, halt the grand
procession of nature, could produce rain, avert pestilence, famine and
death in all its forms. There was no idea of the certain; all depended
upon divine pleasure or displeasure rather; heaven was full of
inconsistent malevolence, and earth of ignorance. Everything was done to
appease the divine wrath; every public calamity was caused by the
sins of the people; by a failure to pay tithes, or for having, even in
secret, felt a disrespect for a priest. To the poor multitude, the earth
was a kind of enchanted forest, full of demons ready to devour, and
theological serpents lurking with infinite power to fascinate and
torture the unhappy and impotent soul. Life to them was a dim and
mysterious labyrinth, in which they wandered weary, and lost, guided by
priests as bewildered as themselves, without knowing that at every step
the Ariadne of reason offered them the long lost clue.

The very heavens were full of death; the lightning was regarded as the
glittering vengeance of God, and the earth was thick with snares for the
unwary feet of man. The soul was supposed to be crowded with the wild
beasts of desire; the heart to be totally corrupt, prompting only to
crime; virtues were regarded as deadly sins in disguise; there was a
continual warfare being waged between the Deity and the Devil, for
the possession of every soul; the latter generally being considered
victorious. The flood, the tornado, the volcano, were all evidences of
the displeasure of heaven, and the sinfulness of man. The blight that
withered, the frost that blackened, the earthquake that devoured, were
the messengers of the Creator.

The world was governed by Fear.

Against all the evils of nature, there was known only the defence of
prayer, of fasting, of credulity, and devotion. _Man in his helplessness
endeavored to soften the heart of God_. The faces of the multitude
were blanched with fear, and wet with tears; they were the prey of
hypocrites, kings and priests.

My heart bleeds when I contemplate the sufferings endured by the
millions now dead; of those who lived when the world appeared to
be insane; when the heavens were filled with an infinite Horror who
snatched babes with dimpled hands and rosy cheeks from the white breasts
of mothers, and dashed them into an abyss of eternal flame.

Slowly, beautifully, like the coming of the dawn, came the grand truth,
that the universe is governed by law; that disease fastens itself
upon the good and upon the bad; that the tornado cannot be stopped by
counting beads; that the rushing lava pauses not for bended knees, the
lightning for clasped and uplifted hands, nor the cruel waves of the sea
for prayer; that paying tithes causes, rather than prevents famine; that
pleasure is not sin; that happiness is the only good; that demons and
gods exist only in the imagination; that faith is a lullaby sung to put
the soul to sleep; that devotion is a bribe that fear offers to supposed
power; that offering rewards in another world for obedience in this, is
simply buying a soul on credit; that knowledge consists in ascertaining
the laws of nature, and that wisdom is the science of happiness. Slowly,
grandly, beautifully, these truths are dawning upon mankind.

From Copernicus we learned that this earth is only a grain of sand on
the infinite shore of the universe; that everywhere we are surrounded by
shining worlds vastly greater than our own, all moving and existing in
accordance with law. True, the earth began to grow small, but man began
to grow great.

The moment the fact was, established that other worlds are governed
by law, it was only natural to conclude that our little world was
also under its dominion. The old theological method of accounting for
physical phenomena by the pleasure and displeasure of the Deity was,
by the intellectual, abandoned. They found that disease, death, life,
thought, heat, cold, the seasons, the winds, the dreams of man, the
instinct of animals,—in short, that all physical and mental phenomena
are governed by law, absolute, eternal and inexorable.

Let it be understood that by the term Law is meant the same invariable
relations of succession and resemblance predicated of all facts
springing from like conditions. Law is a fact—not a cause. It is a
fact, that like conditions produce like results: this fact is Law. When
we say that the universe is governed by law, we mean that this fact,
called law, is incapable of change; that it is, has been, and forever
will be, the same inexorable, immutable Fact, inseparable from all
phenomena. Law, in this sense, was not enacted or made. It could not
have been otherwise than as it is. That which necessarily exists has no
creator.

Only a few years ago this earth was considered the real center of
the universe; all the stars were supposed to revolve around this
insignificant atom. The German mind, more than any other, has done
away with this piece of egotism. Purbach and Mullerus, in the fifteenth
century, contributed most to the advancement of astronomy in their day.
To the latter, the world is indebted for the introduction of decimal
fractions, which completed our arithmetical notation, and formed the
second of the three steps by which, in modern times, the science
of numbers has been so greatly improved; and yet, both of these men
believed in the most childish absurdities, at least in enough of them,
to die without their orthodoxy having ever been suspected.

Next came the great Copernicus, and he stands at the head of the heroic
thinkers of his time, who had the courage and the mental strength to
break the chains of prejudice, custom, and authority, and to establish
truth on the basis of experience, observation and reason. He removed the
earth, so to speak, from the centre of the universe, and ascribed to it
a two-fold motion, and demonstrated the true position which it occupies
in the solar system.

At his bidding the earth began to revolve. At the command of his genius
it commenced its grand flight mid the eternal constellations round the
sun.

For fifty years his discoveries were disregarded. All at once, by the
exertions of Galileo, they were kindled into so grand a conflagration as
to consume the philosophy of Aristotle, to alarm the hierarchy of
Rome, and to threaten the existence of every opinion not founded upon
experience, observation, and reason.

The earth was no longer considered a universe, governed by the caprices
of some revengeful Deity, who had made the stars out of what he had
left after completing the world, and had stuck them in the sky simply to
adorn the night.

I have said this much concerning astronomy because it was the first
splendid step forward! The first sublime blow that shattered the lance
and shivered the shield of superstition; the first real help that
man received from heaven; because it was the first great lever placed
beneath the altar of a false religion; the first revelation of the
infinite to man; the first authoritative declaration, that the universe
is governed by law; the first science that gave the lie direct to the
cosmogony of barbarism, and because it is the sublimest victory that the
reason has achieved.

In speaking of astronomy, I have confined myself to the discoveries made
since the revival of learning. Long ago, on the banks of the Ganges,
ages before Copernicus lived, Aryabhatta taught that the earth is a
sphere, and revolves on its own axis. This, however, does not detract
from the glory of the great German. The discovery of the Hindu had been
lost in the midnight of Europe—in the age of faith, and Copernicus was
as much a discoverer as though Aryabhatta had never lived.

In this short address there is no time to speak of other sciences, and
to point out the particular evidence furnished by each, to establish
the dominion of law, nor to more than mention the name of Descartes, the
first who undertook to give an explanation of the celestial motions,
or who formed the vast and philosophic conception of reducing all the
phenomena of the universe to the same law; of Montaigne, one of the
heroes of common sense; of Galvani, whose experiments gave the telegraph
to the world; of Voltaire, who contributed more than any other of the
sons of men to the destruction of religious intolerance; of August
Comte, whose genius erected to itself a monument that still touches the
stars; of Guttenberg, Watt, Stephenson, Arkwright, all soldiers of
science, in the grand army of the dead kings.

The glory of science is, that it is freeing the soul—breaking the
mental manacles—getting the brain out of bondage—giving courage to
thought—filling the world with mercy, justice, and joy.

Science found agriculture plowing with a stick reaping with a
sickle—commerce at the mercy of the treacherous waves and the
inconstant winds—a world without books—without schools man denying
the authority of reason, employing his ingenuity in the manufacture
of instruments of torture, in building inquisitions and cathedrals.
It found the land filled with malicious monks—with persecuting
Protestants, and the burners of men. It found a world full of fear;
ignorance upon its knees; credulity the greatest virtue; women treated
like beasts of burden; cruelty the only means of reformation.

It found the world at the mercy of disease and famine; men trying to
read their fates in the stars, and to tell their fortunes by signs and
wonders; generals thinking to conquer their enemies by making the sign
of the cross, or by telling a rosary. It found all history full of petty
and ridiculous falsehood, and the Almighty was supposed to spend most
of his time turning sticks into snakes, drowning boys for swimming on
Sunday, and killing little children for the purpose of converting their
parents. It found the earth filled with slaves and tyrants, the people
in all countries downtrodden, half naked, half starved, without hope,
and without reason in the world.

Such was the condition of man when the morning of science dawned upon
his brain, and before he had heard the sublime declaration that the
universe is governed by law.

For the change that has taken place we are indebted solely to
science—the only lever capable of raising mankind. Abject faith is
barbarism; reason is civilization. To obey is slavish; to act from
a sense of obligation perceived by the reason, is noble. Ignorance
worships mystery; Reason explains it: the one grovels, the other soars.

No wonder that fable is the enemy of knowledge. A man with a false
diamond shuns the society of lapidaries, and it is upon this principle
that superstition abhors science.

In all ages the people have honored those who dishonored them. They have
worshiped their destroyers; they have canonized the most gigantic liars,
and buried the great thieves in marble and gold. Under the loftiest
monuments sleeps the dust of murder.

Imposture has always worn a crown.

The world is beginning to change because the people are beginning
to think. To think is to advance. Everywhere the great minds are
investigating the creeds and the superstitions of men—the phenomena
of nature, and the laws of things. At the head of this great army of
investigators stood Humboldt—the serene leader of an intellectual
host—a king by the suffrage of Science, and the divine right of Genius.

And to-day we are not honoring some butcher called a soldier—some
wily politician called a statesman—some robber called a king, nor
some malicious metaphysician called a saint We are honoring the grand
Humboldt, whose victories were all achieved in the arena of thought; who
destroyed prejudice, ignorance and error—not men; who shed light—not
blood, and who contributed to the knowledge, the wealth, and the
happiness of all mankind.

His life was pure, his aims lofty, his learning varied and profound, and
his achievements vast.

We honor him because he has ennobled our race, because he has
contributed as much as any man living or dead to the real prosperity of
the world. We honor him because he honored us—because he labored
for others—because he was the most learned man of the most learned
nation—because he left a legacy of glory to every human being. For
these reasons he is honored throughout the world. Millions are doing
homage to his genius at this moment, and millions are pronouncing his
name with reverence and recounting what he accomplished.

We associate the name of Humboldt with oceans, continents, mountains,
and volcanoes—with the great palms—the wide deserts—the snow-lipped
craters of the Andes—with primeval forests and European capitals—with
wildernesses and universities—with savages and savans—with the lonely
rivers of unpeopled wastes—with peaks and pampas, and steppes, and
cliffs and crags—with the progress of the world—with every science
known to man, and with every star glittering in the immensity of space.

Humboldt adopted none of the soul-shrinking creeds of his day; wasted
none of his time in the stupidities, inanities and contradictions of
theological metaphysics; he did not endeavor to harmonize the astronomy
and geology of a barbarous people with the science of the nineteenth
century. Never, for one moment, did he abandon the sublime standard of
truth; he investigated, he studied, he thought, he separated the gold
from the dross in the crucible of his grand brain. He was never found on
his knees before the altar of superstition. He stood erect by the grand
tranquil column of Reason. He was an admirer, a lover, an adorer of
Nature, and at the age of ninety, bowed by the weight of nearly
a century, covered with the insignia of honor, loved by a nation,
respected by a world, with kings for his servants, he laid his weary
head upon her bosom—upon the bosom of the universal Mother—and with
her loving arms around him, sank into that slumber called Death.

History added another name to the starry scroll of the immortals.

The world is his monument; upon the eternal granite of her hills he
inscribed his name, and there upon everlasting stone his genius wrote
this, the sublimest of truths:

"The Universe is Governed by Law!"
---
# Individuality
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1873_
ON every hand are the enemies of individuality and mental freedom.
Custom meets us at the cradle and leaves us only at the tomb. Our first
questions are answered by ignorance, and our last by superstition. We
are pushed and dragged by countless hands along the beaten track, and
our entire training can be summed up in the word—suppression. Our
desire to have a thing or to do a thing is considered as conclusive
evidence that we ought not to have it, and ought not to do it. At every
turn we run against cherubim and a flaming sword guarding some entrance
to the Eden of our desire. We are allowed to investigate all subjects in
which we feel no particular interest, and to express the opinions of the
majority with the utmost freedom. We are taught that liberty of
speech should never be carried to the extent of contradicting the dead
witnesses of a popular superstition. Society offers continual rewards
for self-betrayal, and they are nearly all earned and claimed, and some
are paid.

We have all read accounts of Christian gentlemen remarking, when about
to be hanged, how much better it would have been for them if they had
only followed a mother's advice. But after all, how fortunate it is for
the world that the maternal advice has not always been followed. How
fortunate it is for us all that it is somewhat unnatural for a human
being to obey. Universal obedience is universal stagnation; disobedience
is one of the conditions of progress. Select any age of the world and
tell me what would have been the effect of implicit obedience. Suppose
the church had had absolute control of the human mind at any time, would
not the words liberty and progress have been blotted from human speech?
In defiance of advice, the world has advanced.

Suppose the astronomers had controlled the science of astronomy; suppose
the doctors had controlled the science of medicine; suppose kings had
been left to fix the forms of government; suppose our fathers had taken
the advice of Paul, who said, "be subject to the powers that be, because
they are ordained of God;" suppose the church could control the world
to-day, we would go back to chaos and old night. Philosophy would be
branded as infamous; Science would again press its pale and thoughtful
face against the prison bars, and round the limbs of liberty would climb
the bigot's flame.

It is a blessed thing that in every age some one has had individuality
enough and courage enough to stand by his own convictions,—some one
who had the grandeur to say his say. I believe it was Magellan who said,
"The church says the earth is flat; but I have seen its shadow on the
moon, and I have more confidence even in a shadow than in the church."
On the prow of his ship were disobedience, defiance, scorn, and success.

The trouble with most people is, they bow to what is called authority;
they have a certain reverence for the old because it is old. They think
a man is better for being dead, especially if he has been dead a long
time. They think the fathers of their nation were the greatest and best
of all mankind. All these things they implicitly believe because it is
popular and patriotic, and because they were told so when they were very
small, and remember distinctly of hearing mother read it out of a book.
It is hard to over-estimate the influence of early training in the
direction of superstition. You first teach children that a certain book
is true—that it was written by God himself—that to question its truth
is a sin, that to deny it is a crime, and that should they die without
believing that book they will be forever damned without benefit of
clergy. The consequence is, that long before they read that book, they
believe it to be true. When they do read it their minds are wholly
unfitted to investigate its claims. They accept it as a matter of
course.

In this way the reason is overcome, the sweet instincts of humanity
are blotted from the heart, and while reading its infamous pages even
justice throws aside her scales, shrieking for revenge, and charity,
with bloody hands, applauds a deed of murder. In this way we are taught
that the revenge of man is the justice of God; that mercy is not the
same everywhere. In this way the ideas of our race have been subverted.
In this way we have made tyrants, bigots, and inquisitors. In this way
the brain of man has become a kind of palimpsest upon which, and over
the writings of nature, superstition has scrawled her countless lies.
One great trouble is that most teachers are dishonest. They teach as
certainties those things concerning which they entertain doubts. They
do not say, "we _think_ this is so," but "we _know_ this is so." They do
not appeal to the reason of the pupil, but they command his faith. They
keep all doubts to themselves; they do not explain, they assert. All
this is infamous. In this way you may make Christians, but you cannot
make men; you cannot make women. You can make followers, but no leaders;
disciples, but no Christs. You may promise power, honor, and happiness
to all those who will blindly follow, but you cannot keep your promise.

A monarch said to a hermit, "Come with me and I will give you power."

"I have all the power that I know how to use" replied the hermit.

"Come," said the king, "I will give you wealth."

"I have no wants that money can supply," said the hermit.

"I will give you honor," said the monarch.

"Ah, honor cannot be given, it must be earned," was the hermit's answer.

"Come," said the king, making a last appeal, "and I will give you
happiness."

"No," said the man of solitude, "there is no happiness without liberty,
and he who follows cannot be free."

"You shall have liberty too," said the king.

"Then I will stay where I am," said the old man.

And all the king's courtiers thought the hermit a fool.

Now and then somebody examines, and in spite of all keeps his manhood,
and has the courage to follow where his reason leads. Then the pious
get together and repeat wise saws, and exchange knowing nods and most
prophetic winks. The stupidly wise sit owl-like on the dead limbs of the
tree of knowledge, and solemnly hoot. Wealth sneers, and fashion laughs,
and respectability passes by on the other side, and scorn points with
all her skinny fingers, and all the snakes of superstition writhe and
hiss, and slander lends her tongue, and infamy her brand, and perjury
her oath, and the law its power, and bigotry tortures, and the church
kills.

The church hates a thinker precisely for the same reason a robber
dislikes a sheriff, or a thief despises the prosecuting witness. Tyranny
likes courtiers, flatterers, followers, fawners, and superstition wants
believers, disciples, zealots, hypocrites, and subscribers. The church
demands worship—the very thing that man should give to no being, human
or divine. To worship another is to degrade yourself. Worship is awe and
dread and vague fear and blind hope. It is the spirit of worship that
elevates the one and degrades the many; that builds palaces for robbers,
erects monuments to crime, and forges manacles even for its own hands.
The spirit of worship is the spirit of tyranny. The worshiper always
regrets that he is not the worshiped. We should all remember that the
intellect has no knees, and that whatever the attitude of the body may
be, the brave soul is always found erect. Whoever worships, abdicates.
Whoever believes at the command of power, tramples his own individuality
beneath his feet, and voluntarily robs himself of all that renders man
superior to the brute.

The despotism of faith is justified upon the ground that Christian
countries are the grandest and most prosperous of the world. At one time
the same thing could have been truly said in India, in Egypt, in Greece,
in Rome, and in every other country that has, in the history of the
world, swept to empire. This argument proves too much not only, but
the assumption upon which it is based is utterly false. Numberless
circumstances and countless conditions have produced the prosperity
of the Christian world. The truth is, we have advanced in spite of
religious zeal, ignorance, and opposition. The church has won
no victories for the rights of man. Luther labored to reform the
church—Voltaire, to reform men. Over every fortress of tyranny has
waved, and still waves, the banner of the church. Wherever brave blood
has been shed, the sword of the church has been wet. On every chain has
been the sign of the cross. The altar and throne have leaned against and
supported each other.

All that is good in our civilization is the result of commerce, climate,
soil, geographical position, industry, invention, discovery, art, and
science. The church has been the enemy of progress, for the reason
that it has endeavored to prevent man thinking for himself. To prevent
thought is to prevent all advancement except in the direction of faith.

Who can imagine the infinite impudence of a church assuming to think for
the human race? Who can imagine the infinite impudence of a church
that pretends to be the mouthpiece of God, and in his name threatens to
inflict eternal punishment upon those who honestly reject its claims and
scorn its pretensions? By what right does a man, or an organization
of men, or a god, claim to hold a brain in bondage? When a fact can be
demonstrated, force is unnecessary; when it cannot be demonstrated, an
appeal to force is infamous. In the presence of the unknown all have an
equal right to think.

Over the vast plain, called life, we are all travelers, and not one
traveler is perfectly certain that he is going in the right direction.
True it is that no other plain is so well supplied with guide-boards. At
every turn and crossing you will find them, and upon each one is written
the exact direction and distance. One great trouble is, however, that
these boards are all different, and the result is that most travelers
are confused in proportion to the number they read. Thousands of people
are around each of these signs, and each one is doing his best to
convince the traveler that his particular board is the only one upon
which the least reliance can be placed, and that if his road is taken
the reward for so doing will be infinite and eternal, while all the
other roads are said to lead to hell, and all the makers of the other
guide-boards are declared to be heretics, hypocrites and liars. "Well,"
says a traveler, "you may be right in what you say, but allow me at
least to read some of the other directions and examine a little into
their claims. I wish to rely a little upon my own judgment in a matter
of so great importance." "No, sir," shouts the zealot, "that is the
very thing you are not allowed to do. You must go my way without
investigation, or you are as good as damned already." "Well," says the
traveler, "if that is so, I believe I had better go your way." And so
most of them go along, taking the word of those who know as little as
themselves. Now and then comes one who, in spite of all threats, calmly
examines the claims of all, and as calmly rejects them all. These
travelers take roads of their own, and are denounced by all the others,
as infidels and atheists.

Around all of these guide-boards, as far as the eye can reach, the
ground is covered with mountains of human bones, crumbling and
bleaching in the rain and sun. They are the bones of murdered men and
women—fathers, mothers and babes.

In my judgment, every human being should take a road of his own. Every
mind should be true to itself—should think, investigate and conclude
for itself. This is a duty alike incumbent upon pauper and prince. Every
soul should repel dictation and tyranny, no matter from what source they
come—from earth or heaven, from men or gods. Besides, every traveler
upon this vast plain should give to every other traveler his best idea
as to the road that should be taken. Each is entitled to the honest
opinion of all. And there is but one way to get an honest opinion upon
any subject whatever. The person giving the opinion must be free from
fear. The merchant must not fear to lose his custom, the doctor his
practice, nor the preacher his pulpit There can be no advance without
liberty. Suppression of honest inquiry is retrogression, and must end in
intellectual night. The tendency of orthodox religion to-day is toward
mental slavery and barbarism. Not one of the orthodox ministers dare
preach what he thinks if he knows a majority of his congregation think
otherwise. He knows that every member of his church stands guard over
his brain with a creed, like a club, in his hand. He knows that he
is not expected to search after the truth, but that he is employed to
defend the creed. Every pulpit is a pillory, in which stands a hired
culprit, defending the justice of his own imprisonment.

Is it desirable that all should be exactly alike in their religious
convictions? Is any such thing possible? Do we not know that there are
no two persons alike in the whole world? No two, trees, no two leaves,
no two anythings that are alike? Infinite diversity is the law. Religion
tries to force all minds into one mould. Knowing that all cannot
believe, the church endeavors to make all say they believe. She longs
for the unity of hypocrisy, and detests the splendid diversity of
individuality and freedom.

Nearly all people stand in great horror of annihilation, and yet to
give up your individuality is to annihilate yourself. Mental slavery is
mental death, and every man who has given up his intellectual freedom
is the living coffin of his dead soul. In this sense, every church is a
cemetery and every creed an epitaph.

We should all remember that to be like other people is to be unlike
ourselves, and that nothing can be more detestable in character than
servile imitation. The great trouble with imitation is, that we are apt
to ape those who are in reality far below us. After all, the poorest
bargain that a human being can make, is to give his individuality for
what is called respectability.

There is no saying more degrading than this: "It is better to be the
tail of a lion than the head of a dog." It is a responsibility to think
and act for yourself. Most people hate responsibility; therefore they
join something and become the tail of some lion. They say, "My party
can act for me—my church can do my thinking. It is enough for me to
pay taxes and obey the lion to which I belong, without troubling myself
about the right, the wrong, or the why or the wherefore of anything
whatever." These people are respectable. They hate reformers, and
dislike exceedingly to have their minds disturbed. They regard
convictions as very disagreeable things to have. They love forms, and
enjoy, beyond everything else, telling what a splendid tail their lion
has, and what a troublesome dog their neighbor is. Besides this natural
inclination to avoid personal responsibility, is and always has been,
the fact, that every religionist has warned men against the presumption
and wickedness of thinking for themselves. The reason has been denounced
by all Christendom as the only unsafe guide. The church has left nothing
undone to prevent man following the logic of his brain. The plainest
facts have been covered with the mantle of mystery. The grossest
absurdities have been declared to be self-evident facts. The order of
nature has been, as it were, reversed, that the hypocritical few might
govern the honest many. The man who stood by the conclusion of his
reason was denounced as a scorner and hater of God and his holy church.
From the organization of the first church until this moment, to think
your own thoughts has been inconsistent with membership. Every member
has borne the marks of collar, and chain, and whip. No man ever
seriously attempted to reform a church without being cast out and hunted
down by the hounds of hypocrisy. The highest crime against a creed is to
change it. Reformation is treason.

Thousands of young men are being educated at this moment by the various
churches. What for? In order that they may be prepared to investigate
the phenomena by which we are surrounded? No! The object, and the only
object, is that they may be prepared to defend a creed; that they may
learn the arguments of their respective churches, and repeat them in
the dull ears of a thoughtless congregation. If one, after being thus
trained at the expense of the Methodists, turns Presbyterian or Baptist,
he is denounced as an ungrateful wretch. Honest investigation is utterly
impossible within the pale of any church, for the reason, that if you
think the church is right you will not investigate, and if you think it
wrong, the church will investigate you. The consequence of this is,
that most of the theological literature is the result of suppression, of
fear, tyranny and hypocrisy.

Every orthodox writer necessarily said to himself, "If I write that, my
wife and children may want for bread. I will be covered with shame and
branded with infamy; but if I write this, I will gain position, power,
and honor. My church rewards defenders, and burns reformers."

Under these conditions all your Scotts, Henrys, and McKnights have
written; and weighed in these scales, what are their commentaries worth?
They are not the ideas and decisions of honest judges, but the sophisms
of the paid attorneys of superstition. Who can tell what the world has
lost by this infamous system of suppression? How many grand thinkers
have died with the mailed hand of superstition upon their lips? How many
splendid ideas have perished in the cradle of the brain, strangled in
the poison-coils of that python, the Church!

For thousands of years a thinker was hunted down like an escaped
convict. To him who had braved the church, every door was shut, every
knife was open. To shelter him from the wild storm, to give him a crust
when dying, to put a cup of water to his cracked and bleeding lips;
these were all crimes, not one of which the church ever did forgive;
and with the justice taught of her God, his helpless children were
exterminated as scorpions and vipers.

Who at the present day can imagine the courage, the devotion to
principle, the intellectual and moral grandeur it once required to be an
infidel, to brave the church, her racks, her fagots, her dungeons, her
tongues of fire,—to defy and scorn her heaven and her hell—her devil
and her God? They were the noblest sons of earth. They were the real
saviors of our race, the destroyers of superstition and the creators of
Science. They were the real Titans who bared their grand foreheads to
all the thunderbolts of all the gods.

The church has been, and still is, the great robber. She has rifled not
only the pockets but the brains of the world. She is the stone at the
sepulchre of liberty; the upas tree, in whose shade the intellect of man
has withered; the Gorgon beneath whose gaze the human heart has turned
to stone. Under her influence even the Protestant mother expects to be
happy in heaven, while her brave boy, who fell fighting for the rights
of man, shall writhe in hell.

It is said that some of the Indian tribes place the heads of their
children between pieces of bark until the form of the skull is
permanently changed. To us this seems a most shocking custom; and yet,
after all, is it as bad as to put the souls of our children in the
strait-jacket of a creed? to so utterly deform their minds that they
regard the God of the Bible as a being of infinite mercy, and
really consider it a virtue to believe a thing just because it seems
unreasonable? Every child in the Christian world has uttered its
wondering protest against this outrage. All the machinery of the church
is constantly employed in corrupting the reason of children. In every
possible way they are robbed of their own thoughts and forced to accept
the statements of others. Every Sunday school has for its object the
crushing out of every germ of individuality. The poor children are
taught that nothing can be more acceptable to God than unreasoning
obedience and eyeless faith, and that to believe God did an impossible
act, is far better than to do a good one yourself. They are told that
all religions have been simply the John-the-Baptists of ours; that all
the gods of antiquity have withered and shrunken into the Jehovah of the
Jews; that all the longings and aspirations of the race are realized in
the motto of the Evangelical Alliance, "Liberty in non-essentials",
that all there is, or ever was, of religion can be found in the
apostles' creed; that there is nothing left to be discovered; that all
the thinkers are dead, and all the living should simply be believers;
that we have only to repeat the epitaph found on the grave of wisdom;
that grave-yards are the best possible universities, and that the
children must be forever beaten with the bones of the fathers.

It has always seemed absurd to suppose that a god would choose for his
companions, during all eternity, the dear souls whose highest and only
ambition is to obey. He certainly would now and then be tempted to make
the same remark made by an English gentleman to his poor guest. The
gentleman had invited a man in humble circumstances to dine with him.
The man was so overcome with the honor that to everything the gentleman
said he replied "Yes." Tired at last with the monotony of acquiescence,
the gentleman cried out, "For God's sake, my good man, say 'No,' just
once, so there will be two of us."

Is it possible that an infinite God created this world simply to be the
dwelling-place of slaves and serfs? simply for the purpose of raising
orthodox Christians? That he did a few miracles to astonish them; that
all the evils of life are simply his punishments, and that he is finally
going to turn heaven into a kind of religious museum filled with Baptist
barnacles, petrified Presbyterians and Methodist mummies? I want no
heaven for which I must give my reason; no happiness in exchange for
my liberty, and no immortality that demands the surrender of my
individuality. Better rot in the windowless tomb, to which there is no
door but the red mouth of the pallid worm, than wear the jeweled collar
even of a god.

Religion does not, and cannot, contemplate man as free. She accepts only
the homage of the prostrate, and scorns the offerings of those who stand
erect. She cannot tolerate the liberty of thought. The wide and sunny
fields belong not to her domain. The star-lit heights of genius and
individuality are above and beyond her appreciation and power. Her
subjects cringe at her feet, covered with the dust of obedience.

They are not athletes standing posed by rich life and brave endeavor
like antique statues, but shriveled deformities, studying with furtive
glance the cruel face of power.

No religionist seems capable of comprehending this plain truth. There
is this difference between thought and action: for our actions we
are responsible to ourselves and to those injuriously affected; for
thoughts, there can, in the nature of things, be no responsibility to
gods or men, here or hereafter. And yet the Protestant has vied with
the Catholic in denouncing freedom of thought; and while I was taught to
hate Catholicism with every drop of my blood, it is only justice to
say, that in all essential particulars it is precisely the same as every
other religion. Luther denounced mental liberty with all the coarse and
brutal vigor of his nature; Calvin despised, from the very bottom of his
petrified heart, anything that even looked like religious toleration,
and solemnly declared that to advocate it was to crucify Christ afresh.
All the founders of all the orthodox churches have advocated the
same infamous tenet. The truth is, that what is called religion is
necessarily inconsistent with free thought A believer is a bird in a
cage, a Freethinker is an eagle parting the clouds with tireless wing.

At present, owing to the inroads that have been made by liberals and
infidels, most of the churches pretend to be in favor of religious
liberty. Of these churches, we will ask this question: How can a man,
who conscientiously believes in religious liberty, worship a God who
does not? They say to us: "We will not imprison you on account of your
belief, but our God will." "We will not burn you because you throw away
the sacred Scriptures, but their author will." "We think it an infamous
crime to persecute our brethren for opinion's sake,—but the God, whom
we ignorantly worship, will on that account, damn his own children
forever."

Why is it that these Christians not only detest the infidels, but
cordially despise each other? Why do they refuse to worship in the
temples of each other? Why do they care so little for the damnation of
men, and so much for the baptism of children? Why will they adorn their
churches with the money of thieves and flatter vice for the sake of
subscriptions? Why will they attempt to bribe Science to certify to
the writings of God? Why do they torture the words of the great into an
acknowledgment of the truth of Christianity? Why do they stand with hat
in hand before presidents, kings, emperors, and scientists, begging,
like Lazarus, for a few crumbs of religious comfort? Why are they so
delighted to find an allusion to Providence in the message of Lincoln?
Why are they so afraid that some one will find out that Paley wrote an
essay in favor of the Epicurean philosophy, and that Sir Isaac Newton
was once an infidel? Why are they so anxious to show that Voltaire
recanted; that Paine died palsied with fear; that the Emperor Julian
cried out "Galilean, thou hast conquered"; that Gibbon died a Catholic;
that Agassiz had a little confidence in Moses; that the old Napoleon
was once complimentary enough to say that he thought Christ greater
than himself or Cæsar; that Washington was caught on his knees at Valley
Forge; that blunt old Ethan Allen told his child to believe the religion
of her mother; that Franklin said, "Don't unchain the tiger," and that
Volney got frightened in a storm at sea?

Is it because the foundation of their temple is crumbling, because the
walls are cracked, the pillars leaning, the great dome swaying to its
fall, and because Science has written over the high altar its mene,
mene, tekel, upharsin—the old words, destined to be the epitaph of all
religions?

Every assertion of individual independence has been a step toward
infidelity. Luther started toward Humboldt,—Wesley, toward John Stuart
Mill. To really reform the church is to destroy it. Every new religion
has a little less superstition than the old, so that the religion of
Science is but a question of time.

I will not say the church has been an unmitigated evil in all respects.
Its history is infamous and glorious. It has delighted in the production
of extremes. It has furnished murderers for its own martyrs. It has
sometimes fed the body, but has always starved the soul. It has been a
charitable highwayman—a profligate beggar—a generous pirate. It
has produced some angels and a multitude of devils. It has built more
prisons than asylums. It made a hundred orphans while it cared for one.
In one hand it has carried the alms-dish and in the other a sword.
It has founded schools and endowed universities for the purpose of
destroying true learning. It filled the world with hypocrites and
zealots, and upon the cross of its own Christ it crucified the
individuality of man. It has sought to destroy the independence of the
soul and put the world upon its knees. This is its crime. The commission
of this crime was necessary to its existence. In order to compel
obedience it declared that it had the truth, and all the truth; that God
had made it the keeper of his secrets; his agent and his vicegerent. It
declared that all other religions were false and infamous. It rendered
all compromise impossible and all thought superfluous. Thought was its
enemy, obedience was its friend. Investigation was fraught with danger;
therefore investigation was suppressed. The holy of holies was behind
the curtain. All this was upon the principle that forgers hate to
have the signature examined by an expert, and that imposture detests
curiosity.

"He that hath ears to hear, let him hear," has always been the favorite
text of the church.

In short, Christianity has always opposed every forward movement of the
human race. Across the highway of progress it has always been building
breastworks of Bibles, tracts, commentaries, prayer-books, creeds,
dogmas and platforms, and at every advance the Christians have gathered
together behind these heaps of rubbish and shot the poisoned arrows of
malice at the soldiers of freedom.

And even the liberal Christian of to-day has his holy of holies, and in
the niche of the temple of his heart has his idol. He still clings to a
part of the old superstition, and all the pleasant memories of the old
belief linger in the horizon of his thoughts like a sunset. We associate
the memory of those we love with the religion of our childhood. It
seems almost a sacrilege to rudely destroy the idols that our fathers
worshiped, and turn their sacred and beautiful truths into the fables of
barbarism. Some throw away the Old Testament and cling to the New, while
others give up everything except the idea that there is a personal God,
and that in some wonderful way we are the objects of his care.

Even this, in my opinion, as Science, the great iconoclast, marches
onward, will have to be abandoned with the rest. The great ghost
will surely share the fate of the little ones. They fled at the first
appearance of the dawn, and the other will vanish with the perfect
day. Until then, the independence of man is little more than a dream.
Overshadowed by an immense personality, in the presence of the
irresponsible and the infinite, the individuality of man is lost, and
he falls prostrate in the very dust of fear. Beneath the frown of the
absolute, man stands a wretched, trembling slave,—beneath his smile he
is at best only a fortunate serf. Governed by a being whose arbitrary
will is law, chained to the chariot of power, his destiny rests in the
pleasure of the unknown. Under these circumstances, what wretched object
can he have in lengthening out his aimless life?

And yet, in most minds, there is a vague fear of the gods—a shrinking
from the malice of the skies. Our fathers were slaves, and nearly all
their children are mental serfs. The enfranchisement of the soul is
a slow and painful process. Superstition, the mother of those hideous
twins, Fear and Faith, from her throne of skulls, still rules the world,
and will until the mind of woman ceases to be the property of priests.

When women reason, and babes sit in the lap of philosophy, the victory
of reason over the shadowy host of darkness will be complete.

In the minds of many, long after the intellect has thrown aside as
utterly fabulous the legends of the church, there still remains a
lingering suspicion, born of the mental habits contracted in childhood,
that after all there may be a grain of truth in these mountains of
theological mist, and that possibly the superstitious side is the side
of safety.

A gentleman, walking among the ruins of Athens, came upon a fallen
statue of Jupiter; making an exceedingly low bow he said: "O Jupiter!
I salute thee." He then added: "Should you ever sit upon the throne
of heaven again, do not, I pray you, forget that I treated you politely
when you were prostrate."

We have all been taught by the church that nothing is so well calculated
to excite the ire of the Deity as to express a doubt as to his
existence, and that to deny it is an unpardonable sin. Numerous
well-attested instances are referred to of atheists being struck dead
for denying the existence of God. According to these religious people,
God is infinitely above us in every respect, infinitely merciful, and
yet he cannot bear to hear a poor finite man honestly question his
existence. Knowing, as he does, that his children are groping in
darkness and struggling with doubt and fear; knowing that he could
enlighten them if he would, he still holds the expression of a sincere
doubt as to his existence, the most infamous of crimes. According to
orthodox logic, God having furnished us with imperfect minds, has a
right to demand a perfect result.

Suppose Mr. Smith should overhear a couple of small bugs holding a
discussion as to the existence of Mr. Smith, and suppose one should have
the temerity to declare, upon the honor of a bug, that he had examined
the whole question to the best of his ability, including the argument
based upon design, and had come to the conclusion that no man by the
name of Smith had ever lived. Think then of Mr. Smith flying into an
ecstasy of rage, crushing the atheist bug beneath his iron heel, while
he exclaimed, "I will teach you, blasphemous wretch, that Smith is a
diabolical fact!" What then can we think of a God who would open the
artillery of heaven upon one of his own children for simply expressing
his honest thought? And what man who really thinks can help repeating
the words of Ennius: "If there are gods they certainly pay no attention
to the affairs of man."

Think of the millions of men and women who have been destroyed simply
for loving and worshiping this God. Is it possible that this God, having
infinite power, saw his loving and heroic children languishing in the
darkness of dungeons; heard the clank of their chains when they lifted
their hands to him in the agony of prayer; saw them stretched upon the
bigot's rack, where death alone had pity; saw the serpents of flame
crawl hissing round their shrinking forms—-saw all this for sixteen
hundred years, and sat as silent as a stone?

From such a God, why should man expect assistance? Why should he waste
his days in fruitless prayer? Why should he fall upon his knees and
implore a phantom—a phantom that is deaf, and dumb, and blind?

Although we live in what is called a free government,—and politically
we are free,—there is but little religious liberty in America. Society
demands, either that you belong to some church, or that you suppress
your opinions. It is contended by many that ours is a Christian
government, founded upon the Bible, and that all who look upon that book
as false or foolish are destroying the foundation of our country. The
truth is, our government is not founded upon the rights of gods, but
upon the rights of men. Our Constitution was framed, not to declare and
uphold the deity of Christ, but the sacredness of humanity. Ours is the
first government made by the people and for the people. It is the only
nation with which the gods have had nothing to do. And yet there are
some judges dishonest and cowardly enough to solemnly decide that this
is a Christian country, and that our free institutions are based upon
the infamous laws of Jehovah. Such judges are the Jeffries of the
church. They believe that decisions, made by hirelings at the bidding of
kings, are binding upon man forever. They regard old law as far superior
to modern justice. They are what might be called orthodox judges. They
spend their days in finding out, not what ought to be, but what has
been. With their backs to the sunrise they worship the night. There is
only one future event with which they concern themselves, and that is
their reelection. No honest court ever did, or ever will, decide that
our Constitution is Christian. The Bible teaches that the powers that
be, are ordained of God. The Bible teaches that God is the source of all
authority, and that all kings have obtained their power from him. Every
tyrant has claimed to be the agent of the Most High. The Inquisition
was founded, not in the name of man, but in the name of God. All the
governments of Europe recognize the greatness of God, and the littleness
of the people. In all ages, hypocrites, called priests, have put crowns
upon the heads of thieves, called kings.

The Declaration of Independence announces the sublime truth, that all
power comes from the people. This was a denial, and the first denial of
a nation, of the infamous dogma that God confers the right upon one man
to govern others. It was the first grand assertion of the dignity of the
human race. It declared the governed to be the source of power, and
in fact denied the authority of any and all gods. Through the ages of
slavery—through the weary centuries of the lash and chain, God was the
acknowledged ruler of the world. To enthrone man, was to dethrone him.

To Paine, Jefferson, and Franklin, are we indebted, more than to all
others, for a human government, and for a Constitution in which no God
is recognized superior to the legally expressed will of the people.

They knew that to put God in the Constitution was to put man out. They
knew that the recognition of a Deity would be seized upon by fanatics
and zealots as a pretext for destroying the liberty of thought. They
knew the terrible history of the church too well to place in her
keeping, or in the keeping of her God, the sacred rights of man. They
intended that all should have the right to worship, or not to worship;
that our laws should make no distinction on account of creed. They
intended to found and frame a government for man, and for man alone.
They wished to preserve the individuality and liberty of all; to prevent
the few from governing the many, and the many from persecuting and
destroying the few.

Notwithstanding all this, the spirit of persecution still lingers in our
laws. In many of the States, only those who believe in the existence of
some kind of God, are under the protection of the law.

The supreme court of Illinois decided, in the year of grace 1856, that
an unbeliever in the existence of an intelligent First Cause could not
be allowed to testify in any court. His wife and children might have
been murdered before his very face, and yet in the absence of other
witnesses, the murderer could not have even been indicted. The atheist
was a legal outcast. To him, Justice was not only blind, but deaf. He
was liable, like other men, to support the Government, and was forced to
contribute his share towards paying the salaries of the very judges
who decided that under no circumstances could his voice be heard in any
court. This was the law of Illinois, and so remained until the
adoption of the new Constitution. By such infamous means has the church
endeavored to chain the human mind, and protect the majesty of her God.
The fact is, we have no national religion, and no national God; but
every citizen is allowed to have a religion and a God of his own, or
to reject all religions and deny the existence of all gods. The church,
however, never has, and never will understand and appreciate the genius
of our Government.

Last year, in a convention of Protestant bigots, held in the city of New
York for the purpose of creating public opinion in favor of a religious
amendment to the Federal Constitution, a reverend doctor of divinity,
speaking of atheists, said: "What are the rights of the atheist? I would
tolerate him as I would tolerate a poor lunatic. I would tolerate him as
I would tolerate a conspirator. He may live and go free, hold his
lands and enjoy his home—he may even vote; but for any higher or more
advanced citizenship, he is, as I hold, utterly disqualified." These are
the sentiments of the church to-day.

Give the church a place in the Constitution, let her touch once more
the sword of power, and the priceless fruit of all the ages will turn to
ashes on the lips of men.

In religious ideas and conceptions there has been for ages a slow and
steady development At the bottom of the ladder (speaking of modern
times) is Catholicism, and at the top is Science. The intermediate
rounds of this ladder are occupied by the various sects, whose name is
legion.

But whatever may be the truth upon any subject has nothing to do
with-our right to investigate that subject, and express any opinion
we may form. All that I ask, is the same right I freely accord to all
others.

A few years ago a Methodist clergyman took it upon himself to give me a
piece of friendly advice. "Although you may disbelieve the Bible," said
he, "you ought not to say so. That, you should keep to yourself."

"Do you believe the Bible," said I.

He replied, "Most assuredly".

To which I retorted, "Your answer conveys no information to me. You may
be following your own advice. You told me to suppress my opinions. Of
course a man who will advise others to dissimulate will not always be
particular about telling the truth himself."

There can be nothing more utterly subversive of all that is really
valuable than the suppression of honest thought. No man, worthy of the
form he bears, will at the command of church or state solemnly repeat a
creed his reason scorns.

It is the duty of each and every one to maintain his individuality.
"This above all, to thine ownself be true, and it must follow as
the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." It is
a magnificent thing to be the sole proprietor of yourself. It is a
terrible thing to wake up at night and say, "There is nobody in this
bed." It is humiliating to know that your ideas are all borrowed; that
you are indebted to your memory for your principles; that your religion
is simply one of your habits, and that you would have convictions if
they were only contagious. It is mortifying to feel that you belong to
a mental mob and cry "crucify him," because the others do; that you reap
what the great and brave have sown, and that you can benefit the world
only by leaving it.

Surely every human being ought to attain to the dignity of the unit.
Surely it is worth something to be one, and to feel that the census of
the universe would be incomplete without counting you. Surely there
is grandeur in knowing that in the realm of thought, at least, you are
without a chain; that you have the right to explore all heights and all
depths; that there are no walls nor fences, nor prohibited places, nor
sacred corners in all the vast expanse of thought; that your intellect
owes no allegiance to any being, human or divine; that you hold all in
fee and upon no condition and by no tenure whatever; that in the world
of mind you are relieved from all personal dictation, and from the
ignorant tyranny of majorities. Surely it is worth something to feel
that there are no priests, no popes, no parties, no governments,
no kings, no gods, to whom your intellect can be compelled to pay
a reluctant homage. Surely it is a joy to know that all the cruel
ingenuity of bigotry can devise no prison, no dungeon, no cell in which
for one instant to confine a thought; that ideas cannot be dislocated
by racks, nor crushed in iron boots, nor burned with fire. Surely it is
sublime to think that the brain is a castle, and that within its curious
bastions and winding halls the soul, in spite of all worlds and all
beings, is the supreme sovereign of itself.
---
# The Ghosts
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1877_
<section class="work-preface">

<span class="work-preface-kicker">Author's Front Matter</span>
<h2 class="work-preface-heading">Preface</h2>

These lectures have been so maimed and mutilated by orthodox malice;
have been made to appear so halt, crutched and decrepit by those who
mistake the pleasures of calumny for the duties of religion, that in
simple justice to myself I concluded to publish them.

Most of the clergy are, or seem to be, utterly incapable of discussing
anything in a fair and catholic spirit. They appeal, not to reason,
but to prejudice; not to facts, but to passages of Scripture. They can
conceive of no goodness, of no spiritual exaltation beyond the horizon
of their creed. Whoever differs with them upon what they are pleased
to call "fundamental truths," is, in their opinion, a base and infamous
man. To re-enact the tragedies of the sixteenth century, they lack only
the power. Bigotry in all ages has been the same. Christianity simply
transferred the brutality of the Colosseum to the Inquisition. For the
murderous combat of the gladiators, the saints substituted the _auto de
fe_. What has been called religion is, after all, but the organization
of the wild beast in man. The perfumed blossom of arrogance is heaven.
Hell is the consummation of revenge.

The chief business of the clergy has always been to destroy the joy of
life, and multiply and magnify the terrors and tortures of death and
perdition. They have polluted the heart and paralyzed the brain; and
upon the ignorant altars of the Past and the Dead, they have endeavored
to sacrifice the Present and the Living.

Nothing can exceed the mendacity of the religious press. I have had some
little experience with political editors, and am forced to say, that
until I read the religious papers, I did not know what malicious and
slimy falsehoods could be constructed from ordinary words. The ingenuity
with which the real and apparent meaning can be tortured out of
language, is simply amazing. The average religious editor is intolerant
and insolent; he knows nothing of affairs; he has the envy of failure,
the malice of impotence, and always accounts for the brave and generous
actions of unbelievers, by low, base and unworthy motives.

By this time, even the clergy should know that the intellect of the
nineteenth century needs no guardian. They should cease to regard
themselves as shepherds defending flocks of weak, silly and fearful
sheep from the claws and teeth of ravening wolves. By this time they
should know that the religion of the ignorant and brutal Past no
longer satisfies the heart and brain; that the miracles have become
contemptible; that the "evidences" have ceased to convince; that the
spirit of investigation cannot be stopped nor stayed; that the church
is losing her power; that the young are holding in a kind of tender
contempt the sacred follies of the old; that the pulpit and pews no
longer represent the culture and morality of the world, and that the
brand of intellectual inferiority is upon the orthodox brain.

Men should be liberated from the aristocracy of the air. Every chain
of superstition should be broken. The rights of men and women should
be equal and sacred—marriage should be a perfect partnership—children
should be governed by kindness,—every family should be a
republic—every fireside a democracy.

It seems almost impossible for religious people to really grasp the idea
of intellectual freedom. They seem to think that man is responsible for
his honest thoughts; that unbelief is a crime; that investigation is
sinful; that credulity is a virtue, and that reason is a dangerous
guide. They cannot divest themselves of the idea that in the realm of
thought there must be government—authority and obedience—laws and
penalties—rewards and punishments, and that somewhere in the universe
there is a penitentiary for the soul.

In the republic of mind, _one_ is a majority. There, all are monarchs,
and all are equals. The tyranny of a majority even is unknown. Each one
is crowned, sceptered and throned. Upon every brow is the tiara, and
around every form is the imperial purple. Only those are good citizens
who express their honest thoughts, and those who persecute for opinion's
sake, are the only traitors. There, nothing is considered infamous
except an appeal to brute force, and nothing sacred but love, liberty,
and joy. The church contemplates this republic with a sneer. From the
teeth of hatred she draws back the lips of scorn. She is filled with the
spite and spleen born of intellectual weakness. Once she was egotistic;
now she is envious.

Once she wore upon her hollow breast false gems, supposing them to be
real. They have been shown to be false, but she wears them still. She
has the malice of the caught, the hatred of the exposed.

We are told to investigate the Bible for ourselves, and at the same time
informed that if we come to the conclusion that it is not the inspired
word of God, we will most assuredly be damned. Under such circumstances,
if we believe this, investigation is impossible. Whoever is held
responsible for his conclusions cannot weigh the evidence with impartial
scales. Fear stands at the balance, and gives to falsehood the weight of
its trembling hand.

I oppose the church because she is the enemy of liberty; because her
dogmas are infamous and cruel; because she humiliates and degrades
woman; because she teaches the doctrines of eternal torment and the
natural depravity of man; because she insists upon the absurd, the
impossible, and the senseless; because she resorts to falsehood and
slander; because she is arrogant and revengeful; because she allows men
to sin on a credit; because she discourages self-reliance, and laughs
at good works; because she believes in vicarious virtue and vicarious
vice—vicarious punishment and vicarious reward; because she regards
repentance of more importance than restitution, and because she
sacrifices the world we have to one we know not of.

The free and generous, the tender and affectionate, will understand me.
Those who have escaped from the grated cells of a creed will appreciate
my motives. The sad and suffering wives, the trembling and loving
children will thank me: This is enough.

<p class="work-preface-sign">Robert G. Ingersoll<small>Washington, D.C. · April 13, 1878</small></p>

</section>

## The Ghosts

LET THEM COVER THEIR EYELESS SOCKETS WITH THEIR FLESHLESS HANDS AND FADE
FOREVER FROM THE IMAGINATION OF MEN.

THERE are three theories by which men account for all phenomena,
for everything that happens: First, the Supernatural; Second, the
Supernatural and Natural; Third, the Natural. Between these theories
there has been, from the dawn of civilization, a continual conflict. In
this great war, nearly all the soldiers have been in the ranks of the
supernatural. The believers in the supernatural insist that matter
is controlled and directed entirely by powers from without; while
naturalists maintain that Nature acts from within; that Nature is not
acted upon; that the universe is all there is; that Nature with infinite
arms embraces everything that exists, and that all supposed powers
beyond the limits of the material are simply ghosts. You say, "Oh, this
is materialism!" What is matter? I take in my hand some earth:—in this
dust put seeds. Let the arrows of light from the quiver of the sun smite
upon it; let the rain fall upon it. The seeds will grow and a plant will
bud and blossom. Do you understand this? Can you explain it better than
you can the production of thought? Have you the slightest conception of
what it really is? And yet you speak of matter as though acquainted with
its origin, as though you had torn from the clenched hands of the rocks
the secrets of material existence. Do you know what force is? Can you
account for molecular action? Are you really familiar with chemistry,
and can you account for the loves and hatreds of the atoms? Is there not
something in matter that forever eludes? After all, can you get beyond,
above or below appearances? Before you cry "materialism!" had you not
better ascertain what matter really is? Can you think even of anything
without a material basis? Is it possible to imagine the annihilation of
a single atom? Is it possible for you to conceive of the creation of an
atom? Can you have a thought that was not suggested to you by what you
call matter?

Our fathers denounced materialism, and accounted for all phenomena by
the caprice of gods and devils.

For thousands of years it was believed that ghosts, good and bad,
benevolent and malignant, weak and powerful, in some mysterious way,
produced all phenomena; that disease and health, happiness and misery,
fortune and misfortune, peace and war, life and death, success and
failure, were but arrows from the quivers of these ghosts; that shadowy
phantoms rewarded and punished mankind; that they were pleased and
displeased by the actions of men; that they sent and withheld the snow,
the light, and the rain; that they blessed the earth with harvests or
cursed it with famine; that they fed or starved the children of men;
that they crowned and uncrowned kings; that they took sides in war; that
they controlled the winds; that they gave prosperous voyages, allowing
the brave mariner to meet his wife and child inside the harbor bar, or
sent the storms, strewing the sad shores with wrecks of ships and the
bodies of men.

Formerly, these ghosts were believed to be almost innumerable. Earth,
air, and water were filled with these phantom hosts. In modern times
they have greatly decreased in number, because the second theory,—a
mingling of the supernatural and natural,—has generally been adopted.
The remaining ghosts, however, are supposed to perform the same offices
as the hosts of yore.

It has always been believed that these ghosts could in some way be
appeased; that they could be flattered by sacrifices, by prayer, by
fasting, by the building of temples and cathedrals, by the blood of
men and beasts, by forms and ceremonies, by chants, by kneelings and
prostrations, by flagellations and maimings, by renouncing the joys of
home, by living alone in the wide desert, by the practice of celibacy,
by inventing instruments of torture, by destroying men, women and
children, by covering the earth with dungeons, by burning unbelievers,
by putting chains upon the thoughts and manacles upon the limbs of
men, by believing things without evidence and against evidence, by
disbelieving and denying demonstration, by despising facts, by hating
reason, by denouncing liberty, by maligning heretics, by slandering
the dead, by subscribing to senseless and cruel creeds, by discouraging
investigation, by worshiping a book, by the cultivation of credulity,
by observing certain times and days, by counting beads, by gazing at
crosses, by hiring others to repeat verses and prayers, by burning
candles and ringing bells, by enslaving each other and putting out the
eyes of the soul. All this has been done to appease and flatter these
monsters of the air.

In the history of our poor world, no horror has been omitted, no infamy
has been left undone by the believers in ghosts,—by the worshipers of
these fleshless phantoms. And yet these shadows were born of cowardice
and malignity. They were painted by the pencil of fear upon the canvas
of ignorance by that artist called superstition.

From these ghosts, our fathers received information. They were
the schoolmasters of our ancestors. They were the scientists and
philosophers, the geologists, legislators, astronomers, physicians,
metaphysicians and historians of the past. For ages these ghosts were
supposed to be the only source of real knowledge. They inspired men to
write books, and the books were considered sacred. If facts were found
to be inconsistent with these books, so much the worse for the facts,
and especially for their discoverers. It was then, and still is,
believed that these books are the basis of the idea of immortality; that
to give up these volumes, or rather the idea that they are inspired, is
to renounce the idea of immortality. This I deny.

The idea of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the
human heart, with its countless waves of hope and fear, beating against
the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of
any creed, nor of any religion. It was born of human affection, and it
will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt
and darkness as long as love kisses the lips of death. It is the
rainbow—Hope shining upon the tears of grief.

From the books written by the ghosts we have at last ascertained that
they knew nothing about the world in which we live. Did they know
anything about the next? Upon every point where contradiction is
possible, they have been contradicted.

By these ghosts, by these citizens of the air, the affairs of government
were administered; all authority to govern came from them. The emperors,
kings and potentates all had commissions from these phantoms. Man was
not considered as the source of any power whatever. To rebel against the
king was to rebel against the ghosts, and nothing less than the blood of
the offender could appease the invisible phantom or the visible tyrant.
Kneeling was the proper position to be assumed by the multitude.
The prostrate were the good. Those who stood erect were infidels and
traitors. In the name and by the authority of the ghosts, man was
enslaved, crushed, and plundered. The many toiled wearily in the storm
and sun that the few favorites of the ghosts might live in idleness.
The many lived in huts, and caves, and dens, that the few might dwell in
palaces. The many covered themselves with rags, that the few might
robe themselves in purple and in gold. The many crept, and cringed, and
crawled, that the few might tread upon their flesh with iron feet.

From the ghosts men received, not only authority, but information of
every kind. They told us the form of this earth. They informed us that
eclipses were caused by the sins of man; that the universe was made
in six days; that astronomy, and geology were devices of wicked men,
instigated by wicked ghosts; that gazing at the sky with a telescope
was a dangerous thing; that digging into the earth was sinful curiosity;
that trying to be wise above what they had written was born of a
rebellious and irreverent spirit.

They told us there was no virtue like belief, and no crime like doubt;
that investigation was pure impudence, and the punishment therefor,
eternal torment. They not only told us all about this world, but about
two others; and if their statements about the other worlds are as true
as about this, no one can estimate the value of their information.

For countless ages, the world was governed by ghosts, and they spared no
pains to change the eagle of the human intellect into a bat of darkness.
To accomplish this infamous purpose; to drive the love of truth from the
human heart; to prevent the advancement of mankind; to shut out from
the world every ray of intellectual light; to pollute every mind with
superstition, the power of kings, the cunning and cruelty of priests,
and the wealth of nations were exhausted.

During these years of persecution, ignorance, superstition and slavery,
nearly all the people, the kings, lawyers, doctors, the learned and the
unlearned, believed in that frightful production of ignorance, fear, and
faith, called witchcraft. They believed that man was the sport and prey
of devils. They really thought that the very air was thick with these
enemies of man. With few exceptions, this hideous and infamous belief
was universal. Under these conditions, progress was almost impossible.

Fear paralyzes the brain. Progress is born of courage. Fear
believes—courage doubts. Fear falls upon the earth and prays—courage
stands erect and thinks. Fear retreats—courage advances. Fear is
barbarism—courage is civilization. Fear believes in witchcraft, in
devils and in ghosts. Fear is religion—courage is science.

The facts, upon which this terrible belief rested, were proved over
and over again in every court of Europe. Thousands confessed themselves
guilty—admitted that they had sold themselves to the devil. They gave
the particulars of the sale; told what they said and what the devil
replied. They confessed this, when they knew that confession was death;
knew that their property would be confiscated, and their children left
to beg their bread. This is one of the miracles of history—one of the
strangest contradictions of the human mind. Without doubt, they really
believed themselves guilty. In the first place, they believed in
witchcraft as a fact, and when charged with it, they probably became
insane. In their insanity they confessed their guilt. They found
themselves abhorred and deserted—charged with a crime that they could
not disprove. Like a man in quicksand, every effort only sunk them
deeper. Caught in this frightful web, at the mercy of the spiders
of superstition, hope fled, and nothing remained but the insanity of
confession. The whole world appeared to be insane.

In the time of James the First, a man was executed for causing a storm
at sea with the intention of drowning one of the royal family. How could
he disprove it? How could he show that he did not cause the storm?
All storms were at that time generally supposed to be caused by
the devil—the prince of the power of the air—and by those whom he
assisted.

I implore you to remember that the believers in such impossible things
were the authors of our creeds and confessions of faith.

A woman was tried and convicted before Sir Matthew Hale, one of the
great judges and lawyers of England, for having caused children to
vomit crooked pins. She was also charged with having nursed devils. The
learned judge charged the intelligent jury that there was no doubt as
to the existence of witches; that it was established by all history, and
expressly taught by the Bible.

The woman was hanged and her body burned.

Sir Thomas More declared that to give up witchcraft was to throw away
the sacred Scriptures. In my judgment, he was right.

John Wesley was a firm believer in ghosts and witches, and insisted upon
it, years after all laws upon the subject had been repealed in England.
I beg of you to remember that John Wesley was the founder of the
Methodist Church.

In New England, a woman was charged with being a witch, and with having
changed herself into a fox. While in that condition she was attacked and
bitten by some dogs. A committee of three men, by order of the court,
examined this woman. They removed her clothing and searched for "witch
spots." That is to say, spots into which needles could be thrust without
giving her pain. They reported to the court that such spots were found.
She denied, however, that she ever had changed herself into a fox. Upon
the report of the committee she was found guilty and actually executed.
This was done by our Puritan fathers, by the gentlemen who braved the
dangers of the deep for the sake of worshiping God and persecuting their
fellow-men.

In those days people believed in what was known as lycanthropy—that is,
that persons, with the assistance of the devil, could assume the form
of wolves. An instance is given where a man was attacked by a wolf. He
defended himself, and succeeded in cutting off one of the animal's paws.
The wolf ran away. The man picked up the paw, put it in his pocket and
carried it home. There he found his wife with one of her hands gone. He
took the paw from his pocket. It had changed to a human hand. He charged
his wife with being a witch. She was tried. She confessed her guilt, and
was burned.

People were burned for causing frosts in summer—for destroying crops
with hail—for causing storms—for making cows go dry, and even for
souring beer. There was no impossibility for which some one was not
tried and convicted. The life of no one was secure. To be charged,
was to be convicted. Every man was at the mercy of every other. This
infamous belief was so firmly seated in the minds of the people, that to
express a doubt as to its truth was to be suspected. Whoever denied the
existence of witches and devils was denounced as an infidel.

They believed that animals were often taken possession of by devils, and
that the killing of the animal would destroy the devil. They absolutely
tried, convicted, and executed dumb beasts.

At Basle, in 1470, a rooster was tried upon the charge of having laid
an egg. Rooster eggs were used only in making witch ointment,—this
everybody knew. The rooster was convicted and with all due solemnity was
burned in the public square. So a hog and six pigs were tried for having
killed and partially eaten a child. The hog was convicted,—but the
pigs, on account probably of their extreme youth, were acquitted. As
late as 1740, a cow was tried and convicted of being possessed by a
devil.

They used to exorcise rats, locusts, snakes and vermin. They used to go
through the alleys, streets, and fields, and warn them to leave within
a certain number of days. In case they disobeyed, they were threatened
with pains and penalties.

But let us be careful how we laugh at these things. Let us not pride
ourselves too much on the progress of our age. We must not forget that
some of our people are yet in the same intelligent business. Only a
little while ago, the governor of Minnesota appointed a day of fasting
and prayer, to see if some power could not be induced to kill the
grasshoppers, or send them into some other state.

About the close of the fifteenth century, so great was the excitement
with regard to the existence of witchcraft that Pope Innocent VIII.
issued a bull directing the inquisitors to be vigilant in searching
out and punishing all guilty of this crime. Forms for the trial
were regularly laid down in a book or a pamphlet called the "Malleus
Maleficorum" (Hammer of Witches), which was issued by the Roman See.
Popes Alexander, Leo, and Adrian, issued like bulls. For two hundred
and fifty years the church was busy in punishing the impossible crime of
witchcraft; in burning, hanging and torturing men, women, and children.
Protestants were as active as Catholics, and in Geneva five hundred
witches were burned at the stake in a period of three months. About one
thousand were executed in one year in the diocese of Como. At least one
hundred thousand victims suffered in Germany alone: the last execution
(in Wurtzburg) taking place as late as 1749. Witches were burned in
Switzerland as late as 1780.

In England the same frightful scenes were enacted. Statutes were passed
from Henry VI. to James I., defining the crime and its punishment. The
last act passed by the British parliament was when Lord Bacon was a
member of the House of Commons; and this act was not repealed until
1736.

Sir William Blackstone, in his Commentaries on the Laws of England,
says: "To deny the possibility, nay, actual existence of witchcraft
and sorcery, is at once flatly to contradict the word of God in various
passages both of the Old and New Testament; and the thing itself is
a truth to which every nation in the world hath in its turn borne
testimony, either by examples seemingly well attested, or by prohibitory
laws, which at least suppose the possibility of a commerce with evil
spirits."

In Brown's Dictionary of the Bible, published at Edinburg, Scotland, in
1807, it is said that: "A witch is a woman that has dealings with Satan.
That such persons are among men is abundantly plain from Scripture, and
that they ought to be put to death."

This work was re-published in Albany, New York, in 1816. No wonder the
clergy of that city are ignorant and bigoted even unto this day.

In 1716, Mrs. Hicks and her daughter, nine years of age, were hanged
for selling their souls to the devil, and raising a storm by pulling off
their stockings and making a lather of soap.

In England it has been estimated that at least thirty thousand were
hanged and burned. The last victim executed in Scotland, perished in
1722. "She was an innocent old woman, who had so little idea of her
situation as to rejoice at the sight of the fire which was destined
to consume her. She had a daughter, lame both of hands and of feet—a
circumstance attributed to the witch having been used to transform her
daughter into a pony and getting her shod by the devil."

In 1692, nineteen persons were executed and one pressed to death in
Salem, Massachusetts, for the crime of witchcraft.

It was thought in those days that men and women made compacts with the
devil, orally and in writing. That they abjured God and Jesus Christ,
and dedicated themselves wholly to the devil. The contracts were
confirmed at a general meeting of witches and ghosts, over which the
devil himself presided; and the persons generally signed the articles of
agreement with their own blood. These contracts were, in some instances,
for a few years; in others, for life. General assemblies of the witches
were held at least once a year, at which they appeared entirely naked,
besmeared with an ointment made from the bodies of unbaptized infants.
"To these meetings they rode from great distances on broomsticks,
pokers, goats, hogs, and dogs. Here they did homage to the prince of
hell, and offered him sacrifices of young children, and practiced all
sorts of license until the break of day."

"As late as 1815, Belgium was disgraced by a witch trial; and guilt was
established by the water ordeal." "In 1836, the populace of Hela, near
Dantzic, twice plunged into the sea a woman reputed to be a sorceress;
and as the miserable creature persisted in rising to the surface, she
was pronounced guilty, and beaten to death."

"It was believed that the bodies of devils are not like those of men and
animals, cast in an unchangeable mould. It was thought they were like
clouds, refined and subtle matter, capable of assuming any form and
penetrating into any orifice. The horrible tortures they endured
in their place of punishment rendered them extremely sensitive to
suffering, and they continually sought a temperate and somewhat moist
warmth in order to allay their pangs. It was for this reason they so
frequently entered into men and women."

The devil could transport men, at his will, through the air. He could
beget children; and Martin Luther himself had come in contact with one
of these children. He recommended the mother to throw the child into the
river, in order to free their house from the presence of a devil.

It was believed that the devil could transform people into any shape he
pleased.

Whoever denied these things was denounced as an infidel. All the
believers in witchcraft confidently appealed to the Bible. Their mouths
were filled with passages demonstrating the existence of witches and
their power Over human beings. By the Bible they proved that innumerable
evil spirits were ranging over the world endeavoring to ruin mankind;
that these spirits possessed a power and wisdom far transcending the
limits of human faculties; that they delighted in every misfortune that
could befall the world; that their malice was superhuman. That they
caused tempests was proved by the action of the devil toward Job; by the
passage in the book of Revelation describing the four angels who held
the four winds, and to whom it was given to afflict the earth. They
believed the devil could carry persons hundreds of miles, in a few
seconds, through the air. They believed this, because they knew that
Christ had been carried by the devil in the same manner and placed on a
pinnacle of the temple. "The prophet Habakkuk had been transported by a
spirit from Judea to Babylon; and Philip, the evangelist, had been the
object of a similar miracle; and in the same way Saint Paul had been
carried in the body into the third heaven."

"In those pious days, they believed that _Incubi_ and _Succubi_ were
forever wandering among mankind, alluring, by more than human charms,
the unwary to their destruction, and laying plots, which were too often
successful, against the virtue of the saints. Sometimes the witches
kindled in the monastic priest a more terrestrial fire. People told,
with bated breath, how, under the spell of a vindictive woman, four
successive abbots in a German monastery had been wasted away by an
unholy flame."

An instance is given in which the devil not only assumed the appearance
of a holy man, in order to pay his addresses to a lady, but when
discovered, crept under the bed, suffered himself to be dragged out,
and was impudent enough to declare that he was the veritable bishop. So
perfectly had he assumed the form and features of the prelate that those
who knew the bishop best were deceived.

One can hardly imagine the frightful state of the human mind during
these long centuries of darkness and superstition. To them, these things
were awful and frightful realities. Hovering above them in the air, in
their houses, in the bosoms of friends, in their very bodies, in all the
darkness of night, everywhere, around, above and below, were innumerable
hosts of unclean and malignant devils.

From the malice of those leering and vindictive vampires of the air,
the church pretended to defend mankind. Pursued by these phantoms, the
frightened multitudes fell upon their faces and implored the aid of
robed hypocrisy and sceptered theft.

Take from the orthodox church of to-day the threat and fear of hell, and
it becomes an extinct volcano.

Take from the church the miraculous, the supernatural, the
incomprehensible, the unreasonable, the impossible, the unknowable, and
the absurd, and nothing but a vacuum remains.

Notwithstanding all the infamous things justly laid to the charge of the
church, we are told that the civilization of to-day is the child of what
we are pleased to call the superstition of the past.

Religion has not civilized man—man has civilized religion. God improves
as man advances.

Let me call your attention to what we have received from the followers
of the ghosts. Let me give you an outline of the sciences as taught by
these philosophers of the clouds.

All diseases were produced, either as a punishment by the good ghosts,
or out of pure malignity by the bad ones. There were, properly speaking,
no diseases. The sick were possessed by ghosts. The science of medicine
consisted in knowing how to persuade these ghosts to vacate the
premises. For thousands of years the diseased were treated with
incantations, with hideous noises, with drums and gongs. Everything was
done to make the visit of the ghost as unpleasant as possible, and they
generally succeeded in making things so disagreeable that if the ghost
did not leave, the patient did. These ghosts were supposed to be of
different rank, power and dignity. Now and then a man pretended to have
won the favor of some powerful ghost, and that gave him power over the
little ones. Such a man became an eminent physician.

It was found that certain kinds of smoke, such as that produced by
burning the liver of a fish, the dried skin of a serpent, the eyes of
a toad, or the tongue of an adder, were exceedingly offensive to the
nostrils of an ordinary ghost. With this smoke, the sick room would be
filled until the ghost vanished or the patient died.

It was also believed that certain words,—the names of the most powerful
ghosts,—when properly pronounced, were very effective weapons. It was
for a long time thought that Latin words were the best,—Latin being a
dead language, and known by the clergy. Others thought that two sticks
laid across each other and held before the wicked ghost would cause it
instantly to flee in dread away.

For thousands of years, the practice of medicine consisted in driving
these evil spirits out of the bodies of men.

In some instances, bargains and compromises were made with the ghosts.
One case is given where a multitude of devils traded a man for a herd
of swine. In this transaction the devils were the losers, as the swine
immediately drowned themselves in the sea.

The contortions of the epileptic, the strange twitchings of those
afflicted with chorea, the shakings of palsy, dreams, trances, and the
numberless frightful phenomena produced by diseases of the nerves, were
all seized upon as so many proofs that the bodies of men were filled
with unclean and malignant ghosts.

Whoever endeavored to account for these things by natural causes,
whoever attempted to cure diseases by natural means, was denounced by
the church as an infidel. To explain anything was a crime. It was to the
interest of the priest that all phenomena should be accounted for by the
will and power of gods and devils. The moment it is admitted that all
phenomena are within the domain of the natural, the necessity for a
priest has disappeared. Religion breathes the air of the supernatural.
Take from the mind of man the idea of the supernatural, and religion
ceases to exist. For this, reason, the church has always despised the
man who explained the wonderful. Upon this principle, nothing was
left undone to stay the science of medicine. As long as plagues and
pestilences could be stopped by prayer, the priest was useful. The
moment the physician found a cure, the priest became an extravagance.
The moment it began to be apparent that prayer could do nothing for the
body, the priest shifted his ground and began praying for the soul.

Long after the devil idea was substantially abandoned in the practice
of medicine, and when it was admitted that God had nothing to do with
ordinary coughs and colds, it was still believed that all the frightful
diseases were sent by him as punishments for the wickedness of the
people. It was thought to be a kind of blasphemy to even try, by any
natural means, to stay the ravages of pestilence. Formerly, during the
prevalence of plague and epidemics, the arrogance of the priest was
boundless. He told the people that they had slighted the clergy, that
they had refused to pay tithes, that they had doubted some of the
doctrines of the church, and that God was now taking his revenge. The
people for the most part, believed this infamous tissue of priestcraft.
They hastened to fall upon their knees; they poured out their wealth
upon the altars of hypocrisy; they abased and debased themselves; from
their minds they banished all doubts, and made haste to crawl in the
very dust of humility.

The church never wanted disease to be under the control of man.
Timothy Dwight, president of Yale College, preached a sermon against
vaccination. His idea was, that if God had decreed from all eternity
that a certain man should die with the small-pox, it was a frightful sin
to avoid and annul that decree by the trick of vaccination. Small-pox
being regarded as one of the heaviest guns in the arsenal of heaven,
to spike it was the height of presumption. Plagues and pestilences were
instrumentalities in the hands of God with which to gain the love and
worship of mankind. To find a cure for disease was to take a weapon from
the church. No one tries to cure the ague with prayer. Quinine has been
found altogether more reliable. Just as soon as a specific is found
for a disease, that disease will be left out of the list of prayer. The
number of diseases with which God from time to time afflicts mankind,
is continually decreasing. In a few years all of them will be under the
control of man, the gods will be left unarmed, and the threats of their
priests will excite only a smile.

The science of medicine has had but one enemy—religion. Man was afraid
to save his body for fear he might lose his soul.

Is it any wonder that the people in those days believed in and taught
the infamous doctrine of eternal punishment—a doctrine that makes God a
heartless monster and man a slimy hypocrite and slave?

The ghosts were historians, and their histories were the grossest
absurdities. "Tales told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying
nothing." In those days the histories were written by the monks, who, as
a rule, were almost as superstitious as they were dishonest. They wrote
as though they had been witnesses of every occurrence they related. They
wrote the history of every country of importance. They told all the
past and predicted all the future with an impudence that amounted to
sublimity.

The ghosts were the authors of all law. They also enforced it, and
they presided over courts of justice. Our fathers were their slaves and
messengers. The ghosts set over themselves kings and princes and popes,
and there was but one idea, and that was obedience, tame and slavish
obedience to the ghosts and their agents.

I have given you these things simply to show you what has been done to
man by the ghosts of the air. They have filled the world with terror and
weakness; they have made man a slave; they have taught him to spend his
life in fear; they have filled his heart with superstition; they have
chained his hands and manacled his feet; they have taught him to kneel
before imaginary powers; they have taught him that to use his reason is
the greatest of all sins; they have made hypocrisy respectable; they
have put a premium upon ignorance; they have rewarded mental slavery and
have punished mental independence. They have sought in every way to
humiliate and degrade the human mind and to destroy the conscience and
candor of our race.

Happily, the ghosts are now dying. The hand of Science has at last torn
the veil of superstition. Science has made man free. Science has taught
him to depend upon himself; to trust the light of his own reason; to
use his own brain; to be governed by the facts by which he is surrounded;
to believe only that for which there is evidence; to respect only that
which can substantiate itself. Science has taught him to love truth, to
love liberty, to love his fellow-men, to make this world better and
happier, to see that right and wrong exist in the nature of things, and
that reward and punishment are but the natural consequences of the acts
we do.

Let the ghosts go. Let them go with the theologies of the past. Let
them go with the devils and the inquisitions, the fagots and flames.
Let them go with the infinite cruelties of the Old Testament and with
the dogmas of the New. Let them go and let us be forever free from the
degrading influence of superstition. Let us now rely upon ourselves. Let
us find out the laws of nature and then conform our lives to those laws.
Let us be just to each other. Let us rely upon reason as the only guide.
Let us build homes of love and kindness where pity and charity shall
dwell; where man shall treat his wife as the sovereign of his heart, and
not as his slave; where the children shall be governed by love, and
where labor shall be an honor and idleness a disgrace.

Let us see that the world shall grow better and that men shall love one
another. Let us be the friends of progress, of liberty, of justice, of
truth. Let us be friends of man. Let us cease to quarrel about unknown
worlds, about impossible gods, and let us join hands for the
improvement of this. Let us cease to dispute about the nature of
angels, and about the meaning of ancient texts, and let us endeavor
to make our fellow-men happy here and now. Let us drive out the
ghosts of all the ages. Let us have the living and not the dead for our
companions. Let us drive out the ghosts from every home, from every
heart, from every brain, and let the light of liberty, of reason, and of
science shine upon every hearth, and over all the world.

Humanity, I believe, is greater than all the ghosts that ever were.
The rights of man are more sacred than the dictates of any creed. The
affections of the human heart are worth more than all the myths of
all the religions. Let us trust in the future, and let us build it upon
the sacred foundations of truth, of liberty, and of love.

Let the ghosts go. Let them cover their eyeless sockets with their
fleshless hands and fade forever from the imaginations of men.
---
# The Gods
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1872_
EACH nation has created a god, and the god has always resembled his
creators. He hated and loved what they hated and loved, and he was
invariably found on the side of those in power. Each god was intensely
patriotic, and detested all nations but his own. All these gods demanded
praise, flattery, and worship. Most of them were pleased with sacrifice,
and the smell of innocent blood has ever been considered a divine
perfume. All these gods have insisted upon having a vast number of
priests, and the priests have always insisted upon being supported by
the people, and the principal business of these priests has been to
boast about their god, and to insist that he could easily vanquish all
the other gods put together.

These gods have been manufactured after numberless models, and according
to the most grotesque fashions. Some have a thousand arms, some a
hundred heads, some are adorned with necklaces of living snakes, some
are armed with clubs, some with sword and shield, some with bucklers,
and some have wings as a cherub; some were invisible, some would show
themselves entire, and some would only show their backs; some were
jealous, some were foolish, some turned themselves into men, some into
swans, some into bulls, some into doves, and some into Holy Ghosts,
and made love to the beautiful daughters of men. Some were married—all
ought to have been—and some were considered as old bachelors from all
eternity. Some had children, and the children were turned into gods and
worshiped as their fathers had been. Most of these gods were revengeful,
savage, lustful, and ignorant. As they generally depended upon
their priests for information, their ignorance can hardly excite our
astonishment.

These gods did not even know the shape of the worlds they had created,
but supposed them perfectly flat Some thought the day could be
lengthened by stopping the sun, that the blowing of horns could throw
down the walls of a city, and all knew so little of the real nature
of the people they had created, that they commanded the people to love
them. Some were so ignorant as to suppose that man could believe just
as he might desire, or as they might command, and that to be governed
by observation, reason, and experience was a most foul and damning sin.
None of these gods could give a true account of the creation of this
little earth. All were wofully deficient in geology and astronomy. As a
rule, they were most miserable legislators, and as executives, they were
far inferior to the average of American presidents.

These deities have demanded the most abject and degrading obedience. In
order to please them, man must lay his very face in the dust Of course,
they have always been partial to the people who created them, and have
generally shown their partiality by assisting those people to rob and
destroy others, and to ravish their wives and daughters.

Nothing is so pleasing to these gods as the butchery of unbelievers.
Nothing so enrages them, even now, as to have some one deny their
existence.

Few nations have been so poor as to have but one god. Gods were made
so easily, and the raw material cost so little, that generally the god
market was fairly glutted, and heaven crammed with these phantoms. These
gods not only attended to the skies, but were supposed to interfere in
all the affairs of men. They presided over everybody and everything.
They attended to every department. All was supposed to be under their
immediate control. Nothing was too small—nothing too large; the falling
of sparrows and the motions of the planets were alike attended to by
these industrious and observing deities. From their starry thrones they
frequently came to the earth for the purpose of imparting information to
man. It is related of one that he came amid thunderings and lightnings
in order to tell the people that they should not cook a kid in its
mother's milk. Some left their shining abodes to tell women that they
should, or should not, have children, to inform a priest how to cut
and wear his apron, and to give directions as to the proper manner of
cleaning the intestines of a bird.

When the people failed to worship one of these gods, or failed to feed
and clothe his priests, (which was much the same thing,) he generally
visited them with pestilence and famine. Sometimes he allowed some other
nation to drag them into slavery—to sell their wives and children; but
generally he glutted his vengeance by murdering their first-born.
The priests always did their whole duty, not only in predicting these
calamities, but in proving, when they did happen, that they were brought
upon the people because they had not given quite enough to them.

These gods differed just as the nations differed; the greatest and most
powerful had the most powerful gods, while the weaker ones were obliged
to content themselves with the very off-scourings of the heavens. Each
of these gods promised happiness here and hereafter to all his slaves,
and threatened to eternally punish all who either disbelieved in his
existence or suspected that some other god might be his superior; but to
deny the existence of all gods was, and is, the crime of crimes. Redden
your hands with human blood; blast by slander the fair fame of the
innocent; strangle the smiling child upon its mother's knees; deceive,
ruin and desert the beautiful girl who loves and trusts you, and
your case is not hopeless. For all this, and for all these you may
be forgiven. For all this, and for all these, that bankrupt court
established by the gospel, will give you a discharge; but deny the
existence of these divine ghosts, of these gods, and the sweet and
tearful face of Mercy becomes livid with eternal hate. Heaven's golden
gates are shut, and you, with an infinite curse ringing in your
ears, with the brand of infamy upon your brow, commence your endless
wanderings in the lurid gloom of hell—an immortal vagrant—an eternal
outcast—a deathless convict.

One of these gods, and one who demands our love, our admiration and
our worship, and one who is worshiped, if mere heartless ceremony is
worship, gave to his chosen people for their guidance, the following
laws of war: "When thou comest nigh unto a city to fight against it,
_then proclaim peace unto it_. And it shall be if it make thee answer of
peace, and open unto thee, then it shall be that all the people that is
found therein shall be tributaries unto thee, and they shall serve thee.
And if it will make no peace with thee, but will make war against thee,
then thou shalt besiege it.

"And when the Lord thy God hath delivered it into thy hands, thou shalt
smite every male thereof with the edge of the sword. But the women and
the little ones, and the cattle, and all that is in the city, even all
the spoil thereof, shalt thou take unto thyself, and thou shalt eat
the spoil of thine enemies which the Lord thy God hath given thee. Thus
shalt thou do unto all the cities which are very far off from thee,
which are not of the cities of these nations. But of the cities of these
people which the Lord thy God doth give thee for an inheritance, _thou
shalt save alive nothing that breatheth_"

Is it possible for man to conceive of anything more perfectly infamous?
Can you believe that such directions were given by any being except an
infinite fiend? Remember that the army receiving these instructions
was one of invasion. Peace was offered upon condition that the people
submitting should be the slaves of the invader; but if any should have
the courage to defend their homes, to fight for the love of wife and
child, then the sword was to spare none—not even the prattling, dimpled
babe.

And we are called upon to worship such a God; to get upon our knees and
tell him that he is good, that he is merciful, that he is just, that he
is love. We are asked to stifle every noble sentiment of the soul, and
to trample under foot all the sweet charities of the heart. Because we
refuse to stultify ourselves—refuse to become liars—we are denounced,
hated, traduced and ostracized here, and this same god threatens to
torment us in eternal fire the moment death allows him to fiercely
clutch our naked helpless souls. Let the people hate, let the god
threaten—we will educate them, and we will despise and defy him.

The book, called the Bible, is filled with passages equally horrible,
unjust and atrocious. This is the book to be read in schools in order
to make our children loving, kind and gentle! This is the book to
be recognized in our Constitution as the source of all authority and
justice!

Strange! that no one has ever been persecuted by the church for
believing God bad, while hundreds of millions have been destroyed
for thinking him good. The orthodox church never will forgive the
Universalist for saying "God is love." It has always been considered
as one of the very highest evidences of true and undefiled religion to
insist that all men, women and children deserve eternal damnation. It
has always been heresy to say, "God will at last save all."

We are asked to justify these frightful passages, these infamous laws
of war, because the Bible is the word of God. As a matter of fact, there
never was, and there never can be, an argument, even tending to prove
the inspiration of any book whatever. In the absence of positive
evidence, analogy and experience, argument is simply impossible, and at
the very best, can amount only to a useless agitation of the air.

The instant we admit that a book is too sacred to be doubted, or even
reasoned about, we are mental serfs. It is infinitely absurd to suppose
that a god would address a communication to intelligent beings, and yet
make it a crime, to be punished in eternal flames, for them to use their
intelligence for the purpose of understanding his communication. If we
have the right to use our reason, we certainly have the right to act in
accordance with it, and no god can have the right to punish us for such
action.

The doctrine that future happiness depends upon belief is monstrous.
It is the infamy of infamies. The notion that faith in Christ is to
be rewarded by an eternity of bliss, while a dependence upon reason,
observation, and experience merits everlasting pain, is too absurd for
refutation, and can be relieved only by that unhappy mixture of insanity
and ignorance, called "faith." What man, who ever thinks, can believe
that blood can appease God? And yet, our entire system of religion is
based upon that belief. The Jews pacified Jehovah with the blood of
animals, and according to the Christian system, the blood of Jesus
softened the heart of God a little, and rendered possible the salvation
of a fortunate few. It is hard to conceive how the human mind can give
assent to such terrible ideas, or how any sane man can read the Bible
and still believe in the doctrine of inspiration.

Whether the Bible is true or false, is of no consequence in comparison
with the mental freedom of the race.

Salvation through slavery is worthless. Salvation from slavery is
inestimable.

As long as man believes the Bible to be infallible, that book is his
master. The civilization of this century is not the child of faith, but
of unbelief—the result of free thought.

All that is necessary, as it seems to me, to convince any reasonable
person that the Bible is simply and purely of human invention—of
barbarian invention—is to read it Read it as you would any other book;
think of it as you would of any other; get the bandage of reverence
from your eyes; drive from your heart the phantom of fear; push from the
throne of your brain the cowled form of superstition—then read the Holy
Bible, and you will be amazed that you ever, for one moment, supposed a
being of infinite wisdom, goodness and purity, to be the author of such
ignorance and of such atrocity.

Our ancestors not only had their god-factories, but they made devils as
well. These devils were generally disgraced and fallen gods. Some had
headed unsuccessful revolts; some had been caught sweetly reclining in
the shadowy folds of some fleecy cloud, kissing the wife of the god of
gods. These devils generally sympathized with man. There is in regard
to them a most wonderful fact: In nearly all the theologies, mythologies
and religions, the devils have been much more humane and merciful
than the gods. No devil ever gave one of his generals an order to kill
children and to rip open the bodies of pregnant women. Such barbarities
were always ordered by the good gods. The pestilences were sent by the
most merciful gods. The frightful famine, during which the dying child
with pallid lips sucked the withered bosom of a dead mother, was sent by
the loving gods. No devil was ever charged with such fiendish brutality.

One of these gods, according to the account, drowned an entire world,
with the exception of eight persons. The old, the young, the beautiful
and the helpless were remorsely devoured by the shoreless sea. This,
the most fearful tragedy that the imagination of ignorant priests ever
conceived, was the act, not of a devil, but of a god, so-called, whom
men ignorantly worship unto this day. What a stain such an act would
leave upon the character of a devil! One of the prophets of one of these
gods, having in his power a captured king, hewed him in pieces in the
sight of all the people. Was ever any imp of any devil guilty of such
savagery?

One of these gods is reported to have given the following directions
concerning human slavery: "If thou buy a Hebrew servant, six years shall
he serve, and in the seventh he shall go out free for nothing. If he
came in by himself, he shall go out by himself; if he were married, then
his wife shall go out with him. If his master have given him a wife, and
she have borne him sons or daughters, the wife and her children shall be
her master's, and he shall go out by himself. And if the servant shall
plainly say, I love my master, my wife and my children; I will not go
out free. Then his master shall bring him unto the judges; he shall also
bring him unto the door, or unto the door-post; and his master shall
bore his ear through with an awl; and he shall serve him forever."

According to this, a man was given liberty upon condition that he would
desert forever his wife and children. Did any devil ever force upon a
husband, upon a father, so cruel and so heartless an alternative? Who
can worship such a god? Who can bend the knee to such a monster? Who can
pray to such a fiend?

All these gods threatened to torment forever the souls of their enemies.
Did any devil ever make so infamous a threat? The basest thing recorded
of the devil, is what he did concerning Job and his family, and that
was done by the express permission of one of these gods, and to decide
a little difference of opinion between their serene highnesses as to the
character of "my servant Job." The first account we have of the devil is
found in that purely scientific book called Genesis, and is as follows:
"Now the serpent was more subtile than any beast of the field which the
Lord God had made, and he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye
shall not eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden? And the woman
said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the
garden; but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden
God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest
ye die. And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die.
For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall
be opened and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil. And when the
woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to
the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the
fruit thereof and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her, and
he did eat.... And the Lord God said, Behold the man is become as one of
us, to know good and evil; and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take
also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever. Therefore the Lord
God sent him forth from the Garden of Eden to till the ground from which
he was taken. So he drove out the man, and he placed at the east of the
Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword, which turned every way to
keep the way of the tree of life."

According to this account the promise of the devil was fulfilled to
the very letter. Adam and Eve did not die, and they did become as gods,
knowing good and evil.

The account shows, however, that the gods dreaded education and
knowledge then just as they do now. The church still faithfully guards
the dangerous tree of knowledge, and has exerted in all ages her utmost
power to keep mankind from eating the fruit thereof. The priests have
never ceased repeating the old falsehood and the old threat: "Ye shall
not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die." From every
pulpit comes the same cry, born of the same fear: "Lest they eat and
become as gods, knowing good and evil." For this reason, religion
hates science, faith detests reason, theology is the sworn enemy of
philosophy, and the church with its flaming sword still guards the hated
tree, and like its supposed founder, curses to the lowest depths the
brave thinkers who eat and become as gods.

If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all,
to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate
of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human
ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of
modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of
civilization.

Give me the storm and tempest of thought and action, rather than the
dead calm of ignorance and faith! Banish me from Eden when you will; but
first let me eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge!

Some nations have borrowed their gods; of this number, we are compelled
to say, is our own. The Jews having ceased to exist as a nation, and
having no further use for a god, our ancestors appropriated him and
adopted their devil at the same time. This borrowed god is still an
object of some adoration, and this adopted devil still excites the
apprehensions of our people. He is still supposed to be setting his
traps and snares for the purpose of catching our unwary souls, and is
still, with reasonable success, waging the old war against our God.

To me, it seems easy to account for these ideas concerning gods and
devils. They are a perfectly natural production. Man has created them
all, and under the same circumstances would create them again. Man has
not only created all these gods, but he has created them out of the
materials by which he has been surrounded. Generally he has modeled them
after himself, and has given them hands, heads, feet, eyes, ears,
and organs of speech. Each nation made its gods and devils speak its
language not only, but put in their mouths the same mistakes in history,
geography, astronomy, and in all matters of fact, generally made by the
people. No god was ever in advance of the nation that created him. The
negroes represented their deities with black skins and curly hair. The
Mongolian gave to his a yellow complexion and dark almond-shaped eyes.
The Jews were not allowed to paint theirs, or we should have seen
Jehovah with a full beard, an oval face, and an aquiline nose. Zeus was
a perfect Greek, and Jove looked as though a member of the Roman senate.
The gods of Egypt had the patient face and placid look of the loving
people who made them. The gods of northern countries were represented
warmly clad in robes of fur; those of the tropics were naked. The gods
of India were often mounted upon elephants; those of some islanders were
great swimmers, and the deities of the Arctic zone were passionately
fond of whale's blubber. Nearly all people have carved or painted
representations of their gods, and these representations were, by the
lower classes, generally treated as the real gods, and to these images
and idols they addressed prayers and offered sacrifice.

In some countries, even at this day, if the people after long praying
do not obtain their desires, they turn their images off as impotent
gods, or upbraid them in a most reproachful manner, loading them with
blows and curses. 'How now, dog of a spirit,' they say, 'we give you
lodging in a magnificent temple, we gild you with gold, feed you with
the choicest food, and offer incense to you; yet, after all this care,
you are so ungrateful as to refuse us what we ask.'

Hereupon they will pull the god down and drag him through the filth
of the street. If, in the meantime, it happens that they obtain their
request, then, with a great deal of ceremony, they wash him clean, carry
him back and place him in his temple again, where they fall down and
make excuses for what they have done. 'Of a truth,' they say, 'we were
a little too hasty, and you were a little too long in your grant. Why
should you bring this beating on yourself. But what is done cannot be
undone. Let us not think of it any more. If you will forget what is
past, we will gild you over brighter again than before.

Man has never been at a loss for gods. He has worshiped almost
everything, including the vilest and most disgusting beasts. He has
worshiped fire, earth, air, water, light, stars, and for hundreds of
ages prostrated himself before enormous snakes. Savage tribes often make
gods of articles they get from civilized people. The Todas worship a
cow-bell. The Kotas worship two silver plates, which they regard as
husband and wife, and another tribe manufactured a god out of a king of
hearts.

Man, having always been the physical superior of woman, accounts for
the fact that most of the high gods have been males. Had woman been the
physical superior, the powers supposed to be the rulers of Nature would
have been women, and instead of being represented in the apparel of
man, they would have luxuriated in trains, low-necked dresses, laces and
back-hair.

Nothing can be plainer than that each nation gives to its god its
peculiar characteristics, and that every individual gives to his god his
personal peculiarities.

Man has no ideas, and can have none, except those suggested by his
surroundings. He cannot conceive of anything utterly unlike what he has
seen or felt. He can exaggerate, diminish, combine, separate, deform,
beautify, improve, multiply and compare what he sees, what he feels,
what he hears, and all of which he takes cognizance through the medium
of the senses; but he cannot create. Having seen exhibitions of power,
he can say, omnipotent. Having lived, he can say, immortality. Knowing
something of time, he can say, eternity. Conceiving something of
intelligence, he can say, God. Having seen exhibitions of malice, he can
say, devil. A few gleams of happiness having fallen athwart the gloom of
his life, he can say, heaven. Pain, in its numberless forms, having been
experienced, he can say, hell. Yet all these ideas have a foundation
in fact, and only a foundation. The superstructure has been reared
by exaggerating, diminishing, combining, separating, deforming,
beautifying, improving or multiplying realities, so that the edifice or
fabric is but the incongruous grouping of what man has perceived through
the medium of the senses. It is as though we should give to a lion the
wings of an eagle, the hoofs of a bison, the tail of a horse, the pouch
of a kangaroo, and the trunk of an elephant. We have in imagination
created an impossible monster. And yet the various parts of this monster
really exist So it is with all the gods that man has made.

Beyond nature man cannot go even in thought—above nature he cannot
rise—below nature he cannot fall.

Man, in his ignorance, supposed that all phenomena were produced by
some intelligent powers, and with direct reference to him. To preserve
friendly relations with these powers was, and still is, the object of
all religions. Man knelt through fear and to implore assistance, or
through gratitude for some favor which he supposed had been rendered. He
endeavored by supplication to appease some being who, for some reason,
had, as he believed, become enraged. The lightning and thunder terrified
him. In the presence of the volcano he sank upon his knees. The great
forests filled with wild and ferocious beasts, the monstrous serpents
crawling in mysterious depths, the boundless sea, the flaming comets,
the sinister eclipses, the awful calmness of the stars, and, more than
all, the perpetual presence of death, convinced him that he was the
sport and prey of unseen and malignant powers. The strange and frightful
diseases to which he was subject, the freezings and burnings of fever,
the contortions of epilepsy, the sudden palsies, the darkness of night,
and the wild, terrible and fantastic dreams that filled his brain,
satisfied him that he was haunted and pursued by countless spirits
of evil. For some reason he supposed that these spirits differed
in power—that they were not all alike malevolent—that the higher
controlled the lower, and that his very existence depended upon gaining
the assistance of the more powerful. For this purpose he resorted to
prayer, to flattery, to worship and to sacrifice.

These ideas appear to have been almost universal in savage man.

For ages all nations supposed that the sick and insane were possessed by
evil spirits. For thousands of years the practice of medicine consisted
in frightening these spirits away. Usually the priests would make the
loudest and most discordant noises possible. They would blow horns,
beat upon rude drums, clash cymbals, and in the meantime utter the most
unearthly yells. If the noise-remedy failed, they would implore the aid
of some more powerful spirit.

To pacify these spirits was considered of infinite importance. The poor
barbarian, knowing that men could be softened by gifts, gave to these
spirits that which to him seemed of the most value. With bursting heart
he would offer the blood of his dearest child. It was impossible for him
to conceive of a god utterly unlike himself, and he naturally supposed
that these powers of the air would be affected a little at the sight of
so great and so deep a sorrow. It was with the barbarian then as with
the civilized now—one class lived upon and made merchandise of the
fears of another. Certain persons took it upon themselves to appease the
gods, and to instruct the people in their duties to these unseen powers.
This was the origin of the priesthood. The priest pretended to stand
between the wrath of the gods and the helplessness of man. He was man's
attorney at the court of heaven. He carried to the invisible world a
flag of truce, a protest and a request. He came back with a command,
with authority and with power. Man fell upon his knees before his own
servant, and the priest, taking advantage of the awe inspired by his
supposed influence with the gods, made of his fellow-man a cringing
hypocrite and slave. Even Christ, the supposed son of God, taught that
persons were possessed of evil spirits, and frequently, according to
the account, gave proof of his divine origin and mission by frightening
droves of devils out of his unfortunate countrymen. Casting out devils
was his principal employment, and the devils thus banished generally
took occasion to acknowledge him as the true Messiah; which was not only
very kind of them, but quite fortunate for him. The religious people
have always regarded the testimony of these devils as perfectly
conclusive, and the writers of the New Testament quote the words of
these imps of darkness with great satisfaction.

The fact that Christ could withstand the temptations of the devil was
considered as conclusive evidence that he was assisted by some god, or
at least by some being superior to man. St. Matthew gives an account of
an attempt made by the devil to tempt the supposed son of God; and it
has always excited the wonder of Christians that the temptation was
so nobly and heroically withstood. The account to which I refer is as
follows:

"Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be tempted
of the devil. And when the tempter came to him, he said: 'If thou be the
son of God, command that these stones be made bread.' But he answered,
and said: 'It is written: man shall not live by bread alone, but by
every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.' Then the devil
taketh him up into the holy city and setteth him upon a pinnacle of
the temple and saith unto him: 'If thou be the son of God, cast thyself
down; for it is written, He shall give his angels charge concerning
thee, lest at any time thou shalt dash thy foot against a stone,'Jesus
said unto him: 'It is written again, thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy
God.' Again the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain and
sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, and
saith unto him: 'All these will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and
worship me.'"

The Christians now claim that Jesus was God. If he was God, of course
the devil knew that fact, and yet, according to this account, the devil
took the omnipotent God and placed him upon a pinnacle of the temple,
and endeavored to induce him to dash himself against the earth. Failing
in that, he took the creator, owner and governor of the universe up into
an exceeding high mountain, and offered him this world—this grain of
sand—if he, the God of all the worlds, would fall down and worship
him, a poor devil, without even a tax title to one foot of dirt! Is it
possible the devil was such an idiot? Should any great credit be given
to this deity for not being caught with such chaff? Think of it! The
devil—the prince of sharpers—the king of cunning—the master of
finesse, trying to bribe God with a grain of sand that belonged to God!

Is there in all the religious literature of the world anything more
grossly absurd than this?

These devils, according to the Bible, were of various kinds—some could
speak and hear, others were deaf and dumb. All could not be cast out
in the same way. The deaf and dumb spirits were quite difficult to deal
with. St. Mark tells of a gentleman who brought his son to Christ. The
boy, it seems, was possessed of a dumb spirit, over which the disciples
had no control. "Jesus said unto the spirit: 'Thou dumb and deaf spirit,
I charge thee come out of him, and enter no more into him.'" Whereupon,
the deaf spirit (having heard what was said) cried out (being dumb) and
immediately vacated the premises. The ease with which Christ controlled
this deaf and dumb spirit excited the wonder of his disciples, and they
asked him privately why they could not cast that spirit out. To whom he
replied: "This kind can come forth by nothing but prayer and fasting." Is
there a Christian in the whole world who would believe such a story
if found in any other book? The trouble is, these pious people shut up
their reason, and then open their Bible.

In the olden times the existence of devils was universally admitted. The
people had no doubt upon that subject, and from such belief it followed
as a matter of course, that a person, in order to vanquish these devils,
had either to be a god, or to be assisted by one. All founders of
religions have established their claims to divine origin by controlling
evil spirits and suspending the laws of nature. Casting out devils was
a certificate of divinity. A prophet, unable to cope with the powers
of darkness was regarded with contempt The utterance of the highest
and noblest sentiments, the most blameless and holy life, commanded but
little respect, unless accompanied by power to work miracles and command
spirits.

This belief in good and evil powers had its origin in the fact that man
was surrounded by what he was pleased to call good and evil phenomena.
Phenomena affecting man pleasantly were ascribed to good spirits, while
those affecting him unpleasantly or injuriously, were ascribed to evil
spirits. It being admitted that all phenomena were produced by spirits,
the spirits were divided according to the phenomena, and the phenomena
were good or bad as they affected man.

Good spirits were supposed to be the authors of good phenomena, and evil
spirits of the evil—so that the idea of a devil has been as universal
as the idea of a god.

Many writers maintain that an idea to become universal must be true;
that all universal ideas are innate, and that innate ideas cannot be
false. If the fact that an idea has been universal proves that it
is innate, and if the fact that an idea is innate proves that it is
correct, then the believers in innate ideas must admit that the evidence
of a god superior to nature, and of a devil superior to nature, is
exactly the same, and that the existence of such a devil must be as
self-evident as the existence of such a god. The truth is, a god was
inferred from good, and a devil from bad, phenomena. And it is just as
natural and logical to suppose that a devil would cause happiness as
to suppose that a god would produce misery. Consequently, if an
intelligence, infinite and supreme, is the immediate author of all
phenomena, it is difficult to determine whether such intelligence is the
friend or enemy of man. If phenomena were all good, we might say they
were all produced by a perfectly beneficent being. If they were all bad,
we might say they were produced by a perfectly malevolent power; but,
as phenomena are, as they affect man, both good and bad, they must be
produced by different and antagonistic spirits; by one who is sometimes
actuated by kindness, and sometimes by malice; or all must be produced
of necessity, and without reference to their consequences upon man.

The foolish doctrine that all phenomena can be traced to the
interference of good and evil spirits, has been, and still is, almost
universal. That most people still believe in some spirit that can change
the natural order of events, is proven by the fact that nearly all
resort to prayer. Thousands, at this very moment, are probably imploring
some supposed power to interfere in their behalf. Some want health
restored; some ask that the loved and absent be watched over and
protected, some pray for riches, some for rain, some want diseases
stayed, some vainly ask for food, some ask for revivals, a few ask for
more wisdom, and now and then one tells the Lord to do as he may think
best. Thousands ask to be protected from the devil; some, like David,
pray for revenge, and some implore even God, not to lead them into
temptation. All these prayers rest upon, and are produced by, the idea
that some power not only can, but probably will, change the order of the
universe. This belief has been among the great majority of tribes
and nations. All sacred books are filled with the accounts of such
interferences, and our own Bible is no exception to this rule.

If we believe in a power superior to nature, it is perfectly natural to
suppose that such power can and will interfere in the affairs of this
world. If there is no interference, of what practical use can such
power be? The Scriptures give us the most wonderful accounts of divine
interference: Animals talk like men; springs gurgle from dry bones; the
sun and moon stop in the heavens in order that General Joshua may have
more time to murder; the shadow on a dial goes back ten degrees to
convince a petty king of a barbarous people that he is not going to die
of a boil; fire refuses to burn; water positively declines to seek its
level, but stands up like a wall; grains of sand become lice; common
walking-sticks, to gratify a mere freak, twist themselves into serpents,
and then swallow each other by way of exercise; murmuring streams,
laughing at the attraction of gravitation, run up hill for years,
following wandering tribes from a pure love of frolic; prophecy becomes
altogether easier than history; the sons of God become enamored of the
world's girls; women are changed into salt for the purpose of keeping a
great event fresh in the minds of men; an excellent article of brimstone
is imported from heaven free of duty; clothes refuse to wear out for
forty years; birds keep restaurants and feed wandering prophets free of
expense; bears tear children in pieces for laughing at old men without
wigs; muscular development depends upon the length of one's hair; dead
people come to life, simply to get a joke on their enemies and heirs;
witches and wizards converse freely with the souls of the departed, and
God himself becomes a stone-cutter and engraver, after having been a
tailor and dressmaker.

The veil between heaven and earth was always rent or lifted. The shadows
of this world, the radiance of heaven, and the glare of hell mixed
and mingled until man became uncertain as to which country he really
inhabited. Man dwelt in an unreal world. He mistook his ideas, his
dreams, for real things. His fears became terrible and malicious
monsters. He lived in the midst of furies and fairies, nymphs and
naiads, goblins and ghosts, witches and wizards, sprites and spooks,
deities and devils. The obscure and gloomy depths were filled with
claw and wing—with beak and hoof—with leering looks and sneering
mouths—with the malice of deformity—with the cunning of hatred, and
with all the slimy forms that fear can draw and paint upon the shadowy
canvas of the dark.

It is enough to make one almost insane with pity to think what man in
the long night has suffered; of the tortures he has endured, surrounded,
as he supposed, by malignant powers and clutched by the fierce phantoms
of the air. No wonder that he fell upon his trembling knees—that he
built altars and reddened them even with his own blood. No wonder that
he implored ignorant priests and impudent magicians for aid. No wonder
that he crawled groveling in the dust to the temple's door, and there,
in the insanity of despair, besought the deaf gods to hear his bitter
cry of agony and fear.

The savage as he emerges from a state of barbarism, gradually loses
faith in his idols of wood and stone, and in their place puts a
multitude of spirits. As he advances in knowledge, he generally discards
the petty spirits, and in their stead believes in one, whom he supposes
to be infinite and supreme. Supposing this great spirit to be superior
to nature, he offers worship or flattery in exchange for assistance. At
last, finding that he obtains no aid from this supposed deity—:
finding that every search after the absolute must of necessity end in
failure—finding that man cannot by any possibility conceive of the
conditionless—he begins to investigate the facts by which he is
surrounded, and to depend upon himself.

The people are beginning to think, to reason and to investigate. Slowly,
painfully, but surely, the gods are being driven from the earth. Only
upon rare occasions are they, even by the most religious, supposed to
interfere in the affairs of men. In most matters we are at last supposed
to be free. Since the invention of steamships and railways, so that the
products of all countries can be easily interchanged, the gods have quit
the business of producing famine. Now and then they kill a child because
it is idolized by its parents. As a rule they have given up causing
accidents on railroads, exploding boilers, and bursting kerosene lamps.
Cholera, yellow fever, and small-pox are still considered heavenly
weapons; but measles, itch and ague are now attributed to natural
causes. As a general thing, the gods have stopped drowning children,
except as a punishment for violating the Sabbath. They still pay some
attention to the affairs of kings, men of genius and persons of great
wealth; but ordinary people are left to shirk for themselves as best
they may. In wars between great nations, the gods still interfere; but
in prize fights, the best man with an honest referee, is almost sure to
win.

The church cannot abandon the idea of special providence. To give up
that doctrine is to give up all. The church must insist that prayer
is answered—that some power superior to nature hears and grants the
request of the sincere and humble Christian, and that this same power in
some mysterious way provides for all.

A devout clergyman sought every opportunity to impress upon the mind
of his son the fact, that God takes care of all his creatures; that the
falling sparrow attracts his attention, and that his loving kindness is
over all his works. Happening, one day, to see a crane wading in quest
of food, the good man pointed out to his son the perfect adaptation of
the crane to get his living in that manner. "See," said he, "how his
legs are formed for wading! What a long slender bill he has! Observe how
nicely he folds his feet when putting them in or drawing them out of
the water! He does not cause the slightest ripple. He is thus enabled
to approach the fish without giving them any notice of his arrival."
"My son," said he, "it is impossible to look at that bird without
recognizing the design, as well as the goodness of God, in thus
providing the means of subsistence." "Yes," replied the boy, "I think I
see the goodness of God, at least so far as the crane is concerned; but
after all, father, don't you think the arrangement a little tough on the
fish?"

Even the advanced religionist, although disbelieving in any great amount
of interference by the gods in this age of the world, still thinks,
that in the beginning, some god made the laws governing the universe.
He believes that in consequence of these laws a man can lift a greater
weight with, than without, a lever; that this god so made matter, and so
established the order of things, that two bodies cannot occupy the same
space at the same time; so that a body once put in motion will keep
moving until it is stopped; so that it is a greater distance around,
than across a circle; so that a perfect square has four equal sides,
instead of five or seven. He insists that it took a direct interposition
of Providence to make the whole greater than a part, and that had it not
been for this power superior to nature, twice one might have been more
than twice two, and sticks and strings might have had only one end
apiece. Like the old Scotch divine, he thanks God that Sunday comes at
the end instead of in the middle of the week, and that death comes at
the close instead of at the commencement of life, thereby giving us time
to prepare for that holy day and that most solemn event These religious
people see nothing but design everywhere, and personal, intelligent
interference in everything. They insist that the universe has been
created, and that the adaptation of means to ends is perfectly apparent.
They point us to the sunshine, to the flowers, to the April rain, and
to all there is of beauty and of use in the world. Did it ever occur to
them that a cancer is as beautiful in its development as is the reddest
rose? That what they are pleased to call the adaptation of means to
ends, is as apparent in the cancer as in the April rain? How beautiful
the process of digestion! By what ingenious methods the blood is
poisoned so that the cancer shall have food! By what wonderful
contrivances the entire system of man is made to pay tribute to this
divine and charming cancer! See by what admirable instrumentalities it
feeds itself from the surrounding quivering, dainty flesh! See how it
gradually but surely expands and grows! By what marvelous mechanism
it is supplied with long and slender roots that reach out to the most
secret nerves of pain for sustenance and life! What beautiful colors
it presents! Seen through the microscope it is a miracle of order and
beauty. All the ingenuity of man cannot stop its growth. Think of the
amount of thought it must have required to invent a way by which the
life of one man might be given to produce one cancer? Is it possible to
look upon it and doubt that there is design in the universe, and that
the inventor of this wonderful cancer must be infinitely powerful,
ingenious and good?

We are told that the universe was designed and created, and that it is
absurd to suppose that matter has existed from eternity, but that it is
perfectly self-evident that a god has.

If a god created the universe, then, there must have been a time when he
commenced to create. Back of that time there must have been an eternity,
during which there had existed nothing—absolutely nothing—except this
supposed god. According to this theory, this god spent an eternity, so
to speak, in an infinite vacuum, and in perfect idleness.

Admitting that a god did create the universe, the question then arises,
of what did he create it? It certainly was not made of nothing. Nothing,
considered in the light of a raw material, is a most decided failure. It
follows, then, that the god must have made the universe out of himself,
he being the only existence. The universe is material, and if it was
made of god, the god must have been material. With this very thought in
his mind, Anaximander of Miletus said: "Creation is the decomposition of
the infinite."

It has been demonstrated that the earth would fall to the sun, only for
the fact, that it is attracted by other worlds, and those worlds must
be attracted by other worlds still beyond them, and so on, without
end. This proves the material universe to be infinite. If an infinite
universe has been made out of an infinite god, how much of the god is
left?

The idea of a creative deity is gradually being abandoned, and nearly
all truly scientific minds admit that matter must have existed from
eternity. It is indestructible, and the indestructible cannot be
created. It is the crowning glory of our century to have demonstrated
the indestructibility and the eternal persistence of force. Neither
matter nor force can be increased nor diminished. Force cannot exist
apart from matter. Matter exists only in connection with force, and
consequently, a force apart from matter, and superior to nature, is a
demonstrated impossibility.

Force, then, must have also existed from eternity, and could not have
been created. Matter in its countless forms, from dead earth to the
eyes of those we love, and force, in all its manifestations, from simple
motion to the grandest thought, deny creation and defy control.

Thought is a form of force. We walk with the same force with which we
think. Man is an organism, that changes several forms of force into
thought-force. Man is a machine into which we put what we call food, and
produce what we call thought. Think of that wonderful chemistry by which
bread was changed into the divine tragedy of Hamlet!

A god must not only be material, but he must be an organism, capable of
changing other forms of force into thought-force. This is what we call
eating. Therefore, if the god thinks, he must eat, that is to say, he
must of necessity have some means of supplying the force with which to
think. It is impossible to conceive of a being who can eternally impart
force to matter, and yet have no means of supplying the force thus
imparted.

If neither matter nor force were created, what evidence have we, then,
of the existence of a power superior to nature? The theologian will
probably reply, "We have law and order, cause and effect, and beside all
this, matter could not have put itself in motion."

Suppose, for the sake of the argument, that there is no being superior
to nature, and that matter and force have existed from eternity. Now,
suppose that two atoms should come together, would there be an effect?
Yes. Suppose they came in exactly opposite directions with equal force,
they would be stopped, to say the least. This would be an effect. If
this is so, then you have matter, force and effect without a being
superior to nature. Now, suppose that two other atoms, just like the
first two, should come together under precisely the same circumstances,
would not the effect be exactly the same? Yes. Like causes, producing
like effects, is what we mean by law and order. Then we have matter,
force, effect, law and order without a being superior to nature. Now, we
know that every effect must also be a cause, and that every cause must
be an effect. The atoms coming together did produce an effect, and as
every effect must also be a cause, the effect produced by the collision
of the atoms, must as to something else have been a cause. Then we have
matter, force, law, order, cause and effect without a being superior to
nature. Nothing is left for the supernatural but empty space. His throne
is a void, and his boasted realm is without matter, without force,
without law, without cause, and without effect.

But what put all this matter in motion? If matter and force have existed
from eternity, then matter must have always been in motion. There can
be no force without motion. Force is forever active, and there is, and
there can be no cessation. If, therefore, matter and force have existed
from eternity, so has motion. In the whole universe there is not even
one atom in a state of rest.

A deity outside of nature exists in nothing, and is nothing. Nature
embraces with infinite arms all matter and all force. That which is
beyond her grasp is destitute of both, and can hardly be worth the
worship and adoration even of a man.

There is but one way to demonstrate the existence of a power independent
of and superior to nature, and that is by breaking, if only for one
moment, the continuity of cause and effect Pluck from the endless chain
of existence one little link; stop for one instant the grand procession,
and you have shown beyond all contradiction that nature has a master.
Change the fact, just for one second, that matter attracts matter, and a
god appears.

The rudest savage has always known this fact, and for that reason always
demanded the evidence of miracle. The founder of a religion must be able
to turn water into wine—cure with a word the blind and lame, and
raise with a simple touch the dead to life. It was necessary for him to
demonstrate to the satisfaction of his barbarian disciple, that he
was superior to nature. In times of ignorance this was easy to do. The
credulity of the savage was almost boundless. To him the marvelous
was the beautiful, the mysterious was the sublime. Consequently, every
religion has for its foundation a miracle—that is to say, a violation
of nature—that is to say, a falsehood.

No one, in the world's whole history, ever attempted to substantiate a
truth by a miracle. Truth scorns the assistance of miracle. Nothing but
falsehood ever attested itself by signs and wonders. No miracle ever was
performed, and no sane man ever thought he had performed one, and until
one is performed, there can be no evidence of the existence of any power
superior to and independent of nature.

The church wishes us to believe. Let the church, or one of its
intellectual saints, perform a miracle, and we will believe. We are told
that nature has a superior. Let this superior, for one single instant,
control nature, and we will admit the truth of your assertions.

We have heard talk enough. We have listened to all the drowsy, idealess,
vapid sermons that we wish to hear. We have read your Bible and the
works of your best minds. We have heard your prayers, your solemn groans
and your reverential amens. All these amount to less than nothing. We
want one fact. We beg at the doors of your churches for just one little
fact We pass our hats along your pews and under your pulpits and implore
you for just one little fact We know all about your mouldy wonders and your
stale miracles. We want a this year's fact. We ask only one. Give us one
fact for charity. Your miracles are too ancient. The witnesses have
been dead for nearly two thousand years. Their reputation for "truth and
veracity" in the neighborhood where they resided is wholly unknown to
us. Give us a new miracle, and substantiate it by witnesses who still
have the cheerful habit of living in this world. Do not send us to
Jericho to hear the winding horns, nor put us in the fire with Shadrach,
Meshech, and Abednego. Do not compel us to navigate the sea with Captain
Jonah, nor dine with Mr. Ezekiel. There is no sort of use in sending us
fox-hunting with Samson. We have positively lost all interest in that
little speech so eloquently delivered by Balaam's inspired donkey. It
is worse than useless to show us fishes with money in their mouths,
and call our attention to vast multitudes stuffing themselves with five
crackers and two sardines. We demand a new miracle, and we demand it
now. Let the church furnish at least one, or forever after hold her
peace.

In the olden time, the church, by violating the order of nature, proved
the existence of her God. At that time miracles were performed with the
most astonishing ease. They became so common that the church ordered
her priests to desist. And now this same church—the people having found
some little sense—admits, not only, that she cannot perform a miracle,
but insists that the absence of miracle—the steady, unbroken march of
cause and effect, proves the existence of a power superior to nature.
The fact is, however, that the indissoluble chain of cause and effect
proves exactly the contrary.

Sir William Hamilton, one of the pillars of modern theology, in
discussing this very subject, uses the following language: "The
phenomena of matter taken by themselves, so far from warranting any
inference to the existence of a god, would on the contrary ground even
an argument to his negation. The phenomena of the material world are
subjected to immutable laws; are produced and reproduced in the same
invariable succession, and manifest only the blind force of a mechanical
necessity."

Nature is but an endless series of efficient causes. She cannot create,
but she eternally transforms. There was no beginning, and there can be
no end.

The best minds, even in the religious world, admit that in material
nature there is no evidence of what they are pleased to call a god.
They find their evidence in the phenomena of intelligence, and very
innocently assert that intelligence is above, and in fact, opposed to
nature. They insist that man, at least, is a special creation; that
he has somewhere in his brain a divine spark, a little portion of the
"Great First Cause." They say that matter cannot produce thought; but
that thought can produce matter. They tell us that man has intelligence,
and therefore there must be an intelligence greater than his. Why not
say, God has intelligence, therefore there must be an intelligence
greater than his? So far as we know, there is no intelligence apart
from matter. We cannot conceive of thought, except as produced within a
brain.

The science, by means of which they demonstrate the existence of an
impossible intelligence, and an incomprehensible power is called,
metaphysics or theology. The theologians admit that the phenomena of
matter tend, at least, to disprove the existence of any power superior
to nature, because in such phenomena we see nothing but an endless chain
of efficient causes—nothing but the force of a mechanical necessity.
They therefore appeal to what they denominate the phenomena of mind to
establish this superior power.

The trouble is, that in the phenomena of mind we find the same endless
chain of efficient causes; the same mechanical necessity. Every thought
must have had an efficient cause. Every motive, every desire, every
fear, hope and dream must have been necessarily produced. There is no
room in the mind of man for providence or chance. The facts and forces
governing thought are as absolute as those governing the motions of
the planets. A poem is produced by the forces of nature, and is as
necessarily and naturally produced as mountains and seas. You will seek
in vain for a thought in man's brain without its efficient cause.
Every mental operation is the necessary result of certain facts and
conditions. Mental phenomena are considered more complicated than those
of matter, and consequently more mysterious. Being more mysterious, they
are considered better evidence of the existence of a god. No one infers
a god from the simple, from the known, from what is understood, but from
the complex, from the unknown, and, incomprehensible. Our ignorance is
God; what we know is science.

When we abandon the doctrine that some infinite being created matter
and force, and enacted a code of laws for their government, the idea
of interference will be lost. The real priest will then be, not the
mouth-piece of some pretended deity, but the interpreter of nature. From
that moment the church ceases to exist. The tapers will die out upon the
dusty altar; the moths will eat the fading velvet of pulpit and pew;
the Bible will take its place with the Shastras, Puranas, Vedas, Eddas,
Sagas and Korans, and the fetters of a degrading faith will fall from
the minds of men.

"But," says the religionist, "you cannot explain everything; you cannot
understand everything; and that which you cannot explain, that which you
do not comprehend, is my God."

We are explaining more every day. We are understanding more every day;
consequently your God is growing smaller every day.

Nothing daunted, the religionist then insists that nothing can exist
without a cause, except cause, and that this uncaused cause is God.

To this we again reply: Every cause must produce an effect, because
until it does produce an effect, it is not a cause. Every effect must
in its turn become a cause. Therefore, in the nature of things, there
cannot be a last cause, for the reason that a so-called last cause would
necessarily produce an effect, and that effect must of necessity becomes
a cause. The converse of these propositions must be true. Every effect
must have had a cause, and every cause must have been an effect.
Therefore there could have been no first cause. A first cause is just as
impossible as a last effect.

Beyond the universe there is nothing, and within the universe the
supernatural does not and cannot exist.

The moment these great truths are understood and admitted, a belief in
general or special providence become impossible. From that instant men
will cease their vain efforts to please an imaginary being, and will
give their time and attention to the affairs of this world. They will
abandon the idea of attaining any object by prayer and supplication.
The element of uncertainty will, in a great measure, be removed from the
domain of the future, and man, gathering courage from a succession of
victories over the obstructions of nature, will attain a serene grandeur
unknown to the disciples of any superstition. The plans of mankind will
no longer be interfered with by the finger of a supposed omnipotence,
and no one will believe that nations or individuals are protected or
destroyed by any deity whatever. Science, freed from the chains of pious
custom and evangelical prejudice, will, within her sphere, be supreme.
The mind will investigate without reverence, and publish its conclusions
without fear. Agassiz will no longer hesitate to declare the Mosaic
cosmogony utterly inconsistent with the demonstrated truths of geology,
and will cease pretending any reverence for the Jewish Scriptures. The
moment science succeeds in rendering the church powerless for evil, the
real thinkers will be outspoken. The little flags of truce carried by
timid philosophers will disappear, and the cowardly parley will give
place to victory—lasting and universal.

If we admit that some infinite being has controlled the destinies of
persons and peoples, history becomes a most cruel and bloody farce.
Age after age, the strong have trampled upon the weak; the crafty
and heartless have ensnared and enslaved the simple and innocent, and
nowhere, in all the annals of mankind, has any god succored the
oppressed.

Man should cease to expect aid from on high. By this time he should know
that heaven has no ear to hear, and no hand to help. The present is the
necessary child of all the past. There has been no chance, and there can
be no interference.

If abuses are destroyed, man must destroy them. If slaves are freed, man
must free them. If new truths are discovered, man must discover them.
If the naked are clothed; if the hungry are fed; if justice is done;
if labor is rewarded; if superstition is driven from the mind; if the
defenceless are protected and if the right finally triumphs, all must be
the work of man. The grand victories of the future must be won by man,
and by man alone.

Nature, so far as we can discern, without passion and without intention,
forms, transforms, and retransforms forever. She neither weeps nor
rejoices. She produces man without purpose, and obliterates him without
regret. She knows no distinction between the beneficial and the hurtful.
Poison and nutrition, pain and joy, life and death, smiles and tears are
alike to her. She is neither merciful nor cruel. She cannot be flattered
by worship nor melted by tears. She does not know even the attitude of
prayer. She appreciates no difference between poison in the fangs of
snakes and mercy in the hearts of men. Only through man does nature take
cognizance of the good, the true, and the beautiful; and, so far as we
know, man is the highest intelligence.

And yet man continues to believe that there is some power independent
of and superior to nature, and still endeavors, by form, ceremony,
supplication, hypocrisy and sacrifice, to obtain its aid. His best
energies have been wasted in the service of this phantom. The horrors
of witchcraft were all born of an ignorant belief in the existence of
a totally depraved being superior to nature, acting in perfect
independence of her laws; and all religious superstition has had for its
basis a belief in at least two beings, one good and the other bad, both
of whom could arbitrarily change the order of the universe. The history
of religion is simply the story of man's efforts in all ages to avoid
one of these powers, and to pacify the other. Both powers have inspired
little else than abject fear. The cold, calculating sneer of the devil,
and the frown of God, were equally terrible. In any event, man's fate
was to be arbitrarily fixed forever by an unknown power superior to
all law, and to all fact. Until this belief is thrown aside, man must
consider himself the slave of phantom masters—neither of whom promise
liberty in this world nor in the next.

Man must learn to rely upon himself. Reading bibles will not protect
him from the blasts of winter, but houses, fires, and clothing will.
To prevent famine, one plow is worth a million sermons, and even patent
medicines will cure more diseases than all the prayers uttered since the
beginning of the world.

Although many eminent men have endeavored to harmonize necessity and
free will, the existence of evil, and the infinite power and goodness
of God, they have succeeded only in producing learned and ingenious
failures. Immense efforts have been made to reconcile ideas utterly
inconsistent with the facts by which we are surrounded, and all persons
who have failed to perceive the pretended reconciliation, have been
denounced as infidels, atheists and scoffers. The whole power of the
church has been brought to bear against philosophers and scientists
in order to compel a denial of the authority of demonstration, and to
induce some Judas to betray Reason, one of the saviors of mankind.

During that frightful period known as the "Dark Ages," Faith reigned,
with scarcely a rebellious subject. Her temples were "carpeted with
knees," and the wealth of nations adorned her countless shrines. The
great painters prostituted their genius to immortalize her vagaries,
while the poets enshrined them in song. At her bidding, man covered the
earth with blood. The scales of Justice were turned with her gold, and
for her use were invented all the cunning instruments of pain. She built
cathedrals for God, and dungeons for men. She peopled the clouds with
angels and the earth with slaves. For centuries the world was retracing
its steps—going steadily back toward barbaric night! A few infidels—a
few heretics cried, "Halt!" to the great rabble of ignorant devotion,
and made it possible for the genius of the nineteenth century to
revolutionize the cruel creeds and superstitions of mankind.

The thoughts of man, in order to be of any real worth, must be free.
Under the influence of fear the brain is paralyzed, and instead of
bravely solving a problem for itself, tremblingly adopts the solution
of another. As long as a majority of men will cringe to the very earth
before some petty prince or king, what must be the infinite abjectness
of their little souls in the presence of their supposed creator and God?
Under such circumstances, what can their thoughts be worth?

The originality of repetition, and the mental vigor of acquiescence, are
all that we have any right to expect from the Christian world. As long
as every question is answered by the word "God," scientific inquiry is
simply impossible. As fast as phenomena are satisfactorily explained the
domain of the power, supposed to be superior to nature must decrease,
while the horizon of the known must as constantly continue to enlarge.

It is no longer satisfactory to account for the fall and rise of nations
by saying, "It is the will of God." Such an explanation puts ignorance
and education upon an exact equality, and does away with the idea of
really accounting for anything whatever.

Will the religionist pretend that the real end of science is to
ascertain how and why God acts? Science, from such a standpoint would
consist in investigating the law of arbitrary action, and in a grand
endeavor to ascertain the rules necessarily obeyed by infinite caprice.

From a philosophical point of view, science is knowledge of the laws
of life; of the conditions of happiness; of the facts by which we are
surrounded, and the relations we sustain to men and things—by means
of which, man, so to speak, subjugates nature and bends the elemental
powers to his will, making blind force the servant of his brain.

A belief in special providence does away with the spirit of
investigation, and is inconsistent with personal effort. Why should man
endeavor to thwart the designs of God? Which of you, by taking thought,
can add one cubit to his stature? Under the influence of this belief,
man, basking in the sunshine of a delusion, considers the lilies of the
field and refuses to take any thought for the morrow. Believing himself
in the power of an infinite being, who can, at any moment, dash him
to the lowest hell or raise him to the highest heaven, he necessarily
abandons the idea of accomplishing anything by his own efforts. As
long as this belief was general, the world was filled with ignorance,
superstition and misery. The energies of man were wasted in a vain
effort to obtain the aid of this power, supposed to be superior to
nature. For countless ages, even men were sacrificed upon the altar of
this impossible god. To please him, mothers have shed the blood of their
own babes; martyrs have chanted triumphant songs in the midst of flame;
priests have gorged themselves with blood; nuns have forsworn the
ecstasies of love; old men have tremblingly implored; women have sobbed
and entreated; every pain has been endured, and every horror has been
perpetrated.

Through the dim long years that have fled, humanity has suffered more
than can be conceived. Most of the misery has been endured by the weak,
the loving and the innocent Women have been treated like poisonous
beasts, and little children trampled upon as though they had been
vermin. Numberless altars have been reddened, even with the blood of
babes; beautiful girls have been given to slimy serpents; whole races
of men doomed to centuries of slavery, and everywhere there has been
outrage beyond the power of genius to express. During all these years
the suffering have supplicated; the withered lips of famine have prayed;
the pale victims have implored, and Heaven has been deaf and blind.

Of what use have the gods been to man?

It is no answer to say that some god created the world, established
certain laws, and then turned his attention to other matters, leaving
his children weak, ignorant and unaided, to fight the battle of life
alone. It is no solution to declare that in some other world this god
will render a few, or even all, his subjects happy. What right have we
to expect that a perfectly wise, good and powerful being will ever
do better than he has done, and is doing? The world is filled with
imperfections. If it was made by an infinite being, what reason have we
for saying that he will render it nearer perfect than it now is? If the
infinite "Father" allows a majority of his children to live in ignorance
and wretchedness now, what evidence is there that he will ever improve
their condition? Will God have more power? Will he become more merciful?
Will his love for his poor creatures increase? Can the conduct of
infinite wisdom, power and love ever change? Is the infinite capable of
any improvement whatever?

We are informed by the clergy that this world is a kind of school; that
the evils by which we are surrounded are for the purpose of developing
our souls, and that only by suffering can men become pure, strong,
virtuous and grand.

Supposing this to be true, what is to become of those who die in
infancy? The little children, according to this philosophy, can never
be developed. They were so unfortunate as to escape the ennobling
influences of pain and misery, and as a consequence, are doomed to
an eternity of mental inferiority. If the clergy are right on this
question, none are so unfortunate as the happy, and we should envy only
the suffering and distressed. If evil is necessary to the development
of man, in this life, how is it possible for the soul to improve in the
perfect joy of Paradise?

Since Paley found his watch, the argument of "design" has been relied
upon as unanswerable. The church teaches that this world, and all that
it contains, were created substantially as we now see them; that the
grasses, the flowers, the trees, and all animals, including man, were
special creations, and that they sustain no necessary relation to each
other. The most orthodox will admit that some earth has been washed into
the sea; that the sea has encroached a little upon the land, and that
some mountains may be a trifle lower than in the morning of creation.
The theory of gradual development was unknown to our fathers; the idea
of evolution did not occur to them. Our fathers looked upon the then
arrangement of things as the primal arrangement. The earth appeared
to them fresh from the hands of a deity. They knew nothing of the slow
evolutions of countless years, but supposed that the almost infinite
variety of vegetable and animal forms had existed from the first.

Suppose that upon some island we should find a man a million years of
age, and suppose that we should find him in the possession of a most
beautiful carriage, constructed upon the most perfect model. And
suppose, further, that he should tell us that it was the result of
several hundred thousand years of labor and of thought; that for
fifty thousand years he used as flat a log as he could find, before
it occurred to him, that by splitting the log, he could have the same
surface with only half the weight; that it took him many thousand years
to invent wheels for this log; that the wheels he first used were solid,
and that fifty thousand years of thought suggested the use of spokes
and tire; that for many centuries he used the wheels without linch-pins;
that it took a hundred thousand years more to think of using four
wheels, instead of two; that for ages he walked behind the carriage,
when going down hill, in order to hold it back, and that only by a lucky
chance he invented the tongue; would we conclude that this man, from
the very first, had been an infinitely ingenious and perfect mechanic?
Suppose we found him living in an elegant mansion, and he should inform
us that he lived in that house for five hundred thousand years before
he thought of putting on a roof, and that he had but recently invented
windows and doors; would we say that from the beginning he had been an
infinitely accomplished and scientific architect?

Does not an improvement in the things created, show a corresponding
improvement in the creator?

Would an infinitely wise, good and powerful God, intending to produce
man, commence with the lowest possible forms of life; with the simplest
organism that can be imagined, and during immeasurable periods of time,
slowly and almost imperceptibly improve upon the rude beginning, until
man was evolved? Would countless ages thus be wasted in the production
of awkward forms, afterwards abandoned? Can the intelligence of man
discover the least wisdom in covering the earth with crawling, creeping
horrors, that live only upon the agonies and pangs of others? Can we see
the propriety of so constructing the earth, that only an insignificant
portion of its surface is capable of producing an intelligent man? Who
can appreciate the mercy of so making the world that all animals devour
animals; so that every mouth is a slaughterhouse, and every stomach
a tomb? Is it possible to discover infinite intelligence and love in
universal and eternal carnage?

What would we think of a father, who should give a farm to his children,
and before giving them possession should plant upon it thousands of
deadly shrubs and vines; should stock it with ferocious beasts, and
poisonous reptiles; should take pains to put a few swamps in the
neighborhood to breed malaria; should so arrange matters, that the
ground would occasionally open and swallow a few of his darlings, and
besides all this, should establish a few volcanoes in the immediate
vicinity, that might at any moment overwhelm his children with rivers of
fire? Suppose that this father neglected to tell his children which of
the plants were deadly; that the reptiles were poisonous; failed to say
anything about the earthquakes, and kept the volcano business a profound
secret; would we pronounce him angel or fiend?

And yet this is exactly what the orthodox God has done.

According to the theologians, God prepared this globe expressly for the
habitation of his loved children, and yet he filled the forests with
ferocious beasts; placed serpents in every path; stuffed the world with
earthquakes, and adorned its surface with mountains of flame.

Notwithstanding all this, we are told that the world is perfect; that
it was created by a perfect being, and is therefore necessarily perfect.
The next moment, these same persons will tell us that the world was
cursed; covered with brambles, thistles and thorns, and that man was
doomed to disease and death, simply because our poor, dear mother ate an
apple contrary to the command of an arbitrary God.

A very pious friend of mine, having heard that I had said the world
was full of imperfections, asked me if the report was true. Upon being
informed that it was, he expressed great surprise that any one could
be guilty of such presumption. He said that, in his judgment, it was
impossible to point out an imperfection. "Be kind enough," said he, "to
name even one improvement that you could make, if you had the power."
"Well," said I, "I would make good health catching, instead of disease."
The truth is, it is impossible to harmonize all the ills, and pains,
and agonies of this world with the idea that we were created by, and
are watched over and protected by an infinitely wise, powerful and
beneficent God, who is superior to and independent of nature.

The clergy, however, balance all the real ills of this life with the
expected joys of the next. We are assured that all is perfection in
heaven—there the skies are cloudless—there all is serenity and peace.
Here empires may be overthrown; dynasties may be extinguished in blood;
millions of slaves may toil 'neath the fierce rays of the sun, and the
cruel strokes of the lash; yet all is happiness in heaven. Pestilences
may strew the earth with corpses of the loved; the survivors may bend
above them in agony—yet the placid bosom of heaven is unruffled.
Children may expire vainly asking for bread; babes may be devoured by
serpents, while the gods sit smiling in the clouds. The innocent may
languish unto death in the obscurity of dungeons; brave men and heroic
women may be changed to ashes at the bigot's stake, while heaven is
filled with song and joy. Out on the wide sea, in darkness and in storm,
the shipwrecked struggle with the cruel waves while the angels play
upon their golden harps. The streets of the world are filled with
the diseased, the deformed and the helpless; the chambers of pain are
crowded with the pale forms of the suffering, while the angels float
and fly in the happy realms of day. In heaven they are too happy to have
sympathy; too busy singing to aid the imploring and distressed. Their
eyes are blinded; their ears are stopped and their hearts are turned to
stone by the infinite selfishness of joy. The saved mariner is too happy
when he touches the shore to give a moment's thought to his drowning
brothers. With the indifference of happiness, with the contempt of
bliss, heaven barely glances at the miseries of earth. Cities are
devoured by the rushing lava; the earth opens and thousands perish;
women raise their clasped hands towards heaven, but the gods are too
happy to aid their children. The smiles of the deities are unacquainted
with the tears of men. The shouts of heaven drown the sobs of earth.

Having shown how man created gods, and how he became the trembling slave
of his own creation, the questions naturally arise: How did he free
himself even a little, from these monarchs of the sky, from these
despots of the clouds, from this aristocracy of the air? How did he,
even to the extent that he has, outgrow his ignorant, abject terror, and
throw off the yoke of superstition?

Probably, the first thing that tended to disabuse his mind was the
discovery of order, of regularity, of periodicity in the universe. From
this he began to suspect that everything did not happen purely with
reference to him. He noticed, that whatever he might do, the motions
of the planets were always the same; that eclipses were periodical,
and that even comets came at certain intervals. This convinced him that
eclipses and comets had nothing to do with him, and that his conduct had
nothing to do with them. He perceived that they were not caused for
his benefit or injury. He thus learned to regard them with admiration
instead of fear. He began to suspect that famine was not sent by some
enraged and revengeful deity, but resulted often from the neglect and
ignorance of man. He learned that diseases were not produced by evil
spirits. He found that sickness was occasioned by natural causes,
and could be cured by natural means. He demonstrated, to his own
satisfaction at least, that prayer is not a medicine. He found by
sad experience that his gods were of no practical use, as they never
assisted him, except when he was perfectly able to help himself. At
last, he began to discover that his individual action had nothing
whatever to do with strange appearances in the heavens; that it was
impossible for him to be bad enough to cause a whirlwind, or good enough
to stop one. After many centuries of thought, he about half concluded
that making mouths at a priest would not necessarily cause an
earthquake. He noticed, and no doubt with considerable astonishment,
that very good men were occasionally struck by lightning, while very bad
ones escaped. He was frequently forced to the painful conclusion (and it
is the most painful to which any human being ever was forced) that the
right did not always prevail. He noticed that the gods did not interfere
in behalf of the weak and innocent. He was now and then astonished
by seeing an unbeliever in the enjoyment of most excellent health. He
finally ascertained that there could be no possible connection between
an unusually severe winter and his failure to give a sheep to a priest.
He began to suspect that the order of the universe was not constantly
being changed to assist him because he repeated a creed. He observed
that some children would steal after having been regularly baptized.
He noticed a vast difference between religion and justice, and that
the worshipers of the same god, took delight in cutting each other's
throats. He saw that these religious disputes filled the world with
hatred and slavery. At last he had the courage to suspect, that no god
at any time interferes with the order of events. He learned a few
facts, and these facts positively refused to harmonize with the ignorant
superstitions of his fathers. Finding his sacred books incorrect and
false in some particulars, his faith in their authenticity began to be
shaken; finding his priests ignorant upon some points, he began to
lose respect for the cloth. This was the commencement of intellectual
freedom.

The civilization of man has increased just to the same extent that
religious power has decreased. The intellectual advancement of man
depends upon how often he can exchange an old superstition for a new
truth. The church never enabled a human being to make even one of these
exchanges; on the contrary, all her power has been used to prevent them.
In spite, however, of the church, man found that some of his religious
conceptions were wrong. By reading his Bible, he found that the ideas
of his God were more cruel and brutal than those of the most depraved
savage. He also discovered that this holy book was filled with
ignorance, and that it must have been written by persons wholly
unacquainted with the nature of the phenomena by which we are
surrounded; and now and then, some man had the goodness and courage to
speak his honest thoughts. In every age some thinker, some doubter, some
investigator, some hater of hypocrisy, some despiser of sham, some
brave lover of the right, has gladly, proudly and heroically braved
the ignorant fury of superstition for the sake of man and truth. These
divine men were generally torn in pieces by the worshipers of the
gods. Socrates was poisoned because he lacked reverence for some of the
deities. Christ was crucified by a religious rabble for the crime of
blasphemy. Nothing is more gratifying to a religionist than to destroy
his enemies at the command of God. Religious persecution springs from a
due admixture of love towards God and hatred towards man.

The terrible religious wars that inundated the world with blood tended
at least to bring all religion into disgrace and hatred. Thoughtful
people began to question the divine origin of a religion that made its
believers hold the rights of others in absolute contempt. A few began
to compare Christianity with the religions of heathen people, and were
forced to admit that the difference was hardly worth dying for. They
also found that other nations were even happier and more prosperous than
their own. They began to suspect that their religion, after all, was not
of much real value.

For three hundred years the Christian world endeavored to rescue from
the "Infidel" the empty sepulchre of Christ. For three hundred years the
armies of the cross were baffled and beaten by the victorious hosts
of an impudent impostor. This immense fact sowed the seeds of distrust
throughout all Christendom, and millions began to lose confidence in
a God who had been vanquished by Mohammed. The people also found that
commerce made friends where religion made enemies, and that religious
zeal was utterly incompatible with peace between nations or individuals.
They discovered that those who loved the gods most were apt to love men
least; that the arrogance of universal forgiveness was amazing; that the
most malicious had the effrontery to pray for their enemies, and that
humility and tyranny were the fruit of the same tree.

For ages, a deadly conflict has been waged between a few brave men and
women of thought and genius upon the one side, and the great ignorant
religious mass on the other. This is the war between Science and Faith.
The few have appealed to reason, to honor, to law, to freedom, to the
known, and to happiness here in this world. The many have appealed
to prejudice, to fear, to miracle, to slavery, to the unknown, and
to misery hereafter. The few have said, "Think!" The many have said,
"Believe!"

The first doubt was the womb and cradle of progress, and from the first
doubt, man has continued to advance. Men began to investigate, and the
church began to oppose. The astronomer scanned the heavens, while the
church branded his grand forehead with the word, "Infidel;" and now,
not a glittering star in all the vast expanse bears a Christian name.
In spite of all religion, the geologist penetrated the earth, read her
history in books of stone, and found, hidden within her bosom, souvenirs
of all the ages. Old ideas perished in the retort of the chemist, and
useful truths took their places. One by one religious conceptions have
been placed in the crucible of science, and thus far, nothing but dross
has been found. A new world has been discovered by the microscope;
everywhere has been found the infinite; in every direction man has
investigated and explored and nowhere, in earth or stars, has been found
the footstep of any being superior to or independent of nature. Nowhere
has been discovered the slightest evidence of any interference from
without.

These are the sublime truths that enabled man to throw off the yoke of
superstition. These are the splendid facts that snatched the sceptre of
authority from the hands of priests.

In that vast cemetery, called the past, are most of the religions of
men, and there, too, are nearly all their gods. The sacred temples of
India were ruins long ago. Over column and cornice; over the painted and
pictured walls, cling and creep the trailing vines. Brahma, the golden,
with four heads and four arms; Vishnu, the sombre, the punisher of the
wicked, with his three eyes, his crescent, and his necklace of skulls;
Siva, the destroyer, red with seas of blood; Kali, the goddess;
Draupadi, the white-armed, and Chrishna, the Christ, all passed away and
left the thrones of heaven desolate. Along the banks of the sacred
Nile, Isis no longer wandering weeps, searching for the dead Osiris. The
shadow of Typhon's scowl falls no more upon the waves. The sun rises
as of yore, and his golden beams still smite the lips of Memnon, but
Memnon is as voiceless as the Sphinx. The sacred fanes are lost in
desert sands; the dusty mummies are still waiting for the resurrection
promised by their priests, and the old beliefs, wrought in curiously
sculptured stone, sleep in the mystery of a language lost and dead.
Odin, the author of life and soul, Vili and Ve, and the mighty giant
Ymir, strode long ago from the icy halls of the North; and Thor, with
iron glove and glittering hammer, dashes mountains to the earth no more.
Broken are the circles and cromlechs of the ancient Druids; fallen upon
the summits of the hills, and covered with the centuries' moss, are the
sacred cairns. The divine fires of Persia and of the Aztecs, have died
out in the ashes of the past, and there is none to rekindle, and none to
feed the holy flames. The harp of Orpheus is still; the drained cup of
Bacchus has been thrown aside; Venus lies dead in stone, and her white
bosom heaves no more with love. The streams still murmur, but no naiads
bathe; the trees still wave, but in the forest aisles no dryads dance.
The gods have flown from high Olympus. Not even the beautiful women
can lure them back, and Danae lies unnoticed, naked to the stars. Hushed
forever are the thunders of Sinai; lost are the voices of the prophets,
and the land once flowing with milk and honey, is but a desert waste.
One by one, the myths have faded from the clouds: one by one, the
phantom host has disappeared, and one by one, facts, truths and
realities have taken their places. The supernatural has almost gone, but
the natural remains. The gods have fled, but man is here.

Nations, like individuals, have their periods of youth, of manhood and
decay. Religions are the same. The same inexorable destiny awaits them
all. The gods created by the nations must perish with their creators.
They were created by men, and like men, they must pass away. The deities
of one age are the by-words of the next The religion of our day, and
country, is no more exempt from the sneer of the future than the others
have been. When India was supreme, Brahma sat upon the world's throne.
When the sceptre passed to Egypt, Isis and Osiris received the homage of
mankind. Greece, with her fierce valor, swept to empire, and Zeus put
on the purple of authority. The earth trembled with the tread of Rome's
intrepid sons, and Jove grasped with mailed hand the thunderbolts of
heaven. Rome fell, and Christians from her territory, with the red sword
of war, carved out the ruling nations of the world, and now Christ sits
upon the old throne. Who will be his successor?

Day by day, religious conceptions grow less and less intense. Day by
day, the old spirit dies out of book and creed. The burning enthusiasm,
the quenchless zeal of the early church have gone, never, never to
return. The ceremonies remain, but the ancient faith is fading out
of the human heart. The worn-out arguments fail to convince, and
denunciations that once blanched the faces of a race, excite in us
only derision and disgust. As time rolls on, the miracles grow mean and
small, and the evidences our fathers thought conclusive utterly fail to
satisfy us. There is an "irrepressible conflict" between religion and
science, and they cannot peaceably occupy the same brain nor the same
world.

While utterly discarding all creeds, and denying the truth of all
religions, there is neither in my heart nor upon my lips a sneer for the
hopeful, loving and tender souls who believe that from all this discord
will result a perfect harmony; that every evil will in some mysterious
way become a good, and that above and over all there is a being who, in
some way, will reclaim and glorify every one of the children of men;
but for those who heartlessly try to prove that salvation is almost
impossible; that damnation is almost certain; that the highway of the
universe leads to hell; who fill life with fear and death with horror;
who curse the cradle and mock the tomb, it is impossible to entertain
other than feelings of pity, contempt and scorn.

Reason, Observation and Experience—the Holy Trinity of Science—have
taught us that happiness is the only good; that the time to be happy is
now, and the way to be happy is to make others so. This is enough for
us. In this belief we are content to live and die. If by any possibility
the existence of a power superior to, and independent of, nature shall
be demonstrated, there will then be time enough to kneel. Until then,
let us stand erect.

Notwithstanding the fact that infidels in all ages have battled for
the rights of man, and have at all times been the fearless advocates
of liberty and justice, we are constantly charged by the church with
tearing down without building again. The church should by this time know
that it is utterly impossible to rob men of their opinions. The history
of religious persecution fully establishes the fact that the mind
necessarily resists and defies every attempt to control it by violence.
The mind necessarily clings to old ideas until prepared for the new.
The moment we comprehend the truth, all erroneous ideas are of necessity
cast aside.

A surgeon once called upon a poor cripple and kindly offered to render
him any assistance in his power. The surgeon began to discourse very
learnedly upon the nature and origin of disease; of the curative
properties of certain medicines; of the advantages of exercise, air and
light, and of the various ways in which health and strength could be
restored. These remarks were so full of good sense, and discovered so
much profound thought and accurate knowledge, that the cripple, becoming
thoroughly alarmed, cried out, "Do not, I pray you, take away my
crutches. They are my only support, and without them I should be
miserable indeed!" "I am not going," said the surgeon, "to take away
your crutches. I am going to cure you, and then you will throw the
crutches away yourself."

For the vagaries of the clouds the infidels propose to substitute the
realities of earth; for superstition, the splendid demonstrations and
achievements of science; and for theological tyranny, the chainless
liberty of thought.

We do not say that we have discovered all; that our doctrines are the
all in all of truth. We know of no end to the development of man. We
cannot unravel the infinite complications of matter and force. The
history of one monad is as unknown as that of the universe; one drop of
water is as wonderful as all the seas; one leaf, as all the forests; and
one grain of sand, as all the stars.

We are not endeavoring to chain the future, but to free the present. We
are not forging fetters for our children, but we are breaking those our
fathers made for us. We are the advocates of inquiry, of investigation
and thought This of itself, is an admission that we are not perfectly
satisfied with all our conclusions. Philosophy has not the egotism of
faith. While superstition builds walls and creates obstructions,
science opens all the highways of thought. We do not pretend to have
circumnavigated everything, and to have solved all difficulties, but we
do believe that it is better to love men than to fear gods; that it is
grander and nobler to think and investigate for yourself than to repeat
a creed. We are satisfied that there can be but little liberty on earth
while men worship a tyrant in heaven. We do not expect to accomplish
everything in our day; but we want to do what good we can, and to render
all the service possible in the holy cause of human progress. We know
that doing away with gods and supernatural persons and powers is not an
end. It is a means to an end: the real end being the happiness of man.

Felling forests is not the end of agriculture. Driving pirates from the
sea is not all there is of commerce.

We are laying the foundations of the grand temple of the future—not the
temple of all the gods, but of all the people—wherein, with appropriate
rites, will be celebrated the religion of Humanity. We are doing what
little we can to hasten the coming of the day when society shall cease
producing millionaires and mendicants—gorged indolence and famished
industry—truth in rags, and superstition robed and crowned. We are
looking for the time when the useful shall be the honorable; and when
Reason, throned upon the world's brain, shall be the King of Kings, and
God of Gods.
---
# The Liberty of Man, Woman, and Child
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1877_
THERE is no slavery but ignorance. Liberty is the child of intelligence.

The history of man is simply the history of slavery, of injustice and
brutality, together with the means by which he has, through the dead and
desolate years, slowly and painfully advanced. He has been the sport
and prey of priest and king, the food of superstition and cruel might.
Crowned force has governed ignorance through fear. Hypocrisy and
tyranny—two vultures—have fed upon the liberties of man. From all
these there has been, and is, but one means of escape—intellectual
development. Upon the back of industry has been the whip. Upon the brain
have been the fetters of superstition. Nothing has been left undone
by the enemies of freedom. Every art and artifice, every cruelty and
outrage has been practiced and perpetrated to destroy the rights of man.
In this great struggle every crime has been rewarded and every virtue
has been punished. Reading, writing, thinking and investigating have all
been crimes.

Every science has been an outcast.

All the altars and all the thrones united to arrest the forward march of
the human race. The king said that mankind must not work for themselves.
The priest said that mankind must not think for themselves. One forged
chains for the hands, the other for the soul. Under this infamous
_regime_ the eagle of the human intellect was for ages a slimy serpent
of hypocrisy.

The human race was imprisoned. Through some of the prison bars came a
few struggling rays of light. Against these bars Science pressed its
pale and thoughtful face, wooed by the holy dawn of human advancement.
Bar after bar was broken away. A few grand men escaped and devoted their
lives to the liberation of their fellows.

Only a few years ago there was a great awakening of the human mind. Men
began to inquire by what right a crowned robber made them work for him?
The man who asked this question was called a traitor. Others asked by
what right does a robed hypocrite rule my thought? Such men were called
infidels. The priest said, and the king said, where is this spirit
of investigation to stop? They said then and they say now, that it is
dangerous for man to be free. I deny it. Out on the intellectual sea
there is room enough for every sail. In the intellectual air there is
space enough for every wing.

The man who does not do his own thinking is a slave, and is a traitor to
himself and to his fellow-men.

Every man should stand under the blue and stars, under the infinite flag
of nature, the peer of every other man.

Standing in the presence of the Unknown, all have the same right to
think, and all are equally interested in the great questions of origin
and destiny. All I claim, all I plead for, is liberty of thought and
expression. That is all. I do not pretend to tell what is absolutely
true, but what I think is true. I do not pretend to tell all the truth.

I do not claim that I have floated level with the heights of thought, or
that I have descended to the very depths of things. I simply claim
that what ideas I have, I have a right to express; and that any man who
denies that right to me is an intellectual thief and robber. That is
all.

Take those chains from the human soul. Break those fetters. If I have no
right to think, why have I a brain? If I have no such right, have three
or four men, or any number, who may get together, and sign a creed, and
build a house, and put a steeple upon it, and a bell in it—have they
the right to think? The good men, the good women are tired of the whip
and lash in the realm of thought. They remember the chain and fagot
with a shudder. They are free, and they give liberty to others. Whoever
claims any right that he is unwilling to accord to his fellow-men is
dishonest and infamous.

In the good old times, our fathers had the idea that they could make
people believe to suit them. Our ancestors, in the ages that are gone,
really believed that by force you could convince a man. You cannot
change the conclusion of the brain by torture; nor by social ostracism.
But I will tell you what you can do by these, and what you have done.
You can make hypocrites by the million. You can make a man say that
he has changed his mind; but he remains of the same opinion still. Put
fetters all over him; crush his feet in iron boots; stretch him to the
last gasp upon the holy rack; burn him, if you please, but his ashes
will be of the same opinion still.

Our fathers in the good old times—and the best thing I can say about
them is, that they have passed away—had an idea that they could force
men to think their way. That idea is still prevalent in many parts, even
of this country. Even in our day some extremely religious people say,
"We will not trade with that man; we will not vote for him; we will not
hire him if he is a lawyer; we will die before we will take his medicine
if he is a doctor; we will not invite him to dinner; we will socially
ostracise him; he must come to our church; he must believe our
doctrines; he must worship our god or we will not in any way contribute
to his support."

In the old times of which I have spoken, they desired to make all men
think exactly alike. All the mechanical ingenuity of the world cannot
make two clocks run exactly alike, and how are you going to make
hundreds of millions of people, differing in brain and disposition, in
education and aspiration, in conditions and surroundings, each clad in
a living robe of passionate flesh—how are you going to make them think
and feel alike? If there is an infinite god, one who made us, and wishes
us to think alike, why did he give a spoonful of brains to one, and a
magnificent intellectual development to another? Why is it that we
have all degrees of intelligence, from orthodoxy to genius, if it was
intended that all should think and feel alike?

I used to read in books how our fathers persecuted mankind. But I never
appreciated it. I read it, but it did not burn itself into my soul. I
did not really appreciate the infamies that have been committed in the
name of religion, until I saw the iron arguments that Christians used.
I saw the Thumbscrew—two little pieces of iron, armed on the inner
surfaces with protuberances, to prevent their slipping; through each end
a screw uniting the two pieces. And when some man denied the efficacy of
baptism, or may be said, "I do not believe that a fish ever swallowed
a man to keep him from drowning," then they put his thumb between these
pieces of iron and in the name of love and universal forgiveness, began
to screw these pieces together. When this was done most men said, "I
will recant." Probably I should have done the same. Probably I would
have said: "Stop; I will admit anything that you wish; I will admit that
there is one god or a million, one hell or a billion; suit yourselves;
but stop."

But there was now and then a man who would not swerve the breadth of a
hair. There was now and then some sublime heart, willing to die for
an intellectual conviction. Had it not been for such men, we would be
savages to-night. Had it not been for a few brave, heroic souls in every
age, we would have been cannibals, with pictures of wild beasts tattooed
upon our flesh, dancing around some dried snake fetich.

Let us thank every good and noble man who stood so grandly, so proudly,
in spite of opposition, of hatred and death, for what he believed to be
the truth.

Heroism did not excite the respect of our fathers. The man who would not
recant was not forgiven. They screwed the thumbscrews down to the last
pang, and then threw their victim into some dungeon, where, in the
throbbing silence and darkness, he might suffer the agonies of the
fabled damned. This was done in the name of love—in the name of
mercy—in the name of the compassionate Christ.

I saw, too, what they called the Collar of Torture. Imagine a circle
of iron, and on the inside a hundred points almost as sharp as needles.
This argument was fastened about the throat of the sufferer. Then he
could not walk, nor sit down, nor stir without the neck being punctured,
by these points. In a little while the throat would begin to swell, and
suffocation would end the agonies of that man. This man, it may be, had
committed the crime of saying, with tears upon his cheeks, "I do not
believe that God, the father of us all, will damn to eternal perdition
any of the children of men."

I saw another instrument, called the Scavenger's Daughter. Think of a
pair of shears with handles, not only where they now are, but at the
points as well, and just above the pivot that unites the blades, a
circle of iron. In the upper handles the hands would be placed; in the
lower, the feet; and through the iron ring, at the centre, the head of
the victim would be forced. In this condition, he would be thrown prone
upon the earth, and the strain upon the muscles produced such agony that
insanity would in pity end his pain.

This was done by gentlemen who said: "Whosoever smiteth thee upon one
cheek turn to him the other also."

I saw the Rack. This was a box like the bed of a wagon, with a windlass
at each end, with levers, and ratchets to prevent slipping; over each
windlass went chains; some were fastened to the ankles of the sufferer;
others to his wrists. And then priests, clergymen, divines, saints,
began turning these windlasses, and kept turning, until the ankles, the
knees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists of the victim
were all dislocated, and the sufferer was wet with the sweat of agony.
And they had standing by a physician to feel his pulse. What for? To
save his life? Yes. In mercy? No; simply that they might rack him once
again.

This was done, remember, in the name of civilization; in the name of law
and order; in the name of mercy; in the name of religion; in the name of
the most merciful Christ.

Sometimes, when I read and think about these frightful things, it seems
to me that I have suffered all these horrors myself. It seems sometimes,
as though I had stood upon the shore of exile and gazed with tearful
eyes toward home and native land; as though my nails had been torn from
my hands, and into the bleeding quick needles had been thrust; as though
my feet had been crushed in iron boots; as though I had been chained in
the cell of the Inquisition and listened with dying ears for the coming
footsteps of release; as though I had stood upon the scaffold and had
seen the glittering axe fall upon me; as though I had been upon the rack
and had seen, bending above me, the white faces of hypocrite priests;
as though I had been taken from my fireside, from my wife and children,
taken to the public square, chained; as though fagots had been piled
about me; as though the flames had climbed around my limbs and scorched
my eyes to blindness, and as though my ashes had been scattered to the
four winds, by all the countless hands of hate. And when I so feel, I
swear that while I live I will do what little I can to preserve and to
augment the liberties of man, woman, and child.

It is a question of justice, of mercy, of honesty, of intellectual
development. If there is a man in the world who is not willing to give
to every human being every right he claims for himself, he is just so
much nearer a barbarian than I am. It is a question of honesty. The man
who is not willing to give to every other the same intellectual rights
he claims for himself, is dishonest, selfish, and brutal.

It is a question of intellectual development. Whoever holds another man
responsible for his honest thought, has a deformed and distorted brain.
It is a question of intellectual development.

A little while ago I saw models of nearly everything that man has made.
I saw models of all the water craft, from the rude dug-out in which
floated a naked savage—one of our ancestors—a naked savage, with
teeth two inches in length, with a spoonful of brains in the back of
his head—I saw models of all the water craft of the world, from that
dug-out up to a man-of-war, that carries a hundred guns and miles of
canvas—from that dug-out to the steamship that turns its brave prow
from the port of New York, with a compass like a conscience, crossing
three thousand miles of billows without missing a throb or beat of its
mighty iron heart.

I saw at the same time the weapons that man has made, from a club, such
as was grasped by that same savage, when he crawled from his den in
the ground and hunted a snake for his dinner; from that club to the
boomerang, to the sword, to the cross-bow, to the blunderbuss, to the
flint-lock, to the cap-lock, to the needle-gun, up to a cannon cast by
Krupp, capable of hurling a ball weighing two thousand pounds through
eighteen inches of solid steel.

I saw, too, the armor from the shell of a turtle, that one of our brave
ancestors lashed upon his breast when he went to fight for his country;
the skin of a porcupine, dried with the quills on, which this same
savage pulled over his orthodox head, up to the shirts of mail, that
were worn in the Middle Ages, that laughed at the edge of the sword and
defied the point of the spear; up to a monitor clad in complete steel.

I saw at the same time, their musical instruments, from the
tom-tom—that is, a hoop with a couple of strings of raw hide drawn
across it—from that tom-tom, up to the instruments we have to-day, that
make the common air blossom with melody.

I saw, too, their paintings, from a daub of yellow mud, to the great
works which now adorn the galleries of the world. I saw also their
sculpture, from the rude god with four legs, a half dozen arms, several
noses, and two or three rows of ears, and one little, contemptible,
brainless head, up to the figures of to-day—to the marbles that genius
has clad in such a personality that it seems almost impudent to touch
them without an introduction.

I saw their books—books written upon skins of wild beasts—upon
shoulder-blades of sheep—books written upon leaves, upon bark, up to
the splendid volumes that enrich the libraries of our day. When I
speak of libraries, I think of the remark of Plato: "A house that has a
library in it has a soul."

I saw their implements of agriculture, from a crooked stick that was
attached to the horn of an ox by some twisted straw, to the agricultural
implements of this generation, that make it possible for a man to
cultivate the soil without being an ignoramus.

While looking upon these things I was forced to say that man advanced
only as he mingled his thought with his labor,—only as he got into
partnership with the forces of nature,—only as he learned to take
advantage of his surroundings—only as he freed himself from the bondage
of fear,—only as he depended upon himself—only as he lost confidence
in the gods.

I saw at the same time a row of human skulls, from the lowest skull
that has been found, the Neanderthal skull—skulls from Central Africa,
skulls from the Bushmen of Australia—skulls from the farthest isles of
the Pacific sea—up to the best skulls of the last generation;—and I
noticed that there was the same difference between those skulls that
there was between the products of those skulls, and I said to myself,
"After all, it is a simple question of intellectual development." There
was the same difference between those skulls, the lowest and highest
skulls, that there was between the dug-out and the man-of-war and the
steamship, between the club and the Krupp gun, between the yellow daub
and the landscape, between the tom-tom and an opera by Verdi.

The first and lowest skull in this row was the den in which crawled the
base and meaner instincts of mankind, and the last was a temple in which
dwelt joy, liberty, and love.

It is all a question of brain, of intellectual development.

If we are nearer free than were our fathers, it is because we have
better heads upon the average, and more brains in them.

Now, I ask you to be honest with me. It makes no difference to you what
I believe, nor what I wish to prove. I simply ask you to be honest.
Divest your minds, for a moment at least, of all religious prejudice.
Act, for a few moments, as though you were men and women.

Suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was one,
at the time this gentleman floated in the dug-out, and charmed his ears
with the music of the tom-tom, had said: "That dug-out is the best boat
that ever can be built by man; the pattern of that came from on high,
from the great god of storm and flood, and any man who says that he can
improve it by putting a mast in it, with a sail upon it, is an infidel,
and shall be burned at the stake;" what, in your judgment—honor
bright—would have been the effect upon the circumnavigation of the
globe?

Suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was
one—and I presume there was a priest, because it was a very ignorant
age—suppose this king and priest had said: "That tom-tom is the most
beautiful instrument of music of which any man can conceive; that is the
kind of music they have in heaven; an angel sitting upon the edge of
a fleecy cloud, golden in the setting sun, playing upon that tom-tom,
became so enraptured, so entranced with her own music, that in a kind of
ecstasy she dropped it—that is how we obtained it; and any man who
says that it can be improved by putting a back and front to it, and
four strings, and a bridge, and getting a bow of hair with rosin, is a
blaspheming wretch, and shall die the death,"—I ask you, what effect
would that have had upon music? If that course had been pursued, would
the human ears, in your judgment, ever have been enriched with the
divine symphonies of Beethoven?

Suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, had said: "That
crooked stick is the best plow that can be invented: the pattern of that
plow was given to a pious farmer in a holy dream, and that twisted straw
is the _ne plus ultra_ of all twisted things, and any man who says he
can make an improvement upon that plow, is an atheist;" what, in your
judgment, would have been the effect upon the science of agriculture?

But the people said, and the king and priest said: "We want better
weapons with which to kill our fellow-Christians; we want better plows,
better music, better paintings, and whoever will give us better weapons,
and better music, better houses to live in, better clothes, we will robe
him in wealth, and crown him with honor." Every incentive was held out
to every human being to improve these things. That is the reason the
club has been changed to a cannon, the dug-out to a steamship, the daub
to a painting; that is the reason that the piece of rough and broken
stone finally became a glorified statue.

You must not, however, forget that the gentleman in the dug-out,
the gentleman who was enraptured with the music of the tom-tom, and
cultivated his land with a crooked stick, had a religion of his own.
That gentlemen in the dug-out was orthodox. He was never troubled with
doubts. He lived and died settled in his mind. He believed in hell; and
he thought he would be far happier in heaven, if he could just lean
over and see certain people who expressed doubts as to the truth of his
creed, gently but everlastingly broiled and burned.

It is a very sad and unhappy fact that this man has had a great many
intellectual descendants. It is also an unhappy fact in nature, that the
ignorant multiply much faster than the intellectual. This fellow in the
dug-out believed in a personal devil. His devil had a cloven hoof, a
long tail, armed with a fiery dart; and his devil breathed brimstone.
This devil was at least the equal of God; not quite so stout but
a little shrewder. And do you know there has not been a patentable
improvement made upon that devil for six thousand years.

This gentleman in the dug-out believed that God was a tyrant; that he
would eternally damn the man who lived in accordance with his highest
and grandest ideal. He believed that the earth was flat. He believed in
a literal, burning, seething hell of fire and sulphur. He had also his
idea of politics; and his doctrine was, might makes right. And it will
take thousands of years before the world will reverse this doctrine, and
believingly say, "Right makes might."

All I ask is the same privilege to improve upon that gentleman's
theology as upon his musical instrument; the same right to improve upon
his politics as upon his dug-out. That is all. I ask for the human soul
the same liberty in every direction. That is the only crime I have
committed. I say, let us think. Let each one express his thought. Let us
become investigators, not followers, not cringers and crawlers. If there
is in heaven an infinite being, he never will be satisfied with the
worship of cowards and hypocrites. Honest unbelief, honest infidelity,
honest atheism, will be a perfume in heaven when pious hypocrisy, no
matter how religious it may be outwardly, will be a stench.

This is my doctrine: Give every other human being every right you claim
for yourself. Keep your mind open to the influences of nature. Receive
new thoughts with hospitality. Let us advance.

The religionist of to-day wants the ship of his soul to lie at the wharf
of orthodoxy and rot in the sun. He delights to hear the sails of old
opinions flap against the masts of old creeds. He loves to see the
joints and the sides open and gape in the sun, and it is a kind of bliss
for him to repeat again and again: "Do not disturb my opinions. Do not
unsettle my mind; I have it all made up, and I want no infidelity. Let
me go backward rather than forward."

As far as I am concerned I wish to be out on the high seas. I wish to
take my chances with wind, and wave, and star. And I had rather go down
in the glory and grandeur of the storm, than to rot in any orthodox
harbor whatever.

After all, we are improving from age to age. The most orthodox people in
this country two hundred years ago would have been burned for the crime
of heresy. The ministers who denounce me for expressing my thought would
have been in the Inquisition themselves. Where once burned and blazed
the bivouac fires of the army of progress, now glow the altars of the
church. The religionists of our time are occupying about the same ground
occupied by heretics and infidels of one hundred years ago. The church
has advanced in spite, as it were, of itself. It has followed the army
of progress protesting and denouncing, and had to keep within protesting
and denouncing distance. If the church had not made great progress I
could not express my thoughts.

Man, however, has advanced just exactly in the proportion with which he
has mingled his thought with his labor. The sailor, without control
of the wind and wave, knowing nothing or very little of the mysterious
currents and pulses of the sea, is superstitious. So also is the
agriculturist, whose prosperity depends upon something he cannot
control. But the mechanic, when a wheel refuses to turn, never thinks of
dropping on his knees and asking the assistance of some divine power.
He knows there is a reason. He knows that something is too large or too
small; that there is something wrong with his machine; and he goes to
work and he makes it larger or smaller, here or there, until the wheel
will turn. Now, just in proportion as man gets away from being, as it
were, the slave of his surroundings, the serf of the elements,—of the
heat, the frost, the snow, and the lightning,—just to the extent that
he has gotten control of his own destiny, just to the extent that he has
triumphed over the obstacles of nature, he has advanced physically and
intellectually. As man develops, he places a greater value upon his own
rights. Liberty becomes a grander and diviner thing. As he values his
own rights, he begins to value the rights of others. And when all men
give to all others all the rights they claim for themselves, this world
will be civilized.

A few years ago the people were afraid to question the king, afraid to
question the priest, afraid to investigate a creed, afraid to deny a
book, afraid to denounce a dogma, afraid to reason, afraid to think.
Before wealth they bowed to the very earth, and in the presence of
titles they became abject. All this is slowly but surely changing. We
no longer bow to men simply because they are rich. Our fathers worshiped
the golden calf. The worst you can say of an American now is, he
worships the gold of the calf. Even the calf is beginning to see this
distinction.

It no longer satisfies the ambition of a great man to be king or
emperor. The last Napoleon was not satisfied with being the emperor of
the French. He was not satisfied with having a circlet of gold about his
head. He wanted some evidence that he had something of value within
his head. So he wrote the life of Julius Cæsar, that he might become
a member of the French Academy. The emperors, the kings, the popes,
no longer tower above their fellows. Compare King William with the
philosopher Haeckel. The king is one of the anointed by the most high,
as they claim—one upon whose head has been poured the divine petroleum
of authority. Compare this king with Haeckel, who towers an intellectual
colossus above the crowned mediocrity. Compare George Eliot with Queen
Victoria. The Queen is clothed in garments given her by blind fortune
and unreasoning chance, while George Eliot wears robes of glory woven in
the loom of her own genius.

The world is beginning to pay homage to intellect, to genius, to heart.

We have advanced. We have reaped the benefit of every sublime and heroic
self-sacrifice, of every divine and brave act; and we should endeavor
to hand the torch to the next generation, having added a little to the
intensity and glory of the flame.

When I think of how much this world has suffered; when I think of how
long our fathers were slaves, of how they cringed and crawled at the
foot of the throne, and in the dust of the altar, of how they abased
themselves, of how abjectly they stood in the presence of superstition
robed and crowned, I am amazed.

This world has not been fit for a man to live in fifty years. It was not
until the year 1808 that Great Britain abolished the slave trade. Up to
that time her judges, sitting upon the bench in the name of justice,
her priests, occupying her pulpits, in the name of universal love, owned
stock in the slave ships, and luxuriated upon the profits of piracy and
murder. It was not until the same year that the United States of
America abolished the slave trade between this and other countries, but
carefully preserved it as between the States. It was not until the 28th
day of August, 1833, that Great Britain abolished human slavery in
her colonies; and it was not until the 1st day of January, 1863, that
Abraham Lincoln, sustained by the sublime and heroic North, rendered our
flag pure as the sky in which it floats.

Abraham Lincoln was, in my judgment, in many respects, the grandest
man ever President of the United States. Upon his monument these words
should be written: "Here sleeps the only man in the history of the
world, who, having been clothed with almost absolute power, never abused
it, except upon the side of mercy."

Think how long we clung to the institution of human slavery, how long
lashes upon the naked back were a legal tender for labor performed.
Think of it. The pulpit of this country deliberately and willingly, for
a hundred years, turned the cross of Christ into a whipping post.

With every drop of my blood I hate and execrate every form of tyranny,
every form of slavery. I hate dictation. I love liberty.

What do I mean by liberty? By physical liberty I mean the right to do
anything which does not interfere with the happiness of another. By
intellectual liberty I mean the right to think right and the right to
think wrong. Thought is the means by which we endeavor to arrive at
truth. If we know the truth already, we need not think. All that can
be required is honesty of purpose. You ask my opinion about anything;
I examine it honestly, and when my mind is made up, what should I tell
you? Should I tell you my real thought? What should I do? There is a
book put in my hands. I am told this is the Koran; it was written by
inspiration. I read it, and when I get through, suppose that I think in
my heart and in my brain, that it is utterly untrue, and you then ask
me, what do you think? Now, admitting that I live in Turkey, and have
no chance to get any office unless I am on the side of the Koran, what
should I say? Should I make a clean breast and say, that upon my honor
I do not believe it? What would you think then of my fellow-citizens if
they said: "That man is dangerous, he is dishonest."

Suppose I read the book called the Bible, and when I get through I make
up my mind that it was written by men. A minister asks me, "Did you read
the Bible?" I answer, that I did. "Do you think it divinely inspired?"
What should I reply? Should I say to myself, "If I deny the inspiration
of the Scriptures, the people will never clothe me with power." What
ought I to answer? Ought I not to say like a man: "I have read it; I do
not believe it." Should I not give the real transcript of my mind? Or
should I turn hypocrite and pretend what I do not feel, and hate myself
forever after for being a cringing coward. For my part I would rather
a man would tell me what he honestly thinks. I would rather he
would preserve his manhood. I had a thousand times rather be a manly
unbeliever than an unmanly believer. And if there is a judgment day,
a time when all will stand before some supreme being, I believe I will
stand higher, and stand a better chance of getting my case decided in my
favor, than any man sneaking through life pretending to believe what he
does not.

I have made up my mind to say my say. I shall do it kindly, distinctly;
but I am going to do it. I know there are thousands of men who
substantially agree with me, but who are not in a condition to express
their thoughts. They are poor; they are in business; and they know that
should they tell their honest thought, persons will refuse to patronize
them—to trade with them; they wish to get bread for their little
children; they wish to take care of their wives; they wish to have homes
and the comforts of life. Every such person is a certificate of the
meanness of the community in which he resides. And yet I do not blame
these people for not expressing their thought. I say to them: "Keep your
ideas to yourselves; feed and clothe the ones you love; I will do
your talking for you. The church can not touch, can not crush, can not
starve, cannot stop or stay me; I will express your thoughts."

As an excuse for tyranny, as a justification of slavery, the church has
taught that man is totally depraved. Of the truth of that doctrine, the
church has furnished the only evidence there is. The truth is, we are
both good and bad. The worst are capable of some good deeds, and the
best are capable of bad. The lowest can rise, and the highest may fall.
That mankind can be divided into two great classes, sinners and saints,
is an utter falsehood. In times of great disaster, called it may be, by
the despairing voices of women, men, denounced by the church as totally
depraved, rush to death as to a festival. By such men, deeds are done
so filled with self-sacrifice and generous daring, that millions pay
to them the tribute, not only of admiration, but of tears. Above all
creeds, above all religions, after all, is that divine thing,—Humanity;
and now and then in shipwreck on the wide, wild sea, or 'mid the rocks
and breakers of some cruel shore, or where the serpents of flame writhe
and hiss, some glorious heart, some chivalric soul does a deed
that glitters like a star, and gives the lie to all the dogmas of
superstition. All these frightful doctrines have been used to degrade
and to enslave mankind.

Away, forever away with the creeds and books and forms and laws and
religions that take from the soul liberty and reason. Down with the idea
that thought is dangerous! Perish the infamous doctrine that man can
have property in man. Let us resent with indignation every effort to put
a chain upon our minds. If there is no God, certainly we should not bow
and cringe and crawl. If there is a God, there should be no slaves.

## Liberty of Woman

Women have been the slaves of slaves; and in my judgment it took
millions of ages for woman to come from the condition of abject slavery
up to the institution of marriage. Let me say right here, that I regard
marriage as the holiest institution among men. Without the fireside
there is no human advancement; without the family relation there is no
life worth living. Every good government is made up of good families.
The unit of good government is the family, and anything that tends to
destroy the family is perfectly devilish and infamous. I believe in
marriage, and I hold in utter contempt the opinions of those long-haired
men and short-haired women who denounce the institution of marriage.

The grandest ambition that any man can possibly have, is to so live, and
so improve himself in heart and brain, as to be worthy of the love of
some splendid woman; and the grandest ambition of any girl is to make
herself worthy of the love and adoration of some magnificent man. That
is my idea. There is no success in life without love and marriage. You
had better be the emperor of one loving and tender heart, and she the
empress of yours, than to be king of the world. The man who has really
won the love of one good woman in this world, I do not care if he dies
in the ditch a beggar, his life has been a success.

I say it took millions of years to come from the condition of abject
slavery up to the condition of marriage. Ladies, the ornaments you
wear upon your persons to-night are but the souvenirs of your mother's
bondage. The chains around your necks, and the bracelets clasped upon
your white arms by the thrilled hand of love, have been changed by the
wand of civilization from iron to shining, glittering gold.

But nearly every religion has accounted for all the devilment in this
world by the crime of woman. What a gallant thing that is! And if it
is true, I had rather live with the woman I love in a world full of
trouble, than to live in heaven with nobody but men.

I read in a book—and I will say now that I cannot give the exact
language, as my memory does not retain the words, but I can give the
substance—I read in a book that the Supreme Being concluded to make a
world and one man; that he took some nothing and made a world and one
man, and put this man in a garden. In a little while he noticed that
the man got lonesome; that he wandered around as if he was waiting for
a train. There was nothing to interest him; no news; no papers; no
politics; no policy; and, as the devil had not yet made his appearance,
there was no chance for reconciliation; not even for civil service
reform. Well, he wandered about the garden in this condition, until
finally the Supreme Being made up his mind to make him a companion.

Having used up all the nothing he originally took in making the world
and one man, he had to take a part of the man to start a woman with. So
he caused a sleep to fall on this man—now understand me, I do not say
this story is true. After the sleep fell upon this man, the Supreme
Being took a rib, or as the French would call it, a cutlet, out of this
man, and from that he made a woman. And considering the amount of raw
material used, I look upon it as the most successful job ever performed.
Well, after he got the woman done, she was brought to the man; not to
see how she liked him, but to see how he liked her. He liked her, and
they started housekeeping; and they were told of certain things they
might do and of one thing they could not do—and of course they did it.
I would have done it in fifteen minutes, and I know it. There wouldn't
have been an apple on that tree half an hour from date, and the limbs
would have been full of clubs. And then they were turned out of the park
and extra policemen were put on to keep them from getting back.

Devilment commenced. The mumps, and the measles, and the whooping-cough,
and the scarlet fever started in their race for man. They began to have
the toothache, roses began to have thorns, snakes began to have poisoned
teeth, and people began to divide about religion and politics, and the
world has been full of trouble from that day to this.

Nearly all of the religions of this world account for the existence of
evil by such a story as that!

I read in another book what appeared to be an account of the same
transaction. It was written about four thousand years before the other.
All commentators agree that the one that was written last was the
original, and that the one that was written first was copied from the
one that was written last. But I would advise you all not to allow your
creed to be disturbed by a little matter of four or five thousand years.
In this other story, Brahma made up his mind to make the world and a man
and woman. He made the world, and he made the man and then the woman,
and put them on the island of Ceylon. According to the account it was
the most beautiful island of which man can conceive. Such birds, such
songs, such flowers and such verdure! And the branches of the trees
were so arranged that when the wind swept through them every tree was a
thousand Æolian harps.

Brahma, when he put them there, said: "Let them have a period of
courtship, for it is my desire and will that true love should forever
precede marriage." When I read that, it was so much more beautiful and
lofty than the other, that I said to myself, "If either one of these
stories ever turns out to be true, I hope it will be this one."

Then they had their courtship, with the nightingale singing, and the
stars shining, and the flowers blooming, and they fell in love. Imagine
that courtship! No prospective fathers or mothers-in-law; no prying and
gossiping neighbors; nobody to say, "Young man, how do you expect to
support her?" Nothing of that kind. They were married by the Supreme
Brahma, and he said to them: "Remain here; you must never leave this
island." Well, after a little while the man—and his name was Adami, and
the woman's name was Heva—said to Heva: "I believe I'll look about a
little." He went to the northern extremity of the island where there was
a little narrow neck of land connecting it with the mainland, and the
devil, who is always playing pranks with us, produced a mirage, and when
he looked over to the mainland, such hills and vales, such dells and
dales, such mountains crowned with snow, such cataracts clad in bows of
glory did he see there, that he went back and told Heva: "The country
over there is a thousand times better than this; let us migrate." She,
like every other woman that ever lived, said: "Let well enough alone; we
have all we want; let us stay here." But he said "No, let us go;" so she
followed him, and when they came to this narrow neck of land, he took
her on his back like a gentleman, and carried her over. But the moment
they got over they heard a crash, and looking back, discovered that this
narrow neck of land had fallen into the sea. The mirage had disappeared,
and there were naught but rocks and sand; and then the Supreme Brahma
cursed them both to the lowest hell.

Then it was that the man spoke,—and I have liked him ever since for
it—"Curse me, but curse not her, it was not her fault, it was mine."

That's the kind of man to start a world with.

The Supreme Brahma said: "I will save her, but not thee." And then she
spoke out of her fullness of love, out of a heart in which there was
love enough to make all her daughters rich in holy affection, and said:
"If thou wilt not spare him, spare neither me; I do not wish to live
without him; I love him." Then the Supreme Brahma said—and I have liked
him ever since I read it—"I will spare you both and watch over you and
your children forever."

Honor bright, is not that the better and grander story?

And from that same book I want to show you what ideas some of these
miserable heathen had; the heathen we are trying to convert. We send
missionaries over yonder to convert heathen there, and we send soldiers
out on the plains to kill heathen here. If we can convert the heathen,
why not convert those nearest home? Why not convert those we can get at?
Why not convert those who have the immense advantage of the example of
the average pioneer? But to show you the men we are trying to convert:
In this book it says: "Man is strength, woman is beauty; man is courage,
woman is love. When the one man loves the one woman and the one woman
loves the one man, the very angels leave heaven and come and sit in that
house and sing for joy."

They are the men we are converting. Think of it! I tell you, when I read
these things, I say that love is not of any country; nobility does not
belong exclusively to any race, and through all the ages, there have
been a few great and tender souls blossoming in love and pity.

In my judgment, the woman is the equal of the man. She has all the
rights I have and one more, and that is the right to be protected. That
is my doctrine. You are married; try and make the woman you love happy.
Whoever marries simply for himself will make a mistake; but whoever
loves a woman so well that he says "I will make her happy," makes no
mistake. And so with the woman who says, "I will make him happy." There
is only one way to be happy, and that is to make somebody else so, and
you cannot be happy by going cross lots; you have got to go the regular
turnpike road.

If there is any man I detest, it is the man who thinks he is the head
of a family—the man who thinks he is "boss!" The fellow in the dug-out
used that word "boss;" that was one of his favorite expressions.

Imagine a young man and a young woman courting, walking out in the
moonlight, and the nightingale singing a song of pain and love, as
though the thorn touched her heart—imagine them stopping there in the
moonlight and starlight and song, and saying, "Now, here, let us settle
who is 'boss!'" I tell you it is an infamous word and an infamous
feeling—I abhor a man who is "boss," who is going to govern in his
family, and when he speaks orders all the rest to be still as some
mighty idea is about to be launched from his mouth. Do you know I
dislike this man unspeakably?

I hate above all things a cross man. What right has he to murder the
sunshine of a day? What right has he to assassinate the joy of life?

When you go home you ought to go like a ray of light—so that it will,
even in the night, burst out of the doors and windows and illuminate
the darkness. Some men think their mighty brains have been in a turmoil;
they have been thinking about who will be alderman from the fifth ward;
they have been thinking about politics; great and mighty questions have
been engaging their minds; they have bought calico at five cents or six,
and want to sell it for seven. Think of the intellectual strain that
must have been upon that man, and when he gets home everybody else in
the house must look out for his comfort. A woman who has only taken care
of five or six children, and one or two of them sick, has been nursing
them and singing to them, and trying to make one yard of cloth do the
work of two, she, of course, is fresh and fine and ready to wait upon
this gentleman—the head of the family—the boss!

Do you know another thing? I despise a stingy man. I do not see how
it is possible for a man to die worth fifty million of dollars, or ten
million of dollars, in a city full of want, when he meets almost every
day the withered hand of beggary and the white lips of famine. How a man
can withstand all that, and hold in the clutch of his greed twenty or
thirty million of dollars, is past my comprehension. I do not see how he
can do it. I should not think he could do it any more than he could keep
a pile of lumber on the beach, where hundreds and thousands of men were
drowning in the sea.

Do you know that I have known men who would trust their wives with their
hearts and their honor but not with their pocketbook; not with a dollar.
When I see a man of that kind, I always think he knows which of these
articles is the most valuable. Think of making your wife a beggar! Think
of her having to ask you every day for a dollar, or for two dollars or
fifty cents! "What did you do with that dollar I gave you last week?"
Think of having a wife that is afraid of you! What kind of children do
you expect to have with a beggar and a coward for their mother? Oh,
I tell you if you have but a dollar in the world, and you have got to
spend it, spend it like a king; spend it as though it were a dry leaf
and you the owner of unbounded forests! That's the way to spend it! I
had rather be a beggar and spend my last dollar like a king, than be a
king and spend my money like a beggar! If it has got to go, let it go!

Get the best you can for your family—try to look as well as you can
yourself. When you used to go courting, how elegantly you looked! Ah,
your eye was bright, your step was light, and you looked like a prince.
Do you know that it is insufferable egotism in you to suppose a woman
is going to love you always looking as slovenly as you can! Think of
it! Any good woman on earth will be true to you forever when you do your
level best.

Some people tell me, "Your doctrine about loving, and wives, and all
that, is splendid for the rich, but it won't do for the poor." I tell
you to-night there is more love in the homes of the poor than in the
palaces of the rich. The meanest hut with love in it is a palace fit for
the gods, and a palace without love is a den only fit for wild beasts.
That is my doctrine! You cannot be so poor that you cannot help
somebody. Good nature is the cheapest commodity in the world; and love
is the only thing that will pay ten per cent, to borrower and lender
both. Do not tell me that you have got to be rich! We have a false
standard of greatness in the United States. We think here that a man
must be great, that he must be notorious; that he must be extremely
wealthy, or that his name must be upon the putrid lips of rumor. It is
all a mistake. It is not necessary to be rich or to be great, or to be
powerful, to be happy. The happy man is the successful man.

Happiness is the legal tender of the soul.

Joy is wealth.

A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon—a
magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity—and
gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at
last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and
thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.

I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide.
I saw him at Toulon—I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of
Paris—I saw him at the head of the army of Italy—I saw him crossing
the bridge of Lodi with the tri-color in his hand—I saw him in Egypt in
the shadows of the pyramids—I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the
eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo—at
Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow
and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's
withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster—driven by
a million bayonets back upon Paris—clutched like a wild beast—banished
to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his
genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and
Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him
at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the
sad and solemn sea.

I thought of the orphans and widows he had made—of the tears that
had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him,
pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would
rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather
have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes
growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been
that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day
died out of the sky—with my children upon my knees and their arms about
me—I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless
silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial
impersonation of force and murder, known as "Napoleon the Great."

It is not necessary to be great to be happy; it is not necessary to
be rich to be just and generous and to have a heart filled with divine
affection. No matter whether you are rich or poor, treat your wife as
though she were a splendid flower, and she will fill your life with
perfume and with joy.

And do you know, it is a splendid thing to think that the woman you
really love will never grow old to you. Through the wrinkles of time,
through the mask of years, if you really love her, you will always see
the face you loved and won. And a woman who really loves a man does not
see that he grows old; he is not decrepit to her; he does not tremble;
he is not old; she always sees the same gallant gentleman who won her
hand and heart. I like to think of it in that way; I like to think that
love is eternal. And to love in that way and then go down the hill
of life together, and as you go down, hear, perhaps, the laughter of
grandchildren, while the birds of joy and love sing once more in the
leafless branches of the tree of age.

I believe in the fireside. I believe in the democracy of home. I believe
in the republicanism of the family. I believe in liberty, equality and
love.

## The Liberty of Children

If women have been slaves, what shall I say of children; of the little
children in alleys and sub-cellars; the little children who turn pale
when they hear their fathers' footsteps; little children who run away
when they only hear their names called by the lips of a mother; little
children—the children of poverty, the children of crime, the children
of brutality, wherever they are—flotsam and jetsam upon the wild, mad
sea of life—my heart goes out to them, one and all.

I tell you the children have the same rights that we have, and we ought
to treat them as though they were human beings. They should be reared
with love, with kindness, with tenderness, and not with brutality. That
is my idea of children.

When your little child tells a lie, do not rush at him as though the
world were about to go into bankruptcy. Be honest with him. A tyrant
father will have liars for his children; do you know that?

A lie is born of tyranny upon the one hand and weakness upon the other,
and when you rush at a poor little boy with a club in your hand, of
course he lies.

I thank thee, Mother Nature, that thou hast put ingenuity enough in the
brain of a child, when attacked by a brutal parent, to throw up a little
breastwork in the shape of a lie.

When one of your children tells a lie, be honest with him; tell him that
you have told hundreds of them yourself. Tell him it is not the best
way; that you have tried it. Tell him as the man did in Maine when his
boy left home: "John, honesty is the best policy; I have tried both." Be
honest with him. Suppose a man as much larger than you as you are larger
than a child five years old, should come at you with a liberty pole in
his hand, and in a voice of thunder shout, "Who broke that plate?" There
is not a solitary one of you who would not swear you never saw it,
or that it was cracked when you got it. Why not be honest with these
children? Just imagine a man who deals in stocks whipping his boy for
putting false rumors afloat! Think of a lawyer beating his own flesh and
blood for evading the truth when he makes half of his own living that
way! Think of a minister punishing his child for not telling all he
thinks! Just think of it!

When your child commits a wrong, take it in your arms; let it feel your
heart beat against its heart; let the child know that you really and
truly and sincerely love it. Yet some Christians, good Christians, when
a child commits a fault, drive it from the door and say: "Never do you
darken this house again." Think of that! And then these same people will
get down on their knees and ask God to take care of the child they
have driven from home. I will never ask God to take care of my children
unless I am doing my level best in that same direction.

But I will tell you what I say to my children: "Go where you will;
commit what crime you may; fall to what depth of degradation you may;
you can never commit any crime that will shut my door, my arms, or my
heart to you. As long as I live you shall have one sincere friend."

Do you know that I have seen some people who acted as though they
thought that when the Savior said "Suffer little children to come unto
me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven," he had a raw-hide under his
mande, and made that remark simply to get the children within striking
distance?

I do not believe in the government of the lash, if any one of you ever
expects to whip your children again, I want you to have a photograph
taken of yourself when you are in the act, with your face red with
vulgar anger, and the face of the little child, with eyes swimming
in tears and the little chin dimpled with fear, like a piece of water
struck by a sudden cold wind. Have the picture taken. If that little
child should die, I cannot think of a sweeter way to spend an autumn
afternoon than to go out to the cemetery, when the maples are clad
in tender gold, and little scarlet runners are coming, like poems of
regret, from the sad heart of the earth—and sit down upon the grave and
look at that photograph, and think of the flesh now dust that you beat.
I tell you it is wrong; it is no way to raise children! Make your home
happy. Be honest with them. Divide fairly with them in everything.

Give them a little liberty and love, and you can not drive them out of
your house. They will want to stay there. Make home pleasant. Let them
play any game they wish. Do not be so foolish as to say: "You may roll
balls on the ground, but you must not roll them on a green cloth. You
may knock them with a mallet, but you must not push them with a cue.
You may play with little pieces of paper which have 'authors' written
on them, but you must not have 'cards.'" Think of it! "You may go to a
minstrel show where people blacken themselves and imitate humanity below
them, but you must not go to a theatre and see the characters created
by immortal genius put upon the stage." Why? Well, I can't think of any
reason in the world except "minstrel" is a word of two syllables, and
"theatre" has three.

Let children have some daylight at home if you want to keep them there,
and do not commence at the cradle and shout "Don't!" "Don't!" "Stop!"
That is nearly all that is said to a child from the cradle until he is
twenty-one years old, and when he comes of age other people begin saying
"Don't!" And the church says "Don't!" and the party he belongs to says
"Don't!"

I despise that way of going through this world. Let us have
liberty—just a little. Call me infidel, call me atheist, call me what
you will, I intend so to treat my children, that they can come to my
grave and truthfully say: "He who sleeps here never gave us a moment of
pain. From his lips, now dust, never came to us an unkind word."

People justify all kinds of tyranny toward children upon the ground that
they are totally depraved. At the bottom of ages of cruelty lies this
infamous doctrine of total depravity. Religion contemplates a child as a
living crime—heir to an infinite curse—doomed to eternal fire.

In the olden time, they thought some days were too good for a child to
enjoy himself. When I was a boy Sunday was considered altogether too
holy to be happy in. Sunday used to commence then when the sun went down
on Saturday night. We commenced at that time for the purpose of getting
a good ready, and when the sun fell below the horizon on Saturday
evening, there was a darkness fell upon the house ten thousand times
deeper than that of night. Nobody said a pleasant word; nobody laughed;
nobody smiled; the child that looked the sickest was regarded as the
most pious. That night you could not even crack hickory nuts. If you
were caught chewing gum it was only another evidence of the total
depravity of the human heart. It was an exceedingly solemn night.

Dyspepsia was in the very air you breathed. Everybody looked sad and
mournful. I have noticed all my life that many people think they have
religion when they are troubled with dyspepsia. If there could be found
an absolute specific for that disease, it would be the hardest blow the
church has ever received.

On Sunday morning the solemnity had simply increased. Then we went to
church. The minister was in a pulpit about twenty feet high, with a
little sounding-board above him, and he commenced at "firstly" and went
on and on and on to about "twenty-thirdly." Then he made a few remarks
by way of application; and then took a general view of the subject, and
in about two hours reached the last chapter in Revelation.

In those days, no matter how cold the weather was, there was no fire in
the church. It was thought to be a kind of sin to be comfortable while
you were thanking God. The first church that ever had a stove in it in
New England, divided on that account. So the first church in which they
sang by note, was torn in fragments.

After the sermon we had an intermission. Then came the catechism with
the chief end of man. We went through with that. We sat in a row with
our feet coming in about six inches of the floor. The minister asked
us if we knew that we all deserved to go to hell, and we all answered
"Yes." Then we were asked if we would be willing to go to hell if it was
God's will, and every little liar shouted "Yes." Then the same sermon
was preached once more, commencing at the other end and going back.
After that, we started for home, sad and solemn—overpowered with the
wisdom displayed in the scheme of the atonement. When we got home, if we
had been good boys, and the weather was warm, sometimes they would take
us out to the graveyard to cheer us up a little. It did cheer me. When
I looked at the sunken tombs and the leaning stones, and read the
half-effaced inscriptions through the moss of silence and forgetfulness,
it was a great comfort. The reflection came to my mind that the
observance of the Sabbath could not last always. Sometimes they would
sing that beautiful hymn in which occurs these cheerful lines:

> "Where congregations ne'er break up,
> And Sabbaths never end."

These lines, I think, prejudiced me a little against even heaven. Then
we had good books that we read on Sundays by way of keeping us happy
and contented. There were Milners' "History of the Waldenses," Baxter's
"Call to the Unconverted," Yahn's "Archaeology of the Jews," and
Jenkyns' "On the Atonement." I used to read Jenkyns' "On the Atonement."
I have often thought that an atonement would have to be exceedingly
broad in its provisions to cover the case of a man who would write a
book like that for a boy.

But at last the Sunday wore away, and the moment the sun went down we
were free. Between three and four o'clock we would go out to see how the
sun was coming on. Sometimes it seemed to me that it was stopping from
pure meanness. But finally it went down. It had to. And when the last
rim of light sank below the horizon, off would go our caps, and we would
give three cheers for liberty once more.

Sabbaths used to be prisons. Every Sunday was a Bastile. Every Christian
was a kind of turnkey, and every child was a prisoner,—a convict. In
that dungeon, a smile was a crime.

It was thought wrong for a child to laugh upon this holy day. Think of
that!

A little child would go out into the garden, and there would be a tree
laden with blossoms, and the little fellow would lean against it, and
there would be a bird on one of the boughs, singing and swinging, and
thinking about four little speckled eggs, warmed by the breast of its
mate,—singing and swinging, and the music in happy waves rippling out
of its tiny throat, and the flowers blossoming, the air filled with
perfume and the great white clouds floating in the sky, and the little
boy would lean up against that tree and think about hell and the worm
that never dies.

I have heard them preach, when I sat in the pew and my feet did not
touch the floor, about the final home of the unconverted. In order to
impress upon the children the length of time they would probably stay if
they settled in that country, the preacher would frequently give us the
following illustration: "Suppose that once in a billion years a bird
should come from some far-distant planet, and carry off in its little
bill a grain of sand, a time would finally come when the last atom
composing this earth would be carried away; and when this last atom was
taken, it would not even be sun up in hell." Think of such an infamous
doctrine being taught to children!

The laugh of a child will make the holiest day more sacred still.
Strike, with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with
Apollo's golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies
sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until
thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonlit waves, and charm the
lovers wandering 'mid the vine-clad hills. But know, your sweetest
strains are discords all, compared with childhood's happy laugh—the
laugh that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. O
rippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundary line between
the beasts and men; and every wayward wave of thine doth drown some
fretful fiend of care. O Laughter, rose-lipped daughter of Joy, there
are dimples enough in thy cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the
tears of grief.

And yet the minds of children have been polluted by this infamous
doctrine of eternal punishment. I denounce it to-day as a doctrine, the
infamy of which no language is sufficient to express.

Where did that doctrine of eternal punishment for men and women and
children come from? It came from the low and beastly skull of that
wretch in the dug-out. Where did he get it? It was a souvenir from the
animals. The doctrine of eternal punishment was born in the glittering
eyes of snakes—snakes that hung in fearful coils watching for their
prey. It was born of the howl and bark and growl of wild beasts. It
was born of the grin of hyenas and of the depraved chatter of unclean
baboons. I despise it with every drop of my blood. Tell me there is a
God in the serene heavens that will damn his children for the expression
of an honest belief! More men have died in their sins, judged by your
orthodox creeds, than there are leaves on all the forests in the wide
world ten thousand times over. Tell me these men are in hell; that these
men are in torment; that these children are in eternal pain, and that
they are to be punished forever and forever! I denounce this doctrine as
the most infamous of lies.

When the great ship containing the hopes and aspirations of the world,
when the great ship freighted with mankind goes down in the night of
death, chaos and disaster, I am willing to go down with the ship. I
will not be guilty of the ineffable meanness of paddling away in some
orthodox canoe. I will go down with the ship, with those who love me,
and with those whom I have loved. If there is a God who will damn his
children forever, I would rather go to hell than to go to heaven and
keep the society of such an infamous tyrant. I make my choice now. I
despise that doctrine. It has covered the cheeks of this world with
tears. It has polluted the hearts of children, and poisoned the
imaginations of men. It has been a constant pain, a perpetual terror to
every good man and woman and child. It has filled the good with horror
and with fear; but it has had no effect upon the infamous and base. It
has wrung the hearts of the tender; it has furrowed the cheeks of the
good. This doctrine never should be preached again. What right have you,
sir, Mr. clergyman, you, minister of the gospel, to stand at the portals
of the tomb, at the vestibule of eternity, and fill the future with
horror and with fear? I do not believe this doctrine: neither do you.
If you did, you could not sleep one moment. Any man who believes it, and
has within his breast a decent, throbbing heart, will go insane. A man
who believes that doctrine and does not go insane has the heart of a
snake and the conscience of a hyena.

Jonathan Edwards, the dear old soul, who, if his doctrine is true, is
now in heaven rubbing his holy hands with glee, as he hears the cries
of the damned, preached this doctrine; and he said: "Can the believing
husband in heaven be happy with his unbelieving wife in hell? Can the
believing father in heaven be happy with his unbelieving children
in hell? Can the loving wife in heaven be happy with her unbelieving
husband in hell?" And he replies: "I tell you, yea. Such will be their
sense of justice, that it will increase rather than diminish their
bliss." There is no wild beast in the jungles of Africa whose reputation
would not be tarnished by the expression of such a doctrine.

These doctrines have been taught in the name of religion, in the name of
universal forgiveness, in the name of infinite love and charity. Do not,
I pray you, soil the minds of your children with this dogma. Let them
read for themselves; let them think for themselves.

Do not treat your children like orthodox posts to be set in a row. Treat
them like trees that need light and sun and air. Be fair and honest
with them; give them a chance. Recollect that their rights are equal to
yours. Do not have it in your mind that you must govern them; that they
must obey. Throw away forever the idea of master and slave.

In old times they used to make the children go to bed when they were not
sleepy, and get up when they were sleepy. I say let them go to bed when
they are sleepy, and get up when they are not sleepy.

But you say, this doctrine will do for the rich but not for the poor.
Well, if the poor have to waken their children early in the morning it
is as easy to wake them with a kiss as with a blow. Give your children
freedom; let them preserve their individuality. Let your children eat
what they desire, and commence at the end of a dinner they like. That is
their business and not yours. They know what they wish to eat. If they
are given their liberty from the first, they know what they want better
than any doctor in the world can prescribe. Do you know that all the
improvement that has ever been made in the practice of medicine has
been made by the recklessness of patients and not by the doctors?
For thousands and thousands of years the doctors would not let a man
suffering from fever have a drop of water. Water they looked upon as
poison. But every now and then some man got reckless and said, "I had
rather die than not to slake my thirst." Then he would drink two or
three quarts of water and get well. And when the doctor was told of
what the patient had done, he expressed great surprise that he was still
alive, and complimented his constitution upon being able to bear such a
frightful strain. The reckless men, however, kept on drinking the water,
and persisted in getting well. And finally the doctors said: "In a
fever, water is the very best thing you can take." So, I have more
confidence in the voice of nature about such things than I have in the
conclusions of the medical schools.

Let your children have freedom and they will fall into your ways; they
will do substantially as you do; but if you try to make them, there is
some magnificent, splendid thing in the human heart that refuses to be
driven. And do you know that it is the luckiest thing that ever happened
for this world, that people are that way. What would have become of the
people five hundred years ago if they had followed strictly the advice
of the doctors? They would have all been dead. What would the people
have been, if at any age of the world they had followed implicitly
the direction of the church? They would have all been idiots. It is a
splendid thing that there is always some grand man who will not mind,
and who will think for himself.

I believe in allowing the children to think for themselves. I believe
in the democracy of the family. If in this world there is anything
splendid, it is a home where all are equals.

You will remember that only a few years ago parents would tell their
children to "let their victuals stop their mouths." They used to eat as
though it were a religious ceremony—a very solemn thing. Life should
not be treated as a solemn matter. I like to see the children at table,
and hear each one telling of the wonderful things he has seen and heard.
I like to hear the clatter of knives and forks and spoons mingling with
their happy voices. I had rather hear it than any opera that was ever
put upon the boards. Let the children have liberty. Be honest and fair
with them; be just; be tender, and they will make you rich in love and
joy.

Men are oaks, women are vines, children are flowers.

The human race has been guilty of almost countless crimes; but I have
some excuse for mankind. This world, after all, is not very well adapted
to raising good people. In the first place, nearly all of it is water.
It is much better adapted to fish culture than to the production of
folks. Of that portion which is land not one-eighth has suitable soil
and climate to produce great men and women. You cannot raise men and
women of genius, without the proper soil and climate, any more than you
can raise corn and wheat upon the ice fields of the Arctic sea. You must
have the necessary conditions and surroundings. Man is a product; you
must have the soil and food. The obstacles presented by nature must
not be so great that man cannot, by reasonable industry and courage,
overcome them. There is upon this world only a narrow belt of land,
circling zigzag the globe, upon which you can produce men and women of
talent. In the Southern Hemisphere the real climate that man needs falls
mostly upon the sea, and the result is, that the southern half of our
world has never produced a man or woman of great genius. In the far
north there is no genius—it is too cold. In the far south there is no
genius—it is too warm. There must be winter, and there must be summer.
In a country where man needs no coverlet but a cloud, revolution is his
normal condition. Winter is the mother of industry and prudence. Above
all, it is the mother of the family relation. Winter holds in its icy
arms the husband and wife and the sweet children. If upon this earth we
ever have a glimpse of heaven, it is when we pass a home in winter, at
night, and through the windows, the curtains drawn aside, we see the
family about the pleasant hearth; the old lady knitting; the cat playing
with the yarn; the children wishing they had as many dolls or dollars or
knives or somethings, as there are sparks going out to join the roaring
blast; the father reading and smoking, and the clouds rising like
incense from the altar of domestic joy. I never passed such a house
without feeling that I had received a benediction.

Civilization, liberty, justice, charity, intellectual advancement, are
all flowers that blossom in the drifted snow.

I have still another excuse. I believe that man came up from the lower
animals. I do not say this as a fact. I simply say I believe it to be
a fact. Upon that question I stand about eight to seven, which, for all
practical purposes, is very near a certainty. When I first heard of that
doctrine I did not like it. My heart was filled with sympathy for those
people who have nothing to be proud of except ancestors. I thought, how
terrible this will be upon the nobility of the Old World. Think of their
being forced to trace their ancestry back to the duke Orang Outang, or
to the princess Chimpanzee. After thinking it all over, I came to the
conclusion that I liked that doctrine. I became convinced in spite of
myself. I read about rudimentary bones and muscles. I was told that
everybody had rudimentary muscles extending from the ear into the cheek.
I asked "What are they?" I was told: "They are the remains of
muscles; that they became rudimentary from lack of use; they went into
bankruptcy. They are the muscles with which your ancestors used to flap
their ears." I do not now so much wonder that we once had them as that
we have outgrown them.

After all I had rather belong to a race that started from the skull-less
vertebrates in the dim Laurentian seas, vertebrates wiggling without
knowing why they wiggled, swimming without knowing where they were
going, but that in some way began to develop, and began to get a little
higher and a little higher in the scale of existence; that came up by
degrees through millions of ages through all the animal world, through
all that crawls and swims and floats and climbs and walks, and finally
produced the gentleman in the dug-out; and then from this man, getting
a little grander, and each one below calling every one above him a
heretic, calling every one who had made a little advance an infidel or
an atheist—for in the history of this world the man who is ahead has
always been called a heretic—I would rather come from a race that
started from that skull-less vertebrate, and came up and up and up and
finally produced Shakespeare, the man who found the human intellect
dwelling in a hut, touched it with the wand of his genius and it became
a palace domed and pinnacled; Shakespeare, who harvested all the fields
of dramatic thought, and from whose day to this, there have been only
gleaners of straw and chaff—I would rather belong to that race that
commenced a skull-less vertebrate and produced Shakespeare, a race that
has before it an infinite future, with the angel of progress leaning
from the far horizon, beckoning men forward, upward and onward
forever—I had rather belong to such a race, commencing there, producing
this, and with that hope, than to have sprung from a perfect pair upon
which the Lord has lost money every moment from that day to this.

## Conclusion

I have given you my honest thought. Surely investigation is better than
unthinking faith. Surely reason is a better guide than fear. This world
should be controlled by the living, not by the dead. The grave is not a
throne, and a corpse is not a king. Man should not try to live on ashes.

The theologians dead, knew no more than the theologians now living.
More than this cannot be said. About this world little is known,—about
another world, nothing.

Our fathers were intellectual serfs, and their fathers were slaves. The
makers of our creeds were ignorant and brutal. Every dogma that we have,
has upon it the mark of whip, the rust of chain, and the ashes of fagot.

Our fathers reasoned with instruments of torture. They believed in the
logic of fire and sword. They hated reason. They despised thought. They
abhorred liberty.

Superstition is the child of slavery. Free thought will give us truth.
When all have the right to think and to express their thoughts, every
brain will give to all the best it has. The world will then be filled
with intellectual wealth.

As long as men and women are afraid of the church, as long as a minister
inspires fear, as long as people reverence a thing simply because
they do not understand it, as long as it is respectable to lose your
self-respect, as long as the church has power, as long as mankind
worship a book, just so long will the world be filled with intellectual
paupers and vagrants, covered with the soiled and faded rags of
superstition.

As long as woman regards the Bible as the charter of her rights, she
will be the slave of man. The Bible was not written by a woman. Within
its lids there is nothing but humiliation and shame for her. She is
regarded as the property of man. She is made to ask forgiveness for
becoming a mother. She is as much below her husband, as her husband is
below Christ. She is not allowed to speak. The gospel is too pure to be
spoken by her polluted lips. Woman should learn in silence.

In the Bible will be found no description of a civilized home. The free
mother surrounded by free and loving children, adored by a free man, her
husband, was unknown to the inspired writers of the Bible. They did not
believe in the democracy of home—in the republicanism of the fireside.

These inspired gentlemen knew nothing of the rights of children. They
were the advocates of brute force—the disciples of the lash. They knew
nothing of human rights. Their doctrines have brutalized the homes of
millions, and filled the eyes of infancy with tears.

Let us free ourselves from the tyranny of a book, from the slavery of
dead ignorance, from the aristocracy of the air.

There has never been upon the earth a generation of free men and
women. It is not yet time to write a creed. Wait until the chains are
broken—until dungeons are not regarded as temples. Wait until solemnity
is not mistaken for wisdom—until mental cowardice ceases to be known
as reverence. Wait until the living are considered the equals of the
dead—until the cradle takes precedence of the coffin. Wait until what
we know can be spoken without regard to what others may believe. Wait
until teachers take the place of preachers—until followers become
investigators. Wait until the world is free before you write a creed.

In this creed there will be but one word—Liberty.

Oh Liberty, float not forever in the far horizon—remain not forever in
the dream of the enthusiast, the philanthropist and poet, but come and
make thy home among the children of men!

I know not what discoveries, what inventions, what thoughts may leap
from the brain of the world. I know not what garments of glory may be
woven by the years to come. I cannot dream of the victories to be won
upon the fields of thought; but I do know, that coming from the infinite
sea of the future, there will never touch this "bank and shoal of time"
a richer gift, a rarer blessing than liberty for man, for woman, and for
child.
---
# Thomas Paine
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1870_
TO speak the praises of the brave and thoughtful dead, is to me a labor
of gratitude and love.

Through all the centuries gone, the mind of man has been beleaguered by
the mailed hosts of superstition. Slowly and painfully has advanced the
army of deliverance. Hated by those they wished to rescue, despised
by those they were dying to save, these grand soldiers, these immortal
deliverers, have fought without thanks, labored without applause,
suffered without pity, and they have died execrated and abhorred. For
the good of mankind they accepted isolation, poverty, and calumny. They
gave up all, sacrificed all, lost all but truth and self-respect.

One of the bravest soldiers in this army was Thomas Paine; and for one,
I feel indebted to him for the liberty we are enjoying this day. Born
among the poor, where children are burdens; in a country where real
liberty was unknown; where the privileges of class were guarded with
infinite jealousy, and the rights of the individual trampled beneath the
feet of priests and nobles; where to advocate justice was treason; where
intellectual freedom was Infidelity, it is wonderful that the idea of
true liberty ever entered his brain. .

Poverty was his mother—Necessity his master.

He had more brains than books; more sense than education; more courage
than politeness; more strength than polish. He had no veneration for
old mistakes—no admiration for ancient lies. He loved the truth for
the truth's sake, and for man's sake. He saw oppression on every hand;
injustice everywhere; hypocrisy at the altar, venality on the bench,
tyranny on the throne; and with a splendid courage he espoused the cause
of the weak against the strong—of the enslaved many against the titled
few.

In England he was nothing. He belonged to the lower classes. There was
no avenue open for him. The people hugged their chains, and the whole
power of the government was ready to crush any man who endeavored to
strike a blow for the right.

At the age of thirty-seven, Thomas Paine left England for America,
with the high hope of being instrumental in the establishment of a free
government. In his own country he could accomplish nothing. Those two
vultures—Church and State—were ready to tear in pieces and devour the
heart of any one who might deny their divine right to enslave the world.

Upon his arrival in this country, he found himself possessed of a letter
of introduction, signed by another Infidel, the illustrious Franklin.
This, and his native genius, constituted his entire capital; and he
needed no more. He found the colonies clamoring for justice; whining
about their grievances; upon their knees at the foot of the throne,
imploring that mixture of idiocy and insanity, George the III., by the
grace of God, for a restoration of their ancient privileges. They were
not endeavoring to become free men, but were trying to soften the heart
of their master. They were perfectly willing to make brick if Pharaoh
would furnish the straw. The colonists wished for, hoped for, and prayed
for reconciliation They did not dream of independence.

Paine gave to the world his "Common Sense." It was the first argument
for separation, the first assault upon the British form of government,
the first blow for a republic, and it aroused our fathers like a
trumpet's blast.

He was the first to perceive the destiny of the New World.

No other pamphlet ever accomplished such wonderful results. It was
filled with argument, reason, persuasion, and unanswerable logic. It
opened a new world. It filled the present with hope and the future
with honor. Everywhere the people responded, and in a few months the
Continental Congress declared the colonies free and independent States.

A new nation was born.

It is simple justice to say that Paine did more to cause the Declaration
of Independence than any other man. Neither should it be forgotten that
his attacks upon Great Britain were also attacks upon monarchy; and
while he convinced the people that the colonies ought to separate from
the mother country, he also proved to them that a free government is the
best that can be instituted among men.

In my judgment, Thomas Paine was the best political writer that ever
lived. "What he wrote was pure nature, and his soul and his pen ever
went together." Ceremony, pageantry, and all the paraphernalia of
power, had no effect upon him. He examined into the why and wherefore of
things. He was perfectly radical in his mode of thought. Nothing short
of the bed-rock satisfied him. His enthusiasm for what he believed to
be right knew no bounds. During all the dark scenes of the Revolution,
never for one moment did he despair. Year after year his brave words
were ringing through the land, and by the bivouac fires the weary
soldiers read the inspiring words of "Common Sense," filled with ideas
sharper than their swords, and consecrated themselves anew to the cause
of Freedom.

Paine was not content with having aroused the spirit of independence,
but he gave every energy of his soul to keep that spirit alive. He was
with the army. He shared its defeats, its dangers, and its glory. When
the situation became desperate, when gloom settled upon all, he gave
them the "Crisis." It was a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night,
leading the way to freedom, honor, and glory. He shouted to them, "These
are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier, and the sunshine
patriot, will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country;
but he that stands it now deserves the love and thanks of man and
woman."

To those who wished to put the war off to some future day, with a lofty
and touching spirit of self-sacrifice he said: "Every generous parent
should say, 'If there must be war let it be in my day, that my child
may have peace.'" To the cry that Americans were rebels, he replied: "He
that rebels against reason is a real rebel; but he that in defence of
reason rebels against tyranny, has a better title to 'Defender of the
Faith' than George the Third."

Some said it was not to the interest of the colonies to be free. Paine
answered this by saying, "To know whether it be the interest of
the continent to be independent, we need ask only this simple, easy
question: 'Is it the interest of a man to be a boy all his life?'" He
found many who would listen to nothing, and to them he said, "That to
argue with a man who has renounced his reason is like giving medicine
to the dead." This sentiment ought to adorn the walls of every orthodox
church.

There is a world of political wisdom in this: "England lost her liberty
in a long chain of right reasoning from wrong principles"; and there
is real discrimination in saying, "The Greeks and Romans were strongly
possessed of the spirit of liberty, but not the principles, for at
the time that they were determined not to be slaves themselves, they
employed their power to enslave the rest of mankind."

In his letter to the British people, in which he tried to convince them
that war was not to their interest, occurs the following passage brimful
of common sense: "War never can be the interest of a trading nation any
more than quarreling can be profitable to a man in business. But to
make war with those who trade with us is like setting a bull-dog upon a
customer at the shop-door."

The writings of Paine fairly glitter with simple, compact, logical
statements, that carry conviction to the dullest and most prejudiced. He
had the happiest possible way of putting the case; in asking questions
in such a way that they answer themselves, and in stating his premises
so clearly that the deduction could not be avoided.

Day and night he labored for America; month after month, year after
year, he gave himself to the Great Cause, until there was "a government
of the people and for the people," and until the banner of the stars
floated over a continent redeemed, and consecrated to the happiness of
mankind.

At the close of the Revolution, no one stood higher in America than
Thomas Paine. The best, the wisest, the most patriotic, were his friends
and admirers; and had he been thinking only of his own good he might
have rested from his toils and spent the remainder of his life in
comfort and in ease. He could have been what the world is pleased to
call "respectable." He could have died surrounded by clergymen, warriors
and statesmen. At his death there would have been an imposing funeral,
miles of carriages, civic societies, salvos of artillery, a nation in
mourning, and, above all, a splendid monument covered with lies.

He chose rather to benefit mankind.

At that time the seeds sown by the great Infidels were beginning to bear
fruit in France. The people were beginning to think.

The Eighteenth Century was crowning its gray hairs with the wreath of
Progress.

On every hand Science was bearing testimony against the Church. Voltaire
had filled Europe with light; D'Holbach was giving to the _élite_
of Paris the principles contained in his "System of Nature." The
Encyclopedists had attacked superstition with information for the
masses. The foundation of things began to be examined. A few had the
courage to keep their shoes on and let the bush burn. Miracles began to
get scarce. Everywhere the people began to inquire. America had set an
example to the world. The word Liberty was in the mouths of men, and
they began to wipe the dust from their knees.

The dawn of a new day had appeared.

Thomas Paine went to France. Into the new movement he threw all his
energies. His fame had gone before him, and he was welcomed as a friend
of the human race, and as a champion of free government.

He had never relinquished his intention of pointing out to his
countrymen the defects, absurdities and abuses of the English government
For this purpose he composed and published his greatest political work,
"The Rights of Man." This work should be read by every man and woman.
It is concise, accurate, natural, convincing, and unanswerable. It shows
great thought; an intimate knowledge of the various forms of government;
deep insight into the very springs of human action, and a courage that
compels respect and admiration. The most difficult political problems
are solved in a few sentences. The venerable arguments in favor of
wrong are refuted with a question—answered with a word. For forcible
illustration, apt comparison, accuracy and clearness of statement, and
absolute thoroughness, it has never been excelled.

The fears of the administration were aroused, and Paine was prosecuted
for libel and found guilty; and yet there is not a sentiment in the
entire work that will not challenge the admiration of every civilized
man. It is a magazine of political wisdom, an arsenal of ideas, and an
honor, not only to Thomas Paine, but to human nature itself. It could
have been written only by the man who had the generosity, the exalted
patriotism, the goodness to say, "The world is my country, and to do
good my religion."

There is in all the utterances of the world no grander, no sublimer
sentiment. There is no creed that can be compared with it for a moment.
It should be wrought in gold, adorned with jewels, and impressed
upon every human heart: "The world is my country, and to do good my
religion."

In 1792, Paine was elected by the department of Calais as their
representative in the National Assembly. So great was his popularity in
France that he was selected about the same time by the people of no less
than four departments.

Upon taking his place in the Assembly he was appointed as one of a
committee to draft a constitution for France. Had the French people
taken the advice of Thomas Paine there would have been no "reign of
terror." The streets of Paris would not have been filled with blood The
Revolution would have been the grandest success of the world. The truth
is that Paine was too conservative to suit the leaders of the French
Revolution. They, to a great extent, were carried away by hatred, and
a desire to destroy. They had suffered so long, they had borne so much,
that it was impossible for them to be moderate in the hour of victory.

Besides all this, the French people had been so robbed by the
government, so degraded by the church, that they were not fit material
with which to construct a republic. Many of the leaders longed to
establish a beneficent and just government, but the people asked for
revenge.

Paine was filled with a real love for mankind. His philanthropy was
boundless. He wished to destroy monarchy—not the monarch. He voted for
the destruction of tyranny, and against the death of the king. He wished
to establish a government on a new basis; one that would forget the
past; one that would give privileges to none, and protection to all.

In the Assembly, where nearly all were demanding the execution of the
king—where to differ from the majority was to be suspected, and, where
to be suspected was almost certain death Thomas Paine had the courage,
the goodness and the justice to vote against death. To vote against
the execution of the king was a vote against his own life. This was
the sublimity of devotion to principle. For this he was arrested,
imprisoned, and doomed to death.

Search the records of the world and you will find but few sublimer acts
than that of Thomas Paine voting against the kings death. He, the hater
of despotism, the abhorrer of monarchy, the champion of the rights
of man, the republican, accepting death to save the life of a deposed
tyrant—of a throneless king. This was the last grand act of his
political life—the sublime conclusion of his political career.

All his life he had been the disinterested friend of man. He had
labored—not for money, not for fame, but for the general good. He had
aspired to no office; had asked no recognition of his services, but had
ever been content to labor as a common soldier in the army of Progress.
Confining his efforts to no country, looking upon the world as his field
of action, filled with a genuine love for the right, he found himself
imprisoned by the very people he had striven to save.

Had his enemies succeeded in bringing him to the block, he would have
escaped the calumnies and the hatred of the Christian world. In this
country, at least, he would have ranked with the proudest names. On the
anniversary of the Declaration his name would have been upon the lips of
all the orators, and his memory in the hearts of all the people.

Thomas Paine had not finished his career.

He had spent his life thus far in destroying the power of kings, and
now he turned his attention to the priests. He knew that every abuse had
been embalmed in Scripture—that every outrage was in partnership with
some holy text. He knew that the throne skulked behind the altar, and
both behind a pretended revelation from God. By this time he had found
that it was of little use to free the body and leave the mind in
chains. He had explored the foundations of despotism, and had found them
infinitely rotten. He had dug under the throne, and it occurred to him
that he would take a look behind the altar.

The result of his investigations was given to the world in the "Age of
Reason." From the moment of its publication he became infamous. He was
calumniated beyond measure. To slander him was to secure the thanks of
the church. All his services were instantly forgotten, disparaged or
denied. He was shunned as though he had been a pestilence. Most of his
old friends forsook him. He was regarded as a moral plague, and at the
bare mention of his name the bloody hands of the church were raised in
horror. He was denounced as the most despicable of men.

Not content with following him to his grave, they pursued him after
death with redoubled fury, and recounted with infinite gusto and
satisfaction the supposed horrors of his death-bed; gloried in the fact
that he was forlorn and friendless, and gloated like fiends over what
they supposed to be the agonizing remorse of his lonely death.

It is wonderful that all his services were thus forgotten. It is amazing
that one kind word did not fall from some pulpit; that some one did
not accord to him, at least—honesty. Strange, that in the general
denunciation some one did not remember his labor for liberty, his
devotion to principle, his zeal for the rights of his fellow-men. He
had, by brave and splendid effort, associated his name with the cause
of Progress. He had made it impossible to write the history of political
freedom with his name left out He was one of the creators of light; one
of the heralds of the dawn. He hated tyranny in the name of kings, and
in the name of God, with every drop of his noble blood. He believed in
liberty and justice, and in the sacred doctrine of human equality. Under
these divine banners he fought the battle of his life. In both worlds he
offered his blood for the good of man. In the wilderness of America, in
the French Assembly, in the sombre cell waiting for death, he was the
same unflinching, unwavering friend of his race; the same undaunted
champion of universal freedom. And for this he has been hated; for this
the church has violated even his grave.

This is enough to make one believe that nothing is more natural than for
men to devour their benefactors. The people in all ages have crucified
and glorified. Whoever lifts his voice against abuses, whoever arraigns
the past at the bar of the present, whoever asks the king to show his
commission, or questions the authority of the priest, will be denounced
as the enemy of man and God. In all ages reason has been regarded as the
enemy of religion. Nothing has been considered so pleasing to the Deity
as a total denial of the authority of your own mind. Self-reliance has
been thought a deadly sin; and the idea of living and dying without the
aid and consolation of superstition has always horrified the church. By
some unaccountable infatuation, belief has been and still is considered
of immense importance. All religions have been based upon the idea that
God will forever reward the true believer, and eternally damn the man
who doubts or denies. Belief is regarded as the one essential thing. To
practice justice, to love mercy, is not enough. You must believe in
some incomprehensible creed. You must say, "Once one is three, and three
times one is one." The man who practiced every virtue, but failed to
believe, was execrated. Nothing so outrages the feelings of the church
as a moral unbeliever—nothing so horrible as a charitable Atheist.

When Paine was born, the world was religious, the pulpit was the real
throne, and the churches were making every effort to crush out of the
brain the idea that it had the right to think.

The splendid saying of Lord Bacon, that "the inquiry of truth, which is
the love-making or wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, which is the
presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it,
are the sovereign good of human nature," has been, and ever will
be, rejected by religionists. Intellectual liberty, as a matter of
necessity, forever destroys the idea that belief is either praise
or blame-worthy, and is wholly inconsistent with every creed in
Christendom. Paine recognized this truth. He also saw that as long as
the Bible was considered inspired, this infamous doctrine of the virtue
of belief would be believed and preached. He examined the Scriptures for
himself, and found them filled with cruelty, absurdity and immorality.

He again made up his mind to sacrifice himself for the good of his
fellow-men.

He commenced with the assertion, "That any system of religion that has
anything in it that shocks the mind of a child cannot be a true system."
What a beautiful, what a tender sentiment! No wonder the church began to
hate him. He believed in one God, and no more. After this life he
hoped for happiness. He believed that true religion consisted in doing
justice, loving mercy, in endeavoring to make our fellow-creatures
happy, and in offering to God the fruit of the heart. He denied the
inspiration of the Scriptures. This was his crime.

He contended that it is a contradiction in terms to call anything a
revelation that comes to us second-hand, either verbally or in writing.
He asserted that revelation is necessarily limited to the first
communication, and that after that it is only an account of something
which another person says was a revelation to him. We have only his word
for it, as it was never made to us. This argument never has been and
probably never will be answered. He denied the divine origin of Christ,
and showed conclusively that the pretended prophecies of the Old
Testament had no reference to him whatever; and yet he believed that
Christ was a virtuous and amiable man; that the morality he taught and
practiced was of the most benevolent and elevated character, and that
it had not been exceeded by any. Upon this point he entertained the
same sentiments now held by the Unitarians, and in fact by all the most
enlightened Christians.

In his time the church believed and taught that every word in the Bible
was absolutely true. Since his day it has been proven false in its
cosmogony, false in its astronomy, false in its chronology, false in its
history, and so far as the Old Testament is concerned, false in almost
everything. There are but few, if any, scientific men who apprehend that
the Bible is literally true. Who on earth at this day would pretend to
settle any scientific question by a text from the Bible? The old belief
is confined to the ignorant and zealous. The church itself will before
long be driven to occupy the position of Thomas Paine. The best minds of
the orthodox world, to-day, are endeavoring to prove the existence of
a personal Deity. All other questions occupy a minor place. You are no
longer asked to swallow the Bible whole, whale, Jonah and all; you are
simply required to believe in God, and pay your pew-rent. There is not
now an enlightened minister in the world who will seriously contend that
Samson's strength was in his hair, or that the necromancers of Egypt
could turn water into blood, and pieces of wood into serpents. These
follies have passed away, and the only reason that the religious world
can now have for disliking Paine is that they have been forced to adopt
so many of his opinions.

Paine thought the barbarities of the Old Testament inconsistent with
what he deemed the real character of God. He believed that murder,
massacre and indiscriminate slaughter had never been commanded by
the Deity. He regarded much of the Bible as childish, unimportant and
foolish The scientific world entertains the same opinion. Paine attacked
the Bible precisely in the same spirit in which he had attacked the
pretensions of kings. He used the same weapons. All the pomp in the
world could not make him cower. His reason knew no "Holy of Holies,"
except the abode of Truth. The sciences were then in their infancy. The
attention of the really learned had not been directed to an impartial
examination of our pretended revelation. It was accepted by most as
a matter of course. The church was all-powerful, and no one, unless
thoroughly imbued with the spirit of self-sacrifice, thought for a
moment of disputing the fundamental doctrines of Christianity. The
infamous doctrines that salvation depends upon belief—upon a mere
intellectual conviction—was then believed and preached. To doubt was
to secure the damnation of your soul. This absurd and devilish doctrine
shocked the common sense of Thomas Paine, and he denounced it with
the fervor of honest indignation. This doctrine, although infinitely
ridiculous, has been nearly universal, and has been as hurtful as
senseless. For the overthrow of this infamous tenet, Paine exerted all
his strength. He left few arguments to be used by those who should come
after him, and he used none that have been refuted. The combined wisdom
and genius of all mankind cannot possibly conceive of an argument
against liberty of thought. Neither can they show why any one should
be punished, either in this world or another, for acting honestly in
accordance with reason; and yet a doctrine with every possible argument
against it has been, and still is, believed and defended by the entire
orthodox world. Can it be possible that we have been endowed with reason
simply that our souls may be caught in its toils and snares, that we may
be led by its false and delusive glare out of the narrow path that leads
to joy into the broad way of everlasting death? Is it possible that
we have been given reason simply that we may through faith ignore its
deductions, and avoid its conclusions? Ought the sailor to throw away
his compass and depend entirely upon the fog? If reason is not to be
depended upon in matters of religion, that is to say, in respect of our
duties to the Deity, why should it be relied upon in matters respecting
the rights of our fellows? Why should we throw away the laws given to
Moses by God himself and have the audacity to make some of our own? How
dare we drown the thunders of Sinai by calling the ayes and noes in a
petty legislature? If reason can determine what is merciful, what is
just, the duties of man to man, what more do we want either in time or
eternity?

Down, forever down, with any religion that requires upon its ignorant
altar the sacrifice of the goddess Reason, that compels her to abdicate
forever the shining throne of the soul, strips from her form the
imperial purple, snatches from her hand the sceptre of thought and makes
her the bond-woman of a senseless faith!

If a man should tell you that he had the most beautiful painting in the
world, and after taking you where it was should insist upon having your
eyes shut, you would likely suspect, either that he had no painting or
that it was some pitiable daub. Should he tell you that he was a most
excellent performer on the violin, and yet refuse to play unless your
ears were stopped, you would think, to say the least of it, that he
had an odd way of convincing you of his musical ability. But would his
conduct be any more wonderful than that of a religionist who asks that
before examining his creed you will have the kindness to throw away your
reason? The first gentleman says, "Keep your eyes shut, my picture
will bear everything but being seen;" "Keep your ears stopped, my music
objects to nothing but being heard." The last says, "Away with your
reason, my religion dreads nothing but being understood."

So far as I am concerned, I most cheerfully admit that most Christians
are honest, and most ministers sincere. We do not attack them; we
attack their creed. We accord to them the same rights that we ask for
ourselves. We believe that their doctrines are hurtful. We believe
that the frightful text, "He that believes shall be saved and he that
believeth not shall be damned," has covered the earth with blood. It has
filled the heart with arrogance, cruelty and murder. It has caused
the religious wars; bound hundreds of thousands to the stake; founded
inquisitions; filled dungeons; invented instruments of torture; taught
the mother to hate her child; imprisoned the mind; filled the world with
ignorance; persecuted the lovers of wisdom; built the monasteries and
convents; made happiness a crime, investigation a sin, and self-reliance
a blasphemy. It has poisoned the springs of learning; misdirected the
energies of the world; filled all countries with want; housed the people
in hovels; fed them with famine; and but for the efforts of a few
brave Infidels it would have taken the world back to the midnight of
barbarism, and left the heavens without a star.

The maligners of Paine say that he had no right to attack this doctrine,
because he was unacquainted with the dead languages; and for this
reason, it was a piece of pure impudence in him to investigate the
Scriptures.

Is it necessary to understand Hebrew in order to know that cruelty is
not a virtue, that murder is inconsistent with infinite goodness, and
that eternal punishment can be inflicted upon man only by an eternal
fiend? Is it really essential to conjugate the Greek verbs before you
can make up your mind as to the probability of dead people getting out
of their graves? Must one be versed in Latin before he is entitled to
express his opinion as to the genuineness of a pretended revelation
from God? Common sense belongs exclusively to no tongue. Logic is not
confined to, nor has it been buried with, the dead languages. Paine
attacked the Bible as it is translated. If the translation is wrong, let
its defenders correct it.

The Christianity of Paine's day is not the Christianity of our time.
There has been a great improvement since then. One hundred and fifty
years ago the foremost preachers of our time would have perished at
the stake. A Universalist would have been torn in pieces in England,
Scotland, and America. Unitarians would have found themselves in the
stocks, pelted by the rabble with dead cats, after which their ears
would have been cut off, their tongues bored, and their foreheads
branded. Less than one hundred and fifty years ago the following law was
in force in Maryland:

"Be it enacted by the Right Honorable, the Lord Proprietor, by and with
the advice and consent of his Lordship's governor, and the upper and
lower houses of the Assembly, and the authority of the same:

"That if any person shall hereafter, within this province, wittingly,
maliciously, and advisedly, by writing or speaking, blaspheme or curse
God, or deny our Saviour, Jesus Christ, to be the Son of God, or shall
deny the Holy Trinity, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, or the Godhead
of any of the three persons, or the unity of the Godhead, or shall utter
any profane words concerning the Holy Trinity, or any of the persons
thereof, and shall thereof be convict by verdict, shall, for the first
offence, be bored through the tongue, and fined twenty pounds to be
levied of his body. And for the second offence, the offender shall be
stigmatized by burning in the forehead with the letter B, and fined
forty pounds. And that for the third offence the offender shall suffer
death without the benefit of clergy."

The strange thing about this law is, that it has never been repealed,
and is still in force in the District of Columbia. Laws like this were
in force in most of the colonies, and in all countries where the church
had power.

In the Old Testament, the death penalty is attached to hundreds of
offences. It has been the same in all Christian countries. To-day, in
civilized governments, the death penalty is attached only to murder and
treason; and in some it has been entirely abolished. What a commentary
upon the divine systems of the world!

In the day of Thomas Paine, the church was ignorant, bloody and
relentless. In Scotland the "Kirk" was at the summit of its power. It
was a full sister of the Spanish Inquisition. It waged war upon human
nature. It was the enemy of happiness, the hater of joy, and the
despiser of religious liberty. It taught parents to murder their
children rather than to allow them to propagate error. If the mother
held opinions of which the infamous "Kirk" disapproved, her children
were taken from her arms, her babe from her very bosom, and she was
not allowed to see them, or to write them a word. It would not allow
shipwrecked sailors to be rescued from drowning on Sunday. It sought to
annihilate pleasure, to pollute the heart by filling it with religious
cruelty and gloom, and to change mankind into a vast horde of pious,
heartless fiends. One of the most famous Scotch divines said: "The Kirk
holds that religious toleration is not far from blasphemy." And this
same Scotch Kirk denounced, beyond measure, the man who had the moral
grandeur to say, "The world is my country, and to do good my religion."
And this same Kirk abhorred the man who said, "Any system of religion
that shocks the mind of a child cannot be a true system."

At that time nothing so delighted the church as the beauties of endless
torment, and listening to the weak wailings of damned infants struggling
in the slimy coils and poison-folds of the worm that never dies.

About the beginning of the nineteenth century, a boy by the name of
Thomas Aikenhead, was indicted and tried at Edinburgh for having denied
the inspiration of the Scriptures, and for having, on several
occasions, when cold, wished himself in hell that he might get warm.
Notwithstanding the poor boy recanted and begged for mercy, he was found
guilty and hanged. His body was thrown in a hole at the foot of the
scaffold and covered with stones.

Prosecutions and executions like this were common in every Christian
country, and all of them were based upon the belief that an intellectual
conviction is a crime.

No wonder the church hated and traduced the author of the "Age of
Reason."

England was filled with Puritan gloom and Episcopal ceremony. All
religious conceptions were of the grossest nature. The ideas of crazy
fanatics and extravagant poets were taken as sober facts. Milton had
clothed Christianity in the soiled and faded finery of the gods—had
added to the story of Christ the fables of Mythology. He gave to the
Protestant Church the most outrageously material ideas of the Deity.
He turned all the angels into soldiers—made heaven a battlefield, put
Christ in uniform, and described God as a militia general. His works
were considered by the Protestants nearly as sacred as the Bible
itself, and the imagination of the people was thoroughly polluted by the
horrible imagery, the sublime absurdity of the blind Milton.

Heaven and hell were realities—the judgment-day was expected—books of
account would be opened. Every man would hear the charges against him
read. God was supposed to sit on a golden throne, surrounded by the
tallest angels, with harps in their hands and crowns on their heads. The
goats would be thrust into eternal fire on the left, while the orthodox
sheep, on the right, were to gambol on sunny slopes forever and forever.

The nation was profoundly ignorant, and consequently extremely
religious, so far as belief was concerned.

In Europe, Liberty was lying chained in the Inquisition—her white bosom
stained with blood. In the New World the Puritans had been hanging
and burning in the name of God, and selling white Quaker children into
slavery in the name of Christ, who said, "Suffer little children to come
unto me."

Under such conditions progress was impossible. Some one had to lead
the way. The church is, and always has been, incapable of a forward
movement. Religion always looks back. The church has already reduced
Spain to a guitar, Italy to a hand-organ, and Ireland to exile.

Some one not connected with the church had to attack the monster that
was eating out the heart of the world. Some one had to sacrifice himself
for the good of all. The people were in the most abject slavery; their
manhood had been taken from them by pomp, by pageantry and power.
Progress is born of doubt and inquiry.

The church never doubts—never inquires. To doubt is heresy—to inquire
is to admit that you do not know—the church does neither.

More than a century ago Catholisism, wrapped in robes red with the
innocent blood of millions, holding in her frantic clutch crowns and
scepters, honors and gold, the keys of heaven and hell, trampling
beneath her feet the liberties of nations, in the proud moment of almost
universal dominion, felt within her heartless breast the deadly dagger
of Voltaire. From that blow the church never can recover. Livid with
hatred she launched her eternal anathema at the great destroyer, and
ignorant Protestants have echoed the curse of Rome.

In our country the church was all-powerful, and although divided into
many sects, would instantly unite to repel a common foe.

Paine struck the first grand blow.

The "Age of Reason" did more to undermine the power of the Protestant
Church than all other books then known. It furnished an immense amount
of food for thought. It was written for the average mind, and is a
straightforward, honest investigation of the Bible, and of the Christian
system.

Paine did not falter, from the first page to the last. He gives you his
candid thought, and candid thoughts are always valuable.

The "Age of Reason" has liberalized us all. It put arguments in the
mouths of the people; it put the church on the defensive; it enabled
somebody in every village to corner the parson; it made the world wiser,
and the church better; it took power from the pulpit and divided it
among the pews.

Just in proportion that the human race has advanced, the church has lost
power. There is no exception to this rule.

No nation ever materially advanced that held strictly to the religion of
its founders.

No nation ever gave itself wholly to the control of the church without
losing its power, its honor, and existence.

Every church pretends to have found the exact truth. This is the end of
progress. Why pursue that which you have? Why investigate when you know?

Every creed is a rock in running water: humanity sweeps by it. Every
creed cries to the universe, "Halt!" A creed is the ignorant Past
bullying the enlightened Present.

The ignorant are not satisfied with what can be demonstrated. Science is
too slow for them, and so they invent creeds. They demand completeness.
A sublime segment, a grand fragment, are of no value to them. They
demand the complete circle—the entire structure.

In music they want a melody with a recurring accent at measured periods.
In religion they insist upon immediate answers to the questions of
creation and destiny. The alpha and omega of all things must be in the
alphabet of their superstition. A religion that cannot answer every
question, and guess every conundrum is, in their estimation, worse than
worthless. They desire a kind of theological dictionary—a religious
ready reckoner, together with guide-boards at all crossings and turns.
They mistake impudence for authority, solemnity for wisdom, and bathos
for inspiration. The beginning and the end are what they demand. The
grand flight of the eagle is nothing to them. They want the nest in
which he was hatched, and especially the dry limb upon which he roosts.
Anything that can be learned is hardly worth knowing. The present is
considered of no value in itself. Happiness must not be expected this
side of the clouds, and can only be attained by self-denial and faith;
not selfdenial for the good of others, but for the salvation of your own
sweet self.

Paine denied the authority of bibles and creeds; this was his crime, and
for this the world shut the door in his face, and emptied its slops upon
him from the windows.

I challenge the world to show that Thomas Paine ever wrote one line,
one word in favor of tyranny—in favor of immorality; one line, one
word against what he believed to be for the highest and best interest
of mankind; one line, one word against justice, charity, or liberty,
and yet he has been pursued as though he had been a fiend from hell. His
memory has been execrated as though he had murdered some Uriah for his
wife; driven some Hagar into the desert to starve with his child upon
her bosom; defiled his own daughters; ripped open with the sword the
sweet bodies of loving and innocent women; advised one brother to
assassinate another; kept a harem with seven hundred wives and three
hundred concubines, or had persecuted Christians even unto strange
cities.

The church has pursued Paine to deter others. No effort has been in
any age of the world spared to crush out opposition. The church used
painting, music and architecture, simply to degrade mankind. But there
are men that nothing can awe. There have been at all times brave spirits
that dared even the gods. Some proud head has always been above the
waves. In every age some Diogenes has sacrificed to all the gods. True
genius never cowers, and there is always some Samson feeling for the
pillars of authority.

Cathedrals and domes, and chimes and chants.—temples frescoed and
groined and carved, and gilded with gold—altars and tapers, and
paintings of virgin and babe—censer and chalice—chasuble, paten
and alb—organs, and anthems and incense rising to the winged and
blest—maniple, amice and stole—crosses and crosiers, tiaras
and crowns—mitres and missals and masses—rosaries, relics and
robes—martyrs and saints, and windows stained as with the blood of
Christ—never, never for one moment awed the brave, proud spirit of the
Infidel. He knew that all the pomp and glitter had been purchased with
Liberty—that priceless jewel of the soul. In looking at the cathedral
he remembered the dungeon. The music of the organ was not loud enough
to drown the clank of fetters. He could not forget that the taper had
lighted the fagot. He knew that the cross adorned the hilt of the sword,
and so where others worshiped, he wept and scorned.

The doubter, the investigator, the Infidel, have been the saviors
of liberty. This truth is beginning to be realized, and the truly
intellectual are honoring the brave thinkers of the past.

But the church is as unforgiving as ever, and still wonders why any
Infidel should be wicked enough to endeavor to destroy her power.

I will tell the church why.

You have imprisoned the human mind; you have been the enemy of liberty;
you have burned us at the stake—wasted us upon slow fires—torn
our flesh with iron; you have covered us with chains—treated us as
outcasts; you have filled the world with fear; you have taken our wives
and children from our arms; you have confiscated our property; you have
denied us the right to testify in courts of justice; you have branded us
with infamy; you have torn out our tongues; you have refused us burial.
In the name of your religion, you have robbed us of every right; and
after having inflicted upon us every evil that can be inflicted in this
world, you have fallen upon your knees, and with clasped hands implored
your God to torment us forever.

Can you wonder that we hate your doctrines—that we despise your
creeds—that we feel proud to know that we are beyond your power—that
we are free in spite of you—that we can express our honest thought, and
that the whole world is grandly rising into the blessed light?

Can you wonder that we point with pride to the fact that Infidelity
has ever been found battling for the rights of man, for the liberty of
conscience, and for the happiness of all?

Can you wonder that we are proud to know that we have always been
disciples of Reason, and soldiers of Freedom; that we have denounced
tyranny and superstition, and have kept our hands unstained with human
blood?

We deny that religion is the end or object of this life. When it is so
considered it becomes destructive of happiness—the real end of life.
It becomes a hydra-headed monster, reaching in terrible coils from the
heavens, and thrusting its thousand fangs into the bleeding, quivering
hearts of men. It devours their substance, builds palaces for God, (who
dwells not in temples made with hands,) and allows his children to
die in huts and hovels. It fills the earth with mourning, heaven with
hatred, the present with fear, and all the future with despair.

Virtue is a subordination of the passions to the intellect. It is to
act in accordance with your highest convictions. It does not consist in
believing, but in doing. This is the sublime truth that the Infidels in
all ages have uttered. They have handed the torch from one to the other
through all the years that have fled. Upon the altar of Reason they have
kept the sacred fire, and through the long midnight of faith they fed
the divine flame.

Infidelity is liberty; all religion is slavery. In every creed man is
the slave of God—woman is the slave of man and the sweet children are
the slaves of all.

We do not want creeds; we want knowledge—we want happiness.

And yet we are told by the church that we have accomplished nothing;
that we are simply destroyers; that we tear down without building again.

Is it nothing to free the mind? Is it nothing to civilize mankind? Is it
nothing to fill the world with light, with discovery, with science?
Is it nothing to dignify man and exalt the intellect? Is it nothing to
grope your way into the dreary prisons, the damp and dropping dungeons,
the dark and silent cells of superstition, where the souls of men are
chained to floors of stone; to greet them like a ray of light, like the
song of a bird, the murmur of a stream; to see the dull eyes open and
grow slowly bright; to feel yourself grasped by the shrunken and unused
hands, and hear yourself thanked by a strange and hollow voice?

Is it nothing to conduct these souls gradually into the blessed light of
day—to let them see again the happy fields, the sweet, green earth, and
hear the everlasting music of the waves? Is it nothing to make men wipe
the dust from their swollen knees, the tears from their blanched
and furrowed cheeks? Is it a small thing to reave the heavens of an
insatiate monster and write upon the eternal dome, glittering with
stars, the grand word—Freedom?

Is it a small thing to quench the flames of hell with the holy tears of
pity—to unbind the martyr from the stake—break all the chains—put
out the fires of civil war—stay the sword of the fanatic, and tear the
bloody hands of the Church from the white throat of Science?

Is it a small thing to make men truly free—to destroy the dogmas of
ignorance, prejudice and power—the poisoned fables of superstition, and
drive from the beautiful face of the earth the fiend of Fear?

It does seem as though the most zealous Christian must at times
entertain some doubt as to the divine origin of his religion. For
eighteen hundred years the doctrine has been preached. For more than
a thousand years the church had, to a great extent, the control of the
civilized world, and what has been the result? Are the Christian nations
patterns of charity and forbearance? On the contrary, their principal
business is to destroy each other. More than five millions of Christians
are trained, educated, and drilled to murder their fellow-christians.
Every nation is groaning under a vast debt incurred in carrying on war
against other Christians, or defending itself from Christian assault.
The world is covered with forts to protect Christians from Christians,
and every sea is covered with iron monsters ready to blow Christian
brains into eternal froth. Millions upon millions are annually expended
in the effort to construct still more deadly and terrible engines of
death. Industry is crippled, honest toil is robbed, and even beggary is
taxed to defray the expenses of Christian warfare. There must be some
other way to reform this world. We have tried creed, and dogma and
fable, and they have failed; and they have failed in all the nations
dead.

The people perish for the lack of knowledge.

Nothing but education—scientific education—can benefit mankind. We
must find out the laws of nature and conform to them.

We need free bodies and free minds,—free labor and free
thought,—chainless hands and fetterless brains. Free labor will give us
wealth. Free thought will give us truth.

We need men with moral courage to speak and write their real thoughts,
and to stand by their convictions, even to the very death. We need have
no fear of being too radical. The future will verify all grand and brave
predictions. Paine was splendidly in advance of his time; but he was
orthodox compared with the Infidels of to-day.

Science, the great Iconoclast, has been busy since 1809, and by the
highway of Progress are the broken images of the Past.

On every hand the people advance. The Vicar of God has been pushed from
the throne of the Caesars, and upon the roofs of the Eternal City falls
once more the shadow of the Eagle.

All has been accomplished by the heroic few. The men of science have
explored heaven and earth, and with infinite patience have furnished
the facts. The brave thinkers have used them. The gloomy caverns of
superstition have been transformed into temples of thought, and the
demons of the past are the angels of to-day.

Science took a handful of sand, constructed a telescope, and with it
explored the starry depths of heaven. Science wrested from the gods
their thunderbolts; and now, the electric spark, freighted with thought
and love, flashes under all the waves of the sea. Science took a tear
from the cheek of unpaid labor, converted it into steam, created a giant
that turns with tireless arm, the countless wheels of toil.

Thomas Paine was one of the intellectual heroes—one of the men to whom
we are indebted. His name is associated forever with the Great Republic.
As long as free government exists he will be remembered, admired and
honored.

He lived a long, laborious and useful life. The world is better for his
having lived. For the sake of truth he accepted hatred and reproach for
his portion. He ate the bitter bread of sorrow. His friends were untrue
to him because he was true to himself, and true to them. He lost the
respect of what is called society, but kept his own. His life is what
the world calls failure and what history calls success.

If to love your fellow-men more than self is goodness, Thomas Paine was
good.

If to be in advance of your time—to be a pioneer in the direction of
right—is greatness, Thomas Paine was great.

If to avow your principles and discharge your duty in the presence of
death is heroic, Thomas Paine was a hero.

At the age of seventy-three, death touched his tired heart. He died
in the land his genius defended—under the flag he gave to the skies.
Slander cannot touch him now—hatred cannot reach him more. He sleeps in
the sanctuary of the tomb, beneath the quiet of the stars.

A few more years—a few more brave men—a few more rays of light, and
mankind will venerate the memory of him who said:

"ANY SYSTEM OF RELIGION THAT SHOCKS THE MIND OF A CHILD CANNOT BE A TRUE
SYSTEM;"

"The world is my Country, and to do good my Religion."
---
# What Must We Do To Be Saved?
_Dresden Edition, Volume 1, 1880_
<section class="work-preface">

<span class="work-preface-kicker">Author's Front Matter</span>
<h2 class="work-preface-heading">Preface</h2>

If what is known as the Christian Religion is true, nothing can be more
wonderful than the fact that Matthew, Mark and Luke say nothing about
"salvation by faith;" that they do not even hint at the doctrine of
the atonement, and are as silent as empty tombs as to the necessity of
believing anything to secure happiness in this world or another.

For a good many years it has been claimed that the writers of these
gospels knew something about the teachings of Christ, and had, at least,
a general knowledge of the conditions of salvation. It now seems to
be substantiated that the early Christians did not place implicit
confidence in the gospels, and did not hesitate to make such changes and
additions as they thought proper. Such changes and additions are about
the only passages in the New Testament that the Evangelical Churches
now consider sacred. That portion of the last chapter of Mark, in which
unbelievers are so cheerfully and promptly damned, has been shown to be
an interpolation, and it is asserted that in the revised edition of the
New Testament, soon to be issued, the infamous passages will not appear.
With these expunged, there is not one word in Matthew, Mark, or Luke,
even tending to show that belief in Christ has, or can have, any effect
upon the destiny of the soul.

The four gospels are the four corner-stones upon which rests the fabric
of orthodox Christianity. Three of these stones have crumbled, and the
fourth is not likely to outlast this generation. The gospel of John
cannot alone uphold the infinite absurdity of vicarious virtue and vice,
and it cannot, without the aid of "interpolation," sustain the illogical
and immoral dogma of salvation by faith. These frightful doctrines must
be abandoned; the miraculous must be given up, the wonderful stories
must be expunged, and from the creed of noble deeds the forgeries
of superstition must be blotted out. From the temple of Morality
and Truth—from the great windows towards the sun—the parasitic and
poisonous vines of faith and fable must be torn.

The church will be compelled at last to rest its case, not upon the
wonders Christ is said to have performed, but upon the system of
morality he taught. All the miracles, including the resurrection and
ascension, are, when compared with portions of the "Sermon on the
Mount," but dust and darkness.

The careful reader of the New Testament will find three Christs
described:—One who wished to preserve Judaism—one who wished to
reform it, and one who built a system of his own. The apostles and their
disciples, utterly unable to comprehend a religion that did away with
sacrifices, churches, priests, and creeds, constructed a Christianity
for themselves, so that the orthodox churches of to-day rest—first,
upon what Christ endeavored to destroy—second, upon what he never said,
and, third, upon a misunderstanding of what he did say.

If a certain belief is necessary to insure the salvation of the soul,
the church ought to explain, and without any unnecessary delay, why such
an infinitely important fact was utterly ignored by Matthew, Mark
and Luke. There are only two explanations possible. Either belief is
unnecessary, or the writers of these three gospels did not understand
the Christian system. The "sacredness" of the subject cannot longer hide
the absurdity of the "scheme of salvation," nor the failure of Matthew,
Mark and Luke to mention, what is now claimed to have been, the entire
mission of Christ. The church must take from the New Testament the
supernatural'; the idea that an intellectual conviction can subject an
honest man to eternal pain—the awful doctrine that the innocent can
justly suffer for the guilty, and allow the remainder to be discussed,
denied or believed without punishment and without reward. No one will
object to the preaching of kindness, honesty and justice. To preach less
is a crime, and to practice more is impossible.

There is one thing that ought to be again impressed upon the average
theologian, and that is the utter futility of trying to answer arguments
with personal abuse. It should be understood once for all that these
questions are in no sense personal. If it should turn out that all the
professed Christians in the world are sinless saints, the question of
how Matthew, Mark, and Luke, came to say nothing about the atonement and
the scheme of salvation by faith, would still be asked. And if it should
then be shown that all the doubters, deists, and atheists, are vile and
vicious wretches, the question still would wait for a reply.

The origin of all religions, creeds, and sacred books, is substantially
the same, and the history of one, is, in the main, the history of all.
Thus far these religions have been the mistaken explanations of our
surroundings. The appearances of nature have imposed upon the ignorance
and fear of man. But back of all honest creeds was, and is, the desire
to know, to understand, and to explain, and that desire will, as I
most fervently hope and earnestly believe, be gratified at last by
the discovery of the truth. Until then, let us bear with the theories,
hopes, dreams, mistakes, and honest thoughts of all.

<p class="work-preface-sign">Robert G. Ingersoll<small>Washington, D.C. · October 1880</small></p>

</section>

## What Must We Do to Be Saved

"THE NUREMBERG MAN WAS OPERATED BY A COMBINATION OF PIPES AND LEVERS,
AND THOUGH HE COULD BREATHE AND DIGEST PERFECTLY, AND EVEN REASON AS
WELL AS MOST THEOLOGIANS, WAS MADE OF NOTHING BUT WOOD AND LEATHER."

THE whole world has been filled with fear.

Ignorance has been the refuge of the soul. For thousands of years the
intellectual ocean was ravaged by the buccaneers of reason. Pious souls
clung to the shore and looked at the lighthouse. The seas were filled
with monsters and the islands with sirens. The people were driven in the
middle of a narrow road while priests went before, beating the hedges on
either side to frighten the robbers from their lairs. The poor followers
seeing no robbers, thanked their brave leaders with all their hearts.

## I. What We Must Do to Be Saved

Huddled in folds they listened with wide eyes while the shepherds told
of ravening wolves. With great gladness they exchanged their fleeces for
security. Shorn and shivering, they had the happiness of seeing their
protectors comfortable and warm.

Through all the years, those who plowed divided with those who prayed.
Wicked industry supported pious idleness, the hut gave to the cathedral,
and frightened poverty gave even its rags to buy a robe for hypocrisy.

Fear is the dungeon of the mind, and superstition is a dagger with which
hypocrisy assassinates the soul. Courage is liberty. I am in favor of
absolute freedom of thought. In the realm of mind every one is monarch;
every one is robed, sceptered, and crowned, and every one wears the
purple of authority. I belong to the republic of intellectual liberty,
and only those are good citizens of that republic who depend upon reason
and upon persuasion, and only those are traitors who resort to brute
force.

Now, I beg of you all to forget just for a few moments that you are
Methodists or Baptists or Catholics or Presbyterians, and let us for an
hour or two remember only that we are men and women. And allow me to
say "man" and "woman" are the highest titles that can be bestowed upon
humanity.

Let us, if possible, banish all fear from the mind. Do not imagine that
there is some being in the infinite expanse who is not willing that
every man and woman should think for himself and herself. Do not imagine
that there is any being who would give to his children the holy torch of
reason, and then damn them for following that sacred light. Let us have
courage.

Priests have invented a crime called "blasphemy," and behind that
crime hypocrisy has crouched for thousands of years. There is but one
blasphemy, and that is injustice. There is but one worship, and that is
justice!

You need not fear the anger of a god that you cannot injure. Rather
fear to injure your fellow-men. Do not be afraid of a crime you can not
commit. Rather be afraid of the one that you may commit. The reason that
you cannot injure God is that the Infinite is conditionless. You cannot
increase or diminish the happiness of any being without changing that
being's condition. If God is conditionless, you can neither injure nor
benefit him.

Do not imagine for a moment that I think people who disagree with me
are bad people. I admit, and I cheerfully admit, that a very large
proportion of mankind, and a very large majority, a vast number are
reasonably honest. I believe that most Christians believe what they
teach; that most ministers are endeavoring to make this world better.
I do not pretend to be better than they are. It is an intellectual
question. It is a question, first, of intellectual liberty, and after
that, a question to be settled at the bar of human reason. I do not
pretend to be better than they are. Probably I am a good deal worse than
many of them, but that is not the question. The question is: Bad as
I am, have I the right to think? And I think I have for two reasons:
First, I cannot help it. And secondly, I like it. The whole question is
right at a point. If I have not a right to express my thoughts, who has?

"Oh," they say, "we will allow you to think, we will not burn you."

"All right; why won't you burn me?"

"Because we think a decent man will allow others to think and to express
his thought."

"Then the reason you do not persecute me for my thought is that you
believe it would be infamous in you?"

"Yes."

"And yet you worship a God who will, as you declare, punish me forever?"

Surely an infinite God ought to be as just as man. Surely no God can
have the right to punish his children for being honest. He should not
reward hypocrisy with heaven, and punish candor with eternal pain.

The next question then is: Can I commit a sin against God by thinking?
If God did not intend I should think, why did he give me a thinker? For
one, I am convinced, not only that I have the right to think, but that
it is my duty to express my honest thoughts. Whatever the gods may say
we must be true to ourselves.

We have got what they call the Christian system of religion, and
thousands of people wonder how I can be wicked enough to attack that
system.

There are many good things about it, and I shall never attack anything
that I believe to be good! I shall never fear to attack anything I
honestly believe to be wrong! We have what they call the Christian
religion, and I find, just in proportion that nations have been
religious, just in the proportion they have clung to the religion of
their founders, they have gone back to barbarism. I find that Spain,
Portugal, Italy, are the three worst nations in Europe. I find that the
nation nearest infidel is the most prosperous—France.

And so I say there can be no danger in the exercise of absolute
intellectual freedom. I find among ourselves the men who think are at
least as good as those who do not.

We have, I say, a Christian system, and that system is founded upon
what they are pleased to call the "New Testament." Who wrote the New
Testament? I do not know. Who does know? Nobody. We have found many
manuscripts containing portions of the New Testament. Some of these
manuscripts leave out five or six books—many of them. Others more;
others less. No two of these manuscripts agree. Nobody knows who wrote
these manuscripts. They are all written in Greek. The disciples of
Christ, so far as we know, knew only Hebrew. Nobody ever saw so far as
we know, one of the original Hebrew manuscripts.

Nobody ever saw anybody who had seen anybody who had heard of anybody
that had ever seen anybody that had ever seen one of the original Hebrew
manuscripts. No doubt the clergy of your city have told you these facts
thousands of times, and they will be obliged to me for having repeated
them once more. These manuscripts are written in what are called capital
Greek letters. They are called Uncial manuscripts, and the New Testament
was not divided into chapters and verses, even, until the year of grace
1551. In the original the manuscripts and gospels are signed by nobody.
The epistles are addressed to nobody; and they are signed by the same
person. All the addresses, all the pretended ear-marks showing to
whom they were written, and by whom they were written, are simply
interpolations, and everybody who has studied the subject knows it.

It is further admitted that even these manuscripts have not been
properly translated, and they have a syndicate now making a new
translation; and I suppose that I can not tell whether I really believe
the New Testament or not until I see that new translation.

You must remember, also, one other thing. Christ never wrote a solitary
word of the New Testament—not one word. There is an account that he
once stooped and wrote something in the sand, but that has not been
preserved. He never told anybody to write a word. He never said:
"Matthew, remember this. Mark, do not forget to put that down. Luke, be
sure that in your gospel you have this. John, do not forget it." Not one
word. And it has always seemed to me that a being coming from another
world, with a message of infinite importance to mankind, should at least
have verified that message by his own signature. Is it not wonderful
that not one word was written by Christ? Is it not strange that he
gave no orders to have his words preserved—words upon which hung the
salvation of a world?

Why was nothing written? I will tell you. In my judgment they expected
the end of the world in a few days. That generation was not to pass away
until the heavens should be rolled up as a scroll, and until the earth
should melt with fervent heat. That was their belief. They believed that
the world was to be destroyed, and that there was to be another coming,
and that the saints were then to govern the earth. And they even went so
far among the apostles, as we frequently do now before election, as to
divide out the offices in advance. This Testament, as it now is, was not
written for hundreds of years after the apostles were dust. Many of the
pretended facts lived in the open mouth of credulity. They were in the
wastebaskets of forgetfulness. They depended upon the inaccuracy of
legend, and for centuries these doctrines and stories were blown about
by the inconstant winds. And when reduced to writing, some gentleman
would write by the side of the passage his idea of it, and the next
copyist would put that in as a part of the text. And, when it was mostly
written, and the church got into trouble, and wanted a passage to help
it out, one was interpolated to order. So that now it is among
the easiest things in the world to pick out at least one hundred
interpolations in the Testament. And I will pick some of them out before
I get through.

And let me say here, once for all, that for the man Christ I have
infinite respect. Let me say, once for all, that the place where man has
died for man is holy ground. And let me say, once for all, that to that
great and serene man I gladly pay, I gladly pay, the tribute of my
admiration and my tears. He was a reformer in his day. He was an infidel
in his time. He was regarded as a blasphemer, and his life was destroyed
by hypocrites, who have, in all ages, done what they could to trample
freedom and manhood out of the human mind. Had I lived at that time I
would have been his friend, and should he come again he will not find a
better friend than I will be.

That is for the man. For the theological creation I have a different
feeling. If he was, in fact, God, he knew there was no such thing as
death. He knew that what we called death was but the eternal opening of
the golden gates of everlasting joy; and it took no heroism to face a
death that was eternal life.

But when a man, when a poor boy sixteen years of age, goes upon the
field of battle to keep his flag in heaven, not knowing but that death
ends all; not knowing but that when the shadows creep over him, the
darkness will be eternal, there is heroism. For the man who, in the
darkness, said: "My God, why hast thou forsaken me?"—for that man I
have nothing but respect, admiration, and love. Back of the theological
shreds, rags, and patches, hiding the real Christ, I see a genuine man.

A while ago I made up my mind to find out what was necessary for me to
do in order to be saved. If I have got a soul, I want it saved. I do not
wish to lose anything that is of value.

For thousands of years the world has been asking that question:

"What must we do to be saved?"

Saved from poverty? No. Saved from crime? No. Tyranny? No. But "What
must we do to be saved from the eternal wrath of the God who made us
all?"

If God made us, he will not destroy us. Infinite wisdom never made a
poor investment. Upon all the works of an infinite God, a dividend must
finally be declared. Why should God make failures? Why should he waste
material? Why should he not correct his mistakes, instead of damning
them? The pulpit has cast a shadow over even the cradle. The doctrine
of endless punishment has covered the cheeks of this world with tears. I
despise it, and I defy it.

I made up my mind, I say, to see what I had to do in order to save my
soul according to the Testament, and thereupon I read it. I read the
gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and found that the church had
been deceiving me. I found that the clergy did not understand their own
book; that they had been building upon passages that had been
interpolated; upon passages that were entirely untrue, and I will tell
you why I think so.

## II. The Gospel of Matthew

ACCORDING to the church, the first gospel was written by Matthew. As a
matter of fact he never wrote a word of it—never saw it, never heard of
it and probably never will. But for the purposes of this lecture I admit
that he wrote years; that he was his constant companion; that he shared
his sorrows and his triumphs; that he heard his words by the lonely
lakes, the barren hills, in synagogue and street, and that he knew his
heart and became acquainted with his thoughts and aims.

Now let us see what Matthew says we must do in order to be saved. And
I take it that, if this is true, Matthew is as good authority as any
minister in the world.

I will admit that he was with Christ for three years.

The first thing I find upon the subject of salvation is in the fifth
chapter of Matthew, and is embraced in what is commonly known as the
Sermon on the Mount. It is as follows:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
Good!

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." Good! Whether
they belonged to any church or not; whether they believed the Bible or
not?

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." Good!

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the
peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are
they which are persecuted for righteousness sake, for theirs is the
kingdom of heaven." Good!

In the same sermon he says: "Think not that I am come to destroy the law
or the prophets. I am not come to destroy, but to fulfill." And then he
makes use of this remarkable language, almost as applicable to-day as
it was then: "For I say unto you that except your righteousness shall
exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees ye shall in no
wise enter into the kingdom of heaven." Good!

In the sixth chapter I find the following, and it comes directly after
the prayer known as the Lord's prayer:

"For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also
forgive you; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will
your father forgive your trespasses."

I accept the condition. There is an offer; I accept it. If you will
forgive men that trespass against you, God will forgive your trespasses
against him. I accept the terms, and I never will ask any God to treat
me better than I treat my fellow-men. There is a square promise. There
is a contract. If you will forgive others God will forgive you. And it
does not say you must believe in the Old Testament, or be baptized, or
join the church, or keep Sunday; that you must count beads, or pray, or
become a nun, or a priest; that you must preach sermons or hear them,
build churches or fill them. Not one word is said about eating or
fasting, denying or believing. It simply says, if you forgive others God
will forgive you; and it must of necessity be true. No god could afford
to damn a forgiving man. Suppose God should damn to everlasting fire a
man so great and good, that he, looking from the abyss of hell, would
forgive God,—how would a god feel then?

Now let me make myself plain upon one subject, perfectly plain. For
instance, I hate Presbyterianism, but I know hundreds of splendid
Presbyterians. Understand me. I hate Methodism, and yet I know hundreds
of splendid Methodists. I hate Catholicism, and like Catholics. I hate
insanity but not the insane.

I do not war against men. I do not war against persons. I war against
certain doctrines that I believe to be wrong. But I give to every other
human being every right that I claim for myself.

The next thing that I find is in the seventh chapter and the second
verse: "For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and with
what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." Good! That
suits me!

And in the twelfth chapter of Matthew: "For whosoever shall do the will
of my Father that is in heaven, the same is my brother and sister and
mother. For the son of man shall come in the glory of his father with
his angels, and then he shall reward every man according.... To the
church he belongs to? No. To the manner in which he was baptized? No.
According to his creed? No. Then he shall reward every man according to
his works." Good! I subscribe to that doctrine.

And in the eighteenth chapter: "And Jesus called a little child to him
and stood him in the midst; and said, 'Verily I say unto you, except ye
be converted and become as little children, ye shall not enter into
the kingdom of heaven.'" I do not wonder that in his day, surrounded by
scribes and Pharisees, he turned lovingly to little children.

And yet, see what children the little children of God have been. What
an interesting dimpled darling John Calvin was. Think of that
prattling babe, Jonathan Edwards! Think of the infants that founded the
Inquisition, that invented instruments of torture to tear human flesh.
They were the ones who had become as little children. They were the
children of faith.

So I find in the nineteenth chapter: "And behold, one came and said unto
him: 'Good master, what good thing shall I do that I may have eternal
life?' And he said unto him, 'Why callest thou me good? There is none
good but one, that is God: but if thou wilt enter into life, keep the
commandments.' He saith unto him, 'which?'"

Now, there is a fair issue. Here is a child of God asking God what is
necessary for him to do in order to inherit eternal life. And God said
to him: Keep the commandments. And the child said to the Almighty:
"Which?" Now, if there ever has been an opportunity given to the
Almighty to furnish a man of an inquiring mind with the necessary
information upon that subject, here was the opportunity. "He said unto
him, which? And Jesus said: Thou shalt do no murder; thou shalt not
commit adultery; thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false
witness; honor thy father and mother; and thou shalt love thy neighbor
as thyself."

He did not say to him: "You must believe in me—that I am the only
begotten son of the living God." He did not say: "You must be born
again." He did not say: "You must believe the Bible." He did not say:
"You must remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy." He simply said:
"Thou shalt do no murder. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt
not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Honor thy father and thy
mother; and thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." And thereupon the
young man, who I think was mistaken, said unto him: "All these things
have I kept from my youth up."

What right has the church to add conditions of salvation? Why should we
suppose that Christ failed to tell the young man all that was necessary
for him to do? Is it possible that he left out some important thing
simply to mislead? Will some minister tell us why he thinks that Christ
kept back the "scheme"?

Now comes an interpolation.

In the old times when the church got a little scarce of money, they
always put in a passage praising poverty. So they had this young man
ask: "What lack I yet? And Jesus said unto him: If thou wilt be perfect,
go and sell that thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have
treasure in heaven."

The church has always been willing to swap off treasures in heaven for
cash down. And when the next verse was written the church must have been
nearly bankrupt. "And again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel
to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into
the kingdom of God." Did you ever know a wealthy disciple to unload on
account of that verse?

And then comes another verse, which I believe is an interpolation: "And
everyone that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father,
or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name's sake, shall
receive an hundred fold, and shall inherit everlasting life."

Christ never said it. Never. "Whosoever shall forsake father and
mother."

Why, he said to this man that asked him, "What shall I do to inherit
eternal life?" among other things, he said: "Honor thy father and thy
mother." And we turn over the page and he says again: "If you will
desert your father and mother you shall have everlasting life." It will
not do. If you will desert your wife and your little children, or your
lands—the idea of putting a house and lot on equality with wife and
children! Think of that! I do not accept the terms. I will never desert
the one I love for the promise of any god.

It is far more important to love your wife than to love God, and I will
tell you why. You cannot help him, but you can help her. You can fill
her life with the perfume of perpetual joy. It is far more important
that you love your children than that you love Jesus Christ. And why?
If he is God you cannot help him, but you can plant a little flower of
happiness in every footstep of the child, from the cradle until you die
in that child's arms. Let me tell you to-day it is far more important
to build a home than to erect a church. The holiest temple beneath the
stars is a home that love has built. And the holiest altar in all the
wide world is the fireside around which gather father and mother and the
sweet babes.

There was a time when people believed the infamy commanded in this
frightful passage. There was a time when they did desert fathers and
mothers and wives and children. St. Augustine says to the devotee: Fly
to the desert, and though your wife put her arms around your neck, tear
her hands away; she is a temptation of the devil. Though your father and
mother throw their bodies athwart your threshold, step over them; and
though your children pursue, and with weeping' eyes beseech you to
return, listen not. It is the temptation of the evil one. Fly to the
desert and save your soul. Think of such a soul being worth saving.
While I live I propose to stand by the ones I love.

There is another condition of salvation. I find it in the twenty-fifth
chapter: "Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come,
ye blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the
foundation of the world. For I was an hungered and ye gave me meat; I
was thirsty and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger and ye took me in;
naked and ye clothed me; I was sick and ye visited me; I was in prison
and ye came unto me." Good!

I tell you to-night that God will not punish with eternal thirst the man
who has put the cup of cold water to the lips of his neighbor. God will
not leave in the eternal nakedness of pain the man who has clothed his
fellow-men.

For instance, here is a shipwreck, and here is some brave sailor who
stands aside and allows a woman whom he never saw before to take his
place in the boat, and he stands there, grand and serene as the wide
sea, and he goes down. Do you tell me that there is any God who will
push the lifeboat from the shore of eternal life, when that man wishes
to step in? Do you tell me that God can be unpitying to the pitiful,
that he can be unforgiving to the forgiving? I deny it; and from the
aspersions of the pulpit I seek to rescue the reputation of the Deity.

Now, I have read you substantially everything in Matthew on the subject
of salvation. That is all there is. Not one word about believing
anything. It is the gospel of deed, the gospel of charity, the gospel
of self-denial; and if only that gospel had been preached, persecution
never would have shed one drop of blood. Not one.

According to the testimony Matthew was well acquainted with Christ.
According to the testimony, he had been with him, and his companion for
years, and if it was necessary to believe anything in order to get to
heaven, Matthew should have told us. But he forgot it, or he did not
believe it, or he never heard of it. You can take your choice.

In Matthew, we find that heaven is promised, first, to the poor in
spirit. Second, to the merciful. Third, to the pure in heart. Fourth, to
the peacemakers. Fifth, to those who are persecuted for righteousness'
sake. Sixth, to those who keep and teach the commandments. Seventh, to
those who forgive men that trespass against them. Eighth, that we will
be judged as we judge others. Ninth, that they who receive prophets and
righteous men shall receive a prophet's reward. Tenth, to those who do
the will of God. Eleventh, that every man shall be rewarded according to
his works. Twelfth, to those who become as little children. Thirteenth,
to those who forgive the trespasses of others. Fourteenth, to the
perfect: they who sell all that they have and give to the poor.
Fifteenth, to them who forsake houses, and brethren, and sisters, and
father, and mother, and wife, and children, and lands for the sake of
Christ's name. Sixteenth, to those who feed the hungry, give drink to
the thirsty, shelter to the stranger, clothes to the naked, comfort to
the sick, and who visit the prisoner.

Nothing else is said with regard to salvation in the gospel according to
St. Matthew. Not one word about believing the Old Testament to have been
inspired; not one word about being baptized or joining a church; not
one word about believing in any miracle; not even a hint that it was
necessary to believe that Christ was the son of God, or that he did any
wonderful or miraculous things, or that he was born of a virgin, or that
his coming had been foretold by the Jewish prophets. Not one word
about believing in the Trinity, or in foreordination or predestination.
Matthew had not understood from Christ that any such things were
necessary to ensure the salvation of the soul.

According to the testimony, Matthew had been in the company of Christ,
some say three years and some say one, but at least he had been with him
long enough to find out some of his ideas upon this great subject. And
yet Matthew never got the impression that it was necessary to believe
something in order to get to heaven. He supposed that if a man forgave
others God would forgive him; he believed that God would show mercy
to the merciful; that he would not allow those who fed the hungry to
starve; that he would not put in the flames of hell those who had given
cold water to the thirsty; that he would not cast into the eternal
dungeon of his wrath those who had visited the imprisoned; and that he
would not damn men who forgave others.

Matthew had it in his mind that God would treat us very much as we
treated other people; and that in the next world he would treat with
kindness those who had been loving and gentle in their lives. It may be
the apostle was mistaken; but evidently that was his opinion.

## III. The Gospel of Mark

LET us now see what Mark thought it necessary for a man to do to save his
soul. In the fourth chapter, after Jesus had given to the multitude by
the sea the parable of the sower, his disciples, when they were again
alone, asked him the meaning of the parable. Jesus replied:

"Unto you it is given to know the mystery of the kingdom of God: but
unto them that are without, all these things are done in parables:

"That seeing, they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may hear,
and not understand; lest at any time they should be converted, and their
sins should be forgiven them."

It is a little hard to understand why he should have preached to people
that he did not intend should know his meaning. Neither is it quite
clear why he objected to their being converted. This, I suppose, is one
of the mysteries that we should simply believe without endeavoring to
comprehend.

With the above exception, and one other that I will mention hereafter,
Mark substantially agrees with Matthew, and says that God will be
merciful to the merciful, that he will be kind to the kind, that he
will pity the pitying, and love the loving. Mark upholds the religion
of Matthew until we come to the fifteenth and sixteenth verses of
the sixteenth chapter, and then I strike an interpolation put in by
hypocrisy, put in by priests who longed to grasp with bloody hands
the sceptre of universal power. Let me read it to you. It is the most
infamous passage in the Bible. Christ never said it. No sensible man
ever said it.

"And He said unto them" (that is, unto his disciples), "go ye into all
the world and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth and
is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned."

That passage was written so that fear would give alms to hypocrisy. Now,
I propose to prove to you that this is an interpolation. In the first
place, not one word is said about belief, in Matthew. In the next place,
not one word about belief, in Mark, until I come to that verse, and where is that said to have been spoken? According to
Mark, it is a part of the last conversation of Jesus Christ,—just
before, according to the account, he ascended bodily before their eyes.
If there ever was any important thing happened in this world that was
it. If there is any conversation that people would be apt to recollect,
it would be the last conversation with a god before he rose visibly
through the air and seated himself upon the throne of the infinite. We
have in this Testament five accounts of the last conversation happening
between Jesus Christ and his apostles. Matthew gives it, and yet Matthew
does not state that in that conversation Christ said: "Whoso believeth
and is baptized shall be saved, and whoso believeth not shall be
damned." And if he did say those words they were the most important that
ever fell from lips. Matthew did not hear it, or did not believe it, or
forgot it.

Then I turn to Luke, and he gives an account of this same last
conversation, and not one word does he say upon that subject. Luke does
not pretend that Christ said that whoso believeth not shall be damned.
Luke certainly did not hear it. May be he forgot it. Perhaps he did not
think that it was worth recording. Now, it is the most important thing,
if Christ said it, that he ever said.

Then I turn to John, and he gives an account of the last conversation,
but not one solitary word on the subject of belief or unbelief. Not one
solitary word on the subject of damnation. Not one. John might not have
been listening.

Then I turn to the first chapter of the Acts, and there I find an
account of the last conversation; and in that conversation there is not
one word upon this subject. This is a demonstration that the passage in
Mark is an interpolation. What other reason have I got? There is not one
particle of sense in it. Why? No man can control his belief. You hear
evidence for and against, and the integrity of the soul stands at the
scales and tells which side rises and which side falls. You can not
believe as you wish. You must believe as you must. And he might as well
have said: "Go into the world and preach the gospel, and whosoever has
red hair shall be saved, and whosoever hath not shall be damned."

I have another reason. I am much obliged to the gentleman who
interpolated these passages. I am much obliged to him that he put in
some more—two more. Now hear:

"And these signs shall follow them that believe." Good!

"In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new
tongues; they shall take up serpents, and if they drink any deadly thing
it shall not hurt them. They shall lay hands on the sick and they shall
recover."

Bring on your believer! Let him cast out a devil. I do not ask for a
large one. Just a little one for a cent. Let him take up serpents. "And
if they drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them." Let me mix up a
dose for the believer, and if it does not hurt him I will join a church.
"Oh! but," they say, "those things only lasted through the Apostolic
age." Let us see. "Go into all the world and preach the gospel, and
whosoever believes and is baptized shall be saved, and these signs shall
follow them that believe."

How long? I think at least until they had gone into all the world.
Certainly those signs should follow until all the world had been
visited. And yet if that declaration was in the mouth of Christ, he then
knew that one-half of the world was unknown, and that he would be dead
fourteen hundred and fifty-nine years before his disciples would know
that there was another continent. And yet he said, "Go into all the
world and preach the gospel," and he knew then that it would be fourteen
hundred and fifty-nine years before anybody could go. Well, if it was
worth while to have signs follow believers in the Old World, surely it
was worth while to have signs follow believers in the New. And the very
reason that signs should follow would be to convince the unbeliever,
and there are as many unbelievers now as ever, and the signs are as
necessary to-day as they ever were. I would like a few myself.

This frightful declaration, "He that believeth and is baptized shall be
saved, but he that believeth not shall be damned," has filled the world
with agony and crime. Every letter of this passage has been sword and
fagot; every word has been dungeon and chain. That passage made the
sword of persecution drip with innocent blood through centuries of agony
and crime. That passage made the horizon of a thousand years lurid with
the fagot's flames. That passage contradicts the Sermon on the Mount;
travesties the Lord's prayer; turns the splendid religion of deed
and duty into the superstition of creed and cruelty. I deny it. It is
infamous! Christ never said it!

## IV. The Gospel of Luke.

IT is sufficient to say that Luke agrees substantially with Matthew and
Mark.

"Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful." Good!

"Judge not and ye shall not be judged: condemn not and ye shall not be
condemned: forgive and ye shall be forgiven." Good!

"Give and it shall be given unto you: good measure, pressed down, and
shaken together, and running over." Good! I like it.

"For with the same measure that ye mete withal, it shall be measured to
you again."

He agrees substantially with Mark; he agrees substantially with Matthew;
and I come at last to the nineteenth chapter.

"And Zaccheus stood and said unto the Lord, 'Behold, Lord, the half of
my goods I give to the poor, and if I have taken anything from any man
by false accusation, I restore him four fold.' And Jesus said unto him,
'this day is salvation come to this house.'"

That is good doctrine. He did not ask Zaccheus what he believed. He did
not ask him, "Do you believe in the Bible? Do you believe in the five
points? Have you ever been baptized—sprinkled? Or immersed?" "Half of
my goods I give to the poor, and if I have taken anything from any man
by false accusation, I restore him four fold." "And Christ said, this
day is salvation come to this house." Good!

I read also in Luke that Christ when upon the cross forgave his
murderers, and that is considered the shining gem in the crown of his
mercy. He forgave his murderers. He forgave the men who drove the nails
in his hands, in his feet, that plunged a spear in his side; the soldier
that in the hour of death offered him in mockery the bitterness to
drink. He forgave them all freely, and yet, although he would forgive
them, he will in the nineteenth century, as we are told by the orthodox
church, damn to eternal fire a noble man for the expression of his
honest thoughts. That will not do. I find, too, in Luke, an account
of two thieves that were crucified at the same time. The other gospels
speak of them. One says they both railed upon him. Another says nothing
about it. In Luke we are told that one railed upon him, but one of the
thieves looked and pitied Christ, and Christ said to that thief:

"To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise." Why did he say that? Because
the thief pitied him. God can not afford to trample beneath the feet
of his infinite wrath the smallest blossom of pity that ever shed its
perfume in the human heart!

Who was this thief? To what church did he belong? I do not know. The
fact that he was a thief throws no light on that question. Who was he?
What did he believe? I do not know. Did he believe in the Old Testament?
In the miracles? I do not know. Did he believe that Christ was God? I
do not know. Why then was the promise made to him that he should meet
Christ in Paradise? Simply because he pitied suffering innocence upon
the cross.

God can not afford to damn any man who is capable of pitying anybody.

## V. The Gospel of John

AND now we come to John, and that is where the trouble commences.

The other gospels teach that God will be merciful to the merciful,
forgiving to the forgiving, kind to the kind, loving to the loving, just
to the just, merciful to the good.

Now we come to John, and here is another doctrine. And allow me to say
that John was not written until long after the others. John was mostly
written by the church.

"Jesus answered and said unto him: Verily, verily, I say unto thee,
Except a man be born again he can not see the kingdom of God."

Why did he not tell Matthew that? Why did he not tell Luke that? Why did
he not tell Mark that? They never heard of it, or forgot it, or they did
not believe it.

"Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he can not enter into
the kingdom of God." Why?

"That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of
the Spirit is spirit. Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born
again." "That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is
born of the Spirit is spirit," and he might have added, that which is
born of water is water.

"Marvel not that I said unto thee, 'ye must be born again.'" And then
the reason is given, and I admit I did not understand it myself until I
read the reason, and when you hear the reason, you will understand it
as well as I do; and here it is: "The wind bloweth where it listeth, and
thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and
whither it goeth." So, I find in the book of John the idea of the Real
Presence.

"And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the
Son of man be lifted up; That whosoever believeth in him should not
perish, but have eternal life."

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life.

"For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that
the world through him might be saved.

"He that believeth on him is not condemned; but he that believeth not is
condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only
begotten Son of God."

So I find in the book of John, that in order to be saved we must not
only believe in Jesus Christ, but we must eat the flesh and we must
drink the blood of Jesus Christ. If that gospel is true, the Catholic
Church is right. But it is not true. I can not believe it, and yet for
all that, it may be true. But I do not believe it. Neither do I
believe there is any god in the universe who will damn a man simply for
expressing his belief.

"Why," they say to me, "suppose all this should turn out to be true, and
you should come to the day of judgment and find all these things to be
true. What would you do then?" I would walk up like a man, and say, "I
was mistaken."

"And suppose God was about to pass judgment upon you, what would you
say?" I would say to him, "Do unto others as you would that others
should do unto you." Why not?

I am told that I must render good for evil. I am told that if smitten
on one cheek I must turn the other. I am told that I must overcome evil
with good. I am told that I must love my enemies; and will it do for
this God who tells me to love my enemies to damn his? No, it will not
do. It will not do.

In the book of John all these doctrines of regeneration—that it is
necessary to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ; that salvation depends
upon belief—in this book of John all these doctrines find their
warrant; nowhere else.

Read Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and then read John, and you will agree
with me that the three first gospels teach that if we are kind and
forgiving to our fellows, God will be kind and forgiving to us. In John
we are told that another man can be good for us, or bad for us, and that
the only way to get to heaven is to believe something that we know is
not so.

All these passages about believing in Christ, drinking his blood
and eating his flesh, are afterthoughts. They were written by the
theologians, and in a few years they will be considered unworthy of the
lips of Christ.

## VI. The Catholics

NOW, upon these gospels that I have read the churches rest; and out of
these things, mistakes and interpolations, they have made their
creeds. And the first church to make a creed, so far as I know, was the
Catholic. It was the first church that had any power. That is the church
that has preserved all these miracles for us. That is the church that
preserved the manuscripts for us. That is the church whose word we have
to take. That church is the first witness that Protestantism brought to
the bar of history to prove miracles that took place eighteen hundred
years ago; and while the witness is there Protestantism takes pains to
say: "You cannot believe one word that witness says, _now_."

That church is the only one that keeps up a constant communication with
heaven through the instrumentality of a large number of decayed saints.
That church has an agent of God on earth, has a person who stands in
the place of deity; and that church is infallible. That church has
persecuted to the exact extent of her power—and always will. In Spain
that church stands erect, and is arrogant. In the United States that
church crawls; but the object in both countries is the same—and that is
the destruction of intellectual liberty. That church teaches us that we
can make God happy by being miserable ourselves; that a nun is holier in
the sight of God than a loving mother with her child in her thrilled and
thrilling arms; that a priest is better than a father; that celibacy is
better than that passion of love that has made everything of beauty in
this world. That church tells the girl of sixteen or eighteen years of
age, with eyes like dew and light; that girl with the red of health in
the white of her beautiful cheeks—tells that girl, "Put on the veil,
woven of death and night, kneel upon stones, and you will please God."

I tell every girl and woman that there is no profit in it. Let the Catholic Church alone. Marry the man you love. Have the children you desire. Make them happy, and let them grow up in the sunlight of your own love, not in the gloom of a cloister.

Thousands of volumes could not contain the crimes of the Catholic
Church. They could not contain even the names of her victims. With sword
and fire, with rack and chain, with dungeon and whip she endeavored to
convert the world. In weakness a beggar—in power a highwayman,—alms
dish or dagger—tramp or tyrant.

## VII. The Episcopalians

THE next church I wish to speak of is the Episcopalian. That was
founded by Henry VIII., now in heaven. He cast off Queen Catherine and
Catholicism together, and he accepted Episcopalianism and Annie Boleyn
at the same time. That church, if it had a few more ceremonies, would be
Catholic. If it had a few less, nothing. We have an Episcopalian Church
in this country, and it has all the imperfections of a poor relation. It
is always boasting of its rich relative.

In this country the Episcopalians have done some good, and I want
to thank that church. Having on an average less religion than the
others—on an average you have done more good to mankind. You preserved
some of the humanities. You did not hate music; you did not absolutely
despise painting, and you did not altogether abhor architecture, and you
finally admitted that it was no worse to keep time with your feet than
with your hands. And some went so far as to say that people could play
cards, and that God would overlook it, or would look the other way. For
all these things accept my thanks.

The Episcopal creed is substantially like the Catholic, containing a few
additional absurdities. This church is utterly unsuited to a free people.

## VIII. The Methodists

ABOUT a hundred and fifty years ago, two men, John Wesley and George
Whitfield, said, If everybody is going to hell, somebody ought to
mention it. The Episcopal clergy said: Keep still; do not tear your
gown. Wesley and Whitfield said: This frightful truth ought to be
proclaimed from the housetop of every opportunity, from the highway
of every occasion. They were good, honest men. They believed their
doctrine.

The church that they founded is still active. And probably no church in
the world has done so much preaching for as little money as the
Methodists.

There is one thing about the Methodist Church in the North that I like.
But I find that it is not Methodism that does that. I find that the
Methodist Church in the South is as much opposed to liberty as the
Methodist Church North is in favor of liberty. So it is not Methodism
that is in favor of liberty or slavery. They differ a little in their
creed from the rest. They do not believe that God does everything. They
believe that he does his part, and that you must do the rest, and that
getting to heaven is a partnership business.

## IX. The Presbyterians

THE next church is the Presbyterian, and in my judgment the worst of
all, as far as creed is concerned. This church was founded by John
Calvin, a murderer!

John Calvin, having power in Geneva, inaugurated human torture. Voltaire
abolished torture in France. The man who abolished torture, if the
Christian religion be true, God is now torturing in hell, and the man
who inaugurated torture, is now a glorified angel in heaven. It will not
do.

John Knox started this doctrine in Scotland, and there is this
peculiarity about Presbyterianism—it grows best where the soil is
poorest.

That church teaches that infinite innocence was sacrificed for me! I do
not want it! I do not wish to go to heaven unless I can settle by the
books, and go there because I ought to go there. I have said, and I say
again, I do not wish to be a charity angel. I have no ambition to become
a winged pauper of the skies.

Heaven is where those are we love, and those who love us. And I wish to
go to no world unless I can be accompanied by those who love me here.

## X. The Evangelical Alliance.

I HAVE not time to speak of the Baptists,—that Jeremy Taylor said
were as much to be rooted out as anything that is the greatest pest and
nuisance on the earth. He hated the Baptists because they represented,
in some little degree, the liberty of thought.

The Evangelical Alliance, made up of all orthodox denominations of the
world, met only a few years ago, and here is their creed: They believe
in the divine inspiration, authority and sufficiency of the holy
Scriptures; the right and duty of private judgment in the interpretation
of the holy Scriptures, but if you interpret wrong you are damned.
They believe in the unity of the godhead and the Trinity of the persons
therein. They believe in the utter depravity of human nature. There can
be no more infamous doctrine than that. They look upon a little child as
a lump of depravity. I look upon it as a bud of humanity, that will, in
the air and light of love and joy, blossom into rich and glorious life.

They believe in the eternal blessedness of the righteous, and in the
eternal punishment of the wicked.

Tidings of great joy! They are so good that they will not associate with
Universalists. They will not associate with Unitarians; they will not
associate with scientists; they will only associate with those who
believe that God so loved the world that he made up his mind to damn the
most of us.

The Evangelical Alliance reiterates the absurdities of the Dark
Ages—repeats the five points of Calvin—replenishes the fires of
hell—certifies to the mistakes and miracles of the Bible—maligns the
human race, and kneels to a god who accepted the agony of the innocent
as an atonement for the guilty.

## XI. What Do You Propose?

THEN they say to me: "What do you propose? You have torn this down, what
do you propose to give us in place of it?"

I have not torn the good down. I have only endeavored to trample out the
ignorant, cruel fires of hell. I do not tear away the passage: "God will
be merciful to the merciful." I do not destroy the promise; "If you will
forgive others, God will forgive you." I would not for anything blot out
the faintest star that shines in the horizon of human despair, nor in
the sky of human hope; but I will do what I can to get that infinite
shadow out of the heart of man.

"What do you propose in place of this?"

Well, in the first place, I propose good fellowship—good friends all
around. No matter what we believe, shake hands and let it go. That is
your opinion; this is mine: let us be friends. Science makes friends;
religion, superstition, makes enemies. They say: Belief is important.
I say: No, actions are important. Judge by deed, not by creed.

I believe in the gospel of Cheerfulness, the gospel of Good Nature; the
gospel of Good Health. Let us pay some attention to our bodies. Take
care of our bodies, and our souls will take care of themselves.

I believe in the gospel of Good Living. You can not make any god happy
by fasting. Let us have good food, and let us have it well cooked.

I believe in the gospel of good clothes; I believe in the gospel of
good houses; in the gospel of water and soap. I believe in the gospel
of intelligence; in the gospel of education. The school-house is
my cathedral. The universe is my Bible. I believe in that gospel of
justice, that we must reap what we sow.

I do not believe in forgiveness as it is preached by the church. We do
not need the forgiveness of God, but of each other and of ourselves. If
I rob Mr. Smith and God forgives me, how does that help Smith? If I, by
slander, cover some poor girl with the leprosy of some imputed crime,
and she withers away like a blighted flower and afterward I get the
forgiveness of God, how does that help her? If there is another world,
we have got to settle with the people we have wronged in this. No
bankrupt court there. Every cent must be paid.

And I believe, too, in the gospel of Liberty, in giving to others what
we claim for ourselves. I believe there is room everywhere for thought,
and the more liberty you give away, the more you will have. In liberty
extravagance is economy. Let us be just. Let us be generous to each
other.

I believe in the gospel of Intelligence. That is the only lever capable
of raising mankind. Intelligence must be the savior of this world.
Humanity is the grand religion, and no God can put a man in hell in
another world, who has made a little heaven in this. God cannot make a
man miserable if that man has made somebody else happy. God cannot hate
anybody who is capable of loving anybody. Humanity—that word embraces
all there is.

So I believe in this great gospel of Humanity.

"Oh," but they say to me, "you take away immortality." I do not. If we
are immortal it is a fact in nature, and we are not indebted to priests
for it, nor to bibles for it, and it cannot be destroyed by unbelief.

As long as we love we will hope to live, and when the one dies that we
love we will say: "Oh, that we could meet again," and whether we do or
not it will not be the work of theology. It will be a fact in nature. I
would not for my life destroy one star of human hope, but I want it
so that when a poor woman rocks the cradle and sings a lullaby to the
dimpled darling, she will not be compelled to believe that ninety-nine
chances in a hundred she is raising kindling wood for hell.

One world at a time is my doctrine.

It is said in this Testament, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof;" and I say: Sufficient unto each world is the evil thereof.

And suppose after all that death does end all. Next to eternal joy, next
to being forever with those we love and those who have loved us, next to
that, is to be wrapt in the dreamless drapery of eternal peace. Next to
eternal life is eternal sleep. Upon the shadowy shore of death the
sea of trouble casts no wave. Eyes that have been curtained by the
everlasting dark, will never know again the burning touch of tears. Lips
touched by eternal silence will never speak again the broken words of
grief. Hearts of dust do not break. The dead do not weep. Within the
tomb no veiled and weeping sorrow sits, and in the ray-less gloom is
crouched no shuddering fear.

I had rather think of those I have loved, and lost, as having returned
to earth, as having become a part of the elemental wealth of the
world—I would rather think of them as unconscious dust, I would rather
dream of them as gurgling in the streams, floating in the clouds,
bursting in the foam of light upon the shores of worlds, I would rather
think of them as the lost visions of a forgotten night, than to have
even the faintest fear that their naked souls have been clutched by an
orthodox god. I will leave my dead where nature leaves them. Whatever
flower of hope springs up in my heart I will cherish, I will give it
breath of sighs and rain of tears. But I can not believe that there
is any being in this universe who has created a human soul for eternal
pain. I would rather that every god would destroy himself; I
would rather that we all should go to eternal chaos, to black and
starless night, than that just one soul should suffer eternal agony.

I have made up my mind that if there is a God, he will be merciful to
the merciful.

Upon that rock I stand.—

That he will not torture the forgiving.—

Upon that rock I stand.—

That every man should be true to himself, and that there is no world, no
star, in which honesty is a crime.

Upon that rock I stand.

The honest man, the good woman, the happy child, have nothing to fear,
either in this world or the world to come.

Upon that rock I stand.
---
# Myth and Miracle
_Dresden Edition, Volume 2, 1885_
HAPPINESS is the true end and aim of life. It is the task of
intelligence to ascertain the conditions of happiness, and when found
the truly wise will live in accordance with them. By happiness is meant
not simply the joy of eating and drinking—the gratification of the
appetite—but good, wellbeing, in the highest and noblest forms. The joy
that springs from obligation discharged, from duty done, from generous
acts, from being true to the ideal, from a perception of the beautiful
in nature, art and conduct. The happiness that is born of and gives
birth to poetry and music, that follows the gratification of the highest
wants.

Happiness is the result of all that is really right and sane.

But there are many people who regard the desire to be happy as a very
low and degrading ambition. These people call themselves spiritual. They
pretend to care nothing for the pleasures of "sense." They hold this
world, this life, in contempt. They do not want happiness in this
world—but in another. Here, happiness degrades—there, it purifies and
ennobles.

These spiritual people have been known as prophets, apostles, augurs,
hermits, monks, priests, popes, bishops and parsons. They are devout and
useless. They do not cultivate the soil. They produce nothing. They
live on the labor of others. They are pious and parasitic. They pray
for others, if the others will work for them. They claim to have been
selected by the Infinite to instruct and govern mankind. They are "meek"
and arrogant, "long-suffering" and revengeful.

They ever have been, now are, and always will be the enemies of liberty,
of investigation and science. They are believers in the supernatural,
the miraculous and the absurd. They have filled the world with hatred,
bigotry and fear. In defence of their creeds they have committed every
crime and practiced every cruelty.

They denounce as worldly and sensual those who are gross enough to love
wives and children, to build homes, to fell the forests, to navigate the
seas, to cultivate the earth, to chisel statues, to paint pictures and
fill the world with love and art.

They have denounced and maligned the thinkers, the poets, the
dramatists, the composers, the actors, the orators, the workers—those
who have conquered the world for man.

According to them this world is only the vestibule of the next, a kind
of school, an ordeal, a place of probation. They have always insisted
that this life should be spent in preparing for the next; that those
who supported and obeyed the "spiritual guides"—the shepherds, would
be rewarded with an eternity of joy, and that all others would suffer
eternal pain.

These spiritual people have always hated labor. They have added nothing
to the wealth of the world. They have always lived on alms—on the labor
of others. They have always been the enemies of innocent pleasure, and
of human love.

These spiritual people have produced a literature. The books they have
written are called sacred. Our sacred books are called the Bible.
The Hindoos have the Vedas and many others, the Persians the Zend
Avesta—the Egyptians had the Book of the Dead—the Aztecs the Popol
Vuh, and the Mohammedans have the Koran.

These books, for the most part, treat of the unknowable. They describe
gods and winged phantoms of the air. They give accounts of the origin
of the universe, the creation of man and the worlds beyond this. They
contain nothing of value. Millions and millions of people have wasted
their lives studying these absurd and ignorant books.

The "spiritual people" in each country claimed that their books had been
written by inspired men—that God was the real author, and that all men
and women who denied this would be, after death, tormented forever.

And yet, the worldly people, the uninspired, the wicked, have produced a
far greater literature than the spiritual and the inspired.

Not all the sacred books of the world equal Shakespeare's "volume of
the brain." A purer philosophy, grander, nobler, fell from the lips of
Shakespeare's clowns than the Old Testament, or the New, contains.

The Declaration of Independence is nobler far than all the utterances
from Sinai's cloud and flame. "A Man's a Man for a' That," by Robert
Burns, is better than anything the sacred books contain. For my part, I
would rather hear Beethoven's Sixth Symphony than to read the five books
of Moses. Give me the Sixth Symphony—this sound-wrought picture of
the fields and woods, of flowering hedge and happy home, where thrushes
build and swallows fly, and mothers sing to babes; this echo of the
babbled lullaby of brooks that, dallying, wind and fall where meadows
bare their daisied bosoms to the sun; this joyous mimicry of summer
rain, the laugh of children, and the rhythmic rustle of the whispering
leaves; this strophe of peasant life; this perfect poem of content and
love.

I would rather listen to Tristan and Isolde—that Mississippi of
melody—where the great notes, winged like eagles, lift the soul above
the cares and griefs of this weary world—than to all the orthodox
sermons ever preached. I would rather look at the Venus de Milo than to
read the Presbyterian creed.

The spiritual have endeavored to civilize the world through fear and
faith—by the promise of reward and the threat of pain in other worlds.
They taught men to hate and persecute their fellow-men. In all ages they
have appealed to force. During all the years they have practiced fraud.
They have pretended to have influence with the gods—that their prayers
gave rain, sunshine and harvest—that their curses brought pestilence
and famine, and that their blessings filled the world with plenty. They
have subsisted on the fears their falsehoods created. Like poisonous
vines, they have lived on the oak of labor. They have praised charity,
but they never gave. They have denounced revenge, but they never
forgave.

Whenever the spiritual have had power, art has died, learning has
languished, science has been despised, liberty destroyed, the thinkers
have been imprisoned, the intelligent and honest have been outcasts, and
the brave have been murdered.

The "spiritual" have been, are, and always will be the enemies of the
human race.

For all the blessings that we now enjoy—for progress in every form, for
science and art—for all that has lengthened life, that has conquered
disease, that has lessened pain, for raiment, roof and food, for music
in its highest forms—for the poetry that has ennobled and enriched our
lives—for the marvellous machines now working for the world—for all
this we are indebted to the worldly—to those who turned their attention
to the affairs of this life. They have been the only benefactors of our
race.

II.

AND yet all of these religions—these "sacred books," these priests,
have been naturally produced. From the dens and caves of savagery to
the palaces of civilization men have traveled by the necessary paths and
roads. Back of every step has been the efficient cause. In the history
of the world there has been no chance, no interference from without,
nothing miraculous. Everything in accordance with and produced by the
facts in nature.

We need not blame the hypocritical and cruel. They thought and acted as
they were compelled to think and act.

In all ages man has tried to account for himself and his surroundings.
He did the best he could. He wondered why the water ran, why the trees
grew, why the clouds floated, why the stars shone, why the sun and moon
journeyed through the heavens. He was troubled about life and death,
about darkness and dreams. The seas, the volcanoes, the lightning and
thunder, the earthquake and cyclone, filled him with fear. Behind all
life and growth and motion, and even inanimate things, he placed
a spirit—an intelligent being—a fetich, a person, something like
himself—a god, controlled by love and hate. To him causes and effects
became gods—supernatural beings. The Dawn was a maiden, wondrously
fair, the Sun, a warrior and lover; the Night, a serpent, a wolf—the
Wind, a musician; Winter, a wild beast; Autumn, Proserpine gathering
flowers.

Poets were the makers of these myths. They were the first to account for
what they saw and felt. The great multitude mistook these fancies
for facts. Myths strangely alike, were produced by most nations, and
gradually took possession of the world.

The Sleeping Beauty, a myth of the year, has been found among most
peoples. In this myth, the Earth was a maiden—the Sun was her lover,
She had fallen asleep in winter. Her blood was still and her breath had
gone. In the Spring the lover came, clasped her in his arms, covered her
lips and cheeks with kisses. She was thrilled, her heart began to beat,
she breathed, her blood flowed, and she awoke to love and joy. This myth
has made the circuit of the globe.

So, Red Riding-Hood is the history of a day. Little Red Riding-Hood—the
morning, touched with red, goes to visit her kindred, a day that is
past. She is attacked by the wolf of night and is rescued by the hunter,
Apollo, who pierces the heart of the beast with an arrow of light.

The beautiful myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is the story of the year.
Eurydice has been captured and carried to the infernal world. Orpheus,
playing upon his harp, goes after her. Such is the effect of his music
when he reaches the realm of Pluto, the laughterless, that Tantalus
ceases his efforts to slake his thirst. He listens and forgets his
withered lips, the daughters of the Danaides cease their vain efforts
to fill the sieve with water, Sisyphus sits down on the stone that he
so often had heaved against the mountain's misty side, Ixion pauses
upon his wheel of fire, even Pluto smiles, and for the first time in the
history of hell the cheeks of the Furies are wet with tears.

"Give me back Eurydice," cried Orpheus, and Pluto said: "Take her, but
look not back." Orpheus led the way and Eurydice followed. Just as he
reached the upper world, he missed her footsteps, turned, looked, and
she vanished.

And thus the summer comes, is lost, and comes again through all the
years.

So, our ancestors believed in the Garden of Eden, in the Golden Age, in
the blessed time when all were good and pure—when nature satisfied the
wants of all. The race, like the old man, has golden dreams of youth.
The morning was filled with light and life and joy, and the evening is
always sad. When the old man was young, girls were beautiful and men
were honest. He remembers his Eden. And so the whole world has had its
age of gold.

Our fathers were believers in the Elysian Fields. They were in the far,
far West. They saw them at the setting of the sun. They saw the floating
isles of gold in sapphire seas; the templed mist with spires and domes
of emerald and amethyst; the magic caverns of the clouds, resplendent
with the rays of every gem. And as they looked, they thought the curtain
had been drawn aside and that their eyes had for a moment feasted on the
glories of another world.

The myth of the Flood has also been universal. Finding shells of the
seas on plain and mountain, and everywhere some traces of the waves,
they thought the world had been submerged—that God in wrath had drowned
the race, except a few his mercy saved.

The Hindus say that Menu, a holy man, dipped from the Ganges some water,
and in the basin saw a little fish. The fish begged him to throw him
back into the river, and Menu, having pity, cast him back. The fish then
told Menu that there was to be a flood—told him to build an ark, to
take on board, people, animals and food, and that when the flood came,
he, the fish, would save him. The saint did as he was told, the flood
came, the fish returned. By that time he had grown to be a whale with
a horn in his head. About this horn Menu fastened a rope, attached the
other end to the ark, and the fish towed the boat across the raging
waves to a mountain's top, where it rested until the waters subsided.
The name of this wonderful fish was Matsaya.

Many other nations told similar stories of floods and arks and the
sending forth of doves.

In all these myths and legends of the past we find philosophies and
dreams and efforts, stained with tears, of great and tender souls who
tried to pierce the mysteries of life and death, to answer the questions
of the whence and whither, and who vainly sought with bits of shattered
glass to make a mirror that would in very truth reflect the face and
form of Nature's perfect self. These myths were born of hopes and fears,
of tears and smiles, and they were touched and colored by all there is
of joy and grief between the rosy dawn of birth and death's sad night.
They clothed even the stars with passion, and gave to gods the faults
and frailties of the sons of men. In them the winds and waves were
music, and all the springs, the mountains, woods and perfumed dells were
haunted by a thousand fairy forms. They thrilled the veins of Spring
with tremulous desire, made tawny Summer's billowy breast the throne and
home of love, filled Autumn's arms with sun-kissed grapes and gathered
sheaves, and pictured Winter as a weak old king, who felt, like Lear,
upon his withered face, Cordelia's tears.

These myths, though false in fact, are beautiful and true in thought,
and have for many ages and in countless ways enriched the heart and
kindled thought.

## Iii

IN all probability the first religion was Sun-worship. Nothing could
have been more natural. Light was life and warmth and love. The sun
was the fireside of the world. The sun was the "all-seeing"—the "Sky
Father." Darkness was grief and death, and in the shadows crawled the
serpents of despair and fear.

The sun was a great warrior, fighting the hosts of Night. Apollo was
the sun, and he fought and conquered the serpent of Night. Agni, the
generous, who loved the lowliest and visited the humblest, was the sun.
He was the god of fire, and the crossed sticks that by friction leaped
into flame were his emblem. It was said that, in spite of his goodness,
he devoured his father and mother, the two pieces of wood being his
parents. Baldur was the sun. He was in love with the Dawn—a maiden—he
deserted her and traveled through the heavens alone. At the twilight
they met, were reconciled, and the drops of dew were the tears of joy
they shed.

Chrishna was the sun. At his birth the Ganges thrilled from its source
to the sea. All the trees, the dead as well as the living, burst into
leaf and bud and flower.

Hercules was a sun-god.

Jonah the same, rescued from the fiends of Night and carried by the fish
through the under world. Samson was a sun-god. His strength was in
his hair—in his beams. He was shorn of his strength by Delilah, the
shadow—the darkness. So, Osiris, Bacchus, Mithra, Hermes, Buddha,
Quelzalcoatle, Prometheus, Zoroaster, Perseus, Codom Lao-tsze Fo-hi,
Horus and Rameses were all sun-gods.

All these gods had gods for fathers and all their mothers were virgins.

The births of nearly all were announced by stars.

When they were born there was celestial music—voices declared that a
blessing had come upon the earth.

When Buddha was born, the celestial choir sang: "This day is born
for the good of men Buddha, and to dispel the darkness of their
ignorance—to give joy and peace to the world."

Chrishna was born in a cave, and protected by shepherds. Bacchus,
Apollo, Mithra and Hermes were all born in caves. Buddha was born in an
inn—according to some, under a tree.

Tyrants sought to kill all of these gods when they were babes.

When Chrishna was born, a tyrant killed the babes of the neighborhood.

Buddha was the child of Maya, a virgin, in the kingdom of Madura. The
king arrested Maya before the child was born, imprisoned her in a tower.
During the night when the child was born, a great wind wrecked the
tower, and carried mother and child to a place of safety. The next
morning the king sent his soldiers to kill the babes, and when they came
to Buddha and his mother, the babe appeared to be about twelve years of
age, and the soldiers passed on.

So Typhon sought in many ways to destroy the babe Horus. The king
pursued the infant Zoroaster. Cadmus tried to kill the infant Bacchus.

All of these gods were born on the 25th of December.

Nearly all were worshiped by "wise men."

All of them fasted for forty days.

All met with a violent death.

All rose from the dead.

The history of these gods is the history of our Christ. He had a god for
a father, a virgin for a mother. He was born in a manger, or a cave—on
the 2 5th of December. His birth was announced by angels. He was
worshiped by wise men, guided by a star. Herod, seeking his life, caused
the death of many babes. Christ fasted for forty days. So, it rained for
forty days before the flood—Moses was on Mt. Sinai for forty days. The
temple had forty pillars and the Jews wandered in the wilderness for
forty years. Christ met with a violent death, and rose from the dead.

These things are not accidents—not coincidences. Christ was a sun-god.
All religions have been born of sun-worship. To-day, when priests
pray, they shut their eyes. This is a survival of sun-worship. When men
worshiped the sun, they had to shut their eyes. Afterwards, to flatter
idols, they pretended that the glory of their faces was more than the
eyes could bear.

In the religion of our day there is nothing original. All of its
doctrines, its symbols and ceremonies are but the survivals of creeds
that perished long ago. Baptism is far older than Christianity—than
Judaism. The Hindus, the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans had holy
water. The eucharist was borrowed from the Pagans. Ceres was the goddess
of the fields, Bacchus the god of the vine. At the harvest festival they
made cakes of wheat and said: "These are the flesh of the goddess." They
drank wine and cried: "This is the blood of our god."

The cross has been a symbol for many thousands of years. It was a symbol
of immortality—of life, of the god Agni, the form of the grave of a
man. An ancient people of Italy, who lived long before the Romans, long
before the Etruscans, so long that not one word of their language is
known, used the cross, and beneath that emblem, carved on stone, their
dead still rest. In the forests of Central America, ruined temples have
been found, and on the walls the cross with the bleeding victim. On
Babylonian cylinders is the impression of the cross. The Trinity came
from Egypt. Osiris, Isis and Horus were worshiped thousands of years
before our Father, Son and Holy Ghost were thought of. So the Tree of
Life grew in India, China and among the Aztecs long before the Garden
of Eden was planted. Long before our Bible was known, other nations
had their sacred books, temples and altars, sacrifices, ceremonies and
priests. The "Fall of Man" is far older than our religion, and so are
the "Atonement" and the Scheme of Redemption.

In our blessed religion there is nothing new, nothing original.

Among the Egyptians the cross was a symbol of the life to come. And
yet the first religion was, and all religions growing out of that, were
naturally produced. Every brain was a field in which Nature sowed the
seeds of thought. The rise and set of sun, the birth and death of day,
the dawns of silver and the dusks of gold, the wonders of the rain and
snow, the shroud of Winter and the many colored robe of Spring, the
lonely moon with nightly loss or gain, the serpent lightning and the
thunder's voice, the tempest's fury and the zephyr's sigh, the threat
of storm and promise of the bow, cathedral clouds with dome and spire,
earthquake and strange eclipse, frost and fire, the snow-crowned
mountains with their tongues of flame, the fields of space sown thick
with stars, the wandering comets hurrying past the fixed and sleepless
sentinels of night, the marvels of the earth and air, the perfumed
flower, the painted wing, the waveless pool that held within its magic
breast the image of the startled face, the mimic echo that made a record
in the viewless air, the pathless forests and the boundless seas,
the ebb and flow of tides—the slow, deep breathing of some vague and
monstrous life—the miracle of birth, the mystery of dream and death,
and over all the silent and immeasurable dome. These were the warp and
woof, and at the loom sat Love and Fancy, Hope and Fear, and wove the
wondrous tapestries whereon we find pictures of gods and fairy lands
and all the legends that were told when Nature rocked the cradle of the
infant world.

IV.

WE must remember that there is a great difference. Myth is the
idealization of a fact. A miracle is the counterfeit of a fact. There is
the same difference between a myth and a miracle that there is between
fiction and falsehood—between poetry and perjury. Miracles belong to
the far past and the far future. The little line of sand, called the
present, between the seas, belongs to common sense, to the natural.

If you should tell a man that the dead were raised two thousand years
ago, he would probably say: "Yes, I know that." If you should say that
a hundred thousand years from now all the dead will be raised, he might
say: "Probably they will." But if you should tell him that you saw a
dead man raised and given life that day, he would likely ask the name of
the insane asylum from which you had escaped.

Our Bible is filled with accounts of miracles and yet they always fail
to convince.

Jehovah, according to the Scriptures, wrought hundreds of miracles for
the benefit of the Jews. With many miracles he rescued them from
slavery, guided them on their journey with a miraculous cloud by day and
a miraculous pillar of fire by night—divided the sea that they might
escape from the Egyptians, fed them with miraculous manna and
supernatural quails, raised up hornets to attack their enemies, caused
water to follow them wherever they wandered and in countless ways
manifested his power, and yet the Jews cared nothing for these wonders.
Not one of them seems to have been convinced that Jehovah had done
anything for the people.

In spite of all these miracles, the Jews had more confidence in a golden
calf, made by themselves, than in Jehovah. The reason of this is, that
the miracles were never performed, and never invented until hundreds of
years after those, who had wandered over the desert of Sinai, were dust.

The miracles attributed to Christ had no effect. No human being seems to
have been convinced by them. Those whom he raised from the dead, cured
of leprosy, or blindness, failed to become his followers. Not one of
them appeared at his trial. Not one offered to bear witness of his
miraculous power.

To this there is but one explanation: The miracles were never performed.
These stories were the growth of centuries. The casting out of devils,
the changing of water into wine, feeding the multitude with a few loaves
and fishes, resisting the devil, using a fish for a pocketbook, curing
the blind with clay and saliva, stilling the tempest, walking on the
water, the resurrection and ascension, happened and only happened, in
the imaginations of men, who were not born until several generations
after Christ was dead.

In those days the world was filled with ignorance and fear. Miracles
happened every day. The supernatural was expected. Gods were continually
interfering with the affairs of this world. Everything was told
except the truth, everything believed except the facts. History was a
circumstantial account of occurrences that never occurred. Devils and
goblins and ghosts were as plentiful as saints. The bones of the dead
were used to cure the living. Cemeteries were hospitals and corpses were
physicians. The saints practiced magic, the pious communed with God in
dreams, and the course of events was changed by prayer. The credulous
demanded the marvelous, the miraculous, and the priests supplied the
demand. The sky was full of signs, omens of death and disaster, and the
darkness thick with devils endeavoring to mislead and enslave the souls
of men.

Our fathers thought that everything had been made for man, and that
demons and gods gave their entire attention to this world. The people
believed that they were the sport and prey, the favorites or victims, of
these phantoms. And they also believed that the Creator, the God, could
be influenced by sacrifice, by prayers and ceremonies.

This has been the mistake of the world. All the temples have been
reared, all the altars erected, all the sacrifices offered, all the
prayers uttered in vain. No god has interfered, no prayer has been
answered, no help received from heaven. Nothing was created, nothing has
happened for, or with reference to man. If not a human being lived,—if
all Were in' their graves, the sun would continue to shine, the wheeling
world would still pursue its flight, violets would spread their velvet
bosoms to the day, the spendthrift roses give their perfume to the air,
the climbing vines would hide with leaf and flower the fallen and the
dead, the changing seasons would come-and go,-time would repeat the poem
of the year, storms would wreck and whispering rains repair, Spring
with deft and unseen hands would weave her robes of green, life with
countless lips would seek fair Summer's swelling breasts, Autumn would
reap the wealth of leaf and fruit and seed, Winter, the artist, would
etch in frost the pines and ferns, while Wind and Wave and Fire, old
architects, with ceaseless toil would still destroy and build, still
wreck and change, and from the dust of death produce again the throb and
breath of life.

V.

A FEW years ago a few men began to think, to investigate, to reason.
They began to doubt the legends of the church, the miracles of the past.
They began to notice what happened. They found that eclipses came at
certain intervals and that their coming could be foretold. They became
satisfied that the conduct of men had nothing to do with eclipses—and
that the stars moved in their orbits unconscious of the sons of men.
Galileo, Copernicus, and Kepler' destroyed the astronomy of the Bible,
and demonstrated that the "inspired" story of creation could not be
true, and that the church was as ignorant as the priests were dishonest.

They found that the myth-makers were mistaken, that the sun and stars
did not revolve about the earth, that the firmament was not solid,
that the earth was not flat, and that the so-called philosophy of the
theologians was absurd and idiotic.

The stars became witnesses against the creeds of superstition.

With the telescope the heavens were explored. The New Jerusalem could
not be found.

It had faded away.

The church persecuted the astronomers and denied the facts. In
February, in the year of grace sixteen hundred, the Catholic Church, the
"Triumphant Beast," having in her hands, her paws, the keys of heaven
and hell, accused Giordano Bruno of having declared that there were
other worlds than this. He was tried, convicted, imprisoned in a dungeon
for seven years. He was offered his liberty if he would recant. Bruno,
the atheist, the philosopher, refused to stain his soul by denying what
he believed to be true. He was taken from his cell by the priests, by
those who loved their enemies, led to the place of execution. He was
clad in a robe on which representations of devils had been painted—the
devils that were soon to claim his soul. He was chained to a stake and
about his body the wood was piled. Then priests, followers of Christ,
lighted the fagots and flames consumed the greatest, the most perfect
martyr, that ever suffered death.

And yet the Italian agent of God, the infallible Leo XIII., only a few
years ago, denounced Bruno, the "bravest of the brave," as a coward.

The church murdered him, and the pope maligned his memory. Fagot and
falsehood—two weapons of the church.

A little while ago a few men began to examine rocks and soils,
mountains, islands, reefs and seas. They noticed the valleys and deltas
that had been formed by rivers, the many strata of lava that had been
changed to soil, the vast deposits of metals and coal, the immense reefs
that the coral had formed, the work of glaciers in the far past, the
production of soil by the disintegration of rock, by the growth and
decay of vegetation and the countless evidences of the countless ages
through which the Earth has passed. The geologists read the history
of the world written by wave and flame, attested by fossils, by the
formation of rocks, by mountain ranges, by volcanoes, by rivers,
islands, continents and seas.

The geology of the Bible—of the "divinely inspired" church, of the
"infallible" pope, was found to be utterly false and foolish.

The Earth became a witness against the creeds of superstition.

Then came Watt and Galvani with the miracles of steam and electricity,
while countless inventors created the wonderful machines that do the
work of the world. Investigation took the place of credulity. Men became
dissatisfied with huts and rags, with crusts and creeds. They longed for
the comforts, the luxuries of life. The intellectual horizon enlarged,
new truths were discovered, old ideas were thrown aside, the brain was
developed, the heart civilized and science was born. Humboldt, Laplace
and hundreds of others explained the phenomena of nature, called
attention to the ancient and venerable mistakes of sanctified ignorance
and added to the sum of knowledge. Darwin and Haeckel gave their
conclusions to the world. Men began to really think, the myths began
to fade, the miracles to grow mean and small, and the great structure,
known as theology, fell with a crash.

Science denies the truth of myth and miracle, denies that human
testimony can substantiate the miraculous, denies the existence of the
supernatural. Science asserts the absolute, the unvarying uniformity
of nature. Science insists that the present is the child of all the
past,—that no power can change the past, and that nature is forever the
same.

The chemist has found that just so many atoms of one kind unite with
just so many of another—no more, no less, always the same. No caprice
in chemistry; no interference from without.

The astronomers know that the planets remain in their orbits—that their
forces are constant. They know that light is forever the same,
always obeying the angle of incidence, traveling with the same
rapidity,—casting the same shadow, under the same circumstances in
all worlds. They know that the eclipses will occur at the times
foretold—neither hastening nor delaying. They know that the attraction
of gravitation is always the same, always in perfect proportion to mass
and distance, neither weaker nor stronger, unvarying forever. They know
that the facts in nature cannot be changed or destroyed, and that the
qualities of all things are eternal.

The men of science know that the atomic integrity of the metals is
always the same, that each metal is true to its nature and that the
particles cling to each other with the same tenacity,—the same force.
They have demonstrated the persistence of force, that it is forever
active, forever the same, and that it cannot be destroyed.

These great truths have revolutionized the thought of the world.

Every art, every employment, all study, all experiment, the value of
experience, of judgment, of hope, all rest on a belief in the uniformity
of nature, on the eternal persistence and indestructibility of force.

Break one link in the infinite chain of cause and effect, and the Master
of Nature appears. The broken link would become the throne of a god.

The uniformity of Nature denies the supernatural and demonstrates that
there is no interference from without. There is no place, no office left
for gods. Ghosts fade from the brain and the shrivelled deities fall
palsied from their thrones.

The uniformity of Nature renders a belief in "special providence"
impossible. Prayer becomes a useless agitation of the air, and religious
ceremonies are but motions, pantomimes, mindless and meaningless.

The naked savage, worshiping a wooden god, is the religious equal of the
robed pope kneeling before an image of the Virgin. The poor African who
carries roots and bark to protect himself from evil spirits is on the
same intellectual plane of one who sprinkles his body with "holy water."

All the creeds of Christendom, all the religions of the heathen world
are equally absurd. The cathedral, the mosque and the joss house have
the same foundation. Their builders do not believe in the uniformity
of Nature, and the business of all priests is to induce a so-called
infinite being to change the order of events, to make causes barren of
effects and to produce effects without, and in spite of, natural causes.
They all believe in the unthinkable and pray for the impossible.

Science teaches us that there was no creation and that there can be no
destruction. The infinite denies creation and defies destruction. An
infinite person, an "infinite being" is an infinite impossibility.
To conceive of such a being is beyond the power of the mind. Yet all
religions rest upon the supposed existence of the unthinkable, the
inconceivable. And the priests of these religions pretend to be
perfectly familiar with the designs, will, and wishes of this
unthinkable, this inconceivable.

Science teaches that that which really is has always been, that behind
every effect is the efficient and necessary cause, that there is in the
universe neither chance nor interference, and that energy is eternal.
Day by day the authority of the theologian grows weaker and weaker. As
the people become intelligent they care less for preachers and more for
teachers. Their confidence in knowledge, in thought and investigation
increases. They are eager to know the discoveries, the useful truths,
the important facts made, ascertained and demonstrated by the explorers
in the domain of the natural. They are no longer satisfied with the
platitudes of the pulpit, and the assertions of theologians. They are
losing confidence in the "sacred Scriptures" and in the protecting power
and goodness of the supernatural. They are satisfied that credulity is
not a virtue and that investigation is not a crime.

Science is the providence of man, the worker of true miracles, of
real wonders. Science has "read a little in Nature's infinite book of
secrecy." Science knows the circuits of the winds, the courses of the
stars. Fire is his servant, and lightning his messenger. Science freed
the slaves and gave liberty to their masters. Science taught man to
enchain, not his fellows, but the forces of nature, forces that have no
backs to be scarred, no limbs for chains to chill and eat, forces that
have no hearts to break, forces that never know fatigue, forces that
shed no tears. Science is the great physician. His touch has given
sight. He has made the lame to leap, the deaf to hear, the dumb to
speak, and in the pallid face his hand has set the rose of health.
Science has given his beloved sleep and wrapped in happy dreams the
throbbing nerves of pain. Science is the destroyer of disease, builder
of happy homes, the preserver of life and love. Science is the teacher
of every virtue, the enemy of every vice. Science has given the true
basis of morals, the origin and office of conscience, revealed the
nature of obligation, of duty, of virtue in its highest, noblest forms,
and has demonstrated that true happiness is the only possible good.
Science has slain the monsters of superstition, and destroyed the
authority of inspired books. Science has read the records of the rocks,
records that priestcraft cannot change, and on his wondrous scales has
weighed the atom and the star.

Science has founded the only true religion. Science is the only Savior
of this world.

VI.

FOR many ages religion has been tried. For countless centuries man
has sought for help from heaven. To soften the heart of God, mothers
sacrificed their babes! but the God did not hear, did not see, and did
not help. Naked savages were devoured by beasts, bitten by serpents,
killed by flood and frost. They prayed for help, but their God was
deaf. They built temples and altars, employed priests and gave of their
substance, but the volcano destroyed and the famine came. For the sake
of God millions murdered their fellow-men, but the God was silent.
Millions of martyrs died for the honor of God, but the God was blind. He
did not see the flames, the scaffolds. He did not hear the prayers,
the groans. Thousands of priests in the name of God tortured their
fellow-men, stretched them on racks, crushed their feet in iron boots,
tore out their tongues, extinguished their eyes. The victims implored
the protection of God, but their god did not hear, did not see. He
was deaf and blind. He was willing that his enemies should torture his
friends.

Nations tried to destroy each other for the sake of God, and the banner
of the cross dripping with blood floated over a thousand fields—but the
god was silent. He neither knew nor cared. Pestilence covered the earth
with dead, the priests prayed, the altars were heaped with sacrifices,
but the god did not see, did not hear. The miseries of the world did
not lessen the joys of heaven. The clouds gave no rain, the famine came,
withered babes with pallid lips sought the breasts of dead mothers,
while starving fathers knelt and prayed, but the god did not hear.
Through many centuries millions were enslaved, babes were sold from
mothers, husbands from wives, backs were scarred with the lash. The
poor wretches lifted their clasped hands toward heaven and prayed for
justice, for liberty—but their god did not hear. He cared nothing for
the sufferings of slaves, nothing for the tears of wives and mothers,
nothing for the agony of men. He answered no prayers. He broke no
chains. He freed no slaves.

The miserable wretches appealed to the priests of God, but they were on
the other side. They defended the masters. The slaves had nothing to
give.

During all these years it was claimed by the theologians that their
God was governing the world, that he was infinitely powerful, wise and
good—and that the "powers" of the earth were "ordained" by him. During
all these years the church was the enemy of progress. It hated all
physicians and told the people to rely on prayer, amulets and relics.
It persecuted the astronomers and geologists, denounced them as infidels
and atheists, as enemies of the human race. It poisoned the fountains of
learning and insisted that teachers should distort the facts in nature
to the end that they might harmonize with the "inspired" book. During
all these years the church misdirected the energies of man, and when it
reached the zenith of its power, darkness fell upon the world.

In all nations and in all ages, religion has failed. The gods have never
interfered. Nature has produced and destroyed without mercy and without
hatred. She has cared no more for man than for the leaves of the forest,
no more for nations than for hills of ants, nothing for right or wrong,
for life or death, for pain or joy.

Man through his intelligence must protect himself. He gets no help from
any other world. The church has always claimed and still claims that
it is the only reforming power, that it makes men honest, virtuous
and merciful, that it prevents violence and war, and that without its
influence the race would return to barbarism.

Nothing can exceed the absurdity of these claims.

If we wish to improve the condition of mankind—if we wish for nobler
men and women we must develop the brain, we must encourage thought
and investigation. We must convince the world that credulity is
a vice,—that there is no virtue in believing without, or against
evidence, and that the really honest man is true to himself. We must
fill the world with intellectual light. We must applaud mental courage.
We must educate the children, rescue them from ignorance and crime.
School-houses are the real temples, and teachers are the true priests.
We must supply the wants of the mind, satisfy the hunger of the brain.
The people should be familiar with the great poets, with the tragedies
of AEschylus, the dramas of Shakespeare, with the poetry of Homer and
Virgil. Shakespeare should be taught in every school, found in every
house.

Through photography the whole world may become acquainted with the great
statues, the great paintings, the victories of art. In this way the mind
is enlarged, the sympathies quickened, the appreciation of the beautiful
intensified, the taste refined and the character ennobled.

The great novels should be read by all. All should be acquainted with
the men and women of fiction, with the ideal world. The imagination
should be developed, trained and strengthened. Superstition has degraded
art and literature. It gave us winged monsters, scenes from heaven and
hell, representations of gods and devils, sculptured the absurd and
painted the impossible in the name of Art. It gave us the dreams of the
insane, the lives of fanatical saints, accounts of miracles and wonders,
of cures wrought by the bones of the dead, descriptions of Paradise,
purgatory and the eternal dungeon, discourses on baptism, on changing
wine and wafers into the the blood and flesh of God, on the
forgiveness of sins by priests, on fore-ordination and accountability,
predestination and free will, on devils, ghosts and goblins, the
ministrations of guardian angels, the virtue of belief and the
wickedness of doubt. And this was called "sacred literature."

The church taught that those who believed, counted beads, mumbled
prayers, and gave their time or property for the support of the gospel
were the good and that all others were traveling the "broad road" to
eternal pain. According to the theologians, the best people, the
saints, were dead, and real beauty was to be found only in heaven. They
denounced the joys of life as husks and filthy rags, declared that the
world had been cursed, and that it brought forth thistles and thorns
because of the sins of man. They regarded the earth as a kind of dock,
running out into the sea of eternity,—on which the pious waited for the
ship on which they were to be transported to another world.

But the real poets and the real artists clung to this world, to this
life. They described and represented things that exist. They expressed
thoughts of the brain, emotions of the heart, the griefs and joys, the
hope and despair of men and women. They found strength and beauty
on every hand. They found their angels here. They were true to human
experience and they touched the brain and heart of the world. In
the tragedies and comedies of life, in the smiles and tears, in the
ecstasies of love, in the darkness of death, in the dawn of hope, they
found their materials for statue and song, for poem and painting. Poetry
and art are the children of this world, born and nourished here. They
are human. They have left the winged monsters of heaven, the malicious
deformities of hell, and have turned their attention to men and women,
to the things of this life.

There is a poem called "The Skylark," by Shelley, graceful as the
motions of flames. Another by Robert Burns, called "The Daisy,"
exquisite, perfect as the pearl of virtue in the beautiful breast of a
loving girl. Between this lark and this daisy, neither above nor below,
you will find all the poetry of the world. Eloquence, sublimity, poetry
and art must have the foundation of fact, of reality. Imaginary worlds
and beings are nothing to us.

At last the old creeds are becoming cruel and vulgar. We now have
imagination enough to put ourselves in the place of others. Believers
in hell, in eternal pain, like murderers, lack imagination. The murderer
has not imagination enough to see his victim dead. He does not see the
sightless and pathetic eyes. He does not see the widow's arms about the
corpse, her lips upon the dead. He does not hear the sobs of children.
He does not see the funeral. He does not hear the clods as they fall on
the coffin. He does not feel the hand of arrest, the scene of the trial
is not before him. He does not hear the awful verdict, the sentence of
the court, the last words. He does not see the scaffold, nor feel about
his throat the deadly noose.

Let us develop the brain, civilize the heart, and give wings to the
imagination.

## Vii

IF we abandon myth and miracle, if we discard the supernatural and the
scheme of redemption, how are we to civilize the world?

Is falsehood a reforming power? Is credulity the mother of virtue? Is
there any saving grace in the impossible and absurd? Did wisdom perish
with the dead? Must the civilized accept the religion of savages?

If we wish to reform the world we must rely on truth, on fact, on
reason. We must teach men that they are good or bad for themselves, that
others cannot be good or bad for them, that they cannot be charged with
the crimes, or credited with the virtues of others. We must discard the
doctrine of the atonement, because it is absurd and immoral. We are not
accountable for the sins of "Adam" and the virtues of Christ cannot be
transferred to us. There can be no vicarious virtue, no vicarious vice.
Why should the sufferings of the innocent atone for the crimes of the
guilty. According to the doctrine of the atonement right and wrong do
not exist in the nature of things, but in the arbitrary will of the
Infinite. This is a subversion of all ideas of justice and mercy.

An act is good, bad, or indifferent, according to its consequences. No
power can step between an act and its natural consequences. A governor
may pardon the criminal, but the natural consequences of the crime
remain untouched. A god may forgive, but the consequences of the
act forgiven, are still the same. We must teach the world that the
consequences of a bad action cannot be avoided, that they are the
invisible police, the unseen avengers, that accept no gifts, that hear
no prayers, that no cunning can deceive.

We do not need the forgiveness of gods, but of ourselves and the ones
we injure. Restitution without repentance is far better than repentance
without restitution.

We know nothing of any god who rewards, punishes or forgives.

We must teach our fellow-men that honor comes from within, not from
without, that honor must be earned, that it is not alms, that even an
infinite God could not enrich the beggar's palm with the gem of honor.

Teach them also that happiness is the bud, the blossom and the fruit of
good and noble actions, that it is not the gift of any god; that it must
be earned by man—must be deserved.

In this world of ours there is no magic, no sleight-of-hand, by which
consequences can be made to punish the good and reward the bad.

Teach men not to sacrifice this world for some other, but to turn their
attention to the natural, to the affairs of this life. Teach them that
theology has no known foundation, that it was born of ignorance and
fear, that it has hardened the heart, polluted the imagination and made
fiends of men.

Theology is not for this world. It is no part of real religion. It has
nothing to do with goodness or virtue. Religion does not consist in
worshiping gods, but in adding to the well-being, the happiness of man.
No human being knows whether any god exists or not, and all that has
been said and written about "our god," or the gods of other people, has
no known fact for a foundation. Words without thoughts, clouds without
rain.

Let us put theology out of religion.

Church and state should be absolutely divorced. Priests pretend that
they have been selected by, and that they get their power from God.
Kings occupy their thrones in accordance with the will of God. The pope
declares that he is the agent, the deputy of God and that by right
he should rule the world. All these pretentions and assertions are
perfectly absurd and yet they are acknowledged and believed by millions.
Get theology out of government and kings will descend from their
thrones. All will admit that governments get their powers from the
consent of the governed, and that all persons in office are the servants
of the people. Get theology out of government and chaplains will be
dismissed from Legislatures, from Congress, from the army and navy. Get
theology out of government and people will be allowed to express their
honest thoughts about "inspired books" and superstitious creeds. Get
theology out of government and priests will no longer steal a seventh of
our time. Get theology out of government and the clergy will soon
take their places with augurs and soothsayers, with necromancers and
medicine-men.

Get theology out of education. Nothing should be taught in a school that
somebody does not know.

There are plenty of things to be learned about this world, about this
life. Every child should be taught to think, and that it is dangerous
not to think. Children should not be taught the absurdities, the
cruelties and imbecilities of superstition. No church should be allowed
to control the common school, and public money should not be divided
between the hateful and warring sects. The public school should be
secular, and only the useful should be taught. Many of our colleges
are under the control of churches. Presidents and professors are mostly
ministers of the gospel and the result is that all facts inconsistent
with the creeds are either suppressed or denied. Only those professors
who are naturally stupid or mentally dishonest can retain their places.
Those who tell the truth, who teach the facts, are discharged.

In every college truth should be a welcome guest. Every professor
should be a finder, and every student a learner, of facts. Theology and
intellectual dishonesty go together. The teacher of children should be
intelligent and perfectly sincere.

Let us get theology out of education.

The pious denounce the secular schools as godless. They should be. The
sciences are all secular, all godless. Theology bears the same relation
to science that the black art does to chemistry, that magic does to
mathematics. It is something that cannot be taught, because it cannot
be known. It has no foundation in fact. It neither produces, nor accords
with, any image in the mind. It is not only unknowable but unthinkable.
Through hundreds and thousands of generations men have been discussing,
wrangling and fighting about theology. No advance has been made. The
robed priest has only reached the point from which the savage tried to
start.

We know that theology always has and always will make enemies. It sows
the seeds of hatred in families and nations. It is selfish, cruel,
revengeful and malicious. It has heaven for the few and perdition
for the many. We now know that credulity is not a virtue and that
intellectual courage is. We must stop rewarding hypocrisy and bigotry.
We must stop persecuting the thinkers, the investigators, the creators
of light, the civilizers of the world.

## Viii

WILL the unknown, the mysteries of life and itiations of the mind,
forever furnish food for superstition? Will the gods and ghosts perish
or simply retreat before the advancing hosts of science, and continue to
crouch and lurk just beyond the horizon of the known? Will darkness
forever be the womb and mother of the supernatural?

A little while ago priests told peasants that the New Jerusalem, the
celestial city was just above the clouds. They said that its walls
and domes and spires were just beyond the reach of human sight. The
telescope was invented and those who looked at the wilderness of stars,
saw no city, no throne. They said to the priests: "Where is your New
Jerusalem?" The priests cheerfully and confidently replied. "It is just
beyond where you see."

At one time it was believed that a race of men existed "with their heads
beneath their shoulders." Returning travelers from distant lands were
asked about these wonderful people and all replied that they had not
seen them. "Oh," said the believers in the monsters, "the men with heads
beneath their shoulders live in a country that you did not visit." And
so the monsters lived and flourished until all the world was known. We
cannot know the universe. We cannot travel infinite distances, and so,
somewhere in shoreless space there will always be room for gods and
ghosts, for heavens and hells. And so it may be that superstition will
live and linger until the world becomes intelligent enough to build upon
the foundation of the known, to keep the imagination within the domain
of the probable, and to believe in the natural—_until the supernatural
shall have been demonstrated_.

Savages knew all about gods, about heavens and hells before they knew
anything about the world in which they lived. They were perfectly
familiar with evil spirits, with the invisible phantoms of the air, long
before they had any true conception of themselves. So, they knew all
about the origin and destiny of the human race. They were absolutely
certain about the problems, the solution of which, philosophers know, is
beyond the limitations of the mind. They understood astrology, but not
astronomy, knew something of magic, but nothing about chemistry. They
were wise only as to those things about which nothing can be known.

The poor Indian believed in the "Great Spirit" and saw "design" on every
hand.—Trees were made that he might have bows and arrows, wood for his
fire and bark for his wigwam—rivers and lakes to give him fish, wild
beasts and corn that he might have food, and the animals had skins that
he might have clothes.

Primitive peoples all reasoned in the same way, and modern Christians
follow their example. They knew but little of the world and thought that
it had been made expressly for the use of man. They did not know that it
was mostly water, that vast regions were locked in eternal ice and that
in most countries the conditions were unfavorable to human life. They
knew nothing of the countless enemies of man that live unseen in water,
food and air. Back of the little good they knew they put gods and back
of the evil, devils. They thought it of the greatest importance to gain
the good will of the gods, who alone could protect them from the devils.
Those who worshiped these gods, offered sacrifices, and obeyed priests,
were considered loyal members of the tribe or community, and those who
refused to worship were regarded as enemies and traitors. The believers,
in order to protect themselves from the anger of the gods, exiled or
destroyed the infidels.

Believing as they did, the course they pursued was natural. They
not only wished to protect themselves from disease and death, from
pestilence and famine in this world but the souls of their children from
eternal pain in the next. Their gods were savages who demanded flattery
and worship not only, but the acceptance of a certain creed. As long
as Christians believe in eternal punishment they will be the enemies of
those who investigate and contend for the authority of reason, of those
who demand evidence, who care nothing for the unsupported assertions of
the dead or the illogical inferences of the living.

Science always has been, is, and always will be modest, thoughtful,
truthful. It has but one object: The ascertainment of truth. It has no
prejudice, no hatred. It is in the realm of the intellect and cannot
be swayed or changed by passion. It does not try to please God, to gain
heaven or avoid hell. It is for this world, for the use of man. It is
perfectly candid. It does not try to conceal, but to reveal. It is the
enemy of mystery, of pretence and canc. It does not ask people to be
solemn, but sensible. It calls for and insists on the use of all the
senses, of all the faculties of the mind. It does not pretend to be
"holy" or "inspired." It courts investigation, criticism and even
denial. It asks for the application of every test, for trial by every
standard. It knows nothing of blasphemy and does not ask for the
imprisonment of those who ignorantly or knowingly deny the truth. The
good that springs from a knowledge of the truth is the only reward it
offers, and the evil resulting from ignorance is the only punishment it
threatens. Its effort is to reform the world through intelligence.

On the other hand theology is, always has been, and always will be,
ignorant, arrogant, puerile and cruel. When the church had power,
hypocrisy was crowned and honesty imprisoned. Fraud wore the tiara and
truth was a convict, Liberty was in chains, Theology has always sent the
worst to heaven, the best to hell.

Let me give you a scene from the day of judgment. Christ is upon
his throne, his secretary by his side. A soul appears. This is what
happens—

"What is your name?"

Torquemada.

"Were you a Christian?"

I was.

"Did you endeavor to convert your fellow-men?"

I did. I tried to convert them by persuasion, by preaching and praying
and even by force.

"What did you do?"

I put the heretics in prison, in chains. I tore out their tongues, put
out their eyes, crushed their bones, stretched them upon racks, roasted
their feet, and if they remained obdurate I flayed them alive or burned
them at the stake.

"And did you do all this for my glory?"

Yes, all for you. I wanted to save some, I wanted to protect the young
and the weak minded.

"Did you believe the Bible, the miracles—that I was God, that I was
born of a virgin and kept money in the mouth of a fish?"

Yes, I believed it all. My reason was the slave of faith.

"Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joys of thy
Lord. I was hungry and you gave me meat, naked and you clothed me.."
Another soul arises.

"What is your name?"

Giordano Bruno.

"Were you a Christian?"

At one time I was, but for many years I was a philosopher, a seeker
after truth.

"Did you seek to convert your fellow-men?"

Not to Christianity, but to the religion of reason. I tried to
develop their minds, to free them from the slavery of ignorance and
superstition. In my day the church taught the holiness of credulity—the
virtue of unquestioning obedience, and in your name tortured and
destroyed the intelligent and courageous. I did what I could to civilize
the world, to make men tolerant and merciful, to soften the hearts
of priests, and banish torture from the world. I expressed my honest
thoughts and walked in the light of reason.

"Did you believe the Bible, the miracles? Did you believe that I was
God, that I was born of a virgin and that I suffered myself to be killed
by the Jews to appease the wrath of God—that is, of myself—so that God
could save the souls of a few?"

"No, I did not. I did not believe that God was ever born into my world,
or that God learned the trade of a carpenter, or that he 'increased
in knowledge,' or that he cast devils out of men, or that his garments
could cure diseases, or that he allowed himself to be murdered, and in
the hour of death "forsook" himself. These things I did not and could
not believe. But I did all the good I could. I enlightened the ignorant,
comforted the afflicted, defended the innocent, divided even my poverty
with the poor, and did the best I could to increase the happiness of my
fellow-men. I was a soldier in the army of progress.—I was arrested,
imprisoned, tried and convicted by the church—by the 'Triumphant
Beast.' I was burned at the stake by ignorant and heartless priests and
my ashes given to the winds."

Then Christ, his face growing dark, his brows contracted with wrath,
with uplifted hands, with half averted face, cries or rather shrieks:
"Depart from me ye cursed into everlasting fire prepared for the devil
and his angels."

This is the justice of God—the mercy of the compassionate Christ.
This is the belief, the dream and hope of the orthodox theologian—"the
consummation devoutly to be wished."

Theology makes God a monster, a tyrant, a savage; makes man a servant,
a serf, a slave; promises heaven to the obedient, the meek, the
frightened, and threatens the self-reliant with the tortures of hell.

It denounces reason and appeals to the passions—to hope and fear.
It does not answer the arguments of those who attack, but resorts to
sophistry, falsehood and slander. It is incapable of advancement. It
keeps its back to the sunrise, lives on myth and miracle, and guards
with a misers care the "sacred" superstitions of the past.

In the great struggle between the supernatural and the natural, between
gods and men, we have passed midnight. All the forces of civilization,
all the facts that have been found, all the truths that have been
discovered are the allies of science—the enemies of the supernatural.

We need no myths, no miracles, no gods, no devils.

IX.

FOR thousands of generations the myths have been taught and the miracles
believed. Every mother was a missionary and told with loving care the
falsehoods of "faith" to her babe. The poison of superstition was in the
mother's milk. She was honest and affectionate and her character, her
goodness, her smiles and kisses, entered into, mingled with, and became
a part of the superstition that she taught. Fathers, friends and priests
united with the mothers, and the children thus taught, became the
teachers of their children and so the creeds were kept alive.

Childhood loves the romantic, the mysterious, the monstrous. It lives in
a world where cause has nothing to do with effect, where the fairy waves
her hand and the prince appears. Where wish creates the thing desired
and facts become the slaves of amulet and charm. The individual lives
the life of the race, and the child is charmed with what the race in its
infancy produced.

There seems to be the same difference between mistakes and facts
that there is between weeds and corn. Mistakes seem to take care of
themselves, while the facts have to be guarded with all possible care.
Falsehoods like weeds flourish without care. Weeds care nothing for soil
or rain. They not only ask no help but they almost defy destruction. In
the minds of children, superstitions, legends, myths and miracles find a
natural, and in most instances a lasting home. Thrown aside in manhood,
forgotten or denied, in old age they oft return and linger to the end.

This in part accounts for the longevity of religious lies. Ministers
with clasped hands and uplifted eyes ask the man who is thinking for
himself how he can be wicked and heartless enough to attack the religion
of his mother. This question is regarded by the clergy as unanswerable.
Of course it is not to be asked by the missionaries, of the Hindus and
the Chinese. The heathen are expected to desert the religion of their
mothers as Christ and his apostles deserted the religion of their
mothers. It is right for Jews and heathen, but not for thinkers and
philosophers.

A cannibal was about to kill a missionary for food.

The missionary objected and asked the cannibal how he could be so cruel
and wicked.

The cannibal replied that he followed the example of his mother. "My
mother," said he, "was good enough for me. Her religion is my religion.
The last time I saw her she was sitting, propped up against a tree,
eating cold missionary."

But now the mother argument has mostly lost its force, and men of mind
are satisfied with nothing less than truth.

The phenomena of nature have been investigated and the supernatural has
not been found. The myths have faded from the imagination, and of them
nothing remains but the poetic. The miraculous has become the absurd,
the impossible. Gods and phantoms have been driven from the earth and
sky. We are living in a natural world.

Our fathers, some of them, demanded the freedom of religion. We have
taken another step. We demand the Religion of Freedom.

O Liberty, thou art the god of my idolatry! Thou art the only deity
that hateth bended knees. In thy vast and unwalled temple, beneath the
roofless dome, star-gemmed and luminous with suns, thy worshipers stand
erect! They do not cringe, or crawl, or bend their foreheads to the
earth. The dust has never borne the impress of their lips. Upon thy
altars mothers do not sacrifice their babes, nor men their rights. Thou
askest naught from man except the things that good men hate—the whip,
the chain, the dungeon key. Thou hast no popes, no priests, who stand
between their fellow-men and thee. Thou carest not for foolish forms,
or selfish prayers. At thy sacred shrine hypocrisy does not bow, virtue
does not tremble, superstition's feeble tapers do not burn, but Reason
holds aloft her inextinguishable torch whose holy light will one day
flood the world.
---
# Orthodoxy
_Dresden Edition, Volume 2, 1884_
IT is utterly inconceivable that any man believing in the truth of the
Christian religion should publicly deny it, because he who believes in
that religion would believe that, by a public denial, he would peril the
eternal salvation of his soul. It is conceivable, and without any great
effort of the mind, that millions who do not believe in the Christian
religion should openly say that they did. In a country where religion
is supposed to be in power—where it has rewards for pretence, where it
pays a premium upon hypocrisy, where it at least is willing to purchase
silence—it is easily conceivable that millions pretend to believe what
they do not. And yet I believe it has been charged against myself not
only that I was insincere, but that I took the side I am on for the sake
of popularity; and the audience to-night goes far toward justifying the
accusation.

Orthodox Religion Dying Out.

It gives me immense pleasure to say to this audience that orthodox
religion is dying out of the civilized world. It is a sick man. It has
been attacked with two diseases—softening of the brain and ossification
of the heart. It is a religion that no longer satisfies the intelligence
of this country; that no longer satisfies the brain; a religion against
which the heart of every civilized man and woman protests. It is a
religion that gives hope only to a few; that puts a shadow upon the
cradle; that wraps the coffin in darkness and fills the future of
mankind with flame and fear. It is a religion that I am going to do what
little I can while I live to destroy. In its place I want humanity,
I want good fellowship, I want intellectual liberty—free lips, the
discoveries and inventions of genius, the demonstrations of science—the
religion of art, music and poetry—of good houses, good clothes, good
wages—that is to say, the religion of this world.

Religious Deaths and Births.

We must remember that this is a world of progress, a world of perpetual
change—a succession of coffins and cradles. There is perpetual death,
and there is perpetual birth. By the grave of the old, forever stand
youth and joy; and when an old religion dies, a better one is born. When
we find out that an assertion is a falsehood a shining truth takes its
place, and we need not fear the destruction of the false. The more false
we destroy the more room there will be for the true.

There was a time when the astrologer sought to read in the stars the
fate of men and nations. The astrologer has faded from the world, but
the astronomer has taken his place. There was a time when the poor
alchemist, bent and wrinkled and old, over his crucible endeavored to
find some secret by which he could change the baser metals into purest
gold. The alchemist has gone; the chemist took his place; and, although
he finds nothing to change metals into gold, he finds something that
covers the earth with wealth. There was a time when the soothsayer and
augur flourished. After them came the parson and the priest; and the
parson and the priest must go. The preacher must go, and in his place
must come the teacher—the real interpreter of Nature. We are done with
the supernatural. We are through with the miraculous and the impossible.
There was once the prophet who pretended to read the book of the future.
His place has been taken by the philosopher, who reasons from cause to
effect—who finds the facts by which we are surrounded and endeavors
to reason from these premises and to tell what in all probability will
happen. The prophet has gone, the philosopher is here. There was a time
when man sought aid from heaven—when he prayed to the deaf sky. There
was a time when everything depended on the supernaturalist. That time in
Christendom is passing away. We now depend upon the naturalist—not upon
the believer in ancient falsehoods, but on the discoverer of facts—on
the demonstrater of truths. At last we are beginning to build on a
solid foundation, and as we progress, the supernatural dies. The leaders
of the intellectual world deny the existence of the supernatural. They
take from all superstition its foundation.

The Religion of Reciprocity.

Supernatural religion will fade from this world, and in its place we
shall have reason. In the place of the worship of something we know
not of, will be the religion of mutual love and assistance—the great
religion of reciprocity. Superstition must go. Science will remain. The
church dies hard. The brain of the world is not yet developed. There
are intellectual diseases as well as physical—there are pestilences and
plagues of the mind.

Whenever the new comes the old protests, and fights for its place as
long as it has a particle of power. We are now having the same warfare
between superstition and science that there was between the stage coach
and the locomotive. But the stage coach had to go. It had its day of
glory and power, but it is gone. It went West. In a little while it will
be driven into the Pacific. So we find that there is the same conflict
between the different sects and different schools not only of philosophy
but of medicine.

Recollect that everything except the demonstrated truth is liable
to die. That is the order of Nature. Words die. Every language has a
cemetery. Every now and then a word dies and a tombstone is erected, and
across it is written "obsolete." New words are continually being born.
There is a cradle in which a word is rocked. A thought is married to a
sound, and a child-word is born. And there comes a time when the word
gets old, and wrinkled, and expressionless, and is carried mournfully
to the grave. So in the schools of medicine. You can remember, so can I,
when the old allopathists, the bleeders and blisterers, reigned supreme.
If there was anything the matter with a man they let out his blood.
Called to the bedside, they took him on the point of a lancet to the
edge of eternity, and then practiced all their art to bring him back.
One can hardly imagine how perfect a constitution it took a few years
ago to stand the assault of a doctor. And long after the old practice
was found to be a mistake hundreds and thousands of the ancient
physicians clung to it, carried around with them, in one pocket a bottle
of jalap, and in the other a rusty lancet, sorry that they could not
find some patient with faith enough to allow the experiment to be made
again.

So these schools, and these theories, and these religions die hard. What
else can they do? Like the paintings of the old masters, they are kept
alive because so much money has been invested in them. Think of the
amount of money that has been invested in superstition! Think of the
schools that have been founded for the more general diffusion of useless
knowledge! Think of the colleges wherein men are taught that it is
dangerous to think, and that they must never use their brains except
in the act of faith! Think of the millions and billions of dollars that
have been expended in churches, in temples, and in cathedrals! Think of
the thousands and thousands of men who depend for their living upon the
ignorance of mankind! Think of those who grow rich on credulity and
who fatten on faith! Do you suppose they are going to die without a
struggle? What are they to do? From the bottom of my heart I sympathize
with the poor clergyman that has had all his common sense educated out
of him, and is now to be thrown upon the cold and unbelieving world. His
prayers are not answered; he gets no help from on high, and the pews are
beginning to criticise the pulpit. What is the man to do? If he suddenly
changes he is gone. If he preaches what he really believes he will get
notice to quit. And yet, if he and the congregation would come together
and be perfectly honest, they would all admit that they believe little
and know nothing.

Only a little while ago a couple of ladies were riding together from a
revival, late at night, and one said to the other, as they rode along:
"I am going to say something that will shock you, and I beg of you never
to tell it to anybody else. I am going to tell it to you." "Well, what
is it?" Said she: "I do not believe the Bible." The other replied:
"Neither do I."

I have often thought how splendid it would be if the ministers could but
come together and say: "Now, let us be honest. Let us tell each other,
honor bright"—like Dr. Curry, of Chicago, did in the meeting the other
day—"just what we believe." They tell a story that in the old time a
lot of people, about twenty, were in Texas in a little hotel, and one
fellow got up before the fire, put his hands behind him, and said:
"Boys, let us all tell our real names." If the ministers and their
congregations would only tell their real thoughts they would find that
they are nearly as bad as I am, and that they believe as little.

Orthodoxy dies hard, and its defenders tell us that this fact shows that
it is of divine origin. Judaism dies hard. It has lived several thousand
years longer than Christianity. The religion of Mohammed dies hard.

Buddhism dies hard. Why do all these religions die hard? Because
intelligence increases slowly.

Let me whisper in the ear of the Protestant: Catholicism dies hard. What
does that prove? It proves that the people are ignorant and that the
priests are cunning.

Let me whisper in the ear of the Catholic: Protestantism dies hard. What
does that prove? It proves that the people are superstitious and the
preachers stupid.

Let me whisper in all your ears: Infidelity is not dying—it is
growing—it increases every day. And what does that prove? It
proves that the people are learning more and more—that they are
advancing—that the mind is getting free, and that the race is being
civilized.

The clergy know that I know that they know that they do not know.

The Blows That Have Shattered the Shield and Shivered the Lance of
Superstition.

Mohammed.

Mohammed wrested from the disciples of the cross the fairest part of
Europe. It was known that he was an impostor, and that fact sowed the
seeds of distrust and infidelity in the Christian world. Christians made
an effort to rescue from the infidels the empty sepulchre of Christ.
That commenced in the eleventh century and ended at the close of the
thirteenth. Europe was almost depopulated. The fields were left waste,
the villages were deserted, nations were impoverished, every man who
owed a debt was discharged from payment if he put a cross upon his
breast and joined the Crusades. No matter what crime he had committed,
the doors of the prison were open for him to join the hosts of the
cross. They believed that God would give them victory, and they carried
in front of the first Crusade a goat and a goose, believing that both
those animals were blessed by the indwelling of the Holy Ghost. And I
may say that those same animals are in the lead to-day in the orthodox
world. Until the year 1291 they endeavored to gain possession of that
sepulchre, and finally the hosts of Christ were driven back, baffled and
beaten,—a poor, miserable, religious rabble. They were driven back, and
that fact sowed the seeds of distrust in Christendom. You know that at
that time the world believed in trial by battle—that God would take
the side of the right—and there had been a trial by battle between the
cross and the crescent, and Mohammed had been victorious. Was God at
that time governing the world? Was he endeavoring to spread his gospel?

The Destruction of Art.

You know that when Christianity came into power it destroyed every
statue it could lay its ignorant hands upon. It defaced and obliterated
every painting; it destroyed every beautiful building; it burned the
manuscripts, both Greek and Latin; it destroyed all the history, all
the poetry, all the philosophy it could find, and reduced to ashes every
library that it could reach with its torch. And the result was, that the
night of the Middle Ages fell upon the human race. But by accident,
by chance, by oversight, a few of the manuscripts escaped the fury of
religious zeal; and these manuscripts became the seed, the fruit of
which is our civilization of to-day. A few statues had been buried; a
few forms of beauty were dug from the earth that had protected them, and
now the civilized world is filled with art, the walls are covered with
paintings, and the niches filled with statuary. A few manuscripts were
found and deciphered. The old languages were learned, and literature
was again born. A new day dawned upon mankind. Every effort at mental
improvement had been opposed by the church, and yet, the few things
saved from the general wreck—a few poems, a few works of the ancient
thinkers, a few forms wrought in stone, produced a new civilization
destined to overthrow and destroy the fabric of superstition.

The Discovery of America.

What was the next blow that this church received? The discovery of
America. The Holy Ghost who inspired men to write the Bible did not
know of the existence of this continent, never dreamed of the Western
Hemisphere. The Bible left out half the world. The Holy Ghost did not
know that the earth is round. He did not dream that the earth is round.
He believed it was flat, although he made it himself. At that time
heaven was just beyond the clouds. It was there the gods lived, there
the angels were, and it was against that heaven that Jacob's ladder
leaned when the angels went up and down. It was to that heaven that
Christ ascended after his resurrection. It was up there that the New
Jerusalem was, with its streets of gold, and under this earth was
perdition. There was where the devils lived; where a pit was dug for
all unbelievers, and for men who had brains. I say that for this reason:
Just in proportion that you have brains, your chances for eternal joy
are lessened, according to this religion. And just in proportion that
you lack brains your chances are increased. At last they found that the
earth is round. It was circumnavigated by Magellan. In 1519 that brave
man set sail. The church told him: "The earth is flat, my friend; don't
go, you may fall off the edge." Magellan said: "I have seen the shadow
of the earth upon the moon, and I have more confidence in the shadow
than I have in the church." The ship went round. The earth was
circumnavigated. Science passed its hand above it and beneath it, and
where was the old heaven and where was the hell? Vanished forever! And
they dwell now only in the religion of superstition. We found there was
no place there for Jacob's ladder to lean against; no place there for
the gods and angels to live; no place to hold the waters of the deluge;
no place to which Christ could have ascended. The foundations of the
New Jerusalem crumbled. The towers and domes fell, and in their places
infinite space, sown with an infinite number of stars; not with New
Jerusalems, but with countless constellations.

Copernicus and Kepler.

Then man began to grow great, and with that came Astronomy, In 1473
Copernicus was born. In 1543 his great work appeared. In 1616 the system
of Copernicus was condemned by the pope, by the infallible Catholic
Church, and the church was about as near right upon that subject as upon
any other. The system of Copernicus was denounced. And how long do you
suppose the church fought that? Let me tell you. It was revoked by Pius
VII. in the year of grace 1821. For two hundred and seventy-eight years
after the death of Copernicus the church insisted that his system was
false, and that the old Bible astronomy was true. Astronomy is the first
help that we ever received from heaven. Then came Kepler in 1609, and
you may almost date the birth of science from the night that Kepler
discovered his first law. That was the break of the day. His first law,
that the planets do not move in circles but in ellipses; his second law,
that they describe equal spaces in equal times; his third law, that the
squares of their periodic times are proportional to the cubes of their
distances. That man gave us the key to the heavens. He opened the
infinite book, and in it read three lines.

I have not time to speak of Galileo, of Leonardo da Vinci, of Bruno, and
of hundreds of others who contributed to the intellectual wealth of the
world.

Special Providence.

The next thing that gave the church a blow was Statistics. We found by
taking statistics that we could tell the average length of human life;
that this human life did not depend upon infinite caprice; that it
depended upon conditions, circumstances, laws and facts, and that these
conditions, circumstances, and facts were during long periods of time
substantially the same. And now, the man who depends entirely upon
special providence gets his life insured. He has more confidence even
in one of these companies than he has in the whole Trinity. We found by
statistics that there were just so many crimes on an average committed;
just so many crimes of one kind and so many of another; just so many
suicides, so many deaths by drowning, so many accidents on an average,
so many men marrying women, for instance, older than themselves; so many
murders of a particular kind; just the same number of mistakes; and
I say to-night, statistics utterly demolish the idea of special
providence.

Only the other day a gentleman was telling me of a case of special
providence. He knew it. He had been the subject of it. A few years ago
he was about to go on a ship when he was detained. He did not go, and
the ship was lost with all on board.

"Yes!" I said, "Do you think the people who were drowned believed in
special providence?" Think of the infinite egotism of such a doctrine.
Here is a man that fails to go upon a ship with five hundred passengers
and they go down to the bottom of the sea—fathers, mothers, children,
and loving husbands and wives waiting upon the chores of expectation.
Here is one poor little wretch that did not happen to go! And he thinks
that God, the Infinite Being, interfered in his poor little withered
behalf and let the rest all go. That is special providence. Why does
special providence allow all the crimes? Why are the wife-beaters
protected, and why are the wives and children left defenceless if the
hand of God is over us all? Who protects the insane? Why does Providence
permit insanity? But the church cannot give up special providence. If
there is no such thing, then no prayers, no worship, no churches, no
priests. What would become of National Thanksgiving?

You know we have a custom every year of issuing a proclamation of
thanksgiving. We say to God, "Although you have afflicted all the other
countries, although you have sent war, and desolation, and famine on
everybody else, we have been such good children that you have been
kind to us, and we hope you will keep on." It does not make a bit of
difference whether we have good times or not—the thanksgiving is always
exactly the same. I remember a few years ago a governor of Iowa got out
a proclamation of that kind. He went on to tell how thankful the people
were and how prosperous the State had been. There was a young fellow in
that State who got out another proclamation, saying that he feared the
Lord might be misled by official correspondence; that the governor's
proclamation was entirely false; that the State was not prosperous; that
the crops had been an almost utter failure; that nearly every farm in
the State was mortgaged, and that if the Lord did not believe him, all
he asked was that he would send some angel in whom he had confidence, to
look the matter over and report.

Charles Darwin.

This century will be called Darwin's century. He was one of the greatest
men who ever touched this globe. He has explained more of the phenomena
of life than all of the religious teachers. Write the name of Charles
Darwin on the one hand and the name of every theologian who ever lived
on the other, and from that name has come more light to the world
than from all of those. His doctrine of evolution, his doctrine of the
survival of the fittest, his doctrine of the origin of species,
has removed in every thinking mind the last vestige of orthodox
Christianity. He has not only stated, but he has demonstrated, that the
inspired writer knew nothing of this world, nothing of the origin of
man, nothing of geology, nothing of astronomy, nothing of nature; that
the Bible is a book written by ignorance—at the instigation of fear.
Think of the men who replied to him. Only a few years ago there was no
person too ignorant to successfully answer Charles Darwin; and the more
ignorant he was the more cheerfully he undertook the task. He was held
up to the ridicule, the scorn and contempt of the Christian world, and
yet when he died, England was proud to put his dust with that of her
noblest and her grandest. Charles Darwin conquered the intellectual
world, and his doctrines are now accepted facts. His light has broken
in on some of the clergy, and the greatest man who to-day occupies
the pulpit of one of the orthodox: churches, Henry Ward Beecher, is a
believer in the theories of Charles Darwin—a man of more genius than
all the clergy of that entire church put together.

And yet we are told in this little creed that orthodox religion is about
to conquer the world! It will be driven to the wilds of Africa. It must
go to some savage country; it has lost its hold upon civilization. It is
unfortunate to have a religion that cannot be accepted by the intellect
of a nation. It is unfortunate to have a religion against which every
good and noble heart protests. Let us have a good religion or none. My
pity has been excited by seeing these ministers endeavor to warp and
twist the passages of Scripture to fit the demonstrations of science. Of
course, I have not time to recount all the discoveries and events that
have assisted in the destruction of superstition. Every fact is an
enemy of the church. Every fact is a heretic. Every demonstration is
an infidel. Everything that ever really happened testifies against the
supernatural.

The church teaches that man was created perfect, and that for six
thousand years he has degenerated. Darwin demonstrated the falsity
of this dogma. He shows that man has for thousands of ages steadily
advanced; that the Garden of Eden is an ignorant myth; that the doctrine
of original sin has no foundation in fact; that the atonement is an
absurdity; that the serpent did not tempt, and that man did not "fall."

Charles Darwin destroyed the foundation of orthodox Christianity. There
is nothing left but faith in what we know could not and did not happen.
Religion and science are enemies. One is a superstition; the other is
a fact. One rests upon the false, the other upon the true. One is the
result of fear and faith, the other of investigation and reason.

The Creeds.

I have been talking a great deal about the orthodox religion. Often,
after having delivered a lecture, I have met some good, religious person
who has said to me:

"You do not tell it as we believe it."

"Well, but I tell it as you have it written in your creed."

"Oh, we don't mind the creed any more."

"Then, why do you not change it?"

"Oh, well, we understand it as it is, and if we tried to change it,
maybe we would not agree."

Possibly the creeds are in the best condition now. There is a tacit
understanding that they do not believe them, that there is a way to
get around them, and that they can read between the lines; that if they
should meet now to form new creeds they would fail to agree; and that
now they can say as they please, except in public. Whenever they do so
in public the church, in self-defence, must try them; and I believe in
trying every minister that does not preach the doctrine he agrees to.
I have not the slightest sympathy with a Presbyterian preacher who
endeavors to preach infidelity from a Presbyterian pulpit and receives
Presbyterian money. When he changes his views he should step down and
out like a man, and say, "I do not believe your doctrine, and I will not
preach it. You must hire some other man." The Latest Creed.

But I find that I have correctly interpreted the creeds. There was put
into my hands the new Congregational creed. I have read it, and I will
call your attention to it to-night, to find whether that church has made
any advance; to find whether the sun of science has risen in the heavens
in vain; whether they are still the children of intellectual darkness;
whether they still consider it necessary for you to believe something
that you by no possibility can understand, in order to be a winged angel
forever. Now, let us see what their creed is. I will read a little of
it.

They commence by saying that they

"_Believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth,
and of all things visible and invisible_."

They say, now, that there is the one personal God; that he is the maker
of the universe and its ruler. I again ask the old question, Of what did
he make it? If matter has not existed through eternity, then this God
made it. Of what did he make it? What did he use for the purpose? There
was nothing in the universe except this God. What had the God been doing
for the eternity he had been living? He had made nothing—called nothing
into existence; never had had an idea, because it is impossible to have
an idea unless there is something to excite an idea. What had he been
doing? Why does not the Congregational Church tell us? How do they know
about this Infinite Being? And if he is infinite how can they comprehend
him? What good is it to believe in something that you know you do not
understand, and that you never can understand?

In the Episcopalian creed God is described as follows:

"_There is but one living and true God, everlasting, without body, parts
or passions_."

Think of that!—without body, parts, or passions.

I defy any man in the world to write a better description of nothing.
You cannot conceive of a finer word-painting of a vacuum than "without
body, parts, or passions." And yet this God, without passions, is angry
at the wicked every day; this God, without passions, is a jealous God,
whose anger burneth to the lowest hell. This God, without passions,
loves the whole human race; and this God, without passions, damns a
large majority of mankind. This God without body, walked in the Garden
of Eden, in the cool of the day. This God, without body, talked with
Adam and Eve. This God, without body, or parts met Moses upon Mount
Sinai, appeared at the door of the tabernacle, and talked with Moses
face to face as a man speaketh to his friend. This description of God is
simply an effort of the church to describe a something of which it has
no conception.

God as a Governor.

So, too, I find the following:

"_We believe that the Providence of God, by which he executes his
eternal purposes in the government of the world, is in and over all
events._"

Is God the governor of the world? Is this established by the history of
nations? What evidence can you find, if you are absolutely honest and
not frightened, in the history of the world, that this universe is
presided over by an infinitely wise and good God?

How do you account for Russia? How do you account for Siberia? How do
you account for the fact that whole races of men toiled beneath the
master's lash for ages without recompense and without reward? How do you
account for the fact that babes were sold from the arms of mothers—arms
that had been reached toward God in supplication? How do you account for
it? How do you account for the existence of martyrs? How do you account
for the fact that this God allows people to be burned simply for loving
him? Is justice always done? Is innocence always acquitted? Do the
good succeed? Are the honest fed? Are the charitable clothed? Are the
virtuous shielded? How do you account for the fact that the world has
been filled with pain, and grief, and tears? How do you account for the
fact that people have been swallowed by earthquakes, overwhelmned by
volcanoes, and swept from the earth by storms? Is it easy to account
for famine, for pestilence and plague if there be above us all a Ruler
infinitely good, powerful and wise?

I do not say there is none. I do not know. As I have said before, this
is the only planet I was ever on. I live in one of the rural districts
of the universe, and do not know about these things as much as the
clergy pretend to, but if they know no more about the other world than
they do about this, it is not worth mentioning.

How do they answer all this? They say that God "permits" it. What would
you say to me if I stood by and saw a ruffian beat out the brains of a
child, when I had full and perfect power to prevent it? You would say
truthfully that I was as bad as the murderer. Is it possible for this
God to prevent it? Then, if he does not he is a fiend; he is no god.
But they say he "permits" it. What for? So that we may have freedom of
choice. What for? So that God may find, I suppose, who are good and who
are bad. Did he not know that when he made us? Did he not know exactly
just what he was making? Why should he make those whom he knew would be
criminals? If I should make a machine that would walk your streets and
take the lives of people you would hang me. And if God made a man whom
he knew would commit murder, then God is guilty of that murder. If God
made a man knowing that he would beat his wife, that he would starve
his children, that he would strew on either side of his path of life the
wrecks of ruined homes, then I say the being who knowingly called that
wretch into existence is directly responsible. And yet we are to find
the providence of God in the history of nations. What little I have read
shows me that when man has been helped, man has done it; when the
chains of slavery have been broken, they have been broken by man; when
something bad has been done in the government of mankind, it is easy to
trace it to man, and to fix the responsibility upon human beings. You
need not look to the sky; you need throw neither praise nor blame upon
gods; you can find the efficient causes nearer home—right here.

The Love of God.

What is the next thing I find in this creed?

"_We believe that man was made in the image of God, that he might know,
love, and obey God, and enjoy him forever._"

I do not believe that anybody ever did love God, because nobody ever
knew anything about him. We love each other. We love something that we
know. We love something that our experience tells us is good and great
and beautiful. We cannot by any possibility love the unknown. We can
love truth, because truth adds to human happiness. We can love justice,
because it preserves human joy. We can love charity. We can love every
form of goodness that we know, or of which we can conceive, but we
cannot love the infinitely unknown. And how can we be made in the image
of something that has neither body, parts, nor passions?

The Fall of Man.

The Congregational Church has not outgrown the doctrine of "original
sin." We are told that:

"_Our first parents, by disobedience, fell under the condemnation
of God, and that all men are so alienated from God that there is no
salvation from the guilt and power of sin except through God's redeeming
power._"

Is there an intelligent man or woman now in the world who believes in
the Garden of Eden story? If you find any man who believes it, strike
his forehead and you will hear an echo. Something is for rent. Does any
intelligent man now believe that God made man of dust, and woman of a
rib, and put them in a garden, and put a tree in the midst of it? Was
there not room outside of the garden to put his tree, if he did not want
people to eat his apples?

If I did not want a man to eat my fruit, I would not put him in my
orchard.

Does anybody now believe in the story of the serpent? I pity any man or
woman who, in this nineteenth century, believes in that childish fable.
Why did Adam and Eve disobey? Why, they were tempted. By whom? The
devil. Who made the devil? God. What did God make him for? Why did
he not tell Adam and Eve about this serpent? Why did he not watch the
devil, instead of watching Adam and Eve? Instead of turning them out,
why did he not keep him from getting in? Why did he not have his flood
first, and drown the devil, before he made a man and woman.

And yet, people who call themselves intelligent—professors in colleges
and presidents of venerable institutions—teach children and young men
that the Garden of Eden story is an absolute historical fact. I defy
any man to think of a more childish thing. This God, waiting around
Eden—knowing all the while what would happen—having made them on
purpose so that it would happen, then does what? Holds all of us
responsible, and we were not there. Here is a representative before the
constituency had been born. Before I am bound by a representative I want
a chance to vote for or against him; and if I had been there, and known
all the circumstances, I should have voted "No!" And yet, I am held
responsible.

We are told by the Bible and by the churches that through this fall of
man "_Sin and death entered the world?_"

According to this, just as soon as Adam and Eve had partaken of the
forbidden fruit, God began to contrive ways by which he could destroy
the lives of his children. He invented all the diseases—all the fevers
and coughs and colds—all the pains and plagues and pestilences—all the
aches and agonies, the malaria and spores; so that when we take a breath
of air we admit into our lungs unseen assassins; and, fearing that some
might live too long, even under such circumstances, God invented the
earthquake and volcano, the cyclone and lightning, animalcules to infest
the heart and brain, so small that no eye can detect—no instrument
reach. This was all owing to the disobedience of Adam and Eve!

In his infinite goodness, God invented rheumatism and gout and
dyspepsia, cancers and neuralgia, and is still inventing new diseases.
Not only this', but he decreed the pangs of mothers, and that by the
gates of love and life should crouch the dragons of death and pain.
Fearing that some might, by accident, live too long, he planted
poisonous vines and herbs that looked like food. He caught the serpents
he had made and gave them fangs and curious organs, ingeniously devised
to distill and deposit the deadly drop. He changed the nature of the
beasts, that they might feed on human flesh. He cursed a world, and
tainted every spring and source of joy. He poisoned every breath of air;
corrupted even light, that it might bear disease on every ray; tainted
every drop of blood in human veins; touched every nerve, that it
might bear the double fruit of pain and joy; decreed all accidents and
mistakes that maim and hurt and kill, and set the snares of life-long
grief, baited with present pleasure,—with a moment's joy. Then and
there he foreknew and foreordained all human tears. And yet all this is
but the prelude, the introduction, to the infinite revenge of the good
God. Increase and multiply all human griefs until the mind has reached
imagination's farthest verge, then add eternity to time, and you may
faintly tell, but never can conceive, the infinite horrors of this
doctrine called "The Fall of Man." The Atonement.

We are further told that:

"_All men are so alienated from God that there is no alleviation from
the guilt and power of sin except through God's redeeming grace;_"

And that:

"_We believe that the love of God to sinful man has found its highest
expression in the redemptive work of his Son, who became man, uniting
his divine nature with our human nature in one person; who was tempted
like other men and yet without sin, and by his humiliation, his holy
obedience, his sufferings, his death on the cross, and his resurrection,
became a perfect redeemer; whose sacrifice of himself for the sins
of the world declares the righteousness of God, and is the sole and
sufficient ground of forgiveness and of reconciliation with him_."

The absurdity of the doctrine known as "The Fall of Man," gave birth
to that other absurdity known as "The Atonement." So that now it is
insisted that, as we are rightfully charged with the sin of somebody
else, we can rightfully be credited with the virtues of another. Let us
leave out of our philosophy both these absurdities. Our creed will read
a great deal better with both of them out, and will make far better
sense.

Now, in consequence of Adam's sin, everybody is alienated from God. How?
Why? Oh, we are all depraved, you know; we all do wrong. Well, why?
Is that because we are depraved? No. Why do we make so many mistakes?
Because there is only one right way, and there is an almost infinite
number of wrong ways; and as long as we are not perfect in our
intellects we must make mistakes. "There is no darkness but ignorance,"
and alienation, as they call it, from God, is simply a lack of
intellect. Why were we not given better brains? That may account for the
alienation.

The church teaches that every soul that finds its way to the shore of
this world is against God—naturally hates God; that the little dimpled
child in the cradle is simply a chunk of depravity. Everybody against
God! It is a libel upon the human race; it is a libel upon all the men
who have worked for wife and child; upon all mothers who have suffered
and labored, wept and worked; upon all the men who have died for their
country; upon all who have fought for human liberty. Leave out the
history of religion and there is little left to prove the depravity of
man.

Everybody that comes is against God! Every soul, they think, is like the
wrecked Irishman, who drifted to an unknown island, and as he climbed
the shore saw a man and said to him, "Have you a Government here?" The
man replied "We have." "Well," said he, "I'm forninst it!"

The church teaches us that such is the attitude of every soul in the
universe of God. Ought a god to take any credit to himself for making
depraved people? A god that cannot make a soul that is not totally
depraved, I respectfully suggest, should retire from the business. And
if a god has made us, knowing that we are totally depraved, why should
we go to the same being to be "born again?"

The Second Birth.

The church insists that we must be "born again" and that all who are not
the subjects of this second birth are heirs of everlasting fire. Would
it not have been much better to have made another Adam and Eve? Would it
not have been better to change Noah and his people, so that after that a
second birth would not have been necessary? Why not purify the fountain
of all human life? Why allow the earth to be peopled with depraved and
monstrous beings, each one of whom must be re-made, re-formed, and born
again?

And yet, even reformation is not enough. If the man who steals
becomes perfectly honest, that is not enough; if the man who hates his
fellow-man, changes and loves his fellow-man, that is not enough; he
must go through that mysterious thing called the second birth; he must
be born again. He must have faith; he must believe something that
he does not understand, and experience what they call "conversion."
According to the church, nothing so excites the wrath of God—nothing so
corrugates the brows of Jehovah with hatred—as a man relying on his own
good works. He must admit that he ought to be damned, and that of the
two he prefers it, before God will consent to save him.

I met a man the other day, who said to me, "I am a Unitarian
Universalist." "What do you mean by that?" I asked. "Well," said he,
"this is what I mean: the Unitarian thinks he is too good to be damned,
and the Universalist thinks God is too good to damn him, and I believe
them both."

Is it possible that the sacrifice of a perfect being was acceptable to
God? Will he accept the agony of innocence for the punishment of guilt?
Will he release Barabbas and crucify Christ?

Inspiration.

What is the next thing in this great creed?

"_We believe that the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments are the
record of God's revelation of Himself, the work of redemption; that
they were written by men under the special guidance of the holy spirit;
that they are able to make wise unto salvation; and that they constitute
an authoritative standard by which religious teaching and human conduct
are to be regulated and judged._"

This is the creed of the Congregational Church; that is, the result
reached by a high-joint commission appointed to draw up a creed for
their churches; and there we have the statement that the Bible was
written "by men under the special guidance of the Holy Spirit."

What part of the Bible? All of it? All of it. And yet what is this Old
Testament that was written by an infinitely good God? The being who
wrote it did not know the shape of the world he had made; knew nothing
of human nature. He commands men to love him, as if one could love upon
command. The same God upheld the institution of human slavery; and the
church says that the Bible that upholds that institution was written by
men under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Then I disagree with the Holy
Spirit.

This church tells us that men under the guidance of the Holy Spirit
upheld the institution of polygamy—I deny it; that under the
guidance of the Holy Spirit these men upheld wars of extermination and
conquest—I deny it; that under the guidance of the Holy Spirit these
men wrote that it was right for a man to destroy the life of his wife if
she happened to differ with him on the subject of religion—I deny it.
And yet that is the book now upheld in this creed of the Congregational
Church.

If the devil had written upon the subject of slavery, which side would
he have taken? Let every minister answer. If you knew the devil had
written a work on human slavery, in your judgment, would he uphold
slavery, or denounce it? Would you regard it as any evidence that he
ever wrote it, if it upheld slavery? And yet, here you have a work
upholding slavery, and you say that it was written by an infinitely good
God! If the devil upheld polygamy, would you be surprised? If the devil
wanted to kill men for differing with him would you be astonished? If
the devil told a man to kill his wife, would you be shocked? And yet,
you say, that is exactly what God did. If there be a God, then that
creed is blasphemy. That creed is a libel upon him who sits on heaven's
throne. If there be a God, I ask him to write in the book in which my
account is kept, that I denied these lies for him.

I do not believe in a slaveholding God! I do not worship a polygamous
Holy Ghost, nor a Son who threatens eternal pain; I will not get upon my
knees before any being who commands a husband to slay his wife because
she expresses her honest thought. Suppose a book should be found old as
the Old Testament in which slavery, polygamy and war are all denounced,
would Christians think that it was written by the devil?

Did it ever occur to you that if God wrote the Old Testament, and
told the Jews to crucify or kill anybody that disagreed with them on
religion, and that this God afterward took upon himself flesh and came
to Jerusalem, and taught a different religion, and the Jews killed
him—did it ever occur to you that he reaped exactly what he had sown?
Did it ever occur to you that he fell a victim to his own tyranny, and
was destroyed by his own hand? Of course I do not believe that any God
ever was the author of the Bible, or that any God was ever crucified,
or that any God was ever killed, or ever will be, but I want to ask you
that question.

Take this Old Testament, then, with all its stories of murder and
massacre; with all its foolish and cruel fables; with all its infamous
doctrines; with its spirit of caste; with its spirit of hatred, and
tell me whether it was written by a good God. If you will read the
maledictions and curses of that book, you will think that God, like
Lear, had divided heaven among his daughters, and then, in the insanity
of despair, had launched his curses on the human race.

And yet, I must say—I must admit—that the Old Testament is better
than the New. In the Old Testament, when God had a man dead, he let
him alone. When he saw him quietly in his grave he was satisfied. The
muscles relaxed, and the frown gave place to a smile. But in the New
Testament the trouble commences at death. In the New Testament God is
to wreak his revenge forever and ever. It was reserved for one who said,
"Love your enemies," to tear asunder the veil between time and eternity
and fix the horrified gaze of man upon the gulfs of eternal fire. The
New Testament is just as much worse than the Old, as hell is worse than
sleep; just as much worse, as infinite cruelty is worse than dreamless
rest; and yet, the New Testament is claimed to be a gospel of love and
peace.

Is it possible that: "_The Scriptures constitute the authoritative
standard by which religious teaching and human conduct are to be
regulated and judged"?_

Are we to judge of conduct by the Old Testament, by the New, or by both?
According to the Old, the slaveholder was a just and generous man; a
polygamist was a model of virtue. According to the New, the worst can be
forgiven and the best can be lost. How can any book be a standard,
when the standard itself must be measured by human reason? Is there a
standard of a standard? Must not the reason be convinced? and, if so, is
not the reason of each man the final arbiter of that man? If he takes a
book as a standard, does he so take it because it is to him reasonable?
In what way is the human reason to be ignored? Why should a book take
its place, unless the reason has been convinced that the book is the
proper standard? If this is so, the book rests upon the reason of those
who adopt it. Are they to be saved because they act in accordance with
their reason, and are others to be damned because they act by the same
standard—their reason? No two are alike. Can we demand of all the same
result? Suppose the compasses were not constant to the pole—no two
compasses exactly alike—would you expect all ships to reach the same
harbor?

The Reign of Truth and Love.

I also find in this creed the following:

"_We believe that Jesus Christ came to establish among men the Kingdom
of God, the reign of truth and love, of righteousness and peace!_"

Well, that may have been the object of Jesus Christ. I do not deny it.
But what was the result? The Christian world has caused more war than
all the rest of the world beside. Most of the cunning instruments of
death have been devised by Christians. All the wonderful machinery by
which the life is blown from men, by which nations are conquered and
enslaved—all these machines have been born in Christian brains. And yet
he came to bring peace, they say; but the Testament says otherwise: "I
came not to bring peace, but a sword." And the sword was brought. What
are the Christian nations doing to-day in Europe? Is there a solitary
Christian nation that will trust any other? How many millions of
Christians are in the uniform of forgiveness, armed with the muskets of
love?

There was an old Spaniard on the bed of death, who sent for a priest,
and the priest told him that he would have to forgive his enemies before
he died. He said, "I have none." "What! no enemies?" "Not one," said the
dying man; "I killed the last one three months ago."

How many millions of Christians are now armed and equipped to destroy
their fellow-Christians? Who are the men in Europe crying against war?
Who wishes to have the nations disarmed? Is it the church? No; the men
who do not believe in what they call this religion of peace. When there
is a war, and when they make a few thousand widows and orphans; when
they strew the plain with dead patriots, Christians assemble in their
churches and sing "Te Deum Laudamus." Why? Because he has enabled a
few of his children to kill some others of his children. This is the
religion of peace—the religion that invented the Krupp gun, that will
hurl a ball weighing two thousand pounds through twenty-four inches
of solid steel. This is the religion of peace that covers the sea with
men-of-war, clad in mail, in the name of universal forgiveness. This is
the religion that drills and uniforms five millions of men to kill their
fellows.

The Wars It Brought.

What effect has this religion had upon the nations of the earth? What
have the nations been fighting about? What was the Thirty Years' War
in Europe for? What was the war in Holland for? Why was it that England
persecuted Scotland? Why is it that England persecutes Ireland even to
this day? At the bottom of every one of these conflicts you will find
a religious question. The religion of Jesus Christ, as preached by his
church, causes war, bloodshed, hatred, and all uncharitableness; and
why? Because, they say, a certain belief is necessary to salvation. They
do not say, if you behave yourself you will get there; they do not say,
if you pay your debts and love your wife and love your children, and are
good to your friends, and your neighbors, and your country, you will
get there; that will do you no good; you have got to believe a certain
thing. No matter how bad you are, you can instantly be forgiven; and no
matter how good you are, if you fail to believe that which you cannot
understand, the moment you get to the day of judgment nothing is left
but to damn you, and all the angels will shout "hallelujah."

What do they teach to-day? Nearly every murderer goes to heaven; there
is only one step from the gallows to God, only one jerk between the
halter and heaven. That is taught by this church.

I believe there ought to be a law to prevent the giving of the slightest
religious consolation to any man who has been found guilty of murder.
Let a Catholic understand that if he imbrues his hands in his brother's
blood, he can have no extreme unction. Let it be understood that he
can have no forgiveness through the church; and let the Protestant
understand that when he has committed that crime the community will not
pray him into heaven. Let him go with his victim. The victim, dying in
his sins, goes to hell, and the murderer has the happiness of seeing him
there. If heaven grows dull and monotonous, the murderer can again give
life to the nerve of pleasure by watching the agony of his victim.

The truth is, Christianity has not made friends; it has made enemies. It
is not, as taught, the religion of peace, it is the religion of war.
Why should a Christian hesitate to kill a man that his God is waiting
to damn? Why should a Christian not destroy an infidel who is trying to
assassinate his soul? Why should a Christian pity an unbeliever—one who
has rejected the Bible—when he knows that God will be pitiless forever?
And yet we are told, in this creed, that "_we believe in the ultimate
prevalence of the Kingdom of Christ over all the earth._"

What makes you? Do you judge from the manner in which you are getting
along now? How many people are being born a year? About fifty millions.
How many are you converting a year, really, truthfully? Five or six
thousand. I think I have overstated the number. Is orthodox Christianity
on the increase? No. There are a hundred times as many unbelievers in
orthodox Christianity as there were ten years ago. What are you doing in
the missionary world? How long is it since you converted a Chinaman?
A fine missionary religion, to send missionaries with their Bibles and
tracts to China, but if a Chinaman comes here, mob him, simply to show
him the difference between the practical and theoretical workings of the
Christian religion. How long since you have had an intelligent convert
in India? In my judgment, never; there never has been an intelligent
Hindoo converted from the time the first missionary put his foot on
that soil; and never, in my judgment, has an intelligent Chinaman been
converted since the first missionary touched that shore. Where are they?
We hear nothing of them, except in the reports. They get money from poor
old ladies, trembling on the edge of the grave, and go and tell them
stories, how hungry the average Chinaman is for a copy of the New
Testament, and paint the sad condition of a gentleman in the interior
of Africa without the works of Dr. McCosh, longing for a copy of _The
Princeton Review_,—in my judgment, a pamphlet that would suit a savage.
Thus money is scared from the dying, and frightened from the old and
feeble.

About how long is it before this kingdom is to be established? No one
objects to the establishment of peace and good will. Every good man
longs for the time when war shall cease. We are all hoping for a day of
universal justice—a day of universal freedom—when man shall control
himself, when the passions shall become obedient to the intelligent
will. But the coming of that day will not be hastened by preaching the
doctrines of total depravity and eternal revenge. That sun will not rise
the quicker for preaching salvation by faith. The star that shines
above that dawn, the herald of that day, is Science, not
superstition,—Reason, not religion.

To show you how little advance has been made, how many intellectual bats
and mental owls still haunt the temple, still roost above the altar,
I call your attention to the fact that the Congregational Church,
according to this creed; still believes in the resurrection of the dead,
and in their Confession of Faith, attached to the creed, I find that
they also believe in the literal resurrection of the body.

The Resurrection.

Does anybody believe that, who has the courage to think for himself?
Here is a man, for instance, that weighs 200 pounds and gets sick
and dies weighing 120; how much will he weigh in the morning of the
resurrection? Here is a cannibal, who eats another man; and we know that
the atoms you eat go into your body and become a part of you. After
the cannibal has eaten the missionary, and appropriated his atoms to
himself, and then dies, to whom will the atoms belong in the morning of
the resurrection? Could the missionary maintain an action of replevin,
and if so, what would the cannibal do for a body? It has been
demonstrated, in so far as logic can demonstrate anything, that there
is no creation and no destruction in Nature. It has been demonstrated,
again and again, that the atoms in us have been in millions of other
beings; have grown in the forests and in the grass, have blossomed in
flowers, and been in the metals. In other words, there are atoms in each
one of us that have been in millions of others; and when we die, these
atoms return to the earth, again appear in grass and trees, are again
eaten by animals, and again devoured by countless vegetable mouths and
turned into wood; and yet this church, in the nineteenth century,'in a
council composed of, and presided over by, professors and presidents
of colleges and theologians, solemnly tells us that it believes in the
literal resurrection of the body. This is almost enough to make
one despair of the future—almost enough to convince a man of the
immortality of the absurd. They know better. There is not one so
ignorant but knows better.

The Judgment-Day.

And what is the next thing?

"_We believe in a final judgment, the issues of which are everlasting
punishment and everlasting life!_"

At the final judgment all of us will be there. The thousands, and
millions, and billions, and trillions, and quadrillions that have died
will be there. The books will be opened, and each case will be called.
The sheep and the goats will be divided. The unbelievers will be sent to
the left, while the faithful will proudly walk to the right. The saved,
without a tear, will bid an eternal farewell to those who loved them
here—to those they loved. Nearly all the human race will go away to
everlasting punishment, and the fortunate few to eternal life. This
is the consolation of the Congregational Church! This is the hope that
dispels the gloom of life!

Pious Evasions.

When the clergy are caught, they give a different meaning to the
words and say the world was not made in seven days. They say "good
whiles"—"epochs."

And in this same Confession of Faith and in this creed they say that the
Lord's day is holy—every seventh day. Suppose you lived near the North
Pole where the day is three months long. Then which day would you keep?
If you could get to the North Pole you could prevent Sunday from ever
overtaking you. You could walk around the other way faster than the
world could revolve. How would you keep Sunday then? Suppose we invent
something that can go one thousand miles an hour? We can chase Sunday
clear around the globe. Is there anything that can be more perfectly
absurd than that a space of time can be holy? You might as well talk
about a virtuous vacuum. We are now told that the Bible is not a
scientific book, and that after all we cannot depend on what God said
four thousand years ago—that his ways are not as our ways—that we must
accept without evidence, and believe without understanding.

I heard the other night of an old man. He was not very well educated,
and he got into the notion that he must have reading of the Bible and
family worship. There was a bad boy in the family, and they were reading
the Bible by course. In the fifteenth chapter of Corinthians is this
passage: "Behold, brethren, I show you a mystery; we shall not all
die, but we shall all be changed." This boy had rubbed out the "c" in
"changed." So when the old man put on his spectacles, and got down his
Bible, he read: "Behold, brethren, I show you a mystery, we shall not
all die, but we shall all be hanged." The old lady said, "Father, I
don't think it reads that way." He said, "Who is reading this?" "Yes
mother, it says 'hanged,' and, more than that, I see the sense of it.
Pride is the besetting sin of the human heart, and if there is anything
calculated to take the pride out of a man it is hanging." It is in this
way that ministers avoid and explain the discoveries of Science.

People ask me, if I take away the Bible what are we going to do? How can
we get along without the revelation that no one understands? What are
we going to do if we have no Bible to quarrel about What are we to do
without hell? What are we going to do with our enemies? What are we
going to do with the people we love but don't like?

"No Bible, No Civilization."

They tell me that there never would have been any civilization if it had
not been for this Bible. The Jews had a Bible; the Romans had not. Which
had the greater and the grander government? Let us be honest. Which of
those nations produced the greatest poets, the greatest soldiers, the
greatest orators, the greatest statesmen, the greatest sculptors? Rome
had no Bible. God cared nothing for the Roman Empire. He let the men
come up by chance. His time was taken up with the Jewish people. And
yet Rome conquered the world, including the chosen people of God. The
people who had the Bible were defeated by the people who had not. How
was it possible for Lucretius to get along without the Bible?—how did
the great and glorious of that empire? And what shall we say of Greece?
No Bible. Compare Athens with Jerusalem. From Athens come the beauty and
intellectual grace of the world. Compare the mythology of Greece with
the mythology of Judea; one covering the earth with beauty, and the
other filling heaven with hatred and injustice. The Hindoos had no
Bible; they had been forsaken by the Creator, and yet they became the
greatest metaphysicians of the world. Egypt had no Bible. Compare Egypt
with Judea. What are we to do without the Bible? What became of the Jews
who had a Bible? Their temple was destroyed and their city was taken;
and they never found real prosperity until their God deserted them. The
Turks attributed all their victories to the Koran. The Koran gave them
their victories over the believers in the Bible. The priests of each
nation have accounted for the prosperity of that nation by its religion.

The Christians mistake an incident for a cause, and honestly imagine
that the Bible is the foundation of modern liberty and law. They forget
physical conditions, make no account of commerce, care nothing for
inventions and discoveries, and ignorantly give the credit to their
inspired book.

The foundations of our civilization were laid centuries before
Christianity was known. The intelligence of courage, of self-government,
of energy, of industry, that uniting made the civilization of this
century, did not come alone from Judea, but from every nation of the
ancient world.

Miracles of the New Testament.

There are many things in the New Testament that I cannot accept as true.

I cannot believe in the miraculous origin of Jesus Christ. I believe he
was the son of Joseph and Mary; that Joseph and Mary had been duly and
legally married; that he was the legitimate offspring of that union.
Nobody ever believed the contrary until he had been dead at least one
hundred and fifty years. Neither Matthew, Mark, nor Luke ever dreamed
that he was of divine origin. He did not say to either Matthew, Mark,
or Luke, or to any one in their hearing, that he was the Son of God,
or that he was miraculously conceived. He did not say it. It may be
asserted that he said it to John, but John did not write the gospel
that bears his name. The angel Gabriel, who, they say, brought the news,
never wrote a word upon the subject. The mother of Christ never wrote
a word upon the subject. His alleged father never wrote a word upon
the subject, and Joseph never admitted the story. We are lacking in
the matter of witnesses. I would not believe such a story now. I cannot
believe that it happened then. I would not believe people I know, much
less would I believe people I do not know.

At that time Matthew and Luke believed that Christ was the son of Joseph
and Mary. And why? they say he descended from David, and in order to
show that he was of the blood of David, they gave the genealogy of
Joseph. And if Joseph was not his father, why did they not give the
genealogy of Pontius Pilate or of Herod? Could they, by giving the
genealogy of Joseph, show that he was of the blood of David if Joseph
was in no way related to Christ? And yet that is the position into which
the Christian world is driven. In the New Testament we find that in
giving the genealogy of Christ it says, "who was the son of Joseph?" and
the church has interpolated the words "as was supposed." Why did they
give a supposed genealogy? It will not do. And that is a thing that
cannot in any way, by any human testimony, be established.

If it is important for us to know that he was the Son of God, I say,
then, that it devolves upon God to give us the evidence. Let him write
it across the face of the heavens, in every language of mankind. If it
is necessary for us to believe it, let it grow on every leaf next
year. No man should be damned for not believing, unless the evidence is
overwhelming. And he ought not to be made to depend upon say so, or upon
"as was supposed." He should have it directly, for himself. A man says
that God told him a certain thing, and he tells me, and I have only his
word. He may have been deceived. If God has a message for me he ought
to tell it to me, and not to somebody that has been dead four or five
thousand years, and in another language.

Besides, God may have changed his mind on many things; he has on
slavery, and polygamy at least, according to the church; and yet his
church now wants to go and destroy polygamy in Utah with the sword. Why
do they not send missionaries there with copies of the Old Testament?
By reading the lives of Abraham and Isaac, and Lot, and a few other
patriarchs who ought to have been in the penitentiary, maybe they can
soften their hearts.

More Miracles.

There is another miracle I do not believe,—the resurrection. I want to
speak about it as we would about any ordinary transaction. In the first
place, I do not believe that any miracle was ever performed, and if
there was, you cannot prove it. Why? Because it is altogether more
reasonable to believe that the people were mistaken about it than that
it happened. And why? Because, according to human experience, we know
that people will not always tell the truth, and we never saw a miracle
ourselves, and we must be governed by our experience; and if we go by
our experience, we must say that the miracle never happened—that the
witnesses were mistaken.

A man comes into Jerusalem, and the first thing he does is to cure the
blind. He lets the light of day visit the night of blindness. The eyes
are opened, and the world is again pictured upon the brain. Another man
is clothed with leprosy. He touches him and the disease falls from
him, and he stands pure, and clean, and whole. Another man is deformed,
wrinkled, and bent. He touches him, and throws around him again the
garment of youth. A man is in his grave, and he says, "Come forth!"
And the man walks in life, feeling his heart throb and his blood going
joyously through his veins. They say that actually happened. I do not
know.

There is one wonderful thing about the dead people that were raised—we
do not hear of them any more. What became of them? If there was a man
in this city who had been raised from the dead, I would go to see him
to-night. I would say, "Where were you when you got the notice to come
back? What kind of a country is it? What kind of opening there for a
young man? How did you like it? Did you meet there the friends you had
lost? Is there a world without death, without pain, without a tear? Is
there a land without a grave, and where good-bye is never heard?" Nobody
ever paid the slightest attention to the dead who had been raised. They
did not even excite interest when they died the second time. Nobody
said, "Why, that man is not afraid. He has been there once. He has
walked through the valley of the shadow." Not a word. They pass quietly
away.

I do not believe these miracles. There is something wrong somewhere
about that business. I may suffer eternal punishment for all this, but I
cannot, I do not, believe.

There was a man who did all these things, and thereupon they crucified
him. Let us be honest. Suppose a man came into this city and should meet
a funeral procession, and say, "Who is dead?" and they should reply,
"The son of a widow; her only support." Suppose he should say to the
procession, "Halt!" and to the undertaker, "Take out that coffin,
unscrew that lid. Young man, I say unto thee, arise!" and the dead
should step from the coffin and in a moment afterward hold his mother in
his arms. Suppose this stranger should go to your cemetery and find some
woman holding a little child in each hand, while the tears fell upon a
new-made grave, and he should say to her, "Who lies buried here?"
and she should reply, "My husband;" and he should cry, "I say unto
thee, oh grave, give up thy dead!" and the husband should rise, and in a
moment after have his lips upon his wife's, and the little children with
their arms around his neck; do you think that the people of this city
would kill him? Do you think any one would wish to crucify him? Do
you not rather believe that every one who had a loved one out in that
cemetery would go to him, even upon their knees, and beg him to give
back their dead? Do you believe that any man was ever crucified who was
the master of death?

Let me tell you to-night if there shall ever appear upon this earth the
master, the monarch, of death, all human knees will touch the earth. He
will not be crucified. All the living who fear death; all the living who
have lost a loved one, will bow to him. And yet we are told that this
worker of miracles, this man who could clothe the dead dust in the
throbbing flesh of life, was crucified. I do not believe that he worked
the miracles, I do not believe that he raised the dead, I do not believe
that he claimed to be the Son of God, These things were told long after
he was dead; told because the ignorant multitude demanded mystery and
wonder; told, because at that time the miraculous was believed of all
the illustrious dead. Stories that made Christianity powerful then,
weaken it now. He who gains a triumph in a conflict with a devil, will
be defeated by science.

There is another thing about these foolish miracles. All could have
been imitated. Men could pretend to be blind; confederates could feign
sickness, and even death.

It is not very difficult to limp or to hold an arm as though it were
paralyzed; or to say that one is afflicted with "an issue of blood." It
is easy to say that the son of a widow was raised from the dead, and
if you fail to give the name of the son, or his mother, or the time and
place where the wonder occurred, it is quite difficult to show that it
did not happen.

No one can be called upon to disprove anything that has not apparently
been established. I say apparently, because there can be no real
evidence in support of a miracle.

How could we prove, for instance, the miracle of the loaves and fishes?
There were plenty of other loaves and other fishes in the world? Each
one of the five thousand could have had a loaf and a fish with him. We
would have to show that there was no other possible way for the people
to get the bread and fish except by miracle, and then we are only half
through. We must then show that they did, in fact, get enough to
feed five thousand people, and that more was left than was had in the
beginning.

Of course this is simply impossible. And let me ask, why was not the
miracle substantiated by some of the multitude?

Would it not have been a greater wonder if Christ had _created_ instead
of multiplied the loaves and fishes?

How can we now prove that a certain person more than eighteen hundred
years ago was possessed by seven devils?

How was it ever possible to prove a thing like that?

How can it be established that some evil spirits could talk while others
were dumb, and that the dumb ones were the hardest to control?

If Christ wished to convince his fellow-men by miracles, why did he not
do something that could not by any means have been a counterfeit?

Instead of healing a withered arm, why did he not find some man whose
arm had been cut off, and make another grow?

If he wanted to raise the dead, why did he not raise some man of
importance, some one known to all?

Why did he do his miracles in the obscurity of the village, in the
darkness of the hovel?

Why call back to life people so insignificant that the public did not
know of their death?

Suppose that in May, 1865, a man had pretended to raise some person by
the name of Smith from the dead, and suppose a religion had been founded
on that miracle, would it not be natural for people, hundreds of years
after the pretended miracle, to ask why the founder of that religion
did not raise from the dead Abraham Lincoln, instead of the unknown and
obscure Mr. Smith?

How could any man now, in any court, by any known rule of evidence,
substantiate one of the miracles of Christ?

Must we believe anything that cannot in any way be substantiated?

If miracles were necessary to convince men eighteen centuries ago, are
they not necessary now?

After all, how many men did Christ convince with his miracles? How many
walked beneath the standard of the master of Nature?

How did it happen that so many miracles convinced so few? I will
tell you. The miracles were never performed. No other explanation is
possible.

It is infinitely absurd to say that a man who cured the sick, the halt
and blind, raised the dead, cast out devils, controlled the winds and
waves, created food and held obedient to his will the forces of the
world, was put to death by men who knew his superhuman power and who
had seen his wondrous works. If the crucifixion was public, the miracles
were private. If the miracles had been public, the crucifixion could not
have been. Do away with the miracles, and the superhuman character of
Christ is destroyed. He becomes what he really was—a man. Do away with
the wonders, and the teachings of Christ cease to be authoritative. They
are then worth the reason, the truth that is in them, and nothing more.
Do away with the miracles, and then we can measure the utterances of
Christ with the standard of our reason. We are no longer intellectual
serfs, believing what is unreasonable in obedience to the command of a
supposed god. We no longer take counsel of our fears, of our cowardice,
but boldly defend what our reason maintains.

Christ takes his appropriate place with the other teachers of mankind.
His life becomes reasonable and admirable. We have a man who hated
oppression; who despised and denounced superstition and hypocrisy; who
attacked the heartless church of his time; who excited the hatred of
bigots and priests, and who rather than be false to his conception of
truth, met and bravely suffered even death.

The Resurrection.

The miracle of the resurrection I do not and cannot believe. If it was
the fact, if the dead Christ rose from the grave, why did he not appear
to his enemies? Why did he not visit Pontius Pilate? Why did he not call
upon Caiaphas, the high priest? upon Herod? Why did he not again enter
the temple and end the old dispute with demonstration? Why did he not
confront the Roman soldiers who had taken money to falsely swear that
his body had been stolen by his friends? Why did he not make another
triumphal entry into Jerusalem? Why did he not say to the multitude:
"Here are the wounds in my feet, and in my hands, and in my side. I am
the one you endeavored to kill, but Death is my slave"? Simply because
the resurrection is a myth. It makes no difference with his teachings.
They are just as good whether he wrought miracles or not. Twice two are
four; that needs no miracle. Twice two are five—a miracle can not help
that. Christ's teachings are worth their effect upon the human race.
It makes no difference about miracle or wonder. In that day every
one believed in the impossible. Nobody had any standing as teacher,
philosopher, governor, king, general, about whom there was not supposed
to be something miraculous. The earth was covered with the sons and
daughters of gods and goddesses.

In Greece, in Rome, in Egypt, in India, every great man was supposed to
have had either a god for his father, or a goddess for his mother. They
accounted for genius by divine origin. Earth and heaven were at that
time near together. It was but a step for the gods from the blue arch
to the green earth. Every lake and valley and mountain top was made rich
with legends of the loves of gods. How could the early Christians have
made converts to a man, among a people who believed so thoroughly in
gods—in gods that had lived upon the earth; among a people who had
erected temples to the sons and daughters of gods? Such people could not
have been induced to worship a man—a man born among barbarous people,
citizen of a nation weak and poor and paying tribute to the Roman power.
The early Christians therefore preached the gospel of a god.

The Ascension.

I cannot believe in the miracle of the ascension, in the bodily
ascension of Jesus Christ. Where was he going? In the light shed upon
this question by the telescope, I again ask, where was he going?

The New Jerusalem is not above us. The abode of the gods is not there.
Where was he going? Which way did he go? Of course that depends upon
the time of day he left. If he left in the evening, he went exactly
the opposite way from that he would have gone had he ascended in the
morning. What did he do with his body? How high did he go? In what way
did he overcome the intense cold? The nearest station is the moon, two
hundred and forty thousand miles away. Again I ask, where did he go? He
must have had a natural body, for it was the same body that died. His
body must have been material, otherwise he would not as he rose have
circled with the earth, and he would have passed from the sight of his
disciples at the rate of more than a thousand miles per hour.

It may be said that his body was "spiritual." Then what became of the
body that died? Just before his ascension we are told that he partook of
broiled fish with his disciples. Was the fish "spiritual?"

Who saw this miracle?

They say the disciples saw it. Let us see what they say. Matthew did not
think it was worth mentioning. He does not speak of it. On the contrary,
he says that the last words of Christ were:

"Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." Is it
possible that Matthew saw this, the most miraculous of miracles, and
yet forgot to put it in his life of Christ? Think of the little miracles
recorded by this saint, and then determine whether it is probable that
he witnessed the ascension of Jesus Christ.

Mark says: "So, then, after the Lord had spoken unto them he was
received up into heaven and sat on the right hand of God." This is all
he says about the most wonderful vision that ever astonished human eyes,
a miracle great enough to have stuffed credulity to bursting; and yet
all we have is this one, poor, meagre verse. We know now that most of
the last chapter of Mark is an interpolation, and as a matter of fact,
the author of Mark's gospel said nothing about the ascension one way or
the other.

Luke says: "And it came to pass while he blessed them he was parted from
them and was carried up into Heaven."

John does not mention it. He gives as Christ's last words this address
to Peter: "Follow thou Me." Of course, he did not say that as he
ascended. It seems to have made very little impression upon him; he
writes the account as though tired of the story. He concludes with an
impatient wave of the hand.

In the Acts we have another account. A conversation is given not
spoken of in any of the others, and we find there two men clad in white
apparel, who said: "Ye men of Galilee why stand ye here gazing up into
heaven? This same Jesus that was taken up into heaven shall so come in
like manner as ye have seen him go up into heaven."

Matthew did not see the men in white apparel, did not see the ascension.
Mark forgot the entire transaction, and Luke did not think the men in
white apparel worth mentioning. John had not confidence enough in the
story to repeat it. And yet, upon such evidence, we are bound to believe
in the bodily ascension, or suffer eternal pain.

And here let me ask, why was not the ascension in public?

Casting out Devils.

Most of the miracles said to have been wrought by Christ were recorded
to show his power over evil spirits. On many occasions, he is said to
have "cast out devils"—devils who could speak, and devils who were
dumb.

For many years belief in the existence of evil spirits has been fading
from the mind, and as this belief grew thin, ministers endeavored to
give new meanings to the ancient words. They are inclined now to put
"disease" in the place of "devils," and most of them say, that the
poor wretches supposed to have been the homes of fiends, were simply
suffering from epileptic fits! We must remember that Christ and these
devils often conversed together. Is it possible that fits can talk?
These devils often admitted that Christ was God. Can epilepsy certify to
divinity? On one occasion the fits told their name, and made a contract
to leave the body of a man provided they would be permitted to take
possession of a herd of swine. Is it possible that fits carried Christ
himself to the pinnacle of a temple? Did fits pretend to be the owner
of the whole earth? Is Christ to be praised for resisting such a
temptation? Is it conceivable that fits wanted Christ to fall down and
worship them?

The church must not abandon its belief in devils. Orthodoxy cannot
afford to put out the fires of hell. Throw away a belief in the devil,
and most of the miracles of the New Testament become impossible, even
if we admit the supernatural. If there is no devil, who was the original
tempter in the garden of Eden? If there is no hell, from what are
we saved; to what purpose is the atonement? Upon the obverse of the
Christian shield is God, upon the reverse, the devil. No devil, no hell.
No hell, no atonement. No atonement, no preaching, no gospel.

Necessity of Belief.

Does belief depend upon evidence? I think it does somewhat in some
cases. How is it when a jury is sworn to try a case, hearing all the
evidence, hearing both sides, hearing the charge of the judge, hearing
the law, are upon their oaths equally divided, six for the plaintiff and
six for the defendant? Evidence does not have the same effect upon all
people. Why? Our brains are not alike. They are not the same shape. We
have not the same intelligence, or the same experience, the same sense.
And yet I am held accountable for my belief. I must believe in the
Trinity—three times one is one, once one is three, and my soul is to be
eternally damned for failing to guess an arithmetical conundrum. That
is the poison part of Christianity—that salvation depends upon
belief. That is the accursed part, and until that dogma is discarded
Christianity will be nothing but superstition.

No man can control his belief. If I hear certain evidence I will believe
a certain thing. If I fail to hear it I may never believe it. If it is
adapted to my mind I may accept it; if it is not, I reject it. And what
am I to go by? My brain. That is the only light I have from Nature, and
if there be a God it is the only torch that this God has given me to
find my way through the darkness and night called life. I do not depend
upon hearsay for that. I do not have to take the word of any other man
nor get upon my knees before a book. Here in the temple of the mind I
consult the God, that is to say my reason, and the oracle speaks to me
and I obey the oracle. What should I obey? Another man's oracle? Shall
I take another man's word—not what he thinks, but what he says some God
has said to him?

I would not know a god if I should see one. I have said before, and I
say again, the brain thinks in spite of me, and I am not responsible for
my thoughts. I cannot control the beating of my heart. I cannot stop
the blood that flows through the rivers of my veins. And yet I am held
responsible for my belief. Then why does not God give me the evidence?
They say he has. In what? In an inspired book. But I do not understand
it as they do. Must I be false to my understanding? They say: "When you
come to die you will be sorry if you do not." Will I be sorry when I
come to die that I did not live a hypocrite? Will I be sorry that I
did not say I was a Christian when I was not? Will the fact that I was
honest put a thorn in the pillow of death? Cannot God forgive me for
being honest? They say that when he was in Jerusalem he forgave his
murderers, but now he will not forgive an honest man for differing from
him on the subject of the Trinity.

They say that God says to me, "Forgive your enemies." I say, "I do;" but
he says, "I will damn mine." God should be consistent. If he wants me to
forgive my enemies he should forgive his. I am asked to forgive enemies
who can hurt me. God is only asked to forgive enemies who cannot hurt
him. He certainly ought to be as generous as he asks us to be. And I
want no God to forgive me unless I am willing to forgive others, and
unless I do forgive others. All I ask, if that be true, is that this God
should act according to his own doctrine. If I am to forgive my enemies,
I ask him to forgive his. I do not believe in the religion of faith,
but of kindness, of good deeds. The idea that man is responsible for his
belief is at the bottom of religious intolerance and persecution.

How inconsistent these Christians are! In St. Louis the other day I read
an interview with a Christian minister—one who is now holding a
revival. They call him the boy preacher—a name that he has borne for
fifty or sixty years. The question was whether in these revivals, when
they were trying to rescue souls from eternal torture, they would allow
colored people to occupy seats with white people; and that revivalist,
preaching the unsearchable riches of Christ, said he would not allow the
colored people to sit with white people; they must go to the back of the
church. These same Christians tell us that in heaven there will be no
distinction. That Christ cares nothing for the color of the skin. That
in Paradise white and black will sit together, swap harps, and cry
hallelujah in chorus; yet this minister, believing as he says he does,
that all men who fail to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ will eternally
perish, was not willing that a colored man should sit by a white man and
hear the gospel of everlasting peace.

According to this revivalist, the ship of the world is going down;
Christ is the only life-boat; and yet he is not willing that a colored
man, with a soul to save, shall sit by the side of a white brother,
and be rescued from eternal death. He admits that the white brother
is totally depraved; that if the white brother had justice done him he
would be damned; that it is only through the wonderful mercy of God that
the white man is not in hell; and yet such a being, totally depraved,
is too good to sit by a colored man! Total depravity becomes arrogant;
total depravity draws the color line in religion, and an ambassador of
Christ says to the black man, "Stand away; let your white brother hear
first about the love of God."

I believe in the religion of humanity. It is far better to love our
fellow-men than to love God. We can help them. We cannot help him. We
had better do what we can than to be always pretending to do what we
cannot.

Virtue is of no color; kindness, justice and love, of no complexion.

Eternal Punishment.

Now I come to the last part of this creed—the doctrine of eternal
punishment. I have concluded that I will never deliver a lecture in
which I will not attack the doctrine of eternal pain. That part of the
Congregational creed would disgrace the lowest savage that crouches
and crawls in the jungles of Africa. The man who now, in the nineteenth
century, preaches the doctrine of eternal punishment, the doctrine of an
eternal hell, has lived in vain. Think of that doctrine! The eternity of
punishment! I find in this same creed—in this latest utterance of
Congregationalism—that Christ is finally going to triumph in this world
and establish his kingdom. This creed declares that "we believe in the
ultimate prevalence of the kingdom of God over all the earth." If
their doctrine is true he will never triumph in the other world. The
Congregational Church does not believe in the ultimate prevalence of the
kingdom of Christ in the world to come. There he is to meet with eternal
failure. He will have billions in hell forever.

In this world we never will be perfectly civilized as long as a gallows
casts its shadow upon the earth. As long as there is a penitentiary,
within the walls of which a human being is immured, we are not a
perfectly civilized people. We shall never be perfectly civilized until
we do away with crime. And yet, according to this Christian religion,
God is to have an eternal penitentiary; he is to be an everlasting
jailer, an everlasting turnkey, a warden of an infinite dungeon, and
he is going to keep prisoners there forever, not for the purpose of
reforming them—because they are never going to get any better, only
worse—but for the purpose of purposeless punishment. And for what?
For something they failed to believe in this world. Born in ignorance,
supported by poverty, caught in the snares of temptation, deformed by
toil, stupefied by want—and yet held responsible through the countless
ages of eternity! No man can think of a greater horror; no man can dream
of a greater absurdity. For the growth of that doctrine ignorance was
soil and fear was rain. It came from the fanged mouths of serpents, and
yet it is called "glad tidings of great joy." Some Who are Damned.

We are told "God so loved the world" that he is going to damn almost
everybody. If this orthodox religion be true, some of the greatest, and
grandest, and best who ever lived are suffering God's torments to-night.
It does not appear to make much difference with the members of the
church. They go right on enjoying themselves about as well as ever. If
this doctrine is true, Benjamin Franklin, one of the wisest and best of
men, who did so much to give us here a free government, is suffering
the tyranny of God to-night, although he endeavored to establish freedom
among men. If the churches were honest, their preachers would tell their
hearers: "Benjamin Franklin is in hell, and we warn all the youth not to
imitate Benjamin Franklin. Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration
of Independence, with its self-evident truths, has been damned these
many years."

That is what all the ministers ought to have the courage to say. Talk
as you believe. Stand by your creed, or change it. I want to impress it
upon your minds, because the thing I wish to do in this world is to put
out the fires of hell. I will keep on as long as there is one little red
coal left in the bottomless pit. As long as the ashes are warm I shall
denounce this infamous doctrine.

I want you to know that according to this creed the men who founded this
great and splendid Government are in hell to-night. Most of the men who
fought in the Revolutionary war, and wrested from the clutch of Great
Britain this continent, have been rewarded by the eternal wrath of God.
Thousands of the old Revolutionary soldiers are in torment tonight. Let
the preachers have the courage to say so. The men who fought in 1812,
and gave to the United States the freedom of the seas, have nearly all
been damned. Thousands of heroes who served our country in the Civil
war, hundreds who starved in prisons, are now in the dungeons of God,
compared with which, Andersonville was Paradise. The greatest of heroes
are there; the greatest of poets, the greatest scientists, the men who
have made the world beautiful—they are all among the damned if this
creed is true.

Humboldt, who shed light, and who added to the intellectual wealth
of mankind; Goethe, and Schiller, and Lessing, who almost created the
German language—all gone—all suffering the wrath of God tonight, and
every time an angel thinks of one of those men he gives his harp an
extra twang. Laplace, who read the heavens like an open book—he is
there. Robert Burns, the poet of human love—he is there. He wrote
the "Prayer of Holy Willie." He fastened on the cross the Presbyterian
creed, and there it is, a lingering crucifixion. Robert Burns increased
the tenderness of the human heart. Dickens put a shield of pity before
the flesh of childhood—God is getting even with him. Our own Ralph
Waldo Emerson, although he had a thousand opportunities to hear
Methodist clergymen, scorned the means of grace, lived to his highest
ideal, gave to his fellow-men his best and truest thought, and yet his
spirit is the sport and prey of fiends to-night.

Longfellow, who has refined thousands of homes, did not believe in the
miraculous origin of the Savior, doubted the report of Gabriel, loved
his fellow-men, did what he could to free the slaves, to increase the
happiness of man, yet God was waiting for his soul—waiting to cast
him out and down forever. Thomas Paine, author of the "Rights of Man;"
offering his life in both hemispheres for the freedom of the human race;
one of the founders of this Republic, is now among the damned; and yet
it seems to me that if he could only get God's attention long enough
to point him to the American flag he would let him out. Auguste Comte,
author of the "Positive Philosophy," who loved his fellow-men to that
degree that he made of humanity a god, who wrote his great work in
poverty, with his face covered with tears—they are getting their
revenge on him now.

Voltaire, who abolished torture in France; who did more for human
liberty than any other man, living or dead; who was the assassin
of superstition, and whose dagger still rusts in the heart of
Catholicism—he is with the rest. All the priests who have been
translated have had their happiness increased by looking at Voltaire.

Giordano Bruno, the first star of the morning after the long night;
Benedict Spinoza, the pantheist, the metaphysician, the pure and
generous man; Diderot, the encyclopedist, who endeavored to get all
knowledge in a small compass, so that he could put the peasant on an
equality intellectually with the prince; Diderot, who wished to sow all
over the world the seed of knowledge, and loved to labor for mankind,
while the priests wanted to burn; who did all he could to put out the
fires—he was lost, long, long ago. His cry for water has become so
common that his voice is now recognized through all the realms of
heaven, and the angels laughing, say to one another, "That is Diderot."

David Hume, the Scotch philosopher, is there, with his inquiry about
the "Human Understanding" and his argument against miracles. Beethoven,
master of music, and Wagner, the Shakespeare of harmony, who made the
air of this world rich forever, they are there; and to-night they have
better music in hell than in heaven!

Shelley, whose soul, like his own "Skylark," was a winged joy, has been
damned for many, many years; and Shakespeare, the greatest of the human
race, who did more to elevate mankind than all the priests who ever
lived and died, he is there; but founders of inquisitions, builders
of dungeons, makers of chains, inventors of instruments of torture,
tearers, and burners, and branders of human flesh, stealers of babes,
and sellers of husbands and wives and children, and they who kept the
horizon lurid with the fagot's flame for a thousand years—are in heaven
to-night. I wish heaven joy!

That is the doctrine with which we are polluting the souls of children.
That is the doctrine that puts a fiend by the dying bed and a prophecy
of hell over every cradle. That is "glad tidings of great joy."

Only a little while ago, when the great flood came upon the Ohio, sent
by him who is ruling the world and paying particular attention to the
affairs of nations, just in the gray of the morning they saw a house
floating down and on its top a human being. A few men went out to the
rescue. They found there a woman, a mother, and they wished to save her
life. She said: "No, I am going to stay where I am. In this house I
have three dead babes; I will not desert them." Think of a love so
limitless—stronger and deeper than despair and death! And yet, the
Christian religion says, that if that woman, that mother, did not happen
to believe in their creed God would send her soul to eternal fire! If
there is another world, and if in heaven they wear hats, when such a
woman climbs the opposite bank of the Jordan, Christ should lift his to
her.

The doctrine of eternal pain is my trouble with this Christian religion.
I reject it on account of its infinite heartlessness. I cannot tell them
too often, that during our last war Christians, who knew that if they
were shot they would go right to heaven, went and hired wicked men to
take their places, perfectly willing that these men should go to hell
provided they could stay at home. You see they are not honest in it,
or they do not believe it, or as the people say, "they don't sense it."
They have not imagination enough to conceive what it is they believe,
and what a terrific falsehood they assert. And I beg of every one
who hears me to-night, I beg, I implore, I beseech you, never to give
another dollar to build a church in which that lie is preached. Never
give another cent to send a missionary with his mouth stuffed with
that falsehood to a foreign land. Why, they say, the heathen will go to
heaven, any way, if you let them alone. What is the use of sending them
to hell by enlightening them? Let them alone. The idea of going and
telling a man a thing that if he does not believe, he will be damned,
when the chances are ten to one that he will not believe it, is
monstrous. Do not tell him here, and as quick as he gets to the other
world and finds it is necessary to believe, he can say "Yes." Give him a
chance.

Another Objection.

My objection to orthodox religion is that it destroys human love, and
tells us that the love of this world is not necessary to make a heaven
in the next.

No matter about your wife, your children, your brother, your sister—no
matter about all the affections of the human heart—when you get there,
you will be with the angels. I do not know whether I would like the
angels. I do not know whether the angels would like me. I would rather
stand by the ones who have loved me and whom I know; and I can conceive
of no heaven without the loved of this earth. That is the trouble with
this Christian relief-ion. Leave your father, leave your mother, leave
your wife, leave your children, leave everything and follow Jesus
Christ. I will not. I will stay with my people. I will not sacrifice on
the altar of a selfish fear all the grandest and noblest promptings of
my heart.

Do away with human love and what are we? What would we be in another
world, and what would we be here? Can any one conceive of music without
human love? Of art, or joy? Human love builds every home. Human love is
the author of all beauty. Love paints every picture, and chisels every
statue. Love builds every fireside. What could heaven be without human
love? And yet that is what we are promised—a heaven with your wife
lost, your mother lost, some of your children gone. And you expect to be
made happy by falling in with some angel! Such a religion is infamous.
Christianity holds human love for naught; and yet Love is the only bow
on Life's dark cloud. It is the morning and the evening star. It shines
upon the babe, and sheds its radiance on the quiet tomb. It is the
mother of art, inspirer of poet, patriot and philosopher. It is the air
and light of every heart—builder of every home, kindler of every fire
on every hearth. It was the first to dream of immortality. It fills the
world with melody—for music is the voice of love. Love is the magician,
the enchanter, that changes worthless things to joy, and makes right
royal kings and queens of common clay. It is the perfume of that
wondrous flower, the heart, and without that sacred passion, that divine
swoon, we are less than beasts; but with it, earth is heaven, and we are
gods.

And how are you to get to this heaven? On the efforts of another.
You are to be a perpetual heavenly pauper, and you will have to admit
through all eternity that you never would have been there if you had not
been frightened. "I am here," you will say, "I have these wings, I have
this musical instrument, because I was scared. I am here. The ones who
loved me are among the damned; the ones I loved are also there—but I am
here, that is enough."

What a glorious' world heaven must be! No reformation in that world—not
the slightest. If you die in Arkansas that is the end of you! Think of
telling a boy in the next world, who lived and died in Delaware, that he
had been fairly treated! Can anything be more infamous?

All on an equality—the rich and the poor, those with parents loving
them, those with every opportunity for education, on an equality with
the poor, the abject and the ignorant—and this little day called life,
this moment with a hope, a shadow and a tear, this little space between
your mother's arms and the grave, balances eternity.

God can do nothing for you when you get there. A Methodist preacher can
do more for the soul here than its creator can there. The soul goes to
heaven, where there is nothing but good society; no bad examples; and
they are all there, Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and yet they can do
nothing for that poor unfortunate except to damn him. Is there any sense
in that?

Why should this be a period of probation? It says in the Bible, I
believe, "Now is the accepted time." When does that mean? That means
whenever the passage is pronounced. "Now is the accepted time." It will
be the same to-morrow, will it not? And just as appropriate then
as to-day, and if appropriate at any time, appropriate through all
eternity.

What I say is this: There is no world—there can be no world—in which
every human being will not have the eternal opportunity of doing right.

That is my objection to this Christian religion; and if the love
of earth is not the love of heaven, if those we love here are to be
separated from us there, then I want eternal sleep. Give me a good cool
grave rather than the furnace of Jehovah's wrath. I pray the angel of
the resurrection to let me sleep. Gabriel, do not blow! Let me alone!
If, when the grave bursts, I am not to meet the faces that have been my
sunshine in this life, let me sleep. Rather than that this doctrine of
endless punishment should be true, I would gladly see the fabric of our
civilization crumbling fall to unmeaning chaos and to formless dust,
where oblivion broods and even memory forgets. I would rather that the
blind Samson of some imprisoned force, released by chance, should so
wreck and strand the mighty world that man in stress and strain of want
and fear should shudderingly crawl back to savage and barbaric night. I
would rather that every planet should in its orbit wheel a barren star!

What I Believe.

I think it is better to love your children than to love God, a thousand
times better, because you can help them, and I am inclined to think that
God can get along without you. Certainly we cannot help a being without
body, parts, or passions!

I believe in the religion of the family. I believe that the roof-tree is
sacred, from the smallest fibre that feels the soft cool clasp of earth,
to the topmost flower that spreads its bosom to the sun, and like a
spendthrift gives its perfume to the air. The home where virtue dwells
with love is like a lily with a heart of fire—the fairest flower in all
the world. And I tell you God cannot afford to damn a man in the next
world who has made a happy family in this. God cannot afford to cast
over the battlements of heaven the man who has a happy home upon this
earth. God cannot afford to be unpitying to a human heart capable of
pity. God cannot clothe with fire the man who has clothed the naked
here; and God cannot send to eternal pain a man who has done something
toward improving the condition of his fellow-man. If he can, I had
rather go to hell than to heaven and keep the company of such a god.

Immortality.

They tell me that the next terrible thing I do is to take away the hope
of immortality! I do not, I would not, I could not. Immortality was
first dreamed of by human love; and yet the church is going to take
human love out of immortality. We love, therefore we wish to live. A
loved one dies and we wish to meet again; and from the affection of the
human heart grew the great oak of the hope of immortality. Around
that oak has climbed the poisonous vines of superstition. Theologians,
pretenders, soothsayers, parsons, priests, popes, bishops, have taken
advantage of that. They have stood by graves and promised heaven. They
have stood by graves and prophesied a future filled with pain. They have
erected their toll-gates on the highway of life and have collected money
from fear.

Neither the Bible nor the church gave us the idea of immortality. The
Old Testament tells us how we lost immortality, and it does not say a
word about another world, from the first mistake in Genesis to the last
curse in Malachi. There is not in the Old Testament a burial service.

No man in the Old Testament stands by the dead and says, "We shall meet
again." From the top of Sinai came no hope of another world.

And when we get to the New Testament, what do we find? "They that are
accounted worthy to obtain that world and the resurrection of the dead."
As though some would be counted unworthy to obtain the resurrection of
the dead. And in another place. "Seek for honor, glory, immortality."
If you have it, why seek it? And in another place, "God, who alone hath
immortality." Yet they tell us that we get our idea of immortality from
the Bible. I deny it.

I would not destroy the faintest ray of human hope, but I deny that
we got our idea of immortality from the Bible. It existed long before
Moses. We find it symbolized through all Egypt, through all India.
Wherever man has lived he has made another world in which to meet the
lost of this.

The history of this belief we find in tombs and temples wrought and
carved by those who wept and hoped. Above their dead they laid the
symbols of another life.

We do not know. We do not prophesy a life of pain. We leave the dead
with Nature, the mother of us all. Under the bow of hope, under the
seven-hued arch, let the dead sleep.

If Christ was in fact God, why did he not plainly say there is another
life? Why did he not tell us something about it? Why did he not turn
the tear-stained hope of immortality into the glad knowledge of another
life? Why did he go dumbly to his death and leave the world in darkness
and in doubt? Why? Because he was a man and did not know.

What consolation has the orthodox religion for the widow of the
unbeliever, the widow of a good, brave, kind man? What can the orthodox
minister say to relieve the bursting heart of that woman? What can he
say to relieve the aching hearts of the orphans as they kneel by the
grave of that father, if that father did not happen to be an orthodox
Christian? What consolation have they? When a Christian loses a friend
the tears spring from his eyes as quickly as from the eyes of others.
Their tears are as bitter as ours. Why? The echoes of the words spoken
eighteen hundred years ago are so low, and the sounds of the clods upon
the coffin are so loud; the promises are so far away, and the dead are
so near.

We do not know, we cannot say, whether death is a wall or a door; the
beginning or end of a day; the spreading of pinions to soar, or the
folding forever of wings; the rise or the set of a sun, or an endless
life that brings the rapture of love to everyone. A Fable.

There is the fable of Orpheus and Eurydice. Eurydice had been captured
and taken to the infernal regions, and Orpheus went after her, taking
with him his harp and playing as he went. When he came to Pluto's realm
he began to play, and Sysiphus, charmed by the music, sat down upon the
stone that he had been heaving up the mountain's side for so many years,
and which continually rolled back upon him; Ixion paused upon his wheel
of fire; Tantalus ceased his vain efforts for water; the daughters of
the Danaides left off trying to fill their sieves with water; Pluto
smiled, and for the first time in the history of hell the cheeks of the
Furies were wet with tears. The god relented, and said, "Eurydice may
go with you, but you must not look back." So Orpheus again threaded the
caverns, playing as he went, and as he reached the light he failed to
hear the footsteps of Eurydice. He looked back, and in a moment she was
gone. Again and again Orpheus sought his love. Again and again looked
back.

This fable gives the idea of the perpetual effort made by the human mind
to rescue truth from the clutch of error.

Some time Orpheus will not look back. Some day Eurydice will reach the
blessed light, and at last there will fade from the memory of men the
monsters of superstition.
---
# Some Mistakes of Moses
_Dresden Edition, Volume 2, 1879_
I want to do what little I can to make my country truly free, to broaden
the intellectual horizon of our people, to destroy the prejudices born
of ignorance and fear, to do away with the blind worship of the ignoble
past, with the idea that all the great and good are dead, that the
living are totally depraved, that all pleasures are sins, that sighs
and groans are alone pleasing to God, that thought is dangerous, that
intellectual courage is a crime, that cowardice is a virtue, that a
certain belief is necessary to secure salvation, that to carry a cross
in this world will give us a palm in the next, and that we must allow
some priest to be the pilot of our souls.

Until every soul is freely permitted to investigate every book, and
creed, and dogma for itself, the world cannot be free. Mankind will be
enslaved until there is mental grandeur enough to allow each man to have
his thought and say. This earth will be a paradise when men can, upon
all these questions differ, and yet grasp each other's hands as friends.
It is amazing to me that a difference of opinion upon subjects that we
know nothing with certainty about, should make us hate, persecute, and
despise each other. Why a difference of opinion upon predestination,
or the Trinity, should make people imprison and burn each other
seems beyond the comprehension of man; and yet in all countries where
Christians have existed, they have destroyed each other to the exact
extent of their power. Why should a believer in God hate an atheist?
Surely the atheist has not injured God, and surely he is human, capable
of joy and pain, and entitled to all the rights of man. Would it not be
far better to treat this atheist, at least, as well as he treats us?

Christians tell me that they love their enemies, and yet all I ask
is—not that they love their enemies, not that they love their friends
even, but that they treat those who differ from them, with simple
fairness.

We do not wish to be forgiven, but we wish Christians to so act that we
will not have to forgive them.

If all will admit that all have an equal right to think, then the
question is forever solved; but as long as organized and powerful
churches, pretending to hold the keys of heaven and hell, denounce every
person as an outcast and criminal who thinks for himself and denies
their authority, the world will be filled with hatred and suffering. To
hate man and worship God seems to be the sum of all the creeds.

That which has happened in most countries has happened in ours. When
a religion is founded, the educated, the powerful—that is to say, the
priests and nobles, tell the ignorant and superstitious—that is to
say, the people, that the religion of their country was given to their
fathers by God himself; that it is the only true religion; that all
others were conceived in falsehood and brought forth in fraud, and that
all who believe in the true religion will be happy forever, while all
others will burn in hell. For the purpose of governing the people, that
is to say, for the purpose of being supported by the people, the priests
and nobles declare this religion to be sacred, and that whoever adds to,
or takes from it, will be burned here by man, and hereafter by God. The
result of this is, that the priests and nobles will not allow the people
to change; and when, after a time, the priests, having intellectually
advanced, wish to take a step in the direction of progress, the people
will not allow them to change. At first, the rabble are enslaved by the
priests, and afterwards the rabble become the masters.

One of the first things I wish to do, is to free the orthodox clergy.
I am a great friend of theirs, and in spite of all they may say against
me, I am going to do them a great and lasting service. Upon their necks
are visible the marks of the collar, and upon their backs those of the
lash. They are not allowed to read and think for themselves. They are
taught like parrots, and the best are those who repeat, with the fewest
mistakes, the sentences they have been taught. They sit like owls upon
some dead limb of the tree of knowledge, and hoot the same old hoots
that have been hooted for eighteen hundred years. Their congregations
are not grand enough, nor sufficiently civilized, to be willing that
the poor preachers shall think for themselves. They are not employed for
that purpose. Investigation regarded as a dangerous experiment, and the
ministers are warned that none of that kind of work will be tolerated.
They are notified to stand by the old creed, and to avoid all original
thought, as a mortal pestilence. Every minister is employed like an
attorney—either for plaintiff or defendant,—and he is expected to
be true to his client. If he changes his mind, he is regarded as
a deserter, and denounced, hated, and slandered accordingly. Every
orthodox clergyman agrees not to change. He contracts not to find new
facts, and makes a bargain that he will deny them if he does. Such is
the position of a Protestant minister in this nineteenth century. His
condition excites my pity; and to better it, I am going to do what
little I can.

Some of the clergy have the independence to break away, and the
intellect to maintain themselves as free men, but the most are compelled
to submit to the dictation of the orthodox, and the dead. They are
not employed to give their thoughts, but simply to repeat the ideas of
others. They are not expected to give even the doubts that may suggest
themselves, but are required to walk in the narrow, verdureless path
trodden by the ignorance of the past. The forests and fields on either
side are nothing to them. They must not even look at the purple hills,
nor pause to hear the babble of the brooks. They must remain in the
dusty road where the guide-boards are. They must confine themselves
to the "fall of man," the expulsion from the garden, the "scheme of
salvation," the "second birth," the atonement, the happiness of the
redeemed, and the misery of the lost. They must be careful not to
express any new ideas upon these great questions. It is much safer for
them to quote from the works of the dead. The more vividly they describe
the sufferings of the unregenerate, of those who attended theatres and
balls, and drank wine in summer gardens on the Sabbath-day, and laughed
at priests, the better ministers they are supposed to be. They must show
that misery fits the good for heaven, while happiness prepares the bad
for hell; that the wicked get all their good things in this life, and
the good all their evil; that in this world God punishes the people he
loves, and in the next, the ones he hates; that happiness makes us bad
here, but not in heaven; that pain makes us good here, but not in hell.
No matter how absurd these things may appear to the carnal mind, they
must be preached and they must be believed. If they were reasonable,
there would be no virtue in believing. Even the publicans and sinners
believe reasonable things. To believe without evidence, or in spite of
it, is accounted as righteousness to the sincere and humble Christian.

The ministers are in duty bound to denounce all intellectual pride, and
show that we are never quite so dear to God as when we admit that we are
poor, corrupt and idiotic worms; that we never should have been born;
that we ought to be damned without the least delay; that we are so
infamous that we like to enjoy ourselves; that we love our wives and
children better than our God; that we are generous only because we are
vile; that we are honest from the meanest motives, and that sometimes we
have fallen so low that we have had doubts about the inspiration of the
Jewish Scriptures. In short, they are expected to denounce all pleasant
paths and rustling trees, to curse the grass and flowers, and glorify
the dust and weeds. They are expected to malign the wicked people in the
green and happy fields, who sit and laugh beside the gurgling springs or
climb the hills and wander as they will. They are expected to point out
the dangers of freedom, the safety of implicit obedience, and to show
the wickedness of philosophy, the goodness of faith, the immorality of
science and the purity of ignorance.

Now and then a few pious people discover some young man of a religious
turn of mind and a consumptive habit of body, not quite sickly enough
to die, nor healthy enough to be wicked. The idea occurs to them that
he would make a good orthodox minister. They take up a contribution, and
send the young man to some theological school where he can be taught to
repeat a creed and despise reason. Should it turn out that the young
man had some mind of his own, and, after graduating, should change his
opinions and preach a different doctrine from that taught in the school,
every man who contributed a dollar towards his education would feel that
he had been robbed, and would denounce him as a dishonest and ungrateful
wretch.

The pulpit should not be a pillory. Congregations should allow the
minister a little liberty. They should, at least, permit him to tell the
truth.

They have, in Massachusetts, at a place called Andover, a kind of
minister factory, where each professor takes an oath once in five
years—that time being considered the life of an oath—that he has not,
during the last five years, and will not, during the next five years,
intellectually advance. There is probably no oath that they could easier
keep. Probably, since the foundation stone of that institution was laid
there has not been a single case of perjury. The old creed is still
taught. They still insist that God is infinitely wise, powerful and
good, and that all men are totally depraved. They insist that the best
man God ever made, deserved to be damned the moment he was finished.
Andover puts its brand upon every minister it turns out, the same as
Sheffield and Birmingham brand their wares, and all who see the brand
know exactly what the minister believes, the books he has read, the
arguments he relies on, and just what he intellectually is. They know
just what he can be depended on to preach, and that he will continue to
shrink and shrivel, and grow solemnly stupid day by day until he reaches
the Andover of the grave and becomes truly orthodox forever.

I have not singled out the Andover factory because it is worse than the
others. They are all about the same. The professors, for the most part,
are ministers who failed in the pulpit and were retired to the seminary
on account of their deficiency in reason and their excess of faith. As
a rule, they know nothing of this world, and far less of the next; but
they have the power of stating the most absurd propositions with faces
solemn as stupidity touched by fear.

Something should be done for the liberation of these men. They should
be allowed to grow—to have sunlight and air. They should no longer
be chained and tied to confessions of faith, to mouldy books and
musty creeds. Thousands of ministers are anxious to give their honest
thoughts. The hands of wives and babes now stop their mouths. They
must have bread, and so the husbands and fathers are forced to preach
a doctrine that they hold in scorn. For the sake of shelter, food and
clothes, they are obliged to defend the childish miracles of the past,
and denounce the sublime discoveries of to-day. They are compelled to
attack all modern thought, to point out the dangers of science, the
wickedness of investigation and the corrupting influence of logic. It is
for them to show that virtue rests upon ignorance and faith, while vice
impudently feeds and fattens upon fact and demonstration. It is a part
of their business to malign and vilify the Voltaires, Humes, Paines,
Humboldts, Tyndalls, Haeckels, Darwins, Spencers, and Drapers, and
to bow with uncovered heads before the murderers, adulterers, and
persecutors of the world. They are, for the most part, engaged in
poisoning the minds of the young, prejudicing children against science,
teaching the astronomy and geology of the Bible, and inducing all to
desert the sublime standard of reason.

These orthodox ministers do not add to the sum of knowledge. They
produce nothing. They live upon alms. They hate laughter and joy. They
officiate at weddings, sprinkle water upon babes, and utter meaningless
words and barren promises above the dead. They laugh at the agony of
unbelievers, mock at their tears, and of their sorrows make a jest.
There are some noble exceptions. Now and then a pulpit holds a brave
and honest man. Their congregations are willing that they should
think—willing that their ministers should have a little freedom.

As we become civilized, more and more liberty will be accorded to these
men, until finally ministers will give their best and highest thoughts.
The congregations will finally get tired of hearing about the patriarchs
and saints, the miracles and wonders, and will insist upon knowing
something about the men and women of our day, and the accomplishments
and discoveries of our time. They will finally insist upon knowing how
to escape the evils of this world instead of the next. They will ask
light upon the enigmas of this life. They will wish to know what we
shall do with our criminals instead of what God will do with his—how
we shall do away with beggary and want—with crime and misery—with
prostitution, disease and famine,—with tyranny in all its cruel
forms—with prisons and scaffolds, and how we shall reward the honest
workers, and fill the world with happy homes! These are the problems
for the pulpits and congregations of an enlightened future. If Science
cannot finally answer these questions, it is a vain and worthless thing.

The clergy, however, will continue to answer them in the old way, until
their congregations are good enough to set them free. They will still
talk about believing in the Lord Jesus Christ, as though that were the
only remedy for all human ills. They will still teach that retrogression
is the only path that leads to light; that we must go back, that faith
is the only sure guide, and that reason is a delusive glare, lighting
only the road to eternal pain.

Until the clergy are free they cannot be intellectually honest. We can
never tell what they really believe until they know that they can safely
speak. They console themselves now by a secret resolution to be as
liberal as they dare, with the hope that they can finally educate
their congregations to the point of allowing them to think a little for
themselves. They hardly know what they ought to do. The best part of
their lives has been wasted in studying subjects of no possible value.
Most of them are married, have families, and know but one way of making
their living. Some of them say that if they do not preach these foolish
dogmas, others will, and that they may through fear, after all, restrain
mankind. Besides, they hate publicly to admit that they are mistaken,
that the whole thing is a delusion, that the "scheme of salvation" is
absurd, and that the Bible is no better than some other books, and worse
than most.

You can hardly expect a bishop to leave his palace, or the pope to
vacate the Vatican. As long as people want popes, plenty of hypocrites
will be found to take the place. And as long as labor fatigues, there
will be found a good many men willing to preach once a week, if other
folks will work and give them bread. In other words, while the demand
lasts, the supply will never fail.

If the people were a little more ignorant, astrology would flourish—if
a little more enlightened, religion would perish!

## II. Free Schools.

It is also my desire to free the schools. When a professor in a college
finds a fact, he should make it known, even if it is inconsistent with
something Moses said. Public opinion must not compel the professor to
hide a fact, and, "like the base Indian, throw the pearl away." With the
single exception of Cornell, there is not a college in the United
States where truth has ever been a welcome guest. The moment one of the
teachers denies the inspiration of the Bible, he is discharged. If he
discovers a fact inconsistent with that book, so much the worse for the
fact, and especially for the discoverer of the fact. He must not corrupt
the minds of his pupils with demonstrations. He must beware of
every truth that cannot, in some way be made to harmonize with the
superstitions of the Jews. Science has nothing in common with religion.
Facts and miracles never did, and never will agree. They are not in the
least related. They are deadly foes. What has religion to do with
facts? Nothing. Can there be Methodist mathematics, Catholic astronomy,
Presbyterian geology, Baptist biology, or Episcopal botany? Why, then,
should a sectarian college exist? Only that which somebody knows should
be taught in our schools. We should not collect taxes to pay people for
guessing. The common school is the bread of life for the people, and it
should not be touched by the withering hand of superstition.

Our country will never be filled with great institutions of learning
until there is an absolute divorce between Church and School. As long
as the mutilated records of a barbarous people are placed by priest and
professor above the reason of mankind, we shall reap but little benefit
from church or school.

Instead of dismissing professors for finding something out, let us
rather discharge those who do not. Let each teacher understand that
investigation is not dangerous for him; that his bread is safe, no
matter how much truth he may discover, and that his salary will not be
reduced, simply because he finds that the ancient Jews did not know the
entire history of the world.

Besides, it is not fair to make the Catholic support a Protestant
school, nor is it just to collect taxes from infidels and atheists to
support schools in which any system of religion is taught.

The sciences are not sectarian. People do not persecute each other on
account of disagreements in mathematics. Families are not divided about
botany, and astronomy does not even tend to make a man hate his father
and mother. It is what people do not know, that they persecute each
other about. Science will bring, not a sword, but peace.

Just as long as religion has control of the schools, science will be an
outcast. Let us free our institutions of learning. Let us dedicate them
to the science of eternal truth. Let us tell every teacher to ascertain
all the facts he can—to give us light, to follow Nature, no matter
where she leads; to be infinitely true to himself and us; to feel that
he is without a chain, except the obligation to be honest; that he is
bound by no books, by no creed, neither by the sayings of the dead nor
of the living; that he is asked to look with his own eyes, to reason for
himself without fear, to investigate in every possible direction, and to
bring us the fruit of all his work.

At present, a good many men engaged in scientific pursuits, and who
have signally failed in gaining recognition among their fellows, are
endeavoring to make reputations among the churches by delivering weak
and vapid lectures upon the "harmony of Genesis and Geology." Like all
hypocrites, these men overstate the case to such a degree, and so
turn and pervert facts and words that they succeed only in gaining the
applause of other hypocrites like themselves. Among the great scientists
they are regarded as generals regard sutlers who trade with both armies.

Surely the time must come when the wealth of the world will not be
wasted in the propagation of ignorant creeds and miraculous mistakes.
The time must come when churches and cathedrals will be dedicated to the
use of man; when minister and priest will deem the discoveries of the
living of more importance than the errors of the dead; when the truths
of Nature will outrank the "sacred" falsehoods of the past, and when a
single fact will outweigh all the miracles of Holy Writ.

Who can over estimate the progress of the world if all the money
wasted in superstition could be used to enlighten, elevate and civilize
mankind?

When every church becomes a school, every cathedral a university, every
clergyman a teacher, and all their hearers brave and honest
thinkers, then, and not until then, will the dream of poet, patriot,
philanthropist and philosopher, become a real and blessed truth.

## III. The Politicians.

I would like also to liberate the politician. At present, the successful
office-seeker is a good deal like the centre of the earth; he weighs
nothing himself, but draws everything else to him. There are so many
societies, so many churches, so many isms, that it is almost impossible
for an independent man to succeed in a political career. Candidates are
forced to pretend that they are Catholics with Protestant proclivities,
or Christians with liberal tendencies, or temperance men who now and
then take a glass of wine, or, that although not members of any church
their wives are, and that they subscribe liberally to all. The result of
all this is that we reward hypocrisy and elect men entirely destitute of
real principle; and this will never change until the people become grand
enough to allow each other to do their own thinking, our Government
should be entirely and purely secular. The religious views of a
candidate should be kept entirely out of sight. He should not be
compelled to give his opinion as to the inspiration of the Bible, the
propriety of infant baptism, or the immaculate conception. All these
things are private and personal. He should be allowed to settle such
things for himself, and should he decide contrary to the law and will of
God, let him settle the matter with God. The people ought to be wise
enough to select as their officers men who know something of political
affairs, who comprehend the present greatness, and clearly perceive the
future grandeur of our country. If we were in a storm at sea, with deck
wave-washed and masts strained and bent with storm, and it was necessary
to reef the top sail, we certainly would not ask the brave sailor who
volunteered to go aloft, what his opinion was on the five points of
Calvinism. Our Government has nothing to do with religion. It is neither
Christian nor pagan; it is secular. But as long as the people persist in
voting for or against men on account of their religious views, just so
long will hypocrisy hold place and power. Just so long will the
candidates crawl in the dust—hide their opinions, flatter those with
whom they differ, pretend to agree with those whom they despise; and
just so long will honest men be trampled under foot. Churches are
becoming political organizations. Nearly every Catholic is a Democrat;
nearly every Methodist in the North is a Republican.

It probably will not be long until the churches will divide as sharply
upon political, as upon theological questions; and when that day comes,
if there are not liberals enough to hold the balance of power, this
Government will be destroyed. The liberty of man is not safe in the
hands of any church. Wherever the Bible and sword are in partnership,
man is a slave.

All laws for the purpose of making man worship God, are born of the same
spirit that kindled the fires of the _auto da fe_, and lovingly built
the dungeons of the Inquisition. All laws defining and punishing
blasphemy—making it a crime to give your honest ideas about the Bible,
or to laugh at the ignorance of the ancient Jews, or to enjoy yourself
on the Sabbath, or to give your opinion of Jehovah, were passed by
impudent bigots, and should be at once repealed by honest men. An
infinite God ought to be able to protect himself, without going in
partnership with State Legislatures. Certainly he ought not so to act
that laws become necessary to keep him from being laughed at. No one
thinks of protecting Shakespeare from ridicule, by the threat of fine
and imprisonment. It strikes me that God might write a book that would
not necessarily excite the laughter of his children. In fact, I think
it would be safe to say that a real God could produce a work that would
excite the admiration of mankind. Surely politicians could be better
employed than in passing laws to protect the literary reputation of the
Jewish God.

## IV. Man and Woman

Let us forget that we are Baptists, Methodists,

Catholics, Presbyterians, or Freethinkers, and remember only that we are
men and women. After all, man and woman are the highest possible titles.
All other names belittle us, and show that we have, to a certain extent,
given up our individuality, and have consented to wear the collar of
authority—that we are followers. Throwing away these names, let us
examine these questions not as partisans, but as human beings with hopes
and fears in common.

We know that our opinions depend, to a great degree, upon our
surroundings—upon race, country, and education. We are all the result
of numberless conditions, and inherit vices and virtues, truths and
prejudices. If we had been born in England, surrounded by wealth and
clothed with power, most of us would have been Episcopalians, and
believed in church and state. We should have insisted that the people
needed a religion, and that not having intellect enough to provide one
for themselves, it was our duty to make one for them, and then compel
them to support it. We should have believed it indecent to officiate in
a pulpit without wearing a gown, and that prayers should be read from
a book. Had we belonged to the lower classes, we might have been
dissenters and protested against the mummeries of the High Church.
Had we been born in Turkey, most of us would have been Mohammedans and
believed in the inspiration of the Koran. We should have believed that
Mohammed actually visited heaven and became acquainted with an angel by
the name of Gabriel, who was so broad between the eyes that it required
three hundred days for a very smart camel to travel the distance. If
some man had denied this story we should probably have denounced him as
a dangerous person, one who was endeavoring to undermine the foundations
of society, and to destroy all distinction between virtue and vice. We
should have said to him, "What do you propose to give us in place
of that angel? We cannot afford to give up an angel of that size for
nothing." We would have insisted that the best and wisest men
believed the Koran. We would have quoted from the works and letters of
philosophers, generals and sultans, to show that the Koran was the best
of books, and that Turkey was indebted to that book and to that alone
for its greatness and prosperity. We would have asked that man whether
he knew more than all the great minds of his country, whether he was so
much wiser than his fathers? We would have pointed out to him the fact
that thousands had been consoled in the hour of death by passages from
the Koran; that they had died with glazed eyes brightened by visions of
the heavenly harem, and gladly left this world of grief and tears.
We would have regarded Christians as the vilest of men, and on all
occasions would have repeated "There is but one God, and Mohammed is his
prophet!"

So, if we had been born in India, we should in all probability have
believed in the religion of that country. We should have regarded the
old records as true and sacred, and looked upon a wandering priest as
better than the men from whom he begged, and by whose labor he lived.
We should have believed in a god with three heads instead of three gods
with one head, as we do now.

Now and then some one says that the religion of his father and mother
is good enough for him, and wonders why anybody should desire a better.
Surely we are not bound to follow our parents in religion any more than
in politics, science or art. China has been petrified by the worship
of ancestors. If our parents had been satisfied with the religion of
theirs, we would be still less advanced than we are. If we are, in any
way, bound by the belief of our fathers, the doctrine will hold good
back to the first people who had a religion; and if this doctrine is
true, we ought now to be believers in that first religion. In other
words, we would all be barbarians. You cannot show real respect to your
parents by perpetuating their errors. Good fathers and mothers wish
their children to advance, to overcome obstacles which baffled them, and
to correct the errors of their education. If you wish to reflect credit
upon your parents, accomplish more than they did, solve problems that
they could not understand, and build better than they knew. To sacrifice
your manhood upon the grave of your father is an honor to neither. Why
should a son who has examined a subject, throw away his reason and adopt
the views of his mother? Is not such a course dishonorable to both?

We must remember that this "ancestor" argument is as old at least as
the second generation of men, that it has served no purpose except to
enslave mankind, and results mostly from the fact that acquiescence
is easier than investigation. This argument pushed to its logical
conclusion, would prevent the advance of all people whose parents were
not Freethinkers.

It is hard for many people to give up the religion in which they were
born; to admit that their fathers were utterly mistaken, and that the
sacred records of their country are but collections of myths and fables.

But when we look for a moment at the world, we find that each nation has
its "sacred records"—its religion, and its ideas of worship. Certainly
all cannot be right; and as it would require a life time to investigate
the claims of these various systems, it is hardly fair to damn a man
forever, simply because he happens to believe the wrong one. All these
religions were produced by barbarians. Civilized nations have contented
themselves with changing the religions of their barbaric ancestors, but
they have made none. Nearly all these religions are intensely selfish.
Each one was made by some contemptible little nation that regarded
itself as of almost infinite importance, and looked upon the other
nations as beneath the notice of their god. In all these countries it
was a crime to deny the sacred records, to laugh at the priests, to
speak disrespectfully of the gods, to fail to divide your substance
with the lazy hypocrites who managed your affairs in the next world upon
condition that you would support them in this. In the olden time
these theological people who quartered themselves upon the honest
and industrious, were called soothsayers, seers, charmers, prophets,
enchanters, sorcerers, wizards, astrologers, and impostors, but now,
they are known as clergymen.

We are no exception to the general rule, and consequently have our
sacred books as well as the rest. Of course, it is claimed by many of
our people that our books are the only true ones, the only ones that the
real God ever wrote, or had anything whatever to do with. They insist
that all other sacred books were written by hypocrites and impostors;
that the Jews were the only people that God ever had any personal
intercourse with, and that all other prophets and seers were inspired
only by impudence and mendacity. True, it seems somewhat strange that
God should have chosen a barbarous and unknown people who had little or
nothing to do with the other nations of the earth, as his messengers to
the rest of mankind.

It is not easy to account for an infinite God making people so low in
the scale of intellect as to require a revelation. Neither is it easy to
perceive why, if a revelation was necessary for all, it was made only
to a few. Of course, I know that it is extremely wicked to suggest these
thoughts, and that ignorance is the only armor that can effectually
protect you from the wrath of God. I am aware that investigators with
all their genius, never find the road to heaven; that those who look
where they are going are sure to miss it, and that only those who
voluntarily put out their eyes and implicitly depend upon blindness can
surely keep the narrow path.

Whoever reads our sacred book is compelled to believe it or suffer
forever the torments of the lost. We are told that we have the privilege
of examining it for ourselves; but this privilege is only extended to
us on the condition that we believe it whether it appears reasonable or
not. We may disagree with others as much as we please upon the meaning
of all passages in the Bible, but we must not deny the truth of a single
word. We must believe that the book is inspired. If we obey its every
precept without believing in its inspiration we will be damned just as
certainly as though we disobeyed its every word. We have no right to
weigh it in the scales of reason—to test it by the laws of nature, or
the facts of observation and experience. To do this, we are told, is to
put ourselves above the word of God, and sit in judgment on the works of
our creator.

For my part, I cannot admit that belief is a voluntary thing. It seems
to me that evidence, even in spite of ourselves, will have its weight,
and that whatever our wish may be, we are compelled to stand with
fairness by the scales, and give the exact result. It will not do to say
that we reject the Bible because we are wicked. Our wickedness must be
ascertained not from our belief but from our acts.

I am told by the clergy that I ought not to attack the Bible; that I am
leading thousands to perdition and rendering certain the damnation of my
own soul. They have had the kindness to advise me that, if my object is
to make converts, I am pursuing the wrong course. They tell me to use
gentler expressions, and more cunning words. Do they really wish me
to make more converts? If their advice is honest, they are traitors to
their trust. If their advice is not honest, then they are unfair with
me. Certainly they should wish me to pursue the course that will make
the fewest converts, and yet they pretend to tell me how my influence
could be increased. It may be, that upon this principle John Bright
advises America to adopt free trade, so that our country can become a
successful rival of Great Britain. Sometimes I think that even ministers
are not entirely candid.

Notwithstanding the advice of the clergy, I have concluded to pursue my
own course, to tell my honest thoughts, and to have my freedom in this
world whatever my fate may be in the next.

The real oppressor, enslaver and corrupter of the people is the Bible.
That book is the chain that binds, the dungeon that holds the clergy.
That book spreads the pall of superstition over the colleges and
schools. That book puts out the eyes of science, and makes honest
investigation a crime. That book unmans the politician and degrades the
people. That book fills the world with bigotry, hypocrisy and fear.
It plays the same part in our country that has been played by "sacred
records" in all the nations of the world.

A little while ago I saw one of the Bibles of the Middle Ages. It was
about two feet in length, and one and a half in width. It had immense
oaken covers, with hasps, and clasps, and hinges large enough almost
for the doors of a penitentiary. It was covered with pictures of winged
angels and aureoled saints. In my imagination I saw this book carried
to the cathedral altar in solemn pomp—heard the chant of robed and
kneeling priests, felt the strange tremor of the organ's peal; saw the
colored light streaming through windows stained and touched by blood
and flame—the swinging censer with its perfumed incense rising to the
mighty roof, dim with height and rich with legend carved in stone, while
on the walls was hung, written in light, and shade, and all the colors
that can tell of joy and tears, the pictured history of the martyred
Christ. The people fell upon their knees. The book was opened, and the
priest read the messages from God to man. To the multitude, the book
itself was evidence enough that it was not the work of human hands. How
could those little marks and lines and dots contain, like tombs, the
thoughts of men, and how could they, touched by a ray of light from
human eyes, give up their dead? How could these characters span the vast
chasm dividing the present from the past, and make it possible for the
living still to hear the voices of the dead?

## V. The Pentateuch

The first five books in our Bible are known as the Pentateuch. For a
long time it was supposed that Moses was the author, and among the
ignorant the supposition still prevails. As a matter of fact, it seems
to be well settled that Moses had nothing to do with these books, and
that they were not written until he had been dust and ashes for hundreds
of years. But, as all the churches still insist that he was the author,
that he wrote even an account of his own death and burial, let us speak
of him as though these books were in fact written by him. As the
Christians maintain that God was the real author, it makes but little
difference whom he employed as his pen.

Nearly all authors of sacred books have given an account of the creation
of the universe, the origin of matter, and the destiny of the human
race, all have pointed out the obligation that man is under to his
creator for having placed him upon the earth, and allowed him to live
and suffer, and have taught that nothing short of the most abject
worship could possibly compensate God for his trouble and labor suffered
and done for the good of man. They have nearly all insisted that we
should thank God for all that is good in life; but they have not all
informed us as to whom we should hold responsible for the evils we
endure.

Moses differed from most of the makers of sacred books by his failure
to say anything of a future life, by failing to promise heaven, and to
threaten hell. Upon the subject of a future state, there is not one
word in the Pentateuch. Probably at that early day God did not deem
it important to make a revelation as to the eternal destiny of man.
He seems to have thought that he could control the Jews, at least, by
rewards and punishments in this world, and so he kept the frightful
realities of eternal joy and torment a profound secret from the people
of his choice. He thought it far more important to tell the Jews their
origin than to enlighten them as to their destiny.

We must remember that every tribe and nation has some way in which, the
more striking phenomena of nature are accounted for. These accounts
are handed down by tradition, changed by numberless narrators as
intelligence increases, or to account for newly discovered facts, or for
the purpose of satisfying the appetite for the marvelous.

The way in which a tribe or nation accounts for day and night, the
change of seasons, the fall of snow and rain, the flight of birds,
the origin of the rainbow, the peculiarities of animals, the dreams
of sleep, the visions of the insane, the existence of earthquakes,
volcanoes, storms, lightning and the thousand things that attract the
attention and excite the wonder, fear or admiration of mankind, may be
called the philosophy of that tribe or nation. And as all phenomena are,
by savage and barbaric man accounted for as the action of intelligent
beings for the accomplishment of certain objects, and as these beings
were supposed to have the power to assist or injure man, certain things
were supposed necessary for man to do in order to gain the assistance,
and avoid the anger of these gods. Out of this belief grew certain
ceremonies, and these ceremonies united with the belief, formed
religion; and consequently every religion has for its foundation a
misconception of the cause of phenomena.

All worship is necessarily based upon the belief that some being exists
who can, if he will, change the natural order of events. The savage
prays to a stone that he calls a god, while the Christian prays to a god
that he calls a spirit, and the prayers of both are equally useful. The
savage and the Christian put behind the Universe an intelligent cause,
and this cause whether represented by one god or many, has been, in all
ages, the object of all worship. To carry a fetich, to utter a prayer,
to count beads, to abstain from food, to sacrifice a lamb, a child or an
enemy, are simply different ways by which the accomplishment of the same
object is sought, and are all the offspring of the same error.

Many systems of religion must have existed many ages before the art of
writing was discovered, and must have passed through many changes before
the stories, miracles, histories, prophecies and mistakes became fixed
and petrified in written words. After that, change was possible only by
giving new meanings to old words, a process rendered necessary by the
continual acquisition of facts somewhat inconsistent with a literal
interpretation of the "sacred records." In this way an honest faith
often prolongs its life by dishonest methods; and in this way the
Christians of to-day are trying to harmonize the Mosaic account of
creation with the theories and discoveries of modern science.

Admitting that Moses was the author of the Pentateuch, or that he gave
to the Jews a religion, the question arises as to where he obtained
his information. We are told by the theologians that he received his
knowledge from God, and that every word he wrote was and is the exact
truth. It is admitted at the same time that he was an adopted son of
Pharaoh's daughter, and enjoyed the rank and privilege of a prince.
Under such circumstances, he must have been well acquainted with the
literature, philosophy and religion of the Egyptians, and must have
known what they believed and taught as to the creation of the world.

Now, if the account of the origin of this earth as given by Moses is
substantially like that given by the Egyptians, then we must conclude
that he learned it from them. Should we imagine that he was divinely
inspired because he gave to the Jews what the Egyptians had given him?

The Egyptian priests taught _first_, that a god created the original
matter, leaving it in a state of chaos; _second_, that a god moulded it
into form; _third_, that the breath of a god moved upon the face of
the deep; _fourth_, that a god created simply by saying "Let it be;"
_fifth_, that a god created light before the sun existed.

Nothing can be clearer than that Moses received from the Egyptians the
principal parts of his narrative, making such changes and additions as
were necessary to satisfy the peculiar superstitions of his own people.

If some man at the present day should assert that he had received from
God the theories of evolution, the survival of the fittest, and the
law of heredity, and we should afterwards find that he was not only an
Englishman, but had lived in the family of Charles Darwin, we certainly
would account for his having these theories in a natural way, So, if
Darwin himself should pretend that he was inspired, and had obtained
his peculiar theories from God, we should probably reply that his
grandfather suggested the same ideas, and that Lamarck published
substantially the same theories the same year that Mr. Darwin was born.

Now, if we have sufficient courage, we will, by the same course of
reasoning, account for the story of creation found in the Bible. We
will say that it contains the belief of Moses, and that he received his
information from the Egyptians, and not from God. If we take the account
as the absolute truth and use it for the purpose of determining the
value of modern thought, scientific advancement becomes impossible. And
even if the account of the creation as given by Moses should turn out
to be true, and should be so admitted by all the scientific world, the
claim that he was inspired would still be without the least particle
of proof. We would be forced to admit that he knew more than we had
supposed. It certainly is no proof that a man is inspired simply because
he is right.

No one pretends that Shakespeare was inspired, and yet all the writers
of the books of the Old Testament put together, could not have produced
Hamlet.

Why should we, looking upon some rough and awkward thing, or god in
stone, say that it must have been produced by some inspired sculptor,
and with the same breath pronounce the _Venus de Milo_ to be the work
of man? Why should we, looking at some ancient daub of angel, saint or
virgin, say its painter must have been assisted by a god?

Let us account for all we see by the facts we know. If there are things
for which we cannot account, let us wait for light. To account for
anything by supernatural agencies is, in fact to say that we do not
know. Theology is not what we know about God, but what we do not know
about Nature. In order to increase our respect for the Bible, it became
necessary for the priests to exalt and extol that book, and at the same
time to decry and belittle the reasoning powers of man. The whole
power of the pulpit has been used for hundreds of years to destroy the
confidence of man in himself—to induce him to distrust his own powers
of thought, to believe that he was wholly unable to decide any question
for himself, and that all human virtue consists in faith and obedience.
The church has said, "Believe, and obey! If you reason, you will become
an unbeliever, and unbelievers will be lost. If you disobey, you will
do so through vain pride and curiosity, and will, like Adam and Eve, be
thrust from Paradise forever!"

For my part, I care nothing for what the church says, except in so far
as it accords with my reason; and the Bible is nothing to me, only in so
far as it agrees with what I think or know.

All books should be examined in the same spirit, and truth should be
welcomed and falsehood exposed, no matter in what volume they may be
found.

Let us in this spirit examine the Pentateuch; and if anything appears
unreasonable, contradictory or absurd, let us have the honesty and
courage to admit it. Certainly no good can result either from deceiving
ourselves or others. Many millions have implicitly believed this book,
and have just as implicitly believed that polygamy was sanctioned by
God. Millions have regarded this book as the foundation of all
human progress, and at the same time looked upon slavery as a divine
institution. Millions have declared this book to have been infinitely
holy, and to prove that they were right, have imprisoned, robbed
and burned their fellow-men. The inspiration of this book has been
established by famine, sword and fire, by dungeon, chain and whip, by
dagger and by rack, by force and fear and fraud, and generations have
been frightened by threats of hell, and bribed with promises of heaven.

Let us examine a portion of this book, not in the darkness of our fear,
but in the light of reason.

And first, let us examine the account given of the creation of this
world, commenced, according to the Bible, on Monday morning about five
thousand eight hundred and eighty-three years ago.

## VI. Monday.

Moses commences his story by telling us that in the beginning God
created the heaven and the earth.

If this means anything, it means that God produced, caused to exist,
called into being, the heaven and the earth. It will not do to say that
he formed the heaven and the earth of previously existing matter. Moses
conveys, and intended to convey the idea that the matter of which the
heaven and the earth are composed, was created.

It is impossible for me to conceive of something being created from
nothing. Nothing, regarded in the light of a raw material, is a decided
failure. I cannot conceive of matter apart from force. Neither is it
possible to think of force disconnected with matter. You cannot imagine
matter going back to absolute nothing. Neither can you imagine nothing
being changed into something. You may be eternally damned if you do not
say that you can conceive these things, but you cannot conceive them.

Such is the constitution of the human mind that it cannot even think of
a commencement or an end of matter, or force.

If God created the universe, there was a time when he commenced to
create. Back of that commencement there must have been an eternity. In
that eternity what was this God doing? He certainly did not think.
There was nothing to think about. He did not remember. Nothing had ever
happened. What did he do? Can you imagine anything more absurd than an
infinite intelligence in infinite nothing wasting an eternity?

I do not pretend to tell how all these things really are; but I do
insist that a statement that cannot possibly be comprehended by any
human being, and that appears utterly impossible, repugnant to every
fact of experience, and contrary to everything that we really know, must
be rejected by every honest man.

We can conceive of eternity, because we cannot conceive of a cessation
of time. We can conceive of infinite space because we cannot conceive
of so much matter that our imagination will not stand upon the farthest
star, and see infinite space beyond. In other words, we cannot conceive
of a cessation of time; therefore eternity is a necessity of the mind.
Eternity sustains the same relation to time that space does to matter.

In the time of Moses, it was perfectly safe for him to write an account
of the creation of the world. He had simply to put in form the crude
notions of the people. At that time, no other Jew could have written
a better account. Upon that subject he felt at liberty to give his
imagination full play. There was no one who could authoritatively
contradict anything he might say. It was substantially the same story
that had been imprinted in curious characters upon the clay records
of Babylon, the gigantic monuments of Egypt, and the gloomy temples of
India. In those days there was an almost infinite difference between
the educated and ignorant. The people were controlled almost entirely
by signs and wonders. By the lever of fear, priests moved the world. The
sacred records were made and kept, and altered by them. The people could
not read, and looked upon one who could, as almost a god. In our day it
is hard to conceive of the influence of an educated class in a barbarous
age. It was only necessary to produce the "sacred record," and ignorance
fell upon its face. The people were taught that the record was inspired,
and therefore true. They were not taught that it was true, and therefore
inspired.

After all, the real question is not whether the Bible is inspired, but
whether it is true. If it is true, it does not need to be inspired. If
it is true, it makes no difference whether it was written by a man or a
god. The multiplication table is just as useful, just as true as though
God had arranged the figures himself. If the Bible is really true,
the claim of inspiration need not be urged; and if it is not true, its
inspiration can hardly be established. As a matter of fact, the truth
does not need to be inspired. Nothing needs inspiration except a
falsehood or a mistake. Where truth ends, where probability stops,
inspiration begins. A fact never went into partnership with a miracle.
Truth does not need the assistance of miracle. A fact will fit every
other fact in the Universe, because it is the product of all other
facts. A lie will fit nothing except another lie made for the express
purpose of fitting it. After a while the man gets tired of lying, and
then the last lie will not fit the next fact, and then there is an
opportunity to use a miracle. Just at that point, it is necessary to
have a little inspiration.

It seems to me that reason is the highest attribute of man, and that if
there can be any communication from God to man, it must be addressed
to his reason. It does not seem possible that in order to understand a
message from God it is absolutely essential to throw our reason away.
How could God make known his will to any being destitute of reason? How
can any man accept as a revelation from God that which is unreasonable
to him? God cannot make a revelation to another man for me. He must make
it to me, and until he convinces my reason that it is true, I cannot
receive it.

The statement that in the beginning God created the heaven and the
earth, I cannot accept. It is contrary to my reason, and I cannot
believe it. It appears reasonable to me that force has existed from
eternity. Force cannot, as it appears to me, exist apart from matter.
Force, in its nature, is forever active, and without matter it could
not act; and so I think matter must have existed forever. To conceive
of matter without force, or of force without matter, or of a time when
neither existed, or of a being who existed for an eternity without
either, and who out of nothing created both, is to me utterly
impossible. I may be damned on this account, but I cannot help it. In my
judgment, Moses was mistaken.

It will not do to say that Moses merely intended to tell what God did,
in making the heavens and the earth out of matter then in existence.
He distinctly states that in the _beginning_ God created them. If this
account is true, we must believe that God, existing in infinite space
surrounded by eternal nothing, naught and void, created, produced,
called into being, willed into existence this universe of countless
stars.

The next thing we are told by this inspired gentleman is, that God
created light, and proceeded to divide it from the darkness.

Certainly, the person who wrote this believed that darkness was a thing,
an entity, a material that could get mixed and tangled up with light,
and that these entities, light and darkness, had to be separated. In his
imagination he probably saw God throwing pieces and chunks of darkness
on one side, and rays and beams of light on the other. It is hard for a
man who has been born but once to understand these things. For my part,
I cannot understand how light can be separated from darkness. I had
always supposed that darkness was simply the absence of light, and that
under no circumstances could it be necessary to take the darkness away
from the light. It is certain, however, that Moses believed darkness to
be a form of matter, because I find that in another place he speaks of
a darkness that could be felt. They used to have on exhibition at Rome a
bottle of the darkness that overspread Egypt.

You cannot divide light from darkness any more than you can divide heat
from cold. Cold is an absence of heat, and darkness is an absence of
light. I suppose that we have no conception of absolute cold. We know
only degrees of heat. Twenty degrees below zero is just twenty degrees
warmer than forty degrees below zero. Neither cold nor darkness are
entities, and these words express simply either the absolute or partial
absence of heat or light. I cannot conceive how light can be divided
from darkness, but I can conceive how a barbarian several thousand years
ago, writing upon a subject about which he knew nothing, could make a
mistake. The creator of light could not have written in this way. If
such a being exists, he must have known the nature of that "mode of
motion" that paints the earth on every eye, and clothes in garments
seven-hued this universe of worlds.

## VII. Tuesday.

We are next informed by Moses that "God of the waters, and let it divide
the waters from the waters;" and that "God made the firmament, and
divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters
which were above the firmament." What did the writer mean by the word
firmament? Theologians now tell us that he meant an "expanse." This will
not do. How could an expanse divide the waters from the waters, so that
the waters above the expanse would not fall into and mingle with the
waters below the expanse? The truth is that Moses regarded the firmament
as a solid affair. It was where God lived, and where water was kept. It
was for this reason that they used to pray for rain. They supposed that
some angel could with a lever raise a gate and let out the quantity of
moisture desired. It was with the water from this firmament that the
world was drowned when the windows of heaven were opened. It was in this
said Let there be a firmament in the midst firmament that the sons of
God lived—the sons who "saw the daughters of men that they were
fair and took them wives of all which they chose." The issue of such
marriages were giants, and "the same became mighty men which were of
old, men of renown."

Nothing is clearer than that Moses regarded the firmament as a vast
material division that separated the waters of the world, and upon
whose floor God lived, surrounded by his sons. In no other way could he
account for rain. Where did the water come from? He knew nothing about
the laws of evaporation. He did not know that the sun wooed with amorous
kisses the waves of the sea, and that they, clad in glorified mist
rising to meet their lover, were, by disappointment, changed to tears
and fell as rain.

The idea that the firmament was the abode of the Deity must have been in
the mind of Moses when he related the dream of Jacob. "And he dreamed,
and behold, a ladder set upon the earth and the top of it reached to
heaven; and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it; and
behold the Lord stood above it and said, I am the Lord God."

So, when the people were building the tower of Babel "the Lord came down
to see the city, and the tower which the children of men builded. And
the Lord said, Behold the people is one, and they have all one language:
and this they begin to do; and nothing will be restrained from them
which they imagined to do. Go to, let us go down and confound their
language that they may not understand one another's speech."

The man who wrote that absurd account must have believed that God lived
above the earth, in the firmament. The same idea was in the mind of the
Psalmist when he said that God "bowed the heavens and came down."

Of course, God could easily remove any person bodily to heaven, as it
was but a little way above the earth. "Enoch walked with God, and he was
not, for God took him." The accounts in the Bible of the ascension of
Elijah, Christ and St. Paul were born of the belief that the firmament
was the dwelling-place of God. It probably never occurred to these
writers that if the firmament was seven or eight miles away, Enoch and
the rest would have been frozen perfectly stiff long before the journey
could have been completed. Possibly Elijah might have made the voyage,
as he was carried to heaven in a chariot of fire "by a whirlwind."

The truth is, that Moses was mistaken, and upon that mistake the
Christians located their heaven and their hell. The telescope destroyed
the firmament, did away with the heaven of the New Testament, rendered
the ascension of our Lord and the assumption of his Mother infinitely
absurd, crumbled to chaos the gates and palaces of the New Jerusalem,
and in their places gave to man a wilderness of worlds.

## VIII. Wednesday.

We are next informed by the historian of creation, that after God had
finished making the firmament and had succeeded in dividing the waters
by means of an "expanse," he proceeded "to gather the waters on the
earth together in seas, so that the dry land might appear."

Certainly the writer of this did not have any conception of the real
form of the earth. He could not have known anything of the attraction of
gravitation. He must have regarded the earth as flat and supposed that
it required considerable force and power to induce the water to leave
the mountains and collect in the valleys. Just as soon as the water was
forced to run down hill, the dry land appeared, and the grass began to
grow, and the mantles of green were thrown over the shoulders of the
hills, and the trees laughed into bud and blossom, and the branches were
laden with fruit. And all this happened before a ray had left the quiver
of the sun, before a glittering beam had thrilled the bosom of a flower,
and before the Dawn with trembling hands had drawn aside the curtains of
the East and welcomed to her arms the eager god of Day.

It does not seem to me that grass and trees could grow and ripen into
seed and fruit without the sun. According to the account, this all
happened on the third day. Now, if, as the Christians say, Moses did not
mean by the word day a period of twenty-four hours, but an immense and
almost measureless space of time, and as God did not, according to this
view make any animals until the fifth day, that is, not for millions of
years after he made the grass and trees, for what purpose did he cause
the trees to bear fruit?

Moses says that God said on the third day, "Let the earth bring forth
grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after
his kind, whose seed is in itself upon the earth; and it was so. And the
earth brought forth grass and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the
tree yielding fruit whose seed was in itself after his kind; and God saw
that it was good, and the evening and the morning were the third day."

There was nothing to eat this fruit; not an insect with painted wings
sought the honey of the flowers; not a single living, breathing thing
upon the earth. Plenty of grass, a great variety of herbs, an abundance
of fruit, but not a mouth in all the world. If Moses is right, this
state of things lasted only two days; but if the modern theologians are
correct, it continued for millions of ages.

"It is now well known that the organic history of the earth can be
properly divided into five epochs—the Primordial, Primary, Secondary,
Tertiary, and Quaternary. Each of these epochs is characterized by
animal and vegetable life peculiar to itself. In the First will be found
Algae and Skulless Vertebrates, in the Second, Ferns and Fishes, in the
Third, Pine Forests and Reptiles, in the Fourth, Foliaceous Forests and
Mammals, and in the Fifth, Man."

How much more reasonable this is than the idea that the earth was
covered with grass, and herbs, and trees loaded with fruit for millions
of years before an animal existed.

There is, in Nature, an even balance forever kept between the total
amounts of animal and vegetable life. "In her wonderful economy she must
form and bountifully nourish her vegetable progeny—twin-brother life to
her, with that of animals. The perfect balance between plant existences
and animal existences must always be maintained, while matter courses
through the eternal circle, becoming each in turn. If an animal be
resolved into its ultimate constituents in a period according to the
surrounding circumstances, say, of four hours, of four months, of four
years, or even of four thousand years,—for it is impossible to deny
that there may be instances of all these periods during which the
process has continued—those elements which assume the gaseous form
mingle at once with the atmosphere and are taken up from it without
delay by the ever-open mouths of vegetable life. By a thousand pores
in every leaf the carbonic acid which renders the atmosphere unfit for
animal life is absorbed, the carbon being separated, and assimilated to
form the vegetable fibre, which, as wood, makes and furnishes our houses
and ships, is burned for our warmth, or is stored up under pressure for
coal. All this carbon has played its part, and many parts in its time,
as animal existences from monad up to man. Our mahogany of to-day has
been many negroes in its turn, and before the African existed, was
integral portions of many a generation of extinct species."

It seems reasonable to suppose that certain kinds of vegetation-and
certain kinds of animals should exist together, and that as the
character of the vegetation changed, a corresponding change would take
place in the animal world. It may be that I am led to these conclusions
by "total depravity," or that I lack the necessary humility of spirit to
satisfactorily harmonize Haeckel and Moses; or that I am carried away by
pride, blinded by reason, given over to hardness of heart that I might
be damned, but I never can believe that the earth was covered with
leaves, and buds, and flowers, and fruits before the sun with glittering
spear had driven back the hosts of Night.

## IX. Thursday.

After the world was covered with vegetation, it occurred to Moses that
it was about time to make a sun and moon; and so we are told that on the
fourth day God said, "Let there be light in the firmament of the heaven
to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for
seasons, and for days and years; and let them be for lights in the
firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth; and it was so. And
God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the
lesser light to rule the night; he made the stars also."

Can we believe that the inspired writer had any idea of the size of the
sun? Draw a circle five inches in diameter, and by its side thrust a pin
through the paper. The hole made by the pin will sustain about the same
relation to the circle that the earth does to the sun. Did he know that
the sun was eight hundred and sixty thousand miles in diameter; that it
was enveloped in an ocean of fire thousands of miles in depth, hotter
even than the Christian's hell, over which sweep tempests of flame
moving at the rate of one hundred miles a second, compared with which
the wildest storm that ever wrecked the forests of this world was but a
calm? Did he know that the sun every moment of time throws out as much
heat as could be generated by the combustion of millions upon millions
of tons of coal? Did he know that the volume of the earth is less than
one-millionth of that of the sun? Did he know of the one hundred and
four planets belonging to our solar system, all children of the sun? Did
he know of Jupiter eighty-five thousand miles in diameter, hundreds
of times as large as our earth, turning on his axis at the rate of
twenty-five thousand miles an hour accompanied by four moons, making the
tour of his orbit in fifty years, a distance of three thousand million
miles? Did he know anything about Saturn, his rings and his eight moons?
Did he have the faintest idea that all these planets were once a part of
the sun; that the vast luminary was once thousands of millions of miles
in diameter; that Neptune, Uranus, Saturn, Jupiter and Mars were all
born before our earth, and that by no possibility could this world have
existed three days, nor three periods, nor three "good whiles" before
its source, the sun?

Moses supposed the sun to be about three or four feet in diameter and
the moon about half that size. Compared with the earth they were but
simple specks. This idea seems to have been shared by all the "inspired"
men. We find in the book of Joshua that the sun stood still, and the
moon stayed until the people had avenged themselves upon their enemies.
"So the sun stood still in the midst of heaven, and hasted not to go
down about a whole day."

We are told that the sacred writer wrote in common speech as we do
when we talk about the rising and setting of the sun, and that all he
intended to say was that the earth ceased to turn on its axis "for about
a whole day."

My own opinion is that General Joshua knew no more about the motions of
the earth than he did about mercy and justice. If he had known that the
earth turned upon its axis at the rate of a thousand miles an hour, and
swept in its course about the sun at the rate of sixty-eight thousand
miles an hour, he would have doubled the hailstones, spoken of in the
same chapter, that the Lord cast down from heaven, and allowed the sun
and moon to rise and set in the usual way.

It is impossible to conceive of a more absurd story than this about the
stopping of the sun and moon, and yet nothing so excites the malice of
the orthodox preacher as to call its truth in question. Some endeavor
to account for the phenomenon by natural causes, while others attempt
to show that God could, by the refraction of light have made the sun
visible although actually shining on the opposite side of the earth. The
last hypothesis has been seriously urged by ministers within the last
few months. The Rev. Henry M. Morey of South Bend, Indiana, says "that
the phenomenon was simply optical. The rotary motion of the earth was
not disturbed, but the light of the sun was prolonged by the same laws
of refraction and reflection by which the sun now appears to be above
the horizon when it is really below. The medium through which the sun's
rays passed may have been miraculously influenced so as to have caused
the sun to linger above the horizon long after its usual time for
disappearance."

This is the latest and ripest product of Christian scholarship upon
this question no doubt, but still it is not entirely satisfactory to me.
According to the sacred account the sun did not linger, merely, above
the horizon, but stood still "in the midst of heaven for about a
whole day," that is to say, for about twelve hours. If the air was
miraculously changed, so that it would refract the rays of the sun while
the earth turned over as usual for "about a whole day," then, at the
end of that time the sun must have been visible in the east, that is,
it must by that time have been the next morning. According to this, that
most wonderful day must have been at least thirty-six hours in length.
We have first, the twelve hours of natural light, then twelve hours of
"refracted and reflected" light. By that time it would again be morning,
and the sun would shine for twelve hours more in the natural way, making
thirty-six hours in all.

If the Rev. Morey would depend a little less on "refraction" and a
little more on "reflection," he would conclude that the whole story is
simply a barbaric myth and fable.

It hardly seems reasonable that God, if there is one, would either stop
the globe, change the constitution of the atmosphere or the nature of
light simply to afford Joshua an opportunity to kill people on that
day when he could just as easily have waited until the next morning.
It certainly cannot be very gratifying to God for us to believe such
childish things.

It has been demonstrated that force is eternal; that it is forever
active, and eludes destruction by change of form. Motion is a form of
force, and all arrested motion changes instantly to heat. The earth
turns upon its axis at about one thousand miles an hour. Let it be
stopped and a force beyond our imagination is changed to heat. It has
been calculated that to stop the world would produce as much heat as the
burning of a solid piece of coal three times the size of the earth.
And yet we are asked to believe that this was done in order that one
barbarian might defeat another. Such stories never would have been
written, had not the belief been general that the heavenly bodies were
as nothing compared with the earth.

The view of Moses was acquiesced in by the Jewish people and by the
Christian world for thousands of years. It is supposed that Moses
lived about fifteen hundred years before Christ, and although he was
"inspired," and obtained his information directly from God, he did not
know as much about our solar system as the Chinese did a thousand
years before he was born. "The Emperor Chwenhio adopted as an epoch, a
conjunction of the planets Mercury, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, which has
been shown by M. Bailly to have occurred no less than 2449 years before
Christ." The ancient Chinese knew not only the motions of the planets,
but they could calculate eclipses. "In the reign of the Emperor
Chow-Kang, the chief astronomers, Ho and Hi were condemned to death for
neglecting to announce a solar eclipse which took place 2169 B. C., a
clear proof that the prediction of eclipses was a part of the duty of
the imperial astronomers."

Is it not strange that a Chinaman should find out by his own exertions
more about the material universe than Moses could when assisted by its
Creator?

About eight hundred years after God gave Moses the principal facts about
the creation of the "heaven and the earth" he performed another miracle
far more wonderful than stopping the world. On this occasion he not
only stopped the earth, but actually caused it to turn the other way.
A Jewish king was sick, and God, in order to convince him that he would
ultimately recover, offered to make the shadow on the dial go forward,
or backward ten degrees. The king thought it was too easy a thing to
make the shadow go forward, and asked that it be turned back. Thereupon,
"Isaiah the prophet cried unto the Lord, and he brought the shadow
ten degrees backward by which it had gone down in the dial of Ahaz." I
hardly see how this miracle could be accounted for even by "refraction"
and "reflection."

It seems, from the account, that this stupendous miracle was performed
after the king had been cured. The account of the shadow going backward
is given in the eleventh verse of the twentieth chapter of Second Kings,
while the cure is given in the seventh verse of the same chapter. "And
Isaiah said, Take a lump of figs. And they took and laid it on the boil,
and he recovered."

Stopping the world and causing it to turn back ten degrees after that,
seems to have been, as the boil was already cured by the figs, a useless
display of power.

The easiest way to account for all these wonders is to say that the
"inspired" writers were mistaken. In this way a fearful burden is lifted
from the credulity of man, and he is left free to believe the evidences
of his own senses, and the demonstrations of science. In this way he can
emancipate himself from the slavery of superstition, the control of the
barbaric dead, and the despotism of the church.

Only about a hundred years ago, Buffon, the naturalist, was compelled by
the faculty of theology at Paris to publicly renounce fourteen "errors"
in his work on Natural History because they were at variance with the
Mosaic account of creation. The Pentateuch is still the scientific
standard of the church, and ignorant priests, armed with that, pronounce
sentence upon the vast accomplishments of modern thought.

## X. "he Made the Stars Also."

Moses came very near forgetting about the stars, and only gave five
words to all the hosts of heaven. Can it be possible that he knew
anything about the stars beyond the mere fact that he saw them shining
above him?

Did he know that the nearest star, the one we ought to be the best
acquainted with, is twenty-one billion of miles away, and that it is
a sun shining by its own light? Did he know of the next, that is
thirty-seven billion miles distant? Is it possible that he was
acquainted with Sirius, a sun two thousand six hundred and eighty-eight
times larger than our own, surrounded by a system of heavenly bodies,
several of which are already known, and distant from us eighty-two
billion miles? Did he know that the Polar star that tells the mariner
his course and guided slaves to liberty and joy, is distant from this
little world two hundred and ninety-two billion miles, and that Capella
wheels and shines one hundred and thirty-three billion miles beyond? Did
he know that it would require about seventy-two years for light to reach
us from this star? Did he know that light travels one hundred and
eighty-five thousand miles a second? Did he know that some stars are so
far away in the infinite abysses that five millions of years are
required for their light to reach this globe?

If this is true, and if as the Bible tells us, the stars were made after
the earth, then this world has been wheeling in its orbit for at least
five million years.

It may be replied that it was not the intention of God to teach geology
and astronomy. Then why did he say anything upon these subjects? and if
he did say anything, why did he not give the facts?

According to the sacred records God created, on the first day, the
heaven and the earth, "moved upon the face of the waters," and made
the light. On the second day he made the firmament or the "expanse" and
divided the waters. On the third day he gathered the waters into seas,
let the dry land appear and caused the earth to bring forth grass, herbs
and fruit trees, and on the fourth day he made the sun, moon and stars
and set them in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth.
This division of labor is very striking. The work of the other days is
as nothing when compared with that of the fourth. Is it possible that
it required the same time and labor to make the grass, herbs and fruit
trees, that it did to fill with countless constellations the infinite
expanse of space?

## XI. Friday.

We are then told that on the next day "God the moving creatures that hath
life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of
heaven. And God created great whales and every living creature which the
waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged
fowl after his kind, and God saw that it was good. And God blessed them,
saying, Be fruitful and multiply and fill the waters in the seas, and
let fowl multiply in the earth."

Is it true that while the dry land was covered with grass, and herbs,
and trees bearing fruit, the ocean was absolutely devoid of life, and so
remained for millions of years?

If Moses meant twenty-four hours by the word day, then it would make but
little difference on which of the six days animals were made; but if the
word said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly day was used to express
millions of ages, during which life was slowly evolved from monad up to
man, then the account becomes infinitely absurd, puerile and foolish.
There is not a scientist of high standing who will say that in his
judgment the earth was covered with fruit-bearing trees before the
moners, the ancestors it may be of the human race, felt in Laurentian
seas the first faint throb of life. Nor is there one who will declare
that there was a single spire of grass before the sun had poured upon
the world his flood of gold.

Why should men in the name of religion try to harmonize the
contradictions that exist between Nature and a book? Why should
philosophers be denounced for placing more reliance upon what they know
than upon what they have been told? If there is a God, it is reasonably
certain that he made the world, but it is by no means certain that he is
the author of the Bible. Why then should we not place greater confidence
in Nature than in a book? And even if this God made not only the world
but the book besides, it does not follow that the book is the best part
of creation, and the only part that we will be eternally punished for
denying. It seems to me that it is quite as important to know something
of the solar system, something of the physical history of this globe,
as it is to know the adventures of Jonah or the diet of Ezekiel. For my
part, I would infinitely prefer to know all the results of scientific
investigation, than to be inspired as Moses was. Supposing the Bible to
be true; why is it any worse or more wicked for Freethinkers to deny
it, than for priests to deny the doctrine of evolution, or the dynamic
theory of heat? Why should we be damned for laughing at Samson and his
foxes, while others, holding the Nebular Hypothesis in utter contempt,
go straight to heaven? It seems to me that a belief in the great truths
of science are fully as essential to salvation, as the creed of any
church. We are taught that a man may be perfectly acceptable to God
even if he denies the rotundity of the earth, the Copernican system, the
three laws of Kepler, the indestructibility of matter and the attraction
of gravitation. And we are also taught that a man may be right upon
all these questions, and yet, for failing to believe in the "scheme of
salvation," be eternally lost.

## XII. Saturday.

On this, the last day of creation, God said;—

"Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle
and creeping thing and beast of the earth after his kind; and it was
so. And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after
their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind;
and God saw that it was good."

Now, is it true that the seas were filled with fish, the sky with fowls,
and the earth covered with grass, and herbs, and fruit bearing trees,
millions of ages before there was a creeping thing in existence? Must
we admit that plants and animals were the result of the fiat of some
incomprehensible intelligence independent of the operation of what are
known as natural causes? Why is a miracle any more necessary to account
for yesterday than for to-day or for to-morrow?

If there is an infinite Power, nothing can be more certain than that
this Power works in accordance with what we call law, that is, by and
through natural causes. If anything can be found without a pedigree of
natural antecedents, it will then be time enough to talk about the fiat
of creation. There must have been a time when plants and animals did not
exist upon this globe. The question, and the only question is, whether
they were naturally produced. If the account given by Moses is true,
then the vegetable and animal existences are the result of certain
special fiats of creation entirely independent of the operation of
natural causes. This is so grossly improbable, so at variance with the
experience and observation of mankind, that it cannot be adopted without
abandoning forever the basis of scientific thought and action.

It may be urged that we do not understand the sacred record correctly.
To this it may be replied that for thousands of years the account of
the creation has, by the Jewish and Christian world, been regarded as
literally true. If it was inspired, of course God must have known just
how it would be understood, and consequently must have intended that
it should be understood just as he knew it would be. One man writing to
another, may mean one thing, and yet be understood as meaning something
else. Now, if the writer knew that he would be misunderstood, and also
knew that he could use other words that would convey his real meaning,
but did not, we would say that he used words on purpose to mislead, and
was not an honest man.

If a being of infinite wisdom wrote the Bible, or caused it to be
written, he must have known exactly how his words would be interpreted
by all the world, and he must have intended to convey the very meaning
that was conveyed. He must have known that by reading that book, man
would form erroneous views as to the shape, antiquity, and size of this
world; that he would be misled as to the time and order of creation;
that he would have the most childish and contemptible views of the
creator; that the "sacred word" would be used to support slavery and
polygamy; that it would build dungeons for the good, and light fagots
to consume the brave, and therefore he must have intended that these
results should follow. He also must have known that thousands and
millions of men and women never could believe his Bible, and that the
number of unbelievers would increase in the exact ratio of civilization,
and therefore, he must have intended that result.

Let us understand this. An honest finite being uses the best words, in
his judgment, to convey his meaning. This is the best he can do, because
he cannot certainly know the exact effect of his words on others. But an
infinite being must know not only the real meaning of the words, but the
exact meaning they will convey to every reader and hearer. He must know
every meaning that they are capable of conveying to every mind. He must
also know what explanations must be made to prevent misconception. If
an infinite being cannot, in making a revelation to man, use such words
that every person to whom a revelation is essential will understand
distinctly what that revelation is, then a revelation from God through
the instrumentality of language is impossible, or it is not essential
that all should understand it correctly. It may be urged that millions
have not the capacity to understand a revelation, although expressed in
the plainest words. To this it seems a sufficient reply to ask, why a
being of infinite power should create men so devoid of intelligence,
that he cannot by any means make known to them his will? We are told
that it is exceedingly plain, and that a wayfaring man, though a fool,
need not err therein. This statement is refuted by the religious history
of the Christian world. Every sect is a certificate that God has not
plainly revealed his will to man. To each reader the Bible conveys a
different meaning. About the meaning of this book, called a revelation,
there have been ages of war, and centuries of sword and flame. If
written by an infinite God, he must have known that these results must
follow; and thus knowing, he must be responsible for all.

Is it not infinitely more reasonable to say that this book is the work
of man, that it is filled with mingled truth and error, with mistakes
and facts, and reflects, too faithfully perhaps, the "very form and
pressure of its time"?

If there are mistakes in the Bible, certainly they were made by man. If
there is anything contrary to nature, it was written by man. If there is
anything immoral, cruel, heartless or infamous, it certainly was never
written by a being worthy of the adoration of mankind.

## XIII. Let Us Make Man.

We are next informed by the author of the Pentateuch that God said "Let
us make man in our image, after our likeness," and that "God created man
in his own image, in the image of God created he him—male and female
created he them."

If this account means anything, it means that man was created in the
physical image and likeness of God. Moses while he speaks of man as
having been made in the image of God, never speaks of God except as
having the form of a man. He speaks of God as "walking in the garden
in the cool of the day;" and that Adam and Eve "heard his voice." He is
constantly telling what God said, and in a thousand passages he refers
to him as not only having the human form, but as performing actions,
such as man performs. The God of Moses was a God with hands, with feet,
with the organs of speech.

A God of passion, of hatred, of revenge, of affection, of repentance; a
God who made mistakes:—in other words, an immense and powerful man.

It will not do to say that Moses meant to convey the idea that God made
man in his mental or moral image. Some have insisted that man was made
in the moral image of God because he was made pure. Purity cannot be
manufactured. A moral character cannot be made for man by a god.
Every man must make his own moral character. Consequently, if God
is infinitely pure, Adam and Eve were not made in his image in that
respect. Others say that Adam and Eve were made in the mental image
of God. If it is meant by that, that they were created with reasoning
powers like, but not to the extent of those possessed by a god, then
this may be admitted. But certainly this idea was not in the mind of
Moses. He regarded the human form as being in the image of God, and for
that reason always spoke of God as having that form. No one can read
the Pentateuch without coming to the conclusion that the author supposed
that man was created in the physical likeness of Deity. God said "Go to,
let us go down." "God smelled a sweet savor;" "God repented him that he
had made man;" "and God said;" and "walked;" and "talked;" and "rested."
All these expressions are inconsistent with any other idea than that the
person using them regarded God as having the form of man.

As a matter of fact, it is impossible for a man to conceive of a
personal God, other than as a being having the human form. No one can
think of an infinite being having the form of a horse, or of a bird, or
of any animal beneath man. It is one of the necessities of the mind to
associate forms with intellectual capacities. The highest form of which
we have any conception is man's, and consequently, his is the only form
that we can find in imagination to give to a personal God, because all
other forms are, in our minds, connected with lower intelligences.

It is impossible to think of a personal God as a spirit without form.
We can use these words, but they do not convey to the mind any real and
tangible meaning. Every one who thinks of a personal God at all, thinks
of him as having the human form. Take from God the idea of form; speak
of him simply as an all pervading spirit—which means an all pervading
something about which we know nothing—and Pantheism is the result.

We are told that God made man; and the question naturally arises, how
was this done? Was it by a process of "evolution," "development;" the
"transmission of acquired habits;" the "survival of the fittest," or was
the necessary amount of clay kneaded to the proper consistency, and then
by the hands of God moulded into form? Modern science tells that man has
been evolved, through countless epochs, from the lower forms; that he
is the result of almost an infinite number of actions, reactions,
experiences, states, forms, wants and adaptations. Did Moses intend
to convey such a meaning, or did he believe that God took a sufficient
amount of dust, made it the proper shape, and breathed into it the
breath of life? Can any believer in the Bible give any reasonable
account of this process of creation? Is it possible to imagine what
was really done? Is there any theologian who will contend that man
was created directly from the earth? Will he say that man was made
substantially as he now is, with all his muscles properly developed for
walking and speaking, and performing every variety of human action?
That all his bones were formed as they now are, and all the relations of
nerve, ligament, brain and motion as they are to-day?

Looking back over the history of animal life from the lowest to
the highest forms, we find that there has been a slow and gradual
development; a certain but constant relation between want and
production; between use and form. The Moner is said to be the simplest
form of animal life that has yet been found. It has been described as
"an organism without organs." It is a kind of structureless structure;
a little mass of transparent jelly that can flatten itself out, and can
expand and contract around its food. It can feed without a mouth, digest
without a stomach, walk without feet, and reproduce itself by simple
division. By taking this Moner as the commencement of animal life, or
rather as the first animal, it is easy to follow the development of the
organic structure through all the forms of life to man himself. In this
way finally every muscle, bone and joint, every organ, form and function
may be accounted for. In this way, and in this way only, can the
existence of rudimentary organs be explained. Blot from the human mind
the ideas of evolution, heredity, adaptation, and "the survival of
the fittest," with which it has been enriched by Lamarck, Goethe,
Darwin, Haeckel and Spencer, and all the facts in the history of animal
life become utterly disconnected and meaningless.

Shall we throw away all that has been discovered with regard to organic
life, and in its place take the statements of one who lived in the
rude morning of a barbaric day? Will anybody now contend that man was a
direct and independent creation, and sustains and bears no relation to
the animals below him? Belief upon this subject must be governed at
last by evidence. Man cannot believe as he pleases. He can control his
speech, and can say that he believes or disbelieves; but after all, his
will cannot depress or raise the scales with which his reason finds the
worth and weight of facts. If this is not so, investigation, evidence,
judgment and reason are but empty words.

I ask again, how were Adam and Eve created? In one account they are
created male and female, and apparently at the same time. In the next
account, Adam is made first, and Eve a long time afterwards, and from a
part of the man. Did God simply by his creative fiat cause a rib slowly
to expand, grow and divide into nerve, ligament, cartilage and flesh?
How was the woman created from a rib? How was man created simply from
dust? For my part, I cannot believe this statement.

I may suffer for this in the world to come; and may, millions of years
hence, sincerely wish that I had never investigated the subject, but had
been content to take the ideas of the dead. I do not believe that any
deity works in that way. So far as my experience goes, there is an
unbroken procession of cause and effect. Each thing is a necessary link
in an infinite chain; and I cannot conceive of this chain being broken
even for one instant. Back of the simplest moner there is a cause,
and back of that another, and so on, it seems to me, forever. In my
philosophy I postulate neither beginning nor ending.

If the Mosaic account is true, we know how long man has been upon this
earth. If that account can be relied on, the first man was made about
five thousand eight hundred and eighty-three years ago. Sixteen hundred
and fifty-six years after the making of the first man, the inhabitants
of the world, with the exception of eight people, were destroyed by
a flood. This flood occurred only about four thousand two hundred and
twenty-seven years ago. If this account is correct, at that time, only
one kind of men existed. Noah and his family were certainly of the same
blood. It therefore follows that all the differences we see between the
various races of men have been caused in about four thousand years. If
the account of the deluge is true, then since that event all the ancient
kingdoms of the earth were founded, and their inhabitants passed through
all the stages of savage, nomadic, barbaric and semi-civilized life;
through the epochs of Stone, Bronze and Iron; established commerce,
cultivated the arts, built cities, filled them with palaces and temples,
invented writing, produced a literature and slowly fell to shapeless
ruin. We must believe that all this has happened within a period of four
thousand years.

From representations found upon Egyptian granite made more than three
thousand years ago, we know that the negro was as black, his lips as
full, and his hair as closely curled then as now. If we know anything,
we know that there was at that time substantially the same difference
between the Egyptian and the Negro as now. If we know anything, we know
that magnificent statues were made in Egypt four thousand years before
our era—that is to say, about six thousand years ago. There was at
the World's Exposition, in the Egyptian department, a statue of king
Cephren, known to have been chiseled more than six thousand years ago.
In other words, if the Mosaic account must be believed, this statue was
made before the world. We also know, if we know anything, that men lived
in v Europe with the hairy mammoth, the cave bear, the rhinoceros, and
the hyena. Among the bones of these animals have been found the stone
hatchets and flint arrows of our ancestors. In the caves where they
lived have been discovered the remains of these animals that had been
conquered, killed and devoured as food, hundreds of thousands of years
ago.

If these facts are true, Moses was mistaken. For my part, I have
infinitely more confidence in the discoveries of to-day, than in the
records of a barbarous people. It will not now do to say that man has
existed upon this earth for only about six thousand years. One can
hardly compute in his imagination the time necessary for man to emerge
from the barbarous state, naked and helpless, surrounded by animals far
more powerful than he, to progress and finally create the civilizations
of India, Egypt and Athens. The distance from savagery to Shakespeare
must be measured not by hundreds, but by millions of years.

## XIV. Sunday.

"And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made, and he
rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made. And God
blessed the seventh day and sanctified it; because that in it he had
rested from all his work which God created and made."

The great work had been accomplished, the world, the sun, and moon, and
all the hosts of heaven were finished; the earth was clothed in
green, the seas were filled with life, the cattle wandered by the
brooks—insects with painted wings were in the happy air, Adam and Eve
were making each others acquaintance, and God was resting from his work.
He was contemplating the accomplishments of a week.

Because he rested on that day he sanctified it, and for that reason and
for that alone, it was by the Jews considered a holy day. If he only
rested on that day, there ought to be some account of what he did the
following Monday. Did he rest on that day? What did he do after he
got rested? Has he done anything in the way of creation since Saturday
evening of the first week?

It is now claimed by the "scientific" Christians that the "days" of
creation were not ordinary days of twenty-four hours each, but immensely
long periods of time. If they are right, then how long was the seventh
day? Was that, too, a geologic period covering thousands of ages?
That cannot be, because Adam and Eve were created the Saturday evening
before, and according to the Bible that was about five thousand eight
hundred and eighty-three years ago. I cannot state the time exactly,
because there have been as many as one hundred and forty different
opinions given by learned Biblical students as to the time between the
creation of the world and the birth of Christ. We are quite certain,
however, that, according to the Bible, it is not more than six thousand
years since the creation of Adam. From this it would appear that the
seventh day was not a geologic epoch, but was in fact a period of less
than six thousand years, and probably of only twenty-four hours.

The theologians who "answer" these things may take their choice. If they
take the ground that the "days" were periods of twenty-four hours, then
geology will force them to throw away the whole account. If, on the
other hand, they admit that the days were vast "periods," then the
sacredness of the Sabbath must be given up.

There is found in the Bible no intimation that there was the least
difference in the days. They are all spoken of in the same way. It may
be replied that our translation is incorrect. If this is so, then only
those who understand Hebrew, have had a revelation from God, and all the
rest have been deceived.

How is it possible to sanctify a space of time? Is rest holier than
labor? If there is any difference between days, ought not that to be
considered best in which the most useful labor has been performed?

Of all the superstitions of mankind, this insanity about the "sacred
Sabbath" is the most absurd. The idea of feeling it a duty to be solemn
and sad one-seventh of the time! To think that we can please an infinite
being by staying in some dark and sombre room, instead of walking in the
perfumed fields! Why should God hate to see a man happy? Why should it
excite his wrath to see a family in the woods, by some babbling stream,
talking, laughing and loving? Nature works on that "sacred" day. The
earth turns, the rivers run, the trees grow, buds burst into flower, and
birds fill the air with song. Why should we look sad, and think about
death, and hear about hell? Why should that day be filled with gloom
instead of joy?

A poor mechanic, working all the week in dust and noise, needs a day of
rest and joy, a day to visit stream and wood—a day to live with wife
and child; a day in which to laugh at care, and gather hope and strength
for toils to come. And his weary wife needs a breath of sunny air, away
from street and wall, amid the hills or by the margin of the sea, where
she can sit and prattle with her babe, and fill with happy dreams the
long, glad day.

The "Sabbath" was born of asceticism, hatred of human joy, fanaticism,
ignorance, egotism of priests and the cowardice of the people. This
day, for thousands of years, has been dedicated to superstition, to the
dissemination of mistakes, and the establishment of falsehoods. Every
Freethinker, as a matter of duty, should violate this day. He should
assert his independence, and do all within his power to wrest the
Sabbath from the gloomy church and give it back to liberty and joy.
Freethinkers should make the Sabbath a day of mirth and music; a day to
spend with wife and child—a day of games, and books, and dreams—a day
to put fresh flowers above our sleeping dead—a day of memory and hope,
of love and rest.

Why should we in this age of the world be dominated by the dead? Why
should barbarian Jews who went down to death and dust three thousand
years ago, control the living world? Why should we care for the
superstition of men who began the Sabbath by paring their nails,
"beginning at the fourth finger, then going to the second, then to the
fifth, then to the third, and ending with the thumb?" How pleasing
to God this must have been. The Jews were very careful of these nail
parings. They who threw them upon the ground were wicked, because Satan
used them to work evil upon the earth. They believed that upon the
Sabbath, souls were allowed to leave purgatory and cool their
burning souls in water. Fires were neither allowed to be kindled nor
extinguished, and upon that day it was a sin to bind up wounds. "The
lame might use a staff, but the blind could not." So strict was the
Sabbath kept, that at one time "if a Jew on a journey was overtaken
by the 'sacred day' in a wood, or on the highway, no matter where, nor
under what circumstances, he must sit down," and there remain until the
day was gone. "If he fell down in the dirt, there he was compelled to
stay until the day was done." For violating the Sabbath, the punishment
was death, for nothing short of the offender's blood could satisfy the
wrath of God. There are, in the Old Testament, two reasons given for
abstaining from labor on the Sabbath:—the resting of God, and the
redemption of the Jews from the bondage of Egypt.

Since the establishment of the Christian religion, the day has been
changed, and Christians do not regard the day as holy upon which God
actually rested, and which he sanctified. The Christian Sabbath, or
the "Lord's day" was legally established by the murderer Constantine,
because upon that day Christ was supposed to have risen from the dead.

It is not easy to see where Christians got the right to disregard the
direct command of God, to labor on the day he sanctified, and keep as
sacred, a day upon which he commanded men to labor. The Sabbath of God
is Saturday, and if any day is to be kept holy, that is the one, and not
the Sunday of the Christian.

Let us throw away these superstitions and take the higher, nobler
ground, that every day should be rendered sacred by some loving act,
by increasing the happinesss of man, giving birth to noble thoughts,
putting in the path of toil some flower of joy, helping the unfortunate,
lifting the fallen, dispelling gloom, destroying prejudice, defending
the helpless and filling homes with light and love.

## XV. The Necessity for a Good Memory.

It must not be forgotten that there are two accounts of the creation
in Genesis. The first account stops with the third verse of the second
chapter. The chapters have been improperly divided. In the original
Hebrew the Pentateuch was neither divided into chapters nor verses.
There was not even any system of punctuation. It was written wholly with
consonants, without vowels, and without any marks, dots, or lines to
indicate them.

These accounts are materially different, and both cannot be true. Let us
see wherein they differ.

The second account of the creation begins with the fourth verse of the
second chapter, and is as follows:

"These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they
were created, in the day that the Lord God made the earth and the
heavens.

"And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb
of the field before it grew; for the Lord God had not caused it to rain
upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground.

"But there went up a mist from the earth and watered the whole face of
the ground.

"And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed
into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.

"And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put
the man whom he had formed.

"And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is
pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the
midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

"And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it
was parted and became into four heads.

"The name of the first is Pison; that is it which compasseth the whole
land of Havilah, where there is gold.

"And the gold of that land is good: there is bdellium and the onyx
stone.

"And the name of the second river is Gihon: the same is it that
compasseth the whole land of Ethiopia.

"And the name of the third river is Hiddekel; that is it which goeth
toward the east of Assyria. And the fourth river is Euphrates.

"And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the Garden of Eden to
dress it and to keep it.

"And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden
thou mayest freely eat; But of the tree of the knowledge of good and
evil, thou shalt not eat of it; for in the day that thou eatest thereof
thou shalt surely die.

"And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I
will make him an helpmeet for him.

"And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and
every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would
call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was
the name thereof.

"And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to
every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found a helpmeet
for him.

"And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept;
and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;

"And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman and
brought her unto the man.

"And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh; she
shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of man.

"Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave
unto his wife; and they shall be one flesh.

"And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed."

Order of creation in the first account:

1. The heaven and the earth, and light were made.

2. The firmament was constructed and the waters divided.

3. The waters gathered into seas—and then came dry land, grass, herbs
and fruit trees.

4. The sun and moon. He made the stars also.

5. Fishes, fowls, and great whales.

6. Beasts, cattle, every creeping thing, man and woman.

Order of creation in the second account:

1. The heavens and the earth.

2. A mist went up from the earth, and watered the whole face of the
ground.

3. Created a man out of dust, by the name of Adam.

4. Planted a garden eastward in Eden, and put the man in it.

5. Created the beasts and fowls.

6. Created a woman out of one of the man's ribs.

In the second account, man was made _before_ the beasts and fowls. If
this is true, the first account is false. And if the theologians of our
time are correct in their view that the Mosaic day means thousands of
ages, then, according to the second account, Adam existed millions of
years before Eve was formed. He must have lived one Mosaic day before
there were any trees, and another Mosaic day before the beasts and fowls
were created. Will some kind clergymen tell us upon what kind of food
Adam subsisted during these immense periods?

In the second account a man is made, and the fact that he was without a
helpmeet did not occur to the Lord God until a couple "of vast periods"
afterwards. The Lord God suddenly coming to an appreciation of the
situation said, "It is not good that the man should be alone. I will
make him an helpmeet for him."

Now, after concluding to make "an helpmeet" for Adam, what did the Lord
God do? Did he at once proceed to make a woman? No. What did he do? He
made the beasts, and tried to induce Adam to take one of them for "an
helpmeet." If I am incorrect, read the following account, and tell me
what it means:

"And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I
will make him an helpmeet for him.

"And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and
every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would
call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was
the name thereof.

"And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to
every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an helpmeet
for him."

Unless the Lord God was looking for an helpmeet for Adam, why did
he cause the animals to pass before him? And why did he, after the
menagerie had passed by, pathetically exclaim, "But for Adam there was
not found an helpmeet for him"?

It seems that Adam saw nothing that struck his fancy. The fairest ape,
the sprightliest chimpanzee, the loveliest baboon, the most bewitching
orangoutang, the most fascinating gorilla failed to touch with love's
sweet pain, poor Adam's lonely heart. Let us rejoice that this was so.
Had he fallen in love then, there never would have been a Freethinker in
this world.

Dr. Adam Clarke, speaking of this remarkable proceeding says:—"God
caused the animals to pass before Adam to show him that no creature yet
formed could make him a suitable companion; that Adam was convinced that
none of these animals could be a suitable companion for him, and that
therefore he must continue in a state that was not good (celibacy)
unless he became a further debtor to the bounty of his maker, for among
all the animals which he had formed, there was not a helpmeet for Adam."

Upon this same subject, Dr. Scott informs us "that it was not conducive
to the happiness of the man to remain without the consoling society,
and endearment of tender friendship, nor consistent with the end of his
creation to be without marriage by which the earth might be replenished
and worshipers and servants raised up to render him praise and glory.
Adam seems to have been vastly better acquainted by intuition or
revelation with the distinct properties of every creature than the most
sagacious observer since the fall of man.

"Upon this review of the animals, not one was found in outward form his
counterpart, nor one suited to engage his affections, participate in his
enjoyments, or associate with him in the worship of God."

Dr. Matthew Henry admits that "God brought all the animals together
to see if there was a suitable match for Adam in any of the numerous
families of the inferior creatures, but there was none. They were all
looked over, but Adam could not be matched among them all. Therefore God
created a new thing to be a helpmeet for him."

Failing to satisfy Adam with any of the inferior animals, the Lord God
caused a deep sleep to fall upon him, and while in this sleep took out
one of Adam's ribs and "closed up the flesh instead thereof." And out of
this rib, the Lord God made a woman, and brought her to the man.

Was the Lord God compelled to take a part of the man because he had used
up all the original "nothing" out of which the universe was made? Is it
possible for any sane and intelligent man to believe this story? Must a
man be born a second time before this account seems reasonable?

Imagine the Lord God with a bone in his hand with which to start
a woman, trying to make up his mind whether to make a blonde or a
brunette!

Just at this point it may be proper for me to warn all persons from
laughing at or making light of, any stories found in the "Holy Bible."
When you come to die, every laugh will be a thorn in your pillow. At
that solemn moment, as you look back upon the records of your life, no
matter how many men you may have wrecked and ruined; no matter how many
women you have deceived and deserted, all that can be forgiven; but
if you remember then that you have laughed at even one story in God's
"sacred book" you will see through the gathering shadows of death the
forked tongues of devils, and the leering eyes of fiends.

These stories must be believed, or the work of regeneration can never be
commenced. No matter how well you act your part, live as honestly as you
may, clothe the naked, feed the hungry, divide your last farthing
with the poor, and you are simply traveling the broad road that leads
inevitably to eternal death, unless at the same time you implicitly
believe the Bible to be the inspired word of God.

Let me show you the result of unbelief. Let us suppose, for a moment,
that we are at the Day of Judgment, listening to the trial of souls
as they arrive. The Recording Secretary, or whoever does the
cross-examining, says to a soul:

Where are you from?

I am from the Earth.

What kind of a man were you?

Well, I don't like to talk about myself. I suppose you can tell by
looking at your books.

No, sir. You must tell what kind of a man you were.

Well, I was what you might call a first-rate fellow. I loved my wife and
children. My home was my heaven. My fireside was a paradise to me. To
sit there and see the lights and shadows fall upon the faces of those I
loved, was to me a perfect joy.

How did you treat your family?

I never said an unkind word. I never caused my wife, nor one of my
children, a moments pain.

Did you pay your debts?

I did not owe a dollar when I died, and left enough to pay my funeral
expenses, and to keep the fierce wolf of want from the door of those I
loved.

Did you belong to any church?

No, sir. They were too narrow, pinched and bigoted for me, I never
thought that I could be very happy if other folks were damned.

Did you believe in eternal punishment?

Well, no. I always thought that God could get his revenge in far less
time.

Did you believe the rib story?

Do you mean the Adam and Eve business?

Yes! Did you believe that?

To tell you the God's truth, that was just a little more than I could
swallow.

Away with him to hell!

Next!

Where are you from?

I am from the world too.

Did you belong to any church?

Yes, sir, and to the Young Men's Christian Association besides.

What was your business?

Cashier in a Savings Bank.

Did you ever run away with any money?

Where I came from, a witness could not be compelled to criminate
himself.

The law is different here. Answer the question. Did you run away with
any money?

Yes, sir.

How much?

One hundred thousand dollars.

Did you take anything else with you?

Yes, sir.

Well, what else?

I took my neighbor's wife—we sang together in the choir.

Did you have a wife and children of your own? Yes, sir.

And you deserted them?

Yes, sir, but such was my confidence in God that I believed he would
take care of them.

Have you heard of them since?

No, sir.

Did you believe in the rib story?

Bless your soul, of course I did. A thousand times I regretted that
there were no harder stories in the Bible, so that I could have shown my
wealth of faith.

Do you believe the rib story yet?

Yes, with all my heart.

Give him a harp!

Well, as I was saying, God made a woman from Adam's rib. Of course, I do
not know exactly how this was done, but when he got the woman finished,
he presented her to Adam. He liked her, and they commenced house-keeping
in the celebrated Garden of Eden.

Must we, in order to be good, gentle and loving in our lives, believe
that the creation of woman was a second thought? That Jehovah really
endeavored to induce Adam to take one of the lower animals as an
helpmeet for him? After all, is it not possible to live honest and
courageous lives without believing these fables? It is said that from
Mount Sinai God gave, amid thunderings and lightnings, ten commandments
for the guidance of mankind; and yet among them is not found—"Thou
shalt believe the Bible."

## XVI. The Garden.

In the first account we are told that God made man, male and female,
and said to them "Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth and
subdue it."

In the second account only the man is made, and he is put in a garden
"to dress it and to keep it." He is not told to subdue the earth, but to
dress and keep a garden.

In the first account man is given every herb bearing seed upon the face
of the earth and the fruit of every tree for food, and in the second,
he is given only the fruit of all the trees in the garden with the
exception "of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil" which was a
deadly poison.

There was issuing from this garden a river that was parted into four
heads. The first of these, Pison, compassed the whole land of Havilah,
the second, Gihon, that compassed the whole land of Ethiopia.

The third, Heddekel, that flowed toward the east of Assyria, and the
fourth, the Euphrates. Where are these four rivers now? The brave prow
of discovery has visited every sea; the traveler has pressed with weary
feet the soil of every clime; and yet there has been found no place from
which four rivers sprang. The Euphrates still journeys to the gulf, but
where are Pison, Gihon and the mighty Heddekel? Surely by going to the
source of the Euphrates we ought to find either these three rivers or
their ancient beds. Will some minister when he answers the "Mistakes of
Moses" tell us where these rivers are or were? The maps of the world are
incomplete without these mighty streams. We have discovered the sources
of the Nile; the North Pole will soon be touched by an American; but
these three rivers still rise in unknown hills, still flow through
unknown lands, and empty still in unknown seas.

The account of these four rivers is what the Rev. David Swing would call
"a geographical poem." The orthodox clergy cover the whole affair with
the blanket of allegory, while the "scientific" Christian folks talk
about cataclysms, upheavals, earthquakes, and vast displacements of the
earth's crust.

The question, then arises, whether within the last six thousand years
there have been such upheavals and displacements? Talk as you will about
the vast "creative periods" that preceded the appearance of man; it
is, according to the Bible, only about six thousand years since man was
created. Moses gives us the generations of men from Adam until his day,
and this account cannot be explained away by calling centuries, days.

According to the second account of creation, these four rivers were
made after the creation of man, and consequently they must have been
obliterated by convulsions of Nature within six thousand years.

Can we not account for these contradictions, absurdities, and falsehoods
by simply saying that although the writer may have done his level best,
he failed because he was limited in knowledge, led away by tradition,
and depended too implicitly upon the correctness of his imagination?
Is not such a course far more reasonable than to insist that all these
things are true and must stand though every science shall fall to mental
dust?

Can any reason be given for not allowing man to eat of the fruit of the
tree of knowledge? What kind of tree was that? If it is all an allegory,
what truth is sought to be conveyed? Why should God object to that fruit
being eaten by man? Why did he put it in the midst of the garden? There
was certainly plenty of room outside. If he wished to keep man and this
tree apart, why did he put them together? And why, after he had eaten,
was he thrust out? The only answer that we have a right to give, is
the one given in the Bible. "And the Lord God said, Behold the man has
become as one of us to know good and evil; and now, lest he put forth
his hand and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live forever:
Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the Garden of Eden, to till
the ground from whence he was taken."

Will some minister, some graduate of Andover, tell us what this means?
Are we bound to believe it without knowing what the meaning is? If it is
a revelation, what does it reveal? Did God object to education then, and
does that account for the hostile attitude still assumed by theologians
toward all scientific truth? Was there in the garden a tree of life, the
eating of which would have rendered Adam and Eve immortal? Is it true,
that after the Lord God drove them from the garden that he placed upon
its Eastern side "Cherubim and a flaming sword which turned every way
to keep the way of the tree of life?" Are the Cherubim and the flaming
sword guarding that tree still, or was it destroyed, or did its rotting
trunk, as the Rev. Robert Collyer suggests, "nourish a bank of violets"?

What objection could God have had to the immortality of man? You
see that after all, this sacred record, instead of assuring us of
immortality, shows us only how we lost it. In this there is assuredly
but little consolation.

According to this story we have lost one Eden, but nowhere in the Mosaic
books are we told how we may gain another. I know that the Christians
tell us there is another, in which all true believers will finally be
gathered, and enjoy the unspeakable happiness of seeing the unbelievers
in hell; but they do not tell us where it is.

Some commentators say that the Garden of Eden was in the third
heaven—some in the fourth, others have located it in the moon, some
in the air beyond the attraction of the earth, some on the earth, some
under the earth, some inside the earth, some at the North Pole, others
at the South, some in Tartary, some in China, some on the borders of the
Ganges, some in the island of Ceylon, some in Armenia, some in Africa,
some under the Equator, others in Mesopotamia, in Syria, Persia, Arabia,
Babylon, Assyria, Palestine and Europe. Others have contended that
it was invisible, that it was an allegory, and must be spiritually
understood.

But whether you understand these things or not, you must believe them.
You may be laughed at in this world for insisting that God put Adam into
a deep sleep and made a woman out of one of his ribs, but you will be
crowned and glorified in the next. You will also have the pleasure of
hearing the gentlemen howl there, who laughed at you here. While you
will not be permitted to take any revenge, you will be allowed to
smilingly express your entire acquiescence in the will of God. But where
is the new Eden? No one knows. The one was lost, and the other has not
been found.

Is it true that man was once perfectly pure and innocent, and that
he became degenerate by disobedience? No. The real truth is, and the
history of man shows, that he has advanced. Events, like the pendulum of
a clock have swung forward and back ward, but after all, man, like
the hands, has gone steadily on. Man is growing grander. He is not
degenerating. Nations and individuals fail and die, and make room
for higher forms. The intellectual horizon of the world widens as the
centuries pass. Ideals grow grander and purer; the difference between
justice and mercy becomes less and less; liberty enlarges, and love
intensifies as the years sweep on. The ages of force and fear, of
cruelty and wrong, are behind us and the real Eden is beyond. It is said
that a desire for knowledge lost us the Eden of the past; but whether
that is true or not, it will certainly give us the Eden of the future.

## XVII. The Fall.

We are told that the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field,
that he had a conversation with Eve, in which he gave his opinion about
the effect of eating certain fruit; that he assured her it was good to
eat, that it was pleasant to the eye, that it would make her wise; that
she was induced to take some; that she persuaded her husband to try it;
that God found it out, that he then cursed the snake; condemning it to
crawl and eat the dust; that he multiplied the sorrows of Eve, cursed
the ground for Adam's sake, started thistles and thorns, condemned man
to eat the herb of the field in the sweat of his face, pronounced the
curse of death, "Dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return," made
coats of skins for Adam and Eve, and drove them out of Eden.

Who, and what was this serpent? Dr. Adam Clarke says:—"The serpent must
have walked erect, for this is necessarily implied in his punishment.
That he was endued with the gift of speech, also with reason. That these
things were given to this creature. The woman no doubt having often seen
him walking erect, and talking and reasoning, therefore she testifies
no sort of surprise when he accosts her in the language related in
the text. It therefore appears to me that a creature of the ape or
orangoutang kind is here intended, and that Satan made use of this
creature as the most proper instrument for the accomplishment of his
murderous purposes against the life of the soul of man. Under this
creature he lay hid, and by this creature he seduced our first parents.
Such a creature answers to every part of the description in the text. It
is evident from the structure of its limbs and its muscles that it might
have been originally designed to walk erect, and that nothing else than
the sovereign controlling power could induce it to put down hands—in
every respect formed like those of man—and walk like those creatures
whose claw-armed parts prove them to have been designed to walk on
all fours. The stealthy cunning, and endless variety of the pranks
and tricks of these creatures show them even now to be wiser and more
intelligent than any other creature, man alone excepted. Being obliged
to walk on all fours and gather their food from the ground, they are
literally obliged to eat the dust; and though exceeding cunning,
and careful in a variety of instances to separate that part which is
wholesome and proper for food from that which is not so, in the article
of cleanliness they are lost to all sense of propriety. Add to this
their utter aversion to walk upright; it requires the utmost discipline
to bring them to it, and scarcely anything offends or irritates them
more than to be obliged to do it. Long observation of these animals
enables me to state these facts. For earnest, attentive watching, and
for chattering and babbling they (the ape) have no fellows in the animal
world. Indeed, the ability and propensity to chatter, is all they have
left of their original gift of speech, of which they appear to have been
deprived at the fall as a part of their punishment."

Here then is the "connecting link" between man and the lower creation.
The serpent was simply an orang-outang that spoke Hebrew with the
greatest ease, and had the outward appearance of a perfect gentleman,
seductive in manner, plausible, polite, and most admirably calculated to
deceive.

It never did seem reasonable' to me that a long, cold and disgusting
snake with an apple in his mouth, could deceive anybody; and I am glad,
even at this late date to know that the something that persuaded Eve to
taste the forbidden fruit was, at least, in the shape of a man.

Dr. Henry does not agree with the zoological explanation of Mr. Clark,
but insists that "it is certain that the devil that beguiled Eve is the
old serpent, a malignant by creation, an angel of light, an immediate
attendant upon God's throne, but by sin an apostate from his first
state, and a rebel against God's crown and dignity. He who attacked
our first parents was surely the prince of devils, the ring leader in
rebellion. The devil chose to act his part in a serpent, because it is
a specious creature, has a spotted, dappled skin, and then, went erect.
Perhaps it was a flying serpent which seemed to come from on high, as a
messenger from the upper world, one of the seraphim; because the serpent
is a subtile creature. What Eve thought of this serpent speaking to her,
we are not likely to tell, and, I believe, she herself did not know
what to think of it. At first, perhaps, she supposed it might be a good
angel, and yet afterwards might suspect something amiss. The person
tempted was a woman, now alone, and at a distance from her husband,
but near the forbidden tree. It was the devil's subtlety to assault the
weaker vessel with his temptations, as we may suppose her inferior to
Adam in knowledge, strength and presence of mind. Some think that Eve
received the command not immediately from God, but at second hand from
her husband, and might, therefore, be the more easily persuaded to
discredit it. It was the policy of the devil to enter into discussion
with her when she was alone. He took advantage by finding her near the
forbidden tree. God permitted Satan to prevail over Eve, for wise and
holy ends. Satan teaches men first to doubt, and then to deny. He makes
skeptics first, and by degrees makes them atheists."

We are compelled to admit that nothing could be more attractive to a
woman than a snake walking erect, with a "spotted, dappled skin," unless
it were a serpent with wings. Is it not humiliating to know that our
ancestors believed these things? Why should we object to the Darwinian
doctrine of descent after this?

Our fathers thought it their duty to believe, thought it a sin to
entertain the slightest doubt, and really supposed that their credulity
was exceedingly, gratifying to God. To them, the story was entirely
real. They could see the garden, hear the babble of waters, smell the
perfume of flowers. They believed there was a tree where knowledge grew
like plums or pears; and they could plainly see the serpent coiled amid
its rustling leaves, coaxing Eve to violate the laws of God.

Where did the serpent come from? On which of the six days was he
created? Who made him? Is it possible that God would make a successful
rival? He must have known that Adam and Eve would fall. He knew what
a snake with a "spotted, dappled skin" could do with an inexperienced
woman. Why did he not defend his children? He knew that if the serpent
got into the garden, Adam and Eve would sin, that he would have to drive
them out, that afterwards the world would be destroyed, and that he
himself would die upon the cross.

Again, I ask what and who was this serpent? He was not a man, for only
one man had been made. He was not a woman. He was not a beast of the
field, because "he was more subtile than any beast of the field which
the Lord God had made." He was neither fish nor fowl, nor snake, because
he had the power of speech, and did not crawl upon his belly until after
he was cursed. Where did this serpent come from? Why was he not kept out
of the garden? Why did not the Lord God take him by the tail and snap
his head off? Why did he not put Adam and Eve on their guard about this
serpent? They, of course, were not acquainted in the neighborhood, and
knew nothing about the serpent's reputation for truth and veracity
among his neighbors. Probably Adam saw him when he was looking for "an
helpmeet" and gave him a name, but Eve had never met him before. She was
not surprised to hear a serpent talk, as that was the first one she had
ever met. Every thing being new to her, and her husband not being with
her just at that moment, it need hardly excite our wonder that she
tasted the fruit by way of experiment. Neither should we be surprised
that when she saw it was good and pleasant to the eye, and a fruit to
be desired to make one wise, she had the generosity to divide with her
husband.

Theologians have filled thousands of volumes with abuse of this serpent,
but it seems that he told the exact truth. We are told that this serpent
was, in fact, Satan, the greatest enemy of mankind, and that he entered
the serpent, appearing to our first parents in its body. If this is
so, why should the serpent have been cursed? Why should God curse the
serpent for what had really been done by the devil? Did Satan remain
in the body of the serpent, and in some mysterious manner share his
punishment? Is it true that when we kill a snake we also destroy an evil
spirit, or is there but one devil, and did he perish at the death of
the first serpent? Is it on account of that transaction in the Garden
of Eden, that all the descendants of Adam and Eve known as Jews and
Christians hate serpents?

Do you account for the snake-worship in Mexico, Africa and India in the
same way?

What was the form of the serpent when he entered the garden, and in what
way did he move from place to place? Did he walk or fly? Certainly he
did not crawl, because that mode of locomotion was pronounced upon him
as a curse. Upon what food did he subsist before his conversation with
Eve? We know that after that he lived upon dust, but what did he eat
before? It may be that this is all poetic; and the truest poetry is,
according to Touchstone, "the most feigning."

In this same chapter we are informed that "unto Adam also and to his
wife did the Lord God make coats of skins and clothed them." Where did
the Lord God get those skins? He must have taken them from the animals;
he was a butcher. Then he had to prepare them; he was a tanner. Then
he made them into coats; he was a tailor. How did it happen that they
needed coats of skins, when they had been perfectly comfortable in a
nude condition? Did the "fall" produce a change in the climate?

Is it really necessary to believe this account in order to be happy
here, or hereafter? Does it tend to the elevation of the human race to
speak of "God" as a butcher, tanner and tailor?

And here, let me say once for all, that when I speak of God, I mean
the being described by Moses; the Jehovah of the Jews. There may be for
aught I know, somewhere in the unknown shoreless vast, some being whose
dreams are constellations and within whose thought the infinite exists.
About this being, if such an one exists, I have nothing to say. He has
written no books, inspired no barbarians, required no worship, and has
prepared no hell in which to burn the honest seeker after truth.

When I speak of God, I mean that god who prevented man from putting
forth his hand and taking also of the fruit of the tree of life that
he might live forever; of that god who multiplied the agonies of woman,
increased the weary toil of man, and in his anger drowned a world—of
that god whose altars reeked with human blood, who butchered babes,
violated maidens, enslaved men and filled the earth with cruelty and
crime; of that god who made heaven for the few, hell for the many,
and who will gloat forever and ever upon the writhings of the lost and
damned.

## XVIII. Dampness.

"And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the
earth, and daughters were born unto them.

"That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and
they took them wives of all which they chose.

"And the Lord said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that
he also is flesh; yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.

"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that
when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare
children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of
renown.

"And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and
that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil
continually.

"And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth, and it
grieved him at his heart.

"And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face
of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls
of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them."

From this account it seems that driving Adam and Eve out of Eden did not
have the effect to improve them or their children. On the contrary, the
world grew worse and worse. They were under the immediate control and
government of God, and he from time to time made known his will; but in
spite of this, man continued to increase in crime.

Nothing in particular seems to have been done. Not a school was
established. There was no written language. There was not a Bible in the
world. The "scheme of salvation" was kept a profound secret. The five
points of Calvinism had not been taught. Sunday schools had not been
opened. In short, nothing had been done for the reformation of the
world. God did not even keep his own sons at home, but allowed them to
leave their abode in the firmament, and make love to the daughters
of men. As a result of this, the world was filled with wickedness and
giants to such an extent that God regretted "that he had made man on the
earth, and it grieved him at his heart."

Of course God knew when he made man, that he would afterwards regret
it. He knew that the people would grow worse and worse until destruction
would be the only remedy. He knew that he would have to kill all except
Noah and his family, and it is hard to see why he did not make Noah and
his family in the first place, and leave Adam and Eve in the original
dust. He knew that they would be tempted, that he would have to drive
them out of the garden to keep them from eating of the tree of life;
that the whole thing would be a failure; that Satan would defeat his
plan; that he could not reform the people; that his own sons would
corrupt them, and that at last he would have to drown them all except
Noah and his family. Why was the Garden of Eden planted? Why was the
experiment made? Why were Adam and Eve exposed to the seductive arts of
the serpent? Why did God wait until the cool of the day before looking
after his children? Why was he not on hand in the morning?

Why did he fill the world with his own children, knowing that he would
have to destroy them? And why does this same God tell me how to raise my
children when he had to drown his?

It is a little curious that when God wished to reform the ante-diluvian
world he said nothing about hell; that he had no revivals, no
camp-meetings, no tracts, no outpourings of the Holy Ghost, no baptisms,
no noon prayer meetings, and never mentioned the great doctrine of
salvation by faith. If the orthodox creeds of the world are true, all
those people went to hell without ever having heard that such a place
existed. If eternal torment is a fact, surely these miserable wretches
ought to have been warned. They were threatened only with water when
they were in fact doomed to eternal fire!

Is it not strange that God said nothing to Adam and Eve about a future
life; that he should have kept these "infinite verities" to himself and
allowed millions to live and die without the hope of heaven, or the fear
of hell?

It may be that hell was not made at that time. In the six days of
creation nothing is said about the construction of a bottomless pit, and
the serpent himself did not make his appearance until after the creation
of man and woman. Perhaps he was made on the first Sunday, and from that
fact came, it may be, the old couplet,

> "And Satan still some mischief finds
> For idle hands to do."

The sacred historian failed also to tell us when the cherubim and the
flaming sword were made, and said nothing about two of the persons
composing the Trinity. It certainly would have been an easy thing to
enlighten Adam and his immediate descendants. The world was then only
about fifteen hundred and thirty-six years old, and only about three
or four generations of men had lived. Adam had been dead only about six
hundred and six years, and some of his grandchildren must, at that time,
have been alive and well.

It is hard to see why God did not civilize these people. He certainly
had the power to use, and the wisdom to devise the proper means. What
right has a god to fill a world with fiends? Can there be goodness in
this? Why should he make experiments that he knows must fail? Is there
wisdom in this? And what right has a man to charge an infinite being
with wickedness and folly?

According to Moses, God made up his mind not only to destroy the people,
but the beasts and the creeping things, and the fowls of the air. What
had the beasts, and the creeping things, and the birds done to excite
the anger of God? Why did he repent having made them? Will some
Christian give us an explanation of this matter? No good man will
inflict unnecessary pain upon a beast; how then can we worship a god who
cares nothing for the agonies of the dumb creatures that he made?

Why did he make animals that he knew he would destroy? Does God delight
in causing pain? He had the power to make the beasts, and fowls, and
creeping things in his own good time and way, and it is to be presumed
that he made them according to his wish. Why should he destroy them?
They had committed no sin. They had eaten no forbidden fruit, made no
aprons, nor tried to reach the tree of life. Yet this god, in blind
unreasoning wrath destroyed "all flesh wherein was the breath of life,
and every living thing beneath the sky, and every substance wherein was
life that he had made."

Jehovah having made up his mind to drown the world, told Noah to make
an Ark of gopher wood three hundred cubits long, fifty cubits wide and
thirty cubits high. A cubit is twenty-two inches; so that the ark was
five hundred and fifty feet long, ninety-one feet and eight inches wide
and fifty-five feet high. This ark was divided into three stories, and
had on top, one window twenty-two inches square. Ventilation must have
been one of Jehovah's hobbies. Think of a ship larger than the Great
Eastern with only one window, and that but twenty-two inches square!

The ark also had one door set in the side thereof that shut from the
outside. As soon as this ship was finished, and properly victualed, Noah
received seven days notice to get the animals in the ark.

It is claimed by some of the scientific theologians that the flood was
partial, that the waters covered only a small portion of the world, and
that consequently only a few animals were in the ark. It is impossible
to conceive of language that can more clearly convey the idea of a
universal flood than that found in the inspired account. If the flood
was only partial, why did God say he would "destroy all flesh wherein
is the breath of life from under heaven, and that every thing that is
in the earth shall die"? Why did he say "I will destroy man whom I have
created from the face of the earth, both man and beast, and the creeping
thing and the fowls of the air"? Why did he say "And every living
substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the
earth"? Would a partial, local flood have fulfilled these threats?

Nothing can be clearer than that the writer of this account intended to
convey, and did convey the idea that the flood was universal. Why should
Christians try to deprive God of the glory of having wrought the most
stupendous of miracles? Is it possible that the Infinite could not
overwhelm with waves this atom called the earth? Do you doubt his power,
his wisdom or his justice?

Believers in miracles should not endeavor to explain them. There is but
one way to explain anything, and that is to account for it by natural
agencies. The moment you explain a miracle, it disappears. You should
depend not upon explanation, but assertion. You should not be driven
from the field because the miracle is shown to be unreasonable. You
should reply that all miracles are unreasonable. Neither should you be
in the least disheartened if it is shown to be impossible. The possible
is not miraculous. You should take the ground that if miracles were
reasonable, and possible, there would be no reward paid for believing
them. The Christian has the goodness to believe, while the sinner asks
for evidence. It is enough for God to work miracles without being called
upon to substantiate them for the benefit of unbelievers.

Only a few years ago, the Christians believed implicitly in the literal
truth of every miracle recorded in the Bible. Whoever tried to explain
them in some natural way, was looked upon as an infidel in disguise,
but now he is regarded as a benefactor. The credulity of the church is
decreasing, and the most marvelous miracles are now either "explained,"
or allowed to take refuge behind the mistakes of the translators, or
hide in the drapery of allegory.

In the sixth chapter, Noah is ordered to take "of every living thing
of all flesh, two of every sort into the ark—male and female." In the
seventh chapter the order is changed, and Noah is commanded, according
to the Protestant Bible, as follows: "Of every clean beast thou shalt
take to thee by sevens, the male and his female, and of beasts that are
not clean, by two, the male and his female. Of fowls also of the air by
sevens, the male and the female."

According to the Catholic Bible, Noah was commanded—-"Of all clean
beasts take seven and seven, the male and the female. But of the beasts
that are unclean two and two, the male and the female. Of the fowls also
of the air seven and seven, the male and the female."

For the purpose of belittling this miracle, many commentators have
taken the ground that Noah was not ordered to take seven males and seven
females of each kind of clean beasts, but seven in all. Many Christians
contend that only seven clean beasts of each kind were taken into the
ark—three and a half of each sex.

If the account in the seventh chapter means anything, it means _first_,
that of each kind of clean beasts, fourteen were to be taken, seven
males, and seven females; _second_, that of unclean beasts should be
taken, two of each kind, one of each sex, and _third_, that he should
take of every kind of fowls, seven of each sex.

It is equally clear that the command in the 19th and 20th verses of the
6th chapter, is to take two of each sort, one male and one female. And
this agrees exactly with the account in the 7th, 8th, 9th, 14th, 15th,
and 16th verses of the 7th chapter.

The next question is, how many beasts, fowls and creeping things did
Noah take into the ark?

There are now known and classified at least twelve thousand five hundred
species of birds. There are still vast territories in China, South
America, and Africa unknown to the ornithologist.

Of the birds, Noah took fourteen of each species, according to the 3d
verse of the 7th chapter, "Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male
and the female," making a total of 175,000 birds.

And right here allow me to ask a question. If the flood was simply a
partial flood, why were birds taken into the ark? It seems to me that
most birds, attending strictly to business, might avoid a partial flood.

There are at least sixteen hundred and fifty-eight kinds of beasts. Let
us suppose that twenty-five of these are clean. Of the clean, fourteen
of each kind—seven of each sex—were taken. These amount to 350. Of
the unclean—two of each kind, amounting to 3,266. There are some six
hundred and fifty species of reptiles. Two of each kind amount to 1,300.
And lastly, there are of insects including the creeping things, at least
one million species, so that Noah and his folks had to get of these into
the ark about 2,000,000.

Animalculae have not been taken into consideration. There are probably
many hundreds of thousands of species; many of them invisible; and
yet Noah had to pick them out by pairs. Very few people have any just
conception of the trouble Noah had.

We know that there are many animals on this continent not found in the
Old World. These must have been carried from here to the ark, and then
brought back afterwards. Were the peccary, armadillo, ant-eater, sloth,
agouti, vampire-bat, marmoset, howling and prehensile-tailed monkey, the
raccoon and muskrat carried by the angels from America to Asia? How did
they get there? Did the polar bear leave his field of ice and journey
toward the tropics? How did he know where the ark was? Did the kangaroo
swim or jump from Australia to Asia? Did the giraffe, hippopotamus,
antelope and orang-outang journey from Africa in search of the ark? Can
absurdities go farther than this?

What had these animals to eat while on the journey? What did they eat
while in the ark? What did they drink? When the rain came, of course
the rivers ran to the seas, and these seas rose and finally covered the
world. The waters of the seas, mingled with those of the flood, would
make all salt. It has been calculated that it required, to drown the
world, about eight times as much water as was in all the seas. To find
how salt the waters of the flood must have been, take eight quarts of
fresh water, and add one quart from the sea. Such water would create
instead of allaying thirst. Noah had to take in his ark fresh water for
all his beasts, birds and living things. He had to take the proper food
for all. How long was he in the ark? Three hundred and seventy-seven
days! Think of the food necessary for the monsters of the ante-diluvian
world!

Eight persons did all the work. They attended to the wants of 175,000
birds, 3,616 beasts, 1,300 reptiles, and 2,000,000 insects, saying
nothing of countless animalculae.

Well, after they all got in, Noah pulled down the window, God shut the
door, and the rain commenced.

How long did it rain?

Forty days.

How deep did the water get?

About five miles and a half.

How much did it rain a day?

Enough to cover the whole world to a depth of about seven hundred and
forty-two feet.

Some Christians say that the fountains of the great deep were broken up.
Will they be kind enough to tell us what the fountains of the great deep
are? Others say that God had vast stores of water in the center of the
earth that he used on that occasion. How did these waters happen to run
up hill?

Gentlemen, allow me to tell you once more that you must not try to
explain these things. Your efforts in that direction do no good, because
your explanations are harder to believe than the miracle itself. Take my
advice, stick to assertion, and let explanation alone.

Then, as now, Dhawalagiri lifted its crown of snow twenty-nine thousand
feet above the level of the sea, and on the cloudless cliffs of
Chimborazo then, as now, sat the condor; and yet the waters rising seven
hundred and twenty-six feet a day—thirty feet an hour, six inches
a minute,—rose over the hills, over the volcanoes, filled the vast
craters, extinguished all the fires, rose above every mountain peak
until the vast world was but one shoreless sea covered with the
innumerable dead.

Was this the work of the most merciful God, the father of us all? If
there is a God, can there be the slightest danger of incurring his
displeasure by doubting even in a reverential way, the truth of such a
cruel lie? If we think that God is kinder than he really is, will our
poor souls be burned for that?

How many trees can live under miles of water for a year? What became of
the soil washed, scattered, dissolved, and covered with the _debris_ of
a world? How were the tender plants and herbs preserved? How were the
animals preserved after leaving the ark? There was no grass except such
as had been submerged for a year. There were no animals to be devoured
by the carnivorous beasts. What became of the birds that fed on worms
and insects? What became of the birds that devoured other birds?

It must be remembered that the pressure of the water when at the highest
point—say twenty-nine thousand feet, would have been about eight
hundred tons on each square foot. Such a pressure certainly would have
destroyed nearly every vestige of vegetable life, so that when the
animals came out of the ark, there was not a mouthful of food in the
wide world. How were they supported until the world was again clothed
with grass? How were those animals taken care of that subsisted on
others? Where did the bees get honey, and the ants seeds? There was not
a creeping thing upon the whole earth; not a breathing creature beneath
the whole heavens; not a living substance. Where did the tenants of the
ark get food?

There is but one answer, if the story is true. The food necessary
not only during the year of the flood, but sufficient for many months
afterwards, must have been stored in the ark.

There is probably not an animal in the world that will not, in a year,
eat and drink ten times its weight. Noah must have provided food and
water for a year while in the ark, and food for at least six months
after they got ashore. It must have required for a pair of elephants,
about one hundred and fifty tons of food and water. A couple of mammoths
would have required about twice that amount. Of course there were other
monsters that lived on trees; and in a year would have devoured quite a
forest.

How could eight persons have distributed this food, even if the ark had
been large enough to hold it? How was the ark kept clean? We know how it
was ventilated; but what was done with the filth? How were the animals
watered? How were some portions of the ark heated for animals from the
tropics, and others kept cool for the polar bears? How did the animals
get back to their respective countries? Some had to creep back about
six thousand miles, and they could only go a few feet a day. Some of the
creeping things must have started for the ark just as soon as they were
made, and kept up a steady jog for sixteen hundred years. Think of
a couple of the slowest snails leaving a point opposite the ark and
starting for the plains of Shinar, a distance of twelve thousand miles.
Going at the rate of a mile a month, it would take them a thousand
years. How did they get there? Polar bears must have gone several
thousand miles, and so sudden a change in climate must have been
exceedingly trying upon their health. How did they know the way to go?
Of course, all the polar bears did not go. Only two were required. Who
selected these?

Two sloths had to make the journey from South America. These creatures
cannot travel to exceed three rods a day. At this rate, they would make
a mile in about a hundred days. They must have gone about six thousand
five hundred miles, to reach the ark. Supposing them to have traveled by
a reasonably direct route, in order to complete the journey before Noah
hauled in the plank, they must have started several years before the
world was created. We must also consider that these sloths had to board
themselves on the way, and that most of their time had to be taken up
getting food and water. It is exceedingly doubtful whether a sloth could
travel six thousand miles and board himself in less than three thousand
years.

Volumes might be written upon the infinite absurdity of this most
incredible, wicked and foolish of all the fables contained in that
repository of the impossible, called the Bible. To me it is a matter
of amazement, that it ever was for a moment believed by any intelligent
human being.

Dr. Adam Clarke says that "the animals were brought to the ark by the
power of God, and their enmities were so removed or suspended, that the
lion could dwell peaceably with the lamb, and the wolf sleep happily by
the side of the kid. There is no positive evidence that animal food was
ever used before the flood. Noah had the first grant of this kind."

Dr. Scott remarks, "There seems to have been a very extraordinary
miracle, perhaps by the ministration of angels, in bringing two of every
species to Noah, and rendering them submissive, and peaceful with each
other. Yet it seems not to have made any impression upon the hardened
spectators. The suspension of the ferocity of the savage beasts during
their continuance in the ark, is generally considered as an apt figure
of the change that takes place in the disposition of sinners when they
enter the true church of Christ."

He believed the deluge to have been universal. In his day science had
not demonstrated the absurdity of this belief, and he was not compelled
to resort to some theory not found in the Bible. He insisted that "by
some vast convulsion, the very bowels of the earth were forced upwards,
and rain poured down in cataracts and water-spouts, with no intermission
for forty days and nights, and until in every place a universal deluge
was effected.

"The presence of God was the only comfort of Noah in his dreary
confinement, and in witnessing the dire devastation of the earth and its
inhabitants, and especially of the human species—of his companions, his
neighbors, his relatives—all those to whom he had preached, for whom he
had prayed and over whom he had wept, and even of many who had helped to
build the ark.

"It seems that by a peculiar providential interposition, no animal of
any sort died, although they had been shut up in the ark above a year;
and it does not appear that there had been any increase of them during
that time.

"The Ark was flat-bottomed—square at each end—roofed like a house so
that it terminated at the top in the breadth of a cubit. It was divided
into many little cabins for its intended inhabitants. Pitched within and
without to keep it tight and sweet, and lighted from the upper part.
But it must, at first sight, be evident that so large a vessel, thus
constructed, with so few persons on board, was utterly unfitted to
weather out the deluge, except it was under the immediate guidance and
protection of the Almighty."

Dr. Henry furnished the Christian world with the following:—

"As our bodies have in them the humors which, when God pleases, become
the springs and seeds of mortal disease, so the earth had, in its
bowels, those waters which, at God's command, sprung up and flooded it.

"God made the world in six days, but he was forty days in destroying it,
because he is slow to anger.

"The hostilities between the animals in the ark ceased, and ravenous
creatures became mild and manageable, so that the wolf lay down with the
lamb, and the lion ate straw like an ox.

"God shut the door of the ark to secure Noah and to keep him safe, and
because it was necessary that the door should be shut very close lest
the water should break in and sink the ark, and very fast lest others
might break it down.

"The waters rose so high that not only the low flat countries were
deluged, but to make sure work and that none might escape, the tops of
the highest mountains were overflowed fifteen cubits. That is, seven
and a half yards, so that salvation was not hoped for from hills or
mountains.

"Perhaps some of the people got to the top of the ark, and hoped to
shift for themselves there. But either they perished there for want of
food, or the dashing rain washed them off the top. Others, it may be,
hoped to prevail with Noah for admission into the ark, and plead old
acquaintance.

"'Have we not eaten and drank in thy presence? Hast thou not preached in
our streets?' 'Yea,' said Noah, 'many a time, but to little purpose. I
called but ye refused; and now it is not in my power to help you. God
has shut the door and I cannot open it.'

"We may suppose that some of those who perished in the deluge had
themselves assisted Noah, or were employed by him in building the ark.

"Hitherto, man had been confined to feed only upon the products of the
earth. Fruits, herbs and roots, and all sorts of greens, and milk, which
was the first grant; but the flood having perhaps washed away much
of the fruits of the earth, and rendered them much less pleasant and
nourishing, God enlarged the grant and allowed him to eat flesh, which
perhaps man never thought of until now, that God directed him to it. Nor
had he any more desire to it than the sheep has to suck blood like the
wolf. But now, man is allowed to feed upon flesh as freely and safely as
upon the green herb."

Such was the debasing influence of a belief in the literal truth of the
Bible upon these men, that their commentaries are filled with passages
utterly devoid of common sense.

Dr. Clarke speaking of the mammoth says:

"This animal, an astonishing proof of God's power, he seems to have
produced merely to show what he could do. And after suffering a few of
them to propagate, he extinguished the race by a merciful providence,
that they might not destroy both man and beast.

"We are told that it would have been much easier for God to destroy all
the people and make new ones, but he would not want to waste anything
and no power or skill should be lavished where no necessity exists.

"The animals were brought to the ark by the power of God."

Again gentlemen, let me warn you of the danger of trying to explain a
miracle. Let it alone. Say that you do not understand it, and do not
expect to until taught in the schools of the New Jerusalem. The more
reasons you give, the more unreasonable the miracle will appear. Through
what you say in defence, people are led to think, and as soon as they
really think, the miracle is thrown away.

Among the most ignorant nations you will find the most wonders, among
the most enlightened, the least. It is with individuals, the same as
with nations. Ignorance believes, Intelligence examines and explains.

For about seven months the ark, with its cargo of men, animals and
insects, tossed and wandered without rudder or sail upon a boundless
sea. At last it grounded on the mountains of Ararat; and about three
months afterward the tops of the mountains became visible. It must not
be forgotten that the mountain where the ark is supposed to have first
touched bottom, was about seventeen thousand feet high. How were the
animals from the tropics kept warm? When the waters were abated it would
be intensely cold at a point seventeen thousand feet above the level of
the sea. May be there were stoves, furnaces, fire places and steam coils
in the ark, but they are not mentioned in the inspired narrative. How
were the animals kept from freezing? It will not do to say that Ararat
was not very high after all.

If you will read the fourth and fifth verses of the eight chapter you
will see that although "the ark rested in the seventh month, on the
seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat, it was not
until the first day of the tenth month that the tops of the mountains
could be seen." From this it would seem that the ark must have rested
upon about the highest peak in that country. Noah waited forty days
more, and then for the first time opened the window and took a breath
of fresh air. He then sent out a raven that did not return, then a dove
that returned. He then waited seven days and sent forth a dove that
returned not. From this he knew that the waters were abated. Is it
possible that he could not see whether the waters had gone? Is it
possible to conceive of a more perfectly childish way of ascertaining
whether the earth was dry?

At last Noah "removed the covering of the ark, and looked and behold the
face of the ground was dry," and thereupon God told him to disembark. In
his gratitude Noah built an altar and took of every clean beast and of
every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings. And the Lord smelled a
sweet savor and said in his heart that he would not any more curse the
ground for man's sake. For saying this in his heart the Lord gives as a
reason, not that man is, or will be good, but because "the imagination
of man's heart is evil from his youth." God destroyed man because "the
wickedness of man was great in the earth, and _because every imagination
of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually_." And he
promised for the same reason not to destroy him again. Will some
gentleman skilled in theology give us an explanation?

After God had smelled the sweet savor of sacrifice, he seems to have
changed his idea as to the proper diet for man. When Adam and Eve were
created they were allowed to eat herbs bearing seed, and the fruit of
trees. When they were turned out of Eden, God said to them "Thou shalt
eat the herb of the field." In the first chapter of Genesis the "green
herb" was given for food to the beasts, fowls and creeping things. Upon
being expelled from the garden, Adam and Eve, as to their food, were
put upon an equality with the lower animals. According to this, the
ante-diluvians were vegetarians. This may account for their wickedness
and longevity.

After Noah sacrificed, and God smelled the sweet savor; he said—"Every
moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you, even as the green herb
have I given you all things." Afterward this same God changed his mind
again, and divided the beasts and birds into clean and unclean, and made
it a crime for man to eat the unclean. Probably food was so scarce when
Noah was let out of the ark that Jehovah generously allowed him to eat
anything and everything he could find.

According to the account, God then made a covenant with Noah to the
effect that he would not again destroy the world with a flood, and as
the attesting witness of this contract, a rainbow was set in the cloud.
This bow was placed in the sky so that it might perpetually remind God
of his promise and covenant. Without this visible witness and reminder,
it would seem that Jehovah was liable to forget the contract, and drown
the world again. Did the rainbow originate in this way? Did God put it
in the cloud simply to keep his agreement in his memory?

For me it is impossible to believe the story of the deluge. It seems so
cruel, so barbaric, so crude in detail, so absurd in all its parts,
and so contrary to all we know of law, that even credulity itself is
shocked.

Many nations have preserved accounts of a deluge in which all people,
except a family or two, were destroyed. Babylon was certainly a city
before Jerusalem was founded. Egypt was in the height of her power when
there were only seventy Jews in the world, and India had a literature
before the name of Jehovah had passed the lips of superstition. An
account of a general deluge "was discovered by George Smith, translated
from another account that was written about two thousand years before
Christ." Of course it is impossible to tell how long the story had
lived in the memory of tradition before it was reduced to writing by the
Babylonians. According to this account, which is, without doubt, much
older than the one given by Moses, Tamzi built a ship at the command of
the god Hea, and put in it his family and the beasts of the field. He
pitched the ship inside and outside with bitumen, and as soon as it was
finished, there came a flood of rain and "destroyed all life from the
face of the whole earth. On the seventh day there was a calm, and the
ship stranded on the mountain Nizir." Tamzi waited for seven days more,
and then let out a dove. Afterwards, he let out a swallow, and that, as
well as the dove returned. Then he let out a raven, and as that did not
return, he concluded that the water had dried away, and thereupon
left the ship. Then he made an offering to god, or the gods, and "Hea
interceded with Bel," so that the earth might never again be drowned.

This is the Babylonian story, told without the contradictions of the
original. For in that, it seems, there are two accounts, as well as
in the Bible. Is it not a strange coincidence that there should be
contradictory accounts mingled in both the Babylonian and Jewish
stories?

In the Bible there are two accounts. In one account, Noah was to take
two of all beasts, birds, and creeping things into the ark, while in the
other, he was commanded to take of clean beasts, and all birds by
sevens of each kind. According to one account, the flood only lasted
one hundred and fifty days—as related in the third verse of the eighth
chapter; while the other account fixes the time at three hundred and
seventy-seven days. Both of these accounts cannot be true. Yet in order
to be saved, it is not sufficient to believe one of them—you must
believe both.

Among the Egyptians there was a story to the effect that the great god
Ra became utterly maddened with the people, and deliberately made up his
mind that he would exterminate mankind. Thereupon he began to destroy,
and continued in the terrible work until blood flowed in streams, when
suddenly he ceased, and took an oath that he would not again destroy the
human race. This myth was probably thousands of years old when Moses was
born.

So, in India, there was a fable about the flood. A fish warned Manu
that a flood was coming. Manu built a "box" and the fish towed it to a
mountain and saved all hands.

The same kind of stories were told in Greece, and among our own Indian
tribes. At one time the Christian pointed to the fact that many nations
told of a flood, as evidence of the truth of the Mosaic account; but
now, it having been shown that other accounts are much older, and
equally reasonable, that argument has ceased to be of any great value.

It is probable that all these accounts had a common origin. They were
likely born of something in nature visible to all nations. The idea of a
universal flood, produced by a god to drown the world on account of
the sins of the people, is infinitely absurd. The solution of all these
stories has been supposed to be, the existence of partial floods in most
countries; and for a long time this solution was satisfactory. But the
fact that these stories are greatly alike, that only one man is warned,
that only one family is saved, that a boat is built, that birds are sent
out to find if the water had abated, tend to show that they had a common
origin. Admitting that there were severe floods in all countries; it
certainly cannot follow that in each instance only one family would be
saved, or that the same story would in each instance be told. It may be
urged that the natural tendency of man to exaggerate calamities, might
account for this agreement in all the accounts, and it must be admitted
that there is some force in the suggestion. I believe, though, that the
real origin of all these myths is the same, and that it was originally
an effort to account for the sun, moon and stars. The sun and moon
were the man and wife, or the god and goddess, and the stars were their
children. From a celestial myth, it became a terrestrial one; the air,
or ether-ocean became a flood, produced by rain, and the sun moon and
stars became man, woman and children.

In the original story, the mountain was the place where in the far east
the sky was supposed to touch the earth, and it was there that the ship
containing the celestial passengers finally rested from its voyage. But
whatever may be the origin of the stories of the flood, whether told
first by Hindu, Babylonian or Hebrew, we may rest perfectly assured that
they are all equally false.

## XIX. Bacchus and Babel.

As soon as Noah had disembarked, he proceeded to plant a vineyard, and
began to be a husbandman; and when the grapes were ripe he made wine and
drank of it to excess; cursed his grandson, blessed Shem and Japheth, and
after that lived for three hundred and fifty years. What he did during
these three hundred and fifty years, we are not told. We never hear of
him again. For three hundred and fifty years he lived among his sons,
and daughters, and their descendants. He must have been a venerable man.
He was the man to whom God had made known his intention of drowning the
world. By his efforts, the human race had been saved. He must have been
acquainted with Methuselah for six hundred years, and Methuselah was
about two hundred and forty years old, when Adam died. Noah must himself
have known the history of mankind, and must have been an object of
almost infinite interest; and yet for three hundred and fifty years he
is neither directly nor indirectly mentioned. When Noah died, Abraham
must have been more than fifty years old; and Shem, the son of Noah,
lived for several hundred years after the death of Abraham; and yet he
is never mentioned. Noah when he died, was the oldest man in the whole
world by about five hundred years; and everybody living at the time of
his death knew that they were indebted to him, and yet no account is
given of his burial. No monument was raised to mark the spot. This,
however, is no more wonderful than the fact that no account is given of
the death of Adam or of Eve, nor of the place of their burial. This may
all be accounted for by the fact that the language of man was confounded
at the building of the tower of Babel, whereby all tradition may have
been lost, so that even the sons of Noah could not give an account of
their voyage in the ark; and, consequently, some one had to be directly
inspired to tell the story, after new languages had been formed.

It has always been a mystery to me how Adam, Eve, and the serpent were
taught the same language. Where did they get it? We know now, that
it requires a great number of years to form a language; that it is of
exceedingly slow growth. We also know that by language, man conveys to
his fellows the impressions made upon him by what he sees, hears, smells
and touches. We know that the language of the savage consists of a few
sounds, capable of expressing only a few ideas or states of the
mind, such as love, desire, fear, hatred, aversion and contempt. Many
centuries are required to produce a language capable of expressing
complex ideas. It does not seem to me that ideas can be manufactured by
a deity and put in the brain of man. These ideas must be the result of
observation and experience.

Does anybody believe that God directly taught a language to Adam and
Eve, or that he so made them that they, by intuition spoke Hebrew, or
some language capable of conveying to each other their thoughts? How did
the serpent learn the same language? Did God teach it to him, or did he
happen to overhear God, when he was teaching Adam and Eve? We are told
in the second chapter of Genesis that God caused all the animals to pass
before Adam to see what he would call them. We cannot infer from this
that God named the animals and informed Adam what to call them. Adam
named them himself. Where did he get his words? We cannot imagine a man
just made out of dust, without the experience of a moment, having the
power to put his thoughts in language. In the first place, we cannot
conceive of his having any thoughts until he has combined, through
experience and observation, the impressions that nature had made upon
him through the medium of his senses. We cannot imagine of his knowing
anything, in the first instance, about different degrees of heat, nor
about darkness, if he was made in the day-time, nor about light, if
created at night, until the next morning. Before a man can have what we
call thoughts, he must have had a little experience. Something must have
happened to him before he can have a thought, and before he can express
himself in language. Language is a growth, not a gift. We account now
for the diversity of language by the fact that tribes and nations have
had different experiences, different wants, different surroundings, and,
one result of all these differences is, among other things, a difference
in language. Nothing can be more absurd than to account for the
different languages of the world by saying that the original language
was confounded at the tower of Babel.

According to the Bible, up to the time of the building of that tower,
the whole earth was of one language and of one speech, and would have so
remained until the present time had not an effort been made to build
a tower whose top should reach into heaven. Can any one imagine what
objection God would have to the building of such a tower? And how could
the confusion of tongues prevent its construction? How could language
be confounded? It could be confounded only by the destruction of memory.
Did God destroy the memory of mankind at that time, and if so, how?
Did he paralyze that portion of the brain presiding over the organs
of articulation, so that they could not speak the words, although they
remembered them clearly, or did he so touch the brain that they
could not hear? Will some theologian, versed in the machinery of the
miraculous, tell us in what way God confounded the language of mankind?

Why would the confounding of the language make them separate? Why would
they not stay together until they could understand each other? People
will not separate, from weakness. When in trouble they come together
and desire the assistance of each other. Why, in this instance, did they
separate? What particular ones would naturally come together if nobody
understood the language of any other person? Would it not have been just
as hard to agree when and where to go, without any language to express
the agreement, as to go on with the building of the tower?

Is it possible that any one now believes that the whole world would be
of one speech had the language not been confounded at Babel? Do we not
know that every word was suggested in some way by the experience of men?
Do we not know that words are continually dying, and continually being
born; that every language has its cradle and its cemetery—its buds, its
blossoms, its fruits and its withered leaves? Man has loved, enjoyed,
hated, suffered and hoped, and all words have been born of these
experiences.

Why did "the Lord come down to see the city and the tower"? Could he
not see them from where he lived or from where he was? Where did he come
down from? Did he come in the daytime, or in the night? We are taught
now that God is everywhere; that he inhabits immensity; that he is in
every atom, and in every star. If this is true, why did he "come down to
see the city and the tower?" Will some theologian explain this?

After all, is it not much easier and altogether more reasonable to say
that Moses was mistaken, that he knew little of the science of language,
and that he guessed a great deal more than he investigated?

## XX. Faith in Filth.

No light whatever is shed upon what passed in the world after the
confounding of language at Babel, until the birth of Abraham. But,
before speaking of the history of the Jewish people, it may be proper
for me to say that many things are recounted in Genesis, and other books
attributed to Moses, of which I do not wish to speak. There are many
pages of these books unfit to read, many stories not calculated, in my
judgment, to improve the morals of mankind. I do not wish even to call
the attention of my readers to these things, except in a general way. It
is to be hoped that the time will come when such chapters and passages
as cannot be read without leaving the blush of shame upon the cheek of
modesty, will be left out, and not published as a part of the Bible. If
there is a God, it certainly is blasphemous to attribute to him the
authorship of pages too obscene, beastly and vulgar to be read in the
presence of men and women.

The believers in the Bible are loud in their denunciation of what they
are pleased to call the immoral literature of the world; and yet few
books have been published containing more moral filth than this inspired
word of God. These stories are not redeemed by a single flash of wit or
humor. They never rise above the dull details of stupid vice. For one,
I cannot afford to soil my pages with extracts from them; and all such
portions of the Scriptures I leave to be examined, written upon, and
explained by the clergy. Clergymen may know some way by which they can
extract honey from these flowers. Until these passages are expunged
from the Old Testament, it is not a fit book to be read by either old
or young. It contains pages that no minister in the United States would
read to his congregation for any reward whatever. There are chapters
that no gentleman would read in the presence of a lady. There are
chapters that no father would read to his child. There are narratives
utterly unfit to be told; and the time will come when mankind will
wonder that such a book was ever called inspired.

I know that in many books besides the Bible, there are immodest lines.
Some of the greatest writers have soiled their pages with indecent
words. We account for this by saying that the authors were human; that
they catered to the taste and spirit of their times. We make excuses,
but at the same time regret that in their works they left an impure
word. But what shall we say of God? Is it possible that a being of
infinite purity—the author of modesty, would smirch the pages of his
book with stories lewd, licentious and obscene? If God is the author of
the Bible, it is, of course, the standard by which all other books can,
and should be measured. If the Bible is not obscene, what book is? Why
should men be imprisoned simply for imitating God? The Christian world
should never say another word against immoral books until it makes the
inspired volume clean. These vile and filthy things were not written
for the purpose of conveying and enforcing moral truth, but seem to
have been written because the author loved an unclean thing. There is
no moral depth below that occupied by the writer or publisher of obscene
books, that stain with lust, the loving heart of youth. Such men should
be imprisoned and their books destroyed. The literature of the world
should be rendered decent, and no book should be published that cannot
be read by, and in the hearing of the best and purest people. But as
long as the Bible is considered as the work of God, it will be hard
to make all men too good and pure to imitate it; and as long as it is
imitated there will be vile and filthy books. The literature of our
country will not be sweet and clean until the Bible ceases to be
regarded as the production of a god.

We are continually told that the Bible is the very foundation of modesty
and morality; while many of its pages are so immodest and immoral that
a minister, for reading them in the pulpit, would be instantly denounced
as an unclean wretch. Every woman would leave the church, and if the men
stayed, it would be for the purpose of chastising the minister.

Is there any saving grace in hypocrisy? Will men become clean in speech
by believing that God is unclean? Would it not be far better to admit
that the Bible was written by barbarians in a barbarous, coarse and
vulgar age? Would it not be safer to charge Moses with vulgarity,
instead of God? Is it not altogether more probable that some ignorant
Hebrew would write the vulgar words? The Christians tell me that God is
the author of these vile and stupid things? I have examined the question
to the best of my ability, and as to God my verdict is:—Not guilty.
Faith should not rest in filth.

Every foolish and immodest thing should be expunged from the Bible.
Let us keep the good. Let us preserve every great and splendid thought,
every wise and prudent maxim, every just law, every elevated idea, and
every word calculated to make man nobler and purer, and let us have the
courage to throw the rest away. The souls of children should not
be stained and soiled. The charming instincts of youth should not be
corrupted and defiled. The girls and boys should not be taught that
unclean words were uttered by "inspired" lips. Teach them that these
words were born of savagery and lust. Teach them that the unclean is the
unholy, and that only the pure is sacred.

## XXI. The Hebrews.

After language had been confounded and the people scattered, there
appeared in the land of Canaan a tribe of Hebrews ruled by a chief or
sheik called Abraham. They had a few cattle, lived in tents, practiced
polygamy, wandered from place to place, and were the only folks in the
whole world to whom God paid the slightest attention. At this time
there were hundreds of cities in India filled with temples and palaces;
millions of Egyptians worshiped Isis and Osiris, and had covered their
land with marvelous monuments of industry, power and skill. But these
civilizations were entirely neglected by the Deity, his whole attention
being taken up with Abraham and his family.

It seems, from the account, that God and Abraham were intimately
acquainted, and conversed frequently upon a great variety of subjects.
By the twelfth chapter of Genesis it appears that he made the following
promises to Abraham. "I will make of thee a great nation, and I will
bless thee, and make thy name great: and thou shalt be a blessing. And I
will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee."

After receiving this communication from the Almighty, Abraham went into
the land of Canaan, and again God appeared to him and told him to take
a heifer three years old, a goat of the same age, a sheep of equal
antiquity, a turtle dove and a young pigeon. Whereupon Abraham killed
the animals "and divided them in the midst, and laid each piece one
against another." And it came to pass that when the sun went down and
it was dark, behold a smoking furnace and a burning lamp that passed
between the raw and bleeding meat. The killing of these animals was
a preparation for receiving a visit from God. Should an American
missionary in Central Africa find a negro chief surrounded by
a butchered heifer, a goat and a sheep, with which to receive a
communication from the infinite God, my opinion is, that the missionary
would regard the proceeding as the direct result of savagery. And if
the chief insisted that he had seen a smoking furnace and a burning
lamp going up and down between the pieces of meat, the missionary would
certainly conclude that the chief was not altogether right in his mind.

If the Bible is true, this same God told Abraham to take and sacrifice
his only son, or rather the only son of his wife, and a murder would
have been committed had not God, just at the right moment, directed him
to stay his hand and take a sheep instead.

God made a great number of promises to Abraham, but few of them were
ever kept. He agreed to make him the father of a great nation, but he
did not. He solemnly promised to give him a great country, including all
the land between the river of Egypt and the Euphrates, but he did not.

In due time Abraham passed away, and his son Isaac took his place at
the head of the tribe. Then came Jacob, who "watered stock" and enriched
himself with the spoil of Laban. Joseph was sold into Egypt by his
jealous brethren, where he became one of the chief men of the kingdom,
and in a few years his father and brothers left their own country and
settled in Egypt. At this time there were seventy Hebrews in the world,
counting Joseph and his children. They remained in Egypt two hundred and
fifteen years. It is claimed by some that they were in that country for
four hundred and thirty years. This is a mistake. Josephus says they
were in Egypt two hundred and fifteen years, and this statement is
sustained by the best biblical scholars of all denominations. According
to the 17th verse of the 3rd chapter of Galatians, it was four hundred
and thirty years from the time the promise was made to Abraham to
the giving of the law, and as the Hebrews did not go to Egypt for two
hundred and fifteen years after the making of the promise to Abraham,
they could in no event have been in Egypt more than two hundred and
fifteen years. In our Bible the 40th verse of the 12th chapter of
Exodus, is as follows:—

"Now the sojourning of the children of Israel, who dwelt in Egypt, was
four hundred and thirty years."

This passage does not say that the sojourning was all done in Egypt;
neither does it say that the children of Israel dwelt in Egypt four
hundred and thirty years; but it does say that the sojourning of the
children of Israel who dwelt in Egypt was four hundred and thirty
years. The Vatican copy of the Septuagint renders the same passage as
follows:—

"The sojourning of the children of Israel which they sojourned in Egypt,
and in the land of Canaan, was four hundred and thirty years."

The Alexandrian version says:—"The sojourning of the children of Israel
which they and their fathers sojourned in Egypt, and in the land of
Canaan, was four hundred and thirty years."

And in the Samaritan Bible we have:—"The sojourning of the children of
Israel and of their fathers which they sojourned in the land of Canaan,
and in the land of Egypt, was four hundred and thirty years."

There were seventy souls when they went down into Egypt, and they
remained two hundred and fifteen years, and at the end of that time they
had increased to about three million. How do we know that there were
three million at the end of two hundred and fifteen years? We know it
because we are informed by Moses that "there were six hundred thousand
men of war." Now, to each man of war, there must have been at least five
other people. In every State in this Union there will be to each voter,
five other persons at least, and we all know that there are always more
voters than men of war. If there were six hundred thousand men of war,
there must have been a population of at least three million. Is it
possible that seventy people could increase to that extent in two
hundred and fifteen years? You may say that it was a miracle; but
what need was there of working a miracle? Why should God miraculously
increase the number of slaves? If he wished miraculously to increase the
population, why did he not wait until the people were free?

In 1776, we had in the American Colonies about three millions of people.
In one hundred years we doubled four times: that is to say, six, twelve,
twenty-four, forty-eight million,—our present population.

We must not forget that during all these years there has been pouring
into our country a vast stream of emigration, and that this, taken
in connection with the fact that our country is productive beyond all
others, gave us only four doubles in one hundred years. Admitting that
the Hebrews increased as rapidly without emigration as we, in this
country, have with it, we will give to them four doubles each century,
commencing with seventy people, and they would have, at the end of
two hundred years, a population of seventeen thousand nine hundred and
twenty. Giving them another double for the odd fifteen years and there
would be, provided no deaths had occurred, thirty-five thousand eight
hundred and forty people. And yet we are told that instead of having
this number, they had increased to such an extent that they had six
hundred thousand men of war; that is to say, a population of more than
three millions?

Every sensible man knows that this account is not, and cannot be true.
We know that seventy people could not increase to three million in two
hundred and fifteen years.

About this time the Hebrews took a census, and found that there were
twenty-two thousand two hundred and seventy-three first-born males.
It is reasonable to suppose that there were about as many first-born
females. This would make forty-four thousand five hundred and forty-six
first-born children. Now, there must have been about as many mothers
as there were first-born children. If there were only about forty-five
thousand mothers and three millions of people, the mothers must have had
on an average about sixty-six children apiece.

At this time, the Hebrews were slaves, and had been for two hundred and
fifteen years. A little while before, an order had been made by the
Egyptians that all the male children of the Hebrews should be killed.
One, contrary to this order, was saved in an ark made of bullrushes
daubed with slime. This child was found by the daughter of Pharaoh, and
was adopted, it seems, as her own, and, may be, was. He grew to be
a man, sided with the Hebrews, killed an Egyptian that was smiting a
slave, hid the body in the sand, and fled from Egypt to the land of
Midian, became acquainted with a priest who had seven daughters, took
the side of the daughters against the ill-mannered shepherds of that
country, and married Zipporah, one of the girls, and became a shepherd
for her father. Afterward, while tending his flock, the Lord appeared to
him in a burning bush, and commanded him to go to the king of Egypt and
demand from him the liberation of the Hebrews. In order to convince him
that the something burning in the bush was actually God, the rod in his
hand was changed into a serpent, which, upon being caught by the tail,
became again a rod. Moses was also told to put his hand in his bosom,
and when he took it out it was as leprous as snow. Quite a number of
strange things were performed, and others promised. Moses then agreed to
go back to Egypt provided his brother could go with him. Whereupon
the Lord appeared to Aaron, and directed him to meet Moses in the
wilderness. They met at the mount of God, went to Egypt, gathered
together all the elders of the children of Israel, spake all the words
which God had spoken unto Moses, and did all the signs in the sight of
the people. The Israelites believed, bowed their heads and worshiped;
and Moses and Aaron went in and told their message to Pharaoh the king.

## XXII. The Plagues.

Three millions of people were in slavery. They were treated with the
utmost rigor, and so fearful were their masters that they might, in
time, increase in numbers sufficient to avenge themselves, that they
took from the arms of mothers all the male children and destroyed
them. If the account given is true, the Egyptians were the most cruel,
heartless and infamous people of which history gives any record. God
finally made up his mind to free the Hebrews; and for the accomplishment
of this purpose he sent, as his agents, Moses and Aaron, to the king
of Egypt. In order that the king might know that these men had a divine
mission, God gave Moses the power of changing a stick into a serpent,
and water into blood. Moses and Aaron went before the king, stating that
the Lord God of Israel ordered the king of Egypt to let the Hebrews
go that they might hold a feast with God in the wilderness. Thereupon
Pharaoh, the king, enquired who the Lord was, at the same time stating
that he had never made his acquaintance, and knew nothing about him.
To this they replied that the God of the Hebrews had met with them, and
they asked to go a three days journey into the desert and sacrifice
unto this God, fearing that if they did not he would fall upon them with
pestilence or the sword. This interview seems to have hardened Pharaoh,
for he ordered the tasks of the children of Israel to be increased; so
that the only effect of the first appeal was to render still worse the
condition of the Hebrews. Thereupon, Moses returned unto the Lord and
said, "Lord, wherefore hast thou so evil entreated this people? Why is
it that thou hast sent me? For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in thy
name he hath done evil to this people; neither hast thou delivered thy
people at all."

Apparently stung by this reproach, God answered:—

"Now shalt thou see what I will do to Pharoah; for with a strong hand
shall he let them go; and with a strong hand shall he drive them out of
his land."

God then recounts the fact that he had appeared unto Abraham, Isaac and
Jacob, that he had established a covenant with them to give them the
land of Canaan, that he had heard the groanings of the children of
Israel in Egyptian bondage; that their groanings had put him in mind of
his covenant, and that he had made up his mind to redeem the children
of Israel with a stretched-out arm and with great judgments. Moses then
spoke to the children of Israel again, but they would listen to him no
more. His first effort in their behalf had simply doubled their trouble
and they seemed to have lost confidence in his power. Thereupon Jehovah
promised Moses that he would make him a god unto Pharaoh, and that
Aaron should be his prophet, but at the same time informed him that his
message would be of no avail; that he would harden the heart of Pharaoh
so that he would not listen; that he would so harden his heart that he
might have an excuse for destroying the Egyptians. Accordingly, Moses
and Aaron again went before Pharaoh. Moses said to Aaron;—"Cast down
your rod before Pharaoh," which he did, and it became a serpent. Then
Pharaoh not in the least surprised, called for his wise men and
his sorcerers, and they threw down their rods and changed them into
serpents. The serpent that had been changed from Aaron's rod was, at
this time crawling upon the floor, and it proceeded to swallow the
serpents that had been produced by the magicians of Egypt. What became
of these serpents that were swallowed, whether they turned back into
sticks again, is not stated. Can we believe that the stick was changed
into a real living serpent, or did it assume simply the appearance of a
serpent? If it bore only the appearance of a serpent it was a deception,
and could not rise above the dignity of legerdemain. Is it necessary to
believe that God is a kind of prestigiator—a sleight-of-hand performer,
a magician or sorcerer? Can it be possible that an infinite being would
endeavor to secure the liberation of a race by performing a miracle that
could be equally performed by the sorcerers and magicians of a barbarian
king?

Not one word was said by Moses or Aaron as to the wickedness of
depriving a human being of his liberty. Not a word was said in favor
of liberty. Not the slightest intimation that a human being was justly
entitled to the product of his own labor. Not a word about the cruelty
of masters who would destroy even the babes of slave mothers. It seems
to me wonderful that this God did not tell the king of Egypt that no
nation could enslave another, without also enslaving itself; that it was
impossible to put a chain around the limbs of a slave, without putting
manacles upon the brain of the master. Why did he not tell him that a
nation founded upon slavery could not stand? Instead of declaring these
things, instead of appealing to justice, to mercy and to liberty, he
resorted to feats of jugglery. Suppose we wished to make a treaty with
a barbarous nation, and the President should employ a sleight-of-hand
performer as envoy extraordinary, and instruct him, that when he came
into the presence of the savage monarch, he should cast down an umbrella
or a walking stick, which would change into a lizard or a turtle; what
would we think? Would we not regard such a performance as beneath the
dignity even of a President? And what would be our feelings if the
savage king sent for his sorcerers and had them perform the same feat?
If such things would appear puerile and foolish in the President of a
great republic, what shall be said when they were resorted to by the
creator of all worlds? How small, how contemptible such a God appears!
Pharaoh, it seems, took about this view of the matter, and he would not
be persuaded that such tricks were performed by an infinite being.

Again, Moses and Aaron came before Pharaoh as he was going to the
river's bank, and the same rod which had changed to a serpent, and,
by this time changed back, was taken by Aaron, who, in the presence of
Pharaoh, smote the water of the river, which was immediately turned to
blood, as well as all the water in all the streams, ponds, and pools, as
well as all water in vessels of wood and vessels of stone in the entire
land of Egypt. As soon as all the waters in Egypt had been turned
into blood, the magicians of that country did the same with their
enchantments. We are not informed where they got the water to turn into
blood, since all the water in Egypt had already been so changed. It
seems from the account that the fish in the Nile died, and the river
emitted a stench, and there was not a drop of water in the land of
Egypt that had not been changed into blood. In consequence of this, the
Egyptians digged "around about the river" for water to drink. Can we
believe this story? Is it necessary to salvation to admit that all the
rivers, pools, ponds and lakes of a country were changed into blood, in
order that a king might be induced to allow the children of Israel the
privilege of going a three days journey into the wilderness to make
sacrifices to their God?

It seems from the account that Pharaoh was told that the God of the
Hebrews would, if he refused to let the Israelites go, change all the
waters of Egypt into blood, and that, upon his refusal, they were so
changed. This had, however, no influence upon him, for the reason that
his own magicians did the same. It does not appear that Moses and Aaron
expressed the least surprise at the success of the Egyptian sorcerers.
At that time it was believed that each nation had its own god. The
only claim that Moses and Aaron made for their God was, that he was the
greatest and most powerful of all the gods, and that with anything like
an equal chance he could vanquish the deity of any other nation.

After the waters were changed to blood Moses and Aaron waited for seven
days. At the end of that time God told Moses to again go to Pharaoh and
demand the release of his people, and to inform him that, if he refused,
God would strike all the borders of Egypt with frogs. That he would make
frogs so plentiful that they would go into the houses of Pharaoh, into
his bedchamber, upon his bed, into the houses of his servants, upon his
people, into their ovens, and even into their kneading troughs.
This threat had no effect whatever upon Pharaoh. And thereupon Aaron
stretched out his hand over the waters of Egypt, and the frogs came
up and covered the land. The magicians of Egypt did the same, and with
their enchantments brought more frogs upon the land of Egypt.

These magicians do not seem to have been original in their ideas, but
so far as imitation is concerned, were perfect masters of their art. The
frogs seem to have made such an impression upon Pharaoh that he sent
for Moses and asked him to entreat the Lord that he would take away the
frogs. Moses agreed to remove them from the houses and the land, and
allow them to remain only in the rivers. Accordingly the frogs died out
of the houses, and out of the villages, and out of the fields, and the
people gathered them together in heaps. As soon as the frogs had left
the houses and fields, the heart of Pharaoh became again hardened, and
he refused to let the people go.

Aaron then, according to the command of God, stretched out his hand,
holding the rod, and smote the dust of the earth, and it became lice in
man and in beast, and all the dust became lice throughout the land of
Egypt. Pharaoh again sent for his magicians, and they sought to do
the same with their enchantments, but they could not. Whereupon the
sorcerers said unto Pharaoh: "This is the finger of God."

Notwithstanding this, however, Pharaoh refused to let the Hebrews go.
God then caused a grievous swarm of flies to come into the house of
Pharaoh and into his servants' houses, and into all the land of Egypt,
to such an extent that the whole land was corrupted by reason of the
flies. But into that part of the country occupied by the children of
Israel there came no flies. Thereupon Pharaoh sent for Moses and Aaron
and said to them: "Go, and sacrifice to your God in this land." They
were not willing to sacrifice in Egypt, and asked permission to go on a
journey of three days into the wilderness. To this Pharaoh acceded, and
in consideration of this Moses agreed to use his influence with the Lord
to induce him to send the flies out of the country. He accordingly told
the Lord of the bargain he had made with Pharaoh, and the Lord agreed to
the compromise, and removed the flies from Pharaoh and from his servants
and from his people, and there remained not a single fly in the land of
Egypt. As soon as the flies were gone, Pharaoh again changed his mind,
and concluded not to permit the children of Israel to depart. The Lord
then directed Moses to go to Pharaoh and tell him that if he did not
allow the children of Israel to depart, he would destroy his cattle, his
horses, his camels and his sheep; that these animals would be afflicted
with a grievous disease, but that the animals belonging to the Hebrews
should not be so afflicted. Moses did as he was bid. On the next day all
the cattle of Egypt died; that is to say, all the horses, all the asses,
all the camels, all the oxen and all the sheep; but of the animals owned
by the Israelites, not one perished. This disaster had no effect upon
Pharaoh, and he still refused to let the children of Israel go. The Lord
then told Moses and Aaron to take some ashes out of a furnace, and
told Moses to sprinkle them toward the heavens in the sight of Pharaoh;
saying that the ashes should become small dust in all the land of Egypt,
and should be a boil breaking forth with blains upon man and upon beast
throughout all the land.

How these boils breaking out with blains, upon cattle that were already
dead, should affect Pharaoh, is a little hard to understand. It must
not be forgotten that all the cattle and all beasts had died with the
murrain before the boils had broken out.

This was a most decisive victory for Moses and Aaron. The boils were
upon the magicians to that extent that they could not stand before
Moses. But it had no effect upon Pharaoh, who seems to have been a man
of great firmness. The Lord then instructed Moses to get up early in the
morning and tell Pharaoh that he would stretch out his hand and smite
his people with a pestilence, and would, on the morrow, cause it to rain
a very grievous hail, such as had never been known in the land of Egypt.
He also told Moses to give notice, so that they might get all the cattle
that were in the fields under cover. It must be remembered that all
these cattle had recently died of the murrain, and their dead bodies had
been covered with boils and blains. This, however, had no effect, and
Moses stretched forth his hand toward heaven, and the Lord sent thunder,
and hail and lightning, and fire that ran along the ground, and the hail
fell upon all the land of Egypt, and all that were in the fields, both
man and beast, were smitten, and the hail smote every herb of the field,
and broke every tree of the country except that portion inhabited by the
children of Israel; there, there was no hail.

During this hail storm Pharaoh sent for Moses and Aaron and admitted
that he had sinned, that the Lord was righteous, and that the Egyptians
were wicked, and requested them to ask the Lord that there be no more
thunderings and hail, and that he would let the Hebrews go. Moses agreed
that as soon as he got out of the city he would stretch forth his hands
unto the Lord, and that the thunderings should cease and the hail should
stop. But, when the rain and the hail and the thundering ceased, Pharaoh
concluded that he would not let the children of Israel go.

Again, God sent Moses and Aaron, instructing them to tell Pharaoh that
if he refused to let the people go, the face of the earth would be
covered with locusts, so that man would not be able to see the ground,
and that these locusts would eat the residue of that which escaped from
the hail; that they would eat every tree out of the field; that they
would fill the houses of Pharaoh and the houses of all his servants, and
the houses of all the Egyptians. Moses delivered the message, and went
out from Pharaoh. Some of Pharaoh's servants entreated their master
to let the children of Israel go. Pharaoh sent for Moses and Aaron and
asked them, who wished to go into the wilderness to sacrifice. They
replied that they wished to go with the young and old; with their sons
and daughters, with flocks and herds. Pharaoh would not consent to this,
but agreed that the men might go. Thereupon Pharaoh drove Moses and
Aaron out of his sight. Then God told Moses to stretch forth his hand
upon the land of Egypt for the locusts, that they might come up and eat
every herb, even all that the hail had left. "And Moses stretched out
his rod over the land of Egypt, and the Lord brought an east wind all
that day and all that night; and when it was morning the east wind
brought the locusts; and they came up over all the land of Egypt and
rested upon all the coasts covering the face of the whole earth, so that
the land was darkened; and they ate every herb and all the fruit of the
trees which the hail had left, and there remained not any green thing
on the trees or in the herbs of the field throughout the land of Egypt."
Pharaoh then called for Moses and Aaron in great haste, admitted that
he had sinned against the Lord their God and against them, asked their
forgiveness and requested them to intercede with God that he might take
away the locusts. They went out from his presence and asked the Lord to
drive the locusts away, "And the Lord made a strong west wind which took
away the locusts, and cast them into the Red Sea so that there remained
not one locust in all the coasts of Egypt."

As soon as the locusts were gone, Pharaoh changed his mind, and, in the
language of the sacred text, "the Lord hardened Pharaoh's heart so that
he would not let the children of Israel go."

The Lord then told Moses to stretch out his hand toward heaven that
there might be darkness over the land of Egypt, "even darkness which
might be felt." "And Moses stretched forth his hand toward heaven, and
there was a thick darkness over the land of Egypt for three days during
which time they saw not each other, neither arose any of the people from
their places for three days; but the children of Israel had light in
their dwellings."

It strikes me that when the land of Egypt was covered with thick
darkness—so thick that it could be felt, and when light was in the
dwellings of the Israelites, there could have been no better time for
the Hebrews to have left the country.

Pharaoh again called for Moses, and told him that his people could go
and serve the Lord, provided they would leave their flocks and herds.
Moses would not agree to this, for the reason that they needed the
flocks and herds for sacrifices and burnt offerings, and he did not know
how many of the animals God might require, and for that reason he could
not leave a single hoof. Upon the question of the cattle, they divided,
and Pharaoh again refused to let the people go. God then commanded Moses
to tell the Hebrews to borrow, each of his neighbor, jewels of silver
and gold. By a miraculous interposition the Hebrews found favor in the
sight of the Egyptians so that they loaned the articles asked for. After
this, Moses again went to Pharaoh and told him that all the first-born
in the land of Egypt, from the first-born of Pharaoh upon the throne,
unto the first-born of the maid-servant who was behind the mill, as well
as the first-born of beasts, should die.

As all the beasts had been destroyed by disease and hail, it is
troublesome to understand the meaning of the threat as to their
first-born.

Preparations were accordingly made for carrying this frightful threat
into execution. Blood was put on the door-posts of all houses inhabited
by Hebrews, so that God, as he passed through that land, might not be
mistaken and destroy the first-born of the Jews. "And it came to pass
that at midnight the Lord smote all the first-born in the land of Egypt,
the first-born of Pharaoh who sat on the throne, and the first-born of
the captive who was in the dungeon. And Pharaoh rose up in the night,
and all his servants, and all the Egyptians, and there was a great cry
in Egypt, for there was not a house where there was not one dead."

What had these children done? Why should the babes in the cradle be
destroyed on account of the crime of Pharaoh? Why should the cattle be
destroyed because man had enslaved his brother? In those days women and
children and cattle were put upon an exact equality, and all considered
as the property of the men; and when man in some way excited the wrath
of God, he punished them by destroying all their cattle, their wives,
and their little ones. Where can words be found bitter enough to
describe a god who would kill wives and babes because husbands and
fathers had failed to keep his law? Every good man, and every good
woman, must hate and despise such a deity.

Upon the death of all the first-born Pharaoh sent for Moses and Aaron,
and not only gave his consent that they might go with the Hebrews into
the wilderness, but besought them to go at once.

Is it possible that an infinite God, creator of all worlds and sustainer
of all life, said to Pharaoh, "If you do not let my people go, I will
turn all the water of your country into blood," and that upon the
refusal of Pharaoh to release the people, God did turn all the waters
into blood? Do you believe this?

Do you believe that Pharaoh even after all the water was turned to
blood, refused to let the Hebrews go, and that thereupon God told him he
would cover his land with frogs? Do you believe this?

Do you believe that after the land was covered with frogs Pharaoh still
refused to let the people go, and that God then said to him, "I will
cover you and all your people with lice?" Do you believe God would make
this threat?

Do you also believe that God told Pharaoh, "It you do not let these
people go, I will fill all your houses and cover your country with
flies?" Do you believe God makes such threats as this?

Of course God must have known that turning the waters into blood,
covering the country with frogs, infesting all flesh with lice, and
filling all houses with flies, would not accomplish his object, and that
all these plagues would have no effect whatever upon the Egyptian king.

Do you believe that, failing to accomplish anything by the flies, God
told Pharaoh that if he did not let the people go he would kill his
cattle with murrain? Does such a threat sound God-like?

Do you believe that, failing to effect anything by killing the cattle,
this same God then threatened to afflict all the people with boils,
including the magicians who had been rivaling him in the matter of
miracles; and failing to do anything by boils, that he resorted to hail?
Does this sound reasonable? The hail experiment having accomplished
nothing, do you believe that God murdered the first-born of animals and
men? Is it possible to conceive of anything more utterly absurd, stupid,
revolting, cruel and senseless, than the miracles said to have been
wrought by the Almighty for the purpose of inducing Pharaoh to liberate
the children of Israel?

Is it not altogether more reasonable to say that the Jewish people,
being in slavery, accounted for the misfortunes and calamities, suffered
by the Egyptians, by saying that they were the judgments of God?

When the Armada of Spain was wrecked and scattered by the storm, the
English people believed that God had interposed in their behalf,
and publicly gave thanks. When the battle of Lepanto was won, it was
believed by the Catholic world that the victory was given in answer to
prayer. So, our fore-fathers in their Revolutionary struggle saw, or
thought they saw, the hand of God, and most firmly believed that they
achieved their independence by the interposition of the Most High.

Now, it may be that while the Hebrews were enslaved by the Egyptians,
there were plagues of locusts and flies. It may be that there were
some diseases by which many of the cattle perished. It may be that a
pestilence visited that country so that in nearly every house there
was some one dead. If so, it was but natural for the enslaved and
superstitious Jews to account for these calamities by saying that they
were punishments sent by their God. Such ideas will be found in the
history of every country.

For a long time the Jews held these opinions, and they were handed from
father to son simply by tradition. By the time a written language had
been produced, thousands of additions had been made, and numberless
details invented; so that we have not only an account of the plagues
suffered by the Egyptians, but the whole woven into a connected story,
containing the threats made by Moses and Aaron, the miracles wrought by
them, the promises of Pharaoh, and finally the release of the Hebrews,
as a result of the marvelous things performed in their behalf by
Jehovah.

In any event it is infinitely more probable that the author was
misinformed, than that the God of this universe was guilty of these
childish, heartless and infamous things. The solution of the whole
matter is this:—Moses was mistaken.

## XXIII. The Flight.

Three millions of people, with their flocks and herds, with borrowed
jewelry and raiment, with unleavened dough in kneading troughs bound in
their clothes upon their shoulders, in one night commenced their journey
for the land of promise. We are not told how they were informed of the
precise time to start. With all the modern appliances, it would require
months of time to inform three millions of people of any fact.

In this vast assemblage there were six hundred thousand men of war, and
with them were the old, the young, the diseased and helpless. Where were
those people going? They were going to the desert of Sinai, compared
with which Sahara is a garden. Imagine an ocean of lava torn by
storm and vexed by tempest, suddenly gazed at by a Gorgon and changed
instantly to stone! Such was the desert of Sinai.

All of the civilized nations of the world could not feed and support
three millions of people on the desert of Sinai for forty years. It
would cost more than one hundred thousand millions of dollars, and would
bankrupt Christendom. They had with them their flocks and herds, and the
sheep were so numerous that the Israelites sacrificed, at one time, more
than one hundred and fifty thousand first-born lambs. How were these
flocks supported? What did they eat? Where were meadows and pastures for
them? There was no grass, no forests—nothing! There is no account
of its having rained baled hay, nor is it even claimed that they were
miraculously fed. To support these flocks, millions of acres of pasture
would have been required. God did not take the Israelites through the
land of the Philistines, for fear that when they saw the people of that
country they would return to Egypt, but he took them by the way of
the wilderness to the Red Sea, going before them by day in a pillar of
cloud, and by night, in a pillar of fire.

When it was told Pharaoh that the people had fled, he made ready
and took six hundred chosen chariots of Egypt, and pursued after the
children of Israel, overtaking them by the sea. As all the animals had
long before that time been destroyed, we are not informed where Pharaoh
obtained the horses for his chariots. The moment the children of Israel
saw the hosts of Pharaoh, although they had six hundred thousand men
of war, they immediately cried unto the Lord for protection. It is
wonderful to me that a land that had been ravaged by the plagues
described in the Bible, still had the power to put in the field an army
that would carry terror to the hearts of six hundred thousand men of
war. Even with the help of God, it seems, they were not strong enough
to meet the Egyptians in the open field, but resorted to strategy. Moses
again stretched forth his wonderful rod over the waters of the Red Sea,
and they were divided, and the Hebrews passed through on dry land, the
waters standing up like a wall on either side. The Egyptians pursued
them; "and in the morning watch the Lord looked into the hosts of the
Egyptians, through the pillar of fire," and proceeded to take the wheels
off their chariots. As soon as the wheels were off, God told Moses to
stretch out his hand over the sea. Moses did so, and immediately "the
waters returned and covered the chariots and horsemen and all the hosts
of Pharaoh that came into the sea, and there remained not so much as one
of them."

This account may be true, but still it hardly looks reasonable that God
would take the wheels off the chariots. How did he do it? Did he pull
out the linch-pins, or did he just take them off by main force?

What a picture this presents to the mind! God the creator of the
universe, maker of every shining, glittering star, engaged in pulling
off the wheels of wagons, that he might convince Pharaoh of his
greatness and power!

Where were these people going? They were going to the promised land.
How large a country was that? About twelve thousand square miles. About
one-fifth the size of the State of Illinois. It was a frightful country,
covered with rocks and desolation. How many people were in the promised
land already? Moses tells us there were seven nations in that country
mightier than the Jews. As there were at least three millions of Jews,
there must have been at least twenty-one millions of people already in
that country. These had to be driven out in order that room might be
made for the chosen people of God.

It seems, however, that God was not willing to take the children of
Israel into the promised land immediately. They were not fit to inhabit
the land of Canaan; so he made up his mind to allow them to wander upon
the desert until all except two, who had left Egypt, should perish. Of
all the slaves released from Egyptian bondage, only two were allowed to
reach the promised land!

As soon as the Hebrews crossed the Red Sea, they found themselves
without food, and with water unfit to drink by reason of its bitterness,
and they began to murmur against Moses, who cried unto the Lord, and
"the Lord showed him a tree." Moses cast this tree into the waters,
and they became sweet. "And it came to pass in the morning the dew lay
around about the camp; and when the dew that lay was gone, behold,
upon the face of the wilderness lay a small round thing, small as the
hoar-frost upon the ground. And Moses said unto them, this is the bread
which the Lord hath given you to eat." This manna was a very peculiar
thing. It would melt in the sun, and yet they could cook it by seething
and baking. One would as soon think of frying snow or of broiling
icicles. But this manna had another remarkable quality. No matter how
much or little any person gathered, he would have an exact omer; if he
gathered more, it would shrink to that amount, and if he gathered less,
it would swell exactly to that amount. What a magnificent substance
manna would be with which to make a currency—shrinking and swelling
according to the great laws of supply and demand!

"Upon this manna the children of Israel lived for forty years, until
they came to a habitable land. With this meat were they fed until
they reached the borders of the land of Canaan." We are told in the
twenty-first chapter of Numbers, that the people at last became tired
of' the manna, complained of God, and asked Moses why he brought
them out of the land of Egypt to die in the wilderness. And they
said:—"There is no bread, nor have we any water. Our soul loatheth this
light food."

We are told by some commentators that the Jews lived on manna for forty
years; by others that they lived upon it for only a short time. As
a matter of fact the accounts differ, and this difference is the
opportunity for commentators. It also allows us to exercise faith in
believing that both accounts are true. If the accounts agreed, and were
reasonable, they would be believed by the wicked and unregenerated. But
as they are different and unreasonable, they are believed only by the
good. Whenever a statement in the Bible is unreasonable, and you believe
it, you are considered quite a good Christian. If the statement is
grossly absurd and infinitely impossible, and you still believe it, you
are a saint.

The children of Israel were in the desert, and they were out of water.
They had nothing to eat but manna, and this they had had so long that
the soul of every person abhorred it. Under these circumstances they
complained to Moses. Now, as God is infinite, he could just as well have
furnished them with an abundance of the purest and coolest of water, and
could, without the slightest trouble to himself, have given them three
excellent meals a day, with a generous variety of meats and vegetables,
it is very hard to see why he did not do so. It is still harder to
conceive why he fell into a rage when the people mildly suggested that
they would like a change of diet. Day after day, week after week, month
after month, year after year, nothing but manna. No doubt they did
the best they could by cooking it in different ways, but in spite of
themselves they began to loathe its sight and taste, and so they asked
Moses to use his influence to secure a change in the bill of fare.

Now, I ask, whether it was unreasonable for the Jews to suggest that a
little meat would be very gratefully received? It seems, however, that
as soon as the request was made, this God of infinite mercy became
infinitely enraged, and instead of granting it, went into partnership
with serpents, for the purpose of punishing the hungry wretches to whom
he had promised a land flowing with milk and honey.

Where did these serpents come from? How did God convey the information
to the serpents, that he wished them to go to the desert of Sinai and
bite some Jews? It may be urged that these serpents were created for the
express purpose of punishing the children of Israel for having had the
presumption, like Oliver Twist, to ask for more.

There is another account in the eleventh chapter of Numbers, of the
people murmuring because of their food. They remembered the fish, the
cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions and the garlic of Egypt,
and they asked for meat. The people went to the tent of Moses and asked
him for flesh. Moses cried unto the Lord and asked him why he did not
take care of the multitude. God thereupon agreed that they should have
meat, not for a day or two, but for a month, until the meat should come
out of their nostrils and become loathsome to them. He then caused a
wind to bring quails from beyond the sea, and cast them into the camp,
on every side of the camp around about for the space of a days journey.
And the people gathered them, and while the flesh was yet between their
teeth the wrath of God being provoked against them, struck them with
an exceeding great plague. Serpents, also, were sent among them, and
thousands perished for the crime of having been hungry.

The Rev. Alexander Cruden commenting upon this account says:—

"God caused a wind to rise that drove the quails within and about the
camp of the Israelites; and it is in this that the miracle consists,
that they were brought so seasonably to this place, and in so great
numbers as to suffice above a million of persons above a month. Some
authors affirm, that in those eastern and southern countries, quails
are innumerable, so that in one part of Italy within the compass of five
miles, there were taken about an hundred thousand of them every day for
a month together; and that sometimes they fly so thick over the sea,
that being weary they fall into ships, sometimes in such numbers, that
they sink them with their weight."

No wonder Mr. Cruden believed the Mosaic account.

Must we believe that God made an arrangement with hornets for the
purpose af securing their services in driving the Canaanites from
the land of promise? Is this belief necessary unto salvation? Must we
believe that God said to the Jews that he would send hornets before them
to drive out the Canaanites, as related in the twenty-third chapter of
Exodus, and the second chapter of Deuteronomy? How would the hornets
know a Canaanite? In what way would God put it in the mind of a hornet
to attack a Canaanite? Did God create hornets for that especial purpose,
implanting an instinct to attack a Canaanite, but not a Hebrew? Can
we conceive of the Almighty granting letters of marque and reprisal to
hornets? Of course it is admitted that nothing in the world would
be better calculated to make a man leave his native land than a few
hornets. Is it possible for us to believe that an infinite being would
resort to such expedients in order to drive the Canaanites from their
country? He could just as easily have spoken the Canaanites out of
existence as to have spoken the hornets in. In this way a vast amount of
trouble, pain and suffering would have been saved. Is it possible that
there is, in this country, an intelligent clergyman who will insist that
these stories are true; that we must believe them in in order to be good
people in this world, and glorified souls in the next?

We are also told that God instructed the Hebrews to kill the Canaanites
slowly, giving as a reason that the beasts of the field might increase
upon his chosen people. When we take into consideration the fact that
the Holy Land contained only about eleven or twelve thousand square
miles, and was at that time inhabited by at least twenty-one millions of
people, it does not seem reasonable that the wild beasts could have been
numerous enough to cause any great alarm. The same ratio of population
would give to the State of Illinois at least one hundred and twenty
millions of inhabitants. Can anybody believe that, under such
circumstances, the danger from wild beasts could be very great? What
would we think of a general, invading such a State, if he should order
his soldiers to kill the people slowly, lest the wild beasts might
increase upon them? Is it possible that a God capable of doing the
miracles recounted in the Old Testament could not, in some way, have
disposed of the wild beasts? After the Canaanites were driven out, could
he not have employed the hornets to drive out the wild beasts? Think of
a God that could drive twenty-one millions of people out of the promised
land, could raise up innumerable stinging flies, and could cover
the earth with fiery serpents, and yet seems to have been perfectly
powerless against the wild beasts of the land of Canaan!

Speaking of these hornets, one of the good old commentators, whose
views have long been considered of great value by the believers in the
inspiration of the Bible, uses the following language:—"Hornets are a
sort of strong flies, which the Lord used as instruments to plague
the enemies of his people. They are of themselves very troublesome and
mischievous, and those the Lord made use of were, it is thought, of an
extraordinary bigness and perniciousness. It is said they live as the
wasps, and that they have a king or captain, and pestilent stings
as bees, and that, if twenty-seven of them sting man or beast, it is
certain death to either. Nor is it strange that such creatures did drive
out the Canaanites from their habitations; for many heathen writers give
instances of some people driven from their seats by frogs, others by
mice, others by bees and wasps. And it is said that a Christian city,
being besieged by Sapores, king of Persia, was delivered by hornets; for
the elephants and beasts being stung by them, waxed unruly, and so the
whole army fled."

Only a few years ago, all such stories were believed by the Christian
world; and it is a historical fact, that Voltaire was the third man of
any note in Europe, who took the ground that the mythologies of Greece
and Rome were without foundation. Until his time, most Christians
believed as thoroughly in the miracles ascribed to the Greek and Roman
gods as in those of Christ and Jehovah. The Christian world cultivated
credulity, not only as one of the virtues, but as the greatest of them
all. But, when Luther and his followers left the Church of Rome, they
were compelled to deny the power of the Catholic Church, at that time,
to suspend the laws of nature, but took the ground that such power
ceased with the apostolic age. They insisted that all things now
happened in accordance with the laws of nature, with the exception of a
few special interferences in favor of the Protestant Church in answer
to prayer. They taught their children a double philosophy: by one, they
were to show the impossibility of Catholic miracles, because opposed to
the laws of nature; by the other, the probability of the miracles of the
apostolic age, because they were in conformity with the statements of
the Scriptures. They had two foundations: one, the law of nature, and
the other, the word of God. The Protestants have endeavored to carry
on this double process of reasoning, and the result has been a gradual
increase of confidence in the law of nature, and a gradual decrease of
confidence in the word of God.

We are told, in this inspired account, that the clothing of the Jewish
people did not wax old, and that their shoes refused to wear out. Some
commentators have insisted that angels attended to the wardrobes of the
Hebrews, patched their garments, and mended their shoes. Certain it is,
however, that the same clothes lasted them for forty years, during the
entire journey from Egypt to the Holy Land. Little boys starting out
with their first pantaloons, grew as they traveled, and their clothes
grew with them.

Can it be necessary to believe a story like this? Will men make better
husbands, fathers, neighbors, and citizens, simply by giving credence
to these childish and impossible things? Certainly an infinite God could
have transported the Jews to the Holy Land in a moment, and could, as
easily, have removed the Canaanites to some other country. Surely there
was no necessity for doing thousands and thousands of petty miracles,
day after day for forty years, looking after the clothes of three
millions of people, changing the nature of wool and linen and leather,
so that they would not "wax old." Every step, every motion, would wear
away some part of the clothing, some part of the shoes. Were these
parts, so worn away, perpetually renewed, or was the nature of things
so changed that they could not wear away? We know that whenever matter
comes in contact with matter, certain atoms, by abrasion, are lost. Were
these atoms gathered up every night by angels, and replaced on the soles
of the shoes, on the elbows of coats, and on the knees of pantaloons, so
that the next morning they would be precisely in the condition they were
on the morning before? There must be a mistake somewhere.

Can we believe that the real God, if there is one, ever ordered a man
to be killed simply for making hair oil, or ointment? We are told in
the thirtieth chapter of Exodus, that the Lord commanded Moses to take
myrrh, cinnamon, sweet calamus, cassia, and olive oil, and make a
holy ointment for the purpose of anointing the tabernacle, tables,
candlesticks and other utensils, as well as Aaron and his sons; saying,
at the same time, that whosoever compounded any like it, or whoever put
any of it on a stranger, should be put to death. In the same chapter,
the Lord furnishes Moses with a recipe for making a perfume, saying,
that whoever should make any which smelled like it, should be cut off
from his people. This, to me, sounds so unreasonable that I cannot
believe it. Why should an infinite God care whether mankind made
ointments and perfumes like his or not? Why should the Creator of all
things threaten to kill a priest who approached his altar without having
washed his hands and feet? These commandments and these penalties would
disgrace the vainest tyrant that ever sat, by chance, upon a throne.
There must be some mistake. I cannot believe that an infinite
Intelligence appeared to Moses upon Mount Sinai having with him a
variety of patterns for making a tabernacle, tongs, snuffers and dishes.
Neither can I believe that God told Moses how to cut and trim a coat for
a priest. Why should a God care about such things? Why should he insist
on having buttons sewed in certain rows, and fringes of a certain color?
Suppose an intelligent civilized man was to overhear, on Mount Sinai,
the following instructions from God to Moses:—

"You must consecrate my priests as follows:—You must kill a bullock
for a sin offering, and have Aaron and his sons lay their hands upon the
head of the bullock. Then you must take the blood and put it upon the
horns of the altar round about with your finger, and pour some blood at
the bottom of the altar to make a reconciliation; and of the fat that
is upon the inwards, the caul above the liver and two kidneys, and
their fat, and burn them upon the altar. You must get a ram for a burnt
offering, and Aaron and his sons must lay their hands upon the head of
the ram. Then you must kill it and sprinkle the blood upon the altar,
and cut the ram into pieces, and burn the head, and the pieces, and the
fat, and wash the inwards and the lungs in water and then burn the whole
ram upon the altar for a sweet savor unto me. Then you must get another
ram, and have Aaron and his sons lay their hands upon the head of that,
then kill it and take of its blood, and put it on the top of Aaron's
right ear, and on the thumb of his right hand, and on the great toe of
his right foot. And you must also put a little of the blood upon the
top of the right ears of Aaron's sons, and on the thumbs of their right
hands and on the great toes of their right feet. And then you must take
of the fat that is on the inwards, and the caul above the liver and the
two kidneys, and their fat, and the right shoulder, and out of a basket
of unleavened bread you must take one unleavened cake and another of oil
bread, and one wafer, and put them on the fat of the right shoulder. And
you must take of the anointing oil, and of the blood, and sprinkle it on
Aaron, and on his garments, and on his sons' garments, and sanctify
them and all their clothes."—Do you believe that he would have even
suspected that the creator of the universe was talking?

Can any one now tell why God commanded the Jews, when they were upon the
desert of Sinai, to plant trees, telling them at the same time that they
must not eat any of the fruit of such trees until after the fourth year?
Trees could not have been planted in that desert, and if they had been,
they could not have lived. Why did God tell Moses, while in the desert,
to make curtains of fine linen? Where could he have obtained his flax?
There was no land upon which it could have been produced. Why did he
tell him to make things of gold, and silver, and precious stones, when
they could not have been in possession of these things? There is but one
answer, and that is, the Pentateuch was written hundreds of years after
the Jews had settled in the Holy Land, and hundreds of years after Moses
was dust and ashes.

When the Jews had a written language, and that must have been long after
their flight from Egypt, they wrote out their history and their laws.
Tradition had filled the infancy of the nation with miracles and special
interpositions in their behalf by Jehovah. Patriotism would not allow
these wonders to grow small, and priestcraft never denied a miracle.
There were traditions to the effect that God had spoken face to face
with Moses; that he had given him the tables of the law, and had, in a
thousand ways, made known his will; and whenever the priests wished to
make new laws, or amend old ones, they pretended to have found something
more that God said to Moses at Sinai. In this way obedience was more
easily secured. Only a very few of the people could read, and, as a
consequence, additions, interpolations and erasures had no fear of
detection. In this way we account for the fact that Moses is made to
speak of things that did not exist in his day, and were unknown for
hundreds of years after his death.

In the thirtieth chapter of Exodus, we are told that the people, when
numbered, must give each one a half shekel after the shekel of the
_sanctuary_. At that time no such money existed, and consequently the
account could not, by any possibility, have been written until after
there was a shekel of the sanctuary, and there was no such thing until
long after the death of Moses. If we should read that Caesar paid his
troops in pounds, shillings and pence, we would certainly know that the
account was not written by Caesar, nor in his time, but we would know
that it was written after the English had given these names to certain
coins.

So, we find, that when the Jews were upon the desert it was commanded
that every mother should bring, as a sin offering, a couple of doves to
the priests, and the priests were compelled to eat these doves in the
most holy place. At the time this law appears to have been given, there
were three million people, and only three priests, Aaron, Eleazer and
Ithamar. Among three million people there would be, at least, three
hundred births a day. Certainly we are not expected to believe that
these three priests devoured six hundred pigeons every twenty-four
hours.

Why should a woman ask pardon of God for having been a mother? Why
should that be considered a crime in Exodus, which is commanded as a
duty in Genesis? Why should a mother be declared unclean? Why should
giving birth to a daughter be regarded twice as criminal as giving birth
to a son? Can we believe that such laws and ceremonies were made and
instituted by a merciful and intelligent God? If there is anything in
this poor world suggestive of, and standing for, all that is sweet,
loving and pure, it is a mother holding in her thrilled and happy arms
her prattling babe. Read the twelfth chapter of Leviticus, and you will
see that when a woman became the mother of a boy she was so unclean
that she was not allowed to touch a hallowed thing, nor to enter the
sanctuary for forty days. If the babe was a girl, then the mother was
unfit for eighty days, to enter the house of God, or to touch the sacred
tongs and snuffers. These laws, born of barbarism, are unworthy of our
day, and should be regarded simply as the mistakes of savages.

Just as low in the scale of intelligence are the directions given in the
fifth chapter of Numbers, for the trial of a wife of whom the husband
was jealous. This foolish chapter has been the foundation of all appeals
to God for the ascertainment of facts, such as the corsned, trial by
battle, by water, and by fire, the last of which is our judicial oath.
It is very easy to believe that in those days a guilty woman would
be afraid to drink the water of jealousy and take the oath, and that,
through fear, she might be made to confess. Admitting that the deception
tended not only to prevent crime, but to discover it when committed,
still, we cannot admit that an honest god would, for any purpose, resort
to dishonest means. In all countries fear is employed as a means of
getting at the truth, and in this there is nothing dishonest, provided
falsehood is not resorted to for the purpose of producing the fear.
Protestants laugh at Catholics because of their belief in the efficacy
of holy water, and yet they teach their children that a little holy
water, in which had been thrown some dust from the floor of the
sanctuary, would, work a miracle in a woman's flesh. For hundreds of
years our fathers believed that a perjurer could not swallow a piece of
sacramental bread. Such stories belong to the childhood of our race, and
are now believed only by mental infants and intellectual babes.

I cannot believe that Moses had in his hands a couple of tables of
stone, upon which God had written the Ten Commandments, and that when he
saw the golden calf, and the dancing, that he dashed the tables to the
earth and broke them in pieces. Neither do I believe that Moses took a
golden calf, burnt it, ground it to powder, and made the people drink it
with water, as related in the thirty-second chapter of Exodus.

There is another account of the giving of the Ten Commandments to Moses,
in the nineteenth and twentieth chapters of Exodus. In this account not
one word is said about the people having made a golden calf, nor about
the breaking of the tables of stone. In the thirty-fourth chapter of
Exodus, there is an account of the renewal of the broken tables of
the law, and the commandments are given, but they are not the same
commandments mentioned in the twentieth chapter. There are two accounts
of the same transaction. Both of these stories cannot be true, and yet
both must be believed. Any one who will take the trouble to read
the nineteenth and twentieth chapters, and the last verse of the
thirty-first chapter, the thirty-second, thirty-third, and thirty-fourth
chapters of Exodus, will be compelled to admit that both accounts cannot
be true.

From the last account it appears that while Moses was upon Mount Sinai
receiving the commandments from God, the people brought their jewelry
to Aaron and he cast for them a golden calf. This happened before any
commandment against idolatry had been given. A god ought, certainly,
to publish his laws before inflicting penalties for their violation. To
inflict punishment for breaking unknown and unpublished laws is, in
the last degree, cruel and unjust. It may be replied that the Jews knew
better than to worship idols, before the law was given. If this is so,
why should the law have been given? In all civilized countries, laws are
made and promulgated, not simply for the purpose of informing the people
as to what is right and wrong, but to inform them of the penalties to be
visited upon those who violate the laws. When the Ten Commandments
were given, no penalties were attached. Not one word was written on
the tables of stone as to the punishments that would be inflicted for
breaking any or all of the inspired laws. The people should not have
been punished for violating a commandment before it was given. And yet,
in this case, Moses commanded the sons of Levi to take their swords and
slay every man his brother, his companion, and his neighbor. The brutal
order was obeyed, and three thousand men were butchered.. The Levites
consecrated themselves unto the Lord by murdering their sons, and their
brothers, for having violated a commandment before it had been given.

It has been contended for many years that the Ten Commandments are the
foundation of all ideas of justice and of law. Eminent jurists have
bowed to popular prejudice, and deformed their works by statements to
the effect that the Mosaic laws are the fountains from which sprang all
ideas of right and wrong. Nothing can be more stupidly false than such
assertions. Thousands of years before Moses was born, the Egyptians
had a code of laws. They had laws against blasphemy, murder, adultery,
larceny, perjury, laws for the collection of debts, the enforcement
of contracts, the ascertainment of damages, the redemption of property
pawned, and upon nearly every subject of human interest. The Egyptian
code was far better than the Mosaic.

Laws spring from the instinct of self-preservation. Industry objected
to supporting idleness, and laws were made against theft. Laws were made
against murder, because a very large majority of the people have always
objected to being murdered. All fundamental laws were born simply of the
instinct of self-defence. Long before the Jewish savages assembled at
the foot of Sinai, laws had been made and enforced, not only in Egypt
and India, but by every tribe that ever existed.

It is impossible for human beings to exist together, without certain
rules of conduct, certain ideas of the proper and improper, of the right
and wrong, growing out of the relation. Certain rules must be made,
and must be enforced. This implies law, trial and punishment. Whoever
produces anything by weary labor, does not need a revelation from heaven
to teach him that he has a right to the thing produced. Not one of
the learned gentlemen who pretend that the Mosaic laws are filled with
justice and intelligence, would live, for a moment, in any country where
such laws were in force.

Nothing can be more wonderful than the medical ideas of Jehovah. He
had the strangest notions about the cause and cure of disease. With
him everything was miracle and wonder. In the fourteenth chapter of
Leviticus, we find the law for cleansing a leper:—"Then shall the
priest take for him that is to be cleansed, two birds, alive and clean,
and cedar wood, and scarlet, and hyssop. And the priest shall command
that one of the birds be killed in an _earthen_ vessel, over _running_
water. As for the living bird, he shall take it, and the cedar wood, and
the scarlet, and the hyssop, and shall dip them, and the living bird,
in the blood of the bird that was killed over the running water. And he
shall sprinkle upon him that is to be cleansed from the leprosy, seven
times, and shall pronounce him clean, and shall let the living bird
loose into the open field."

We are told that God himself gave these directions to Moses. Does
anybody believe this? Why should the bird be killed in an _earthen_
vessel? Would the charm be broken if the vessel was of wood? Why over
_running_ water? What would be thought of a physician now, who would
give a prescription like that?

Is it not strange that God, although he gave hundreds of directions for
the purpose of discovering the presence of leprosy, and for cleansing
the leper after he was healed, forgot to tell how that disease could be
cured? Is it not wonderful that while God told his people what animals
were fit for food, he failed to give a list of plants that man might
eat? Why did he leave his children to find out the hurtful and the
poisonous by experiment, knowing that experiment, in millions of cases,
must be death?

When reading the history of the Jewish people, of their flight from
slavery to death, of their exchange of tyrants, I must confess that my
sympathies are all aroused in their behalf. They were cheated,
deceived and abused. Their god was quick-tempered, unreasonable, cruel,
revengeful and dishonest. He was always promising but never performed.
He wasted time in ceremony and childish detail, and in the exaggeration
of what he had done. It is impossible for me to conceive of a character
more utterly detestable than that of the Hebrew god. He had solemnly
promised the Jews that he would take them from Egypt to a land flowing
with milk and honey. He had led them to believe that in a little while
their troubles would be over, and that they would soon in the land of
Canaan, surrounded by their wives and little ones, forget, the stripes
and tears of Egypt. After promising the poor wanderers again and again
that he would lead them in safety to the promised land of joy and
plenty, this God, forgetting every promise, said to the wretches in his
power:—"Your carcasses shall fall in this wilderness and your children
shall wander until your carcasses be wasted." This curse was the
conclusion of the whole matter. Into this dust of death and night faded
all the promises of God. Into this rottenness of wandering despair fell
all the dreams of liberty and home. Millions of corpses were left to rot
in the desert, and each one certified to the dishonesty of Jehovah. I
cannot believe these things. They are so cruel and heartless, that my
blood is chilled and my sense of justice shocked. A book that is equally
abhorrent to my head and heart, cannot be accepted as a revelation from
God.

When we think of the poor Jews, destroyed, murdered, bitten by serpents,
visited by plagues, decimated by famine, butchered by each other,
swallowed by the earth, frightened, cursed, starved, deceived, robbed
and outraged, how thankful we should be that we are not the chosen
people of God. No wonder that they longed for the slavery of Egypt, and
remembered with sorrow the unhappy day when they exchanged masters.
Compared with Jehovah, Pharaoh was a benefactor, and the tyranny of
Egypt was freedom to those who suffered the liberty of God.

While reading the Pentateuch, I am filled with indignation, pity and
horror. Nothing can be sadder than the history of the starved and
frightened wretches who wandered over the desolate crags and sands of
wilderness and desert, the prey of famine, sword, and plague. Ignorant
and superstitious to the last degree, governed by falsehood, plundered
by hypocrisy, they were the sport of priests, and the food of fear. God
was their greatest enemy, and death their only friend.

It is impossible to conceive of a more thoroughly despicable, hateful,
and arrogant being, than the Jewish god. He is without a redeeming
feature. In the mythology of the world he has no parallel. He, only, is
never touched by agony and tears. He delights only in blood and pain.
Human affections are naught to him. He cares neither for love nor music,
beauty nor joy. A false friend, an unjust judge, a braggart, hypocrite,
and tyrant, sincere in hatred, jealous, vain, and revengeful, false in
promise, honest in curse, suspicious, ignorant, and changeable, infamous
and hideous:—such is the God of the Pentateuch.

## XXIV. Confess and Avoid

The scientific Christians now admit that the Bible is not inspired in
its astronomy, geology, botany, zoology, nor in any science. In other
words, they admit that on these subjects, the Bible cannot be depended
upon. If all the statements in the Scriptures were true, there would be
no necessity for admitting that some of them are not inspired. A
Christian will not admit that a passage in the Bible is uninspired,
until he is satisfied that it is untrue. Orthodoxy itself has at last
been compelled to say, that while a passage may be true and uninspired,
it cannot be inspired if false.

If the people of Europe had known as much of astronomy and geology when
the Bible was introduced among them, as they do now, there never could
have been one believer in the doctrine of inspiration. If the writers of
the various parts of the Bible had known as much about the sciences as
is now known by every intelligent man, the book never could have
been written. It was produced by ignorance, and has been believed and
defended by its author. It has lost power in the proportion that man
has gained knowledge. A few years ago, this book was appealed to in the
settlement of all scientific questions; but now, even the clergy
confess that in such matters, it has ceased to speak with the voice
of authority. For the establishment of facts, the word of man is now
considered far better than the word of God. In the world of science,
Jehovah was superseded by Copernicus, Galileo, and Kepler. All that God
told Moses, admitting the entire account to be true, is dust and ashes
compared to the discoveries of Descartes, Laplace, and Humboldt. In
matters of fact, the Bible has ceased to be regarded as a standard.
Science has succeeded in breaking the chains of theology. A few years
ago, Science endeavored to show that it was not inconsistent with the
Bible. The tables have been turned, and now, Religion is endeavoring to
prove that the Bible is not inconsistent with Science. The standard has
been changed.

For many ages, the Christians contended that the Bible, viewed simply as
a literary performance, was beyond all other books, and that man without
the assistance of God could not produce its equal. This claim was made
when but few books existed, and the Bible, being the only book generally
known, had no rival. But this claim, like the other, has been abandoned
by many, and soon will be, by all. Com pared with Shakespeare's "book
and volume of the brain," the "sacred" Bible shrinks and seems as feebly
impotent and vain, as would a pipe of Fan, when some great organ, voiced
with every tone, from the hoarse thunder of the sea to the winged warble
of a mated bird, floods and fills cathedral aisles with all the wealth
of sound.

It is now maintained—and this appears to be the last fortification
behind which the doctrine of inspiration skulks and crouches—that the
Bible, although false and mistaken in its astronomy, geology, geography,
history and philosophy, is inspired in its morality. It is now claimed
that had it not been for this book, the world would have been inhabited
only by savages, and that had it not been for the Holy Scriptures, man
never would have even dreamed of the unity of God. A belief in one God
is claimed to be a dogma of almost infinite importance, that with out
this belief civilization is impossible, and that this fact is the sun
around which all the virtues revolve. For my part, I think it infinitely
more important to believe in man. Theology is a superstition—Humanity a
religion.

## Xxv. "inspired" Slavery

Perhaps the Bible was inspired upon the subject of human slavery. Is
there, in the civilized world, to-day, a clergyman who believes in the
divinity of slavery? Does the Bible teach man to enslave his brother? If
it does, is it not blasphemous to say that it is inspired of God? If
you find the institution of slavery upheld in a book said to have been
written by God, what would you expect to find in a book inspired by the
devil? Would you expect to find that book in favor of liberty? Modern
Christians, ashamed of the God of the Old Testament, endeavor now to
show that slavery was neither commanded nor opposed by Jehovah. Nothing
can be plainer than the following passages from the twenty-fifth chapter
of Leviticus. "Moreover of the children of the strangers that do sojourn
among you, of them shall ye buy, and of their families that are with
you, which they begat in your land: and they shall be your possession.
And ye shall take them as an inheritance for your children after you, to
inherit them for a possession, they shall be your bondmen forever. Both
thy bondmen, and thy bondmaids, which thou shalt have, shall be of the
heathen that are round about you; of them shall ye buy bondmen, and
bondmaids."

Can we believe in this, the Nineteenth Century, that these infamous
passages were inspired by God? that God approved not only of human
slavery, but instructed his chosen people to buy the women, children and
babes of the heathen round about them? If it was right for the Hebrews
to buy, it was also right for the heathen to sell. This God, by
commanding the Hebrews to buy, approved of the selling of sons and
daughters. The Canaanite who, tempted by gold, lured by avarice, sold
from the arms of his wife the dimpled babe, simply made it possible for
the Hebrews to obey the orders of their God. If God is the author of
the Bible, the reading of these passages ought to cover his cheeks with
shame. I ask the Christian world to-day, was it right for the heathen
to sell their children? Was it right for God not only to uphold, but to
command the infamous traffic in human flesh? Could the most revengeful
fiend, the most malicious vagrant in the gloom of hell, sink to a lower
moral depth than this?

According to this God, his chosen people were not only commanded to buy
of the heathen round about them, but were also permitted to buy each
other for a term of years. The law governing the purchase of Jews is
laid down in the twenty-first chapter of Exodus. "If thou buy a Hebrew
servant, six years shall he serve: and in the seventh he shall go out
free for nothing. If he came in by himself, he shall go out by himself:
if he were married, then his wife shall go out with him. If his master
have given him a wife, and she have borne him sons or daughters, the
wife and her children shall be her master's, and he shall go out by
himself. And if the servant shall plainly say, I love my master, my
wife, and my children; I will not go out free: Then his master shall
bring him unto the judges; he shall also bring him to the door, or unto
the door-post: and his master shall bore his ear through with an awl:
and he shall serve him forever."

Do you believe that God was the author of this infamous law? Do you
believe that the loving father of us all, turned the dimpled arms of
babes into manacles of iron? Do you believe that he baited the dungeon
of servitude with wife and child? Is it possible to love a God who would
make such laws? Is it possible not to hate and despise him?

The heathen are not spoken of as human beings. Their rights are never
mentioned. They were the rightful food of the sword, and their bodies
were made for stripes and chains.

In the same chapter of the same inspired book, we are told that, "if a
man smite his servant, or his maid, with a rod, and he dies under his
hand, he shall be surely punished. Notwithstanding, if he continue a day
or two, he shall not be punished, for he is his money."

Must we believe that God called some of his children the money of
others? Can we believe that God made lashes upon the naked back, a
legal tender for labor performed? Must we regard the auction block as an
altar? Were blood hounds apostles? Was the slave-pen a temple? Were the
stealers and whippers of babes and women the justified children of God?

It is now contended that while the Old Testament is touched with the
barbarism of its time, that the New Testament is morally perfect, and
that on its pages can be found no blot or stain. As a matter of fact,
the New Testament is more decidedly in favor of human slavery than the
old.

For my part, I never will, I never can, worship a God who upholds the
institution of slavery. Such a God I hate and defy. I neither want his
heaven, nor fear his hell.

## Xxxvi. "inspired" Marriage

Is there an orthodox clergyman in the world, who will now declare that
he believes the institution of polygamy to be right? Is there one who
will publicly declare that, in his judgment, that institution ever was
right? Was there ever a time in the history of the world when it was
right to treat woman simply as property? Do not attempt to answer these
questions by saying, that the Bible is an exceedingly good book, that we
are indebted for our civilization to the sacred volume, and that without
it, man would lapse into savagery, and mental night. This is no answer.
Was there a time when the institution of polygamy was the highest
expression of human virtue? Is there a Christian woman, civilized,
intelligent, and free, who believes in the institution of polygamy? Are
we better, purer, and more intelligent than God was four thousand years
ago? Why should we imprison Mormons, and worship God? Polygamy is just
as pure in Utah, as it could have been in the promised land. Love and
Virtue are the same the whole world round, and Justice is the same in
every star. All the languages of the world are not sufficient to express
the filth of polygamy. It makes of man, a beast, of woman, a trembling
slave. It destroys the fireside, makes virtue an outcast, takes from
human speech its sweetest words, and leaves the heart a den, where crawl
and hiss the slimy serpents of most loathsome lust. Civilization rests
upon the family. The good family is the unit of good government. The
virtues grow about the holy hearth of home—they cluster, bloom, and
shed their perfume round the fireside where the one man loves the one
woman. Lover—husband—wife—mother—father—child—home!—? without
these sacred words, the world is but a lair, and men and women merely
beasts.

Why should the innocent maiden and the loving mother worship the
heartless Jewish God? Why should they, with pure and stainless lips,
read the vile record of inspired lust?

The marriage of the one man to the one woman is the citadel and fortress
of civilization. Without this, woman becomes the prey and slave of lust
and power, and man goes back to savagery and crime. From the bottom of
my heart I hate, abhor and execrate all theories of life, of which the
pure and sacred home is not the corner-stone. Take from the world the
family, the fireside, the children born of wedded love, and there is
nothing left. The home where virtue dwells with love is like a lily with
a heart of fire—the fairest flower in all the world.

## Xxvii. "inspired" War

If the Bible be true, God commanded his chosen people to destroy men
simply for the crime of defending their native land. They were not
allowed to spare trembling and white-haired age, nor dimpled babes
clasped in the mothers' arms. They were ordered to kill women, and to
pierce, with the sword of war, the unborn child. "Our heavenly Father"
commanded the Hebrews to kill the men and women, the fathers, sons and
brothers, but to preserve the girls alive. Why were not the maidens also
killed? Why were they spared? Read the thirty-first chapter of Numbers,
and you will find that the maidens were given to the soldiers and the
priests. Is there, in all the history of war, a more infamous thing than
this? Is it possible that God permitted the violets of modesty, that
grow and shed their perfume in the maiden's heart, to be trampled
beneath the brutal feet of lust? If this was the order of God, what,
under the same circumstances, would have been the command of a devil?
When, in this age of the world, a woman, a wife, a mother, reads this
record, she should, with scorn and loathing, throw the book away. A
general, who now should make such an order, giving over to massacre
and rapine a conquered people, would be held in execration by the whole
civilized world. Yet, if the Bible be true, the supreme and infinite God
was once a savage.

A little while ago, out upon the western plains, in a little path
leading to a cabin, were found the bodies of two children and their
mother. Her breast was filled with wounds received in the defence of her
darlings. They had been murdered by the savages. Suppose when looking at
their lifeless forms, some one had said, "This was done by the command
of God!" In Canaan there were countless scenes like this. There was
no pity in inspired war. God raised the black flag, and commanded his
soldiers to kill even the smiling infant in its mother's arms. Who
is the blasphemer; the man who denies the existence of God, or he who
covers the robes of the Infinite with innocent blood?

We are told in the Pentateuch, that God, the father of us all, gave
thousands of maidens, after having killed their fathers, their mothers,
and their brothers, to satisfy the brutal lusts of savage men. If there
be a God, I pray him to write in his book, opposite my name, that I
denied this lie for him.

## Xxviii. "inspired" Religious Liberty

According to the Bible, God selected the Jewish people through whom to
make known the great fact, that he was the only true and living God. For
this purpose, he appeared on several occasions to Moses—came down to
Sinai's top clothed in cloud and fire, and wrought a thousand miracles
for the preservation and education of the Jewish people. In their
presence he opened the waters of the sea. For them he caused bread to
rain from heaven. To quench their thirst, water leaped from the dry and
barren rock. Their enemies were miraculously destroyed; and for forty
years, at least, this God took upon himself the government of the Jews.
But, after all this, many of the people had less confidence in him than
in gods of wood and stone. In moments of trouble, in periods of
disaster, in the darkness of doubt, in the hunger and thirst of famine,
instead of asking this God for aid, they turned and sought the help of
senseless things. This God, with all his power and wisdom, could not
even convince a few wandering and wretched savages that he was more
potent than the idols of Egypt. This God was not willing that the Jews
should think and investigate for themselves. For heresy, the penalty was
death. Where this God reigned, intellectual liberty was unknown. He
appealed only to brute force; he collected taxes by threatening plagues;
he demanded worship on pain of sword and fire; acting as spy,
inquisitor, judge and executioner.

In the thirteenth chapter of Deuteronomy, we have the ideas of God as to
mental freedom. "If thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy son, or
the wife of thy bosom, or thy friend which is as thine own soul, entice
thee secretly, saying, Let us go and serve other gods, which thou hast
not known, thou nor thy fathers; namely of the gods of the people which
are around about you, nigh unto thee, or far off from thee, from the one
end of the earth even unto the other end of the earth, Thou shalt not
consent unto him, nor hearken unto him, neither shall thine eye pity
him, neither shalt thou spare him, neither shalt thou conceal him. But
thou shalt surely kill him; thine hand shall be first upon him to put
him to death, and afterward the hand of all the people. And thou shalt
stone him with stones that he die."

This is the religious liberty of God; the toleration of Jehovah. If
I had lived in Palestine at that time, and my wife, the mother of my
children, had said to me, "I am tired of Jehovah, he is always asking
for blood; he is never weary of killing; he is always telling of his
might and strength; always telling what he has done for the Jews,
always asking for sacrifices; for doves and lambs—blood, nothing
but blood.—Let us worship the sun. Jehovah is too revengeful, too
malignant, too exacting. Let us worship the sun. The sun has clothed the
world in beauty; it has covered the earth with flowers; by its divine
light I first saw your face, and my beautiful babe."—If I had obeyed
the command of God, I would have killed her. My hand would have been
first upon her, and after that the hands of all the people, and she
would have been stoned with stones until she died. For my part, I would
never kill my wife, even if commanded so to do by the real God of this
universe. Think of taking up some ragged rock and hurling it against the
white bosom filled with love for you; and when you saw oozing from
the bruised lips of the death wound, the red current of her sweet
life—think of looking up to heaven and receiving the congratulations of
the infinite fiend whose commandment you had obeyed!

Can we believe that any such command was ever given by a merciful and
intelligent God? Suppose, however, that God did give this law to the
Jews, and did tell them that whenever a man preached a heresy, or
proposed to worship any other God that they should kill him; and suppose
that afterward this same God took upon himself flesh, and came to this
very chosen people and taught a different religion, and that thereupon
the Jews crucified him; I ask you, did he not reap exactly what he
had sown? What right would this God have to complain of a crucifixion
suffered in accordance with his own command?

Nothing can be more infamous than intellectual tyranny. To put chains
upon the body is as nothing compared with putting shackles on the brain.
No god is entitled to the worship or the respect of man who does not
give, even to the meanest of his children, every right that he claims
for himself.

If the Pentateuch be true, religious persecution is a duty. The dungeons
of the Inquisition were temples, and the clank of every chain upon
the limbs of heresy was music in the ear of God. If the Pentateuch was
inspired, every heretic should be destroyed; and every man who advocates
a fact inconsistent with the sacred book, should be consumed by sword
and flame.

In the Old Testament no one is told to reason with a heretic, and not
one word is said about relying upon argument, upon education, nor upon
intellectual development—nothing except simple brute force. Is there
to-day a Christian who will say that four thousand years ago, it was
the duty of a husband to kill his wife if she differed with him upon
the subject of religion? Is there one who will now say that, under such
circumstances, the wife ought to have been killed? Why should God be so
jealous of the wooden idols of the heathen? Could he not compete with
Baal? Was he envious of the success of the Egyptian magicians? Was it
not possible for him to make such a convincing display of his power as
to silence forever the voice of unbelief? Did this God have to resort to
force to make converts? Was he so ignorant of the structure of the human
mind as to believe all honest doubt a crime? If he wished to do away
with the idolatry of the Canaanites, why did he not appear to them? Why
did he not give them the tables of the law? Why did he only make known
his will to a few wandering savages in the desert of Sinai? Will some
theologian have the kindness to answer these questions? Will some
minister, who now believes in religious liberty, and eloquently
denounces the intolerance of Catholicism, explain these things; will he
tell us why he worships an intolerant God? Is a god who will burn a soul
forever in another world, better than a Christian who burns the body for
a few hours in this? Is there no intellectual liberty in heaven? Do the
angels all discuss questions on the same side? Are all the investigators
in perdition? Will the penitent thief, winged and crowned, laugh at the
honest folks in hell? Will the agony of the damned increase or decrease
the happiness of God? Will there be, in the universe, an eternal _auto
da fe?_

## XXIX. Conclusion

If the Pentateuch is not inspired in its astronomy, geology, geography,
history or philosophy, if it is not inspired concerning slavery,
polygamy, war, law, religious or political liberty, or the rights of
men, women and children, what is it inspired in, or about? The unity
of God?—that was believed long before Moses was born. Special
providence?—that has been the doctrine of ignorance in all ages.
The rights of property?—theft was always a crime. The sacrifice of
animals?—that was a custom thousands of years before a Jew existed.
The sacredness of life?—there have always been laws against murder.
The wickedness of perjury?—truthfulness has always been a virtue.
The beauty of chastity?—the Pentateuch does not teach it. Thou shalt
worship no other God?—that has been the burden of all religions.

Is it possible that the Pentateuch could not have been written by
uninspired men? that the assistance of God was necessary to produce
these books? Is it possible that Galileo ascertained the mechanical
principles of "Virtual Velocity," the laws of falling bodies and of all
motion; that Copernicus ascertained the true position of the earth and
accounted for all celestial phenomena; that Kepler discovered his three
laws—discoveries of such importance that the 8th of May, 1618, may be
called the birthday of modern science; that Newton gave to the world
the Method of Fluxions, the Theory of Universal Gravitation, and the
Decomposition of Light; that Euclid, Cavalieri, Descartes, and Leibnitz,
almost completed the science of mathematics; that all the discoveries
in optics, hydrostatics, pneumatics and chemistry, the experiments,
discoveries, and inventions of Galvani, Volta, Franklin and Morse, of
Trevethick, Watt and Fulton and of all the pioneers of progress—that
all this was accomplished by uninspired men, while the writer of the
Pentateuch was directed and inspired by an infinite God? Is it possible
that the codes of China, India, Egypt, Greece and Rome were made by man,
and that the laws recorded in the Pentateuch were alone given by
God? Is it possible that AEschylus and Shakespeare, Burns, and Beranger,
Goethe and Schiller, and all the poets of the world, and all their
wondrous tragedies and songs, are but the work of men, while no
intelligence except the infinite God could be the author of the
Pentateuch? Is it possible that of all the books that crowd the
libraries of the world, the books of science, fiction, history and song,
that all save only one, have been produced by man? Is it possible that
of all these, the Bible only is the work of God?

If the Pentateuch is inspired, the civilization of our day is a mistake
and crime. There should be no political liberty. Heresy should be
trodden out beneath the bigot's brutal feet. Husbands should divorce
their wives at will, and make the mothers of their children houseless
and weeping wanderers. Polygamy ought to be practiced; women should
become slaves; we should buy the sons and daughters of the heathen and
make them bondmen and bondwomen forever. We should sell our own flesh
and blood, and have the right to kill our slaves. Men and women should
be stoned to death for laboring on the seventh day. "Mediums," such
as have familiar spirits, should be burned with fire. Every vestige of
mental liberty should be destroyed, and reason's holy torch extinguished
in the martyr's blood.

Is it not far better and wiser to say that the Pentateuch while
containing some good laws, some truths, some wise and useful things is,
after all, deformed and blackened by the savagery of its time? Is it not
far better and wiser to take the good and throw the bad away?

Let us admit what we know to be true; that Moses was mistaken about a
thousand things; that the story of creation is not true; that the Garden
of Eden is a myth; that the serpent and the tree of knowledge, and the
fall of man are but fragments of old mythologies lost and dead; that
woman was not made out of a rib; that serpents never had the power of
speech; that the sons of God did not marry the daughters of men; that
the story of the flood and ark is not exactly true; that the tower of
Babel is a mistake; that the confusion of tongues is a childish thing;
that the origin of the rainbow is a foolish fancy; that Methuselah did
not live nine hundred and sixty-nine years; that Enoch did not leave
this world, taking with him his flesh and bones; that the story of Sodom
and Gomorrah is somewhat improbable; that burning brimstone never fell
like rain; that Lot's wife was not changed into chloride of sodium; that
Jacob did not, in fact, put his hip out of joint wrestling with God;
that the history of Tamar might just as well have been left out; that a
belief in Pharaoh's dreams is not essential to salvation; that it makes
but little difference whether the rod of Aaron was changed to a serpent
or not; that of all the wonders said to have been performed in Egypt,
the greatest is, that anybody ever believed the absurd account; that
God did not torment the innocent cattle on account of the sins of their
owners; that he did not kill the first born of the poor maid behind
the mill because of Pharaoh's crimes; that flies and frogs were not
ministers of God's wrath; that lice and locusts were not the executors
of his will; that seventy people did not, in two hundred and fifteen
years, increase to three million; that three priests could not eat
six hundred pigeons in a day; that gazing at a brass serpent could not
extract poison from the blood; that God did not go in partnership with
hornets; that he did not murder people simply because they asked for
something to eat; that he did not declare the making of hair oil
and ointment an offence to be punished with death; that he did not
miraculously preserve cloth and leather; that he was not afraid of wild
beasts; that he did not punish heresy with sword and fire; that he was
not jealous, revengeful, and unjust; that he knew all about the sun,
moon, and stars; that he did not threaten to kill people for eating the
fat of an ox; that he never told Aaron to draw cuts to see which of two
goats should be killed; that he never objected to clothes made of woolen
mixed with linen; that if he objected to dwarfs, people with flat noses
and too many fingers, he ought not to have created such folks; that
he did not demand human sacrifices as set forth in the last chapter
of Leviticus; that he did not object to the raising of horses; that he
never commanded widows to spit in the faces of their brothers-in-law;
that several contradictory accounts of the same transaction cannot all
be true; that God did not talk to Abraham as one man talks to another;
that angels were not in the habit of walking about the earth eating veal
dressed with milk and butter, and making bargains about the destruction
of cities; that God never turned himself into a flame of fire, and lived
in a bush; that he never met Moses in a hotel and tried to kill him;
that it was absurd to perform miracles to induce a king to act in a
certain way and then harden his heart so that he would refuse; that God
was not kept from killing the Jews by the fear that the Egyptians would
laugh at him; that he did not secretly bury a man and then allow the
corpse to write an account of the funeral; that he never believed the
firmament to be solid; that he knew slavery was and always would be a
frightful crime; that polygamy is but stench and filth; that the brave
soldier will always spare an unarmed foe; that only cruel cowards
slay the conquered and the helpless; that no language can describe the
murderer of a smiling babe; that God did not want the blood of doves and
lambs; that he did not love the smell of burning flesh; that he did not
want his altars daubed with blood; that he did not pretend that the sins
of a people could be transferred to a goat; that he did not believe in
witches, wizards, spooks, and devils; that he did not test the virtue of
woman with dirty water; that he did not suppose that rabbits chewed the
cud; that he never thought there were any four-footed birds; that he did
not boast for several hundred years that he had vanquished an Egyptian
king; that a dry stick did not bud, blossom, and bear almonds in one
night; that manna did not shrink and swell, so that each man could
gather only just one omer; that it was never wrong to "countenance the
poor man in his cause;" that God never told a people not to live in
peace with their neighbors; that he did not spend forty days with Moses
on Mount Sinai giving him patterns for making clothes, tongs, basins,
and snuffers; that maternity is not a sin; that physical deformity is
not a crime; that an atonement cannot be made for the soul by shedding
innocent blood; that killing a dove over running water will not make its
blood a medicine; that a god who demands love knows nothing of the human
heart; that one who frightens savages with loud noises is unworthy the
love of civilized men; that one who destroys children on account of
the sins of their fathers is a monster; that an infinite god never
threatened to give people the itch; that he never sent wild beasts to
devour babes; that he never ordered the violation of maidens; that
he never regarded patriotism as a crime; that he never ordered the
destruction of unborn children; that he never opened the earth and
swallowed wives and babes because husbands and fathers had displeased
him; that he never demanded that men should kill their sons and
brothers, for the purpose of sanctifying themselves; that we cannot
please God by believing the improbable; that credulity is not a virtue;
that investigation is not a crime; that every mind should be free;
that all religious persecution is infamous in God, as well as man; that
without liberty, virtue is impossible; that without freedom, even love
cannot exist; that every man should be allowed to think and to express
his thoughts; that woman is the equal of man; that children should be
governed by love and reason; that the family relation is sacred; that
war is a hideous crime; that all intolerance is born of ignorance and
hate; that the freedom of today is the hope of to-morrow; that the
enlightened present ought not to fall upon its knees and blindly worship
the barbaric past; and that every free, brave and enlightened man should
publicly declare that all the ignorant, infamous, heartless, hideous
things recorded in the "inspired" Pentateuch are not the words of God,
but simply "Some Mistakes of Moses."
---
# Some Reasons Why
_Dresden Edition, Volume 2, 1881_
RELIGION makes enemies instead of friends. That one word, "religion,"
covers all the horizon of memory with visions of war, of outrage, of
persecution, of tyranny, and death. That one word brings to the mind
every instrument with which man has tortured man. In that one word are
all the fagots and flames and dungeons of the past, and in that word is
the infinite and eternal hell of the future.

In the name of universal benevolence Christians have hated their
fellow-men. Although they have been preaching universal love, the
Christian nations are the warlike nations of the world. The most
destructive weapons of war have been invented by Christians. The
musket, the revolver, the rifled canon, the bombshell, the torpedo, the
explosive bullet, have been invented by Christian brains.

Above all other arts, the Christian world has placed the art of war.

A Christian nation has never had the slightest respect for the rights of
barbarians; neither has any Christian sect any respect for the rights
of other sects. Anciently, the sects discussed with fire and sword, and
even now, something happens almost every day to show that the old spirit
that was in the Inquisition still slumbers in the Christian breast.

Whoever imagines himself a favorite with God, holds other people in
contempt.

Whenever a man believes that he has the exact truth from God, there is
in that man no spirit of compromise. He has not the modesty born of
the imperfections of human nature; he has the arrogance of theological
certainty and the tyranny born of ignorant assurance. Believing himself
to be the slave of God, he imitates his master, and of all tyrants, the
worst is a slave in power.

When a man really believes that it is necessary to do a certain thing
to be happy forever, or that a certain belief is necessary to ensure
eternal joy, there is in that man no spirit of concession. He divides
the whole world into saints and sinners, into believers and unbelievers,
into God's sheep and Devil's goats, into people who will be glorified
and people who will be damned.

A Christian nation can make no compromise with one not Christian; it
will either compel that nation to accept its doctrine, or it will wage
war. If Christ, in fact, said "I came not to bring peace but a sword,"
it is the only prophecy in the New Testament that has been literally
fulfilled.

## II. Duties to God.

RELIGION is supposed to consist in a discharge of the duties we owe to
God. In other words, we are taught that God is exceedingly anxious that
we should believe a certain thing. For my part, I do not believe that
there is any infinite being to whom we owe anything. The reason I say
this is, we can not owe any duty to any being who requires nothing—to
any being that we cannot possibly help, to any being whose happiness we
cannot increase. If God is infinite, we cannot make him happier than
he is. If God is infinite, we can neither give, nor can he receive,
anything. Anything that we do or fail to do, cannot, in the slightest
degree, affect an infinite God; consequently, no relations can exist
between the finite and the Infinite, if by relations is meant mutual
duties and obligations.

Some tell us that it is the desire of God that we should worship him.
What for? Why does he desire worship? Others tell us that we should
sacrifice something to him. What for? Is he in want? Can we assist him?
Is he unhappy? Is he in trouble? Does he need human sympathy? We cannot
assist the Infinite, but we can assist our fellow-men. We can feed the
hungry and clothe the naked, and enlighten the ignorant, and we can
help, in some degree at least, toward covering this world with the
mantle of joy.

I do not believe there is any being in this universe who gives rain
for praise, who gives sunshine for prayer, or who blesses a man simply
because he kneels.

The Infinite cannot receive praise or worship.

The Infinite can neither hear nor answer prayer.

An Infinite personality is an infinite impossibility.

## III. Inspiration.

WE are told that we have in our possession the inspired will of God. What
is meant by the word "inspired" is not exactly known; but whatever else
it may mean, certainly it means that the "inspired" must be the true. If
it is true, there is, in fact, no need of its being inspired—the truth
will take care of itself.

The church is forced to say that the Bible differs from all other books;
it is forced to say that it contains the actual will of God. Let us then
see what inspiration really is. A man looks at the sea, and the sea
says something to him. It makes an impression upon his mind. It awakens
memory, and this impression depends upon the man's experience—upon
his intellectual capacity. Another looks upon the same sea. He has a
different brain; he has had a different experience. The sea may speak
to him of joy, to the other of grief and tears. The sea cannot tell the
same thing to any two human beings, because no two human beings have had
the same experience.

A year ago, while the cars were going from Boston to Gloucester, we
passed through Manchester. As the cars stopped, a lady sitting opposite,
speaking to her husband, looking out of the window and catching, for the
first time, a view of the sea, cried out, "Is it not beautiful!" and the
husband replied, "I'll bet you could dig clams right here!"

Another, standing upon the shore, listening to what the great Greek
tragedian called "the multitudinous laughter of the sea," may say: Every
drop has visited all the shores of the earth; every one has been frozen
in the vast and icy North; every one has fallen in snow, has been
whirled by storms around mountain peaks; every one has been kissed to
vapor by the sun; every one has worn the seven-hued garment of light;
every one has fallen in pleasant rain, gurgled from springs and laughed
in brooks while lovers wooed upon the banks, and every one has rushed
with mighty rivers back to the sea's embrace. Everything in nature tells
a different story to all eyes that see and to all ears that hear.

Once in my life, and once only, I heard Horace Greeley deliver a
lecture. I think its title was, "Across the Continent." At last he
reached the mammoth trees of California, and I thought "Here is an
opportunity for the old man to indulge his fancy. Here are trees that
have outlived a thousand human governments. There are limbs above his
head older than the pyramids. While man was emerging from barbarism
to something like civilization, these trees were growing. Older than
history, every one appeared to be a memory, a witness, and a prophecy.
The same wind that filled the sails of the Argonauts had swayed these
trees." But these trees said nothing of this kind to Mr. Greeley. Upon
these subjects not a word was told to him. Instead, he took his pencil,
and after figuring awhile, remarked: "One of these trees, sawed into
inch-boards, would make more than three hundred thousand feet of
lumber."

I was once riding on the cars in Illinois. There had been a violent
thunder-storm. The rain had ceased, the sun was going down. The
great clouds had floated toward the west, and there they assumed most
wonderful architectural shapes. There were temples and palaces domed
and turreted, and they were touched with silver, with amethyst and gold.
They looked like the homes of the Titans, or the palaces of the gods.
A man was sitting near me. I touched him and said, "Did you ever see
anything so beautiful!" He looked out. He saw nothing of the cloud,
nothing of the sun, nothing of the color; he saw only the country and
replied, "Yes, it is beautiful; I always did like rolling land." On
another occasion I was riding in a stage. There had been a snow, and
after the snow a sleet, and all the trees were bent, and all the boughs
were arched. Every fence, every log cabin had been transfigured, touched
with a glory almost beyond this world. The great fields were a pure and
perfect white; the forests, drooping beneath their load of gems, made
wonderful caves, from which one almost expected to see troops of fairies
come. The whole world looked like a bride, jewelled from head to foot.
A German on the back seat, hearing our talk, and our exclamations of
wonder leaned forward, looked out of the stage window and said: "Yes, it
looks like a clean table cloth!"

So, when we look upon a flower, a painting, a statue, a star, or a
violet, the more we know, the more we have experienced, the more we
have thought, the more we remember, the more the statue, the star,
the painting, the violet has to tell. Nature says to me all that I am
capable of understanding—gives all that I can receive.

As with star, or flower, or sea, so with a book. A man reads
Shakespeare. What does he get from him? All that he has the mind to
understand. He gets his little cup full. Let another read him who knows
nothing of the drama, nothing of the impersonations of passion, and what
does he get? Almost nothing. Shakespeare has a different story for each
reader. He is a world in which each recognizes his acquaintances—he may
know a few, he may know all.

The impression that nature makes upon the mind, the stories told by sea
and star and flower, must be the natural food of thought. Leaving out
for the moment the impression gained from ancestors, the hereditary
fears and drifts and trends—the natural food of thought must be the
impression made upon the brain by coming in contact through the medium
of the five senses with what we call the outward world. The brain is
natural. Its food is natural. The result, thought, must be natural. The
supernatural can be constructed with no material except the natural. Of
the supernatural we can have no conception. Thought may be deformed, and
the thought of one may be strange to, and denominated as unnatural
by, another; but it cannot be supernatural. It may be weak, it may be
insane, but it is not supernatural. Above the natural man cannot rise,
even with the aid of fancy's wings. There can can be deformed ideas,
as there are deformed persons. There can be religions monstrous and
misshapen, but they must be naturally produced. Some people have ideas
about what they are pleased to call the supernatural; but what they
call the supernatural is simply the deformed. The world is to each man
according to each man. It takes the world as it really is and that man
to make that man's world, and that man's world cannot exist without that
man.

You may ask, and what of all this? I reply, as with everything in
nature, so with the Bible. It has a different story for each reader. Is
then the Bible a different book to every human being who reads it? It
is. Can God then, through the Bible, make the same revelation to two
persons? He cannot. Why? Because the man who reads it is the man who
inspires. Inspiration is in the man, as well as in the book. God should
have inspired readers as well as writers.

You may reply: "God knew that his book would be understood differently
by each one, and that he really intended that it should be understood as
it is understood by each." If this is so, then my understanding of the
Bible is the real revelation to me. If this is so, I have no right to
take the understanding of another. I must take the revelation made to me
through my understanding, and by that revelation I must stand. Suppose
then, that I do read this Bible honestly, fairly, and when I get through
I am compelled to say, "The book is not true." If this is the honest
result, then you are compelled to say, either that God has made no
revelation to me, or that the revelation that it is not true, is the
revelation made to me, and by which I am bound. If the book and my brain
are both the work of the same Infinite God, whose fault is it that the
book and the brain do not agree? Either God should have written a book
to fit my brain, or should have made my brain to fit his book.

The inspiration of the Bible depends upon the ignorance of him who
reads. There was a time when its geology, its astronomy, its natural
history, were inspired. That time has passed. There was a time when
its morality satisfied the men who ruled mankind. That time has passed.
There was a time when the tyrant regarded its laws as good; when the
master believed in its liberty; when strength gloried in its passages;
but these laws never satisfied the oppressed, they were never quoted by
the slave.

We have a sacred book, an inspired Bible, and I am told that this book
was written by the same being who made every star, and who peopled
infinite space with infinite worlds. I am also told that God created
man, and that man is totally depraved. It has always seemed to me that
an infinite being has no right to make imperfect things. I may be
mistaken; but this is the only planet I have ever been on; I live in
what might be called one of the rural districts of this universe,
consequently I may be mistaken; I simply give the best and largest
thought I have.

## IV. God's Experiment with the Jews

THE Bible tells us that men became so bad that God destroyed them all
with the exception of eight persons; that afterwards he chose Abraham
and some of his kindred, a wandering tribe, for the purpose of seeing
whether or no they could be civilized. He had no time to waste with all
the world. The Egyptians at that time, a vast and splendid nation,
having a system of laws and free schools, believing in the marriage of
the one man to the one woman; believing, too, in the rights of woman—a
nation that had courts of justice and understood the philosophy of
damages—these people had received no revelation from God,—they were
left to grope in Nature's night. He had no time to civilize India,
wherein had grown a civilization that fills the world with wonder
still—a people with a language as perfect as ours, a people who had
produced philosophers, scientists, poets. He had no time to waste on
them; but he took a few, the tribe of Abraham. He established a perfect
despotism—with no schools, with no philosophy, with no art, with no
music—nothing but the sacrifices of dumb beasts—nothing but the abject
worship of a slave. Not a word upon geology, upon astronomy; nothing,
even, upon the science of medicine. Thus God spent hours and hours with
Moses upon the top of Sinai, giving directions for ascertaining the
presence of leprosy and for preventing its spread, but it never occurred
to Jehovah to tell Moses how it could be cured. He told them a few
things about what they might eat—prohibiting among other things
four-footed birds, and one thing upon the subject of cooking. From the
thunders and lightnings of Sinai he proclaimed this vast and wonderful
fact: "Thou shalt not seethe a kid in its mother's milk." He took these
people, according to our sacred Scriptures, under his immediate care,
and for the purpose of controlling them he wrought wonderful miracles in
their sight.

Is it not a little curious that no priest of one religion has ever been
able to astonish a priest of another religion by telling a miracle? Our
missionaries tell the Hindoos the miracles of the Bible, and the Hindoo
priests, without the movement of a muscle, hear them and then recite
theirs, and theirs do not astonish our missionaries in the least! Is it
not a little curious that the priests of one religion never believe the
priests of another? Is it not a little strange that the believers
in sacred books regard all except their own as having been made by
hypocrites and fools?

I heard the other day a story. A gentleman was telling some wonderful
things and the listeners, with one exception, were saying, as he
proceeded with his tale, "Is it possible?" "Did you ever hear anything
so wonderful?" and when he had concluded, there was a kind of chorus
of "Is it possible?" and "Can it be?" One man, however, sat perfectly
quiet, utterly unmoved. Another listener said to him "Did you hear
that?" and he replied "Yes." "Well," said the other, "You did not
manifest much astonishment." "Oh, no," was the answer, "I am a liar
myself."

I am told by the sacred Scriptures that, as a matter of fact, God, even
with the help of miracles, failed to civilize the Jews, and this shows
of how little real benefit, after all, it is, to have a ruler much above
the people, or to simply excite the wonder of mankind. Infinite wisdom,
if the account be true, could not civilize a single tribe. Laws made by
Jehovah himself were not obeyed, and every effort of Jehovah failed.
It is claimed that God made known his law and inspired men to write
and teach his will, and yet, it was found utterly impossible to reform
mankind.

## V. Civilized Countries

IN all civilized countries, it is now passionately asserted that slavery
is a crime; that a war of conquest is murder; that polygamy enslaves
woman, degrades man and destroys home; that nothing is more infamous
than the slaughter of decrepit men, of helpless mothers, and of
prattling babes; that captured maidens should not be given to their
captors; that wives should not be stoned to death for differing with
their husbands on the subject of religion. We know that there was
a time, in the history of most nations, when all these crimes were
regarded as divine institutions. Nations entertaining this view now are
regarded as savage, and, with the exception of the South Sea Islanders,
Feejees, a few tribes in Central Africa, and some citizens of Delaware,
no human beings are found degraded enough to agree upon these subjects
with Jehovah.

The only evidence we can have that a nation has ceased to be savage, is
that it has abandoned these doctrines of savagery.

To every one except a theologian, it is easy to account for these
mistakes and crimes by saying that civilization is a painful growth;
that the moral perceptions are cultivated through ages of tyranny, of
crime, and of heroism; that it requires centuries for man to put out the
eyes of self and hold in lofty and in equal poise the golden scales
of Justice. Conscience is born of suffering. Mercy is the child of
the imagination. Man advances as he becomes acquainted with his
surroundings, with the mutual obligations of life, and learns to take
advantage of the forces of nature.

The believer in the inspiration of the Bible is compelled to say, that
there was a time when slavery was right, when women could sell their
babes, when polygamy was the highest form of virtue, when wars of
extermination were waged with the sword of mercy, when religious
toleration was a crime, and when death was the just penalty for having
expressed an honest thought. He is compelled to insist that Jehovah is
as bad now as he was then; that he is as good now as he was then. Once,
all the crimes that I have mentioned were commanded by God; now they are
prohibited. Once, God was in favor of them all; now the Devil is their
defender. In other words, the Devil entertains the same opinion to-day
that God held four thousand years ago. The Devil is as good now as
Jehovah was then, and God was as bad then as the Devil is now. Other
nations besides the Jews had similar laws and ideas—believed in and
practiced the same crimes, and yet, it is not claimed that they received
a revelation. They had no knowledge of the true God, and yet they
practiced the same crimes, of their own motion, that the Jews did by
command of Jehovah. From this it would seem that man can do wrong
without a special revelation.

The passages upholding slavery, polygamy, war and religious persecution
are certainly not evidences of the inspiration of that book. Suppose
nothing had been in the Old Testament upholding these crimes, would
the modern Christian suspect that it was not inspired on that account?
Suppose nothing had been in the Old Testament except laws in favor of
these crimes, would it still be insisted that it was inspired? If the
Devil had inspired a book, will some Christian tell us in what respect,
on the subjects of slavery, polygamy, war and liberty, it would have
differed from some parts of the Old Testament? Suppose we knew
that after inspired men had finished the Bible the Devil had gotten
possession of it and had written a few passages, what part would
Christians now pick out as being probably his work? Which of the
following passages would be selected as having been written by the
Devil: "Love thy neighbor as thyself," or "Kill all the males among the
little ones, and kill every woman, but all the women children keep alive
for yourselves"?

Is there a believer in the Bible who does not now wish that God, amid
the thunders and lightnings of Sinai, had said to Moses that man should
not own his fellow-man; that women should not sell their babes; that all
men should be allowed to think and investigate for themselves, and that
the sword never should be unsheathed to shed innocent blood? Is there
a believer who would not be delighted to find that every one of the
infamous passages are interpolations, and that the skirts of God were
never reddened by the blood of maiden, wife, or babe? Is there an honest
man who does not regret that God commanded a husband to stone his wife
for suggesting the worship of some other God? Surely we do not need
an inspired book to teach us that slavery is right, that polygamy is
virtue, and that intellectual liberty is a crime.

## VI. A Comparison of Books

LET us compare the gems of Jehovah with Pagan paste. It may be that
the best way to illustrate what I have said, is to compare the supposed
teachings of Jehovah with those of persons who never wrote an inspired
line. In all ages of which any record has been preserved, men have given
their ideas of justice, charity, liberty, love and law. If the Bible is
the work of God, it should contain the sublimest truths, it should excel
the works of man, it should contain the loftiest definitions of justice,
the best conceptions of human liberty, the clearest outlines of duty,
the tenderest and noblest thoughts. Upon every page should be found the
luminous evidence of its divine origin. It should contain grander and
more wonderful things than man has written.

It may be said that it is unfair to call attention to bad things in the
Bible. To this it may be replied that a divine being ought not to put
bad things in his book. If the Bible now upholds what we call crimes,
it will not do to say that it is not verbally inspired. If the words are
not inspired, what is? It may be said, that the thoughts are inspired.
This would include only thoughts expressed without words. If ideas are
inspired, they must be expressed by inspired words—that is to say, by
an inspired arrangement of words. If a sculptor were inspired of God to
make a statue, we would not say that the marble was inspired, but
the statue—that is to say, the relation of part to part, the married
harmony of form and function. The language, the words, take the place of
the marble, and it is the arrangement of the words that Christians claim
to be inspired. If there is an uninspired word, or a word in the wrong
place, until that word is known a doubt is cast on every word the book
contains.

If it was worth God's while to make a revelation at all, it was
certainly worth his while to see that it was correctly made—that it was
absolutely preserved.

Why should God allow an inspired book to be interpolated? If it was
worth while to inspire men to write it, it was worth while to
inspire men to preserve it; and why should he allow another person to
interpolate in it that which was not inspired? He certainly would not
have allowed the man he inspired to write contrary to the inspiration.
He should have preserved his revelation. Neither will it do to say that
God adapted his revelation to the prejudices of man. It was necessary
for him to adapt his revelation to the capacity of man, but certainly
God would not confirm a barbarian in his prejudices. He would not
fortify a heathen in his crimes....

If a revelation is of any importance, it is to eradicate prejudice.
They tell us now that the Jews were so ignorant, so bad, that God was
compelled to justify their crimes, in order to have any influence
with them. They say that if he had declared slavery and polygamy to be
crimes, the Jews would have refused to receive the Ten Commandments.
They tell us that God did the best he could; that his real intention was
to lead them along slowly, so that in a few hundred years they would be
induced to admit that larceny and murder and polygamy and slavery were
not virtues. I suppose if we now wished to break a cannibal of the bad
habit of devouring missionaries, we would first induce him to cook
them in a certain way, saying: "To eat cooked missionary is one step
in advance of eating your missionary raw. After a few years, a little
mutton could be cooked with missionary, and year after year the amount
of mutton could be increased and the amount of missionary decreased,
until in the fullness of time the dish could be entirely mutton, and
after that the missionaries would be absolutely safe."

If there is anything of value, it is liberty—liberty of body, liberty
of mind. The liberty of body is the reward of labor. Intellectual
liberty is the air of the soul, the sunshine of the mind, and without
it, the world is a prison, the universe a dungeon.

If the Bible is really inspired, Jehovah commanded the Jewish people to
buy the children of the strangers that sojourned among them, and ordered
that the children thus bought should be an inheritance for the children
of the Jews, and that they should be bondmen and bondwomen forever. Yet
Epictetus, a man to whom no revelation was ever made, a man whose soul
followed only the light of nature, and who had never heard of the Jewish
God, was great enough to say: "Will you not remember that your servants
are by nature your brothers, the children of God? In saying that you
have bought them, you look down on the earth, and into the pit, on the
wretched law of men long since dead, but you see not the laws of the
gods."

We find that Jehovah, speaking to his chosen people, assured them that
their bondmen and their bondmaids must be "of the heathen that were
round about them." "Of them," said Jehovah, "shall ye buy bondmen
and bondmaids." And yet Cicero, a pagan, Cicero, who had never been
enlightened by reading the Old Testament, had the moral grandeur to
declare: "They who say that we should love our fellow-citizens but not
foreigners, destroy the universal brotherhood of mankind, with which
benevolence and justice would perish forever."

If the Bible is inspired, Jehovah, God of all worlds, actually said:
"And if a man smite his servant or his maid with a rod, and he die under
his hand, he shall be sorely punished; notwithstanding, if he continue
a day or two, he shall not be punished, for he is his money." And yet
Zeno, founder of the Stoics, centuries before Christ was born, insisted
that no man could be the owner of another, and that the title was bad,
whether the slave had become so by conquest or by purchase.

Jehovah ordered a Jewish general to make war, and gave, among others,
this command: "When the Lord thy God shall drive them before thee, thou
shalt smite them and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant
with them, nor show mercy unto them." And yet Epictetus, whom we have
already quoted, gave this marvelous rule for the guidance of human
conduct: "Live with thy inferiors as thou wouldst have thy superiors
live with thee."

Is it possible, after all, that a being of infinite goodness and wisdom
said: "I will heap mischief upon them; I will send mine arrows upon
them; they shall be burned with hunger, and devoured with burning heat,
and with bitter destruction. I will send the tooth of beasts upon them,
with the poison of serpents of the dust. The sword without, and terror
within, shall destroy both the young man and the virgin, the suckling
also, with the man of gray hairs" while Seneca, an uninspired Roman,
said: "The wise man will not pardon any crime that ought to be
punished, but he will accomplish, in a nobler way, all that is sought
in pardoning. He will spare some and watch over some, because of their
youth, and others on account of their ignorance. His clemency will not
fall short of justice, but will fulfill it perfectly."

Can we believe that God ever said to any one: "Let his children be
fatherless and his wife a widow; let his children be continually
vagabonds, and beg; let them seek their bread also out of their desolate
places; let the extortioner catch all that he hath, and let the stranger
spoil his labor; let there be none to extend mercy unto him, neither let
there be any to favor his fatherless children." If he ever said these
words, surely he had never heard this line, this strain of music from
the Hindu: "Sweet is the lute to those who have not heard the prattle of
their own children."

Jehovah, "from the clouds and darkness of Sinai," said to the Jews:
"Thou shalt have no other gods before me.... Though shalt not bow down
thyself to them nor serve them; for I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous
God, visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children unto the
third and fourth generation of them that hate me." Contrast this with
the words put by the Hindu in the mouth of Brahma: "I am the same to all
mankind. They who honestly serve other gods involuntarily worship me.
I am he who partakest of all worship, and I am the reward of all
worshipers."

Compare these passages; the first a dungeon where crawl the things begot
of jealous slime; the other, great as the domed firmament inlaid with
suns. Is it possible that the real God ever said:

"And if the prophet be deceived when he hath spoken a thing, I, the
Lord, have deceived that prophet; and I will stretch out my hand upon
him and will destroy him from the midst of my people." Compare that
passage with one from a Pagan.

"It is better to keep silence for the remainder of your life than to
speak falsely."

Can we believe that a being of infinite mercy gave this command:

"Put every man his sword by his side, and go in and out from gate to
gate, throughout the camp, and slay every man his brother, and every man
his companion, and every man his neighbor; consecrate yourselves to-day
to the Lord, even every man upon his son and upon his brother, that he
may bestow a blessing upon you this day."

Surely, that God was not animated by so great and magnanimous a spirit
as was Antoninus, a Roman emperor, who declared that, "he had rather
keep a single Roman citizen alive than slay a thousand enemies."

Compare the laws given to the children of Israel, as it is claimed by
the Creator of us all, with the following from Marcus Aurelius:

"I have formed the ideal of a state, in which there is the same law
for all, and equal rights, and equal liberty of speech established; an
empire where nothing is honored so much as the freedom of the citizen."

In the Avesta I find this: "I belong to five: to those who think good,
to those who speak good, to those who do good, to those who hear, and to
those who are pure."

"Which is the one prayer which in greatness, goodness, and beauty is
worth all that is between heaven and earth and between this earth and
the stars? And he replied: To renounce all evil thoughts and words and
works."

## Vii

IT is claimed by the Christian world that one of the great reasons for
giving an inspired book to the Jews was, that through them the world
might learn that there is but one God. This piece of information has
been supposed to be of infinite value. As a matter of fact, long before
Moses was born, the Egyptians believed and taught that there was but
one God—that is to say, that above all intelligences there was the one
Supreme. They were guilty, too, of the same inconsistencies of modern
Christians. They taught the doctrine of the Trinity—God the Father, God
the Mother, and God the Son. God was frequently represented as father,
mother and babe. They also taught that the soul had a divine origin;
that after death it was to be judged according to the deeds done in the
body; that those who had done well passed into perpetual joy, and those
who had done evil into endless pain. In this they agreed with the most
approved divine of the nineteenth century. Women were the equals of
men, and Egypt was often governed by queens. In this, her government
was vastly better than the one established by God. The laws were
administered by courts much like ours. In Egypt there was a system of
schools that gave the son of poverty a chance of advancement, and
the highest offices were open to the successful scholar. The Egyptian
married one wife. The wife was called "the lady of the house." The women
were not secluded. The people were not divided into castes. There was
nothing to prevent the rise of able and intelligent Egyptians. But like
the Jehovah of the Jews, they made slaves of the captives of war.

The ancient Persians believed in one God; and women helped to found the
Parsee religion. Nothing can exceed some of the maxims of Zoroaster. The
Hindoos taught that above all, and over all, was one eternal Supreme.
They had a code of laws. They understood the philosophy of evidence and
of damages. They knew better than to teach the doctrine of an eye for an
eye, and a tooth for a tooth.

They knew that when one man maimed another, it was not to the interest
of society to have that man maimed, thus burdening the people with two
cripples, but that it was better to make the man who maimed the other
work to support him. In India, upon the death of a father, the daughters
received twice as much from the estate as the sons.

The Romans built temples to Truth, Faith, Valor, Concord, Modesty, and
Charity, in which they offered sacrifices to the highest conceptions of
human excellence. Women had rights; they presided in the temple; they
officiated in holy offices; they guarded the sacred fires upon which the
safety of Rome depended; and when Christ came, the grandest figure in
the known world was the Roman mother.

It will not do to say that some rude statue was made by an inspired
sculptor, and that the Apollo of Belvidere, Venus de Milo, and the
Gladiator were made by unaided men; that the daubs of the early ages
were painted by divine assistance, while the Raphaels, the Angelos, and
the Rembrandts did what they did without the help of heaven. It will not
do to say, that the first hut was built by God, and the last palace by
degraded man; that the hoarse songs of the savage tribes were made by
the Deity, but that Hamlet and Lear were written by man; that the pipes
of Pan were invented in heaven, and all other musical instruments on the
earth.

If the Jehovah of the Jews had taken upon himself flesh, and dwelt as a
man among the people had he endeavored to govern, had he followed his
own teachings, he would have been a slaveholder, a buyer of babes, and a
beater of women. He would have waged wars of extermination. He would
have killed grey-haired and trembling age, and would have sheathed his
sword, in prattling, dimpled babes. He would have been a polygamist, and
would have butchered his wife for differing with him on the subject of
religion.

## VIII. The New Testament.

NE great objection to the Old Testament is the cruelty said to have been
commanded by God. All these cruelties ceased with death. The vengeance
of Jehovah stopped at the tomb. He never threatened to punish the dead;
and there is not one word, from the first mistake in Genesis to the last
curse of Malachi, containing the slightest intimation that God will take
his revenge in another world. It was reserved for the New Testament
to make known the doctrine of eternal pain. The teacher of universal
benevolence rent the veil between time and eternity, and fixed the
horrified gaze of man upon the lurid gulf of hell. Within the breast of
non-resistance coiled the worm that never dies. Compared with this,
the doctrine of slavery, the wars of extermination, the curses, the
punishments of the Old Testament were all merciful and just.

There is no time to speak of the conflicting statements in the various
books composing the New Testament—no time to give the history of the
manuscripts, the errors in translation, the interpolations made by the
fathers and by their successors, the priests, and only time to speak of
a few objections, including some absurdities and some contradictions.

Where several witnesses testify to the same transaction, no matter how
honest they may be, they will disagree upon minor matters, and such
testimony is generally considered as evidence that the witnesses
have not conspired among themselves. The differences in statement are
accounted for from the facts that all do not see alike, and that all
have not equally good memories; but when we claim that the witnesses are
inspired, we must admit that he who inspired them did know exactly what
occurred, and consequently there should be no disagreement, even in the
minutest detail. The accounts should not only be substantially, but they
should be actually, the same. The differences and contradictions can be
accounted for by the weaknesses of human nature, but these weaknesses
cannot be predicated of divine wisdom.

And here let me ask: Why should there have been more than one correct
account of what really happened? Why were four gospels necessary? It
seems to me that one inspired gospel, containing all that happened, was
enough. Copies of the one correct one could have been furnished to any
extent. According to Doctor Davidson, Irenaeus argues that the gospels
were four in number, because there are four universal winds, four
corners of the globe. Others have said, because there are four seasons;
and these gentlemen might have added, because a donkey has four legs.
For my part, I cannot even conceive of a reason for more than one
gospel.

According to one of these gospels, and according to the prevalent
Christian belief, the Christian religion rests upon the doctrine of the
atonement. If this doctrine is without foundation, the fabric falls; and
it is without foundation, for it is repugnant to justice and mercy.
The church tells us that the first man committed a crime for which all
others are responsible. This absurdity was the father and mother of
another—that a man can be rewarded for the good action of another. We
are told that God made a law, with the penalty of eternal death. All
men, they tell us, have broken this law. The law had to be vindicated.
This could be done by damning everybody, but through what is known as
the atonement the salvation of a few was made possible. They insist that
the law demands the extreme penalty, that justice calls for its victim,
that mercy ceases to plead, and that God by allowing the innocent to
suffer in the place of the guilty settled satisfactory with the law. To
carry out this scheme God was born as a babe, grew in stature, increased
in knowledge, and at the age of thirty-three years having lived a life
filled with kindness, having practiced every virtue, he was sacrificed
as an atonement for man. It is claimed that he took our place, bore our
sins, our guilt, and in this way satisfied the justice of God.

Under the Mosaic dispensation there was no remission of sin except
through the shedding of blood. When a man sinned he must bring to the
priest a lamb, a bullock, a goat, or a pair of turtle-doves.

The priest would lay his hand upon the animal and the sin of the man
would be transferred to the beast. Then the animal would be killed in
place of the sinner, and the blood thus shed would be sprinkled upon
the altar. In this way Jehovah was satisfied. The greater the crime, the
greater the sacrifice. There was a ratio between the value of the animal
and the enormity of the sin.

The most minute directions were given as to the killing of
these animals. Every priest became a butcher, every synagogue a
slaughter-house. Nothing could be more utterly shocking to a refined
soul, nothing better calculated to harden the heart, than the continual
shedding of innocent blood. This terrible system culminated in the
sacrifice of Christ. His blood took the place of all other. It is not
necessary to shed any more. The law at last is satisfied, satiated,
surfeited.

The idea that God wants blood is at the bottom of the atonement, and
rests upon the most fearful savagery; and yet the Mosaic dispensation
was better adapted to prevent the commission of sin than the Christian
system. Under that dispensation, if you committed a sin, you had
to bring a sacrifice—dove, sheep, or bullock, now, when a sin is
committed, the Christian says, "Charge it," "Put it on the slate, If
I don't pay it the Savior will." In this way, rascality is sold on a
credit, and the credit system of religion breeds extravagance in sin.
The Mosaic dispensation was based upon far better business principles.
The debt had to be paid, and by the man who owed it. We are told that
the sinner is in debt to God, and that the obligation is discharged by
the Savior. The best that can be said of such a transaction is that the
debt is transferred, not paid. As a matter of fact, the sinner is in
debt to the person he has injured. If you injure a man, it is not enough
to get the forgiveness of God—you must get the man's forgiveness, you
must get your own. If a man puts his hand in the fire and God forgives
him, his hand will smart just as badly. You must reap what you sow. No
God can give you wheat when you sow tares, and no Devil can give you
tares when you sow wheat. We must remember that in nature there are
neither rewards nor punishments—there are consequences. The life and
death of Christ do not constitute an atonement. They are worth the
example, the moral force, the heroism of benevolence, and in so far as
the life of Christ produces emulation in the direction of goodness, it
has been of value to mankind.

To make innocence suffer is the greatest sin, and it may be the only
sin. How, then, is it possible to make the consequences of sin an
atonement for sin, when the consequences of sin are to be borne by one
who has not sinned, and the one who has sinned is to reap the reward of
virtue? No honorable man should be willing that another should suffer
for him. No good law can accept the sufferings of innocence as an
atonement for the guilty; and besides, if there was no atonement until
the crucifixion of Christ, what became of the countless millions who
died before that time? We must remember that the Jews did not kill
animals for the Gentiles. Jehovah hated foreigners. There was no way
provided for the forgiveness of a heathen. What has become of the
millions who have died since, without having heard of the atonement?
What becomes of those who hear and do not believe? Can there be a law
that demands that the guilty be rewarded. And yet, to reward the guilty
is far nearer justice than to punish the innocent. If the doctrine of
the atonement is true, there would have been no heaven had no atonement
been made.

If Judas had understood the Christian system, if he knew that Christ
must be betrayed, and that God was depending on him to betray him, and
that without the betrayal no human soul could be saved, what should
Judas have done?

Jehovah took special charge of the Jewish people. He did this for the
purpose of civilizing them. If he had succeeded in civilizing them,
he would have made the damnation of the entire human race a certainty;
because if the Jews had been a civilized people when Christ appeared—a
people who had not been hardened by the laws of Jehovah—they would not
have crucified Christ, and as a consequence, the world would have been
lost. If the Jews had believed in religious freedom, in the rights of
thought and speech, if the Christian religion is true, not a human soul
ever could have been saved. If, when Christ was on his way to Calvary,
some brave soul had rescued him from the pious mob, he would not only
have been damned for his pains, but would have rendered impossible the
salvation of any human being.

The Christian world has been trying for nearly two thousand years to
explain the atonement, and every effort has ended in an admission that
it cannot be understood, and a declaration that it must be believed. Has
the promise and hope of forgiveness ever prevented the commission of
a sin? Can men be made better by being taught that sin gives happiness
here; that to live a virtuous life is to bear a cross; that men can
repent between the last sin and the last breath; and that repentance
washes every stain of the soul away? Is it good to teach that the
serpent of regret will not hiss in the ear of memory; that the saved
will not even pity the victims of their crimes; and that sins forgiven
cease to affect the unhappy wretches sinned against?

Another objection is, that a certain belief is necessary to save the
soul. This doctrine, I admit, is taught in the gospel according to John,
and in many of the epistles; I deny that it is taught in Matthew, Mark,
or Luke. It is, however, asserted by the church that to believe is the
only safe way. To this, I reply: Belief is not a voluntary thing. A man
believes or disbelieves in spite of himself. They tell us that to
believe is the safe way; but I say, the safe way is to be honest.
Nothing can be safer than that. No man in the hour of death ever
regretted having been honest. No man when the shadows of the last day
were gathering about the pillow of death, ever regretted that he had
given to his fellow-man his honest thought. No man, in the presence of
eternity, ever wished that he had been a hypocrite. No man ever then
regretted that he did not throw away his reason. It certainly cannot be
necessary to throw away your reason to save your soul, because after
that, your soul is not worth saving. The soul has a right to defend
itself. My brain is my castle; and when I waive the right to defend it,
I become an intellectual serf and slave.

I do not admit that a man by doing me an injury can place me under
obligations to do him a service. To render benefits for injuries is
to ignore all distinctions between actions. He who treats friends and
enemies alike has neither love nor justice. The idea of non-resistance
never occurred to a man with power to defend himself. The mother of this
doctrine was weakness. To allow a crime to be committed, even against
yourself, when you can prevent it, is next to committing the crime
yourself. The church has preached the doctrine of non-resistance, and
under that banner has shed the blood of millions. In the folds of
her sacred vestments have gleamed for centuries the daggers of
assassination. With her cunning hands she wove the purple for hypocrisy
and placed the crown upon the brow of crime. For more than a thousand
years larceny held the scales of justice, hypocrisy wore the mitre and
tiara, while beggars scorned the royal sons of toil, and ignorant fear
denounced the liberty of thought.

## XI. Christ's Mission.

HE came, they tell us, to make a revelation, and what did he reveal?
"Love thy neighbor as thyself"? That was in the Old Testament. "Love
God with all thy heart"? That was in the Old Testament. "Return good for
evil"? That was said by Buddha, seven hundred years before Christ was
born. "Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you"? That
was the doctrine of Lao-tsze. Did he come to give a rule of action?
Zoroaster had done this long before: "Whenever thou art in doubt as to
whether an action is good or bad, abstain from it." Did he come to tell
us of another world? The immortality of the soul had been taught by the
Hindoos, Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans hundreds of years before he was
born. What argument did he make in favor of immortality? What facts
did he furnish? What star of hope did he put above the darkness of
this world? Did he come simply to tell us that we should not revenge
ourselves upon our enemies? Long before, Socrates had said: "One who
is injured ought not to return the injury, for on no account can it be
right to do an injustice; and it is not right to return an injury, or to
do evil to any man, however much we have suffered from him." And Cicero
had said: "Let us not listen to those who think we ought to be angry
with our enemies, and who believe this to be great and manly. Nothing
is so praiseworthy, nothing so clearly shows a great and noble soul, as
clemency and readiness to forgive." Is there anything in the literature
of the world more nearly perfect than this thought?

Was it from Christ the world learned the first lesson of forbearance,
when centuries and centuries before, Chrishna had said, "If a man strike
thee, and in striking drop his staff, pick it up and hand it to him
again?" Is it possible that the son of God threatened to say to a vast
majority, of his children, "Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting
fire prepared for the devil and his angels," while the Buddhist was
great and tender enough to say:

"Never will I seek nor receive private individual salvation; never
enter into final peace alone; but forever and everywhere will I live
and strive for the universal redemption of every creature throughout
all worlds. Never will I leave this world of sin and sorrow and struggle
until all are delivered. Until then, I will remain and suffer where I
am?"

Is there anything in the New Testament as beautiful as this, from a
Sufi?—"Better one moment of silent contemplation and inward love than
seventy thousand years of outward worship."

Is there anything comparable to this?—"Whoever carelessly treads on
a worm that crawls on the earth, that heartless one is darkly alienate
from God."

Is there anything in the New Testament more beautiful than the story of
the Sufi?

For seven years a Sufi practised every virtue, and then he mounted the
three steps that lead to the doors of Paradise. He knocked and a voice
said: "Who is there?" The Sufi replied: "Thy servant, O God." But the
doors remained closed.

Yet seven other years the Sufi engaged in every good work. He comforted
the sorrowing and divided his substance with the poor. Again he mounted
the three steps, again knocked at the doors of Paradise, and again
the voice asked: "Who is there?" and the Sufi replied: "Thy slave, O
God."—But the doors remained closed.

Yet seven other years the Sufi spent in works of charity, in visiting
the imprisoned and the sick. Again he mounted the steps, again knocked
at the celestial doors. Again he heard the question: "Who is there?" and
he replied: "Thyself, O God."—The gates wide open flew.

Is it possible that St. Paul was inspired of God, when he said: "Let the
women learn in silence, with all subjection."—"Neither was the man
created for the woman, but the woman for the man?"

And is it possible that Epictetus, without the slightest aid from
heaven, gave to the world this gem of love:

"What is more delightful than to be so dear to your wife, as to be on
that account dearer to yourself?"

Did St. Paul express the sentiments of God when he wrote—

"But I would have you know that the head of every man is Christ, and the
head of every woman is the man, and the head of Christ is God. Wives,
submit yourselves unto your husbands as unto the Lord?"

And was the author of this, a poor despised heathen?—

"In whatever house the husband is contented with the wife, and the wife
with the husband, in that house will fortune dwell; but upon the house
where women are not honored, let a curse be pronounced. Where the wife
is honored, there the gods are truly worshiped."

Is there anything in the New Testament as beautiful as this?—

"Shall I tell thee where nature is most blest and fair? It is where
those we love abide. Though that space be small, it is ample above
kingdoms; though it be a desert, through it run the rivers of Paradise."

After reading the curses pronounced in the Old

Testament upon Jew and heathen, the descriptions of slaughter, of
treachery and of death, the destruction of women and babes; after you
shall have read all the chapters of horror in the New Testament, the
threatenings of fire and flame, then read this, from the greatest of
human beings:

> "The quality of mercy is not strained:
> It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
> Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed;
> It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
> 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
> The throned monarch better than his crown."

## X. Eternal Pain

UPON passages in the New Testament rests the doctrine of eternal pain.
This doctrine subverts every idea of justice. A finite being can neither
commit an infinite sin, nor a sin against the Infinite. A being of
infinite goodness and wisdom has no right to create any being whose life
is not a blessing. Infinite wisdom has no right to create a failure,
and surely a man destined to everlasting failure is not a conspicuous
success. The doctrine of eternal punishment is the most infamous of
all doctrines—born of ignorance, cruelty and fear. Around the angel of
immortality, Christianity has coiled this serpent.

Upon Love's breast the church has placed the eternal asp. And yet in
the same book in which is taught this most frightful of dogmas, we are
assured that "the Lord is good to all, and his tender mercies are over
all his works."

A few days ago upon the wide sea, was found a barque called "The
Tiger," Captain Kreuger, in command. The vessel had been one hundred and
twenty-six days upon the sea. For days the crew had been without water,
without food, and were starving. For nine days not a drop had passed
their lips. The crew consisted of the captain, a mate, and eleven men.
At the end of one hundred and eighteen days from Liverpool they killed
the captain's Newfoundland dog. This lasted them four days. During the
next five days they had nothing. For weeks they had had no light
and were unable to see the compass at night. On the one hundred and
twenty-fifth day Captain Kreuger, a German, took a revolver in his hand,
stood up before the men, and placing the weapon at his temple said:
"Boys, we can't stand this much longer, and to save you all, I am
willing to die." The mate grasped the revolver and begged the captain to
wait another day. The next day, upon the horizon of their despair, they
saw the smoke of the steamship Nebo. They were rescued.

Suppose that Captain Kreuger was not a Christian, and suppose that he
had sent the ball crashing through his brain, and had done so simply
to keep the crew from starvation, do you tell me that a God of infinite
mercy would forever damn that man?

Do not misunderstand me. I insist that every passage in the Bible
upholding crime was written by savage man. I insist that if there is
a God, he is not, never was, and never will be in favor of slavery,
polygamy, wars of extermination, or religious persecution. Does any
Christian believe that if the real God were to write a book now, he
would uphold the crimes commanded in the Old Testament? Has Jehovah
improved? Has infinite mercy become more merciful? Has infinite wisdom
intellectually advanced?

WILL any one claim that the passages upholding slavery have liberated
mankind? Are we indebted to polygamy for our modern homes? Was religious
liberty born of that infamous verse in which the husband is commanded to
kill his wife for worshiping an unknown God?

The usual answer to these objections is, that no country has ever been
civilized without a Bible. The Jews were the only people to whom Jehovah
made his will directly known. Were they better than other nations? They
read the Old Testament and one of the effects of such reading was, that
they crucified a kind, loving, and perfectly innocent man. Certainly
they could not have done worse, without a Bible. In crucifying Christ
the Jews followed the teachings of his Father. If Jehovah was in fact
God, and if that God took upon himself flesh and came among the Jews,
and preached what the Jews understood to be blasphemy; and if the Jews
in accordance with the laws given by this same Jehovah to Moses,
crucified him, then I say, and I say it with infinite reverence, he
reaped what he had sown. He became the victim of his own injustice.

But I insist that these things are not true. I insist that the real God,
if there is one, never commanded man to enslave his fellow-man, never
told a mother to sell her babe, never established polygamy, never urged
one nation to exterminate another, and never told a husband to kill his
wife because she suggested the worship of another God.

From the aspersions of the pulpit, from the slanders of the church,
I seek to rescue the reputation of the Deity. I insist that the Old
Testament would be a better book with all these passages left out; and
whatever may be said of the rest of the Bible, the passages to which I
have called attention can, with vastly more propriety, be attributed to
a devil than to a god.

Take from the New Testament the idea that belief is necessary to
salvation; that Christ was offered as an atonement for the sins of
mankind; that heaven is the reward of faith, and hell the penalty of
honest investigation, and that the punishment of the human soul will go
on forever; take from it all miracles and foolish stories, and I most
cheerfully admit that the good passages are true. If they are true, it
makes no difference whether they are inspired or not. Inspiration is
only necessary to give authority to that which is repugnant to human
reason. Only that which never happened needs to be substantiated by a
miracle.

The universe is natural.

The church must cease to insist that passages upholding the institutions
of savage men were inspired of God. The dogma of atonement must be
abandoned. Good deeds must take the place of faith. The savagery of
eternal punishment must be renounced. It must be admitted that credulity
is not a virtue, and that investigation is not a crime. It must be
admitted that miracles are the children of mendacity, and that nothing
can be more wonderful than the majestic, unbroken, sublime, and eternal
procession of causes and effects. Reason must be the arbiter. Inspired
books attested by miracles cannot stand against a demonstrated fact. A
religion that does not command the respect of the greatest minds will,
in a little while, excite the mockery of all.

A man who does not believe in intellectual liberty is a barbarian. Is
it possible that God is intolerant? Could there be any progress, even
in heaven, without intellectual liberty? Is the freedom of the future
to exist only in perdition? Is it not, after all, barely possible that
a man acting like Christ can be saved? Is a man to be eternally rewarded
for believing according to evidence, without evidence, or against
evidence? Are we to be saved because we are good, or because another was
virtuous? Is credulity to be winged and crowned, whilst honest doubt is
chained and damned.

If Jehovah, was in fact God, he knew the end from the beginning. He
knew that his Bible would be a breast-work behind which all tyranny
and hypocrisy would crouch. He knew that his Bible would be the
auction-block on which women would stand while their babes were sold
from their arms. He knew that this Bible would be quoted by tyrants;
that it would be the defence of robbers called kings, and of hypocrites
called priests. He knew that he had taught the Jewish people nothing of
importance. He knew that he had found them free and left them slaves. He
knew that he had never fulfilled a single promise made to them. He knew
that while other nations had advanced in art and science his chosen
people were savage still. He promised them the world, and gave them a
desert. He promised them liberty and he made them slaves. He promised
them victory and he gave them defeat. He said they should be kings and
he made them serfs. He promised them universal empire and gave them
exile. When one finishes the Old Testament he is compelled to say:
"Nothing can add to the misery of a nation whose king is Jehovah!"

The Old Testament filled this world with tyranny and injustice, and the
New gives us a future filled with pain for nearly all of the sons of
men.

The Old Testament describes the hell of the past, and the New the hell
of the future.

The Old Testament tells us the frightful things that God has done, the
New the frightful things that he will do.

These two books give us the sufferings of the past and the future—the
injustice, the agony and the tears of both worlds.
---
# About the Holy Bible
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1894_
SOMEBODY ought to tell the truth about the Bible. The preachers dare
not, because they would be driven from their pulpits. Professors in
colleges dare not, because they would lose their salaries. Politicians
dare not. They would be defeated. Editors dare not. They would lose
subscribers. Merchants dare not, because they might lose customers. Men
of fashion dare not, fearing that they would lose caste. Even clerks
dare not, because they might be discharged. And so I thought I would do
it myself.

There are many millions of people who believe the Bible to be the
inspired word of God—millions who think that this book is staff and
guide, counselor and consoler; that it fills the present with peace and
the future with hope—millions who believe that it is the fountain of
law, justice and mercy, and that to its wise and benign teachings the
world is indebted for its liberty, wealth and civilization—millions
who imagine that this book is a revelation from the wisdom and love of
God to the brain and heart of man—millions who regard this book as a
torch that conquers the darkness of death, and pours its radiance on
another world—a world without a tear.

They forget its ignorance and savagery, its hatred of liberty, its
religious persecution; they remember heaven, but they forget the dungeon
of eternal pain.

They forget that it imprisons the brain and corrupts the heart. They
forget that it is the enemy of intellectual freedom. Liberty is my
religion. Liberty of hand and brain—of thought and labor.

Liberty is a word hated by kings—loathed by popes. It is a word that
shatters thrones and altars—that leaves the crowned without subjects,
and the outstretched hand of superstition without alms. Liberty is the
blossom and fruit of justice—the perfume of mercy. Liberty is the seed
and soil, the air and light, the dew and rain of progress, love and joy.

## I. The Origin of the Bible.

A FEW wandering families—poor, wretched, without education, art or
power; descendants of those who had been enslaved for four hundred
years; ignorant as the inhabitants of Central Africa, had just escaped
from their masters to the desert of Sinai.

Their leader was Moses, a man who had been raised in the family of
Pharaoh and had been taught the law and mythology of Egypt. For the
purpose of controlling his followers he pretended that he was instructed
and assisted by Jehovah, the God of these wanderers.

Everything that happened was attributed to the interference of this God.
Moses declared that he met this God face to face; that on Sinai's top
from the hands of this God he had received the tables of stone on which,
by the finger of this God, the Ten Commandments had been written, and
that, in addition to this, Jehovah had made known the sacrifices and
ceremonies that were pleasing to him and the laws by which the people
should be governed.

In this way the Jewish religion and the Mosaic Code were established.

It is now claimed that this religion and these laws were and are
revealed and established for all mankind.

At that time these wanderers had no commerce with other nations, they
had no written language, they could neither read nor write. They had no
means by which they could make this revelation known to other nations,
and so it remained buried in the jargon of a few ignorant, impoverished
and unknown tribes for more than two thousand years.

Many centuries after Moses, the leader, was dead—many centuries after
all his followers had passed away—the Pentateuch was written, the work
of many writers, and to give it force and authority it was claimed that
Moses was the author.

We now know that the Pentateuch was not written by Moses.

Towns are mentioned that were not in existence when Moses lived.

Money, not coined until centuries after his death, is mentioned.

So, many of the laws were not applicable to wanderers on the
desert—laws about agriculture, about the sacrifice of oxen, sheep and
doves, about the weaving of cloth, about ornaments of gold and silver,
about the cultivation of land, about harvest, about the threshing of
grain, about houses and temples, about cities of refuge, and about many
other subjects of no possible application to a few starving wanderers
over the sands and rocks.

It is now not only admitted by intelligent and honest theologians that
Moses was not the author of the Pentateuch, but they all admit that no
one knows who the authors were, or who wrote any one of these books, or
a chapter or a line. We know that the books were not written in the same
generation; that they were not all written by one person; that they are
filled with mistakes and contradictions.

It is also admitted that Joshua did not write the book that bears his
name, because it refers to events that did not happen until long after
his death.

No one knows, or pretends to know, the author of Judges; all we know is
that it was written centuries after all the judges had ceased to exist.
No one knows the author of Ruth, nor of First and Second Samuel; all we
know is that Samuel did not write the books that bear his name. In the
25th chapter of First Samuel is an account of Samuel's death, and in
the 27th chapter is an account of the raising of Samuel by the Witch of
Endor.

No one knows the author of First and Second Kings or First and Second
Chronicles; all we know is that these books are of no value.

We know that the Psalms were not written by David. In the Psalms the
Captivity is spoken of, and that did not happen until about five hundred
years after David slept with his fathers.

We know that Solomon did not write the Proverbs or the Song; that Isaiah
was not the author of the book that bears his name; that no one knows
the author of Job, Ecclesiastes, or Esther, or of any book in the Old
Testament, with the exception of Ezra.

We know that God is not mentioned or in any way referred to in the book
of Esther. We know, too, that the book is cruel, absurd and impossible.

God is not mentioned in the Song of Solomon, the best book in the Old
Testament.

And we know that Ecclesiastes was written by an unbeliever.

We know, too, that the Jews themselves had not decided as to what books
were inspired—were authentic—until the second century after Christ.

We know that the idea of inspiration was of slow growth, and that the
inspiration was determined by those who had certain ends to accomplish.

II.

IF it is, it should be a book that no man—no number of men—could
produce.

It should contain the perfection of philosophy.

It should perfectly accord with every fact in nature.

There should be no mistakes in astronomy, geology, or as to any subject
or science.

Its morality should be the highest, the purest.

Its laws and regulations for the control of conduct should be just,
wise, perfect, and perfectly adapted to the accomplishment of the ends
desired.

It should contain nothing calculated to make man cruel, revengeful,
vindictive or infamous.

It should be filled with intelligence, justice, purity, honesty, mercy
and the spirit of liberty.

It should be opposed to strife and war, to slavery and lust, to
ignorance, credulity and superstition.

It should develop the brain and civilize the heart.

It should satisfy the heart and brain of the best and wisest.

It should be true.

Does the Old Testament satisfy this standard?

Is there anything in the Old Testament—in history, in theory, in law,
in government, in morality, in science—above and beyond the ideas, the
beliefs, the customs and prejudices of its authors and the people among
whom they lived?

Is there one ray of light from any supernatural source?

The ancient Hebrews believed that this earth was the centre of the
universe, and that the sun, moon and stars were specks in the sky.

With this the Bible agrees.

They thought the earth was flat, with four corners; that the sky, the
firmament, was solid—the floor of Jehovah's house.

The Bible teaches the same.

They imagined that the sun journeyed about the earth, and that by
stopping the sun the day could be lengthened.

The Bible agrees with this.

They believed that Adam and Eve were the first man and woman; that they
had been created but a few years before, and that they, the Hebrews,
were their direct descendants.

This the Bible teaches.

If anything is, or can be, certain, the writers of the Bible were
mistaken about creation, astronomy, geology; about the causes of
phenomena, the origin of evil and the cause of death.

Now, it must be admitted that if an Infinite Being is the author of
the Bible, he knew all sciences, all facts, and could not have made a
mistake.

If, then, there are mistakes, misconceptions, false theories, ignorant
myths and blunders in the Bible, it must have been written by finite
beings; that is to say, by ignorant and mistaken men.

Nothing can be clearer than this.

For centuries the church insisted that the Bible was absolutely true;
that it contained no mistakes; that the story of creation was true;
that its astronomy and geology were in accord with the facts; that
the scientists who differed with the Old Testament were infidels and
atheists.

Now this has changed. The educated Christians admit that the writers of
the Bible were not inspired as to any science. They now say that God,
or Jehovah, did not inspire the writers of his book for the purpose of
instructing the world about astronomy, geology, or any science. They
now admit that the inspired men who wrote the Old Testament knew nothing
about any science, and that they wrote about the earth and stars, the
sun and moon, in accordance with the general ignorance of the time.

It required many centuries to force the theologians to this admission.
Reluctantly, full of malice and hatred, the priests retired from the
field, leaving the victory with science.

They took another position:

They declared that the authors, or rather the writers, of the Bible
were inspired in spiritual and moral things; that Jehovah wanted to make
known to his children his will and his infinite love for his children;
that Jehovah, seeing his people wicked, ignorant and depraved, wished to
make them merciful and just, wise and spiritual, and that the Bible is
inspired in its laws, in the religion it teaches and in its ideas of
government.

This is the issue now. Is the Bible any nearer right in its ideas of
justice, of mercy, of morality or of religion than in its conception of
the sciences?

Is it moral?

It upholds slavery—it sanctions polygamy.

Could a devil have done worse?

Is it merciful?

In war it raised the black flag; it commanded the destruction, the
massacre, of all—of the old, infirm, and helpless—of wives and babes.

Were its laws inspired?

Hundreds of offences were punished with death. To pick up sticks on
Sunday, to murder your father on Monday, were equal crimes. There is
in the literature of the world no bloodier code. The law of revenge—of
retaliation—was the law of Jehovah. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a
tooth, a limb for a limb.

This is savagery—not philosophy.

Is it just and reasonable?

The Bible is opposed to religious toleration—to religious liberty.
Whoever differed with the majority was stoned to death. Investigation
was a crime. Husbands were ordered to denounce and to assist in killing
their unbelieving wives.

It is the enemy of Art. "Thou shalt make no graven image." This was the
death of Art.

Palestine never produced a painter or a sculptor.

Is the Bible civilized?

It upholds lying, larceny, robbery, murder, the selling of diseased meat
to strangers, and even the sacrifice of human beings to Jehovah.

Is it philosophical?

It teaches that the sins of a people can be transferred to an animal—to
a goat. It makes maternity an offence for which a sin offering had to be
made.

It was wicked to give birth to a boy, and twice as wicked to give birth
to a girl.

To make hair-oil like that used by the priests was an offence punishable
with death.

The blood of a bird killed over running water was regarded as medicine.

Would a civilized God daub his altars with the blood of oxen, lambs and
doves? Would he make all his priests butchers? Would he delight in the
smell of burning flesh?

## III. The Ten Commandments

SOME Christian lawyers—some eminent and stupid judges—have said and
still say, that the Ten Commandments are the foundation of all law.

Nothing could be more absurd. Long before these commandments were
given there were codes of laws in India and Egypt—laws against murder,
perjury, larceny, adultery and fraud. Such laws are as old as human
society; as old as the love of life; as old as industry; as the idea of
prosperity; as old as human love.

All of the Ten Commandments that are good were old; all that were new
are foolish. If Jehovah had been civilized he would have left out the
commandment about keeping the Sabbath, and in its place would have said:
"Thou shalt not enslave thy fellow-men." He would have omitted the one
about swearing, and said: "The man shall have but one wife, and the
woman but one husband." He would have left out the one about graven
images, and in its stead would have said: "Thou shalt not wage wars
of extermination, and thou shalt not unsheathe the sword except in
self-defence."

If Jehovah, had been civilized, how much grander the Ten Commandments
would have been.

All that we call progress—the enfranchisement of man, of labor, the
substitution of imprisonment for death, of fine for imprisonment, the
destruction of polygamy, the establishing of free speech, of the rights
of conscience; in short, all that has tended to the development and
civilization of man; all the results of investigation, observation,
experience and free thought; all that man has accomplished for the
benefit of man since the close of the Dark Ages—has been done in spite
of the Old Testament.

Let me further illustrate the morality, the mercy, the philosophy and
goodness of the Old Testament:

## The Story of Achan

Joshua took the City of Jericho. Before the fall of the city he declared
that all the spoil taken should be given to the Lord.

In spite of this order Achan secreted a garment, some silver and gold.

Afterward Joshua tried to take the city of Ai. He failed and many of his
soldiers were slain.

Joshua sought for the cause of his defeat and he found that Achan had
secreted a garment, two hundred shekels of silver and a wedge of gold.
To this Achan confessed.

And thereupon Joshua took Achan, his sons and his daughters, his oxen
and his sheep—stoned them all to death and burned their bodies.

There is nothing to show that the sons and Daughters had committed any
crime. Certainly, the oxen and sheep should not have been stoned to
death for the crime of their owner. This was the justice, the mercy, of
Jehovah!

After Joshua had committed this crime, with the help of Jehovah he
captured the city of Ai.

## The Story of Elisha

"And he went up thence unto Bethel, and as he was going up by the way
there came forth little children out of the city and mocked him, and
said unto him, 'Go up, thou baldhead.'

"And he turned back and looked at them, and cursed them in the name of
the Lord. And there came forth two she-bears out of the wood and tore
forty and two children of them."

This was the work of the good God—the merciful Jehovah!

## The Story of Daniel

King Darius had honored and exalted Daniel, and the native princes were
jealous. So they induced the king to sign a decree to the effect that
any man who should make a petition to any god or man except to King
Darius, for thirty days, should be cast into the den of lions.

Afterward these men found that Daniel, with his face toward Jerusalem,
prayed three times a day to Jehovah.

Thereupon Daniel was cast into the den of lions; a stone was placed at
the mouth of the den and sealed with the king's seal.

The king passed a bad night. The next morning he went to the den and
cried out to Daniel. Daniel answered and told the king that God had sent
his angel and shut the mouths of the lions.

Daniel was taken out alive and well, and the king was converted and
believed in Daniel's God.

Darius, being then a believer in the true God, sent for the men who had
accused Daniel, and for their wives and their children, and cast them
all into the lions' den.

"And the lions had the mastery of them, and brake all their bones in
pieces, or ever they came at the bottom of the pit."

What had the wives and little children done? How had they offended King
Darius, the believer in Jehovah? Who protected Daniel? Jehovah! Who
failed to protect the innocent wives and children? Jehovah!

## The Story of Joseph

Pharaoh had a dream, and this dream was interpreted by Joseph.

According to this interpretation there was to be in Egypt seven years of
plenty, followed by seven years of famine. Joseph advised Pharaoh to buy
all the surplus of the seven plentiful years and store it up against the
years of famine.

Pharaoh appointed Joseph as his minister or agent, and ordered him to
buy the grain of the plentiful years.

Then came the famine. The people came to the king for help. He told them
to go to Joseph and do as he said.

Joseph sold corn to the Egyptians until all their money was gone—until
he had it all.

When the money was gone the people said: "Give us corn and we will give
you our cattle."

Joseph let them have corn until all their cattle, their horses and their
flocks had been given to him.

Then the people said: "Give us corn and we will give you our lands."

So Joseph let them have corn until all their lands were gone.

But the famine continued, and so the poor wretches sold themselves, and
they became the servants of Pharoah.

Then Joseph gave them seed, and made an agreement with them that they
should forever give one-fifth of all they raised to Pharaoh.

Who enabled Joseph to interpret the dream of Pharaoh? Jehovah! Did he
know at the time that Joseph would use the information thus given to rob
and enslave the people of Egypt? Yes. Who produced the famine? Jehovah!

It is perfectly apparent that the Jews did not think of Jehovah as the
God of Egypt—the God of all the world. He was their God, and theirs
alone. Other nations had gods, but Jehovah was the greatest of all. He
hated other nations and other gods, and abhorred all religions except
the worship of himself.

## IV. What is it All Worth?

WILL some Christian scholar tell us the value of Genesis?

We know that it is not true—that it contradicts itself. There are two
accounts of the creation in the first and second chapters. In the first
account birds and beasts were created before man.

In the second, man was created before the birds and beasts.

In the first, fowls are made out of the water.

In the second, fowls are made out of the ground.

In the first, Adam and Eve are created together.

In the second, Adam is made; then the beasts and birds, and then Eve is
created from one of Adam's ribs.

These stories are far older than the Pentateuch.

Persian: God created the world in six days, a man called Adama, a woman
called Evah, and then rested.

The Etruscan, Babylonian, Phoenician, Chaldean and the Egyptian stories
are much the same.

The Persians, Greeks, Egyptians, Chinese and

Hindus have their Garden of Eden and the Tree of Life.

So the Persians, the Babylonians, the Nubians, the people of Southern
India, all had the story of the fall of man and the subtle serpent.

The Chinese say that sin came into the world by the disobedience of
woman. And even the Tahitians tell us that man was created from the
earth, and the first woman from one of his bones.

All these stories are equally authentic and of equal value to the world,
and all the authors were equally inspired.

We know also that the story of the flood is much older than the book of
Genesis, and we know besides that it is not true.

We know that this story in Genesis was copied from the Chaldean. There
you find all about the rain, the ark, the animals, the dove that was
sent out three times, and the mountain on which the ark rested.

So the Hindus, Chinese, Parsees, Persians, Greeks, Mexicans and
Scandinavians have substantially the same story.

We also know that the account of the Tower of Babel is an ignorant and
childish fable.

What then is left in this inspired book of

Genesis? Is there a word calculated to develop the heart or brain? Is
there an elevated thought—any great principle—anything poetic—any
word that bursts into blossom?

Is there anything except a dreary and detailed statement of things that
never happened?

Is there anything in Exodus calculated to make men generous, loving and
noble?

Is it well to teach children that God tortured the innocent cattle of
the Egyptians—bruised them to death with hailstones—on account of the
sins of Pharoah?

Does it make us merciful to believe that God killed the firstborn of the
Egyptians—the firstborn of the poor and suffering people—of the poor
girl working at the mill—because of the wickedness of the king?

Can we believe that the gods of Egypt worked miracles? Did they change
water into blood, and sticks into serpents?

In Exodus there is not one original thought or line of value.

We know, if we know anything, that this book was written by
savages—savages who believed in slavery, polygamy and wars of
extermination. We know that the story told is impossible, and that the
miracles were never performed. This book admits that there are other
gods besides Jehovah. In the 17th chapter is this verse: "Now I know
that the Lord is greater than all gods, for, in the thing wherein they
dealt proudly, he was above them."

So, in this blessed book is taught the duty of human sacrifice—the
sacrifice of babes.

In the 22d chapter is this command: "Thou shalt not delay to offer the
first of thy ripe fruits and of thy liquors: the first-born of thy sons
thou shalt give unto me."

Has Exodus been a help or a hindrance to the human race?

Take from Exodus the laws common to all nations, and is there anything
of value left?

Is there anything in Leviticus of importance? Is there a chapter worth
reading? What interest have we in the clothes of priests, the curtains
and candles of the tabernacle, the tongs and shovels of the altar or the
hair-oil used by the Levites?

Of what use the cruel code, the frightful punishments, the curses, the
falsehoods and the miracles of this ignorant and infamous book?

And what is there in the book of Numbers—with its sacrifices and water
of jealousy, with its shew-bread and spoons, its kids and fine flour,
its oil and candlesticks, its cucumbers, onions and manna—to assist and
instruct mankind? What interest have we in the rebellion of Korah, the
water of separation, the ashes of a red heifer, the brazen serpent, the
water that followed the people uphill and down for forty years, and
the inspired donkey of the prophet Balaam? Have these absurdities and
cruelties—these childish, savage superstitions—helped to civilize the
world?

Is there anything in Joshua—with its wars, its murders and massacres,
its swords dripping with the blood of mothers and babes, its
tortures, maimings and mutilations, its fraud and fury, its hatred and
revenge—calculated to improve the world?

Does not every chapter shock the heart of a good man? Is it a book to be
read by children?

The book of Joshua is as merciless as famine, as ferocious as the heart
of a wild beast. It is a history—a justification—a sanctification of
nearly every crime.

The book of Judges is about the same, nothing but war and bloodshed;
the horrible story of Jael and Sisera; of Gideon and his trumpets
and pitchers; of Jephtha and his daughter, whom he murdered to please
Jehovah.

Here we find the story of Samson, in which a sun-god is changed to a
Hebrew giant.

Read this book of Joshua—read of the slaughter of women, of wives, of
mothers and babes—read its impossible miracles, its ruthless crimes,
and all done according to the commands of Jehovah, and tell me whether
this book is calculated to make us forgiving, generous and loving.

I admit that the history of Ruth is in some respects a beautiful and
touching story; that it is naturally told, and that her love for Naomi
was deep and pure. But in the matter of courtship we would hardly advise
our daughters to follow the example of Ruth. Still, we must remember
that Ruth was a widow.

Is there anything worth reading in the first and second books of Samuel?
Ought a prophet of God to hew a captured king in pieces? Is the story of
the ark, its capture and return of importance to us? Is it possible that
it was right, just and merciful to kill fifty thousand men because they
had looked into a box? Of what use to us are the wars of Saul and David,
the stories of Goliath and the Witch of Endor? Why should Jehovah have
killed Uzzah for putting forth his hand to steady the ark, and forgiven
David for murdering Uriah and stealing his wife?

According to "Samuel," David took a census of the people. This excited
the wrath of Jehovah, and as a punishment he allowed David to choose
seven years of famine, a flight of three months from pursuing enemies,
or three days of pestilence. David, having confidence in God, chose the
three days of pestilence; and, thereupon, God, the compassionate, on
account of the sin of David, killed seventy thousand innocent men!

Under the same circumstances, what would a devil have done?

Is there anything in First and Second Kings that suggests the idea of
inspiration?

When David is dying he tells his son Solomon to murder Joab—not to let
his hoar head go down to the grave in peace. With his last breath he
commands his son to bring down the hoar head of Shimei to the grave
with blood. Having uttered these merciful words, the good David, the man
after God's heart, slept with his fathers.

Was it necessary to inspire the man who wrote the history of the
building of the temple, the story of the visit of the Queen of Sheba, or
to tell the number of Solomon's wives?

What care we for the withering of Jereboam's hand, the prophecy of Jehu,
or the story of Elijah and the ravens?

Can we believe that Elijah brought flames from heaven, or that he went
at last to Paradise in a chariot of fire?

Can we believe in the multiplication of the widow's oil by Elisha, that
an army was smitten with blindness, or that an axe floated in the water?

Does it civilize us to read about the beheading of the seventy sons
of Ahab, the putting out of the eyes of Zedekiah and the murder of his
sons? Is there one word in First and Second Kings calculated to make men
better?

First and Second Chronicles is but a re-telling of what is told in First
and Second Kings. The same old stories—a little left out, a little
added, but in no respect made better or worse.

The book of Ezra is of no importance. He tells us that Cyrus, King of
Persia, issued a proclamation for building a temple at Jerusalem, and
that he declared Jehovah to be the real and only God.

Nothing could be more absurd. Ezra tells us about the return from
captivity, the building of the temple, the dedication, a few prayers,
and this is all. This book is of no importance, of no use.

Nehemiah is about the same, only it tells of the building of the wall,
the complaints of the people about taxes, a list of those who returned
from Babylon, a catalogue of those who dwelt at Jerusalem, and the
dedication of the walls.

Not a word in Nehemiah worth reading.

Then comes the book of Esther:

In this we are told that King Ahasueras was intoxicated; that he sent
for his Queen, Vashti, to come and show herself to him and his guests.
Vashti refused to appear.

This maddened the king, and he ordered that from every province the most
beautiful girls should be brought before him that he might choose one in
place of Vashti.

Among others was brought Esther, a Jewess. She was chosen and became the
wife of the king. Then a gentleman by the name of Haman wanted to have
all the Jews killed, and the king, not knowing that Esther was of that
race, signed a decree that all the Jews should be killed.

Through the efforts of Mordecai and Esther the decree was annulled and
the Jews were saved.

Haman prepared a gallows on which to have Mordecai hanged, but the good
Esther so managed matters that Haman and his ten sons were hanged on the
gallows that Haman had built, and the Jews were allowed to murder more
than seventy-five thousand of the king's subjects.

This is the inspired story of Esther.

In the book of Job we find some elevated sentiments, some sublime and
foolish thoughts, something of the wonder and sublimity of nature, the
joys and sorrows of life; but the story is infamous.

Some of the Psalms are good, many are indifferent, and a few are
infamous. In them are mingled the vices and virtues. There are verses
that elevate, verses that degrade. There are prayers for forgiveness and
revenge. In the literature of the world there is nothing more heartless,
more infamous, than the 109th Psalm.

In the Proverbs there is much shrewdness, many pithy and prudent maxims,
many wise sayings. The same ideas are expressed in many ways—the wisdom
of economy and silence, the dangers of vanity and idleness. Some are
trivial, some are foolish, and many are wise. These proverbs are not
generous—not altruistic. Sayings to the same effect are found among all
nations.

Ecclesiastes is the most thoughtful book in the Bible. It was written by
an unbeliever—a philosopher—an agnostic. Take out the interpolations,
and it is in accordance with the thought of the nineteenth century.
In this book are found the most philosophic and poetic passages in the
Bible.

After crossing the desert of death and crime—after reading the
Pentateuch, Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings and Chronicles—it is
delightful to reach this grove of palms, called the "Song of Solomon." A
drama of love—of human love; a poem without Jehovah—a poem born of the
heart and true to the divine instincts of the soul.

"I sleep, but my heart waketh."

Isaiah is the work of several. Its swollen words, its vague imagery,
its prophecies and curses, its ravings against kings and nations, its
laughter at the wisdom of man, its hatred of joy, have not the slightest
tendency to increase the well-being of man.

In this book is recorded the absurdest of all miracles. The shadow on
the dial is turned back ten degrees, in order to satisfy Hezekiah that
Jehovah will add fifteen years to his life.

In this miracle the world, turning from west to east at the rate of more
than a thousand miles an hour, is not only stopped, but made to turn the
other way until the shadow on the dial went back ten degrees! Is
there in the whole world an intelligent man or woman who believes this
impossible falsehood?

Jeremiah contains nothing of importance—no facts of value; nothing but
fault-finding, lamentations, croakings, wailings, curses and promises;
nothing but famine and prayer, the prosperity of the wicked, the ruin of
the Jews, the captivity and return, and at last Jeremiah, the traitor,
in the stocks and in prison.

And Lamentations is simply a continuance of the ravings of the same
insane pessimist; nothing but dust and sackcloth and ashes, tears and
howls, railings and revilings.

And Ezekiel—eating manuscripts, prophesying siege and desolation, with
visions of coals of fire, and cherubim, and wheels with eyes, and
the type and figure of the boiling pot, and the resurrection of dry
bones—is of no use, of no possible value.

With Voltaire, I say that any one who admires Ezekiel should be
compelled to dine with him.

Daniel is a disordered dream—a nightmare.

What can be made of this book with its image with a golden head, with
breast and arms of silver, with belly and thighs of brass, with legs of
iron, and with feet of iron and clay; with its writing on the wall, its
den of lions, and its vision of the ram and goat?

Is there anything to be learned from Hosea and his wife? Is there
anything of use in Joel, in Amos, in Obadiah? Can we get any good from
Jonah and his gourd? Is it possible that God is the real author of
Micah and Nahum, of Habakkuk and Zephaniah, of Haggai and Malachi and
Zechariah, with his red horses, his four horns, his four carpenters, his
flying roll, his mountains of brass and the stone with four eyes?

Is there anything in these "inspired" books that has been of benefit to
man?

Have they taught us how to cultivate the earth, to build houses, to
weave cloth, to prepare food? Have they taught us to paint pictures, to
chisel statues, to build bridges, or ships, or anything of beauty or of
use? Did we get our ideas of government, of religious freedom, of the
liberty of thought, from the Old Testament? Did we get from any of these
books a hint of any science? Is there in the "sacred volume" a word, a
line, that has added to the wealth, the intelligence and the happiness
of mankind? Is there one of the books of the Old Testament as
entertaining as "Robinson Crusoe," "The Travels of Gulliver," or "Peter
Wilkins and his Flying Wife"? Did the author of Genesis know as much
about nature as Humboldt, or Darwin, or Haeckel? Is what is called the
Mosaic Code as wise or as merciful as the code of any civilized nation?
Were the writers of Kings and Chronicles as great historians, as great
writers, as Gibbon and Draper? Is Jeremiah, or Habakkuk equal to Dickens
or Thackeray? Can the authors of Job and the Psalms be compared with
Shakespeare? Why should we attribute the best to man and the worst to
God?

## V. Was Jehovah a God of Love?

Did these words come from the heart of love?—

"When the Lord thy God shall drive them before thee, thou shalt smite
them and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant with them, or
show mercy unto them."

"I will heap mischief upon them. I will send mine arrows upon them;
they shall be burned with hunger and devoured with burning heat and with
bitter destruction."

"I will send the tooth of beasts upon them, with the poison of serpents
of the dust."

"The sword without, and terror within, shall destroy both the young man
and the virgin; the suckling also with the man of gray hairs."

"Let his children be fatherless and his wife a widow; let his children
be continually vagabonds and beg; let them seek their bread also out of
their desolate places; let the extortioner catch all that he hath, and
let the stranger spoil his labor; let there be none to extend mercy unto
him, neither let there be any to favor his fatherless children."

"And thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body—the flesh of thy sons
and daughters."

"And the heaven that is over thee shall be brass, and the earth that is
under thee shall be iron."

"Cursed shalt thou be in the city, and cursed shalt thou be in the
field."

"I will make my arrows drunk with blood."

"I will laugh at their calamity.".

Did these curses, these threats, come from the heart of love or from the
mouth of savagery?

Was Jehovah god or devil?

Why should we place Jehovah above all the gods?

Has man in his ignorance and fear ever imagined a greater monster?

Have the barbarians of any land, in any time, worshiped a more heartless
god?

Brahma was a thousand times nobler, and so was Osiris and Zeus and
Jupiter. So was the supreme god of the Aztecs, to whom they offered only
the perfume of flowers. The worst god of the Hindus, with his necklace
of skulls and his bracelets of living snakes, was kind and merciful
compared with Jehovah.

Compared with Marcus Aurelius, how small Jehovah seems. Compared with
Abraham Lincoln, how cruel, how contemptible, is this god.

## VI. Jehovah's Administration.

HE created the world, the hosts of heaven, a man and woman—placed them
in a garden. Then the serpent deceived them, and they were cast out and
made to earn their bread.

Jehovah had been thwarted.

Then he tried again. He went on for about sixteen hundred years trying
to civilize the people.

No schools, no churches, no Bible, no tracts—nobody taught to read or
write. No Ten Commandments. The people grew worse and worse, until the
merciful Jehovah sent the flood and drowned all the people except Noah
and his family, eight in all.

Then he started again, and changed their diet. At first Adam and Eve
were vegetarians. After the flood Jehovah said: "Every moving thing that
liveth shall be meat for you"—snakes and buzzards.

Then he failed again, and at the Tower of Babel he dispersed and
scattered the people.

Finding that he could not succeed with all the people, he thought he
would try a few, so he selected Abraham and his descendants. Again he
failed, and his chosen people were captured by the Egyptians and
enslaved for four hundred years.

Then he tried again—rescued them from Pharaoh and started for
Palestine.

Then he changed their diet, allowing them to eat only the beasts that
parted the hoof and chewed the cud. Again he failed. The people hated
him, and preferred the slavery of Egypt to the freedom of Jehovah. So he
kept them wandering until nearly all who came from Egypt had died.
Then he tried again—took them into Palestine and had them governed by
judges.

This, too, was a failure—no schools, no Bible. Then he tried kings, and
the kings were mostly idolaters.

Then the chosen people were conquered and carried into captivity by the
Babylonians.

Another failure.

Then they returned, and Jehovah tried prophets—howlers and wailers—but
the people grew worse and worse. No schools, no sciences, no arts, no
commerce. Then Jehovah took upon himself flesh, was born of a woman, and
lived among the people that he had been trying to civilize for several
thousand years. Then these people, following the law that Jehovah
had given them in the wilderness, charged this Jehovah-man—this
Christ—with blasphemy; tried, convicted and killed him.

Jehovah had failed again.

Then he deserted the Jews and turned his attention to the rest of the
world.

And now the Jews, deserted by Jehovah, persecuted by Christians, are the
most prosperous people on the earth. Again has Jehovah failed.

What an administration!

## VII. The New Testament.

WHO wrote the New Testament?

Christian scholars admit that they do not know. They admit that, if the
four gospels were written by Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, they must
have been written in Hebrew. And yet a Hebrew manuscript of any one of
these gospels has never been found. All have been and are in Greek.
So, educated theologians admit that the Epistles, James and Jude, were
written by persons who had never seen one of the four gospels. In these
Epistles—in James and Jude—no reference is made to any of the gospels,
nor to any miracle recorded in them.

The first mention that has been found of one of our gospels was made
about one hundred and eighty years after the birth of Christ, and the
four gospels were first named and quoted from at the beginning of the
third century, about one hundred and seventy years after the death of
Christ.

We now know that there were many other gospels besides our four, some of
which have been lost.

There were the gospels of Paul, of the Egyptians, of the Hebrews, of
Perfection, of Judas, of Thaddeus, of the Infancy, of Thomas, of Mary,
of Andrew, of Nicodemus, of Marcion and several others.

So there were the Acts of Pilate, of Andrew, of Mary, of Paul and Thecla
and of many others; also a book called the Shepherd of Hermas.

At first not one of all the books was considered as inspired. The Old
Testament was regarded as di vine; but the books that now constitute the
New Testament were regarded as human productions. We now know that we do
not know who wrote the four gospels.

The question is, Were the authors of these four gospels inspired?

If they were inspired, then the four gospels must be true. If they are
true, they must agree.

The four gospels do not agree.

Matthew, Mark and Luke knew nothing of the atonement, nothing of
salvation by faith. They knew only the gospel of good deeds—of charity.
They teach that if we forgive others God will forgive us.

With this the gospel of John does not agree.

In that gospel we are taught that we must believe on the Lord Jesus
Christ; that we must be born again; that we must drink the blood and
eat the flesh of Christ. In this gospel we find the doctrine of the
atonement and that Christ died for us and suffered in our place.

This gospel is utterly at variance with, the other three. If the other
three are true, the gospel of John is false. If the gospel of John
was written by an inspired man, the writers of the other three were
uninspired. From this there is no possible escape. The four cannot be
true.

It is evident that there are many interpolations in the four gospels.

For instance, in the 28th chapter of Matthew is an account to the effect
that the soldiers at the tomb of Christ were bribed to say that the
disciples of Jesus stole away his body while they, the soldiers, slept.

This is clearly an interpolation. It is a break in the narrative.

The 10th verse should be followed by the 16th. The 10th verse is as
follows:

"Then Jesus said unto them, 'Be not afraid; go tell my brethren that
they go unto Galilee and there shall they see me.'"

The 16th verse:

"Then the eleven disciples went away unto Galilee into a mountain, where
Jesus had appointed them."

The story about the soldiers contained in the 11th, 12th, 13th, 14th and
15th verses is an interpolation—an afterthought—long after. The 15th
verse demonstrates this.

Fifteenth verse: "So they took the money and did as they were taught.
And this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day."

Certainly this account was not in the original gospel, and certainly
the 15th verse was not written by a Jew. No Jew could have written this:
"And this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day."

Mark, John and Luke never heard that the soldiers had been bribed by the
priests; or, if they had, did not think it worth while recording. So
the accounts of the Ascension of Jesus Christ in Mark and Luke are
interpolations. Matthew says nothing about the Ascension.

Certainly there never was a greater miracle, and yet Matthew, who was
present—who saw the Lord rise, ascend and disappear—did not think it
worth mentioning.

On the other hand, the last words of Christ, according to Matthew,
contradict the Ascension: "Lo I am with you always, even unto the end of
the world." John, who was present, if Christ really ascended, says not
one word on the subject.

As to the Ascension, the gospels do not agree. Mark gives the last
conversation that Christ had with his disciples, as follows:

"Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature. He
that believeth and is baptised shall be saved; but he that believeth not
shall be damned. And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my
name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They
shall take up serpents, and if they drink any deadly thing it shall not
hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick and they shall recover.
So, then, after the Lord had spoken unto them, he was received up into
heaven and sat on the right hand of God."

Is it possible that this description was written by one who witnessed
this miracle?

This miracle is described by Luke as follows: "And it came to pass while
he blessed them he was parted from them and carried up into heaven."

"Brevity is the soul of wit."

In the Acts we are told that: "When he had spoken, while they beheld, he
was taken up, and a cloud received him out of their sight."

Neither Luke, nor Matthew, nor John, nor the writer of the Acts, heard
one word of the conversation attributed to Christ by Mark. The fact is
that the Ascension of Christ was not claimed by his disciples.

At first Christ was a man—nothing more. Mary was his mother, Joseph his
father. The genealogy of his father, Joseph, was given to show that he
was of the blood of David.

Then the claim was made that he was the son of God, and that his mother
was a virgin, and that she remained a virgin until her death.

Then the claim was made that Christ rose from the dead and ascended
bodily to heaven.

It required many years for these absurdities to take possession of the
minds of men.

If Christ rose from the dead, why did he not appear to his enemies?
Why did he not call on Caiaphas, the high priest? Why did he not make
another triumphal entry into Jerusalem?

If he really ascended, why did he not do so in public, in the presence
of his persecutors? Why should this, the greatest of miracles, be done
in secret, in a corner?

It was a miracle that could have been seen by a vast multitude—a
miracle that could not be simulated—one that would have convinced
hundreds of thousands.

After the story of the Resurrection, the Ascension became a necessity.
They had to dispose of the body.

So there are many other interpolations in the gospels and epistles.

Again I ask: Is the New Testament true? Does anybody now believe that at
the birth of Christ there was a celestial greeting; that a star led
the Wise Men of the Bast; that Herod slew the babes of Bethlehem of two
years old and under?

The gospels are filled with accounts of miracles. Were they ever
performed?

Matthew gives the particulars of about twenty-two miracles, Mark of
about nineteen, Luke of about eighteen and John of about seven.

According to the gospels, Christ healed diseases, cast out devils,
rebuked the sea, cured the blind, fed multitudes with five loaves and
two fishes, walked on the sea, cursed a fig tree, turned water into wine
and raised the dead.

Matthew is the only one that tells about the Star and the Wise Men—the
only one that tells about the murder of babes.

John is the only one who says anything about the resurrection of
Lazarus, and Luke is the only one giving an account of the raising from
the dead the widow of Nain's son.

How is it possible to substantiate these miracles?

The Jews, among whom they were said to have been performed, did not
believe them. The diseased, the palsied, the leprous, the blind who were
cured, did not become followers of Christ. Those that were raised from
the dead were never heard of again.

Does any intelligent man believe in the existence of devils? The writer
of three of the gospels certainly did. John says nothing about Christ
having cast out devils, but Matthew, Mark and Luke give many instances.

Does any natural man now believe that Christ cast out devils? If his
disciples said he did, they were mistaken. If Christ said he did, he was
insane or an impostor.

If the accounts of casting out devils are false, then the writers were
ignorant or dishonest. If they wrote through ignorance, then they were
not inspired. If they wrote what they knew to be false, they were not
inspired. If what they wrote is untrue, whether they knew it or not,
they were not inspired.

At that time it was believed that palsy, epilepsy, deafness, insanity
and many other diseases were caused by devils; that devils took
possession of and lived in the bodies of men and women. Christ believed
this, taught this belief to others, and pretended to cure diseases
by casting devils out of the sick and insane. We know now, if we know
anything, that diseases are not caused by the presence of devils. We
know, if we know anything, that devils do not reside in the bodies of
men.

If Christ said and did what the writers of the three gospels say he said
and did, then Christ was mistaken. If he was mistaken, certainly he was
not God. And if he was mistaken, certainly he was not inspired.

Is it a fact that the Devil tried to bribe Christ?

Is it a fact that the Devil carried Christ to the top of the temple and
tried to induce him to leap to the ground?

How can these miracles be established?

The principals have written nothing, Christ has written nothing, and the
Devil has remained silent.

How can we know that the Devil tried to bribe Christ? Who wrote the
account? We do not know. How did the writer get his information? We do
not know.

Somebody, some seventeen hundred years ago, said that the Devil tried to
bribe God; that the Devil carried God to the top of the temple and tried
to induce him to leap to the earth and that God was intellectually too
keen for the Devil.

This is all the evidence we have.

Is there anything in the literature of the world more perfectly idiotic?

Intelligent people no longer believe in witches, wizards, spooks and
devils, and they are perfectly satisfied that every word in the New
Testament about casting out devils is utterly false.

Can we believe that Christ raised the dead?

A widow living in Nain is following the body of her son to the tomb.
Christ halts the funeral procession and raises the young man from the
dead and gives him back to the arms of his mother.

This young man disappears. He is never heard of again. No one takes the
slightest interest in the man who returned from the realm of death. Luke
is the only one who tells the story. Maybe Matthew, Mark and John never
heard of it, or did not believe it and so failed to record it.

John says that Lazarus was raised from the dead; Matthew, Mark and Luke
say nothing about it.

It was more wonderful than the raising of the widow's son. He had not
been laid in the tomb for days. He was only on his way to the grave, but
Lazarus was actually dead. He had begun to decay.

Lazarus did not excite the least interest. No one asked him about the
other world. No one inquired of him about their dead friends.

When he died the second time no one said: "He is not afraid. He has
traveled that road twice and knows just where he is going."

We do not believe in the miracles of Mohammed, and yet they are as well
attested as this. We have no confidence in the miracles performed by
Joseph Smith, and yet the evidence is far greater, far better.

If a man should go about now pretending to raise the dead, pretending to
cast out devils, we would regard him as insane. What, then, can we say
of Christ? If we wish to save his reputation we are compelled to say
that he never pretended to raise the dead; that he never claimed to have
cast out devils.

We must take the ground that these ignorant and impossible things were
invented by zealous disciples, who sought to deify their leader.

In those ignorant days these falsehoods added to the fame of Christ.
But now they put his character in peril and belittle the authors of the
gospels.

Can we now believe that water was changed into wine? John tells of this
childish miracle, and says that the other disciples were present, yet
Matthew, Mark and Luke say nothing about it.

'Take the miracle of the man cured by the pool of Bethseda. John says
that an angel troubled the waters of the pool of Bethseda, and that
whoever got into the pool first after the waters were troubled was
healed.

Does anybody now believe that an angel went into the pool and troubled
the waters? Does anybody now think that the poor wretch who got in first
was healed? Yet the author of the gospel according to John believed and
asserted these absurdities. If he was mistaken about that he may have
been about all the miracles he records.

John is the only one who tells about this pool of Bethseda. Possibly the
other disciples did not believe the story.

How can we account for these pretended miracles?

In the days of the disciples, and for many centuries after, the world
was filled with the supernatural. Nearly everything that happened was
regarded as miraculous. God was the immediate governor of the world. If
the people were good, God sent seed time and harvest; but if they were
bad he sent flood and hail, frost and famine. If anything wonderful
happened it was exaggerated until it became a miracle.

Of the order of events—of the unbroken and the unbreakable chain of
causes and effects—the people had no knowledge and no thought.

A miracle is the badge and brand of fraud. No miracle ever was
performed. No intelligent, honest man ever pretended to perform a
miracle, and never will.

If Christ had wrought the miracles attributed to him; if he had cured
the palsied and insane; if he had given hearing to the deaf, vision to
the blind; if he had cleansed the leper with a word, and with a touch
had given life and feeling to the withered limb; if he had given pulse
and motion, warmth and thought, to cold and breathless clay; if he had
conquered death and rescued from the grave its pallid prey—no word
would have been uttered, no hand raised, except in praise and honor.
In his presence all heads would have been uncovered—all knees upon the
ground.

Is it not strange that at the trial of Christ no one was found to say a
word in his favor? No man stood forth and said: "I was a leper, and this
man cured me with a touch." No woman said: "I am the widow of Nain and
this is my son whom this man raised from the dead."

No man said: "I was blind, and this man gave me sight."

All silent

## VIII. The Philosophy of Christ

MILLIONS assert that the philosophy of Christ is perfect—that he was
the wisest that ever littered speech.

Let us see:

_Resist not evil. If smitten on one cheek turn the other_.

Is there any philosophy, any wisdom in this? Christ takes from goodness,
from virtue, from the truth, the right of self-defence. Vice becomes the
master of the world, and the good become the victims of the infamous.

No man has the right to protect himself, his property, his wife and
children. Government becomes impossible, and the world is at the mercy
of criminals. Is there any absurdity beyond this?

_Love your enemies_.

Is this possible? Did any human being ever love his enemies? Did Christ
love his, when he denounced them as whited sepulchers, hypocrites and
vipers?

We cannot love those who hate us. Hatred in the hearts of others does
not breed love in ours. Not to resist evil is absurd; to love your
enemies is impossible.

_Take no thought for the morrow_.

The idea was that God would take care of us as he did of sparrows and
lilies. Is there the least sense in that belief?

Does God take care of anybody?

Can we live without taking thought for the morrow? To plow, to sow, to
cultivate, to harvest, is to take thought for the morrow. We plan and
work for the future, for our children, for the unborn generations
to come. Without this forethought there could be no progress, no
civilization. The world would go back to the caves and dens of savagery.

_If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out. If thy right hand offend
thee, cut it off._

Why? Because it is better that one of our members should perish than
that the whole body should be cast into hell.

Is there any wisdom in putting out your eyes or cutting off your hands?
Is it possible to extract from these extravagant sayings the smallest
grain of common sense?

_Swear not at all; neither by Heaven, for it is God's throne; nor by
the Earth, for it is his footstool; nor by Jerusalem, for it is his holy
city._

Here we find the astronomy and geology of Christ. Heaven is the throne
of God, the monarch; the earth is his footstool. A footstool that turns
over at the rate of a thousand miles an hour, and sweeps through space
at the rate of over a thousand miles a minute!

Where did Christ think heaven was? Why was Jerusalem a holy city? Was it
because the inhabitants were ignorant, cruel and superstitious?

_If any man will sue thee at the law and take away thy coat let him have
thy cloak also_.

Is there any philosophy, any good sense, in that commandment? Would it
not be just as sensible to say: "If a man obtains a judgment against you
for one hundred dollars, give him two hundred."

Only the insane could give or follow this advice.

_Think not I am come to send peace on earth. I came not to send peace,
but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father,
and the daughter against her mother._

If this is true, how much better it would have been had he remained
away.

Is it possible that he who said, "Resist not evil," came to bring a
sword? That he who said, "Love your enemies," came to destroy the peace
of the world?

To set father against son, and daughter against father—what a glorious
mission!

He did bring a sword, and the sword was wet for a thousand years with
innocent blood. In millions of hearts he sowed the seeds of hatred and
revenge. He divided nations and families, put out the light of reason,
and petrified the hearts of men.

_And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or
father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name's sake,
shall receive an hundredfold, shall inherit everlasting life._

According to the writer of Matthew, Christ, the compassionate, the
merciful, uttered these terrible words. Is it possible that Christ
offered the bribe of eternal joy to those who would desert their
fathers, their mothers, their wives and children? Are we to win the
happiness of heaven by deserting the ones we love? Is a home to be
ruined here for the sake of a mansion there?

And yet it is said that Christ is an example for all the world. Did he
desert his father and mother? He said, speaking to his mother: "Woman,
what have I to do with, thee?"

The Pharisees said unto Christ: "Is it lawful to pay tribute unto Cæsar?"

Christ said: "Show me the tribute money." They brought him a penny. And
he saith unto them: "Whose is the image and the superscription?" They
said: "Cæsar's." And Christ said: "Render unto Cæsar the things that are
Cæsar's."

Did Christ think that the money belonged to Cæsar because his image and
superscription were stamped upon it? Did the penny belong to Cæsar or to
the man who had earned it? Had Cæsar the right to demand it because it
was adorned with his image?

Does it appear from this conversation that Christ understood the real
nature and use of money?

Can we now say that Christ was the greatest of philosophers?

## IX. Is Christ Our Example?

HE never said a word in favor of education. He never even hinted at the
existence of any science. He never uttered a word in favor of industry,
economy or of any effort to better our condition in this world. He was
the enemy of the successful, of the wealthy. Dives was sent to hell, not
because he was bad, but because he was rich. Lazarus went to heaven, not
because he was good, but because he was poor.

Christ cared nothing for painting, for sculpture, for music—nothing for
any art. He said nothing about the duties of nation to nation, of king
to subject; nothing about the rights of man; nothing about intellectual
liberty or the freedom of speech. He said nothing about the sacredness
of home; not one word for the fireside; not a word in favor of marriage,
in honor of maternity.

He never married. He wandered homeless from place to place with a
few disciples. None of them seem to have been engaged in any useful
business, and they seem to have lived on alms. .

All human ties were held in contempt; this world was sacrificed for the
next; all human effort was discouraged. God would support and protect.

At last, in the dusk of death, Christ, finding that he was mistaken,
cried out: "My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?"

We have found that man must depend on himself. He must clear the land;
he must build the home; he must plow and plant; he must invent; he
must work with hand and brain; he must overcome the difficulties and
obstructions; he must conquer and enslave the forces of nature to the
end that they may do the work of the world.

## X. Why Should We Place Christ at the Top and Summit of the Human Race?

AS he kinder, more forgiving, more self-sacrificing than Buddha? Was he
wiser, did he meet death with more perfect calmness, than Socrates?
Was he more patient, more charitable, than Epictetus? Was he a greater
philosopher, a deeper thinker, than Epicurus? In what respect was he the
superior of Zoroaster? Was he gentler than Lao-tsze, more universal than
Confucius? Were his ideas of human rights and duties superior to those
of Zeno? Did he express grander truths than Cicero? Was his mind subtler
than Spinoza's? Was his brain equal to Kepler's or Newton's? Was he
grander in death—a sublimer martyr than Bruno? Was he in intelligence,
in the force and beauty of expression, in breadth and scope of thought,
in wealth of illustration, in aptness of comparison, in knowledge of the
human brain and heart, of all passions, hopes and fears, the equal of
Shakespeare, the greatest of the human race?

If Christ was in fact God, he knew all the future.

Before Him like a panorama moved the history yet to be. He knew how
his words would be interpreted. He knew what crimes, what horrors, what
infamies, would be committed in his name. He knew that the hungry flames
of persecution would climb around the limbs of countless martyrs. He
knew that thousands and thousands of brave men and women would languish
in dungeons in darkness, filled with pain. He knew that his church would
invent and use instruments of torture; that his followers would appeal
to whip and fagot, to chain and rack. He saw the horizon of the future
lurid with the flames of the auto da fe. He knew what creeds would
spring like poisonous fungi from every text. He saw the ignorant sects
waging war against each other. He saw thousands of men, under the orders
of priests, building prisons for their fellow-men. He saw thousands of
scaffolds dripping with the best and bravest blood. He saw his followers
using the instruments of pain. He heard the groans—saw the faces white
with agony. He heard the shrieks and sobs and cries of all the moaning,
martyred multitudes. He knew that commentaries would be written on his
words with swords, to be read by the light of fagots. He knew that the
Inquisition would be born of the teachings attributed to him.

He saw the interpolations and falsehoods that hypocrisy would write and
tell. He saw all wars that would be waged, and-he knew that above these
fields of death, these dungeons, these rackings, these burnings, these
executions, for a thousand years would float the dripping banner of the
cross.

He knew that hypocrisy would be robed and crowned—that cruelty and
credulity would rule the world; knew that liberty would perish from the
earth; knew that popes and kings in his name would enslave the souls
and bodies of men; knew that they would persecute and destroy the
discoverers, thinkers and inventors; knew that his church would
extinguish reason's holy light and leave the world without a star.

He saw his disciples extinguishing the eyes of men, flaying them alive,
cutting out their tongues, searching for all the nerves of pain.

He knew that in his name his followers would trade in human flesh; that
cradles would be robbed and women's breasts unbabed for gold.

And yet he died with voiceless lips.

Why did he fail to speak? Why did he not tell his disciples, and through
them the world: "You shall not burn, imprison and torture in my name. You
shall not persecute your fellow-men."

Why did he not plainly say: "I am the Son of God," or, "I am God"? Why
did he not explain the Trinity? Why did he not tell the mode of baptism
that was pleasing to him? Why did he not write a creed? Why did he not
break the chains of slaves? Why did he not say that the Old Testament
was or was not the inspired word of God? Why did he not write the New
Testament himself? Why did he leave his words to ignorance, hypocrisy
and chance? Why did he not say something positive, definite and
satisfactory about another world? Why did he not turn the tear-stained
hope of heaven into the glad knowledge of another life? Why did he
not tell us something of the rights of man, of the liberty of hand and
brain?

Why did he go dumbly to his death, leaving the world to misery and to
doubt?

I will tell you why. He was a man, and did not know.

## XI. Inspiration

NOT before about the third century was it claimed or believed that the
books composing the New Testament were inspired.

It will be remembered that there were a great number of books of
Gospels, Epistles and Acts, and that from these the "inspired" ones were
selected by "uninspired" men.

Between the "Fathers" there were great differences of opinion as to
which books were inspired; much discussion and plenty of hatred. Many of
the books now deemed spurious were by many of the "Fathers" regarded as
divine, and some now regarded as inspired were believed to be spurious.
Many of the early Christians and some of the "Fathers" repudiated the
Gospel of John, the Epistle to the Hebrews, Jude, James, Peter, and the
Revelation of St. John. On the other hand, many of them regarded the
Gospel of the Hebrews, of the Egyptians, the Preaching ol Peter, the
Shepherd of Hermas, the Epistle of Barnabas, the Pastor of Hermas, the
Revelation of Peter, the Revelation of Paul, the Epistle of Clement, the
Gospel of Nicodemus, inspired Books, equal to the very best.

From all these books, and many others, the Christians selected the
inspired ones.

The men who did the selecting were ignorant and superstitious. They were
firm believers in the miraculous. They thought that diseases had been
cured by the aprons and handkerchiefs of the apostles, by the bones of
the dead. They believed in the fable of the Phoenix, and that the hyenas
changed their sex every year.

Were the men who through many centuries made the selections inspired?
Were they—ignorant, credulous, stupid and malicious—as well qualified
to judge of "inspiration" as the students of our time? How are we bound
by their opinion? Have we not the right to judge for ourselves?

Erasmus, one of the leaders of the Reformation, declared that the
Epistle to the Hebrews was not written by Paul, and he denied the
inspiration of Second and Third John, and also of Revelation. Luther was
of the same opinion. He declared James to be an epistle of straw, and
denied the inspiration of Revelation. Zwinglius rejected the book of
Revelation, and even Calvin denied that Paul was the author of Hebrews.

The truth is that the Protestants did not agree as to what books are
inspired until 1647, by the Assembly of Westminster.

To prove that a book is inspired you must prove the existence of God.
You must also prove that this God thinks, acts, has objects, ends and
aims. This Is somewhat difficult.

It is impossible to conceive of an infinite being. Having no conception
of an infinite being, it is impossible to tell whether all the facts we
know tend to prove or disprove the existence of such a being.

God is a guess. If the existence of God is admitted, how are we to prove
that he inspired the writers of the books of the Bible?

How can one man establish the inspiration of another? How can an
inspired man prove that he is inspired? How can he know himself that he
is inspired? There is no way to prove the fact of inspiration. The
only evidence is the word of some man who could by no possibility know
anything on the Subject.

What is inspiration? Did God use men as instruments? Did he cause them
to write his thoughts? Did he take possession of their minds and destroy
their wills?

Were these writers only partly controlled, so that their mistakes, their
ignorance and their prejudices were mingled with the wisdom of God?

How are we to separate the mistakes of man from the thoughts of God?
Can we do this without being inspired ourselves? If the original writers
were inspired, then the translators should have been, and so should be
the men who tell us what the Bible means.

How is it possible for a human being to know that he is inspired by an
infinite being? But of one thing we may be certain: An inspired book
should certainly excel all the books produced by uninspired men.
It should, above all, be true, filled with wisdom, blossoming in
beauty—perfect.

Ministers wonder how I can be wicked enough to attack the Bible.

I will tell them:

This book, the Bible, has persecuted, even unto death, the wisest and
the best. This book stayed and stopped the onward movement of the human
race. This book poisoned the fountains of learning and misdirected the
energies of man.

This book is the enemy of freedom, the support of slavery. This book
sowed the seeds of hatred in families and nations, fed the flames of
war, and impoverished, the world. This book is the breastwork of kings
and tyrants—the enslaver of women and children. This book has corrupted
parliaments and courts. This book has made colleges and, universities
the teachers of error and the haters of science. This book has filled
Christendom with hateful, cruel, ignorant and warring sects. This book
taught men to kill their fellows for religion's sake. This book founded
the Inquisition, invented the instruments of torture, built the dungeons
in which the good and loving languished, forged the chains that rusted
in their flesh, erected the scaffolds whereon they died. This book
piled fagots about the feet of the just. This book drove reason from the
minds of millions and filled the asylums with the insane.

This book has caused fathers and mothers to shed the blood of their
babes. This book was the auction block on which the slave-mother stood
when she was sold from her child. This book filled the sails of the
slave-trader and made merchandise of human flesh. This book lighted
the fires that, burned "witches" and "wizards." This book filled the
darkness with ghouls and ghosts, and the bodies of men and women with
devils. This book polluted the souls of men with the infamous dogma
of eternal pain. This book made credulity the greatest of virtues, and
investigation the greatest of crimes. This book filled nations with
hermits, monks and nuns—with the pious and the useless. This book
placed the ignorant and unclean saint above the philosopher and
philanthropist. This book taught man to despise the joys of this life,
that he might be happy in another—to waste this world for the sake of
the next.

I attack this book because it is the enemy of human liberty—the
greatest obstruction across the highway of human progress.

Let me ask the ministers one question: How can you be wicked enough to
defend this book?

## XII. The Real Bible.

OR thousands of years men have been writing the real Bible, and it is
being written from day to day, and it will never be finished while man
has life. All the facts that we know, all the truly recorded events, all
the discoveries and inventions, all the wonderful machines whose wheels
and levers seem to think, all the poems, crystals from the brain,
flowers from the heart, all the songs of love and joy, of smiles and
tears, the great dramas of Imagination's world, the wondrous paintings,
miracles of form and color, of light and shade, the marvelous marbles
that seem to live and breathe, the secrets told by rock and star, by
dust and flower, by rain and snow, by frost and flame, by winding stream
and desert sand, by mountain range and billowed sea.

All the wisdom that lengthens and ennobles life—all that avoids or
cures disease, or conquers pain—all just and perfect laws and rules
that guide and shape our lives, all thoughts that feed the flames
of love, the music that transfigures, enraptures and enthralls, the
victories of heart and brain, the miracles that hands have wrought,
the deft and cunning hands of those who worked for wife and child, the
histories of noble deeds, of brave and useful men, of faithful loving
wives, of quenchless mother-love, of conflicts for the right, of
sufferings for the truth, of all the best that all the men and women of
the world have said, and thought and done through all the years.

These treasures of the heart and brain—these are the Sacred Scriptures
of the human race.
---
# Abraham Lincoln
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1894_
ON the 12th of February, 1809, two babes were born—one in the woods of
Kentucky, amid the hardships and poverty of pioneers; one in England,
surrounded by wealth and culture. One was educated in the University of
Nature, the other at Cambridge.

One associated his name with the enfranchisement of labor, with the
emancipation of millions, with the salvation of the Republic. He is
known to us as Abraham Lincoln.

The other broke the chains of superstition and filled the world with
intellectual light, and he is known as Charles Darwin.

Nothing is grander than to break chains from the bodies of men—nothing
nobler than to destroy the phantoms of the soul.

Because of these two men the nineteenth century is illustrious.

A few men and women make a nation glorious—Shakespeare made England
immortal, Voltaire civilized and humanized France; Goethe, Schiller and
Humboldt lifted Germany into the light. Angelo, Raphael, Galileo and
Bruno crowned with fadeless laurel the Italian brow, and now the
most precious treasure of the Great Republic is the memory of Abraham
Lincoln.

Every generation has its heroes, its iconoclasts, its pioneers, its
ideals. The people always have been and still are divided, at least into
classes—the many, who with their backs to the sunrise worship the past,
and the few, who keep their faces toward the dawn—the many, who are
satisfied with the world as it is; the few, who labor and suffer for
the future, for those to be, and who seek to rescue the oppressed, to
destroy the cruel distinctions of caste, and to civilize mankind.

Yet it sometimes happens that the liberator of one age becomes the
oppressor of the next. His reputation becomes so great—he is so revered
and worshiped—that his followers, in his name, attack the hero who
endeavors to take another step in advance.

The heroes of the Revolution, forgetting the justice for which they
fought, put chains upon the limbs of others, and in their names the
lovers of liberty were denounced as ingrates and traitors.

During the Revolution our fathers to justify their rebellion dug down
to the bed-rock of human rights and planted their standard there. They
declared that all men were entitled to liberty and that government
derived its power from the consent of the governed. But when victory
came, the great principles were forgotten and chains were put upon the
limbs of men. Both of the great political parties were controlled
by greed and selfishness. Both were the defenders and protectors of
slavery. For nearly three-quarters of a century these parties had
control of the Republic. The principal object of both parties was the
protection of the infamous institution. Both were eager to secure the
Southern vote and both sacrificed principle and honor upon the altar of
success.

At last the Whig party died and the Republican was born. This party was
opposed to the further extension of slavery. The Democratic party of the
South wished to make the "divine institution" national—while the
Democrats of the North wanted the question decided by each territory for
itself.

Each of these parties had conservatives and extremists. The extremists
of the Democratic party were in the rear and wished to go back; the
extremists of the Republican party were in the front, and wished to go
forward. The extreme Democrat was willing to destroy the Union for the
sake of slavery, and the extreme Republican was willing to destroy the
Union for the sake of liberty.

Neither party could succeed without the votes of its extremists.

This was the condition in 1858-60.

When Lincoln was a child his parents removed from Kentucky to Indiana. A
few trees were felled—a log hut open to the south, no floor, no window,
was built—a little land plowed and here the Lincolns lived. Here the
patient, thoughtful, silent, loving mother died—died in the wide forest
as a leaf dies, leaving nothing to her son but the memory of her love.

In a few years the family moved to Illinois. Lincoln then almost grown,
clad in skins, with no woven stitch upon his body—walking and driving
the cattle. Another farm was opened—a few acres subdued and enough
raised to keep the wolf from the door. Lincoln quit the farm—went down
the Ohio and Mississippi as a hand on a flat-boat—afterward clerked
in a country store—then in partnership with another bought the
store—failed. Nothing left but a few debts—learned the art of
surveying—made about half a living and paid something on the
debts—read law—admitted to the bar—tried a few small cases—nominated
for the Legislature and made a speech.

This speech was in favor of a tariff, not only for revenue, but to
encourage American manufacturers and to protect American workingmen.
Lincoln knew then as well as we do now, that everything, to the limits
of the possible, that Americans use should be produced by the energy,
skill and ingenuity of Americans. He knew that the more industries we
had, the greater variety of things we made, the greater would be the
development of the American brain. And he knew that great men and great
women are the best things that a nation can produce,—the finest crop a
country can possibly raise.

He knew that a nation that sells raw material will grow ignorant and
poor, while the people who manufacture will grow intelligent and rich.
To dig, to chop, to plow, requires more muscle than mind, more strength
than thought.

To invent, to manufacture, to take advantage of the forces of
nature—this requires thought, talent, genius. This develops the brain
and gives wings to the imagination.

It is better for Americans to purchase from Americans, even if the
things purchased cost more.

If we purchase a ton of steel rails from England for twenty dollars,
then we have the rails and England the money; But if we buy a ton of
steel rails from an American for twenty-five dollars, then America has
both the rails and the money.

Judging from the present universal depression and the recent elections,
Lincoln, in his first speech, stood on solid rock and was absolutely
right. Lincoln was educated in the University of Nature—educated by
cloud and star—by field and winding stream—by billowed plains and
solemn forests—by morning's birth and death of day—by storm and
night—by the ever eager Spring—by Summer's wealth of leaf and vine and
flower—the sad and transient glories of the Autumn woods—and Winter,
builder of home and fireside, and whose storms without, create the
social warmth within.

He was perfectly acquainted with the political questions of the
day—heard them discussed at taverns and country stores, at voting
places and courts and on the stump. He knew all the arguments for and
against, and no man of his time was better equipped for intellectual
conflict. He knew the average mind—the thoughts of the people, the
hopes and prejudices of his fellow-men. He had the power of accurate
statement. He was logical, candid and sincere. In addition, he had the
"touch of nature that makes the whole world kin."

In 1858 he was a candidate for the Senate against Stephen A. Douglas.

The extreme Democrats would not vote for Douglas, but the extreme
Republicans did vote for Lincoln. Lincoln occupied the middle ground,
and was the compromise candidate of his own party. He had lived for
many years in the intellectual territory of compromise—in a part of
our country settled by Northern and Southern men—where Northern and
Southern ideas met, and the ideas of the two sections were brought
together and compared.

The sympathies of Lincoln, his ties of kindred, were with the South. His
convictions, his sense of justice, and his ideals, were with the North.
He knew the horrors of slavery, and he felt the unspeakable ecstasies
and glories of freedom. He had the kindness, the gentleness, of true
greatness, and he could not have been a master; he had the manhood and
independence of true greatness, and he could not have been a slave.
He was just, and was incapable of putting a burden upon others that he
himself would not willingly bear.

He was merciful and profound, and it was not necessary for him to read
the history of the world to know that liberty and slavery could not live
in the same nation, or in the same brain. Lincoln was a statesman..
And there is this difference between a politician and a statesman.
A politician schemes and works in every way to make the people do
something for him. A statesman wishes to do something for the people.
With him place and power are means to an end, and the end is the good of
his country.

In this campaign Lincoln demonstrated three things—first, that he was
the intellectual superior of his opponent; second, that he was right;
and third, that a majority of the voters of Illinois were on his side.

II.

IN 1860 the Republic reached a crisis. The conflict between liberty and
slavery could no longer be delayed. For three-quarters of a century the
forces had been gathering for the battle.

After the Revolution, principle was sacrificed for the sake of gain. The
Constitution contradicted the Declaration. Liberty as a principle was
held in contempt. Slavery took possession of the Government. Slavery
made the laws, corrupted courts, dominated Presidents and demoralized
the people.

I do not hold the South responsible for slavery any more than I do the
North. The fact is, that individuals and nations act as they must. There
is no chance. Back of every event—of every hope, prejudice, fancy and
dream—of every opinion and belief—of every vice and virtue—of every
smile and curse, is the efficient cause. The present moment is the
child, and the necessary child, of all the past.

Northern politicians wanted office, and so they defended slavery;
Northern merchants wanted to sell their goods to the South, and so they
were the enemies of freedom. The preacher wished to please the people
who paid his salary, and so he denounced the slave for not being
satisfied with the position in which the good God had placed him.

The respectable, the rich, the prosperous, the holders of and the
seekers for office, held liberty in contempt. They regarded the
Constitution as far more sacred than the rights of men. Candidates
for the presidency were applauded because they had tried to make slave
States of free territory, and the highest court solemnly and ignorantly
decided that colored men and women had no rights. Men who insisted
that freedom was better than slavery, and that mothers should not be
robbed of their babes, were hated, despised and mobbed. Mr. Douglas
voiced the feelings of millions when he declared that he did not care
whether slavery was voted up or down. Upon this question the people,
a majority of them, were almost savages. Honor, manhood, conscience,
principle—all sacrificed for the sake of gain or office.

From the heights of philosophy—standing above the contending hosts,
above the prejudices, the sentimentalities of the day—Lincoln was great
enough and brave enough and wise enough to utter these prophetic words:

"A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this Government
cannot permanently endure half slave and half free. I do not expect
the Union to be dissolved; I do not expect the house to fall; but I do
expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all the one thing
or the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further
spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the
belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction, or its advocates
will push it further until it becomes alike lawful in all the States,
old as well as new, North as well as South."

This declaration was the standard around which gathered the grandest
political party the world has ever seen, and this declaration made
Lincoln the leader of that vast host.

In this, the first great crisis, Lincoln uttered the victorious truth
that made him the foremost man in the Republic.

The Republican party nominated him for the presidency and the people
decided at the polls that a house divided against itself could not
stand, and that slavery had cursed soul and soil enough.

It is not a common thing to elect a really great man to fill the highest
official position. I do not say that the great Presidents have been
chosen by accident. Probably it would be better to say that they were
the favorites of a happy chance.

The average man is afraid of genius. He feels as an awkward man feels
in the presence of a sleight-of-hand performer. He admires and suspects.
Genius appears to carry too much sail—to lack prudence, has too much
courage. The ballast of dullness inspires confidence.

By a happy chance Lincoln was nominated and elected in spite of his
fitness—and the patient, gentle, just and loving man was called upon to
bear as great a burden as man has ever borne.

## Iii

THEN came another crisis—the crisis of Secession and Civil war.

Again Lincoln spoke the deepest feeling and the highest thought of the
Nation. In his first message he said:

"The central idea of secession is the essence of anarchy."

He also showed conclusively that the North and South, in spite of
secession, must remain face to face—that physically they could not
separate—that they must have more or less commerce, and that this
commerce must be carried on either between the two sections as friends,
or as aliens.

This situation and its consequences he pointed out to absolute
perfection in these words:

"Can aliens make treaties easier than friends can make laws? Can
treaties be more faithfully enforced between aliens than laws among
friends?"

After having stated fully and fairly the philosophy of the conflict,
after having said enough to satisfy any calm and thoughtful mind, he
addressed himself to the hearts of America. Probably there are few finer
passages in literature than the close of Lincoln's inaugural address:

"I am loth to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be
enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break, our
bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory stretching from every
battlefield and patriotic grave to every loving heart and hearthstone
all over this broad land, will swell the chorus of the Union when again
touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

These noble, these touching, these pathetic words, were delivered
in the presence of rebellion, in the midst of spies and
conspirators—surrounded by but few friends, most of whom were unknown,
and some of whom were wavering in their fidelity—at a time when
secession was arrogant and organized, when patriotism was silent, and
when, to quote the expressive words of Lincoln himself, "Sinners were
calling the righteous to repentance."

When Lincoln became President, he was held in contempt by the
South—underrated by the North and East—not appreciated even by his
cabinet—and yet he was not only one of the wisest, but one of the
shrewdest of mankind. Knowing that he had the right to enforce the
laws of the Union in all parts of the United States, and
Territories—knowing, as he did, that the secessionists were in the
wrong, he also knew that they had sympathizers not only in the North,
but in other lands.

Consequently, he felt that it was of the utmost importance that the
South should fire the first shot, should do some act that would solidify
the North, and gain for us the justification of the civilized world.

He proposed to give food to the soldiers at Sumter. He asked the advice
of all his cabinet on this question, and all, with the exception of
Montgomery Blair, answered in the negative, giving their reasons in
writing. In spite of this, Lincoln took his own course—endeavored to
send the supplies, and while thus engaged, doing his simple duty, the
South commenced actual hostilities and fired on the fort. The course
pursued by Lincoln was absolutely right, and the act of the South to
a great extent solidified the North, and gained for the Republic the
justification of a great number of people in other lands.

At that time Lincoln appreciated the scope and consequences of the
impending conflict. Above all other thoughts in his mind was this:

"This conflict will settle the question, at least for centuries to
come, whether man is capable of governing himself, and consequently is
of greater importance to the free than to the enslaved."

He knew what depended on the issue and he said: "We shall nobly save, or
meanly lose, the last, best hope of earth."

HEN came a crisis in the North. It became clearer and clearer to
Lincoln's mind, day by day, that the Rebellion was slavery, and that it
was necessary to keep the border States on the side of the Union. For
this purpose he proposed a scheme of emancipation and colonization—a
scheme by which the owners of slaves should be paid the full value of
what they called their "property."

He knew that if the border States agreed to gradual emancipation, and
received compensation for their slaves, they would be forever lost to
the Confederacy, whether secession succeeded or not. It was objected at
the time, by some, that the scheme was far too expensive; but Lincoln,
wiser than his advisers—far wiser than his enemies—demonstrated that
from an economical point of view, his course was best.

IV.

He proposed that $400 be paid for slaves, including men, women and
children. This was a large price, and yet he showed how much cheaper it
was to purchase than to carry on the war.

At that time, at the price mentioned, there were about $750,000 worth
of slaves in Delaware. The cost of carrying on the war was at least two
millions of dollars a day, and for one-third of one day's expenses, all
the slaves in Delaware could be purchased. He also showed that all the
slaves in Delaware, Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri could be bought,
at the same price, for less than the expense of carrying on the war for
eighty-seven days.

This was the wisest thing that could have been proposed, and yet such
was the madness of the South, such the indignation of the North, that
the advice was unheeded.

Again, in July, 1862, he urged on the Representatives of the
border States a scheme of gradual compensated emancipation; but the
Representatives were too deaf to hear, too blind to see.

Lincoln always hated slavery, and yet he felt the obligations and duties
of his position. In his first message he assured the South that the
laws, including the most odious of all—the law for the return of
fugitive slaves—would be enforced. The South would not hear. Afterward
he proposed to purchase the slaves of the border States, but the
proposition was hardly discussed—hardly heard. Events came thick and
fast; theories gave way to facts, and everything was left to force.

The extreme Democrat of the North was fearful that slavery might be
destroyed, that the Constitution might be broken, and that Lincoln,
after all, could not be trusted; and at the same time the radical
Republican feared that Lincoln loved the Union more than he did liberty.

The fact is, that he tried to discharge the obligations of his great
office, knowing from the first that slavery must perish. The course
pursued by Lincoln was so gentle, so kind and persistent, so wise and
logical, that millions of Northern Democrats sprang to the defence, not
only of the Union, but of his administration. Lincoln refused to be led
or hurried by Fremont or Hunter, by Greeley or Sumner. From first to
last he was the real leader, and he kept step with events.

V.

ON the 22d of July, 1862, Lincoln sent word to the members of his
cabinet that he wished to see them. It so happened that Secretary Chase
was the first to arrive. He found Lincoln reading a book. Looking up
from the page, the President said: "Chase, did you ever read this book?"
"What book is it?" asked Chase. "Artemus Ward," replied Lincoln. "Let me
read you this chapter, entitled '_Wax Wurx in Albany_.'" And so he began
reading while the other members of the cabinet one by one came in. At
last Stanton told Mr. Lincoln that he was in a great hurry, and if any
business was to be done he would like to do it at once. Whereupon Mr.
Lincoln laid down the open book, opened a drawer, took out a paper and
said: "Gentlemen, I have called you together to notify you what I have
determined to do. I want no advice. Nothing can change my mind."

He then read the Proclamation of Emancipation. Chase thought there ought
to be something about God at the close, to which Lincoln replied: "Put
it in, it won't hurt it." It was also agreed that the President would
wait for a victory in the field before giving the Proclamation to the
world.

The meeting was over, the members went their way. Mr. Chase was the
last to go, and as he went through the door looked back and saw that Mr.
Lincoln had taken up the book and was again engrossed in the _Wax Wurx
at Albany._

This was on the 22d of July, 1862. On the 22d of August of the same
year—after Lincoln wrote his celebrated letter to Horace Greeley, in
which he stated that his object was to save the Union; _that he would
save it with slavery if he could_; that if it was necessary to destroy
slavery in order to save the Union, he would; in other words, he would
do what was necessary to save the Union.

This letter disheartened, to a great degree, thousands and millions of
the friends of freedom. They felt that Mr. Lincoln had not attained
the moral height upon which they supposed he stood. And yet, when this
letter was written, the Emancipation Proclamation was in his hands, and
had been for thirty days, waiting only an opportunity to give it to the
world.

Some two weeks after the letter to Greeley, Lincoln was waited on by a
committee of clergymen, and was by them informed that it was God's will
that he should issue a Proclamation of Emancipation. He replied to them,
in substance, that the day of miracles had passed. He also mildly and
kindly suggested that if it were God's will this Proclamation should
be issued, certainly God would have made known that will to him—to the
person whose duty it was to issue it.

On the 22d day of September, 1862, the most glorious date in the history
of the Republic, the Proclamation of Emancipation was issued.

Lincoln had reached the generalization of all argument upon the question
of slavery and freedom—a generalization that never has been, and
probably never will be, excelled:

"In giving freedom to the slave, we assure freedom to the free."

This is absolutely true. Liberty can be retained, can be enjoyed, only
by giving it to others. The spendthrift saves, the miser is prodigal.
In the realm of Freedom, waste is husbandry. He who puts chains upon the
body of another shackles his own soul. The moment the Proclamation was
issued the cause of the Republic became sacred. From that moment the
North fought for the human race.

From that moment the North stood under the blue and stars, the flag of
Nature, sublime and free.

In 1831, Lincoln went down the Mississippi on a flat-boat. He received
the extravagant salary of ten dollars a month. When he reached New
Orleans, he and some of his companions went about the city.

Among other places, they visited a slave market, where men and women
were being sold at auction. A young colored girl was on the block.
Lincoln heard the brutal words of the auctioneer—the savage remarks of
bidders. The scene filled his soul with indignation and horror.

Turning to his companions, he said, "Boys, if I ever get a chance to hit
slavery, by God I'll hit it hard!"

The helpless girl, unconsciously, had planted in a great heart the seeds
of the Proclamation.

Thirty-one years afterward the chance came, the oath was kept, and
to four millions of slaves, of men, women and children, was restored
liberty, the jewel of the soul.

In the history, in the fiction of the world, there is nothing more
intensely dramatic than this.

Lincoln held within his brain the grandest truths, and he held them as
unconsciously, as easily, as naturally, as a waveless pool holds within
its stainless breast a thousand stars.

In these two years we had traveled from the Ordinance of Secession to
the Proclamation of Emancipation.

VI.

WE were surrounded by enemies. Many of the so-called great in Europe
and England were against us. They hated the Republic, despised our
institutions, and sought in many ways to aid the South.

Mr. Gladstone announced that Jefferson Davis had made a nation, and
that he did not believe the restoration of the American Union by force
attainable.

From the Vatican came words of encouragement for the South.

It was declared that the North was fighting for empire and the South for
independence.

The Marquis of Salisbury said: "The people of the South are the natural
allies of England. The North keeps an opposition shop in the same
department of trade as ourselves."

Not a very elevated sentiment—but English.

Some of their statesmen declared that the subjugation of the South by
the North would be a calamity to the world.

Louis Napoleon was another enemy, and he endeavored to establish a
monarchy in Mexico, to the end that the great North might be destroyed.
But the patience, the uncommon common sense, the statesmanship of
Lincoln—in spite of foreign hate and Northern division—triumphed over
all. And now we forgive all foes. Victory makes forgiveness easy.

Lincoln was by nature a diplomat. He knew the art of sailing against
the wind. He had as much shrewdness as is consistent with honesty. He
understood, not only the rights of individuals, but of nations. In
all his correspondence with other governments he neither wrote nor
sanctioned a line which afterward was used to tie his hands. In the use
of perfect English he easily rose above all his advisers and all his
fellows.

No one claims that Lincoln did all. He could have done nothing without
the generals in the field, and the generals could have done nothing
without their armies. The praise is due to all—to the private as much
as to the officer; to the lowest who did his duty, as much as to the
highest.

My heart goes out to the brave private as much as to the leader of the
host.

But Lincoln stood at the centre and with infinite patience, with
consummate skill, with the genius of goodness, directed, cheered,
consoled and conquered.

## Vii

SLAVERY was the cause of the war, and slavery was the perpetual
stumbling-block. As the war went on, question after question
arose—questions that could not be answered by theories. Should we hand
back the slave to his master, when the master was using his slave to
destroy the Union? If the South was right, slaves were property, and
by the laws of war anything that might be used to the advantage of the
enemy might be confiscated by us. Events did not wait for discussion.
General Butler denominated the negro as "a contraband." Congress
provided that the property of the rebels might be confiscated.

The extreme Democrats of the North regarded the slave as more sacred
than life. It was no harm to kill the master—to burn his house, to
ravage his fields—but you must not free his slave. If in war a
nation has the right to take the property of its citizens—of its
friends—certainly it has the right to take the property of those it has
the right to kill.

Lincoln was wise enough to know that war is governed by the laws of war,
and that during the conflict constitutions are silent. All that he
could do he did in the interests of peace. He offered to execute every
law—including the most infamous of all—to buy the slaves in the border
States—to establish gradual, compensated emancipation; but the South
would not hear. Then he confiscated the property of rebels—treated the
slaves as contraband of war, used them to put down the Rebellion, armed
them and clothed them in the uniform of the Republic—was in favor of
making them citizens and allowing them to stand on an equality with
their white brethren under the flag of the Nation. During these years
Lincoln moved with events, and every step he took has been justified by
the considerate judgment of mankind.

## Viii

LINCOLN not only watched the war, but kept his hand on the political
pulse. In 1863 a tide set in against the administration. A Republican
meeting was to be held in Springfield, Illinois, and Lincoln wrote a
letter to be read at this convention. It was in his happiest vein. It
was a perfect defence of his administration, including the Proclamation
of Emancipation. Among other things he said:

"But the proclamation, as law, either is valid or it is not valid. If
it is not valid it needs no retraction, but if it is valid it cannot be
retracted, any more than the dead can be brought to life."

To the Northern Democrats who said they would not fight for negroes,
Lincoln replied:

"Some of them seem willing to fight for you—but no matter."

Of negro soldiers:

"But negroes, like other people, act upon motives. Why should they do
anything for us if we will do nothing for them? If they stake their
lives for us they must be prompted by the strongest motive—even the
promise of freedom. And the promise, being made, must be kept."

There is one line in this letter that will give it immortality:

"The Father of waters again goes unvexed to the sea."

This line is worthy of Shakespeare.

Another:

"Among free men there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the
bullet."

He draws a comparison between the white men against us and the black men
for us:

"And then there will be some black men who can remember that with silent
tongue and clenched teeth and steady eye and well-poised bayonet they
have helped mankind on to this great consummation; while I fear there
will be some white ones unable to forget that with malignant heart and
deceitful speech they strove to hinder it."

Under the influence of this letter, the love of country, of the Union,
and above all, the love of liberty, took possession of the heroic North.

There was the greatest moral exaltation ever known.

The spirit of liberty took possession of the people. The masses became
sublime.

To fight for yourself is natural—to fight for others is grand; to fight
for your country is noble—to fight for the human race—for the liberty
of hand and brain—is nobler still.

As a matter of fact, the defenders of slavery had sown the seeds of
their own defeat. They dug the pit in which they fell. Clay and Webster
and thousands of others had by their eloquence made the Union almost
sacred. The Union was the very tree of life, the source and stream and
sea of liberty and law.

For the sake of slavery millions stood by the Union, for the sake of
liberty millions knelt at the altar of the Union; and this love of the
Union is what, at last, overwhelmed the Confederate hosts.

It does not seem possible that only a few years ago our Constitution,
our laws, our Courts, the Pulpit and the Press defended and upheld the
institution of slavery—that it was a crime to feed the hungry—to give
water to the lips of thirst—shelter to a woman flying from the whip and
chain!

The old flag still flies—the stars are there—the stains have gone.

IX.

LINCOLN always saw the end. He was unmoved by the storms and currents of
the times. He advanced too rapidly for the conservative politicians, too
slowly for the radical enthusiasts. He occupied the line of safety, and
held by his personality—by the force of his great character, by his
charming candor—the masses on his side.

The soldiers thought of him as a father.

All who had lost their sons in battle felt that they had his
sympathy—felt that his face was as sad as theirs. They knew that
Lincoln was actuated by one motive, and that his energies were bent to
the attainment of one end—the salvation of the Republic.

They knew that he was kind, sincere and merciful. They knew that in his
veins there was no drop of tyrants' blood. They knew that he used his
power to protect the innocent, to save reputation and life—that he had
the brain of a philosopher—the heart of a mother.

During all the years of war, Lincoln stood the embodiment of mercy,
between discipline and death. He pitied the imprisoned and condemned.
He took the unfortunate in his arms, and was the friend even of the
convict. He knew temptation's strength—the weakness of the will—and
how in fury's sudden flame the judgment drops the scales, and
passion—blind and deaf—usurps the throne.

One day a woman, accompanied by a Senator, called on the President. The
woman was the wife of one of Mosby's men. Her husband had been captured,
tried and condemned to be shot. She came to ask for the pardon of her
husband. The President heard her story and then asked what kind of man
her husband was. "Is he intemperate, does he abuse the children and beat
you?" "No, no," said the wife, "he is a good man, a good husband, he
loves me and he loves the children, and we cannot live without him. The
only trouble is that he is a fool about politics—I live in the North,
born there, and if I get him home, he will do no more fighting for the
South." "Well," said Mr. Lincoln, after examining the papers, "I will
pardon your husband and turn him over to you for safe keeping." The poor
woman, overcome with joy, sobbed as though her heart would break.

"My dear woman," said Lincoln, "if I had known how badly it was going to
make you feel, I never would have pardoned him." "You do not understand
me," she cried between her sobs. "You do not understand me." "Yes, yes,
I do," answered the President, "and if you do not go away at once I
shall be crying with you."

On another occasion, a member of Congress, on his way to see Lincoln,
found in one of the anterooms of the White House an old white-haired
man, sobbing—his wrinkled face wet with tears. The old man told him
that for several days he had tried to see the President—that he wanted
a pardon for his son. The Congressman told the old man to come with him
and he would introduce him to Mr. Lincoln. On being introduced, the old
man said: "Mr. Lincoln, my wife sent me to you. We had three boys. They
all joined your army. One of 'em has been killed, one's a fighting now,
and one of 'em, the youngest, has been tried for deserting and he's
going to be shot day after to-morrow. He never deserted. He's wild,
and he may have drunk too much and wandered off, but he never deserted.
'Taint in the blood. He's his mother's favorite, and if he's shot,
I know she'll die." The President, turning to his secretary, said:
"Telegraph General Butler to suspend the execution in the case
of————[giving the name] until further orders from me, and ask him to
answer————."

The Congressman congratulated the old man on his success—but the old
man did not respond. He was not satisfied. "Mr. President," he began,
"I can't take that news home. It won't satisfy his mother. How do I know
but what you'll give further orders to-morrow?" "My good man," said
Mr. Lincoln, "I have to do the best I can. The generals are complaining
because I pardon so many. They say that my mercy destroys discipline.
Now, when you get home you tell his mother what you said to me about my
giving further orders, and then you tell her that I said this: 'If your
son lives until they get further orders from me, that when he does die
people will say that old Methusaleh was a baby compared to him.'"

The pardoning power is the only remnant of absolute sovereignty that a
President has. Through all the years, Lincoln will be known as Lincoln
the loving, Lincoln the merciful.

X.

LINCOLN had the keenest sense of humor, and always saw the laughable
side even of disaster. In his humor there was logic and the best of
sense. No matter how complicated the question, or how embarrassing the
situation, his humor furnished an answer and a door of escape.

Vallandigham was a friend of the South, and did what he could to sow
the seeds of failure. In his opinion everything, except rebellion, was
unconstitutional.

He was arrested, convicted by a court martial, and sentenced to
imprisonment.

There was doubt about the legality of the trial, and thousands in the
North denounced the whole proceeding as tyrannical and infamous. At the
same time millions demanded that Vallandigham should be punished.

Lincoln's humor came to the rescue. He disapproved of the findings of
the court, changed the punishment, and ordered that Mr. Vallandigham
should be sent to his friends in the South.

Those who regarded the act as unconstitutional almost forgave it for the
sake of its humor.

Horace Greeley always had the idea that he was greatly superior to
Lincoln, because he lived in a larger town, and for a long time insisted
that the people of the North and the people of the South desired peace.
He took it upon himself to lecture Lincoln. Lincoln, with that wonderful
sense of humor, united with shrewdness and profound wisdom, told Greeley
that, if the South really wanted peace, he (Lincoln) desired the same
thing, and was doing all he could to bring it about. Greeley insisted
that a commissioner should be appointed, with authority to negotiate
with the representatives of the Confederacy. This was Lincoln's
opportunity. He authorized Greeley to act as such commissioner. The
great editor felt that he was caught. For a time he hesitated, but
finally went, and found that the Southern commissioners were willing
to take into consideration any offers of peace that Lincoln might make,
consistent with the independence of the Confederacy.

The failure of Greeley was humiliating, and the position in which he was
left, absurd.

Again the humor of Lincoln had triumphed.

Lincoln, to satisfy a few fault-finders in the North, went to Grant's
headquarters and met some Confederate commissioners. He urged that
it was hardly proper for him to negotiate with the representatives of
rebels in arms—that if the South wanted peace, all they had to do was
to stop fighting. One of the commissioners cited as a precedent the fact
that Charles the First negotiated with rebels in arms. To which Lincoln
replied that Charles the First lost his head.

The conference came to nothing, as Mr. Lincoln expected.

The commissioners, one of them being Alexander H. Stephens, who, when in
good health, weighed about ninety pounds, dined with the President
and Gen. Grant. After dinner, as they were leaving, Stephens put on an
English ulster, the tails of which reached the ground, while the collar
was somewhat above the wearer's head.

As Stephens went out, Lincoln touched Grant and said: "Grant, look at
Stephens. Did you ever see as little a nubbin with as much shuck?"

Lincoln always tried to do things in the easiest way. He did not waste
his strength. He was not particular about moving along straight lines.
He did not tunnel the mountains. He was willing to go around, and reach
the end desired as a river reaches the sea.

XI.

One of the most wonderful things ever done by Lincoln was the promotion
of General Hooker. After the battle of Fredericksburg, General Burnside
found great fault with Hooker, and wished to have him removed from the
Army of the Potomac. Lincoln disapproved of Burnside's order, and gave
Hooker the command. He then wrote Hooker this memorable letter:

"I have placed you at the head of the Army of the Potomac. Of course I
have done this upon what appears to me to be sufficient reasons, and yet
I think it best for you to know that there are some things in regard to
which I am not quite satisfied with you. I believe you to be a brave and
skillful soldier—which, of course, I like. I also believe you do not
mix politics with your profession—in which you are right. You have
confidence—which is a valuable, if not an indispensable, quality. You
are ambitious, which, within reasonable bounds, does good rather than
harm; but I think that during General Burnside's command of the army
you have taken counsel of your ambition to thwart him as much as you
could—in which you did a great wrong to the country and to a most
meritorious and honorable brother officer. I have heard, in such a way
as to believe it, of your recently saying that both the army and the
Government needed a dictator. Of course it was not for this, but in
spite of it, that I have given you command. Only those generals who
gain successes can set up dictators. What I now ask of you is military
successes, and I will risk the dictatorship. The Government will support
you to the utmost of its ability, which is neither more nor less than
it has done and will do for all commanders. I much fear that the spirit
which you have aided to infuse into the army, of criticising their
commander and withholding confidence in him, will now turn upon you.
I shall assist you, so far as I can, to put it down. Neither you, nor
Napoleon, if he were alive, can get any good out of an army while such
a spirit prevails in it. And now beware of rashness. Beware of
rashness, but with energy and sleepless vigilance go forward and give us
victories."

This letter has, in my judgment, no parallel. The mistaken magnanimity
is almost equal to the prophecy:

"I much fear that the spirit which you have aided to infuse into the
army, of criticising their command and withholding confidence in him,
will now turn upon you."

Chancellorsville was the fulfillment.

## Xii

MR. LINCOLN was a statesman. The great stumbling-block—the great
obstruction—in Lincoln's way, and in the way of thousands, was the old
doctrine of States Rights.

This doctrine was first established to protect slavery. It was clung to
to protect the inter-State slave trade. It became sacred in connection
with the Fugitive Slave Law, and it was finally used as the corner-stone
of Secession.

This doctrine was never appealed to in defence of the right—always in
support of the wrong. For many years politicians upon both sides of this
question endeavored to express the exact relations existing between the
Federal Government and the States, and I know of no one who succeeded,
except Lincoln. In his message of 1861, delivered on July the 4th, the
definition is given, and it is perfect:

"Whatever concerns the whole should be confided to the whole—to the
General Government. Whatever concerns only the State should be left
exclusively to the State."

When that definition is realized in practice, this country becomes a
Nation. Then we shall know that the first allegiance of the citizen is
not to his State, but to the Republic, and that the first duty of the
Republic is to protect the citizen, not only when in other lands, but
at home, and that this duty cannot be discharged by delegating it to the
States.

Lincoln believed in the sovereignty of the people—in the supremacy of
the Nation—in the territorial integrity of the Republic.

## Xiii

A GREAT actor can be known only when he has assumed the principal
character in a great drama. Possibly the greatest actors have never
appeared, and it may be that the greatest soldiers have lived the lives
of perfect peace. Lincoln assumed the leading part in the greatest drama
ever enacted upon the stage of this continent.

His criticisms of military movements, his correspondence with his
generals and others on the conduct of the war, show that he was at all
times master of the situation—that he was a natural strategist, that he
appreciated the difficulties and advantages of every kind, and that in
"the still and mental" field of war he stood the peer of any man beneath
the flag.

Had McClellan followed his advice, he would have taken Richmond.

Had Hooker acted in accordance with his suggestions, Chancellorsville
would have been a victory for the Nation.

Lincoln's political prophecies were all fulfilled.

We know now that he not only stood at the top, but that he occupied
the centre, from first to last, and that he did this by reason of his
intelligence, his humor, his philosophy, his courage and his patriotism.

In passion's storm he stood, unmoved, patient, just and candid. In his
brain there was no cloud, and in his heart no hate. He longed to save
the South as well as North, to see the Nation one and free.

He lived until the end was known.

He lived until the Confederacy was dead—until Lee surrendered, until
Davis fled, until the doors of Libby Prison were opened, until the
Republic was supreme.

He lived until Lincoln and Liberty were united forever.

He lived to cross the desert—to reach the palms of victory—to hear the
murmured music of the welcome waves.

He lived until all loyal hearts were his—until the history of his
deeds made music in the souls of men—until he knew that on Columbia's
Calendar of worth and fame his name stood first.

He lived until there remained nothing for him to do as great as he had
done.

What he did was worth living for, worth dying for.

He lived until he stood in the midst of universal

Joy, beneath the outstretched wings of Peace—the foremost man in all
the world.

And then the horror came. Night fell on noon. The Savior of the
Republic, the breaker of chains, the liberator of millions, he who had
"assured freedom to the free," was dead.

Upon his brow Fame placed the immortal wreath, and for the first time in
the history of the world a Nation bowed and wept.

The memory of Lincoln is the strongest, tenderest tie that binds all
hearts together now, and holds all States beneath a Nation's flag.

## Xiv

ABRAHAM LINCOLN—strange mingling of mirth and tears, of the tragic and
grotesque, of cap and crown, of Socrates and Democritus, of Æsop and
Marcus Aurelius, of all that is gentle and just, humorous and honest,
merciful, wise, laughable, lovable and divine, and all consecrated to
the use of man; while through all, and over all, were an overwhelming
sense of obligation, of chivalric loyalty to truth, and upon all, the
shadow of the tragic end.

Nearly all the great historic characters are impossible monsters,
disproportioned by flattery, or by calumny deformed. We know nothing
of their peculiarities, or nothing but their peculiarities. About these
oaks there clings none of the earth of humanity.

Washington is now only a steel engraving. About the real man who lived
and loved and hated and schemed, we know but little. The glass through
which we look at him is of such high magnifying power that the features
are exceedingly indistinct.

Hundreds of people are now engaged in smoothing out the lines of
Lincoln's face—forcing all features to the common mould—so that he may
be known, not as he really was, but, according to their poor standard,
as he should have been.

Lincoln was not a type. He stands alone—no ancestors, no fellows, and
no successors.

He had the advantage of living in a new country, of social equality, of
personal freedom, of seeing in the horizon of his future the perpetual
star of hope. He preserved his individuality and his self-respect. He
knew and mingled with men of every kind; and, after all, men are the
best books. He became acquainted with the ambitions and hopes of the
heart, the means used to accomplish ends, the springs of action and the
seeds of thought. He was familiar with nature, with actual things, with
common facts. He loved and appreciated the poem of the year, the drama
of the seasons.

In a new country a man must possess at least three virtues—honesty,
courage and generosity. In cultivated society, cultivation is often more
important than soil. A well-executed counterfeit passes more readily
than a blurred genuine. It is necessary only to observe the unwritten
laws of society—to be honest enough to keep out of prison, and generous
enough to subscribe in public—where the subscription can be defended as
an investment.

In a new country, character is essential; in the old, reputation is
sufficient. In the new, they find what a man really is; in the old,
he generally passes for what he resembles. People separated only by
distance are much nearer together, than those divided by the walls of
caste.

It is no advantage to live in a great city, where poverty degrades and
failure brings despair. The fields are lovelier than paved streets, and
the great forests than walls of brick. Oaks and elms are more poetic
than steeples and chimneys.

In the country is the idea of home. There you see the rising and setting
sun; you become acquainted with the stars and clouds. The constellations
are your friends. You hear the rain on the roof and listen to the
rhythmic sighing of the winds. You are thrilled by the resurrection
called Spring, touched and saddened by Autumn—the grace and poetry of
death. Every field is a picture, a landscape; every landscape a poem;
every flower a tender thought, and every forest a fairy-land. In the
country you preserve your identity—your personality. There you are
an aggregation of atoms, but in the city you are only an atom of an
aggregation.

In the country you keep your cheek close to the breast of Nature. You
are calmed and ennobled by the space, the amplitude and scope of earth
and sky—by the constancy of the stars.

Lincoln never finished his education. To the night of his death he was
a pupil, a learner, an inquirer, a seeker after knowledge. You have no
idea how many men are spoiled by what is called education. For the most
part, colleges are places where pebbles are polished and diamonds are
dimmed. If Shakespeare had graduated at Oxford, he might have been a
quibbling attorney, or a hypocritical parson.

Lincoln was a great lawyer. There is nothing shrewder in this world than
intelligent honesty. Perfect candor is sword and shield.

He understood the nature of man. As a lawyer he endeavored to get at the
truth, at the very heart of a case. He was not willing even to deceive
himself. No matter what his interest said, what his passion demanded,
he was great enough to find the truth and strong enough to pronounce
judgment against his own desires.

Lincoln was a many-sided man, acquainted with smiles and tears, complex
in brain, single in heart, direct as light; and his words, candid as
mirrors, gave the perfect image of his thought. He was never afraid
to ask—never too dignified to admit that he did not know. No man had
keener wit, or kinder humor.

It may be that humor is the pilot of reason. People without humor drift
unconsciously into absurdity. Humor sees the other side—stands in the
mind like a spectator, a good-natured critic, and gives its opinion
before judgment is reached. Humor goes with good nature, and good
nature is the climate of reason. In anger, reason abdicates and malice
extinguishes the torch. Such was the humor of Lincoln that he could tell
even unpleasant truths as charmingly as most men can tell the things we
wish to hear.

He was not solemn. Solemnity is a mask worn by ignorance and
hypocrisy—it is the preface, prologue, and index to the cunning or the
stupid.

He was natural in his life and thought—master of the story-teller's
art, in illustration apt, in application perfect, liberal in speech,
shocking Pharisees and prudes, using any word that wit could disinfect.

He was a logician. His logic shed light. In its presence the obscure
became luminous, and the most complex and intricate political and
metaphysical knots seemed to untie themselves. Logic is the necessary
product of intelligence and sincerity. It cannot be learned. It is the
child of a clear head and a good heart.

Lincoln was candid, and with candor often deceived the deceitful. He had
intellect without arrogance, genius without pride, and religion without
cant—that is to say, without bigotry and without deceit.

He was an orator—clear, sincere, natural. He did not pretend. He did
not say what he thought others thought, but what he thought.

If you wish to be sublime you must be natural—you must keep close to
the grass. You must sit by the fireside of the heart; above the clouds
it is too cold. You must be simple in your speech; too much polish
suggests insincerity.

The great orator idealizes the real, transfigures the common, makes even
the inanimate throb and thrill, fills the gallery of the imagination
with statues and pictures perfect in form and color, brings to light
the gold hoarded by memory the miser, shows the glittering coin to the
spendthrift hope, enriches the brain, ennobles the heart, and quickens
the conscience. Between his lips words bud and blossom.

If you wish to know the difference between an orator and an
elocutionist—between what is felt and what is said—between what the
heart and brain can do together and what the brain can do alone—read
Lincoln's wondrous speech at Gettysburg, and then the oration of Edward
Everett.

The speech of Lincoln will never be forgotten. It will live until
languages are dead and lips are dust. The oration of Everett will never
be read.

The elocutionists believe in the virtue of voice, the sublimity of
syntax, the majesty of long sentences, and the genius of gesture.

The orator loves the real, the simple, the natural. He places the
thought above all. He knows that the greatest ideas should be expressed
in the shortest words—that the greatest statues need the least drapery.

Lincoln was an immense personality—firm but not obstinate. Obstinacy
is egotism—firmness, heroism. He influenced others without
effort, unconsciously; and they submitted to him as men submit to
nature—unconsciously. He was severe with himself, and for that reason
lenient with others.

He appeared to apologize for being kinder than his fellows.

He did merciful things as stealthily as others committed crimes.

Almost ashamed of tenderness, he said and did the noblest words and
deeds with that charming confusion, that awkwardness, that is the
perfect grace of modesty.

As a noble man, wishing to pay a small debt to a poor neighbor,
reluctantly offers a hundred-dollar bill and asks for change, fearing
that he may be suspected either of making a display of wealth or
a pretence of payment, so Lincoln hesitated to show his wealth of
goodness, even to the best he knew.

A great man stooping, not wishing to make his fellows feel that they
were small or mean.

By his candor, by his kindness, by his perfect freedom from restraint,
by saying what he thought, and saying it absolutely in his own way, he
made it not only possible, but popular, to be natural. He was the enemy
of mock solemnity, of the stupidly respectable, of the cold and formal.

He wore no official robes either on his body or his soul. He never
pretended to be more or less, or other, or different, from what he
really was.

He had the unconscious naturalness of Nature's self.

He built upon the rock. The foundation was secure and broad. The
structure was a pyramid, narrowing as it rose. Through days and nights
of sorrow, through years of grief and pain, with unswerving purpose,
"with malice towards none, with charity for all," with infinite
patience, with unclouded vision, he hoped and toiled. Stone after stone
was laid, until at last the Proclamation found its place. On that the
Goddess stands.

He knew others, because perfectly acquainted with himself. He cared
nothing for place, but everything for principle; little for money, but
everything for independence. Where no principle was involved, easily
swayed—willing to go slowly, if in the right direction—sometimes
willing to stop; but he would not go back, and he would not go wrong.

He was willing to wait. He knew that the event was not waiting, and that
fate was not the fool of chance. He knew that slavery had defenders, but
no defence, and that they who attack the right must wound themselves.

He was neither tyrant nor slave. He neither knelt nor scorned.

With him, men were neither great nor small—they were right or wrong.

Through manners, clothes, titles, rags and race he saw the real—that
which is. Beyond accident, policy, compromise and war he saw the end.

He was patient as Destiny, whose undecipherable hieroglyphs were so
deeply graven on his sad and tragic face.

Nothing discloses real character like the use of power. It is easy for
the weak to be gentle. Most people can bear adversity. But if you wish
to know what a man really is, give him power. This is the supreme test.
It is the glory of Lincoln that, having almost absolute power, he never
abused it, except on the side of mercy.

Wealth could not purchase, power could not awe, this divine, this loving
man.

He knew no fear except the fear of doing wrong. Hating slavery, pitying
the master—seeking to conquer, not persons, but prejudices—he was the
embodiment of the self-denial, the courage, the hope and the nobility of
a Nation.

He spoke not to inflame, not to upbraid, but to convince.

He raised his hands, not to strike, but in benediction.

He longed to pardon.

He loved to see the pearls of joy on the cheeks of a wife whose husband
he had rescued from death.

Lincoln was the grandest figure of the fiercest civil war. He is the
gentlest memory of our world.
---
# Liberty in Literature
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1890_
(A TESTIMONIAL TO WALT WHITMAN.)

> *  An address delivered in Philadelphia, Oct. 21, 1890. Used
> by permission of the Truth Seeker Co.

## I. Let Us Put Wreaths on the Brows of the Living.

IN the year 1855 the American people knew but little of books. Their
ideals, their models, were English. Young and Pollok, Addison and Watts,
were regarded as great poets. Some of the more reckless read Thomson's
"Seasons" and the poems and novels of Sir Walter Scott. A few, not quite
orthodox, delighted in the mechanical monotony of Pope, and the
really wicked—those lost to all religious shame—were worshipers of
Shakespeare. The really orthodox Protestant, untroubled by doubts,
considered Milton the greatest poet of them all. Byron and Shelley were
hardly respectable—not to be read by young persons. It was admitted
on all hands that Burns was a child of nature of whom his mother was
ashamed and proud.

In the blessed year aforesaid, candor, free and sincere speech, were
under the ban. Creeds at that time were entrenched behind statutes,
prejudice, custom, ignorance, stupidity, Puritanism and slavery; that is
to say, slavery of mind and body.

Of course it always has been, and forever will be, impossible for
slavery, or any kind or form of injustice, to produce a great
poet. There are hundreds of verse makers and writers on the side of
wrong—enemies of progress—but they are not poets, they are not men of
genius.

At this time a young man—he to whom this testimonial is given—he upon
whose head have fallen the snows of more than seventy winters—this man,
born within the sound of the sea, gave to the world a book, "Leaves of
Grass." This book was, and is, the true transcript of a soul. The man is
unmasked. No drapery of hypocrisy, no pretence, no fear. The book was
as original in form as in thought. All customs were forgotten
or disregarded, all rules broken—nothing mechanical—no
imitation—spontaneous, running and winding like a river, multitudinous
in its thoughts as the waves of the sea—nothing mathematical or
measured—in everything a touch of chaos; lacking what is called form,
as clouds lack form, but not lacking the splendor of sunrise or the
glory of sunset. It was a marvelous collection and aggregation of
fragments, hints, suggestions, memories, and prophecies, weeds and
flowers, clouds and clods, sights and sounds, emotions and passions,
waves, shadows and constellations.

His book was received by many with disdain, with horror, with
indignation and protest—by the few as a marvelous, almost miraculous,
message to the world—full of thought, philosophy, poetry and music.

In the republic of mediocrity genius is dangerous. A great soul appears
and fills the world with new and marvelous harmonies. In his words is
the old Promethean flame. The heart of nature beats and throbs in his
line. The respectable prudes and pedagogues sound the alarm, and cry, or
rather screech: "Is this a book for a young person?"

A poem true to life as a Greek statue—candid as nature—fills these
barren souls with fear.

They forget that drapery about the perfect was suggested by immodesty.

The provincial prudes, and others of like mold, pretend that love is a
duty rather than a passion—a kind of self-denial—not an over-mastering
joy. They preach the gospel of pretence and pantalettes, In the presence
of sincerity, of truth, they cast down their eyes and endeavor to feel
immodest. To them, the most beautiful thing is hypocrisy adorned with a
blush.

They have no idea of an honest, pure passion, glorying in its
strength—intense, intoxicated with the beautiful, giving even to
inanimate things pulse and motion, and that transfigures, ennobles, and
idealizes the object of its adoration.

They do not walk the streets of the city of life—they explore the
sewers; they stand in the gutters and cry "Unclean!" They pretend that
beauty is a snare; that love is a Delilah; that the highway of joy is
the broad road, lined with flowers and filled with perfume, leading to
the city of eternal sorrow.

Since the year 1855 the American people have developed; they are
somewhat acquainted with the literature of the world. They have
witnessed the most tremendous of revolutions, not only upon the fields
of battle, but in the world of thought. The American citizen has
concluded that it is hardly worth while being a sovereign unless he has
the right to think for himself.

And now, from this height, with the vantage-ground of to-day, I propose
to examine this book and to state, in a general way, what Walt Whitman
has done, what he has accomplished, and the place he has won in the
world of thought.

## II. The Religion of the Body.

WALT WHITMAN stood when he published his book, where all stand to-night,
on the perpetually moving line where history ends and prophecy begins.
He was full of life to the very tips of his fingers—brave, eager,
candid, joyous with health. He was acquainted with the past. He knew
something of song and story, of philosophy and art; much of the heroic
dead, of brave suffering, of the thoughts of men, the habits of the
people—rich as well as poor—familiar with labor, a friend of wind and
wave, touched by love and friendship, liking the open road, enjoying the
fields and paths, the crags, friend of the forest—feeling that he
was free—neither master nor slave; willing that all should know his
thoughts; open as the sky, candid as nature, and he gave his thoughts,
his dreams, his conclusions, his hopes and his mental portrait to his
fellow-men.

Walt Whitman announced the gospel of the body. He confronted the people.
He denied the depravity of man. He insisted that love is not a crime;
that men and women should be proudly natural; that they need not grovel
on the earth and cover their faces for shame, He taught the dignity and
glory of the father and mother; the sacredness of maternity.

Maternity, tender and pure as the tear of pity, holy as suffering—the
crown, the flower, the ecstasy of love!

People had been taught from Bibles and from creeds that maternity was
a kind of crime; that the woman should be purified by some ceremony in
some temple built in honor of some god. This barbarism was attacked in
"Leaves of Grass."

The glory of simple life was sung; a declaration of independence was
made for each and all.

And yet this appeal to manhood and to womanhood was misunderstood. It
was denounced simply because it was in harmony with the great trend of
nature. To me, the most obscene word in our language is celibacy.

It was not the fashion for people to speak or write their thoughts.
We were flooded with the literature of hypocrisy. The writers did not
faithfully describe the worlds in which they lived. They endeavored to
make a fashionable world. They pretended that the cottage or the hut in
which they dwelt was a palace, and they called the little area in which
they threw their slops their domain, their realm, their empire. They
were ashamed of the real, of what their world actually was. They
imitated; that is to say, they told lies, and these lies filled the
literature of most lands.

Walt Whitman defended the sacredness of love, the purity of passion—the
passion that builds every home and fills the world with art and song.

They cried out: "He is a defender of passion—he is a libertine! He
lives in the mire. He lacks spirituality!"

Whoever differs with the multitude, especially with a led
multitude—that is to say, with a multitude of taggers—will find out
from their leaders that he has committed an unpardonable sin. It is
a crime to travel a road of your own, especially if you put up
guide-boards for the information of others.

Many, many centuries ago Epicurus, the greatest man of his century, and
of many centuries before and after, said: "Happiness is the only good;
happiness is the supreme end." This man was temperate, frugal, generous,
noble—and yet through all these years he has been denounced by the
hypocrites of the world as a mere eater and drinker.

It was said that Whitman had exaggerated the importance of love—that
he had made too much of this passion. Let me say that no poet—not
excepting Shakespeare—has had imagination enough to exaggerate the
importance of human love—a passion that contains all heights and all
depths—ample as space, with a sky in which glitter all constellations,
and that has within it all storms, all lightnings, all wrecks and ruins,
all griefs, all sorrows, all shadows, and all the joy and sunshine of
which the heart and brain are capable.

No writer must be measured by a word or paragraph. He is to be measured
by his work—by the tendency, not of one line, but by the tendency of
all.

Which way does the great stream tend? Is it for good or evil? Are the
motives high and noble, or low and infamous?

We cannot measure Shakespeare by a few lines, neither can we measure the
Bible by a few chapters, nor "Leaves of Grass" by a few paragraphs. In
each there are many things that I neither approve nor believe—but
in all books you will find a mingling of wisdom and foolishness, of
prophecies and mistakes—in other words, among the excellencies there
will be defects. The mine is not all gold, or all silver, or all
diamonds—there are baser metals. The trees of the forest are not all of
one size. On some of the highest there are dead and useless limbs,
and there may be growing beneath the bushes weeds, and now and then a
poisonous vine.

If I were to edit the great books of the world, I might leave out some
lines and I might leave out the best. I have no right to make of my
brain a sieve and say that only that which passes through belongs to the
rest of the human race. I claim the right to choose. I give that right
to all.

Walt Whitman had the courage to express his thought—the candor to
tell the truth. And here let me say it gives me joy—a kind of perfect
satisfaction—to look above the bigoted bats, the satisfied owls and
wrens and chickadees, and see the great eagle poised, circling higher
and higher, unconscious of their existence. And it gives me joy, a kind
of perfect satisfaction, to look above the petty passions and jealousies
of small and respectable people, above the considerations of place and
power and reputation, and see a brave, intrepid man.

It must be remembered that the American people had separated from the
Old World—that we had declared not only the independence of colonies,
but the independence of the individual. We had done more—we had
declared that the state could no longer be ruled by the church, and
that the church could not be ruled by the state, and that the individual
could not be ruled by the church.

These declarations were in danger of being forgotten. We needed a new
voice, sonorous, loud and clear, a new poet for America, for the new
epoch, somebody to chant the morning song of the new day.

The great man who gives a true transcript of his mind, fascinates and
instructs. Most writers suppress individuality. They wish to please the
public. They flatter the stupid and pander to the prejudice of their
readers. They write for the market, making books as other mechanics make
shoes. They have no message, they bear no torch, they are simply the
slaves of customers.

The books they manufacture are handled by "the trade;" they are regarded
as harmless. The pulpit does not object; the young person can read the
monotonous pages without a blush—or a thought.

On the title pages of these books you will find the imprint of the great
publishers; on the rest of the pages, nothing. These books might be
prescribed for insomnia.

## Iii

Men of talent, men of business, touch life upon few sides. They travel
but the beaten path. The creative spirit is not in them. They regard
with suspicion a poet who touches life on every side. They have little
confidence in that divine thing called sympathy, and they do not and
cannot understand the man who enters into the hopes, the aims and the
feelings of all others.

In all genius there is the touch of chaos—a little of the vagabond; and
the successful tradesman, the man who buys and sells, or manages a bank,
does not care to deal with a person who has only poems for collaterals;
they have a little fear of such people, and regard them as the awkward
countryman does a sleight-of-hand performer.

In every age in which books have been produced the governing class, the
respectable, have been opposed to the works of real genius. If what are
known as the best people could have had their way, if the pulpit had
been consulted—the provincial moralists—the works of Shakespeare would
have been suppressed. Not a line would have reached our time. And the
same may be said of every dramatist of his age.

If the Scotch Kirk could have decided, nothing would have been known
of Robert Burns. If the good people, the orthodox, could have had their
say, not one line of Voltaire would now be known. All the plates of the
French Encyclopedia would have been destroyed with the thousands that
were destroyed. Nothing would have been known of D'Alembert, Grimm,
Diderot, or any of the Titans who warred against the thrones and altars
and laid the foundation of modern literature not only, but what is of
far greater moment, universal education.

It is not too much to say that every book now held in high esteem would
have been destroyed, if those in authority could have had their will.
Every book of modern times that has a real value, that has enlarged the
intellectual horizon of mankind, that has developed the brain, that has
furnished real food for thought, can be found in the Index Expurgatorius
of the Papacy, and nearly every one has been commended to the free minds
of men by the denunciations of Protestants.

If the guardians of society, the protectors of "young persons," could
have had their way, we should have known nothing of Byron or Shelley.
The voices that thrill the world would now be silent. If authority could
have had its way, the world would have been as ignorant now as it was
when our ancestors lived in holes or hung from dead limbs by their
prehensile tails.

But we are not forced to go very far back. If Shakespeare had been
published for the first time now, those divine plays—greater than
continents and seas, greater even than the constellations of the
midnight sky—would be excluded from the mails by the decision of the
present enlightened postmaster-general.

The poets have always lived in an ideal world, and that ideal world has
always been far better than the real world. As a consequence, they
have forever roused, not simply the imagination, but the energies—the
enthusiasm of the human race.

The great poets have been on the side of the oppressed—of the
downtrodden. They have suffered with the imprisoned and the enslaved,
and whenever and wherever man has suffered for the right, wherever the
hero has been stricken down—whether on field or scaffold—some man
of genius has walked by his side, and some poet has given form and
expression, not simply to his deeds, but to his aspirations.

From the Greek and Roman world we still hear the voices of a few.
The poets, the philosophers, the artists and the orators still speak.
Countless millions have been covered by the waves of oblivion, but the
few who uttered the elemental truths, who had sympathy for the whole
human race, and who were great enough to prophesy a grander day, are as
alive to-night as when they roused, by their bodily presence, by their
living voices, by their works of art, the enthusiasm of their fellow-men.

Think of the respectable people, of the men of wealth and position,
those who dwelt in mansions, children of success, who went down to
the grave voiceless, and whose names we do not know. Think of the vast
multitudes, the endless processions, that entered the caverns of eternal
night, leaving no thought, no truth as a legacy to mankind!

The great poets have sympathized with the people. They have uttered in
all ages the human cry. Unbought by gold, unawed by power, they have
lifted high the torch that illuminates the world.

IV.

Walt Whitman is in the highest sense a believer in democracy. He
knows that there is but one excuse for government—the preservation of
liberty, to the end that man may be happy. He knows that there is but
one excuse for any institution, secular or religious—the preservation
of liberty; and that there is but one excuse for schools, lor universal
education, for the ascertainment of facts, namely, the preservation of
liberty. He resents the arrogance and cruelty of power. He has sworn
never to be tyrant or slave. He has solemnly declared:

"_I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God!
I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the
same terms_."

This one declaration covers the entire ground. It is a declaration of
independence, and it is also a declaration of justice, that is to say,
a declaration of the independence of the individual, and a declaration
that all shall be free. The man who has this spirit can truthfully say:

"_I have taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown. I am for those
that have never been master'd._"

There is in Whitman what he calls "The boundless impatience of
restraint," together with that sense of justice which compelled him to
say, "Neither a servant nor a master am I."

He was wise enough to know that giving others the same rights that he
claims for himself could not harm him, and he was great enough to say:
"As if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess
the same."

He felt as all should feel, that the liberty of no man is safe unless
the liberty of each is safe.

There is in our country a little of the old servile spirit, a little of
the bowing and cringing to others. Many Americans do not understand that
the officers of the government are simply the servants of the people.
Nothing is so demoralizing as the worship of place. Whitman has reminded
the people of this country that they are supreme, and he has said to
them:

"_The President is there in the White House for you, it is not you who
are here for him, The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you, not you
here for them. Doctrines, politics and civilization exurge from you,
Sculpture and monuments and any thing inscribed anywhere are tallied in
you_."

He describes the ideal American citizen—the one who

"_Says indifferently and alike 'How are you, friend?' to the President
at his levee, And he says 'Good-day, my brother,' to Cudge that hoes in
the sugar-field_."

Long ago, when the politicians were wrong, when the judges were
subservient, when the pulpit was a coward, Walt Whitman shouted:

"_Man shall not hold property in man._"

"_The least develop'd person on earth is just as important and sacred
to himself or herself as the most develop'd person is to himself or
herself._"

This is the very soul of true democracy.

Beauty is not all there is of poetry. It must contain the truth. It is
not simply an oak, rude and grand, neither is it simply a vine. It is
both. Around the oak of truth runs the vine of beauty.

Walt Whitman utters the elemental truths and is the poet of democracy.
He is also the poet of individuality.

## V. Individuality.

IN order to protect the liberties of a nation, we must protect the
individual. A democracy is a nation of free individuals. The individuals
are not to be sacrificed to the nation. The nation exists only for the
purpose of guarding and protecting the individuality of men and women.
Walt Whitman has told us that: "The whole theory of the universe is
directed unerringly to one single individual—namely to You."

And he has also told us that the greatest city—the greatest nation—is
"where the citizen is always the head and ideal."

And that

"_A great city is that which has the greatest men and women, If it be a
few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world._"

By this test maybe the greatest city on the continent to-night is
Camden.

This poet has asked of us this question:

"_What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own
no superior?_"

The man who asks this question has left no impress of his lips in the
dust, and has no dirt upon his knees.

He was great enough to say:

"_The soul has that measureless pride which revolts from every lesson
but its own._"

He carries the idea of individuality to its utmost height:

"_What do you suppose I would intimate to you in a hundred ways, but
that man or woman is as good as God? And that there is no God any more
divine than Yourself?_"

Glorying in individuality, in the freedom of the soul, he cries out:

  "O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!
  To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!
  To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!
  To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance!
  To be indeed a God!"

And again:

  "O the joy of a manly self-hood!
  To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or unknown,

  To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,
  To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,

  To speak with full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,
  To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth."

Walt Whitman is willing to stand alone. He is sufficient unto himself,
and he says:

  "Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune.
  Strong and content I travel the open road."

He is one of

  "Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents and Governors,
  as to say 'Who are you? '"

And not only this, but he has the courage to say: "Nothing, not God,
is greater to one than one's self." Walt Whitman is the poet of
Individuality—the defender of the rights of each for the sake of
all—and his sympathies are as wide as the world. He is the defender of
the whole race.

## VI. Humanity.

THE great poet is intensely human, infinitely sympathetic, entering
into the joys and griefs of others, bearing their burdens, knowing their
sorrows. Brain without heart is not much; they must act together. When
the respectable people of the North, the rich, the successful, were
willing to carry out the Fugitive Slave Law, Walt Whitman said:

  "I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
  Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,
  I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin,
  I fall on the weeds and stones,
  The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
  Taunt my dizzy ears, and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.
  Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
  I do not ask the wounded person how he feels,
  I myself become the wounded person....
  I... see myself in prison shaped like another man,
  And feel the dull unintermitted pain.
  For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,
  It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.
  Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him and walk by his side.
  Judge not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling upon a helpless thing."

Of the very worst he had the infinite tenderness to say: "Not until the
sun excludes you will I exclude you."

In this age of greed when houses and lands and stocks and bonds outrank
human life; when gold is of more value than blood, these words should be
read by all:

  "When the psalm sings instead of the singer,
  When the script preaches instead of the preacher,
  When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver that carved the supporting desk,
  When I can touch the body of books by night or day, and when they touch my body back again,"
  When a university course convinces like a slumbering woman and child convince,
  When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman's daughter,
  When warrantee deeds loaf in chairs opposite and are my friendly companions,
  I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as I do of men and women like you."

## Vii

The poet is also a painter, a sculptor—he, too, deals in form and
color. The great poet is of necessity a great artist. With a few words
he creates pictures, filling his canvas with living men and women—with
those who feel and speak. Have you ever read the account of the
stage-driver's funeral? Let me read it:

  "Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf, posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets,
  A gray discouraged sky overhead, the short, last daylight of December,
  A hearse and stages, the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers.
  Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, The gate is pass'd, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses.
  The coffin is pass'd out, lower'd and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel'd in,
  The mound above is flatted with the spades—silence,
  A minute—no one moves or speaks—it is done,
  He is decently put away—is there anything more?
  He was a good fellow, free-mouth'd, quick-temper'd, not bad-looking,
  Ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty,
  Had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sicken'd, was helped by a contribution, Died, aged forty-one years—and that was his funeral."

Let me read you another description, one of a woman:

  "Behold a woman!
  She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky.
  She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,
  The sun just shines on her old white head.
  Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen,
  Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel.
  The melodious character of the earth.
  The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go,
  The justified mother of men."

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?

"Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? List to the
yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me. Our foe was
no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,) His was the surly English
pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will
be; Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us. We closed with
him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast
with his own hands. We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the
water, On our lower gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first
fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. Fighting at sun-down,
fighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks
on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing
the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for
themselves. The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the
sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to
trust.

  Our frigate takes fire,
  The other asks if we demand quarter?
  If our colors are struck and the fighting done?
  Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,
  'We have not struck,' he composedly cries, 'we have just begun our part of the fighting.'
  Only three guns are in use,
  One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's mainmast,
  Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.
  The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top,
  They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.
  Not a moment's cease,
  The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazines.
  One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.
  Serene stands the little captain,
  He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,
  His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.
  Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon the surrender to us.
  Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,
  Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness. Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer'd,
  The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,
  Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin, The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl'd whiskers,
  The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,
  The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty, Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,
  Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,
  Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,
  A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining, Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,
  The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,
  Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan."

Some people say that this is not poetry—that it lacks measure and
rhyme.

## VIII. What is Poetry?

THE whole world is engaged in the invisible commerce of thought. That
is to say, in the exchange of thoughts by words, symbols, sounds, colors
and forms. The motions of the silent, invisible world, where feeling
glows and thought flames—that contains all seeds of action—are made
known only by sounds and colors, forms, objects, relations, uses and
qualities, so that the visible universe is a dictionary, an aggregation
of symbols, by which and through which is carried on the invisible
commerce of thought. Each object is capable of many meanings, or of
being used in many ways to convey ideas or states of feeling or of facts
that take place in the world of the brain.

The greatest poet is the one who selects the best, the most appropriate
symbols to convey the best, the highest, the sublimest thoughts. Each
man occupies a world of his own. He is the only citizen of his world.
He is subject and sovereign, and the best he can do is to give the facts
concerning the world in which he lives to the citizens of other worlds.
No two of these worlds are alike. They are of all kinds, from the
flat, barren, and uninteresting—from the small and shriveled
and worthless—to those whose rivers and mountains and seas and
constellations belittle and cheapen the visible world. The inhabitants
of these marvelous worlds have been the singers of songs, utterers of
great speech—the creators of art.

And here lies the difference between creators and imitators: the creator
tells what passes in his own world—the imitator does not. The imitator
abdicates, and by the fact of imitation falls upon his knees. He is
like one who, hearing a traveler talk, pretends to others that he has
traveled.

In nearly all lands, the poet has been privileged. For the sake of
beauty, they have allowed him to speak, and for that reason he has told
the story of the oppressed, and has excited the indignation of honest
men and even the pity of tyrants. He, above all others, has added to
the intellectual beauty of the world. He has been the true creator of
language, and has left his impress on mankind.

What I have said is not only true of poetry—it is true of all speech.
All are compelled to use the visible world as a dictionary. Words have
been invented and are being invented, for the reason that new powers are
found in the old symbols, new qualities, relations, uses and meanings.
The growth of language is necessary on account of the development of the
human mind. The savage needs but few symbols—the civilized many—the
poet most of all.

The old idea was, however, that the poet must be a rhymer. Before
printing was known, it was said: the rhyme assists the memory. That
excuse no longer exists.

Is rhyme a necessary part of poetry? In my judgment, rhyme is a
hindrance to expression. The rhymer is compelled to wander from his
subject, to say more or less than he means, to introduce irrelevant
matter that interferes continually with the dramatic action and is a
perpetual obstruction to sincere utterance.

All poems, of necessity, must be short. The highly and purely poetic
is the sudden bursting into blossom of a great and tender thought. The
planting of the seed, the growth, the bud and flower must be rapid. The
spring must be quick and warm, the soil perfect, the sunshine and rain
enough—everything should tend to hasten, nothing to delay. In poetry,
as in wit, the crystallization must be sudden.

The greatest poems are rhythmical. While rhyme is a hindrance, rhythm
seems to be the comrade of the poetic. Rhythm has a natural foundation.
Under emotion the blood rises and falls, the muscles contract and relax,
and this action of the blood is as rhythmical as the rise and fall of
the sea. In the highest form of expression the thought should be in
harmony with this natural ebb and flow.

The highest poetic truth is expressed in rhythmical form. I have
sometimes thought that an idea selects its own words, chooses its own
garments, and that when the thought has possession, absolutely, of the
speaker or writer, he unconsciously allows the thought to clothe itself.

The great poetry of the world keeps time with the winds and the waves.

I do not mean by rhythm a recurring accent at accurately measured
intervals. Perfect time is the death of music. There should always be
room for eager haste and delicious delay, and whatever change there
may be in the rhythm or time, the action itself should suggest perfect
freedom.

A word more about rhythm. I believe that certain feelings and
passions—-joy, grief, emulation, revenge, produce certain molecular
movements in the brain—that every thought is accompanied by certain
physical phenomena. Now, it may be that certain sounds, colors, and
forms produce the same molecular action in the brain that accompanies
certain feelings, and that these sounds, colors and forms produce first
the molecular movements and these in their turn reproduce the feelings,
emotions and states of mind capable of producing the same or like
molecular movements. So that what we call heroic music produces the
same molecular action in the brain—the same physical changes—that
are produced by the real feeling of heroism; that the sounds we call
plaintive produce the same molecular movement in the brain that grief,
or the twilight of grief, actually produces. There may be a rhythmical
molecular movement belonging to each state of mind, that accompanies
each thought or passion, and it may be that music, or painting, or
sculpture, produces the same state of mind or feeling that produces
the music or painting or sculpture, by producing the same molecular
movements.

All arts are born of the same spirit, and express like thoughts in
different ways—that is to say, they produce like states of mind and
feeling. The sculptor, the painter, the composer, the poet, the orator,
work to the same end, with different materials. The painter expresses
through form and color and relation; the sculptor through form and
relation. The poet also paints and chisels—his words give form,
relation and color. His statues and his paintings do not crumble,
neither do they fade, nor will they as long as language endures. The
composer touches the passions, produces the very states of feeling
produced by the painter and sculptor, the poet and orator. In all
these there must be rhythm—that is to say, proportion—that is to say,
harmony, melody.

So that the greatest poet is the one who idealizes the common, who gives
new meanings to old symbols, who transfigures the ordinary things of
life. He must deal with the hopes and fears, and with the experiences of
the people.

The poetic is not the exceptional. A perfect poem is like a perfect day.
It has the undefinable charm of naturalness and ease. It must not appear
to be the result of great labor. We feel, in spite of ourselves, that
man does best that which he does easiest.

The great poet is the instrumentality, not always of his time, but
of the best of his time, and he must be in unison and accord with the
ideals of his race. The sublimer he is, the simpler he is. The thoughts
of the people must be clad in the garments of feeling—the words must
be known, apt, familiar. The height must be in the thought, in the
sympathy.

In the olden time they used to have May day parties, and the prettiest
child was crowned Queen of May. Imagine an old blacksmith and his wife
looking at their little daughter clad in white and crowned with roses.
They would wonder while they looked at her, how they ever came to have
so beautiful a child. It is thus that the poet clothes the intellectual
children or ideals of the people. They must not be gemmed and garlanded
beyond the recognition of their parents. Out from all the flowers and
beauty must look the eyes of the child they know.

We have grown tired of gods and goddesses in art. Milton's heavenly
militia excites our laughter. Light-houses have driven sirens from the
dangerous coasts. We have found that we do not depend on the imagination
for wonders—there are millions of miracles under our feet.

Nothing can be more marvelous than the common and everyday facts of
life. The phantoms have been cast aside. Men and women are enough for
men and women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the comedy that
they can comprehend.

The painter no longer crowds his canvas with the winged and
impossible—he paints life as he sees it, people as he knows them, and
in whom he is interested. "The Angelus," the perfection of pathos, is
nothing but two peasants bending their heads in thankfulness as they
hear the solemn sound of the distant bell—two peasants, who have
nothing to be thankful for, nothing but weariness and want, nothing but
the crusts that they soften with their tears—nothing. And yet as you
look at that picture you feel that they have something besides to be
thankful for—that they have life, love, and hope—and so the distant
bell makes music in their simple hearts.

IX.

The attitude of Whitman toward religion has not been understood. Toward
all forms of worship, toward all creeds, he has maintained the attitude
of absolute fairness. He does not believe that Nature has given her last
message to man. He does not believe that all has been ascertained. He
denies that any sect has written down the entire truth. He believes in
progress, and so believing he says:

  "We consider Bibles and religions divine—I do not say they are not divine,
  I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you still,
  It is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life."

  "His [the poet's] thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things,
  In the dispute on God and eternity he is silent."

  "Have you thought there could be but a single supreme?
  There can be any number of supremes—one does not countervail another
  anymore than one eyesight countervails another."

Upon the great questions, as to the great problems, he feels only the
serenity of a great and well-poised soul:

  "No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.
  I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
  Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself....
  In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
  I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name."

The whole visible world is regarded by him as a revelation, and so is
the invisible world, and with this feeling he writes:

"Not objecting to special revelations—considering a curl of smoke or a
hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation."

The creeds do not satisfy, the old mythologies are not enough; they are
too narrow at best, giving only hints and suggestions; and feeling this
lack in that which has been written and preached, Whitman says:

  "Magnifying and applying come I,
  Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
  Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah, Lithographing Kronos,
  Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
  Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
  In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved,
  With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli, and every idol and image,
  Taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more."

Whitman keeps open house. He is intellectually hospitable. He extends
his hand to a new idea. He does not accept a creed because it is
wrinkled and old and has a long white beard. He knows that hypocrisy has
a venerable look, and that it relies on looks and masks, on stupidity
and fear. Neither does he reject or accept the new because it is new. He
wants the truth, and so he welcomes all until he knows just who and what
they are.

## X. Philosophy.

WALT WHITMAN is a philosopher. The more a man has thought, the more he
has studied, the more he has traveled intellectually, the less certain
he is. Only the very ignorant are perfectly satisfied that they know.
To the common man the great problems are easy. He has no trouble in
accounting for the universe. He can tell you the origin and destiny of
man and the why and the wherefore of things. As a rule, he is a
believer in special providence, and is egotistic enough to suppose that
everything that happens in the universe happens in reference to him.

A colony of red ants lived at the foot of the Alps. It happened one day
that an avalanche destroyed the hill; and one of the ants was heard to
remark: "Who could have taken so much trouble to destroy our home?"

Walt Whitman walked by the side of the sea "where the fierce old mother
endlessly cries for her castaways," and endeavored to think out, to
fathom the mystery of being; and he said:

  "I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
  A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
  Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
  Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me
  I have not once had the least idea who or what I am,
  But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch'd,
  untold, altogether unreach'd,
  Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,
  With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
  Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath....
  I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object,
  and that no man ever can."

There is in our language no profounder poem than the one entitled
"Elemental Drifts."

The effort to find the origin has ever been, and will forever be,
fruitless. Those who endeavor to find the secret of life resemble a man
looking in the mirror, who thinks that if he only could be quick enough
he could grasp the image that he sees behind the glass.

The latest word of this poet upon this subject is as follows:

"To me this life with all its realities and functions is finally a
mystery, the real something yet to be evolved, and the stamp and shape
and life here somehow giving an important, perhaps the main outline to
something further. Somehow this hangs over everything else, and stands
behind it, is inside of all facts, and the concrete and material, and
the worldly affairs of life and sense. That is the purport and meaning
behind all the other meanings of Leaves of Grass."

As a matter of fact, the questions of origin and destiny are beyond the
grasp of the human mind. We can see a certain distance; beyond that,
everything is indistinct; and beyond the indistinct is the unseen. In
the presence of these mysteries—and everything is a mystery so far as
origin, destiny, and nature are concerned—the intelligent, honest man
is compelled to say, "I do not know."

In the great midnight a few truths like stars shine on forever, and from
the brain of man come a few struggling gleams of light, a few momentary
sparks.

Some have contended that everything is spirit; others that everything
is matter; and again, others have maintained that a part is matter and a
part is spirit; some that spirit was first and matter after; others that
matter was first and spirit after; and others that matter and spirit
have existed together.

But none of these people can by any possibility tell what matter is, or
what spirit is, or what the difference is between spirit and matter.

The materialists look upon the spiritualists as substantially crazy; and
the spiritualists regard the materialists as low and groveling. These
spiritualistic people hold matter in contempt; but, after all, matter is
quite a mystery. Y ou take in your hand a little earth—a little dust.
Do you know what it is? In this dust you put a seed; the rain falls upon
it; the light strikes it; the seed grows; it bursts into blossom; it
produces fruit.

What is this dust—this womb? Do you understand it? Is there anything in
the wide universe more wonderful than this?

Take a grain of sand, reduce it to powder, take the smallest possible
particle, look at it with a microscope, contemplate its every part for
days, and it remains the citadel of a secret—an impregnable fortress.
Bring all the theologians, philosophers, and scientists in serried ranks
against it; let them attack on every side with all the arts and arms
of thought and force. The citadel does not fall. Over the battlements
floats the flag, and the victorious secret smiles at the baffled hosts.

Walt Whitman did not and does not imagine that he has reached the
limit—the end of the road traveled by the human race. He knows that
every victory over nature is but the preparation for another battle.
This truth was in his mind when he said: "Understand me well; it is
provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success,
no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle
necessary."

This is the generalization of all history.

## XI. The Two Poems.

THERE are two of these poems to which I will call special attention. The
first is entitled, "A Word Out of the Sea."

The boy, coming out of the rocked cradle, wandering over the sands and
fields, up from the mystic play of shadows, out of the patches of
briers and blackberries—from the memories of birds—from the thousand
responses of his heart—goes back to the sea and his childhood, and
sings a reminiscence.

Two guests from Alabama—two birds—build their nest, and there were
four light green eggs, spotted with brown, and the two birds sang for
joy:

  "Shine! shine! shine!
  Pour down your warmth, great sun!
  While we bask, we two together.
  Two together!
  Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
  Day come white, or night come black, .
  Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
  Singing all time, minding no time,
  While we two keep together."

In a little while one of the birds is missed and never appeared again,
and all through the summer the mate, the solitary guest, was singing of
the lost:

  "Blow! blow! blow!
  Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore;
  I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me."

And the boy that night, blending himself with the shadows, with bare
feet, went down to the sea, where the white arms out in the breakers
were tirelessly tossing; listening to the songs and translating the
notes.

And the singing bird called loud and high for the mate, wondering what
the dusky spot was in the brown and yellow, seeing the mate whichever
way he looked, piercing the woods and the earth with his song, hoping
that the mate might hear his cry; stopping that he might not lose her
answer; waiting and then crying again: "Here I am! And this gentle call
is for you. Do not be deceived by the whistle of the wind; those are the
shadows;" and at last crying:

  "O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!
  In the air, in the woods, over fields,
  Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
  But my mate no more, no more with me!
  We two together no more."

And then the 'boy, understanding the song that had awakened in his
breast a thousand songs clearer and louder and more sorrowful than the
birds, knowing that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be
absent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all, and asking of the
sea the final word, and the sea answering, delaying not and hurrying
not, spoke the low delicious word "Death!" "ever Death!"

The next poem, one that will live as long as our language, entitled:
"When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd," is on the death of Lincoln,

  "The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands."

One who reads this will never forget the odor of the lilac, "the
lustrous western star" and "the gray-brown bird singing in the pines and
cedars."

In this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly preserved, the
atmosphere and climate in harmony with every event.

Never will he forget the solemn journey of the coffin through day and
night, with the great cloud darkening the land, nor the pomp of inlooped
flags, the processions long and winding, the flambeaus of night,
the torches' flames, the silent sea of faces, the unbared heads, the
thousand voices rising strong and solemn, the dirges, the shuddering
organs, the tolling bells—and the sprig of lilac.

And then for a moment they will hear the gray-brown bird singing in the
cedars, bashful and tender, while the lustrous star lingers in the west,
and they will remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls to adorn
the burial house—pictures of spring and farms and homes, and the gray
smoke lucid and bright, and the floods of yellow gold—of the gorgeous
indolent sinking sun—the sweet herbage under foot—the green leaves of
the trees prolific—the breast of the river with the wind-dapple here
and there, and the varied and ample land—and the most excellent sun so
calm and haughty—the violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes—the
gentle soft-born measureless light—the miracle spreading, bathing
all—the fulfill'd noon—the coming eve delicious, and the welcome night
and the stars.

And then again they will hear the song of the gray-brown bird in the
limitless dusk amid the cedars and pines. Again they will remember the
star, and again the odor of the lilac.

But most of all, the song of the bird translated and becoming the chant
for death:

## A Chant for Death

  "Come lovely and soothing death,
  Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
  In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
  Sooner or later delicate death.
  Prais'd be the fathomless universe,
  For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
  And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!
  For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.
  Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
  Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
  Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
  I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.
  Approach strong deliveress,
  When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
  Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
  Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.
  From me to thee glad serenades,
  Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and 'feastings for thee,
  And the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting,
  And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.
  The night in silence under many a star,
  The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
  And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death,
  And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
  Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
  Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,
  Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
  I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death."

This poem, in memory of "the sweetest, wisest soul of all our days and
lands," and for whose sake lilac and star and bird entwined, will last
as long as the memory of Lincoln.

## XII. Old Age.

WALT WHITMAN is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood,
but, above all, of old age. He has not been soured by slander or
petrified by prejudice; neither calumny nor flattery has made him
revengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the winter of
life,

"His jocund heart still beating in his breast," he is just as brave and
calm and kind as in his manhood's proudest days, when roses blossomed in
his cheeks.

He has taken life's seven steps. Now, as the gamester might say, "on
velvet," he is enjoying "old age, expanded, broad, with the haughty
breadth of the universe; old age, flowing free, with the delicious
near-by freedom of death; old age, superbly rising, welcoming the
ineffable aggregation of dying days."

He is taking the "loftiest look at last," and before he goes he utters
thanks:

  "For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life,
  For precious ever-lingering memories,
  (of you my mother dear—you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends,)
  For all my days—not those of peace alone—the days of war the same,
  For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
  For shelter, wine and meat—for sweet appreciation,
  (You distant, dim unknown—or young or old—countless, unspecified,
  readers belov'd,
  We never met, and ne'er shall meet—and yet our souls embrace,
  long, close and long;)
  For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—for colors, forms,
  For all the brave strong men—devoted, hardy men—who've forward
  sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands,
  For braver, stronger, more devoted men—(a special laurel ere I go,
  to life's war's chosen ones,
  The cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists—
  the foremost leaders, captains of the soul:"

It is a great thing to preach philosophy—far greater to live it. The
highest philosophy accepts the inevitable with a smile, and greets it as
though it were desired.

To be satisfied: This is wealth—success.

The real philosopher knows that everything has happened that could have
happened—consequently he accepts. He is glad that he has lived—glad
that he has had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman has
accepted life.

  "I shall go forth,
  I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long,
  Perhaps soon some day or night while I am singing my v
  voice will suddenly cease.
  O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this?
  Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?—and yet it is enough, O soul;
  O soul, we have positively appear'd—that is enough."

Yes, Walt Whitman has appeared. He has his place upon the stage.
The drama is not ended. His voice is still heard. He is the Poet of
Democracy—of all people. He is the poet of the body and soul. He has
sounded the note of Individuality. He has given the pass-word primeval.
He is the Poet of Humanity—of Intellectual Hospitality. He has voiced
the aspirations of America—and, above all, he is the poet of Love and
Death.

How grandly, how bravely he has given his thought, and how superb is his
farewell—his leave-taking:

  "After the supper and talk—after the day is done,
  As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging,
  Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating,
  (So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will they meet,
  No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young,
  A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,)
  Shunning, postponing severance—seeking to ward off the last word ever so little,
  E'en at the exit-door turning—charges superfluous calling back—
  e'en as he descends the steps,
  Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of nightfall deepening,
  Farewells, messages lessening—dimmer the forthgoer's visage and form,
  Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness—loth, O so loth to depart!"

And is this all? Will the forthgoer be lost, and forever? Is death the
end? Over the grave bends Love sobbing, and by her side stands Hope and
whispers:

We shall meet again. Before all life is death, and after all death is
life. The falling leaf, touched with the hectic flush, that testifies of
autumn's death, is, in a subtler sense, a prophecy of spring.

Walt Whitman has dreamed great dreams, told great truths and uttered
sublime thoughts. He has held aloft the torch and bravely led the way.

As you read the marvelous book, or the person, called "Leaves of Grass,"
you feel the freedom of the antique world; you hear the voices of the
morning, of the first great singers—voices elemental as those of sea
and storm. The horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limitations are
forgotten—the realization of the will, the accomplishment of the ideal,
seem to be within your power. Obstructions become petty and disappear.
The chains and bars are broken, and the distinctions of caste are lost.
The soul is in the open air, under the blue and stars—the flag
of Nature. Creeds, theories and philosophies ask to be examined,
contradicted, reconstructed. Prejudices disappear, superstitions vanish
and custom abdicates. The sacred places become highways, duties and
desires clasp hands and become comrades and friends. Authority drops
the scepter, the priest the mitre, and the purple falls from kings.
The inanimate becomes articulate, the meanest and humblest things
utter speech, and the dumb and voiceless burst into song. A feeling of
independence takes possession of the soul, the body expands, the blood
flows full and free, superiors vanish, flattery is a lost art, and
life becomes rich, royal, and superb. The world becomes a personal
possession, and the oceans, the continents, and constellations belong
to you. You are in the center, everything radiates from you, and in
your veins beats and throbs the pulse of all life. You become a rover,
careless and free. You wander by the shores of all seas and hear the
eternal psalm. You feel the silence of the wide forest, and stand
beneath the intertwined and over-arching boughs, entranced with
symphonies of winds and woods. You are borne on the tides of eager and
swift rivers, hear the rush and roar of cataracts as they fall beneath
the seven-hued arch, and watch the eagles as they circling soar. You
traverse gorges dark and dim, and climb the scarred and threatening
cliffs. You stand in orchards where the blossoms fall like snow, where
the birds nest and sing, and painted moths make aimless journeys through
the happy air. You live the lives of those who till the earth, and walk
amid the perfumed fields, hear the reapers' song, and feel the breadth
and scope of earth and sky. You are in the great cities, in the midst of
multitudes, of the endless processions. You are on the wide plains—the
prairies—with hunter and trapper, with savage and pioneer, and you feel
the soft grass yielding under your feet. You sail in many ships, and
breathe the free air of the sea. You travel many roads, and countless
paths. You visit palaces and prisons, hospitals and courts; you pity
kings and convicts, and your sympathy goes out to all the suffering and
insane, the oppressed and enslaved, and even to the infamous. You hear
the din of labor, all sounds of factory, field, and forest, of all
tools, instruments and machines. You become familiar with men and women
of all employments, trades and professions—with birth and burial, with
wedding feast and funeral chant. You see the cloud and flame of war, and
you enjoy the ineffable perfect days of peace.

In this one book, in these wondrous "Leaves of Grass," you find hints
and suggestions, touches and fragments, of all there is of life that
lies between the babe, whose rounded cheeks dimple beneath his mother's
laughing, loving eyes, and the old man, snow-crowned, who, with a smile,
extends his hand to death.

We have met to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of
"Leaves of Grass."
---
# Robert Burns
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1878_
A facsimile of the original manuscript as written by Colonel Ingersoll
in the Burns' cottage at Ayr, August 19, 1878.

[Illustration: Burn's Manuscript]

We have met to-night to honor the memory of a poet—possibly the next to
the greatest that has ever written in our language. I would place one
above him, and only one—Shakespeare.

It may be well enough at the beginning to inquire, What is a poet? What
is poetry?

Every one has some idea of the poetic, and this idea is born of his
experience—of his education—of his surroundings.

There have been more nations than poets.

Many people suppose that poetry is a kind of art depending upon certain
rules, and that it is only necessary to find out these rules to be a
poet. But these rules have never been found. The great poet follows them
unconsciously. The great poet seems as unconscious as Nature, and the
product of the highest art seems to have been felt instead of thought.

The finest definition perhaps that has been given is this:

"As nature unconsciously produces that which appears to be the result
of consciousness, so the greatest artist consciously produces that which
appears the unconscious result."

Poetry must rest on the experience of men—the history of heart and
brain. It must sit by the fireside of the heart. It must have to do with
this world, with the place in which we live, with the men and women we
know, with their loves, their hopes, their fears and their joys.

After all, we care nothing about gods and goddesses, or folks with
wings.

The cloud-compelling Jupiters, the ox-eyed Junos, the feather-heeled
Mercurys, or the Minervas that leaped full-armed from the thick skull of
some imaginary god, are nothing to us. We know nothing of their fears or
loves, and for that reason, the poetry that deals with them, no matter
how ingenious it may be, can never touch the human heart.

I was taught that Milton was a wonderful poet, and above all others
sublime. I have read Milton once. Few have read him twice.

With splendid words, with magnificent mythological imagery, he musters
the heavenly militia—puts epaulets on the shoulders of God, and
describes the Devil as an artillery officer of the highest rank.

Then he describes the battles in which immortals undertake the
impossible task of killing each other.

Take this line:

> "Flying with indefatigable wings over the vast abrupt."

This is called sublime, but what does it mean?

We have been taught that Dante was a wonderful poet.

He described with infinite minuteness the pangs and agonies endured by
the damned in the torture—dungeons of God.

The vicious twins of superstition—malignity and solemnity—struggle for
the mastery in his revengeful lines.

But there was one good thing about Dante: he had the courage, and what
might be called the religious democracy, to see a pope in hell.

That is something to be thankful for.

So, the sonnets of Petrarch are as unmeaning as the promises of
candidates. They are filled not with genuine passion, but with the
feelings that lovers are supposed to have.

Poetry cannot be written by rule; it is nota trade, or a profession. Let
the critics lay down the laws, and the true poet will violate them all.

By rule you can make skeletons, but you cannot clothe them with flesh,
put blood in their veins, thoughts in their eyes, and passions in their
hearts.

This can be done only by following the impulses of the heart, the winged
fancies of the brain—by wandering from paths and roads, keeping step
with the rhythmic ebb and flow of the throbbing blood.

In the olden time in Scotland, most of the so-called poetry was written
by pedagogues and parsons—gentlemen who found out what little they knew
of the living world by reading the dead languages—by studying epitaphs
in the cemeteries of literature.

They knew nothing of any life that they thought poetic. They kept as far
from the common people as they could. They wrote countless verses, but
no poems. They tried to put metaphysics, that is to say, Calvinism, in
poetry.

As a matter of fact, a Calvinist cannot be a poet. Calvinism takes all
the poetry out of the world.

If the existence of the Calvinistic, the Christian, hell could be
demonstrated, another poem never could be written. .

In those days they made poetry about geography, and the beauties of the
Scotch Kirk, and even about law.

The critics have always been looking for mistakes, not beauties—not for
the perfection of expression and feeling. They would object to the lark
and nightingale because they do not sing by note—to the clouds because
they are not square.

At one time it was thought that scenery, the grand in nature, made the
poet. We now know that the poet makes the scenery. Holland has produced
far more genius than the Alps. Where nature is prodigal—where the crags
tower above the clouds—man is overcome, or overawed. In England
and Scotland the hills are low, and there is nothing in the scenery
calculated to rouse poetic blood, and yet these countries have produced
the greatest literature of all time.

The truth is that poets and heroes make the scenery. The place where
man has died for man is grander than all the snow-crowned summits of the
world.

A poem is something like a mountain stream that flashes in light, then
lost in shadow, leaps with a kind of wild joy into the abyss, emerges
victorious, and winding runs amid meadows, lingers in quiet places,
holding within its breast the hills and vales and clouds—then running
by the cottage door, babbling of joy, and murmuring delight, then
sweeping on to join its old mother, the sea.

Thousands, millions of men live poems, but do not write them; but every
great poem has been lived.

I say to-night that every good and self-denying man, every one who lives
and labors for those he loves, for wife and child, is living a poem. The
loving mother rocking a cradle, singing the slumber song, lives a poem
pure and tender as the dawn; the man who bares his breast to shot and
shell lives a poem, and all the great men of the world, and all the
brave and loving women have been poets in action, whether they have
written one word or not. The poor woman of the tenement, sewing, blinded
by tears, lives a poem holier, it may be, than the fortunate can know.
The pioneers—the home builders, the heroes of toil, are all poets, and
their deeds are filled with the pathos and perfection of the highest
art.

But to-night we are going to talk of a poet—one who poured out his soul
in song. How does a country become great? By producing great poets. Why
is it that Scotland, when the roll of nations is called, can stand up
and proudly answer "here"? Because Robert Burns has lived. It is Robert
Burns that put Scotland in the front rank.

On the 25th of January, 1759, Robert Burns was born. William Burns,
a gardener, his father; Agnes Brown, his mother. He was born near the
little town of Ayr, in a little cottage made of mud and thatched
with straw. From the first, poverty was his portion,—"Poverty, the
half-sister of Death." The father struggled as best he could, but at
last overcome more by misfortunes than by disease, died in 1784, at the
age of 63. Robert attended school at Alloway Mill, and had been taught
a little by John Murdock, and some by his father. That was his
education—with this exception, that whenever nature produces a genius,
the old mother holds him close to her heart and whispers secrets to his
ears that others do not know.

He had spent most of his time working on a farm, raising very poor
crops, getting deeper and deeper into debt, until finally the death of
his father left him to struggle as best he might for himself.

In the year 1759, Scotland was emerging from the darkness and gloom of
Calvinism. The attention of the people had been drawn from the other
world, or rather from the other worlds, to the affairs of this. The
commercial spirit, the interests of trade, were winning men from the
discussion of predestination and the sacred decrees of God. Mechanics
and manufacturers were undermining theology. The influence of the clergy
was gradually diminishing, and the beggarly elements of this life were
beginning to attract the attention of the Scotch. The people at that
time were mostly poor. They had made but little progress in art and
science. They had been engaged for many years fighting for their
political or theological rights, or to destroy the rights of others.
They had great energy, great natural sense, and courage without limit,
and it may be well enough to add that they were as obstinate as brave.

Several countries have had a metaphysical peasantry. It is true of parts
of Switzerland about the time of Calvin. In Holland, after the people
had suffered all the cruelties that Spain could inflict, they began to
discuss as to foreordination and free will, and upon these questions
destroyed each other. The same is true of New England, and peculiarly
true of Scotland—a metaphysical peasantry—men who lived in mud houses
thatched with straw and discussed the motives of God and the means by
which the Infinite Being was to accomplish his ends.

For many years the Scotch had been ruled by the clergy. The power of
the Scotch preacher was unlimited. It so happened that the religion of
Scotland became synonymous with patriotism, and those who were fighting
Scotland were also fighting her religion. This drew priest and people
together; and the priest naturally took advantage of the situation. They
not only determined upon the policy to be pursued by the people, but
they went into every detail of life. And in this world there has
never been established a more odious tyranny or a more odious form of
government than that of the Scotch Kirk.

A few men had made themselves famous—David Hume, Adam Smith, Doctor
Hugh Blair, he of the grave, Beattie and Ramsay, Reid and Robertson—but
the great body of the people were orthodox to the last drop of their
blood. Nothing seemed to please them like attending church, like hearing
sermons. Before Communion Sabbath they frequently met on Friday, having
two or three sermons on that day, three or four on Saturday, more if
possible on Sunday, and wound up with a kind of gospel spree on Monday.
They loved it. I think it was Heinrich Heine who said, "It is not true,
it is not true that the damned in hell are compelled to hear all the
sermons preached on earth." He says this is not true. This shows that
there is some mercy even in hell. They were infinitely interested in
these questions.

And yet, the people were social, fond of games, of outdoor sports,
full of song and story, and no folks ever passed the cup with a happier
smile.

Sometimes I have thought that they were saved from the gloom of
Calvinism by the use of intoxicating liquors. It may be that John
Barleycorn redeemed the Scotch and saved them from the divine dyspepsia
of the Calvinistic creed. So, too, it may be that the Puritan was saved
by rum, and the Hollander by schnapps. Yet, in spite of the gloom of
the creed, in spite of the climate of mists and fogs, and the maniac
winters, the songs of Scotland are the sweetest and the tenderest in all
the world.

Robert Burns was a peasant—a ploughman—a poet. Why is it that millions
and millions of men and women love this man? He was a Scotchman, and all
the tendrils of his heart struck deep in Scotland's soil. He voiced the
ideals of the best and greatest of his race and blood. And yet he is
as dear to the citizens of this great Republic as to Scotia's sons and
daughters.

All great poetry has a national flavor. It tastes of the soil. No matter
how great it is, how wide, how universal, the flavor of locality is
never lost. Burns made common life beautiful. He idealized the sun-burnt
girls who worked in the fields. He put honest labor above titled
idleness. He made a cottage far more poetic than a palace. He painted
the simple joys and ecstasies and raptures of sincere love. He put
native sense above the polish of schools.

We love him because he was independent, sturdy, self-poised, social,
generous, susceptible, thrilled by a look, by a touch, full of pity,
carrying the sorrows of others in his heart, even those of
animals; hating to see anybody suffer, and lamenting the death of
everything—even of trees and flowers. We love him because he was a
natural democrat, and hated tyranny in every form.

We love him because he was always on the side of the people, feeling the
throb of progress.

Burns read but little, had but few books; had but a little of what
is called education; had only an outline of history, a little of
philosophy, in its highest sense. His library consisted of the _Life of
Hannibal_, the _History of Wallace_, Ray's _Wisdom of God_, Stackhouse's
_History of the Bible_; two or three plays of Shakespeare, Ferguson's
_Scottish Poems_, Pope's _Homer_, Shenstone, McKenzie's _Man of Feeling_
and Ossian.

Burns was a man of genius. He was like a spring—something that suggests
no labor.

A spring seems to be a perpetual free gift of nature. There is no
thought of toil. The water comes whispering to the pebbles without
effort. There is no machinery, no pipes, no pumps, no engines, no
water-works, nothing that suggests expense or trouble. So a natural
poet is, when compared with the educated, with the polished, with the
industrious.

Burns seems to have done everything without effort. His poems wrote
themselves. He was overflowing with sympathies, with suggestions, with
ideas, in every possible direction. There is no midnight oil. There is
nothing of the student—no suggestion of their having been re-written
or re-cast. There is in his heart a poetic April and May, and all the
poetic seeds burst into sudden life. In a moment the seed is a plant,
and the plant is in blossom, and the fruit is given to the world.

He looks at everything from a natural point of view; and he writes of
the men and women with whom he was acquainted. He cares nothing for
mythology, nothing for the legends of the Greeks and Romans. He draws
but little from history. Everything that he uses is within his reach,
and he knows it from centre to circumference. All his figures and
comparisons are perfectly natural. He does not endeavor to make angels
of fine ladies.

He takes the servant girls with whom he is acquainted, the dairy
maids that he knows. He puts wings upon them and makes the very angels
envious.

And yet this man, so natural, keeping his cheek so close to the
breast of nature, strangely enough thought that Pope and Churchill and
Shenstone and Thomson and Lyttelton and Beattie were great poets.

His first poem was addressed to Nellie Kilpatrick, daughter of the
blacksmith. He was in love with Ellison Begbie, offered her his heart
and was refused. She was a servant, working in a family and living on
the banks of the Cessnock. Jean Armour, his wife, was the daughter of a
tailor, and Highland Mary, a servant—a milk-maid.

He did not make women of goddesses, but he made goddesses of women.

## Poet of Love

Burns was the poet of love. To him woman was divine. In the light of
her eyes he stood transfigured. Love changed this peasant to a king;
the plaid became a robe of purple; the ploughman became a poet; the poor
laborer an inspired lover.

In his "Vision" his native Muse tells the story of his verse:

> "When youthful Love, warm-blushing strong,
> Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,
> Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,
> Th' adored Name,
> I taught thee how to pour in song,
> To soothe thy flame."

Ah, this light from heaven: how it has purified the heart of man!

Was there ever a sweeter song than "Bonnie Doon"?

> "Thou'lt break my heart thou bonnie bird
> That sings beside thy mate,
> For sae I sat and sae I sang,
> And wist na o' my fate."

or,

> "O, my luve's like a red, red rose
> That's newly sprung in June;
> O, my luve's like the melodie
> That's sweetly play'd in tune."

It would consume days to give the intense and tender lines—lines wet
with the heart's blood, lines that throb and sigh and weep, lines that
glow like flames, lines that seem to clasp and kiss.

But the most perfect love-poem that I know—pure the tear of
gratitude—is "To Mary in Heaven:"

> "Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,
> That lov'st to greet the early morn,
> Again thou usher'st in the day
> My Mary from my soul was torn.
> O Mary! dear departed shade!
> Where is thy place of blissful rest?
> Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
> Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

> "That sacred hour can I forget?
> Can I forget the hallow'd grove
> Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,
> To live one day of parting love?
> Eternity will not efface
> Those records dear of transports past;
> Thy image at our last embrace;
> Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

> "Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,
> O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green;
> The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
> Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.
> The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
> The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,
> Till too, too soon, the glowing west
> Proclaim'd the speed of wingèd day.

> "Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
> And fondly broods with miser care!
> Time but the impression stronger makes,
> As streams their channels deeper wear.
> My Mary, dear departed shade!
> Where is thy blissful place of rest?
> Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
> Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?"

Above all the daughters of luxury and wealth, above all of Scotland's
queens rises this pure and gentle girl made deathless by the love of
Robert Burns.

## Poet of Home

He was the poet of the home—of father, mother, child—of the purest
wedded love.

In the "Cotter's Saturday Night," one of the noblest and sweetest poems
in the literature of the world, is a description of the poor cotter
going from his labor to his home:

> "At length his lonely cot appears in view,
> Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
> Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through
> To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee.

> His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie,
> His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
> The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
> Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
> And makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil."

And in the same poem, after having described the courtship, Burns bursts
into this perfect flower:

> "O happy love! where love like this is found!
> O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
> I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round,
> And sage experience bids me this declare:
> If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare
> One cordial in this melancholy vale,
> 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
> In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale
> Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale."

Is there in the world a more beautiful—a more touching picture than the
old couple sitting by the ingleside with clasped hands, and the pure,
patient, loving old wife saying to the white-haired man who won her
heart when the world was young:

> "John Anderson, my jo, John,
> When we were first acquent;
> Your locks were like the raven,
> Your bonnie brow was brent;
> But now your brow is beld, John,
> Your locks are like the snaw;
> But blessings on your frosty pow,
> John Anderson, my jo.

> "John Anderson, my jo, John,
> We clamb the hill thegither;
> And monie a canty day, John,
> We've had wi' ane anither;
> Now we maun totter down, John,
> But hand in hand we'll go,
> And sleep thegither at the foot,
> John Anderson, my jo."

Burns taught that the love of wife and children was the highest—that to
toil for them was the noblest.

> "The sacred lowe o' weel placed love,
> Luxuriantly indulge it;
> But never tempt the illicit rove,
> Though naething should divulge it."

> "I waine the quantum of the sin,
> The hazzard o'concealing;
> But och! it hardens all within,
> And petrifies the feeling."

> "To make a happy fireside clime
> To weans and wife,
> That's the true pathos, and sublime,
> Of human life."

## Friendship

He was the poet of friendship:

> "Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
> And never brought to min'?
> Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
> And days o' auld lang syne?"

Wherever those who speak the English language assemble—wherever the
Anglo-Saxon people meet with clasp and smile—these words are given to
the air.

## Scotch Drink

The poet of good Scotch drink, of merry meetings, of the cup that
cheers, author of the best drinking song in the world:

> "O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
> And Rob and Allen came to see;
> Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
> Ye wadna find in Christendie.

> Chorus.

> "We are na fou, we're no that fou,
> But just a drappie in our ee;
> The cock may craw, the day may daw,
> And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

> "Here are we met, three merry boys,
> Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
> And monie a night we've merry been,
> And monie mae we hope to be!

> We are na fou, &c.

> "It is the moon, I ken her horn,
> That's blinkin in the lift say hie;
> She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
> But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!

> We are na fou, &c.

> "Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
> A cuckold, coward loun is he!
> Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
> He is the King amang us three!

> We are na fou, &c."

## Poets Born, Not Made

He did not think the poet could be made—that colleges could furnish
feeling, capacity, genius. He gave his opinion of these manufactured
minstrels:

> "A set o' dull, conceited hashes,
> Confuse their brains in college classes!
> They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
> Plain truth to speak;
> An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
> By dint o' Greek!"

> "Gie me ane spark o' Nature's fire,
> That's a' the learning I desire;
> Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
> At pleugh or cart,
> My Muse, though hamely in attire,
> May touch the heart."

## Burns, the Artist

He was an artist—a painter of pictures.

This of the brook:

> "Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
> As thro' the glen it wimpl't;
> Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;
> Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;
> Whyles glitter's to the nightly rays,
> Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;
> Whyles cookit underneath the braes,
> Below the spreading hazel,
> Unseen that night."

Or this from Tam O'Shanter:

> "But pleasures are like poppies spread,
> You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed,
> Or, like the snow falls in the river,
> A moment white—then melts forever;
> Or, like the borealis race,
> That flit ere you can point their place;
> Or, like the rainbow's lovely form,
> Evanishing amid the storm."

This:

> "As in the bosom of the stream
> The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;
> So, trembling, pure, was tender love,
> Within the breast o' bonnie Jean."

> "The sun had clos'd the winter day,
> The Curlers quat their roarin play,
> An' hunger's Maukin ta'en her way
> To kail-yards green,
> While faithless snaws ilk step betray
> Whare she had been."

> "O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods,
> When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
> And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids,
> Their loves enjoy,
> While thro' the braes the cushat croons
> Wi' wailfu' cry!"

> "Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me
> When winds rave thro' the naked tree;
> Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree
> Are hoary gray;
> Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,
> Dark'ning the day!"

This of the lark and daisy—the daintiest and nearest perfect in our
language:

> "Alas! it's no' thy neebor sweet,
> The bonnie Lark, companion meet!
> Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!
> Wi' spreckl'd breast,
> When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
> The purpling east."

## A Real Democrat

He was in every fibre of his being a sincere democrat. He was a believer
in the people—in the sacred rights of man. He believed that honest
peasants were superior to titled parasites. He knew the so-called
"gentrv" of his time.

In one of his letters to Dr. Moore is this passage: "It takes a few
dashes into the world to give the young great man that proper, decent,
unnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils—the
mechanics and peasantry around him—who were born in the same village."

He knew the infinitely cruel spirit of caste—a spirit that despises the
useful—the children of toil—those who bear the burdens of the world.

> "If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
> By nature's law design'd,
> Why was an independent wish
> E'er planted in my mind?

> If not, why am I subject to .
> His cruelty, or scorn?
> Or why has man the will and pow'r
> To make his fellow mourn?"

Against the political injustice of his time—against the artificial
distinctions among men by which the lowest were regarded as the
highest—he protested in the great poem, "A man's a man for a' that,"
every line of which came like lava from his heart.

> "Is there, for honest poverty,
> That hangs his head, and a' that?
> The coward-slave, we pass him by,
> We dare be poor for a' that!
> For a' that, and a' that,
> Our toils obscure, and a' that;
> The rank is but the guinea stamp;
> The man's the gowd for a' that."

> "What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
> Wear hodden-gray, and a' that;
> Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
> A man's a man for a' that.
> For a' that, and a' that,
> Their tinsel show, and a' that;
> The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
> Is king o' men for a' that."

> "Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
> Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
> Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
> He's but a coof for a' that;
> For a' that, and a' that,
> His riband, star, and a' that,
> The man' o' independent mind,
> He looks and laughs at a' that."

> "A prince can mak' a belted knight,
> A marquis, duke, and a' that;
> But an honest man's aboon his might,
> Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
> For a' that, and a' that,
> Their dignities, and a' that,
> The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
> Are higher ranks than a' that.

> "Then let us pray that come it may,
> As come it will for a' that;
> That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
> May bear the gree and a' that.
> For a' that, and a' that;
> It's cornin' yet for a' that
> That man to man, the warld o'er,
> Shall brithers be for a' that."

No grander declaration of independence was ever uttered. It stirs
the blood like a declaration of war. It is the apotheosis of honesty,
independence, sense and worth. And it is a prophecy of that better day
when men will be brothers the world over.

## His Theology

Burns was superior in heart and brain to the theologians of his time.
He knew that the creed of Calvin was infinitely cruel and absurd, and he
attacked it with every weapon that his brain could forge.

He was not awed by the clergy, and he cared nothing for what was called
"authority." He insisted on thinking for himself. Sometimes he faltered,
and now and then, fearing that some friend might take offence, he would
say or write a word in favor of the Bible, and sometimes he praised the
Scriptures in words of scorn.

He laughed at the dogma of eternal pain—at hell as described by the
preacher:

> "A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
> Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
> Wha's ragin' flame an' scorchin' heat
> Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
> The half asleep start up wi' fear,
> An' think they hear it roarin',
> When presently it does appear,
> 'Twas but some neebor snorin'.
> Asleep that day."

The dear old doctrine that man is totally depraved, that morality is a
snare—a flowery path leading to perdition—excited the indignation of
Burns. He put the doctrine in verse:

> "Morality, thou deadly bane,
> Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!
> Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
> In moral mercy, truth and justice."
> He understood the hypocrites of his day:
> "Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
> That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
> Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
> The lads in black;
> But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
> Rives't aff their back."

> "Then orthodoxy yet may prance,
> And Learning in a woody dance,
> And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
> That bites sae sair,
> Be banish'd owre the seas to France;
> Let him bark there."

> "They talk religion in their mouth;
> They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
> For what? to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight,
> An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth,
> To ruin straight."

> "Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
> Ye should stretch on a rack,
> To strike evil doers wi' terror;
> To join faith and sense Upon any pretence,
> Was heretic damnable error,
> Doctor Mac,
> Was heretic damnable error."

But the greatest, the sharpest, the deadliest, the keenest, the wittiest
thing ever said or written against Calvinism is Holy Willie's Prayer:—

> "O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell,
> Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
> Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,
> A' for thy glory,
> And no for onie guid or ill
> They've done afore thee!

> "I bless and praise thy matchless might,
> When thousands thou has left in night,
> That I am here afore thy sight
> For gifts an' grace,
> A burnin' an' a shinin' light,
> To a' this place.

> "What was I, or my generation,
> That I should get sic exaltation?
> I, wha deserve sic just damnation,
> For broken laws,
> Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
> Thro' Adam's cause?

> "When frae my mither's womb I fell,
> Thou might hae plunged me into hell,
> To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
> In burnin' lake,
> Where damnèd devils roar and yell,
> Chained to a stake.

> "Yet I am here a chosen sample,
> To show Thy grace is great and ample;
> I'm here a pillar in Thy temple,
> Strong as a rock,
> A guide, a buckler, an example
> To a' Thy flock."

In this poem you will find the creed stated just as it is—with
fairness and accuracy—and at the same time stated so perfectly that its
absurdity fills the mind with inextinguishable laughter.

In this poem Burns nailed Calvinism to the cross, put it on the rack,
subjected it to every instrument of torture, flayed it alive, burned it
at the stake, and scattered its ashes to the winds.

In 1787 Burns wrote this curious letter to Miss Chalmers:

"I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and have got through the five
books of Moses and half way in Joshua.

"It is really a glorious book."

This must have been written in the spirit of Voltaire.

Think of Burns, with his loving, tender heart, half way in Joshua,
standing in blood to his knees, surrounded by the mangled bodies of old
men, women and babes, the swords of the victors dripping with innocent
blood, shouting—"This is really a glorious sight."

A letter written on the seventh of March, 1788, contains the clearest,
broadest and most philosophical statement of the religion of Burns to be
found in his works:

"An honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the
whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the
valley—be it so; at least there is an end of pain and care, woes
and wants. If that part of us called Mind does survive the apparent
destruction of the man, away with old-wife prejudices and tales!

"Every age and every nation has a different set of stories; and, as the
many are always weak, of consequence they have often, perhaps always,
been deceived.

"A man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow
creatures, even granting that he may have been the sport at times of
passions and instincts, he goes to a great Unknown Being, who could have
had no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy; who gave
him those passions and instincts and well knows their force.

"These, my worthy friend, are my ideas.

"It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, particularly in a case
where all men are equally interested, and where, indeed, all men are
equally in the dark."

"Religious nonsense is the most nonsensical nonsense."

"Why has a religious turn of mind always a tendency to narrow and harden
the heart?"

"All my fears and cares are for this world."

We have grown tired of gods and goddesses in art. Milton's heavenly
militia excites our laughter. Light-houses have driven sirens from the
dangerous coasts. We have found that we do not depend on the imagination
for wonders—there are millions of miracles under our feet.

Nothing can be more marvelous than the common and everyday facts of
life. The phantoms have been cast aside. Men and women are enough for
men and women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the comedy that
they can comprehend.

The painter no longer crowds his canvas with the winged and
impossible—he paints life as he sees it, people as he knows them, and
in whom he is interested. "The Angelus," the perfection of pathos, is
nothing but two peasants bending their heads in thankfulness as they
hear the solemn sound of the distant bell—two peasants, who have
nothing to be thankful for—nothing but weariness and want, nothing but
the crusts that they soften with their tears—nothing. And yet as you
look at that picture you feel that they have something besides to be
thankful for—that they have life, love, and hope—and so the distant
bell makes music in their simple hearts.

Let me give you the difference between culture and nature—between
educated talent and real genius.

A little while ago one of the great poets died. I was reading some of
his volumes and during the same period was reading a little from Robert
Burns. And the difference between these two poets struck me forcibly.

Tennyson was a piece of rare china decorated by the highest art.

Burns was made of honest, human clay, moulded by sympathy and love.

Tennyson dwelt in his fancy, for the most part, with kings and queens,
with lords and ladies, with knights and nobles.

Burns lingered by the fireside of the poor and humble, in the thatched
cottage of the peasant, with the imprisoned and despised. He loved men
and women in spite of their titles, and without regard to the outward.
Through robes and rags he saw and loved the man.

Tennyson was touched by place and power, the insignia given by chance or
birth. As he grew old he grew narrower, lost interest in the race, and
gave his heart to the class to which he had been lowered as a reward for
melodious flattery.

Burns broadened and ripened with the flight of his few years. His
sympathies widened and increased to the last.

Tennyson had the art born of intellectual taste, of the sense of mental
proportion, knowing the color of adjectives and the gradations of
emphasis. His pictures were born in his brain, exquisitely shaded by
details, carefully wrought by painful and conscious art.

Burns's brain was the servant of his heart. His melody was a rhythm
taught by love. He was touched by the miseries, the injustice, the agony
of his time. While Tennyson wrote of the past—of kings long dead, of
ladies who had been dust for many centuries, Burns melted with his love
the walls of caste—the cruel walls that divide the rich and the poor.

Tennyson celebrated the birth of royal babes, the death of the titled
useless; gave wings to degraded dust, wearing the laurels given by those
who lived upon the toil of men whom they despised. Burns poured poems
from his heart, filled with tears and sobs for the suffering poor; poems
that helped to break the chains of millions; poems that the enfranchised
love to repeat; poems that liberty loves to hear.

Tennyson was the poet of the past, of the twilight, of the sunset, of
decorous regret, of the vanished glories of barbarous times, of the
age of chivalry in which great nobles clad in steel smote to death with
battle axe and sword the unarmed peasants of the field.

Burns was the poet of the dawn, glad that the night was fading from
the east. He kept his face toward the sunrise, caring nothing for the
midnight of the past, but loved with all the depth and sincerity of his
nature the few great souls—the lustrous stars—that darkness cannot
quench.

Tennyson was surrounded with what gold can give, touched with the
selfishness of wealth. He was educated at Oxford, and had what are
called the advantages of his time, and in maturer years was somewhat
swayed by the spirit of caste, by the descendants of the ancient
Pharisees, and at last became a lord.

Burns had but little knowledge of the world. What he knew was taught
him by his sympathies. Being a genius, he absorbed the good and noble
of which he heard or dreamed, and thus he happily outgrew the smaller
things with which he came in contact, and journeyed toward the
great—the wider world, until he reached the end.

Tennyson was what is called religious. He believed in the divinity of
decorum, not falling on his face before the Eternal King, but bowing
gracefully, as all lords should, while uttering thanks for favors partly
undeserved, and thanks more fervid still for those to come.

Burns had the deepest and the tenderest feelings in his heart. The
winding stream, the flowering shrub, the shady vale—these were trysting
places where the real God met those he loved, and where his spirit
prompted thoughts and words of thankfulness and praise, took from their
hearts the dross of selfishness and hate, leaving the gold of love.

In the religion of Burns, form was nothing, creed was nothing, feeling
was everything. He had the religious climate of the soul, the April that
receives the seed, the June of blossom, and the month of harvest.

Burns was a real poet of nature. He put fields and woods in his lines.
There were principles like oaks, and there were thoughts, hints and
suggestions as shy as violets beneath the withered leaves. There were
the warmth of home, the social virtues born of equal state, that touched
the heart and softened grief; that make breaches in the cruel walls of
pride; that make the rich and poor clasp hands and feel like comrades,
warm and true.

The house in which his spirit lived was not large. It enclosed only
space enough for common needs, built near the barren land of want; but
through the open door the sunlight streamed, and from its windows all
the stars were seen, while in the garden grew the common flowers—the
flowers that all the ages through have been the messengers of honest
love; and in the fields were heard the rustling corn, and reapers songs,
telling of well-requited toil; and there were trees whose branches rose
and fell and swayed while birds filled all the air with music born of
joy. He read with tear-filled eyes the human page, and found within his
breast the history of hearts.

Tennyson's imagination lived in a palace ample, wondrous fair, with dome
and spire and galleries, where eyes of proud old pedigree grew dim with
gazing at the portraits of the worthless dead; and there were parks
and labyrinths of walks and ways and artificial lakes where sailed the
"double swans;" and there were flowers from far-off lands with strange
perfume, and men and women of the grander sort, telling of better days
and nobler deeds than men in these poor times of commerce, trade and
toil have hearts to do; and, yet, from this fair dwelling—too vast,
too finely wrought, to be a home—he uttered wondrous words, painting
pictures that will never fade, and told, with every aid of art, old
tales of love and war, sometimes beguiling men of tears, enchanting all
with melody of speech, and sometimes rousing blood and planting seeds
of high resolve and noble deeds; and sometimes thoughts were woven like
tapestries in patterns beautiful, involved and strange, where dreams and
fancies interlaced like tendrils of a vine, like harmonies that
wander and return to catch the music of the central theme, yet cold as
traceries in frost wrought on glass by winter's subtle art.

Tennyson was ingenious—Burns ingenuous. One was exclusive, and in his
exclusiveness a little disdain. The other pressed the world against his
heart.

Tennyson touched art on many sides, dealing with vast poetic themes, and
satisfied in many ways the intellectual tastes of cultured men.

Tennyson is always perfectly self-possessed. He has poetic sympathy, but
not the fire and flame. No one thinks of him as having been excited, as
being borne away by passion's storm. His pulse never rises. In artistic
calm, he turns, polishes, perfects, embroiders and beautifies. In him
there is nothing of the storm and chaos, nothing of the creative genius,
no sea wrought to fury, filling the heavens with its shattered cry.

Burns dwelt with simple things—with those that touch the heart; that
tell of joy; that spring from labor done; that lift the burdens of
despair from fainting souls; that soften hearts until the pearls of pity
fall from eyes unused to weep.

To illustrate his thought, he used the things he knew—the things
familiar to the world—not caring for the vanished things—the legends
told by artful tongues to artless ears—but clinging to the common
things of life and love and death, adorning them with countless gems;
and, over all, he placed the bow of hope.

With him the man was greater than the king, the woman than the queen.
The greatest were the noblest, and the noblest were those who loved
their fellow-men the best, the ones who filled their lives with generous
deeds. Men admire Tennyson. Men love Robert Burns.

He was a believer in God, and had confidence that this God was sitting
at the loom weaving with warp and woof of cause and effect, of fear
and fancy, pain and hope, of dream and shadows, of despair and death,
mingled with the light of love, the tapestries in which at last all
souls will see that all was perfect from the first. He believed or hoped
that the spirit of infinite goodness, soft as the autumn air, filled all
of heaven's dome with love.

Such a religion is easy to understand when it includes all races through
all times. It is consistent, if not with the highest thought, with the
deepest and the tenderest feelings of the heart.

## From Cradle to Coffin

There is no time to follow the steps of Burns from old Alloway, by the
Bonnie Doon in the clay-built hut, where the January wind blew hansel
in on Robin—to Mt. Oliphant, with its cold and stingy soil, the hard
factor, whose letters made the children weep—working in the fields, or
tired with "The thresher's weary flinging tree," where he was thrilled,
for the first time with love's sweet pain that set his heart to music.

To Lochlea, still giving wings to thought—still working in the
unproductive fields, Lochlea where his father died, and reached the rest
that life denied.

To Mossgiel, where Burns reached the top and summit of his art and wrote
like one enrapt, inspired. Here he met and loved and gave to immortality
his Highland Mary.

To Edinburgh and fame, and back to Mauchline to Jean Armour and honor,
the noblest deed of all his life.

To Ellisland, by the winding Nith.

To Dumfries, a poor exciseman, wearing out his heart in the disgusting
details of degrading drudgery—suspected of treason because he
preferred Washington to Pitt—because he sympathized with the French
Revolution—because he was glad that the American colonies had become a
free nation.

At a banquet once, being asked to drink the health of Pitt, Burns said:
"I will give you a better toast—George Washington." A little while
after, when they wanted him to drink to the success of the English arms,
Burns said: "No; I will drink this: May their success equal the justice
of their cause." He sent three or four little cannon to the French
Convention, because he sympathized with the French Revolution, and
because of these little things, his love of liberty, of freedom and
justice, at Dumfries he was suspected of being a traitor, and, as a
result of these trivial things, as a result of that suspicion, Burns was
obliged to join the Dumfries volunteers.

How pitiful that the author of "Scots wha hae with Wallace bled," should
be thought an enemy of Scotland!

Poor Burns! Old and broken before his time—surrounded by the walking
lumps of Dumfries' clay!

To appease the anger of his fellow-citizens—to convince them that he
was a patriot, he actually joined the Dumfries volunteers,—bought his
uniform on credit—amount about seven pounds—was unable to pay—was
threatened with arrest and a jail by Matthew Penn.

These threats embittered his last hours.

A little while before his death, he said: "Do not let that awkward
squad—the Dumfries volunteers—fire over my grave." We have a true
insight into what his feelings were. But they fired. They were bound to
fire or die.

The last words uttered by Robert Burns were these: "That damned
scoundrel Matthew Penn."

Burns had another art, the art of ending—of stopping at the right
place. Nothing is more difficult than this. It is hard to end a play—to
get the right kind of roof on a house. Not one story-teller in a
thousand knows just the spot where the rocket should explode. They go on
talking after the stick has fallen.

Burns wrote short poems, and why? All great poems are short. There
cannot be a long poem any more than there can be a long joke. I believe
the best example of an ending perfectly accomplished you will find in
his "Vision."

There comes into his house, into that "auld clay biggin," his muse, the
spirit of a beautiful woman, and tells him what he can do, and what he
can't do, as a poet. He has a long talk with her and now the thing
is how to get her out of the house. You may think that it is an easy
thing. It is easy to get yourself into difficulty, but not to get out.

I was struck with the beautiful manner in which Burns got that angel out
of the house.

Nothing could be happier than the ending of the "Vision"—the
leave-taking of the Muse:

> "And wear thou this, she solemn said,
> And bound the holly round my head:
> The polished leaves and berries red
> Did rustling play;
> And, like a passing thought she fled.
> In light away."

How that man rose above all his fellows in death! Do you know, there is
something wonderful in death. What a repose! What a piece of sculpture!
The common man dead looks royal; a genius dead, sublime.

When a few years ago I visited all the places where Burns had been, from
the little house of clay with one room where he was born, to the little
house with one room where he now sleeps, I thought of this. Yes, I
visited them all, all the places made immortal by his genius, the field
where love first touched his heart, the field where he ploughed up the
home of the Mouse. I saw the cottage where Robert and Jean first lived
as man and wife, and walked on "the banks and braes of Bonnie Doon."
And when I stood by his grave, I said: This man was a radical, a real
genuine man. This man believed in the dignity of labor, in the nobility
of the useful. This man believed in human love, in making a heaven here,
in judging men by their deeds instead of creeds and titles. This man
believed in the liberty of the soul, of thought and speech. This man
believed in the sacred rights of the individual; he sympathized with the
suffering and oppressed. This man had the genius to change suffering and
toil into song, to enrich poverty, to make a peasant feel like a prince
of the blood, to fill the lives of the lowly with love and light. This
man had the genius to make robes of glory out of squalid rags. This man
had the genius to make Cleopatras, and Sapphos and Helens out of the
freckled girls of the villages and fields—and he had the genius to make
Auld Ayr, and Bonnie Doon, and Sweet Afton and the Winding Nith murmur
the name of Robert Burns forever.

This man left a legacy of glory to Scotland and the whole world; he
enriched our language, and with a generous hand scattered the gems of
thought. This man was the companion of poverty, and wept the tears of
grief, and yet he has caused millions to shed the happy tears of joy.

His heart blossomed in a thousand songs—songs for all times and all
seasons—suited to every experience of the heart—songs for the dawn
of love—for the glance and clasp and kiss of courtship—for "favors
secret, sweet and precious"—for the glow and flame, the ecstasy and
rapture of wedded life—songs of parting and despair—songs of hope
and simple joy—songs for the vanished days—songs for birth and
burial—songs for wild war's deadly blast, and songs for gentle
peace—songs for the dying and the dead—songs for labor and
content—songs for the spinning wheel, the sickle and the plow—songs
for sunshine and for storm, for laughter and for tears—songs that will
be sung as long as language lives and passion sways the heart of man.

And when I was at his birth-place, at that little clay house where he
was born, standing in that sacred place, I wrote these lines:

> Though Scotland boasts a thousand names,
> Of patriot, king and peer,
> The noblest, grandest of them all,
> Was loved and cradled here.
> Here lived the gentle peasant-prince,
> The loving cotter-king,
> Compared with whom the greatest lord
> Is but a titled thing.

> 'Tis but a cot roofed in with straw,
> A hovel made of clay;
> One door shuts out the snow and storm,
> One window greets the day;
> And yet I stand within this room,
> And hold all thrones in scorn;
> For here beneath this lowly thatch,
> Love's sweetest bard was born.

> Within this hallowed hut I feel
> Like one who clasps a shrine,
> When the glad lips at last have touched
> The something deemed divine.
> And here the world through all the years,
> As long as day returns,
> The tribute of its love and tears,
> Will pay to Robert Burns.
---
# Shakespeare
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1891_
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE was the greatest genius of our world. He left to
us the richest legacy of all the dead—the treasures of the rarest soul
that ever lived and loved and wrought of words the statues, pictures,
robes and gems of thought.

It is hard to overstate the debt we owe to the men and women of genius.
Take from our world what they have given, and all the niches would be
empty, all the walls naked—meaning and connection would fall from words
of poetry and fiction, music would go back to common air, and all the
forms of subtle and enchanting Art would lose proportion and become the
unmeaning waste and shattered spoil of thoughtless Chance.

Shakespeare is too great a theme. I feel as though endeavoring to grasp
a globe so large that the hand obtains no hold. He who would worthily
speak of the great dramatist should be inspired by "a muse of fire that
should ascend the brightest heaven of invention"—he should have "a
kingdom for a stage, and monarchs to behold the swelling scene."

More than three centuries ago, the most intellectual of the human race
was born. He was not of supernatural origin. At his birth there were
no celestial pyrotechnics. His father and mother were both English, and
both had the cheerful habit of living in this world. The cradle in which
he was rocked was canopied by neither myth nor miracle, and in his veins
there was no drop of royal blood.

This babe became the wonder of mankind. Neither of his parents could
read or write. He grew up in a small and ignorant village on the banks
of the Avon, in the midst of the common people of three hundred years
ago. There was nothing in the peaceful, quiet landscape on which he
looked, nothing in the low hills, the cultivated and undulating fields,
and nothing in the murmuring stream, to excite the imagination—nothing,
so far as we can see, calculated to sow the seeds of the subtlest and
sublimest thought.

So there is nothing connected with his education, or his lack of
education, that in any way accounts for what he did. It is supposed that
he attended school in his native town—but of this we are not certain.
Many have tried to show that he was, after all, of gentle blood, but the
fact seems to be the other way. Some of his biographers have sought to
do him honor by showing that he was patronized by Queen Elizabeth, but
of this there is not the slightest proof.

As a matter of fact, there never sat on any throne a king, queen, or
emperor who could have honored William Shakespeare.

Ignorant people are apt to overrate the value of what is called
education. The sons of the poor, having suffered the privations of
poverty, think of wealth as the mother of joy. On the other hand, the
children of the rich, finding that gold does not produce happiness, are
apt to underrate the value of wealth. So the children of the educated
often care but little for books, and hold all culture in contempt. The
children of great authors do not, as a rule, become writers.

Nature is filled with tendencies and obstructions. Extremes beget
limitations, even as a river by its own swiftness creates obstructions
for itself.

Possibly, many generations of culture breed a desire for the rude joys
of savagery, and possibly generations of ignorance breed such a longing
for knowledge, that of this desire, of this hunger of the brain, Genius
is born. It may be that the mind, by lying fallow, by remaining idle for
generations, gathers strength.

Shakespeare's father seems to have been an ordinary man of his time and
class. About the only thing we know of him is that he was officially
reported for not coming monthly to church. This is good as far as it
goes. We can hardly blame him, because at that time Richard Bifield
was the minister at Stratford, and an extreme Puritan, one who read the
Psalter by Sternhold and Hopkins.

The church was at one time Catholic, but in John Shakespeare's day it
was Puritan, and in 1564, the year of Shakespeare's birth, they had the
images defaced. It is greatly to the honor of John Shakespeare that
he refused to listen to the "tidings of great joy" as delivered by the
Puritan Bifield.

Nothing is known of his mother, except her beautiful name—Mary Arden.
In those days but little attention was given to the biographies of
women. They were born, married, had children, and died. No matter how
celebrated their sons became, the mothers were forgotten. In old times,
when a man achieved distinction, great pains were taken to find
out about the father and grandfather—the idea being that genius is
inherited from the father's side. The truth is, that all great men have
had great mothers. Great women have had, as a rule, great fathers.

The mother of Shakespeare was, without doubt, one of the greatest of
women. She dowered her son with passion and imagination and the higher
qualities of the soul, beyond all other men. It has been said that a
man of genius should select his ancestors with great care—and yet
there does not seem to be as much in heredity as most people think.
The children of the great are often small. Pigmies are born in palaces,
while over the children of genius is the roof of straw. Most of the
great are like mountains, with the valley of ancestors on one side and
the depression of posterity on the other.

In his day Shakespeare was of no particular importance. It may be that
his mother had some marvelous and prophetic dreams, but Stratford was
unconscious of the immortal child. He was never engaged in a reputable
business. Socially he occupied a position below servants. The law
described him as "a sturdy vagabond." He was neither a noble, a soldier,
nor a priest. Among the half-civilized people of England, he who amused
and instructed them was regarded as a menial. Kings had their clowns,
the people their actors and musicians. Shakespeare was scheduled as a
servant. It is thus that successful stupidity has always treated genius.
Mozart was patronized by an Archbishop—lived in the palace,—but was
compelled to eat with the scullions.

The composer of divine melodies was not fit to sit by the side of the
theologian, who long ago would have been forgotten but for the fame of
the composer.

We know but little of the personal peculiarities, of the daily life, or
of what may be called the outward Shakespeare, and it may be fortunate
that so little is known. He might have been belittled by friendly fools.
What silly stories, what idiotic personal reminiscences, would have
been remembered by those who scarcely saw him! We have his best—his
sublimest—and we have probably lost only the trivial and the worthless.
All that is known can be written on a page.

We are tolerably certain of the date of his birth, of his marriage and
of his death. We think he went to London in 1586, when he was twenty-two
years old. We think that three years afterward he was part owner of
Blackfriars' Theatre. We have a few signatures, some of which are
supposed to be genuine. We know that he bought some land—that he had
two or three law-suits. We know the names of his children. We also know
that this incomparable man—so apart from, and so familiar with, all the
world—lived during his literary life in London—that he was an actor,
dramatist and manager—that he returned to Stratford, the place of his
birth,—that he gave his writings to negligence, deserted the children
of his brain—that he died on the anniversary of his birth at the age
of fifty-two, and that he was buried in the church where the images
had been defaced, and that on his tomb was chiseled a rude, absurd and
ignorant epitaph.

No letter of his to any human being has been found, and no line written
by him can be shown.

And here let me give my explanation of the epitaph. Shakespeare was an
actor—a disreputable business—but he made money—always reputable. He
came back from London a rich man. He bought land, and built houses. Some
of the supposed great probably treated him with deference. When he died
he was buried in the church. Then came a reaction. The pious thought the
church had been profaned. They did not feel that the ashes of an actor
were fit to lie in holy ground. The people began to say the body
ought to be removed. Then it was, as I believe, that Dr. John Hall,
Shakespeare's son-in-law, had this epitaph cut on the tomb:

> "Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
> To digg the dust enclosed heare:
> Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones,
> And curst be he yt moves my bones."

Certainly Shakespeare could have had no fear that his tomb would be
violated. How could it have entered his mind to have put a warning, a
threat and a blessing, upon his grave? But the ignorant people of that
day were no doubt convinced that the epitaph was the voice of the dead,
and so feeling they feared to invade the tomb. In this way the dust was
left in peace.

This epitaph gave me great trouble for years. It puzzled me to explain
why he, who erected the intellectual pyramids,—great ranges of
mountains—should put such a pebble at his tomb. But when I stood beside
the grave and read the ignorant words, the explanation I have given
flashed upon me.

II.

IT has been said that Shakespeare was hardly mentioned by his
contemporaries, and that he was substantially unknown. This is a
mistake. In 1600 a book was published called _England's Parnassus_,
and it contained ninety extracts from Shakespeare. In the same year
was published the _Garden of the Muses_, containing several pieces from
Shakespeare, Chapman, Marston and Ben Jonson. _England's Helicon_ was
printed in the same year, and contained poems from Spenser, Greene,
Harvey and Shakespeare.

In 1600 a play was acted at Cambridge, in which Shakespeare was alluded
to as follows: "Why, here's our fellow Shakespeare who puts them all
down." John Weaver published a book of poems in 1595, in which there
was a sonnet to Shakespeare. In 1598 Richard Bamfield wrote a poem
to Shakespeare. Francis Meres, "clergyman, master of arts in both
universities, compiler of school books," was the author of the _Wits
Treasury_. In this he compares the ancient and modern tragic poets, and
mentions Marlowe, Peele, Kyd and Shakespeare. So he compares the writers
of comedies, and mentions Lilly, Lodge, Greene and Shakespeare. He
speaks of elegiac poets, and names Surrey, Wyatt, Sidney, Raleigh and
Shakespeare. He compares the lyric poets, and names Spenser, Drayton,
Shakespeare and others. This same writer, speaking of Horace, says that
England has Sidney, Shakespeare and others, and that "as the soul of
Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweet-wittie soul
of Ovid lives in the mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakespeare." He
also says: "If the Muses could speak English, they would speak in
Shakespeare's phrase." This was in 1598. In 1607, John Davies alludes in
a poem to Shakespeare.

Of course we are all familiar with what rare Ben Jonson wrote. Henry
Chettle took Shakespeare to task because he wrote nothing on the death
of Queen Elizabeth.

It may be wonderful that he was not better known. But is it not
wonderful that he gained the reputation that he did in so short a time,
and that twelve years after he began to write he stood at least with the
first?

## Iii

BUT there is a wonderful fact connected with the writings of
Shakespeare: In the Plays there is no direct mention of any of his
contemporaries. We do not know of any poet, author, soldier, sailor,
statesman, priest, nobleman, king, or queen, that Shakespeare directly
mentioned.

Is it not marvelous that he, living in an age of great deeds, of
adventures in far-off lands and unknown seas—in a time of religious
wars—in the days of the Armada—the massacre of St. Bartholomew—the
Edict of Nantes—the assassination of Henry III.—the victory of
Lepanto—the execution of Marie Stuart—did not mention the name of any
man or woman of his time? Some have insisted that the paragraph ending
with the lines: "The imperial votress passed on in maiden meditation
fancy-free," referred to Queen Elizabeth; but it is impossible for me
to believe that the daubed and wrinkled face, the small black eyes,
the cruel nose, the thin lips, the bad teeth, and the red wig of Queen
Elizabeth could by any possibility have inspired these marvelous lines.

It is perfectly apparent from Shakespeare's writings that he knew but
little of the nobility, little of kings and queens. He gives to these
supposed great people great thoughts, and puts great words in their
mouths and makes them speak—not as they really did—but as Shakespeare
thought such people should. This demonstrates that he did not know them
personally.

Some have insisted that Shakespeare mentions Queen Elizabeth in the
last scene of Henry VIII. The answer to this is that Shakespeare did not
write the last scene in that Play. The probability is that Fletcher was
the author.

Shakespeare lived during the great awakening of the world, when Europe
emerged from the darkness of the Middle Ages, when the discovery of
America had made England, that blossom of the Gulf-Stream, the centre
of commerce, and during a period when some of the greatest writers,
thinkers, soldiers and discoverers were produced.

Cervantes was born in 1547, dying on the same day that Shakespeare died.
He was undoubtedly the greatest writer that Spain has produced. Rubens
was born in 1577. Camoens, the Portuguese, the author of the _Lusiad_,
died in 1597. Giordano Bruno—greatest of martyrs—was born in
1548—visited London in Shakespeare's time—delivered lectures at
Oxford, and called that institution "the widow of learning." Drake
circled the globe in 1580. Galileo was born in 1564—the same year
with Shakespeare. Michael Angelo died in 1563. Kepler—he of the Three
Laws—born in 1571. Calderon, the Spanish dramatist, born in 1601.
Corneille, the French poet, in 1606. Rembrandt, greatest of painters,
1607. Shakespeare was born in 1564. In that year John Calvin died. What
a glorious exchange!

Seventy-two years after the discovery of America Shakespeare was born,
and England was filled with the voyages and discoveries written by
Hakluyt, and the wonders that had been seen by Raleigh, by Drake, by
Frobisher and Hawkins. London had become the centre of the world, and
representatives from all known countries were in the new metropolis. The
world had been doubled. The imagination had been touched and kindled by
discovery. In the far horizon were unknown lands, strange shores beyond
untraversed seas. Toward every part of the world were turned the prows
of adventure. All these things fanned the imagination into flame,
and this had its effect upon the literary and dramatic world. And
yet Shakespeare—the master spirit of mankind—in the midst of these
discoveries, of these adventures, mentioned no navigator, no general, no
discoverer, no philosopher.

Galileo was reading the open volume of the sky, but Shakespeare did not
mention him. This to me is the most marvelous thing connected with this
most marvelous man.

At that time England was prosperous—was then laying the foundation of
her future greatness and power.

When men are prosperous, they are in love with life. Nature grows
beautiful, the arts begin to flourish, there is work for painter and
sculptor, the poet is born, the stage is erected—and this life with
which men are in love, is represented in a thousand forms.

Nature, or Fate, or Chance prepared a stage for Shakespeare, and
Shakespeare prepared a stage for Nature.

Famine and faith go together. In disaster and want the gaze of man is
fixed upon another world. He that eats a crust has a creed. Hunger falls
upon its knees, and heaven, looked for through tears, is the mirage
of misery. But prosperity brings joy and wealth and leisure—and the
beautiful is born.

One of the effects of the world's awakening was Shakespeare. We account
for this man as we do for the highest mountain, the greatest river, the
most perfect gem. We can only say: He was.

> "It hath been taught us from the primal state
> That he which is was wished until he were."

IV.

IN Shakespeare's time the actor was a vagabond, the dramatist a
disreputable person—and yet the greatest dramas were then written. In
spite of law, and social ostracism, Shakespeare reared the many-colored
dome that fills and glorifies the intellectual heavens.

Now the whole civilized world believes in the theatre—asks for some
great dramatist—is hungry for a play worthy of the century, is anxious
to give gold and fame to any one who can worthily put our age upon the
stage—and yet no great play has been written since Shakespeare died.

Shakespeare pursued the highway of the right. He did not seek to put his
characters in a position where it was right to do wrong. He was sound
and healthy to the centre. It never occurred to him to write a play in
which a wife's lover should be jealous of her husband.

There was in his blood the courage of his thought. He was true to
himself and enjoyed the perfect freedom of the highest art. He did not
write according to rules—but smaller men make rules from what he wrote.

How fortunate that Shakespeare was not educated at Oxford—that the
winged god within him never knelt to the professor. How fortunate
that this giant was not captured, tied and tethered by the literary
Lilliputians of his time.

He was an idealist. He did not—like most writers of our time—take
refuge in the real, hiding a lack of genius behind a pretended love of
truth. All realities are not poetic, or dramatic, or even worth knowing.
The real sustains the same relation to the ideal that a stone does to
a statue—or that paint does to a painting. Realism degrades and
impoverishes. In no event can a realist be more than an imitator and
copyist. According to the realist's philosophy, the wax that receives
and retains an image is an artist.

Shakespeare did not rely on the stage-carpenter, or the scenic painter.
He put his scenery in his lines. There you will find mountains and
rivers and seas, valleys and cliffs, violets and clouds, and over all
"the firmament fretted with gold and fire." He cared little for plot,
little for surprise. He did not rely on stage effects, or red fire. The
plays grow before your eyes, and they come as the morning comes. Plot
surprises but once. There must be something in a play besides surprise.
Plot in an author is a kind of strategy—that is to say, a sort of
cunning, and cunning does not belong to the highest natures.

There is in Shakespeare such a wealth of thought that the plot becomes
almost immaterial—and such is this wealth that you can hardly know the
play—there is too much. After you have heard it again and again, it
seems as pathless as an untrodden forest.

He belonged to all lands. "Timon of Athens" is as Greek as any tragedy
of Eschylus. "Julius Cæsar" and "Coriolanus" are perfect Roman, and as
you read, the mighty ruins rise and the Eternal City once again becomes
the mistress of the world. No play is more Egyptian than "Antony and
Cleopatra"—the Nile runs through it, the shadows of the pyramids
fall upon it, and from its scenes the Sphinx gazes forever on the
outstretched sands.

In "Lear" is the true pagan spirit. "Romeo and Juliet" is
Italian—everything is sudden, love bursts into immediate flower, and in
every scene is the climate of the land of poetry and passion.

The reason of this is that Shakespeare dealt with elemental things, with
universal man. He knew that locality colors without changing, and that
in all surroundings the human heart is substantially the same.

Not all the poetry written before his time would make his sum—not all
that has been written since, added to all that was written before, would
equal his.

There was nothing within the range of human thought, within the horizon
of intellectual effort, that he did not touch. He knew the brain and
heart of man—the theories, customs, superstitions, hopes, fears,
hatreds, vices and virtues of the human race.

He knew the thrills and ecstasies of love, the savage joys of hatred and
revenge. He heard the hiss of envy's snakes and watched the eagles of
ambition soar. There was no hope that did not put its star above his
head—no fear he had not felt—no joy that had not shed its sunshine
on his face. He experienced the emotions of mankind. He was the
intellectual spendthrift of the world. He gave with the generosity, the
extravagance, of madness.

Read one play, and you are impressed with the idea that the wealth
of the brain of a god has been exhausted—that there are no more
comparisons, no more passions to be expressed, no more definitions, no
more philosophy, beauty, or sublimity to be put in words—and yet, the
next play opens as fresh as the dewy gates of another day.

The outstretched wings of his imagination filled the sky. He was the
intellectual crown o' the earth.

V.

THE plays of Shakespeare show so much knowledge, thought and learning,
that many people—those who imagine that universities furnish
capacity—contend that Bacon must have been the author.

We know Bacon. We know that he was a scheming politician, a courtier,
a time-server of church and king, and a corrupt judge. We know that he
never admitted the truth of the Copernican system—that he was
doubtful whether instruments were of any advantage in scientific
investigation—that he was ignorant of the higher branches of
mathematics, and that, as a matter of fact, he added but little to the
knowledge of the world. When he was more than sixty years of age he
turned his attention to poetry, and dedicated his verses to George
Herbert.

If you will read these verses you will say that the author of "Lear" and
"Hamlet" did not write them.

Bacon dedicated his work on the _Advancement of Learning, Divine and
Human_, to James I., and in his dedication he stated that there had not
been, since the time of Christ, any king or monarch so learned in all
erudition, divine or human. He placed James the First before Marcus
Aurelius and all other kings and emperors since Christ, and concluded
by saying that James the First had "the power and fortune of a king,
the illumination of a priest, the learning and universality of a
philosopher." This was written of James the First, described by Macaulay
as a "stammering, slobbering, trembling coward, whose writings were
deformed by the grossest and vilest superstitions—witches being the
special objects of his fear, his hatred, and his persecution."

It seems to have been taken for granted that if Shakespeare was not the
author of the great dramas, Lord Bacon must have been.

It has been claimed that Bacon was the greatest philosopher of his
time. And yet in reading his works we find that there was in his mind a
strange mingling of foolishness and philosophy. He takes pains to tell
us, and to write it down for the benefit of posterity, that "snow
is colder than water, because it hath more spirit in it, and that
quicksilver is the coldest of all metals, because it is the fullest of
spirit."

He stated that he hardly believed that you could contract air by putting
opium on top of the weather glass, and gave the following reason:

"I conceive that opium and the like make spirits fly rather by malignity
than by cold."

This great philosopher gave the following recipe for staunching blood:

"Thrust the part that bleedeth into the body of a capon, new ripped and
bleeding. This will staunch the blood. The blood, as it seemeth, sucking
and drawing up by similitude of substance the blood it meeteth with, and
so itself going back."

The philosopher also records this important fact: "Divers witches among
heathen and Christians have fed upon man's flesh to aid, as it seemeth,
their imagination with high and foul vapors."

Lord Bacon was not only a philosopher, but he was a biologist, as
appears from the following:

"As for living creatures, it is certain that their vital spirits are a
substance compounded of an airy and flamy matter, and although air and
flame being free will not mingle, yet bound in by a body that hath some
fixing, will."

Now and then the inventor of deduction reasons by analogy. He says:

"As snow and ice holpen, and their cold activated by nitre or salt, will
turn water into ice, so it may be it will turn wood or stiff clay into
stone."

Bacon seems to have been a believer in the transmutation of metals, and
solemnly gives a formula for changing silver or copper into gold. He
also believed in the transmutation of plants, and had arrived at such
a height in entomology that he informed the world that "insects have no
blood."

It is claimed that he was a great observer, and as evidence of this
he recorded the wonderful fact that "tobacco cut and dried by the fire
loses weight" that "bears in the winter wax fat in sleep, though they eat
nothing" that "tortoises have no bones" that "there is a kind of stone, if
ground and put in water where cattle drink, the cows will give more milk"
that "it is hard to cure a hurt in a Frenchman's head, but easy in his
leg;" that "it is hard to cure a hurt in an Englishman's leg, but easy in
his head;" that "wounds made with brass weapons are easier to cure than
those made with iron;" that "lead will multiply and increase, as in
statues buried in the ground" and that "the rainbow touching anything
causeth a sweet smell."

Bacon seems also to have turned his attention to ornithology, and says
that "eggs laid in the full of the moon breed better birds," and that
"you can make swallows white by putting ointment on the eggs before they
are hatched."

He also informs us "that witches cannot hurt kings as easily as they can
common people" that "perfumes dry and strengthen the brain" that "any one
in the moment of triumph can be injured by another who casts an envious
eye, and the injury is greatest when the envious glance comes from the
oblique eye."

Lord Bacon also turned his attention to medicine, and he states that
"bracelets made of snakes are good for curing cramps" that "the skin of
a wolf might cure the colic, because a wolf has great digestion" that
"eating the roasted brains of hens and hares strengthens the memory"
that "if a woman about to become a mother eats a good many quinces and
considerable coriander seed, the child will be ingenious," and that
"the moss which groweth on the skull of an unburied dead man is good for
staunching blood."

He expresses doubt, however, "as to whether you can cure a wound by
putting ointment on the weapon that caused the wound, instead of on the
wound itself."

It is claimed by the advocates of the Baconian theory that their hero
stood at the top of science; and yet "it is absolutely certain that he
was ignorant of the law of the acceleration of falling bodies, although
the law had been made known and printed by Galileo thirty years before
Bacon wrote upon the subject. Neither did this great man understand the
principle of the lever. He was not acquainted with the precession of
the equinoxes, and as a matter of fact was ill-read in those branches of
learning in which, in his time, the most rapid progress had been made."

After Kepler discovered his third law, which was on the 15th of May,
1618, Bacon was more than ever opposed to the Copernican system. This
great man was far behind his own time, not only in astronomy, but in
mathematics. In the preface to the "De-scriptio Globi Intellectualis,"
it is admitted either that Bacon had never heard of the correction of
the parallax, or was unable to understand it. He complained on account
of the want of some method for shortening mathematical calculations; and
yet "Napier's Logarithms" had been printed nine years before the date of
his complaint.

He attempted to form a table of specific gravities by a rude process
of his own, a process that no one has ever followed; and he did this in
spite of the fact that a far better method existed.

We have the right to compare what Bacon wrote with what it is claimed
Shakespeare produced. I call attention to one thing—to Bacon's opinion
of human love. It is this:

"The stage is more beholding to love than the life of man. As to the
stage, love is ever matter of comedies and now and then of tragedies,
but in life it doth much mischief—sometimes like a siren, sometimes
like a fury. Amongst all the great and worthy persons there is not one
that hath been transported to the mad degree of love, which shows that
great spirits and great business do keep out this weak passion."

The author of "Romeo and Juliet" never wrote that.

It seems certain that the author of the wondrous Plays was one of the
noblest of men.

Let us see what sense of honor Bacon had.

In writing commentaries on certain passages of Scripture, Lord Bacon
tells a courtier, who has committed some offence, how to get back into
the graces of his prince or king. Among other things he tells him not to
appear too cheerful, but to assume a very grave and modest face; not to
bring the matter up himself; to be extremely industrious, so that the
prince will see that it is hard to get along without him; also to get
his friends to tell the prince or king how badly he, the courtier,
feels; and then he says, all these failing, "let him contrive to
transfer the fault to others."

It is true that we know but little of Shakespeare, and consequently
do not positively know that he did not have the ability to write the
Plays—but we do know Bacon, and we know that he could not have
written these Plays—consequently, they must have been written by a
comparatively unknown man—that is to say, by a man who was known by no
other writings. The fact that we do not know Shakespeare, except through
the Plays and Sonnets, makes it possible for us to believe that he was
the author.

Some people have imagined that the Plays were written by several—but
this only increases the wonder, and adds a useless burden to credulity.

Bacon published in his time all the writings that he claimed. Naturally,
he would have claimed his best. Is it possible that Bacon left the
wondrous children of his brain on the door-step of Shakespeare, and kept
the deformed ones at home? Is it possible that he fathered the failures
and deserted the perfect?

Of course, it is wonderful that so little has been found touching
Shakespeare—but is it not equally wonderful, if Bacon was the
author, that not a line has been found in all his papers, containing a
suggestion, or a hint, that he was the writer of these Plays? Is it
not wonderful that no fragment of any scene—no line—no word—has been
found?

Some have insisted that Bacon kept the authorship secret because it
was disgraceful to write Plays. This argument does not cover the
Sonnets—and besides, one who had been stripped of the robes of office
for receiving bribes as a judge, could have borne the additional
disgrace of having written "Hamlet." The fact that Bacon did not claim
to be the author, demonstrates that he was not. Shakespeare claimed
to be the author, and no one in his time or day denied the claim. This
demonstrates that he was.

Bacon published his works, and said to the world: This is what I have
done.

Suppose you found in a cemetery a monument erected to John Smith,
inventor of the Smith-churn, and suppose you were told that Mr.
Smith provided for the monument in his will, and dictated the
inscription—would it be possible to convince you that Mr. Smith was
also the inventor of the locomotive and telegraph?

Bacon's best can be compared with Shakespeare's common, but
Shakespeare's best rises above Bacon's best, like a domed temple above a
beggar's hut.

VI.

OF course it is admitted that there were many dramatists before and
during the time of Shakespeare—but they were only the foot hills of
that mighty peak the top of which the clouds and mists still hide.
Chapman and Marlowe, Heywood and Jonson, Webster, Beaumont and Fletcher
wrote some great lines, and in the monotony of declamation now and then
is found a strain of genuine music—but all of them together constituted
only a herald of Shakespeare. In all these Plays there is but a hint,
a prophecy, of the great drama destined to revolutionize the poetic
thought of the world.

Shakespeare was the greatest of poets. What Greece and Rome produced was
great until his time. "Lions make leopards tame."

The great poet is a great artist. He is painter and sculptor. The
greatest pictures and statues have been painted and chiseled with words.
They outlast all others. All the galleries of the world are poor and
cheap compared with the statues and pictures in Shakespeare's book.

Language is made of pictures represented by sounds. The outer world is
a dictionary of the mind, and the artist called the soul uses this
dictionary of things to express what happens in the noiseless and
invisible world of thought. First a sound represents something in the
outer world, and afterwards something in the inner, and this sound at
last is represented by a mark, and this mark stands for a picture,
and every brain is a gallery, and the artists—that is to say, the
souls—exchange pictures and statues.

All art is of the same parentage. The poet uses words—makes pictures
and statues of sounds. The sculptor expresses harmony, proportion,
passion, in marble; the composer, in music; the painter in form and
color. The dramatist expresses himself not only in words, not only
paints these pictures, but he expresses his thought in action.

Shakespeare was not only a poet, but a dramatist, and expressed the
ideal, the poetic, not only in words, but in action. There are the
wit, the humor, the pathos, the tragedy of situation, of relation. The
dramatist speaks and acts through others—his personality is lost.
The poet lives in the world of thought and feeling, and to this the
dramatist adds the world of action. He creates characters that seem to
act in accordance with their own natures and independently of him. He
compresses lives into hours, tells us the secrets of the heart, shows us
the springs of action—how desire bribes the judgment and corrupts the
will—how weak the reason is when passion pleads, and how grand it is to
stand for right against the world.

It is not enough to say fine things,—great things, dramatic things,
must be done.

Let me give you an illustration of dramatic incident accompanying the
highest form of poetic expression:

Macbeth having returned from the murder of Duncan says to his wife:

> "Methought I heard a voice cry: Sleep no more,
> Macbeth does murder sleep; the innocent sleep;
> Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,
> The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
> Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
> Chief nourisher in life's feast."...

> "Still it cried: Sleep no more, to all the house,
> Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor
> Shall sleep no more—Macbeth shall sleep no more."

She exclaims:

> "Who was it that thus cried?
> Why, worthy Thane, you do unbend your noble strength
> To think so brain-sickly of things; get some water,
> And wash this filthy witness from your hand.
> Why did you bring the daggers from the place?"

Macbeth was so overcome with horror at his own deed, that he not only
mistook his thoughts for the words of others, but was so carried away
and beyond himself that he brought with him the daggers—the evidence of
his guilt—the daggers that he should have left with the dead. This is
dramatic.

In the same play, the difference of feeling before and after the
commission of a crime is illustrated to perfection. When Macbeth is
on his way to assassinate the king, the bell strikes, and he says, or
whispers:

> "Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell."

Afterward, when the deed has been committed, and a knocking is heard at
the gate, he cries:

> "Wake Duncan with thy knocking. I would thou couldst."

Let me give one more instance of dramatic action. When Antony speaks
above the body of Cæsar he says:

> "You all do know this mantle:
> I remember The first time ever Cæsar put it on—
> 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
> That day he overcame the Nervii:
> Look! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
> See what a rent the envious Casca made!
> Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed,
> And as he plucked his cursed steel away,
> Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it."

## Vii

THERE are men, and many of them, who are always trying to show that
somebody else chiseled the statue or painted the picture,—that the poem
is attributed to the wrong man, and that the battle was really won by a
subordinate.

Of course Shakespeare made use of the work of others—and, we might
almost say, of all others. Every writer must use the work of others.
The only question is, how the accomplishments of other minds are used,
whether as a foundation to build higher, or whether stolen to the end
that the thief may make a reputation for himself, without adding to the
great structure of literature.

Thousands of people have stolen stones from the Coliseum to make huts
for themselves. So thousands of writers have taken the thoughts of
others with which to adorn themselves. These are plagiarists. But the
man who takes the thought of another, adds to it, gives it intensity and
poetic form, throb and life,—is in the highest sense original.

Shakespeare found nearly all of his facts in the writings of others,
and was indebted to others for most of the stories of his plays. The
question is not: Who furnished the stone, or who owned the quarry, but
who chiseled the statue?

We now know all the books that Shakespeare could have read, and
consequently know many of the sources of his information. We find in
Pliny's _Natural History_, published in 1601, the following: "The sea
Pontis evermore floweth and runneth out into the Propontis; but the sea
never retireth back again with the Impontis." This was the raw material,
and out of it Shakespeare made the following:

> "Like to the Pontic Sea,
> Whose icy current and compulsive course
> Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
> To the Propontic and the Hellespont—
> Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
> Shall ne'er turn back, ne'er ebb to humble love,
> Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up."

Perhaps we can give an idea of the difference between Shakespeare and
other poets, by a passage from "Lear." When Cordelia places her hand
upon her father's head and speaks of the night and of the storm, an
ordinary poet might have said:

> "On such a night, a dog
> Should have stood against my fire."

A very great poet might have gone a step further and exclaimed:

> "On such a night, mine enemy's dog
> Should have stood against my fire."

But Shakespeare said:

> "Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me,
> Should have stood, that night, against my fire."

Of all the poets—of all the writers—Shakespeare is the most original.
He is as original as Nature.

It may truthfully be said that "Nature wants stuff to vie strange forms
with fancy, to make another."

## Viii

THERE is in the greatest poetry a kind of extravagance that touches the
infinite, and in this Shakespeare exceeds all others.

You will remember the description given of the voyage of Paris in search
of Helen:

> "The seas and winds, old wranglers, made a truce,
> And did him service; he touched the ports desired,
> And for an old aunt, whom the Greeks held captive,
> He brought a Grecian queen whose youth and freshness
> Wrinkles Apollo, and makes stale the morning."

So, in Pericles, when the father finds his daughter, he cries out:

> "O Helicanus! strike me, honored sir;
> Give me a gash, put me to present pain,
> Lest this great sea of joys, rushing upon me,
> O'erbear the shores of my mortality."

The greatest compliment that man has ever paid to the woman he adores is
this line:

> "Eyes that do mislead the morn."

Nothing can be conceived more perfectly poetic. In that marvelous play,
the "Midsummer Night's Dream," is one of the most extravagant things in
literature:

> "Thou rememberest Since once I sat upon a promontory,
> And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
> Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
> That the rude sea grew civil at her song,
> And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
> To hear the sea-maid's music."

This is so marvelously told that it almost seems probable.

So the description of Mark Antony:

> "For his bounty
> There was no winter in't—an autumn t'was
> That grew the more by reaping.

> His delights
> Were dolphin-like—they showed his back above
> The element they lived in."

Think of the astronomical scope and amplitude of this:

> "Her bed is India—there she lies a pearl."

Is there anything more intense than these words of Cleopatra?

> "Rather on Nilus mud lay me stark naked
> And let the water-flies blow me into abhorring."

Or this of Isabella:

> "The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies,
> And strip myself to death as to a bed
> That longing I've been sick for, ere I yield
> My body up to shame."

Is there an intellectual man in the world who will not agree with this?

> "Let me not live
> After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
> Of younger spirits."

Can anything exceed the words of Troilus when parting with Cressida:

> "We two, that with so many thousand sighs
> Did buy each other, most poorly sell ourselves
> With the rude brevity and discharge of one.
> Injurious time now with a robber's haste
> Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how;
> As many farewells as be stars in heaven,
> With distinct breath and consigned kisses to them,
> He fumbles up into a loos'e adieu,
> And scants us with a single famished kiss,
> Distasted with the salt of broken tears."

Take this example, where pathos almost touches the grotesque.

> "O dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair?
> Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous,
> And that the lean, abhorred monster keeps thee here.
> I' the dark, to be his paramour?"

Often when reading the marvelous lines of Shakespeare, I feel that his
thoughts are "too subtle potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness, for the
capacity of my ruder powers." Sometimes I cry out, "O churl!—write all,
and leave no thoughts for those who follow after."

IX.

SHAKESPEARE was an innovator, an iconoclast. He cared nothing for the
authority of men or of schools. He violated the "unities," and cared
nothing for the models of the ancient world.

The Greeks insisted that nothing should be in a play that did not tend
to the catastrophe. They did not believe in the episode—in the sudden
contrasts of light and shade—in mingling the comic and the tragic.
The sunlight never fell upon their tears, and darkness did not overtake
their laughter. They believed that nature sympathized or was in harmony
with the events of the play. When crime was about to be committed—some
horror to be perpetrated—the light grew dim, the wind sighed, the trees
shivered, and upon all was the shadow of the coming event.

Shakespeare knew that the play had little to do with the tides and
currents of universal life—that Nature cares neither for smiles nor
tears, for life nor death, and that the sun shines as gladly on coffins
as on cradles.

The first time I visited the Place de la Concorde, where during the
French Revolution stood the guillotine, and where now stands an
Egyptian obelisk—a bird, sitting on the top, was singing with all its
might.—Nature forgets.

One of the most notable instances of the violation by Shakespeare of the
classic model, is found in the 6th scene of the I. Act of Macbeth.

When the King and Banquo approach the castle in which the King is to be
murdered that night, no shadow falls athwart the threshold. So beautiful
is the scene that the King says:

> "This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
> Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
> Unto our gentle senses."

And Banquo adds:

> "This guest of summer,
> The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
> By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath
> Smells wooingly here; no jutty, frieze,
> Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird
> Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle.
> Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
> The air is delicate."

Another notable instance is the porter scene immediately following
the murder. So, too, the dialogue with the clown who brings the asp to
Cleopatra just before the suicide, illustrates my meaning.

I know of one paragraph in the Greek drama worthy of Shakespeare. This
is in "Medea." When Medea kills her children she curses Jason, using the
ordinary Billingsgate and papal curse, but at the conclusion says: "I
pray the gods to make him virtuous, that he may the more deeply feel the
pang that I inflict."

Shakespeare dealt in lights and shadows. He was intense. He put noons
and midnights side by side. No other dramatist would have dreamed of
adding to the pathos—of increasing our appreciation of Lear's agony,
by supplementing the wail of the mad king with the mocking laughter of a
loving clown.

X.

THE ordinary dramatists—the men of talent—(and there is the same
difference between talent and genius that there is between a stone-mason
and a sculptor) create characters that become types. Types are
of necessity caricatures—actual men and women are to some extent
contradictory in their actions. Types are blown in the one direction by
the one wind—characters have pilots.

In real people, good and evil mingle. Types are all one way, or all the
other—all good, or all bad, all wise, or all foolish.

Pecksniff was a perfect type, a perfect hypocrite—and will remain a
type as long as language lives—a hypocrite that even drunkenness could
not change. Everybody understands Pecksniff, and compared with him
Tartuffe was an honest man.

Hamlet is an individual, a person, an actual being—and for that
reason there is a difference of opinion as to his motives and as to
his character. We differ about Hamlet as we do about Cæsar, or about
Shakespeare himself.

Hamlet saw the ghost of his father and heard again his fathers voice,
and yet, afterward, he speaks of "the undiscovered country from whose
bourne no traveler returns."

In this there is no contradiction. The reason outweighs the senses. If
we should see a dead man rise from his grave, we would not, the next
day, believe that we did. No one can credit a miracle until it becomes
so common that it ceases to be miraculous.

Types are puppets—controlled from without—characters act from within.
There is the same difference between characters and types that there
is between springs and water-works, between canals and rivers, between
wooden soldiers and heroes.

In most plays and in most novels the characters are so shadowy that we
have to piece them out with the imagination.

One waking in the morning sometimes sees at the foot of his bed a
strange figure—it may be of an ancient lady with cap and ruffles and
with the expression of garrulous and fussy old age—but when the light
gets stronger, the figure gradually changes and he sees a few clothes on
a chair.

The dramatist lives the lives of others, and in order to delineate
character must not only have imagination but sympathy with the character
delineated. The great dramatist thinks of a character as an entirety, as
an individual.

I once had a dream, and in this dream I was discussing a subject with
another man. It occurred to me that I was dreaming, and I then said
to myself: If this is a dream, I am doing the talking for both
sides—consequently I ought to know in advance what the other man is
going to say. In my dream I tried the experiment. I then asked the other
man a question, and before he answered made up my mind what the answer
was to be. To my surprise, the man did not say what I expected he would,
and so great was my astonishment that I awoke.

It then occurred to me that I had discovered the secret of Shakespeare.
He did, when awake, what I did when asleep—that is, he threw off a
character so perfect that it acted independently of him.

In the delineation of character Shakespeare has no rivals. He creates no
monsters. His characters do not act without reason, without motive.

Iago had his reasons. In Caliban, nature was not destroyed—and Lady
Macbeth certifies that the woman still was in her heart, by saying:

> "Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done it."

Shakespeare's characters act from within. They are centres of energy.
They are not pushed by unseen hands, or pulled by unseen strings. They
have objects, desires. They are persons—real, living beings.

Few dramatists succeed in getting their characters loose from the
canvas—their backs stick to the wall—they do not have free and
independent action—they have no background, no unexpressed motives—no
untold desires. They lack the complexity of the real.

Shakespeare makes the character true to itself. Christopher Sly,
surrounded by the luxuries of a lord, true to his station, calls for a
pot of the smallest ale.

Take one expression by Lady Macbeth. You remember that after the murder
is discovered—after the alarm bell is rung—she appears upon the scene
wanting to know what has happened. Macduff refuses to tell her, saying
that the slightest word would murder as it fell. At this moment Banquo
comes upon the scene and Macduff cries out to him:

> "Our royal master's murdered."

What does Lady Macbeth then say? She in fact makes a confession of
guilt. The weak point in the terrible tragedy is that Duncan was
murdered in Macbeth's castle. So when Lady Macbeth hears what they
suppose is news to her, she cries:

> "What! In our house!"

Had she been innocent, her horror of the crime would have made her
forget the place—the venue. Banquo sees through this, and sees through
her.

Her expression was a light, by which he saw her guilt—and he answers:

> "Too cruel anywhere."

No matter whether Shakespeare delineated clown or king, warrior or
maiden—no matter whether his characters are taken from the gutter or
the throne—each is a work of consummate art, and when he is unnatural,
he is so splendid that the defect is forgotten.

When Romeo is told of the death of Juliet, and thereupon makes up his
mind to die upon her grave, he gives a description of the shop where
poison could be purchased. He goes into particulars and tells of the
alligators stuffed, of the skins of ill-shaped fishes, of the beggarly
account of empty boxes, of the remnants of pack-thread, and old cakes
of roses—and while it is hardly possible to believe that under such
circumstances a man would take the trouble to make an inventory of a
strange kind of drug-store, yet the inventory is so perfect—the picture
is so marvelously drawn—that we forget to think whether it is natural
or not.

In making the frame of a great picture—of a great scene—Shakespeare
was often careless, but the picture is perfect. In making the sides of
the arch he was negligent, but when he placed the keystone, it burst
into blossom. Of course there are many lines in Shakespeare that never
should have been written. In other words, there are imperfections in his
plays. But we must remember that Shakespeare furnished the torch that
enables us to see these imperfections.

Shakespeare speaks through his characters, and we must not mistake what
the characters say, for the opinion of Shakespeare. No one can believe
that Shakespeare regarded life as "a tale told by an idiot, full of
sound and fury, signifying nothing." That was the opinion of a murderer,
surrounded by avengers, and whose wife—partner in his crimes—troubled
with thick-coming fancies—had gone down to her death.

Most actors and writers seem to suppose that the lines called "The Seven
Ages" contain Shakespeare's view of human life. Nothing could be further
from the truth. The lines were uttered by a cynic, in contempt and scorn
of the human race.

Shakespeare did not put his characters in the livery and uniform of
some weakness, peculiarity or passion. He did not use names as tags or
brands. He did not write under the picture, "This is a villain." His
characters need no suggestive names to tell us what they are—we see
them and we know them for ourselves.

It may be that in the greatest utterances of the greatest characters in
the supreme moments, we have the real thoughts, opinions and convictions
of Shakespeare.

Of all writers Shakespeare is the most impersonal. He speaks through
others, and the others seem to speak for themselves. The didactic is
lost in the dramatic. He does not use the stage as a pulpit to enforce
some maxim. He is as reticent as Nature.

He idealizes the common and transfigures all he touches—but he does
not preach. He was interested in men and things as they were. He did not
seek to change them—but to portray. He was Natures mirror—and in that
mirror Nature saw herself.

When I stood amid the great trees of California that lift their
spreading capitals against the clouds, looking like Nature's columns to
support the sky, I thought of the poetry of Shakespeare.

IX.

THAT a procession of men and women—statesmen and warriors—kings and
clowns—issued from Shakespeare's brain! What women!

_Isabella_—in whose spotless life love and reason blended into perfect
truth.

_Juliet_—within whose heart passion and purity met like white and red
within the bosom of a rose.

_Cordelia_—who chose to suffer loss, rather than show her wealth of
love with those who gilded lies in hope of gain.

_Hermione_—"tender as infancy and grace"—who bore with perfect hope
and faith the cross of shame, and who at last forgave with all her
heart.

_Desdemona_—so innocent, so perfect, her love so pure, that she was
incapable of suspecting that another could suspect, and who with dying
words sought to hide her lover's crime—and with her last faint breath
uttered a loving lie that burst into a perfumed lily between her pallid
lips.

_Perdita_—"a violet dim, and sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes"—"The
sweetest low-born lass that ever ran on the green sward." And

_Helena_—who said:

> "I know I love in vain, strive against hope—
> Yet in this captious and intenable sieve
> I still pour in the waters of my love,
> And lack not to lose still,
> Thus, Indian-like,
> Religious in mine error, I adore
> The sun that looks upon his worshiper,
> But knows of him no more."

_Miranda_—who told her love as gladly as a flower gives its bosom to
the kisses of the sun. And _Cordelia_—whose kisses cured and whose
tears restored. And stainless

_Imogen_—who cried: "What is it to be false?" And here is the
description of the perfect woman:

> "To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love;
> To keep her constancy in plight and youth—
> Outliving beauty's outward with a mind
> That doth renew swifter than blood decays."

Shakespeare has done more for woman than all the other dramatists of the
world.

For my part, I love the Clowns. I love _Launce_ and his dog Crabb, and
_Gobbo_, whose conscience threw its arms around the neck of his heart,
and _Touchstone_, with his lie seven times removed; and dear old
_Dogberry_—a pretty piece of flesh, tedious as a king. And _Bottom_,
the very paramour for a sweet voice, longing to take the part to tear
a cat in; and _Autolycus_, the snapper-up of unconsidered trifles,
sleeping out the thought for the life to come. And great _Sir John_,
without conscience, and for that reason unblamed and enjoyed—and who
at the end babbles of green fields, and is almost loved. And ancient
_Pistol_, the world his oyster. And _Bardolph_, with the flea on his
blazing nose, putting beholders in mind of a damned soul in hell. And
the poor _Pool_, who followed the mad king, and went "to bed at
noon." And the clown who carried the worm of Nilus, whose "biting was
immortal." And _Corin_, the shepherd—who described the perfect man:
"I am a true laborer: I earn that I eat—get that I wear—owe no man
aught—envy no man's happiness—glad of other men's good—content."

And mingling in this motley throng, Lear, within whose brain a tempest
raged until the depths were stirred, and the intellectual wealth of a
life was given back to memory?—and then by madness thrown to storm and
night—and when I read the living lines I feel as though I looked upon
the sea and saw it wrought by frenzied whirlwinds, until the buried
treasures and the sunken wrecks of all the years were cast upon the
shores.

And _Othello_—who like the base Indian threw a pearl away richer than
all his tribe.

And _Hamlet_—thought-entangled—hesitating between two worlds.

And _Macbeth_—strange mingling of cruelty and conscience, reaping
the sure harvest of successful crime—"Curses not loud but
deep—mouth-honor—breath."

And _Brutus_, falling on his sword that Cæsar might be still.

And _Romeo_, dreaming of the white wonder of Juliet's hand. And
_Ferdinand_, the patient log-man for Miranda's sake. And _Florizel_,
who, "for all the sun sees, or the close earth wombs, or the
profound seas hide," would not be faithless to the low-born lass. And
_Constance_, weeping for her son, while grief "stuffs out his vacant
garments with his form."

And in the midst of tragedies and tears, of love and laughter and crime,
we hear the voice of the good friar, who declares that in every human
heart, as in the smallest flower, there are encamped the opposed hosts
of good and evil—and our philosophy is interrupted by the garrulous old
nurse, whose talk is as busily useless as the babble of a stream that
hurries by a ruined mill.

From every side the characters crowd upon us—the men and women born of
Shakespeare's brain. They utter with a thousand voices the thoughts of
the "myriad-minded" man, and impress themselves upon us as deeply and
vividly as though they really lived with us.

Shakespeare alone has delineated love in every possible phase—has
ascended to the very top, and actually reached heights that no other has
imagined. I do not believe the human mind will ever produce or be in a
position to appreciate, a greater love-play than "Romeo and Juliet." It
is a symphony in which all music seems to blend. The heart bursts into
blossom, and he who reads feels the swooning intoxication of a divine
perfume.

In the alembic of Shakespeare's brain the baser metals were turned to
gold—passions became virtues—weeds became exotics from some diviner
land—and common mortals made of ordinary clay outranked the Olympian
Gods. In his brain there was the touch of chaos that suggests
the infinite—that belongs to genius. Talent is measured and
mathematical—dominated by prudence and the thought of use. Genius is
tropical. The creative instinct runs riot, delights in extravagance and
waste, and overwhelms the mental beggars of the world with uncounted
gold and unnumbered gems.

Some things are immortal: The plays of Shakespeare, the marbles of the
Greeks, and the music of Wagner.

## Xii

SHAKESPEARE was the greatest of philosophers. He knew the conditions of
success—of happiness—the relations that men sustain to each other,
and the duties of all. He knew the tides and currents of the heart—the
cliffs and caverns of the brain. He knew the weakness of the will, the
sophistry of desire—and

> "That pleasure and revenge have ears more deaf than
> Adders to the voice of any true decision."

He knew that the soul lives in an invisible world—that flesh is but a
mask, and that

> "There is no art to find the mind's construction
> In the face."

He knew that courage should be the servant of judgment, and that

> "When valor preys on reason it eats the sword
> It fights with."

He knew that man is never master of the event, that he is to some extent
the sport or prey of the blind forces of the world, and that

> "In the reproof of chance lies the true proof of men."

Feeling that the past is unchangeable, and that that which must happen
is as much beyond control as though it had happened, he says:

> "Let determined things to destiny
> Hold unbewailed their way."

Shakespeare was great enough to know that every human being prefers
happiness to misery, and that crimes are but mistakes. Looking in
pity upon the human race, upon the pain and poverty, the crimes and
cruelties, the limping travelers on the thorny paths, he was great and
good enough to say:

> "There is no darkness but ignorance."

In all the philosophies there is no greater line. This great truth fills
the heart with pity.

He knew that place and power do not give happiness—that the crowned are
subject as the lowest to fate and chance.

> "For within the hollow crown,
> That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
> Keeps death his court; and there the antick sits,
> Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
> Allowing him a breath, a little scene
> To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
> Infusing him with self and vain conceit.—
> As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
> Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus;
> Comes at the last, and with a little pin
> Bores through his castle wall, and—farewell king!"

So, too, he knew that gold could not bring joy—that death and
misfortune come alike to rich and poor, because:

> "If thou art rich thou art poor;
> For like an ass whose back with ingots bows
> Thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey,
> And death unloads thee."

In some of his philosophy there was a kind of scorn—a hidden meaning
that could not in his day and time have safely been expressed. You will
remember that Laertes was about to kill the king, and this king was the
murderer of his own brother, and sat upon the throne by reason of his
crime—and in the mouth of such a king Shakespeare puts these words:

> "There's such divinity doth hedge a king."

So, in Macbeth:

> "How he solicits
> Heaven himself best knows; but strangely visited people
> All swollen and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
> The mere despairs of surgery, he cures;
> Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,
> Put on with holy prayers; and 'tis spoken
> To the succeeding royalty—he leaves
> The healing benediction.

> With this strange virtue
> He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,
> And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
> That speak him full of grace."

Shakespeare was the master of the human heart—knew all the hopes,
fears, ambitions and passions that sway the mind of man; and thus
knowing, he declared that

> "Love is not love that alters
> When it alteration finds."

This is the sublimest declaration in the literature of the world.

Shakespeare seems to give the generalization—the result—without the
process of thought. He seems always to be at the conclusion—standing
where all truths meet.

In one of the Sonnets is this fragment of a line that contains the
highest possible truth:

> "Conscience is born of love."

If man were incapable of suffering, the words right and wrong never
could have been spoken. If man were destitute of imagination, the flower
of pity never could have blossomed in his heart.

We suffer—we cause others to suffer—those that we love—and of this
fact conscience is born.

Love is the many-colored flame that makes the fireside of the heart. It
is the mingled spring and autumn—the perfect climate of the soul.

## Xiii

IN the realm of comparison Shakespeare seems to have exhausted the
relations, parallels and similitudes of things, He only could have said:

> "Tedious as a twice-told tale
> Vexing the ears of a drowsy man."
> "Duller than a great thaw.
> Dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage."

In the words of Ulysses, spoken to Achilles, we find the most wonderful
collection of pictures and comparisons ever compressed within the same
number of lines:

> "Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
> Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,—
> A great-sized monster of ingratitudes—
> Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devoured
> As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
> As done; perseverance, dear my lord,
> Keeps honor bright: to have done is to hang
> Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
> In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;
> For honor travels in a strait so narrow
> Where one but goes abreast; keep then the path;
> For emulation hath a thousand sons
> That one by one pursue; if you give way,
> Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
> Like to an entered tide, they all rush by
> And leave you hindmost:
> Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
> Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
> O'errun and trampled on: then what they do in present,
> Tho' less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours;
> For time is like a fashionable host
> That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,
> And with his arms outstretched as he would fly,
> Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles,
> And Farewell goes out sighing."

So the words of Cleopatra, when Charmain speaks:

> "Peace, peace:
> Dost thou not see my baby at my breast
> That sucks the nurse asleep?"

## Xiv

NOTHING is more difficult than a definition—a crystallization of
thought so perfect that it emits light. Shakespeare says of suicide:

> "It is great to do that thing
> That ends all other deeds,
> Which shackles accident, and bolts up change."

He defines drama to be:

> "Turning the accomplishments of many years
> Into an hour glass."

Of death:

> "This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod,
> To lie in cold obstruction and to rot."

Of memory:

> "The warder of the brain."

Of the body:

> "This muddy vesture of decay."

And he declares that

> "Our little life is rounded with a sleep."

He speaks of Echo as:

> "The babbling gossip of the air"—

Romeo, addressing the poison that he is about to take, says:

> "Come, bitter conduct, come unsavory guide,
> Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
> The dashing rocks thy sea-sick, weary bark."

He describes the world as

> "This bank and shoal of time."

He says of rumor—

> "That it doubles, like the voice and echo."

It would take days to call attention to the perfect definitions,
comparisons and generalizations of Shakespeare. He gave us the deeper
meanings of our words—taught us the art of speech. He was the lord of
language—master of expression and compression.

He put the greatest thoughts into the shortest words—made the poor rich
and the common royal.

Production enriched his brain. Nothing exhausted him. The moment his
attention was called to any subject—comparisons, definitions, metaphors
and generalizations filled his mind and begged for utterance. His
thoughts like bees robbed every blossom in the world, and then with
"merry march" brought the rich booty home "to the tent royal of their
emperor."

Shakespeare was the confidant of Nature. To him she opened her "infinite
book of secrecy," and in his brain were "the hatch and brood of time."

XV.

THERE is in Shakespeare the mingling of laughter and tears, humor and
pathos. Humor is the rose, wit the thorn. Wit is a crystallization,
humor an efflorescence. Wit comes from the brain, humor from the heart.
Wit is the lightning of the soul.

In Shakespeare's nature was the climate of humor. He saw and felt the
sunny side even of the saddest things. You have seen sunshine and rain
at once. So Shakespeare's tears fell oft upon his smiles. In moments of
peril—on the very darkness of death—there comes a touch of humor that
falls like a fleck of sunshine.

Gonzalo, when the ship is about to sink, having seen the boatswain,
exclaims:

> "I have great comfort from this fellow;
> Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him;
> His complexion is perfect gallows."

Shakespeare is filled with the strange contrasts of grief and laughter.
While poor Hero is supposed to be dead—wrapped in the shroud of
dishonor—Dogberry and Verges unconsciously put again the wedding wreath
upon her pure brow.

The soliloquy of Launcelot—great as Hamlet's—offsets the bitter and
burning words of Shylock.

There is only time to speak of Maria in "Twelfth Night," of Autolycus in
the "Winter's Tale," of the parallel drawn by Fluellen between Alexander
of Macedon and Harry of Monmouth, or of the marvelous humor of Falstaff,
who never had the faintest thought of right or wrong—or of Mercutio,
that embodiment of wit and humor—or of the gravediggers who lamented
that "great folk should have countenance in this world to drown and
hang themselves, more than their even Christian," and who reached the
generalization that "the gallows does well because it does well to those
who do ill."

There is also an example of grim humor—an example without a parallel in
literature, so far as I know. Hamlet having killed Polonius is asked:

> "Where's Polonius?"

> "At supper."

> "At supper! where?"

> "Not where he eats, but where he is eaten."

Above all others, Shakespeare appreciated the pathos of situation.

Nothing is more pathetic than the last scene in "Lear." No one has
ever bent above his dead who did not feel the words uttered by the mad
king,—words born of a despair deeper than tears:

> "Oh, that a horse, a dog, a rat hath life
> And thou no breath!"

So Iago, after he has been wounded, says:

> "I bleed, sir; but not killed."

And Othello answers from the wreck and shattered remnant of his life:

> "I would have thee live;
> For in my sense it is happiness to die."

When Troilus finds Cressida has been false, he cries:

> "Let it not be believed for womanhood;
> Think! we had mothers."

Ophelia, in her madness, "_the sweet bells jangled out o' tune,_" says
softly:

> "I would give you some violets;
> But they withered all when my father died."

When Macbeth has reaped the harvest, the seeds of which were sown by his
murderous hand, he exclaims,—and what could be more pitiful?

> "I 'gin to be aweary of the sun."

Richard the Second feels how small a thing it is to be, or to have been,
a king, or to receive honors before or after power is lost; and so, of
those who stood uncovered before him, he asks this piteous question:

> "I live with bread, like you; feel want,
> Taste grief, need friends; subjected thus,
> How can you say to me I am a king?"

Think of the salutation of Antony to the dead Cæsar:

> "Pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth."

When Pisanio informs Imogen that he had been ordered by Posthumus to
murder her, she bares her neck and cries:

> "The lamb entreats the butcher:
> Where is thy knife? Thou art too slow
> To do thy master's bidding when I desire it."

Antony, as the last drops are falling from his self-inflicted wound,
utters with his dying breath to Cleopatra, this:

> "I here importune death awhile, until
> Of many thousand kisses the poor last
> I lay upon thy lips."

To me, the last words of Hamlet are full of pathos:

> "I die, Horatio.
> The potent poison quite o' er crows my spirit...
> The rest is silence."

## Xvi

SOME have insisted that Shakespeare must have been a physician, for
the reason that he shows such knowledge of medicine—of the symptoms of
disease and death—was so familiar with the brain, and with insanity in
all its forms.

I do not think he was a physician. He knew too much—his generalizations
were too splendid. He had none of the prejudices of that profession
in his time. We might as well say that he was a musician, a composer,
because we find in "The Two Gentlemen of Verona" nearly every musical
term known in Shakespeare's time.

Others maintain that he was a lawyer, perfectly acquainted with the
forms, with the expressions familiar to that profession—yet there is
nothing to show that he was a lawyer, or that he knew more about law
than any intelligent man should know.

He was not a lawyer. His sense of justice was never dulled by reading
English law.

Some think that he was a botanist, because he named nearly all known
plants. Others, that he was an astronomer, a naturalist, because he gave
hints and suggestions of nearly all discoveries.

Some have thought that he must have been a sailor, for the reason that
the orders given in the opening of "The Tempest" were the best that
could, under the circumstances, have been given to save the ship.

For my part, I think there is nothing in the plays to show that he was
a lawyer, doctor, botanist or scientist. He had the observant eyes
that really see, the ears that really hear, the brain that retains all
pictures, all thoughts, logic as unerring as light,-the imagination
that supplies defects and builds the perfect from a fragment. And these
faculties, these aptitudes, working together, account for what he did.

He exceeded all the sons of men in the splendor of his imagination. To
him the whole world paid tribute, and nature poured her treasures at his
feet. In him all races lived again, and even those to be were pictured
in his brain.

He was a man of imagination—that is to say, of genius, and having seen
a leaf, and a drop of water, he could construct the forests, the rivers,
and the seas—and in his presence all the cataracts would fall and foam,
the mists rise, the clouds form and float.

If Shakespeare knew one fact, he knew its kindred and its neighbors.
Looking at a coat of mail, he instantly imagined the society, the
conditions, that produced it and what it, in turn, produced. He saw
the castle, the moat, the draw-bridge, the lady in the tower, and the
knightly lover spurring across the plain. He saw the bold baron and the
rude retainer, the trampled serf, and all the glory and the grief of
feudal life.

He lived the life of all.

He was a citizen of Athens in the days of Pericles. He listened to the
eager eloquence of the great orators, and sat upon the cliffs, and with
the tragic poet heard "the multitudinous laughter of the sea." He saw
Socrates thrust the spear of question through the shield and heart of
falsehood. He was present when the great man drank hemlock, and met the
night of death, tranquil as a star meets morning. He listened to the
peripatetic philosophers, and was unpuzzled by the sophists. He watched
Phidias as he chiseled shapeless stone to forms of love and awe.

He lived by the mysterious Nile, amid the vast and monstrous. He knew
the very thought that wrought the form and features of the Sphinx. He
heard great Memnon's morning song when marble lips were smitten by
the sun. He laid him down with the embalmed and waiting dead, and felt
within their dust the expectation of another life, mingled with cold and
suffocating doubts—the children born of long delay.

He walked the ways of mighty Rome, and saw great Cæsar with his legions
in the field. He stood with vast and motley throngs and watched the
triumphs given to victorious men, followed by uncrowned kings, the
captured hosts, and all the spoils of ruthless war. He heard the
shout that shook the Coliseum's roofless walls, when from the reeling
gladiator's hand the short sword fell, while from his bosom gushed the
stream of wasted life.

He lived the life of savage men. He trod the forests' silent depths, and
in the desperate game of life or death he matched his thought against
the instinct of the beast.

He knew all crimes and all regrets, all virtues and their rich rewards.
He was victim and victor, pursuer and pursued, outcast and king. He
heard the applause and curses of the world, and on his heart had fallen
all the nights and noons of failure and success.

He knew the unspoken thoughts, the dumb desires, the wants and ways of
beasts. He felt the crouching tiger's thrill, the terror of the ambushed
prey, and with the eagles he had shared the ecstasy of flight and poise
and swoop, and he had lain with sluggish serpents on the barren rocks
uncoiling slowly in the heat of noon.

He sat beneath the bo-tree's contemplative shade, wrapped in Buddha's
mighty thought, and dreamed all dreams that light, the alchemist, has
wrought from dust and dew, and stored within the slumbrous poppy's
subtle blood.

He knelt with awe and dread at every shrine—he offered every sacrifice,
and every prayer—felt the consolation and the shuddering fear—mocked
and worshiped all the gods—enjoyed all heavens, and felt the pangs of
every hell.

He lived all lives, and through his blood and brain there crept the
shadow and the chill of every death, and his soul, like Mazeppa, was
lashed naked to the wild horse of every fear and love and hate.

The Imagination had a stage in. Shakespeare's brain, whereon were set
all scenes that lie between the morn of laughter and the night of tears,
and where his players bodied forth the false and true, the joys and
griefs, the careless shallows and the tragic deeps of universal life.

From Shakespeare's brain there poured a Niagara of gems spanned by
Fancy's seven-hued arch. He was as many-sided as clouds are many-formed.
To him giving was hoarding—sowing was harvest—and waste itself the
source of wealth. Within his marvelous mind were the fruits of all
thought past, the seeds of all to be. As a drop of dew contains the
image of the earth and sky, so all there is of life was mirrored forth
in Shakespeare's brain.

Shakespeare was an intellectual ocean, whose waves touched all the
shores of thought; within which were all the tides and waves of destiny
and will; over which swept all the storms of fate, ambition and revenge;
upon which fell the gloom and darkness of despair and death and all the
sunlight of content and love, and within which was the inverted sky lit
with the eternal stars—an intellectual ocean—towards which all rivers
ran, and from which now the isles and continents of thought receive
their dew and rain.
---
# The Great Infidels
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1881_
I HAVE sometimes thought that it will not make great and splendid
character to rock children in the cradle of hypocrisy. I do not believe
that the tendency is to make men and women brave and glorious when you
tell them that there are certain ideas upon certain subjects that they
must never express; that they must go through life with a pretence as a
shield; that their neighbors will think much more of them if they
will only keep still; and that above all is a God who despises one who
honestly expresses what he believes. For my part, I believe men will be
nearer honest in business, in politics, grander in art—in everything
that is good and grand and beautiful, if they are taught from the cradle
to the coffin to tell their honest opinion.

Neither do I believe thought to be dangerous.

It is incredible that only idiots are absolutely sure of salvation.
It is incredible that the more brain you have the less your chance is.
There can be no danger in honest thought, and if the world ever advances
beyond what it is to-day, it must be led by men who express their real
opinions.

We have passed midnight in the great struggle between Fact and Faith,
between Science and Superstition. The brand of intellectual inferiority
is now upon the orthodox brain. There is nothing grander than to rescue
from the leprosy of slander the reputation of a good and generous man.
Nothing can be nearer just than to benefit our benefactors.

The Infidels of one age have been the aureoled saints of the next. The
destroyers of the old are the creators of the new. The old passes away,
and the new becomes old. There is in the intellectual world, as in the
material, decay and growth, and ever by the grave of buried age stand
youth and joy.

The history of intellectual progress is written in the lives of
Infidels. Political rights have been preserved by traitors—the liberty
of the mind by heretics. To attack the king was treason—to dispute the
priest was blasphemy. The sword and cross were allies. They defended
each other. The throne and altar were twins—vultures from the same egg.

It was James I. who said: "No bishop, no king." He might have said: "No
cross, no crown."

The king owned the bodies, and the priest the souls, of men. One lived
on taxes, the other on alms. One was a robber, the other a beggar, and
each was both.

These robbers and beggars controlled two worlds. The king made laws, the
priest made creeds. With bowed backs the people received the burdens of
the one, and with wonder's open mouth the dogmas of the other. If any
aspired to be free they were crushed by the king, and every priest was
a Herod who slaughtered the children of the brain. The king ruled by
force, the priest by fear, and both by both.

The king said to the people: "God made you peasants, and he made me
king. He made rags and hovels for you, robes and palaces for me. Such
is the justice of God." And the priest said: "God made you ignorant and
vile. He made me holy and wise. If you do not obey me, God will punish
you here and torment you hereafter. Such is the mercy of God."

Infidels are intellectual discoverers. They sail the unknown seas and
find new isles and continents in the infinite realms of thought.

An Infidel is one who has found a new fact, who has an idea of his own,
and who in the mental sky has seen another star.

He is an intellectual capitalist, and for that reason excites the envy
and hatred of the theological pauper.

The Origin of god and Heaven, Of the Devil and Hell.

IN the estimation of good orthodox Christians I am a criminal, because
I am trying to take from loving mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters,
husbands, wives, and lovers the consolations naturally arising from
a belief in an eternity of grief and pain. I want to tear, break, and
scatter to the winds the God that priests erected in the fields of
innocent pleasure—a God made of sticks called creeds, and of old
clothes called myths. I shall endeavor to take from the coffin its
horror, from the cradle its curse, and put out the fires of revenge
kindled by an infinite fiend.

Is it necessary that Heaven should borrow its light from the glare of
Hell?

Infinite punishment is infinite cruelty, endless injustice, immortal
meanness. To worship an eternal goaler hardens, debases, and pollutes
even the vilest soul. While there is one sad and breaking heart in the
universe, no good being can be perfectly happy.

Against the heartlessness of the Christian religion every grand and
tender soul should enter solemn protest. The God of Hell should be held
in loathing, contempt and scorn. A God who threatens eternal pain should
be hated, not loved—cursed, not worshiped. A heaven presided over by
such a God must be below the lowest hell. I want no part in any heaven
in which the saved, the ransomed and redeemed will drown with shouts of
joy the cries and sobs of hell—in which happiness will forget misery,
where the tears of the lost only increase laughter and double bliss.

The idea of hell was born of ignorance, brutality, fear, cowardice, and
revenge. This idea testifies that our remote ancestors were the lowest
beasts. Only from dens, lairs, and caves, only from mouths filled
with cruel fangs, only from hearts of fear and hatred, only from the
conscience of hunger and lust, only from the lowest and most debased
could come this most cruel, heartless and bestial of all dogmas.

Our barbarian ancestors knew but little of nature. They were too
astonished to investigate. They could not divest themselves of the idea
that everything happened with reference to them; that they caused storms
and earthquakes; that they brought the tempest and the whirlwind; that
on account of something they had done, or omitted to do, the lightning
of vengeance leaped from the darkened sky. They made up their minds that
at least two vast and powerful beings presided over this world; that
one was good and the other bad; that both of these beings wished to get
control of the souls of men; that they were relentless enemies, eternal
foes; that both welcomed recruits and hated deserters; that both
demanded praise and worship; that one offered rewards in this world, and
the other in the next. The Devil has paid cash—God buys on credit.

Man saw cruelty and mercy in nature, because he imagined that phenomena
were produced to punish or to reward him. When his poor hut was torn and
broken by the wind, he thought it a punishment. When some town or city
was swept away by flood or sea, he imagined that the crimes of the
inhabitants had been avenged. When the land was filled with plenty, when
the seasons were kind, he thought that he had pleased the tyrant of the
skies.

It must be remembered that both gods and devils were supposed to be
presided over by the greatest God and the greatest Devil. The God could
give infinite rewards and could inflict infinite torments. The Devil
could assist man here; could give him wealth and place in this world, in
consideration of owning his soul hereafter. Each human soul was a prize
contended for by these deities. Of course this God and this Devil had
innumerable spirits at their command, to execute their decrees. The God
lived in heaven and the Devil in hell. Both were mon-archs and were
infinitely jealous of each other. The priests pretended to be the agents
and recruiting sergeants of this God, and they were duly authorized to
promise and threaten in his name; they had power to forgive and curse.
These priests sought to govern the world by force and fear. Believing
that men could be frightened into obedience, they magnified the tortures
and terrors of perdition. Believing also that man could in part be
influenced by the hope of reward, they magnified the joys of heaven. In
other words, they promised eternal joy and threatened everlasting pain.
Most of these priests, born of the ignorance of the time, believed what
they taught. They proved that God was good by sunlight and harvest, by
health and happiness; that he was angry, by disease and death. Man,
according to this doctrine, was led astray by the Devil, who delighted
only in evil. It was supposed that God demanded worship; that he loved
to be flattered; that he delighted in sacrifice; that nothing made him
happier than to see ignorant faith upon its knees; that above all things
he hated and despised doubters and heretics, and that he regarded all
investigation as rebellion.

Now and then believers in these ideas, those who had gained great
reputation for learning and sanctity, or had enjoyed great power, wrote
books, and these books after a time were considered sacred. Most of them
were written to frighten mankind, and were filled with threatenings and
curses for unbelievers and promises for the faithful. The more frightful
the curses, the more extravagant the promises, the more sacred the books
were considered. All of the gods were cruel and vindictive, unforgiving
and relentless, and the devils were substantially the same.

It was also believed that certain things must be accepted as true, no
matter whether they were reasonable or not; that it was pleasing to God
to believe a certain creed, especially if it happened to be the creed of
the majority. Each community felt it a duty to see that the enemies of
God were converted or killed. To allow a heretic to live in peace was
to invite the wrath of God. Every public evil—every misfortune—was
accounted for by something the community had permitted or done. When
epidemics appeared, brought by ignorance and welcomed by filth, the
heretic was brought out and sacrificed to appease the vengeance of God.
From the knowledge they had—from their premises—they reasoned well.
They said, if God will inflict such frightful torments upon us here,
simply for allowing a few heretics to live, what will he do with the
heretics? Of course the heretics would be punished forever. They knew
how cruel was the barbarian king when he had the traitor in his power.
They had seen every horror that man could inflict on man. Of course a
God could do more than a king. He could punish forever. The fires he
would kindle never could be quenched. The torments he would inflict
would be eternal. They thought the amount of punishment would be
measured only by the power of God.

These ideas were not only prevalent in what are called barbarous times,
but they are received by the religious world of to-day.

No death could be conceived more horrible than that produced by flames.
To these flames they added eternity, and hell was produced. They
exhausted the idea of personal torture.

By putting intention behind what man called good, God was produced. By
putting intention behind what man called bad, the Devil was created.
Leave this "intention" out, and gods and devils fade away.

If not a human being existed the sun would continue to shine, and
tempests now and then would devastate the world; the rain would fall in
pleasant showers, and the bow of promise would adorn the cloud; violets
would spread their velvet bosoms to the sun, and the earthquake would
devour; birds would sing, and daisies bloom, and roses blush, and the
volcanoes would fill the heavens with their lurid glare; the procession
of the seasons would not be broken, and the stars would shine just as
serenely as though the world was filled with loving hearts and happy
homes. But in the olden time man thought otherwise. He imagined that
he was of great importance. Barbarians are always egotistic. They think
that the stars are watching them; that the sun shines on their account;
that the rain falls for them, and that gods and devils are really
troubling themselves about their poor and ignorant souls.

In those days men fought for their God as they did for their king. They
killed the enemies of both. For this their king would reward them
here, and their God hereafter. With them it was loyalty to destroy
the disloyal. They did not regard God as a vague "spirit," nor as an
"essence" without body or parts, but as a being, a person, an infinite
man, a king, the monarch of the universe, who had garments of glory for
believers and robes of flame for the heretic and infidel.

Do not imagine that this doctrine of hell belongs to Christianity alone.
Nearly all religions have had this dogma for a corner-stone. Upon this
burning foundation nearly all have built. Over the abyss of pain rose
the glittering dome of pleasure. This world was regarded as one of
trial. Here a God of infinite wisdom experimented with man. Between the
outstretched paws of the Infinite the mouse, man, was allowed to play.
Here man had the opportunity of hearing priests and kneeling in temples.
Here he could read and hear read the sacred books. Here he could have
the example of the pious and the counsels of the holy. Here he could
build churches and cathedrals. Here he could burn incense, fast, wear
haircloth, deny himself all the pleasures of life, confess to priests,
count beads, be miserable one day in seven, make creeds, construct
instruments of torture, bow before pictures and images, eat little
square pieces of bread, sprinkle water on the heads of babes, shut his
eyes and say words to the clouds, and slander and defame all who have
the courage to despise superstition, and the goodness to tell their
honest thoughts. After death, nothing could be done to make him better.
When he should come into the presence of God, nothing was left except
to damn him. Priests might convert him here, but God could do nothing
there,—all of which shows how much more a priest can do for a soul
than its creator; how much more potent is the example of your average
Christian than that of all the angels, and how much superior earth is to
heaven for the moral development of the soul. In heaven the Devil is
not allowed to enter. There all are pure and perfect, yet they cannot
influence a soul for good.

Only here, on the earth, where the Devil is constantly active, only
where his agents attack every soul, is there the slightest hope of moral
improvement.

Strange! that a world cursed by God, filled with temptations and thick
with fiends, should be the only place where hope exists, the only place
where man can repent, the only place where reform is possible! Strange!
that heaven, filled with angels and presided over by God, is the
only place where reformation is utterly impossible! Yet these are the
teachings of all the believers in the eternity of punishment.

Masters frightened slaves with the threat of hell, and slaves got a kind
of shadowy revenge by whispering back the threat. The poor have damned
the rich and the rich the poor. The imprisoned imagined a hell for their
gaolers; the weak built this place for the strong; the arrogant for
their rivals; the vanquished for their victors; the priest for the
thinker, religion for reason, superstition for science.

All the meanness, all the revenge, all the selfishness, all the cruelty,
all the hatred, all the infamy of which the heart of man is capable,
grew, blossomed and bore fruit in this one word—Hell.

For the nourishment of this dogma cruelty was soil, ignorance was rain,
and fear was light.

Christians have placed upon the throne of the universe a God of eternal
hate. I cannot worship a being whose vengeance is boundless, whose
cruelty is shoreless, and whose malice is increased by the agonies he
inflicts.

## The Appeal to the Cemetery

WHOEVER attacks a custom or a creed, will be confronted with a list of
the names of the dead who upheld the custom, or believed the creed. He
is asked in a very triumphant and sneering way, if he knows more than
all the great and honored of the past Every defender of a creed has
graven upon his memory the names of all "great" men whose actions or
words can be tortured into evidence for his doctrine. The church is
always anxious to have some king or president certify to the moral
character of Christ, the authority of the Scriptures, and the justice
of the Jewish God. Of late years, confessions of gentlemen about to be
hanged have been considered of great value, and the scaffold is regarded
as a means of grace.

All the churches of our day seek the rich. They are no longer the
friends and defenders of the poor. Poverty no longer feels at home
in the house of God. In the Temple of the Most High, garments out of
fashion are considered out of place. People now, before confessing to
God what worthless souls they have, enrich their bodies. Now words of
penitence mingle with the rustle of silk, and light thrown from diamonds
adorns the repentant tear. We are told that the rich, the fortunate, the
holders of place and office, the fashionable, the respectable, are all
within the churches. And yet all these people grow eloquent over the
poverty of Christ—boast that he was born in a manger—that the Holy
Ghost passed by all the ladies of titled wealth and fashion and selected
the wife of a poor and unknown mechanic for the Mother of God.

They admit that all the men of Jerusalem who held high positions—all
the people of wealth, influence and power—were the enemies of the
Savior and held his pretensions in contempt. They admit that he had
influence only with the poor, and that he was so utterly unknown—so
indigent in acquaintance, that it was necessary to bribe one of his
disciples to point him out to the police. They assert that he had done a
great number of miracles—had cured the sick, and raised the dead—that
he had preached to vast multitudes—had made a kind of triumphal entry
into Jerusalem—had scourged from the temple the changers of money—had
disputed with the doctors—and yet, notwithstanding all these things,
he remained in the very depths of obscurity. Surely he and his disciples
could have been met with the argument that the "great" dead were opposed
to the new religion.

The apostles, it is claimed, preached the doctrines of Christ in Rome
and Athens, and the people of those cities could have used the arguments
against Christianity that Christians now use in its support. They could
have asked the apostles if they were wiser than all the philosophers,
poets, orators, and statesmen dead—if they knew more, coming as they
did from a weak and barbarous nation, than the greatest men produced by
the highest civilization of the known world. With what scorn would the
Greeks listen to a barbarian's criticisms upon Socrates and Plato. How
a Roman would laugh to hear a vagrant Hebrew attack a mythology that had
been believed by Cato and Virgil.

Every new religion has to overcome this argument of the cemetery—this
logic of the grave. Old ideas take shelter behind a barricade of corpses
and tombstones. They have epitaphs for battle-cries, and malign the
living in the name of the dead. The moment, however, that a new religion
succeeds, it becomes the old religion and uses the same argument against
a new idea that it once so gallantly refuted. The arguments used to-day
against what they are pleased to call infidelity would have shut the
mouth of every religious reformer, from Christ to the founder of the
last sect. The general objection to the new is, that it differs somewhat
from the old, and the fact that it does differ is urged as an argument
against its truth.

Every man is forced to admit that he does not agree with all the great
men, living or dead. The average Catholic, if not a priest, as a rule
will admit that Sir Isaac Newton was in some things his superior, that
Demosthenes had the advantage of him in expressing his ideas in public,
and that as a sculptor he is far below the unknown man of whose hand and
brain was born the Venus de Milo, but he will not, on account of
these admissions, change his views upon the important question of
transubstantiation.

Most Protestants will cheerfully admit that they are inferior in brain
and genius to some men who have lived and died in the Catholic Church;
that in the matter of preaching funeral sermons they do not pretend to
equal Bossuet; that their letters are not so interesting and polished
as those of Pascal; that Torquemada excelled them in the genius of
organization, and that for planning a massacre they would not for a
moment dispute the palm with Catherine de Medici.

And yet, after all these admissions, they would insist that the Pope
is an unblushing impostor, and that the Catholic Church is a vampire
fattened by the best blood of a thousand years.

The truth is, that in favor of almost every sect, the names of some
great men can be pronounced. In almost every church there have been
men whose only weakness was their religion, and who in other directions
achieved distinction. If you call men great because they were emperors,
kings, noblemen, statesmen, millionaires—because they commanded vast
armies and wielded great influence in their day, then more names can be
found to support and prop the Church of Rome than any other Christian
sect.

Is Protestantism willing to rest its claims upon the "great man"
argument? Give me the ideas, the religions, not that have been advanced
and believed by the so-called great of the past, but that will be
defended and believed by the great souls of the future.

It gives me pleasure to say that Lord Bacon was a great man; but I do
not for that reason abandon the Copernican system of astronomy, and
insist that the earth is stationary. Samuel Johnson was an excellent
writer of latinized English, but I am confident that he never saw a
real ghost. Matthew Hale was a reasonably good judge of law, but he
was mistaken about witches causing children to vomit crooked pins. John
Wesley was quite a man, in a kind of religious way, but in this country
few people sympathize with his hatred of republican government, or with
his contempt for the Revolutionary Fathers. Sir Isaac Newton, in the
domain of science, was the colossus of his time, but his commentary on
the book of Revelation would hardly excite envy, even in the breast of
a Spurgeon or a Talmage. Upon many questions, the opinions of Napoleon
were of great value, and yet about his bed, when dying, he wanted to
see burning the holy candles of Rome. John Calvin has been called
a logician, and reasoned well from his premises, but the burning of
Servetus did not make murder a virtue. Luther weakened somewhat the
power of the Catholic Church, and to that extent was a reformer, and
yet Lord Brougham affirmed that his "Table Talk" was so obscene that no
respectable English publisher would soil paper with a translation. He
was a kind of religious Rabelais; and yet a man can defend Luther in his
attack upon the church without justifying his obscenity. If every man
in the Catholic Church was a good man, that would not convince me that
Ignatius Loyola ever met and conversed with the Virgin Mary. The
fact is, very few men are right in everything. Great virtues may
draw attention from defects, but they cannot sanctify them. A pebble
surrounded by diamonds remains a common stone, and a diamond surrounded
by pebbles is still a gem. No one should attempt to refute an argument
by pronouncing the name of some man, unless he is willing to adopt all
the ideas and beliefs of that man. It is better to give reasons and
facts than names. An argument should not depend for its force upon the
name of its author. Facts need no pedigree; logic has no heraldry, and
the living should not be awed by the mistakes of the dead.

The greatest men the world has produced have known but little. They had
a few facts, mingled with mistakes without number. In some departments
they towered above their fellows, while in others they fell below the
common level of mankind.

Daniel Webster had great respect for the Scriptures, but very little for
the claims of his creditors. Most men are strangely inconsistent. Two
propositions were introduced into the Confederate Congress by the same
man. One was to hoist the black flag, and the other was to prevent
carrying the mails on Sunday. George Whitefield defended the slave
trade, because it brought the negroes within the sound of the gospel,
and gave them the advantage of associating with the gentlemen who stole
them. And yet this same Whitefield believed and taught the dogma
of predestination. Volumes might be written upon the follies and
imbecilities of great men. A full rounded man—a man of sterling
sense and natural logic—is just as rare as a great painter, poet, or
sculptor. If you tell your friend that he is not a painter, that he has
no genius for poetry, he will probably admit the truth of what you say,
without feeling that he has been insulted in the least. But if you tell
him that he is not a logician, that he has but little idea of the value
of a fact, that he has no real conception of what evidence is, and
that he never had an original thought in his life, he will cut your
acquaintance. Thousands of men are most wonderful in mechanics, in
trade, in certain professions, keen in business, knowing well the
men among whom they live, and yet satisfied with religions infinitely
stupid, with politics perfectly senseless, and they will believe that
wonderful things were common long ago, such things as no amount of
evidence could convince them had happened in their day. A man may be a
successful merchant, lawyer, doctor, mechanic, statesman, or theologian
without one particle of originality, and almost without the ability to
think logically upon any subject whatever. Other men display in some
directions the most marvelous intellectual power, astonish mankind with
their grasp and vigor, and at the same time, upon religious subjects
drool and drivel like David at the gates of Gath.

## Sacred Books

WE have found, at last, that other nations have sacred books much
older than our own, and that these books and records were and are
substantiated by traditions and monuments, by miracles and martyrs,
christs and apostles, as well as by prophecies fulfilled. In all of
these nations differences of opinion as to the authenticity and meaning
of these books arose from time to time, precisely as they have done and
still do with us, and upon these differences were founded sects that
manufactured creeds. These sects denounced each other, and preached with
the sword and endeavored to convince with the fagot. Our theologians
were greatly astonished to find in other bibles the same stories,
precepts, laws, customs and commands that adorn and stain our own. At
first they accounted for this, by saying that these books were in part
copies of the Jewish Scriptures, mingled with barbaric myths. To such an
extent did they impose upon and insult probability, that they declared
that all the morality of the world, all laws commanding right and
prohibiting wrong, all ideas respecting the unity of a Supreme Being,
were borrowed from the Jews, who obtained them directly from God. The
Christian world asserts with warmth, not always born of candor, that
the Bible is the source, origin, and fountain of law, liberty, love,
charity, and justice; that it is the intellectual and moral sun of the
world; that it alone gives happiness here, and alone points out the
way to joy hereafter; that it contains the only revelation from the
Infinite; that all others are the work of dishonest and mistaken men.
They say these things in spite of the fact that the Jewish nation was
one of the weakest and most barbaric of the past; in spite of the fact
that the civilization of Egypt and India had commenced to wane before
that of Palestine existed. To account for all the morality contained in
the sacred books of the Hindus, by saying that it was borrowed from
the wanderers in the Desert of Sinai, from the escaped slaves of the
Egyptians, taxes to the utmost the credulity of ignorance, bigotry, and
zeal.

The men who make these assertions are not superior to other men. They
have only the facts common to all, and they must admit that these facts
do not force the same conclusions upon all. They must admit that men
equally honest, equally well informed as themselves, deny their premises
and conclusions. They must admit that had they been born and educated in
some other country, they would have had a different religion, and would
have regarded with reverence and awe the books they now hold as false
and foolish. Most men are followers, and implicitly rely upon the
judgment of others. They mistake solemnity for wisdom, and regard a
grave countenance as the titlepage and preface to a most learned volume.
So they are easily imposed upon by forms, strange garments, and solemn
ceremonies. And when the teaching of parents, the customs of neighbors,
and the general tongue approve and justify a belief or creed, no matter
how absurd, it is hard even for the strongest to hold the citadel of his
soul. In each country, in defence of each religion, the same arguments
would be urged. There is the same evidence in favor of the inspiration
of the Koran and Bible. Both are substantiated in exactly the same way.
It is just as wicked and unreasonable to be a heretic in Constantinople
as in New York. To deny the claims of Christ and Mohammed is alike
blasphemous. It all depends upon where you are when you make the denial.
No religion has ever fallen that carried with it down to dumb death a
solitary fact. Mistakes moulder with the temples in which they were
taught, and countless superstitions sleep with their dead priests.

Yet Christians insist that the religions of all nations that have fallen
from wealth and power were false, with of course the solitary exception
of the Jewish, simply because the nations teaching them dropped from
their dying hands the swords of power. This argument drawn from the
fate of nations proves no more than would one based upon the history
of persons. With nations as with individuals, the struggle for life is
perpetual, and the law of the survival of the fittest applies equally to
both.

It may be that the fabric of our civilization will crumbling fall to
unmeaning chaos and to formless dust, where oblivion broods and even
memory forgets. Perhaps the blind Samson of some imprisoned force,
released by thoughtless chance, may so wreck and strand the world that
man, in stress and strain of want and fear, will shudderingly crawl back
to savage and barbaric night. The time may come in which this thrilled
and throbbing earth, shorn of all life, will in its soundless orbit
wheel a barren star, on which the light will fall as fruitlessly as
falls the gaze of love upon the cold, pathetic face of death.

## Fear

'T'HERE is a view quite prevalent, that in some way you can prove
whether the theories defended or advanced by a man are right or not, by
showing what kind of man he was, what kind of life he lived, and what
manner of death he died.

A man entertains certain opinions; he is persecuted. He refuses to
change his mind; he is burned, and in the midst of flames cries out
that he dies without change. Hundreds then say that he has sealed his
testimony with his blood, and his doctrines must be true.

All the martyrs in the history of the world are not sufficient
to establish the correctness of an opinion. Martyrdom, as a rule,
establishes the sincerity of the martyr,—never the correctness of
his thought. Things are true or false in themselves. Truth cannot be
affected by opinions; it cannot be changed, established, or affected
by martyrdom. An error cannot be believed sincerely enough to make it a
truth.

No Christian will admit that any amount of heroism displayed by a Mormon
is sufficient to prove that Joseph Smith was divinely inspired. All the
courage and culture, all the poetry and art of ancient Greece, do not
even tend to establish the truth of any myth.

The testimony of the dying concerning some other world, or in regard to
the supernatural, cannot be any better, to say the least, than that
of the living. In the early days of Christianity a serene and intrepid
death was regarded as a testimony in favor of the church. At that time
Pagans were being converted to Christianity—were throwing Jupiter away
and taking the Hebrew God instead. In the moment of death many of these
converts, without doubt, retraced their steps and died in the faith of
their ancestors. But whenever one died clinging to the cross of the
new religion, this was seized upon as an evidence of the truth of the
gospel. After a time the Christians taught that an unbeliever, one
who spoke or wrote against their doctrines, could not meet death with
composure—that the infidel in his last moments would necessarily be a
prey to the serpent of remorse. For more than a thousand years they
have made the "facts" to fit this theory. Crimes against men have been
considered as nothing when compared with a denial of the truth of the
Bible, the divinity of Christ, or the existence of God.

According to the theologians, God has always acted in this way. As long
as men did nothing except to render their fellows wretched; as long as
they only butchered and burnt the innocent and helpless, God maintained
the strictest and most heartless neutrality; but when some honest man,
some great and tender soul expressed a doubt as to the truth of the
Scriptures, or prayed to the wrong God, or to the right one by the wrong
name, then the real God leaped like a wounded tiger upon his victim, and
from his quivering flesh tore his wretched soul.

There is no recorded instance where the uplifted hand of murder has been
paralyzed—no truthful account in all the literature of the world of the
innocent being shielded by God. Thousands of crimes are committed every
day—men are this moment lying in wait for their human prey—wives
are whipped and crushed, driven to insanity and death—little children
begging for mercy, lifting imploring, tear-filled eyes to the brutal
faces of fathers and mothers—sweet girls are deceived, lured, and
outraged, but God has no time to prevent these things—no time to defend
the good and to protect the pure. He is too busy numbering hairs and
watching sparrows.

He listens for blasphemy; looks for persons who laugh at priests;
examines baptismal registers; watches professors in colleges who begin
to doubt the geology of Moses and the astronomy of Joshua. He does not
particularly object to stealing if you won't swear. A great many persons
have fallen dead in the act of taking God's name in vain, but millions
of men, women, and children have been stolen from their homes and used
as beasts of burden, but no one engaged in this infamy has ever been
touched by the wrathful hand of God.

All kinds of criminals, except infidels, meet death with reasonable
serenity. As a rule, there is nothing in the death of a pirate to cast
any discredit on his profession. The murderer upon the scaffold, with
a priest on either side, smilingly exhorts the multitude to meet him in
heaven. The man who has succeeded in making his home a hell, meets death
without a quiver, provided he has never expressed any doubt as to the
divinity of Christ, or the eternal "procession" of the Holy Ghost. The
king who has waged cruel and useless war, who has filled countries with
widows and fatherless children, with the maimed and diseased, and who
has succeeded in offering to the Moloch of ambition the best and bravest
of his subjects, dies like a saint.

The Emperor Constantine, who lifted Christianity into power, murdered
his wife Fausta, and his eldest son Crispus, the same year that he
convened the Council of Nice to decide whether Jesus Christ was a man or
the Son of God. The council decided that Christ was consubstantial
with the Father. This was in the year 325. We are thus indebted to a
wife-murderer for settling the vexed question of the divinity of the
Savior. Theodosius called a council at Constantinople in 381, and
this council decided that the Holy Ghost proceeded from the Father.
Theodosius, the younger, assembled another council at Ephesus to
ascertain who the Virgin Mary really was, and it was solemnly decided in
the year 431 that she was the Mother of God. In 451 it was decided by a
council held at Chalcedon, called together by the Emperor Marcian, that
Christ had two natures—the human and divine. In 680, in another general
council, held at Constantinople, convened by order of Pognatius, it
was also decided that Christ had two wills, and in the year 1274 it was
decided at the Council of Lyons, that the Holy Ghost proceeded not only
from the Father, but from the Son as well. Had it not been for these
councils, we might have been without a Trinity even unto this day. When
we take into consideration the fact that a belief in the Trinity is
absolutely essential to salvation, how unfortunate it was for the world
that this doctrine was not established until the year 1274. Think of
the millions that dropped into hell while these questions were being
discussed.

This, however, is a digression. Let us go back to Constantine. This
Emperor, stained with every crime, is supposed to have died like a
Christian. We hear nothing of fiends leering at him in the shadows of
death. He does not see the forms of his murdered wife and son covered
with the blood he shed. From his white and shrivelled lips issued no
shrieks of terror. He does not cover his glazed eyes with thin and
trembling hands to shut out the visions of hell. His chamber is filled
with the rustle of wings—of wings waiting to bear his soul to the
thrilling realms of joy.

Against the Emperor Constantine the church has hurled no anathema. She
has accepted the story of his vision in the clouds, and his holy memory
has been guarded by priest and pope. All the persecutors sleep in peace,
and the ashes of those who burned their brothers in the name of Christ
rest in consecrated ground. Whole libraries could not contain even the
names of the wretches who have filled the world with violence and death
in defence of book and creed, and yet they all died the death of the
righteous, and no priest or minister describes the agony and fear, the
remorse and horror, with which their guilty souls were filled in the
last moments of their lives. These men had never doubted—they accepted
the creed—they were not infidels—they had not denied the divinity
of Christ—they had been baptized—they had partaken of the Last
Supper—they had respected priests—they admitted that the Holy Ghost
had "proceeded," and these things put pillows beneath their dying heads,
and covered them with the drapery of peace.

Now and then, in the history of this world, a man of genius, of sense,
of intellectual honesty has appeared. These men have denounced the
superstitions of their day. They pitied the multitude. To see priests
devour the substance of the people filled them with indignation. These
men were honest enough to tell their thoughts. Then they were denounced,
tried, condemned, executed. Some of them escaped the fury of the people
who loved their enemies, and died naturally in their beds.

It would not do for the church to admit that they died peacefully. That
would show that religion was not actually necessary in the last moment.
Religion got much of its power from the terror of death.

## The Death Test

YOU had better live well and die wicked.

You had better live well and die cursing than live badly and die
praying.

It would not do to have the common people understand that a man could
deny the Bible, refuse to look at the cross, contend that Christ was
only a man, and yet die as calmly as Calvin did after he had murdered
Servetus, or as did King David after advising one son to kill another.

The church has taken great pains to show that the last moments of all
infidels (that Christians did not succeed in burning) were infinitely
wretched and despairing. It was alleged that words could not paint the
horrors that were endured by a dying infidel. Every good Christian was
expected to, and generally did, believe these accounts. They have been
told and retold in every pulpit of the world. Protestant ministers have
repeated the inventions of Catholic priests, and Catholics, by a kind
of theological comity, have sworn to the falsehoods told by Protestants.
Upon this point they have always stood together, and will as long as the
same calumny can be used by both.

Upon the death-bed subject the clergy grow eloquent. When describing the
shudderings and shrieks of the dying unbeliever, their eyes glitter with
delight.

It is a festival.

They are no longer men. They become hyenas. They dig open graves. They
devour the reputations of the dead.

It is a banquet.

Unsatisfied still, they paint the terrors of hell. They gaze at the
souls of the infidels writhing in the coils of the worm that never dies.
They see them in flames—in oceans of fire—in gulfs of pain—in abysses
of despair. They shout with joy. They applaud.

It is an _auto da fe_, presided over by God and his angels.

The men they thus describe were not atheists; they were all believers
in God, in special providence, and in the immortality of the soul. They
believed in the accountability of man—in the practice of virtue, in
justice, and liberty, but they did not believe in that collection of
follies and fables called the Bible.

In order to show that an infidel must die overwhelmed with remorse and
fear, they have generally selected from all the "unbelievers" since the
day of Christ five men—the Emperor Julian, Spinoza, Voltaire, Diderot,
David Hume, and Thomas Paine.

Hardly a minister in the United States has attempted to "answer" me
without referring to the death of one or more of these men.

In vain have these calumniators of the dead been called upon to prove
their statements. In vain have rewards been offered to any priestly
maligner to bring forward the evidence.

Let us once for all dispose of these slanders—of these pious calumnies.

## Julian

THEY say that the Emperor Julian was an apostate that he was once
a Christian; that he fell from grace, and that in his last moments,
throwing some of his own blood into the air, he cried out to Jesus
Christ, "Galilean, thou hast conquered!"

It must be remembered that the Christians had persecuted and imprisoned
this very Julian; that they had exiled him; that they had threatened him
with death. Many of his relatives were murdered by the Christians.
He became emperor, and Christians conspired to take his life. The
conspirators were discovered and they were pardoned. He did what he
could to prevent the Christians from destroying each other. He held pomp
and pride and luxury in contempt, and led his army on foot, sharing the
privations of the meanest soldier.

Upon ascending the throne he published an edict proclaiming universal
religious toleration. He was then a Pagan. It is claimed by some that he
never did entirely forget his Christian education. In this I am
inclined to think there is some truth, because he revoked his edict of
toleration, and for a time was nearly as unjust as though he had been
a saint. He was emperor one year and seven months. In a battle with the
Persians he was mortally wounded. "Brought back to his tent, and
feeling that he had but a short time to live, he spent his last hours in
discoursing with his friends on the immortality of the soul. He reviewed
his reign and declared that he was satisfied with his conduct, and had
neither penitence nor remorse to express for anything that he had done."
His last words were: "I submit willingly to the eternal decrees of
heaven, convinced that he who is captivated with life, when his last
hour has arrived is more weak and pusillanimous than he who would rush
to voluntary death when it is his duty still to live."

When we remember that a Christian emperor murdered Julian's father and
most of his kindred, and that he narrowly escaped the same fate, we can
hardly blame him for having a little prejudice against a church
whose members were fierce, ignorant, and bloody—whose priests were
hypocrites, and whose bishops were assassins. If Julian had said he was
a Christian—no matter what he actually was, he would have satisfied the
church.

The story that the dying emperor acknowledged that he was conquered
by the Galilean was originated by some of the so-called Fathers of the
Church, probably by Gregory or Theodoret. They are the same wretches
who said that Julian sacrificed a woman to the moon, tearing out her
entrails with his own hands. We are also informed by these hypocrites
that he endeavored to rebuild the temple of Jerusalem, and that
fire came out of the earth and consumed the laborers employed in the
sacrilegious undertaking.

I did not suppose that an intelligent man could be found in the world
who believed this childish fable, and yet in the January number for
1880, of the _Princeton Review_, the Rev. Stuart Robinson (whoever
he may be) distinctly certifies to the truth of this story. He says:
"Throughout the entire era of the planting of the Christian Church, the
gospel preached was assailed not only by the malignant fanaticism of the
Jew and the violence of Roman statecraft, but also by the intellectual
weapons of philosophers, wits, and poets. Now Celsus denounced the new
religion as base imposture. Now Tacitus described it as but another
phase of the _odium generis humani. Now Julian proposed to bring into
contempt the prophetic claims of its founder by the practical test
of rebuilding the Temple_." Here then in the year of grace 1880 is a
Presbyterian preacher, who really believes that Julian tried to rebuild
the Temple, and that God caused fire to issue from the earth and consume
the innocent workmen.

All these stories rest upon the same foundation—the mendacity of
priests.

Julian changed the religion of the Empire, and diverted the revenues
of the church. Whoever steps between a priest and his salary, will find
that he has committed every crime. No matter how often the slanders may
be refuted, they will be repeated until the last priest has lost his
body and found his wings. These falsehoods about Julian were invented
some fifteen hundred years ago, and they are repeated to-day by just as
honest and just as respectable people as those who told them at first.
Whenever the church cannot answer the arguments of an opponent, she
attacks his character. She resorts to falsehood, and in the domain of
calumny she has stood for fifteen hundred years without a rival.

The great Empire was crumbling to its fall. The literature of the world
was being destroyed by priests. The gods and goddesses were driven from
the earth and sky. The paintings were torn and defaced. The statues were
broken. The walls were left desolate, and the niches empty. Art, like
Rachel, wept for her children, and would not be comforted. The streams
and forests were deserted by the children of the imagination, and the
whole earth was barren, poor and mean.

Christian ignorance, bigotry and hatred, in blind unreasoning zeal, had
destroyed the treasures of our race. Art was abhorred, Knowledge
was despised, Reason was an outcast. The sun was blotted from the
intellectual heaven, every star extinguished, and there fell upon the
world that shadow—that midnight,—known as "The Dark Ages."

This night lasted for a thousand years.

The First Great Star—Herald of the Dawn—was Bruno.

## Bruno

THE night of the Middle Ages lasted for a thousand years. The first star
that enriched the horizon of this universal gloom was Giordano Bruno. He
was the herald of the dawn.

He was born in 1550, was educated for a priest, became a Dominican
friar. At last his reason revolted against the doctrine of
transubstantiation. He could not believe that the entire Trinity was in
a wafer, or in a swallow of wine. He could not believe that a man could
devour the Creator of the universe by eating a piece of bread. This led
him to investigate other dogmas of the Catholic Church, and in
every direction he found the same contradictions and impossibilities
supported, not by reason, but by faith.

Those who loved their enemies threatened his life. He was obliged to
flee from his native land, and he became a vagabond in nearly every
nation of Europe. He declared that he fought, not what priests believed,
but what they pretended to believe. He was driven from his native
country because of his astronomical opinions. He had lost confidence
in the Bible as a scientific work. He was in danger because he had
discovered a truth.

He fled to England. He gave some lectures at Oxford. He found that
institution controlled by priests. He found that they were teaching
nothing of importance—only the impossible and the hurtful. He called
Oxford "the widow of true learning." There were in England, at that
time, two men who knew more than the rest of the world. Shakespeare was
then alive.

Bruno was driven from England. He was regarded as a dangerous man,—he
had opinions, he inquired after reasons, he expressed confidence in
facts. He fled to France. He was not allowed to remain in that country.
He discussed things—that was enough. The church said, "move on." He
went to Germany. He was not a believer—he was an investigator. The
Germans wanted believers; they regarded the whole Christian system as
settled; they wanted witnesses; they wanted men who would assert. So he
was driven from Germany.

He returned at last to his native land. He found himself without
friends, because he had been true, not only to himself, but to the human
race. But the world was false to him because he refused to crucify the
Christ of his own soul between the two thieves of hypocrisy and bigotry.
He was arrested for teaching that there are other worlds than this;
that many of the stars are suns, around which other worlds revolve; that
Nature did not exhaust all her energies on this grain of sand called the
earth. He believed in a plurality of worlds, in the rotation of this, in
the heliocentric theory. For these crimes, and for these alone, he was
imprisoned for six years. He was kept in solitary confinement. He was
allowed no books, no friends, no visitors. He was denied pen and paper.
In the darkness, in the loneliness, he had time to examine the great
questions of origin, of existence, of destiny. He put to the test what
is called the goodness of God. He found that he could neither depend
upon man nor upon any deity. At last, the Inquisition demanded him.
He was tried, condemned, excommunicated and sentenced to be burned.
According to Professor Draper, he believed that this world is animated
by an intelligent soul—the cause of forms, but not of matter; that it
lives in all things, even in such as seem not to live; that everything
is ready to become organized; that matter is the mother of forms,
and then their grave; that matter and the soul of things, together,
constitute God. He was a pantheist—that is to say, an atheist. He was
a lover of Nature,—a reaction from the asceticism of the church. He was
tired of the gloom of the monastery. He loved the fields, the woods, the
streams. He said to his brother-priests: Come out of your cells, out of
your dungeons: come into the air and light.

Throw away your beads and your crosses. Gather flowers; mingle with your
fellow-men; have wives and children; scatter the seeds of joy; throw
away the thorns and nettles of your creeds; enjoy the perpetual miracle
of life.

On the sixteenth day of February, in the year of grace 1600, by "the
triumphant beast," the Church of Rome, this philosopher, this great and
splendid man, was burned. He was offered his liberty if he would recant.
There was no God to be offended by his recantation, and yet, as an
apostle of what he believed to be the truth, he refused this offer. To
those who passed the sentence upon him he said: "It is with greater fear
that ye pass this sentence upon me than I receive it." This man, greater
than any naturalist of his day; grander than the martyr of any religion,
died willingly in defence of what he believed to be the sacred truth. He
was great enough to know that real religion will not destroy the joy
of life on earth; great enough to know that investigation is not a
crime—that the really useful is not hidden in the mysteries of faith.
He knew that the Jewish records were below the level of the Greek and
Roman myths; that there is no such thing as special providence; that
prayer is useless; that liberty and necessity are the same, and that
good and evil are but relative.

He was the first real martyr,—neither frightened by perdition, nor
bribed by heaven. He was the first of all the world who died for truth
without expectation of reward. He did not anticipate a crown of glory.
His imagination had not peopled the heavens with angels waiting for his
soul. He had not been promised an eternity of joy if he stood firm,
nor had he been threatened with the fires of hell if he wavered and
recanted. He expected as his reward an eternal nothing! Death was to him
an everlasting end—nothing beyond but a sleep without a dream, a night
without a star, without a dawn—nothing but extinction, blank, utter,
and eternal. No crown, no palm, no "well done, good and faithful
servant," no shout of welcome, no song of praise, no smile of God, no
kiss of Christ, no mansion in the fair skies—not even a grave within
the earth—nothing but ashes, wind-blown and priest-scattered, mixed
with earth and trampled beneath the feet of men and beasts.

The murder of this man will never be completely and perfectly avenged
until from Rome shall be swept every vestige of priest and pope, until
over the shapeless ruin of St. Peter's, the crumbled Vatican and the
fallen cross, shall rise a monument to Bruno,—the thinker, philosopher,
philanthropist, atheist, martyr.

## The Church in the Time of Voltaire

WHEN Voltaire was born, the natural was about the only thing in which
the church did not believe. The monks sold little amulets of consecrated
paper. They would cure diseases. If laid in a cradle they would prevent
a child being bewitched. So, they could be put into houses and barns to
keep devils away, or buried in a field to prevent bad weather, to delay
frost, and to insure good crops. There was a regular formulary by which
they were made, ending with a prayer, after which the amulets were
sprinkled with holy water. The church contended that its servants were
the only legitimate physicians. The priests cured in the name of the
church, and in the name of God, by exorcism, relics, water, salt,
and oil. St. Valentine cured epilepsy, St. Gervasius was good for
rheumatism, St. Michael de Sanatis for cancer, St. Judas for coughs, St.
Ovidius for deafness, St. Sebastian for poisonous bites, St. Apollonia
for toothache, St. Clara for rheum in the eye, St. Hubert for
hydrophobia. Devils were driven out with wax tapers, with incense, with
holy water, by pronouncing prayers. The church, as late as the middle of
the twelfth century, prohibited good Catholics from having anything to
do with physicians.

It was believed that the devils produced storms of wind, of rain and of
fire from heaven; that the atmosphere was a battlefield between angels
and devils; that Lucifer had power to destroy fields and vineyards and
dwellings, and the principal business of the church was to protect the
people from the Devil. This was the origin of church bells. These bells
were sprinkled with holy water, and their clangor cleared the air of
imps and fiends. The bells also prevented storms and lightning. The
church used to anathematize insects. In the sixteenth century, regular
suits were commenced against rats, and judgment was rendered. Every
monastery had its master magician, who sold magic incense, salt, and
tapers, consecrated palms and relics.

Every science was regarded as an outcast, an enemy. Every fact held the
creed of the church in scorn. Investigators were enemies in disguise.
Thinkers were traitors, and the church exerted its vast power for
centuries to prevent the intellectual progress of man. There was no
liberty, no education, no philosophy, no science; nothing but credulity,
ignorance, and superstition. The world was really under the control
of Satan and his agents. The church, for the purpose of increasing her
power, exhausted every means to convince the people of the existence
of witches, devils, and fiends. In this way the church had every enemy
within her power. She simply had to charge him with being a wizard, of
holding communication with devils, and the ignorant mob were ready to
tear him to pieces.

To such an extent was this frightful course pursued, and such was the
prevalence of the belief in the supernatural, that the worship of the
devil was absolutely established. The poor people, brutalized by the
church, filled with fear of Satanic influence, finding that the church
did not protect, as a last resort began to worship the Devil. The power
of the Devil was proven by the Bible. The history of Job, the temptation
of Christ in the desert, the carrying of Christ to the top of
the temple, and hundreds of other instances, were relied upon as
establishing his power; and when people laughed about witches riding
upon anointed sticks in the air, invisible, they were reminded of a like
voyage when the Devil carried Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple.

This frightful doctrine filled every friend with suspicion of his
friend. It the husband denounce the wife, the children the parents,
and the parents the children It destroyed all the sweet relations of
humanity. It did away with justice in the courts. It destroyed the
charity of religion. It broke the bond of friendship. It filled with
poison the golden cup of life. It turned earth into a very hell, peopled
with ignorant, tyrannical, and malicious demons.

Such was the result of a few centuries of Christianity. Such was the
result of a belief in the supernatural. Such was the result of giving
up the evidence of our own senses, and relying upon dreams, visions, and
fears. Such was the result of destroying human reason, of depending upon
the supernatural, of living here for another world instead of for this,
of depending upon priests instead of upon ourselves. The Protestants
vied with the Catholics. Luther stood side by side with the priests
he had deserted, in promoting this belief in devils and fiends. To the
Catholic, every Protestant was possessed by a devil. To the Protestant,
every Catholic was the homestead of a fiend. All order, all regular
succession of causes and effects, were known no more. The natural ceased
to exist. The learned and the ignorant were on a level. The priest had
been caught in the net spread for the peasant, and Christendom was a
vast madhouse, with insane priests for keepers.

## Voltaire

WHEN Voltaire was born, the church ruled and owned France. It was
a period of almost universal corruption. The priests were mostly
libertines. The judges were nearly as cruel as venal. The royal palace
was simply a house of assignation. The nobles were heartless, proud,
arrogant, and cruel to the last degree. The common people were treated
as beasts. It took the church a thousand years to bring about this happy
condition of things.

The seeds of the revolution unconsciously were being scattered by
every noble and by every priest. They germinated in the hearts of the
helpless. They were watered by the tears of agony. Blows began to bear
interest. There was a faint longing for blood. Workmen, blackened by the
sun, bent by labor, looked at the white throats of scornful ladies and
thought about cutting them.

In those days witnesses were cross-examined with instruments of torture.
The church was the arsenal of superstition. Miracles, relics, angels
and devils were as common as rags. Voltaire laughed at the evidences,
attacked the pretended facts, held the Bible up to ridicule, and
filled Europe with indignant protests against the cruelty, bigotry, and
injustice of the time.

He was a believer in God, and in some ingenious way excused this God for
allowing the Catholic Church to exist. He had an idea that, originally,
mankind were believers in one God, and practiced all the virtues. Of
course this was a mistake. He imagined that the church had corrupted the
human race. In this he was right.

It may be that, at one time, the church relatively stood for progress,
but when it gained power, it became an obstruction. The system of
Voltaire was contradictory. He described a being of infinite goodness,
who not only destroyed his children with pestilence and famine, but
allowed them to destroy each other. While rejecting the God of the
Bible, he accepted another God, who, to say the least, allowed the
innocent to be burned for love of him.

Voltaire hated tyranny, and loved liberty. His arguments to prove the
existence of a God were just as groundless as those of the reverend
fathers of his day to prove the divinity of Christ, or that Mary was the
mother of God. The theologians of his time maligned and feared him. He
regarded them as a spider does flies. He spread nets for them. They
were caught, and he devoured them for the amusement and benefit of the
public. He was educated by the Jesuits, and sometimes acted like one.

It is fashionable to say that he was not profound, This is because he
was not stupid. In the presence of absurdity he laughed, and was called
irreverent. He thought God would not damn even a priest forever: this
was regarded as blasphemy. He endeavored to prevent Christians from
murdering each other and did what he could to civilize the disciples
of Christ. Had he founded a sect, obtained control of some country, and
burned a few heretics at slow fires, he would have won the admiration,
respect and love of the Christian world. Had he only pretended to
believe all the fables of antiquity, had he mumbled Latin prayers,
counted beads, crossed himself, devoured the flesh of God, and carried
fagots to the feet of philosophy in the name of Christ, he might have
been in heaven this moment, enjoying a sight of the damned.

Instead of doing these things, he willfully closed his eyes to the light
of the gospel, examined the Bible for himself, advocated intellectual
liberty, struck from the brain the fetters of an arrogant faith,
assisted the weak, cried out against the torture of man, appealed to
reason, endeavored to establish universal toleration, succored the
indigent, and defended the oppressed.

These were his crimes. Such a man God would not suffer to die in peace.
If allowed to meet death with a smile, others might follow his example,
until none would be left to light the holy fires of the auto da fe. It
would not do for so great, so successful an enemy of the church, to
die without leaving some shriek of fear, some shudder of remorse, some
ghastly prayer of chattered horror, uttered by lips covered with blood
and foam.

He was an old man of eighty-four. He had been surrounded with the
comforts of life; he was a man of wealth, of genius. Among the literary
men of the world he stood first. God had allowed him to have the
appearance of success. His last years were filled with the intoxication
of flattery. He stood at the summit of his age.

The priests became anxious. They began to fear that God would forget, in
a multiplicity of business, to make a terrible example of Voltaire.

Toward the last of May, 1778, it was whispered in Paris that Voltaire
was dying. Upon the fences of expectation gathered the unclean birds of
superstition, impatiently waiting for their prey.

"Two days before his death, his nephew went to seek the curé of Saint
Sulpice and the Abbé Gautier and brought them into his uncle's sick
chamber, who was informed that they were there. 'Ah, well!' said
Voltaire, 'give them my compliments and my thanks.' The Abbé spoke some
words to him, exhorting him to patience. The curé of Saint Sulpice then
came forward, having announced himself, and asked of Voltaire, elevating
his voice, if he acknowledged the divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. The
sick man pushed one of his hands against the curé's coif, shoving him
back, and cried, turning abruptly to the other side, 'Let me die in
peace.' The curé seemingly considered his person soiled, and his coif
dishonored, by the touch of the philosopher. He made the nurse give him
a little brushing, and went out with the Abbé Gautier."

He expired, says Wagniere, on the 30th of May, 1778, at about a quarter
past eleven at night, with the most perfect tranquillity. Ten minutes
before his last breath he took the hand of Morand, his _valet de
chambre_, who was watching by him, pressed it and said: "Adieu, my dear
Morand, I am gone." These were his last words.

From this death, so simple and serene, so natural and peaceful; from
these words so utterly destitute of cant or dramatic touch, all the
frightful pictures, all the despairing utterances, have been drawn and
made. From these materials, and from these alone, have been constructed
all the shameless lies about The death of this great and wonderful man,
compared with whom all of his calumniators, dead and living, were and
are but dust and vermin.

Voltaire was the intellectual autocrat of his time. From his throne at
the foot of the Alps he pointed the finger of scorn at every hypocrite
in Europe. He was the pioneer of his century. He was the assassin of
superstition. He left the quiver of ridicule without an arrow. Through
the shadows of faith and fable, through the darkness of myth and
miracle, through the midnight of Christianity, through the blackness of
bigotry, past cathedral and dungeon, past rack and stake, past altar and
throne, he carried, with chivalric hands, the sacred torch of reason.

## Diderot

DOUBT IS THE FIRST STEP TOWARD TRUTH.

DIDEROT was born in 1713. His parents were in what may be called the
humbler walks of life. Like Voltaire he was educated by the Jesuits. He
had in him something of the vagabond, and was for several years almost a
beggar in Paris. He was endeavoring to live by his pen. In that day and
generation, a man without a patron, endeavoring to live by literature,
was necessarily almost a beggar. He nearly starved—frequently going for
days without food. Afterward, when he had something himself, he was as
generous as the air. No man ever was more willing to give, and no man
less willing to receive, than Diderot.

He wrote upon all conceivable subjects, that he might have bread. He
even wrote sermons, and regretted it all his life. He and D'Alembert
were the life and soul of the Encyclopaedia. With infinite enthusiasm he
helped to gather the knowledge of the world for the use of each and all.
He harvested the fields of thought, separated the grain from the
straw and chaff, and endeavored to throw away the seeds and fruit of
superstition. His motto was, "_Incredulity is the first step towards
philosophy_."

He had the vices of most Christians—was nearly as immoral as the
majority of priests. His vices he shared in common, his virtues were his
own. All who knew him united in saying that he had the pity of a woman,
the generosity of a prince, the self-denial of an anchorite, the courage
of Cæsar, and the enthusiasm of a poet. He attacked with every power
of his mind the superstition of his day. He said what he thought. The
priests hated him. He was in favor of universal education—the church
despised it. He wished to put the knowledge of the whole world within
reach of the poorest.

He wished to drive from the gate of the Garden of Eden the cherubim of
superstition, so that the child of Adam might return to eat once more
the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Every Catholic was his enemy. His
poor little desk was ransacked by the police searching for manuscripts
in which something might be found that would justify the imprisonment of
such a dangerous man. Whoever, in 1750, wished to increase the knowledge
of mankind was regarded as the enemy of social order.

The intellectual superstructure of France rests upon the Encyclopaedia.
The knowledge given to the people was the impulse, the commencement,
of the revolution that left the church without an altar and the king
without a throne. Diderot thought for himself, and bravely gave his
thoughts to others. For this reason he was regarded as a criminal. He
did not expect his reward in another world. He did not do what he did to
please some imaginary God. He labored for mankind. He wished to lighten
the burdens of those who should live after him. Hear these noble words:

"The more man ascends through the past, and the more he launches into
the future, the greater he will be, and all these philosophers and
ministers and truth-telling men who have fallen victims to the stupidity
of nations, the atrocities of priests, the fury of tyrants, what
consolation was left for them in death? This: That prejudice would
pass, and that posterity would pour out the vial of ignominy upon
their enemies. O Posterity! Holy and sacred stay of the unhappy and
the oppressed; thou who art just, thou who art incorruptible, thou who
findest the good man, who unmaskest the hypocrite, who breakest down
the tyrant, may thy sure faith, thy consoling faith never, never abandon
me!" Posterity is for the philosopher what the other world is for the
devotee.

Diderot took the ground that, if orthodox religion be true Christ was
guilty of suicide. Having the power to defend himself he should have
used it.

Of course it would not do for the church to allow a man to die in
peace who had added to the intellectual wealth of the world. The moment
Diderot was dead, Catholic priests began painting and recounting the
horrors of his expiring moments. They described him as overcome with
remorse, as insane with fear; and these falsehoods have been repeated
by the Protestant world, and will probably be repeated by thousands of
ministers after we are dead. The truth is, he had passed his three-score
years and ten. He had lived for seventy-one years. He had eaten his
supper. He had been conversing with his wife. He was reclining in
his easy chair. His mind was at perfect rest. He had entered, without
knowing it, the twilight of his last day. Above the horizon was the
evening star, telling of sleep. The room grew still and the stillness
was lulled by the murmur of the street. There were a few moments of
perfect peace. The wife said, "He is asleep." She enjoyed his repose,
and breathed softly that he might not be disturbed. The moments wore on,
and still he slept. Lovingly, softly, at last she touched him. Yes, he
was asleep. He had become a part of the eternal silence.

## David Hume

THE worst religion of the world was the Presbyterianism of Scotland as
it existed in the beginning of the eighteenth century. The Kirk had all
the faults of the Church of Rome without a redeeming feature. The Kirk
hated music, painting, statuary, and architecture. Anything touched with
humanity—with the dimples of joy—was detested and accursed. God was to
be feared—not loved.

Life was a long battle with the Devil. Every desire was of Satan.
Happiness was a snare, and human love was wicked, weak and vain. The
Presbyterian priest of Scotland was as cruel, bigoted and heartless as
the familiar of the Inquisition.

One case will tell it all:

In the beginning of this, the nineteenth century, a boy seventeen
years of age, Thomas Aikenhead, was indicted and tried at Edinburgh for
blasphemy. He had denied the inspiration of the Bible. He had on several
occasions, when cold, jocularly wished himself in hell that he might get
warm. The poor, frightened boy recanted—begged for mercy; but he was
found guilty, hanged, thrown in a hole at the foot of the scaffold,
and his weeping mother vainly begged that his bruised and bleeding body
might be given to her.

This one case, multiplied again and again, gives you the condition of
Scotland when, on the 26th of April, 1711, David Hume was born.

David Hume was one of the few Scotchmen of his day who were not owned
by the church. He had the manliness to examine historical and religious
questions for himself, and the courage to give his conclusions to
the world. He was singularly capable of governing himself. He was a
philosopher, and lived a calm and cheerful life, unstained by an
unjust act, free from all excess, and devoted in a reasonable degree to
benefiting his fellow-men. After examining the Bible he became convinced
that it was not true. For failing to suppress his real opinion, for
failing to tell a deliberate falsehood, he brought upon himself the
hatred of the church.

Intellectual honesty is the sin against the Holy Ghost, and whether God
will forgive this sin or not his church has not, and never will.

Hume took the ground that a miracle could not be used as evidence until
the fact that it had happened was established. But how can a miracle be
established? Take any miracle recorded in the Bible, and how could it be
established now? You may say: Upon the testimony of those who wrote
the account. Who were they? No one knows. How could you prove
the resurrection of Lazarus? Or of the widow's son? How could you
substantiate, today, the ascension of Jesus Christ? In what way could
you prove that the river Jordan was divided upon being struck by the
coat of a prophet? How is it possible now to establish the fact that the
fires of a furnace refused to burn three men? Where are the witnesses?
Who, upon the whole earth, has the slightest knowledge upon this
subject?

He insisted that at the bottom of all good was the useful; that human
happiness was an end worth working and living for; that origin
and destiny were alike unknown; that the best religion was to live
temperately and to deal justly with our fellow-men; that the dogma of
inspiration was absurd, and that an honest man had nothing to fear. Of
course the Kirk hated him. He laughed at the creed.

To the lot of Hume fell ease, respect, success, and honor. While many
disciples of God were the sport and prey of misfortune, he kept steadily
advancing.

Envious Christians bided their time. They waited as patiently as
possible for the horrors of death to fall upon the heart and brain of
David Hume. They knew that all the furies would be there, and that God
would get his revenge.

Adam Smith, author of the "Wealth of Nations," speaking of Hume in his
last sickness, says that in the presence of death "his cheerfulness was
so great, and his conversation and amusements ran so much in the usual
strain, that, notwithstanding all his bad symptoms, many people could
not believe he was dying. A few days before his death Hume said: 'I am
dying as fast as my enemies—if I have any—could wish, and as easily
and tranquilly as my best friends could desire.'"

Col. Edmondstoune shortly afterward wrote Hume a letter, of which the
following is an extract:

"My heart is full. I could not see you this morning. I thought it was
better for us both. You cannot die—you must live in the memory of your
friends and acquaintances; and your works will render you immortal. I
cannot conceive that it was possible for any one to dislike you, or hate
you. He must be more than savage who could be an enemy to a man with the
best head and heart and the most amiable manners."

Adam Smith happened to go into his room while he was reading the above
letter, which he immediately showed him. Smith said to Hume that he was
sensible of how much he was weakening, and that appearances were in many
respects bad; yet, that his cheerfulness was so great and the spirit of
life still seemed to be so strong in him, that he could not keep from
entertaining some hopes.

Hume answered, "When I lie down in the evening I feel myself weaker than
when I arose in the morning; and when I rise in the morning, weaker than
when I lay down in the evening. I am sensible, besides, that some of my
vital parts are affected so that I must soon die."

"Well," said Mr. Smith, "if it must be so, you have at least the
satisfaction of leaving all your friends, and the members of your
brother's family in particular, in great prosperity."

He replied that he was so sensible of his situation that when he was
reading Lucian's Dialogues of the Dead, among all the excuses which are
alleged to Charon for not entering readily into his boat, he could not
find one that fitted him. He had no house to finish; he had no daughter
to provide for; he had no enemies upon whom he wished to revenge
himself; "and I could not well," said he, "imagine what excuse I could
make to Charon in order to obtain a little delay. I have done everything
of consequence which I ever meant to do, and I could, at no time expect
to leave my relations and friends in a better situation than that in
which I am now likely to leave them; and I have, therefore, every reason
to die contented."

"Upon further consideration," said he, "I thought I might say to him,
'Good Charon, I have been correcting my works for a new edition.
Allow me a little time that I may see how the public receives the
alterations.' 'But,' Charon would answer, 'when you have seen the effect
of this, you will be for making other alterations. There will be no
end to such excuses; so, my honest friend, please step into the boat.'
'But,' I might still urge, 'have a little patience, good Charon; I have
been endeavoring to open the eyes of the public; if I live a few years
longer, I may have the satisfaction of seeing the downfall of some of
the prevailing systems of superstition.' And Charon would then lose all
temper and decency, and would cry out, 'You loitering rogue, that will
not happen these many hundred years. Do you fancy I will grant you a
lease for so long a time? Get into the boat this instant.'"

To the Comtesse de Boufflers, the dying man, with the perfect serenity
that springs from an honest and loving life, writes:

"I see death approach gradually without any anxiety or regret.... I
salute you with great affection and regard, for the last time."

On the 25th of August, 1776, the philosopher, the historian, the
infidel, the honest man, and a benefactor of his race, in the composure
born of a noble life, passed quietly and panglessly away.

Dr. Black wrote the following account of his death:

"Monday, 26 August, 1776.

"Dear Sir: Yesterday, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Hume
expired. The near approach of his death became evident on the evening
between Thursday and Friday, when his disease became exhaustive, and
soon weakened him so much that he could no longer rise from his bed.
He continued to the last perfectly sensible, and free from much pain
or feeling of distress. He never dropped the smallest expression of
impatience; but when he had occasion to speak to the people about him,
always did it with affection and tenderness.... When he became very
weak, it cost him an effort to speak, and he died in such happy
composure of mind that nothing could exceed it."

Dr. Cullen writes Dr. Hunter on the 17th of September, 1776, from which
the following extracts are made:

"You desire an account of Mr. Hume's last days, and I give it to you
with great pleasure.... It was truly an example _des grands hommes qui
sont morts en plaisantant_; and to me, who have been so often shocked
with the horrors of superstition, the reflection on such a death is
truly agreeable. For many weeks before his death he was very sensible
of his gradual decay; and his answer to inquiries after his health was,
several times, that he was going as fast as his enemies could wish, and
as easily as his friends could desire. He passed most of the time in his
drawing-room, admitting the visits of his friends, and with his usual
spirit conversed with them upon literature and politics and whatever
else was started. In conversation he seemed to be perfectly at ease;
and to the last abounded with that pleasantry and those curious and
entertaining anecdotes which ever distinguished him.... His senses and
judgment did not fail him to the last hour of his life. He constantly
discovered a strong sensibility of the attention and care of his
friends; and midst great uneasiness and languor never betrayed any
peevishness or impatience." (Here follows the conversation with Charon.)
"These are a few particulars which may, perhaps, appear trivial; but to
me, no particulars seem trivial which relate to so great a man. It is
perhaps from trifles that we can best distinguish the tranquilness and
cheerfulness of the philosopher at a time when the most part of mankind
are under disquiet, and sometimes even horror. I consider the sacrifice
of the cock as a more certain evidence of the tranquillity of Socrates
than his discourse on immortality."

The Christians took it for granted that this serene and placid man died
filled with remorse for having given his real opinions, and proceeded to
describe, with every incident and detail of horror, the terrors of his
last moments. Brainless clergymen, incapable of understanding what Hume
had written, knowing only in a general way that he had held their creeds
in contempt, answered his arguments by maligning his character.

Christians took it for granted that he died in horror and recounted the
terrible scenes.

When the facts of his death became generally known to intelligent men,
the ministers redoubled their efforts to maintain the old calumnies,
and most of them are in this employment even unto this day. Finding it
impossible to tell enough falsehoods to hide the truth, a few of the
more intelligent among the priests admitted that Hume not only died
without showing any particular fear, but was guilty of unbecoming
levity. The first charge was that he died like a coward; the next that
he did not care enough, and went through the shadowy doors of the
dread unknown with a smile upon his lips. The dying smile of David Hume
scandalized the believers in a God of love. They felt shocked to see
a man dying without fear who denied the miracles of the Bible; who had
spent a life investigating the opinions of men; in endeavoring to prove
to the world that the right way is the best way; that happiness is
a real and substantial good, and that virtue is not a termagant with
sunken cheeks and hollow eyes.

Christians hated to admit that a philosopher had died serenely without
the aid of superstition—one who had taught that man could not make God
happy by making himself miserable, and that a useful life, after all,
was the best possible religion. They imagined that death would fill such
a man with remorse and terror. He had never persecuted his fellow-men
for the honor of God, and must needs die in despair. They were mistaken.

He died as he had lived. Like a peaceful river with green and shaded
banks he passed, without a murmur, into that waveless sea where life at
last is rest.

## Benedict Spinoza

ONE of the greatest thinkers was Benedict Spinoza, a Jew, born at
Amsterdam, in 1632. He studied medicine and afterward theology. He
endeavored to understand what he studied. In theology he necessarily
failed. Theology is not intended to be understood,—it is only to be
believed. It is an act, not of reason, but of faith. Spinoza put to the
rabbis so many questions, and so persistently asked for reasons, that
he became the most troublesome of students. When the rabbis found
it impossible to answer the questions, they concluded to silence the
questioner. He was tried, found guilty, and excommunicated from the
synagogue.

By the terrible curse of the Jewish religion, he was made an outcast
from every Jewish home. His father could not give him shelter. His
mother could not give him bread—could not speak to him, without
becoming an outcast herself. All the cruelty of Jehovah, all the
infamy of the Old Testament, was in this curse. In the darkness of the
synagogue the rabbis lighted their torches, and while pronouncing the
curse, extinguished them in blood, imploring God that in like manner the
soul of Benedict Spinoza might be extinguished.

Spinoza was but twenty-four years old when he found himself without
kindred, without friends, surrounded only by enemies. He uttered no
complaint.

He earned his bread with willing hands, and cheerfully divided his crust
with those still poorer than himself.

He tried to solve the problem of existence. To him, the universe was
One. The Infinite embraced the All. The All was God. According to his
belief, the universe did not commence to be. It is; from eternity it
was; to eternity it will be.

He was right. The universe is all there is, or was, or will be. It is
both subject and object, contemplator and contemplated, creator and
created, destroyer and destroyed, preserver and preserved, and hath
within itself all causes, modes, motions and effects.

In this there is hope. This is a foundation and a star. The Infinite
is the All. Without the All, the Infinite cannot be. I am something.
Without me, the Infinite cannot exist.

Spinoza was a naturalist—that is to say, a pantheist. He took the
ground that the supernatural is, and forever will be, an infinite
impossibility. His propositions are luminous as stars, and each of his
demonstrations is a Gibraltar, behind which logic sits and smiles at all
the sophistries of superstition.

Spinoza has been hated because he has not been answered. He was a
real republican. He regarded the people as the true and only source of
political power. He put the state above the church, the people above
the priest. He believed in the absolute liberty of worship, thought and
speech. In every relation of life he was just, true, gentle, patient,
modest and loving. He respected the rights of others, and endeavored to
enjoy his own, and yet he brought upon himself the hatred of the Jewish
and the Christian world. In his day, logic was blasphemy, and to think
was the unpardonable sin. The priest hated the philosopher, revelation
reviled reason, and faith was the sworn foe of every fact.

Spinoza was a philosopher, a philanthropist. He lived in a world of his
own. He avoided men. His life was an intellectual solitude. He was a
mental hermit. Only in his own brain he found the liberty he loved. And
yet the rabbis and the priests, the ignorant zealot and the cruel bigot,
feeling that this quiet, thoughtful, modest man was in some way forging
weapons to be used against the church, hated him with all their hearts.

He did not retaliate. He found excuses for their acts. Their ignorance,
their malice, their misguided and revengeful zeal excited only pity in
his breast. He injured no man. He did not live on alms. He was poor—and
yet, with the wealth of his brain, he enriched the world. On Sunday,
February 21, 1677, Spinoza, one of the greatest and subtlest of
metaphysicians—one of the noblest and purest of human beings,—at the
age of forty-four, passed tranquilly away; and notwithstanding the curse
of the synagogue under which he had lived and most lovingly labored,
death left upon his lips the smile of perfect peace.

## Our Infidels

IN our country there were three infidels—Paine, Franklin and Jefferson.
The colonies were filled with superstition, the Puritans with the spirit
of persecution. Laws savage, ignorant and malignant had been passed in
every colony, for the purpose of destroying intellectual liberty.
Mental freedom was absolutely unknown. The Toleration Acts of
Maryland tolerated only Christians—not infidels, not thinkers, not
investigators. The charity of Roger Williams was not extended to those
who denied the Bible, or suspected the divinity of Christ. It was not
based upon the rights of man, but upon the rights of believers, who
differed in non-essential points.

The moment the colonies began to deny the rights of the king they
suspected the power of the priest. In digging down to find an excuse for
fighting George the Third, they unwittingly undermined the church. They
went through the Revolution together. They found that all denominations
fought equally well. They also found that persons without religion had
patriotism and courage, and were willing to die that a new nation might
be born. As a matter of fact the pulpit was not in hearty sympathy with
our fathers. Many priests were imprisoned because they would not pray
for the Continental Congress. After victory had enriched our standard,
and it became necessary to make a constitution—to establish a
government—the infidels—the men like Paine, like Jefferson, and
like Franklin, saw that the church must be left out; that a government
deriving its just powers from the consent of the governed could make no
contract with a church pretending to derive its powers from an infinite
God.

By the efforts of these infidels, the name of God was left out of the
Constitution of the United States. They knew that if an infinite being
was put in, no room would be left for the people. They knew that if
any church was made the mistress of the state, that mistress, like all
others, would corrupt, weaken, and destroy. Washington wished a church
established by law in Virginia. He was prevented by Thomas Jefferson. It
was only a little while ago that people were compelled to attend church
by law in the Eastern States, and taxes were raised for the support of
churches the same as for the construction of highways and bridges. The
great principle enunciated in the Constitution has silently repealed
most of these laws. In the presence of this great instrument, the
constitutions of the States grew small and mean, and in a few years
every law that puts a chain upon the mind, except in Delaware, will be
repealed, and for these our children may thank the Infidels of 1776.

The church never has pretended that Jefferson or Franklin died in fear.
Franklin wrote no books against the fables of the ancient Jews. He
thought it useless to cast the pearls of thought before the swine of
ignorance and fear. Jefferson was a statesman. He was the father of a
great party. He gave his views in letters and to trusted friends. He
was a Virginian, author of the Declaration of Independence, founder of a
university, father of a political party, President of the United
States, a statesman and philosopher. He was too powerful for the divided
churches of his day. Paine was a foreigner, a citizen of the world. He
had attacked Washington and the Bible. He had done these things openly,
and what he had said could not be answered. His arguments were so good
that his character was bad.

## Thomas Paine

THOMAS PAINE was born in Thetford, England. He came from the common
people. At the age of thirty-seven he left England for America. He
was the first to perceive the destiny of the New World. He wrote the
pamphlet "Common Sense," and in a few months the Continental Congress
declared the colonies free and independent States—a new nation was
born. Paine having aroused the spirit of independence, gave every energy
of his soul to keep the spirit alive. He was with the army. He shared
its defeats and its glory. When the situation became desperate, he gave
them "The Crisis." It was a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night,
leading the way to freedom, honor, and to victory.

The writings of Paine are gemmed with compact statements that carry
conviction to the dullest. Day and night he labored for America, until
there was a government of the people and for the people. At the close
of the Revolution, no one stood higher than Thomas Paine. Had he been
willing to live a hypocrite, he would have been respectable, he at least
could have died surrounded by other hypocrites, and at his death there
would have been an imposing funeral, with miles of carriages, filled
with hypocrites, and above his hypocritical dust there would have been a
hypocritical monument covered with lies.

Having done so much for man in America, he went to France. The seeds
sown by the great infidels were bearing fruit in Europe. The eighteenth
century was crowning its gray hairs with the wreath of progress.
Upon his arrival in France he was elected a member of the French
Convention—in fact, he was selected about the same time by the people
of no less than four Departments. He was one of the committee to draft
a constitution for France. In the Assembly, where nearly all were
demanding the execution of the king, he had the courage to vote against
death. To vote against the death of the king was to vote against his own
life. This was the sublimity of devotion to principle. For this he
was arrested, imprisoned, and doomed to death. While under sentence of
death, while in the gloomy cell of his prison, Thomas Paine wrote to
Washington, asking him to say one word to Robespierre in favor of the
author of "Common Sense." Washington did not reply. He wrote again.
Washington, the President, paid no attention to Thomas Paine, the
prisoner. The letter was thrown into the wastebasket of forgetfulness,
and Thomas Paine remained condemned to death. Afterward he gave his
opinion of Washington at length, and I must say, that I have never found
it in my heart to greatly blame him.

Thomas Paine, having done so much for political liberty, turned his
attention to the superstitions of his age. He published "The Age of
Reason;" and from that day to this, his character has been maligned by
almost every priest in Christendom. He has been held up as the terrible
example. Every man who has expressed an honest thought, has been
warningly referred to Thomas Paine. All his services were forgotten. No
kind word fell from any pulpit. His devotion to principle, his zeal for
human rights, were no longer remembered. Paine simply took the ground
that it is a contradiction to call a thing a revelation that comes to us
second-hand. There can be no revelation beyond the first communication.
All after that is hearsay. He also showed that the prophecies of the Old
Testament had no relation whatever to Jesus Christ, and contended that
Jesus Christ was simply a man. In other words, Paine was an enlightened
Unitarian. Paine thought the Old Testament too barbarous to have been
the work of an infinitely benevolent God. He attacked the doctrine that
salvation depends upon belief. He insisted that every man has the right
to think.

After the publication of these views every falsehood that malignity
could coin and malice pass was given to the world. On his return to
America, after the election to the presidency of another infidel, Thomas
Jefferson, it was not safe for him to appear in the public streets. He
was in danger of being mobbed. Under the very flag he had helped to put
in heaven his rights were not respected. Under the Constitution that he
had suggested, his life was insecure. He had helped to give liberty to
more than three millions of his fellow-citizens, and they were willing
to deny it unto him. He was deserted, ostracized, shunned, maligned, and
cursed. He enjoyed the seclusion of a leper; but he maintained through
it all his integrity. He stood by the convictions of his mind. Never for
one moment did he hesitate or waver.

He died almost alone. The moment he died Christians commenced
manufacturing horrors for his death-bed. They had his chamber filled
with devils rattling chains, and these ancient lies are annually
certified to by the respectable Christians of the present day. The truth
is, he died as he had lived. Some ministers were impolite enough to
visit him against his will. Several of them he ordered from his room.
A couple of Catholic priests, in all the meekness of hypocrisy, called
that they might enjoy the agonies of a dying friend of man. Thomas
Paine, rising in his bed, the few embers of expiring life blown into
flame by the breath of indignation, had the goodness to curse them both.
His physician, who seems to have been a meddling fool, just as the cold
hand of death was touching the patriot's heart, whispered in the dull
ear of the dying man: "Do you believe, or do you wish to believe, that
Jesus Christ is the son of God?" And the reply was: "I have no wish to
believe on that subject."

These were the last remembered words of Thomas Paine. He died as
serenely as ever Christian passed away. He died in the full possession
of his mind, and on the very brink and edge of death proclaimed the
doctrines of his life.

Every Christian, every philanthropist, every believer in human liberty,
should feel under obligation to Thomas Paine for the splendid service
rendered by him in the darkest days of the American Revolution. In the
midnight of Valley Forge, "The Crisis" was the first star that glittered
in the wide horizon of despair. Every good man should remember
with gratitude the brave words spoken by Thomas Paine in the French
Convention against the death of Louis. He said: "We will kill the king,
but not the man. We will destroy monarchy, not the monarch."

Thomas Paine was a champion, in both hemispheres, of human liberty; one
of the founders and fathers of this Republic; one of the foremost men of
his age. He never wrote a word in favor of injustice. He was a despiser
of slavery. He abhorred tyranny in every form. He was, in the widest and
best sense, a friend of all his race. His head was as clear as his heart
was good, and he had the courage to speak his honest thought.

He was the first man to write these words: "The United States of
America." He proposed the present Federal Constitution. He furnished
every thought that now glitters in the Declaration of Independence.

He believed in one God and no more. He was a believer even in special
providence, and he hoped for immortality.

How can the world abhor the man who said:

"I believe in the equality of man, and that religious duties consist
in doing justice, in loving mercy, and endeavoring to make our
fellow-creatures happy."—

"It is necessary to the happiness of man that he be mentally faithful to
himself."—

"The word of God is the creation which we behold."—

"Belief in a cruel God makes a cruel man."—

"My opinion is, that those whose lives have been spent in doing good
and endeavoring to make their fellow-mortals happy, will be happy
hereafter."—

"One good schoolmaster is of more use than a hundred priests."—

"I believe in one God, and no more, and I hope for happiness beyond this
life."—

"Man has no property in man"—and "The key of heaven is not in the
keeping of any sect!"

Had it not been for Thomas Paine I could not deliver this lecture here
to-night..

It is still fashionable to calumniate this man—and yet Channing,
Theodore Parker, Longfellow, Emerson, and in fact all the liberal
Unitarians and Universalists of the world have adopted the opinions of
Thomas Paine.

Let us compare these Infidels with the Christians of their time:

Compare Julian with Constantine,—the murderer of his wife,—the
murderer of his son,—and who established Christianity with the same
sword he had wet with their blood. Compare him with all the Christian
emperors—with all the robbers and murderers and thieves—the parricides
and fratricides and matricides that ever wore the imperial purple on the
banks of the Tiber or the shores of the Bosphorus.

Let us compare Bruno with the Christians who burned him; and we will
compare Spinoza, Voltaire, Diderot, Hume, Jefferson, Paine—with the men
who it is claimed have been the visible representatives of God.

Let it be remembered that the popes have committed every crime of which
human nature is capable, and that not one of them was the friend of
intellectual liberty—that not one of them ever shed one ray of light.

Let us compare these Infidels with the founders of sectarian churches;
you will see how narrow, how bigoted, how cruel were their founders, and
how broad, how generous, how noble, were these infidels.

Let us be honest. The great effort of the human mind is to ascertain the
order of facts by which we are surrounded—the history of things.

Who has accomplished the most in this direction—the church, or
the unbelievers? Upon one side write all that the church has
discovered—every phenomenon that has been explained by a creed, every
new fact in Nature that has been discovered by a church, and on the
other side write the discoveries of Humboldt, and the observations and
demonstrations of Darwin!

Who has made Germany famous—her priests, or her scientists?

Goethe.

Kant: That immortal man who said: "Whoever thinks that he can please
God in any way except by discharging his obligations to his fellows, is
superstitious."

And that greatest and bravest of thinkers, Ernst

Haeckel.

Humboldt.

Italy:—Mazzini. Garibaldi.

In France who are and were the friends of freedom—the Catholic priests,
or Renan? the bishops, or Gambetta?—Dupanloup, or Victor Hugo?

Michelet—Taine—Auguste Comte.

England:—Let us compare her priests with John Stuart Mill,—Harriet
Martineau, that "free rover on the breezy common of the
universe."—George Eliot—with Huxley and Tyndall, with Holyoake and
Harrison—and above and over all—with Charles Darwin.

## Conclusion

LET us be honest. Did all the priests of Rome increase the mental wealth
of man as much as Bruno? Did all the priests of France do as great a
work for the civilization of the world as Diderot and Voltaire? Did all
the ministers of Scotland add as much to the sum of human knowledge as
David Hume? Have all the clergymen, monks, friars, ministers, priests,
bishops, cardinals and popes, from the day of Pentecost to the last
election, done as much for human liberty as Thomas Paine?—as much for
science as Charles Darwin?

What would the world be if infidels had never been?

The infidels have been the brave and thoughtful men; the flower of all
the world; the pioneers and heralds of the blessed day of liberty and
love; the generous spirits of the unworthy past; the seers and
prophets of our race; the great chivalric souls, proud victors on the
battlefields of thought, the creditors of all the years to be.

Why should it be taken for granted that the men who devoted their lives
to the liberation of their fellow-men should have been hissed at in
the hour of death by the snakes of conscience, while men who defended
slavery, practiced polygamy, justified the stealing of babes from
the breasts of mothers, and lashed the naked back of unpaid labor are
supposed to have passed smilingly from earth to the embraces of the
angels? Why should we think that the brave thinkers, the investigators,
the honest men, must have left the crumbling shore of time in dread
and fear, while the instigators of the massacre of St. Bartholomew; the
inventors and users of thumbscrews, of iron boots and racks; the burners
and tearers of human flesh; the stealers, the whippers and the enslavers
of men; the buyers and beaters of maidens, mothers, and babes; the
founders of the Inquisition; the makers of chains; the builders of
dungeons; the calumniators of the living; the slanderers of the
dead, and even the murderers of Jesus Christ, all died in the odor of
sanctity, with white, forgiven hands folded upon the breasts of peace,
while the destroyers of prejudice, the apostles of humanity, the
soldiers of liberty, the breakers of fetters, the creators of light,
died surrounded by the fierce fiends of God?
---
# Voltaire
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1894_
THE infidels of one age have often been the aureoled saints of the next.

The destroyers of the old are the creators of the new.

As time sweeps on the old passes away and the new in its turn becomes
old.

There is in the intellectual world, as in the physical, decay and
growth, and ever by the grave of buried age stand youth and joy.

The history of intellectual progress is written in the lives of
infidels.

Political rights have been preserved by traitors, the liberty of mind by
heretics.

To attack the king was treason; to dispute the priest was blasphemy.

For many centuries the sword and cross were allies. Together they
attacked the rights of man. They defended each other.

The throne and altar were twins—two vultures from the same egg.

James I. said: "No bishop, no king." He might have added: "No cross,
no crown." The king owned the bodies of men; the priest, the souls.
One lived on taxes collected by force, the other on alms collected by
fear—both robbers, both beggars.

These robbers and these beggars controlled two worlds. The king made
laws, the priest made creeds. Both obtained their authority from God,
both were the agents of the Infinite.

With bowed backs the people carried the burdens of one, and with
wonder's open mouth received the dogmas of the other.

If the people aspired to be free, they were crushed by the king, and
every priest was a Herod who slaughtered the children of the brain.

The king ruled by force, the priest by fear, and both by both.

The king said to the people: "God made you peasants, and He made me
king; He made you to labor, and me to enjoy; He made rags and hovels for
you, robes and palaces for me. He made you to obey, and me to command.
Such is the justice of God."

And the priest said: "God made you ignorant and vile; He made me holy
and wise; you are the sheep, I am the shepherd; your fleeces belong to
me. If you do not obey me here, God will punish you now and torment you
forever in another world. Such is the mercy of God."

"You must not reason. Reason is a rebel. You must not
contradict—contradiction is born of egotism; you must believe. He that
hath ears to hear let him hear." Heaven was a question of ears.

Fortunately for us, there have been traitors and there have been
heretics, blasphemers, thinkers, investigators, lovers of liberty, men
of genius who have given their lives to better the condition of their
fellow-men.

It may be well enough here to ask the question: What is greatness?

A great man adds to the sum of knowledge, extends the horizon of
thought, releases souls from the Bastile of fear, crosses unknown and
mysterious seas, gives new islands and new continents to the domain of
thought, new constellations to the firmament of mind. A great man does
not seek applause or place; he seeks for truth; he seeks the road to
happiness, and what he ascertains he gives to others.

A great man throws pearls before swine, and the swine are sometimes
changed to men. If the great had always kept their pearls, vast
multitudes would be barbarians now.

A great man is a torch in the darkness, a beacon in superstition's
night, an inspiration and a prophecy.

Greatness is not the gift of majorities; it cannot be thrust upon any
man; men cannot give it to another; they can give place and power, but
not greatness.

The place does not make the man, nor the sceptre the king. Greatness is
from within.

The great men are the heroes who have freed the bodies of men; they are
the philosophers and thinkers who have given liberty to the soul; they
are the poets who have transfigured the common and filled the lives of
many millions with love and song.

They are the artists who have covered the bare walls of weary life with
the triumphs of genius.

They are the heroes who have slain the monsters of ignorance and fear,
who have outgazed the Gorgon and driven the cruel gods from their
thrones.

They are the inventors, the discoverers, the great mechanics, the kings
of the useful who have civilized this world.

At the head of this heroic army, foremost of all, stands Voltaire, whose
memory we are honoring tonight.

Voltaire! a name that excites the admiration of men, the malignity of
priests. Pronounce that name in the presence of a clergyman, and you
will find that you have made a declaration of war. Pronounce that name,
and from the face of the priest the mask of meekness will fall, and
from the mouth of forgiveness will pour a Niagara of vituperation and
calumny. And yet Voltaire was the greatest man of his century, and did
more to free the human race than any other of the sons of men.

On Sunday, the 21st of November, 1694, a babe was born—a babe so
exceedingly frail that the breath hesitated about remaining, and the
parents had him baptized as soon as possible. They were anxious to save
the soul of this babe, and they knew that if death came before baptism
the child would be doomed to an eternity of pain. They knew that God
despised an unsprinkled child. The priest who, with a few drops of
water, gave the name of Francois-Marie Arouet to this babe and saved
his soul—little thought that before him, wrapped in many folds, weakly
wailing, scarcely breathing, was the one destined to tear from the white
throat of Liberty the cruel, murderous claws of the "Triumphant Beast."

When Voltaire came to this "great stage of fools," his country had been
Christianized—not civilized—for about fourteen hundred years. For a
thousand years the religion of peace and good-will had been supreme. The
laws had been given by Christian kings, and sanctioned by "wise and
holy men." Under the benign reign of universal love, every court had its
chamber of torture, and every priest relied on the thumb-screw and rack.

Such had been the success of the blessed gospel that every science was
an outcast.

To speak your honest thoughts, to teach your fellow-men, to investigate
for yourself, to seek the truth, these were all crimes, and the
"holy-mother church" pursued the criminals with sword and flame.

The believers in a God of love—an infinite father—punished hundreds of
offences with torture and death. Suspected persons were tortured to
make them confess. Convicted persons were tortured to make them give the
names of their accomplices. Under the leadership of the church, cruelty
had become the only reforming power.

In this blessed year, 1694, all authors were at the mercy of king and
priest. The most of them were cast into prisons, impoverished by fines
and costs, exiled or executed.

The little time that hangmen could snatch from professional duties was
occupied in burning books.

The courts of justice were traps, in which the innocent were caught.
The judges were almost as malicious and cruel as though they had been
bishops or saints. There was no trial by jury, and the rules of
evidence allowed the conviction of the supposed criminal by the proof of
suspicion or hearsay.

The witnesses, being liable to be tortured, generally told what the
judges wished to hear.

The supernatural and the miraculous controlled the world. Everything was
explained, but nothing was understood. The church was at the head. The
sick bought from monks little amulets of consecrated paper. They did not
send for a doctor, but for a priest, and the priest sold the diseased
and the dying these magical amulets. These little pieces of paper with
the help of some saint would cure diseases of every kind. If you would
put one in a cradle, it would keep the child from being bewitched. If
you would put one in the barn, the rats would not eat your corn. If you
would keep one in the house, evil spirits would not enter your doors,
and if you buried them in the fields, you would have good weather, the
frost would be delayed, rain would come when needed, and abundant crops
would bless your labor. The church insisted that all diseases could
be cured in the name of God, and that these cures could be effected
by prayers, exorcism, by touching bones of saints, pieces of the true
cross; by being sprinkled with holy water or with sanctified salt, or
touched with magical oil.

In that day the dead saints were the best physicians; St. Valentine
cured the epilepsy; St. Gervasius was exceedingly good for rheumatism;
St. Michael for cancer; St. Judas for coughs and colds; St. Ovidius
restored the hearing; St. Sebastian was good for the bites of snakes and
the stings of poisonous insects; St. Apollonia for toothache; St. Clara
for any trouble with the eyes; and St. Hubert for hydrophobia. It
was known that doctors reduced the revenues of the church; that was
enough—science was the enemy of religion.

The church thought that the air was filled with devils; that every
sinner was a kind of tenement house inhabited by evil spirits; that
angels were on one side of men and evil spirits on the other, and that
God would, when the subscriptions and donations justified the effort,
drive the evil spirits from the field.

Satan had power over the air; consequently he controlled the frost, the
mildew, the lightning and the flood; and the principal business of the
church was with bells, and holy water, and incense, and crosses, to
defeat the machinations of that prince of the power of the air.

Great reliance was placed upon the bells; they were sprinkled with holy
water, and their clangor cleared the air of imps and fiends. And bells
also protected the people from storms and lightning. In that day the
church used to anathematize insects. Suits were commenced against rats,
and judgment rendered. Every monastery had its master magician, who
sold incense and salt and tapers and consecrated palms and relics.
Every science was regarded as an enemy; every fact held the creed of the
church in scorn. Investigators were regarded as dangerous; thinkers
were traitors, and the church exerted its vast power to prevent the
intellectual progress of man.

There was no real liberty, no real education, no real philosophy, no
real science—-nothing but credulity and superstition. The world was
under the control of Satan and the church.

The church firmly believed in the existence of witches and devils and
fiends. In this way the church had every enemy within her power. It
simply had to charge him with being a wizard, of holding communications
with devils, and the ignorant mob were ready to tear him to pieces. So
prevalent was this belief, this belief in the supernatural, that the
poor people were finally driven to make the best possible terms they
could with the spirit of evil. This frightful doctrine filled every
friend with suspicion of his friend; it made the husband denounce the
wife, children their parents, parents their children. It destroyed the
amenities of humanity; it did away with justice in courts; it broke the
bond of friendship; it filled with poison the golden cup of life; it
turned earth into a very perdition peopled with abominable, malicious
and hideous fiends. Such was the result of a belief in the supernatural;
such was the result of giving up the evidence of their own senses and
relying upon dreams, visions and fears. Such was the result of the
attack upon the human reason; such the result of depending on the
imagination, on the supernatural; such the result of living in this
world for another; of depending upon priests instead of upon ourselves.
The Protestants vied with Catholics; Luther stood side by side with the
priests he had deserted in promoting this belief in devils and fiends.
To the Catholic every Protestant was possessed by a devil; to the
Protestant every Catholic was the home of a fiend. All order, all
regular succession of causes and effects were known no more; the natural
ceased to exist; the learned and the ignorant were on a level. The
priest was caught in the net he had spread for the peasant, and
Christendom became a vast madhouse, with the insane for keepers.

When Voltaire was born the church ruled and owned France. It was
a period of almost universal corruption. The priests were mostly
libertines, the judges cruel and venal. The royal palace was a house of
prostitution. The nobles were heartless, proud, arrogant and cruel to
the last degree. The common people were treated as beasts. It took the
church a thousand years to bring about this happy condition of things.

The seeds of the Revolution unconsciously were being scattered by every
noble and by every priest.

They were germinating slowly in the hearts of the wretched; they were
being watered by the tears of agony; blows began to bear interest. There
was a faint longing for blood. Workmen, blackened by the sun, bowed by
labor, deformed by want, looked at the white throats of scornful ladies
and thought about cutting them.

In those days witnesses were cross-examined with instruments of torture;
the church was the arsenal of superstition; miracles, relics, angels and
devils were as common as lies.

In order to appreciate a great man we must know his surroundings. We
must understand the scope of the drama in which he played—the part he
acted, and we must also know his audience.

In England George I. was disporting with the "May-pole" and "Elephant,"
and then George II., jealous and choleric, hating the English and their
language, making, however, an excellent image or idol before whom the
English were glad to bow—snobbery triumphant—the criminal code getting
bloodier every day—223 offences punishable with death—the prisons
filled and the scaffolds crowded—efforts on every hand to repress
the ambition of men to be men—the church relying on superstition and
ceremony to make men good—and the state dependent on the whip, the rope
and axe to make men patriotic.

In Spain the Inquisition in full control—all the instruments of torture
used to prevent the development of the mind, Spain, that had driven out
the Jews, that is to say, her talent; that had driven out the Moors,
that is to say, her taste and her industry, was still endeavoring by all
religious means to reduce the land to the imbecility of the true faith.

In Portugal they were burning women and children for having eaten meat
on a holy day, and this to please the most merciful God.

In Italy the nation prostrate, covered with swarms of cardinals and
bishops and priests and monks and nuns and every representative of holy
sloth. The Inquisition there also—while hands that were clasped in
prayer or stretched for alms, grasped with eagerness and joy the lever
of the rack, or gathered fagots for the holy flame.

In Germany they were burning men and women charged with having made a
compact with the enemy of man.

And in our own fair land, persecuting Quakers, stealing men and women
from another shore, stealing children from their mother's breasts, and
paying labor with the cruel lash.

Superstition ruled the world!

There is but one use for law, but one excuse for government—the
preservation of liberty—to give to each man his own, to secure to the
farmer what he produces from the soil, the mechanic what he invents
and makes, to the artist what he creates, to the thinker the right to
express his thoughts. Liberty is the breath of progress.

In France, the people were the sport of a king's caprice. Everywhere was
the shadow of the Bastile.

It fell upon the sunniest field, upon the happiest home. With the king
walked the headsman; back of the throne was the chamber of torture. The
Church appealed to the rack, and Faith relied on the fagot. Science was
an outcast, and Philosophy, so-called, was the pander of superstition.

Nobles and priests were sacred. Peasants were vermin. Idleness sat at
the banquet, and Industry gathered the crumbs and the crusts.

## II. The Days of Youth.

VOLTAIRE was of the people. In the language of that day, he had no
ancestors. His real name was Francois-Marie Arouet. His mother was
Marguerite d'Aumard. This mother died when he was seven years of age.
He had an elder brother, Armand, who was a devotee, very religious and
exceedingly disagreeable. This brother used to present offerings to the
church, hoping to make amends for the unbelief of his brother. So far as
we know, none of his ancestors were literary people.

The Arouets had never written a line. The Abbe de Chaulieu was his
godfather, and, although an abbe, was a Deist who cared nothing about
religion except in connection with his salary. Voltaire's father wanted
to make a lawyer of him, but he had no taste for law. At the age of ten
he entered the college of Louis Le Grand. This was a Jesuit school,
and here he remained for seven years, leaving at seventeen, and never
attending any other school. According to Voltaire, he learned nothing at
this school but a little Greek, a good deal of Latin and a vast amount
of nonsense.

In this college of Louis Le Grand they did not teach geography, history,
mathematics or any science. This was a Catholic institution, controlled
by the Jesuits. In that day the religion was defended, was protected or
supported by the state. Behind the entire creed were the bayonet, the
axe, the wheel, the fagot and the torture chamber.

While Voltaire was attending the college of Louis Le Grand the soldiers
of the king were hunting Protestants in the mountains of Cevennes for
magistrates to hang on gibbets, to put to torture, to break on the
wheel, or to burn at the stake.

At seventeen Voltaire determined to devote his life to literature. The
father said, speaking of his two sons Armand and Francois, "I have a
pair of fools for sons, one in verse and the other in prose."

In 1713, Voltaire, in a small way, became a diplomat. He went to The
Hague attached to the French minister, and there he fell in love. The
girl's mother objected. Voltaire sent his clothes to the young lady that
she might visit him. Everything was discovered and he was dismissed.
To this girl he wrote a letter, and in it you will find the key note of
Voltaire: "Do not expose yourself to the fury of your mother. You know
what she is capable of. You have experienced it too well. Dissemble; it
is your only chance. Tell her that you have forgotten me, that you hate
me; then after telling her, love me all the more."

On account of this episode Voltaire was formally disinherited by his
father. The father procured an order of arrest and gave his son the
choice of going to prison or beyond the seas. He finally consented to
become a lawyer, and says: "I have already been a week at work in the
office of a solicitor learning the trade of a pettifogger."

About this time he competed for a prize, writing a poem on the king's
generosity in building the new choir in the Cathedral Notre Dame. He did
not win it. After being with the solicitor a little while, he hated the
law, began to write poetry and the outlines of tragedy. Great questions
were then agitating the public mind, questions that throw a flood of
light upon that epoch.

In 1552 Dr. Baius took it into his head to sustain a number of
propositions touching predestination to the prejudice of the doctrine of
free will. The Cordelian monks selected seventy-six of the propositions
and denounced them to the Pope as heretical, and from the Pope obtained
what was called a Bull. This Bull contained a doubtful passage, the
meaning of which was dependent upon the position of a comma. The friends
of Dr. Baius wrote to Rome to find where the comma ought to be placed.
Rome, busy with other matter, sent as an answer a copy of the Bull in
which the doubtful sentence was left without any comma. So the dispute
continued.

Then there was the great controversy between the Jansenists and
Molinists. Molini was a Spanish Jesuit, who sustained the doctrine of
free will with a subtlety of his own, "man's will is free, but God sees
exactly how he will use it." The Presbyterians of our country are still
wrestling with this important absurdity.

Jansenius was a French Jesuit who carried the doctrine of predestination
to the extreme, asserting that God commands things that are impossible,
and that Christ did not die for all.

In 1641 the Jesuits obtained a Bull condemning five propositions
of Jansenius. The Jansenists there upon denied that the five
propositions—or any of them—were found in the works of Jansenius.

This question of Jansenism and Molinism occupied France for about two
hundred years.

In Voltaire's time the question had finally dwindled down to whether the
five propositions condemned by the Papal Bull were in fact in the works
of Jansenius. The Jansenists proved that the five propositions were not
in his book, because a niece of Pascal had a diseased eye cured by the
application of a thorn from the crown of Christ.

The Bull Unigenitus was launched in 1713, and then all the prisons were
filled with Jansenists. This great question of predestination and free
will, of free moral agency and accountability, and being saved by the
grace of God, and damned for the glory of God, have occupied the mind of
what we call the civilized world for many centuries. All these questions
were argued pro and con through Switzerland; all of them in Holland
for centuries; in Scotland and England and New England, and millions
of people are still busy harmonizing foreordination and free will,
necessity and morality, predestination and accountability.

Louis XIV. having died, the Regent took possession, and then the prisons
were opened. The Regent called for a list of all persons then in the
prisons sent there at the will of the king. He found that, as to many
prisoners, nobody knew any cause why they had been in prison. They had
been forgotten. Many of the prisoners did not know themselves, and
could not guess why they had been arrested. One Italian had been in the
Bastile thirty-three years without ever knowing why. On his arrival in
Paris, thirty-three years before, he was arrested and sent to prison.
He had grown old. He had survived his family and friends. When the rest
were liberated he asked to remain where he was, and lived there the
rest of his life. The old prisoners were pardoned, but in a little while
their places were taken by new ones.

At this time Voltaire was not interested in the great world—knew very
little of religion or of government. He was busy writing poetry, busy
thinking of comedies and tragedies. He was full of life. All his fancies
were winged like moths.

He was charged with having written some cutting epigrams. He was exiled
to Tulle, three hundred miles away. From this place he wrote in the true
vein—"I am at a chateau, a place that would be the most agreeable in
the world if I had not been exiled to it, and where there is nothing
wanting for my perfect happiness except the liberty of leaving. It would
be delicious to remain, if I only were allowed to go."

At last the exile was allowed to return. Again he was arrested; this
time sent to the Bastile, where he remained for nearly a year. While in
prison he changed his name from Francois-Marie Arouet to Voltaire, and
by that name he has since been known.

Voltaire, as full of life as summer is full of blossoms, giving his
ideas upon all subjects at the expense of prince and king, was exiled
to England. From sunny France he took his way to the mists and fogs of
Albion. He became acquainted with the highest and the best in Britain.
He met Pope, a most wonderful verbal mechanic, a maker of artificial
flowers, very much like natural ones, except that they lack perfume and
the seeds of suggestion. He made the acquaintance of Young, who wrote
the "Night Thoughts;" Young, a fine old hypocrite with a virtuous
imagination, a gentleman who electioneered with the king's mistress that
he might be made a bishop. He became acquainted with Chesterfield—all
manners, no man; with Thomson, author of "The Seasons," who loved to
see the sun rise in bed and visit the country in town; with Swift, whose
poisoned arrows were then festering in the flesh of Mr. Bull—Swift, as
wicked as he was witty, and as heartless as he was humorous—with Swift,
a dean and a devil; with Congreve, whom Addison thought superior to
Shakespeare, and who never wrote but one great line, "The cathedral
looking tranquillity."

## III. The Morn of Manhood.

VOLTAIRE began to think, to doubt, to inquire. He studied the history of
the church, of the creed. He found that the religion of his time
rested on the inspiration of the Scriptures—the infallibility of
the church—the dreams of insane hermits—the absurdities of the
Fathers—the mistakes and falsehoods of saints—the hysteria of
nuns—the cunning of priests and the stupidity of the people. He found
that the Emperor Constantine, who lifted Christianity into power,
murdered his wife Fausta and his eldest son Crispus, the same year that
he convened the Council of Nice, to decide whether Christ was a man or
the Son of God. The Council decided, in the year 325, that Christ was
consubstantial with the Father. He found that the church was indebted
to a husband who assassinated his wife—a father who murdered his son,
for settling the vexed question of the divinity of the Savior. He found
that Theodosius called a council at Constantinople in 381, by which
it was decided that the Holy Ghost proceeded from the Father—that
Theodosius, the younger, assembled a council at Ephesus in 431, that
declared the Virgin Mary to be the mother of God—that the Emperor
Marcian called another council at Chalcedon in 451, that decided
that Christ had two wills—that Pognatius called another in 680, that
declared that Christ had two natures to go with his two wills—and that
in 1274, at the council of Lyons, the important fact was found that the
Holy Ghost "proceeded," not only from the Father, but also from the Son
at the same time.

So, it took about 1,300 years to find out a few things that had been
revealed by an infinite God to his infallible church.

Voltaire found that this insane creed had filled the world with cruelty
and fear. He found that vestments were more sacred than virtues—that
images and crosses—pieces of old bones and bits of wood were more
precious than the rights and lives of men, and that the keepers of these
relics were the enemies of the human race.

With all the energy of his nature—with every faculty of his mind—he
attacked this "Triumphant Beast."

Voltaire was the apostle of common sense. He knew that there could have
been no primitive or first language from which all other languages had
been formed. He knew that every language had been influenced by the
surroundings of the people. He knew that the language of snow and ice
was not the language of palm and flower. He knew also that there had
been no miracle in language. He knew that it was impossible that the
story of the Tower of Babel should be true. He knew that everything in
the whole world had been natural. He was the enemy of alchemy, not only
in language but in science. One passage from him is enough to show his
philosophy in this regard. He says; "To transmute iron into gold, two
things are necessary: first, the annihilation of the iron; second, the
creation of gold."

Voltaire gave us the philosophy of history.

Voltaire was a man of humor, of good nature, of cheerfulness. He
despised with all his heart the philosophy of Calvin, the creed of the
sombre, of the severe, of the unnatural. He pitied those who needed
the aid of religion to be honest, to be cheerful. He had the courage
to enjoy the present and the philosophy to bear what the future might
bring.

And yet for more than a hundred and fifty years the Christian world has
fought this man and has maligned his memory. In every Christian pulpit
his name has been pronounced with scorn, and every pulpit has been an
arsenal of slander. He is one man of whom no orthodox minister has
ever told the truth. He has been denounced equally by Catholics and
Protestants.

Priests and ministers, bishops and exhorters, presiding elders and popes
have filled the world with slanders, with calumnies about Voltaire. I am
amazed that ministers will not or cannot tell the truth about an enemy
of the church. As a matter of fact, for more than one thousand years,
almost every pulpit has been a mint in which slanders have been coined.

Voltaire made up his mind to destroy the superstition of his time.

He fought with every weapon that genius could devise or use. He was the
greatest of all caricaturists, and he used this wonderful gift without
mercy. For pure crystallized wit, he had no equal. The art of flattery
was carried by him to the height of an exact science. He knew and
practiced every subterfuge. He fought the army of hypocrisy and
pretence, the army of faith and falsehood.

Voltaire was annoyed by the meaner and baser spirits of his time, by
the cringers and crawlers, by the fawners and pretenders, by those who
wished to gain the favor of priests, the patronage of nobles. Sometimes
he allowed himself to be annoyed by these wretches; sometimes he
attacked them. And, but for these attacks, long ago they would have been
forgotten. In the amber of his genius Voltaire preserved these insects,
these tarantulas, these scorpions.

It is fashionable to say that he was not profound. This is because he
was not stupid. In the presence of absurdity he laughed, and was called
irreverent. He thought God would not damn even a priest forever—this
was regarded as blasphemy. He endeavored to prevent Christians from
murdering each other, and did what he could to civilize the disciples
of Christ. Had he founded a sect, obtained control of some country, and
burned a few heretics at slow fires, he would have won the admiration,
respect and love of the Christian world. Had he only pretended to
believe all the fables of antiquity, had he mumbled Latin prayers,
counted beads, crossed himself, devoured now and then the flesh of God,
and carried fagots to the feet of Philosophy in the name of Christ, he
might have been in heaven this moment, enjoying a sight of the damned.

If he had only adopted the creed of his time—if he had asserted that
a God of infinite power and mercy had created millions and billions
of human beings to suffer eternal pain, and all for the sake of his
glorious justice—that he had given his power of attorney to a cunning
and cruel Italian Pope, authorizing him to save the soul of his mistress
and send honest wives to hell—if he had given to the nostril's of
this God the odor of burning flesh—the incense of the fagot—if he had
filled his ears with the shrieks of the tortured—the music of the rack,
he would now be known as Saint Voltaire.

For many years this restless man filled Europe with the product of his
brain. Essays, epigrams, epics, comedies, tragedies, histories, poems,
novels, representing every phase and every faculty of the human mind. At
the same time engrossed in business, full of speculation, making money
like a millionaire, busy with the gossip of courts, and even with the
scandals of priests. At the same time alive to all the discoveries
of science and the theories of philosophers, and in this Babel never
forgetting for one moment to assail the monster of superstition.

Sleeping and waking he hated the church. With the eyes of Argus he
watched, and with the arms of Briareus he struck. For sixty years he
waged continuous and unrelenting war, sometimes in the open field,
sometimes striking from the hedges of opportunity—taking care during
all this time to remain independent of all men. He was in the highest
sense successful. He lived like a prince, became one of the powers of
Europe, and in him, for the first time, literature was crowned.

It has been claimed by the Christian critics that Voltaire was
irreverent; that he examined sacred things without solemnity; that he
refused to remove his shoes in the presence of the Burning Bush; that
he smiled at the geology of Moses, the astronomical ideas of Joshua,
and that the biography of Jonah filled him with laughter. They say that
these stories, these sacred impossibilities, these inspired falsehoods,
should be read and studied with a believing mind in humbleness of
spirit; that they should be examined prayerfully, asking God at the same
time to give us strength to triumph over the conclusions of our
reason. These critics imagine that a falsehood can be old enough to be
venerable, and that to stand covered in its presence is the act of
an irreverent scoffer. Voltaire approached the mythology of the Jews
precisely as he did the mythology of the Greeks and Romans, or the
mythology of the Chinese or the Iroquois Indians. There is nothing
in this world too sacred to be investigated, to be understood. The
philosopher does not hide. Secrecy is not the friend of truth. No man
should be reverent at the expense of his reason. Nothing should be
worshiped until the reason has been convinced that it is worthy of
worship.

Against all miracles, against all holy superstition, against sacred
mistakes, he shot the arrows of ridicule.

These arrows, winged by fancy, sharpened by wit, poisoned by truth,
always reached the centre.

It is claimed by many that anything, the best and holiest, can be
ridiculed. As a matter of fact, he who attempts to ridicule the truth,
ridicules himself. He becomes the food of his own laughter.

The mind of man is many-sided. Truth must be and is willing to be tested
in every way, tested by all the senses.

But in what way can the absurdity of the "real presence" be answered,
except by banter, by raillery, by ridicule, by persiflage? How are you
going to convince a man who believes that when he swallows the sacred
wafer he has eaten the entire Trinity, and that a priest drinking a drop
of wine has devoured the Infinite? How are you to reason with a man who
believes that if any of the sacred wafers are left over they should be
put in a secure place, so that mice should not eat God?

What effect will logic have upon a religious gentleman who firmly
believes that a God of infinite compassion sent two bears to tear thirty
or forty children in pieces for laughing at a bald-headed prophet?

How are such people to be answered? How can they be brought to a
sense of their absurdity? They must feel in their flesh the arrows of
ridicule..

So Voltaire has been called a mocker.

What did he mock? He mocked kings that were unjust; kings who cared
nothing for the sufferings of their subjects. He mocked the titled
fools of his day. He mocked the corruption of courts; the meanness,
the tyranny and the brutality of judges. He mocked the absurd and cruel
laws, the barbarous customs. He mocked popes and cardinals and bishops
and priests, and all the hypocrites on the earth. He mocked historians
who filled their books with lies, and philosophers who defended
superstition. He mocked the haters of liberty, the persecutors of their
fellow-men. He mocked the arrogance, the cruelty, the impudence, and the
unspeakable baseness of his time.

He has been blamed because he used the weapon of ridicule.

Hypocrisy has always hated laughter, and always will. Absurdity detests
humor, and stupidity despises wit. Voltaire was the master of ridicule.
He ridiculed the absurd, the impossible. He ridiculed the mythologies
and the miracles, the stupid lives and lies of the saints. He found
pretence and mendacity crowned by credulity. He found the ignorant
many controlled by the cunning and cruel few. He found the historian,
saturated with superstition, filling his volumes with the details of the
impossible, and he found the scientists satisfied with "they say."

Voltaire had the instinct of the probable. He knew the law of average,
the sea level; he had the idea of proportion, and so he ridiculed the
mental monstrosities and deformities—the _non sequiturs_—of his day.
Aristotle said women had more teeth than men. This was repeated again
and again by the Catholic scientists of the eighteenth century.

Voltaire counted the teeth. The rest were satisfied with "they say."

Voltaire for many years, in spite of his surroundings, in spite of
almost universal tyranny and oppression, was a believer in God and what
he was pleased to call the religion of Nature. He attacked the creed of
his time because it was dishonorable to his God. He thought of the Deity
as a father, as the fountain of justice, intelligence and mercy, and
the creed of the Catholic Church made him a monster of cruelty and
stupidity. He attacked the Bible with all the weapons at his command. He
assailed its geology, its astronomy, its ideas of justice, its laws
and customs, its absurd and useless miracles, its foolish wonders, its
ignorance on all subjects, its insane prophecies, its cruel threats and
its extravagant promises.

At the same time he praised the God of nature, the God who gives us rain
and light and food and flowers and health and happiness—who fills the
world with youth and beauty.

Attacked on every side, he fought with every weapon that wit, logic,
reason, scorn, contempt, laughter, pathos and indignation could sharpen,
form, devise or use. He often apologized, and the apology was an insult.
He often recanted, and the recantation was a thousand times worse than
the thing recanted. He took it back by giving more. In the name of
eulogy he flayed his victim. In his praise there was poison. He often
advanced by retreating, and asserted by retraction.

He did not intend to give priests the satisfaction of seeing him burn or
suffer. Upon this very point of recanting he wrote:

"They say I must retract. Very willingly. I will declare that Pascal is
always right. That if St. Luke and St. Mark contradict one another, it
is only another proof of the truth of religion to those who know how
to understand such things; and that another lovely proof of religion
is that it is unintelligible. I will even avow that all priests are
gentle and disinterested; that Jesuits are honest people; that
monks are neither proud nor given to intrigue, and that their odor is
agreeable; that the Holy Inquisition is the triumph of humanity
and tolerance. In a word, I will say all that may be desired of me,
provided they leave me in repose, and will not persecute a man who has
done harm to none."

He gave the best years of his wondrous life to succor the oppressed,
to shield the defenceless, to reverse infamous decrees, to rescue the
innocent, to reform the laws of France, to do away with torture, to
soften the hearts of priests, to enlighten judges, to instruct kings,
to civilize the people, and to banish from the heart of man the love and
lust of war.

You may think that I have said too much; that I have placed this man too
high. Let me tell you what Goethe, the great German, said of this man:

"If you wish depth, genius, imagination, taste, reason, sensibility,
philosophy, elevation, originality, nature, intellect, fancy,
rectitude, facility, flexibility, precision, art, abundance, variety,
fertility, warmth, magic, charm, grace, force, an eagle sweep of
vision, vast understanding, instruction rich, tone excellent, urbanity,
suavity, delicacy, correctness, purity, clearness, eloquence, harmony,
brilliancy, rapidity, gaiety, pathos, sublimity and universality,
perfection indeed, behold Voltaire."

Even Carlyle, that old Scotch terrier, with the growl of a grizzly
bear, who attacked shams, as I have sometimes thought, because he hated
rivals, was forced to admit that Voltaire gave the death stab to modern
superstition.

It is the duty of every man to destroy the superstitions of his time,
and yet there are thousands of men and women, fathers and mothers, who
repudiate with their whole hearts the creeds of superstition, and
still allow their children to be taught these lies. They allow their
imaginations to be poisoned with the dogma of eternal pain. They allow
arrogant and ignorant parsons, meek and foolish teachers, to sow the
seeds of barbarism in the minds of their children—seeds that will fill
their lives with fear and pain. Nothing can be more important to a human
being than to be free and to live without fear.

It is far better to be a mortal free man than an immortal slave.

Fathers and mothers should do their utmost to make their children free.
They should teach them to doubt, to investigate, to inquire, and every
father and mother should know that by the cradle of every child, as by
the cradle of the infant Hercules, crawls the serpent of superstition.

## IV. The Scheme of Nature.

AT that time it was pretended by the believers in God that the plan, or
the scheme of nature, was not cruel; that the lower was sacrificed
for the benefit of the higher; that while life lived upon life, while
animals lived upon each other, and while man was the king or sovereign
of all, still the higher lived upon the lower. Consequently, a lower
life was sacrificed that a higher life might exist. This reasoning
satisfied many. Yet there were thousands that could not see why the
lower should be sacrificed, or why all joy should be born of pain. But,
since the construction of the microscope, since man has been allowed
to look toward the infinitely small, as well as toward the infinitely
great, he finds that our fathers were mistaken when they laid down the
proposition that only the lower life was sacrificed for the sake of the
higher.

Now we find that the lives of all visible animals are liable to be, and
in countless cases are, destroyed by a far lower life; that man himself
is destroyed by the microbes, the bacilli, the infinitesimal. We find
that for the sake of preserving the yellow fever germs millions and
millions have died, and that whole nations have been decimated for the
sake of the little beast that gives us the cholera. We have also found
that there are animals, call them what you please, that live on the
substance of the human heart, others that prefer the lungs, others again
so delicate in their palate that they insist on devouring the optic
nerve, and when they have destroyed the sight of one eye have sense
enough to bore through the cartilage of the nose to attack the other.
Thus we find the other side of this proposition. At first sight the
lower seemed to be sacrificed for the sake of the higher, but on closer
inspection the highest are sacrificed for the sake of the lowest.

Voltaire was, for a long time, a believer in the optimism of Pope—"All
partial evil, universal good." This is a very fine philosophy for the
fortunate. It suits the rich. It is flattering to kings and priests. It
sounds well. It is a fine stone to throw at a beggar. It enables you to
bear with great fortitude the misfortunes of others.

It is not the philosophy for those who suffer—for industry clothed in
rags, for patriotism in prison, for honesty in want, or for virtuous
outcasts. It is a philosophy of a class, of a few, and of the few who
are fortunate; and, when misfortune overtakes them, this philosophy
fades and withers.

In 1755 came the earthquake at Lisbon. This frightful disaster became an
immense interrogation. The optimist was compelled to ask, "What was my
God doing? Why did the Universal Father crush to shapelessness thousands
of his poor children, even at the moment when they were upon their knees
returning thanks to him?"

What could be done with this horror? If earthquake there must be, why
did it not occur in some uninhabited desert, on some wide waste of
sea? This frightful fact changed the theology of Voltaire. He became
convinced that this is not the best possible of all worlds. He became
convinced that evil is evil here, now, and forever.

The Theist was silent. The earthquake denied the existence of God.

## V. His Humanity.

TOULOUSE was a favored town. It was rich in relics. The people were as
ignorant as wooden images, but they had in their possession the dried
bodies of seven apostles—the bones of many of the infants slain by
Herod—part of a dress of the Virgin Mary, and lots of skulls and
skeletons of the infallible idiots known as saints.

In this city the people celebrated every year with great joy two holy
events: The expulsion of the Huguenots, and the blessed massacre of St.
Bartholomew. The citizens of Toulouse had been educated and civilized by
the church.

A few Protestants, mild because in the minority, lived among these
jackals and tigers.

One of these Protestants was Jean Calas—a small dealer in dry goods.
For forty years he had been in this business, and his character was
without a stain. He was honest, kind and agreeable. He had a wife and
six children—four sons and two daughters. One of the sons became a
Catholic. The eldest son, Marc Antoine, disliked his father's business
and studied law. He could not be allowed to practice unless he became
a Catholic. He tried to get his license by concealing that he was
a Protestant. He was discovered—grew morose. Finally he became
discouraged and committed suicide, by hanging himself one evening in his
father's store.

The bigots of Toulouse started the story that his parents had killed him
to prevent his becoming a Catholic.

On this frightful charge the father, mother, one son, a servant, and one
guest at their house, were arrested.

The dead son was considered a martyr, the church taking possession of
the body.

This happened in 1761.

There was what was called a trial. There was no evidence, not the
slightest, except hearsay. All the facts were in favor of the accused.

The united strength of the defendants could not have done the deed.

Jean Calas was doomed to torture and to death upon the wheel. This was
on the 9th of March, 1762, and the sentence was to be carried out the
next day.

On the morning of the 10th the father was taken to the torture room. The
executioner and his assistants were sworn on the cross to administer the
torture according to the judgment of the court.

They bound him by the wrists to an iron ring in the stone wall four feet
from the ground, and his feet to another ring in the floor. Then they
shortened the ropes and chains until every joint in his arms and
legs was dislocated. Then he was questioned. He declared that he was
innocent. Then the ropes were again shortened until life fluttered in
the torn body; but he remained firm.

This was called "the question ordinaire."

Again the magistrates exhorted the victim to confess, and again he
refused, saying that there was nothing to confess.

Then came "the question extraordinaire."

Into the mouth of the victim was placed a horn holding three pints of
water. In this way thirty pints of water were forced into the body
of the sufferer. The pain was beyond description, and yet Jean Calas
remained firm.

He was then carried to the scaffold in a tumbril.

He was bound to a wooden cross that lay on the scaffold. The executioner
then took a bar of iron, broke each leg and each arm in two places,
striking eleven blows in all. He was then left to die if he could. He
lived for two hours, declaring his innocence to the last. He was slow
to die, and so the executioner strangled him. Then his poor lacerated,
bleeding and broken body was chained to a stake and burned.

All this was a spectacle—a festival for the savages of Toulouse. What
would they have done if their hearts had not been softened by the glad
tidings of great joy—peace on earth and good will to men?

But this was not all. The property of the family was confiscated; the
son was released on condition that he become a Catholic; the servant
if she would enter a convent. The two daughters were consigned to a
convent, and the heart-broken widow was allowed to wander where she
would.

Voltaire heard of this case. In a moment his soul was on fire. He took
one of the sons under his roof. He wrote a history of the case. He
corresponded with kings and queens, with chancellors and lawyers. If
money was needed, he advanced it. For years he filled Europe with the
echoes of the groans of Jean Calas. He succeeded. The horrible judgment
was annulled—the poor victim declared innocent and thousands of dollars
raised to support the mother and family.

This was the work of Voltaire.

## The Sirven Family

Sirven, a Protestant, lived in Languedoc with his wife and three
daughters. The housekeeper of the bishop wanted to make one of the
daughters a Catholic.

The law allowed the bishop to take the child of Protestants from their
parents for the sake of its soul. This little girl was so taken and
placed in a convent. She ran away and came back to her parents. Her poor
little body was covered with the marks of the convent whip.

"Suffer little children to come unto me."

The child was out of her mind—suddenly she disappeared, and a few days
after her little body was found in a well, three miles from home.

The cry was raised that her folks had murdered her to keep her from
becoming a Catholic.

This happened only a little way from the Christian City of Toulouse
while Jean Calas was in prison. The Sirvens knew that a trial would end
in conviction. They fled. In their absence they were convicted, their
property confiscated, the parents sentenced to die by the hangman, the
daughters to be under the gallows during the execution of their mother,
and then to be exiled.

The family fled in the midst of winter; the married daughter gave birth
to a child in the snows of the Alps; the mother died, and, at last
reaching Switzerland, the father found himself without means of support.

They went to Voltaire. He espoused their cause. He took care of them,
gave them the means to live, and labored to annul the sentence that had
been pronounced against them for nine long and weary years. He appealed
to kings for money, to Catharine II. of Russia, and to hundreds of
others. He was successful. He said of this case: The Sirvens were tried
and condemned in two hours in January, 1762, and now in January, 1772,
after ten years of effort, they have been restored to their rights.

This was the work of Voltaire. Why should the worshipers of God hate the
lovers of men?

## The Espenasse Case

Espenasse was a Protestant, of good estate. In 1740 he received into his
house a Protestant clergyman, to whom he gave supper and lodging.

In a country where priests repeated the parable of the "Good Samaritan,"
this was a crime.

For this crime Espenasse was tried, convicted and sentenced to the
galleys for life.

When he had been imprisoned for twenty-three years his case came to
the knowledge of Voltaire, and he was, through the efforts of Voltaire,
released and restored to his family.

This was the work of Voltaire. There is not time to tell of the case of
General Lally, of the English General Byng, of the niece of Corneille,
of the Jesuit Adam, of the writers, dramatists, actors, widows and
orphans for whose benefit he gave his influence, his money and his time.
But I will tell another case:

In 1765, at the town of Abbeville, an old wooden cross on a bridge had
been mutilated—whittled with a knife—a terrible crime. Sticks, when
crossing each other, were far more sacred than flesh and blood. Two
young men were suspected—the Chevalier de la Barre and D'Etallonde.
D'Etallonde fled to Prussia and enlisted as a common soldier.

La Barre remained and stood his trial.

He was convicted without the slightest evidence, and he and D'Etallonde
were both sentenced:

_First_, to endure the torture, ordinary and extraordinary.

_Second_, to have their tongues torn out by the roots with pincers of
iron.

_Third_, to have their right hands cut off at the door of the church.

_Fourth_, to be bound to stakes by chains of iron and burned to death by
a slow fire.

"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."

Remembering this, the judges mitigated the sentence by providing that
their heads should be cut off before their bodies were given to the
flames.

The case was appealed to Paris; heard by a court composed of twenty-five
judges, learned in the law, and the judgment was confirmed.

The sentence was carried out on the first day of July, 1766.

When Voltaire heard of this judicial infamy he made up his mind
to abandon France. He wished to leave forever a country where such
cruelties were possible.

He wrote a pamphlet, giving the history of the case.

He ascertained the whereabouts of D'Etallonde, wrote in his behalf to
the King of Prussia; got him released from the army; took him to his
own house; kept him for a year and a half; saw that he was instructed
in drawing, mathematics, engineering, and had at last the happiness of
seeing him a captain of engineers in the army of Frederick the Great.

Such a man was Voltaire. He was the champion of the oppressed and the
helpless. He was the Cæsar to whom the victims of church and state
appealed. He stood for the intellect and heart of his time.

And yet for a hundred and fifty years those who love their enemies have
exhausted the vocabulary of hate, the ingenuity of malice and mendacity,
in their efforts to save their stupid creeds from the genius of
Voltaire.

From a great height he surveyed the world. His horizon was large. He had
some vices—these he shared in common with priests—his virtues were his
own.

He was in favor of universal education—of the development of the brain.
The church despised him. He wished to put the knowledge of the whole
world within the reach of all. Every priest was his enemy. He wished to
drive from the gate of Eden the cherubim of superstition, so that
the children of Adam might return and eat of the fruit of the tree of
knowledge. The church opposed this because it had the fruit of the tree
of ignorance for sale.

He was one of the foremost friends of the Encyclopedia—of Diderot, and
did all in his power to give information to all. So far as principles
were concerned, he was the greatest lawyer of his time. I do not mean
that he knew the terms and decisions, but that he clearly perceived not
only what the law should be, but its application and administration. He
understood the philosophy of evidence, the difference between suspicion
and proof, between belief and knowledge, and he did more to reform the
laws of the kingdom and the abuses at courts than all the lawyers and
statesmen of his time.

At school, he read and studied the works of Cicero—the lord of
language—probably the greatest orator that has uttered speech, and the
words of the Roman remained in his brain. He became, in spite of the
spirit of caste, a believer in the equality of men. He said:

"Men are born equal."

"Let us respect virtue and merit."

"Let us have it in the heart that men are equal." He was an
abolitionist—the enemy of slavery in all its forms. He did not think
that the color of one man gave him the right to steal from another man
on account of that man's color. He was the friend of serf and peasant,
and did what he could to protect animals, wives and children from the
fury of those who loved their neighbors as themselves.

It was Voltaire who sowed the seeds of liberty in the heart and brain of
Franklin, of Jefferson and Thomas Paine.

Pufendorf had taken the ground that slavery was, in part, founded on
contract.

Voltaire said: "Show me the contract, and if it is signed by the party
to be the slave, I may believe."

He thought it absurd that God should drown the fathers, and then come
and die for the children. This is as good as the remark of Diderot: "If
Christ had the power to defend himself from the Jews and refused to use
it, he was guilty of suicide."

He had sense enough to know that the flame of the fagot does not
enlighten the mind. He hated the cruel and pitied the victims of church
and state. He was the friend of the unfortunate—the helper of the
striving. He laughed at the pomp of kings—the pretensions of priests.
He was a believer in the natural and abhorred with all his heart the
miraculous and absurd.

Voltaire was not a saint. He was educated by the Jesuits. He was never
troubled about the salvation of his soul. All the theological disputes
excited his laughter, the creeds his pity, and the conduct of bigots his
contempt. He was much better than a saint.

Most of the Christians in his day kept their religion not for every day
use but for disaster, as ships carry life boats to be used only in the
stress of storm.

Voltaire believed in the religion of humanity—of good and generous
deeds. For many centuries the church had painted virtue so ugly, sour
and cold, that vice was regarded as beautiful. Voltaire taught the
beauty of the useful, the hatefulness and hideousness of superstition.

He was not the greatest of poets, or of dramatists, but he was the
greatest man of his time, the greatest friend of freedom and the
deadliest foe of superstition.

He did more to break the chains of superstition—to drive the phantoms
of fear from the heart and brain, to destroy the authority of the church
and to give liberty to the world than any other of the sons of men. In
the highest, the holiest sense he was the most profoundly religious man
of his time.

## VI. The Return.

AFTER an exile of twenty-seven years, occupying during all that time
a first place in the civilized world, Voltaire returned to Paris. His
journey was a triumphal march. He was received as a conqueror. The
Academy, the Immortals, came to meet him—a compliment that had never
been paid to royalty. His tragedy of "Irene" was performed. At the
theatre he was crowned with laurel, covered with flowers; he was
intoxicated with perfume and with incense of worship. He was the supreme
French poet, standing above them all. Among the literary men of the
world he stood first—a monarch by the divine right of genius. There
were three mighty forces in France—the throne, the altar and Voltaire.

The king was the enemy of Voltaire. The court could have nothing to do
with him. The church, malign and morose, was waiting for her revenge,
and yet, such was the reputation of this man—such the hold he had upon
the people—that he became, in spite of Throne, in spite of Church, the
idol of France.

He was an old man of eighty-four. He had been surrounded with the
comforts, the luxuries of life. He was a man of great wealth, the
richest writer that the world had known. Among the literary men of the
earth he stood first. He was an intellectual king—one who had built his
own throne and had woven the purple of his own power. He was a man of
genius. The Catholic God had allowed him the appearance of success.
His last years were filled with the intoxication of flattery—of almost
worship. He stood at the summit of his age.

The priests became anxious. They began to fear that God would forget, in
a multiplicity of business, to make a terrible example of Voltaire.

Towards the last of May, 1778, it was whispered in Paris that Voltaire
was dying. Upon the fences of expectation gathered the unclean birds of
superstition, impatiently waiting for their prey.

"Two days before his death, his nephew went to seek the Curé of Saint
Sulpice and the Abbé Gautier, and brought them into his uncle's sick
chamber. 'Ah, well!' said Voltaire, 'give them my compliments and my
thanks.' The Abbé spoke some words to him, exhorting him to patience.
The curé of Saint Sulpice then came forward, having announced himself,
and asked of Voltaire, elevating his voice, if he acknowledged the
divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. The sick man pushed one of his hands
against the curés coif, shoving him back and cried, turning abruptly to
the other side, 'Let me die in peace.' The curé seemingly considered his
person soiled and his coif dishonored by the touch of a philosopher. He
made the nurse give him a little brushing and went out with the Abbé
Gautier."

He expired, says Wagnière, on the 30th of May, 1778, at about a
quarter-past eleven at night, with the most perfect tranquillity. A few
minutes before his last breath he took the hand of Morand, his _valet de
chambre_, who was watching by him, pressed it, and said: "Adieu, my dear
Morand, I am gone." These were his last words. Like a peaceful river
with green and shaded banks, he flowed without a murmur into the
waveless sea, where life is rest.

From this death, so simple and serene, so kind, so philosophic and
tender, so natural and peaceful; from these words, so utterly destitute
of cant or dramatic touch, all the frightful pictures, all the
despairing utterances, have been drawn and made. From these materials,
and from these alone, or rather, in spite of these facts, have been
constructed by priests and clergymen and their dupes all the shameless
lies about the death of this great and wonderful man. A man, compared
with whom all of his calumniators, dead and living, were, and are, but
dust and vermin.

Let us be honest. Did all the priests of Rome increase the mental wealth
of man as much as Bruno? Did all the priests of France do as great a
work for the civilization of the world as Voltaire or Diderot? Did all
the ministers of Scotland add as much to the sum of human knowledge as
David Hume? Have all the clergymen, monks, friars, ministers, priests,
bishops, cardinals and popes, from the day of Pentecost to the last
election, done as much for human liberty as Thomas Paine?

What would the world be if infidels had never been?

The infidels have been the brave and thoughtful men; the flower of all
the world; the pioneers and heralds of the blessed day of liberty and
love; the generous spirits of the unworthy past; the seers and
prophets of our race; the great chivalric souls, proud victors on the
battlefields of thought, the creditors of all the years to be.

Why should it be taken for granted that the men who devoted their lives
to the liberation of their fellow-men should have been hissed at in
the hour of death by the snakes of conscience, while men who defended
slavery—practiced polygamy—-justified the stealing of babes from
the breasts of mothers, and lashed the naked back of unpaid labor, are
supposed to have passed smilingly from earth to the embraces of the
angels? Why should we think that the brave thinkers, the investigators,
the honest men, must have left the crumbling shore of time in dread
and fear, while the instigators of the massacre of St. Bartholomew;
the inventors and users of thumb-screws, of iron boots and racks; the
burners and tearers of human flesh; the stealers, the whippers and the
enslavers of men; the buyers and beaters of maidens, mothers and babes;
the founders of the Inquisition; the makers of chains; the builders of
dungeons; the calumniators of the living; the slanderers of the
dead, and even the murderers of Jesus Christ, all died in the odor of
sanctity, with white, forgiven hands folded upon the breasts of peace,
while the destroyers of prejudice, the apostles of humanity, the
soldiers of liberty, the breakers of fetters, the creators of light,
died surrounded by the fierce fiends of God?

In those days the philosophers—that is to say, the thinkers—were
not buried in holy ground. It was feared that their principles might
contaminate the ashes of the just. And they also feared that on the
morning of the resurrection they might, in a moment of confusion, slip
into heaven. Some were burned, and their ashes scattered; and the bodies
of some were thrown naked to beasts, and others buried in unholy earth.

Voltaire knew the history of Adrienne Le Couvreur, a beautiful actress,
denied burial.

After all, we do feel an interest in what is to become of our bodies.
There is a modesty that belongs to death. Upon this subject Voltaire
was infinitely sensitive. It was that he might be buried that he
went through the farce of confession, of absolution, and of the last
sacrament. The priests knew that he was not in earnest, and Voltaire
knew that they would not allow him to be buried in any of the cemeteries
of Paris.

His death was kept a secret. The Abbé Mignot made arrangements for
the burial at Romilli-on-the-Seine, more than 100 miles from Paris. On
Sunday evening, on the last day of May, 1778, the body of Voltaire, clad
in a dressing gown, clothed to resemble an invalid, posed to simulate
life, was placed in a carriage; at its side, a servant, whose business
it was to keep it in position. To this carriage were attached six
horses, so that people might think a great lord was going to his
estates. Another carriage followed, in which were a grand nephew and two
cousins of Voltaire. All night they traveled, and on the following day
arrived at the courtyard of the Abbey. The necessary papers were shown,
the mass was performed in the presence of the body, and Voltaire found
burial. A few moments afterwards, the prior, who "for charity had given
a little earth," received from his bishop a menacing letter forbidding
the burial of Voltaire. It was too late.

Voltaire was dead. The foundations of State and Throne had been sapped.
The people were becoming acquainted with the real kings and with the
actual priests. Unknown men born in misery and want, men whose fathers
and mothers had been pavement for the rich, were rising toward the
light, and their shadowy faces were emerging from darkness. Labor and
thought became friends. That is, the gutter and the attic fraternized.
The monsters of the Night and the angels of the Dawn—the first thinking
of revenge, and the others dreaming of equality, liberty and fraternity.

## VII. The Death-bed Argument.

ALL kinds of criminals, except infidels, meet death with reasonable
serenity. As a rule, there is nothing in the death of a pirate to cast
any discredit on his profession. The murderer upon the scaffold, with
a priest on either side, smilingly exhorts the multitude to meet him in
heaven. The man who has succeeded in making his home a hell, meets death
without a quiver, provided he has never expressed any doubt as to the
divinity of Christ, or the eternal "procession" of the Holy Ghost. The
king who has waged cruel and useless war, who has filled countries with
widows and fatherless children, with the maimed and diseased, and who
has succeeded in offering to the Moloch of ambition the best and bravest
of his subjects, dies like a saint.

All the believing kings are in heaven—all the doubting philosophers in
perdition. All the persecutors sleep in peace, and the ashes of those
who burned their brothers, sleep in consecrated ground. Libraries could
hardly contain the names of the Christian wretches who have filled the
world with violence and death in defence of book and creed, and yet
they all died the death of the righteous, and no priest, no minister,
describes the agony and fear, the remorse and horror with which their
guilty souls were filled in the last moments of their lives. These men
had never doubted—they had never thought—they accepted the creed as
they did the fashion of their clothes. They were not infidels, they
could not be—they had been baptized, they had not denied the divinity
of Christ, they had partaken of the "last supper." They respected
priests, they admitted that Christ had two natures and the same number
of wills; they admitted that the Holy Ghost had "proceeded," and that,
according to the multiplication table of heaven, once one is three, and
three times one is one, and these things put pillows beneath their heads
and covered them with the drapery of peace.

They admitted that while kings and priests did nothing worse than to
make their fellows wretched, that so long as they only butchered and
burnt the innocent and helpless, God would maintain the strictest
neutrality; but when some honest man, some great and tender soul,
expressed a doubt as to the truth of the Scriptures, or prayed to the
wrong God, or to the right one by the wrong name, then the real God
leaped like a wounded tiger upon his victim, and from his quivering
flesh tore his wretched soul.

There is no recorded instance where the uplifted hand of murder has been
paralyzed—no truthful account in all the literature of the world of
the innocent child being shielded by God. Thousands of crimes are being
committed every day—men are at this moment lying in wait for their
human prey—wives are whipped and crushed, driven to insanity and
death—little children begging for mercy, lifting imploring, tear-filled
eyes to the brutal faces of fathers and mothers—sweet girls are
deceived, lured and outraged, but God has no time to prevent these
things—no time to defend the good and protect the pure. He is too busy
numbering hairs and watching sparrows. He listens for blasphemy; looks
for persons who laugh at priests; examines baptismal registers; watches
professors in college who begin to doubt the geology of Moses and the
astronomy of Joshua. He does not particularly object to stealing, if you
won't swear. A great many persons have fallen dead in the act of taking
God's name in vain, but millions of men, women and children have been
stolen from their homes and used as beasts of burden, but no one engaged
in this infamy has ever been touched by the wrathful hand of God.

Now and then a man of genius, of sense, of intellectual honesty, has
appeared. Such men have denounced the superstitions of their day. They
have pitied the multitude. To see priests devour the substance of the
people—priests who made begging one of the learned professions—filled
them with loathing and contempt. These men were honest enough to
tell their thoughts, brave enough to speak the truth. Then they were
denounced, tried, tortured, killed by rack or flame. But some escaped
the fury of the fiends who love their enemies, and died naturally in
their beds. It would not do for the church to admit that they died
peacefully. That would show that religion was not essential at the last
moment. Superstition gets its power from the terror of death. It would
not do to have the common people understand that a man could deny the
Bible—refuse to kiss the cross—contend that Humanity was greater than
Christ, and then die as sweetly as Torquemada did, after pouring molten
lead into the ears of an honest man; or as calmly as Calvin after he had
burned Servetus; or as peacefully as King David after advising with his
last breath one son to assassinate another.

The church has taken great pains to show that the last moments of all
infidels (that Christians did not succeed in burning) were infinitely
wretched and despairing. It was alleged that words could not paint the
horrors that were endured by a dying infidel. Every good Christian was
expected to, and generally did, believe these accounts. They have been
told and retold in every pulpit of the world. Protestant ministers have
repeated the lies invented by Catholic priests, and Catholics, by a kind
of theological comity, have sworn to the lies told by the Protestants.
Upon this point they have always stood together, and will as long as the
same falsehood can be used by both.

Instead of doing these things, Voltaire wilfully closed his eyes to
the light of the gospel, examined the Bible for himself, advocated
intellectual liberty, struck from the brain the fetters of an arrogant
faith, assisted the weak, cried out against the torture of man, appealed
to reason, endeavored to establish universal toleration, succored the
indigent, and defended the oppressed.

He demonstrated that the origin of all religions is the same—the same
mysteries—the same miracles—the same imposture—the same temples and
ceremonies—the same kind of founders, apostles and dupes—the same
promises and threats—the same pretence of goodness and forgiveness and
the practice of the same persecution and murder. He proved that religion
made enemies—philosophy friends—and that above the rights of Gods were
the rights of man.

These were his crimes. Such a man God would not suffer to die in peace.
If allowed to meet death with a smile, others might follow his example,
until none would be left to light the holy fires of the _auto da fe_. It
would not do for so great, so successful, an enemy of the church to
die without leaving some shriek of fear, some shudder of remorse, some
ghastly prayer of chattered horror uttered by lips covered with blood
and foam.

For many centuries the theologians have taught that an unbeliever—an
infidel—one who spoke or wrote against their creed, could not meet
death with composure; that in his last moments God would fill his
conscience with the serpents of remorse.

For a thousand years the clergy have manufactured the facts to fit this
theory—this infamous conception of the duty of man and the justice of
God.

The theologians have insisted that crimes against man were, and are, as
nothing compared with crimes against God.

Upon the death-bed subject the clergy grow eloquent. When describing the
shudderings and shrieks of the dying unbeliever, their eyes glitter with
delight.

It is a festival.

They are no longer men. They become hyenas. They dig open graves. They
devour the dead.

It is a banquet.

Unsatisfied still, they paint the terrors of hell. They gaze at the
souls of the infidels writhing in the coils of the worm that never dies.
They see them in flames—in oceans of fire—in gulfs of pain—in abysses
of despair. They shout with joy. They applaud.

It is an _auto da fe_, presided over by God.

## VIII. The Second Return.

FOR four hundred years the Bastile had been the outward symbol of
oppression. Within its walls the noblest had perished. It was a
perpetual threat. It was the last, and often the first, argument of
king and priest. Its dungeons, damp and rayless, its massive towers, its
secret cells, its instruments of torture, denied the existence of God.

In 1789, on the 14th of July, the people, the multitude, frenzied by
suffering, stormed and captured the Bastile. The battle-cry was "Vive
Voltaire."

In 1791 permission was given to place in the Pantheon the ashes of
Voltaire. He had been buried 110 miles from Paris. Buried by stealth, he
was to be removed by a nation. A funeral procession of a hundred miles;
every village with its flags and arches; all the people anxious to
honor the philosopher of France—the Savior of Calas—the Destroyer of
Superstition.

On reaching Paris the great procession moved along the Rue St. Antoine.
Here it paused, and for one night upon the ruins of the Bastile rested
the body of Voltaire—rested in triumph, in glory—rested on fallen wall
and broken arch, on crumbling stone still damp with tears, on rusting
chain and bar and useless bolt—above the dungeons dark and deep, where
light had faded from the lives of men and hope had died in breaking
hearts.

The conqueror resting upon the conquered.—Throned upon the Bastile,
the fallen fortress of Night, the body of Voltaire, from whose brain had
issued the Dawn.

For a moment his ashes must have felt the Promethean fire, and the old
smile must have illumined once more the face of death.

The vast multitude bowed in reverence, hushed with love and awe heard
these words uttered by a priest: "God shall be avenged."

The cry of the priest was a prophecy. Priests skulking in the shadows
with faces sinister as night, ghouls in the name of the gospel,
desecrated the grave. They carried away the ashes of Voltaire.

The tomb is empty.

God is avenged.

The world is filled with his fame.

Man has conquered.

Was there in the eighteenth century, a man wearing the vestments of the
church, the equal of Voltaire?

What cardinal, what bishop, what priest in France raised his voice for
the rights of men? What ecclesiastic, what nobleman, took the side of
the oppressed—of the peasant? Who denounced the frightful criminal
code—the torture of suspected persons? What priest pleaded for the
liberty of the citizen? What bishop pitied the victims of the rack? Is
there the grave of a priest in France on which a lover of liberty would
now drop a flower or a tear? Is there a tomb holding the ashes of a
saint from which emerges one ray of light?

If there be another life—a day of judgment, no God can afford to
torture in another world the man who abolished torture in this. If God
be the keeper of an eternal penitentiary, he should not imprison there
the men who broke the chains of slavery here. He cannot afford to make
an eternal convict of Voltaire.

Voltaire was a perfect master of the French language, knowing all its
moods, tenses and declinations, in fact and in feeling—playing upon it
as skillfully as Paganini on his violin, finding expression for every
thought and fancy, writing on the most serious subjects with the gayety
of a harlequin, plucking jests from the crumbling mouth of death,
graceful as the waving of willows, dealing in double meanings that
covered the asp with flowers and flattery—master of satire and
compliment—mingling them often in the same line, always interested
himself, and therefore interesting others—handling thoughts, questions,
subjects as a juggler does balls, keeping them in the air with perfect
ease—dressing old words in new meanings, charming, grotesque, pathetic,
mingling mirth with tears, wit and wisdom, and sometimes wickedness,
logic and laughter. With a woman's instinct knowing the sensitive
nerves—just where to touch—hating arrogance of place, the stupidity of
the solemn—snatching masks from priest and king, knowing the springs of
action and ambition's ends—perfectly familiar with the great world—the
intimate of kings and their favorites, sympathizing with the oppressed
and imprisoned, with the unfortunate and poor, hating tyranny, despising
superstition, and loving liberty with all his heart. Such was Voltaire
writing "Odipus" at seventeen, "Irene" at eighty-three, and crowding
between these two tragedies the accomplishment of a thousand lives.

From his throne at the foot of the Alps, he pointed the finger of scorn
at every hypocrite in Europe. For half a century, past rack and stake,
past dungeon and cathedral, past altar and throne, he carried with brave
hands the sacred torch of Reason, whose light at last will flood the
world.
---
# Which Way?
_Dresden Edition, Volume 3, 1884_
THERE are two ways,—the natural and the supernatural.

One way is to live for the world we are in, to develop the brain by
study and investigation, to take, by invention, advantage of the forces
of nature, to the end that we may have good houses, raiment and food, to
the end that the hunger of the mind may be fed through art and science.

The other way is to live for another world that we expect, to sacrifice
this life that we have for another that we know not of. The other way is
by prayer and ceremony to obtain the assistance, the protection of some
phantom above the clouds.

One way is to think—to investigate, to observe, and follow the light of
reason. The other way is to believe, to accept, to follow, to deny the
authority of your own senses, your own reason, and bow down to those who
are impudent enough to declare that they know.

One way is to live for the benefit of your fellow-men—for your wife
and children—to make those you love happy and to shield them from the
sorrows of life.

The other way is to live for ghosts, goblins, phantoms and gods with the
hope that they will reward you in another world.

One way is to enthrone reason and rely on facts, the other to crown
credulity and live on faith.

One way is to walk by the light within—by the flame that illumines the
brain, verifying all by the senses—by touch and sight and sound.

The other way is to extinguish the sacred light and follow blindly the
steps of another.

One way is to be an honest man, giving to others your thought, standing
erect, intrepid, careless of phantoms and hells.

The other way is to cringe and crawl, to betray your nobler self, and to
deprive others of the liberty that you have not the courage to enjoy.

Do not imagine that I hate the ones who have taken the wrong side and
traveled the wrong road.

Our fathers did the best they could. They believed in the Supernatural,
and they thought that sacrifices and prayer, fasting and weeping, would
induce the Supernatural to give them sunshine, rain and harvest—long
life in this world and eternal joy in another. To them, God was an
absolute monarch, quick to take offence, sudden in anger, terrible in
punishment, jealous, hateful to his enemies, generous to his favorites.
They believed also in the existence of an evil God, almost the equal
of the other God in strength, and a little superior in cunning. Between
these two Gods was the soul of man like a mouse between two paws.

Both of these Gods inspired fear. Our fathers did not quite love God,
nor quite hate the Devil, but they were afraid of both. They really
wished to enjoy themselves with God in the next world and with the Devil
in this. They believed that the course of Nature was affected by their
conduct; that floods and storms, diseases, earthquakes and tempests were
sent as punishments, and that all good phenomena were rewards.

Everything was under the direction and control of supernatural powers.
The air, the darkness, were filled with angels and devils; witches
and wizards planned and plotted against the pious—against the true
believers. Eclipses were produced by the sins of the people, and
the unusual was regarded as the miraculous. In the good old times
Christendom was an insane asylum, and insane priests and prelates were
the keepers. There was no science. The people did not investigate—did
not think. They trembled and believed. Ignorance and superstition ruled
the Christian world.

At last a few began to observe, to make records, and to think.

It was found that eclipses came at certain intervals, and that their
coming could be foretold. This demonstrated that the actions of men had
nothing to do with eclipses. A few began to suspect that earthquakes and
storms had natural causes, and happened without the slightest reference
to mankind.

Some began to doubt the existence of evil spirits, or the interference
of good ones in the affairs of the world. Finding out something about
astronomy, the great number of the stars, the certain and continuous
motions of the planets, and the fact that many of them were vastly
larger than the earth; ascertaining something about the earth, the
slow development of forms, the growth and distribution of plants, the
formation of islands and continents, the parts played by fire, water
and air through countless centuries; the kinship of all life; fixing
the earth's place in the constellation of the sun; by experiment and
research discovering a few secrets of chemistry; by the invention of
printing, and the preservation and dissemination of facts, theories and
thoughts, they were enabled to break a few chains of superstition, to
free themselves a little from the dominion of the supernatural, and to
set their faces toward the light. Slowly the number of investigators and
thinkers increased, slowly the real facts were gathered, the sciences
began to appear, the old beliefs grew a little absurd, the supernatural
retreated and ceased to interfere in the ordinary affairs of men.

Schools were founded, children were taught, books were printed and the
thinkers increased. Day by day confidence lessened in the supernatural,
and day by day men were more and more impressed with the idea that
man must be his own protector, his own providence. From the mists and
darkness of savagery and superstition emerged the dawn of the Natural.
A sense of freedom took possession of the mind, and the soul began to
dream of its power. On every side were invention and discovery, and
bolder thought. The church began to regard the friends of science as
its foes: Theologians resorted to chain and fagot—to mutilation and
torture.

The thinkers were denounced as heretics and Atheists—as the minions
of Satan and the defamers of Christ. All the ignorance, prejudice and
malice of superstition were aroused and all united for the destruction
of investigation and thought. For centuries this conflict was waged.
Every outrage was perpetrated, every crime committed by the believers
in the supernatural. But, in spite of all, the disciples of the Natural
increased, and the power of the church waned. Now the intelligence of
the world is on the side of the Natural. Still the conflict goes on—the
supernatural constantly losing, and the Natural constantly gaining. In a
few years the victory of science over superstition will be complete and
universal.

So, there have been for many centuries two philosophies of life;
one in favor of the destruction of the passions—the lessening of
wants,—and absolute reliance on some higher power; the other, in favor
of the reasonable gratification of the passions, the increase of wants,
and their supply by industry, ingenuity and invention, and the reliance
of man on his own efforts. Diogenes, Epictetus, Socrates to some extent,
Buddha and Christ, all taught the first philosophy. All despised riches
and luxury, all were the enemies of art and music, the despisers of
good clothes and good food and good homes. They were the philosophers
of poverty and rags, of huts and hovels, of ignorance and faith. They
preached the glories of another world and the miseries of this. They
derided the prosperous, the industrious, those who enjoyed life, and
reserved heaven for beggars.

This philosophy is losing authority, and now most people are anxious
to be happy here in this life. Most people want food and roof and
raiment—books and pictures, luxury and leisure. They believe in
developing the brain—in making servants and slaves of the forces of
Nature.

Now the intelligent men of the world have cast aside the teachings,
the philosophy of the ascetics. They no longer believe in the virtue of
fasting and self-torture. They believe that happiness is the only good,
and that the time to be happy is now—here, in this world. They no
longer believe in the rewards and punishments of the supernatural. They
believe in consequences, and that the consequences of bad actions are
evil, and the consequences of good actions are good.

They believe that man by investigation, by reason, should find out the
conditions of happiness, and then live and act in accordance with
such conditions. They do not believe that earthquakes, or tempests, or
volcanoes, or eclipses are caused by the conduct of men. They no longer
believe in the supernatural. They do not regard themselves as the serfs,
servants, or favorites of any celestial king. They feel that many evils
can be avoided by knowledge, and for that reason they believe in the
development of the brain. The schoolhouse is their church and the
university their cathedral.

So, there have been for some centuries two theories of government,—one
theological, the other secular.

The king received his power directly from God. It was the business of
the people to obey. The priests received their creeds from God and it
was the duty of the people to believe.

The theological government is growing somewhat unpopular. In England,
Parliament has taken the place of God, and in the United States,
government derives its powers from the consent of the governed.

Probably Emperor William is the only man in Germany who really believes
that God placed him on the throne and will keep him there whether the
German people are satisfied or not. Italy has retired the Catholic God
from politics, France belongs to and is governed by the French, and
even in Russia there are millions who hold the Czar and all his divine
pretensions in contempt.

The theological governments are passing away and the secular are slowly
taking their places. Man is growing greater and the Gods are becoming
vague and indistinct. These "divine" governments rest on the fear and
ignorance of the many, the cunning, the impudence and the mendacity of
the few. A secular government is born of the intelligence, the honesty
and the courage, not only of the few, but of the many.

We have found that man can govern himself without the assistance of
priest or pope, of ghost or God. We have found that religion is not
self-evident, and that to believe without evidence is not a praiseworthy
action. We know that the self-evident is the square and compass of the
brain, the polar star in the firmament of mind. And we know that no
one denies the self-evident. We also know that there is no particular
goodness in believing when the evidence is sufficient, and certainly
there is' none in saying; that you believe when the evidence is
insufficient.

The believers have not all been good. Some of the worst people in the
whole world have been believers. The gentlemen who made Socrates drink
hemlock were believers. The Jews who crucified Christ were believers in
and worshipers of God. The devil believes in the Trinity, the Father,
Son and Holy Ghost, and yet it does not seem to have affected his moral
character. According to the Bible, he trembles, but he does not reform.
At last we have concluded that we have a right to examine the religion
of our fathers.

II.

ALL Christians know that all the gods, except Jehovah, were created by
man; that they were, and are, false, foolish and monstrous; that all the
heathen temples were built and all their altars erected in vain; that
the sacrifices were wasted, that the priests were hypocrites, that their
prayers were unanswered and that the poor people were deceived, robbed
and enslaved. But after all, is our God superior to the gods of the
heathen?

We can ask this question now because we are prosperous, and prosperity
gives courage. If we should have a few earthquakes or a pestilence we
might fall on our knees, shut our eyes and ask the forgiveness of God
for ever having had a thought. We know that famine is the friend of
faith and that calamity is the sunshine of superstition. But as we have
no pestilence or famine, and as the crust of the earth is reasonably
quiet, we can afford to examine into the real character of our God.

It must be admitted that the use of power is an excellent test of
character.

Would a good God appeal to prejudice, the armor, fortress, sword and
shield of ignorance? to credulity, the ring in the priest-led nose
of stupidity? to fear, the capital stock of imposture, the lever of
hypocrisy? Would a good God frighten or enlighten his children? Would
a good God appeal to reason or ignorance, to justice or selfishness, to
liberty or the lash?

To our first parents in the Garden of Eden, our God said nothing about
the sacredness of love, nothing about children, nothing about education,
about justice or liberty.

After they had violated his command he became ferocious as a wild beast.
He cursed the earth and to Eve he said:—"I will greatly multiply thy
sorrow. In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children. Thy husband shall
rule over thee."

Our God made love the slave of pain, made wives serfs, and brutalized
the firesides of the world.

Our God drowned the whole world, with the exception of eight people;
made the earth one vast and shoreless sea covered with corpses.

Why did he cover the world with men, women and children knowing that he
would destroy them?

Why did he not try to reform them? Why would he create people, knowing
that they could not be reformed?

Is it possible that our God was intelligent and good?

After the flood our God selected the Jews and abandoned the rest of his
children. He paid no attention to the Hindoos, neglected the Egyptians,
ignored the Persians, forgot the Assyrians and failed to remember the
Greeks. And yet he was the father of them all. For many centuries he was
only a tribal God, protecting the few and despising the many. Our God
was ignorant, knew nothing of astronomy or geology. He did not even know
the shape of the earth, and thought the stars were only specks.

He knew nothing of disease. He thought that the blood of a bird that had
been killed over running water was good medicine. He was revengeful and
cruel, and assisted some of his children to butcher and destroy others.
He commanded them to murder men, wives and children, and to keep alive
the maidens and distribute them among his soldiers.

Our God established slavery—commanded men to buy their fellow-men, to
make merchandise of wives and babes. Our God sanctioned polygamy and
made wives the property of their husbands. Our God murdered the people
for the crimes of kings.

No man of intelligence, no one whose brain has not been poisoned by
superstition, paralyzed by fear, can read the Old Testament without
being forced to the conclusion that our God was, a wild beast.

If we must have a god, let him be merciful. Let us remember that "the
quality of mercy is not strained." Let us remember that when the sword
of Justice becomes a staff to support the weak, it bursts into blossom,
and that the perfume of that flower is the only incense, the only
offering, the only sacrifice that mercy will accept.

## Iii

SO, there have been two theories about the cause and cure of disease.
One is the theological, the other the scientific.

According to the theological idea, diseases were produced by evil
spirits, by devils who entered into the bodies of people.

These devils could be cast out by prophets, inspired men and priests.

While Christ was upon earth his principal business was to cast out evil
spirits.

For many centuries the priests followed his example, and during the
Middle Ages millions of devils were driven from the bodies of men.
Diseases were cured with little images of consecrated pewter, with
pieces of paper, with crosses worn about the neck—by having plaster of
Paris Virgins and clay Christs at the head of the bed, by touching the
bones of dead saints, or pieces of the true cross, or one of the nails
that was driven through the flesh of Christ, or a garment that had been
worn by the Virgin Mary, or by sprinkling the breast with holy water, or
saying prayers, or counting beads, or making the stations of the cross,
or by going without meat, or wearing haircloth, or in some way torturing
the body. All diseases were supposed to be of supernatural origin
and all cures were of the same nature. Pestilences were stopped by
processions, led by priests carrying the Host.

Nothing was known of natural causes and effects. Everything was
miraculous and mysterious. The priests were cunning and the people
credulous.

Slowly another theory as to the cause and cure of disease took
possession of the mind. A few discarded the idea of devils, and took
the ground that diseases were naturally produced, and that many of them
could be cured by natural means.

At first the physician was exceedingly ignorant, but he knew more than
the priest. Slowly but surely he pushed the priest from the bedside.
Some people finally became intelligent enough to trust their bodies to
the doctors, and remained ignorant enough to leave the care of their
souls with the priests. Among civilized people the theological theory
has been cast aside, and the miraculous, the supernatural, no longer has
a place in medicine. In Catholic countries the peasants are still cured
by images, prayers, holy water and the bones of saints, but when the
priests are sick they send for a physician, and now even the Pope, God's
agent, gives his sacred body to the care of a doctor.

The scientific has triumphed to a great extent over the theological.

No intelligent person now believes that devils inhabit the bodies
of men. No intelligent person now believes that devils are trying to
control the actions of men. No intelligent person now believes that
devils exist.

And yet, at the present time, in the city of New York, Catholic priests
are exhibiting a piece of one of the bones of Saint Anne, the supposed
mother of the Virgin Mary. Some of these priests may be credulous
imbeciles and some may be pious rogues. If they have any real
intelligence they must know that there is no possible way of proving
that the piece of bone ever belonged to Saint Anne. And if they have any
real intelligence they must know that even the bones of Saint Anne were
substantially like the bones of other people, made of substantially
the same material, and that the medical and miraculous qualities of all
human bones must be substantially the same. And yet these priests are
obtaining from their credulous dupes thousands and thousands of dollars
for the privilege of seeing this bone and kissing the box that contains
the "sacred relic."

Archbishop Corrigan knows that no one knows who the mother of the Virgin
Mary was, that no one knows about any of the bones of this unknown
mother, knows that the whole thing is a theological fraud, knows that
his priests, or priests under his jurisdiction, are obtaining money
under false pretences. Cardinal Gibbons knows the same, but neither of
these pious gentlemen has one word to say against this shameless crime.
They are willing that priests for the benefit of the church should make
merchandise of the hopes and fears of ignorant believers; willing that
fraud that produces revenue should live and thrive.

This is the honesty of the theologian. If these gentlemen should
be taken sick they would not touch the relic. They would send for a
physician.

Let me tell you a Japanese story that is exactly in point:

An old monk was in charge of a monastery that had been built above the
bones of a saint. These bones had the power to cure diseases and they
were so placed that by thrusting the arm through an orifice they could
be touched by the hand of the pilgrim. Many people, afflicted in many
ways, came and touched these bones. Many thought they had been benefited
or cured, and many in gratitude left large sums of money with the monk.
One day the old monk addressed his assistant as follows: "My dear son,
business has fallen off, and I can easily attend to all who come. You
will have to find another place. I will give you the white donkey, a
little money, and my blessing."

So the young man mounted upon the beast and went his way. In a few days
his money was gone and the white donkey died. An idea took possession of
the young man's mind. By the side of the road he buried the donkey, and
then to every passer-by held out his hands and said in solemn tones: "I
pray thee give me a little money to build a temple above the bones of
the sinless one."

Such was his success that he built the temple, and then thousands came
to touch the bones of the sinless one. The young man became rich, gave
employment to many assistants and lived in the greatest luxury.

One day he made up his mind to visit his old master. Taking with him a
large retinue of servants he started for the old home. When he
reached the place the old monk was seated by the doorway. With great
astonishment he looked at the young man and his retinue. The young man
dismounted and made himself known, and the old monk cried: "Where hast
thou been? Tell me, I pray thee, the story of thy success."

"Ah," the young man replied, "old age is stupid, but youth has thoughts.
Wait until we are alone and I will tell you all."

So that night the young man told his story, told about the death and
burial of the donkey, the begging of money to build a temple over the
bones of the sinless one, and of the sums of money he had received for
the cures the bones had wrought.

When he finished a satisfied smile crept over his pious face as he
added: "Old age is stupid, but youth has thoughts."

"Be not so fast," said the old monk, as he placed his trembling hand on
the head of his visitor, "Young man, this monastery in which your youth
was passed, in which you have seen so many miracles performed, so many
diseases cured, was built above the sacred bones of the mother of your
little jackass."

IV.

THERE are two ways of accounting for the sacred books and religions of
the world.

One is to say that the sacred books were written by inspired men, and
that our religion was revealed to us by God.

The other is to say that all books have been written by men, without any
aid from supernatural powers, and that all religions have been naturally
produced.

We find that other races and peoples have sacred books and prophets,
priests and Christs; we find too that their sacred books were written by
men who had the prejudices and peculiarities of the race to which they
belonged, and that they contain the mistakes and absurdities peculiar to
the people who produced them.

Christians are perfectly satisfied that all the so-called sacred books,
with the exception of the Old and New Testaments, were written by men,
and that the claim of inspiration is perfectly absurd. So they believe
that all religions, except Judaism and Christianity, were invented
by men. The believers in other religions take the ground that their
religion was revealed by God, and that all others, including Judaism and
Christianity, were made by men. All are right and all are wrong. When
they say that "other" religions were produced by men, they are right;
when they say that their religion was revealed by God, they are wrong.

Now we know that all tribes and nations have had some kind of religion;
that they have believed in the existence of good and evil beings,
spirits or powers, that could be softened by gifts or prayer. Now we
know that at the foundation of every religion, of all worship, is the
pale and bloodless face of fear. Now we know that all religions and all
sacred books have been naturally produced—all born of ignorance, fear
and cunning.

Now we know that the gifts, sacrifices and prayers were all in vain;
that no god received and that no god heard or answered.

A few years ago prayers decided the issue of battle, and priests,
through their influence with God, could give the victory. Now no
intelligent man expects any answer to prayer. He knows that nature
pursues her course without reference to the wishes of men, that the
clouds float, the winds blow, the rain falls and the sun shines without
regard to the human race. Yet millions are still praying, still hoping
that they can gain the protection of some god, that some being will
guard them from accident and disease. Year after year the ministers make
the same petitions, pray for the same things, and keep on in spite of
the fact that nothing is accomplished.

Whenever good men do some noble thing the clergy give their God the
credit, and when evil things are done they hold the men who did the evil
responsible, and forget to blame their God.

Praying has become a business, a profession, a trade, A minister is
never happier than when praying in public. Most of them are exceedingly
familiar with their God. Knowing that he knows everything, they tell him
the needs of the nation and the desires of the people, they advise him
what to do and when to do it. They appeal to his pride, asking him to do
certain things for his own glory. They often pray for the impossible. In
the House of Representatives in Washington I once heard a chaplain
pray for what he must have known was impossible. Without a change of
countenance, without a smile, with a face solemn as a sepulchre, he
said: "I pray thee, O God, to give Congress wisdom." It may be that
ministers really think that their prayers do good and it may be that
frogs imagine that their croaking brings spring.

The men of thought now know that all religions and all sacred books have
been made by men; that no revelation has come from any being superior
to nature; that all the prophecies were either false or made after the
event; that no miracle ever was or ever will be performed; that no God
wants the worship or the assistance of man; that no-prayer has ever
coaxed one drop of rain from the sky, one ray of light from the sun;
that no prayer has stayed the flood, or the tides of the sea, or folded
the wings of the storm; that no prayer has given water to the cracked
and bleeding lips of thirst, or food to the famishing; that no prayer
has stopped the pestilence, stilled the earthquake or quieted the
volcano; that no prayer has shielded the innocent, succored the
oppressed, unlocked the dungeon's door, broke the chains of slaves,
rescued the good and noble from the scaffold, or extinguished the
fagot's flame.

The intelligent man now knows that we live in a natural world, that gods
and devils and the sons of God are all phantoms, that our religion and
our Deity are much like the religion and deities of other nations,
and that the stone god of a savage answers prayer and protects his
worshipers precisely the same, and to just the same extent, as the
Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

V.

THERE are two theories about morals. One theory is that the moral man
obeys the commands of a supposed God, without stopping to think whether
the commands are right or wrong. He believes that the will of the God is
the source and fountain of right. He thinks a thing is wrong because
the God prohibits it, not that the God prohibits it because it is wrong.
This theory calls not for thought, but for obedience. It does not appeal
to reason, but to the fear of punishment, the hope of reward. God is a
king whose will is law, and men are serfs and slaves.

Many contend that without a belief in the existence of God morality is
impossible and that virtue would perish from the earth.

This absurd theory, with its "Thus saith the Lord" has been claimed to
be independent of and superior to reason.

The other theory is that right and wrong exist in the nature of things;
that certain actions preserve or increase the happiness of man, and that
other actions cause sorrow and misery; that all those actions that cause
happiness are moral, and that all others are evil, or indifferent. Right
and wrong are not revelations from some supposed god, but have been
discovered through the experience and intelligence of man. There is
nothing miraculous or supernatural about morality. Neither has morality
anything to do with another world, or with an infinite being. It applies
to conduct here, and the effect of that conduct on ourselves and others
determines its nature.

In this world people are obliged to supply their wants by labor.
Industry is a necessity, and those who work are the natural enemies of
those who steal.

It required no revelation from God to make larceny unpopular. Human
beings naturally object to being injured, maimed, or killed, and so
everywhere, and at all times, they have tried to protect themselves.

Men did not require a revelation from God to put in their minds the
thought of self-preservation. To defend yourself when attacked is as
natural as to eat when you are hungry.

To determine the quality of an action by showing that it is in
accordance with, or contrary to the command of some supposed God, is
superstition pure and simple. To test all actions by their consequences
is scientific and in accord with reason.

According to the supernatural theory, natural consequences are not taken
into consideration. Actions are wrong because they have been prohibited
and right because they have been commanded. According to the Catholic
Church, eating meat on Friday is a sin that deserves eternal punishment.
And yet, in the nature of things, the consequences of eating meat on
that day must be exactly the same as eating meat on any other. So,
all the churches teach that unbelief is a crime, not in the nature of
things, but by reason of the will of God.

Of course this is absurd and idiotic. If there be an infinite God he
cannot make that wrong which in the nature of things is right. Neither
can he make an action good the natural consequences of which are evil.
Even an infinite God cannot change a fact. In spite of him the relation
between the diameter and circumference of a circle would remain the
same.

All the relations of things to things, of forces to forces, of acts to
acts, of causes to effects in the domain of what is called matter,
and in the realm of what is called mind, are just as certain, just as
unchangeable as the relation between the diameter and circumference of a
circle.

An infinite God could not make ingratitude a virtue any easier than he
could make a square triangle.

So, the foundations of the moral and the immoral are in the nature of
things—in the necessary relation between conduct and well-being, and
an infinite God cannot change these foundations, and cannot increase or
diminish the natural consequences of actions.

In this world there is neither chance nor caprice, neither magic nor
miracle. Behind every event, every thought and dream, is the efficient,
the natural and necessary cause.

The effort to make the will of a supposed God the foundation of
morality, has filled the world with misery and crime, extinguished in
millions of minds the light of reason, and in countless ways hindered
and delayed the progress of our race.

Intelligent men now know, that if there be an infinite God, man cannot
in any way increase or decrease the happiness of such a being. They know
that man can only commit crimes against sentient beings who, to some
extent at least, are within his power, and that a crime by a finite
being against an infinite being is an infinite impossibility.

VI.

FOR many thousands of years man has believed in and sought for the
impossible. In chemistry he has searched for a universal solvent, for
some way in which to change the baser metals into gold. Even Lord
Bacon was a believer in this absurdity. Thousands of men, during many
centuries, in thousands of ways, sought to change the nature of lead and
iron so that they might be transformed to gold. They had no conception
of the real nature of things. They supposed that they had originally
been created by a kind of magic, and could by the same kind of magic
be changed into something else. They were all believers in the
supernatural. So, in mechanics, men sought for the impossible. They were
believers in perpetual motion and they tried to make machines that would
through a combination of levers furnish the force that propelled them.

Thousands of ingenious men wasted their lives in the vain effort to
produce machines that would in some wonderful way create a force. They
did not know that force is eternal, that it can neither be created nor
destroyed. They did not know that a machine having perpetual motion
would necessarily be a universe within itself, or independent of this,
and in which the force called friction would be necessarily changed,
without loss, into the force that propelled,—the machine itself causing
or creating the original force that put it in motion. And yet in spite
of all the absurdities involved, for many centuries men, regarded by
their fellows as intelligent and learned, tried to discover the great
principle of "perpetual motion."

Our ancestors studied the stars because in them they thought it possible
to learn the fate of nations, the life and destiny of the individual.
Eclipses, wandering comets, the relations of certain stars were the
forerunners or causes of prosperity or disaster, of the downfall or
upbuilding of kingdoms. Astrology was believed to be a science, and
those who studied the stars were consulted by warriors, statesmen and
kings. The account of the star that led the wise men of the East to the
infant Christ was written by a believer in astrology. It would be hard
to overstate the time and talent wasted in the study of this so-called
science. The men who believed in astrology thought that they lived in a
supernatural world—a world in which causes and effects had no necessary
connection with each other—in which all events were the result of magic
and necromancy.

Even now, at the close of the nineteenth century, there are hundreds
and hundreds of men who make their living by casting the horoscopes of
idiots and imbeciles.

The "perpetual motion" of the mechanic, the universal solvent of the
chemist, the changing of lead into gold, the foretelling events by the
relations of stars were all born of the same ignorance of nature that
caused the theologian to imagine an uncaused cause as the cause of all
causes and effects.

The theologian insisted that there was something superior to nature, and
that that something was the creator and preserver of nature.

Of course there is no more evidence of the existence of that "something"
than there is of the philosopher's stone.

The mechanics who now believe in perpetual motion are insane, so are the
chemists who seek to change one metal into another, so are the honest
astrologers, and in a few more years the same can truthfully be said of
the honest theologians.

Many of our ancestors believed in the existence of and sought for the
Fountain of Perpetual Youth. They believed that an old man could stoop
and drink from this fountain and that while he drank his gray hairs
would slowly change, that the wrinkles would disappear, that his dim
eyes would brighten and grow clear, his heart throb with manhood's force
and rhythm, while in his pallid cheeks would burst into blossom the
roses of health.

They were believers in the supernatural, the miraculous, and nothing
seemed more probable than the impossible.

## Vii

MOST people use names in place of arguments. They are satisfied to be
disciples, followers of the illustrious dead. Each church, each party
has a list of "great men," and they throw the names of these men at each
other when discussing their dogmas and creeds.

Men prove the inspiration of the Bible, the divinity of Christ by the
admissions of soldiers, statesmen and kings. And in the same way they
establish the existence of heaven and hell. Dispute one of their dogmas
and you will instantly be told that Isaac Newton or Matthew Hale was on
the other side, and you will be asked whether you claim to be superior
to Newton or Hale. In our own country the ministers, to establish their
absurdities, quote the opinions of Webster and of other successful
politicians as though such opinions were demonstrations.

Most Protestants will cheerfully admit that they are inferior in brain
and genius to some men who have lived and died in the Catholic faith;
that in the matter of preaching funeral sermons they are not equal to
Bossuet; that their letters are not as interesting and polished as
those written by Pascal; that Torquemada excelled them in the genius
of organization, and that for planning a massacre they would not for
a moment claim the palm from Catherine de Medici, and yet after these
admissions, these same Protestants would insist that the Pope is an
unblushing impostor, and the Catholic Church a vampire.

The so-called "great men" of the world have been mistaken in many
things. Lord Bacon denied the Copernican system of astronomy and
believed to the day of his death that the sun and stars journeyed about
this little earth. Matthew Hale was a firm believer in the existence of
witches and wizards. John Wesley believed that earthquakes were caused
by sin and that they could be prevented by believing in the Lord Jesus
Christ. John Calvin regarded murder as one of the means to preserve the
purity of the gospel. Martin Luther denounced Galileo as a fool because
he was opposed to the astronomy of Moses. Webster was in favor of the
Fugitive Slave Law and held the book of Job in high esteem. He wanted
votes and he knelt to the South. He wanted votes and he flattered the
church.

## Viii

VOLUMES might be written on the follies and imbecilities of "great" men.

Only a few years ago the really great men were persecuted, imprisoned
or burned. In this way the church was enabled to keep the "great" men on
her side.

As a matter of fact it is impossible to tell what the "great" men really
thought. We only know what they said. These "great" men had families
to support, they had a prejudice against prisons and objected to being
burned, and it may be that they thought one way and talked another.

The priests said to these men: "Agree with the creed, talk on our side,
or you will be persecuted to the death." Then the priests turned to the
people and cried: "Hear what the great men say."

For a few years we have had something like liberty of speech and many
men have told their thoughts. Now the theologians are not quite so apt
to appeal to names as formerly. The really great are not on their side.
The leaders of modern thought are not Christians. Now the unbelievers
can repeat names—names that stand for intellectual triumphs. Humboldt,
Helmholtz, Haeckel and Huxley, Darwin, Spencer and Tyndall and many
others, stand for investigation, discovery, for vast achievements in the
world of thought. These men were and are thinkers and they had and have
the courage to express their thoughts. They were not and are not puppets
of priests, or the trembling worshipers of ghosts.

For many years, most of the presidents of American colleges have
been engaged in the pious work of trying to prevent the intellectual
advancement of the race. To such an extent have they succeeded that none
of their students have been or are great scientists.

For the purpose of bolstering their creed the orthodox do not now repeat
the names of the living, their witnesses are in the cemetery. All the
"great" Christians are dead.

To-day we want arguments, not names, reasons, not opinions. It is
degrading to blindly follow a man, or a church. Nothing is nobler than
to be governed by reason. To be vanquished by the truth is to be a
victor. The man who follows is a slave. The man who thinks is free.

We must remember that most men have been controlled by their
surroundings. Most of the intelligent men in Turkey are followers of
Mahomet. They were rocked in the cradle of the Koran, they received
their religious opinions as they did their features—from their parents.
Their opinion on the subject of religion is of no possible value. The
same may be said of the Christians of our country. Their belief is the
result, not of thought, of investigation, but of surroundings.

All religions have been the result of ignorance, and the seeds were sown
and planted in the long night of savagery.

In the decline of the Roman power, in the times when prosperity died,
when commerce almost ceased, when the sceptre of authority fell from
weak and nerveless hands, when arts were lost and the achievements of
the past forgotten or unknown, then Christians came, and holding in
contempt all earthly things, told their fellows of another world—of joy
eternal beyond the clouds.

If learning had not been lost, if the people had been educated, if they
had known the literature of Greece and Rome, if they had been familiar
with the tragedies of Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, with the
philosophy of Zeno and Epicurus, with the orations of Demosthenes; if
they had known the works of art, the miracles of genius, the passions in
marble, the dreams in stone; if they had known the history of Rome; if
they had understood Lucretius, Cicero and Cæsar; if they had studied the
laws, the decisions of the Prætors; if they had known the thoughts of
all the mighty dead, there would have been no soil on which the seeds of
Christian superstition could have taken root and grown.

But the early Christians hated art, and song, and joy. They slandered
and maligned the human race, insisted that the world had been blighted
by the curse of God, that this life should be used only in making
preparation for the next, that education filled the mind with doubt, and
science led the soul from God.

IX.

THERE are two ways. One is to live for God. That has been tried, and the
result has always been the same. It was tried in Palestine many years
ago and the people who tried it were not protected by their God. They
were conquered, overwhelmed and exiled. They lost their country and were
scattered over the earth. For many centuries they expected assistance
from their God. They believed that they would be gathered together
again, that their cities and temples and altars would be rebuilt, that
they would again be the favorites of Jehovah, that with his help they
would overcome their enemies and rule the world. Century by century
the hope has grown weaker and weaker, until now it is regarded by the
intelligent as a foolish dream.

Living for God was tried in Switzerland and it ended in slavery and
torture. Every avenue that led to improvement, to progress, was closed.
Only those in authority were allowed to express their thoughts. No
one tried to increase the happiness of people in this world. Innocent
pleasure was regarded as sin, laughter was suppressed, all natural joy
despised, and love itself denounced as sin.

They amused themselves with fasting and prayer, hearing sermons, talking
about endless pain, committing to memory the genealogies in the Old
Testament, and now and then burning one of their fellow-men.

Living for God was tried in Scotland. The people became the serfs and
slaves of the blessed Kirk. The ministers became petty tyrants. They
poisoned the very springs of life. They interfered with every family,
invaded the privacy of every home, sowed the seeds of superstition and
fear, and filled the darkness with devils. They claimed to be divinely
inspired, that they delivered the messages of God, that to deny their
authority was blasphemy, and that all who refused to do their bidding
would suffer eternal pain. Under their government Scotland was a land of
sighing and sorrow, of grief and pain. The people were slaves.

Living for God was tried in New England. A government was formed in
accordance with the Old Testament. The laws, for the most part, were
petty and absurd, the penalties cruel and bloody to the last degree.
Religious liberty was regarded as a crime, as an insult to God. Persons
differing in belief from those in power, were persecuted, whipped,
maimed and exiled. People supposed to be in league with the devil
were imprisoned or killed. A theological government was established,
ministers were the agents of God, they dictated the laws and fixed the
penalties. Everything was under the supervision of the clergy. They had
no pity, no mercy. With all their hearts they hated the natural. They
promised happiness in another world, and did all they could to destroy
the pleasures of this.

Their greatest consolation, their purest joy was found in their belief
that all who failed to obey their words, to wear their yoke, would
suffer infinite torture in the eternal dungeons of hell.

Living for God was tried in the Dark Ages. Thousands of scaffolds were
wet with blood, countless swords were thrust through human hearts. The
flames of fagots consumed the flesh of men, dungeons became the homes of
those who thought. In the name of God every cruelty was practiced, every
crime committed, and liberty perished from the earth. Everywhere the
result has been the same. Living for God has filled the world with blood
and flame.

There is another way. Let us live for man, for this world. Let
us develop the brain and civilize the heart. Let us ascertain the
conditions of happiness and live in accordance with them. Let us do what
we can for the destruction of ignorance, poverty and crime. Let us do
our best to supply the wants of the body, to satisfy the hunger of the
mind, to ascertain the secrets of nature, to the end that we may make
the invisible forces the tireless servants of the human race, and fill
the world with happy homes.

Let the gods take care of themselves. Let us live for man. Let us
remember that those who have sought for the truths of nature have never
persecuted their fellow-men. The astronomers and chemists have forged no
chains, built no dungeons. The geologists have invented no instrument
of torture. The philosophers have not demonstrated the truth of their
theories by burning their neighbors. The great infidels, the thinkers,
have lived for the good of man.

It is noble to seek for truth, to be intellectually honest, to give to
others a true transcript of your mind, a photograph of your thoughts in
honest words.

X.

HERE are two ways: The narrow way along which the selfish go in single
file, not wide enough for husband and wife to walk side by side
while children clasp their hands. The narrow road over the desert of
superstition "with here and there a traveler." The narrow grass-grown
path, filled with flints and broken glass, bordered by thistles and
thorns, where the twice-born limping walk with bleeding feet. If by this
path you see a flower, do not pick it. It is a temptation. Beneath its
leaves a serpent lies. Keep your eyes on the New Jerusalem. Do not look
back for wife or child or friend. Think only of saving your own soul.
You will be just as happy in heaven with all you love in hell. Believe,
have faith, and you will be rewarded for the goodness of another. Look
neither to the right nor left. Keep on, straight on, and you will save
your worthless, withered, selfish soul.

This is the narrow road that leads from earth to the Christian's
heartless heaven.

There is another way—the broad road.

Give me the wide and ample way, the way broad enough for us all to go
together. The broad way where the birds sing, where the sun shines and
the streams murmur. The broad way, through the fields where the flowers
grow, over the daisied slopes where sunlight, lingering, seems to sleep
and dream.

Let us go the broad way with the great world, with science and art, with
music and the drama, with all that gladdens, thrills, refines and calms.

Let us go the wide road with husband and wife, with children and friends
and with all there is of joy and love between the dawn and dusk of
life's strange day.

This world is a great orange tree filled with blossoms, with ripening
and ripened fruit, while, underneath the bending boughs, the fallen
slowly turn to dust.

Each orange is a life. Let us squeeze it dry, get all the juice there
is, so that when death comes we can say; "There is nothing left but
withered peel."

Let us travel the broad and natural way. Let us live for man.

To think of what the world has suffered from superstition, from
religion, from the worship of beast and stone and god, is almost enough
to make one insane. Think of the long, long night of ignorance and fear!
Think of the agony, the sufferings of the past, of the days that are
dead!

I look. In gloomy caves I see the sacred serpents coiled, waiting for
their sacrificial prey. I see their open jaws, their restless tongues,
their glittering eyes, their cruel fangs. I see them seize and crush in
many horrid folds the helpless children given by fathers and mothers to
appease the Serpent-God. I look again. I see temples wrought of stone
and gilded with barbaric gold. I see altars red with human blood. I see
the solemn priests thrust knives in the white breasts of girls. I look
again. I see other temples and other altars, where greedy flames devour
the flesh and blood of babes. I see other temples and other priests and
other altars dripping with the blood of oxen, lambs and doves.

I look again. I see other temples and other priests and other altars on
which are sacrificed the liberties of man. I look. I see the cathedrals
of God, the huts of peasants, the robes of priests and kings, the rags
of honest men. I look again. The lovers of God are the murderers of
men. I see dungeons filled with the noblest and the best. I see exiles,
wanderers, outcasts, millions of martyrs, widows and orphans. I see the
cunning instruments of torture and hear the shrieks and sobs and moans
of millions dead.

I see the dungeon's gloom, I hear the clank of chains. I see the fagot's
flames, the scorched and blackened face, the writhing limbs. I hear the
jeers and scoffs of pious fiends. I see the victim on the rack, I hear
the tendons as they break. I see a world beneath the feet of priests,
liberty in chains, every virtue a crime, every crime a virtue,
intelligence despised, stupidity sainted, hypocrisy crowned and the
white forehead of honor wearing the brand of shame. This was.

I look again, and in the East of hope's fair sky the first pale light
shed by the herald star gives promise of another dawn. I look, and
from the ashes, blood and tears the heroes leap to bless the future and
avenge the past. I see a world at war, and in the storm and chaos of the
deadly strife thrones crumble, altars fall, chains break, creeds change.

The highest peaks are touched with holy light. The dawn has blossomed.
I look again. I see discoverers sailing across mysterious seas. I see
inventors cunningly enslave the forces of the world. I see the houses
being built for schools. Teachers, interpreters of nature, slowly take
the place of priests. Philosophers arise, thinkers give the world their
wealth of brain, and lips grow rich with words of truth. This is.

I look again, but toward the future now. The popes and priests and kings
are gone,—the altars and the thrones have mingled with the dust,—the
aristocracy of land and cloud have perished from the earth and-air, and
all the gods are dead. A new religion sheds its glory on mankind. It
is the gospel of this world, the religion of the body, of the heart
and brain, the evangel of health and joy. I see a world at peace,
where labor reaps its true reward, a world without prisons, without
workhouses, without asylums for the insane, a world on which the gibbets
shadow does not fall, a world where the poor girl, trying to win bread
with the needle, the needle that has been called "the asp for the breast
of the poor," is not driven to the desperate choice of crime or death,
of suicide or shame. I see a world without the beggar's outstretched
palm, the miser's heartless, stony stare, the piteous wail of want, the
pallid face of crime, the livid lips of lies, the cruel eyes of scorn.
I see a race without disease of flesh or brain, shapely and fair, the
married harmony of form and use, and as I look life lengthens, fear
dies, joy deepens, love intensifies. The world is free. This shall be.
---
# A Lay Sermon
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1885_
> * Delivered before the Congress of the American Secular
> Union, at Chickering Hall, New York, Nov. 14, 1885.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: In the greatest tragedy that has ever been written
by man—in the fourth scene of the third act—is the best prayer that
I have ever read; and when I say "the greatest tragedy," everybody
familiar with Shakespeare will know that I refer to "King Lear." After
he has been on the heath, touched with insanity, coming suddenly to the
place of shelter, he says:

> "I'll pray, and then I'll sleep."

And this prayer is my text:

> "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
> That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
> How shall your unhoused heads, your unfed sides,
> Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
> From seasons such as these?

> Oh, I have ta'en
> Too little care of this.
> Take physic, pomp;
> Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
> That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
> And show the heavens more just."

That is one of the noblest prayers that ever fell from human lips. If
nobody has too much, everybody will have enough!

I propose to say a few words upon subjects that are near to us all, and
in which every human being ought to be interested—and if he is not, it
may be that his wife will be, it may be that his orphans will be; and I
would like to see this world, at last, so that a man could die and
not feel that he left his wife and children a prey to the greed, the
avarice, or the cruelties of mankind. There is something wrong in a
government where they who do the most have the least. There is something
wrong, when honesty wears a rag, and rascality a robe; when the loving,
the tender, eat a crust, while the infamous sit at banquets. I cannot do
much, but I can at least sympathize with those who suffer. There is one
thing that we should remember at the start, and if I can only teach you
that, to-night—unless you know it already—I shall consider the few
words I may have to say a wonderful success.

I want you to remember that everybody is as he _must_ be. I want you to
get out of your minds the old nonsense of "free moral agency;" and then
you will have charity for the whole human race. When you know that they
are not responsible for their dispositions, any more than for their
height; not responsible for their acts, any more than for their dreams;
when you finally understand the philosophy that everything exists as
the result of an efficient cause, and that the lightest fancy that ever
fluttered its painted wings in the horizon of hope was as necessarily
produced as the planet that in its orbit wheels about the sun—when
you understand this, I believe you will have charity for all
mankind—including even yourself.

Wealth is not a crime; poverty is not a virtue—although the virtuous
have generally been poor. There is only one good, and that is human
happiness; and he only is a wise man who makes himself and others happy.

I have heard all my life about self-denial. There never was anything
more idiotic than that. No man who does right practices self-denial. To
do right is the bud and blossom and fruit of wisdom. To do right should
always be dictated by the highest possible selfishness and the most
perfect generosity. No man practices self-denial unless he does wrong.
To inflict an injury upon yourself is an act of self-denial. He who
denies justice to another denies it to himself. To plant seeds that will
forever bear the fruit of joy, is not an act of self-denial. So this
idea of doing good to others only for their sake is absurd. You want to
do it, not simply for their sake, but for your own; because a perfectly
civilized man can never be perfectly happy while there is one unhappy
being in this universe.

Let us take another step. The barbaric world was to be rewarded in some
other world for acting sensibly in this. They were promised rewards in
another world, if they would only have self-denial enough to be virtuous
in this. If they would forego the pleasures of larceny and murder; if
they would forego the thrill and bliss of meanness here, they would be
rewarded hereafter for that self-denial. I have exactly the opposite
idea. Do right, not to deny yourself, but because you love yourself and
because you love others. Be generous, because it is better for you. Be
just, because any other course is the suicide of the soul. Whoever does
wrong plagues himself, and when he reaps that harvest, he will find that
he was not practicing self-denial when he did right.

If you want to be happy yourself, if you are truly civilized, you want
others to be happy. Every man ought, to the extent of his ability,
to increase the happiness of mankind, for the reason that that will
increase his own. No one can be really prosperous unless those with whom
he lives share the sunshine and the joy.

The first thing a man wants to know and be sure of is when he has got
enough. Most people imagine that the rich are in heaven, but, as a rule,
it is only a gilded hell. There is not a man in the city of New York
with genius enough, with brains enough, to own five millions of dollars.
Why? The money will own him. He becomes the key to a safe. That money
will get him up at daylight; that money will separate him from his
friends; that money will fill his heart with fear; that money will rob
his days of sunshine and his nights of pleasant dreams. He cannot own
it. He becomes the property of that money. And he goes right on making
more. What for? He does not know. It becomes a kind of insanity. No one
is happier in a palace than in a cabin. I love to see a log house. It is
associated in my mind always with pure, unalloyed happiness. It is the
only house in the world that looks as though it had no mortgage on it.
It looks as if you could spend there long, tranquil autumn days; the
air filled with serenity; no trouble, no thoughts about notes, about
interest—nothing of the kind; just breathing free air, watching the
hollyhocks, listening to the birds and to the music of the spring that
comes like a poem from the earth.

It is an insanity to get more than you want. Imagine a man in this city,
an intelligent man, say with two or three millions of coats, eight
or ten millions of hats, vast warehouses full of shoes, billions
of neckties, and imagine that man getting up at four o'clock in the
morning, in the rain and snow and sleet, working like a dog all day
to get another necktie! Is not that exactly what the man of twenty or
thirty millions, or of five millions, does to-day? Wearing his life
out that somebody may say, "How rich he is!" What can he do with the
surplus? Nothing. Can he eat it? No. Make friends? No. Purchase flattery
and lies? Yes. Make all his poor relations hate him? Yes. And then, what
worry! Annoyed, nervous, tormented, until his poor little brain becomes
inflamed, and you see in the morning paper, "Died of apoplexy." This
man finally began to worry for fear he would not have enough neckties to
last him through.

So we ought to teach our children that great wealth is a curse. Great
wealth is the mother of crime. On the other hand are the abject poor.
And let me ask, to-night: Is the world forever to remain as it was when
Lear made his prayer? Is it ever to remain as it is now? I hope not.
Are there always to be millions whose lips are white with famine? Is the
withered palm to be always extended, imploring from the stony heart
of respectable charity, alms? Must every man who sits down to a decent
dinner always think of the starving? Must every one sitting by the
fireside think of some poor mother, with a child strained to her breast,
shivering in the storm? I hope not. Are the rich always to be divided
from the poor,—not only in fact, but in feeling? And that division
is growing more and more every day The gulf between Lazarus and Dives
widens year by year, only their positions are changed—Lazarus is in
hell, and he thinks Dives is in the bosom of Abraham.

And there is one thing that helps to widen this gulf. In nearly every
city of the United States you will find the fashionable part, and the
poor part. The poor know nothing of the fashionable part, except the
outside splendor; and as they go by the palaces, that poison plant
called envy, springs and grows in their poor hearts. The rich know
nothing of the poor, except the squalor and rags and wretchedness, and
what they read in the police records, and they say, "Thank God, we are
not like those people!" Their hearts are filled with scorn and contempt,
and the hearts of the others with envy and hatred. There must be some
way devised for the rich and poor to get acquainted. The poor do not
know how many well-dressed people sympathize with them, and the rich do
not know how many noble hearts beat beneath the rags. If we can ever
get the loving poor acquainted with the sympathizing rich, this question
will be nearly solved.

In a hundred other ways they are divided. If anything should
bring mankind together it ought to be a common belief. In Catholic
countries, that does have a softening influence upon the rich and upon
the poor. They believe the same. So in Mohammedan countries they can
kneel in the same mosque, and pray to the same God. But how is it with
us? The church is not free. There is no welcome in the velvet for the
velveteen. Poverty does not feel at home there, and the consequence
is, the rich and poor are kept apart, even by their religion. I am not
saying anything against religion. I am not on that question; but I would
think more of any religion, provided that even for one day in the week,
or for one hour in the year, it allowed wealth to clasp the hand
of poverty and to have, for one moment even, the thrill of genuine
friendship.

In the olden times, in barbaric life, it was a simple' thing to get a
living. A little hunting, a little fishing, pulling a little fruit, and
digging for roots—all simple; and they were nearly all on an equality,
and comparatively there were fewer failures. Living has at last
become complex. All the avenues are filled with men struggling for the
accomplishment of the same thing:

> "For emulation hath a thousand sons
> That one by one pursue: if you give way,
> Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
> Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,
> And leave you hindmost;—
> Or, like a gallant horse, fallen in first rank,
> Lie there for pavement to the abject rear."

The struggle is so hard. And just exactly as we have risen in the scale
of being, the per cent, of failures has increased. It is so that all
men are not capable of getting a living. They have not cunning enough,
intellect enough, muscle enough—they are not strong enough. They are
too generous, or they are too negligent; and then some people seem to
have what is called "bad luck"—that is to say, when anything falls,
they are under it; when anything bad happens, it happens to them.

And now there is another trouble. Just as life becomes complex and as
everyone is trying to accomplish certain objects, all the ingenuity of
the brain is at work to get there by a shorter way, and, in consequence,
this has become an age of invention. Myriads of machines have been
invented—every one of them to save labor. If these machines helped the
laborer, what a blessing they would be!

But the laborer does not own the machine; the machine owns him. That is
the trouble. In the olden time, when I was a boy, even, you know how it
was in the little towns. There was a shoemaker—two of them—a tailor
or two, a blacksmith, a wheelwright. I remember just how the shops used
to look. I used to go to the blacksmith shop at night, get up on the
forge, and hear them talk about turning horse-shoes. Many a night have
I seen the sparks fly and heard the stories that were told. There was a
great deal of human nature in those days! Everybody was known. If times
got hard, the poor little shoemakers made a living mending, half-soling,
straightening up the heels. The same with the blacksmith; the same with
the tailor. They could get credit—they did not have to pay till the
next January, and if they could not pay then, they took another year,
and they were happy enough. Now one man is not a shoemaker. There is a
great building—several hundred thousand dollars' worth of machinery,
three or four thousand people—not a single mechanic in the whole
building. One sews on straps, another greases the machines, cuts out
soles, waxes threads. And what is the result? When the machines stop,
three thousand men are out of employment. Credit goes. Then come want
and famine, and if they happen to have a little child die, it would
take them years to save enough of their earnings to pay the expense
of putting away that little sacred piece of flesh. And yet, by this
machinery we can produce enough to flood the world. By the inventions
in agricultural machinery the United States can feed all the mouths upon
the earth. There is not a thing that man uses that can not instantly be
over-produced to such an extent as to become almost worthless; and
yet, with all this production, with all this power to create, there are
millions and millions in abject want. Granaries bursting, and famine
looking into the doors of the poor! Millions of everything, and yet
millions wanting everything and having substantially nothing!

Now, there is something wrong there. We have got into that contest
between machines-and men, and if extravagance does not keep pace with
ingenuity, it is going to be the most terrible question that man has
ever settled. I tell you, to-night, that these things are worth thinking
about. Nothing that touches the future of our race, nothing that touches
the happiness of ourselves or our children, should be beneath our
notice. We should think of these things—must think of them—and we
should endeavor to see that justice is finally done between man and man.

My sympathies are with the poor. My sympathies are with the workingmen
of the United States. Understand me distinctly. I am not an Anarchist.
Anarchy is the reaction from tyranny. I am not a Socialist. I am not
a Communist. I am an Individualist. I do not believe in tyranny of
government, but I do believe in justice as between man and man.

What is the remedy? Or, what can we think of—for do not imagine that I
think I know. It is an immense, an almost infinite, question, and all
we can do is to guess. You have heard a great deal lately upon the land
subject. Let me say a word or two upon that. In the first place I do not
want to take, and I would not take, an inch of land from any human being
that belonged to him. If we ever take it, we must pay for it—condemn
it and take it—do not rob anybody. Whenever any man advocates justice,
and robbery as the means, I suspect him.

No man should be allowed to own any land that he does not use. Everybody
knows that—I do not care whether he has thousands or millions. I have
owned a great deal of land, but I know just as well as I know I am
living that I should not be allowed to have it unless I use it. And why?
Don't you know that if people could bottle the air, they would? Don't
you know that there would be an American Air-bottling Association? And
don't you know that they would allow thousands and millions to die for
want of breath, if they could not pay for air? I am not blaming anybody.
I am just telling how it is. Now, the land belongs to the children of
Nature. Nature invites into this world every babe that is born. And
what would you think of me, for instance, to-night, if I had invited
you here—nobody had charged you anything, but you had been invited—and
when you got here you had found one man pretending to occupy a hundred
seats, another fifty, and another seventy-five, and thereupon you were
compelled to stand up—what would you think of the invitation? It seems
to me that every child of Nature is entitled to his share of the land,
and that he should not be compelled to beg the privilege to work the
soil, of a babe that happened to be born before him. And why do I say
this? Because it is not to our interest to have a few landlords and
millions of tenants.

The tenement house is the enemy of modesty, the enemy of virtue, the
enemy of patriotism.

Home is where the virtues grow. I would like to see the law so that
every home, to a small amount, should be free not only from sale for
debts, but should be absolutely free from taxation, so that every man
could have a home. Then we will have a nation of patriots.

Now, suppose that every man were to have all the land he is able to buy.
The Vanderbilts could buy to-day all the land that is in farms in the
State of Ohio—every foot of it. Would it be for the best interest of
that State to have a few landlords and four or five millions of serfs?
So, I am in favor of a law finally to be carried out—not by robbery,
but by compensation, under the right, as the lawyers call it, of eminent
domain—so that no person would be allowed to own more land than he
uses. I am not blaming these rich men for being rich. I pity the most of
them. I had rather be poor, with a little sympathy in my heart, than
to be rich as all the mines of earth and not have that little flower of
pity in my breast. I do not see how a man can have hundreds of millions
and pass every day people that have not enough to eat. I do not
understand it. I might be just the same way myself. There is something
in money that dries up the sources of affection, and the probability is,
it is this: the moment a man gets money, so many men are trying to get
it away from him that in a little while he regards the whole human race
as his enemy, and he generally thinks that they could be rich, too,
if they would only attend to business as he has. Understand, I am not
blaming these people. There is a good deal of human nature in us all.
You remember the story of the man who made a speech at a Socialist
meeting, and closed it by saying, "Thank God, I am no monopolist," but
as he sank to his seat said, "But I wish to the Lord I was!" We must
remember that these rich men are naturally produced. Do not blame them.
Blame the system!

Certain privileges have been granted to the few by the Government,
ostensibly for the benefit of the many; and whenever that grant is not
for the good of the many, it should be taken from the few—not by force,
not by robbery, but by estimating fairly the value of that property, and
paying to them its value; because everything should be done according to
law and order.

What remedy, then, is there? First, the great weapon in this country is
the ballot. Each voter is a sovereign. There the poorest is the equal
of the richest. His vote will count just as many as though the hand
that cast it controlled millions. The poor are in the majority in this
country. If there is any law that oppresses them, it is their fault.
They have followed the fife and drum of some party. They have been
misled by others. No man should go an inch with a party—no matter if
that party is half the world and has in it the greatest intellects of
the earth—unless that party is going his way. No honest man should
ever turn round to join anything. If it overtakes him, good. If he has
to hurry up a little to get to it, good. But do not go with anything
that is not going your way; no matter whether they call it Republican,
or Democrat, or Progressive Democracy—do not go with it unless it goes
your way.

The ballot is the power. The law should settle many of these questions
between capital and labor. But I expect the greatest good to come from
civilization, from the growth of a sense of justice; for I tell you
to-night, a civilized man will never want anything for less than it is
worth—a civilized man, when he sells a thing, will never want more than
it is worth—a really and truly civilized man, would rather be cheated
than to cheat. And yet, in the United States, good as we are, nearly
everybody wants to get everything for a little less than it is worth,
and the man that sells it to him wants to get a little more than it is
worth? and this breeds rascality on both sides. That ought to be done
away with. There is one step toward it that we will take: we will
finally say that human flesh, human labor, shall not depend entirely on
"supply and demand." That is infinitely cruel. Every man should give to
another according to his ability to give—and enough that he may make
his living and lay something by for the winter of old age.

Go to England. Civilized country they call it. It is not. It never was.
I am afraid it never will be. Go to London, the greatest city of this
world, where there is the most wealth—the greatest glittering piles of
gold. And yet, one out of every six in that city dies in a hospital,
a workhouse or a prison. Is that the best that we are ever to know? Is
that the last word that civilization has to say? Look at the women in
this town sewing for a living, making cloaks for less than forty-five
cents, that sell for $45! Right here—here, amid all the palaces,
amid the thousands of millions of property—here! Is that all that
civilization can do? Must a poor woman support herself, or her child, or
her children, by that kind of labor, and with such pay—and do we call
ourselves civilized?

Did you ever read that wonderful poem about the sewing woman? Let me
tell you the last verse:

> "Winds that have sainted her, tell ye the story
> Of the young life by the needle that bled,
> Making a bridge over death's soundless waters
> Out of a swaying, and soul-cutting thread—
> Over it going, all the world knowing
> That thousands have trod it, foot-bleeding, before:
> God protect all of us! God pity all of us,
> Should she look back from the opposite shore!"

I cannot call this civilization. There must be something nearer a fairer
division in this world.

You can never get it by strikes. Never. The first strike that is a great
success will be the last, because the people who believe in law and
order will put the strikers down. The strike is no remedy. Boycotting is
no remedy. Brute force is no remedy. These questions have to be settled
by reason, by candor, by intelligence, by kindness; and nothing is
permanently settled in this world that has not for its corner-stone
justice, and is not protected by the profound conviction of the human
mind.

This is no country for Anarchy, no country for Communism, no country for
the Socialist. Why? Because the political power is equally divided. What
other reason? Speech is free. What other? The press is untrammeled. And
that is all that the right should ever ask—a free press, free speech,
and the protection of person. That is enough. That is all I ask. In a
country like Russia, where every mouth is a bastile and every tongue a
convict, there may be some excuse. Where the noblest and the best are
driven to Siberia, there may be a reason for the Nihilist. In a country
where no man is allowed to petition for redress, there is a reason,
but not here. This—say what you will against it—this is the best
Government ever founded by the human race! Say what you will of parties,
say what you will of dishonesty, the holiest flag that ever kissed the
air is ours!

Only a few years ago morally we were a low people—before we abolished
slavery—but now, when there is no chain except that of custom, when
every man has an opportunity, this is the grandest Government of
the earth. There is hardly a man in the United States to-day, of any
importance, whose voice anybody cares to hear, who was not nursed at the
loving breast of poverty. Look at the children of the rich. My God, what
a punishment for being rich! So, whatever happens, let every man say
that this Government, and this form of government, shall stand.

"But," say some, "these workingmen are dangerous." I deny it. We are
all in their power. They run all the cars. Our lives are in their hands
almost every day. They are working in all our homes. They do the labor
of this world. We are all at their mercy, and yet they do not commit
more crimes, according to number, than the rich. Remember that. I am not
afraid of them. Neither am I afraid of the monopolists, because, under
our institutions, when they become hurtful to the general good, the
people will stand it just to a certain point, and then comes the
end—not in anger, not in hate, but from a love of liberty and justice.

Now, we have in this country another class. We call them "criminals."
Let me take another step:

> "'Tis not enough to help the feeble up,
> But to support him after."

Recollect what I said in the first place—that every man is as he must
be. Every crime is a necessary product. The seeds were all sown,
the land thoroughly plowed, the crop well attended to, and carefully
harvested. Every crime is born of necessity. If you want less crime,
you must change the conditions. Poverty makes crime. Want, rags, crusts,
failure, misfortune—all these awake the wild beast in man, and finally
he takes, and takes contrary to law, and becomes a criminal. And what
do you do with him? You punish him. Why not punish a man for having the
consumption? The time will come when you will see that that is just
as logical. What do you do with the criminal? You send him to the
penitentiary. Is he made better? Worse. The first thing you do is to try
to trample out his manhood, by putting an indignity upon him. You mark
him. You put him in stripes. At night you put him in darkness. His
feeling for revenge grows. You make a wild beast of him, and he comes
out of that place branded in body and soul, and then you won't let him
reform if he wants to. You put on airs above him, because he has been in
the penitentiary. The next time you look with scorn upon a convict, let
me beg of you to do one thing. Maybe you are not as bad as I am, but do
one thing: think of all the crimes you have wanted to commit; think of
all the crimes you would have committed if you had had the opportunity;
think of all the temptations to which you would have yielded had nobody
been looking; and then put your hand on your heart and say whether you
can justly look with contempt even upon a convict.

None but the noblest should inflict punishment, even on the basest.

Society has no right to punish any man in revenge—no right to punish
any man except for two objects—one, the prevention of crime; the other,
the reformation of the criminal. How can you reform him? Kindness is the
sunshine in which virtue grows. Let it be understood by these men that
there is no revenge; let it be understood, too, that they can reform.
Only a little while ago I read of a case of a young man who had been in
a penitentiary and came out. He kept it a secret, and went to work for
a farmer. He got in love with the daughter, and wanted to marry her. He
had nobility enough to tell the truth—he told the father that he had
been in the penitentiary. The father said, "You cannot have my daughter,
because it would stain her life." The young man said, "Yes, it would
stain her life, therefore I will not marry her." He went out. In a few
moments afterward they heard the report of a pistol, and he was dead.
He left just a little note saying: "I am through. There is no need of
my living longer, when I stain with my life the one I love." And yet we
call our society civilized. There is a mistake.

I want that question thought of. I want all my fellow-citizens to think
of it. I want you to do what you can to do away with all cruelty. There
are, of course, some cases that have to be treated with what might be
called almost cruelty; but if there is the smallest seed of good in any
human heart, let kindness fall upon it until it grows, and in that way
I know, and so do you, that the world will get better and better day by
day.

Let us, above all things, get acquainted with each other. Let every man
teach his son, teach his daughter, that labor is honorable. Let us say
to our children: It is your business to see that you never become a
burden on others. Your first duty is to take care of yourselves, and if
there is a surplus, with that surplus help your fellow-man. You owe it
to yourself above all things not to be a burden upon others. Teach
your son that it is his duty not only, but his highest joy, to become a
home-builder, a home-owner. Teach your children that the fireside is
the happiest place in this world. Teach them that whoever is an idler,
whoever lives upon the labor of others, whether he is a pirate or a
king, is a dishonorable person. Teach them that no civilized man wants
anything for nothing, or for less than it is worth; that he wants to go
through this world paying his way as he goes, and if he gets a little
ahead, an extra joy, it should be divided with another, if that other is
doing something for himself. Help others help themselves.

And let us teach that great wealth is not great happiness; that money
will not purchase love; it never did and never can purchase respect; it
never did and never can purchase the highest happiness. I believe with
Robert Burns:

> "If happiness have not her seat
> And center in the breast,
> We may be wise, or rich, or great,
> But never can be blest."

We must teach this, and let our fellow-citizens know that we give them
every right that we claim for ourselves. We must discuss these questions
and have charity—and we will have it whenever we have the philosophy
that all men are as they must be, and that intelligence and kindness are
the only levers capable of raising mankind.

Then there is another thing. Let each one be true to himself. No matter
what his class, no matter what his circumstances, let him tell his
thought. Don't let his class bribe him. Don't let him talk like a
banker because he is a banker. Don't let him talk like the rest of the
merchants because he is a merchant. Let him be true to the human race
instead of to his little business—be true to the ideal in his heart and
brain, instead of to his little present and apparent selfishness—let
him have a larger and more intelligent selfishness—a generous
philosophy, that includes not only others but himself.

So far as I am concerned, I have made up my mind that no organization,
secular or religious, shall be my master. I have made up my mind that no
necessity of bread, or roof, or raiment shall ever put a padlock on my
lips. I have made up my mind that no hope of preferment, no honor, no
wealth, shall ever make me for one moment swerve from what I really
believe, no matter whether it is to my immediate interest, as one would
think, or not. And while I live, I am going to do what little I can
to help my fellow-men who have not been as fortunate as I have been. I
shall talk on their side, I shall vote on their side, and do what little
I can to convince men that happiness does not lie in the direction
of great wealth, but in the direction of achievement for the good of
themselves and for the good of their fellow-men. I shall do what little
I can to hasten the day when this earth shall be covered with homes, and
when by countless firesides shall sit the happy and the loving families
of the world.
---
# A Thanksgiving Sermon
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1897_
MANY ages ago our fathers were living in dens and caves. Their bodies,
their low foreheads, were covered with hair. They were eating berries,
roots, bark and vermin. They were fond of snakes and raw fish. They
discovered fire and, probably by accident, learned how to cause it by
friction. They found how to warm themselves—to fight the frost and
storm. They fashioned clubs and rude weapons of stone with which they
killed the larger beasts and now and then each other. Slowly, painfully,
almost imperceptibly they advanced. They crawled and stumbled, staggered
and struggled toward the light. To them the world was unknown. On every
hand was the mysterious, the sinister, the hurtful. The forests were
filled with monsters, and the darkness was crowded with ghosts, devils,
and fiendish gods.

These poor wretches were the slaves of fear, the sport of dreams.

Now and then, one rose a little above his fellows—used his senses—the
little reason that he had—found something new—some better way. Then
the people killed him and afterward knelt with reverence at his grave.
Then another thinker gave his thought—was murdered—another tomb became
sacred—another step was taken in advance. And so through countless
years of ignorance and cruelty—of thought and crime—of murder and
worship, of heroism, suffering, and self-denial, the race has reached
the heights where now we stand.

Looking back over the long and devious roads that lie between the
barbarism of the past and the civilization of to-day, thinking of the
centuries that rolled like waves between these distant shores, we
can form some idea of what our fathers suffered—of the mistakes they
made—some idea of their ignorance, their stupidity—and some idea of
their sense, their goodness, their heroism.

It is a long road from the savage to the scientist—from a den to
a mansion—from leaves to clothes—from a flickering rush to the
arc-light—from a hammer of stone to the modern mill—a long distance
from the pipe of Pan to the violin—to the orchestra—from a floating
log to the steamship—from a sickle to a reaper—from a flail to a
threshing machine—-from a crooked stick to a plow—from a spinning
wheel to a spinning jenny—from a hand loom to a Jacquard—a Jacquard
that weaves fair forms and wondrous flowers beyond Arachne's utmost
dream—from a few hieroglyphics on the skins of beasts—on bricks
of clay—to a printing press, to a library—a long distance from the
messenger, traveling on foot, to the electric spark—from knives
and tools of stone to those of steel—a long distance from sand to
telescopes—from echo to the phonograph, the phonograph that buries in
indented lines and dots the sounds of living speech, and then gives
back to life the very words and voices of the dead—a long way from the
trumpet to the telephone, the telephone that transports speech as swift
as thought and drops the words, perfect as minted coins, in listening
ears—a long way from a fallen tree to the suspension bridge—from
the dried sinews of beasts to the cables of steel—from the oar to
the propeller—from the sling to the rifle—from the catapult to the
cannon—a long distance from revenge to law—from the club to the
Legislature—from slavery to freedom—from appearance to fact—from fear
to reason.

And yet the distance has been traveled by the human race. Countless
obstructions have been overcome—numberless enemies have been
conquered—thousands and thousands of victories have been won for the
right, and millions have lived, labored and died for their fellow-men.

For the blessings we enjoy—for the happiness that is ours, we ought to
be grateful. Our hearts should blossom with thankfulness.

Whom, what, should we thank?

Let us be honest—generous.

Should we thank the church?

Christianity has controlled Christendom for at least fifteen hundred
years.

During these centuries what have the orthodox churches accomplished, for
the good of man?

In this life man needs raiment and roof, food and fuel. He must be
protected from heat and cold, from snow and storm. He must take thought
for the morrow. In the summer of youth he must prepare for the winter of
age. He must know something of the causes of disease—of the conditions
of health. If possible he must conquer pain, increase happiness and
lengthen life. He must supply the wants of the body—and feed the hunger
of the mind.

What good has the church done?

Has it taught men to cultivate the earth? to build homes? to weave cloth
to cure or prevent disease? to build ships, to navigate the seas? to
conquer pain, or to lengthen life?

Did Christ or any of his apostles add to the sum of useful knowledge?
Did they say one word in favor of any science, of any art? Did they
teach their fellow-men how to make a living, how to overcome the
obstructions of nature, how to prevent sickness—how to protect
themselves from pain, from famine, from misery and rags?

Did they explain any of the phenomena of nature? any of the facts
that affect the life of man? Did they say anything in favor of
investigation—of study—of thought? Did they teach the gospel of
self-reliance, of industry—of honest effort? Can any farmer, mechanic,
or scientist find in the New Testament one useful fact? Is there
anything in the sacred book that can help the geologist, the astronomer,
the biologist, the physician, the inventor—the manufacturer of any
useful thing?

What has the church done?

From the very first it taught the vanity—the worthlessness of all
earthly things. It taught the wickedness of wealth, the blessedness of
poverty. It taught that the business of this life was to prepare
for death. It insisted that a certain belief was necessary to insure
salvation, and that all who failed to believe, or doubted in the least
would suffer eternal pain. According to the church the natural desires,
ambitions and passions of man were all wicked and depraved.

To love God, to practice self-denial, to overcome desire, to despise
wealth, to hate prosperity, to desert wife and children, to live on
roots and berries, to repeat prayers, to wear rags, to live in filth,
and drive love from the heart—these, for centuries, were the highest
and most perfect virtues, and those who practiced them were saints.

The saints did not assist their fellow-men. Their fellow-men
assisted them. They did not labor for others. They were
beggars—parasites—vermin. They were insane. They followed the
teachings of Christ. They took no thought for the morrow. They mutilated
their bodies—scarred their flesh and destroyed their minds for the
sake of happiness in another world. During the journey of life they
kept their eyes on the grave. They gathered no flowers by the way—they
walked in the dust of the road—avoided the green fields. Their moans
made all the music they wished to hear. The babble of brooks, the songs
of birds, the laughter of children, were nothing to them. Pleasure was
the child of sin, and the happy needed a change of heart. They
were sinless and miserable—but they had faith—they were pious and
wretched—but they were limping towards heaven.

What has the church done?

It has denounced pride and luxury—all things that adorn and enrich
life—all the pleasures of sense—the ecstasies of love—the happiness
of the hearth—the clasp and kiss of wife and child.

And the church has done this because it regarded this life as a period
of probation—a time to prepare—to become spiritual—to overcome
the natural—to fix the affections on the invisible—to become
passionless—to subdue the flesh—to congeal the blood—to fold the
wings of fancy—to become dead to the world—so that when you appeared
before God you would be the exact opposite of what he made you.

What has the church done?

It pretended to have a revelation from God. It knew the road to eternal
joy, the way to death. It preached salvation by faith, and declared that
only orthodox believers could become angels, and all doubters would be
damned. It knew this, and so knowing it became the enemy of discussion,
of investigation, of thought. Why investigate, why discuss, why think
when you know? It sought to enslave the world. It appealed to force.
It unsheathed the sword, lighted the fagot, forged the chain, built
the dungeon, erected the scaffold, invented and used the instruments
of torture. It branded, maimed and mutilated—it imprisoned and
tortured—it blinded and burned, hanged and crucified, and utterly
destroyed millions and millions of human beings. It touched every nerve
of the body—produced every pain that can be felt, every agony that can
be endured.

And it did all this to preserve what it called the truth—to destroy
heresy and doubt, and to save, if possible, the souls of a few. It was
honest. It was necessary to prevent the development of the brain—to
arrest all progress—and to do this the church used all its power. If
men were allowed to think and express their thoughts they would fill
their minds and the minds of others with doubts. If they were allowed to
think they would investigate, and then they might contradict the creed,
dispute the words of priests and defy the church. The priests cried to
the people: "It is for us to talk. It is for you to hear. Our duty is to
preach and yours is to believe."

What has the church done?

There have been thousands of councils and synods—thousands and
thousands of occasions when the clergy have met and discussed and
quarreled—when pope and cardinals, bishops and priests have added to
or explained their creeds—and denied the rights of others. What useful
truth did they discover? What fact did they find? Did they add to
the intellectual wealth of the world? Did they increase the sum of
knowledge?

I admit that they looked over a number of Jewish books and picked out
the ones that Jehovah wrote.

Did they find the medicinal virtue that dwells in any weed or flower?

I know that they decided that the Holy Ghost was not created—not
begotten—but that he proceeded.

Did they teach us the mysteries of the metals and how to purify the ores
in furnace flames?

They shouted: "Great is the mystery of Godliness."

Did they show us how to improve our condition in this world?

They informed us that Christ had two natures and two wills.

Did they give us even a hint as to any useful thing?

They gave us predestination, foreordination and just enough "free will"
to go to hell.

Did they discover or show us how to produce anything for food?

Did they produce anything to satisfy the hunger of man?

Instead of this they discovered that a peasant girl who lived in
Palestine, was the mother of God. This they proved by a book, and to
make the book evidence they called it inspired.

Did they tell us anything about chemistry—how to combine and separate
substances—how to subtract the hurtful—how to produce the useful?

They told us that bread, by making certain motions and mumbling certain
prayers, could be changed into the flesh of God, and that in the same
way wine could be changed to his blood. And this, notwithstanding the
fact that God never had any flesh or blood, but has always been a spirit
without body, parts or passions.

What has the church done?

It gave us the history of the world—of the stars, and the beginning of
all things. It taught the geology of Moses—the astronomy of Joshua
and Elijah. It taught the fall of man and the atonement—proved that a
Jewish peasant was God—established the existence of hell, purgatory and
heaven.

It pretended to have a revelation from God—the Scriptures, in which
could be found all knowledge—everything that man could need in the
journey of life. Nothing outside of the inspired book—except legends
and prayers—could be of any value. Books that contradicted the Bible
were hurtful, those that agreed with it—useless. Nothing was of
importance except faith, credulity—belief. The church said: "Let
philosophy alone, count your beads. Ask no questions, fall upon your
knees. Shut your eyes, and save your souls."

What has the church done?

For centuries it kept the earth flat, for centuries it made all the
hosts of heaven travel around this world—for centuries it clung to
"sacred" knowledge, and fought facts with the ferocity of a fiend. For
centuries it hated the useful. It was the deadly enemy of medicine.
Disease was produced by devils and could be cured only by priests,
decaying bones, and holy water. Doctors were the rivals of priests. They
diverted the revenues.

The church opposed the study of anatomy—was against the dissection of
the dead. Man had no right to cure disease—God would do that through
his priests.

Man had no right to prevent disease—diseases were sent by God as
judgments.

The church opposed inoculation—vaccination, and the use of chloroform
and ether. It was declared to be a sin, a crime for a woman to lessen
the pangs of motherhood. The church declared that woman must bear the
curse of the merciful Jehovah.

What has the church done?

It taught that the insane were inhabited by devils. Insanity was not a
disease. It was produced by demons. It could be cured by prayers—gifts,
amulets and charms. All these had to be paid for. This enriched the
church. These ideas were honestly entertained by Protestants as well as
Catholics—by Luther, Calvin, Knox and Wesley.

What has the church done?

It taught the awful doctrine of witchcraft. It filled the darkness with
demons—the air with devils, and the world with grief and shame. It
charged men, women and children with being in league with Satan to
injure their fellows. Old women were convicted for causing storms at
sea—for preventing rain and for bringing frost. Girls were convicted
for having changed themselves into wolves, snakes and toads. These
witches were burned for causing diseases—for selling their souls and
for souring beer. All these things were done with the aid of the Devil
who sought to persecute the faithful, the lambs of God. Satan sought in
many ways to scandalize the church. He sometimes assumed the appearance
of a priest and committed crimes.

On one occasion he personated a bishop—a bishop renowned for his
sanctity—allowed himself to be discovered and dragged from the room of
a beautiful widow. So perfectly did he counterfeit the features and form
of the bishop, that many who were well acquainted with the prelate,
were actually deceived, and the widow herself thought her lover was the
bishop. All this was done by the Devil to bring reproach upon holy men.

Hundreds of like instances could be given, as the war waged between
demons and priests was long and bitter.

These popes and priests—these clergymen, were not hypocrites. They
believed in the New Testament—in the teachings of Christ, and they knew
that the principal business of the Savior was casting out devils.

What has the church done?

It made the wife a slave—the property of the husband, and it placed
the husband as much above the wife as Christ was above the husband. It
taught that a nun is purer, nobler than a mother. It induced millions of
pure and conscientious girls to renounce the joys of life—to take the
veil woven of night and death, to wear the habiliments of the dead—made
them believe that they were the brides of Christ.

For my part, I would as soon be a widow as the bride of a man who had
been dead for eighteen hundred years.

The poor deluded girls imagined that they, in some mysterious way, were
in spiritual wedlock united with God. All worldly desires were
driven from their hearts. They filled their lives with fastings—with
prayers—with self-accusings. They forgot fathers and mothers and gave
their love to the invisible. They were the victims, the convicts of
superstition—prisoners in the penitentiaries of God. Conscientious,
good, sincere—insane.

These loving women gave their hearts to a phantom, their lives to a
dream.

A few years ago, at a revival, a fine buxom girl was "converted," "born
again." In her excitement she cried, "I'm married to Christ—I'm married
to Christ." In her delirium she threw her arms around the neck of an old
man and again cried, "I'm married to Christ." The old man, who happened
to be a kind of skeptic, gently removed her hands, saying at the same
time: "I don't know much about your husband, but I have great respect
for your father-in-law."

Priests, theologians, have taken advantage of women—of their
gentleness—their love of approbation. They have lived upon their hopes
and fears. Like vampires, they have sucked their blood. They have made
them responsible for the sins of the world. They have taught them the
slave virtues—meekness, humility—implicit obedience. They have
fed their minds with mistakes, mysteries and absurdities. They have
endeavored to weaken and shrivel their brains, until, to them, there
would be no possible connection between evidence and belief—between
fact and faith.

What has the church done?

It was the enemy of commerce—of business. It denounced the taking
of interest for money. Without taking interest for money, progress is
impossible. The steamships, the great factories, the railroads have all
been built with borrowed money, money on which interest was promised and
for the most part paid.

The church was opposed to fire insurance—to life insurance. It
denounced insurance in any form as gambling, as immoral. To insure your
life was to declare that you had no confidence in God—that you relied
on a corporation instead of divine providence. It was declared that God
would provide for your widow and your fatherless children.

To insure your life was to insult heaven.

What has the church done?

The church regarded epidemics as the messengers of the good God. The
"Black Death" was sent by the eternal Father, whose mercy spared some
and whose justice murdered the rest. To stop the scourge, they tried to
soften the heart of God by kneelings and prostrations—by processions
and prayers—by burning incense and by making vows. They did not try to
remove the cause. The cause was God. They did not ask for pure water,
but for holy water. Faith and filth lived or rather died together.
Religion and rags, piety and pollution kept company. Sanctity kept its
odor.

What has the church done?

It was the enemy of art and literature. It destroyed the marbles of
Greece and Rome. Beauty was Pagan. It destroyed so far as it could the
best literature of the world. It feared thought—but it preserved the
Scriptures, the ravings of insane saints, the falsehoods of the Fathers,
the bulls of popes, the accounts of miracles performed by shrines, by
dried blood and faded hair, by pieces of bones and wood, by rusty nails
and thorns, by handkerchiefs and rags, by water and beads and by a
finger of the Holy Ghost.

This was the literature of the church.

I admit that the priests were honest—as honest as ignorant. More could
not be said.

What has the church done?

Christianity claims, with great pride, that it established asylums for
the insane. Yes, it did. But the insane were treated as criminals. They
were regarded as the homes—as the tenement-houses of devils. They were
persecuted and tormented. They were chained and flogged, starved and
killed. The asylums were prisons, dungeons, the insane were victims and
the keepers were ignorant, conscientious, pious fiends. They were not
trying to help men, they were fighting devils—destroying demons. They
were not actuated by love—but by hate and fear.

What has the church done?

It founded schools where facts were denied, where science was denounced
and philosophy despised. Schools, where priests were made—where they
were taught to hate reason and to look upon doubts as the suggestions of
the Devil. Schools where the heart was hardened and the brain shriveled.
Schools in which lies were sacred and truths profane. Schools for the
more general diffusion of ignorance—schools to prevent thought—to
suppress knowledge. Schools for the purpose of enslaving the world.
Schools in which teachers knew less than pupils.

What has the church done?

It has used its influence with God to get rain and sunshine—to stop
flood and storm—to kill insects, rats, snakes and wild beasts—to stay
pestilence and famine—to delay frost and snow—to lengthen the lives of
kings and queens—to protect presidents—to give legislators wisdom—to
increase collections and subscriptions. In marriages it has made God the
party of the third part. It has sprinkled water on babes when they were
named. It has put oil on the dying and repeated prayers for the dead.
It has tried to protect the people from the malice of the Devil—from
ghosts and spooks, from witches and wizards and all the leering fiends
that seek to poison the souls of men. It has endeavored to protect the
sheep of God from the wolves of science—from the wild beasts of doubt
and investigation. It has tried to wean the lambs of the Lord from the
delights, the pleasures, the joys, of life. According to the philosophy
of the church, the virtuous weep and suffer, the vicious laugh and
thrive, the good carry a cross, and the wicked fly. But in the next life
this will be reversed. Then the good will be happy, and the bad will be
damned.

The church filled the world with faith and crime.

It polluted the fountains of joy. It gave us an ignorant, jealous,
revengeful and cruel God—sometimes merciful—sometimes ferocious. Now
just, now infamous—sometimes wise—generally foolish. It gave us
a Devil, cunning, malicious, almost the equal of God, not quite as
strong—but quicker—not as profound—but sharper.

It gave us angels with wings—cherubim and seraphim and a heaven with
harps and hallelujahs—with streets of gold and gates of pearl.

It gave us fiends and imps with wings like bats. It gave us ghosts
and goblins, spooks and sprites, and little devils that swarmed in the
bodies of men, and it gave us hell where the souls of men will roast in
eternal flames. Shall we thank the church? Shall we thank the orthodox
churches?

Shall we thank them for the hell they made here? Shall we thank them for
the hell of the future?

II.

WE must remember that the church was founded and has been protected by
God, that all the popes, and cardinals, all the bishops, priests and
monks, all the ministers and exhorters were selected and set apart—all
sanctified and enlightened by the infinite God—that the Holy Scriptures
were inspired by the same Being, and that all the orthodox creeds were
really made by him.

We know what these men—filled with the Holy Ghost—have done. We know
the part they have played. We know the souls they have saved and the
bodies they have destroyed. We know the consolation they have given and
the pain they have inflicted—the lies they have defended—the truths
they have denied. We know that they convinced millions that celibacy is
the greatest of all virtues—that women are perpetual temptations,
the enemies of true holiness—that monks and priests are nobler than
fathers, that nuns are purer than mothers. We know that they taught the
blessed absurdity of the Trinity—that God once worked at the trade
of a carpenter in Palestine. We know that they divided knowledge into
sacred and profane—taught that Revelation was sacred—that Reason was
blasphemous—that faith was holy and facts false. That the sin of Adam
and Eve brought disease and pain, vice and death into the world. We know
that they have taught the dogma of special providence—that all
events are ordered and regulated by God—that he crowns and uncrowns
kings—preserves and destroys—guards and kills—that it is the duty of
man to submit to the divine will, and that no matter how much evil
there may be—no matter how much suffering—how much pain and death, man
should pour out-his heart in thankfulness that it is no worse.

Let me be understood. I do not say and I do not think that the church
was dishonest, that the clergy were insincere. I admit that all
religions, all creeds, all priests, have been naturally produced. I
admit, and cheerfully admit, that the believers in the supernatural have
done some good—not because they believed in gods and devils—but in
spite of it.

I know that thousands and thousands of clergymen are honest,
self-denying and humane—that they are doing what they believe to be
their duty—doing what they can to induce men and women to live pure and
noble lives. This is not the result of their creeds—it is because they
are human.

What I say is that every honest teacher of the supernatural has been and
is an unconscious enemy of the human race.

What is the philosophy of the church—of those who believe in the
supernatural?

Back of all that is—back of all events—Christians put an infinite
Juggler who with a wish creates, preserves, destroys. The world is his
stage and mankind his puppets. He fills them with wants and desires,
with appetites and ambitions—with hopes and fears—with love and hate.
He touches the springs. He pulls the strings—baits the hooks, sets the
traps and digs the pits.

The play is a continuous performance.

He watches these puppets as they struggle and fail. Sees them outwit
each other and themselves—leads them to every crime, watches the
births and deaths—hears lullabies at cradles and the fall of
clods on coffins. He has no pity. He enjoys the tragedies—the
desperation—the despair—the suicides. He smiles at the murders, the
assassinations,—the seductions, the desertions—the abandoned babes of
shame. He sees the weak enslaved—mothers robbed of babes—the innocent
in dungeons—on scaffolds. He sees crime crowned and hypocrisy robed.

He withholds the rain and his puppets starve. He opens the earth and
they are devoured. He sends the flood and they are drowned. He empties
the volcano and they perish in fire. He sends the cyclone and they are
torn and mangled. With quick lightnings they are dashed to death.
He fills the air and water with the invisible enemies of life—the
messengers of pain, and watches the puppets as they breathe and
drink. He creates cancers to feed upon their flesh—their quivering
nerves—serpents, to fill their veins with venom,—beasts to crunch
their bones—to lap their blood.

Some of the poor puppets he makes insane—makes them struggle in the
darkness with imagined monsters with glaring eyes and dripping jaws, and
some are made without the flame of thought, to drool and drivel through
the darkened days. He sees all the agony, the injustice, the rags
of poverty, the withered hands of want—the motherless babes—the
deformed—the maimed—the leprous, knows the tears that flow—hears
the sobs and moans—sees the gleam of swords, hears the roar of the
guns—sees the fields reddened with blood—the white faces of the dead.
But he mocks when their fear cometh, and at their calamity he fills the
heavens with laughter. And the poor puppets who are left alive, fall on
their knees and thank the Juggler with all their hearts.

But after all, the gods have not supported the children of men, men have
supported the gods. They have built the temples. They have sacrificed
their babes, their lambs, their cattle. They have drenched the altars
with blood. They have given their silver, their gold, their gems. They
have fed and clothed their priests—but the gods have given nothing in
return. Hidden in the shadows they have answered no prayer—heard
no cry—given no sign—extended no hand—uttered no word. Unseen and
unheard they have sat on their thrones, deaf and dumb—paralyzed and
blind. In vain the steeples rise—in vain the prayers ascend.

And think what man has done to please the gods. He has renounced his
reason—extinguished the torch of his brain, he has believed without
evidence and against evidence. He has slandered and maligned himself.
He has fasted and starved. He has mutilated his body—scarred his
flesh—given his blood to vermin. He has persecuted, imprisoned and
destroyed his fellows. He has deserted wife and child. He has lived
alone in the desert. He has swung-censers and burned incense, counted
beads and sprinkled himself with holy water—shut his eyes, clasped his
hands—fallen upon his knees and groveled in the dust—but the gods have
been silent—silent as stones.

Have these cringings and crawlings—these cruelties and
absurdities—this faith and foolishness pleased the gods?

We do not know.

Has any disaster been averted—any blessing obtained? We do not know.

Shall we thank these gods?

Shall we thank the church's God?

Who and what is he?

They say that he is the creator and preserver of all that has been—of
all that is—of all that will be—that he is the father of angels and
devils, the architect of heaven and hell—that he made the earth—a
man and woman—that he made the serpent who tempted them, made his
own rival—gave victory to his enemy—that he repented of what he had
done—that he sent a flood and destroyed all of the children of men with
the exception of eight persons—that he tried to civilize the survivors
and their children—tried to do this with earthquakes and fiery serpents
—with pestilence and famine. But he failed. He intended to fail. Then
he was born into the world, preached for three years, and allowed some
savages to kill him. Then he rose from the dead and went back to heaven.

He knew that he would fail, knew that he would be killed. In fact he
arranged everything himself and brought everything to pass just as he
had predestined it an eternity before the world was. All who believe
these things will be saved and they who doubt or deny will be lost.

Has this God good sense?

Not always. He creates his own enemies and plots against himself.
Nothing lives, except in accordance with his will, and yet the devils do
not die.

What is the matter with this God? Well, sometimes he is
foolish—sometimes he is cruel and sometimes he is insane.

Does this God exist? Is there any intelligence back of Nature? Is there
any being anywhere among the stars who pities the suffering children of
men?

We do not know.

Shall we thank Nature?

Does Nature care for us more than for leaves, or grass, or flies?

Does Nature know that we exist? We do not know.

But we do know that Nature is going to murder us all.

Why should we thank Nature? If we thank God or Nature for the sunshine
and rain, for health and happiness, whom shall we curse for famine and
pestilence, for earthquake and cyclone—for disease and death?

## Iii

IF we cannot thank the orthodox churches—if we cannot thank the
unknown, the incomprehensible, the supernatural—if we cannot thank
Nature—if we can not kneel to a Guess, or prostrate ourselves before a
Perhaps—whom shall we thank?

Let us see what the worldly have done—what has been accomplished by
those not "called," not "set apart," not "inspired," not filled with the
Holy Ghost—by those who were neglected by all the Gods.

Passing over the Hindus, the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans, their
poets, philosophers and metaphysicians—we will come to modern times.

In the 10th century after Christ the Saracens—governors of a vast
empire—"established colleges in Mongolia, Tartary, Persia, Mesopotamia,
Syria, Egypt, North Africa, Morocco, Fez and in Spain." The region owned
by the Saracens was greater than the Roman Empire. They had not only
colleges—but observatories. The sciences were taught. They introduced
the ten numerals—taught algebra and trigonometry—understood cubic
equations—knew the art of surveying—they made catalogues and maps
of the stars—gave the great stars the names they still bear—they
ascertained the size of the earth—determined the obliquity of the
ecliptic and fixed the length of the year. They calculated eclipses,
equinoxes, solstices, conjunctions of planets and occultations of stars.
They constructed astronomical instruments. They made clocks of
various kinds and were the inventors of the pendulum. They originated
chemistry—discovered sulphuric and nitric acid and alcohol.

"They were the first to publish pharmacopoeias and dispensatories.

"In mechanics they determined the laws of falling bodies. They
understood the mechanical powers, and the attraction of gravitation.

"They taught hydrostatics and determined the specific gravities of
bodies.

"In optics they discovered that a ray of light did not proceed from the
eye to an object—but from the object to the eye."

"They were manufacturers of cotton, leather, paper and steel.

"They gave us the game of chess.

"They produced romances and novels and essays on many subjects.

"In their schools they taught the modern doctrines of evolution and
development." They anticipated Darwin and Spencer.

These people were not Christians. They were the followers, for the most
part, of an impostor—of a pretended prophet of a false God. And yet
while the true Christians, the men selected by the true God and filled
with the Holy Ghost were tearing out the tongues of heretics, these
wretches were irreverently tracing the orbits of the stars. While the
true believers were flaying philosophers and extinguishing the eyes of
thinkers, these godless followers of Mohammed were founding colleges,
collecting manuscripts, investigating the facts of nature and giving
their attention to science. Afterward the followers of Mohammed became
the enemies of science and hated facts as intensely and honestly as
Christians. Whoever has a revelation from God will defend it with all
his strength—will abhor reason and deny facts.

But it is well to know that we are indebted to the Moors—to the
followers of Mohammed—for having laid the foundations of modern
science. It is well to know that we are not indebted to the church, to
Christianity, for any useful fact.

It is well to know that the seeds of thought were sown in our minds by
the Greeks and Romans, and that our literature came from those seeds.
The great literature of our language is Pagan in its thought—Pagan
in its beauty—Pagan in its perfection. It is well to know that when
Mohammedans were the friends of science, Christians were its enemies.
How consoling it is to think that the friends of science—the men who
educated their fellows—are now in hell, and that the men who persecuted
and killed philosophers are now in heaven! Such is the justice of God.

The Christians of the Middle Ages, the men who were filled with the Holy
Ghost, knew all about the worlds beyond the grave, but nothing about
the world in which they lived. They thought the earth was flat—a little
dishing if anything—that it was about five thousand years old, and that
the stars were little sparkles made to beautify the night.

The fact is that Christianity was in existence for fifteen hundred years
before there was an astronomer in Christendom. No follower of Christ
knew the shape of the earth.

The earth was demonstrated to be a globe, not by a pope or cardinal—not
by a collection of clergymen—not by the "called" or the "set apart,"
but by a sailor. Magellan left Seville, Spain, August 10th, 1519, sailed
west and kept sailing west, and the ship reached Seville, the port it
left, on Sept. 7th, 1522.

The world had been circumnavigated. The earth was known to be round.
There had been a dispute between the Scriptures and a sailor. The fact
took the sailor's side.

In 1543 Copernicus published his book, "On the Revolutions of the
Heavenly Bodies."

He had some idea of the vastness of the stars—of the astronomical
spaces—of the insignificance of this world.

Toward the close of the sixteenth century, Bruno, one of the greatest
men this world has produced, gave his thoughts to his fellow-men. He
taught the plurality of worlds. He was a Pantheist, an Atheist, an
honest man. He called the Catholic Church the "Triumphant Beast." He
was imprisoned for many years, tried, convicted, and on the 16th day of
February, 1600, burned in Rome by men filled with the Holy Ghost,
burned on the spot where now his monument rises. Bruno, the noblest, the
greatest of all the martyrs. The only one who suffered death for what he
believed to be the truth. The only martyr who had no heaven to gain, no
hell to shun, no God to please. He was nobler than inspired men,
grander than prophets, greater and purer than apostles. Above all the
theologians of the world, above the makers of creeds, above the founders
of religions rose this serene, unselfish and intrepid man.

Yet Christians, followers of Christ, murdered this incomparable man.
These Christians were true to their creed. They believed that faith
would be rewarded with eternal joy, and doubt punished with eternal
pain. They were logical. They were pious and pitiless—devout and
devilish—meek and malicious—religious and revengeful—Christ-like and
cruel—loving with their mouths and hating with their hearts. And yet,
honest victims of ignorance and fear.

What have the wordly done?

In 1608, Lippersheim, a Hollander, so arranged lenses that objects were
exaggerated.

He invented the telescope.

He gave countless worlds to our eyes, and made us citizens of the
Universe.

In 1610, on the night of January 7th, Galileo demonstrated the truth of
the Copernican system, and in 1632, published his work on "The System of
the World."

What did the church do?

Galileo was arrested, imprisoned, forced to fall upon his knees, put his
hand on the Bible, and recant. For ten years he was kept in prison—for
ten years until released by the pity of death. Then the church—men
filled with the Holy Ghost—denied his body burial in consecrated
ground. It was feared that his dust might corrupt the bodies of those
who had persecuted him.

In 1609, Kepler published his book "Motions of the Planet Mars."
He, too, knew of the attraction of gravitation and that it acted in
proportion to mass and distance. Kepler announced his Three Laws. He
found and mathematically expressed the relation of distance, mass, and
motion. Nothing greater has been accomplished by the human mind.

Astronomy became a science and Christianity a superstition.

Then came Newton, Herscheland Laplace. The astronomy of Joshua and
Elijah faded from the minds of intelligent men, and Jehovah became an
ignorant tribal god.

Men began to see that the operations of Nature were not subject to
interference. That eclipses were not caused by the wrath of God—that
comets had nothing to do with the destruction of empires or the death
of kings, that the stars wheeled in their orbits without regard to the
actions of men. In the sacred East the dawn appeared.

What have the wordly done?

A few years ago a few men became wicked enough to use their senses. They
began to look and listen. They began to really see and then they began
to reason. They forgot heaven and hell long enough to take some interest
in this world. They began to examine soils and rocks. They noticed what
had been done by rivers and seas. They found out something about the
crust of the earth. They found that most of the rocks had been deposited
and stratified in the water—rocks 70,000 feet in thickness. They found
that the coal was once vegetable matter. They made the best calculations
they could of the time required to make the coal, and concluded that it
must have taken at least six or seven millions of years. They examined
the chalk cliffs, found that they were composed of the microscopic
shells of minute organisms, that is to say, the dust of these shells.
This dust settled over areas as large as Europe and in some places the
chalk is a mile in depth. This must have required many millions of
years.

Lyell, the highest authority on the subject, says that it must have
required, to cause the changes that we know, at least two hundred
million years. Think of these vast deposits caused by the slow falling
of infinitesimal atoms of impalpable dust through the silent depths of
ancient seas! Think of the microscopical forms of life, constructing
their minute houses of lime, giving life to others, leaving their
mansions beneath the waves, and so through countless generations
building the foundations of continents and islands.

Go back of all life that we now know—back of all the flying lizards,
the armored monsters, the hissing serpents, the winged and fanged
horrors—back to the Laurentian rocks—to the eozoon, the first of
living things that we have found—back of all mountains, seas and
rivers—back to the first incrustation of the molten world—back of wave
of fire and robe of flame—back to the time when all the substance of
the earth blazed in the glowing sun with all the stars that wheel about
the central fire.

Think of the days and nights that lie between!—think of the centuries,
the withered leaves of time, that strew the desert of the past!

Nature does not hurry. Time cannot be wasted—cannot be lost. The
future remains eternal and all the past is as though it had not been—as
though it were to be. The infinite knows neither loss nor gain.

We know something of the history of the world—something of the human
race; and we know that man has lived and struggled through want and war,
through pestilence and famine, through ignorance and crime, through fear
and hope, on the old earth for millions and millions of years.

At last we know that infallible popes, and countless priests and
clergymen, who had been "called," filled with the Holy Ghost, and
presidents of colleges, kings, emperors and executives of nations had
mistaken the blundering guesses of ignorant savages for the wisdom of an
infinite God.

At last we know that the story of creation, of the beginning of things,
as told in the "sacred book," is not only untrue, but utterly absurd and
idiotic. Now we know that the inspired writers did not know and that the
God who inspired them did not know.

We are no longer misled by myths and legends. We rely upon facts. The
world is our witness and the stars testify for us.

What have the worldly done?

They have investigated the religions of the world—have read the sacred
books, the prophecies, the commandments, the rules of conduct. They have
studied the symbols, the ceremonies, the prayers and sacrifices. And
they have shown that all religions are substantially the same—produced
by the same causes—that all rest on a misconception of the facts in
nature—that all are founded on ignorance and fear, on mistake and
mystery.

They have found that Christianity is like the rest—that it was not a
revelation, but a natural growth—that its gods and devils, its heavens
and hells, were borrowed—that its ceremonies and sacraments were
souvenirs of other religions—that no part of it came from heaven, but
that it was all made by savage man. They found that Jehovah was a tribal
god and that his ancestors had lived on the banks of the Euphrates, the
Tigris, the Ganges and the Nile, and these ancestors were traced back to
still more savage forms.

They found that all the sacred books were filled with inspired mistake
and sacred absurdity.

But, say the Christians, we have the only inspired book. We have the
Old Testament and the New. Where did you get the Old Testament? From the
Jews?—Yes.

Let me tell you about it.

After the Jews returned from Babylon, about 400 years before Christ,
Ezra commenced making the Bible. You will find an account of this in the
Bible.

We know that Genesis was written after the Captivity—because it was
from the Babylonians that the Jews got the story of the creation—of
Adam and Eve, of the Garden—of the serpent, and the tree of life—of
the flood—and from them they learned about the Sabbath.

You find nothing about that holy day in Judges, Joshua, Samuel, Kings
or Chronicles—nothing in Job, the Psalms, in Esther, Solomon's Song
or Ecclesiastes. Only in books written by Ezra after the return from
Babylon.

When Ezra finished the inspired book, he placed it in the temple. It was
written on the skins of beasts, and, so far as we know, there was but
one.

What became of this Bible?

Jerusalem was taken by Titus about 70 years after Christ. The temple was
destroyed and, at the request of Josephus, the Holy Bible was sent to
Vespasian the Emperor, at Rome.

And this Holy Bible has never been seen or heard of since. So much for
that.

Then there was a copy, or rather a translation, called the Septuagint.

How was that made?

It is said that Ptolemy Soter and his son Ptolemy Philadelphus obtained
a translation of the Jewish Bible. This translation was made by seventy
persons.

At that time the Jewish Bible did not contain Daniel, Ecclesiastes, but
few of the Psalms and only a part of Isaiah.

What became of this translation known as the Septuagint?

It was burned in the Bruchium Library forty-seven years before Christ.

Then there was another so-called copy of part of the Bible, known as the
Samaritan Roll of the Pentateuch.

But this is not considered of any value.

Have we a true copy of the Bible that was in the temple at
Jerusalem—the one sent to Vespasian?

Nobody knows.

Have we a true copy of the Septuagint?

Nobody knows.

What is the oldest manuscript of the Bible we have in Hebrew?

The oldest manuscript we have in Hebrew was written in the 10th century
after Christ. The oldest pretended copy we have of the Septuagint
written in Greek was made in the 5th century after Christ.

If the Bible was divinely inspired, if it was the actual word of God, we
have no authenticated copy. The original has been lost and we are left
in the darkness of Nature.

It is impossible for us to show that our Bible is correct. We have no
standard. Many of the books in our Bible contradict each other. Many
chapters appear to be incomplete and parts of different books are
written in the same words, showing that both could not have been
original. The 19th and 20th chapters of 2nd Kings and the 37th and
38th chapters of Isaiah are exactly the same. So is the 36th chapter of
Isaiah from the 2nd verse the same as the 18th chapter of 2nd Kings from
the 2nd verse.

So, it is perfectly apparent that there could have been no possible
propriety in inspiring the writers of Kings and the writers of
Chronicles. The books are substantially the same, differing in a
few mistakes—in a few falsehoods. The same is true of Leviticus and
Numbers. The books do not agree either in facts or philosophy. They
differ as the men differed who wrote them.

What have the worldly done?

They have investigated the phenomena of nature. They have invented ways
to use the forces of the world, the weight of falling water—of moving
air. They have changed water to steam, invented engines—the tireless
giants that work for man. They have made lightning a messenger and
slave. They invented movable type, taught us the art of printing and
made it possible to save and transmit the intellectual wealth of the
world. They connected continents with cables, cities and towns with
the telegraph—brought the world into one family—made intelligence
independent of distance. They taught us how to build homes, to obtain
food, to weave cloth. They covered the seas with iron ships and the
land with roads and steeds of steel. They gave us the tools of all the
trades—the implements of labor. They chiseled statues, painted pictures
and "witched the world" with form and color. They have found the cause
of and the cure for many maladies that afflict the flesh and minds of
men. They have given us the instruments of music and the great composers
and performers have changed the common air to tones and harmonies that
intoxicate, exalt and purify the soul.

They have rescued us from the prisons of fear, and snatched our souls
from the fangs and claws of superstition's loathsome, crawling, flying
beasts. They have given us the liberty to think and the courage to
express our thoughts. They have changed the frightened, the enslaved,
the kneeling, the prostrate into men and women—clothed them in their
right minds and made them truly free. They have uncrowned the phantoms,
wrested the scepters from the ghosts and given this world to the
children of men. They have driven from the heart the fiends of fear and
extinguished the flames of hell.

They have read a few leaves of the great volume—deciphered some of the
records written on stone by the tireless hands of time in the dim past.
They have told us something of what has been done by wind and wave, by
fire and frost, by life and death, the ceaseless workers, the pauseless
forces of the world.

They have enlarged the horizon of the known, changed the glittering
specks that shine above us to wheeling worlds, and filled all space with
countless suns.

They have found the qualities of substances, the nature of things—how
to analyze, separate and combine, and have enabled us to use the good
and avoid the hurtful.

They have given us mathematics in the higher forms, by means of which we
measure the astronomical spaces, the distances to stars, the velocity at
which the heavenly bodies move, their density and weight, and by which
the mariner navigates the waste and trackless seas. They have given us
all we have of knowledge, of literature and art. They have made life
worth living. They have filled the world with conveniences, comforts and
luxuries.

All this has been done by the worldly—by those, who were not "called"
or "set apart" or filled with the Holy Ghost or had the slightest claim
to "apostolic succession." The men who accomplished these things were
not "inspired." They had no revelation—no supernatural aid. They were
not clad in sacred vestments, and tiaras were not upon their brows. They
were not even ordained. They used their senses, observed and recorded
facts. They had confidence in reason. They were patient searchers for
the truth. They turned their attention to the affairs of this
world. They were not saints. They were sensible men. They worked for
themselves, for wife and child and for the benefit of all.

To these men we are indebted for all we are, for all we know, for all
we have. They were the creators of civilization—the founders of free
states—the saviors of liberty—the destroyers of superstition and the
great captains in the army of progress.

IV.

WHOM shall we thank? Standing here at the close of the 19th
century—amid the trophies of thought—the triumphs of genius—here
under the flag of the Great Republic—knowing something of the history
of man—here on this day that has been set apart for thanksgiving, I
most reverently thank the good men, the good women of the past, I thank
the kind fathers, the loving mothers of the savage days. I thank the
father who spoke the first gentle word, the mother who first smiled upon
her babe. I thank the first true friend. I thank the savages who hunted
and fished that they and their babes might live. I thank those who
cultivated the ground and changed the forests into farms—those who
built rude homes and watched the faces of their happy children in the
glow of fireside flames—those who domesticated horses, cattle and
sheep—those who invented wheels and looms and taught us to spin and
weave—those who by cultivation changed wild grasses into wheat and
corn, changed bitter things to fruit, and worthless weeds to flowers,
that sowed within our souls the seeds of art. I thank the poets of the
dawn—the tellers of legends—the makers of myths—the singers of joy
and grief, of hope and love. I thank the artists who chiseled forms
in stone and wrought with light and shade the face of man. I thank the
philosophers, the thinkers, who taught us how to use our minds in
the great search for truth. I thank the astronomers who explored
the heavens, told us the secrets of the stars, the glories of the
constellations—the geologists who found the story of the world in
fossil forms, in memoranda kept in ancient rocks, in lines written by
waves, by frost and fire—the anatomists who sought in muscle, nerve and
bone for all the mysteries of life—the chemists who unraveled Nature's
work that they might learn her art—the physicians who have laid
the hand of science on the brow of pain, the hand whose magic touch
restores—the surgeons who have defeated Nature's self and forced her to
preserve the lives of those she labored to destroy.

I thank the discoverers of chloroform and ether, the two angels who give
to their beloved sleep, and wrap the throbbing brain in the soft robes
of dreams. I thank the great inventors—those who gave us movable type
and the press, by means of which great thoughts and all discovered facts
are made immortal—the inventors of engines, of the great ships, of the
railways, the cables and telegraphs. I thank the great mechanics, the
workers in iron and steel, in wood and stone. I thank the inventors and
makers of the numberless things of use and luxury.

I thank the industrious men, the loving mothers, the useful women. They
are the benefactors of our race.

The inventor of pins did a thousand times more good than all the popes
and cardinals, the bishops and priests—than all the clergymen and
parsons, exhorters and theologians that ever lived.

The inventor of matches did more for the comfort and convenience
of mankind than all the founders of religions and the makers of all
creeds—than all malicious monks and selfish saints.

I thank the honest men and women who have expressed their sincere
thoughts, who have been true to themselves and have preserved the
veracity of their souls.

I thank the thinkers of Greece and Rome, Zeno and Epicurus, Cicero and
Lucretius. I thank Bruno, the bravest, and Spinoza, the subtlest of men.

I thank Voltaire, whose thought lighted a flame in the brain of man,
unlocked the doors of superstition's cells and gave liberty to
many millions of his fellow-men. Voltaire—a name that sheds light.
Voltaire—a star that superstition's darkness cannot quench.

I thank the great poets—the dramatists. I thank Homer and Aeschylus,
and I thank Shakespeare above them all. I thank Burns for the
heart-throbs he changed into songs, for his lyrics of flame. I thank
Shelley for his Skylark, Keats for his Grecian Urn and Byron for his
Prisoner of Chillon. I thank the great novelists. I thank the great
sculptors. I thank the unknown man who moulded and chiseled the Venus de
Milo. I thank the great painters. I thank Rembrandt and Corot. I thank
all who have adorned, enriched and ennobled life—all who have created
the great, the noble, the heroic and artistic ideals.

I thank the statesmen who have preserved the rights of man. I thank
Paine whose genius sowed the seeds of independence in the hearts of '76.
I thank Jefferson whose mighty words for liberty have made the circuit
of the globe. I thank the founders, the defenders, the saviors of the
Republic. I thank Ericsson, the greatest mechanic of his century, for
the monitor. I thank Lincoln for the Proclamation. I thank Grant for his
victories and the vast host that fought for the right,—for the freedom
of man. I thank them all—the living and the dead.

I thank the great scientists—those who have reached the foundation,
the bed-rock—who have built upon facts—the great scientists, in whose
presence theologians look silly and feel malicious.

The scientists never persecuted, never imprisoned their fellow-men. They
forged no chains, built no dungeons, erected no scaffolds—tore no flesh
with red hot pincers—dislocated no joints on racks—crushed no bones
in iron boots—extinguished no eyes—tore out no tongues and lighted
no fagots. They did not pretend to be inspired—did not claim to
be prophets or saints or to have been born again. They were only
intelligent and honest men. They did not appeal to force or fear. They
did not regard men as slaves to be ruled by torture, by lash and chain,
nor as children to be cheated with illusions, rocked in the cradle of an
idiot creed and soothed by a lullaby of lies.

They did not wound—they healed. They did not kill—they lengthened
life. They did not enslave—they broke the chains and made men free.
They sowed the seeds of knowledge, and many millions have reaped, are
reaping, and will reap the harvest of joy.

I thank Humboldt and Helmholtz and Haeckel and Buechner. I thank Lamarck
and Darwin—Darwin who revolutionized the thought of the intellectual
world. I thank Huxley and Spencer. I thank the scientists one and all.

I thank the heroes, the destroyers of prejudice and fear—the dethroners
of savage gods—the extinguishers of hate's eternal fire—the heroes,
the breakers of chains—the founders of free states—the makers of just
laws—the heroes who fought and fell on countless fields—the heroes
whose dungeons became shrines—the heroes whose blood made scaffolds
sacred—the heroes, the apostles of reason, the disciples of truth, the
soldiers of freedom—the heroes who held high the holy torch and filled
the world with light.

With all my heart I thank them all.
---
# How to Reform Mankind
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1896_
> * This address was delivered before the Militant Church at
> the Columbia Theatre, Chicago, Ills., April 12, 1896.

I.

"THERE is no darkness but ignorance." Every human being is a necessary
product of conditions, and every one is born with defects for which
he cannot be held responsible. Nature seems to care nothing for the
individual, nothing for the species.

Life pursuing life and in its turn pursued by death, presses to the snow
line of the possible, and every form of life, of instinct, thought and
action is fixed and determined by conditions, by countless antecedent
and co-existing facts. The present is the child, and the necessary
child, of all the past, and the mother of all the future.

Every human being longs to be happy, to satisfy the wants of the body
with food, with roof and raiment, and to feed the hunger of the mind,
according to his capacity, with love, wisdom, philosophy, art and song.

The wants of the savage are few; but with civilization the wants of the
body increase, the intellectual horizon widens and the brain demands
more and more.

The savage feels, but scarcely thinks. The passion of the savage is
uninfluenced by his thought, while the thought of the philosopher is
uninfluenced by passion. Children have wants and passions before they
are capable of reasoning. So, in the infancy of the race, wants and
passions dominate.

The savage was controlled by appearances, by impressions; he was
mentally weak, mentally indolent, and his mind pursued the path of least
resistance. Things were to him as they appeared to be. He was a natural
believer in the supernatural, and, finding himself beset by dangers and
evils, he sought in many ways the aid of unseen powers. His children
followed his example, and for many ages, in many lands, millions and
millions of human beings, many of them the kindest and the best, asked
for supernatural help. Countless altars and temples have been built,
and the supernatural has been worshiped with sacrifice and song, with
self-denial, ceremony, thankfulness and prayer.

During all these ages, the brain of man was being slowly and painfully
developed. Gradually mind came to the assistance of muscle, and thought
became the friend of labor. Man has advanced just in the proportion that
he has mingled thought with his work, just in the proportion that he has
succeeded in getting his head and hands into partnership. All this was
the result of experience.

Nature, generous and heartless, extravagant and miserly as she is, is
our mother and our only teacher, and she is also the deceiver of men.
Above her we cannot rise, below her we cannot fall. In her we find
the seed and soil of all that is good, of all that is evil. Nature
originates, nourishes, preserves and destroys.

Good deeds bear fruit, and in the fruit are seeds that in their turn
bear fruit and seeds. Great thoughts are never lost, and words of
kindness do not perish from the earth.

Every brain is a field where nature sows the seeds of thought, and the
crop depends upon the soil.

Every flower that gives its fragrance to the wandering air leaves
its influence on the soul of man. The wheel and swoop of the winged
creatures of the air suggest the flowing lines of subtle art. The
roar and murmur of the restless sea, the cataract's solemn chant, the
thunder's voice, the happy babble of the brook, the whispering leaves,
the thrilling notes of mating birds, the sighing winds, taught man to
pour his heart in song and gave a voice to grief and hope, to love and
death.

In all that is, in mountain range and billowed plain, in winding stream
and desert sand, in cloud and star, in snow and rain, in calm and storm,
in night and day, in woods and vales, in all the colors of divided
light, in all there is of growth and life, decay and death, in all that
flies and floats and swims, in all that moves, in all the forms and
qualities of things, man found the seeds and symbols of his thoughts;
and all that man has wrought becomes a part of nature's self, forming
the lives of those to be. The marbles of the Greeks, like strains of
music, suggest the perfect, and teach the melody of life. The great
poems, paintings, inventions, theories and philosophies, enlarge
and mould the mind of man. All that is is natural. All is naturally
produced. Beyond the horizon of the natural man cannot go.

Yet, for many ages, man in all directions has relied upon, and sincerely
believed in, the existence of the supernatural. He did not believe in
the uniformity of nature; he had no conception of cause and effect, of
the indestructibility of force.

In medicine he believed in charms, magic, amulets, and incantations. It
never occurred to the savage that diseases were natural.

In chemistry he sought for the elixir of life, for the philosopher's
stone, and for some way of changing the baser metals into gold.

In mechanics he searched for perpetual motion, believing that he, by
some curious combinations of levers, could produce, could create a
force.

In government, he found the source of authority in the will of the
supernatural.

For many centuries his only conception of morality was the idea of
obedience, not to facts as they exist in nature, but to the supposed
command of some being superior to nature. During all these years
religion consisted in the praise and worship of the invisible and
infinite, of some vast and incomprehensible power, that is to say, of
the supernatural.

By experience, by experiment, possibly by accident, man found that some
diseases could be cured by natural means; that he could be relieved in
many instances of pain by certain kinds of leaves or bark.

This was the beginning. Gradually his confidence increased in the
direction of the natural, and began to decrease in charms and amulets,
The war was waged for many centuries, but the natural gained the
victory. Now we know that all diseases are naturally produced, and that
all remedies, all curatives, act in accordance with the facts in nature.
Now we know that charms, magic, amulets and incantations are just
as useless in the practice of medicine as they would be in solving
a problem in mathematics. We now know that there are no supernatural
remedies.

In chemistry the war was long and bitter; but we now no longer seek
for the elixir of life, and no one is trying to find the philosopher's
stone. We are satisfied that there is nothing supernatural in all the
realm of chemistry. We know that substances are always true to their
natures; we know that just so many atoms of one substance will
unite with just so many of another. The miraculous has departed from
chemistry; in that science there is no magic, no caprice and no possible
use for the supernatural. We are satisfied that there can be no change,
that we can absolutely rely on the uniformity of nature; that the
attraction of gravitation will always remain the same; and we feel
that we know this as certainly as we know that the relation between the
diameter and circumference of a circle can never change.

We now know that in mechanics the natural is supreme. We know that man
can by no possibility create a force; that by no possibility can he
destroy a force. No mechanic dreams of depending upon or asking for
any supernatural aid. He knows that he works in accordance with certain
facts that no power can change.

So we in the United States believe that the authority to govern, the
authority to make and execute laws, comes from the consent of the
governed and not from any supernatural source. We do not believe that
the king occupied his throne because of the will of the supernatural.
Neither do we believe that others are subjects or serfs or slaves by
reason of any supernatural will.

So, our ideas of morality have changed, and millions now believe that
whatever produces happiness and well-being is in the highest sense
moral. Unreasoning obedience is not the foundation or the essence of
morality. That is the result of mental slavery. To act in accordance
with obligation perceived is to be free and noble. To simply obey is to
practice what might be called a slave virtue; but real morality is the
flower and fruit of liberty and wisdom.

There are very many who have reached the conclusion that the
supernatural has nothing to do with real religion. Religion does not
consist in believing without evidence or against evidence. It does not
consist in worshiping the unknown or in trying to do something for the
Infinite. Ceremonies, prayers and inspired books, miracles, special
providence, and divine interference all belong to the supernatural and
form no part of real religion.

Every science rests on the natural, on demonstrated facts. So, morality
and religion must find their foundations in the necessary nature of
things.

## II. How Can We Reform the World?

IGNORANCE being darkness, what we need is intellectual light. The most
important things to teach, as the basis of all progress, are that the
universe is natural; that man must be the providence of man; that, by
the development of the brain, we can avoid some of the dangers, some of
the evils, overcome some of the obstructions, and take advantage of some
of the facts and forces of nature; that, by invention and industry,
we can supply, to a reasonable degree, the wants of the body, and by
thought, study and effort, we can in part satisfy the hunger of the
mind.

Man should cease to expect any aid from any supernatural source. By this
time he should be satisfied that worship has not created wealth, and
that prosperity is not the child of prayer. He should know that the
supernatural has not succored the oppressed, clothed the naked, fed
the hungry, shielded the innocent, stayed the pestilence, or freed the
slave.

Being satisfied that the supernatural does not exist, man should turn
his entire attention to the affairs of this world, to the facts in
nature.

And, first of all, he should avoid waste—waste of energy, waste of
wealth. Every good man, every good woman, should try to do away with
war, to stop the appeal to savage force. Man in a savage state relies
upon his strength, and decides for himself what is right and what is
wrong. Civilized men do not settle their differences by a resort to
arms. They submit the quarrel to arbitrators and courts. This is the
great difference between the savage and the civilized. Nations, however,
sustain the relations of savages to each other. There is no way of
settling their disputes. Each nation decides for itself, and each
nation endeavors to carry its decision into effect. This produces war.
Thousands of men at this moment are trying to invent more deadly weapons
to destroy their fellow-men. For eighteen hundred years peace has been
preached, and yet the civilized nations are the most warlike of the
world. There are in Europe to-day between eleven and twelve millions of
soldiers, ready to take the field, and the frontiers of every civilized
nation are protected by breastwork and fort. The sea is covered with
steel clad ships, filled with missiles of death.

The civilized world has impoverished itself, and the debt of
Christendom, mostly for war, is now nearly thirty thousand million
dollars. The interest on this vast sum has to be paid; it has to be paid
by labor, much of it by the poor, by those who are compelled to deny
themselves almost the necessities of life. This debt is growing year by
year. There must come a change, or Christendom will become bankrupt.

The interest on this debt amounts at least to nine hundred million
dollars a year; and the cost of supporting armies and navies, of
repairing ships, of manufacturing new engines of death, probably
amounts, including the interest on the debt, to at least six million
dollars a day. Allowing ten hours for a day, that is for a working day,
the waste of war is at least six hundred thousand dollars an hour, that
is to say, ten thousand dollars a minute.

Think of all this being paid for the purpose of killing and preparing to
kill our fellow-men. Think of the good that could be done with this vast
sum of money; the schools that could be built, the wants that could
be supplied. Think of the homes it would build, the children it would
clothe.

If we wish to do away with war, we must provide for the settlement of
national differences by an international court. This court should be
in perpetual session; its members should be selected by the various
governments to be affected by its decisions, and, at the command and
disposal of this court, the rest of Christendom being disarmed, there
should be a military force sufficient to carry its judgments into
effect. There should be no other excuse, no other business for an army
or a navy in the civilized world.

No man has imagination enough to paint the agonies, the horrors and
cruelties of war. Think of sending shot and shell crashing through the
bodies of men! Think of the widows and orphans! Think of the maimed, the
mutilated, the mangled!

## III. Another Waste.

LET us be perfectly candid with each other. We are seeking the truth,
trying to find what ought to be done to increase the well-being of man.
I must give you my honest thought. You have the right to demand it, and
I must maintain the integrity of my soul.

There is another direction in which the wealth and energies of man are
wasted. From the beginning of history until now man has been seeking the
aid of the supernatural. For many centuries the wealth of the world was
used to propitiate the unseen powers. In our own country, the property
dedicated to this purpose is worth at least one thousand million
dollars. The interest on this sum is fifty million dollars a year, and
the cost of employing persons, whose business it is to seek the aid
of the supernatural and to maintain the property, is certainly as much
more. So that the cost in our country is about two million dollars a
week, and, counting ten hours as a working day, this amounts to about
five hundred dollars a minute.

For this vast amount of money the returns are remarkably small. The good
accomplished does not appear to be great. There is no great diminution
in crime. The decrease of immorality and poverty is hardly perceptible.
In spite, however, of the apparent failure here, a vast sum of money
is expended every year to carry our ideas of the supernatural to other
races. Our churches, for the most part, are closed during the week,
being used only a part of one day in seven. No one wishes to destroy
churches or church organizations. The only desire is that they shall
accomplish substantial good for the world. In many of our small
towns—towns of three or four thousand people—will be found four
or five churches, sometimes more. These churches are founded upon
immaterial differences; a difference as to the mode of baptism; a
difference as to who shall be entitled to partake of the Lord's
supper; a difference of ceremony; of government; a difference about
fore-ordination; a difference about fate and free will. And it must be
admitted that all the arguments on all sides of these differences have
been presented countless millions of times. Upon these subjects nothing
new is produced or anticipated, and yet the discussion is maintained by
the repetition of the old arguments.

Now, it seems to me that it would be far better for the people of a
town, having a population of four or five thousand, to have one church,
and the edifice should be of use, not only on Sunday, but on every day
of the week. In this building should be the library of the town.
It should be the clubhouse of the people, where they could find the
principal newspapers and periodicals of the world. Its auditorium
should be like a theatre. Plays should be presented by home talent; an
orchestra formed, music cultivated. The people should meet there at any
time they desire. The women could carry their knitting and sewing; and
connected with it should be rooms for the playing of games, billiards,
cards, and chess. Everything should be made as agreeable as possible.
The citizens should take pride in this building. They should adorn
its niches with statues and its walls with pictures. It should be the
intellectual centre. They could employ a gentleman of ability, possibly
of genius, to address them on Sundays, on subjects that would be of real
interest, of real importance. They could say to this minister:

"We are engaged in business during the week; while we are working at our
trades and professions, we want you to study, and on Sunday tell us what
you have found out."

Let such a minister take for a series of sermons the history, the
philosophy, the art and the genius of the Greeks. Let him tell of the
wondrous metaphysics, myths and religions of India and Egypt. Let him
make his congregation conversant with the philosophies of the world,
with the great thinkers, the great poets, the great artists, the
great actors, the great orators, the great inventors, the captains of
industry, the soldiers of progress. Let them have a Sunday school in
which the children shall be made acquainted with the facts of nature;
with botany, entomology, something of geology and astronomy.

Let them be made familiar with the greatest of poems, the finest
paragraphs of literature, with stories of the heroic, the self-denying
and generous.

Now, it seems to me that such a congregation in a few years would become
the most intelligent people in the United States.

The truth is that people are tired of the old theories. They have lost
confidence in the miraculous, in the supernatural, and they have ceased
to take interest in "facts" that they do not quite believe.

> "There is no darkness but ignorance."
> There is no light but intelligence,

As often as we can exchange a mistake for a fact, a falsehood for a
truth, we advance. We add to the intellectual wealth of the world, and
in this way, and in this way alone, can be laid the foundation for the
future prosperity and civilization of the race.

I blame no one; I call in question the motives of no person; I admit
that the world has acted as it must.

But hope for the future depends upon the intelligence of the present.
Man must husband his resources. He must not waste his energies in
endeavoring to accomplish the impossible.

He must take advantage of the forces of nature. He must depend on
education, on what he can ascertain by the use of his senses, by
observation, by experiment and reason. He must break the chains of
prejudice and custom. He must be free to express his thoughts on all
questions. He must find the conditions of happiness and become wise
enough to live in accordance with them.

## IV. How Can We Lessen Crime?

IN spite of all that has been done for the reformation of the world, in
spite of all the inventions, in spite of all the forces of nature that
are now the tireless slaves of man, in spite of all improvements in
agriculture, in mechanics, in every department of human labor, the world
is still cursed with poverty and with crime.

The prisons are full, the courts are crowded, the officers of the law
are busy, and there seems to be no material decrease in crime.

For many thousands of years man has endeavored to reform his fellow-men
by imprisonment, torture, mutilation and death, and yet the history
of the world shows that there has been and is no reforming power in
punishment. It is impossible to make the penalty great enough, horrible
enough to lessen crime.

Only a few years ago, in civilized countries, larceny and many offences
even below larceny, were punished by death; and yet the number of
thieves and criminals of all grades increased. Traitors were hanged and
quartered or drawn into fragments by horses; and yet treason flourished.

Most of these frightful laws have been repealed, and the repeal
certainly did not increase crime. In our own country we rely upon the
gallows, the penitentiary and the jail. When a murder is committed, the
man is hanged, shocked to death by electricity, or lynched, and in a few
minutes a new murderer is ready to suffer a like fate. Men steal; they
are sent to the penitentiary for a certain number of years, treated
like wild beasts, frequently tortured. At the end of the term they are
discharged, having only enough money to return to the place from which
they were sent. They are thrown upon the world without means—without
friends—they are convicts. They are shunned, suspected and despised.
If they obtain a place, they are discharged as soon as it is found that
they were in prison. They do the best they can to retain the respect of
their fellow-men by denying their imprisonment and their identity. In
a little while, unable to gain a living by honest means, they resort
to crime, they again appear in court, and again are taken within the
dungeon walls. No reformation, no chance to reform, nothing to give them
bread while making new friends.

All this is infamous. Men should not be sent to the pentitentiary as a
punishment, because we must remember that men do as they must. Nature
does not frequently produce the perfect. In the human race there is a
large percentage of failures. Under certain conditions, with certain
appetites and passions and with a certain quality, quantity and shape of
brain, men will become thieves, forgers and counterfeiters. The question
is whether reformation is possible, whether a change can be produced
in the person by producing a change in the conditions. The criminal
is dangerous and society has the right to protect itself. The
criminal should be confined, and, if possible, should be reformed. A
pentitentiary should be a school; the convicts should be educated. So,
prisoners should work, and they should be paid a reasonable sum for
their labor. The best men should have charge of prisons. They should be
philanthropists and philosophers; they should know something of
human nature. The prisoner, having been taught, we will say, for five
years—taught the underlying principles of conduct, of the naturalness
and harmony of virtue, of the discord of crime; having been convinced
that society has no hatred, that nobody wishes to punish, to degrade,
or to rob him; and being at the time of his discharge paid a reasonable
price for his labor; being allowed by law to change his name, so that
his identity will not be preserved, he could go out of the prison a
friend of the government. He would have the feeling that he had been
made a better man; that he had been treated with justice, with mercy,
and the money he carried with him would be a breastwork behind which he
could defy temptation, a breastwork that would support and take care of
him until he could find some means by which to support himself. And this
man, instead of making crime a business, would become a good, honorable
and useful-citizen.

As it is now, there is but little reform. The same faces appear again
and again at the bar; the same men hear again and again the verdict of
guilty and the sentence of the court, and the same men return again and
again to the prison cell. Murderers, those belonging to the dangerous
classes, those who are so formed by nature that they rush to the crimes
of desperation, should be imprisoned for life; or they should be put
upon some island, some place where they can be guarded, where it may
be that by proper effort they could support themselves; the men on
one island, the women on another. And to these islands should be sent
professional criminals, those who have deliberately adopted a life
of crime for the purpose of supporting themselves, the women upon one
island, the men upon another. Such people should not populate the earth.

Neither the diseases nor the deformities of the mind or body should be
perpetuated. Life at the fountain should not be polluted.

## V. Homes for All.

THE home is the unit of the nation. The more homes the broader the
foundation of the nation and the more secure.

Everything that is possible should be done to keep this from being
a nation of tenants. The men who cultivate the earth should own it.
Something has already been done in our country in that direction, and
probably in every State there is a homestead exemption. This exemption
has thus far done no harm to the creditor class. When we imprisoned
people for debt, debts were as insecure, to say the least, as now. By
the homestead laws, a home of a certain value or of a certain extent,
is exempt from forced levy or sale; and these laws have done great good.
Undoubtedly they have trebled the homes of the nation.

I wish to go a step further. I want, if possible, to get the people
out of the tenements, out of the gutters of degradation, to homes where
there can be privacy, where these people can feel that they are in
partnership with nature; that they have an interest in good government.
With the means we now have of transportation, there is no necessity for
poor people being huddled in festering masses in the vile, filthy and
loathsome parts of cities, where poverty breeds rags, and the rags breed
diseases. I would exempt a homestead of a reasonable value, say of
the value of two or three thousand dollars, not only from sale under
execution, but from sale for taxes of every description. These homes
should be absolutely exempt; they should belong to the family, so that
every mother should feel that the roof above her head was hers; that
her house was her castle, and that in its possession she could not be
disturbed, even by the nation. Under certain conditions I would allow
the sale of this homestead, and exempt the proceeds of the sale for a
certain time, during which they might be invested in another home; and
all this could be done to make a nation of householders, a nation of
land-owners, a nation of home-builders.

I would invoke the same power to preserve these homes, and to acquire
these homes, that I would invoke for acquiring lands for building
railways. Every State should fix the amount of land that could be owned
by an individual, not liable to be taken from him for the purpose of
giving a home to another, and when any man owned more acres than the law
allowed, and another should ask to purchase them, and he should refuse,
I would have the law so that the person wishing to purchase could file
his petition in court. The court would appoint commissioners, or a
jury would be called, to determine the value of the land the petitioner
wished for a home, and, upon the amount being paid, found by such
commission, or jury, the land should vest absolutely in the petitioner.

This right of eminent domain should be used not only for the benefit
of the person wishing a home, but for the benefit of all the people.
Nothing is more important to America than that the babes of America
should be born around the firesides of homes.

There is another question in which I take great interest, and it ought,
in my judgment, to be answered by the intelligence and kindness of our
century.

We all know that for many, many ages, men have been slaves, and we all
know that during all these years, women have, to some extent been the
slaves of slaves. It is of the utmost importance to the human race that
women, that mothers, should be free. Without doubt, the contract of
marriage is the most important and the most sacred that human beings can
make. Marriage is the most important of all institutions. Of course, the
ceremony of marriage is not the real marriage. It is only evidence
of the mutual flames that burn within. There can be no real marriage
without mutual love. So I believe in the ceremony of marriage, that it
should be public; that records should be kept. Besides, the ceremony
says to all the world that those who marry are in love with each other.

Then arises the question of divorce. Millions of people imagine that the
married are joined together by some supernatural power, and that they
should remain together, or at least married, during life. If all who
have been married were joined together by the supernatural, we must
admit that the supernatural is not infinitely wise.

After all, marriage is a contract, and the parties to the contract are
bound to keep its provisions; and neither should be released from such
a contract unless, in some way, the interests of society are involved.
I would have the law so that any husband could obtain a divorce when the
wife had persistently and flagrantly violated the contract; such divorce
to be granted on equitable terms. I would give the wife a divorce if she
requested it, if she wanted it.

And I would do this, not only for her sake, but for the sake of the
community, of the nation. All children should be children of love. All
that are born should be sincerely welcomed. The children of mothers
who dislike, or hate, or loathe the fathers, will fill the world with
insanity and crime. No woman should by law, or by public opinion,
be forced to live with a man whom she abhors. There is no danger of
demoralizing the world through divorce. Neither is there any danger of
destroying in the human heart that divine thing called love. As long as
the human race exists, men and women will love each other, and just so
long there will be true and perfect marriage. Slavery is not the soil or
rain of virtue.

I make a difference between granting divorce to a man and to a woman,
and for this reason: A woman dowers her husband with her youth and
beauty. He should not be allowed to desert her because she has grown
wrinkled and old. Her capital is gone; her prospects in life lessened;
while, on the contrary, he may be far better able to succeed than when
he married her. As a rule, the man can take care of himself, and as a
rule, the woman needs help. So, I would not allow him to cast her off
unless she had flagrantly violated the contract. But, for the sake of
the community, and especially for the sake of the babes, I would give
her a divorce for the asking.

There will never be a generation of great men until there has been a
generation of free women—of free mothers.

The tenderest word in our language is maternity. In this word is the
divine mingling of ecstasy and agony—of love and self-sacrifice. This
word is holy!

## VI. The Labor Question.

HERE has been for many years ceaseless discussion upon what is called
the labor question; the conflict between the workingman and the
capitalist. Many ways have been devised, some experiments have been
tried for the purpose of solving this question. Profit-sharing would
not work, because it is impossible to share profits with those who are
incapable of sharing losses. Communities have been formed, the object
being to pay the expenses and share the profits among all the persons
belonging to the society. For the most part these have failed.

Others have advocated arbitration. And, while it may be that the
employers could be bound by the decision of the arbitrators, there has
been no way discovered by which the employees could be held by such
decision. In other words, the question has not been solved.

For my own part, I see no final and satisfactory solution except
through the civilization of employers and employed. The question is so
complicated, the ramifications are so countless, that a solution by law,
or by force, seems at least improbable. Employers are supposed to
pay according to their profits. They may or may not. Profits may
be destroyed by competition. The employer is at the mercy of other
employers, and as much so as his employees are at his mercy. The
employers cannot govern prices; they cannot fix demand; they cannot
control supply; and at present, in the world of trade, the laws of
supply and demand, except when interfered with by conspiracy, are in
absolute control.

Will the time arrive, and can it arrive, except by developing the brain,
except by the aid of intellectual light, when the purchaser will wish to
give what a thing is worth, when the employer will be satisfied with a
reasonable profit, when the employer will be anxious to give the real
value for raw material; when he will be really anxious to pay the
laborer the full value of his labor? Will the employer ever become
civilized enough to know that the law of supply and demand should not
absolutely apply in the labor market of the world? Will he ever become
civilized enough not to take advantage of the necessities of the
poor, of the hunger and rags and want of poverty? Will he ever become
civilized enough to say: "I will pay the man who labors for me enough to
give him a reasonable support, enough for him to assist in taking care
of wife and children, enough for him to do this, and lay aside something
to feed and clothe him when old age comes; to lay aside something,
enough to give him house and hearth during the December of his life, so
that he can warm his worn and shriveled hands at the fire of home"?

Of course, capital can do nothing without the assistance of labor. All
there is of value in the world is the product of labor. The laboring man
pays all the expenses. No matter whether taxes are laid on luxuries or
on the necessaries of life, labor pays every cent.

So we must remember that, day by day, labor is becoming intelligent.
So, I believe the employer is gradually becoming civilized, gradually
becoming kinder; and many men who have made large fortunes from the
labor of their fellows have given of their millions to what they
regarded as objects of charity, or for the interests of education. This
is a kind of penance, because the men that have made this money from
the brain and muscle of their fellow-men have ever felt that it was not
quite their own. Many of these employers have sought to balance their
accounts by leaving something for universities, for the establishment
of libraries, drinking fountains, or to build monuments to departed
greatness. It would have been, I think, far better had they used this
money to better the condition of the men who really earned it.

So, I think that when we become civilized, great corporations will make
provision for men who have given their lives to their service. I think
the great railroads should pay pensions to their worn out employees.
They should take care of them in old age. They should not maim and
wear out their servants and then discharge them, and allow them to be
supported in poorhouses. These great companies should take care of the
men they maim; they should look out for the ones whose lives they have
used and whose labor has been the foundation of their prosperity. Upon
this question, public sentiment should be aroused to such a degree that
these corporations would be ashamed to use a human life and then throw
away the broken old man as they would cast aside a rotten tie.

It may be that the mechanics, the workingmen, will finally become
intelligent enough to really unite, to act in absolute concert. Could
this be accomplished, then a reasonable rate of compensation could be
fixed and enforced. Now such efforts are local, and the result up to
this time has been failure. But, if all could unite, they could obtain
what is reasonable, what is just, and they would have the sympathy of a
very large majority of their fellow-men, provided they were reasonable.

But, before they can act in this way, they must become really
intelligent, intelligent enough to know what is reasonable and honest
enough to ask for no more.

So much has already been accomplished for the workingman that I have
hope, and great hope, of the future. The hours of labor have been
shortened, and materially shortened, in many countries. There was a time
when men worked fifteen and sixteen hours a day. Now, generally, a day's
work is not longer than ten hours, and the tendency is to still further
decrease the hours.

By comparing long periods of time, we more clearly perceive the advance
that has been made. In 1860, the average amount earned by the laboring
men, workmen, mechanics, per year, was about two hundred and eighty-five
dollars. It is now about five hundred dollars, and a dollar to-day will
purchase more of the necessaries of life, more food, clothing and fuel,
than it would in 1860. These facts are full of hope for the future.

All our sympathies should be with the men who work, who toil; for the
women who labor for themselves and children; because we know that labor
is the foundation of all, and that those who labor are the Caryatides
that support the structure and glittering dome of civilization and
progress.

## VII. Educate the Children.

EVERY child should be taught to be self-supporting, and every one should
be taught to avoid being a burden on others, as they would shun death.

Every child should be taught that the useful are the honorable, and that
they who live on the labor of others are the enemies of society. Every
child should be taught that useful work is worship and that intelligent
labor is the highest form of prayer.

Children should be taught to think, to investigate, to rely upon the
light of reason, of observation and experience; should be taught to
use all their senses; and they should be taught only that which in some
sense is really useful. They should be taught the use of tools, to use
their hands, to embody their thoughts in the construction of things.
Their lives should not be wasted in the acquisition of the useless, or
of the almost useless. Years should not be devoted to the acquisition of
dead languages, or to the study of history which, for the most part, is
a detailed account of things that never occurred. It is useless to fill
the mind with dates of great battles, with the births and deaths of
kings. They should be taught the philosophy of history, the growth of
nations, of philosophies, theories, and, above all, of the sciences.

So, they should be taught the importance, not only of financial, but of
mental honesty; to be absolutely sincere; to utter their real thoughts,
and to give their actual opinions; and, if parents want honest children,
they should be honest themselves. It may be that hypocrites transmit
their failing to their offspring. Men and women who pretend to agree
with the majority, who think one way and talk another, can hardly expect
their children to be absolutely sincere.

Nothing should be taught in any school that the teacher does not
know. Beliefs, superstitions, theories, should not be treated like
demonstrated facts. The child should be taught to investigate, not to
believe. Too much doubt is better than too much credulity. So, children
should be taught that it is their duty to think for themselves, to
understand, and, if possible, to know.

Real education is the hope of the future. The development of the brain,
the civilization of the heart, will drive want and crime from the world.
The schoolhouse is the real cathedral, and science the only possible
savior of the human race. Education, real education, is the friend of
honesty, of morality, of temperance.

We cannot rely upon legislative enactments to make people wise and good;
neither can we expect to make human beings manly and womanly by keeping
them out of temptation. Temptations are as thick as the leaves of the
forest, and no one can be out of the reach of temptation unless he is
dead. The great thing is to make people intelligent enough and strong
enough, not to keep away from temptation, but to resist it. All the
forces of civilization are in favor of morality and temperance. Little
can be accomplished by law, because law, for the most part, about
such things, is a destruction of personal liberty. Liberty cannot be
sacrificed for the sake of temperance, for the sake of morality, or for
the sake of anything. It is of more value than everything else. Yet some
people would destroy the sun to prevent the growth of weeds. Liberty
sustains the same relation to all the virtues that the sun does to life.
The world had better go back to barbarism, to the dens, the caves and
lairs of savagery; better lose all art, all inventions, than to lose
liberty. Liberty is the breath of progress; it is the seed and soil, the
heat and rain of love and joy.

So, all should be taught that the highest ambition is to be happy,
and to add to the well-being of others; that place and power are not
necessary to success; that the desire to acquire great wealth is a kind
of insanity. They should be taught that it is a waste of energy, a waste
of thought, a waste of life, to acquire what you do not need and what
you do not really use for the benefit of yourself or others.

Neither mendicants nor millionaires are the happiest of mankind. The man
at the bottom of the ladder hopes to rise; the man at the top fears to
fall. The one asks; the other refuses; and, by frequent refusal, the
heart becomes hard enough and the hand greedy enough to clutch and hold.

Few men have intelligence enough, real greatness enough, to own a
great fortune. As a rule, the fortune owns them. Their fortune is their
master, for whom they work and toil like slaves. The man who has a good
business and who can make a reasonable living and lay aside something
for the future, who can educate his children and can leave enough to
keep the wolf of want from the door of those he loves, ought to be the
happiest of men.

Now, society bows and kneels at the feet of wealth. Wealth gives power.
Wealth commands flattery and adulation. And so, millions of men give
all their energies, as well as their very souls, for the acquisition of
gold. And this will continue as long as society is ignorant enough and
hypocritical enough to hold in high esteem the man of wealth without the
slightest regard to the character of the man.

In judging of the rich, two things should be considered: How did they
get it, and what are they doing with it? Was it honestly acquired? Is
it being used for the benefit of mankind? When people become really
intelligent, when the brain is really developed, no human being will
give his life to the acquisition of what he does not need or what he
cannot intelligently use.

The time will come when the truly intelligent man cannot be happy,
cannot be satisfied, when millions of his fellow-men are hungry and
naked. The time will come when in every heart will be the perfume of
pity's sacred flower. The time will come when the world will be anxious
to ascertain the truth, to find out the conditions of happiness, and to
live in accordance with such conditions; and the time will come when
in the brain of every human being will be the climate of intellectual
hospitality.

Man will be civilized when the passions are dominated by the intellect,
when reason occupies the throne, and when the hot blood of passion no
longer rises in successful revolt.

To civilize the world, to hasten the coming of the Golden Dawn of the
Perfect Day, we must educate the children, we must commence at the
cradle, at the lap of the loving mother.

## VIII. We Must Work and Wait.

THE reforms that I have mentioned cannot be accomplished in a day,
possibly not for many centuries; and in the meantime there is much
crime, much poverty, much want, and consequently something must be done
now.

Let each human being, within the limits of the possible be
self-supporting; let every one take intelligent thought for the morrow;
and if a human being supports himself and acquires a surplus, let him
use a part of that surplus for the unfortunate; and let each one to the
extent of his ability help his fellow-men. Let him do what he can in the
circle of his own acquaintance to rescue the fallen, to help those
who are trying to help themselves, to give work to the idle. Let him
distribute kind words, words of wisdom, of cheerfulness and hope. In
other words, let every human being do all the good he can, and let him
bind up the wounds of his fellow-creatures, and at the same time put
forth every effort, to hasten the coming of a better day.

This, in my judgment, is real religion. To do all the good you can is to
be a saint in the highest and in the noblest sense. To do all the good
you can; this is to be really and truly spiritual. To relieve suffering,
to put the star of hope in the midnight of despair, this is true
holiness. This is the religion of science. The old creeds are too
narrow, they are not for the world in which we live. The old dogmas lack
breadth and tenderness; they are too cruel, too merciless, too savage.
We are growing grander and nobler.

The firmament inlaid with suns is the dome of the real cathedral. The
interpreters of nature are the true and only priests. In the great creed
are all the truths that lips have uttered, and in the real litany will
be found all the ecstasies and aspirations of the soul, all dreams
of joy, all hopes for nobler, fuller life. The real church, the real
edifice, is adorned and glorified with all that Art has done. In the
real choir is all the thrilling music of the world, and in the star-lit
aisles have been, and are, the grandest souls of every land and clime.

> "There is no darkness but ignorance."
> Let us flood the world with intellectual light.
---
# Progress
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1860_
> * This is the first lecture ever delivered by Mr. Ingersoll.
> The stars indicate the words missing in the manuscript. It
> was delivered in Pekin, 111., in 1860, and again in
> Bloomington, 111., in 1804.

IT is admitted by all that happiness is the only good, happiness in its
highest and grandest sense and the most * * springs * * of * * refined *
* generous * *

Conscience * * tends * * indirectly * * truly we * * physically * * to
develop the wonderful powers of the mind is progress.

It is impossible for men to become educated and refined without leisure
and there can be no leisure without wealth and all wealth is produced by
labor, nothing else. Nothing can * * the hands * * and * * fabrics *
* service of civil * * and crumbles * * of all, and yet even in free
America labor is not honored as it deserves.

We should remember that the prosperity of the world depends upon the men
who walk in the fresh furrows and through the rustling corn, upon those
whose faces are radiant with the glare of furnaces, upon the delvers in
dark mines, the workers in shops, upon those who give to the wintry air
the ringing music of the axe, and upon those who wrestle with the wild
waves of the raging sea.

And it is from the surplus produced by labor that schools are built,
that colleges and universities are founded and endowed. From this
surplus the painter is paid for the immortal productions of the pencil.
This pays the sculptor for chiseling the shapeless rock into forms of
beauty almost divine, and the poet for singing the hopes, the loves and
aspirations of the world.

This surplus has erected all the palaces and temples, all the galleries
of art, has given to us all the books in which we converse, as it were,
with the dead kings of the human race, and has supplied us with all
there is of elegance, of beauty and of refined happiness in the world.

I am aware that the subject chosen by me is almost infinite and that in
its broadest sense it is absolutely beyond the present comprehension of
man.

I am also aware that there are many opinions as to what progress really
is, that what one calls progress, another denominates barbarism; that
many have a wonderful veneration for all that is ancient, merely because
it is ancient, and they see no beauty in anything from which they do not
have to blow the dust of ages with the breath of praise.

They say, no masters like the old, no governments like the ancient, no
orators, no poets, no statesmen like those who have been dust for two
thousand years. Others despise antiquity and admire only the modern,
merely because it is modern. They find so much to condemn in the past,
that they condemn all. I hope, however, that I have gratitude enough
to acknowledge the obligations I am under to the great and heroic minds
of antiquity, and that I have manliness and independence enough not
to believe what they said merely because they said it, and that I have
moral courage enough to advocate ideas, however modern they may be, if I
believe that they are right. Truth is neither young nor old, is neither
ancient nor modern, but is the same for all times and places and should
be sought for with ceaseless activity, eagerly acknowledged, loved more
than life, and abandoned—never. In accordance with the idea that labor
is the basis of all prosperity and happiness, is another idea or truth,
and that is, that labor in order to make the laborer and the world at
large happy, must be free. That the laborer must be a free man, the
thinker must be free. I do not intend in what I may say upon this
subject to carry you back to the remotest antiquity,—back to Asia, the
cradle of the world, where we could stand in the ashes and ruins of a
civilization so old that history has not recorded even its decay. It
will answer my present purpose to commence with the Middle Ages. In
those times there was no freedom of either mind or body in Europe. Labor
was despised, and a laborer was considered as scarcely above the beasts.
Ignorance like a mantle covered the world, and superstition ran riot
with the human imagination. The air was filled with angels, demons
and monsters. Everything assumed the air of the miraculous. Credulity
occupied the throne of reason and faith put out the eyes of the soul. A
man to be distinguished had either to be a soldier or a monk. He could
take his choice between killing and lying. You must remember that in
those days nations carried on war as an end, not as a means. War and
theology were the business of mankind. No man could win more than a bare
existence by industry, much less fame and glory. Comparatively speaking,
there was no commerce. Nations instead of buying and selling from and
to each other, took what they wanted by brute force. And every Christian
country maintained that it was no robbery to take the property of
Mohammedans, and no murder to kill the owners with or without just cause
of quarrel. Lord Bacon was the first man of note who maintained that a
Christian country was bound to keep its plighted faith with an Infidel
one. In those days reading and writing were considered very dangerous
arts, and any layman who had acquired the art of reading was suspected
of being a heretic or a wizard.

It is almost impossible for us to conceive of the ignorance, the
cruelty, the superstition and the mental blindness of that period. In
reading the history of those dark and bloody years, I am amazed at the
wickedness, the folly and presumption of mankind. And yet, the solution
of the whole matter is, they despised liberty; they hated freedom of
mind and of body. They forged chains of superstition for the one and of
iron for the other. They were ruled by that terrible trinity, the cowl,
the sword and chain.

You cannot form a correct opinion of those ages without reading the
standard authors, so to speak, of that time, the laws then in force,
and by ascertaining the habits and customs of the people, their mode
of administering the laws, and the ideas that were commonly received
as correct. No one believed that honest error could be innocent; no one
dreamed of such a thing as religious freedom. In the fifteenth century
the following law was in force in England: "That whatsoever they were
that should read the Scriptures in the mother tongue, they should
forfeit land, cattle, body, life, and goods from their heirs forever,
and so be condemned for heretics to God, enemies to the crown, and most
arrant traitors to the land." The next year after this law was in force,
in one day thirty-nine were hanged for its violation and their bodies
afterward burned.

Laws equally unjust, bloody and cruel were in force in all parts of
Europe. In the sixteenth century a man was burned in France because
he refused to kneel to a procession of dirty monks. I could enumerate
thousands of instances of the most horrid cruelty perpetrated upon men,
women and even little children, for no other reason in the world than
for a difference of opinion upon a subject that neither party knew
anything about. But you are all, no doubt, perfectly familiar with the
history of religious persecution.

There is one thing, however, that is strange indeed, and that is that
the reformers of those days, the men who rose against the horrid tyranny
of the times, the moment they attained power, persecuted with a zeal and
bitterness never excelled. Luther, one of the grand men of the world,
cast in the heroic mould, although he gave utterance to the following
sublime sentiment: "Every one has the right to read for himself that he
may prepare himself to live and to die," still had no idea of what we
call religious freedom. He considered universal toleration an error,
so did Melancthon, and Erasmus, and yet, strange as it may appear, they
were exercising the very right they denied to others, and maintaining
their right with a courage and energy absolutely sublime.

John Knox was only in favor of religious freedom when he was in the
minority, and Baxter entertained the same sentiment. Castalio, a
professor at Geneva, in Switzerland, was the first clergyman in Europe
who declared the innocence of honest error, and who proclaimed himself
in favor of universal toleration. The name of this man should never be
forgotten. He had the goodness, the courage, although surrounded with
prisons and inquisitions, and in the midst of millions of fierce bigots,
to declare the innocence of honest error, and that every man had a right
to worship the good God in his own way.

For the utterance of this sublime sentiment his professorship was taken
from him, he was driven from Geneva by John Calvin and his adherents,
although he had belonged to their sect.

He was denounced as a child of the Devil, a dog of Satan, as a murderer
of souls, as a corrupter of the faith, and as one who by his doctrines
crucified the Savior afresh. Not content with merely driving him from
his home, they pursued him absolutely to the grave, with a malignity
that increased rather than diminished. You must not think that Calvin
was alone in this; on the contrary he was fully sustained by public
opinion, and would have been sustained even though he had procured the
burning of the noble Castalio at the stake. I cite this instance not
merely for the purpose of casting odium upon Calvin, but to show you
what public opinion was at that time, when such things were ordinary
transactions. Bodi-nus, a lawyer in France, about the same time
advocated something like religious liberty, but public opinion was
overwhelmingly against him and the people were at all times ready with
torch and brand, chain, and fagot to get the abominable heresy out of
the human mind, that a man had a right to think for himself. And yet
Luther, Calvin, Knox and Baxter, in spite, as it were, of themselves,
conferred a great and lasting benefit upon mankind; for what they did
was at least in favor of individual judgment, and one successful stand
against the church produced others, all of which tended to establish
universal toleration. In those times you will remember that failing to
convert a man or woman by the ordinary means, they resorted to every
engine of torture that the ingenuity of bigotry could devise; they
crushed their feet in what they called iron boots; they roasted them
upon slow fires; they plucked out their nails, and then into the
bleeding quick thrust needles; and all this to convince them of the
truth. I suppose that we should love our neighbor as ourselves.

Montaigne was the first man who raised his voice against torture in
France; a man blessed with so much common sense, that he was the most
uncommon man of the age in which he lived. But what was one voice
against the terrible cry of ignorant millions?—a drowning man in the
wild roar of the infinite sea. It is impossible to read the history of
the long and seemingly hopeless war waged for religious freedom,
without being filled with horror and disgust. Millions of men, women and
children, at least one hundred millions of human beings with hopes and
loves and aspirations like ourselves, have been sacrificed upon the
altar of bigotry. They have perished at the stake, in prisons, by famine
and by sword; they have died wandering, homeless, in deserts, groping
in caves, until their blood cried from the earth for vengeance. But the
principle, gathering strength from their weakness, nourished by blood
and flame, rendered holier still by their sufferings—grander by their
heroism, and immortal by their death, triumphed at last, and is now
acknowledged by the whole civilized world. Enormous as the cost has been
the principle is worth a thousand times as much. There must be freedom
in religion, for without freedom there can be no real religion. And as
for myself I glory in the fact that upon American soil that principle
was first firmly established, and that the Constitution of the United
States was the first of any great nation in which religious toleration
was made one of the fundamental laws of the land. And it is not only
the law of our country but the law is sustained by an enlightened public
opinion. Without liberty there is no religion—no worship. What light
is to the eyes—what air is to the lungs—what love is to the heart,
liberty is to the soul of man. Without liberty, the brain is a dungeon,
where the chained thoughts die with their pinions pressed against the
hingeless doors.

## Witchcraft

THE next fact to which I call your attention is, that during the Middle
Ages the people, the whole people, the learned and the ignorant, the
masters and the slaves, the clergy, the lawyers, doctors and statesmen,
all believed in witchcraft—in the evil eye, and that the devil entered
into people, into animals and even into insects to accomplish his dark
designs. And all the people believed it their solemn duty to thwart the
devil by all means in their power, and they accordingly set themselves
at work hanging and burning everybody suspected of being in league with
the Enemy of mankind. If you grant their premises, you justify their
actions. If these persons had actually entered into partnership with the
devil for the purpose of injuring their neighbors, the people would have
been justified in exterminating them all. And the crime of witchcraft
was proven over and over again in court after court in every town of
Europe. Thousands of people who were charged with being in league with
the devil confessed the crime, gave all the particulars of the bargain,
told just what the devil said and what they replied, and exactly how the
bargain was consummated, admitted in the presence of death, on the very
edge of the grave, when they knew that the confession would confiscate
all their property and leave their children homeless wanderers, and
render their own names infamous after death.

We can account for a man suffering death for what he believes to be
right. He knows that he has the sympathy of all the truly good, and he
hopes that his name will be gratefully remembered in the far future, and
above all, he hopes to win the approval of a just God. But the man who
confessed himself guilty of being a wizard, knew that his memory would
be execrated and expected that his soul would be eternally lost. What
motive could then have induced so many to confess? Strange as it is, I
believe that they actually believed themselves guilty. They considered
their case hopeless; they confessed and died without a prayer. These
things are enough to make one think that sometimes the world becomes
insane and that the earth is a vast asylum without a keeper. I repeat
that I am convinced that the people that confessed themselves guilty
believed that they were so. In the first place, they believed in
witchcraft and that people often were possessed of Satan, and when they
were accused the fright and consternation produced by the accusation, in
connection with their belief, often produced insanity or something
akin to it, and the poor creatures charged with a crime that it was
impossible to disprove, deserted and abhorred by their friends, left
alone with their superstitions and fears, driven to despair, looked upon
death as a blessed relief from a torture that you and I cannot at this
day understand. People were charged with the most impossible crimes.
In the time of James the First, a man was burned in Scotland for having
produced a storm at sea for the purpose of drowning one of the royal
family. A woman was tried before Sir Matthew Hale, one of the most
learned and celebrated lawyers of England, for having caused children to
vomit-crooked pins. She was also charged with nursing demons. Of course
she was found guilty, and the learned Judge charged the jury that there
was no doubt as to the existence of witches, that all history, sacred
and profane, and that the experience of every country proved it beyond
any manner of doubt. And the woman was either hanged or burned for a
crime for which it was impossible for her to be guilty. In those times
they also believed in Lycanthropy—that is, that persons of whom the
devil had taken possession could assume the appearance of wolves.

One instance is related where a man was attacked by what appeared to
be a wolf. He defended himself and succeeded in cutting off one of the
wolf's paws, whereupon the wolf ran and the man picked up the paw and
putting it in his pocket went home. When he took the paw out of his
pocket it had changed to a human hand, and his wife sat in the house
with one of her hands gone and the stump of her arm bleeding. He
denounced his wife as a witch, she confessed the crime and was burned
at the stake. People were burned for causing frosts in the summer, for
destroying crops with hail, for causing cows to become dry, and even for
souring beer. The life of no one was secure, malicious enemies had only
to charge one with witchcraft, prove a few odd sayings and queer actions
to secure the death of their victim. And this belief in witchcraft was
so intense that to express a doubt upon the subject was to be suspected
and probably executed. Believing that animals were also taken possession
of by evil spirits and also believing that if they killed an animal
containing one of the evil spirits that they caused the death of the
spirit, they absolutely tried animals, convicted and executed them. At
Basle, in 1474, a rooster was tried, charged with having laid an egg,
and as rooster eggs were used only in making witch ointment it was a
serious charge, and everyone of course admitted that the devil must have
been the cause, as roosters could not very well lay eggs without some
help. And the egg having been produced in court, the rooster was duly
convicted and he together with his miraculous egg were publicly and with
all due solemnity burned in the public square. So a hog and six pigs
were tried for having killed, and partially eaten a child, the hog was
convicted and executed, but the pigs were acquitted on the ground of
their extreme youth. Asiate as 1740 a cow was absolutely tried on a
charge of being possessed of the devil. Our forefathers used to rid
themselves of rats, leeches, locusts and vermin by pronouncing what they
called a public exorcism.

On some occasions animals were received as witnesses in judicial
proceedings.

The law was in some of the countries of Europe, that if a man's house
was broken into between sunset and sunrise and the owner killed the
intruder, it should be considered justifiable homicide.

But it was also considered that it was just possible that a man living
alone might entice another to his house in the night-time, kill him and
then pretend that his victim was a robber. In order to prevent this,
it was enacted that when a person was killed by a man living alone and
under such circumstances, the solitary householder should not be held
innocent unless he produced in court some animal, a dog or a cat, that
had been an inmate of the house and had witnessed the death of the
person killed. The prisoner was then compelled in the presence of such
animal to make a solemn declaration of his innocence, and if the animal
failed to contradict him, he was declared guiltless,—the law taking it
for granted that the Deity would cause a miraculous manifestation by a
dumb animal, rather than allow a murderer to escape. It was the law
in England that any one convicted of a crime, could appeal to what was
called corsned or morsel of execration. This was a piece of cheese or
bread of about an ounce in weight, which was first consecrated with a
form of exorcism desiring that the Almighty, if the man were guilty,
would cause convulsions and paleness, and that it might stick in his
throat, but that it might if the man were innocent, turn to health and
nourishment. Godwin, the Earl of Kent, during the reign of Edward
the Confessor, appealed to the corsned, which sticking in his throat,
produced death. There were also trials by water and by fire. Persons
were made to handle red hot iron, and if it burned them their guilt was
established; so their hands and feet were tied, and they were thrown
into the water, and if they sank they were pronounced guilty and allowed
to drown. I give these instances to show you what has happened, and what
always will happen, in countries where ignorance prevails, and people
abandon the great standard of reason. And also to show to you that
scarcely any man, however great, can free himself of the superstitions
of his time. Kepler, one of the greatest men of the world, and an
astronomer second to none, although he plucked from the stars the
secrets of the universe, was an astrologer and thought he could predict
the career of any man by finding what star was in the ascendant at his
birth. This infinitely foolish stuff was religiously believed by
him, merely because he had been raised in an atmosphere of boundless
credulity. Tycho Brahe, another astronomer who has been, and is called
the prince of astronomers—not only believed in astrology, but actually
kept an idiot in his service, whose disconnected and meaningless words
he carefully wrote down and then put them together in such a manner as
to make prophecies, and then he patiently and confidently awaited their
fulfillment.

Luther believed that he had actually seen the devil not only, but that
he had had discussions with him upon points of theology. On one occasion
getting excited, he threw an inkstand at his majesty's head, and the ink
stain is still to be seen on the wall where the stand was broken.
The devil I believe, was untouched, he probably having an inkling of
Luther's intention, made a successful dodge.

In the time of Charles the Fifth, Emperor of Germany, Stoefflerer, a
noted mathematician and astronomer, a man of great learning, made an
astronomical calculation according to the great science of astrology
and ascertained that the world was to be visited by another deluge. This
prediction was absolutely believed by the leading men of the empire not
only, but of all Europe. The commissioner general of the army of Charles
the Fifth recommended that a survey be made of the country by competent
men in order to find out the highest land. But as it was uncertain how
high the water would rise this idea was abandoned.

Thousands of people left their homes in low lands, by the rivers and
near the sea and sought the more elevated ground. Immense suffering was
produced. People in some instances abandoned the aged, the sick and the
infirm to the tender mercies of the expected flood, so anxious were they
to reach some place of security.

At Toulouse, in France, the people actually built an ark and stocked it
with provisions, and it was not till long after the day upon which the
flood was to have come, had passed, that the people recovered from their
fright and returned to their homes. About the same time it was currently
reported and believed that a child had been born in Silesia with
a golden tooth. The people were again filled with wonder and
consternation. They were satisfied that some great evil was coming upon
mankind. At last it was solved by some chapter in Daniel wherein is
predicted somebody with a golden head. Such stories would never have
gained credence only for the reason that the supernatural was expected.
Anything in the ordinary course of nature was not worth telling. The
human mind was in chains; it had been deformed by slavery. Reason was a
trembling coward, and every production of the mind was deformed, every
idea was a monster. Almost every law was unjust. Their religion was
nothing more or less than monsters worshiping an imaginary monster.
Science could not, properly speaking, exist. Their histories were the
grossest and most palpable falsehoods, and they filled all Europe with
the most shocking absurdities. The histories were all written by the
monks and bishops, all of whom were intensely superstitious, and equally
dishonest. Everything they did was a pious fraud. They wrote as if
they had been eye-witnesses of every occurrence that they related. They
entertained, and consequently expressed, no doubt as to any particular,
and in case of any difficulty they always had a few miracles ready just
suited for the occasion, and the people never for an instant doubted the
absolute truth of every statement that they made. They wrote the history
of every country of any importance. They related all the past and
present, and predicted nearly all the future, with an ignorant impudence
actually sublime. They traced the order of St. Michael in France back
to the Archangel himself, and alleged that he was the founder of a
chivalric order in heaven itself. They also said that the Tartars
originally came from hell, and that they were called Tartars because
Tartarus was one of the names of perdition. They declared that Scotland
was so called after Scota, a daughter of Pharaoh, who landed in Ireland
and afterward invaded Scotland and took it by force of arms. This
statement was made in a letter addressed to the Pope in the 14th century
and was alluded to as a well-known fact. The letter was written by some
of the highest dignitaries of the church and by direction of the king
himself. Matthew, of Paris, an eminent historian of the 13th century,
gave the world the following piece of valuable information: "It is
well known that Mohammed originally was a Cardinal and became a heretic
because he failed in his design of being elected Pope."

The same gentleman informs us that Mohammed having drank to excess fell
drunk by the roadside, and in that condition was killed by pigs. And
this is the reason, says he, that his followers abhor pork even unto
this day. Another historian of about the same period, tells us that one
of the popes cut off his hand because it had been kissed by an improper
person, and that the hand was still in the Lateran at Rome, where it had
been miraculously preserved from corruption for over five hundred years.
After that occurrence, says he, the Pope's toe was substituted, which
accounts for this practice. He also has the goodness to inform his
readers that Nero was in the habit of vomiting frogs. Some of the
croakers of the present day against progress would, I think, be the
better of such a vomit. The history of Charlemagne was written by Turpin
the Archbishop of Rheims, and received the formal approbation of the
Pope. In this it is asserted that the walls of a city fell down in
answer to prayer; that Charlemagne was opposed by a giant called
Fenacute who was a descendant of the ancient Goliath; that forty men
were sent to attack this giant, and that he took them under his arms
and quietly carried them away. At last Orlando engaged him singly; not
meeting with the success that he anticipated, he changed his tactics and
commenced a theological discussion; warming with his subject he pressed
forward and suddenly stabbed his opponent, inflicting a mortal wound.
After the death of the giant, Charlemagne easily conquered the whole
country and divided it among his sons.

The history of the Britons, written by the Archdeacons of Monmouth and
Oxford, was immensely popular. According to their account, Brutus, a
Roman, conquered England, built London, called the country Britain after
himself. During his time it rained blood for three days. At another
time a monster came from the sea, and after having devoured a great many
common people, finally swallowed the king himself. They say that King
Arthur was not born like ordinary mortals, but was formed by a magical
contrivance made by a wizard. That he was particularly lucky in killing
giants, that he killed one in France who used to eat several people
every day, and that this giant was clothed with garments made entirely
of the beards of kings that he had killed and eaten. To cap the climax,
one of the authors of this book was promoted for having written an
authentic history of his country. Another writer of the 15th century
says that after Ignatius was dead they found impressed upon his heart
the Greek word Theos. In all historical compositions there was an
incredible want of common honesty. The great historian Eusebius
ingenuously remarks that in his history he omitted whatever tended to
discredit the church and magnified whatever conduced to her glory.
The same glorious principle was adhered to by most, if not all, of
the writers of those days. They wrote and the people believed that the
tracks of Pharaoh's chariot wheels, were still impressed upon the sands
of the Red Sea and could not be obliterated either by the winds or
waves.

The next subject to which I call your attention is the wonderful
progress in the mechanical arts. Animals use the weapons nature has
furnished, and those only—the beak, the claw, the tusk, the teeth.
The barbarian uses a club, a stone. As man advances he makes tools with
which to fashion his weapons; he discovers the best material to be used
in their construction. The next thing was to find some power to assist
him—that is to say, the weight of falling water, or the force of the
wind. He then creates a force, so to speak, by changing water to steam,
and with that he impels machines that can do almost everything but
think. You will observe that the ingenuity of man is first exercised in
the construction of weapons. There were splendid Damascus blades when
plowing was done with a crooked stick. There were complete suits of
armor on backs that had never felt a shirt. The world was full of
inventions to destroy life before there were any to prolong it or make
it endurable. Murder was always a science—medicine is not one yet.
Scalping was known and practiced long before Barret discovered the Hair
Regenerator. The destroyers have always been honored. The useful have
always been despised. In ancient times agriculture was known only to
slaves. The low, the ignorant, the contemptible, cultivated the soil. To
work was to be nobody. Mechanics were only one degree above the farmer.
In short, labor was disgraceful. Idleness was the badge of gentle blood.
The fields being poorly cultivated produced but little at the best. Only
a few kinds of crops were raised. The result was frequent famine and
constant suffering. One country could not be supplied from another as
now; the roads were always horrible, and besides all this, every country
was at war with nearly every other. This state of things lasted until a
few years ago.

Let me show you the condition of England at the beginning of the
eighteenth century. At that time London was the most populous capital
in Europe, yet it was dirty, ill built, without any sanitary provisions
whatever. The deaths were one in 23 each year. Now in a much more
crowded population they are not one in forty. Much of the country was
then heath and swamp. Almost within sight of London there was a tract,
twenty-five miles round, almost in a state of nature; there were
but three houses upon it. In the rainy season the roads were almost
impassable. Through gullies filled with mud, carriages were dragged by
oxen. Between places of great importance the roads were little
known, and a principal mode of transport was by pack horses, of which
passengers took advantage by stowing themselves away between the packs.
The usual charge for freight was 30 cents per ton a mile. After a while,
what they were pleased to call flying coaches were established. They
could move from thirty to fifty miles a day. Many persons thought the
risk so great that it was tempting Providence to get into one of them.
The mail bag was carried on horseback at five miles an hour. A penny
post had been established in the city, but many long-headed men, who
knew what they were saying, denounced it as a popish contrivance. Only a
few years before, Parliament had resolved that all pictures in the royal
collection which contained representations of Jesus or the Virgin Mary
should be burned. Greek statues were handed over to Puritan stone masons
to be made decent. Lewis Meggleton had given himself out as the last and
the greatest of the prophets, having power to save or damn. He had also
discovered that God was only six feet high and the sun four miles off.
There were people in England as savage as our Indians. The women, half
naked, would chant some wild measure, while the men would brandish their
dirks and dance. There were thirty-four counties without a printer.
Social discipline was wretched. The master flogged his apprentice, the
pedagogue his scholar, the husband his wife; and I am ashamed to say
that whipping has not been abolished in our schools. It is a relic of
barbarism and should not be tolerated one moment. It is brutal, low and
contemptible. The teacher that administers such punishment is no more
to blame than the parents that allow it. Every gentleman and lady
should use his or her influence to do away with this vile and infamous
practice. In those days public punishments were all brutal. Men and
women were put in the pillory and then pelted with brick-bats, rotten
eggs and dead cats, by the rabble. The whipping-post was then an
institution in England as it is now in the enlightened State of
Delaware. Criminals were drawn and quartered; others were disemboweled
and hung and their bodies suspended in chains to rot in the air. The
houses of the people in the country were huts, thatched with straw.
Anybody who could get fresh meat once a week was considered rich.
Children six years old had to labor. In London the houses were of wood
or plaster, the streets filthy beyond expression, even muddier than
Bloomington is now. After nightfall a passenger went about at his peril,
for chamber windows were opened and slop pails unceremoniously emptied.
There were no lamps in the streets, but plenty of highwaymen and
robbers.

The morals of the people corresponded, as they generally do, to their
physical condition. It is said that the clergy did what they could to
make the people pious, but they could not accomplish much. You cannot
convert a man when he is hungry. He will not accept better doctrines
until he gets better clothes, and he won't have more faith till he gets
more food. Besides this, the clergy were a little below par, so much so
that Queen Elizabeth issued an order that no clergyman should presume
to marry a servant girl without the consent of her master or mistress.
During the same time the condition of France and indeed of all Europe
was even worse than England. What has changed the condition of Great
Britain? More than any and everything else, the inventions of her
mechanics. The old moral method was and always will be a failure. If
you wish to better the condition of a people morally, better them
physically. About the close of the 18th Century, Watt, Arkwright,
Hargreave, Crompton, Cartwright, invented the steam engine, the spring
frame, the jenny, the mule, the power loom, the carding machine and a
hundred other minor inventions, and put it in the power of England to
monopolize the markets of the world. Her machinery soon became equal
to 30,000,000 of men. In a few years the population was doubled and
the wealth quadrupled; and England became the first nation of the world
through her inventors, her merchants, her mechanics, and in spite of
her statesmen, her priests and her nobles. England began to spin for
the world, cotton began to be universally worn, clean shirts began to
be seen. The most cunning spinners of India could make a thread over
100 miles long from one pound of cotton. The machines of England have
produced one over 1000 miles in length from the same quantity. In a
short time Stephenson invented the locomotive. Railroads began to be
built. Fulton gave to the world the steamboat, and commerce became
independent of the winds. There are already railroads enough in
the United States to make a double track around the world. Man has
lengthened his arms. He reaches to every country and takes what he
wants; the world is before him; he helps himself. There can be no more
famine. If there is no food in this country, the boat and the car will
bring it from another.

We can have the luxuries of every climate. A majority of the people now
live better than the king used to do. Poor Solomon with his thousand
wives, and no carpets, his great temple, and no gas light! A thousand
women, and not a pin in the house; no stoves, no cooking range, no
baking powder, no potatoes—think of it! Breakfast without potatoes!
Plenty of wisdom and old saws—but no green corn; never heard of
succotash in his whole life. No clean clothes, no music, if you except a
jew's-harp, no ice water, no skates, no carriages, because there was not
a decent road in all his dominions. Plenty of theology but no tobacco,
no books, no pictures, not a picture in all Palestine, not a piece of
statuary, not a plough that would scour. No tea, no coffee; he never
heard of any place of amusement, never was at a theatre, or a circus.
"Seven up" was then unknown to the world. He couldn't even play
billiards, with all his knowledge, never had an idea of woman's rights,
or universal suffrage; never went to school a day in his life, and cared
no more about the will of the people than Andy Johnson.

The inventors have helped more than any other class to make the world
what it is; the workers and the thinkers, the poor and the grand; labor
and learning, industry and intelligence; Watt and Descartes, Fulton
and Montaigne, Stephenson and Kepler, Crompton and Comte, Franklin and
Voltaire, Morse and Buckle, Draper and Spencer, and hundreds more that I
could mention. The inventors, the workers, the thinkers, the mechanics,
the surgeons, the philosophers—these are the Atlases upon whose
shoulders rests the great fabric of modern civilization.

## Language

IN order to show you that the most abject superstition pervaded every
department of human knowledge, or of ignorance rather, allow me to give
you a few of their ideas upon language. It was universally believed that
all languages could be traced back to the Hebrew; that the Hebrew was
the original language, and every fact inconsistent with that idea was
discarded. In consequence of this belief all efforts to investigate the
science of language were utterly fruitless. After a time, the Hebrew
idea falling into disrepute, other languages claimed the honor of being
the original ones.

Andre Kempe published a work in 1569, on the language of Paradise,
in which he maintained that God spoke to Adam in Swedish; that Adam
answered in Danish and that the serpent (which appears quite probable)
spoke to Eve in French. Erro, in a book published at Madrid, took the
ground that Basque was the language spoken in the Garden of Eden. But in
1580, Goropius published his celebrated work at Antwerp, in which he put
the whole matter at rest by proving that the language spoken in Paradise
was nothing more or less than plain Holland Dutch. The real founder of
the present science of language was a German, Leibnitz—a contemporary
of Sir Isaac Newton. He discarded the idea that all language could be
traced to an original one. That language was, so to speak, a natural
growth. Actual experience teaches us that this must be true. The ancient
sages of Egypt had a vocabulary, according to Bunsen, of only about six
hundred and eighty-five words, exclusive of proper names. The English
language has at least one hundred thousand.

## Geography

IN the 6th century a monk by the name of Cosmas wrote a kind of orthodox
geography and astronomy combined. He pretended that it was all in
accordance with the Bible. According to him, the world was composed,
first, of a flat piece of land and circular; this piece of land was
entirely surrounded by water which was the ocean, and beyond the strip
of water was another circle of land; this outside circle was the land
inhabited by the old world before the flood; Noah crossed the strip of
water and landed on the central piece where we now are; on the outside
land was a high mountain around which the sun and moon revolved; when
the sun was behind the mountain it was night, and when on the side next
us it was day. He also taught that on the outer edge of the outside
circle of land the firmament or sky was fastened, that it was made of
some solid material and turned over the world like an immense kettle.
And it was declared at that time that anyone who believed either more or
less on that subject than that book contained was a heretic and deserved
to be exterminated from the face of the earth. This was authority until
the discovery of America by Columbus. Cosmas said the earth was flat; if
it was round how could men on the other side at the day of judgment see
the coming of the Lord? At the risk of being tiresome, I have said
what I have, to show you the productions of the mind when enslaved—the
consequences of abandoning judgment and reason—the effects of wide
spread ignorance and universal bigotry.

I want to convince you that every wrong is a viper that will sooner or
later strike with poisoned fangs the bosom that nourishes it. You will
ask what has produced this wonderful change in only three hundred
years. You will remember that in those days it was said that all
ghosts vanished at the dawn of day; that the sprites, the spooks,
the hobgoblins and all the monsters of the imagination fled from the
approaching sun. In 1441, printing was invented. In the next century it
became a power, and it has been flooding the world with light from that
time to this. The Press has been the true Prometheus.

It has been, so to speak, the trumpet blown by the Gabriel of Progress,
until, from the graves of ignorance and superstition, the people have
leaped to grand and glorious life, spurning with swift feet the dust of
an infamous past.

When people read, they reason, when they reason they progress. You must
not think that the enemies of progress allowed books to be published
or read when they had the power to prevent it. The whole power of the
church, of the government, was arrayed upon the side of ignorance.
People found in the possession of books were often executed. Printing,
reading and writing were crimes. Anathemas were hurled from the Vatican
against all who dared to publish a word in favor of liberty or the
sacred rights of man. The Inquisition was founded on purpose to crush
out every noble aspiration of the heart. It was a war of darkness
against light, of slavery against liberty, of superstition against
reason. I shall not attempt to recount the horrors and tortures of the
Inquisition. Suffice it to say that they were equal to the most terrible
and vivid pictures even of Hell, and the Inquisitors were even more
horrid fiends than even a real Perdition could boast. But in spite of
priests, in spite of kings, in spite of mitres, in spite of crowns, in
spite of Cardinals and Popes, books were published and books were read.
Beam after beam of light penetrated the darkness. Star after star arose
in the firmament of ignorance. The morning of Freedom began to dawn.
Driven to madness by the prospect of ultimate defeat, the enemies of
light persecuted with redoubled fury.

People were burned for saying that the earth was round, for saying that
the sun was the center of a system. A woman was executed because she
endeavored to allay the pains of a fever by singing. The very name of
Philosopher became a title of proscription, and the slightest offences
were punished by death. About the beginning of the sixteenth century
Luther and Jerome, of Prague, inaugurated the great Reformation in
Germany, Ziska was at work in Hungary, Zwinglius in Switzerland. The
grand work went forward in Denmark, in Sweden and in England. All this
was accomplished as early as 1534. They unmasked the corruption and
withstood the tyranny of the church.

With a zeal amounting to enthusiasm, with a courage that was heroic,
with an energy that never flagged, a determination that brooked no
opposition, with a firmness that defied torture and death, this sublime
band of reformers sprang to the attack. Stronghold after stronghold
was carried, and in a few short but terrible years, the banner of the
Reformation waved in triumph over the bloody ensign of Saint Peter. The
soul roused from the slumbers of a thousand years began to think. When
slaves begin to reason, slavery begins to die. The invention of powder
had released millions from the army, and left them to prosecute the arts
of peace. Industry began to be remunerative and respectable.

Science began to unfold the wings that will finally fill the heavens.
Descartes announced to the world the sublime truth that the Universe is
governed by law.

Commerce began to unfold her wings. People of different countries began
to get acquainted. Christians found that Mohammedan gold was not the
less valuable on account of the doctrines of its owners. Telescopes
began to be pointed toward the stars. The Universe was getting immense.
The Earth was growing small. It was discovered that a man could be
healthy without being a Catholic. Innumerable agencies were at work
dispelling darkness and creating light. The supernatural began to be
abandoned, and mankind endeavored to account for all physical phenomena
by physical laws. The light of reason was irradiating the world, and
from that light, as from the approach of the sun, the ghosts and spectres
of superstition wrapped their sheets around their attenuated bodies and
vanished into thin air. Other inventions rapidly followed. The wonderful
power of steam was made known to the world by Watts and by Fulton.
Neptune was frightened from the sea. The locomotive was given to mankind
by Stephenson; the telegraph by Franklin and Morse. The rush of
the ship, the scream of the locomotive, and the electric flash have
frightened the monsters of ignorance from the world, and have left
nothing above us but the heaven's eternal blue, filled with glittering
planets wheeling through immensity in accordance with _Law_. True
religion is a subordination of the passions and interests to the
perceptions of the intellect. But when religion was considered the
end of life instead of a means of happiness, it overshadowed all other
interests and became the destroyer of mankind. It became a hydra-headed
monster—a serpent reaching in terrible coils from the heavens and
thrusting its thousand fangs into the bleeding, quivering hearts of men.

## Slavery

I HAVE endeavored thus far to show you some of the results produced by
enslaving the human mind. I now call your attention to another terrible
phase of this subject; the enslavement of the body. Slavery is a very
ancient institution, yes, about as ancient as robbery, theft and murder,
and is based upon them all.

Springing from the same fountain, that a man is not the owner of his
soul, is the doctrine that he is not the owner of his body. The two are
always found together, supported by precisely the same arguments, and
attended by the same infamous acts of cruelty. From the earliest
time, slavery has existed in all countries, and among all people until
recently. Pufendorf said that slavery was originally established by
contract. Voltaire replied, "Show me the original contract, and if it is
signed by the party that was to be a slave I will believe you." You
will bear in mind that the slavery of which I am now speaking is white
slavery.

Greeks enslaved one another as well as those captured in war. Coriolanus
scrupled not to make slaves of his own countrymen captured in civil war.

Julius Caesar sold to the highest bidder at onetime fifty-three thousand
prisoners of war all of whom were white. Hannibal exposed to sale thirty
thousand captives at one time, all of whom were Roman citizens. In Rome,
men were sold into bondage in order to pay their debts. In Germany, men
often hazarded their freedom on the throwing of dice. The Barbary States
held white Christians in slavery in this, the 19th century. There were
white slaves in England as late as 1574. There were white slaves in
Scotland until the end of the 18th century.

These Scotch slaves were colliers and salters. They were treated as real
estate and passed with a deed to the mines in which they worked.

It was also the law that no collier could work in any mine except the
one to which he belonged. It was also the law that their children could
follow no other occupation than that of their fathers. This slavery
absolutely existed in Scotland until the beginning of the glorious 19th
century.

Some of the Roman nobles were the owners of as many as twenty thousand
slaves.

The common people of France were in slavery for fourteen hundred years.
They were transferred with land, and women were often seen assisting
cattle to pull the plough, and yet people have the impudence to say that
black slavery is right, because the blacks have always been slaves in
their own country. I answer, so have the whites until very recently. In
the good old days when might was right and when kings and popes stood
by the people, and protected the people, and talked about "holy oil and
divine right," the world was filled with slaves. The traveler standing
amid the ruins of ancient cities and empires, seeing on every side the
fallen pillar and the prostrate wall, asks why did these cities fall,
why did these empires crumble? And the Ghost of the Past, the wisdom of
ages, answers: These temples, these palaces, these cities, the ruins of
which you stand upon were built by tyranny and injustice. The hands that
built them were unpaid. The backs that bore the burdens also bore the
marks of the lash. They were built by slaves to satisfy the vanity and
ambition of thieves and robbers. For these reasons they are dust.

Their civilization was a lie. Their laws merely regulated robbery and
established theft. They bought and sold the bodies and souls of men, and
the mournful winds of desolation, sighing amid their crumbling ruins,
is a voice of prophetic warning to those who would repeat the infamous
experiment. From the ruins of Babylon, of Carthage, of Athens, of
Palmyra, of Thebes, of Rome, and across the great desert, over that sad
and solemn sea of sand, from the land of the pyramids, over the fallen
Sphinx and from the lips of Memnon the same voice, the same warning and
uttering the great truth, that no nation founded upon slavery, either of
body or mind, can stand.

And yet, to-day, there are thousands upon thousands endeavoring to build
the temples and cities and to administer our Government upon the old
plan. They are makers of brick without straw. They are bowing themselves
beneath hods of untempered mortar. They are the babbling builders of
another Babel, a Babel of mud upon a foundation of sand.

Nothwithstanding the experience of antiquity as to the terrible effects
of slavery, bondage was the rule, and liberty the exception, during the
Middle Ages not only, but for ages afterward.

The same causes that led to the liberation of mind also liberated the
body. Free the mind, allow men to write and publish and read, and one by
one the shackles will drop, broken, in the dust. This truth was always
known, and for that reason slaves have never been allowed to read. It
has always been a crime to teach a slave. The intelligent prefer death
to slavery. Education is the most radical abolitionist in the world. To
teach the alphabet is to inaugurate revolution. To build a schoolhouse
is to construct a fort. Every library is an arsenal, and every truth is
a monitor, iron-clad and steel-plated.

Do not think that white slavery was abolished without a struggle. The
men who opposed white slavery were ridiculed, were persecuted, driven
from their homes, mobbed, hanged, tortured and burned. They were
denounced as having only one idea, by men who had none. They were called
fanatics by men who were so insane as to suppose that the laws of a
petty prince were greater than those of the Universe. Crime made faces
at virtue, and honesty was an outcast beggar. In short, I cannot better
describe to you the manner in which the friends of slavery acted at that
time, than by saying that they acted precisely as they used to do in
the United States. White slavery, established by kidnapping and piracy,
sustained by torture and infinite cruelty, was defended to the very
last.

Let me now call your attention to one of the most immediate causes of
the abolition of white slavery in Europe. There were during the Middle
Ages three great classes of people: the common people, the clergy and
the nobility. All these people could, however, be divided into two
classes, namely, the robbed and the robbers. The feudal lords were
jealous of the king, the king afraid of the lords, the clergy always
siding with the stronger party. The common people had only to do the
work, the fighting, and to pay the taxes, as by the law the property of
the nobles was exempt from taxation. The consequence was, in every war
between the nobles and the king, each party endeavored by conciliation
to get the peasants upon their side. When the clergy were on the side
of the king they created dissension between the people and the nobles by
telling them that the nobles were tyrants. When they were on the side of
the nobles they told the people that the king was a tyrant. At last the
people believed both, and the old adage was verified, that when thieves
fall out honest men get their dues.

By virtue of the civil and religious wars of Europe, slavery was
abolished, and the French Revolution, one of the grandest pages in all
history, was, so to speak, the exterminator of white slavery. In that
terrible period the people who had borne the yoke for fourteen hundred
years, rising from the dust, casting their shackles from them, fiercely
avenged their wrongs. A mob of twenty millions driven to desperation,
in the sublimity of despair, in the sacred name of Liberty cried for
vengeance. They reddened the earth with the blood of their masters.
They trampled beneath their feet the great army of human vermin that had
lived upon their labor. They filled the air with the ruins of temples
and thrones, and with bloody hands tore in pieces the altar upon which
their rights had been offered by an impious church. They scorned the
superstitions of the past not only, but they scorned the past; for
the past to them was only wrong, imposition and outrage. The French
Revolution was the inauguration of a new era. The lava of freedom long
buried beneath a mountain of wrong and injustice at last burst forth,
overwhelming the Pompeii and Herculaneum of priestcraft and tyranny. As
soon as white slavery began to decay in Europe, and while the condition
of the white slaves was improving about the middle of the 16th century
in 1541, Alonzo Gonzales, of Portugal, pointed out to his countrymen a
new field of operations, a new market for human flesh, and in a short
time the African slave-trade with all its unspeakable horrors was
inaugurated.

This trade has been the great crime of modern times. It is almost
impossible to conceive that nations who professed to be Christian,
or even in any degree civilized, should have engaged in this infamous
traffic. Yet nearly all of the nations of Europe engaged in the
slave-trade, legalized it, protected it, fostered the practice, and vied
with each other in acts, the bare recital of which is enough to make the
heart stand still.

It has been calculated that for years, at least 400,000 Africans were
either killed or enslaved annually. They crammed their ships so full
of these unfortunate wretches, that, as a general thing, about ten per
cent, died of suffocation on the voyage. They were treated like wild
beasts. In times of danger they were thrown into the sea. Remember that
this horrible traffic commenced in the middle of the 16th century, was
carried on by nations pretending to Christian civilization, and when
do you think it was abolished by some of the principal countries? In
England, Wilberforce and Clarkson dedicated their lives to the abolition
of the slave-trade. They were hated and despised. They persevered for
twenty years, and it was not until the 25th of March, 1808, that
England pronounced the infamous traffic in human flesh illegal, and the
rejoicing in England was redoubled on receiving the news that the United
States had done the same thing. After a time, those engaged in the
slave-trade were declared pirates.

On the 28th day of August, 1833, England abolished slavery throughout
the British Colonies, thus giving liberty to nearly one million slaves.

The United States was then the greatest slave-holding power in the
civilized world.

We are all acquainted with the history of slavery in this country. We
know that it corrupted our people, that it has drenched our land in
fraternal blood, that it has clad our country in mourning for the loss
of 300,000 of her bravest sons; that it carried us back to the darkest
ages of the world, that it led us to the very brink of destruction,
forced us to the shattered gates of eternal ruin, death and
annihilation. But Liberty rising above party prejudice, Freedom lifting
itself above all other considerations,

> "As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
> Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,—
> Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
> Eternal sunshine settles on its head."

And on the 1st day of January, 1863, the grandest New Year that ever
dawned upon this continent, in accordance with the will of the heroic
North, by the sublime act of one whose name will be sacred through all
the coming years, the justice so long delayed was accomplished, and four
millions of slaves became chainless.

## Liberty Triumphed

LIBERTY, that most sacred word, without which all other words are vain,
without which, life is worse than death, and men are beasts! I never see
the word Liberty without seeing a halo of glory around it. It is a word
worthy of the lips of a God. Can you realize the fact that only a
few years ago, the most shocking system of slavery—the most
barbarous—existed in our country, and that you and I were bound by
the laws of the United States to stand between a human being and his
liberty? That we were absolutely compelled by law to hand back that
human being to the lash and chain? That by our laws children were
sold from the arms of mothers, wives sold from their husbands? That we
executed our laws with the assistance of bloodhounds, owned and trained
by human bloodhounds fiercer still, and that all this was not only
upheld by politicians, but by the pretended ministers of Christ?
That the pulpit was in partnership with the auction block—that the
bloodhound's bark was only an echo from many of the churches? And that
this was all done under the sacred name of Liberty, by a republican
government that was founded upon the sublime declaration that all men
are equal? This all seems to me like a horrible dream, a nightmare
of terror, a hellish impossibility. And yet, with cheeks glowing and
burning with shame, before the bar of history, we are forced to plead
guilty to this terrible charge. We made a whip-ping-post of the cross
of Christ. It is true that in a great degree we have atoned for this
national crime. Our bravest and our best have been sacrificed. We have
borne the bloody burden of war. The good and the true have been with us,
and the women of the North have won glory imperishable. They robbed war
of half its terrors. Not content with binding the wreath of victory upon
the leader's brow, they bandaged the soldiers' wounds, they nerved the
living, comforted the dying, and smiled upon the great victory through
their tears.

They have consoled the hero's widow and are educating his orphans. They
have erected a monument to enlightened charity to which time can add
only grandeur. There is much, however, to be accomplished still. Slavery
has been abolished, but Progress requires more. We are called upon to
make this a free government in the broadest sense, to give liberty to
all. Standing in the presence of all history, knowing the experience
of mankind, knowing that the earth is covered with countless wrecks of
cruel failures; appealed to by the great army of martyrs and heroes who
have gone before; by the sacred dust filling innumerable graves; by the
memory of our own noble dead; by all the suffering of the past; by all
the hopes for the future; by all the glorious dead and the countless
millions yet to be, I pray, I beseech, I implore the American people
to lay the foundation of the Government upon the principles of eternal
justice. I pray, I beseech, I implore them to take for the corner-stone,
Universal Human Liberty—the stone which has been heretofore rejected
by all the builders of nations. The Government will then stand, and the
swelling dome of the temple will touch the stars.

## Conclusion

I HAVE thus endeavored to show you some of the effects of slavery, and
to prove to you that a step in order to be in the direction of progress
must be in the direction of freedom; that slavery either of body or mind
is barbarism and is practiced and defended only by infamous tyrants or
their dupes. I have endeavored to point out some of the causes of
the abolition of slavery, both of body and mind. There is one truth,
however, that you must not forget, and that is, that every evil tends
to correct and abolish itself. I believe, however, that the diffusion
of knowledge, more than everything else combined, has ameliorated the
condition of mankind. When there was no freedom of speech and no press,
then every idea perished in the brain that gave it birth. One man could
not profit by the thought of another. The experience of the past was
in a great degree unknown. And this state of things produced the same
effect in the mental world, that confining all the water to the springs
would in the physical. Confine the water to the springs, the rivulets
would cease to murmur, the rivers to flow, and the ocean itself would
become a desert of sand. But with the invention of printing, ideas began
to circulate, born of the busy brain of the million—little rivulets of
facts running into rivers of information, and they all flowing into the
great ocean of human knowledge.

This exchange of ideas, this comparison of thought, has given to each
generation the advantage of all the past. This, more than all else, has
enabled man to improve his condition. It is by this that from the log
or piece of bark on which a naked savage floated, we have by successive
improvements created a man-of-war carrying a hundred guns and miles
of canvas. By these means we have changed a handful of sand into a
telescope. In the hands of science a drop of water has become a giant,
turning with swift and tireless arm the countless wheels. The sun has
become an artist painting with shining beams the very thoughts within
our eyes. The elements have been taught to do our bidding, and the
electric spark, freighted with human thought and love, defies distance,
and devours time as it sweeps under all the waves of the sea.

These are some of the results of free thought and free labor. I have
barely alluded to a few—where is improvement to stop? Science is only
in its infancy. It has accomplished all this and is in its cradle still.

We are standing on the shore of an infinite ocean whose countless waves,
freighted with blessings, are welcoming our adventurous feet. Progress
has been written on every soul. The human race is advancing.

Forward, oh sublime army of progress, forward until law is justice,
forward until ignorance is unknown, forward while there is a spiritual
or temporal throne, forward until superstition is a forgotten dream,
forward until the world is free, forward until human reason, clothed in
the purple of authority, is king of kings.
---
# Superstition
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1898_
To believe in spite of evidence or without evidence. To account for one
mystery by another.

To believe that the world is governed by chance or caprice.

To disregard the true relation between cause and effect.

To put thought, intention and design back of nature.

To believe that mind created and controls matter. To believe in force
apart from substance, or in substance apart from force.

To believe in miracles, spells and charms, in dreams and prophecies.

To believe in the supernatural.

The foundation of superstition is ignorance, the superstructure is faith
and the dome is a vain hope.

Superstition is the child of ignorance and the mother of misery.

In nearly every brain is found some cloud of superstition.

A woman drops a cloth with which she is washing dishes, and she
exclaims: "That means company."

Most people will admit that there is no possible connection between
dropping the cloth and the coming of visitors. The falling cloth could
not have put the visit desire in the minds of people not present, and
how could the cloth produce the desire to visit the particular person
who dropped it? There is no possible connection between the dropping of
the cloth and the anticipated effects.

A man catches a glimpse of the new moon over his left shoulder, and he
says: "This is bad luck."

To see the moon over the right or left shoulder, or not to see it, could
not by any possibility affect the moon, neither could it change the
effect or influence of the moon on any earthly thing. Certainly the
left-shoulder glance could in no way affect the nature of things. All
the facts in nature would remain the same as though the glance had been
over the right shoulder. We see no connection between the left-shoulder
glance and any possible evil effects upon the one who saw the moon in
this way.

A girl counts the leaves of a flower, and she says: "One, he comes; two,
he tarries; three, he courts; four, he marries; five, he goes away."

Of course the flower did not grow, and the number of its leaves was not
determined with reference to the courtship or marriage of this girl,
neither could there have been any intelligence that guided her hand
when she selected that particular flower. So, count' ing the seeds in an
apple cannot in any way determine whether the future of an individual is
to be happy or miserable.

Thousands of persons believe in lucky and unlucky days, numbers, signs
and jewels.

Many people regard Friday as an unlucky day—as a bad day to commence a
journey, to marry, to make any investment. The only reason given is that
Friday is an unlucky day.

Starting across the sea on Friday could have no possible effect upon the
winds, or waves, or tides, any more than starting on any other day, and
the only possible reason for thinking Friday unlucky is the assertion
that it is so.

So it is thought by many that it is dangerous for thirteen people to
dine together. Now, if thirteen is a dangerous number, twenty-six ought
to be twice as dangerous, and fifty-two four times as terrible.

It is said that one of the thirteen will die in a year. Now, there is no
possible relation between the number and the digestion of each, between
the number and the individual diseases. If fourteen dine together there
is greater probability, if we take into account only the number, of a
death within the year, than there would be if only thirteen were at the
table.

Overturning the salt is very unlucky, but spilling the vinegar makes no
difference.

Why salt should be revengeful and vinegar forgiving has never been told.

If the first person who enters a theatre is crosseyed, the audience will
be small and the "run" a failure.

How the peculiarity of the eyes of the first one who enters, changes the
intention of a community, or how the intentions of a community cause
the cross-eyed man to go early, has never been satisfactorily explained.
Between this so-called cause and the so-called effect there is, so far
as we can see, no possible relation.

To wear an opal is bad luck, but rubies bring health. How these stones
affect the future, how they destroy causes and defeat effects, no one
pretends to know.

So, there are thousands of lucky and unlucky tilings, warnings, omens
and prophecies, but all sensible, sane and reasoning human beings know
that every one is an absurd and idiotic superstition.

Let us take another step:

For many centuries it was believed that eclipses of the sun and moon
were prophetic of pestilence or famine, and that comets foretold the
death of kings, or the destruction of nations, the coming of war or
plague. All strange appearances in the heavens—the Northern Lights,
circles about the moon, sun dogs, falling stars—filled our intelligent
ancestors with terror. They fell upon their knees—did their best with
sacrifice and prayer to avoid the threatened disaster. Their faces were
ashen with fear as they closed their eyes and cried to the heavens for
help. The clergy, who were as familiar with God then as the orthodox
preachers are now, knew exactly the meaning of eclipses and sun dogs and
Northern Lights; knew that God's patience was nearly exhausted; that he
was then whetting the sword of his wrath, and that the people could
save themselves only by obeying the priests, by counting their beads and
doubling their subscriptions.

Earthquakes and cyclones filled the coffers of the church. In the midst
of disasters the miser, with trembling hands, opened his purse. In the
gloom of eclipses thieves and robbers divided their booty with God, and
poor, honest, ignorant girls, remembering that they had forgotten to say
a prayer, gave their little earnings to soften the heart of God.

Now we know that all these signs and wonders in the heavens have nothing
to do with the fate of kings, nations or individuals; that they had no
more reference to human beings than to colonies of ants, hives of bees
or the eggs of insects. We now know that the signs and eclipses, the
comets, and the falling stars, would have been just the same if not a
human being had been upon the earth. We know now that eclipses come at
certain times and that their coming can be exactly foretold.

A little while ago the belief was general that there were certain
healing virtues in inanimate things, in the bones of holy men and women,
in the rags that had been tom from the foul clothing of still fouler
saints, in hairs from martyrs, in bits of wood and rusty nails from
the true cross, in the teeth and finger nails of pious men, and in a
thousand other sacred things.

The diseased were cured by kissing a box in which was kept some bone, or
rag, or bit of wood, some holy hairs, provided the kiss was preceded or
followed by a gift—a something for the church.

In some mysterious way the virtue in the bone, or rag, or piece of wood,
crept or flowed from the box, took possession of the sick who had the
necessary faith, and in the name of God drove out the devils who were
the real disease.

This belief in the efficacy of bones or rags and holy hair was born
of another belief—the belief that all diseases were produced by evil
spirits. The insane were supposed to be possessed by devils. Epilepsy
and hysteria were produced by the imps of Satan. In short, every human
affliction was the work of the malicious emissaries of the god of hell.
This belief was almost universal, and even in our time the sacred bones
are believed in by millions of people.

But to-day no intelligent man believes in the existence of devils—no
intelligent man believes that evil spirits cause disease—consequently,
no intelligent person believes that holy bones or rags, sacred hairs or
pieces of wood, can drive disease out, or in any way bring back to the
pallid cheek the rose of health.

Intelligent people now know that the bone of a saint has in it no
greater virtue than the bone of any animal. That a rag from a wandering
beggar is just as good as one from a saint, and that the hair of a horse
will cure disease just as quickly and surely as the hair of a martyr.
We now know that all the sacred relics are religious rubbish; that those
who use them are for the most part dishonest, and that those who rely on
them are almost idiotic.

This belief in amulets and charms, in ghosts and devils, is
superstition, pure and simple.

Our ancestors did not regard these relics as medicine, having a curative
power, but the idea was that evil spirits stood in dread of holy
things—that they fled from the bone of a saint, that they feared a
piece of the true cross, and that when holy water was sprinkled on a man
they immediately left the premises. So, these devils hated and dreaded
the sound of holy bells, the light of sacred tapers, and, above all, the
ever-blessed cross.

In those days the priests were fishers for money, and they used these
relics for bait.

II.

Let us take another step:

This belief in the Devil and evil spirits laid the foundation for
another belief: Witchcraft.

It was believed that the devil had certain things to give in exchange
for a soul. The old man, bowed and broken, could get back his youth—the
rounded form, the brown hair, the leaping heart of life's morning—if he
would sign and seal away his soul. So, it was thought that the malicious
could by charm and spell obtain revenge, that the poor could be
enriched, and that the ambitious could rise to place and power. All the
good things of this life were at the disposal of the Devil. For those
who resisted the temptations of the Evil One, rewards were waiting in
another world, but the Devil rewarded here in this life. No one has
imagination enough to paint the agonies that were endured by reason
of this belief in witchcraft. Think of the families destroyed, of
the fathers and mothers cast in prison, tortured and burned, of the
firesides darkened, of the children murdered, of the old, the poor and
helpless that were stretched on racks mangled and flayed!

Think of the days when superstition and fear were in every house, in
every mind, when accusation was conviction, when assertion of innocence
was regarded as a confession of guilt, and when Christendom was insane!

Now we know that all of these horrors were the result of superstition.
Now we know that ignorance was the mother of all the agonies endured.
Now we know that witches never lived, that human beings never bargained
with any devil, and that our pious savage ancestors were mistaken.

Let us take another step:

Our fathers believed in miracles, in signs and wonders, eclipses and
comets, in the virtues of bones, and in the powers attributed to evil
spirits. All these belonged to the miraculous. The world was
supposed to be full of magic; the spirits were sleight-of-hand
performers—necromancers. There were no natural causes behind events. A
devil wished, and it happened. One who had sold his soul to Satan made
a few motions, uttered some strange words, and the event was present.
Natural causes were not believed in. Delusion and illusion, the
monstrous and miraculous, ruled the world. The foundation was
gone—reason had abdicated. Credulity gave tongues and wings to lies,
while the dumb and limping facts were left behind—were disregarded and
remained untold.

## What is a Miracle

An act performed by a master of nature without reference to the facts in
nature. This is the only honest definition of a miracle.

If a man could make a perfect circle, the diameter of which was exactly
one-half the circumference, that would be a miracle in geometry. If a
man could make twice four, nine, that would be a miracle in mathematics.
If a man could make a stone, falling in the air, pass through a space of
ten feet the first second, twenty-five feet the second second, and five
feet the third second, that would be a miracle in physics. If a man
could put together hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen and produce pure gold,
that would be a miracle in chemistry. If a minister were to prove his
creed, that would be a theological miracle. If Congress by law would
make fifty cents worth of silver worth a dollar, that would be a
financial miracle. To make a square triangle would be a most wonderful
miracle. To cause a mirror to reflect the faces of persons who stand
behind it, instead of those who stand in front, would be a miracle. To
make echo answer a question would be a miracle. In other words, to do
anything contrary to or without regard to the facts in nature is to
perform a miracle.

Now we are convinced of what is called the "uniformity of nature." We
believe that all things act and are acted upon in accordance with
their nature; that under like conditions the results will always be
substantially the same; that like ever has and ever will produce like.
We now believe that events have natural parents and that none die
childless.

Miracles are not simply impossible, but they are unthinkable by any man
capable of thinking.

Now an intelligent man cannot believe that a miracle ever was, or ever
will be, performed.

Ignorance is the soil in which belief in miracles grows.

## Iii

Let us take another step:

While our ancestors filled the darkness with evil spirits, enemies of
mankind, they also believed in the existence of good spirits. These good
spirits sustained the same relation to God that the evil ones did to the
Devil. These good spirits protected the faithful from the temptations
and snares of the Evil One. They took care of those who carried amulets
and charms, of those who repeated prayers and counted beads, of those
who fasted and performed ceremonies. These good spirits would turn aside
the sword and arrow from the breast of the faithful. They made poison
harmless, they protected the credulous, and in a thousand ways defended
and rescued the true believer. They drove doubts from the minds of the
pious, sowed the seeds of credulity and faith, saved saints from the
wiles of women, painted the glories of heaven for those who fasted
and prayed, made it possible for the really good to dispense with the
pleasures of sense and to hate the Devil.

These angels watched over infants who had been baptized, over persons
who had made holy vows, over priests and nuns and wandering beggars who
believed.

These spirits were of various kinds: Some had once been men or women,
some had never lived in this world, and some had been angels from
the commencement. Nobody pretended to know exactly what they were, or
exactly how they looked, or in what way they went from place to place,
or how they affected or controlled the minds of men.

It was believed that the king of all these evil spirits was the Devil,
and that the king of all the good spirits was God. It was also believed
that God was in fact the king of all, and that the Devil himself was one
of the children of this God. This God and this Devil were at war, each
trying to secure the souls of men. God offered the rewards of eternal
joy and threatened eternal pain. The Devil baited his traps with present
pleasure, with the gratification of the senses, with the ecstasies of
love, and laughed at the joys of heaven and the pangs of hell. With
malicious hand he sowed the seeds of doubt—induced men to investigate,
to reason, to call for evidence, to rely upon themselves; planted in
their hearts the love of liberty, assisted them to break their chains,
to escape from their prisons and besought them to think. In this way he
corrupted the children of men.

Our fathers believed that they could by prayer, by sacrifice, by
fasting, by performing certain ceremonies, gain the assistance of this
God and of these good spirits. They were not quite logical. They did
not believe that the Devil was the author of all evil. They thought that
flood and famine, plague and cyclone, earthquake and war, were sometimes
sent by God as punishment for unbelief. They fell upon their knees and
with white lips, prayed the good God to stay his hand. They humbled
themselves, confessed their sins, and filled the heavens with their vows
and cries. With priests and prayers they tried to stay the plague. They
kissed the relics, fell at shrines, besought the Virgin and the saints,
but the prayers all died in the heartless air, and the plague swept on
to its natural end. Our poor fathers knew nothing of any science. Back
of all events they put spirits, good or bad, angels or demons, gods or
devils. To them nothing had what we call a natural cause. Everything was
the work of spirits. All was done by the supernatural, and everything
was done by evil spirits that they could do to ruin, punish, mislead and
damn the children of men. This world was a field of battle, and here the
hosts of heaven and hell waged war.

IV.

Now no man in whose brain the torch of reason bums, no man who
investigates, who really thinks, who is capable of weighing evidence,
believes in signs, in lucky or unlucky days, in lucky or unlucky
numbers. He knows that Fridays and Thursdays are alike; that thirteen
is no more deadly than twelve. He knows that opals affect the wearer the
same as rubies, diamonds or common glass. He knows that the matrimonial
chances of a maiden are not increased or decreased by the number of
leaves of a flower or seeds in an apple. He knows that a glance at the
moon over the left shoulder is as healthful and lucky as one over
the right. He does not care whether the first comer to a theatre is
crosseyed or hump-backed, bow-legged, or as well-proportioned as Apollo.
He knows that a strange cat could be denied asylum without bringing any
misfortune to the family. He knows that an owl does not hoot in the full
of the moon because a distinguished man is about to die. He knows that
comets and eclipses would come if all the folks were dead. He is not
frightened by sun dogs, or the Morning of the North when the glittering
lances pierce the shield of night.

He knows that all these things occur without the slightest reference to
the human race. He feels certain that floods would destroy and cyclones
rend and earthquakes devour; that the stars would shine; that day and
night would still pursue each other around the world; that flowers would
give their perfume to the air, and light would paint the seven-hued arch
upon the dusky bosom of the cloud if every human being was unconscious
dust.

A man of thought and sense does not believe in the existence of the
Devil. He feels certain that imps, goblins, demons and evil spirits
exist only in the imagination of the ignorant and frightened. He knows
how these malevolent myths were made. He knows the part they have played
in all religions. He knows that for many centuries a belief in these
devils, these evil spirits, was substantially universal. He knows that
the priest believed as firmly as the peasant. In those days the best
educated and the most ignorant were equal dupes. Kings and courtiers,
ladies and clowns, soldiers and artists, slaves and convicts, believed
as firmly in the Devil as they did in God.

Back of this belief there is no evidence, and there never has been.
This belief did not rest on any fact. It was supported by mistakes,
exaggerations and lies. The mistakes were natural, the exaggerations
were mostly unconscious and the lies were generally honest. Back of
these mistakes, these exaggerations, these lies, was the love of
the marvelous. Wonder listened with greedy ears, with wide eyes, and
ignorance with open mouth.

The man of sense knows the history of this belief, and he knows, also,
that for many centuries its truth was established by the Holy Bible. He
knows that the Old Testament is filled with allusions to the Devil,
to evil spirits, and that the New Testament is the same. He knows that
Christ himself was a believer in the Devil, in evil spirits, and that
his principal business was casting out devils from the bodies of men and
women. He knows that Christ himself, according to the New Testament, was
not only tempted by the Devil, but was carried by his Satanic Highness
to the top of the temple. If the New Testament is the inspired word of
God, then I admit that these devils, these imps, do actually exist and
that they do take possession of human beings.

To deny the existence of these evil spirits, to deny the existence
of the Devil, is to deny the truth of the New Testament. To deny the
existence of these imps of darkness is to contradict the words of Jesus
Christ. If these devils do not exist, if they do not cause disease,
if they do not tempt and mislead their victims, then Christ was an
ignorant, superstitious man, insane, an impostor, or the New Testament
is not a true record of what he said and what he pretended to do. If we
give up the belief in devils, we must give up the inspiration of the Old
and New Testament. We must give up the divinity of Christ. To deny
the existence of evil spirits is to utterly destroy the foundation of
Christianity. There is no half-way ground. Compromise is impossible. If
all the accounts in the New Testament of casting out devils are false,
what part of the Blessed Book is true?

As a matter of fact, the success of the Devil in the Garden of Eden made
the coming of Christ a necessity, laid the foundation for the atonement,
crucified the Savior and gave us the Trinity.

If the Devil does not exist, the Christian creeds all crumble, and the
superstructure known as "Christianity," built by the fathers, by popes,
by priests and theologians—built with mistakes and falsehoods, with
miracles and wonders, with blood and flame, with lies and legends
borrowed from the savage world, becomes a shapeless ruin.

If we give up the belief in devils and evil spirits, we are compelled
to say that a witch never lived. No sensible human being now believes in
witchcraft. We know that it was a delusion. We now know that thousands
and thousands of innocent men, women and children were tortured and
burned for having been found guilty of an impossible crime, and we also
know, if our minds have not been deformed by faith, that all the books
in which the existence of witches is taught were written by ignorant
and superstitious men. We also know that the Old Testament asserted
the existence of witches. According to that Holy Book, Jehovah was a
believer in witchcraft, and said to his chosen people: "Thou shalt not
suffer a witch to live."

This one commandment—this simple line—demonstrates that Jehovah
was not only not God, but that he was a poor, ignorant, superstitious
savage. This one line proves beyond all possible doubt that the Old
Testament was written by men, by barbarians.

John Wesley was right when he said that to give up a belief in
witchcraft was to give up the Bible.

Give up the Devil, and what can you do with the Book of Job? How will
you account for the lying spirits that Jehovah sent to mislead Ahab?

Ministers who admit that witchcraft is a superstition will read the
story of the Witch of Endor—will read it in a solemn, reverential
voice—with a theological voice—and will have the impudence to say that
they believe it.

It would be delightful to know that angels hover in the air; that they
guard the innocent, protect the good; that they bend over the cradles
and give health and happy dreams to pallid babes; that they fill
dungeons with the light of their presence and give hope to the
imprisoned; that they follow the fallen, the erring, the outcasts, the
friendless, and win them back to virtue, love and joy. But we have no
more evidence of the existence of good spirits than of bad. The angels
that visited Abraham and the mother of Samson are as unreal as the
ghosts and goblins of the Middle Ages. The angel that stopped the
donkey of Balaam, the one who walked in the furnace flames with Meshech,
Shadrack and Abed-nego, the one who slew the Assyrians and the one who
in a dream removed the suspicions of Joseph, were all created by the
imagination of the credulous, by the lovers of the marvelous, and
they have been handed down from dotage to infancy, from ignorance to
ignorance, through all the years. Except in Catholic countries, no
winged citizen of the celestial realm has visited the world for hundreds
of years. Only those who are blind to facts can see these beautiful
creatures, and only those who reach conclusions without the assistance
of evidence can believe in their existence. It is told that the great
Angelo, in decorating a church, painted some angels wearing sandals. A
cardinal looking at the picture said to the artist: "Whoever saw angels
with sandals?" Angelo answered with another question: "Whoever saw an
angel barefooted?"

The existence of angels has never been established. Of course, we know
that millions and millions have believed in seraphim and cherubim; have
believed that the angel Gabriel contended with the Devil for the body
of Moses; that angels shut the mouths of the lions for the protection
of Daniel; that angels ministered unto Christ, and that countless angels
will accompany the Savior when he comes to take possession of the world.
And we know that all these millions believe through blind, unreasoning
faith, holding all evidence and all facts in theological contempt.

But the angels come no more. They bring no balm to any wounded heart.
Long ago they folded their pinions and faded from the earth and air.
These winged guardians no longer protect the innocent; no longer cheer
the suffering; no longer whisper words of comfort to the helpless. They
have become dreams—vanished visions.

V.

In the dear old religious days the earth was flat—a little dishing, if
anything—and just above it was Jehovah's house, and just below it was
where the Devil lived. God and his angels inhabited the third story, the
Devil and his imps the basement, and the human race the second floor.

Then they knew where heaven was. They could almost hear the harps and
hallelujahs. They knew where hell was, and they could almost hear the
groans and smell the sulphurous fumes. They regarded the volcanoes
as chimneys. They were perfectly acquainted with the celestial, the
terrestrial and the infernal. They were quite familiar with the
New Jerusalem, with its golden streets and gates of pearl. Then the
translation of Enoch seemed reasonable enough, and no one doubted
that before the flood the sons of God came down and made love to the
daughters of men. The theologians thought that the builders of Babel
would have succeeded if God had not come down and caused them to forget
the meaning of words.

In those blessed days the priests knew all about heaven and hell.
They knew that God governed the world by hope and fear, by promise and
threat, by reward and punishment. The reward was to be eternal and so
was the punishment. It was not God's plan to develop the human brain, so
that man would perceive and comprehend the right and avoid the wrong.
He taught ignorance nothing but obedience, and for obedience he offered
eternal joy. He loved the submissive—the kneelers and crawlers. He
hated the doubters, the investigators, the thinkers, the philosophers.
For them he created the eternal prison where he could feed forever the
hunger of his hate. He loved the credulous—those who believed without
evidence—and for them he prepared a home in the realm of fadeless
light. He delighted in the company of the questionless.

But where is this heaven, and where is this hell? We now know that
heaven is not just above the clouds and that hell is not just below
the earth. The telescope has done away with the ancient heaven, and
the revolving world has quenched the flames of the ancient hell. These
theological countries, these imagined worlds, have disappeared. No one
knows, and no one pretends to know, where heaven is; and no one knows,
and no one pretends to know, the locality of hell. Now the theologians
say that hell and heaven are not places, but states of mind—conditions.

The belief in gods and devils has been substantially universal. Back of
the good, man placed a god; back of the evil, a devil; back of health,
sunshine and harvest was a good deity; back of disease, misfortune and
death he placed a malicious fiend.

Is there any evidence that gods and devils exist? The evidence of the
existence of a god and of a devil is substantially the same. Both of
these deities are inferences; each one is a perhaps. They have not been
seen—they are invisible—and they have not ventured within the horizon
of the senses. The old lady who said there must be a devil, else how
could they make pictures that looked exactly like him, reasoned like a
trained theologian—like a doctor of divinity.

Now no intelligent man believes in the existence of a devil—no longer
fears the leering fiend. Most people who think have given up a personal
God, a creative deity. They now talk about the "Unknown," the "Infinite
Energy," but they put Jehovah with Jupiter. They regard them both as
broken dolls from the nursery of the past.

The men or women who ask for evidence—who desire to know the
truth—care nothing for signs; nothing for what are called wonders;
nothing for lucky or unlucky jewels, days or numbers; nothing for charms
or amulets; nothing for comets or eclipses, and have no belief in good
or evil spirits, in gods or devils. They place no reliance on general
or special providence—on any power that rescues, protects and saves the
good or punishes the vile and vicious. They do not believe that in the
whole history of mankind a prayer has been answered. They think that all
the sacrifices have been wasted, and that all the incense has ascended
in vain. They do not believe that the world was created and prepared
for man any more than it was created and prepared for insects. They do
not think it probable that whales were invented to supply the Eskimo
with blubber, or that flames were created to attract and destroy moths.
On every hand there seems to be evidence of design—design for the
accomplishment of good, design for the accomplishment of evil. On every
side are the benevolent and malicious—something toiling to preserve,
something laboring to destroy. Everything surrounded by friends and
enemies—by the love that protects, by the hate that kills. Design is as
apparent in decay, as in growth; in failure, as in success; in grief, as
in joy. Nature with one hand building, with one hand tearing down, armed
with sword and shield—slaying and protecting, and protecting but to
slay. All life journeying toward death, and all death hastening back to
life. Everywhere waste and economy, care and negligence.

We watch the flow and ebb of life and death—the great drama that
forever holds the stage, where players act their parts and disappear;
the great drama in which all must act—ignorant and learned, idiotic and
insane—without rehearsal and without the slightest knowledge of a part,
or of any plot or purpose in the play. The scene shifts; some actors
disappear and others come, and again the scene shifts; mystery
everywhere. We try to explain, and the explanation of one fact
contradicts another. Behind each veil removed, another. All things equal
in wonder. One drop of water as wonderful as all the seas; one grain
of sand as all the world; one moth with painted wings as all the things
that live; one egg from which warmth, in darkness, woos to life an
organized and breathing form—a form with sinews, bones and nerves, with
blood and brain, with instincts, passions, thoughts and wants—as all
the stars that wheel in space.

The smallest seed that, wrapped in soil, has dreams of April rains and
days of June, withholds its secret from the wisest men. The wisdom of
the world cannot explain one blade of grass, the faintest motion of
the smallest leaf. And yet theologians, popes, priests, parsons, who
speechless stand before the wonder of the smallest thing that is, know
all about the origin of worlds, know when the beginning was, when the
end will be, know all about the God who with a wish created all, know
what his plan and purpose was, the means he uses and the end he seeks.
To them all mysteries have been revealed, except the mystery of things
that touch the senses of a living man.

But honest men do not pretend to know; they are candid and sincere; they
love the truth; they admit their ignorance, and they say, "We do not
know."

After all, why should we worship our ignorance, why should we kneel to
the Unknown, why should we prostrate ourselves before a guess?

If God exists, how do we know that he is good, that he cares for us? The
Christians say that their God has existed from eternity; that he forever
has been, and forever will be, infinite, wise and good. Could this God
have avoided being God? Could he have avoided being good? Was he wise
and good without his wish or will?

Being from eternity, he was not produced. He was back of all cause. What
he is, he was, and will be, unchanged, unchangeable. He had nothing to
do with the making or developing of his character.

Nothing to do with the development of his mind. What he was, he is. He
has made no progress. What he is, he will be, there can be no change.
Why then, I ask, should we praise him? He could not have been different
from what he was and is. Why should we pray to him? He cannot change.

And yet Christians implore their God not to do wrong.

The meanest thing charged against the Devil is that he leads the
children of men into temptation, and yet, in the Lord's Prayer, God is
insultingly asked not to imitate the king of fiends.

> "Lead us not into temptation."

Why should God demand praise? He is as lie was. He has never learned
anything; has never practiced any self-denial; was never tempted, never
touched by fear or hope, and never had a want. Why should he demand our
praise?

Does anyone know that this God exists; that he ever heard or answered
any prayer? Is it known that he governs the world; that he interferes
in the affairs of men; that he protects the good or punishes the wicked?
Can evidence of this be found in the history of mankind? If God governs
the world, why should we credit him for the good and not charge him with
the evil? To justify this God we must say that good is good and
that evil is also good. If all is done by this God we should make no
distinction between his actions—between the actions of the infinitely
wise, powerful and good. If we thank him for sunshine and harvest
we should also thank him for plague and famine. If we thank him for
liberty, the slave should raise his chained hands in worship and thank
God that he toils unpaid with the lash upon his naked back. If we thank
him for victory we should thank him for defeat.

Only a few days ago our President, by proclamation, thanked God for
giving us the victory at Santiago. He did not thank him for sending the
yellow fever. To be consistent the President should have thanked him
equally for both.

The truth is that good and evil spirits—gods and devils—are beyond the
realm of experience; beyond the horizon of our senses; beyond the limits
of our thoughts; beyond imagination's utmost flight.

Man should think; he should use all his senses; he should examine; he
should reason. The man who cannot think is less than man; the man who
will not think is traitor to himself; the man who fears to think is
superstition's slave.

VI.

What harm does superstition do? What harm in believing in fables, in
legends?

To believe in signs and wonders, in amulets, charms and miracles, in
gods and devils, in heavens and hells, makes the brain an insane
ward, the world a madhouse, takes all certainty from the mind, makes
experience a snare, destroys the kinship of effect and cause—the unity
of nature—and makes man a trembling serf and slave. With this belief a
knowledge of nature sheds no light upon the path to be pursued.
Nature becomes a puppet of the unseen powers. The fairy, called the
supernatural, touches with her wand a fact, it disappears. Causes are
barren of effects, and effects are independent of all natural causes.
Caprice is king. The foundation is gone. The great dome rests on
air. There is no constancy in qualities, relations or results. Reason
abdicates and superstition wears her crown.

The heart hardens and the brain softens.

The energies of man are wasted in a vain effort to secure the protection
of the supernatural. Credulity, ceremony, worship, sacrifice and prayer
take the place of honest work, of investigation, of intellectual effort,
of observation, of experience. Progress becomes impossible.

Superstition is, always lias been, and forever will be, the enemy of
liberty.

Superstition created all the gods and angels, all the devils and ghosts,
all the witches, demons and goblins, gave us all the augurs, soothsayers
and prophets, filled the heavens with signs and wonders, broke the chain
of cause and effect, and wrote the history of man in miracles and lies.
Superstition made all the popes, cardinals, bishops and priests, all
the monks and nuns, the begging friars and the filthy saints, all the
preachers and exhorters, all the "called" and "set apart." Superstition
made men fall upon their knees before beasts and stones, caused them to
worship snakes and trees and insane phantoms of the air, beguiled them
of their gold and toil, and made them shed their children's blood
and give their babes to flames. Superstition built the cathedrals and
temples, all the altars, mosques and churches, filled the world with
amulets and charms, with images and idols, with sacred bones and holy
hairs, with martyrs' blood and rags, with bits, of wood that frighten
devils from the breasts of men. Superstition invented and used the
instruments of torture, flayed men and women alive, loaded millions,
with chains and destroyed hundreds of thousands with fire. Superstition
mistook insanity for inspiration and the ravings of maniacs for
prophesy, for the wisdom of God. Superstition imprisoned the virtuous,
tortured the thoughtful, killed the heroic, put chains on the body,
manacles on the brain, and utterly destroyed the liberty of speech.
Superstition gave us all the prayers and ceremonies; taught all
the kneelings, genuflections and prostrations; taught men to hate
themselves, to despise pleasure, to scar their flesh, to grovel in the
dust, to desert their wives and children, to shun their fellow-men, and
to spend their lives in useless pain and prayer. Superstition taught
that human love is degrading, low and vile; taught that monks are purer
than fathers, that nuns are holier than mothers, that faith is superior
to fact, that credulity leads to heaven, that doubt is the road to hell,
that belief is better than knowledge, and that to ask for evidence is to
insult God. Superstition is, always has been, and forever will be, the
foe of progress, the enemy of education and the assassin of freedom.
It sacrifices the known to the unknown, the present to the future, this
actual world to the shadowy next. It has given us a selfish heaven, and
a hell of infinite revenge; it has filled the world with hatred, war
and crime, with the malice of meekness and the arrogance of humility.
Superstition is the only enemy of science in all the world.

Nations, races, have been destroyed by this monster. For nearly two
thousand years the infallible agent of God has lived in Italy. That
country has been covered with nunneries, monasteries, cathedrals
and temples—filled with all varieties of priests and holy men. For
centuries Italy was enriched with the gold of the faithful. All roads
led to Rome, and these roads were filled with pilgrims bearing gifts,
and yet Italy, in spite of all the prayers, steadily pursued the
downward path, died and was buried, and would at this moment be in
her grave had it not been for Cavour, Mazzini and Garibaldi. For her
poverty, her misery, she is indebted to the holy Catholic Church, to the
infallible agents of God. For the life she has she is indebted to the
enemies of superstition. A few years ago Italy was great enough to
build a monument to Giordano Bruno—Bruno, the victim of the "Triumphant
Beast;"—Bruno, the sublimest of her sons.

Spain was at one time owner of half the earth, and held within her
greedy hands the gold and silver of the world. At that time all nations
were in the darkness of superstition. At that time the world was
governed by priests. Spain clung to her creed. Some nations began to
think, but Spain continued to believe. In some countries, priests lost
power, but not in Spain. The power behind her throne was the cowled
monk. In some countries men began to interest themselves in science, but
not in Spain. Spain told her beads and continued to pray to the Virgin.
Spain was busy-saving her soul. In her zeal she destroyed herself. She
relied on the supernatural; not on knowledge, but superstition. Her
prayers were never answered. The saints were dead. They could not help,
and the Blessed Virgin did not hear. Some countries were in the dawn of
a new day, but Spain gladly remained in the night. With fire and sword
she exterminated the men who thought. Her greatest festival was the
_Auto da Fe_. Other nations grew great while Spain grew small. Day by
day her power waned, but her faith increased. One by one her colonies
were lost, but she kept her creed. She gave her gold to superstition,
her brain to priests, but she faithfully counted her beads. Only a few
days ago, relying on her God and his priests, on charms and amulets, on
holy water and pieces of the true cross, she waged war against the great
Republic. Bishops blessed her armies and sprinkled holy water on
her ships, and yet her armies were defeated and captured, lier ships
battered, beached and burned, and in her helplessness she sued for
peace. But she has her creed; her superstition is not lost. Poor Spain,
wrecked by faith, the victim of religion!

Portugal, slowly dying, growing poorer every day, still clings to the
faith. Her prayers are never answered, but she makes them still. Austria
is nearly gone, a victim of superstition. Germany is traveling toward
the night. God placed her Kaiser on the throne. The people must obey.
Philosophers and scientists fall upon, their knees and become the
puppets of the divinely crowned.

## Vii

The believers in the supernatural, in a power superior to nature, in
God, have what they call "inspired books." These books contain the
absolute truth. They must be believed. He who denies them will be
punished with eternal pain. These books are not addressed to human
reason. They are above reason. They care nothing for what a man calls
"facts." Facts that do not agree with these books are mistakes. These
books are independent of human experience, of human reason.

Our inspired books constitute what we call the "Bible." The man who
reads this inspired book, looking for contradictions, mistakes and
interpolations, imperils the salvation of his soul. While he reads he
has no right to think, no right to reason. To believe is his only duty.

Millions of men have wasted their lives in the study of this book—in
trying to harmonize contradictions and to explain the obscure and
seemingly absurd. In doing this they have justified nearly every crime
and every cruelty. In its follies they have found the profoundest
wisdom. Hundreds of creeds have been constructed from its inspired
passages.

Probably no two of its readers have agreed as to its meaning. Thousands
have studied Hebrew and Greek that they might read the Old and New
Testament in the languages in which they were written. The more they
studied, the more they differed. By the same book they proved that
nearly everybody is to be lost, and that all are to be saved; that
slavery is a divine institution, and that all men should be free; that
polygamy is right, and that no man should have more than one wife; that
the powers that be are ordained of God, and that the people have a right
to overturn and destroy the powers that be; that all the actions of men
were predestined—preordained from eternity, and yet that man is free;
that all the heathen will be lost; that all the heathen will be saved;
that all men who live according to the light of nature will be damned
for their pains; that you must be baptized by sprinkling; that you must
be baptized by immersion; that there is no salvation without baptism;
that baptism is useless; that you must believe in the Trinity; that it
is sufficient to believe in God; that you must believe that a Hebrew
peasant was God; that at the same time he was half man, that he was of
the blood of David through his supposed father Joseph, who was not his
father, and that it is not necessary to believe that Christ was God;
that you must believe that the Holy Ghost proceeded; that it makes no
difference whether you do or not; that you must keep the Sabbath holy;
that Christ taught nothing of the kind; that Christ established a
church; that he established no church; that the dead are to be raised;
that there is to be no resurrection; that Christ is coming again; that
he has made his last visit; that Christ went to hell and preached to the
spirits in prison; that he did nothing of the kind; that all the Jews
are going to perdition; that they are all going to heaven; that all the
miracles described in the Bible were performed; that some of them were
not, because they are foolish, childish and idiotic; that all the Bible
is inspired; that some of the books are not inspired; that there is to
be a general judgment, when the sheep and goats are to be divided; that
there never will be any general judgment; that the sacramental bread and
wine are changed into the flesh and blood of God and the Trinity; that
they are not changed; that God has no flesh or blood; that there is a
place called "purgatory;" that there is no such place; that unbaptized
infants will be lost; that they will be saved; that we must believe the
Apostles' Creed; that the apostles made no creed; that the Holy Ghost
was the father of Christ; that Joseph was his father; that the Holy
Ghost had the form of a dove; that there is no Holy Ghost; that heretics
should be killed; that you must not resist evil; that you should murder
unbelievers; that you must love your enemies; that you should take no
thought for the morrow, but should be diligent in business; that you
should lend to all who ask, and that One who does not provide for his
own household is worse than an infidel.

In defence of all these creeds, all these contradictions, thousands
of volumes have been written, millions of sermons have been preached,
countless swords reddened with blood, and thousands and thousands of
nights made lurid with the faggot's flames.

Hundreds and hundreds of commentators have obscured and darkened the
meaning of the plainest texts, spiritualized dates, names, numbers and
even genealogies. They have degraded the poetic, changed parables to
history, and imagery to stupid and impossible facts. They have wrestled
with rhapsody and prophecy, with visions and dreams, with illusions and
delusions, with myths and miracles, with the blunders of ignorance, the
ravings of insanity and the ecstasy of hysterics. Millions of priests
and preachers have added to the mysteries of the inspired book by
explanation, by showing the wisdom of foolishness, the foolishness of
wisdom, the mercy of cruelty and the probability of the impossible.

The theologians made the Bible a master and the people its slaves. With
this book they destroyed intellectual veracity, the natural manliness
of man. With this book they banished pity from the heart, subverted all
ideas of justice and fairness, imprisoned the soul in the dungeon of
fear and made honest doubt a crime.

Think of what the world has suffered from fear. Think of the millions
who were driven to insanity. Think of the fearful nights—nights filled
with phantoms, with flying, crawling monsters, with hissing serpents
that slowly uncoiled, with vague and formless horrors, with burning and
malicious eyes.

Think of the fear of death, of infinite wrath, of everlasting revenge
in the prisons of fire, of an eternity, of thirst, of endless regret, of
the sobs and sighs, the shrieks and groans of eternal pain!

Think of the hearts hardened, of the hearts broken, of the cruelties
inflicted, of the agonies endured, of the lives darkened.

The inspired Bible has been and is the greatest curse of Christendom,
and will so remain as long as it is held to be inspired.

## Viii

Our God was made by men, sculptured by savages who did the best they
could. They made our God somewhat like themselves, and gave to him their
passions, their ideas of right and wrong.

As man advanced he slowly changed his God—took a little ferocity from
his heart, and put the light of kindness in his eyes. As man progressed
he obtained a wider view, extended the intellectual horizon, and again
he changed his God, making him as nearly perfect as he could, and
yet this God was patterned after those who made him. As man became
civilized, as he became merciful, he began to love justice, and as his
mind expanded his ideal became purer, nobler, and so his God became more
merciful, more loving.

In our day Jehovah has been outgrown. He is no longer the perfect. Now
theologians talk, not about Jehovah, but about a God of love, call him
the Eternal Father and the perpetual friend and providence of man. But,
while they talk about this God of love, cyclones wreck and rend, the
earthquake devours, the flood destroys, the red bolt leaping from the
cloud still crashes the life out of men, and plague and fever still are
tireless reapers in the harvest fields of death.

They tell us now that all is good; that evil is but blessing
in disguise, that pain makes strong and virtuous men—makes
character—while pleasure enfeebles and degrades. If this be so, the
souls in hell should grow to greatness, while those in heaven should
shrink and shrivel.

But we know that good is good. We know that good is not evil, and that
evil is not good. We know that light is not darkness, and that darkness
is not light. But we do not feel that good and evil were planned and
caused by a supernatural God. We regard them both as necessities. We
neither thank nor curse. We know that some evil can be avoided and that
the good can be increased. We know that this can be done by increasing
knowledge, by developing the brain.

As Christians have changed their God, so they have accordingly changed
their Bible. The impossible and absurd, the cruel and the infamous, have
been mostly thrown aside, and thousands are now engaged in trying to
save the inspired word. Of course, the orthodox still cling to every
word, and still insist that every line is true. They are literalists.

To them the Bible means exactly what it says.

They want no explanation. They care nothing for commentators.
Contradictions cannot disturb their faith. They deny that any
contradictions exist. They loyally stand by the sacred text, and they
give it the narrowest possible interpretation. They are like the janitor
of an apartment house who refused to rent a flat to a gentleman because
he said he had children. "But," said the gentleman, "my children are
both married and live in Iowa." "That makes no difference," said the
janitor, "I am not allowed to rent a flat to any man who has children."

All the orthodox churches are obstructions on the highway of progress.
Every orthodox creed is a chain, a dungeon. Every believer in the
"inspired book" is a slave who drives reason from her throne, and in her
stead crowns fear.

Reason is the light, the sun, of the brain. It is the compass of the
mind, the ever-constant Northern Star, the mountain peak that lifts
itself above all clouds.

IX.

There were centuries of darkness when religion had control of
Christendom. Superstition was almost universal. Not one in twenty
thousand could read or write. During these centuries the people lived
with their back to the sunrise, and pursued their way toward the dens of
ignorance and faith. There was no progress, no invention, no discovery.
On every hand cruelty and worship, persecution and prayer. The priests
were the enemies of thought, of investigation. They were the shepherds,
and the people were their sheep and it was their business to guard
the flock from the wolves of thought and doubt. This world was of
no importance compared with the next. This life was to be spent in
preparing for the life to come. The gold and labor of men were wasted in
building cathedrals and in supporting the pious and the useless. During
these Dark Ages of Christianity, as I said before, nothing was invented,
nothing was discovered, calculated to increase the well-being of men.
The energies of Christendom were wasted in the vain effort to obtain
assistance from the supernatural.

For centuries the business of Christians was to wrest from the followers
of Mohammed the empty sepulcher of Christ. Upon the altar of this folly
millions of lives were sacrificed, and yet the soldiers of the impostor
were victorious, and the wretches who carried the banner of Christ were
scattered like leaves before the storm.

There was, I believe, one invention during these ages. It is said that,
in the thirteenth century, Roger Bacon, a Franciscan monk, invented
gunpowder, but this invention was without a fellow. Yet we cannot give
Christianity the credit, because Bacon was an infidel, and was great
enough to say that in all things reason must be the standard. He was
persecuted and imprisoned, as most sensible men were in those blessed
days. The church was triumphant. The sceptre and mitre were in her
hands, and yet her success was the result of force and fraud, and it
carried within itself the seeds of its defeat. The church attempted the
impossible. It endeavored to make the world of one belief; to force all
minds to a common form, and utterly destroy the individuality of man.
To accomplish this it employed every art and artifice that cunning could
suggest It inflicted every cruelty by every means that malice could
invent.

But, in spite of all, a few men began to think.

They became interested in the affairs of this world—in the great
panorama of nature. They began to seek for causes, for the explanations
of phenomena. They were not satisfied with the assertions of the church.
These thinkers withdrew their gaze from the skies and looked at their
own surroundings. They were unspiritual enough to desire comfort here.
They became sensible and secular, worldly and wise.

What was the result? They began to invent, to discover, to find the
relation between facts, the conditions of happiness and the means that
would increase the well-being of their fellow-men.

Movable types were invented, paper was borrowed from the Moors, books
appeared, and it became possible to save the intellectual wealth so that
each generation could hand it to the next. History began to take the
place of legend and rumor. The telescope was invented. The orbits of the
stars were traced, and men became citizens of the universe. The steam
engine was constructed, and now steam, the great slave, does the work
of hundreds of millions of men. The Black Art, the impossible, was
abandoned, and chemistry, the useful, took its place. Astrology became
astronomy. Kepler discovered the three great laws, one of the greatest
triumphs of human genius, and our constellation became a poem, a
symphony. Newton gave us the mathematical expression of the attraction
of gravitation. Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood. He gave
us the fact, and Draper gave us the reason. Steamships conquered the
seas and railways covered the land. Houses and streets were lighted with
gas. Through the invention of matches fire became the companion of
man. The art of photography became known; the sun became an artist.
Telegraphs and cables were invented. The lightning became a carrier of
thought, and the nations became neighbors. Anaesthetics were discovered
and pain was lost in sleep. Surgery became a science. The telephone was
invented—the telephone that carries and deposits in listening ears the
waves of words. The phonograph, that catches and retains in marks and
dots and gives again the echoes of our speech.

Then came electric light that fills the night with day, and all the
wonderful machines that use the subtle force—the same force that leaps
from the summer cloud to ravage and destroy.

The Spectrum Analysis that tells us of the substance of the sun; the
Roentgen rays that change the opaque to the transparent. The
great thinkers demonstrated the indestructibility of force and
matter—demonstrated that the indestructible could not have been
created. The geologist, in rocks and deposits and mountains and
continents, read a little of the story of the world—of its changes, of
the glacial epoch—the story of vegetable and animal life.

The biologists, through the fossil forms of life, established the
antiquity of man and demonstrated the worthlessness of Holy Writ. Then
came evolution, the survival of the fittest and natural selection.
Thousands of mysteries were explained and science wrested the sceptre
from superstition. The cell theory was advanced, and embryology was
studied; the microscope discovered germs of disease and taught us how
to stay the plague. These great theories and discoveries, together with
countless inventions, are the children of intellectual liberty.

X.

After all we know but little. In the darkness of life there are a few
gleams of light. Possibly the dropping of a dishcloth prophesies the
coming of company, but we have no evidence. Possibly it is dangerous for
thirteen to dine together, but we have no evidence. Possibly a maiden's
matrimonial chances are determined by the number of seeds in an apple,
or by the number of leaves on a flower, but we have no evidence.
Possibly certain stones give good luck to the wearer, while the wearing
of others brings loss and death. Possibly a glimpse of the new moon over
the left shoulder brings misfortune. Possibly there are curative virtues
in old bones, in sacred rags and holy hairs, in images and bits of wood,
in rusty nails and dried blood, but the trouble is we have no evidence.
Possibly comets, eclipses and shooting stars foretell the death of
kings, the destruction of nations or the coming of plague. Possibly
devils take possession of the bodies and minds of men. Possibly witches,
with the Devil's help, control the winds, breed storms on sea and land,
fill summer's lap with frosts and snow, and work with charm and spell
against the public weal, but of this we have no evidence. It may be that
all the miracles described in the Old and New Testament were performed;
that the pallid flesh of the dead felt once more the thrill of life;
that the corpse arose and felt upon his smiling lips the kiss of wife
and child. Possibly water was turned into wine, loaves and fishes
increased, and possibly devils were expelled from men and women;
possibly fishes were found with money in their mouths; possibly clay
and spittle brought back the light to sightless eyes, and possibly words
cured disease and made the leper clean, but of this we have no evidence.

Possibly iron floated, rivers divided, waters burst from dry bones,
birds carried food to prophets and angels flourished drawn swords, but
of this we have no evidence.

Possibly Jehovah employed lying spirits to deceive a king, and all the
wonders of the savage world may have happened, but the trouble is there
is no proof.

So there may be a Devil, almost infinite in cunning and power, and he
may have a countless number of imps whose only business is to sow the
seeds of evil and to vex, mislead, capture and imprison in eternal
flames the souls of men. All this, so far as we know, is possible. All
we know is that we have no evidence except the assertions of ignorant
priests.

Possibly there is a place called "hell," where all the devils live—a
hell whose flames are waiting for, all the men who think and have the
courage to express their thoughts, for all who fail to credit priests
and sacred books, for all who walk the path that reason lights, for all
the good and brave who lack credulity and faith—but of this, I am happy
to say, there is no proof.

And so there may be a place called "heaven," the home of God, where
angels float and fly and play on harps and hear with joy the groans and
shrieks of the lost in hell, but of this there is no evidence.

It all rests on dreams and visions of the insane.

There may be a power superior to nature, a power that governs and
directs all things, but the existence of this power has not been
established.

In the presence of the mysteries of life and thought, of force and
substance, of growth and decay, of birth and death, of joy and pain,
of the sufferings of the good, the triumphs of wrong, the intelligent
honest man is compelled to say: "I do not know."

But we do know how gods and devils, heavens and hells, have been made.
We know the history of inspired books—the origin of religions. We know
how the seeds of superstition were planted and what made them grow. We
know that all superstitions, all creeds, all follies and mistakes,
all crimes and cruelties, all virtues, vices, hopes and fears, all
discoveries and inventions, have been naturally produced. By the light
of reason we divide the useful from the hurtful, the false from the
true.

We know the past—the paths that man has traveled—his mistakes, his
triumphs. We know a few facts, a few fragments, and the imagination,
the artist of the mind, with these facts, these fragments, rebuilds the
past, and on the canvas of the future deftly paints the things to be.

We believe in the natural, in the unbroken and unbreakable succession of
causes and effects. We deny the existence of the supernatural. We do not
believe in any God who can be pleased with incense, with kneeling, with
bell-ringing, psalm-singing, bead-counting, fasting or prayer—in any
God who can be flattered by words of faith or fear.

We believe in the natural. We have no fear of devils, ghosts or hells.
We believe that Mahatmas, astral bodies, materializations of spirits,
crystal gazing, seeing the future, telepathy, mind reading and Christian
Science are only cunning frauds, the genuineness of which is established
by the testimony of incompetent, honest witnesses. We believe that
Cunning plates fraud with the gold of honesty, and veneers vice with
virtue.

We know that millions are seeking the impossible—trying to secure
the aid of the supernatural—to solve the problem of life—to guess the
riddle of destiny, and to pluck from the future its secret. We know that
all their efforts are in vain.

We believe in the natural. We believe in home and fireside—in wife
and child and friend—in the realities of this world. We have faith
in facts—in knowledge—in the development of the brain. We throw away
superstition and welcome science. We banish the phantoms, the mistakes
and lies and cling to the truth. We do not enthrone the unknown and
crown our ignorance. We do not stand with our backs to the sun and
mistake our shadow for God.

We do not create a master and thankfully wear his chains. We do not
enslave ourselves. We want no leaders—no followers. Our desire is that
every human being shall be true to himself, to his ideal, unbribed by
promises, careless of threats. We want no tyrant on the earth or in the
air.

We know that superstition has given us delusions and illusions, dreams
and visions, ceremonies and cruelties, faith and fanaticism, beggars
and bigots, persecutions and prayers, theology and torture, piety and
poverty, saints and slaves, miracles and mummeries, disease and death.

We know that science has given us all we have of value. Science is
the only civilizer. It has freed the slave, clothed the naked, fed the
hungry, lengthened life, given us homes and hearths, pictures and books,
ships and railways, telegraphs and cables, engines that tirelessly turn
the countless wheels, and it has destroyed the monsters, the phantoms,
the winged horrors that filled the savage brain.

Science is the real redeemer. It will put honesty above hypocrisy;
mental veracity above all belief. It will teach the religion of
usefulness. It will destroy bigotry in all its forms. It will put
thoughtful doubt above thoughtless faith. It will give us philosophers,
thinkers and savants, instead of priests, theologians and saints. It
will abolish poverty and crime, and greater, grander, nobler than all
else, it will make the whole world free.
---
# The Devil
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1899_
A little while ago I delivered a lecture on "Superstition," in which,
among other things, I said that the Christian world could not deny the
existence of the Devil; that the Devil was really the keystone of the
arch, and that to take him away was to destroy the entire system.

A great many clergymen answered or criticised this statement. Some of
these ministers avowed their belief in the existence of his Satanic
Majesty, while others actually denied his existence; but some, without
stating their own position, said that others believed, not in the
existence of a personal devil, but in the personification of evil, and
that all references to the Devil in the Scriptures could be explained
on the hypothesis that the Devil thus alluded to was simply a
personification of evil.

When I read these answers I thought of this line from Heine: "Christ
rode on an ass, but now asses ride on Christ."

Now, the questions are, first, whether the Devil does really exist;
second, whether the sacred Scriptures teach the existence of the Devil
and of unclean spirits, and third, whether this belief in devils is a
necessary part of what is known as "orthodox Christianity."

Now, where did the idea that a Devil exists come from? How was it
produced?

Fear is an artist—a sculptor—a painter. All tribes and nations, having
suffered, having been the sport and prey of natural phenomena, having
been struck by lightning, poisoned by weeds, overwhelmed by volcanoes,
destroyed by earthquakes, believed in the existence of a Devil, who was
the king—the ruler—of innumerable smaller devils, and all these devils
have been from time immemorial regarded as the enemies of men.

Along the banks of the Ganges wandered the Asuras, the most powerful
of evil spirits. Their business was to war against the Devas—that is
to say, the gods—and at the same time against human beings. There,
too, were the ogres, the Jakshas and many others who killed and devoured
human beings.

The Persians turned this around, and with them the Asuras were good and
the Devas bad. Ormuzd was the good—the god—Ahriman the evil—the devil
—and between the god and the devil was waged a perpetual war. Some of
the Persians thought that the evil would finally triumph, but others
insisted that the good would be the victor.

In Egypt the devil was Set—or, as usually called, Typhon—and the good
god was Osiris. Set and his legions fought against Osiris and against
the human race.

Among the Greeks, the Titans were the enemies of the gods. Ate was the
spirit that tempted, and such was her power that at one time she tempted
and misled the god of gods, even Zeus himself.

These ideas about gods and devils often changed, because in the days of
Socrates a demon was not a devil, but a guardian angel.

We obtain our Devil from the Jews, and they got him from Babylon.
The Jews cultivated the science of Demonology, and at one time it was
believed that there were nine kinds of demons: Beelzebub, prince of the
false gods of the other nations; the Pythian Apollo, prince of liars;
Belial, prince of mischief-makers; Asmodeus, prince of revengeful
devils; Satan, prince of witches and magicians; Meresin, prince of
aerial devils, who caused thunderstorms and plagues; Abaddon, who caused
wars, tumults and combustions; Diabolus, who drives to despair, and
Mammon, prince of the tempters.

It was believed that demons and sorcerers frequently came together and
held what were called "Sabbats;" that is to say, orgies. It was also
known that sorcerers and witches had marks on their bodies that had been
imprinted by the Devil.

Of course these devils were all made by the people, and in these devils
we find the prejudices of their makers. The Europeans always represent
their devils as black, while the Africans believed that theirs were
white.

So, it was believed that people by the aid of the Devil could assume any
shape that they wished. Witches and wizards were changed into wolves,
dogs, cats and serpents. This change to animal form was exceedingly
common.

Within two years, between 1598 and 1600, in one district of France, the
district of Jura, more than six hundred men and women were tried and
convicted before one judge of having changed themselves into wolves, and
all were put to death.

This is only one instance. There are thousands.

There is no time to give the history of this belief in devils. It
has been universal. The consequences have been terrible beyond the
imagination. Millions and millions of men, women and children, of
fathers and mothers, have been sacrificed upon the altar of this
ignorant and idiotic belief.

Of course, the Christians of to-day do not believe that the devils of
the Hindus, Egyptians, Persians or Babylonians existed. They think that
those nations created their own devils, precisely the same as they
did their own gods. But the Christians of to-day admit that for many
centuries Christians did believe in the existence of countless devils;
that the Fathers of the church believed as sincerely in the Devil and
his demons as in God and his angels; that they were just as sure about
hell as heaven.

I admit that people did the best they could to account for what they
saw, for what they experienced. I admit that the devils as well as the
gods were naturally produced—the effect of nature upon the human brain.
The cause of phenomena filled our ancestors not only with wonder, but
with terror. The miraculous, the supernatural, was not only believed in,
but was always expected.

A man walking in the woods at night—just a glimmering of the
moon—everything uncertain and shadowy—sees a monstrous form. One arm
is raised. His blood grows cold, his hair lifts. In the gloom he sees
the eyes of an ogre—eyes that flame with malice. He feels that the
something is approaching. He turns, and with a cry of horror takes to
his heels. He is afraid to look back. Spent, out of breath, shaking
with fear, he reaches his hut and falls at the door. When he regains
consciousness, he tells his story and, of course, the children believe.
When they become men and women they tell father's story of having seen
the Devil to their children, and so the children and grandchildren
not only believe, but think they know, that their father—their
grandfather—actually saw a devil.

An old woman sitting by the fire at night—a storm raging without—hears
the mournful sough of the wind. To her it becomes a voice. Her
imagination is touched, and the voice seems to utter words. Out of these
words she constructs a message or a warning from the unseen world. If
the words are good, she has heard an angel; if they are threatening and
malicious, she has heard a devil. She tells this to her children and
they believe. They say that mother's religion is good enough for them.
A girl suffering from hysteria falls into a trance—has visions of the
infernal world. The priest sprinkles holy water on her pallid face,
saying: "She hath a devil." A man utters a terrible cry; falls to the
ground; foam and blood issue from his mouth; his limbs are convulsed.
The spectators say: "This is the Devil's work."

Through all the ages people have mistaken dreams and visions of fear for
realities. To them the insane were inspired; epileptics were possessed
by devils; apoplexy was the work of an unclean spirit. For many
centuries people believed that they had actually seen the malicious
phantoms of the night, and so thorough was this belief—so vivid—that
they made pictures of them. They knew how they looked. They drew and
chiseled their hoofs, their horns—all their malicious deformities.

Now, I admit that all these monsters were naturally produced. The people
believed that hell was their native land; that the Devil was a king, and
that lie and his imps waged war against the children of men. Curiously
enough some of these devils were made out of degraded gods, and,
naturally enough, many devils were made out of the gods of other
nations. So that frequently the gods of one people were the devils of
another.

In nature there are opposing forces. Some of the forces work for what
man calls good; some for what he calls evil. Back of these forces our
ancestors put will, intelligence and design. They could not believe that
the good and evil came from the same being. So back of the good they put
God; back of the evil, the Devil.

## II. The Atlas of Christianity is the Devil.

The religion known as "Christianity" was invented by God himself to
repair in part the wreck and ruin that had resulted from the Devil's
work.

Take the Devil from the scheme of salvation—from the atonement—from
the dogma of eternal pain—and the foundation is gone.

The Devil is the keystone of the arch.

He inflicted the wounds that Christ came to heal. He corrupted the human
race.

The question now is: Does the Old Testament teach the existence of the
Devil?

If the Old Testament teaches anything, it does teach the existence of
the Devil, of Satan, of the Serpent, of the enemy of God and man, the
deceiver of men and women.

Those who believe the Scriptures are compelled to say that this Devil
was created by God, and that God knew when he created him just what he
would do—the exact measure of his success; knew that he would be a
successful rival; knew that he would deceive and corrupt the children of
men; knew that, by reason of this Devil, countless millions of human
beings would suffer eternal torment in the prison of pain. And this God
also knew when he created the Devil, that he, God, would be compelled to
leave his throne, to be bom a babe in Palestine, and to suffer a cruel
death. All this he knew when he created the Devil. Why did he create
him?

It is no answer to say that this Devil was once an angel of light and
fell from his high estate because he was free. God knew what he would do
with his freedom when he made him and gave him liberty of action, and
as a matter of fact must have made him with the intention that he should
rebel; that he should fall; that he should become a devil; that he
should tempt and corrupt the father and mother of the human race;
that he should make hell a necessity, and that, in consequence of his
creation, countless millions of the children of men would suffer eternal
pain. Why did he create him?

Admit that God is infinitely wise. Has he ingenuity enough to frame an
excuse for the creation of the Devil?

Does the Old Testament teach the existence of a real, living Devil?

The first account of this being is found in Genesis, and in that account
he is called the "Serpent." He is declared to have been more subtle than
any beast of the field. According to the account, this Serpent had a
conversation with Eve, the first woman. We are not told in what language
they conversed, or how they understood each other, as this was the first
time they had met. Where did Eve get her language? Where did the Serpent
get his? Of course, such questions are impudent, but at the same time
they are natural.

The result of this conversation was that Eve ate the forbidden fruit and
induced Adam to do the same. This is what is called the "Fall," and for
this they were expelled from the Garden of Eden.

On account of this, God cursed the earth with weeds and thorns and
brambles, cursed man with toil, made woman a slave, and cursed maternity
with pain and sorrow.

How men—good men—can worship this God; how women—good women—can love
this Jehovah, is beyond my imagination.

In addition to the other curses the Serpent was cursed—condemned to
crawl on his belly and to eat dust. We do not know by what means, before
that time, he moved from place to place—whether he walked or flew;
neither do we know on what food he lived; all we know is that after that
time he crawled and lived on dust. Jehovah told him that this he should
do all the days of his life. It would seem from this that the Serpent
was not at that time immortal—that there was somewhere in the future a
milepost at which the life of this Serpent stopped. Whether he is living
yet or not, I am not certain.

It will not do to say that this is allegory, or a poem, because this
proves too much. If the Serpent did not in fact exist, how do we know
that Adam and Eve existed? Is all that is said about God allegory, and
poetic, or mythical? Is the whole account, after all, an ignorant dream?

Neither will it do to say that the Devil—the Serpent—was a
personification of evil. Do personifications of evil talk? Can a
personification of evil crawl on its belly? Can a personification of
evil eat dust? If we say that the Devil was a personification of
evil, are we not at the same time compelled to say that Jehovah was a
personification of good; that the Garden of Eden was the personification
of a place, and that the whole story is a personification of something
that did not happen? Maybe that Adam and Eve were not driven out of the
Garden; they may have suffered only the personification of exile. And
maybe the cherubim placed at the gate of Eden, with flaming swords, were
only personifications of policemen.

There is no escape. If the Old Testament is true, the Devil does exist,
and it is impossible to explain him away without at the same time
explaining God away.

So there are many references to devils, and spirits of divination and of
evil which I have not the time to call attention to; but, in the Book of
Job, Satan, the Devil has a conversation with God. It is this Devil that
brings the sorrows and losses on the upright man. It is this Devil that
raises the storm that wrecks the homes of Job's children. It is this
Devil that kills the children of Job. Take this Devil from that book,
and all meaning, plot and purpose fade away.

Is it possible to say that the Devil in Job was only a personification
of evil?

In Chronicles we are told that Satan provoked David to number Israel.
For this act of David, caused by the Devil, God did not smite the Devil,
did not punish David, but he killed 70,000 poor innocent Jews who had
done nothing but stand up and be counted.

Was this Devil who tempted David a personification of evil, or was
Jehovah a personification of the devilish?

In Zachariah we are told that Joshua stood before the angel of the Lord,
and that Satan stood at his right hand to resist him, and that the Lord
rebuked Satan.

If words convey any meaning, the Old Testament teaches the existence of
the Devil.

All the passages about witches and those having familiar spirits were
born of a belief in the Devil.

When a man who loved Jehovah wanted revenge on his enemy he fell on his
holy knees, and from a heart full of religion he cried: "Let Satan stand
at his right hand."

## III. Take the Devil from the Drama of Christianity and the Plot is Gone.

The next question is: Does the New Testament teach the existence of the
Devil?

As a matter of fact, the New Testament is far more explicit than the
Old. The Jews, believing that Jehovah was God, had very little business
for a devil. Jehovah was wicked enough and malicious enough to take the
Devil's place.

The first reference in the New Testament to the Devil is in the fourth
chapter of Matthew. We are told that Jesus was led by the Spirit into
the wilderness to be tempted of the Devil.

It seems that he was not led by the Devil into the wilderness, but by
the Spirit; that the Spirit and the Devil were acting together in a kind
of pious conspiracy.

In the wilderness Jesus fasted forty days, and then the Devil asked him
to turn stones into bread. The Devil also took him to Jerusalem and set
him on a pinnacle of the temple, and tried to induce him to leap to the
earth. The Devil also took him to the top of a mountain and showed him
all the kingdoms of the world and offered them all to him in exchange
for his worship. Jesus refused. The Devil went away and angels came and
ministered to Christ.

Now, the question is: Did the author of this account believe in the
existence of the Devil, or did he regard this Devil as a personification
of evil, and did he intend that his account should be understood as an
allegory, or as a poem, or as a myth.

Was Jesus tempted? If he was tempted, who tempted him? Did anybody offer
him the kingdoms of the world?

Did the writer of the account try to convey to the reader the thought
that Christ was tempted by the Devil?

If Christ was not tempted by the Devil, then the temptation was bom in
his own heart. If that be true, can it be said that he was divine? If
these adders, these vipers, were coiled in his bosom, was he the son of
God? Was he pure?

In the same chapter we are told that Christ healed "those which were
possessed of devils, and those which were lunatic, and those that had
the palsy." From this it is evident that a distinction was made between
those possessed with devils and those whose minds were affected and
those who were afflicted with diseases.

In the eighth chapter we are told that people brought unto Christ many
that were possessed with devils, and that he cast out the spirits
with his word. Now, can we say that these people were possessed with
personifications of evil, and that these personifications of evil were
cast out? Are these personifications entities? Have they form and shape?
Do they occupy space?

Then comes the story of the two men possessed with devils who came from
the tombs, and were exceeding fierce. It is said that when they saw
Jesus they cried out: "What have we to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of
God? Art thou come hither to torment us before the time?"

If these were simply personifications of evil, how did they know that
Jesus was the Son of God, and how can a personification of evil be
tormented?

We are told that at the same time, a good way off, many swine were
feeding, and that the devils besought Christ, saying: "If thou cast
us out, suffer us to go away into the herd of swine." And he said unto
them: "Go."

Is it possible that personifications of evil would desire to enter the
bodies of swine, and is it possible that it was necessary for them
to have the consent of Christ before they could enter the swine? The
question naturally arises: How did they enter into the body of the man?
Did they do that without Christ's consent, and is it a fact that Christ
protects swine and neglects human beings? Can personifications have
desires?

In the ninth chapter of Matthew there was a dumb man brought to Jesus,
possessed with a devil. Jesus cast out the devil and the dumb man spake.

Did a personification of evil prevent the dumb man from talking? Did it
in some way paralyze his organs of speech? Could it have done this had
it only been a personification of evil?

In the tenth chapter Jesus gives his twelve disciples power to cast
out unclean spirits. What were unclean spirits supposed to be? Did they
really exist? Were they shadows, impersonations, allegories?

When Jesus sent his disciples forth on the great mission to convert the
world, among other things he told them to heal the sick, to raise the
dead and to cast out devils. Here a distinction is made between the sick
and those who were possessed by evil spirits.

Now, what did Christ mean by devils?

In the twelfth chapter we are told of a very remarkable case. There was
brought unto Jesus one possessed with a devil, blind and dumb, and
Jesus healed him. The blind and dumb both spake and saw. Thereupon the
Pharisees said: "This fellow doth not cast out devils but by Beelzebub,
the prince of devils."

Jesus answered by saying: "Every kingdom divided against itself is
brought to desolation. If Satan cast out Satan, he is divided against
himself."

Why did not Christ tell the Pharisees that he did not cast
out devils—only personifications of evil; and that with these
personifications Beelzebub had nothing to do?

Another question: Did the Pharisees believe in the existence of devils,
or had they the personification idea?

At the same time Christ said: "If I cast out devils by the Spirit of
God, then the kingdom of God is come unto you."

If he meant anything by these words he certainly intended to convey
the idea that what he did demonstrated the superiority of God over the
Devil.

Did Christ believe in the existence of the Devil?

In the fifteenth chapter is the account of the woman of Canaan who cried
unto Jesus, saying: "Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David. My
daughter is sorely vexed with a devil." On account of her faith Christ
made the daughter whole.

In the sixteenth chapter a man brought his son to Jesus. The boy was
a lunatic, sore vexed, oftentimes falling in the fire and water. The
disciples had tried to cure him and had failed. Jesus rebuked the devil,
and the devil departed out of him and the boy was cured. Was the devil
in this case a personification of evil?

The disciples then asked Jesus why they could not cast that devil out.
Jesus told them that it was because of their unbelief, and then added:
"Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting." From this
it would seem that some personifications were easier to expel than
others.

The first chapter of Mark throws a little light on the story of the
temptation of Christ. Matthew tells us that Jesus was led up of the
Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the Devil. In Mark we are
told who this Spirit was:

"And straightway coming up out of the water he saw the heavens opened,
and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him.

"And there came a voice from heaven, saying: 'Thou art my beloved Son,
in whom I am well pleased.'

"And immediately the Spirit driveth him into the wilderness."

Why the Holy Ghost should hand Christ over to the tender mercies of
the Devil is not explained. And it is all the more wonderful when we
remember that the Holy Ghost was the third person in the Trinity and
Christ the second, and that this Holy Ghost was, in fact, God, and that
Christ also was, in fact, God, so that God led God into the wilderness
to be tempted of the Devil.

We are told that Christ was in the wilderness forty days tempted of
Satan, and was with the wild beasts, and that the angels ministered unto
him.

Were these angels real angels, or were they personifications of good, of
comfort?

So we see that the same Spirit that came out of heaven, the same Spirit
that said "This is my beloved son," drove Christ into the wilderness to
be tempted of Satan.

Was this Devil a real being? Was this Spirit who claimed to be the
father of Christ a real being, or was he a personification? Are the
heavens a real place? Are they a personification? Did the wild beasts
live and did the angels minister unto Christ? In other words, is the
story true, or is it poetry, or metaphor, or mistake, or falsehood?

It might be asked: Why did God wish to be tempted by the Devil? Was God
ambitious to obtain a victory over Satan? Was Satan foolish enough
to think that he could mislead God, and is it possible that the Devil
offered to give the world as a bribe to its creator and owner, knowing
at the same time that Christ was the creator and owner, and also knowing
that he (Christ) knew that he (the Devil) knew that he (Christ) was the
creator and owner?

Is not the whole story absurdly idiotic? The Devil knew that Christ was
God, and knew that Christ knew that the tempter was the Devil.

It may be asked how I know that the Devil knew that Christ was God. My
answer is found in the same chapter. There is an account of what a devil
said to Christ:

"Let us alone. What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth?
Art thou come to destroy us? I know thee. Thou art the holy one of God."
Certainly, if the little devils knew this, the Devil himself must have
had like information. Jesus rebuked this devil and said to him: "Hold
thy peace, and come out of him." And when the unclean spirit had torn
him and cried with a loud voice, he came out of him.

So we are told that Jesus cast out many devils, and suffered not the
devils to speak because they knew him. So it is said in the third
chapter that "unclean spirits, when they saw him, fell down before him
and cried, saying, 'Thou art the son of God.'"

In the fifth chapter is an account of casting out the devils that
went into the swine, and we are told that "all the devils besought him
saying, 'Send us into the swine.' And Jesus gave them leave."

Again I ask: Was it necessary for the devils to get the permission of
Christ before they could enter swine? Again I ask: By whose permission
did they enter into the man?

Could personifications of evil enter a herd of swine, or could
personifications of evil make a bargain with Christ?

In the sixth chapter we are told that the disciples "cast out many
devils and anointed with oil many that were sick." Here again the
distinction is made between those possessed by devils and those
afflicted by disease. It will not do to say that the devils were
diseases or personifications.

In the seventh chapter a Greek woman whose daughter was possessed by a
devil besought Christ to cast this devil out. At last Christ said: "The
devil is gone out of thy daughter."

In the ninth chapter one of the multitude said unto Christ: "I have
brought unto thee my son which hath a dumb spirit. I spoke unto thy
disciples that they should cast him out, and they could not."

So they brought this boy before Christ, and when the boy saw him, the
spirit tare him, and he fell on the ground and "wallowed, foaming."

Christ asked the father: "How long is it ago since this came unto him?"
And he answered: "Of a child, and ofttimes it hath cast him into the
fire and into the waters to destroy him."

Then Christ said: "Thou dumb and deaf spirit, I charge thee, come out of
him, and enter no more into him."

"And the spirit cried, and rent him sore, and came out of him; and he
was as one dead; insomuch that many said, 'He is dead.'"

Then the disciples asked Jesus why they could not cast them out, and
Jesus said: "This kind can come forth by nothing but by prayer and
fasting."

Is there any doubt about the belief of the man who wrote this account?
Is there any allegory, or poetry, or myth in this story? The devil, in
this case, was not an ordinary, every-day devil. He was dumb and deaf;
it was no use to order him out, because he could not hear. The only way
was to pray and fast.

Is there such a thing as a dumb and deaf devil? If so, the devils must
be organized. They must have ears and organs of speech, and they must
be dumb because there is something the matter with the apparatus of
speaking, and they must be deaf because something is the matter with
their ears. It would seem from this that they are not simply spiritual
beings, but organized on a physical basis. Now, we know that the ears do
not hear. It is the brain that hears. So these devils must have brains;
that is to say, they must have been what we call "organized beings."

Now, it is hardly possible that personifications of evil are dumb or
deaf. That is to say, that they have physical imperfections.

In the same chapter John tells Christ that he saw one casting out devils
in Christ's name who did not follow with them, and Jesus said: "Forbid
him not."

By this he seemed to admit that some one, not a follower of his, was
casting out devils in his name, and he was willing that he should go on,
because, as he said: "For there is no man which shall do a miracle in my
name that can lightly speak evil of me." In the fourth chapter of Luke
the story of the temptation of Christ by the Devil is again told with a
few additions. All the writers, having been inspired, did not remember
exactly the same things.

Luke tells us that the Devil said unto Christ, having shown him all the
kingdoms of the world in a moment of time: "All this power will I
give thee and the glory of them, for that is delivered unto me, and
to whomsoever I will I give it. If thou wilt worship me, all shall be
thine."

We are also told that when the Devil had ended all the temptation he
departed from him for a season. The date of his return is not given.

In the same chapter we are told that a man in the synagogue had a
"spirit of an unclean devil." This devil recognized Jesus and admitted
that he was the Holy One of God.

As a matter of fact, the apostles seemed to have relied upon the
evidence of devils to substantiate the divinity of their Lord.

Jesus said to this devil: "Hold thy peace and come out of him." And the
devil, after throwing the man down, came out.

In the forty-first verse of the same chapter it is said: "And devils
also came out of many, crying out and saying, 'Thou art Christ, the Son
of God.'"

It is also said that Christ rebuked them and suffered them not to speak,
for they knew that he was Christ.

Now, it will not do to say that these devils were diseases, because
diseases could not talk, and diseases would not recognize Christ as the
Son of God. After all, epilepsy is not a theologian. I admit that lunacy
comes nearer.

In the eighth chapter is told again the story of the devils and the
swine. In this account, Jesus asked the devil his name, and the devil
replied "Legion." In the ninth chapter is told the story of the devil
that the disciples could not cast out, but was cast out by Christ, and
in the thirteenth chapter it is said that the Pharisees came to Jesus,
telling him to go away, because Herod would kill him, and Jesus said
unto these Pharisees; "Go ye, and tell that fox, behold, I cast out
devils."

What did he mean by this? Did he mean that he cured diseases? No.
Because in the same sentence he says, "And I do cures to-day," making a
distinction between devils and diseases.

In the twenty-second chapter an account of the betrayal of Christ by
Judas is given in these words:

"Then entered Satan into Judas Iscariot, being of the number of the
twelve."

"And he went his way and communed with the chief priests and captains
how he might betray him unto them.

"And they were glad, and covenanted to give him money."

According to Christ the little devils knew that he was the Son of God.
Certainly, then, Satan, king of all the fiends, knew that Christ was
divine. And he not only knew that, but he knew all about the scheme of
salvation. He knew that Christ wished to make an atonement of blood by
the sacrifice of himself.

According to Christian theologians, the Devil has always done his utmost
to gain possession of the souls of men. At the time he entered into
Judas, persuading him to betray Christ, he knew that if Christ was
betrayed he would be crucified, and that he would make an atonement for
all believers, and that, as a result, he, the Devil, would lose all the
souls that Christ gained.

What interest had the Devil in defeating himself? If he could have
prevented the betrayal, then Christ would not have been crucified. No
atonement would have been made, and the whole world would have gone to
hell. The success of the Devil would have been complete. But, according
to this story, the Devil outwitted himself.

How thankful we should be to his Satanic Majesty. He opened for us the
gates of Paradise and made it possible for us to obtain eternal life.
Without Satan, without Judas, not a single human being could have become
an angel of light. All would have been wingless devils in the prison
of flame. In Jerusalem, to the extent of his power, Satan repaired the
wreck and ruin he had wrought in the Garden of Eden.

Certainly the writers of the New Testament believed in the existence of
the Devil.

In the eighth chapter it is said that out of Mary Magdalene were cast
seven devils. To me Mary Magdalene is the most beautiful character in
the New Testament. She is the one true disciple. In the darkness of
the crucifixion she lingered near. She was the first at the sepulcher.
Defeat, disaster, disgrace, could not conquer her love. And yet,
according to the account, when she met the risen Christ, he said: "Touch
me not." This was the reward of her infinite devotion.

In the Gospel of John we are told that John the Baptist said that he saw
the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and that it abode upon
Christ. But in the Gospel of John nothing is said about the Spirit
driving Christ into the wilderness to be tempted by the Devil. Possibly
John never heard of that, or forgot it, or did not believe it. But in
the thirteenth chapter I find this:

"And supper being ended, the Devil having now put into the heart of
Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, to betray him."...

In John there are no accounts of the casting out of devils by Christ or
his apostles. On that subject there is no word. Possibly John had his
doubts.

In the fifth chapter of Acts we are told that the people brought the
sick and those which were vexed with unclean spirits to the apostles,
and the apostles healed them. Here again there is made a clear
distinction between the sick and those possessed by devils. And in the
eighth chapter we are told that "unclean spirits, crying with a loud
voice, came out of them."

In the thirteen chapter Paul calls Elymas the child of the Devil, and in
the sixteenth chapter an account is given of "a damsel possessed with a
spirit of divination, who brought her masters much gain by soothsaying."

Paul and Silas, it would seem, cast out this spirit, and by reason of
that suffered great persecution.

In the nineteenth chapter certain vagabond Jews pronounced over those
who had evil spirits the name of Jesus, and the evil spirits answered:
"Jesus I know, and Paul I know, but who are ye?"

"And the man in whom the evil spirit was leaped on them so that they
fled naked and wounded."

Paul, writing to the Corinthians, in the eighth chapter says; "I would
not that ye should have fellowship with devils. Ye cannot drink the cup
of the Lord and the cup of devils. Ye cannot be partakers of the Lord's
table and the table of devils. Do we provoke the Lord to jealousy?"

In the eleventh chapter he says that long hair is the glory of woman,
but that she ought to keep her head covered because of the angels.

In those intellectual days people believed in what were called the
Incubi and the Succubi. The Incubi were male angels and the Succubi
were female angels, and according to the belief of that time nothing so
attracted the Incubi as the beautiful hair of women, and for this reason
Paul said that women should keep their heads covered. Paul calls the
Devil the "prince of the power of the air."

So in Jude we are told "that Michael, the archangel, when contending
with the devil he disputed about the body of Moses, durst not bring
against him a railing accusation, but said, 'The Lord rebuke thee.'" Was
this devil with whom Michael contended a personification of evil, or a
poem, or a myth?

In First Peter we are told to be sober, vigilant, "because your
adversary, the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he
may devour."

Are people devoured by personifications or myths? Has an allegory an
appetite, or is a poem a cannibal?

So in Ephesians we are warned not to give place to the Devil, and in the
same book we are told: "Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be
able to stand against the wiles of the Devil."

And in Hebrews it is said that "him that had the power of death—that
is, the Devil;" showing that the Devil has the power of death.

And in James it is said that if we resist the Devil he will flee from
us; and in First John we are told that he that committeth sin is of the
Devil, for the reason that the Devil sinneth from the beginning; and we
are also told that "for this purpose was the Son of God manifested, that
he may destroy the works of the Devil."

No Devil—no Christ.

In Revelation, the insanest of all books, I find the following: "And
there was war in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the
dragon, and the dragon fought and his angels.

"And prevailed not; neither was their place found any more in heaven.

"And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil,
and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the
earth, and his angels were cast out with him.

"Therefore, rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the
inhabiters of the earth and of the sea; for the devil is come down unto
you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short
time."

From this it would appear that the Devil once lived in heaven, raised
a rebellion, was defeated and cast out, and the inspired writer
congratulates the angels that they are rid of him and commiserates us
that we have him.

In the twentieth chapter of Revelation is the following:

"And I saw an angel come down from heaven, having the key of the
bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand.

"And he laid Hold on the dragon—that old serpent, which is the Devil
and Satan—and bound him a thousand years.

"And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal
upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more till the thousand
years should be fulfilled; and after he must be loosed a little season."

It is hard to understand how one could be confined in a pit without a
bottom, and how a chain of iron could hold one in eternal fire, or what
use there would be to lock a bottomless pit; but these are questions
probably suggested by the Devil.

We are further told that "when the thousand years are expired Satan
shall be loosed out of his prison."

"And the Devil was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone where the
beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night
forever."

In the light of the passages that I have read we can clearly see what
the writers of the New Testament believed. About this there can be
no honest difference. If the gospels teach the existence of God—of
Christ—they teach the existence of the Devil. If the Devil does
not exist—if little devils do not enter the bodies of men—the New
Testament may be inspired, but it is not true.

The early Christians proved that Christ was divine because he cast out
devils. The evidence they offered was more absurd than the statement
they sought to prove. They were like the old man who said that he saw
a grindstone floating down the river. Some one said that a grindstone
would not float. "Ah," said the old man, "but the one I saw had an iron
crank in it."

Of course, I do not blame the authors of the gospels. They lived in' a
superstitious age, at a time when Rumor was the historian, when Gossip
corrected the "proof," and when everything was believed except the
facts.

The apostles, like their fellows, believed in miracles and magic.
Credulity was regarded as a virtue.

The Rev. Mr. Parkhurst denounces the apostles as worthless cravens.
Certainly I do not agree with him. I think that they were good men. I do
not believe that any one of them ever tried to reform Jerusalem on the
Parkhurst plan. I admit that they honestly believed in devils—that they
were credulous and superstitious.

There is one story in the New Testament that illustrates my meaning.

In the fifth chapter of John is the following:

"Now, there is at Jerusalem, by the sheep market, a pool, which is
called in the Hebrew tongue 'Bethesda,' having five porches.

"In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk—of blind, halt,
withered—waiting for the moving of the water.

"For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool and troubled
the water: whosoever then first after the troubling of the water stepped
in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.

"And a certain man was there which had an infirmity thirty and eight
years.

"When Jesus saw him he and knew that he had been now a long time in that
case, he saith unto him: 'Wilt thou be made whole??'

"The impotent man answered him: 'Sir, I have no man when the water is
troubled to put me into the pool; but while I am coming another steppeth
down before me.'

"Jesus saith unto him: 'Rise, take up thy bed and walk.'

"And immediately the man was made whole and took up his bed and walked."

Does any sensible human being now believe this story? Was the water of
Bethesda troubled by an angel? Where did the angel come from? Where do
angels live? Did the angel put medicine in the water—just enough to
cure one? Did he put in different medicines for different diseases, or
did he have a medicine, like those that are patented now, that cured all
diseases just the same?

Was the water troubled by an angel? Possibly, what apostles and
theologians call an angel a scientist knows as carbonic acid gas.

John does not say that the people thought the water was troubled by an
angel, but he states it as a fact. And he tells us, also, as a fact,
that the first invalid that got in the water after it had been troubled
was cured of what disease he had.

What is the evidence of John worth?

Again I say that if the Devil does not exist the gospels are not
inspired. If devils do not exist Christ was either honestly mistaken,
insane or an impostor.

If devils do not exist the fall of man is a mistake and the atonement an
absurdity. If devils do not exist hell becomes only a dream of revenge.

Beneath the structure called "Christianity" are four corner-stones—the
Father, Son, Holy Ghost and Devil.

## IV. The Evidence of the Church.

The Devil, was Forced to Father the Failures of God.

All the fathers of the church believed in devils. All the saints won
their crowns by overcoming devils. All the popes and cardinals, bishops
and priests, believed in devils. Most of their time was occupied in
fighting devils. The whole Catholic world, from the lowest layman to the
highest priest, believed in devils. They proved the existence of devils
by the New Testament. They knew that these devils were citizens of hell.
They knew that Satan was their king. They knew that hell was made for
the Devil and his angels.

The founders of all the Protestant churches—the makers of all the
orthodox creeds—all the leading Protestant theologians, from Luther to
the president of Princeton College—were, and are, firm believers in
the Devil. All the great commentators believed in the Devil as firmly as
they did in God.

Under the "Scheme of Salvation" the Devil was a necessity. Somebody had
to be responsible for the thorns and thistles, for the cruelties and
crimes. Somebody had to father the mistakes of God. The Devil was the
scapegoat of Jehovah.

For hundreds of years, good, honest, zealous Christians contended
against the Devil. They fought him day and night, and the thought that
they had beaten him gave to their dying lips the smile of victory.

For centuries the church taught that the natural man was totally
depraved; that he was by nature a child of the Devil, and that new-born
babes were tenanted by unclean spirits.

As late as the middle of the sixteenth century, every infant that was
baptized was, by that ceremony, freed from a devil. When the holy water
was applied the priest said: "I command thee, thou unclean spirit, in
the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, that thou
come out and depart from this infant, whom our Lord Jesus Christ has
vouchsafed to call to his holy baptism, to be made a member of his body,
and of his holy congregation."

At that time the fathers—the theologians, the commentators—agreed that
unbaptized children, including those that were born dead, went to hell.

And these same fathers—theologians and commentators—said: "God is
love."

These babes were pure as Pity's tears, innocent as their mother's
loving smiles, and yet the makers of our creeds believed and taught
that leering, unclean fiends inhabited their dimpled flesh. O, the
unsearchable riches of Christianity!

For many centuries the church filled the world with devils—with
malicious spirits that caused storm and tempest, disease, accident and
death—that filled the night with visions of despair; with prophecies
that drove the dreamers mad. These devils assumed a thousand
forms—countless disguises in their efforts to capture souls and destroy
the church. They deceived sometimes the wisest and the best; made
priests forget their vows. They melted virtue's snow in passion's fire,
and in cunning ways entrapped and smirched the innocent and good. These
devils gave witches and wizards their supernatural powers, and told them
the secrets of the future.

Millions of men and women were destroyed because they had sold
themselves to the Devil.

At that time Christians really believed the New Testament. They knew
it was the inspired word of God, and so believing, so knowing—as they
thought—they became insane.

No man has genius enough to describe the agonies that have been
inflicted on innocent men and women because of this absurd belief. How
it darkened the mind, hardened the heart, and poisoned life! It made the
Universe a madhouse presided over by an insane God.

Think! Why would a merciful God allow his children to be the victims
of devils? Why would a decent God allow his worshipers to believe in
devils, and by reason of that belief to persecute, torture and burn
their fellow-men?

Christians did not ask these questions. They believed the Bible; they
had confidence in the words of Christ.

## V. Personifications of Evil.

The Orthodox Ostrich Thrusts His Head into the Sand.

Many of the clergy are now ashamed to say that they believe in devils.
The belief has become ignorant and vulgar. They are ashamed of the lake
of fire and brimstone. It is too savage.

At the same time they do not wish to give up the inspiration of the
Bible. They give new meanings to the inspired words. Now they say that
devils were only personifications of evil. If the devils were only
personifications of evil, what were the angels? Was the angel who told
Joseph who the father of Christ was, a personification? Was the Holy
Ghost only the personification of a father? Was the angel who told
Joseph that Herod was dead a personification of news?

Were the angels who rolled away the stone and sat clothed in shining
garments in the empty sepulcher of Christ a couple of personifications?
Were all the angels described in the Old Testament imaginary
shadows—bodiless personifications? If the angels of the Bible are real
angels, the devils are real devils.

Let us be honest with ourselves and each other and give to the Bible its
natural, obvious meaning. Let us admit that the writers believed what
they wrote. If we believe that they were mistaken, let us have the
honesty and courage to say so. Certainly we have no right to change or
avoid their meaning, or to dishonestly correct their mistakes. Timid
preachers sully their own souls when they change what the writers of the
Bible believed to be facts to allegories, parables, poems and myths.

It is impossible for any man who believes in the inspiration of the
Bible to explain away the Devil.

If the Bible is true the Devil exists. There is no escape from this.

If the Devil does not exist the Bible is not true. There is no escape
from this.

I admit that the Devil of the Bible is an impossible contradiction; an
impossible being.

This Devil is the enemy of God and God is his. Now, why should this
Devil, in another world, torment sinners, who are his friends, to please
God, his enemy?

If the Devil is a personification, so is hell and the lake of fire and
brimstone. All these horrors fade into allegories; into ignorant lies.

Any clergyman who can read the Bible and then say that devils are
personifications of evil is himself a personification of stupidity or
hypocrisy.

VI.

Does any intelligent man now, whose brain has not been deformed by
superstition, believe in the existence of the Devil? What evidence have
we that he exists? Where does this Devil live? What does he do for a
livelihood? What does he eat? If he does not eat, he cannot think. He
cannot think without the expenditure of force. He cannot create force;
he must borrow it—that is to say, he must eat. How does lie move from
place to place? Does he walk or does he fly, or has he invented some
machine? What object has he in life? What idea of success? This Devil,
according to the Bible, knows that he is to be defeated; knows that
the end is absolute and eternal failure; knows that every step he takes
leads to the infinite catastrophe. Why does he act as he does?

Our fathers thought that everything in this world came from some
other realm; that all ideas of right and wrong came from above; that
conscience dropped from the clouds; that the darkness was filled with
imps from perdition, and the day with angels from heaven; that souls had
been breathed into man by Jehovah.

What there is in this world that lives and breathes was produced here.
Life was not imported. Mind is not an exotic. Of this planet man is a
native. This world is his mother. The maker did not descend from the
heavens. The maker was and is here. Matter and force in their countless
forms, affinities and repulsions produced the living, breathing world.

How can we account for devils? Is it possible that they creep into the
bodies of men and swine? Do they stay in the stomach or brain, in the
heart or liver?

Are these devils immortal or do they multiply and die? Were they all
created at the same time or did they spring from a single pair? If they
are subject to death what becomes of them after death? Do they go to
some other world, are they annihilated, or can they get to heaven by
believing on Christ?

In the brain of science the devils have never lived. There you will find
no goblins, ghosts, wraiths or imps—no witches, spooks or sorcerers.
There the supernatural does not exist. No man of sense in the whole
world believes in devils any more than he does in mermaids,
vampires, gorgons, hydras, naiads, dryads, nymphs, fairies or the
anthropophagi—any more than he does in the Fountain of Youth, the
Philosopher's Stone, Perpetual Motion or Fiat Money.

There is the same difference between religion and science that there
is between a madhouse and a university—between a fortune teller and
a mathematician—between emotion and philosophy—between guess and
demonstration.

The devils have gone, and with them they have taken the miracles of
Christ. They have carried away our Lord. They have taken away the
inspiration of the Bible, and we are left in the darkness of nature
without the consolation of hell.

But let me ask the clergy a few questions:

How did your Devil, who was at one time an angel of light, come to
sin? There was no other devil to tempt him. He was in perfectly good
society—in the company of God—of the Trinity. All of his associates
were perfect. How did he fall? He knew that God was infinite, and yet
he waged war against him and induced about a third of the angels to
volunteer. He knew that he could not succeed; knew that he would be
defeated and cast out; knew that he was fighting for failure.

Why was God so unpopular? Why were the angels so bad?

According to the Christians, these angels were spirits. They had never
been corrupted by flesh—by the passion of love. Why were they so
wicked?

Why did God create those angels, knowing that they would rebel? Why
did he deliberately sow the seeds of discord in heaven, knowing that he
would cast them into the lake of eternal fire—knowing that for them he
would create the eternal prison, whose dungeons would echo forever the
sobs and shrieks of endless pain?

How foolish is infinite wisdom!

How malicious is mercy!

How revengeful is boundless love!

Again, I say that no sensible man in all the world believes in devils.

Why does God allow these devils to enjoy themselves at the expense of
his ignorant children? Why does he allow them to leave their prison?
Does he give them furloughs or tickets-of-leave?

Does he want his children misled and corrupted so that he can have the
pleasure of damning their souls?

## VII. The Man of Straw.

Some of the preachers who have answered me say that I am fighting a man
of straw.

I am fighting the supernatural—the dogma of inspiration—the belief in
devils—the atonement, salvation by faith—the forgiveness of sins and
the savagery of eternal pain. I am fighting the absurd,-the monstrous,
the cruel.

The ministers pretend that they have advanced—that they do not believe
the things that I attack. In this they are not honest.

Who is the "man of straw"?

The man of straw is their master. In every orthodox pulpit stands this
man of straw—stands beside the preacher—stands with a club, called a
"creed," in his upraised hand. The shadow of this club falls athwart the
open Bible—falls upon the preacher's brain, darkens the light of his
reason and compels him to betray himself.

The man of straw rules every sectarian school and college—every
orthodox church. He is the censor who passes on every sermon. Now and
then some minister puts a little sense in his discourse—tries to take
a forward step. Down comes the club, and the man of straw demands an
explanation—a retraction. If the minister takes it back—good. If he
does not, he is brought to book. The man of straw put the plaster of
silence on the lips of Prof. Briggs, and he was forced to leave the
church or remain dumb.

The man of straw closed the mouth of Prof. Smith, and he has not opened
it since.

The man of straw would not allow the Presbyterian creed to be changed.

The man of straw took Father McGlynn by the collar, forced him to his
knees, made him take back his words and ask forgiveness for having been
abused.

The man of straw pitched Prof. Swing out of the pulpit and drove the
Rev. Mr. Thomas from the Methodist Church.

Let me tell the orthodox ministers that they are trying to cover their
retreat.

You have given up the geology and astronomy of the Bible. You have
admitted that its history is untrue. You are retreating still. You are
giving up the dogma of inspiration; you have your doubts about the flood
and Babel; you have given up the witches and wizards; you are beginning
to throw away the miraculous; you have killed the little devils, and in
a little while you will murder the Devil himself.

In a few years you will take the Bible for what it is worth. The good
and true will be treasured in the heart; the foolish, the infamous, will
be thrown away.

The man of straw will then be dead.

Of course, the real old petrified, orthodox Christian will cling to the
Devil. He expects to have all of his sins charged to the Devil, and at
the same time he will be credited with all the virtues of Christ. Upon
this showing on the books, upon this balance, he will be entitled to
his halo and harp. What a glorious, what an equitable, transaction! The
sorcerer Superstition changes debt to credit. He waves his wand, and he
who deserves the tortures of hell receives an eternal reward.

But if a man lacks faith the scheme is exactly reversed. While in one
case a soul is rewarded for the virtues of another, in the other case a
soul is damned for the sins of another. This is justice when it blossoms
in mercy.

Beyond this idiocy cannot go.

## VIII. Keep the Devils Out of Children.

William Kingdon Clifford, one of the greatest men of this century, said:
"If there is one lesson that history forces upon us in every page, it is
this: Keep your children away from the priest, or he will make them the
enemies of mankind."

In every orthodox Sunday school children are taught to believe in
devils. Every little brain becomes a menagerie, filled with wild beasts
from hell. The imagination is polluted with the deformed, the monstrous
and malicious. To fill the minds of children with leering fiends—with
mocking devils—is one of the meanest and basest of crimes. In these
pious prisons—these divine dungeons—these Protestant and Catholic
inquisitions—children are tortured with these cruel lies. Here they
are taught that to really think is wicked; that to express your honest
thought is blasphemy; and that to live a free and joyous life, depending
on fact instead of faith, is the sin against the Holy Ghost.

Children thus taught—thus corrupted and deformed—become the enemies
of investigation—of progress. They are no longer true to themselves.
They have lost the veracity of the soul. In the language of Prof.
Clifford, "they are the enemies of the human race."

So I say to all fathers and mothers, keep your children away from
priests; away from orthodox Sunday schools; away from the slaves of
superstition.

They will teach them to believe in the Devil; in hell; in the prison
of God; in the eternal dungeon, where the souls of men are to suffer
forever. These frightful things are a part of Christianity. Take these
lies from the creed and the whole scheme falls into shapeless ruin. This
dogma of hell is the infinite of savagery—the dream of insane revenge.
It makes God a wild beast—an infinite hyena. It makes Christ as
merciless as the fangs of a viper. Save poor children from the pollution
of this horror. Protect them from this infinite lie.

## IX. Conclusion.

I admit that there are many good and beautiful passages in the Old
and New Testament; that from the lips of Christ dropped many pearls of
kindness—of love. Every verse that is true and tender I treasure in my
heart. Every thought, behind which is the tear of pity, I appreciate and
love. But I cannot accept it all. Many utterances attributed to Christ
shock my brain and heart. They are absurd and cruel.

Take from the New Testament the infinite savagery, the shoreless
malevolence of eternal pain, the absurdity of salvation by faith, the
ignorant belief in the existence of devils, the immorality and cruelty
of the atonement, the doctrine of non-resistance that denies to virtue
the right of self-defence, and how glorious it would be to know that the
remainder is true! Compared with this knowledge, how everything else in
nature would shrink and shrivel! What ecstasy it would be to know that
God exists; that he is our father and that he loves and cares for the
children of men! To know that all the paths that human beings travel,
turn and wind as they may, lead to the gates of stainless peace! How the
heart would thrill and throb to know that Christ was the conqueror
of Death; that at his grave the all-devouring monster was baffled and
beaten forever; that from that moment the tomb became the door that
opens on eternal life! To know this would change all sorrow into
gladness. Poverty, failure, disaster, defeat, power, place and wealth
would become meaningless sounds. To take your babe upon your knee and
say: "Mine and mine forever!" What joy! To clasp the woman you love in
your arms and to know that she is yours and forever—yours though suns
darken and constellations vanish! This is enough: To know that the loved
and dead are not lost; that they still live and love and wait for you.
To know that Christ dispelled the darkness of death and filled the grave
with eternal light. To know this would be all that the heart could bear.
Beyond this joy cannot go. Beyond this there is no place for hope.

How beautiful, how enchanting, Death would be! How we would long to see
his fleshless skull! What rays of glory would stream from his sightless
sockets, and how the heart would long for the touch of his stilling
hand! The shroud would become a robe of glory, the funeral procession a
harvest home, and the grave would mark the end of sorrow, the beginning
of eternal joy.

And yet it were better far that all this should be false than that all
of the New Testament should be true.

It is far better to have no heaven than to have heaven and hell; better
to have no God than God and Devil; better to rest iii eternal sleep than
to be an angel and know that the ones you love are suffering eternal
pain; better to live a free and loving life—a life that ends forever at
the grave—than to be an immortal slave.

The master cannot be great enough to make slavery sweet. I have no
ambition to become a winged servant, a winged slave. Better eternal
sleep. But they say, "If you give up these superstitions, what have you
left?"

Let me now give you the declaration of a creed.

## Declaration of the Free

> We have no falsehoods to defend—
> We want the facts;
> Our force, our thought, we do not spend
> In vain attacks.
> And we will never meanly try
> To save some fair and pleasing lie.

> The simple truth is what we ask,
> Not the ideal;
> We've set ourselves the noble task
> To find the real.
> If all there is is naught but dross,
> We want to know and bear our loss.

> We will not willingly be fooled,
> By fables nursed;
> Our hearts, by earnest thought, are schooled
> To bear the worst;
> And we can stand erect and dare
> All things, all facts that really are.

> We have no God to serve or fear,
> No hell to shun,
> No devil with malicious leer.
> When life is done
> An endless sleep may close our eyes,
> A sleep with neither dreams nor sighs.

> We have no master on the land—
> No king in air—
> Without a manacle we stand,
> Without a prayer,
> Without a fear of coming night,
> We seek the truth, we love the light.

> We do not bow before a guess,
> A vague unknown;
> A senseless force we do not bless
> In solemn tone.
> When evil comes we do not curse,
> Or thank because it is no worse.

> When cyclones rend—when lightning blights,
> 'Tis naught but fate;
> There is no God of wrath who smites
> In heartless hate.
> Behind the things that injure man
> There is no purpose, thought, or plan.

> We waste no time in useless dread,
> In trembling fear;
> The present lives, the past is dead,
> And we are here,
> All welcome guests at life's great feast—
> We need no help from ghost or priest.

> Our life is joyous, jocund, free—
> Not one a slave
> Who bends in fear the trembling knee,
> And seeks to save
> A coward soul from future pain;
> Not one will cringe or crawl for gain.

> The jeweled cup of love we drain,
> And friendship's wine
> Now swiftly flows in every vein
> With warmth divine.
> And so we love and hope and dream
> That in death's sky there is a gleam.

> We walk according to our light,
> Pursue the path
> That leads to honor's stainless height,
> Careless of wrath
> Or curse of God, or priestly spite,
> Longing to know and do the right.

> We love our fellow-man, our kind,
> Wife, child, and friend.
> To phantoms we are deaf and blind,
> But we extend
> The helping hand to the distressed;
> By lifting others we are blessed.

> Love's sacred flame within the heart
> And friendship's glow;
> While all the miracles of art
> Their wealth bestow
> Upon the thrilled and joyous brain,
> And present raptures banish pain.

> We love no phantoms of the skies,
> But living flesh,
> With passion's soft and soulful eyes,
> Lips warm and fresh,
> And cheeks with health's red flag unfurled,
> The breathing angels of this world.

> The hands that help are better far
> Than lips that pray.
> Love is the ever gleaming star
> That leads the way,
> That shines, not on vague worlds of bliss,
> But on a paradise in this.

> We do not pray, or weep, or wail;
> We have no dread,
> No fear to pass beyond the veil
> That hides the dead.
> And yet we question, dream, and guess,
> But knowledge we do not possess.

> We ask, yet nothing seems to know;
> We cry in vain.
> There is no "master of the show"
> Who will explain,
> Or from the future tear the mask;
> And yet we dream, and still we ask

> Is there beyond the silent night
> An endless day?
> Is death a door that leads to light?
> We cannot say.
> The tongueless secret locked in fate
> We do not know.—

> We hope and wait.
---
# The Foundations of Faith
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1895_
ONE of the foundation stones of our faith is the Old Testament. If
that book is not true, if its authors were unaided men, if it contains
blunders and falsehoods, then that stone crumbles to dust.

The geologists demonstrated that the author of Genesis was mistaken as
to the age of the world, and that the story of the universe having been
created in six days, about six thousand years ago could not be true.

The theologians then took the ground that the "days" spoken of in
Genesis were periods of time, epochs, six "long whiles," and that the
work of creation might have been commenced millions of years ago.

The change of days into epochs was considered by the believers of the
Bible as a great triumph over the hosts of infidelity. The fact that
Jehovah had ordered the Jews to keep the Sabbath, giving as a reason
that he had made the world in six days and rested on the seventh, did
not interfere with the acceptance of the "epoch" theory.

But there is still another question. How long has man been upon the
earth?

According to the Bible, Adam was certainly the first man, and in his
case the epoch theory cannot change the account. The Bible gives the
age at which Adam died, and gives the generations to the flood—then to
Abraham and so on, and shows that from the creation of Adam to the birth
of Christ it was about four thousand and four years.

According to the sacred Scriptures man has been on this earth five
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine years and no more.

Is this true?

Geologists have divided a few years of the worlds history into periods,
reaching from the azoic rocks to the soil of our time. With most of
these periods they associate certain forms of life, so that it is known
that the lowest forms of life belonged with the earliest periods, and
the higher with the more recent. It is also known that certain forms of
life existed in Europe many ages ago, and that many thousands of years
ago these forms disappeared.

For instance, it is well established that at one time there lived in
Europe, and in the British Islands some of the most gigantic mammals,
the mammoth, the woolly-haired rhinoceros, the Irish elk, elephants and
other forms that have in those countries become extinct. Geologists say
that many thousands of years have passed since these animals ceased to
inhabit those countries.

It was during the Drift Period that these forms of life existed in
Europe and England, and that must have been hundreds of thousands of
years ago.

In caves, once inhabited by men, have been found implements of flint and
the bones of these extinct animals. With the flint tools man had split
the bones of these beasts that he might secure the marrow for food.

Many such caves and hundreds of such tools, and of such bones have been
found. And we now know that in the Drift Period man was the companion of
these extinct monsters.

It is therefore certain that many, many thousands of years before Adam
lived, men, women and children inhabited the earth.

It is certain that the account in the Bible of the creation of the first
man is a mistake. It is certain that the inspired writers knew nothing
about the origin of man.

Let me give you another fact:

The Egyptians were astronomers. A few years ago representations of the
stars were found on the walls of an old temple, and it was discovered
by calculating backward that the stars did occupy the exact positions as
represented about seven hundred and fifty years before Christ. Afterward
another representation of the stars was found, and by calculating in
the same way, it was found that the stars did occupy the exact positions
represented about three thousand eight hundred years before Christ.

According to the Bible the first man was created four thousand and four
years before Christ If this is true then Egypt was founded, its language
formed, its arts cultivated, its astronomical discoveries made and
recorded about two hundred years after the creation of the first man.

In other words, Adam was two or three hundred years old when the
Egyptian astronomers made these representations.

Nothing can be more absurd.

Again I say that the writers of the Bible were mistaken.

How do I know?

According to that same Bible there was a flood some fifteen or sixteen
hundred years after Adam was created that destroyed the entire human
race with the exception of eight persons, and according to the Bible
the Egyptians descended from one of the sons of Noah. How then did
the Egyptians represent the stars in the position they occupied twelve
hundred years before the flood?

No one pretends that Egypt existed as a nation before the flood. Yet
the astronomical representations found, must have been made more than a
thousand years before the world was drowned.

There is another mistake in the Bible.

According to that book the sun was made after the earth was created.

Is this true?

Did the earth exist before the sun?

The men of science are believers in the exact opposite. They believe
that the earth is a child of the sun—that the earth, as well as the
other planets belonging to our constellation, came from the sun.

The writers of the Bible were mistaken.

There is another point:

According to the Bible, Jehovah made the world in six days, and the work
done each day is described. What did Jehovah do on the second day?

This is the record:

"And God said: Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and
let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament and
divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which
were above the firmament. And it was so, and God called the firmament
heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day."

The writer of this believed in a solid firmament—the floor of Jehovah's
house. He believed that the waters had been divided, and that the
rain came from above the firmament. He did not understand the fact
of evaporation—did not know that the rain came from the water on the
earth.

Now we know that there is no firmament, and we know that the waters are
not divided by a firmament. Consequently we know that, according to the
Bible, Jehovah did nothing on the second day. He must have rested on
Tuesday. This being so, we ought to have two Sundays a week.

Can we rely on the historical parts of the Bible?

Seventy souls went down into Egypt, and in two hundred and fifteen years
increased to three millions. They could not have doubled more than four
times a century. Say nine times in two hundred and fifteen years.

This makes thirty-five thousand eight hundred and forty, (35,840.)
instead of three millions.

Can we believe the accounts of the battles?

Take one instance:

Jereboam had an army of eight hundred thousand men, Abijah of four
hundred thousand. They fought. The Lord was on Abijah's side, and he
killed five hundred thousand of Jereboam's men.

All these soldiers were Jews—all lived in Palestine, a poor miserable
little country about one-quarter as large as the State of New York. Yet
one million two hundred thousand soldiers were put in the field. This
required a population in the country of ten or twelve millions. Of
course this is absurd. Palestine in its palmiest days could not have
supported two millions of people.

The soil is poor.

If the Bible is inspired, is it true?

We are told by this inspired book of the gold and silver collected
by King David for the temple—the temple afterward completed by the
virtuous Solomon.

According to the blessed Bible, David collected about two thousand
million dollars in silver, and five thousand million dollars in gold,
making a total of seven thousand million dollars.

Is this true?

There is in the bank of France at the present time (1895) nearly six
hundred million dollars, and so far as we know, it is the greatest
amount that was ever gathered together. All the gold now known, coined
and in bullion, does not amount to much more than the sum collected by
David.

Seven thousand millions. Where did David get this gold? The Jews had
no commerce. They owned no ships. They had no great factories, they
produced nothing for other countries. There were no gold or silver mines
in Palestine. Where then was this gold, this silver found? I will
tell you: In the imagination of a writer who had more patriotism than
intelligence, and who wrote, not for the sake of truth, but for the
glory of the Jews.

Is it possible that David collected nearly eight thousand tons of
gold—that he by economy got together about sixty thousand tons of
silver, making a total of gold and silver of sixty-eight thousand tons?

The average freight car carries about fifteen tons—David's gold and
silver would load about four thousand five hundred and thirty-three
cars, making a train about thirty-two miles in length. And all this for
the temple at Jerusalem, a building ninety feet long and forty-five feet
high and thirty wide, to which was attached a porch thirty feet wide,
ninety feet long and one hundred and eighty feet high.

Probably the architect was inspired.

Is there a sensible man in the world who believes that David collected
seven thousand million dollars worth of gold or silver?

There is hardly five thousand million dollars of gold now used as
money in the whole world. Think of the millions taken from the mines of
California, Australia and Africa during the present century and yet the
total scarcely exceeds the amount collected by King David more than
a thousand years before the birth of Christ. Evidently the inspired
historian made a mistake.

It required a little imagination and a few ciphers to change seven
million dollars or seven hundred thousand dollars into seven thousand
million dollars. Drop four ciphers and the story becomes fairly
reasonable.

The Old Testament must be thrown aside. It is no longer a foundation. It
has crumbled.

## II. The New Testament

BUT we have the New Testament, the sequel of the Old, in which
Christians find the fulfillment of prophecies made by inspired Jews.

The New Testament vouches for the truth, the inspiration, of the Old,
and if the old is false, the New cannot be true.

In the New Testament we find all that we know about the life and
teachings of Jesus Christ.

It is claimed that the writers were divinely inspired, and that all they
wrote is true.

Let us see if these writers agree.

Certainly there should be no difference about the birth of Christ.
From the Christian's point of view, nothing could have been of greater
importance than that event.

Matthew says: "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the
days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the east to
Jerusalem.

"Saying, where is he that is born king of the Jews? for we have seen his
star in the east and are come to worship him."

Matthew does not tell us who these wise men were, from what country they
came, to what race they belonged. He did not even know their names.

We are also informed that when Herod heard these things he was troubled
and all Jerusalem with him; that he gathered the chief priests and asked
of them where Christ should be born and they told him that he was to be
born in Bethlehem.

Then Herod called the wise men and asked them when the star appeared,
and told them to go to Bethlehem and report to him.

When they left Herod, the star again appeared and went before them until
it stood over the place where the child was.

When they came to the child they worshiped him,—gave him gifts, and
being warned by God in a dream, they went back to their own country
without calling on Herod.

Then the angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and told him to
take Mary and the child into Egypt for fear of Herod.

So Joseph took Mary and the child to Egypt and remained there until the
death of Herod.

Then Herod, finding that he was mocked by the wise men, "sent forth
and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem and in all the coasts
thereof from two years old and under."

After the death of Herod an angel again appeared in a dream to Joseph
and told him to take mother and child and go back to Palestine.

So he went back and dwelt in Nazareth.

Is this story true? Must we believe in the star and the wise men? Who
were these wise men? From what country did they come? What interest had
they in the birth of the King of the Jews? What became of them and their
star?

Of course I know that the Holy Catholic Church has in her keeping the
three skulls that belonged to these wise men, but I do not know where
the church obtained these relics, nor exactly how their genuineness has
been established.

Must we believe that Herod murdered the babes of Bethlehem?

Is it not wonderful that the enemies of Herod did not charge him with
this horror? Is it not marvelous that Mark and Luke and John forgot to
mention this most heartless of massacres?

Luke also gives an account of the birth of Christ. He says that there
went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be
taxed; that this was when Cyrenius was governor of Syria; that in
accordance with this decree, Joseph and Mary went to Bethlehem to be
taxed; that at that place Christ was born and laid in a manger. He also
says that shepherds, in the neighborhood, were told of the birth by
an angel, with whom was a multitude of the heavenly host; that these
shepherds visited Mary and the child, and told others what they had seen
and heard.

He tells us that after eight days the child was named, Jesus; that forty
days after his birth he was taken by Joseph and Mary to Jerusalem,
and that after they had performed all things according to the law they
returned to Nazareth. Luke also says that the child grew and waxed
strong in spirit, and that his parents went every year to Jerusalem.

Do the accounts in Matthew and Luke agree? Can both accounts be true?

Luke never heard of the star, and Matthew knew nothing of the heavenly
host. Luke never heard of the wise men, nor Matthew of the shepherds.
Luke knew nothing of the hatred of Herod, the murder of the babes or
the flight into Egypt. According to Matthew, Joseph, warned by an angel,
took Mary and the child and fled into Egypt. According to Luke they all
went to Jerusalem, and from there back to Nazareth.

Both of these accounts cannot be true. Will some Christian scholar tell
us which to believe?

When was Christ born?

Luke says that it took place when Cyrenius was governor. Here is another
mistake. Cyrenius was not appointed governor until after the death of
Herod, and the taxing could not have taken place until ten years after
the alleged birth of Christ.

According to Luke, Joseph and Mary lived in Nazareth, and for the
purpose of getting them to Bethlehem, so that the child could be born
in the right place, the taxing under Cyrenius was used, but the writer,
being "inspired" made a mistake of about ten years as to the time of the
taxing and of the birth.

Matthew says nothing about the date of the birth, except that he was
born when Herod was king. It is now known that Herod had been dead ten
years before the taxing under Cyrenius. So, if Luke tells the truth,
Joseph, being warned by an angel, fled from the hatred of Herod ten
years after Herod was dead. If Matthew and Luke are both right Christ
was taken to Egypt ten years before he was born, and Herod killed the
babes ten years after he was dead.

Will some Christian scholar have the goodness to harmonize these
"inspired" accounts?

There is another thing.

Matthew and Luke both try to show that Christ was of the blood of David,
that he was a descendant of that virtuous king.

As both of these writers were inspired and as both received their
information from God, they ought to agree.

According to Matthew there was between David and Jesus twenty-seven
generations, and he gives all the names.

According to Luke there were between David and Jesus forty-two
generations, and he gives all the names.

In these genealogies—both inspired—there is a difference between David
and Jesus, a difference of some fourteen or fifteen generations.

Besides, the names of all the ancestors are different, with two
exceptions.

Matthew says that Joseph's father was Jacob. Luke says that Heli was
Joseph's father.

Both of these genealogies cannot be true, and the probability is that
both are false.

There is not in all the pulpits ingenuity enough to harmonize these
ignorant and stupid contradictions.

There are many curious mistakes in the words attributed to Christ.

We are told in Matthew, chapter xxiii, verse 35, that Christ said:

"That upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth
from the blood of righteous Abel unto the blood of Zacharias, son of
Barachias, whom ye slew between the temple and the altar."

It is certain that these words were not spoken by Christ. He could not
by any possibility have known that the blood of Zacharias had been shed.
As a matter of fact, Zacharias was killed by the Jews, during the seige
of Jerusalem by Titus, and this seige took place seventy-one years after
the birth of Christ, thirty-eight years after he was dead.

There is still another mistake.

Zacharias was not the son of Barachias—no such

Zacharias was killed. The Zacharias that was slain was the son of
Baruch.

But we must not expect the "inspired" to be accurate.

Matthew says that at the time of the crucifixion—"the graves were
opened and that many bodies of the saints which slept arose and came out
of their graves _after_ his resurrection, and went into the holy city
and appeared unto many."

According to this the graves were opened at the time of the crucifixion,
but the dead did not arise and come out until after the resurrection of
Christ.

They were polite enough to sit in their open graves and wait for Christ
to rise first.

To whom did these saints appear? What became of them? Did they slip back
into their graves and commit suicide?

Is it not wonderful that Mark, Luke and John never heard of these
saints?

What kind of saints were they? Certainly they were not Christian saints.

So, the inspired writers do not agree in regard to Judas.

Certainly the inspired writers ought to have known what happened to
Judas, the betrayer. Matthew being duly "inspired" says that when Judas
saw that Jesus had been condemned, he repented and took back the money
to the chief priests and elders, saying that he had sinned in betraying
the innocent blood. They said to him: "What is that to us? See thou to
that." Then Judas threw down the pieces of silver and went and hanged
himself.

The chief priests then took the pieces of silver and bought the potter's
field to bury strangers in, and it is called the field of blood.

We are told in Acts of the apostles that Peter stood up in the midst of
the disciples and said: "Now this man, (Judas) purchased a field with
the reward of iniquity—and falling headlong he burst asunder and all
his bowels gushed out—that field is called the field of blood."

Matthew says Judas repented and gave back the money.

Peter says that he bought a field with the money.

Matthew says that Judas hanged himself. Peter says that he fell down and
burst asunder. Which of these accounts is true?

Besides, it is hard to see why Christians hate, loathe and despise
Judas. According to their scheme of salvation, it was absolutely
necessary that Christ should be killed—necessary that he should be
betrayed, and had it not been for Judas, all the world, including
Christ's mother, and the part of Christ that was human, would have gone
to hell.

Yet, according to the New Testament, Christ did not know that one of his
disciples was to betray him.

Jesus, when on his way to Jerusalem, for the last time, said, speaking
to the twelve disciples, Judas being present, that they, the disciples
should thereafter sit on twelve thrones judging the twelve tribes of
Israel.

Yet, more than a year before this journey, John says that Christ said,
speaking to the twelve disciples: "Have not I chosen you twelve, and one
of you is a devil." And John adds: "He spake of Judas Iscariot, for it
was he that should betray him."

Why did Christ a year afterward, tell Judas that he should sit on a
throne and judge one of the tribes of Israel?

There is still another trouble.

Paul says that Jesus after his resurrection appeared to the twelve
disciples. According to Paul, Jesus appeared to Judas with the rest.

Certainly Paul had not heard the story of the betrayal.

Why did Christ select Judas as one of his disciples, knowing that he
would betray him? Did he desire to be betrayed? Was it his intention to
be put to death?

Why did he fail to defend himself before Pilate?

According to the accounts, Pilate wanted to save him. Did Christ wish to
be convicted?

The Christians are compelled to say that Christ intended to be
sacrificed—that he selected Judas with that end in view, and that he
refused to defend himself because he desired to be crucified. All this
is in accordance with the horrible idea that without the shedding of
blood there is no remission of sin.

## III. Jehovah.

GOD the Father.

The Jehovah of the Old Testament is the God of the Christians.

He it was who created the Universe, who made all substance, all force,
all life, from nothing. He it is who has governed and still governs the
world. He has established and destroyed empires and kingdoms, despotisms
and republics. He has enslaved and liberated the sons of men. He has
caused the sun to rise on the good and on the evil, and his rain to fall
on the just and the unjust.

This shows his goodness.

He has caused his volcanoes to devour the good and the bad, his cyclones
to wreck and rend the generous and the cruel, his floods to drown the
loving and the hateful, his lightning to kill the virtuous and the
vicious, his famines to starve the innocent and criminal and his plagues
to destroy the wise and good, the ignorant and wicked. He has allowed
his enemies to imprison, to torture and to kill his friends. He has
permitted blasphemers to flay his worshipers alive, to dislocate their
joints upon racks, and to burn them at the stake. He has allowed men to
enslave their brothers and to sell babes from the breasts of mothers.

This shows his impartiality.

The pious negro who commenced his prayer: "O thou great and unscrupulous
God," was nearer right than he knew.

Ministers ask: Is it possible for God to forgive man?

And when I think of what has been suffered—of the centuries of agony
and tears, I ask: Is it possible for man to forgive God?

How do Christians prove the existence of their God? Is it possible to
think of an infinite being? Does the word God correspond with any image
in the mind? Does the word God stand for what we know or for what we do
not know?

Is not this unthinkable God a guess, an inference?

Can we think of a being without form, without body, without parts,
without passions? Why should we speak of a being without body as of the
masculine gender?

Why should the Bible speak of this God as a man?—of his walking in the
garden in the cool of the evening—of his talking, hearing and smelling?
If he has no passions why is he spoken of as jealous, revengeful, angry,
pleased and loving?

In the Bible God is spoken of as a person in the form of man, journeying
from place to place, as having a home and occupying a throne. These
ideas have been abandoned, and now the Christian's God is the infinite,
the incomprehensible, the formless, bodiless and passionless.

Of the existence of such a being there can be, in the nature of things,
no evidence.

Confronted with the universe, with fields of space sown thick with
stars, with all there is of life, the wise man, being asked the origin
and destiny of all, replies: "I do not know. These questions are beyond
the powers of my mind." The wise man is thoughtful and modest. He clings
to facts. Beyond his intellectual horizon he does not pretend to see.
He does not mistake hope for evidence or desire for demonstration. He is
honest. He neither deceives himself nor others.

The theologian arrives at the unthinkable, the inconceivable, and
he calls this God. The scientist arrives at the unthinkable, the
inconceivable, and calls it the Unknown.

The theologian insists that his inconceivable governs the world, that
it, or he, or they, can be influenced by prayers and ceremonies, that
it, or he, or they, punishes and rewards, that it, or he, or they, has
priests and temples.

The scientist insist that the Unknown is not changed so far as he knows
by prayers of people or priests. He admits that he does not know whether
the Unknown is good or bad—whether he, or it, wants or whether he, or
it, is worthy of worship. He does not say that the Unknown is God, that
it created substance and force, life and thought. He simply says that of
the Unknown he knows nothing.

Why should Christians insist that a God of infinite wisdom, goodness and
power governs the world?

Why did he allow millions of his children to be enslaved? Why did
he allow millions of mothers to be robbed of their babes? Why has he
allowed injustice to triumph? Why has he permitted the innocent to be
imprisoned and the good to be burned? Why has he withheld his rain
and starved millions of the children of men? Why has he allowed the
volcanoes to destroy, the earthquakes to devour, and the tempest to
wreck and rend?

## IV. The Trinity

THE New Testament informs us that Christ was the son of Joseph and the
son of God, and that Mary was his mother.

How is it established that Christ was the son of God?

It is said that Joseph was told so in a dream by an angel.

But Joseph wrote nothing on that subject—said nothing so far as we
know. Mary wrote nothing, said nothing. The angel that appeared to
Joseph or that informed Joseph said nothing to anybody else. Neither has
the Holy Ghost, the supposed father, ever said or written one word.
We have received no information from the parties who could have known
anything on the subject. We get all our facts from those who could not
have known.

How is it possible to prove that the Holy Ghost was the father of
Christ?

Who knows that such a being as the Holy Ghost ever existed?

How was it possible for Mary to know anything about the Holy Ghost?

How could Joseph know that he had been visited by an angel in a dream?

Could he know that the visitor was an angel? It all occurred in a dream
and poor Joseph was asleep. What is the testimony of one who was asleep
worth?

All the evidence we have is that somebody who wrote part of the New
Testament says that the Holy Ghost was the father of Christ, and that
somebody who wrote another part of the New Testament says that Joseph
was the father of Christ.

Matthew and Luke give the genealogy and both show that Christ was the
son of Joseph.

The "Incarnation" has to be believed without evidence. There is no way
in which it can be established. It is beyond the reach and realm of
reason. It defies observation and is independent of experience.

It is claimed not only that Christ was the Son of God, but that he was,
and is, God.

Was he God before he was born? Was the body of Mary the dwelling place
of God?

What evidence have we that Christ was God?

Somebody has said that Christ claimed that God was his father and that
he and his father were one. We do not know who this somebody was and do
not know from whom he received his information.

Somebody who was "inspired" has said that Christ was of the blood of
David through his father Joseph.

This is all the evidence we have.

Can we believe that God, the creator of the Universe, learned the trade
of a carpenter in Palestine, that he gathered a few disciples about
him, and after teaching for about three years, suffered himself to be
crucified by a few ignorant and pious Jews?

Christ, according to the faith, is the second person in the Trinity, the
Father being the first and the Holy Ghost the third. Each of these three
persons is God. Christ is his own father and his own son. The Holy Ghost
is neither father nor son, but both. The son was begotten by the father,
but existed before he was begotten—just the same before as after.
Christ is just as old as his father, and the father is just as young as
his son. The Holy Ghost proceeded from the Father and Son, but was equal
to the Father and Son before he proceeded, that is to say, before he
existed, but he is of the same age of the other two.

So, it is declared that the Father is God, and the Son God and the Holy
Ghost God, and that these three Gods make one God.

According to the celestial multiplication table, once one is three, and
three times one is one, and according to heavenly subtraction if we take
two from three, three are left. The addition is equally peculiar, if
we add two to one we have but one. Each one is equal to himself and the
other two. Nothing ever was, nothing ever can be more perfectly idiotic
and absurd than the dogma of the Trinity.

How is it possible to prove the existence of the Trinity?

Is it possible for a human being, who has been born but once, to
comprehend, or to imagine the existence of three beings, each of whom is
equal to the three?

Think of one of these beings as the father of one, and think of that one
as half human and all God, and think of the third as having proceeded
from the other two, and then think of all three as one. Think that after
the father begot the son, the father was still alone, and after the
Holy Ghost proceeded from the father and the son, the father was still
alone—because there never was and never will be but one God.

At this point, absurdity having reached its limit, nothing more can be
said except: "Let us pray."

## V. The Theological Christ

IN the New Testament we find the teachings and sayings of Christ. If
we say that the book is inspired, then we must admit that Christ really
said all the things attributed to him by the various writers. If the
book is inspired we must accept it all. We have no right to reject the
contradictory and absurd and accept the reasonable and good. We must
take it all just as it is.

My own observation has led me to believe that men are generally
consistent in their theories and inconsistent in their lives.

So, I think that Christ in his utterances was true to his theory, to his
philosophy.

If I find in the Testament sayings of a contradictory character, I
conclude that some of those sayings were never uttered by him. The
sayings that are, in my judgment, in accordance with what I believe to
have been his philosophy, I accept, and the others I throw away.

There are some of his sayings which show him to have been a devout Jew,
others that he wished to destroy Judaism, others showing that he held
all people except the Jews in contempt and that he wished to save no
others, others showing that he wished to convert the world, still others
showing that he was forgiving, self-denying and loving, others that he
was revengeful and malicious, others, that he was an ascetic, holding
all human ties in utter contempt.

The following passages show that Christ was a devout Jew.

"Swear not, neither by heaven, for it is God's throne, nor by the earth
for it is his footstool, neither by Jerusalem for it is his holy city."

"Think not that I am come to destroy the law or the prophets, I am
not come to destroy, but to fulfill." "For after all these things,
(clothing, food and drink) do the Gentiles seek."

So, when he cured a leper, he said: "Go thy way, show thyself unto the
priest and offer the gift that Moses commanded."

Jesus sent his disciples forth saying: "Go not into the way of the
Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not, but go
rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel."

A woman came out of Canaan and cried to Jesus: "Have mercy on me, my
daughter is sorely vexed with a devil"—but he would not answer. Then
the disciples asked him to send her away, and he said: "I am not sent
but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel."

Then the woman worshiped him and said: "Lord help me." But he answered
and said: "It is not meet to take the children's bread and cast it unto
dogs." Yet for her faith he cured her child.

So, when the young man asked him what he must do to be saved, he said:
"Keep the commandments."

Christ said: "The scribes and the Pharisees sit in Moses' seat, all
therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do."

"And it is easier for heaven and earth to pass, than one tittle of the
law to fail."

Christ went into the temple and cast out them that sold and bought
there, and said: "It is written, my house is the house of prayer: but ye
have made it a den of thieves."

"We know what we worship for salvation is of the Jews."

Certainly all these passages were written by persons who regarded Christ
as the Messiah.

Many of the sayings attributed to Christ show that he was an ascetic,
that he cared nothing for kindred, nothing for father and mother,
nothing for brothers or sisters, and nothing for the pleasures of life.

Christ said to a man: "Follow me." The man said: "Suffer me first to go
and bury my father." Christ answered: "Let the dead bury their dead."
Another said: "I will follow thee, but first let me go bid them farewell
which are at home."

Jesus said: "No man having put his hand to the plough, and looking back
is fit for the kingdom of God. If thine right eye offend thee pluck it
out. If thy right hand offend thee cut it off."

One said unto him: "Behold thy mother and thy brethren stand without,
desiring to speak with thee." And he answered: "Who is my mother,
and who are my brethren?" Then he stretched forth his hand toward his
disciples and said: "Behold my mother and my brethren."

"And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren or sisters, or
father or mother, or wife or children, or lands for my name's sake shall
receive an hundred fold and shall inherit everlasting life."

"He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and
he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me."

Christ it seems had a philosophy.

He believed that God was a loving father, that he would take care of his
children, that they need do nothing except to rely implicitly on God.

"Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy."

"Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate
you and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you."

"Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat or what ye shall
drink, nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on.... For your heavenly
Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things."

"Ask and it shall be given you. Whatsoever ye would that men should do
to you, do ye even so to them. If ye forgive men their trespasses your
heavenly Father will also forgive you. The very hairs of your head are
all numbered."

Christ seemed to rely absolutely on the protection of God until the
darkness of death gathered about him, and then he cried: "My God! my
God! why hast thou forsaken me?"

While there are many passages in the New Testament showing Christ to
have been forgiving and tender, there are many others, showing that he
was exactly the opposite.

What must have been the spirit of one who said: "I am come to send fire
on the earth? Suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth? I tell
you, nay, but rather division. For from henceforth there shall be five
in one house divided, three against two, and two against three. The
father shall be divided against the son, and the son against the father,
the mother against the daughter and the daughter against the mother,
the mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law, and the daughter-in-law
against her mother-in-law."

"If any man come to me and hate not his father and mother, and wife, and
children and brethren and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot
be my disciple."

"But those mine enemies, which would not that I should reign over them,
bring hither and slay them before me."

This passage built dungeons and lighted fagots.

"Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his
angels."

"I came not to bring peace but a sword."

All these sayings could not have been uttered by the same person. They
are inconsistent with each other. Love does not speak the words of
hatred. The real philanthropist does not despise all nations but his
own. The teacher of universal forgiveness cannot believe in eternal
torture.

From the interpolations, legends, accretions, mistakes and falsehoods
in the New Testament is it possible to free the actual man? Clad in mist
and myth, hidden by the draperies of gods, deformed, indistinct as
faces in clouds, is it possible to find and recognize the features, the
natural face of the actual Christ?

For many centuries our fathers closed their eyes to the contradictions
and inconsistencies of the Testament and in spite of their reason
harmonized the interpolations and mistakes.

This is no longer possible. The contradictions are too many, too
glaring. There are contradictions of fact not only, but of philosophy,
of theory.

The accounts of the trial, the crucifixion, and ascension of Christ do
not agree. They are full of mistakes and contradictions.

According to one account Christ ascended the day of, or the day after
his resurrection. According to another he remained forty days after
rising from the dead. According to one account, he was seen after his
resurrection only by a few women and his disciples. According to another
he was seen by the women, by his disciples on several occasions and by
hundreds of others.

According to Matthew, Luke and Mark, Christ remained for the most part
in the country, seldom going to Jerusalem. According to John he remained
mostly in Jerusalem, going occasionally into the country, and then
generally to avoid his enemies.

According to Matthew, Mark and Luke, Christ taught that if you would
forgive others God would forgive you. According to John, Christ said
that the only way to get to heaven was to believe on him and be born
again.

These contradictions are gross and palpable and demonstrate that the
New Testament is not inspired, and that many of its statements must be
false.

If we wish to save the character of Christ, many of the passages must be
thrown away.

We must discard the miracles or admit that he was insane or an impostor.
We must discard the passages that breathe the spirit of hatred and
revenge, or admit that he was malevolent.

If Matthew was mistaken about the genealogy of Christ, about the wise
men, the star, the flight into Egypt and the massacre of the babes by
Herod,—then he may have been mistaken in many passages that he put in
the mouth of Christ.

The same may be said in regard to Mark, Luke and John.

The church must admit that the writers of the New Testament were
uninspired men—that they made many mistakes, that they accepted
impossible legends as historical facts, that they were ignorant and
superstitious, that they put malevolent, stupid, insane and unworthy
words in the mouth of Christ, described him as the worker of impossible
miracles and in many ways stained and belittled his character.

The best that can be said about Christ is that nearly nineteen centuries
ago he was born in the land of Palestine in a country without wealth,
without commerce, in the midst of a people who knew nothing of the
greater world—a people enslaved, crushed by the mighty power of Rome.
That this babe, this child of poverty and want grew to manhood without
education, knowing nothing of art, or science, and at about the age of
thirty began wandering about the hills and hamlets of his native land,
discussing with priests, talking with the poor and sorrowful, writing
nothing, but leaving his words in the memory or forgetfulness of those
to whom he spoke.

That he attacked the religion of his time because it was cruel. That
this excited the hatred of those in power, and that Christ was arrested,
tried and crucified.

For many centuries this great Peasant of Palestine has been worshiped as
God.

Millions and millions have given their lives to his service. The wealth
of the world was lavished on his shrines. His name carried consolation
to the diseased and dying. His name dispelled the darkness of death, and
filled the dungeon with light. His name gave courage to the martyr,
and in the midst of fire, with shriveling lips the sufferer uttered
it again, and again. The outcasts, the deserted, the fallen, felt that
Christ was their friend, felt that he knew their sorrows and pitied
their sufferings.

The poor mother, holding her dead babe in her arms, lovingly whispered
his name. His gospel has been carried by millions to all parts of the
globe, and his story has been told by the self-denying and faithful to
countless thousands of the sons of men. In his name have been preached
charity,—forgiveness and love.

He it was, who according to the faith, brought immortality to light, and
many millions have entered the valley of the shadow with their hands in
his.

All this is true, and if it were all, how beautiful, how touching, how
glorious it would be. But it is not all. There is another side.

In his name millions and millions of men and women have been imprisoned,
tortured and killed. In his name millions and millions have been
enslaved. In his name the thinkers, the investigators, have been branded
as criminals, and his followers have shed the blood of the wisest and
best. In his name the progress of many nations was stayed for a thousand
years. In his gospel was found the dogma of eternal pain, and his words
added an infinite horror to death. His gospel filled the world with
hatred and revenge; made intellectual honesty a crime; made happiness
here the road to hell, denounced love as base and bestial, canonized
credulity, crowned bigotry and destroyed the liberty of man.

It would have been far better had the New Testament never been
written—far better had the theological Christ never lived. Had the
writers of the Testament been regarded as uninspired, had Christ been
thought of only as a man, had the good been accepted and the absurd, the
impossible, and the revengeful thrown away, mankind would have escaped
the wars, the tortures, the scaffolds, the dungeons, the agony and
tears, the crimes and sorrows of a thousand years.

## VI. The "scheme"

WE have also the scheme of redemption.

According to this "scheme," by the sin of Adam and Eve in the Garden
of Eden, human nature became evil, corrupt and depraved. It became
impossible for human beings to keep, in all things, the law of God.
In spite of this, God allowed the people to live and multiply for some
fifteen hundred years, and then on account of their wickedness drowned
them all with the exception of eight persons.

The nature of these eight persons was evil, corrupt and depraved, and
in the nature of things their children would be cursed with the same
nature. Yet God gave them another trial, knowing exactly what the result
would be. A few of these wretches he selected and made them objects of
his love and care, the rest of the world he gave to indifference and
neglect. To civilize the people he had chosen, he assisted them in
conquering and killing their neighbors, and gave them the assistance of
priests and inspired prophets. For their preservation and punishment
he wrought countless miracles, gave them many laws and a great deal of
advice. He taught them to sacrifice oxen, sheep, and doves, to the end
that their sins might be forgiven. The idea was inculcated that there
was a certain relation between the sin and the sacrifice,—the greater
the sin, the greater the sacrifice. He also taught the savagery that
without the shedding of blood there was no remission of sin.

In spite of all his efforts, the people grew gradually worse. They would
not, they could not keep his laws.

A sacrifice had to be made for the sins of the people. The sins were
too great to be washed out by the blood of animals or men. It became
necessary for. God himself to be sacrificed. All mankind were under the
curse of the law. Either all the world must be lost or God must die.

In only one way could the guilty be justified, and that was by the
death, the sacrifice of the innocent. And the innocent being sacrificed
must be great enough to atone for the world; There was but one such
being—God.

Thereupon God took upon himself flesh, was born into the world—was
known as Christ—was murdered, sacrificed by the Jews, and became an
atonement for the sins of the human race.

This is the scheme of Redemption,—the atonement.

It is impossible to conceive of anything more utterly absurd.

A man steals, and then sacrifices a dove, or gives a lamb to a priest.
His crime remains the same. He need not kill something. Let him give
back the thing stolen, and in future live an honest life.

A man slanders his neighbor and then kills an ox. What has that to do
with the slander. Let him take back his slander, make all the reparation
that he can, and let the ox alone.

There is no sense in sacrifice, never was and never will be.

Make restitution, reparation, undo the wrong and you need shed no blood.

A good law, one springing from the nature of things, cannot demand, and
cannot accept, and cannot be satisfied with the punishment, or the
agony of the innocent. A god could not accept his own sufferings in
justification of the guilty.—This is a complete subversion of all ideas
of justice and morality. A god could not make a law for man, then suffer
in the place of the man who had violated it, and say that the law had
been carried out, and the penalty duly enforced. A man has committed
murder, has been tried, convicted and condemned to death. Another man
goes to the governor and says that he is willing to die in place of the
murderer. The governor says: "All right, I accept your offer, a murder
has been committed, somebody must be hung and your death will satisfy
the law."

But that is not the law. The law says, not that somebody shall be
hanged, but that the murderer shall suffer death.

Even if the governor should die in the place of the criminal, it would
be no better. There would be two murders instead of one, two innocent
men killed, one by the first murderer and one by the State, and the real
murderer free.

This, Christians call, "satisfying the law."

## VII. Belief.

WE are told that all who believe in this scheme of redemption and have
faith in the redeemer will be rewarded with eternal joy. Some think that
men can be saved by faith without works, and some think that faith and
works are both essential, but all agree that without faith there is no
salvation. If you repent and believe on Jesus Christ, then his goodness
will be imputed to you and the penalty of the law, so far as you are
concerned, will be satisfied by the sufferings of Christ.

You may repent and reform, you may make restitution, you may practice
all the virtues, but without this belief in Christ, the gates of heaven
will be shut against you forever.

Where is this heaven? The Christians do not know.

Does the Christian go there at death, or must he wait for the general
resurrection?

They do not know.

The Testament teaches that the bodies of the dead are to be raised?
Where are their souls in the meantime? They do not know.

Can the dead be raised? The atoms composing their bodies enter into new
combinations, into new forms, into wheat and corn, into the flesh of
animals and into the bodies of other men. Where one man dies, and some
of his atoms pass into the body of another man and he dies, to whom will
these atoms belong in the day of resurrection?

If Christianity were only stupid and unscientific, if its God was
ignorant and kind, if it promised eternal joy to believers and if the
believers practiced the forgiveness they teach, for one I should let the
faith alone.

But there is another side to Christianity. It is not only stupid, but
malicious. It is not only unscientific, but it is heartless. Its god
is not only ignorant, but infinitely cruel. It not only promises the
faithful an eternal reward, but declares that nearly all of the children
of men, imprisoned in the dungeons of God will suffer eternal pain. This
is the savagery of Christianity. This is why I hate its unthinkable God,
its impossible Christ, its inspired lies, and its selfish, heartless
heaven.

Christians believe in infinite torture, in eternal pain.

Eternal Pain!

All the meanness of which the heart of man is capable is in that one
word—Hell.

That word is a den, a cave, in which crawl the slimy reptiles of
revenge.

That word certifies to the savagery of primitive man.

That word is the depth, the dungeon, the abyss, from which civilized man
has emerged.

That word is the disgrace, the shame, the infamy, of our revealed
religion.

That word fills all the future with the shrieks of the damned.

That word brutalizes the New Testament, changes the Sermon on the
Mount to hypocrisy and cant, and pollutes and hardens the very heart of
Christ.

That word adds an infinite horror to death, and makes the cradle as
terrible as the coffin.

That word is the assassin of joy, the mocking murderer of hope. That
word extinguishes the light of life and wraps the world in gloom. That
word drives reason from his throne, and gives the crown to madness.

That word drove pity from the hearts of men, stained countless swords
with blood, lighted fagots, forged chains, built dungeons, erected
scaffolds, and filled the world with poverty and pain.

That word is a coiled serpent in the mother's breast, that lifts its
fanged head and hisses in her ear:—"Your child will be the fuel of
eternal fire."

That word blots from the firmament the star of hope and leaves the
heavens black.

That word makes the Christian's God an eternal torturer, an everlasting
inquisitor—an infinite wild beast.

This is the Christian prophecy of the eternal future:

No hope in hell.

No pity in heaven.

No mercy in the heart of God.

## VIII. Conclusion

THE Old Testament is absurd, ignorant and cruel,—the New Testament is
a mingling of the false and true—it is good and bad.

The Jehovah of the Jews is an impossible monster. The Trinity absurd and
idiotic, Christ is a myth or a man.

The fall of man is contradicted by every fact concerning human history
that we know. The scheme of redemption—through the atonement—is
immoral and senseless. Hell was imagined by revenge, and the orthodox
heaven is the selfish dream of heartless serfs and slaves. The
foundations of the faith have crumbled and faded away. They were
miracles, mistakes, and myths, ignorant and untrue, absurd, impossible,
immoral, unnatural, cruel, childish, savage. Beneath the gaze of the
scientist they vanished, confronted by facts they disappeared. The
orthodox religion of our day has no foundation in truth. Beneath the
superstructure can be found no fact.

Some may ask, "Are you trying to take our religion away?"

I answer, No—superstition is not religion. Belief without evidence is
not religion. Faith without facts is not religion.

To love justice, to long for the right, to love mercy, to pity
the suffering, to assist the weak, to forget wrongs and remember
benefits—to love the truth, to be sincere, to utter honest words, to
love liberty, to wage relentless war against slavery in all its forms,
to love wife and child and friend, to make a happy home, to love the
beautiful in art, in nature, to cultivate the mind, to be familiar with
the mighty thoughts that genius has expressed, the noble deeds of all
the world, to cultivate courage and cheerfulness, to make others happy,
to fill life with the splendor of generous acts, the warmth of loving
words, to discard error, to destroy prejudice, to receive new truths
with gladness, to cultivate hope, to see the calm beyond the storm, the
dawn beyond the night, to do the best that can be done and then to be
resigned this is the religion of reason, the creed of science. This
satisfies the brain and heart.

But, says the prejudiced priest, the malicious minister, "You take away
a future life."

I am not trying to destroy another world, but I am endeavoring to
prevent the theologians from destroying this.

If we are immortal it is a fact in nature, and that fact does not depend
on bibles, or Christs, or priests or creeds.

The hope of another life was in the heart, long before the "sacred
books" were written, and will remain there long after all the "sacred
books" are known to be the work of savage and superstitious men. Hope is
the consolation of the world.

The wanderers hope for home.—Hope builds the house and plants the
flowers and fills the air with song.

The sick and suffering hope for health.—Hope gives them health and
paints the roses in their cheeks.

The lonely, the forsaken, hope for love.—Hope brings the lover to their
arms. They feel the kisses on their eager lips.

The poor in tenements and huts, in spite of rags and hunger hope for
wealth.—Hope fills their thin and trembling hands with gold.

The dying hopes that death is but another birth, and Love leans above
the pallid face and whispers, "We shall meet again."

Hope is the consolation of the world.

Let us hope, if there be a God that he is wise and good.

Let us hope that if there be another life it will bring peace and joy to
all the children of men.

And let us hope that this poor earth on which we live, may be a perfect
world—a world without a crime—without a tear.
---
# The Truth
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1897_
THROUGH millions of ages, by countless efforts to satisfy his wants,
to gratify his passions, his appetites, man slowly developed his brain,
changed two of his feet into hands and forced into the darkness of
his brain a few gleams and glimmerings of reason. He was hindered by
ignorance, by fear, by mistakes, and he advanced only as he found the
truth—the absolute facts. Through countless years he has groped and
crawled and struggled and climbed and stumbled toward the light. He has
been hindered and delayed and deceived by augurs and prophets—by popes
and priests. He has been betrayed by saints, misled by apostles and
Christs, frightened by devils and ghosts—enslaved by chiefs and
kings—robbed by altars and thrones. In the name of education his
mind has been filled with mistakes, with miracles, and lies, with the
impossible, the absurd and infamous. In the name of religion he has been
taught humility and arrogance, love and hatred, forgiveness and revenge.

But the world is changing. We are tired of barbarian bibles and savage
creeds.

Nothing is greater, nothing is of more importance, than to find amid the
errors and darkness of this life, a shining truth.

Truth is the intellectual wealth of the world.

The noblest of occupations is to search for truth.

Truth is the foundation, the superstructure, and the glittering dome of
progress.

Truth is the mother of joy. Truth civilizes, ennobles, and purifies. The
grandest ambition that can enter the soul is to know the truth.

Truth gives man the greatest power for good. Truth is sword and shield.
It is the sacred light of the soul.

The man who finds a truth lights a torch.

How is Truth to be Found?

By investigation, experiment and reason.

Every human being should be allowed to investigate to the extent of
his desire—his ability. The literature of the world should be open to
him—nothing prohibited, sealed or hidden. No subject can be too
sacred to be understood. Each person should be allowed to reach his own
conclusions and to speak his honest thought.

He who threatens the investigator with punishment here, or hereafter, is
an enemy of the human race. And he who tries to bribe the investigator
with the promise of eternal joy is a traitor to his fellow-men.

There is no real investigation without freedom—freedom from the fear of
gods and men.

So, all investigation—all experiment—should be pursued in the light of
reason.

Every man should be true to himself—true to the inward light. Each man,
in the laboratory of his own mind, and for himself alone, should
test the so-called facts—the theories of all the world. Truth, _in
accordance with his reason_, should be his guide and master.

To love the truth, thus perceived, is mental virtue—intellectual
purity. This is true manhood. This is freedom.

To throw away your reason at the command of churches, popes, parties,
kings or gods, is to be a serf, a slave.

It is not simply the right, but it is the duty of every man to think—to
investigate for himself—and every man who tries to prevent this
by force or fear, is doing all he can to degrade and enslave his
fellow-men.

Every Man Should be Mentally Honest.

He should preserve as his most precious jewel the perfect veracity of
his soul.

He should examine all questions presented to his mind, without
prejudice,—unbiased by hatred or love—by desire or fear. His object
and his only object should be to find the truth. He knows, if he listens
to reason, that truth is not dangerous and that error is. He should
weigh the evidence, the arguments, in honest scales—scales that passion
or interest cannot change. He should care nothing for authority—nothing
for names, customs or creeds—nothing for anything that his reason does
not say is true.

Of his world he should be the sovereign, and his soul should wear the
purple. From his dominions should be banished the hosts of force and
fear.

He Should be Intellectually Hospitable.

Prejudice, egotism, hatred, contempt, disdain, are the enemies of truth
and progress.

The real searcher after truth will not receive the old because it
is old, or reject the new because it is new. He will not believe men
because they are dead, or contradict them because they are alive. With
him an utterance is worth the truth, the reason it contains, without
the slightest regard to the author. He may have been a king or serf—a
philosopher or servant,—but the utterance neither gains nor loses in
truth or reason. Its value is absolutely independent of the fame or
station of the man who gave it to the world.

Nothing but falsehood needs the assistance of fame and place, of robes
and mitres, of tiaras and crowns.

The wise, the really honest and intelligent, are not swayed or governed
by numbers—by majorities.

They accept what they really believe to be true. They care nothing for
the opinions of ancestors, nothing for creeds, assertions and theories,
unless they satisfy the reason.

In all directions they seek for truth, and when found, accept it with
joy—accept it in spite of preconceived opinions—in spite of prejudice
and hatred.

This is the course pursued by wise and honest men, and no other course
is possible for them.

In every department of human endeavor men are seeking for the truth—for
the facts. The statesman reads the history of the world, gathers the
statistics of all nations to the end that his country may avoid the
mistakes of the past. The geologist penetrates the rocks in search of
facts—climbs mountains, visits the extinct craters, traverses islands
and continents that he may know something of the history of the world.
He wants the truth.

The chemist, with crucible and retort, with countless experiments, is
trying to find the qualities of substances—to ravel what nature has
woven.

The great mechanics dwell in the realm of the real. They seek by natural
means to conquer and use the forces of nature. They want the truth—the
actual facts.

The physicians, the surgeons, rely on observation, experiment and
reason. They become acquainted with the human body—with muscle, blood
and nerve—with the wonders of the brain. They want nothing but the
truth.

And so it is with the students of every science. On every hand they
look for facts, and it is of the utmost importance that they give to the
world the facts they find.

Their courage should equal their intelligence. No matter what the dead
have said, or the living believe, they should tell what they know. They
should have intellectual courage.

If it be good for man to find the truth—good for him to be
intellectually honest and hospitable, then it is good for others to know
the truths thus found.

Every man should have the courage to give his honest thought. This makes
the finder and publisher of truth a public benefactor.

Those who prevent, or try to prevent, the expression of honest thought,
are the foes of civilization—the enemies of truth. Nothing can exceed
the egotism and impudence of the man who claims the right to express his
thought and denies the same right to others.

It will not do to say that certain ideas are sacred, and that man has
not the right to investigate and test these ideas for himself.

Who knows that they are sacred? Can anything be sacred to us that we do
not know to be true?

For many centuries free speech has been an insult to God. Nothing has
been more blasphemous than the expression of honest thought. For many
ages the lips of the wise were sealed. The torches that truth had
lighted, that courage carried and held aloft, were extinguished with
blood.

Truth has always been in favor of free speech—has always asked to be
investigated—has always longed to be known and understood. Freedom,
discussion, honesty, investigation and courage are the friends and
allies of truth. Truth loves the light and the open field. It appeals
to the senses—to the judgment, the reason, to all the higher and nobler
faculties and powers of the mind. It seeks to calm the passions, to
destroy prejudice and to increase the volume and intensity of reason's
flame.

It does not ask man to cringe or crawl. It does not desire the worship
of the ignorant or the prayers and praises of the frightened. It says to
every human being, "Think for yourself. Enjoy the freedom of a god, and
have the goodness and the courage to express your honest thought."

Why should we pursue the truth? and why should we investigate and
reason? and why should we be mentally honest and hospitable? and why
should we express our honest thoughts? To this there is but one answer:
for the benefit of mankind.

The brain must be developed. The world must think. Speech must be free.
The world must learn that credulity is not a virtue and that no question
is settled until reason is fully satisfied.

By these means man will overcome many of the obstructions of nature. He
will cure or avoid many diseases. He will lessen pain. He will lengthen,
ennoble and enrich life. In every direction he will increase his power.
He will satisfy his wants, gratify his tastes. He will put roof and
raiment, food and fuel, home and happiness within the reach of all.

He will drive want and crime from the world. He will destroy the
serpents of fear, the monsters of superstition. He will become
intelligent and free, honest and serene.

The monarch of the skies will be dethroned—the flames of hell will be
extinguished. Pious beggars will become honest and useful men. Hypocrisy
will collect no tolls from fear, lies will not be regarded as sacred,
this life will not be sacrificed for another, human beings will love
each other instead of gods, men will do right, not for the sake of
reward in some other world, but for the sake of happiness here. Man
will find that Nature is the only revelation, and that he, by his own
efforts, must learn to read the stories told by star and cloud, by rock
and soil, by sea and stream, by rain and fire, by plant and flower,
by life in all its curious forms, and all the things and forces of the
world.

When he reads these stories, these records, he will know that man must
rely on himself,—that the supernatural does not exist, and that man
must be the providence of man.

It is impossible to conceive of an argument against the freedom of
thought—against maintaining your self-respect and preserving the
spotless and stainless veracity of the soul.

II.

ALL that I have said seems to be true—almost self-evident,—and you may
ask who it is that says slavery is better than liberty. Let me tell you.

All the popes and priests, all the orthodox churches and clergymen, say
that they have a revelation from God.

The Protestants say that it is the duty of every person to read, to
understand, and to believe this revelation—that a man should use his
reason; but if he honestly concludes that the Bible is not a revelation
from God, and dies with that conclusion in his mind, he will be
tormented forever. They say:—"Read," and then add: "Believe, or be
damned."

"No matter how unreasonable the Bible may appear to you, you must
believe. No matter how impossible the miracles may seem, you must
believe. No matter how cruel the laws, your heart must approve them
all!"

This is what the church calls the liberty of thought. We read the Bible
under the scowl and threat of God. We read by the glare of hell. On one
side is the devil, with the instruments of torture in his hands. On the
other, God, ready to launch the infinite curse. And the church says to
the readers: "You are free to decide. God is good, and he gives you the
liberty to choose."

The popes and the priests say to the poor people: "You need not read
the Bible. You cannot understand it. That is the reason it is called a
revelation. We will read it for you, and you must believe what we say.
We carry the key of hell. Contradict us and you will become eternal
convicts in the prison of God."

This is the freedom of the Catholic Church.

And all these priests and clergymen insist that the Bible is superior
to human reason—that it is the duty of man to accept it—to believe it,
whether he really thinks it is true or not, and without the slightest
regard to evidence or reason.

It is his duty to cast out from the temple of his soul the goddess
Reason, and bow before the coiled serpent of Fear.

This is what the church calls virtue.

Under these conditions what can thought be worth? The brain, swept by
the sirocco of God's curse, becomes a desert.

But this is not all. To compel man to desert the standard of Reason,
the church does not entirely rely on the threat of eternal pain to be
endured in another world, but holds out the reward of everlasting joy.

To those who believe, it promises the endless ecstasies of heaven. If it
cannot frighten, it will bribe. It relies on fear and hope.

A religion, to command the respect of intelligent men, should rest on a
foundation of established facts. It should appeal, not to passion,
not to hope and fear, but to the judgment. It should ask that all the
faculties of the mind, all the senses, should assemble and take
counsel together, and that its claims be passed upon and tested without
prejudice, without fear, in the calm of perfect candor.

But the church cries: "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt
be saved." Without this belief there is no salvation. Salvation is the
reward for belief.

Belief is, and forever must be, the result of evidence. A promised
reward is not evidence. It sheds no intellectual light. It establishes
no fact, answers no objection, and dissipates no doubt.

Is it honest to offer a reward for belief?

The man who gives money to a judge or juror for a decision or verdict
is guilty of a crime. Why? Because he induces the judge, the juror, to
decide, not according to the law, to the facts, the right, but according
to the bribe.

The bribe is not evidence.

So, the promise of Christ to reward those who will believe is a bribe.
It is an attempt to make a promise take the place of evidence. He
who says that he believes, and does this for the sake of the reward,
corrupts his soul.

Suppose I should say that at the center of the earth there is a diamond
one hundred miles in diameter, and that I would give ten thousand
dollars to any man who would believe my statement. Could such a promise
be regarded as evidence?

Intelligent people would ask not for rewards, but reasons. Only
hypocrites would ask for the money.

Yet, according to the New Testament, Christ offered a reward to those
who would believe, and this promised reward was to take the place of
evidence. When Christ made this promise he forgot, ignored, or held in
contempt the rectitude of a brave, free and natural soul.

The declaration that salvation is the reward for belief is inconsistent
with mental freedom, and could have been made by no man who thought that
evidence sustained the slightest relation to belief.

Every sermon in which men have been told that they could save their
souls by believing, has been an injury. Such sermons dull the moral
sense and subvert the true conception of virtue and duty.

The true man, when asked to believe, asks for evidence. The true man,
who asks another to believe, offers evidence.

But this is not all.

In spite of the threat of eternal pain—of the promise of everlasting
joy, unbelievers increased, and the churches took another step.

The churches said to the unbelievers, the heretics: "Although our God
will punish you forever in another world—in his prison—the doors of
which open only to receive, we, unless you believe, will torment you
now."

And then the members of these churches, led by priests, popes, and
clergymen, sought out their unbelieving neighbors—chained them in
dungeons, stretched them on racks, crushed their bones, cut out their
tongues, extinguished their eyes, flayed them alive and consumed their
poor bodies in flames.

All this was done because these Christian savages believed in the dogma
of eternal pain. Because they believed that heaven was the reward
for belief. So believing, they were the enemies of free thought and
speech—they cared nothing for conscience, nothing for the veracity of
a soul,—nothing for the manhood of a man. In all ages most priests have
been heartless and relentless. They have calumniated and tortured. In
defeat they have crawled and whined. In victory they have killed. The
flower of pity never blossomed in their hearts and in their brain.
Justice never held aloft the scales. Now they are not as cruel. They
have lost their power, but they are still trying to accomplish the
impossible. They fill their pockets with "fool's gold" and think they
are rich. They stuff their minds with mistakes and think they are wise.
They console themselves with legends and myths, have faith in fiction
and forgery—give their hearts to ghosts and phantoms and seek the aid
of the non-existent.

They put a monster—a master—a tyrant in the sky, and seek to enslave
their fellow-men. They teach the cringing virtues of serfs. They abhor
the courage of manly men. They hate the man who thinks. They long for
revenge.

They warm their hands at the imaginary fires of hell.

I show them that hell does not exist and they denounce me for destroying
their consolation.

Horace Greeley, as the story goes, one cold day went into a country
store, took a seat by the stove, unbuttoned his coat and spread out his
hands.

In a few minutes, a little boy who clerked in the store said: "Mr.
Greeley, there aint no fire in that stove."

"You d——d little rascal," said Greeley, "What did you tell me for, I
was getting real warm."

## Iii

"THE SCIENCE OF THEOLOGY."

ALL the sciences—except Theology—are eager for facts—hungry for the
truth. On the brow of a finder of a fact the laurel is placed.

In a theological seminary, if a professor finds a fact inconsistent with
the creed, he must keep it secret or deny it, or lose his place. Mental
veracity is a crime, cowardice and hypocrisy are virtues.

A fact, inconsistent with the creed, is denounced as a lie, and the
man who declares or announces the fact is a blasphemer. Every professor
breathes the air of insincerity. Every one is mentally dishonest. Every
one is a pious fraud. Theology is the only dishonest science—the only
one that is based on belief—on credulity,—the only one that abhors
investigation, that despises thought and denounces reason.

All the great theologians in the Catholic Church have denounced reason
as the light furnished by the enemy of mankind—as the road that leads
to perdition. All the great Protestant theologians, from Luther to
the orthodox clergy of our time, have been the enemies of reason. All
orthodox churches of all ages have been the enemies of science. They
attacked the astronomers as though they were criminals—the geologists
as though they were assassins. They regarded physicians as the enemies
of God—as men who were trying to defeat the decrees of Providence.
The biologists, the anthropologists, the archaeologists, the readers of
ancient inscriptions, the delvers in buried cities, were all hated by
the theologians. They were afraid that these men might find something
inconsistent with the Bible.

The theologians attacked those who studied other religions. They
insisted that Christianity was not a growth—not an evolution—but
a revelation. They denied that it was in any way connected with any
natural religion.

The facts now show beyond all doubt that all religions came from
substantially the same source—but there is not an orthodox Christian
theologian who will admit the facts. He must defend his creed—his
revelation. He cannot afford to be honest. He was not educated in an
honest school. He was not taught to be honest. He was taught to believe
and to defend his belief, not only against argument but against facts.

There is not a theologian in the whole world who can produce the
slightest, the least particle of evidence tending to show that the Bible
is the inspired word of God.

Where is the evidence that the book of Ruth was written by an inspired
man? Where is the evidence that God is the author of the Song of
Solomon? Where is the evidence that any human being has been inspired?
Where is the evidence that Christ was and is God? Where is the evidence
that the places called heaven and hell exist? Where is the evidence that
a miracle was ever wrought?

There is none.

Theology is entirely independent of evidence.

Where is the evidence that angels and ghosts—that devils and gods
exist? Have these beings been seen or touched? Does one of our senses
certify to their existence?

The theologians depend on assertions. They have no evidence. They
claim that their inspired book is superior to reason and independent of
evidence.

They talk about probability—analogy—inferences—but they present no
evidence. They say that they know that Christ lived, in the same way
that they know that Caesar lived. They might add that they know Moses
talked with Jehovah on Sinai the same way they know that Brigham Young
talked with God in Utah. The evidence in both cases is the same,—none
in either.

How do they prove that Christ rose from the dead? They find the account
in a book. Who wrote the book? They do not know. What evidence is this?
None, unless all things found in books are true.

It is impossible to establish one miracle except by another—and that
would have to be established by another still, and so on without end.
Human testimony is not sufficient to establish a miracle. Each human
being, to be really convinced, must witness the miracle for himself.

They say that Christianity was established, proven to be true, by
miracles wrought nearly two thousand years ago. Not one of these
miracles can be established except by impudent and ignorant
assertion—except by poisoning and deforming the minds of the ignorant
and the young. To succeed, the theologians invade the cradle, the
nursery. In the brain of innocence they plant the seeds of superstition.
They pollute the minds and imaginations of children. They frighten the
happy with threats of pain—they soothe the wretched with gilded lies.

This perpetual insincerity stamps itself on the face—affects every
feature. We all know the theological countenance,—cold, unsympathetic,
cruel, lighted with a pious smirk,—no line of laughter—no dimpled
mirth—no touch of humor—nothing human.

This face is a rebuke, a reprimand to natural joy. It says to the happy:
"Beware of the dog"—"Prepare for death." This face, like the fabled
Gorgon, turns cheerfulness to stone. It is a protest against pleasure—a
warning and a threat.

You see every soul is a sculptor that fashions the features, and in this
way reveals itself.

Every thought leaves its impress.

The student of this science of theology must be taught in youth,—in
his mother's arms. These lies must be sown and planted in his brain the
first of all. He must be taught to believe, to accept without question.
He must be told that it is wicked to doubt, that it is sinful to
inquire—that Faith is a virtue and unbelief a crime.

In this way his mind is poisoned, paralyzed. On all other subjects he
has liberty—and in all other directions he is urged to study and think.
From his mother's arms he goes to the Sunday school. His poor little
mind is filled with miracles and wonders. He is told about a God who
made the world and who rewards and punishes. He is told that this God
is the author of the Bible—that Christ is his son. He is told about
original sin and the atonement, and he believes what he hears. No
reasons are given—no facts—no evidence is presented—nothing
but assertion. If he asks questions, he is silenced by more solemn
assertions and warned against the devices of the evil one. Every Sunday
school is a kind of inquisition where they torture and deform the minds
of children—where they force their souls into Catholic or Protestant
moulds—and do all they can to destroy the originality, the
individuality, and the veracity of the soul. In the theological seminary
the destruction is complete.

When the minister leaves the seminary, he is not seeking the truth.
He has it. He has a revelation from God, and he has a creed in exact
accordance with that revelation. His business is to stand by that
revelation and to defend that creed. Arguments against the revelation
and the creed he will not read, he will not hear. All facts that are
against his religion he will deny. It is impossible for him to be
candid. The tremendous "verities" of eternal joy, of everlasting pain
are in his creed, and they result from believing the false and denying
the true.

Investigation is an infinite danger, unbelief is an infinite offence
and deserves and will receive infinite punishment. In the shadow of this
tremendous "fact" his courage dies, his manhood is lost, and in his fear
he cries out that he believes, whether he does or not.

He says and teaches that credulity is safe and thought dangerous. Yet he
pretends to be a teacher—a leader, one selected by God to educate his
fellow-men.

These orthodox ministers have been the slanderers of the really great
men of our century. They denounced Lyell, the great geologist, for
giving facts to the world. They hated and belittled Humboldt, one of the
greatest and most intellectual of the race. They ridiculed and derided
Darwin, the greatest naturalist, the keenest observer, the best judge
of the value of a fact, the most wonderful discoverer of truth that the
world has produced.

In every orthodox pulpit stood a traducer of the greatest of
scientists—of one who filled the world with intellectual light.

The church has been the enemy of every science, of every real thinker,
and for many centuries has used her power to prevent intellectual
progress.

Ministers ought to be free. They should be the heralds of the ever
coming day, but they are the bats, the owls that inhabit ruins, that
hate the light. They denounce honest men who express their thoughts, as
blasphemers, and do what they can to close their mouths. For their Bible
they ask the protection of law. They wish to be shielded from laughter
by the Legislature. They ask that the arguments of their opponents
be answered by the courts. This is the result of a due admixture of
cowardice, hypocrisy and malice.

What valuable fact has been proclaimed from an orthodox pulpit? What
ecclesiastical council has added to the intellectual wealth of the
world?

Many centuries ago the church gave to Christendom a code of laws,
stupid, unphilosophic and brutal to the last degree.

The church insists that it has made man merciful and just. Did it do
this by torturing heretics—by extinguishing their eyes—by flaying them
alive? Did it accomplish this result through the Inquisition—by the
use of the thumb-screw, the rack and the fagot? Of what science has the
church been the friend and champion? What orthodox church has opened its
doors to a persecuted truth? Of what use has Christianity been to man?

They tell us that the church has been and is the friend of education.
I deny it. The church founded colleges not to educate men, but to
make proselytes, converts, defenders. This was in accordance with the
instinct of self-preservation. No orthodox church ever was, or ever
will be in favor of real education. A Catholic is in favor of enough
education to make a Catholic out of a savage, and the Protestant is in
favor of enough education to make a Protestant out of a Catholic, but
both are opposed to the education that makes free and manly men.

So, ministers say that they teach charity. This is natural. They live on
alms. All beggars teach that others should give.

So, they tell us that the church has built hospitals. This is not true.
Men have not built hospitals because they were Christians, but
because they were men. They have not built them for charity—but in
self-defence.

If a man comes to your door with the smallpox, you cannot let him in,
you cannot kill him. As a necessity, you provide a place for him. And
you do this to protect yourself. With this Christianity has had nothing
to do.

The church cannot give, because it does not produce. It is claimed that
the church has made men and women forgiving. I admit that the church has
preached forgiveness, but it has never forgiven an enemy—never. Against
the great and brave thinkers it has coined and circulated countless
lies. Never has the church told, or tried to tell, the truth about an
honest foe.

The church teaches the existence of the supernatural. It believes in
the divine sleight-of-hand—in the "presto" and "open sesame" of the
Infinite; in some invisible Being who produces effects without causes
and causes without effects; whose caprice governs the world and who can
be persuaded by prayer, softened by ceremony, and who will, as a reward
for faith, save men from the natural consequences of their actions.

The church denies the eternal, inexorable sequence of events.

What Good has the Church Accomplished?

It claims to have preached peace because its founder said, "I came not
to bring peace but a sword."

It claims to have preserved the family because its founder offered a
hundred-fold here and life everlasting to those who would desert wife
and children.

So, it claims to have taught the brotherhood of man and that the gospel
is for all the world, because Christ said to the woman of Samaria that
he came only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel, and declared that
it was not meet to take the bread of the children and cast it unto dogs.

In the name of Christ, who threatened eternal revenge, it has preached
forgiveness.

Of what Use are the Orthodox Ministers?

They are the enemies of pleasure. They denounce dancing as one of
the deadly sins. They are shocked at the wickedness of the waltz—the
pollution of the polka. They are the enemies of the theatre. They
slander actors and actresses. They hate them because they are rivals.
They are trying to preserve the sacredness of the Sabbath. It fills them
with malice to see the people happy on that day. They preach against
excursions and picnics—against those who seek the woods and the sea,
the shadows and the waves. They are filled with holy wrath against
bicycles and bloomers. They are opposed to divorces. They insist that
for the glory of God, husbands and wives who loathe each other should
be compelled to live together. They abhor all works of fiction, and love
the Bible. They declare that the literary master-pieces of the world are
unfit to be read. They think that the people should be satisfied with
sermons and poems about death and hell. They hate art—abhor the marbles
of the Greeks, and all representations of the human form. They want
nothing painted or sculptured but hands, faces and clothes. Most of the
priests are prudes, and publicly denounce what they secretly admire and
enjoy. In the presence of the nude they cover their faces with their
holy hands, but keep their fingers apart. They pretend to believe in
moral suasion, and want everything regulated by law. If they had the
power, they would prohibit everything that men and women really enjoy.
They want libraries, museums and art galleries closed on the Sabbath.
They would abolish the Sunday paper—stop the running of cars and all
public conveyances on the holy day, and compel all the people to enjoy
sermons, prayers and psalms.

These dear ministers, when they have poor congregations, thunder against
trusts, syndicates, and corporations—against wealth, fashion and
luxury. They tell about Dives and Lazarus, paint rich men in hell and
beggars in heaven. If their congregations are rich they turn their guns
in the other direction.

They have no confidence in education—in the development of the
brain. They appeal to hopes and fears. They ask no one to think—to
investigate. They insist that all shall believe. Credulity is the
greatest of virtues, and doubt the deadliest of sins.

These men are the enemies of science—of intellectual progress. They
ridicule and calumniate the great thinkers. They deny everything that
conflicts with the "sacred Scriptures." They still believe in the
astronomy of Joshua and the geology of Moses. They believe in the
miracles of the past, and deny the demonstrations of the present. They
are the foes of facts—the enemies of knowledge. A desire to be happy
here, they regard as wicked and worldly—but a desire to be happy in
another world, as virtuous and spiritual.

Every orthodox church is founded on mistake and falsehood. Every good
orthodox minister asserts what he does not know, and denies what he does
know.

What are the Orthodox Clergy Doing for the Good of Mankind?

Absolutely nothing.

What harm are they doing?

On every hand they sow the seeds of superstition. They paralyze the
minds, and pollute the imaginations of children. They fill their hearts
with fear. By their teachings, thousands become insane. With them,
hypocrisy is respectable and candor infamous.

They enslave the minds of men. Under their teachings men waste and
misdirect their energies, abandon the ends that can be accomplished,
dedicate their lives to the impossible, worship the unknown, pray to the
inconceivable, and become the trembling slaves of a monstrous myth born
of ignorance and fashioned by the trembling hands of fear.

Superstition is the serpent that crawls and hisses in every Eden and
fastens its poisonous fangs in the hearts of men.

It is the deadliest foe of the human race.

Superstition is a beggar—a robber, a tyrant.

Science is a benefactor.

Superstition sheds blood.

Science sheds light.

The dear preachers must give up the account of creation—the Garden of
Eden, the mud-man, the rib-woman, and the walking, talking, snake. They
must throw away the apple, the fall of man, the expulsion, and the gate
guarded by angels armed with swords. They must give up the flood and the
tower of Babel and the confusion of tongues. They must give up Abraham
and the wrestling match between Jacob and the Lord. So, the story of
Joseph, the enslavement of the Hebrews by the Egyptians, the story of
Moses in the bullrushes, the burning bush, the turning of sticks into
serpents, of water into blood, the miraculous creation of frogs, the
killing of cattle with hail and changing dust into lice, all must be
given up. The sojourn of forty years in the desert, the opening of the
Red Sea, the clothes and shoes that refused to wear out, the manna,
the quails and the serpents, the water that ran up hill, the talking of
Jehovah with Moses face to face, the giving of the Ten Commandments, the
opening of the earth to swallow the enemies of Moses—all must be thrown
away.

These good preachers must admit that blowing horns could not throw down
the walls of a city, that it was horrible for Jephthah to sacrifice his
daughter, that the day was not lengthened and the moon stopped for the
sake of Joshua, that the dead Samuel was not raised by a witch, that
a man was not carried to heaven in a chariot of fire, that the river
Jordan was not divided by the stroke of a cloak, that the bears did not
destroy children for laughing at a prophet, that a wandering soothsayer
did not collect lightnings from heaven to destroy the lives of innocent
men, that he did not cause rain and make iron float, that ravens did not
keep a hotel where preachers got board and lodging free, that the shadow
on a dial was not turned back ten degrees to show that a king was going
to recover from a boil, that Ezekiel was not told by God how to prepare
a dinner, that Jonah did not take cabin passage in a fish—and that all
the miracles in the old Testament are not allegories, or poems, but just
old-fashioned lies. And the dear preachers will be compelled to admit
that there never was a miraculous babe without a natural father, that
Christ, if he lived, was a man and nothing more. That he did not cast
devils out of folks—that he did not cure blindness with spittle and
clay, nor turn water into wine, nor make fishes and loaves of bread out
of nothing—that he did not know where to catch fishes with money in
their mouths—that he did not take a walk on the water—that he did
not at will become invisible—that he did not pass through closed
doors—that he did not raise the dead—that angels never rolled stones
from a sepulchre—that Christ did not rise from the dead and did not
ascend to heaven.

All these mistakes and illusions and delusions—all these miracles and
myths must fade from the minds of intelligent men.

My dear preachers, I beg you to tell the truth. Tell your congregations
that Moses was not the author of the Pentateuch. Tell them that nobody
knows who wrote the five books. Tell them that Deuteronomy was not
written until about six hundred years before Christ. Tell them that
nobody knows who wrote Joshua, or Judges, or Ruth, Samuel, Kings, or
Chronicles, Job, or the Psalms, or the Song of Solomon. Be honest,
tell the truth. Tell them that nobody knows who wrote Esther—that
Ecclesiastes was written long after Christ—that many of the prophecies
were written after the events pretended to be foretold had happened.
Tell them that Ezekiel and Daniel were insane. Tell them that nobody
knows who wrote the gospels, and tell them that no line about Christ
written by a contemporary has been found. Tell them it is all guess—and
may be, and perhaps. Be honest. Tell the truth, develop your brains, use
all your senses and hold high the torch of Reason.

In a few years the pulpits will be filled with teachers instead of
preachers—with thoughtful, brave, and honest men. The congregations
will be civilized—intellectually honest and hospitable.

Now, most of the ministers insist that the old falsehoods shall
be treated with reverence—that ancient lies with long white
beards—wrinkled and bald-headed frauds—round-shouldered and toothless
miracles, and palsied mistakes on crutches, shall be called allegories,
parables, oriental imagery, inspired poems. In their presence the
ungodly should remove their hats. They should respect the mould and moss
of antiquity. They should remember that these lies, these frauds, the
miracles and mistakes, have for thousands of years ruled, enslaved, and
corrupted the human race.

These ministers ought to know that their creeds are based on imagined
facts and demonstrated by assertion.

They ought to know that they have no evidence,—nothing but promises
and threats. They ought to know that it is impossible to conceive of
force existing without and before matter—that it is equally impossible
to conceive of matter without force—that it is impossible to conceive
of the creation or destruction of matter or force,—that it is
impossible to conceive of infinite intelligence dwelling from eternity
in infinite space, and that it is impossible to conceive of the creator,
or creation, of substance.

The God of the Christian is an enthroned guess—a perhaps—an inference.

No man, and no body of men, can answer the questions of the Whence and
Whither. The mystery of existence cannot be explained by the intellect
of man.

Back of life, of existence, we cannot go—beyond death we cannot see.
All duties, all obligations, all knowledge, all experience, are for this
life, for this world.

We know that men and women and children exist. We know that happiness,
for the most part, depends on conduct.

We are satisfied that all the gods are phantoms and that the
supernatural does not exist.

We know the difference between hope and knowledge, we hope for happiness
here and we dream of joy hereafter, but we do not know. We cannot
assert, we can only hope. We can have our dream. In the wide night our
star can shine and shed its radiance on the graves of those we love. We
can bend above our pallid dead and say that beyond this life there are
no sighs—no tears—no breaking hearts.

## Conclusion

LET us be honest. Let us preserve the veracity of our souls. Let
education commence in the cradle—in the lap of the loving mother.
This is the first school. The teacher, the mother, should be absolutely
honest.

The nursery should not be an asylum for lies.

Parents should be modest enough to be truthful—honest enough to
admit their ignorance. Nothing should be taught as true that cannot be
demonstrated.

Every child should be taught to doubt, to inquire, to demand reasons.
Every soul should defend itself—should be on its guard against
falsehood, deceit, and mistake, and should beware of all kinds of
confidence men, including those in the pulpit.

Children should be taught to express their doubts—to demand reasons.
The object of education should be to develop the brain, to quicken the
senses. Every school should be a mental gymnasium. The child should be
equipped for the battle of life. Credulity, implicit obedience, are the
virtues of slaves and the enslavers of the free. All should be taught
that there is nothing too sacred to be investigated—too holy to be
understood.

Each mind has the right to lift all curtains, withdraw all veils, scale
all walls, explore all recesses, all heights, all depths for itself, in
spite of church or priest, or creed or book.

The great volume of Nature should be open to all. None but the
intelligent and honest can really read this book. Prejudice clouds and
darkens every page. Hypocrisy reads and misquotes, and credulity accepts
the quotation. Superstition cannot read a line or spell the shortest
word. And yet this volume holds all knowledge, all truth, and is the
only source of thought. Mental liberty means the right of all to read
this book. Here the Pope and Peasant are equal. Each must read
for himself—and each ought honestly and fearlessly to give to his
fellow-men what he learns.

There is no authority in churches or priests—no authority in numbers or
majorities. The only authority is Nature—the facts we know. Facts are
the masters, the enemies of the ignorant, the servants and friends of
the intelligent.

Ignorance is the mother of mystery and misery, of superstition and
sorrow, of waste and want.

Intelligence is the only light. It enables us to keep the highway, to
avoid the obstructions, and to take advantage of the forces of nature.
It is the only lever capable of raising mankind. To develop the brain
is to civilize the world. Intelligence reaves the heavens of winged and
frightful monsters—drives ghosts and leering fiends from the darkness,
and floods with light the dungeons of fear.

All should be taught that there is no evidence of the existence of the
supernatural—that the man who bows before an idol of wood or stone
is just as foolish as the one who prays to an imagined God,—that all
worship has for its foundation the same mistake—the same ignorance, the
same fear—that it is just as foolish to believe in a personal god as in
a personal devil—just as foolish to believe in great ghosts as little
ones.

So, all should be taught that the forces, the facts in Nature, cannot be
controlled or changed by prayer or praise, by supplication, ceremony,
or sacrifice; that there is no magic, no miracle; that force can be
overcome only by force, and that the whole world is natural.

All should be taught that man must protect himself—that there is no
power superior to Nature that cares for man—that Nature has neither
pity nor hatred—that her forces act without the slightest regard for
man—that she produces without intention and destroys without regret.

All should be taught that usefulness is the bud and flower and fruit of
real religion. The popes and cardinals, the bishops, priests and parsons
are all useless. They produce nothing. They live on the labor of others.
They are parasites that feed on the frightened. They are vampires that
suck the blood of honest toil. Every church is an organized beggar.
Every one lives on alms—on alms collected by force and fear. Every
orthodox church promises heaven and threatens hell, and these promises
and threats are made for the sake of alms, for revenue. Every church
cries: "Believe and give."

A new era is dawning on the world. We are beginning to believe in the
religion of usefulness.

The men who felled the forests, cultivated the earth, spanned the rivers
with bridges of steel, built the railways and canals, the great ships,
invented the locomotives and engines, supplying the countless wants of
man; the men who invented the telegraphs and cables, and freighted the
electric spark with thought and love; the men who invented the looms and
spindles that clothe the world, the inventors of printing and the great
presses that fill the earth with poetry, fiction and fact, that save and
keep all knowledge for the children yet to be; the inventors of all the
wonderful machines that deftly mould from wood and steel the things we
use; the men who have explored the heavens and traced the orbits of
the stars—who have read the story of the world in mountain range and
billowed sea; the men who have lengthened life and conquered pain; the
great philosophers and naturalists who have filled the world with
light; the great poets whose thoughts have charmed the souls, the great
painters and sculptors who have made the canvas speak, the marble live;
the great orators who have swayed the world, the composers who have
given their souls to sound, the captains of industry, the producers,
the soldiers who have battled for the right, the vast host of useful
men—these are our Christs, our apostles and our saints. The triumphs of
science are our miracles. The books filled with the facts of Nature are
our sacred scriptures, and the force that is in every atom and in every
star—in everything that lives and grows and thinks, that hopes and
suffers, is the only possible god.

The absolute we cannot know—beyond the horizon of the Natural we cannot
go. All our duties are within our reach—all our obligations must be
discharged here, in this world. Let us love and labor. Let us wait and
work. Let us cultivate courage and cheerfulness—open our hearts to the
good—our minds to the true. Let us live free lives. Let us hope that
the future will bring peace and joy to all the children of men, and
above all, let us preserve the veracity of our souls.
---
# What Is Religion?
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1899_
> * This was Col. Ingersoll's last public address, delivered
> before the American Free Religious Association, in the
> Hollis Street Theatre, Boston, June 2, 1899.

IT is asserted that an infinite God created all things, governs all
things, and that the creature should be obedient and thankful to the
creator; that the creator demands certain things, and that the person
who complies with these demands is religious. This kind of religion has
been substantially universal.

For many centuries and by many peoples it was believed that this God
demanded sacrifices; that he was pleased when parents shed the blood of
their babes. Afterward it was supposed that he was satisfied with the
blood of oxen, lambs and doves, and that in exchange for or on account
of these sacrifices, this God gave rain, sunshine and harvest. It
was also believed that if the sacrifices were not made, this God sent
pestilence, famine, flood and earthquake.

The last phase of this belief in sacrifice was, according to the
Christian doctrine, that God accepted the blood of his son, and that
after his son had been murdered, he, God, was satisfied, and wanted no
more blood.

During all these years and by all these peoples it was believed that
this God heard and answered prayer, that he forgave sins and saved the
souls of true believers. This, in a general way, is the definition of
religion.

Now, the questions are, Whether religion was founded on any known
fact? Whether such a being as God exists? Whether he was the creator of
yourself and myself? Whether any prayer was ever answered? Whether any
sacrifice of babe or ox secured the favor of this unseen God?

_First_.—Did an infinite God create the children of men?

Why did he create the intellectually inferior?

Why did he create the deformed and helpless?

Why did he create the criminal, the idiotic, the insane?

Can infinite wisdom and power make any excuse for the creation of
failures?

Are the failures under obligation to their creator?

_Second_.—Is an infinite God the governor of this world?

Is he responsible for all the chiefs, kings, emperors, and queens?

Is he responsible for all the wars that have been waged, for all the
innocent blood that has been shed?

Is he responsible for the centuries of slavery, for the backs that have
been scarred with the lash, for the babes that have been sold from
the breasts of mothers, for the families that have been separated and
destroyed?

Is this God responsible for religious persecution, for the Inquisition,
for the thumb-screw and rack, and for all the instruments of torture?

Did this God allow the cruel and vile to destroy the brave and virtuous?
Did he allow tyrants to shed the blood of patriots?

Did he allow his enemies to torture and burn his friends?

What is such a God worth?

Would a decent man, having the power to prevent it, allow his enemies to
torture and burn his friends?

Can we conceive of a devil base enough to prefer his enemies to his
friends?

If a good and infinitely powerful God governs this world, how can we
account for cyclones, earthquakes, pestilence and famine?

How can we account for cancers, for microbes, for diphtheria and the
thousand diseases that prey on infancy?

How can we account for the wild beasts that devour human beings, for the
fanged serpents whose bite is death?

How can we account for a world where life feeds on life?

Were beak and claw, tooth and fang, invented and produced by infinite
mercy?

Did infinite goodness fashion the wings of the eagles so that their
fleeing prey could be overtaken?

Did infinite goodness create the beasts of prey with the intention that
they should devour the weak and helpless?

Did infinite goodness create the countless worthless living things that
breed within and feed upon the flesh of higher forms?

Did infinite wisdom intentionally produce the microscopic beasts that
feed upon the optic nerve?

Think of blinding a man to satisfy the appetite of a microbe!

Think of life feeding on life! Think of the victims! Think of the
Niagara of blood pouring over the precipice of cruelty!

In view of these facts, what, after all, is religion?

It is fear.

Fear builds the altar and offers the sacrifice.

Fear erects the cathedral and bows the head of man in worship.

Fear bends the knees and utters the prayer.

Fear pretends to love.

Religion teaches the slave-virtues—obedience, humility, self-denial,
forgiveness, non-resistance.

Lips, religious and fearful, tremblingly repeat this passage: "Though he
slay me, yet will I trust him." This is the abyss of degradation.

Religion does not teach self-reliance, independence, manliness, courage,
self-defence. Religion makes God a master and man his serf. The master
cannot be great enough to make slavery sweet.

II.

IF this God exists, how do we know that he is-I good? How can we prove
that he is merciful, that he cares for the children of men? If this
God exists, he has on many occasions seen millions of his poor children
plowing the fields, sowing and planting the grain, and when he saw them
he knew that they depended on the expected crop for life, and yet this
good God, this merciful being, withheld the rain. He caused the sun to
rise, to steal all moisture from the land, but gave no rain. He saw the
seeds that man had planted wither and perish, but he sent no rain. He
saw the people look with sad eyes upon the barren earth, and he sent no
rain. He saw them slowly devour the little that they had, and saw them
when the days of hunger came—saw them slowly waste away, saw their
hungry, sunken eyes, heard their prayers, saw them devour the miserable
animals that they had, saw fathers and mothers, insane with hunger,
kill and eat their shriveled babes, and yet the heaven above them was
as brass and the earth beneath as iron, and he sent no rain. Can we say
that in the heart of this God there blossomed the flower of pity? Can
we say that he cared for the children of men? Can we say that his mercy
endureth forever?

Do we prove that this God is good because he sends the cyclone that
wrecks villages and covers the fields with the mangled bodies of
fathers, mothers and babes? Do we prove his goodness by showing that he
has opened the earth and swallowed thousands of his helpless children,
or that with the volcanoes he has overwhelmed them with rivers of fire?
Can we infer the goodness of God from the facts we know?

If these calamities did not happen, would we suspect that God cared
nothing for human beings? If there were no famine, no pestilence, no
cyclone, no earthquake, would we think that God is not good?

According to the theologians, God did not make all men alike. He made
races differing in intelligence, stature and color. Was there goodness,
was there wisdom in this?

Ought the superior races to thank God that they are not the inferior? If
we say yes, then I ask another question: Should the inferior races thank
God that they are not superior, or should they thank God that they are
not beasts?

When God made these different races he knew that the superior would
enslave the inferior, knew that the inferior would be conquered, and
finally destroyed.

If God did this, and knew the blood that would be shed, the agonies that
would be endured, saw the countless fields covered with the corpses of
the slain, saw all the bleeding backs of slaves, all the broken hearts
of mothers bereft of babes, if he saw and knew all this, can we conceive
of a more malicious fiend?

Why, then, should we say that God is good?

The dungeons against whose dripping walls the brave and generous have
sighed their souls away, the scaffolds stained and glorified with noble
blood, the hopeless slaves with scarred and bleeding backs, the writhing
martyrs clothed in flame, the virtuous stretched on racks, their joints
and muscles torn apart, the flayed and bleeding bodies of the just, the
extinguished eyes of those who sought for truth, the countless patriots
who fought and died in vain, the burdened, beaten, weeping wives,
the shriveled faces of neglected babes, the murdered millions of the
vanished years, the victims of the winds and waves, of flood and flame,
of imprisoned forces in the earth, of lightning's stroke, of lava's
molten stream, of famine, plague and lingering pain, the mouths that
drip with blood, the fangs that poison, the beaks that wound and tear,
the triumphs of the base, the rule and sway of wrong, the crowns that
cruelty has worn and the robed hypocrites, with clasped and bloody
hands, who thanked their God—a phantom fiend—that liberty had been
banished from the world, these souvenirs of the dreadful past, these
horrors that still exist, these frightful facts deny that any God exists
who has the will and power to guard and bless the human race.

## III. The Power That Works for Righteousness.

MOST people cling to the supernatural. If they give up one God, they
imagine another. Having outgrown Jehovah, they talk about the power that
works for righteousness.

What is this power?

Man advances, and necessarily advances through experience. A man wishing
to go to a certain place comes to where the road divides. He takes the
left hand, believing it to be the right road, and travels until he finds
that it is the wrong one. He retraces his steps and takes the right hand
road and reaches the place desired. The next time he goes to the same
place, he does not take the left hand road. He has tried that road, and
knows that it is the wrong road. He takes the right road, and thereupon
these theologians say, "There is a power that works for righteousness."

A child, charmed by the beauty of the flame, grasps it with its dimpled
hand. The hand is burned, and after that the child keeps its hand out of
the fire. The power that works for righteousness has taught the child a
lesson.

The accumulated experience of the world is a power and force that works
for righteousness. This force is not conscious, not intelligent. It has
no will, no purpose. It is a result.

So thousands have endeavored to establish the existence of God by the
fact that we have what is called the moral sense; that is to say, a
conscience.

It is insisted by these theologians, and by many of the so-called
philosophers, that this moral sense, this sense of duty, of obligation,
was imported, and that conscience is an exotic. Taking the ground that
it was not produced here, was not produced by man, they then imagine a
God from whom it came.

Man is a social being. We live together in families, tribes and nations.

The members of a family, of a tribe, of a nation, who increase the
happiness of the family, of the tribe or of the nation, are considered
good members. They are praised, admired and respected. They are regarded
as good; that is to say, as moral.

The members who add to the misery of the family, the tribe or the
nation, are considered bad members.

They are blamed, despised, punished. They are regarded as immoral.

The family, the tribe, the nation, creates a standard of conduct, of
morality. There is nothing supernatural in this.

The greatest of human beings has said, "Conscience is born of love."

The sense of obligation, of duty, was naturally produced.

Among savages, the immediate consequences of actions are taken into
consideration. As people advance, the remote consequences are perceived.
The standard of conduct becomes higher. The imagination is cultivated.
A man puts himself in the place of another. The sense of duty becomes
stronger, more imperative. Man judges himself.

He loves, and love is the commencement, the foundation of the highest
virtues. He injures one that he loves. Then comes regret, repentance,
sorrow, conscience. In all this there is nothing supernatural.

Man has deceived himself. Nature is a mirror in which man sees his own
image, and all supernatural religions rest on the pretence that the
image, which appears to be behind this mirror, has been caught.

All the metaphysicians of the spiritual type, from Plato to Swedenborg,
have manufactured their facts, and all founders of religion have done
the same.

Suppose that an infinite God exists, what can we do for him? Being
infinite, he is conditionless; being conditionless, he cannot be
benefited or injured. He cannot want. He has.

Think of the egotism of a man who believes that an infinite being wants
his praise!

IV.

WHAT has our religion done? Of course, it is admitted by Christians that
all other religions are false, and consequently we need examine only our
own.

Has Christianity done good? Has it made men nobler, more merciful,
nearer honest? When the church had control, were men made better and
happier?

What has been the effect of Christianity in Italy, in Spain, in
Portugal, in Ireland?

What has religion done for Hungary or Austria? What was the effect of
Christianity in Switzerland, in Holland, in Scotland, in England, in
America? Let us be honest. Could these countries have been worse without
religion? Could they have been worse had they had any other religion
than Christianity?

Would Torquemada have been worse had he been a follower of Zoroaster?
Would Calvin have been more bloodthirsty if he had believed in the
religion of the South Sea Islanders? Would the Dutch have been more
idiotic if they had denied the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and worshiped
the blessed trinity of sausage, beer and cheese? Would John Knox
have been any worse had he deserted Christ and become a follower of
Confucius?

Take our own dear, merciful Puritan Fathers? What did Christianity do
for them? They hated pleasure. On the door of life they hung the crape
of death. They muffled all the bells of gladness. They made cradles
by putting rockers on coffins. In the Puritan year there were twelve
Decembers. They tried to do away with infancy and youth, with prattle of
babes and the song of the morning.

The religion of the Puritan was an unadulterated curse. The Puritan
believed the Bible to be the word of God, and this belief has always
made those who held it cruel and wretched. Would the Puritan have been
worse if he had adopted the religion of the North American Indians?

Let me refer to just one fact showing the influence of a belief in the
Bible on human beings.

"On the day of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth she was presented with
a Geneva Bible by an old man representing Time, with Truth standing
by his side as a child. The Queen received the Bible, kissed it, and
pledged herself to diligently read therein. In the dedication of this
blessed Bible the Queen was piously exhorted to put all Papists to the
sword."

In this incident we see the real spirit of Protestant lovers of the
Bible. In other words, it was just as fiendish, just as infamous as the
Catholic spirit.

Has the Bible made the people of Georgia kind and merciful? Would the
lynchers be more ferocious if they worshiped gods of wood and stone?

## VII. How Can Mankind Be Reformed Without Religion?

RELIGION has been tried, and in all countries, in all times, has failed.

Religion has never made man merciful.

Remember the Inquisition.

What effect did religion have on slavery?

What effect upon Libby, Saulsbury and Andersonville?

Religion has always been the enemy of science, of investigation and
thought.

Religion has never made man free.

It has never made man moral, temperate, industrious and honest.

Are Christians more temperate, nearer virtuous, nearer honest than
savages?

Among savages do we not find that their vices and cruelties are the
fruits of their superstitions?

To those who believe in the Uniformity of Nature, religion is
impossible.

Can we affect the nature and qualities of substance by prayer? Can we
hasten or delay the tides by worship? Can we change winds by sacrifice?
Will kneelings give us wealth? Can we cure disease by supplication? Can
we add to our knowledge by ceremony? Can we receive virtue or honor as
alms?

Are not the facts in the mental world just as stubborn—just as
necessarily produced—as the facts in the material world? Is not what we
call mind just as natural as what we call body?

Religion rests on the idea that Nature has a master and that this master
will listen to prayer; that this master punishes and rewards; that he
loves praise and flattery and hates the brave and free.

Has man obtained any help from heaven?

VI.

IF we have a theory, we must have facts for the foundation. We must
have corner-stones. We must not build on guesses, fancies, analogies
or inferences. The structure must have a basement. If we build, we must
begin at the bottom.

I have a theory and I have four corner-stones.

The first stone is that matter—substance—cannot be destroyed, cannot
be annihilated.

The second stone is that force cannot be destroyed, cannot be
annihilated.

The third stone is that matter and force cannot exist apart—no matter
without force—no force without matter.

The fourth stone is that that which cannot be destroyed could not have
been created; that the indestructible is the uncreatable.

If these corner-stones are facts, it follows as a necessity that matter
and force are from and to eternity; that they can neither be increased
nor diminished.

It follows that nothing has been or can be created; that there never has
been or can be a creator.

It follows that there could not have been any intelligence, any design
back of matter and force.

There is no intelligence without force. There is no force without
matter. Consequently there could not by any possibility have been any
intelligence, any force, back of matter.

It therefore follows that the supernatural does not and cannot exist. If
these four corner-stones are facts, Nature has no master. If matter and
force are from and to eternity, it follows as a necessity that no God
exists; that no God created or governs the universe; that no God exists
who answers prayer; no God who succors the oppressed; no God who pities
the sufferings of innocence; no God who cares for the slaves with
scarred flesh, the mothers robbed of their babes; no God who rescues
the tortured, and no God that saves a martyr from the flames. In other
words, it proves that man has never received any help from heaven;
that all sacrifices have been in vain, and that all prayers have died
unanswered in the heedless air. I do not pretend to know. I say what I
think.

If matter and force have existed from eternity, it then follows that all
that has been possible has happened, all that is possible is happening,
and all that will be possible will happen.

In the universe there is no chance, no caprice. Every event has parents.

That which has not happened, could not. The present is the necessary
product of all the past, the necessary cause of all the future.

In the infinite chain there is, and there can be, no broken, no missing
link. The form and motion of every star, the climate of every world,
all forms of vegetable and animal life, all instinct, intelligence
and conscience, all assertions and denials, all vices and virtues, all
thoughts and dreams, all hopes and fears, are necessities. Not one
of the countless things and relations in the universe could have been
different.

## Vii

IF matter and force are from eternity, then we can say that man had no
intelligent creator—that man was not a special creation.

We now know, if we know anything, that Jehovah, the divine potter, did
not mix and mould clay into the forms of men and women, and then breathe
the breath of life into these forms.

We now know that our first parents were not foreigners. We know that
they were natives of this world, produced here, and that their life did
not come from the breath of any god. We now know, if we know anything,
that the universe is natural, and that men and women have been naturally
produced. We now know our ancestors, our pedigree. We have the family
tree.

We have all the links of the chain, twenty-six links inclusive from
moner to man.

We did not get our information from inspired books. We have fossil facts
and living forms.

From the simplest creatures, from blind sensation, from organism from
one vague want, to a single cell with a nucleus, to a hollow ball filled
with fluid, to a cup with double walls, to a flat worm, to a something
that begins to breathe, to an organism that has a spinal chord, to
a link between the invertebrate to the vertebrate, to one that has a
cranium—a house for a brain—to one with fins, still onward to one with
fore and hinder fins, to the reptile mammalia, to the marsupials, to
the lemures, dwellers in trees, to the simiae, to the pithecanthropi, and
lastly, to man.

We know the paths that life has traveled. We know the footsteps of
advance. They have been traced. The last link has been found. For this
we are indebted, more than to all others, to the greatest of biologists,
Ernst Haeckel.

We now believe that the universe is natural and we deny the existence of
the supernatural.

VIII. Reform.

FOR thousands of years men and women have been trying to reform the
world. They have created gods and devils, heavens and hells; they have
written sacred books, performed miracles, built cathedrals and dungeons;
they have crowned and uncrowned kings and queens; they have tortured and
imprisoned, flayed alive and burned; they have preached and prayed; they
have tried promises and threats; they have coaxed and persuaded; they
have preached and taught, and in countless ways have endeavored to make
people honest, temperate, industrious and virtuous; they have built
hospitals and asylums, universities and schools, and seem to have done
their very best to make mankind better and happier, and yet they have
not succeeded.

Why have the reformers failed? I will tell them why.

Ignorance, poverty and vice are populating the world. The gutter is a
nursery. People unable even to support themselves fill the tenements,
the huts and hovels with children. They depend on the Lord, on luck and
charity. They are not intelligent enough to think about consequences
or to feel responsibility. At the same time they do not want children,
because a child is a curse, a curse to them and to itself. The babe is
not welcome, because it is a burden. These unwelcome children fill
the jails and prisons, the asylums and hospitals, and they crowd
the scaffolds. A few are rescued by chance or charity, but the great
majority are failures, They become vicious, ferocious. They live by
fraud and violence, and bequeath their vices to their children.

Against this inundation of vice the forces of reform are helpless, and
charity itself becomes an unconscious promoter of crime.

Failure seems to be the trademark of Nature. Why? Nature has no design,
no intelligence. Nature produces without purpose, sustains without
intention and destroys without thought. Man has a little intelligence,
and he should use it. Intelligence is the only lever capable of raising
mankind.

The real question is, can we prevent the ignorant, the poor, the
vicious, from filling the world with their children?

Can we prevent this Missouri of ignorance and vice from emptying into
the Mississippi of civilization?

Must the world forever remain the victim of ignorant passion? Can the
world be civilized to that degree that consequences will be taken into
consideration by all?

Why should men and women have children that they cannot take care
of, children that are burdens and curses? Why? Because they have more
passion than intelligence, more passion than conscience, more passion
than reason.

You cannot reform these people with tracts and talk. You cannot reform
these people with preach and creed. Passion is, and always has been,
deaf. These weapons of reform are substantially useless. Criminals,
tramps, beggars and failures are increasing every day. The prisons,
jails, poorhouses and asylums are crowded. Religion is helpless. Law can
punish, but it can neither reform criminals nor prevent crime. The tide
of vice is rising. The war that is now being waged against the forces of
evil is as hopeless as the battle of the fireflies against the darkness
of night.

There is but one hope. Ignorance, poverty and vice must stop populating
the world. This cannot be done by moral suasion. This cannot be done by
talk or example. This cannot be done by religion or by law, by priest or
by hangman. This cannot be done by force, physical or moral.

To accomplish this there is but one way. Science must make woman the
owner, the mistress of herself. Science, the only possible savior of
mankind, must put it in the power of woman to decide for herself whether
she will or will not become a mother.

This is the solution of the whole question. This frees woman. The babes
that are then born will be welcome. They will be clasped with glad hands
to happy breasts. They will fill homes with light and joy.

Men and women who believe that slaves are purer, truer, than the free,
who believe that fear is a safer guide than knowledge, that only those
are really good who obey the commands of others, and that ignorance is
the soil in which the perfect, perfumed flower of virtue grows, will
with protesting hands hide their shocked faces.

Men and women who think that light is the enemy of virtue, that purity
dwells in darkness, that it is dangerous for human beings to know
themselves and the facts in Nature that affect their well being, will be
horrified at the thought of making intelligence the master of passion.

But I look forward to the time when men and women by reason of their
knowledge of consequences, of the morality born of intelligence, will
refuse to perpetuate disease and pain, will refuse to fill the world
with failures.

When that time comes the prison walls will fall, the dungeons will be
flooded with light, and the shadow of the scaffold will cease to curse
the earth. Poverty and crime will be childless. The withered hands of
want will not be stretched for alms. They will be dust. The whole world
will be intelligent, virtuous and free.

IX.

RELIGION can never reform mankind because religion is slavery.

It is far better to be free, to leave the forts and barricades of fear,
to stand erect and face the future with a smile.

It is far better to give yourself sometimes to negligence, to drift with
wave and tide, with the blind force of the world, to think and dream,
to forget the chains and limitations of the breathing life, to forget
purpose and object, to lounge in the picture gallery of the brain,
to feel once more the clasps and kisses of the past, to bring life's
morning back, to see again the forms and faces of the dead, to paint
fair pictures for the coming years, to forget all Gods, their promises
and threats, to feel within your veins life's joyous stream and hear the
martial music, the rhythmic beating of your fearless heart.

And then to rouse yourself to do all useful things, to reach with
thought and deed the ideal in your brain, to give your fancies wing,
that they, like chemist bees, may find art's nectar in the weeds of
common things, to look with trained and steady eyes for facts, to find
the subtle threads that join the distant with the now, to increase
knowledge, to take burdens from the weak, to develop the brain, to
defend the right, to make a palace for the soul.

This is real religion. This is real worship.
---
# Why I Am an Agnostic
_Dresden Edition, Volume 4, 1896_
FOR the most part we inherit our opinions. We are the heirs of habits
and mental customs. Our beliefs, like the fashion of our garments,
depend on where we were born. We are moulded and fashioned by our
surroundings.

Environment is a sculptor—a painter.

If we had been born in Constantinople, the most of us would have said:
"There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet." If our parents
had lived on the banks of the Ganges, we would have been worshipers of
Siva, longing for the heaven of Nirvana.

As a rule, children love their parents, believe what they teach, and
take great pride in saying that the religion of mother is good enough
for them.

Most people love peace. They do not like to differ with their neighbors.
They like company. They are social. They enjoy traveling on the highway
with the multitude. They hate to walk alone.

The Scotch are Calvinists because their fathers were. The Irish are
Catholics because their fathers were. The English are Episcopalians
because their fathers were, and the Americans are divided in a hundred
sects because their fathers were. This is the general rule, to which
there are many exceptions. Children sometimes are superior to their
parents, modify their ideas, change their customs, and arrive at
different conclusions. But this is generally so gradual that the
departure is scarcely noticed, and those who change usually insist that
they are still following the fathers.

It is claimed by Christian historians that the religion of a nation was
sometimes suddenly changed, and that millions of Pagans were made into
Christians by the command of a king. Philosophers do not agree with
these historians. Names have been changed, altars have been overthrown,
but opinions, customs and beliefs remained the same. A Pagan, beneath
the drawn sword of a Christian, would probably change his religious
views, and a Christian, with a scimitar above his head, might suddenly
become a Mohammedan, but as a matter of fact both would remain exactly
as they were before—except in speech.

Belief is not subject to the will. Men think as they must. Children
do not, and cannot, believe exactly as they were taught. They are not
exactly like their parents. They differ in temperament, in experience,
in capacity, in surroundings. And so there is a continual, though almost
imperceptible change. There is development, conscious and unconscious
growth, and by comparing long periods of time we find that the old
has been almost abandoned, almost lost in the new. Men cannot remain
stationary. The mind cannot be securely anchored. If we do not advance,
we go backward. If we do not grow, we decay. If we do not develop, we
shrink and shrivel.

Like the most of you, I was raised among people who knew—who were
certain. They did not reason or investigate. They had no doubts. They
knew that they had the truth. In their creed there was no guess—no
perhaps. They had a revelation from God. They knew the beginning of
things. They knew that God commenced to create one Monday morning,
four thousand and four years before Christ. They knew that in the
eternity—back of that morning, he had done nothing. They knew that it
took him six days to make the earth—all plants, all animals, all life,
and all the globes that wheel in space. They knew exactly what he did
each day and when he rested. They knew the origin, the cause of evil, of
all crime, of all disease and death.

They not only knew the beginning, but they knew the end. They knew that
life had one path and one road. They knew that the path, grass-grown and
narrow, filled with thorns and nettles, infested with vipers, wet with
tears, stained by bleeding feet, led to heaven, and that the road, broad
and smooth, bordered with fruits and flowers, filled with laughter and
song and all the happiness of human love, led straight to hell. They
knew that God was doing his best to make you take the path and that the
Devil used every art to keep you in the road.

They knew that there was a perpetual battle waged between the great
Powers of good and evil for the possession of human souls. They knew
that many centuries ago God had left his throne and had been born a
babe into this poor world—that he had suffered death for the sake of
man—for the sake of saving a few. They also knew that the human heart
was utterly depraved, so that man by nature was in love with wrong and
hated God with all his might.

At the same time they knew that God created man in his own image and
was perfectly satisfied with his work. They also knew that he had been
thwarted by the Devil, who with wiles and lies had deceived the first
of human kind. They knew that in consequence of that, God cursed the man
and woman; the man with toil, the woman with slavery and pain, and both
with death; and that he cursed the earth itself with briers and thorns,
brambles and thistles. All these blessed things they knew. They knew
too all that God had done to purify and elevate the race. They knew all
about the Flood—knew that God, with the exception of eight, drowned
all his children—the old and young—the bowed patriarch and the dimpled
babe—the young man and the merry maiden—the loving mother and the
laughing child—because his mercy endureth forever. They knew too, that
he drowned the beasts and birds—everything that walked or crawled or
flew—because his loving kindness is over all his works. They knew that
God, for the purpose of civilizing his children, had devoured some with
earthquakes, destroyed some with storms of fire, killed some with
his lightnings, millions with famine, with pestilence, and sacrificed
countless thousands upon the fields of war. They knew that it was
necessary to believe these things and to love God. They knew that there
could be no salvation except by faith, and through the atoning blood of
Jesus Christ.

All who doubted or denied would be lost. To live a moral and honest
life—to keep your contracts, to take care of wife and child—to make a
happy home—to be a good citizen, a patriot, a just and thoughtful man,
was simply a respectable way of going to hell.

God did not reward men for being honest, generous and brave, but for the
act of faith. Without faith, all the so-called virtues were sins, and
the men who practiced these virtues, without faith, deserved to suffer
eternal pain.

All of these comforting and reasonable things were taught by the
ministers in their pulpits—by teachers in Sunday schools and by
parents at home. The children were victims. They were assaulted in the
cradle—in their mother's arms. Then, the schoolmaster carried on the
war against their natural sense, and all the books they read were filled
with the same impossible truths. The poor children were helpless. The
atmosphere they breathed was filled with lies—lies that mingled with
their blood.

In those days ministers depended on revivals to save souls and reform
the world.

In the winter, navigation having closed, business was mostly suspended.
There were no railways and the only means of communication were wagons
and boats. Generally the roads were so bad that the wagons were laid up
with the boats. There were no operas, no theatres, no amusement except
parties and balls. The parties were regarded as worldly and the balls
as wicked. For real and virtuous enjoyment the good people depended on
revivals.

The sermons were mostly about the pains and agonies of hell, the joys
and ecstasies of heaven, salvation by faith, and the efficacy of the
atonement. The little churches, in which the services were held, were
generally small, badly ventilated, and exceedingly warm. The emotional
sermons, the sad singing, the hysterical amens, the hope of heaven, the
fear of hell, caused many to lose the little sense they had. They became
substantially insane. In this condition they flocked to the "mourners
bench"—asked for the prayers of the faithful—had strange feelings,
prayed and wept and thought they had been "born again." Then they would
tell their experience—how wicked they had been—how evil had been their
thoughts, their desires, and how good they had suddenly become.

They used to tell the story of an old woman who, in telling her
experience, said:—"Before I was converted, before I gave my heart to
God, I used to lie and steal, but now, thanks to the grace and blood of
Jesus Christ, I have quit 'em both, in a great measure."

Of course all the people were not exactly of one mind. There were some
scoffers, and now and then some man had sense enough to laugh at
the threats of priests and make a jest of hell. Some would tell of
unbelievers who had lived and died in peace.

When I was a boy I heard them tell of an old farmer in Vermont. He was
dying. The minister was at his bedside—asked him if he was a Christian
—if he was prepared to die. The old man answered that he had made
no preparation, that he was not a Christian—that he had never done
anything but work. The preacher said that he could give him no hope
unless he had faith in Christ, and that if he had no faith his soul
would certainly be lost.

The old man was not frightened. He was perfectly calm. In a weak and
broken voice he said: "Mr. Preacher, I suppose you noticed my farm. My
wife and I came here more than fifty years ago. We were just married. It
was a forest then and the land was covered with stones. I cut down the
trees, burned the logs, picked up the stones and laid the walls. My
wife spun and wove and worked every moment. We raised and educated our
children—denied ourselves. During all these years my wife never had a
good dress, or a decent bonnet. I never had a good suit of clothes. We
lived on the plainest food. Our hands, our bodies are deformed by toil.
We never had a vacation. We loved each other and the children. That is
the only luxury we ever had. Now I am about to die and you ask me if I
am prepared. Mr. Preacher, I have no fear of the future, no terror of
any other world. There may be such a place as hell—but if there is, you
never can make me believe that it's any worse than old Vermont."

So, they told of a man who compared himself with his dog. "My dog,"
he said, "just barks and plays—has all he wants to eat. He never
works—has no trouble about business. In a little while he dies, and
that is all. I work with all my strength. I have no time to play. I have
trouble every day. In a little while I will die, and then I go to hell.
I wish that I had been a dog."

Well, while the cold weather lasted, while the snows fell, the revival
went on, but when the winter was over, when the steamboat's whistle was
heard, when business started again, most of the converts "backslid" and
fell again into their old ways. But the next winter they were on hand,
ready to be "born again." They formed a kind of stock company, playing
the same parts every winter and backsliding every spring.

The ministers, who preached at these revivals, were in earnest. They
were zealous and sincere. They were not philosophers. To them science
was the name of a vague dread—a dangerous enemy. They did not know
much, but they believed a great deal. To them hell was a burning
reality—they could see the smoke and flames. The Devil was no myth. He
was an actual person, a rival of God, an enemy of mankind. They thought
that the important business of this life was to save your soul—that
all should resist and scorn the pleasures of sense, and keep their
eyes steadily fixed on the golden gate of the New Jerusalem. They were
unbalanced, emotional, hysterical, bigoted, hateful, loving, and insane.
They really believed the Bible to be the actual word of God—a
book without mistake or contradiction. They called its cruelties,
justice—its absurdities, mysteries—its miracles, facts, and the
idiotic passages were regarded as profoundly spiritual. They dwelt on
the pangs, the regrets, the infinite agonies of the lost, and showed how
easily they could be avoided, and how cheaply heaven could be obtained.
They told their hearers to believe, to have faith, to give their hearts
to God, their sins to Christ, who would bear their burdens and make
their souls as white as snow.

All this the ministers really believed. They were absolutely certain. In
their minds the Devil had tried in vain to sow the seeds of doubt.

I heard hundreds of these evangelical sermons—heard hundreds of the
most fearful and vivid descriptions of the tortures inflicted in hell,
of the horrible state of the lost. I supposed that what I heard was true
and yet I did not believe it. I said: "It is," and then I thought: "It
cannot be."

These sermons made but faint impressions on my mind. I was not
convinced.

I had no desire to be "converted," did not want a "new heart" and had no
wish to be "born again."

But I heard one sermon that touched my heart, that left its mark, like a
scar, on my brain.

One Sunday I went with my brother to hear a Free Will Baptist preacher.
He was a large man, dressed like a farmer, but he was an orator. He
could paint a picture with words.

He took for his text the parable of "the rich man and Lazarus." He
described Dives, the rich man—his manner of life, the excesses in which
he indulged, his extravagance, his riotous nights, his purple and fine
linen, his feasts, his wines, and his beautiful women.

Then he described Lazarus, his poverty, his rags and wretchedness, his
poor body eaten by disease, the crusts and crumbs he devoured, the dogs
that pitied him. He pictured his lonely life, his friendless death.

Then, changing his tone of pity to one of triumph—leaping from tears
to the heights of exultation—from defeat to victory—he described the
glorious company of angels, who with white and outspread wings carried
the soul of the despised pauper to Paradise—to the bosom of Abraham.

Then, changing his voice to one of scorn and loathing, he told of the
rich man's death. He was in his palace, on his costly couch, the air
heavy with perfume, the room filled with servants and physicians. His
gold was worthless then. He could not buy another breath. He died, and
in hell he lifted up his eyes, being in torment.

Then, assuming a dramatic attitude, putting his right hand to his ear,
he whispered, "Hark! I hear the rich man's voice. What does he say?
Hark! 'Father Abraham! Father Abraham! I pray thee send Lazarus that he
may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my parched tongue, for I
am tormented in this flame.'"

"Oh, my hearers, he has been making that request for more than eighteen
hundred years. And millions of ages hence that wail will cross the gulf
that lies between the saved and lost and still will be heard the cry:
'Father Abraham! Father Abraham! I pray thee send Lazarus that he may
dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my parched tongue, for I am
tormented in this flame.'"

For the first time I understood the dogma of eternal pain—appreciated
"the glad tidings of great joy." For the first time my imagination
grasped the height and depth of the Christian horror. Then I said: "It
is a lie, and I hate your religion. If it is true, I hate your God."

From that day I have had no fear, no doubt. For me, on that day, the
flames of hell were quenched. From that day I have passionately hated
every orthodox creed. That Sermon did some good.

II.

FROM my childhood I had heard read and read the Bible. Morning and
evening the sacred volume was opened and prayers were said. The Bible
was my first history, the Jews were the first people, and the events
narrated by Moses and the other inspired writers, and those predicted
by prophets were the all important things. In other books were found the
thoughts and dreams of men, but in the Bible were the sacred truths of
God.

Yet in spite of my surroundings, of my education, I had no love for God.
He was so saving of mercy, so extravagant in murder, so anxious to kill,
so ready to assassinate, that I hated him with all my heart. At his
command, babes were butchered, women violated, and the white hair of
trembling age stained with blood. This God visited the people with
pestilence—filled the houses and covered the streets with the dying
and the dead—saw babes starving on the empty breasts of pallid mothers,
heard the sobs, saw the tears, the sunken cheeks, the sightless eyes,
the new made graves, and remained as pitiless as the pestilence.

This God withheld the rain—caused the famine—saw the fierce eyes of
hunger—the wasted forms, the white lips, saw mothers eating babes, and
remained ferocious as famine.

It seems to me impossible for a civilized man to love or worship, or
respect the God of the Old Testament. A really civilized man, a really
civilized woman, must hold such a God in abhorrence and contempt.

But in the old days the good people justified Jehovah in his treatment
of the heathen. The wretches who were murdered were idolaters and
therefore unfit to live.

According to the Bible, God had never revealed himself to these people
and he knew that without a revelation they could not know that he was
the true God. Whose fault was it then that they were heathen?

The Christians said that God had the right to destroy them because he
created them. What did he create them for? He knew when he made them
that they would be food for the sword. He knew that he would have the
pleasure of seeing them murdered.

As a last answer, as a final excuse, the worshipers of Jehovah said
that all these horrible things happened under the "old dispensation"
of unyielding law, and absolute justice, but that now under the "new
dispensation," all had been changed—the sword of justice had been
sheathed and love enthroned. In the Old Testament, they said, God is the
judge—but in the New, Christ is the merciful. As a matter of fact, the
New Testament is infinitely worse than the Old. In the Old there is no
threat of eternal pain. Jehovah had no eternal prison—no everlasting
fire. His hatred ended at the grave. His revenge was satisfied when his
enemy was dead.

In the New Testament, death is not the end, but the beginning of
punishment that has no end. In the New Testament the malice of God is
infinite and the hunger of his revenge eternal.

The orthodox God, when clothed in human flesh, told his disciples not
to resist evil, to love their enemies, and when smitten on one cheek to
turn the other, and yet we are told that this same God, with the same
loving lips, uttered these heartless, these fiendish words: "Depart ye
cursed into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels."

These are the words of "eternal love."

No human being has imagination enough to conceive of this infinite
horror.

All that the human race has suffered in war and want, in pestilence and
famine, in fire and flood,—all the pangs and pains of every disease
and every death—all this is as nothing compared with the agonies to be
endured by one lost soul.

This is the consolation of the Christian religion. This is the justice
of God—the mercy of Christ.

This frightful dogma, this infinite lie, made me the implacable enemy of
Christianity. The truth is that this belief in eternal pain has been
the real persecutor. It founded the Inquisition, forged the chains, and
furnished the fagots. It has darkened the lives of many millions. It
made the cradle as terrible as the coffin. It enslaved nations and shed
the blood of countless thousands. It sacrificed the wisest, the bravest
and the best. It subverted the idea of justice, drove mercy from the
heart, changed men to fiends and banished reason from the brain.

Like a venomous serpent it crawls and coils and hisses in every orthodox
creed.

It makes man an eternal victim and God an eternal fiend. It is the one
infinite horror. Every church in which it is taught is a public curse.
Every preacher who teaches it is an enemy of mankind. Below this
Christian dogma, savagery cannot go. It is the infinite of malice,
hatred, and revenge.

Nothing could add to the horror of hell, except the presence of its
creator, God.

While I have life, as long as I draw breath, I shall deny with all my
strength, and hate with every drop of my blood, this infinite lie.

Nothing gives me greater joy than to know that this belief in eternal
pain is growing weaker every day—that thousands of ministers are
ashamed of it. It gives me joy to know that Christians are
becoming merciful, so merciful that the fires of hell are burning
low—flickering, choked with ashes, destined in a few years to die out
forever.

For centuries Christendom was a madhouse. Popes, cardinals, bishops,
priests, monks and heretics were all insane.

Only a few—four or five in a century were sound in heart and brain.
Only a few, in spite of the roar and din, in spite of the savage cries,
heard reason's voice. Only a few in the wild rage of ignorance, fear and
zeal preserved the perfect calm that wisdom gives.

We have advanced. In a few years the Christians will become—let us
hope—humane and sensible enough to deny the dogma that fills the
endless years with pain. They ought to know now that this dogma is
utterly inconsistent with the wisdom, the justice, the goodness of their
God. They ought to know that their belief in hell, gives to the Holy
Ghost—the Dove—the beak of a vulture, and fills the mouth of the Lamb
of God with the fangs of a viper.

## Iii

IN my youth I read religious books—books about God, about the
atonement—about salvation by faith, and about the other worlds. I
became familiar with the commentators—with Adam Clark, who thought that
the serpent seduced our mother Eve, and was in fact the father of Cain.
He also believed that the animals, while in the ark, had their natures'
changed to that degree that they devoured straw together and enjoyed
each other's society—thus prefiguring the blessed millennium. I read
Scott, who was such a natural theologian that he really thought
the story of Phaeton—of the wild steeds dashing across the
sky—corroborated the story of Joshua having stopped the sun and moon.
So, I read Henry and MacKnight and found that God so loved the world
that he made up his mind to damn a large majority of the human race. I
read Cruden, who made the great Concordance, and made the miracles as
small and probable as he could.

I remember that he explained the miracle of feeding the wandering Jews
with quails, by saying that even at this day immense numbers of quails
crossed the Red Sea, and that sometimes when tired, they settled on
ships that sank beneath their weight. The fact that the explanation
was as hard to believe as the miracle made no difference to the devout
Cruden.

To while away the time I read Calvin's Institutes, a book calculated to
produce, in any natural mind, considerable respect for the Devil.

I read Paley's Evidences and found that the evidence of ingenuity in
producing the evil, in contriving the hurtful, was at least equal to the
evidence tending to show the use of intelligence in the creation of what
we call good.

You know the watch argument was Paley's greatest effort. A man finds a
watch and it is so wonderful that he concludes that it must have had
a maker. He finds the maker and he is so much more wonderful than the
watch that he says he must have had a maker. Then he finds God, the
maker of the man, and he is so much more wonderful than the man that he
could _not_ have had a maker. This is what the lawyers call a departure
in pleading.

According to Paley there can be no design without a designer—but there
can be a designer without a design. The wonder of the watch suggested
the watchmaker, and the wonder of the watchmaker, suggested the creator,
and the wonder of the creator demonstrated that he was not created—but
was uncaused and eternal.

We had Edwards on The Will, in which the reverend author shows that
necessity has no effect on accountability—and that when God creates a
human being, and at the same time determines and decrees exactly what
that being shall do and be, the human being is responsible, and God in
his justice and mercy has the right to torture the soul of that human
being forever. Yet Edwards said that he loved God.

The fact is that if you believe in an infinite God, and also in eternal
punishment, then you must admit that Edwards and Calvin were absolutely
right. There is no escape from their conclusions if you admit their
premises. They were infinitely cruel, their premises infinitely absurd,
their God infinitely fiendish, and their logic perfect.

And yet I have kindness and candor enough to say that Calvin and Edwards
were both insane.

We had plenty of theological literature. There was Jenkyn on the
Atonement, who demonstrated the wisdom of God in devising a way in which
the sufferings of innocence could justify the guilty. He tried to show
that children could justly be punished for the sins of their ancestors,
and that men could, if they had faith, be justly credited with the
virtues of others. Nothing could be more devout, orthodox, and idiotic.
But all of our theology was not in prose. We had Milton with his
celestial militia—with his great and blundering God, his proud
and cunning Devil—his wars between immortals, and all the sublime
absurdities that religion wrought within the blind man's brain.

The theology taught by Milton was dear to the Puritan heart. It was
accepted by New England, and it poisoned the souls and ruined the lives
of thousands. The genius of Shakespeare could not make the theology of
Milton poetic. In the literature of the world there is nothing, outside
of the "sacred books," more perfectly absurd.

We had Young's Night Thoughts, and I supposed that the author was an
exceedingly devout and loving follower of the Lord. Yet Young had a
great desire to be a bishop, and to accomplish that end he electioneered
with the king's mistress. In other words, he was a fine old hypocrite.
In the "Night Thoughts" there is scarcely a genuinely honest, natural
line. It is pretence from beginning to end. He did not write what he
felt, but what he thought he ought to feel.

We had Pollok's Course of Time, with its worm that never dies, its
quenchless flames, its endless pangs, its leering devils, and its
gloating God. This frightful poem should have been written in a
madhouse. In it you find all the cries and groans and shrieks of
maniacs, when they tear and rend each other's flesh. It is as heartless,
as hideous, as hellish as the thirty-second chapter of Deuteronomy.

We all know the beautiful hymn commencing with the cheerful line:
"Hark from the tombs, a doleful sound." Nothing could have been more
appropriate for children. It is well to put a coffin where it can be
seen from the cradle. When a mother nurses her child, an open grave
should be at her feet. This would tend to make the babe serious,
reflective, religious and miserable.

God hates laughter and despises mirth. To feel free, untrammeled,
irresponsible, joyous,—to forget care and death—to be flooded with
sunshine without a fear of night—to forget the past, to have no thought
of the future, no dream of God, or heaven, or hell—to be intoxicated
with the present—to be conscious only of the clasp and kiss of the one
you love—this is the sin against the Holy Ghost.

But we had Cowper's poems. Cowper was sincere. He was the opposite
of Young. He had an observing eye, a gentle heart and a sense of the
artistic. He sympathized with all who suffered—with the imprisoned,
the enslaved, the outcasts. He loved the beautiful. No wonder that the
belief in eternal punishment made this loving soul insane. No wonder
that the "tidings of great joy" quenched Hope's great star and left his
broken heart in the darkness of despair.

We had many volumes of orthodox sermons, filled with wrath and the
terrors of the judgment to come—sermons that had been delivered by
savage saints.

We had the Book of Martyrs, showing that Christians had for many
centuries imitated the God they worshiped.

W|e had the history of the Waldenses—of the Reformation of the Church.
We had Pilgrim's Progress, Baxter's Call and Butler's Analogy.

To use a Western phrase or saying, I found that Bishop Butler dug
up more snakes than he killed—suggested more difficulties than he
explained—more doubts than he dispelled.

IV.

AMONG such books my youth was passed. All the seeds of Christianity—of
superstition, were sown in my mind and cultivated with great diligence
and care.

All that time I knew nothing of any science—nothing about the other
side—nothing of the objections that had been urged against the blessed
Scriptures, or against the perfect Congregational creed. Of course I
had heard the ministers speak of blasphemers, of infidel wretches,
of scoffers who laughed at holy things. They did not answer their
arguments, but they tore their characters into shreds and demonstrated
by the fury of assertion that they had done the Devil's work. And yet in
spite of all I heard—of all I read, I could not quite believe. My brain
and heart said No.

For a time I left the dreams, the insanities, the illusions and
delusions, the nightmares of theology. I studied astronomy, just a
little—I examined maps of the heavens—learned the names of some of the
constellations—of some of the stars—found something of their size and
the velocity with which they wheeled in their orbits—obtained a faint
conception of astronomical spaces—found that some of the known stars
were so far away in the depths of space that their light, traveling at
the rate of nearly two hundred thousand miles a second, required many
years to reach this little world—found that, compared with the great
stars, our earth was but a grain of sand—an atom—found that the old
belief that all the hosts of heaven had been created for the benefit of
man, was infinitely absurd.

I compared what was really known about the stars with the account of
creation as told in Genesis. I found that the writer of the inspired
book had no knowledge of astronomy—that he was as ignorant as a Choctaw
chief—as an Eskimo driver of dogs. Does any one imagine that the author
of Genesis knew anything about the sun—its size? that he was acquainted
with Sirius, the North Star, with Capella, or that he knew anything of
the clusters of stars so far away that their light, now visiting our
eyes, has been traveling for two million years?

If he had known these facts would he have said that Jehovah worked
nearly six days to make this world, and only a part of the afternoon of
the fourth day to make the sun and moon and all the stars?

Yet millions of people insist that the writer of Genesis was inspired by
the Creator of all worlds.

Now, intelligent men, who are not frightened, whose brains have not been
paralyzed by fear, know that the sacred story of creation was written by
an ignorant savage. The story is inconsistent with all known facts,
and every star shining in the heavens testifies that its author was an
uninspired barbarian.

I admit that this unknown writer was sincere, that he wrote what he
believed to be true—that he did the best he could. He did not claim
to be inspired—did not pretend that the story had been told to him by
Jehovah. He simply stated the "facts" as he understood them.

After I had learned a little about the stars I concluded that this
writer, this "inspired" scribe, had been misled by myth and legend, and
that he knew no more about creation than the average theologian of my
day. In other words, that he knew absolutely nothing.

And here, allow me to say that the ministers who are answering me are
turning their guns in the wrong direction. These reverend gentlemen
should attack the astronomers. They should malign and vilify Kepler,
Copernicus, Newton, Herschel and Laplace. These men were the real
destroyers of the sacred story. Then, after having disposed of them,
they can wage a war against the stars, and against Jehovah himself for
having furnished evidence against the truthfulness of his book.

Then I studied geology—not much, just a little—just enough to find in
a general way the principal facts that had been discovered, and some of
the conclusions that had been reached. I learned something of the action
of fire—of water—of the formation of islands and continents—of
the sedimentary and igneous rocks—of the coal measures—of the chalk
cliffs, something about coral reefs—about the deposits made by rivers,
the effect of volcanoes, of glaciers, and of the all surrounding
sea—just enough to know that the Laurentian rocks were millions of ages
older than the grass beneath my feet—just enough to feel certain that
this world had been pursuing its flight about the sun, wheeling in light
and shade, for hundreds of millions of years—just enough to know that
the "inspired" writer knew nothing of the history of the earth—nothing
of the great forces of nature—of wind and wave and fire—forces that
have destroyed and built, wrecked and wrought through all the countless
years.

And let me tell the ministers again that they should not waste their
time in answering me. They should attack the geologists. They should
deny the facts that have been discovered. They should launch their
curses at the blaspheming seas, and dash their heads against the infidel
rocks.

Then I studied biology—not much—just enough to know something of
animal forms, enough to know that life existed when the Laurentian rocks
were made—just enough to know that implements of stone, implements that
had been formed by human hands, had been found mingled with the bones
of extinct animals, bones that had been split with these implements, and
that these animals had ceased to exist hundreds of thousands of years
before the manufacture of Adam and Eve.

Then I felt sure that the "inspired" record was false—that many
millions of people had been deceived and that all I had been taught
about the origin of worlds and men was utterly untrue. I felt that I
knew that the Old Testament was the work of ignorant men—that it was a
mingling of truth and mistake, of wisdom and foolishness, of cruelty and
kindness, of philosophy and absurdity—that it contained some
elevated thoughts, some poetry,—-a good deal of the solemn and
commonplace,—some hysterical, some tender, some wicked prayers, some
insane predictions, some delusions, and some chaotic dreams.

Of course the theologians fought the facts found by the geologists, the
scientists, and sought to sustain the sacred Scriptures. They mistook
the bones of the mastodon for those of human beings, and by them proudly
proved that "there were giants in those days." They accounted for the
fossils by saying that God had made them to try our faith, or that the
Devil had imitated the works of the Creator.

They answered the geologists by saying that the "days" in Genesis were
long periods of time, and that after all the flood might have been
local. They told the astronomers that the sun and moon were not
actually, but only apparently, stopped. And that the appearance was
produced by the reflection and refraction of light.

They excused the slavery and polygamy, the robbery and murder upheld
in the Old Testament by saying that the people were so degraded that
Jehovah was compelled to pander to their ignorance and prejudice.

In every way the clergy sought to evade the facts, to dodge the truth,
to preserve the creed.

At first they flatly denied the facts—then they belittled them—then
they harmonized them—then they denied that they had denied them. Then
they changed the meaning of the "inspired" book to fit the facts.

At first they said that if the facts, as claimed, were true, the Bible
was false and Christianity itself a superstition. Afterward they said
the facts, as claimed, were true and that they established beyond all
doubt the inspiration of the Bible and the divine origin of orthodox
religion.

Anything they could not dodge, they swallowed, and anything they could
not swallow, they dodged.

I gave up the Old Testament on account of its mistakes, its absurdities,
its ignorance and its cruelty. I gave up the New because it vouched
for the truth of the Old. I gave it up on account of its miracles,
its contradictions, because Christ and his disciples believed in the
existence of devils—talked and made bargains with them, expelled them
from people and animals.

This, of itself, is enough. We know, if we know anything, that devils do
not exist—that Christ never cast them out, and that if he pretended to,
he was either ignorant, dishonest or insane. These stories about devils
demonstrate the human, the ignorant origin of the New Testament. I gave
up the New Testament because it rewards credulity, and curses brave and
honest men, and because it teaches the infinite horror of eternal pain.

V.

HAVING spent my youth in reading books about religion—about the "new
birth"—the disobedience of our first parents, the atonement, salvation
by faith, the wickedness of pleasure, the degrading consequences of
love, and the impossibility of getting to heaven by being honest and
generous, and having become somewhat weary of the frayed and raveled
thoughts, you can imagine my surprise, my delight when I read the poems
of Robert Burns.

I was familiar with the writings of the devout and insincere, the pious
and petrified, the pure and heartless. Here was a natural honest man. I
knew the works of those who regarded all nature as depraved, and looked
upon love as the legacy and perpetual witness of original sin. Here was
a man who plucked joy from the mire, made goddesses of peasant girls,
and enthroned the honest man. One whose sympathy, with loving arms,
embraced all forms of suffering life, who hated slavery of every kind,
who was as natural as heaven's blue, with humor kindly as an autumn day,
with wit as sharp as Ithuriel's spear, and scorn that blasted like the
simoon's breath. A man who loved this world, this life, the things of
every day, and placed above all else the thrilling ecstasies of human
love.

I read and read again with rapture, tears and smiles, feeling that a
great heart was throbbing in the lines.

The religious, the lugubrious, the artificial, the spiritual poets were
forgotten or remained only as the fragments, the half remembered horrors
of monstrous and distorted dreams.

I had found at last a natural man, one who despised his country's cruel
creed, and was brave and sensible enough to say: "All religions are auld
wives' fables, but an honest man has nothing to fear, either in this
world or the world to come."

One who had the genius to write Holy Willie's Prayer—a poem that
crucified Calvinism and through its bloodless heart thrust the spear
of common sense—a poem that made every orthodox creed the food of
scorn—of inextinguishable laughter.

Burns had his faults, his frailties. He was intensely human. Still, I
would rather appear at the "Judgment Seat" drunk, and be able to
say that I was the author of "A man's a man for 'a that," than to
be perfectly sober and admit that I had lived and died a Scotch
Presbyterian.

I read Byron—read his Cain, in which, as in Paradise Lost, the Devil
seems to be the better god—read his beautiful, sublime and bitter
lines—read his Prisoner of Chillon—his best—a poem that filled my
heart with tenderness, with pity, and with an eternal hatred of tyranny.

I read Shelley's Queen Mab—a poem filled with beauty, courage, thought,
sympathy, tears and scorn, in which a brave soul tears down the prison
walls and floods the cells with light. I read his Skylark—a winged
flame—passionate as blood—tender as tears—pure as light.

I read Keats, "whose name was writ in water"—read St. Agnes Eve, a
story told with such an artless art that this poor common world is
changed to fairy land—the Grecian Urn, that fills the soul with ever
eager love, with all the rapture of imagined song—the Nightingale—a
melody in which there is the memory of morn—a melody that dies away in
dusk and tears, paining the senses with its perfectness.

And then I read Shakespeare, the plays, the sonnets, the poems—read
all. I beheld a new heaven and a new earth; Shakespeare, who knew the
brain and heart of man—the hopes and fears, the loves and hatreds,
the vices and the virtues of the human race; whose imagination read the
tear-blurred records, the blood-stained pages of all the past, and
saw falling athwart the outspread scroll the light of hope and love;
Shakespeare, who sounded every depth—while on the loftiest peak there
fell the shadow of his wings.

I compared the Plays with the "inspired" books—Romeo and Juliet with
the Song of Solomon, Lear with Job, and the Sonnets with the Psalms, and
I found that Jehovah did not understand the art of speech. I compared
Shakespeare's women—his perfect women—with the women of the Bible.
I found that Jehovah was not a sculptor, not a painter—not an
artist—that he lacked the power that changes clay to flesh—the art,
the plastic touch, that moulds the perfect form—the breath that gives
it free and joyous life—the genius that creates the faultless.

The sacred books of all the world are worthless dross and common stones
compared with Shakespeare's glittering gold and gleaming gems.

VI.

UP to this time I had read nothing against our blessed religion except
what I had found in Burns, Byron and Shelley. By some accident I read
Volney, who shows that all religions are, and have been, established in
the same way—that all had their Christs, their apostles, miracles and
sacred books, and then asked how it is possible to decide which is the
true one. A question that is still waiting for an answer.

I read Gibbon, the greatest of historians, who marshaled his facts as
skillfully as Caesar did his legions, and I learned that Christianity
is only a name for Paganism—for the old religion, shorn of its
beauty—that some absurdities had been exchanged for others—that some
gods had been killed—a vast multitude of devils created, and that hell
had been enlarged.

And then I read the Age of Reason, by Thomas Paine. Let me tell you
something about this sublime and slandered man. He came to this country
just before the Revolution. He brought a letter of introduction from
Benjamin Franklin, at that time the greatest American.

In Philadelphia, Paine was employed to write for the _Pennsylvania
Magazine_. We know that he wrote at least five articles. The first was
against slavery, the second against duelling, the third on the treatment
of prisoners—showing that the object should be to reform, not to punish
and degrade—the fourth on the rights of woman, and the fifth in favor
of forming societies for the prevention of cruelty to children and
animals.

From this you see that he suggested the great reforms of our century.

The truth is that he labored all his life for the good of his
fellow-men, and did as much to found the Great Republic as any man who
ever stood beneath our flag.

He gave his thoughts about religion—about the blessed Scriptures, about
the superstitions of his time. He was perfectly sincere and what he said
was kind and fair.

The Age of Reason filled with hatred the hearts of those who loved their
enemies, and the occupant of every orthodox pulpit became, and still is,
a passionate maligner of Thomas Paine.

No one has answered—no one will answer, his argument against the dogma
of inspiration—his objections to the Bible.

He did not rise above all the superstitions of his day. While he hated
Jehovah, he praised the God of Nature, the creator and preserver of all.
In this he was wrong, because, as Watson said in his Reply to Paine, the
God of Nature is as heartless, as cruel as the God of the Bible.

But Paine was one of the pioneers—one of the Titans, one of the
heroes, who gladly gave his life, his every thought and act, to free and
civilize mankind.

I read Voltaire—Voltaire, the greatest man of his century, and who did
more for liberty of thought and speech than any other being, human or
"divine." Voltaire, who tore the mask from hypocrisy and found behind
the painted smile the fangs of hate. Voltaire, who attacked the savagery
of the law, the cruel decisions of venal courts, and rescued victims
from the wheel and rack. Voltaire, who waged war against the tyranny of
thrones, the greed and heartlessness of power. Voltaire, who filled the
flesh of priests with the barbed and poisoned arrows of his wit and made
the pious jugglers, who cursed him in public, laugh at themselves
in private. Voltaire, who sided with the oppressed, rescued the
unfortunate, championed the obscure and weak, civilized judges, repealed
laws and abolished torture in his native land.

In every direction this tireless man fought the absurd, the miraculous,
the supernatural, the idiotic, the unjust. He had no reverence for the
ancient. He was not awed by pageantry and pomp, by crowned Crime or
mitered Pretence. Beneath the crown he saw the criminal, under the
miter, the hypocrite.

To the bar of his conscience, his reason, he summoned the barbarism and
the barbarians of his time. He pronounced judgment against them all,
and that judgment has been affirmed by the intelligent world. Voltaire
lighted a torch and gave to others the sacred flame. The light still
shines and will as long as man loves liberty and seeks for truth.

I read Zeno, the man who said, centuries before our Christ was born,
that man could not own his fellow-man.

"No matter whether you claim a slave by purchase or capture, the title
is bad. They who claim to own their fellow-men, look down into the pit
and forget the justice that should rule the world."

I became acquainted with Epicurus, who taught the religion of
usefulness, of temperance, of courage and wisdom, and who said: "Why
should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why
should I fear that which cannot exist when I do?"

I read about Socrates, who when on trial for his life, said, among other
things, to his judges, these wondrous words: "I have not sought during
my life to amass wealth and to adorn my body, but I have sought to adorn
my soul with the jewels of wisdom, patience, and above all with a love
of liberty."

So, I read about Diogenes, the philosopher who hated the
superfluous—the enemy of waste and greed, and who one day entered the
temple, reverently approached the altar, crushed a louse between the
nails of his thumbs, and solemnly said: "The sacrifice of Diogenes to
all the gods." This parodied the worship of the world—satirized all
creeds, and in one act put the essence of religion.

Diogenes must have know of this "inspired" passage—"Without the
shedding of blood there is no remission of sins."

I compared Zeno, Epicurus and Socrates, three heathen wretches who had
never heard of the Old Testament or the Ten Commandments, with Abraham,
Isaac and Jacob, three favorites of Jehovah, and I was depraved enough
to think that the Pagans were superior to the Patriarchs—and to Jehovah
himself.

## Vii

MY attention was turned to other religions, to the sacred books, the
creeds and ceremonies of other lands—of India, Egypt, Assyria, Persia,
of the dead and dying nations.

I concluded that all religions had the same foundation—a belief in
the supernatural—a power above nature that man could influence by
worship—by sacrifice and prayer.

I found that all religions rested on a mistaken conception of
nature—that the religion of a people was the science of that people,
that is to say, their explanation of the world—of life and death—of
origin and destiny.

I concluded that all religions had substantially the same origin, and
that in fact there has never been but one religion in the world. The
twigs and leaves may differ, but the trunk is the same.

The poor African that pours out his heart to his deity of stone is on an
exact religious level with the robed priest who supplicates his God. The
same mistake, the same superstition, bends the knees and shuts the eyes
of both. Both ask for supernatural aid, and neither has the slightest
thought of the absolute uniformity of nature.

It seems probable to me that the first organized ceremonial religion was
the worship of the sun. The sun was the "Sky Father," the "All Seeing,"
the source of life—the fireside of the world. The sun was regarded as a
god who fought the darkness, the power of evil, the enemy of man.

There have been many sun-gods, and they seem to have been the chief
deities in the ancient religions. They have been worshiped in many
lands—by many nations that have passed to death and dust.

Apollo was a sun-god and he fought and conquered the serpent of night.
Baldur was a sun-god. He was in love with the Dawn—a maiden. Chrishna
was a sun-god. At his birth the Ganges was thrilled from its source to
the sea, and all the trees, the dead as well as the living, burst into
leaf and bud and flower. Hercules was a sun-god and so was Samson, whose
strength was in his hair—that is to say, in his beams. He was shorn of
his strength by Delilah, the shadow—the darkness. Osiris, Bacchus, and
Mithra, Hermes, Buddha, and Quetzalcoatl, Prometheus, Zoroaster, and
Perseus, Cadom, Lao-tsze, Fo-hi, Horus and Rameses, were all sun-gods.

All of these gods had gods for fathers and their mothers were virgins.
The births of nearly all were announced by stars, celebrated by
celestial music, and voices declared that a blessing had come to the
poor world. All of these gods were born in humble places—in caves,
under trees, in common inns, and tyrants sought to kill them all
when they were babes. All of these sun-gods were born at the winter
solstice—on Christmas. Nearly all were worshiped by "wise men." All of
them fasted for forty days—all of them taught in parables—all of them
wrought miracles—all met with a violent death, and all rose from the
dead.

The history of these gods is the exact history of our Christ.

This is not a coincidence—an accident. Christ was a sun-god. Christ was
a new name for an old biography—a survival—the last of the sun-gods.
Christ was not a man, but a myth—not a life, but a legend.

I found that we had not only borrowed our Christ—but that all our
sacraments, symbols and ceremonies were legacies that we received from
the buried past. There is nothing original in Christianity.

The cross was a symbol thousands of years before our era. It was a
symbol of life, of immortality—of the god Agni, and it was chiseled
upon tombs many ages before a line of our Bible was written.

Baptism is far older than Christianity—than Judaism. The Hindus,
Egyptians, Greeks and Romans had Holy Water long before a Catholic
lived. The eucharist was borrowed from the Pagans. Ceres was the goddess
of the fields—Bacchus of the vine. At the harvest festival they made
cakes of wheat and said: "This is the flesh of the goddess." They drank
wine and cried: "This is the blood of our god."

The Egyptians had a Trinity. They worshiped Osiris, Isis and Horus,
thousands of years before the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost were known.

The Tree of Life grew in India, in China, and among the Aztecs, long
before the Garden of Eden was planted.

Long before our Bible was known, other nations had their sacred books.

The dogmas of the Fall of Man, the Atonement and Salvation by Faith, are
far older than our religion.

In our blessed gospel,—in our "divine scheme,"—there is nothing
new—nothing original. All old—all borrowed, pieced and patched.

Then I concluded that all religions had been naturally produced, and
that all were variations, modifications of one,—then I felt that I knew
that all were the work of man.

## Viii

THE theologians had always insisted that their God was the creator
of all living things—that the forms, parts, functions, colors and
varieties of animals were the expressions of his fancy, taste and
wisdom—that he made them all precisely as they are to-day—that he
invented fins and legs and wings—that he furnished them with the
weapons of attack, the shields of defence—that he formed them with
reference to food and climate, taking into consideration all facts
affecting life.

They insisted that man was a special creation, not related in any way
to the animals below him. They also asserted that all the forms of
vegetation, from mosses to forests, were just the same to-day as the
moment they were made.

Men of genius, who were for the most part free from religious prejudice,
were examining these things—were looking for facts. They were
examining the fossils of animals and plants—studying the forms of
animals—their bones and muscles—the effect of climate and food—the
strange modifications through which they had passed.

Humboldt had published his lectures—filled with great thoughts—with
splendid generalizations—with suggestions that stimulated the spirit
of investigation, and with conclusions that satisfied the mind. He
demonstrated the uniformity of Nature—the kinship of all that lives and
grows—that breathes and thinks.

Darwin, with his Origin of Species, his theories about Natural
Selection, the Survival of the Fittest, and the influence of
environment, shed a flood of light upon the great problems of plant and
animal life.

These things had been guessed, prophesied, asserted, hinted by many
others, but Darwin, with infinite patience, with perfect care and
candor, found the facts, fulfilled the prophecies, and demonstrated the
truth of the guesses, hints and assertions. He was, in my judgment, the
keenest observer, the best judge of the meaning and value of a fact, the
greatest Naturalist the world has produced.

The theological view began to look small and mean.

Spencer gave his theory of evolution and sustained it by countless
facts. He stood at a great height, and with the eyes of a philosopher,
a profound thinker, surveyed the world. He has influenced the thought of
the wisest.

Theology looked more absurd than ever.

Huxley entered the lists for Darwin. No man ever had a sharper sword—a
better shield. He challenged the world. The great theologians and the
small scientists—those who had more courage than sense, accepted the
challenge. Their poor bodies were carried away by their friends.

Huxley had intelligence, industry, genius, and the courage to express
his thought. He was absolutely loyal to what he thought was truth.
Without prejudice and without fear, he followed the footsteps of life
from the lowest to the highest forms.

Theology looked smaller still.

Haeckel began at the simplest cell, went from change to change—from
form to form—followed the line of development, the path of life,
until he reached the human race. It was all natural. There had been no
interference from without.

I read the works of these great men—of many others—and became
convinced that they were right, and that all the theologians—all the
believers in "special creation" were absolutely wrong.

The Garden of Eden faded away, Adam and Eve fell back to dust, the snake
crawled into the grass, and Jehovah became a miserable myth.

IX.

I TOOK another step. What is matter—substance? Can it be
destroyed—annihilated? Is it possible to conceive of the destruction of
the smallest atom of substance? It can be ground to powder—changed from
a solid to a liquid—from a liquid to a gas—but it all remains. Nothing
is lost—nothing destroyed.

Let an infinite God, if there be one, attack a grain of sand—attack
it with infinite power. It cannot be destroyed. It cannot surrender. It
defies all force. Substance cannot be destroyed.

Then I took another step.

If matter cannot be destroyed, cannot be annihilated, it could not have
been created.

The indestructible must be uncreateable.

And then I asked myself: What is force?

We cannot conceive of the creation of force, or of its destruction.
Force may be changed from one form to another—from motion to heat—but
it cannot be destroyed—annihilated.

If force cannot be destroyed it could not have been created. It is
eternal.

Another thing—matter cannot exist apart from force. Force cannot exist
apart from matter. Matter could not have existed before force. Force
could not have existed before matter. Matter and force can only be
conceived of together. This has been shown by several scientists, but
most clearly, most forcibly by Buechner.

Thought is a form of force, consequently it could not have caused or
created matter. Intelligence is a form of force and could not have
existed without or apart from matter. Without substance there could have
been no mind, no will, no force in any form, and there could have been
no substance without force.

Matter and force were not created. They have existed from eternity. They
cannot be destroyed.

There was, there is, no creator. Then came the question: Is there a
God? Is there a being of infinite intelligence, power and goodness, who
governs the world?

There can be goodness without much intelligence—but it seems to me
that perfect intelligence and perfect goodness must go together.

In nature I see, or seem to see, good and evil—intelligence and
ignorance—goodness and cruelty—care and carelessness—economy and
waste. I see means that do not accomplish the ends—designs that seem to
fail.

To me it seems infinitely cruel for life to feed on life—to create
animals that devour others.

The teeth and beaks, the claws and fangs, that tear and rend, fill me
with horror. What can be more frightful than a world at-war? Every leaf
a battle-field—every flower a Golgotha—in every drop of water pursuit,
capture and death. Under every piece of bark, life lying in wait for
life. On every blade of grass, something that kills,—something that
suffers. Everywhere the strong living on the weak—the superior on
the inferior. Everywhere the weak, the insignificant, living on
the strong—the inferior on the superior—the highest food for the
lowest—man sacrificed for the sake of microbes. Murder universal.
Everywhere pain, disease and death—death that does not wait for bent
forms and gray hairs, but clutches babes and happy youths. Death that
takes the mother from her helpless, dimpled child—death that fills the
world with grief and tears.

How can the orthodox Christian explain these things?

I know that life is good. I remember the sunshine and rain. Then I think
of the earthquake and flood. I do not forget health and harvest, home
and love—but what of pestilence and famine? I cannot harmonize all
these contradictions—these blessings and agonies—with the existence of
an infinitely good, wise and powerful God.

The theologian says that what we call evil is for our benefit—that we
are placed in this world of sin and sorrow to develop character. If
this is true I ask why the infant dies? Millions and millions draw a few
breaths and fade away in the arms of their mothers. They are not allowed
to develop character.

The theologian says that serpents were given fangs to protect themselves
from their enemies. Why did the God who made them, make enemies? Why is
it that many species of serpents have no fangs?

The theologian says that God armored the hippopotamus, covered his body,
except the under part, with scales and plates, that other animals could
not pierce with tooth or tusk. But the same God made the rhinoceros
and supplied him with a horn on his nose, with which he disembowels the
hippopotamus.

The same God made the eagle, the vulture, the hawk, and their helpless
prey.

On every hand there seems to be design to defeat design.

If God created man—if he is the father of us all, why did he make the
criminals, the insane, the deformed and idiotic?

Should the inferior man thank God? Should the mother, who clasps to her
breast an idiot child, thank God? Should the slave thank God?

The theologian says that God governs the wind, the rain, the lightning.
How then can we account for the cyclone, the flood, the drought, the
glittering bolt that kills?

Suppose we had a man in this country who could control the wind, the
rain and lightning, and suppose we elected him to govern these things,
and suppose that he allowed whole States to dry and wither, and at the
same time wasted the rain in the sea. Suppose that he allowed the winds
to destroy cities and to crush to shapelessness thousands of men and
women, and allowed the lightnings to strike the life out of mothers and
babes. What would we say? What would we think of such a savage?

And yet, according to the theologians, this is exactly the course
pursued by God.

What do we think of a man, who will not, when he has the power, protect
his friends? Yet the Christian's God allowed his enemies to torture and
burn his friends, his worshipers.

Who has ingenuity enough to explain this?

What good man, having the power to prevent it, would allow the innocent
to be imprisoned, chained in dungeons, and sigh against the dripping
walls their weary lives away?

If God governs the world, why is innocence not a perfect shield? Why
does injustice triumph?

Who can answer these questions?

In answer, the intelligent, honest man must say: I do not know.

X.

THIS God must be, if he exists, a person—a conscious being. Who can
imagine an infinite personality? This God must have force, and we cannot
conceive of force apart from matter. This God must be material. He must
have the means by which he changes force to what we call thought. When
he thinks he uses force, force that must be replaced. Yet we are told
that he is infinitely wise. If he is, he does not think. Thought is
a ladder—a process by which we reach a conclusion. He who knows all
conclusions cannot think. He cannot hope or fear. When knowledge is
perfect there can be no passion, no emotion. If God is infinite he does
not want. He has all. He who does not want does not act. The infinite
must dwell in eternal calm.

It is as impossible to conceive of such a being as to imagine a square
triangle, or to think of a circle without a diameter.

Yet we are told that it is our duty to love this God. Can we love the
unknown, the inconceivable? Can it be our duty to love anybody? It is
our duty to act justly, honestly, but it cannot be our duty to love. We
cannot be under obligation to admire a painting—to be charmed with a
poem—or thrilled with music. Admiration cannot be controlled. Taste
and love are not the servants of the will. Love is, and must be free. It
rises from the heart like perfume from a flower.

For thousands of ages men and women have been trying to love the
gods—trying to soften their hearts—trying to get their aid.

I see them all. The panorama passes before me. I see them with
outstretched hands—with reverently closed eyes—worshiping the sun. I
see them bowing, in their fear and need, to meteoric stones—imploring
serpents, beasts and sacred trees—praying to idols wrought of wood and
stone. I see them building altars to the unseen powers, staining them
with blood of child and beast. I see the countless priests and hear
their solemn chants. I see the dying victims, the smoking altars, the
swinging censers, and the rising clouds. I see the half-god men—the
mournful Christs, in many lands. I see the common things of life change
to miracles as they speed from mouth to mouth. I see the insane prophets
reading the secret book of fate by signs and dreams. I see them
all—the Assyrians chanting the praises of Asshur and Ishtar—the Hindus
worshiping Brahma, Vishnu and Draupadi, the whitearmed—the Chaldeans
sacrificing to Bel and Hea—the Egyptians bowing to Ptah and Ra, Osiris
and Isis—the Medes placating the storm, worshiping the fire—the
Babylonians supplicating Bel and Morodach—I see them all by the
Euphrates, the Tigris, the Ganges and the Nile. I see the Greeks
building temples for Zeus, Neptune and Venus. I see the Romans kneeling
to a hundred gods. I see others spurning idols and pouring out their
hopes and fears to a vague image in the mind. I see the multitudes,
with open mouths, receive as truths the myths and fables of the vanished
years. I see them give their toil, their wealth to robe the priests, to
build the vaulted roofs, the spacious aisles, the glittering domes. I
see them clad in rags, huddled in dens and huts, devouring crusts and
scraps, that they may give the more to ghosts and gods. I see them make
their cruel creeds and fill the world with hatred, war, and death. I see
them with their faces in the dust in the dark days of plague and sudden
death, when cheeks are wan and lips are white for lack of bread. I hear
their prayers, their sighs, their sobs. I see them kiss the unconscious
lips as their hot tears fall on the pallid faces of the dead. I see the
nations as they fade and fail. I see them captured and enslaved. I see
their altars mingle with the common earth, their temples crumble slowly
back to dust. I see their gods grow old and weak, infirm and faint.
I see them fall from vague and misty thrones, helpless and dead. The
worshipers receive no help. Injustice triumphs. Toilers are paid with
the lash,—babes are sold,—the innocent stand on scaffolds, and the
heroic perish in flames. I see the earthquakes devour, the volcanoes
overwhelm, the cyclones wreck, the floods destroy, and the lightnings
kill.

The nations perished. The gods died. The toil and wealth were lost. The
temples were built in vain, and all the prayers died unanswered in the
heedless air.

Then I asked myself the question: Is there a supernatural power—an
arbitrary mind—an enthroned God—a supreme will that sways the tides
and currents of the world—to which all causes bow?

I do not deny. I do not know—but I do not believe. I believe that the
natural is supreme—that from the infinite chain no link can be lost or
broken—that there is no supernatural power that can answer prayer—no
power that worship can persuade or change—no power that cares for man.

I believe that with infinite arms Nature embraces the all—that there
is no interference—no chance—that behind every event are the necessary
and countless causes, and that beyond every event will be and must be
the necessary and countless effects.

Man must protect himself. He cannot depend upon the supernatural—upon
an imaginary father in the skies. He must protect himself by finding
the facts in Nature, by developing his brain, to the end that he may
overcome the obstructions and take advantage of the forces of Nature.

Is there a God?

I do not know.

Is man immortal?

I do not know.

One thing I do know, and that is, that neither hope, nor fear, belief,
nor denial, can change the fact. It is as it is, and it will be as it
must be.

We wait and hope.

XI.

WHEN I became convinced that the Universe is natural—that all the
ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my soul,
into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom.
The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with
light and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no
longer a servant, a serf or a slave. There was for me no master in all
the wide world—not even in infinite space. I was free—free to think,
to express my thoughts—free to live to my own ideal—free to live
for myself and those I loved—free to use all my faculties, all my
senses—free to spread imagination's wings—free to investigate, to
guess and dream and hope—free to judge and determine for myself—free
to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the "inspired" books that
savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past—free
from popes and priests—free from all the "called" and "set apart"—free
from sanctified mistakes and holy lies—free from the fear of eternal
pain—free from the winged monsters of the night—free from devils,
ghosts and gods. For the first time I was free. There were no prohibited
places in all the realms of thought—no air, no space, where fancy could
not spread her painted wings—no chains for my limbs—no lashes for my
back—no fires for my flesh—no master's frown or threat—no following
another's steps—no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying
words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all
worlds.

And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went
out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for
the liberty of hand and brain—for the freedom of labor and thought—to
those who fell on the fierce fields of war, to those who died in
dungeons bound with chains—to those who proudly mounted scaffold's
stairs—to those whose bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and
torn—to those by fire consumed—to all the wise, the good, the brave of
every land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of
men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and hold it
high, that light might conquer darkness still.

Let us be true to ourselves—true to the facts we know, and let us,
above all things, preserve the veracity of our souls.

If there be gods we cannot help them, but we can assist our fellow-men.
We cannot love the inconceivable, but we can love wife and child and
friend.

We can be as honest as we are ignorant. If we are, when asked what is
beyond the horizon of the known, we must say that we do not know. We can
tell the truth, and we can enjoy the blessed freedom that the brave have
won. We can destroy the monsters of superstition, the hissing snakes
of ignorance and fear. We can drive from our minds the frightful things
that tear and wound with beak and fang. We can civilize our fellow-men.
We can fill our lives with generous deeds, with loving words, with art
and song, and all the ecstasies of love. We can flood our years with
sunshine—with the divine climate of kindness, and we can drain to the
last drop the golden cup of joy.
---
# A Vindication of Thomas Paine
_Dresden Edition, Volume 5, 1877_
_"To argue with a man who has renounced the use and
authority of reason, is like administering
medicine to the dead."—Thomas Paine._

Peoria, October 8, 1877.

To the Editor of the N Y. Observer:

Sir: Last June in San Francisco, I offered a
thousand dollars in gold—not as a wager, but as a
gift—to any one who would substantiate the absurd
story that Thomas Paine died in agony and fear,
frightened by the clanking chains of devils. I also
offered the same amount to any minister who would
prove that Voltaire did not pass away as serenely as
the coming of the dawn. Afterward I was informed
that you had accepted the offer, and had called upon
me to deposit the money. Acting upon this inform-
ation, I sent you the following letter:

Peoria, Ill., August 31st, 1877.

To the Editor of the New York Observer:

I have been informed that you accepted, in your
paper, an offer made by me to any clergyman in
San Francisco. That offer was, that I would pay

448

one thousand dollars in gold to any minister in that
city who would prove that Thomas Paine died in
terror because of religious opinions he had ex-
pressed, or that Voltaire did not pass away serenely
as the coming of the dawn.

For many years religious journals and ministers
have been circulating certain pretended accounts of
the frightful agonies endured by Paine and Voltaire
when dying; that these great men at the moment of
death were terrified because they had given their
honest opinions upon the subject of religion to their
fellow-men. The imagination of the religious world
has been taxed to the utmost in inventing absurd
and infamous accounts of the last moments of these
intellectual giants. Every Sunday school paper,
thousands of idiotic tracts, and countless stupidities
called sermons, have been filled with these calumnies.

Paine and Voltaire both believed in God—both
hoped for immortality—both believed in special
providence. But both denied the inspiration of the
Scriptures—both denied the divinity of Jesus Christ.
While theologians most cheerfully admit that most
murderers die without fear, they deny the possibility
of any man who has expressed his disbelief in the
inspiration of the Bible dying except in an agony of
terror. These stories are used in revivals and in

449

Sunday schools, and have long been considered of
great value.

I am anxious that these slanders shall cease. I
am desirous of seeing justice done, even at this late
day, to the dead.

For the purpose of ascertaining the evidence upon
which these death-bed accounts really rest, I make
to you the following proposition:—

First.—As to Thomas Paine: I will deposit with
the First National Bank of Peoria, Illinois, one thou-
sand dollars in gold, upon the following conditions:
This money shall be subject to your order when
you shall, in the manner hereinafter provided, sub-
stantiate that Thomas Paine admitted the Bible to be
an inspired book, or that he recanted his Infidel
opinions—or that he died regretting that he had dis-
believed the Bible—or that he died calling upon
Jesus Christ in any religious sense whatever.

In order that a tribunal may be created to try this
question, you may select one man, I will select
another, and the two thus chosen shall select a third,
and any two of the three may decide the matter.

As there will be certain costs and expenditures on
both sides, such costs and expenditures shall be paid
by the defeated party.

In addition to the one thousand dollars in gold, I

450

will deposit a bond with good and sufficient security
in the sum of two thousand dollars, conditioned for
the payment of all costs in case I am defeated. I
shall require of you a like bond.

From the date of accepting this offer you may
have ninety days to collect and present your testi-
mony, giving me notice of time and place of taking
depositions. I shall have a like time to take evi-
dence upon my side, giving you like notice, and you
shall then have thirty days to take further testimony
in reply to what I may offer. The case shall then
be argued before the persons chosen; and their
decisions shall be final as to us.

If the arbitrator chosen by me shall die, I shall
have the right to choose another. You shall have
the same right. If the third one, chosen by our two,
shall die, the two shall choose another; and all va-
cancies, from whatever cause, shall be filled upon the
same principle.

The arbitrators shall sit when and where a major-
ity shall determine, and shall have full power to pass
upon all questions arising as to competency of
evidence, and upon all subjects.

_Second_.—As to Voltaire: I make the same prop-
osition, if you will substantiate that Voltaire died
expressing remorse or showing in any way that he

451

was in mental agony because he had attacked Catholi-
cism—or because he had denied the inspiration of the
Bible—or because he had denied the divinity of Christ.

I make these propositions because I want you
to stop slandering the dead.

If the propositions do not suit you in any particu-
lar, please state your objections, and I will modify
them in any way consistent with the object in view.

If Paine and Voltaire died filled with childish and
silly fear, I want to know it, and I want the world to
know it. On the other hand, if the believers in
superstition have made and circulated these cruel
slanders concerning the mighty dead, I want the
world to know that.

As soon as you notify me of the acceptance of
these propositions I will send you the certificate of
the bank that the money has been deposited upon
the foregoing conditions, together with copies of
bonds for costs. Yours truly,

R. G. Ingersoll.

In your paper of September 27, 1877, you acknowl-
edge the receipt of the foregoing letter, and after
giving an outline of its contents, say: "As not one
of the affirmations, in the form stated in this letter,
was contained in the offer we made, we have no
occasion to substantiate them. But we are prepared

452

to produce the evidence of the truth of our own
statement, and even to go further; to show not only
that Tom Paine 'died a drunken, cowardly, and
beastly death,' but that for many years previous, and
up to that event he lived a drunken and beastly life."
In order to refresh your memory as to what you
had published, I call your attention to the following,
which appeared in the N. Y. Observer, July 19, 1877:
"Put Down the Money.

"Col. Bob Ingersoll, in a speech full of ribaldry
and blasphemy, made in San Francisco recently, said:
"I will give $1,000 in gold coin to any clergyman
who can substantiate that the death of Voltaire was
not as peaceful as the dawn; and of Tom Paine whom
they assert died in fear and agony, frightened by the
clanking chains of devils—in fact frightened to death
by God. I will give $1,000 likewise to any one who
can substantiate this 'absurd story'—a story without
a word of truth in it."

"We have published the testimony, and the wit-
nesses are on hand to prove that Tom Paine died a
drunken, cowardly and beastly death. Let the Colo-
nel deposit the money with any honest man, and the
absurd story, as he terms it, shall be shown to be an
ower true tale. But he wont do it. His talk is Infi-
del 'buncombe' and nothing more."

453

On the 31st of August I sent you my letter, and
on the 27th of September you say in your paper:
"As not one of the affirmations in the form stated
in this letter was contained in the offer we made, we
have no occasion to substantiate them."

What were the affirmations contained in the offer
you made? I had offered a thousand dollars in gold
to any one who would substantiate "the absurd story"
that Thomas Paine died in fear and agony,frightened
by the clanking chains of devils—in fact, frightened to
death by God.

In response to this offer you said: "Let the Colo-
nel deposit the money with an honest man and the
'absurd story' as he terms it, shall be shown to be
an 'ower true tale.' But he won't do it. His talk
is infidel 'buncombe' and nothing more."

Did you not offer to prove that Paine died in fear
and agony, frightened by the clanking chains of
devils? Did you not ask me to deposit the money
that you might prove the "absurd story" to be an
"ower true tale" and obtain the money? Did you
not in your paper of the twenty-seventh of September
in effect deny that you had offered to prove this
"absurd story"? As soon as I offered to deposit
the gold and give bonds besides to cover costs, did
you not publish a falsehood?

454

You have eaten your own words, and, for my
part, I would rather have dined with Ezekiel than
with you.

You have not met the issue. You have know-
ingly avoided it. The question was not as to the
personal habits of Paine. The real question was
and is, whether Paine was filled with fear and horror
at the time of his death on account of his religious
opinions. That is the question. You avoid this.
In effect, you abandon that charge and make others.

To you belongs the honor of having made the
most cruel and infamous charges against Thomas
Paine that have ever been made. Of what you
have said you cannot prove the truth of one word.

You say that Thomas Paine died a drunken,
cowardly and beastly death.

I pronounce this charge to be a cowardly and
beastly falsehood.

Have you any evidence that he was in a drunken
condition when he died?

What did he say or do of a cowardly character
just before, or at about the time of his death?

In what way was his death cowardly? You must
answer these questions, and give your proof, or all
honest men will hold you in abhorrence. You have
made these charges. The man against whom you

Vindication of thomas paine.

455

make them is dead. He cannot answer you. I
can. He cannot compel you to produce your testi-
mony, or admit by your silence that you have
cruelly slandered the defenceless dead. I can and I
will. You say that his death was cowardly. In
what respect? Was it cowardly in him to hold the
Thirty-Nine Articles in contempt? Was it cowardly
not to call on your Lord? Was it cowardly not to
be afraid? You say that his death was beastly.
Again I ask, in what respect? Was it beastly to
submit to the inevitable with tranquillity? Was it
beastly to look with composure upon the approach
of death? Was it beastly to die without a com-
plaint, without a murmur—to pass from life without
a fear?

Did Thomas Paine Recant?

Mr. Paine had prophesied that fanatics would
crawl and cringe around him during his last mo-
ments. He believed that they would put a lie in
the mouth of Death.

When the shadow of the coming dissolution was
upon him, two clergymen, Messrs. Milledollar and
Cunningham, called to annoy the dying man. Mr.
Cunningham had the politeness to say, "You have
now a full view of death you cannot live long, and
whosoever does not believe in the Lord Jesus Christ

456

will asuredly be damned." Mr. Paine replied, "Let
me have none of your popish stuff. Get away with
you. Good morning."

On another occasion a Methodist minister ob-
truded himself when Willet Hicks was present.
This minister declared to Mr. Paine "that unless he
repented of his unbelief he would be damned."
Paine, although at the door of death, rose in his bed
and indignantly requested the clergyman to leave
his room. On another occasion, two brothers by
the name of Pigott, sought to convert him. He was
displeased and requested their departure. After-
ward Thomas Nixon and Captain Daniel Pelton
visited him for the express purpose of ascertaining
whether he had, in any manner, changed his relig-
ious opinions. They were assured by the dying
man that he still held the principles he had expressed
in his writings.

Afterward, these gentlemen hearing that William
Cobbett was about to write a life of Paine, sent him
the following note:

New York, April 24, 1818.

"Sir: We have been informed that you have a de-
sign to write a history of the life and writings of
Thomas Paine. If you have been furnished with
materials in respect to his religious opinions, or

457

rather of his recantation of his former opinions before
his death, all you have heard of his recanting is false.
Being aware that such reports would be raised after
his death by fanatics who infested his house at the
time it was expected he would die, we, the subscrib-
ers, intimate acquaintances of Thomas Paine since
the year 1776, went to his house. He was sitting
up in a chair, and apparently in full vigor and use of
all his mental faculties. We interrogated him upon
his religious opinions, and if he had changed his
mind, or repented of anything he had said or wrote
on that subject. He answered, "Not at all," and
appeared rather offended at our supposition that any
change should take place in his mind. We took
down in writing the questions put to him and his
answers thereto before a number of persons then in
his room, among whom were his doctor, Mrs.
Bonneville, &c. This paper is mislaid and cannot
be found at present, but the above is the substance
which can be attested by many living witnesses."

Thomas Nixon.

Daniel Pelton.

Mr. Jarvis, the artist, saw Mr. Paine one or two
days before his death. To Mr. Jarvis he expressed
his belief in his written opinions upon the subject of
religion. B. F. Haskin, an attorney of the city of

458

New York, also visited him and inquired as to his
religious opinions. Paine was then upon the thresh-
old of death, but he did not tremble. He was not a
coward. He expressed his firm and unshaken belief
in the religious ideas he had given to the world.

Dr. Manley was with him when he spoke his last
words. Dr. Manley asked the dying man if he did
not wish to believe that Jesus was the Son of God,
and the dying philosopher answered: "I have no
wish to believe on that subject." Amasa Woodsworth

sat up with Thomas Paine the night before his
death. In 1839 Gilbert Vale hearing that Mr.
Woodsworth was living in or near Boston, visited
him for the purpose of getting his statement. The
statement was published in the Beacon of June 5,
1839, while thousands who had been acquainted with
Mr. Paine were living.

The following is the article referred to.

"We have just returned from Boston. One ob-
ject of our visit to that city, was to see a Mr. Amasa
Woodsworth, an engineer, now retired in a hand-
some cottage and garden at East Cambridge, Boston.
This gentleman owned the house occupied by Paine
at his death—while he lived next door. As an act
of kindness Mr. Woodsworth visited Mr. Paine every
day for six weeks before his death. He frequently

459

sat up with him, and did so on the last two nights of
his life. He was always there with Dr. Manley, the
physician, and assisted in removing Mr. Paine while
his bed was prepared. He was present when Dr.
Manley asked Mr. Paine "if he wished to believe
that Jesus Christ was the Son of God," and he de-
scribes Mr. Paine's answer as animated. He says
that lying on his back he used some action and with
much emphasis, replied, "I have no wish to believe
on that subject." He lived some time after this, but
was not known to speak, for he died tranquilly. He
accounts for the insinuating style of Dr. Manley's
letter, by stating that that gentleman just after its
publication joined a church. He informs us that he
has openly reproved the doctor for the falsity con-
tained in the spirit of that letter, boldly declaring be-
fore Dr. Manley, who is yet living, that nothing
which he saw justified the insinuations. Mr. Woods-
worth assures us that he neither heard nor saw any-
thing to justify the belief of any mental change in
the opinions of Mr. Paine previous to his death; but
that being very ill and in pain chiefly arising from
the skin being removed in some parts by long lying,
he was generally too uneasy to enjoy conversation
on abstract subjects. This, then, is the best evidence
that can be procured on this subject, and we publish

460

it while the contravening parties are yet alive, and
with the authority of Mr. Woodsworth.

Gilbert Vale.

A few weeks ago I received the following letter
which confirms the statement of Mr. Vale:

Near Stockton, Cal., Green-
wood Cottage, July 9, 1877.

Col. Ingersoll: In 1842 I talked with a gentle-
man in Boston. I have forgotten his name; but he was
then an engineer of the Charleston navy yard. I am
thus particular so that you can find his name on the
books. He told me that he nursed Thomas Paine
in his last illness, and closed his eyes when dead. I
asked him if he recanted and called upon God to
save him. He replied, "No. He died as he had
taught. He had a sore upon his side and when we
turned him it was very painful and he would cry out
'O God!' or something like that." "But," said
the narrator, "that was nothing, for he believed in a
God." I told him that I had often heard it asserted
from the pulpit that Mr. Paine had recanted in his
last moments. The gentleman said that it was not
true, and he appeared to be an intelligent, truthful
man. With respect, I remain, &c.,

Philip Graves, M. D.

461

The next witness is Willet Hicks, a Quaker
preacher. He says that during the last illness of
Mr. Paine he visited him almost daily, and that
Paine died firmly convinced of the truth of the relig-
ious opinions he had given to his fellow-men. It
was to this same Willet Hicks that Paine applied for
permission to be buried in the cemetery of the
Quakers. Permission was refused. This refusal
settles the question of recantation. If he had re-
canted, of course there could have been no objection
to his body being buried by the side of the best
hypocrites on the earth.

If Paine recanted why should he be denied "a
little earth for charity"? Had he recanted, it
would have been regarded as a vast and splendid
triumph for the gospel. It would with much noise
and pomp and ostentation have been heralded
about the world.

I received the following letter to-day. The
writer is well know in this city, and is a man of
high character:

Peoria, Oct. 8th, 1877.

Robert G. Ingersoll, Esteemed Friend: My
parents were Friends (Quakers). My father died
when I was very young. The elderly and middle-
aged Friends visited at my mother's house. We

462

lived in the city of New York. Among the number
I distinctly remember Elias Hicks, Willet Hicks,

and a Mr.-Day, who was a bookseller in Pearl

street. There were many others, whose names I
do not now remember. The subject of the recanta-
tion by Thomas Paine of his views about the Bible
in his last illness, or at any other time, was dis-
cussed by them in my presence at different times.
I learned from them that some of them had attended
upon Thomas Paine in his last sickness and minis-
tered to his wants up to the time of his death.
And upon the question of whether he did recant
there was but one expression. They all said that
he did not recant in any manner. I often heard
them say they wished he had recanted. In fact,
according to them, the nearer he approached death
the more positive he appeared to be in his con-
victions.

These conversations were from 1820 to 1822. I
was at that time from ten to twelve years old, but
these conversations impressed themselves upon me
because many thoughtless people then blamed the
Society of Friends for their kindness to that "arch
Infidel," Thomas Paine..

Truly yours,

A. C. Hankinson.

463

A few days ago I received the following letter:
Albany, New York, Sept. 27, 1877.

Dear Sir: It is over twenty years ago that pro-
fessionally I made the acquaintance of John Hogeboom,

a Justice of the Peace of the county of
Rensselaer, New York. He was then over seventy
years of age and had the reputation of being a man
of candor and integrity. He was a great admirer of
Paine. He told me that he was personally ac-
quainted with him, and used to see him frequently
during the last years of his life in the city of New
York, where Hogeboom then resided. I asked him
if there was any truth in the charge that Paine was
in the habit of getting drunk. He said that it was
utterly false; that he never heard of such a thing
during the life-time of Mr. Paine, and did not believe
any one else did. I asked him about the recantation
of his religious opinions on his death-bed, and the
revolting death-bed scenes that the world had heard
so much about. He said there was no truth in
them, that he had received his information from
persons who attended Paine in his last illness, "and
that he passed peacefully away, as we may say, in
the sunshine of a great soul."...

Yours truly,

W. J. Hilton,

464

The witnesses by whom I substantiate the fact
that Thomas Paine did not recant, and that he died
holding the religious opinions he had published, are:
First—Thomas Nixon, Captain Daniel Pelton,
B. F. Haskin. These gentlemen visited him during
his last illness for the purpose of ascertaining whether
he had in any respect changed his views upon relig-
ion. He told them that he had not.

Second—James Cheetham. This man was the
most malicious enemy Mr. Paine had, and yet he
admits that "Thomas Paine died placidly, and al-
most without a struggle." (See Life of Thomas
Paine, by James Cheetham).

Third—The ministers, Milledollar and Cunning-
ham. These gentlemen told Mr. Paine that if he
died without believing in the Lord Jesus Christ he
would be damned, and Paine replied, "Let me have
none of your popish stuff. Good morning." (See
Sherwin's Life of Paine, p. 220).

Fourth—Mrs. Hedden. She told these same
preachers when they attempted to obtrude them-
selves upon Mr. Paine again, that the attempt to
convert Mr. Paine was useless—"that if God did not
change his mind no human power could."

Fifth—Andrew A. Dean. This man lived upon
Paine's farm at New Rochelle, and corresponded

465

with him upon religious subjects. (See Paine's
Theological Works, p. 308.)

Sixth—Mr. Jarvis, the artist with whom Paine
lived. He gives an account of an old lady coming
to Paine and telling him that God Almighty had
sent her to tell him that unless he repented and be-
lieved in the blessed Savior, he would be damned.
Paine replied that God would not send such a foolish
old woman with such an impertinent message. (See
Clio Rickman's Life of Paine.)

Seventh—Wm. Carver, with whom Paine boarded.
Mr. Carver said again and again that Paine did not
recant. He knew him well, and had every opportun-
ity of knowing. (See Life of Paine by Gilbert Vale.)

Eighth—Dr. Manley, who attended him in his last
sickness, and to whom Paine spoke his last words.
Dr. Manley asked him if he did not wish to believe in
Jesus Christ, and he replied, "I have no wish to
believe on that subject."

Ninth—Willet Hicks and Elias Hicks, who were
with him frequently during his last sickness, and
both of whom tried to persuade him to recant. Ac-
cording to their testimony, Mr. Paine died as he had
lived—a believer in God, and a friend of man.
Willet Hicks was offered money to say something
false against Thomas Paine. He was even offered

466

money to remain silent and allow others to slander
the dead. Mr. Hicks, speaking of Thomas Paine,
said: "He was a good man—an honest man."
(Vale's Life of Paine.)

Tenth—Amasa Woodsworth, who was with him
every day for some six weeks immediately preceding
his death, and sat up with him the last two nights of
his life. This man declares that Paine did not recant
and that he died tranquilly. The evidence of Mr.
Woodsworth is conclusive.

Eleventh—Thomas Paine himself. The will of
Thomas Paine, written by himself, commences as
follows:

"The last will and testament of me, the subscriber,
Thomas Paine, reposing confidence in my creator
God, and in no other being, for I know of no other,
nor believe in any other;" and closes in these words;
"I have lived an honest and useful life to mankind;
my time has been spent in doing good, and I die in
perfect composure and resignation to the will of my
creator God."

Twelfth—If Thomas Paine recanted, why do you
pursue him? If he recanted, he died substantially
in your belief, for what reason then do you denounce
his death as cowardly? If upon his death-bed he
renounced the opinions he had published, the busi-

467

ness of defaming him should be done by Infidels, not
by Christians.

I ask you if it is honest to throw away the testi-
mony of his friends—the evidence of fair and honor-
able men—and take the putrid words of avowed and
malignant enemies?

When Thomas Paine was dying, he was infested
by fanatics—by the snaky spies of bigotry. In the
shadows of death were the unclean birds of prey
waiting to tear with beak and claw the corpse of him
who wrote the "Rights of Man." And there lurk-
ing and crouching in the darkness were the jackals
and hyenas of superstition ready to violate his grave.

These birds of prey—these unclean beasts are the
witnesses produced and relied upon by you.

One by one the instruments of torture have been
wrenched from the cruel clutch of the church, until
within the armory of orthodoxy there remains but
one weapon—Slander.

Against the witnesses that I have produced you
can bring just two—Mary Roscoe and Mary Hins-
dale. The first is referred to in the memoir of
Stephen Grellet. She had once been a servant in his
house. Grellet tells what happened between this
girl and Paine. According to this account Paine
asked her if she had ever read any of his writings,

468

and on being told that she had read very little of
them, he inquired what she thought of them, adding
that from such an one as she he expected a correct
answer.

Let us examine this falsehood. Why would Paine
expect a correct answer about his writings from one
who had read very little of them? Does not such a
statement devour itself? This young lady further
said that the "Age of Reason" was put in her hands
and that the more she read in it the more dark and
distressed she felt, and that she threw the book into
the fire. Whereupon Mr. Paine remarked, "I wish
all had done as you did, for if the devil ever had any
agency in any work, he had it in my writing that book."

The next is Mary Hinsdale. She was a servant
in the family of Willet Hicks. She, like Mary Ros-
coe, was sent to carry some delicacy to Mr. Paine.
To this young lady Paine, according to her account,
said precisely the same that he did to Mary Roscoe,
and she said the same thing to Mr. Paine.

My own opinion is that Mary Roscoe and Mary
Hinsdale are one and the same person, or the same
story has been by mistake put in the mouth of both.

It is not possible that the same conversation should
have taken place between Paine and Mary Roscoe,
and between him and Mary Hinsdale.

469

Mary Hinsdale lived with Willet Hicks and he
pronounced her story a pious fraud and fabrication.
He said that Thomas Paine never said any such
thing to Mary Hinsdale. (See Vale's Life of
Paine.)

Another thing about this witness. A woman by
the name of Mary Lockwood, a Hicksite Quaker,
died. Mary Hinsdale met her brother about that
time and told him that his sister had recanted, and
wanted her to say so at her funeral. This turned
out to be false.

It has been claimed that Mary Hinsdale made her
statement to Charles Collins. Long after the alleged
occurrence Gilbert Vale, one of the biographers of
Paine, had a conversation with Collins concerning
Mary Hinsdale. Vale asked him what he thought
of her. He replied that some of the Friends be-
lieved that she used opiates, and that they did not
give credit to her statements. He also said that he
believed what the Friends said, but thought that
when a young woman, she might have told the
truth.

In 1818 William Cobbett came to New York.
He began collecting materials for a life of Thomas
Paine. In this he became acquainted with Mary
Hinsdale and Charles Collins. Mr. Cobbett gave a

470

full account of what happened in a letter addressed
to the Norwich Mercury in 1819. From this ac-
count it seems that Charles Collins told Cobbett that
Paine had recanted. Cobbett called for the testi-
mony, and told Mr. Collins that he must give time,
place, and the circumstances. He finally brought a
statement that he stated had been made by Mary
Hinsdale. Armed with this document Cobbett, in
October of that year, called upon the said Mary
Hinsdale, at No. 10 Anthony street, New York, and
showed her the statement. Upon being questioned
by Mr. Cobbett she said, "That it was so long ago
that she could not speak positively to any part of the
matter—that she would not say that any part of the
paper was true—that she had never seen the paper
—and that she had never given Charles Collins
authority to say anything about the matter in her
name." And so in the month of October, in the
year of grace 1818, in the mist and fog of forgetful-
ness disappeared forever one Mary Hinsdale—the
last and only witness against the intellectual honesty
of Thomas Paine.

_Did Thomas Paine live the life of a drunken beast,
and did he die a drunken, cowardly and beastly death?_

Upon you rests the burden of substantiating these
infamous charges.

471

You have, I suppose, produced the best evidence
in your possession, and that evidence I will now pro-
ceed to examine. Your first witness is Grant Thor-
burn. He makes three charges against Thomas
Paine, 1st. That his wife obtained a divorce from
him in England for cruelty and neglect. 2d. That
he was a defaulter and fled from England to Amer-
ica. 3d. That he was a drunkard.

These three charges stand upon the same evidence
—the word of Grant Thorburn. If they are not all
true Mr. Thorburn stands impeached.

The charge that Mrs. Paine obtained a divorce on
account of the cruelty and neglect of her husband is
utterly false. There is no such record in the world,
and never was. Paine and his wife separated by
mutual consent. Each respected the other. They
remained friends. This charge is without any foun-
dation in fact. I challenge the Christian world to
produce the record of this decree of divorce. Accord-
ing to Mr. Thorburn it was granted in England. In
that country public records are kept of all such de-
crees. Have the kindness to produce this decree
showing that it was given on account of cruelty or
admit that Mr. Thorburn was mistaken.

Thomas Paine was a just man. Although sepa-
rated from his wife, he always spoke of her with

472

tenderness and respect, and frequently sent her
money without letting her know the source from
whence it came. Was this the conduct of a drunken
beast?

The second charge, that Paine was a defaulter in
England and fled to America, is equally false. He
did not flee from England. He came to America,
not as a fugitive, but as a free man. He came with
a letter of introduction signed by another Infidel,
Benjamin Franklin. He came as a soldier of Free-
dom—an apostle of Liberty.

In this second charge there is not one word of truth.

He held a small office in England. If he was a
defaulter the records of that country will show that
fact.

Mr. Thorburn, unless the record can be produced
to substantiate him, stands convicted of at least two
mistakes.

Now, as to the third: He says that in 1802 Paine
was an "old remnant of mortality, drunk, bloated
and half asleep."

Can any one believe this to be a true account of
the personal appearance of Mr. Paine in 1802? He
had just returned from France. He had been wel-
comed home by Thomas Jefferson, who had said that
he was entitled to the hospitality of every American.

473

In 1802 Mr. Paine was honored with a public din-
ner in the city of New York. He was called upon
and treated with kindness and respect by such men
as DeWitt Clinton.

In 1806 Mr. Paine wrote a letter to Andrew A.
Dean upon the subject of religion. Read that letter
and then say that the writer of it was an "old rem-
nant of mortality, drunk, bloated and half asleep."
Search the files of the New York Observer from the
first issue to the last, and you will find nothing supe-
rior to this letter.

In 1803 Mr. Paine wrote a letter of considerable
length, and of great force, to his friend Samuel
Adams. Such letters are not written by drunken
beasts, nor by remnants of old mortality, nor by
drunkards. It was about the same time that he
wrote his "Remarks on Robert Hall's Sermons."

These "Remarks" were not written by a drunken
beast, but by a clear-headed and thoughtful man.

In 1804 he published an essay on the invasion of
England, and a treatise on gunboats, full of valuable
maritime information:—in 1805, a treatise on yellow
fever, suggesting modes of prevention. In short, he
was an industrious and thoughtful man. He sympa-
thized with the poor and oppressed of all lands. He
looked upon monarchy as a species of physical

474

slavery. He had the goodness to attack that form
of government. He regarded the religion of his day
as a kind of mental slavery. He had the courage to
give his reasons for his opinion. His reasons filled
the churches with hatred. Instead of answering his
arguments they attacked him. Men who were not
fit to blacken his shoes, blackened his character.

There is too much religious cant in the statement
of Mr. Thorburn. He exhibited too much anxiety
to tell what Grant Thorburn said to Thomas Paine.
He names Thomas Jefferson as one of the disreputa-
ble men who welcomed Paine with open arms. The
testimony of a man who regarded Thomas Jefferson
as a disreputable person, as to the character of any-
body, is utterly without value. In my judgment, the
testimony of Mr. Thorburn should be thrown aside
as wholly unworthy of belief.

Your next witness is the Rev. J. D. Wickham, D.
D., who tells what an elder in his church said. This
elder said that Paine passed his last days on his farm
at New Rochelle with a solitary female attendant.
This is not true. He did not pass his last days at
New Rochelle. Consequently this pious elder did
not see him during his last days at that place. Upon
this elder we prove an alibi. Mr. Paine passed his
last days in the city of New York, in a house upon

475

Columbia street. The story of the Rev. J. D. Wick-
ham, D.D., is simply false.

The next competent false witness is the Rev.
Charles Hawley, D.D., who proceeds to state that
the story of the Rev. J. D. Wickham, D.D., is cor-
roborated by older citizens of New Rochelle. The
names of these ancient residents are withheld. Ac-
cording to these unknown witnesses, the account
given by the deceased elder was entirely correct.
But as the particulars of Mr. Paine's conduct "were
too loathsome to be described in print," we are left
entirely in the dark as to what he really did.

While at New Rochelle Mr. Paine lived with Mr.
Purdy—with Mr. Dean—with Captain Pelton, and
with Mr. Staple. It is worthy of note that all of
these gentlemen give the lie direct to the statements
of "older residents" and ancient citizens spoken of
by the Rev. Charles Hawley, D.D., and leave him
with his "loathsome particulars" existing only in his
own mind.

The next gentleman you bring upon the stand is
W. H. Ladd, who quotes from the memoirs of
Stephen Grellet. This gentleman also has the mis-
fortune to be dead. According to his account, Mr.
Paine made his recantation to a servant girl of his
by the name of Mary Roscoe. To this girl, accord-

476

ing to the account, Mr. Paine uttered the wish that
all who read his book had burned it. I believe there
is a mistake in the name of this girl. Her name was
probably Mary Hinsdale, as it was once claimed that
Paine made the same remark to her, but this point
I shall notice hereafter. These are your witnesses,
and the only ones you bring forward, to support
your charge that Thomas Paine lived a drunken and
beastly life and died a drunken, cowardly and beastly
death. All these calumnies are found in a life of
Paine by a Mr. Cheetham, the convicted libeler
already referred to. Mr. Cheetham was an enemy
of the man whose life he pretended to write.

In order to show you the estimation in which Mr.
Cheetham was held by Mr. Paine, I will give you a
copy of a letter that throws light upon this point:

October 28, 1807.

"Mr. Cheetham: Unless you make a public apol-
ogy for the abuse and falsehood in your paper of
Tuesday, October 27th, respecting me, I will prose-
cute you for lying."

Thomas Paine.

In another letter, speaking of this same man, Mr.
Paine says: "If an unprincipled bully cannot be re-
formed, he can be punished." "Cheetham has been
so long in the habit of giving false information, that
truth is to him like a foreign language."

477

Mr. Cheetham wrote the life of Paine to gratify
his malice and to support religion. He was prose-
cuted for libel—was convicted and fined.

Yet the life of Paine written by this man is referred
to by the Christian world as the highest authority.

As to the personal habits of Mr. Paine, we have
the testimony of William Carver, with whom he
lived; of Mr. Jarvis, the artist, with whom he lived;
of Mr. Staple, with whom he lived; of Mr. Purdy,
who was a tenant of Paine's; of Mr. Burger, with
whom he was intimate; of Thomas Nixon and
Captain Daniel Pelton, both of whom knew him
well; of Amasa Woodsworth, who was with him
when he died; of John Fellows, who boarded at the
same house; of James Wilburn, with whom he
boarded; of B. F. Haskin, a lawyer, who was well
acquainted with him and called upon him during his
last illness; of Walter Morton, a friend; of Clio
Rickman, who had known him for many years; of
Willet and Elias Hicks, Quakers, who knew him in-
timately and well; of Judge Herttell, H. Margary,
Elihu Palmer, and many others. All these testified
to the fact that Mr. Paine was a temperate man. In
those days nearly everybody used spirituous liquors.
Paine was not an exception; but he did not drink to
excess. Mr. Lovett, who kept the City Hotel where

478

Paine stopped, in a note to Caleb Bingham, declared
that Paine drank less than any boarder he had.

Against all this evidence you produce the story of
Grant Thorburn—the story of the Rev. J. D. Wick-
ham that an elder in his church told him that Paine
was a drunkard, corroborated by the Rev. Charles
Hawley, and an extract from Lossing's history to
the same effect. The evidence is overwhelmingly
against you. Will you have the fairness to admit it?
Your witnesses are merely the repeaters of the false-
hoods of James Cheetham, the convicted libeler.

After all, drinking is not as bad as lying. An
honest drunkard is better than a calumniator of the
dead. "A remnant of old mortality, drunk, bloated
and half asleep" is better than a perfectly sober
defender of human slavery.

To become drunk is a virtue compared with steal-
ing a babe from the breast of its mother.

Drunkenness is one of the beatitudes, compared
with editing a religious paper devoted to the defence
of slavery upon the ground that it is a divine insti-
tution.

Do you really think that Paine was a drunken
beast when he wrote "Common Sense"—a pamphlet
that aroused three millions of people, as people were
never aroused by a pamphlet before? Was he a

479

drunken beast when he wrote the "Crisis"? Was
it to a drunken beast that the following letter was
addressed:

Rocky Hill, September 10, 1783.

"I have learned since I have been at this place,
that you are at Bordentown.—Whether for the sake
of retirement or economy I know not. Be it for
either or both, or whatever it may, if you will come
to this place and partake with me I shall be exceed-
ingly happy to see you at it. Your presence may
remind Congress of your past services to this country;
and if it is in my power to impress them, command
my best exertions with freedom, as they will be
rendered cheerfully by one who entertains a lively
sense of the importance of your works, and who with
much pleasure subscribes himself,

"Your Sincere Friend,

"George Washington."

Did any of your ancestors ever receive a letter
like that?

Do you think that Paine was a drunken beast
when the following letter was received by him?

"You express a wish in your letter to return to
America in a national ship; Mr. Dawson, who brings
over the treaty, and who will present you with this
letter, is charged with orders to the captain of the

480

Maryland to receive and accommodate you back, if you
can be ready to depart at such a short warning. You
will in general find us returned to sentiments worthy
of former times; _in these it will be your glory to have
steadily labored and with as much effect as any man
living._ That you may live long to continue your
useful labors, and reap the reward in the _thankfulness
of nations_, is my sincere prayer. Accept the assur-
ances of my high esteem and affectionate attachment."

Thomas Jefferson.

Did any of your ancestors ever receive a letter
like that?

"It has been very generally propagated through
the continent that I wrote the pamphlet 'Common
Sense.' I could not have written anything in so
manly and striking a style."—John Adams.

"A few more such flaming arguments as were
exhibited at Falmouth and Norfolk, added to the
sound doctrine and unanswerable reasoning con-
tained in the pamphlet 'Common Sense,' will not
leave numbers at a loss to decide on the propriety of
a separation."—George Washington.

"It is not necessary for me to tell you how
much all your countrymen—I speak of the great
mass of the people—are interested in your welfare.

481

They have not forgotten the history of their own
Revolution and the difficult scenes through which
they passed; nor do they review its several stages
without reviving in their bosoms a due sensibility of
the merits of those who served them in that great
and arduous conflict. The crime of ingratitude has
not yet stained, and I trust never will stain, our
national character. You are considered by them as
not only having rendered important services in our
own Revolution, but as being on a more extensive
scale the friend of human rights, and a distinguished
and able defender of public liberty. To the welfare
of Thomas Paine the Americans are not, nor can
they be indifferent.".. James Monroe.

Did any of your ancestors ever receive a letter
like that?

"No writer has exceeded Paine in ease and famil-
iarity of style, in perspicuity of expression, happiness
of elucidation, and in simple and unassuming lan-
guage."'—Thomas Jefferson.

Was ever a letter like that written about an editor
of the _New York Observer?_

Was it in consideration of the services of a
drunken beast that the Legislature of Pennsylvania
presented Thomas Paine with five hundred pounds
sterling?

482

Did the State of New York feel indebted to a
drunken beast, and confer upon Thomas Paine an
estate of several hundred acres?

"I believe in the equality of man, and I believe
that religious duties consist in doing justice, loving
mercy, and endeavoring to make our fellow-creat-
ures happy."

"My own mind is my own church."

"It is necessary to the happiness of man that he
be mentally faithful to himself."

"Any system of religion that shocks the mind of
a child cannot be a true system."

"The Word of God is the creation which we
behold."

"The age of ignorance commenced with the
Christian system."

"It is with a pious fraud as with a bad action—it
begets a calamitous necessity of going on."

"To read the Bible without horror, we must undo
everything that is tender, sympathizing and benev-
olent in the heart of man."

"The man does not exist who can say I have per-
secuted him, or that I have in any case returned evil
for evil."

"Of all tyrannies that afflict mankind, tyranny in
religion is the worst."

483

"My own opinion is, that those whose lives have
been spent in doing good and endeavoring to make
their fellow-mortals happy, will be happy hereafter."
"The belief in a cruel god makes a cruel man."
"The intellectual part of religion is a private affair
between every man and his Maker, and in which no
third party has any right to interfere. The practical
part consists in our doing good to each other."

"No man ought to make a living by religion. One
person cannot act religion for another—every person
must perform it for himself."

"One good schoolmaster is of more use than a
hundred priests."

"Let us propagate morality unfettered by super-
stition."

"God is the power, or first cause, Nature is the
law, and matter is the subject acted upon."

"I believe in one God and no more, and I hope
for happiness beyond this life."

"The key of heaven is not in the keeping of any
sect nor ought the road to it to be obstructed
by any."

"My religion, and the whole of it, is the fear and
love of the Deity and universal philanthropy."

"I have yet, I believe, some years in store, for I
have a good state of health and a happy mind. I

484

take care of both, by nourishing the first with tem-
perance and the latter with abundance."

"He lives immured within the Bastile of a
word."

How perfectly that sentence describes you! The
Bastile in which you are immured is the word
"Calvinism."

"Man has no property in man."

What a splendid motto that would have made for
the _New York Observer_ in the olden time!

"The world is my country; to do good, my
religion."

I ask you again whether these splendid utterances
came from the lips of a drunken beast?

_Did Thomas Paine die in destitution and want?_

The charge has been made, over and over again,
that Thomas Paine died in want and destitution—
that he was an abandoned pauper—an outcast with-
out friends and without money. This charge is just
as false as the rest.

Upon his return to this country in 1802, he was
worth $30,000, according to his own statement made
at that time in the following letter addressed to Clio
Rickman:

"My Dear Friend: Mr. Monroe, who is appointed
minister extraordinary to France, takes charge of

485

this, to be delivered to Mr. Este, banker in Paris, to
be forwarded to you.

"I arrived at Baltimore the 30th of October, and
you can have no idea of the agitation which my
arrival occasioned. From New Hampshire to
Georgia (an extent of 1,500 miles) every newspaper
was filled with applause or abuse.

"My property in this country has been taken care
of by my friends, and is now worth six thousand
pounds sterling; which put in the funds will bring
me L400 sterling a year.

"Remember me in affection and friendship to your
wife and family, and in the circle of your friends."

Thomas Paine.

A man in those days worth thirty thousand dol-
lars was not a pauper. That amount would bring an
income of at least two thousand dollars per annum.
Two thousand dollars then would be fully equal to
five thousand dollars now.

On the 12th of July, 1809, the year in which he
died, Mr. Paine made his will. From this instru-
ment we learn that he was the owner of a valuable
farm within twenty miles of New York. He also
was the owner of thirty shares in the New York
Phoenix Insurance Company, worth upwards of fif-
teen hundred dollars. Besides this, some personal

486

property and ready money. By his will he gave to
Walter Morton, and Thomas Addis Emmett, brother
of Robert Emmett, two hundred dollars each, and
one hundred to the widow of Elihu Palmer.

Is it possible that this will was made by a pauper
—by a destitute outcast—by a man who suffered for
the ordinary necessaries of life?

But suppose, for the sake of the argument, that he
was poor and that he died a beggar, does that tend
to show that the Bible is an inspired book and that
Calvin did not burn Servetus? Do you really regard
poverty as a crime? If Paine had died a millionaire,
would you have accepted his religious opinions? If
Paine had drank nothing but cold water would you
have repudiated the five cardinal points of Calvin-
ism? Does an argument depend for its force upon
the pecuniary condition of the person making it?
As a matter of fact, most reformers—most men and
women of genius, have been acquainted with poverty.
Beneath a covering of rags have been found some of
the tenderest and bravest hearts.

Owing to the attitude of the churches for the last
fifteen hundred years, truth-telling has not been a
very lucrative business. As a rule, hypocrisy has
worn the robes, and honesty the rags. That day is
passing away. You cannot now answer the argu-

487

ments of a man by pointing at holes in his coat.
Thomas Paine attacked the church when it was
powerful—when it had what was called honors to
bestow—when it was the keeper of the public con-
science—when it was strong and cruel. The church
waited till he was dead then attacked his reputation
and his clothes.

Once upon a time a donkey kicked a lion. The
lion was dead.

Conclusion.

From the persistence with which the orthodox
have charged for the last sixty-eight years that
Thomas Paine recanted, and that when dying he
was filled with remorse and fear; from the malignity
of the attacks upon his personal character, I had con-
cluded that there must be some evidence of some
kind to support these charges. Even with my ideas
of the average honor of believers in superstition—
the disciples of fear—I did not quite believe that all
these infamies rested solely upon poorly attested
lies. I had charity enough to suppose that some-
thing had been said or done by Thomas Paine capa-
ble of being tortured into a foundation for these
calumnies. And I was foolish enough to think that
even you would be willing to fairly examine the pre-
tended evidence said to sustain these charges, and

488

give your honest conclusion to the world. I sup-
posed that you, being acquainted with the history of
your country, felt under a certain obligation to
Thomas Paine for the splendid services rendered by
him in the darkest days of the Revolution. It was
only reasonable to suppose that you were aware that
in the midnight of Valley Forge the "Crisis," by
Thomas Paine, was the first star that glittered in the
wide horizon of despair. I took it for granted that
you knew of the bold stand taken and the brave
words spoken by Thomas Paine, in the French Con-
vention, against the death of the king. I thought it
probable that you, being an editor, had read the
"Rights of Man;" that you knew that Thomas
Paine was a champion of human liberty; that he was
one of the founders and fathers of this Republic; that
he was one of the foremost men of his age; that he
had never written a word in favor of injustice; that
he was a despiser of slavery; that he abhorred tyr-
anny in all its forms; that he was in the widest and
highest sense a friend of his race; that his head was
as clear as his heart was good, and that he had the
courage to speak his honest thought. Under these
circumstances I had hoped that you would for the
moment forget your religious prejudices and submit
to the enlightened judgment of the world the evi-

489

dence you had, or could obtain, affecting in any way
the character of so great and so generous a man. This
you have refused to do. In my judgment, you have
mistaken the temper of even your own readers. A
large majority of the religious people of this country
have, to a considerable extent, outgrown the preju-
dices of their fathers. They are willing to know the
truth and the whole truth, about the life and death of
Thomas Paine. They will not thank you for having
presented them the moss-covered, the maimed and dis-
torted traditions of ignorance, prejudice, and credulity.
By this course you will convince them not of the
wickedness of Paine, but of your own unfairness.

What crime had Thomas Paine committed that he
should have feared to die? The only answer you
can give is, that he denied the inspiration of the
Scriptures. If this is a crime, the civilized world is
filled with criminals. The pioneers of human thought
—the intellectual leaders of the world—the foremost
men in every science—the kings of literature and
art—those who stand in the front rank of investiga-
tion—the men who are civilizing, elevating, instruct-
ing, and refining mankind, are to-day unbelievers in
the dogma of inspiration. Upon this question, the
intellect of Christendom agrees with the conclusions
reached by the genius of Thomas Paine. Centuries

490

ago a noise was made for the purpose of frightening
mankind. Orthodoxy is the echo of that noise.

The man who now regards the Old Testament as
in any sense a sacred or inspired book is, in my judg-
ment, an intellectual and moral deformity. There is
in it so much that is cruel, ignorant, and ferocious
that it is to me a matter of amazement that it was
ever thought to be the work of a most merciful deity.

Upon the question of inspiration Thomas Paine
gave his honest opinion. Can it be that to give an
honest opinion causes one to die in terror and de-
spair? Have you in your writings been actuated by
the fear of such a consequence? Why should it be
taken for granted that Thomas Paine, who devoted
his life to the sacred cause of freedom, should have
been hissed at in the hour of death by the snakes of
conscience, while editors of Presbyterian papers who
defended slavery as a divine institution, and cheer-
fully justified the stealing of babes from the breasts of
mothers, are supposed to have passed smilingly from
earth to the embraces of angels? Why should you
think that the heroic author of the "Rights of Man"
should shudderingly dread to leave this "bank and
shoal of time," while Calvin, dripping with the blood
of Servetus, was anxious to be judged of God? Is
it possible that the persecutors—the instigators of

491

the massacre of St. Bartholomew—the inventors and
users of thumb-screws, and iron boots, and racks—
the burners and tearers of human flesh—the stealers,
whippers and enslavers of men—the buyers and
beaters of babes and mothers—the founders of
inquisitions—the makers of chains, the builders of
dungeons, the slanderers of the living and the calum-
niators of the dead, all died in the odor of sanctity,
with white, forgiven hands folded upon the breasts
of peace, while the destroyers of prejudice—the
apostles of humanity—the soldiers of liberty—the
breakers of fetters—the creators of light—died sur-
rounded with the fierce fiends of fear?

In your attempt to destroy the character of Thomas
Paine you have failed, and have succeeded only in
leaving a stain upon your own. You have written
words as cruel, bitter and heartless as the creed of
Calvin. Hereafter you will stand in the pillory of
history as a defamer—a calumniator of the dead.
You will be known as the man who said that Thomas
Paine, the "Author Hero," lived a drunken, coward-
ly and beastly life, and died a drunken and beastly
death. These infamous words will be branded upon
the forehead of your reputation. They will be re-
membered against you when all else you may have
uttered shall have passed from the memory of men.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

## The Observer's Second Attack

> _* From the NY. Observer of Nov. 1, 1877._

## Tom Paine Again

In the Observer of September 27th, in response
to numerous calls from different parts of the country
for information, and in fulfillment of a promise, we
presented a mass of testimony, chiefly from persons
with whom we had been personally acquainted,
establishing the truth of our assertions in regard to
the dissolute life and miserable end of Paine. It was
not a pleasing subject for discussion, and an apology,
or at least an explanation, is due to our readers for
resuming it, and for occupying so much space, or
any space, in exhibiting the truth and the proofs in
regard to the character of a man who had become so
debased by his intemperance, and so vile in his
habits, as to be excluded, for many years before and
up to the time of his death, from all decent society.

Our reasons for taking up the subject at all, and
for presenting at this time so much additional testi-
mony in regard to the facts of the case, are these:
At different periods for the last fifty years, efforts

493

have been made by Infidels to revive and honor the
memory of one whose friends would honor him most
by suffering his name to sink into oblivion, if that
were possible. About two years since, Rev. O. B.
Frothingham, of this city, came to their aid, and
undertook a sort of championship of Paine, making
in a public discourse this statement: "No private
character has been more foully calumniated in the
name of God than that of Thomas Paine." (Mr.
Frothingham, it will be remembered, is the one who
recently, in a public discourse, announced the down-
fall of Christianity, although he very kindly made
the allowance that, "it may be a thousand years
before its decay will be visible to all eyes." It is
our private opinion that it will be at least a thousand
and one.) Rev. John W. Chadwick, a minister of
the same order of unbelief, who signs himself, "Min-
ister of the Second Unitarian Society in Brooklyn,"
has devoted two discourses to the same end, eulogiz-
ing Paine. In one of these, which we have before
us in a handsomely printed pamphlet, entitled,
"Method and Value of his (Paine's) Religious
Teachings," he says: "Christian usage has determ-
ined that an Infidel means one who does not believe
in Christianity as a supernatural religion; in the
Bible as a Supernatural book; in Jesus as a super-

494

natural person. And in this sense Paine was an
Infidel, and so, thank God, am I." It is proper to
add that Unitarians generally decline all responsibil-
ity for the utterances of both of these men, and that
they compose a denomination, or rather two denom-
inations, of their own.

There is also a certain class of Infidels who are
not quite prepared to meet the odium that attaches
to the name; they call themselves Christians, but
their sympathies are all with the enemies of Chris-
tianity, and they are not always able to conceal it.
They have not the courage of their opinions, like
Mr. Frothingham and Mr. Chadwick, and they work
only sideways toward the same end. We have been
no little amused since our last article on this subject
appeared, to read some of the articles that have been
written on the other side, though professedly on no
side, and to observe how sincerely these men depre-
cate the discussion of the character of Paine, as an
unprofitable topic. It never appeared to them un-
profitable when the discussion was on the other side.

Then, too, we have for months past been receiving
letters from different parts of the country, asking
authentic information on the subject and stating that
the followers of Paine are making extraordinary
efforts to circulate his writings against the Christian

495

religion, and in order to give currency to these writ-
ings they are endeavoring to rescue his name from
the disgrace into which it sank during the latter
years of his life. Paine spent several of his last
years in furnishing a commentary upon his Infidel
principles. This commentary was contained in his
besotted, degraded life and miserable end, but his
friends do not wish the commentary to go out in
connection with his writings. They prefer to have
them read without the comments by their author.
Hence this anxiety to free the great apostle of
Infidelity from the obloquy which his life brought
upon his name; to represent him as a pure, noble,
virtuous man, and to make it appear that he died a
peaceful, happy death, just like a philosopher.

But what makes the publication of the facts in the
case still more imperative at this time is the whole-
sale accusation brought against the Christian public
by the friends and admirers of Paine. Christian
ministers as a class, and Christian journals are
expressly accused of falsifying history, of defaming
"the mighty dead!" (meaning Paine,) &c., &c. In
the face of all these accusations it cannot be out of
place to state the facts and to fortify the statement
by satisfactory evidence, as we are abundantly able
to do.

496

The two points on which we proposed to produce
the testimony are, the character of Paine's life (refer-
ring of course to his last residence in this country,
for no one has intimated that he had sunk into such
besotted drunkenness until about the time of his
return to the United States in 1802), and the real
character of his death as consistent with such a life,
and as marked further by the cowardliness, which
has been often exhibited by Infidels in the same
circumstances.

It is nothing at all to the purpose to show, as his
friends are fond of doing, that Paine rendered
important service to the cause of American Inde-
pendence. This is not the point under discussion
and is not denied. No one ever called in question
the valuable service that Benedict Arnold rendered
to the country in the early part of the Revolutionary
war; but this, with true Americans, does not suffice
to cast a shade of loveliness or even to spread a man-
tle of charity over his subsequent career. Whatever
share Paine had in the personal friendship of the
fathers of the Revolution he forfeited by his subse-
quent life of beastly drunkenness and degradation,
and on this account as well as on account of his
blasphemy he was shunned by all decent people.

We wish to make one or two corrections of mis-

497

statements by Paine's advocates, on which a vast
amount of argument has been simply wasted. We
have never stated in any form, nor have we ever
supposed, that Paine actually renounced his Infidel-
ity. The accounts agree in stating that he died a
blaspheming Infidel, and his horrible death we regard
as one of the fruits, the fitting complement of his
Infidelity. We have never seen anything that
encouraged the hope that he was not abandoned of
God in his last hours. But we have no doubt, on
the other hand, that having become a wreck in body
and mind through his intemperance, abandoned of
God, deserted by his Infidel companions, and de-
pendent upon Christian charity for the attentions he
received, miserable beyond description in his condi-
tion, and seeing nothing to hope for in the future, he
was afraid to die, and was ready to call upon God
and upon Christ for mercy, and ready perhaps in the
next minute to blaspheme. This is what we referred
to in speaking of Paine's death as cowardly. It is
shown in the testimony we have produced, and still
more fully in that which we now present. The most
wicked men are ready to call upon God in seasons
of great peril, and sometimes ask for Christian min-
istrations when in extreme illness; but they are
often ready on any alleviation of distress to turn to

498

their wickedness again, in the expressive language
of Scripture, "as the sow that was washed to her
wallowing in the mire."

We have never stated or intimated, nor, so far as
we are aware, has any one of our correspondents
stated, that Paine died in poverty. It has been
frequently and truthfully stated that Paine was de-
pendent on Christian charity for the attentions he
received in his last days, and so he was. His Infidel
companions forsook him and Christian hearts and
hands ministered to his wants, notwithstanding the
blasphemies of his death-bed.

Nor has one of our correspondents stated, as
alleged, that Paine died at New Rochelle. The
Rev. Dr. Wickham, who was a resident of that place
nearly fifty years ago, and who was perfectly familiar
with the facts of his life, wrote that Paine spent "his
latter days" on the farm presented to him by
the State of New York, which was strictly true,
but made no reference to it as the place of his
death.

Such misrepresentations serve to show how much
the advocates of Paine admire "truth."

With these explanations we produce further evi-
dence in regard to the manner of Paine's life and the
character of his death, both of which we have already

499

characterized in appropriate terms, as the following
testimony will show.

In regard to Paine's "personal habits," even before
his return to this country, and particularly his aver-
sion to soap and water, Elkana Watson, a gentleman
of the highest social position, who resided in France
during a part of the Revolutionary war, and who
was the personal friend of Washington, Franklin,
and other patriots of the period, makes some inci-
dental statements in his "Men and Times of the
Revolution." Though eulogizing Paine's efforts in
behalf of American Independence, he describes him
as "coarse and uncouth in his manners, loathsome
in his appearance, and a disgusting egotist." On
Paine's arrival at Nantes, the Mayor and other dis-
tinguished citizens called upon him to pay their
respects to the American patriot. Mr. Watson says:
"He was soon rid of his respectable visitors, who
left the room with marks of astonishment and dis-
gust." Mr. W., after much entreaty, and only by
promising him a bundle of newspapers to read while
undergoing the operation, succeeded in prevailing
on Paine to "stew, for an hour, in a hot bath." Mr.
W. accompanied Paine to the bath, and "instructed
the keeper, in French, (which Paine did not under-
stand,) gradually to increase the heat of the water

500

until 'le Monsieur serait bien bouille (until the gentle-
man shall be well boiled;) and adds that "he became
so much absorbed in his reading that he was nearly-
parboiled before leaving the bath, much to his im-
provement and my satisfaction."

William Carver has been cited as a witness in be-
half of Paine, and particularly as to his "personal
habits." In a letter to Paine, dated December 2,
1776, he bears the following testimony:

"A respectable gentlemen from New Rochelle
called to see me a few days back, and said that
everybody was tired of you there, and no one would
undertake to board and lodge you. I thought this
was the case, as I found you at a tavern in a most
miserable situation. You appeared as if you had
not been shaved for a fortnight, and as to a shirt, it
could not be said that you had one on. It was only
the remains of one, and this, likewise, appeared not
to have been off your back for a fortnight, and was
nearly the color of tanned leather; and you had the
most disagreeable smell possible; just like that of
our poor beggars in England. Do you remember the
pains I took to clean you? that I got a tub of warm
water and soap and washed you from head to foot, and
this I had to do three times before I could get you
clean." (And then follow more disgusting details.)

501

"You say, also, that you found your own liquors
during the time you boarded with me; but you
should have said, 'I found only a small part of the
liquor I drank during my stay with you; this part I
purchased of John Fellows, which was a demijohn of
brandy containing four gallons, and this did not serve
me three weeks.' This can be proved, and I mean
not to say anything that I cannot prove; for I hold
truth as a precious jewel. It is a well-known fact,
that you drank one quart of brandy per day, at my
expense, during the different times that you have
boarded with me, the demijohn above mentioned
excepted, and the last fourteen weeks you were sick.
Is not this a supply of liquor for dinner and supper?"
This chosen witness in behalf of Paine, closes his
letter, which is full of loathsome descriptions of
Paine's manner of life, as follows:

"Now, sir, I think I have drawn a complete por-
trait of your character; yet to enter upon every
minutiae would be to give a history of your life, and
to develop the fallacious mask of hypocrisy and de-
ception under which you have acted in your political
as well as moral capacity of life."

(Signed) "William Carver."

Carver had the same opinion of Paine to his dying
day. When an old man, and an Infidel of the Paine

502

type and habits, he was visited by the Rev. E. F.
Hatfield, D.D., of this city, who writes to us of his
interview with Carver, under date of Sept. 27, 1877:
"I conversed with him nearly an hour. I took
special pains to learn from him all that I could about
Paine, whose landlord he had been for eighteen
months. He spoke of him as a base and shameless
drunkard, utterly destitute of moral principle. His
denunciations of the man were perfectly fearful, and
fully confirmed, in my apprehension, all that had been
written of Paine's immorality and repulsiveness."
Cheetham's Life of Paine, which was published
the year that he died, and which has passed through
several editions (we have three of them now before
us) describes a man lost to all moral sensibility and
to all sense of decency, a habitual drunkard, and it is
simply incredible that a book should have appeared
so soon after the death of its subject and should have
been so frequently republished without being at once
refuted, if the testimony were not substantially true.
Many years later, when it was found necessary to
bolster up the reputation of Paine, Cheetham's
Memoirs were called a pack of lies. If only one-
tenth part of what he publishes circumstantially in
his volume, as facts in regard to Paine, were true, all
that has been written against him in later years does

503

not begin to set forth the degraded character of the
man's life. And with all that has been written on
the subject we see no good reason to doubt the sub-
stantial accuracy of Cheetham's portrait of the man
whom he knew so well.

Dr. J. W. Francis, well-known as an eminent phy-
sician, of this city, in his Reminiscences of New York,
says of Paine:

"He who, in his early days, had been associated
with, and had received counsel from Franklin, was,
in his old age, deserted by the humblest menial; he,
whose pen has proved a very sword among nations,
had shaken empires, and made kings tremble, now
yielded up the mastery to the most treacherous of
tyrants, King Alcohol."

The physician who attended Paine during his last
illness was Dr. James R. Manley, a gentleman of the
highest character. A letter of his, written in Octo-
ber of the year that Paine died, fully corroborates
the account of his state as recorded by Stephen
Grellet in his Memoirs, which we have already
printed. He writes:

"New York, October 2, 1809: I was called upon
by accident to visit Mr. Paine, on the 25th of Feb-
ruary last, and found him indisposed with fever, and
very apprehensive of an attack of apoplexy, as he

504

stated that he had that disease before, and at this
time felt a great degree of vertigo, and was unable
to help himself as he had hitherto done, on account
of an intense pain above the eyes. On inquiry of
the attendants I was told that three or four days
previously he had concluded to dispense with his
usual quantity of accustomed stimulus and that he
had on that day resumed it. To the want of his
usual drink they attributed his illness, and it is highly
probable that the usual quantity operating upon a
state of system more excited from the above priva-
tions, was the cause of the symptoms of which he
then complained.... And here let me be per-
mitted to observe (lest blame might attach to those
whose business it was to pay any particular attention
to his cleanliness of person) that it was absolutely
impossible to effect that purpose. Cleanliness ap-
peared to make no part of his comfort; he seemed
to have a singular aversion to soap and water; he
would never ask to be washed, and when he was he
would always make objections; and it was not un-
usual to wash and to dress him clean very much
against his inclinations. In this deplorable state,
with confirmed dropsy, attended with frequent cough,
vomiting and hiccough, he continued growing from
bad to worse till the morning of the 8th of June,

505

when he died. Though I may remark that during
the last three weeks of his life his situation was such
that his decease was confidently expected every day,
his ulcers having assumed a gangrenous appearance,
being excessively fetid, and discolored blisters hav-
ing taken place on the soles of his feet without any
ostensible cause, which baffled the usual attempts to
arrest their progress; and when we consider his
former habits, his advanced age, the feebleness of his
constitution, his constant habit of using ardent spirits
ad libitum till the commencement of his last illness,
so far from wondering that he died so soon, we are
constrained to ask, How did he live so long? Con-
cerning his conduct during his disease I have not
much to remark, though the little I have may be
somewhat interesting. Mr. Paine professed to be
above the fear of death, and a great part of his con-
versation was principally directed to give the impres-
sion that he was perfectly willing to leave this world,
and yet some parts of his conduct were with difficulty
reconcilable with his belief. In the first stages of his
illness he was satisfied to be left alone during the
day, but he required some person to be with him at
night, urging as his reason that he was afraid that
he should die when unattended, and at this period
his deportment and his principle seemed to be con-

506

sistent; so much so that a stranger would judge from
some of the remarks he would make that he was an
Infidel. I recollect being with him at night, watch-
ing; he was very apprehensive of a speedy dissolu-
tion, and suffered great distress of body, and perhaps
of mind (for he was waiting the event of an applica-
tion to the Society of Friends for permission that his
corpse might be deposited in their grave-ground, and
had reason to believe that the request might be
refused), when he remarked in these words, 'I think
I can say what they made Jesus Christ to say—"My
God, my God! why hast thou forsaken me?" He
went on to observe on the want of that respect which
he conceived he merited, when I observed to him
that I thought his corpse should be matter of least
concern to him; that those whom he would leave
behind him would see that he was properly interred,
and, further, that it would be of little consequence to
me where I was deposited provided I was buried;
upon which he answered that he had nothing else to
talk about, and that he would as lief talk of his death
as of anything, but that he was not so indifferent
about his corpse as I appeared to be.

"During the latter part of his life, though his con-
versation was equivocal, his conduct was singular;
he could not be left alone night or day; he not only

507

required to have some person with him, but he must
see that he or she was there, and would not allow
his curtain to be closed at any time; and if, as it
would sometimes unavoidably happen, he was left
alone, he would scream and halloo until some person
came to him. When relief from pain would admit,
he seemed thoughtful and contemplative, his eyes
being generally closed, and his hands folded upon
his breast, although he never slept without the assist-
ance of an anodyne. There was something remark-
able in his conduct about this period (which comprises
about two weeks immediately preceding his death),
particularly when we reflect that Thomas Paine was
the author of the 'Age of Reason.' He would call
out during his paroxysms of distress, without inter-
mission, 'O Lord help me! God help me! Jesus
Christ help me! Lord help me!' etc., repeating the
same expressions without the least variation, in a
tone of voice that would alarm the house. It was
this conduct which induced me to think that he had
abandoned his former opinions, and I was more
inclined to that belief when I understood from his
nurse (who is a very serious and, I believe, pious
woman), that he would occasionally inquire, when he
saw her engaged with a book, what she was reading,
and, being answered, and at the same time asked

508

whether she should read aloud, he assented, and
would appear to give particular attention.

"I took occasion during the nights of the fifth
and sixth of June to test the strength of his opinions
respecting revelation. I purposely made him a very
late visit; it was a time which seemed to suit exactly
with my errand; it was midnight, he was in great
distress, constantly exclaiming in the words above
mentioned, when, after a considerable preface, I
addressed him in the following manner, the nurse
being present: 'Mr. Paine, your opinions, by a large
portion of the community, have been treated with
deference, you have never been in the habit of mix-
ing in your conversation words of coarse meaning;
you have never indulged in the practice of profane
swearing; you must be sensible that we are ac-
quainted with your religious opinions as they are
given to the world. What must we think of your
present conduct? Why do you call upon Jesus
Christ to help you? Do you believe that he can
help you? Do you believe in the divinity of Jesus
Christ? Come, now, answer me honestly. I want
an answer from the lips of a dying man, for I verily
believe that you will not live twenty-four hours.' I
waited some time at the end of every question; he
did not answer, but ceased to exclaim in the above

509

manner. Again I addressed him; 'Mr. Paine, you
have not answered my questions; will you answer
them? Allow me to ask again, do you believe? or
let me qualify the question, do you wish to believe
that Jesus Christ is the Son of God?' After a pause
of some minutes, he answered, 'I have no wish to
believe on that subject.' I then left him, and knew
not whether he afterward spoke to any person on
any subject, though he lived, as I before observed,
till the morning of the 8th. Such conduct, under
usual circumstances, I conceive absolutely unaccount-
able, though, with diffidence, I would remark, not so
much so in the present instance; for though the first
necessary and general result of conviction be a sin-
cere wish to atone for evil committed, yet it may be
a question worthy of able consideration whether
excessive pride of opinion, consummate vanity, and
inordinate self-love might not prevent or retard that
otherwise natural consequence. For my own part,
I believe that had not Thomas Paine been such a
distinguished Infidel he would have left less equivo-
cal evidences of a change of opinion. Concerning
the persons who visited Mr. Paine in his distress as
his personal friends, I heard very little, though I may
observe that their number was small, and of that
number there were not wanting those who endeavor-

510

ed to support him in his deistical opinions, and to
encourage him to 'die like a man,' to 'hold fast his
integrity,' lest Christians, or, as they were pleased to
term them, hypocrites, might take advantage of his
weakness, and furnish themselves with a weapon by
which they might hope to destroy their glorious sys-
tem of morals. Numbers visited him from motives
of benevolence and Christian charity, endeavoring to
effect a change of mind in respect to his religious
sentiments. The labor of such was apparently lost,
and they pretty generally received such treatment
from him as none but good men would risk a second
time, though some of those persons called frequently."
The following testimony will be new to most of
our readers. It is from a letter written by Bishop
Fenwick (Roman Catholic Bishop of Boston), con-
taining a full account of a visit which he paid to
Paine in his last illness. It was printed in the _United
States Catholic Magazine_ for 1846; in the _Catholic
Herald_ of Philadelphia, October 15, 1846; in a sup-
plement to the _Hartford Courant_, October 23, 1847;
and in _Littell's Living Age_ for January 22, 1848,
from which we copy. Bishop Fenwick writes:

"A short time before Paine died I was sent for by
him. He was prompted to this by a poor Catholic
woman who went to see him in his sickness, and

511

who told him, among other things, that in his
wretched condition if anybody could do him any
good it would be a Roman Catholic priest. This
woman was an American convert (formerly a Shak-
ing Quakeress) whom I had received into the church
but a few weeks before. She was the bearer of this
message to me from Paine. I stated this circum-
stance to F. Kohlmann, at breakfast, and requested
him to accompany me. After some solicitation on
my part he agreed to do so? at which I was greatly
rejoiced, because I was at the time quite young and
inexperienced in the ministry, and was glad to have
his assistance, as I knew, from the great reputation
of Paine, that I should have to do with one of the
most impious as well as infamous of men. We
shortly after set out for the house at Greenwich
where Paine lodged, and on the way agreed on a
mode of proceeding with him.

"We arrived at the house; a decent-looking elderly
woman (probably his housekeeper,) came to the
door and inquired whether we were the Catholic
priests, for said she, 'Mr. Paine has been so much
annoyed of late by other denominations calling upon
him that he has left express orders with me to admit
no one to-day but the clergymen of the Catholic
Church. Upon assuring her that we were Catholic

512

clergymen she opened the door and showed us into
the parlor. She then left the room and shortly after
returned to inform us that Paine was asleep, and, at
the same time, expressed a wish that we would not
disturb him, 'for,' said she, 'he is always in a bad
humor when roused out of his sleep. It is better we
wait a little till he be awake.' We accordingly sat
down and resolved to await a more favorable moment.
'Gentlemen,' said the lady, after having taken her
seat also, 'I really wish you may succeed with Mr.
Paine, for he is laboring under great distress of mind
ever since he was informed by his physicians that he
cannot possibly live and must die shortly. He sent
for you to-day because he was told that if any one
could do him good you might. Possibly he may
think you know of some remedy which his physicians
are ignorant of. He is truly to be pitied. His cries
when he is left alone are heart-rending. 'O Lord
help me!' he will exclaim during his paroxysms of
distress—'God help me—Jesus Christ help me!'
repeating the same expressions without the least
variation, in a tone of voice that would alarm the
house. Sometimes he will say, 'O God, what have
I done to suffer so much!' then, shortly after, 'But
there is no God,' and again a little after, 'Yet if
there should be, what would become of me hereafter.'

513

Thus he will continue for some time, when on a sud-
den he will scream, as if in terror and agony, and
call out for me by name. On one of these occasions,
which are very frequent, I went to him and inquired
what he wanted. 'Stay with me,' he replied, 'for
God's sake, for I cannot bear to be left alone.' I
then observed that I could not always be with him,
as I had much to attend to in the house. 'Then,' said
he, 'send even a child to stay with me, for it is a
hell to be alone.' 'I never saw,' she concluded, 'a
more unhappy, a more forsaken man. It seems he
cannot reconcile himself to die.'

"Such was the conversation of the woman who
had received us, and who probably had been employ-
ed to nurse and take care of him during his illness.
She was a Protestant, yet seemed very desirous that
we should afford him some relief in his state of
abandonment, bordering on complete despair. Hav-
ing remained thus some time in the parlor, we at
length heard a noise in the adjoining passage-way,
which induced us to believe that Mr. Paine, who was
sick in that room, had awoke. We accordingly pro-
posed to proceed thither, which was assented to by
the woman, and she opened the door for us. On
entering, we found him just getting out of his
slumber. A more wretched being in appearance I

514

never beheld. He was lying in a bed sufficiently
decent of itself, but at present besmeared with filth;
his look was that of a man greatly tortured in mind;
his eyes haggard, his countenance forbidding, and
his whole appearance that of one whose better days
had been one continued scene of debauch. His only
nourishment at this time, as we were informed, was
nothing more than milk punch, in which he indulged
to the full extent of his weak state. He had par-
taken, undoubtedly, but very recently of it, as the
sides and corners of his mouth exhibited very un-
equivocal traces of it, as well as of blood, which had
also followed in the track and left its mark on the
pillow. His face, to a certain extent, had also been
besmeared with it."

Immediately upon their making known the object
of their visit, Paine interrupted the speaker by say-
ing: "That's enough, sir; that's enough," and again
interrupting him, "I see what you would be about.
I wish to hear no more from you, sir. My mind is
made up on that subject. I look upon the whole of
the Christian scheme to be a tissue of absurdities
and lies, and Jesus Christ to be nothing more than a
cunning knave and impostor." He drove them out
of the room, exclaiming: Away with you and your
God, too; leave the room instantly; all that you

515

have uttered are lies—filthy lies; and if I had a
little more time I would prove it, as I did about
your impostor, Jesus Christ."

This, we think, will suffice. We have a mass of
letters containing statements confirmatory of what
we have published in regard to the life and death of
Paine, but nothing more can be required.

## Ingersoll's Second Reply

Peoria, Nov. 2d, 1877.

To the Editor of the New York Observer:

You ought to have honesty enough to admit that
you did, in your paper of July 19th, offer to prove
that the absurd story that Thomas Paine died in
terror and agony on account of the religious opinions
he had expressed, was true. You ought to have
fairness enough to admit that you called upon me
to deposit one thousand dollars with an honest man,
that you might, by proving that Thomas Paine did
die in terror, obtain the money.

You ought to have honor enough to admit that
you challenged me and that you commenced the
controversy concerning Thomas Paine.

You ought to have goodness enough to admit
that you were mistaken in the charges you made.

You ought to have manhood enough to do what
you falsely asserted that Thomas Paine did:—you
ought to recant. You ought to admit publicly that
you slandered the dead; that you falsified history;
that you defamed the defenceless; that you deliber-

517

ately denied what you had published in your own
paper. There is an old saying to the effect that
open confession is good for the soul. To you is
presented a splendid opportunity of testing the truth
of this saying.

Nothing has astonished me more than your lack
of common honesty exhibited in this controversy. In
your last, you quote from Dr. J. W. Francis. Why
did you leave out that portion in which Dr. Francis
says _that Cheetham with settled malignity wrote the
life of Paine?_ Why did you leave out that part in
which Dr. Francis says that Cheetham in the same
way _slandered Alexander Hamilton and De Witt
Clinton?_ Is it your business to suppress the truth?
Why did you not publish the entire letter of Bishop
Fenwick? Was it because it proved beyond all
cavil that Thomas Paine did not recant? Was it
because in the light of that letter Mary Roscoe,
Mary Hinsdale and Grant Thorburn appeared un-
worthy of belief? Dr. J. W. Francis says in the
same article from which you quoted, "_Paine clung to
his Infidelity until the last moment of his life!'_ Why
did you not publish that? It was the first line im-
mediately above what you did quote. You must
have seen it. Why did you suppress it? A lawyer,
doing a thing of this character, is denominated a

518

shyster. I do not know the appropriate word to
designate a theologian guilty of such an act.

You brought forward three witnesses, pretending
to have personal knowledge about the life and death
of Thomas Paine: Grant Thorburn, Mary Roscoe
and Mary Hinsdale. In my reply I took the ground
that Mary Roscoe and Mary Hinsdale must have
been the same person. I thought it impossible that
Paine should have had a conversation with Mary
Roscoe, and then one precisely like it with Mary
Hinsdale. Acting upon this conviction, I proceeded
to show that the conversation never could have hap-
pened, that it was absurdly false to say that Paine
asked the opinion of a girl as to his works who had
never read but little of them. I then showed by the
testimony of William Cobbett, that he visited Mary
Hinsdale in 1819, taking with him a statement con-
cerning the recantation of Paine, given him by Mr.
Collins, and that upon being shown this statement
she said that "it was so long ago that she could not
speak positively to any part of the matter—that she
would not say any part of the paper was true." At
that time she knew nothing, and remembered noth-
ing. I also showed that she was a kind of standing
witness to prove that others recanted. Willett Hicks
denounced her as unworthy of belief.

519

To-day the following from the New York _World_
was received, showing that I was right in my
conjecture:

Tom Paine's Death-Bed.

_To the Editor of the World_:

Sir: I see by your paper that Bob Ingersoll dis-
credits Mary Hinsdale's story of the scenes which
occurred at the death-bed of Thomas Paine. No
one who knew that good lady would for one moment
doubt her veracity or question her testimony. Both
she and her husband were Quaker preachers, and
well known and respected inhabitants of New York
City, _Ingersoll is right in his conjecture that Mary
Roscoe and Mary Hinsdale was the same person_. Her
maiden name was Roscoe, and she married Henry
Hinsdale. My mother was a Roscoe, a niece of
Mary Roscoe, and lived with her for some time. I
have heard her relate the story of Tom Paine's dying
remorse, as told her by her aunt, who was a witness
to it. She says (in a letter I have just received from
her), "he (Tom Paine) suffered fearfully from remorse,
and renounced his Infidel principles, calling on God
to forgive him, and wishing his pamphlets and books
to be burned, saying he could not die in peace until
it was done." (Rev.) A. W. Cornell.

Harpersville, New York.

520

You will notice that the testimony of Mary Hins-
dale has been drawing interest since 1809, and has
materially increased. If Paine "suffered fearfully
from remorse, renounced his Infidel opinions and
called on God to forgive him," it is hardly generous
for the Christian world to fasten the fangs of malice
in the flesh of his reputation.

So Mary Roscoe was Mary Hinsdale, and as
Mary Hinsdale has been shown by her own admis-
sion to Mr. Cobbett to have known nothing of the
matter; and as Mary Hinsdale was not, according to
Willet Hicks, worthy of belief—as she told a false-
hood of the same kind about Mary Lockwood, and
was, according to Mr. Collins, addicted to the use of
opium—this disposes of her and her testimony.

There remains upon the stand Grant Thorburn.
Concerning this witness, I received, yesterday, from
the eminent biographer and essayist, James Parton,
the following epistle:

Newburyport, Mass.

Col. R. G. Ingersoll:

Touching Grant Thorburn, I personally know him
to have been a dishonest man. At the age of ninety-
two he copied, with trembling hand, a piece from a
newspaper and brought it to the office of the _Home
Journal, as his own_. It was I who received it and

521

detected the deliberate forgery. If you are ever go-
ing to continue this subject, I will give you the exact
facts.

Fervently yours,

James Parton.

After this, you are welcome to what remains of
Grant Thorburn.

There is one thing that I have noticed during this
controversy regarding Thomas Paine. In no instance
that I now call to mind has any Christian writer
spoken respectfully of Mr. Paine. All have taken
particular pains to call him "Tom" Paine. Is it not
a little strange that religion should make men so
coarse and ill-mannered?

I have often wondered what these same gentle-
men would say if I should speak of the men eminent
in the annals of Christianity in the same way. What
would they say if I should write about "Tim"
Dwight, old "Ad" Clark, "Tom" Scott, "Jim"
McKnight, "Bill" Hamilton, "Dick" Whately, "Bill"
Paley, and "Jack" Calvin?

They would _say_ of me then, just what I _think_ of
them now.

Even if we have religion, do not let us try to get
along without good manners. Rudeness is exceed-
ingly unbecoming, even in a saint. Persons who

522

forgive their enemies ought, to say the least, to
treat with politeness those who have never injured
them.

It is exceedingly gratifying to me that I have com-
pelled you to say that "Paine died a blaspheming
Infidel." Hereafter it is to be hoped nothing will be
heard about his having recanted. As an answer to
such slander his friends can confidently quote the
following from the _New York Observer_ of November
ist, 1877:

"WE HAVE NEVER STATED IN ANY FORM, NOR
HAVE WE EVER SUPPOSED THAT PAINE ACTUALLY RE-
NOUNCED HIS INFIDELITY. THE ACCOUNTS AGREE IN
STATING THAT HE DIED A BLASPHEMING INFIDEL."

This for all coming time will refute the slanders of
the churches yet to be.

Right here allow me to ask: If you never supposed
that Paine renounced his Infidelity, why did you try
to prove by Mary Hinsdale that which you believed
to be untrue?

From the bottom of my heart I thank myself for
having compelled you to admit that Thomas Paine
did not recant.

For the purpose of verifying your own admission
concerning the death of Mr. Paine, permit me to call
your attention to the following affidavit:

523

Wabash, Indiana, October 27, 1877.

Col. R. G. Ingersoll:

Dear Sir: The following statement of facts is at
your disposal. In the year 1833 Willet Hicks made
a visit to Indiana and stayed over night at my father's
house, four miles east of Richmond. In the morn-
ing at breakfast my mother asked Willet Hicks the
following questions:

"Was thee with Thomas Paine during his last
sickness?"

Mr. Hicks said: "I was with him every day dur-
ing the latter part of his last sickness."

"Did he express any regret in regard to writing
the 'Age of Reason,' as the published accounts say
he did—those accounts that have the credit of ema-
nating from his Catholic housekeeper?"

Mr. Hicks replied: "He did not in any way by
word or action."

"Did he call on God or Jesus Christ, asking either
of them to forgive his sins, or did he curse them or
either of them?"

Mr. Hicks answered: "He did not. He died as
easy as any one I ever saw die, and I have seen
many die in my time." William B Barnes.

Subscribed and sworn to before me Oct. 27, 1877.

Warren Bigler, Notary Public.

524

You say in your last that "Thomas Paine was
abandoned of God." So far as this controversy is
concerned, it seems to me that in that sentence you
have most graphically described your own condi-
tion.

Wishing you success in all honest undertakings, I
remain,

Yours truly,

Robert G. Ingersoll.
---
# Six Interviews on Talmage
_Dresden Edition, Volume 5, 1882_
SEVERAL people, having read the sermons of
Mr. Talmage in which he reviews some of my
lectures, have advised me not to pay the slightest
attention to the Brooklyn divine. They think that
no new arguments have been brought forward, and
they have even gone so far as to say that some of
the best of the old ones have been left out.

After thinking the matter over, I became satisfied
that my friends were mistaken, that they had been car-
ried away by the general current of modern thought,
and were not in a frame of mind to feel the force
of the arguments of Mr. Talmage, or to clearly see
the candor that characterizes his utterances.

At the first reading, the logic of these sermons does
not impress you. The style is of a character calculated

VI

to throw the searcher after facts and arguments off
his guard. The imagination of the preacher is so
lurid; he is so free from the ordinary forms of ex-
pression; his statements are so much stranger than
truth, and his conclusions so utterly independent of
his premises, that the reader is too astonished to
be convinced. Not until I had read with great care
the six discourses delivered for my benefit had I any
clear and well-defined idea of the logical force of
Mr. Talmage. I had but little conception of his
candor, was almost totally ignorant of his power to
render the simple complex and the plain obscure by
the mutilation of metaphor and the incoherence
of inspired declamation. Neither did I know the
generous accuracy with which he states the position
of an opponent, and the fairness he exhibits in a
religious discussion.

He has without doubt studied the Bible as closely
and critically as he has the works of Buckle and
Darwin, and he seems to have paid as much attention
to scientific subjects as most theologians. His theory
of light and his views upon geology are strikingly
original, and his astronomical theories are certainly as
profound as practical. If his statements can be relied
upon, he has successfully refuted the teachings of

VII

Humboldt and Haeckel, and exploded the blunders of
Spencer and Tyndall. Besides all this, he has the
courage of his convictions—he does not quail before a
fact, and he does not strike his colors even to a dem-
onstration. He cares nothing for human experience.
He cannot be put down with statistics, nor driven
from his position by the certainties of science. He
cares neither for the persistence of force, nor the
indestructibility of matter.

He believes in the Bible, and he has the bravery
to defend his belief. In this, he proudly stands
almost alone. He knows that the salvation of the
world depends upon a belief in his creed. He
knows that what are called "the sciences" are of
no importance in the other world. He clearly sees
that it is better to live and die ignorant here, if you
can wear a crown of glory hereafter. He knows it
is useless to be perfectly familiar with all the sciences
in this world, and then in the next "lift up your eyes,
being in torment." He knows, too, that God will
not punish any man for denying a fact in science.
A man can deny the rotundity of the earth, the
attraction of gravitation, the form of the earths orbit,
or the nebular hypothesis, with perfect impunity.
He is not bound to be correct upon any philo-

## Viii

sophical subject. He is at liberty to deny and ridi-
cule the rule of three, conic sections, and even the
multiplication table. God permits every human
being to be mistaken upon every subject but one.
No man can lose his soul by denying physical facts.
Jehovah does not take the slightest pride in his geology,

or in his astronomy, or in mathematics, or in
any school of philosophy—he is jealous only of his
reputation as the author of the Bible. You may deny
everything else in the universe except that book.
This being so, Mr. Talmage takes the safe side, and
insists that the Bible is inspired. He knows that at
the day of judgment, not a scientific question will be
asked. He knows that the Haeckels and Huxleys
will, on that terrible day, regret that they ever
learned to read. He knows that there is no "saving
grace" in any department of human knowledge; that
mathematics and all the exact sciences and all the
philosophies will be worse than useless. He knows
that inventors, discoverers, thinkers and investigators,
have no claim upon the mercy of Jehovah; that the
educated will envy the ignorant, and that the writers
and thinkers will curse their books.

He knows that man cannot be saved through
what he knows—but only by means of what he

IX

believes. Theology is not a science. If it were,
God would forgive his children for being mistaken
about it. If it could be proved like geology, or
astronomy, there would be no merit in believing it.
From a belief in the Bible, Mr. Talmage is not to be
driven by uninspired evidence. He knows that his
logic is liable to lead him astray, and that his reason
cannot be depended upon. He believes that scien-
tific men are no authority in matters concerning
which nothing can be known, and he does not wish
to put his soul in peril, by examining by the light of
reason, the evidences of the supernatural.

He is perfectly consistent with his creed. What
happens to us here is of no consequence compared
with eternal joy or pain. The ambitions, honors,
glories and triumphs of this world, compared with
eternal things, are less than naught.

Better a cross here and a crown there, than a feast
here and a fire there.

Lazarus was far more fortunate than Dives. The
purple and fine linen of this short life are as nothing
compared with the robes of the redeemed.

Mr. Talmage knows that philosophy is unsafe—
that the sciences are sirens luring souls to eternal
wreck. He knows that the deluded searchers after

X

facts are planting thorns in their own pillows—that
the geologists are digging pits for themselves, and
that the astronomers are robbing their souls of the
heaven they explore. He knows that thought, capa-
city, and intellectual courage are dangerous, and this
belief gives him a feeling of personal security.

The Bible is adapted to the world as it is. Most
people are ignorant, and but few have the capacity to
comprehend philosophical and scientific subjects, and
if salvation depended upon understanding even one
of the sciences, nearly everybody would be lost.
Mr. Talmage sees that it was exceedingly merciful in
God to base salvation on belief instead of on brain.
Millions can believe, while only a few can understand.
Even the effort to understand is a kind of treason
born of pride and ingratitude. This being so, it is far
safer, far better, to be credulous than critical. You are
offered an infinite reward for believing the Bible. If
you examine it you may find it impossible for you to
believe it. Consequently, examination is dangerous.
Mr. Talmage knows that it is not necessary to under-
stand the Bible in order to believe it. You must be-
lieve it first. Then, if on reading it you find anything
that appears false, absurd, or impossible, you may
be sure that it is only an appearance, and that the real

XI

fault is in yourself. It is certain that persons wholly
incapable of reasoning are absolutely safe, and that
to be born brainless is to be saved in advance.

Mr. Talmage takes the ground,—and certainly from
his point of view nothing can be more reasonable
—that thought should be avoided, after one has
"experienced religion" and has been the subject of
"regeneration." Every sinner should listen to ser-
mons, read religious books, and keep thinking, until
he becomes a Christian. Then he should stop. After
that, thinking is not the road to heaven. The real
point and the real difficulty is to stop thinking just at
the right time. Young Christians, who have no idea
of what they are doing, often go on thinking after
joining the church, and in this way heresy is born, and
heresy is often the father of infidelity. If Christians
would follow the advice and example of Mr. Talmage
all disagreements about doctrine would be avoided.
In this way the church could secure absolute in-
tellectual peace and all the disputes, heartburnings,
jealousies and hatreds born of thought, discussion
and reasoning, would be impossible.

In the estimation of Mr. Talmage, the man who
doubts and examines is not fit for the society of
angels. There are no disputes, no discussions in

XII

heaven. The angels do not think; they believe,
they enjoy. The highest form of religion is re-
pression. We should conquer the passions and
destroy desire. We should control the mind and
stop thinking. In this way we "offer ourselves a
"living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God." When
desire dies, when thought ceases, we shall be pure.
—This is heaven.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

Washington, D. C,

April; 1882.

## Ingersoll's Interviews on Talmage

## First Interview

_Polonius. My lord, I will use them according to
their desert.

Hamlet. God's bodikins, man, much better: use
every man after his desert, and who should 'scape
whipping? Use them after your own honor and
dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is
in your bounty._

_Question_. Have you read the sermon of

Mr. Talmage, in which he exposes your mis-
representations?

_Answer_. I have read such reports as appeared in
some of the New York papers.

_Question_. What do you think of what he has
to say?

_Answer_. Some time ago I gave it as my opinion
of Mr. Talmage that, while he was a man of most
excellent judgment, he was somewhat deficient in
imagination. I find that he has the disease that seems

16

to afflict most theologians, and that is, a kind of intel-
lectual toadyism, that uses the names of supposed great
men instead of arguments. It is perfectly astonishing
to the average preacher that any one should have the
temerity to differ, on the subject of theology, with
Andrew Jackson, Daniel Webster, and other gentlemen
eminent for piety during their lives, but who,
as a rule, expressed their theological opinions a few
minutes before dissolution. These ministers are per-
fectly delighted to have some great politician, some
judge, soldier, or president, certify to the truth of the
Bible and to the moral character of Jesus Christ.

Mr. Talmage insists that if a witness is false in one
particular, his entire testimony must be thrown away.
Daniel Webster was in favor of the Fugitive Slave
Law, and thought it the duty of the North to capture
the poor slave-mother. He was willing to stand
between a human being and his freedom. He was
willing to assist in compelling persons to work without
any pay except such marks of the lash as they might
receive. Yet this man is brought forward as a witness
for the truth of the gospel. If he was false in his
testimony as to liberty, what is his affidavit worth as
to the value of Christianity? Andrew Jackson was a
brave man, a good general, a patriot second to none,

17

an excellent judge of horses, and a brave duelist. I
admit that in his old age he relied considerably upon
the atonement. I think Jackson was really a very great
man, and probably no President impressed himself
more deeply upon the American people than the hero
of New Orleans, but as a theologian he was, in my
judgment, a most decided failure, and his opinion as
to the authenticity of the Scriptures is of no earthly
value. It was a subject upon which he knew probably
as little as Mr. Talmage does about modern infidelity.
Thousands of people will quote Jackson in favor of
religion, about which he knew nothing, and yet have
no confidence in his political opinions, although he
devoted the best part of his life to politics.

No man should quote the words of another, in place
of an argument, unless he is willing to accept all the
opinions of that man. Lord Bacon denied the Copernican

system of astronomy, and, according to Mr.
Talmage, having made that mistake, his opinions upon
other subjects are equally worthless. Mr. Wesley
believed in ghosts, witches, and personal devils, yet
upon many subjects I have no doubt his opinions were
correct. The truth is, that nearly everybody is right
about some things and wrong about most things; and
if a man's testimony is not to be taken until he is

18

right on every subject, witnesses will be extremely
scarce.

Personally, I care nothing about names. It makes
no difference to me what the supposed great men of
the past have said, except as what they have said
contains an argument; and that argument is worth to
me the force it naturally has upon my mind. Chris-
tians forget that in the realm of reason there are no
serfs and no monarchs. When you submit to an
argument, you do not submit to the man who made it.
Christianity demands a certain obedience, a certain
blind, unreasoning faith, and parades before the eyes
of the ignorant, with great pomp and pride, the names
of kings, soldiers, and statesmen who have admitted
the truth of the Bible. Mr. Talmage introduces as a
witness the Rev. Theodore Parker. This same The-
odore Parker denounced the Presbyterian creed as
the most infamous of all creeds, and said that the worst
heathen god, wearing a necklace of live snakes, was a
representation of mercy when compared with the God
of John Calvin. Now, if this witness is false in any
particular, of course he cannot be believed, according
to Mr. Talmage, upon any subject, and yet Mr.
Talmage introduces him upon the stand as a good
witness.

19

Although I care but little for names, still I will sug-
gest that, in all probability, Humboldt knew more upon
this subject than all the pastors in the world. I cer-
tainly would have as much confidence in the opinion
of Goethe as in that of William H. Seward; and as
between Seward and Lincoln, I should take Lincoln;
and when you come to Presidents, for my part, if I
were compelled to pin my faith on the sleeve of any-
body, I should take Jefferson's coat in preference to
Jackson's. I believe that Haeckel is, to say the least,
the equal of any theologian we have in this country,
and the late John W. Draper certainly knew as much
upon these great questions as the average parson. I
believe that Darwin has investigated some of these
things, that Tyndall and Huxley have turned their
minds somewhat in the same direction, that Helmholtz
has a few opinions, and that, in fact, thousands of able,
intelligent and honest men differ almost entirely with
Webster and Jackson.

So far as I am concerned, I think more of reasons
than of reputations, more of principles than of persons,
more of nature than of names, more of facts, than of
faiths.

It is the same with books as with persons. Proba-
bly there is not a book in the world entirely destitute

20

of truth, and not one entirely exempt from error.
The Bible is like other books. There are mistakes in
it, side by side with truths,—passages inculcating
murder, and others exalting mercy; laws devilish and
tyrannical, and others filled with wisdom and justice.
It is foolish to say that if you accept a part, you must
accept the whole. You must accept that which com-
mends itself to your heart and brain. There never was
a doctrine that a witness, or a book, should be thrown
entirely away, because false in one particular. If in
any particular the book, or the man, tells the truth, to
that extent the truth should be accepted.

Truth is made no worse by the one who tells it,
and a lie gets no real benefit from the reputation of its
author.

_Question_. What do you think of the statement
that a general belief in your teachings would fill all
the penitentiaries, and that in twenty years there
would be a hell in this world worse than the one
expected in the other?

_Answer_. My creed is this:

1. Happiness is the only good.

2. The way to be happy, is to make others happy.

21

Other things being equal, that man is happiest who is
nearest just—who is truthful, merciful and intelligent—
in other words, the one who lives in accordance with
the conditions of life.

3. The time to be happy is now, and the place to
be happy, is here.

4. Reason is the lamp of the mind—the only torch
of progress; and instead of blowing that out and de-
pending upon darkness and dogma, it is far better to
increase that sacred light.

5. Every man should be the intellectual proprietor
of himself, honest with himself, and intellectually
hospitable; and upon every brain reason should be
enthroned as king.

6. Every man must bear the consequences, at
least of his own actions. If he puts his hands in
the fire, his hands must smart, and not the hands of
another. In other words: each man must eat the
fruit of the tree he plants.

I can not conceive that the teaching of these doc-
trines would fill penitentiaries, or crowd the gallows.
The doctrine of forgiveness—the idea that somebody
else can suffer in place of the guilty—the notion that
just at the last the whole account can be settled—
these ideas, doctrines, and notions are calculated to fill

22

penitentiaries. Nothing breeds extravagance like the
credit system.

Most criminals of the present day are orthodox be-
lievers, and the gallows seems to be the last round of
the ladder reaching from earth to heaven. The Rev.
Dr. Sunderland, of this city, in his sermon on the assas-
sination of Garfield, takes the ground that God per-
mitted the murder for the purpose of opening the eyes
of the people to the evil effects of infidelity. Accord-
ing to this minister, God, in order to show his hatred
of infidelity, "inspired," or allowed, one Christian to
assassinate another.

Religion and morality do not necessarily go together.
Mr. Talmage will insist to-day that morality is not
sufficient to save any man from eternal punishment.
As a matter of fact, religion has often been the enemy
of morality. The moralist has been denounced by the
theologians. He sustains the same relation to Chris-
tianity that the moderate drinker does to the total-
abstinence society. The total-abstinence people say
that the example of the moderate drinker is far worse
upon the young than that of the drunkard—that the
drunkard is a warning, while the moderate drinker is
a perpetual temptation. So Christians say of moral-
ists. According to them, the moralist sets a worse

23

example than the criminal. The moralist not only in-
sists that a man can be a good citizen, a kind husband,
an affectionate father, without religion, but demon-
strates the truth of his doctrine by his own life;
whereas the criminal admits that in and of himself he
is nothing, and can do nothing, but that he needs
assistance from the church and its ministers.

The worst criminals of the modern world have been
Christians—I mean by that, believers in Christianity—
and the most monstrous crimes of the modern world
have been committed by the most zealous believers.
There is nothing in orthodox religion, apart from the
morality it teaches, to prevent the commission oF crime.
On the other hand, the perpetual proffer of forgiveness
is a direct premium upon what Christians are pleased
to call the commission of sin.

Christianity has produced no greater character than
Epictetus, no greater sovereign than Marcus Aurelius.
The wickedness of the past was a good deal like that
of the present. As a rule, kings have been wicked in
direct proportion to their power—their power having
been lessened, their crimes have decreased. As a
matter of fact, paganism, of itself, did not produce any
great men; neither has Christianity. Millions of in-
fluences determine individual character, and the re-

24

ligion of the country in which a man happens to be
born may determine many of his opinions, without
influencing, to any great extent, his real character.

There have been brave, honest, and intelligent men
in and out of every church.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage says that you insist that,
according to the Bible, the universe was made out of
nothing, and he denounces your statement as a gross
misrepresentation. What have you stated upon that
subject?

_Answer_. What I said was substantially this: "We
"are told in the first chapter of Genesis, that in the
"beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
"If this means anything, it means that God pro-
"duced—caused to exist, called into being—the
"heaven and the earth. It will not do to say that
"God formed the heaven and the earth of previously
"existing matter. Moses conveys, and intended to
"convey, the idea that the matter of which the
"universe is composed was created."

This has always been my position. I did not sup-
pose that nothing was used as the raw material; but

if the Mosaic account means anything, it means that
whereas there was nothing, God caused something to

25

exist—created what we know as matter. I can not
conceive of something being made, created, without
anything to make anything with. I have no more
confidence in fiat worlds than I have in fiat money.
Mr. Talmage tells us that God did not make the uni-
verse out of _nothing_, but out of "omnipotence."
Exactly how God changed "omnipotence" into matter
is not stated. If there was _nothing_ in the universe,
_omnipotence_ could do you no good. The weakest man
in the world can lift as much _nothing_ as God.

Mr. Talmage seems to think that to create something
from nothing is simply a question of strength—that it
requires infinite muscle—that it is only a question of
biceps. Of course, omnipotence is an attribute, not an
entity, not a raw material; and the idea that something
can be made out of omnipotence—using that as the
raw material—is infinitely absurd. It would have
been equally logical to say that God made the universe
out of his omniscience, or his omnipresence, or his
unchangeableness, or out of his honesty, his holiness,
or his incapacity to do evil. I confess my utter in-
ability to understand, or even to suspect, what the
reverend gentleman means, when he says that God
created the universe out of his "omnipotence."

I admit that the Bible does not tell when God created

26

the universe. It is simply said that he did this "in the
beginning." We are left, however, to infer that "the
beginning" was Monday morning, and that on the
first Monday God created the matter in an exceedingly
chaotic state; that on Tuesday he made a firmament
to divide the waters from the waters; that on Wednes-
day he gathered the waters together in seas and
allowed the dry land to appear. We are also told that
on that day "the earth brought forth grass and herb
"yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding
"fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind." This
was before the creation of the sun, but Mr. Talmage
takes the ground that there are many other sources of
light; that "there may have been volcanoes in active
operation on other planets." I have my doubts,
however, about the light of volcanoes being sufficient
to produce or sustain vegetable life, and think it a
little doubtful about trees growing only by "volcanic
glare." Neither do I think one could depend upon
"three thousand miles of liquid granite" for the pro-
duction of grass and trees, nor upon "light that rocks
might emit in the process of crystallization." I doubt
whether trees would succeed simply with the assistance
of the "Aurora Borealis or the Aurora Australis."
There are other sources of light, not mentioned by

27

Mr. Talmage—lightning-bugs, phosphorescent beetles,
and fox-fire. I should think that it would be humili-
ating, in this age, for an orthodox preacher to insist
that vegetation could exist upon this planet without the
light of the sun—that trees could grow, blossom and
bear fruit, having no light but the flames of volcanoes,
or that emitted by liquid granite, or thrown off by the
crystallization of rocks.

There is another thing, also, that should not be for-
gotten, and that is, that there is an even balance for-
ever kept between the totals of animal and vegetable
life—that certain forms of animal life go with certain
forms of vegetable life. Mr. Haeckel has shown that
"in the first epoch, algae and skull-less vertebrates
were found together; in the second, ferns and fishes;
in the third, pines and reptiles; in the fourth, foliaceous

forests and mammals." Vegetable and animal
life sustain a necessary relation; they exist together;
they act and interact, and each depends upon the other.
The real point of difference between Mr. Talmage and
myself is this: He says that God made the universe
out of his "omnipotence," and I say that, although I
know nothing whatever upon the subject, my opinion
is, that the universe has existed from eternity—that it
continually changes in form, but that it never was

28

created or called into being by any power. I think
that all that is, is all the God there is.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage charges you with having
misrepresented the Bible story of the deluge. Has he
correctly stated your position?

_Answer_. Mr. Talmage takes the ground that the
flood was only partial, and was, after all, not much of a
flood. The Bible tells us that God said he would
"destroy all flesh wherein is the breath of life from
"under heaven, and that everything that is in the
"earth shall die;" that God also said: "I will destroy
"man, whom I have created, from the face of the
"earth; both man and beast and the creeping thing
"and the fowls of the air, and every living substance
"that I have made will I destroy from off the face of
"the earth."

I did not suppose that there was any miracle in the
Bible larger than the credulity of Mr. Talmage. The
flood story, however, seems to be a little more than
he can bear. He is like the witness who stated that
he had read _Gullivers Travels_, the _Stories of Mun-
chausen_, and the _Flying Wife_, including _Robinson
Crusoe_, and believed them all; but that Wirt's _Life of
Patrick Henry_ was a litde more than he could stand.

29

It is strange that a man who believes that God
created the universe out of "omnipotence" should
believe that he had not enough omnipotence left to
drown a world the size of this. Mr. Talmage seeks
to make the story of the flood reasonable. The
moment it is reasonable, it ceases to be miraculous.
Certainly God cannot afford to reward a man with
eternal joy for believing a reasonable story. Faith is
only necessary when the story is unreasonable, and if
the flood only gets small enough, I can believe it
myself. I ask for evidence, and Mr. Talmage seeks
to make the story so little that it can be believed
without evidence. He tells us that it was a kind of
"local option" flood—a little wet for that part of the
country.

Why was it necessary to save the birds? They
certainly could have gotten out of the way of a real
small flood. Of the birds, Noah took fourteen of each
species. He was commanded to take of the fowls of the
air by sevens—seven of each sex—and, as there are
at least 12,500 species, Noah collected an aviary of
about 175,000 birds, provided the flood was general.
If it was local, there are no means of determining the
number. But why, if the flood was local, should he
have taken any of the fowls of the air into his ark?

30

All they had to do was to fly away, or "roost high;"
and it would have been just as easy for God to have
implanted in them, for the moment, the instinct of
getting out of the way as the instinct of hunting the ark.
It would have been quite a saving of room and pro-
visions, and would have materially lessened the labor
and anxiety of Noah and his sons.

Besides, if it had been a partial flood, and great
enough to cover the highest mountains in that country,
the highest mountain being about seventeen thousand
feet, the flood would have been covered with a sheet
of ice several thousand feet in thickness. If a column
of water could have been thrown seventeen thousand
feet high and kept stationary, several thousand feet
of the upper end would have frozen. If, however,
the deluge was general, then the atmosphere would
have been forced out the same on all sides, and the
climate remained substantially normal.

Nothing can be more absurd than to attempt to
explain the flood by calling it partial.

Mr. Talmage also says that the window ran clear
round the ark, and that if I had only known as much
Hebrew as a man could put on his little finger, I
would have known that the window went clear round.
To this I reply that, if his position is correct, then the

31

original translators of King James' edition did not
know as much Hebrew as they could have put on
their little fingers; and yet I am obliged to believe
their translation or be eternally damned. If the
window went clear round, the inspired writer should
have said so, and the learned translators should have
given us the truth. No one pretends that there was
more than one door, and yet the same language is
used about the door, except this—that the exact size
of the window is given, and the only peculiarity men-
tioned as to the door is that it shut from the outside.
For any one to see that Mr. Talmage is wrong on the
window question, it is only necessary to read the story
of the deluge.

Mr. Talmage also endeavors to decrease the depth
of the flood. If the flood did not cover the highest
hills, many people might have been saved. He also
insists that all the water did not come from the rains,
but that "the fountains of the great deep were broken
"up." What are "the fountains of the great deep"?
How would their being "broken up" increase the
depth of the water? He seems to imagine that these
"fountains" were in some way imprisoned—anxious
to get to the surface, and that, at that time, an oppor-
tunity was given for water to run up hill, or in some

32

mysterious way to rise above its level. According to
the account, the ark was at the mercy of the waves for
at least seven months. If this flood was only partial,
it seems a little curious that the water did not seek its
level in less than seven months. With anything like
a fair chance, by that time most of it would have
found its way to the sea again.

There is in the literature of ignorance no more
perfectly absurd and cruel story than that of the
deluge.

I am very sorry that Mr. Talmage should disagree
with some of the great commentators. Dr. Scott
tells us that, in all probability, the angels assisted in
getting the animals into the ark. Dr. Henry insists
that the waters in the bowels of the earth, at God's
command, sprung up and flooded the earth. Dr.
Clark tells us that it would have been much easier
for God to have destroyed all the people and made
some new ones, but that he did not want to waste
anything. Dr. Henry also tells us that the lions, while
in the ark, ate straw like oxen. Nothing could be
more amusing than to see a few lions eating good,
dry straw. This commentator assures us that the
waters rose so high that the loftiest mountains were
overflowed fifteen cubits, so that salvation was not

33

hoped for from any hills or mountains. He tells us
that some of the people got on top of the ark, and
hoped to shift for themselves, but that, in all proba-
bility, they were washed off by the rain. When we
consider that the rain must have fallen at the rate of
about eight hundred feet a day, I am inclined to think
that they were washed off.

Mr. Talmage has clearly misrepresented the Bible.
He is not prepared to believe the story as it is told.
The seeds of infidelity seem to be germinating in his
mind. His position no doubt will be a great relief to
most of his hearers. After this, their credulity will
not be strained. They can say that there was probably
quite a storm, some rain, to an extent that rendered it
necessary for Noah and his family—his dogs, cats,
and chickens—to get in a boat. This would not be
unreasonable. The same thing happens almost every
year on the shores of great rivers, and consequently
the story of the flood is an exceedingly reasonable
one.

Mr. Talmage also endeavors to account for the
miraculous collection of the animals in the ark by
the universal instinct to get out of the rain. There
are at least two objections to this: 1. The animals
went into the ark before the rain commenced; 2. I

34

have never noticed any great desire on the part of
ducks, geese, and loons to get out of the water. Mr.
Talmage must have been misled by a line from an old
nursery book that says: "And the little fishes got
"under the bridge to keep out of the rain." He tells
us that Noah described what he saw. He is the first
theologian who claims that Genesis was written by
Noah, or that Noah wrote any account of the flood.
Most Christians insist that the account of the flood
was written by Moses, and that he was inspired to
write it. Of course, it will not do for me to say that
Mr. Talmage has misrepresented the facts.

_Question_. You are also charged with misrepresen-
tation in your statement as to where the ark at last
rested. It is claimed by Mr. Talmage that there is
nothing in the Bible to show that the ark rested on
the highest mountains.

_Answer_. Of course I have no knowledge as to
where the ark really came to anchor, but after it struck
bottom, we are told that a dove was sent out, and
that the dove found no place whereon to rest her
foot. If the ark touched ground in the low country,
surely the mountains were out of water, and an or-
dinary mountain furnishes, as a rule, space enough

35

for a dove's foot. We must infer that the ark rested
on the only land then above water, or near enough
above water to strike the keel of Noah's boat. Mount
Ararat is about seventeen thousand feet high; so I
take it that the top of that mountain was where Noah
ran aground—otherwise, the account means nothing.

Here Mr. Talmage again shows his tendency to
belittle the miracles of the Bible. I am astonished
that he should doubt the power of God to keep an
ark on a mountain seventeen thousand feet high.
He could have changed the climate for that occasion.
He could have made all the rocks and glaciers pro-
duce wheat and corn in abundance. Certainly God,
who could overwhelm a world with a flood, had the
power to change every law and fact in nature.

I am surprised that Mr. Talmage is not willing to
believe the story as it is told. What right has he to
question the statements of an inspired writer? Why
should he set up his judgment against the Websters
and Jacksons? Is it not infinitely impudent in him
to contrast his penny-dip with the sun of inspiration?
What right has he to any opinion upon the subject?
He must take the Bible as it reads. He should
remember that the greater the miracle the greater
should be his faith.

36

_Question_. You do not seem to have any great
opinion of the chemical, geological, and agricultural
views expressed by Mr. Talmage?

_Answer_. You must remember that Mr. Talmage
has a certain thing to defend. He takes the Bible as
actually true, and with the Bible as his standard, he
compares and measures all sciences. He does not
study geology to find whether the Mosaic account is
true, but he reads the Mosaic account for the purpose
of showing that geology can not be depended upon.
His idea that "one day is as a thousand years with
"God," and that therefore the "days" mentioned in the
Mosaic account are not days of twenty-four hours, but
long periods, is contradicted by the Bible itself. The
great reason given for keeping the Sabbath day is, that
"God rested on the seventh day and was refreshed."
Now, it does not say that he rested on the "seventh
"period," or the "seventh good—while," or the
"seventh long-time," but on the "seventh day." In
imitation of this example we are also to rest—not on
the seventh good-while, but on the seventh day.
Nothing delights the average minister more than to
find that a passage of Scripture is capable of several
interpretations. Nothing in the inspired book is so

37

dangerous as accuracy. If the holy writer uses
general terms, an ingenious theologian can harmonize
a seemingly preposterous statement with the most
obdurate fact. An "inspired" book should contain
neither statistics nor dates—as few names as possible,
and not one word about geology or astronomy. Mr.
Talmage is doing the best he can to uphold the fables
of the Jews. They are the foundation of his faith.
He believes in the water of the past and the fire of the
future—in the God of flood and flame—the eternal
torturer of his helpless children.

It is exceedingly unfortunate that Mr. Talmage does
not appreciate the importance of good manners, that
he does not rightly estimate the convincing power of
kindness and good nature. It is unfortunate that a
Christian, believing in universal forgiveness, should
exhibit so much of the spirit of detraction, that he
should run so easily and naturally into epithets, and
that he should mistake vituperation for logic. Thou-
sands of people, knowing but little of the mysteries of
Christianity—never having studied theology,—may
become prejudiced against the church, and doubt the
divine origin of a religion whose defenders seem to
rely, at least to a great degree, upon malignant per-
sonalities. Mr. Talmage should remember that in a

38

discussion of this kind, he is supposed to represent a
being of infinite wisdom and goodness. Surely, the
representative of the infinite can afford to be candid,
can afford to be kind. When he contemplates the
condition of a fellow-being destitute of religion, a
fellow-being now travelling the thorny path to eternal
fire, he should be filled with pity instead of hate.
Instead of deforming his mouth with scorn, his eyes
should be filled with tears. He should take into
consideration the vast difference between an infidel
and a minister of the gospel,—knowing, as he does,
that a crown of glory has been prepared for the
minister, and that flames are waiting for the soul
of the unbeliever. He should bear with philosophic
fortitude the apparent success of the skeptic, for a
few days in this brief life, since he knows that in a
little while the question will be eternally settled in
his favor, and that the humiliation of a day is as
nothing compared with the victory of eternity. In
this world, the skeptic appears to have the best
of the argument; logic seems to be on the side
of blasphemy; common sense apparently goes hand
in hand with infidelity, and the few things we are
absolutely certain of, seem inconsistent with the
Christian creeds.

39

This, however, as Mr. Talmage well knows, is but
apparent. God has arranged the world in this way
for the purpose of testing the Christian's faith.
Beyond all these facts, beyond logic, beyond reason,
Mr. Talmage, by the light of faith, clearly sees the
eternal truth. This clearness of vision should give
him the serenity of candor and the kindness born of
absolute knowledge. He, being a child of the light,
should not expect the perfect from the children of
darkness. He should not judge Humboldt and
Wesley by the same standard. He should remember
that Wesley was especially set apart and illuminated
by divine wisdom, while Humboldt was left to grope
in the shadows of nature. He should also remember
that ministers are not like other people. They have
been "called." They have been "chosen" by infinite
wisdom. They have been "set apart," and they
have bread to eat that we know not of. While
other people are forced to pursue the difficult paths
of investigation, they fly with the wings of faith.

Mr. Talmage is perfectly aware of the advantages
he enjoys, and yet he deems it dangerous to be fair.
This, in my judgment, is his mistake. If he cannot
easily point out the absurdities and contradictions in
infidel lectures, surely God would never have selected

40

him for that task. We cannot believe that imperfect
instruments would be chosen by infinite wisdom.
Certain lambs have been entrusted to the care of Mr.
Talmage, the shepherd. Certainly God would not
select a shepherd unable to cope with an average
wolf. Such a shepherd is only the appearance of
protection. When the wolf is not there, he is a
useless expense, and when the wolf comes, he goes.
I cannot believe that God would select a shepherd
of that kind. Neither can the shepherd justify his
selection by abusing the wolf when out of sight.
The fear ought to be on the other side. A divinely
appointed shepherd ought to be able to convince his
sheep that a wolf is a dangerous animal, and ought
to be able to give his reasons. It may be that the
shepherd has a certain interest in exaggerating the
cruelty and ferocity of the wolf, and even the number
of the wolves. Should it turn out that the wolves
exist only in the imagination of the shepherd, the
sheep might refuse to pay the salary of their pro-
tector. It will, however, be hard to calculate the
extent to which the sheep will lose confidence in a
shepherd who has not even the courage to state the
facts about the wolf. But what must be the result
when the sheep find that the supposed wolf is, in

41

fact, their friend, and that he is endeavoring to rescue
them from the exactions of the pretended shepherd,
who creates, by falsehood, the fear on which he
lives?

## Second Interview

_Por. Why, man, what's the matter? Don't tear
your hair.

Sir Hugh. I have been beaten in a discussion,
overwhelmed and humiliated.

Por. Why didn't you call your adversary a fool?

Sir Hugh. My God! I forgot it!_

_Question_. I want to ask you a few questions
about the second sermon of Mr. Talmage;
have you read it, and what do you think of it?

_Answer_. The text taken by the reverend gentle-
man is an insult, and was probably intended as such:
"The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God."
Mr. Talmage seeks to apply this text to any one
who denies that the Jehovah of the Jews was and is
the infinite and eternal Creator of all. He is per-
fectly satisfied that any man who differs with him on
this question is a "fool," and he has the Christian
forbearance and kindness to say so. I presume he

46

is honest in this opinion, and no doubt regards Bruno,
Spinoza and Humboldt as driveling imbeciles. He
entertains the same opinion of some of the greatest,
wisest and best of Greece and Rome.

No man is fitted to reason upon this question who
has not the intelligence to see the difficulties in all
theories. No man has yet evolved a theory that
satisfactorily accounts for all that is. No matter
what his opinion may be, he is beset by a thousand
difficulties, and innumerable things insist upon an
explanation. The best that any man can do is to
take that theory which to his mind presents the
fewest difficulties. Mr. Talmage has been educated
in a certain way—has a brain of a certain quantity,
quality and form—and accepts, in spite it may be,
of himself, a certain theory. Others, formed differ-
ently, having lived under different circumstances,
cannot accept the Talmagian view, and thereupon he
denounces them as fools. In this he follows the
example of David the murderer; of David, who
advised one of his children to assassinate another;
of David, whose last words were those of hate and
crime. Mr. Talmage insists that it takes no especial
brain to reason out a "design" in Nature, and in a
moment afterward says that "when the world slew

47

"Jesus, it showed what it would do with the eternal
"God, if once it could get its hands on Him." Why
should a God of infinite wisdom create people who
would gladly murder their Creator? Was there any
particular "design" in that? Does the existence
of such people conclusively prove the existence of a
good Designer? It seems to me—and I take it that
my thought is natural, as I have only been born
once—that an infinitely wise and good God would
naturally create good people, and if he has not, cer-
tainly the fault is his. The God of Mr. Talmage
knew, when he created Guiteau, that he would
assassinate Garfield. Why did he create him? Did
he want Garfield assassinated? Will somebody be
kind enough to show the "design" in this trans-
action? Is it possible to see "design" in earth-
quakes, in volcanoes, in pestilence, in famine, in
ruthless and relentless war? Can we find "design" in
the fact that every animal lives upon some other—
that every drop of every sea is a battlefield where
the strong devour the weak? Over the precipice
of cruelty rolls a perpetual Niagara of blood. Is
there "design" in this? Why should a good God
people a world with men capable of burning their
fellow-men—and capable of burning the greatest and

48

best? Why does a good God permit these things?
It is said of Christ that he was infinitely kind and
generous, infinitely merciful, because when on earth
he cured the sick, the lame and blind. Has he not
as much power now as he had then? If he was and
is the God of all worlds, why does he not now give
back to the widow her son? Why does he with-
hold light from the eyes of the blind? And why
does one who had the power miraculously to feed
thousands, allow millions to die for want of food?
Did Christ only have pity when he was part human?
Are we indebted for his kindness to the flesh that
clothed his spirit? Where is he now? Where has he
been through all the centuries of slavery and crime?
If this universe was "designed," then all that
happens was "designed." If a man constructs an
engine, the boiler of which explodes, we say either
that he did not know the strength of his materials, or
that he was reckless of human life. If an infinite being
should construct a weak or imperfect machine, he must
be held accountable for all that happens. He cannot
be permitted to say that he did not know the strength
of the materials. He is directly and absolutely re-
sponsible. So, if this world was designed by a being
of infinite power and wisdom, he is responsible for

49

the result of that design. My position is this: I do
not know. But there are so many objections to the
personal-God theory, that it is impossible for me to
accept it. I prefer to say that the universe is all the
God there is. I prefer to make no being responsible.
I prefer to say: If the naked are clothed, man
must clothe them; if the hungry are fed, man must
feed them. I prefer to rely upon human endeavor,
upon human intelligence, upon the heart and brain
of man. There is no evidence that God has ever
interfered in the affairs of man. The hand of earth
is stretched uselessly toward heaven. From the
clouds there comes no help. In vain the shipwrecked
cry to God. In vain the imprisoned ask for liberty
and light—the world moves on, and the heavens are
deaf and dumb and blind. The frost freezes, the fire
burns, slander smites, the wrong triumphs, the good
suffer, and prayer dies upon the lips of faith.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage charges you with being
"the champion blasphemer of America"—what do
you understand blasphemy to be?

_Answer_. Blasphemy is an epithet bestowed by su-
perstition upon common sense. Whoever investi-
gates a religion as he would any department of

50

science, is called a blasphemer. Whoever contradicts
a priest, whoever has the impudence to use his own
reason, whoever is brave enough to express his
honest thought, is a blasphemer in the eyes of the
religionist. When a missionary speaks slightingly of
the wooden god of a savage, the savage regards him
as a blasphemer. To laugh at the pretensions of
Mohammed in Constantinople is blasphemy. To say
in St. Petersburg that Mohammed was a prophet of
God is also blasphemy. There was a time when to
acknowledge the divinity of Christ in Jerusalem was
blasphemy. To deny his divinity is now blasphemy
in New York. Blasphemy is to a considerable extent
a geographical question. It depends not only on what
you say, but where you are when you say it. Blas-
phemy is what the old calls the new,—what last
year's leaf says to this year's bud. The founder of
every religion was a blasphemer. The Jews so re-
garded Christ, and the Athenians had the same
opinion of Socrates. Catholics have always looked
upon Protestants as blasphemers, and Protestants have
always held the same generous opinion of Catholics.
To deny that Mary is the Mother of God is blas-
phemy. To say that she is the Mother of God is
blasphemy. Some savages think that a dried snake-

51

skin stuffed with leaves is sacred, and he who thinks
otherwise is a blasphemer. It was once blasphemy
to laugh at Diana, of the Ephesians. Many people
think that it is blasphemous to tell your real opinion
of the Jewish Jehovah. Others imagine that words
can be printed upon paper, and the paper bound into
a book covered with sheepskin, and that the book is
sacred, and that to question its sacredness is blas-
phemy. Blasphemy is also a crime against God, but
nothing can be more absurd than a crime against
God. If God is infinite, you cannot injure him. You
cannot commit a crime against any being that you
cannot injure. Of course, the infinite cannot be in-
jured. Man is a conditioned being. By changing
his conditions, his surroundings, you can injure him;
but if God is infinite, he is conditionless. If he is
conditionless, he cannot by any possibility be injured.
You can neither increase, nor decrease, the well-being
of the infinite. Consequently, a crime against God
is a demonstrated impossibility. The cry of blasphemy
means only that the argument of the blasphemer can-
not be answered. The sleight-of-hand performer,
when some one tries to raise the curtain behind which
he operates, cries "blasphemer!" The priest, find-
ing that he has been attacked by common sense,—

52

by a fact,—resorts to the same cry. Blasphemy is the
black flag of theology, and it means: No argument
and no quarter! It is an appeal to prejudice, to
passions, to ignorance. It is the last resort of a
defeated priest. Blasphemy marks the point where
argument stops and slander begins. In old times, it
was the signal for throwing stones, for gathering
fagots and for tearing flesh; now it means falsehood
and calumny.

_Question_. Then you think that there is no such
thing as the crime of blasphemy, and that no such
offence can be committed?

_Answer_. Any one who knowingly speaks in favor
of injustice is a blasphemer. Whoever wishes to
destroy liberty of thought,—the honest expression of
ideas,—is a blasphemer. Whoever is willing to malign
his neighbor, simply because he differs with him upon
a subject about which neither of them knows anything
for certain, is a blasphemer. If a crime can be com-
mitted against God, he commits it who imputes to
God the commission of crime. The man who says
that God ordered the assassination of women and
babes, that he gave maidens to satisfy the lust of
soldiers, that he enslaved his own children,—that man

53

is a blasphemer. In my judgment, it would be far
better to deny the existence of God entirely. It
seems to me that every man ought to give his honest
opinion. No man should suppose that any infinite
God requires him to tell as truth that which he knows
nothing about.

Mr. Talmage, in order to make a point against
infidelity, states from his pulpit that I am in favor of
poisoning the minds of children by the circulation of
immoral books. The statement is entirely false. He
ought to have known that I withdrew from the Liberal
League upon the very question whether the law should
be repealed or modified. I favored a modification
of that law, so that books and papers could not be
thrown from the mails simply because they were
"infidel."

I was and am in favor of the destruction of
every immoral book in the world. I was and am
in favor, not only of the law against the circulation
of such filth, but want it executed to the letter in every
State of this Union. Long before he made that state-
ment, I had introduced a resolution to that effect, and
supported the resolution in a speech. Notwithstand-
ing these facts, hundreds of clergymen have made
haste to tell the exact opposite of the truth. This

54

they have done in the name of Christianity, under the
pretence of pleasing their God. In my judgment, it
is far better to tell your honest opinions, even upon
the subject of theology, than to knowingly tell a false-
hood about a fellow-man. Mr. Talmage may have
been ignorant of the truth. He may have been misled
by other ministers, and for his benefit I make this ex-
planation. I wanted the laws modified so that bigotry
could not interfere with the literature of intelligence;
but I did not want, in any way, to shield the writers or
publishers of immoral books. Upon this subject I
used, at the last meeting of the Liberal League that
I attended, the following language:

"But there is a distinction wide as the Mississippi,
"yes, wider than the Atlantic, wider than all oceans,
"between the literature of immorality and the litera-
"ture of free thought. One is a crawling, slimy lizard,
"and the other an angel with wings of light. Let us
"draw this distinction. Let us understand ourselves.
"Do not make the wholesale statement that all these
"laws ought to be repealed. They ought not to be
"repealed. Some of them are good, and the law
"against sending instruments of vice through the
"mails is good. The law against sending obscene
"pictures and books is good. The law against send-

55

"ing bogus diplomas through the mails, to allow a
"lot of ignorant hyenas to prey upon the sick people
"of the world, is a good law. The law against rascals
"who are getting up bogus lotteries, and sending their
"circulars in the mails is a good law. You know, as
"well as I, that there are certain books not fit to go
"through the mails. You know that. You know there
"are certain pictures not fit to be transmitted, not fit
"to be delivered to any human being. When these
"books and pictures come into the control of the
"United States, I say, burn them up! And when any
"man has been indicted who has been trying to make
"money by pandering to the lowest passions in the
"human breast, then I say, prosecute him! let the
"law take its course."

I can hardly convince myself that when Mr.
Talmage made the charge, he was acquainted with
the facts. It seems incredible that any man, pre-
tending to be governed by the law of common
honesty, could make a charge like this knowing
it to be untrue. Under no circumstances, would
I charge Mr. Talmage with being an infamous
man, unless the evidence was complete and over-
whelming. Even then, I should hesitate long before
making the charge. The side I take on theological

56

questions does not render a resort to slander or
calumny a necessity. If Mr. Talmage is an honor-
able man, he will take back the statement he has
made. Even if there is a God, I hardly think that
he will reward one of his children for maligning
another; and to one who has told falsehoods about
"infidels," that having been his only virtue, I doubt
whether he will say: "Well done good and faithful
"servant."

_Question_. What have you to say to the charge
that you are endeavoring to "assassinate God,"
and that you are "far worse than the man who at-
"tempts to kill his father, or his mother, or his sister,
"or his brother"?

_Answer_. Well, I think that is about as reason-
able as anything he says. No one wishes, so far as I
know, to assassinate God. The idea of assassinating
an infinite being is of course infinitely absurd. One
would think Mr. Talmage had lost his reason! And
yet this man stands at the head of the Presbyterian
clergy. It is for this reason that I answer him. He
is the only Presbyterian minister in the United
States, so far as I know, able to draw an audience.
He is, without doubt, the leader of that denomination.

57

He is orthodox and conservative. He believes im-
plicitly in the "Five Points" of Calvin, and says
nothing simply for the purpose of attracting attention.
He believes that God damns a man for his own glory;
that he sends babes to hell to establish his mercy,
and that he filled the world with disease and crime
simply to demonstrate his wisdom. He believes that
billions of years before the earth was, God had made
up his mind as to the exact number that he would
eternally damn, and had counted his saints. This
doctrine he calls "glad tidings of great joy." He
really believes that every man who is true to himself
is waging war against God; that every infidel is a
rebel; that every Freethinker is a traitor, and that
only those are good subjects who have joined the
Presbyterian Church, know the Shorter Catechism by
heart, and subscribe liberally toward lifting the mort-
gage on the Brooklyn Tabernacle. All the rest are
endeavoring to assassinate God, plotting the murder
of the Holy Ghost, and applauding the Jews for the
crucifixion of Christ. If Mr. Talmage is correct in
his views as to the power and wisdom of God, I
imagine that his enemies at last will be overthrown,
that the assassins and murderers will not succeed, and
that the Infinite, with Mr. Talmage s assistance, will

58

finally triumph. If there is an infinite God, certainly
he ought to have made man grand enough to have
and express an opinion of his own. Is it possible
that God can be gratified with the applause of moral
cowards? Does he seek to enhance his glory by
receiving the adulation of cringing slaves? Is God
satisfied with the adoration of the frightened?

_Question_. You notice that Mr. Talmage finds
nearly all the inventions of modern times mentioned
in the Bible?

_Answer_: Yes; Mr. Talmage has made an ex-
ceedingly important discovery. I admit that I am
somewhat amazed at the wisdom of the ancients.
This discovery has been made just in the nick of
time. Millions of people were losing their respect
for the Old Testament. They were beginning to
think that there was some discrepancy between the
prophecies of Ezekiel and Daniel and the latest devel-
opments in physical science. Thousands of preachers
were telling their flocks that the Bible is not a
scientific book; that Joshua was not an inspired as-
tronomer, that God never enlightened Moses about
geology, and that Ezekiel did not understand the
entire art of cookery. These admissions caused

59

some young people to suspect that the Bible, after all,
was not inspired; that the prophets of antiquity did
not know as much as the discoverers of to-day. The
Bible was falling into disrepute. Mr. Talmage has
rushed to the rescue. He shows, and shows conclu-
sively as anything can be shown from the Bible, that
Job understood all the laws of light thousands of
years before Newton lived; that he anticipated the
discoveries of Descartes, Huxley and Tyndall; that
he was familiar with the telegraph and telephone;
that Morse, Bell and Edison simply put his discov-
eries in successful operation; that Nahum was, in
fact, a master-mechanic; that he understood perfectly
the modern railway and described it so accurately
that Trevethick, Foster and Stephenson had no diffi-
culty in constructing a locomotive. He also has
discovered that Job was well acquainted with the
trade winds, and understood the mysterious currents,
tides and pulses of the sea; that Lieutenant Maury
was a plagiarist; that Humboldt was simply a biblical
student. He finds that Isaiah and Solomon were
far in advance of Galileo, Morse, Meyer and Watt.
This is a discovery wholly unexpected to me. If
Mr. Talmage is right, I am satisfied the Bible is an
inspired book. If it shall turn out that Joshua was

60

superior to Laplace, that Moses knew more about
geology than Humboldt, that Job as a scientist was
the superior of Kepler, that Isaiah knew more than
Copernicus, and that even the minor prophets ex-
celled the inventors and discoverers of our time—
then I will admit that infidelity must become speech-
less forever. Until I read this sermon, I had never
even suspected that the inventions of modern times
were known to the ancient Jews. I never supposed
that Nahum knew the least thing about railroads, or
that Job would have known a telegraph if he had seen
it. I never supposed that Joshua comprehended the
three laws of Kepler. Of course I have not read
the Old Testament with as much care as some other
people have, and when I did read it, I was not looking
for inventions and discoveries. I had been told so
often that the Bible was no authority upon scientific
questions, that I was lulled into a state of lethargy.
What is amazing to me is, that so many men did
read it without getting the slightest hint of the
smallest invention. To think that the Jews read that
book for hundreds and hundreds of years, and yet
went to their graves without the slightest notion of
astronomy, or geology, of railroads, telegraphs, or
steamboats! And then to think that the early fathers

61

made it the study of their lives and died without in-
venting anything! I am astonished that Mr. Talmage
himself does not figure in the records of the Patent
Office. I cannot account for this, except upon the
supposition that he is too honest to infringe on the
patents of the patriarchs. After this, I shall read
the Old Testament with more care.

_Question_. Do you see that Mr. Talmage endeav-
ors to convict you of great ignorance in not knowing
that the word translated "rib" should have been
translated "side," and that Eve, after all, was not
made out of a rib, but out of Adam's side?

_Answer_. I may have been misled by taking the
Bible as it is translated. The Bible account is simply
this: "And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall
"upon Adam, and he slept. And he took one of
"his ribs and closed up the flesh instead thereof;
"and the rib which the Lord God had taken from
"man made he a woman, and brought her unto the
"man. And Adam said: This is now bone of my
"bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called
"woman, because she was taken out of man." If
Mr. Talmage is right, then the account should be as
follows: "And the Lord God caused a deep sleep

62

"to fall upon Adam, and he slept; and he took one
"of his sides, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;
"and the side which the Lord God had taken from
"man made he a woman, and brought her unto the
"man. And Adam said: This is now side of my
"side, and flesh of my flesh." I do not see that the
story is made any better by using the word "side"
instead of "rib." It would be just as hard for God
to make a woman out of a man's side as out of a
rib. Mr. Talmage ought not to question the power
of God to make a woman out of a bone, and he must
recollect that the less the material the greater the
miracle.

There are two accounts of the creation of man,
in Genesis, the first being in the twenty-first verse
of the first chapter and the second being in the
twenty-first and twenty-second verses of the sec-
ond chapter.

According to the second account, "God formed
"man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into
"his nostrils the breath of life." And after this,
"God planted a garden eastward in Eden and put
"the man" in this garden. After this, "He made
"every tree to grow that was good for food and
"pleasant to the sight," and, in addition, "the tree

63

"of life in the midst of the garden," beside "the tree
"of the knowledge of good and evil." And he "put
"the man in the garden to dress it and keep it,"
telling him that he might eat of everything he saw
except of "the tree of the knowledge of good and
"evil."

After this, God having noticed that it "was not
"good for man to be alone, formed out of the ground
"every beast of the field, every fowl of the air, and
"brought them to Adam to see what he would call
"them, and Adam gave names to all cattle, and to
"the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field.
"But for Adam there was not found an helpmeet for
"him."

We are not told how Adam learned the language,
or how he understood what God said. I can hardly
believe that any man can be created with the know-
ledge of a language. Education cannot be ready
made and stuffed into a brain. Each person must
learn a language for himself. Yet in this account we
find a language ready made for man's use. And not
only man was enabled to speak, but a serpent also
has the power of speech, and the woman holds a
conversation with this animal and with her husband;
and yet no account is given of how any language was

64

learned. God is described as walking in the garden
in the cool of the day, speaking like a man—holding
conversations with the man and woman, and occa-
sionally addressing the serpent.

In the nursery rhymes of the world there is
nothing more childish than this "inspired" account
of the creation of man and woman.

The early fathers of the church held that woman
was inferior to man, because man was not made for
woman, but woman for man; because Adam was
made first and Eve afterward. They had not the
gallantry of Robert Burns, who accounted for the
beauty of woman from the fact that God practiced
on man first, and then gave woman the benefit of
his experience. Think, in this age of the world,
of a well-educated, intelligent gentleman telling his
little child that about six thousand years ago a
mysterious being called God made the world out of
his "omnipotence;" then made a man out of some
dust which he is supposed to have moulded into
form; that he put this man in a garden for the pur-
pose of keeping the trees trimmed; that after a little
while he noticed that the man seemed lonesome, not
particularly happy, almost homesick; that then it oc-
curred to this God, that it would be a good thing for

65

the man to have some company, somebody to help
him trim the trees, to talk to him and cheer him up
on rainy days; that, thereupon, this God caused
a deep sleep to fall on the man, took a knife, or a
long, sharp piece of "omnipotence," and took out one
of the man's sides, or a rib, and of that made a
woman; that then this man and woman got along
real well till a snake got into the garden and induced
the woman to eat of the tree of the knowledge of
good and evil; that the woman got the man to take
a bite; that afterwards both of them were detected by
God, who was walking around in the cool of the
evening, and thereupon they were turned out of the
garden, lest they should put forth their hands and eat
of the tree of life, and live forever.

This foolish story has been regarded as the sacred,
inspired truth; as an account substantially written by
God himself; and thousands and millions of people
have supposed it necessary to believe this childish
falsehood, in order to save their souls. Nothing
more laughable can be found in the fairy tales and
folk-lore of savages. Yet this is defended by the
leading Presbyterian divine, and those who fail to
believe in the truth of this story are called "brazen
"faced fools," "deicides," and "blasphemers."

66

By this story woman in all Christian countries was
degraded. She was considered too impure to preach
the gospel, too impure to distribute the sacramental
bread, too impure to hand about the sacred wine,
too impure to step within the "holy of holies," in the
Catholic Churches, too impure to be touched by a
priest. Unmarried men were considered purer than
husbands and fathers. Nuns were regarded as su-
perior to mothers, a monastery holier than a home, a
nunnery nearer sacred than the cradle. And through
all these years it has been thought better to love
God than to love man, better to love God than to
love your wife and children, better to worship an
imaginary deity than to help your fellow-men.

I regard the rights of men and women equal. In
Love's fair realm, husband and wife are king and
queen, sceptered and crowned alike, and seated on
the self-same throne.

_Question_. Do you still insist that the Old Testa-
ment upholds polygamy? Mr. Talmage denies this
charge, and shows how terribly God punished those
who were not satisfied with one wife.

_Answer_. I see nothing in what Mr. Talmage has
said calculated to change my opinion. It has been

67

admitted by thousands of theologians that the Old
Testament upholds polygamy. Mr. Talmage is
among the first to deny it. It will not do to say that
David was punished for the crime of polygamy
or concubinage. He was "a man after God's own
"heart." He was made a king. He was a successful
general, and his blood is said to have flowed in the
veins of God. Solomon was, according to the ac-
count, enriched with wisdom above all human beings.
Was that a punishment for having had so many
wives? Was Abraham pursued by the justice of
God because of the crime against Hagar, or for the
crime against his own wife? The verse quoted by
Mr. Talmage to show that God was opposed to
polygamy, namely, the eighteenth verse of the eight-
eenth chapter of Leviticus, cannot by any ingenuity
be tortured into a command against polygamy. The
most that can be possibly said of it is, that you shall
not marry the sister of your wife, while your wife is
living. Yet this passage is quoted by Mr. Talmage
as "a thunder of prohibition against having more
"than one wife." In the twentieth chapter of
Leviticus it is enacted: "That if a man take a wife
"and her mother they shall be burned with fire." A
commandment like this shows that he might take his

68

wife and somebody else's mother. These passages
have nothing to do with polygamy. They show
whom you may marry, not how many; and there is
not in Leviticus a solitary word against polygamy—
not one. Nor is there such a word in Genesis, nor
Exodus, nor in the entire Pentateuch—not one
word. These books are filled with the most minute
directions about killing sheep, and goats and doves;
about making clothes for priests, about fashioning
tongs and snuffers; and yet, they contain not one
word against polygamy. It never occurred to the in-
spired writers that polygamy was a crime. Polygamy
was accepted as a matter of course. Women were
simple property.

Mr. Talmage, however, insists that, although God
was against polygamy, he permitted it, and at the
same time threw his moral influence against it.
Upon this subject he says: "No doubt God per-
"mitted polygamy to continue for sometime, just
"as he permits murder and arson, theft and gam-
"bling to-day to continue, although he is against
"them." If God is the author of the Ten Com-
mandments, he prohibited murder and theft, but
he said nothing about polygamy. If he was so
terribly against that crime, why did he forget to

69

mention it? Was there not room enough on the
tables of stone for just one word on this subject?
Had he no time to give a commandment against
slavery? Mr. Talmage of course insists that God
had to deal with these things gradually, his idea being
that if God had made a commandment against them all
at once, the Jews would have had nothing more to do
with him.

For instance: if we wanted to break cannibals
of eating missionaries, we should not tell them all
at once that it was wrong, that it was wicked, to
eat missionaries raw; we should induce them first
to cook the missionaries, and gradually wean them
from raw flesh. This would be the first great step.
We would stew the missionaries, and after a time
put a little mutton in the stew, not enough to excite
the suspicion of the cannibal, but just enough to get
him in the habit of eating mutton without knowing it.
Day after day we would put in more mutton and less
missionary, until finally, the cannibal would be perfectly
satisfied with clear mutton. Then we would tell him
that it was wrong to eat missionary. After the can-
nibal got so that he liked mutton, and cared nothing
for missionary, then it would be safe to have a law
upon the subject.

70

Mr. Talmage insists that polygamy cannot exist
among people who believe the Bible. In this he is
mistaken. The Mormons all believe the Bible. There
is not a single polygamist in Utah who does not insist
upon the inspiration of the Old and New Testaments.

The Rev. Mr. Newman, a kind of peripatetic consu-
lar theologian, once had a discussion, I believe, with
Elder Orson Pratt, at Salt Lake City, upon the question
of polygamy. It is sufficient to say of this discussion
that it is now circulated by the Mormons as a campaign
document. The elder overwhelmed the parson.
Passages of Scripture in favor of polygamy were
quoted by the hundred. The lives of all the patriarchs
were brought forward, and poor parson Newman was
driven from the field. The truth is, the Jews at that
time were much like our forefathers. They were
barbarians, and many of their laws were unjust
and cruel. Polygamy was the right of all; practiced,
as a matter of fact, by the rich and powerful, and the
rich and powerful were envied by the poor. In such
esteem did the ancient Jews hold polygamy, that the
number of Solomons wives was given, simply to en-
hance his glory. My own opinion is, that Solomon
had very few wives, and that polygamy was not
general in Palestine. The country was too poor, and

71

Solomon, in all his glory was hardly able to support
one wife. He was a poor barbarian king with a
limited revenue, with a poor soil, with a sparse popu-
lation, without art, without science and without power.
He sustained about the same relation to other kings
that Delaware does to other States. Mr. Talmage
says that God persecuted Solomon, and yet, if he will
turn to the twenty-second chapter of First Chronicles,
he will find what God promised to Solomon. God,
speaking to David, says: "Behold a son shall be born
"to thee, who shall be a man of rest, and I will give him
"rest from his enemies around about; for his name shall
"be Solomon, and I will give peace and quietness
"unto Israel in his days. He shall build a house in my
"name, and he shall be my son and I will be his father,
"and I will establish the throne of his kingdom over
"Israel forever." Did God keep his promise?

So he tells us that David was persecuted by
God, on account of his offences, and yet I find in
the twenty-eighth verse of the twenty-ninth chapter
of First Chronicles, the following account of the death
of David: "And he died in a good old age, full of
"days, riches and honor." Is this true?

_Question_. What have you to say to the charge
that you were mistaken in the number of years that

72

the Hebrews were in Egypt? Mr. Talmage says that
they were there 430 years, instead of 215 years.

_Answer_. If you will read the third chapter of
Galatians, sixteenth and seventeenth verses, you will
find that it was 430 years from the time God made the
promise to Abraham to the giving of the law from
Mount Sinai. The Hebrews did not go to Egypt for
215 years after the promise was made to Abraham,
and consequently did not remain in Egypt more than
215 years. If Galatians is true, I am right.

Strange that Mr. Talmage should belittle the mira-
cles. The trouble with this defender of the faith is that
he cares nothing for facts. He makes the strangest
statements, and cares the least for proof, of any
man I know. I can account for what he says of me
only upon the supposition that he has not read my
lectures. He may have been misled by the pirated
editions; Persons have stolen my lectures, printed the
same ones under various names, and filled them with
mistakes and things I never said. Mr. C. P. Farrell,
of Washington, is my only authorized publisher.
Yet Mr. Talmage prefers to answer the mistakes of
literary thieves, and charge their ignorance to me.

_Question_. Did you ever attack the character of
Queen Victoria, or did you draw any parallel between

73

her and George Eliot, calculated to depreciate the
reputation of the Queen?

_Answer_. I never said a word against Victoria.
The fact is, I am not acquainted with her—never met
her in my life, and know but little of her. I never
happened to see her "in plain clothes, reading the
"Bible to the poor in the lane,"—neither did I ever
hear her sing. I most cheerfully admit that her
reputation is good in the neighborhood where she
resides. In one of my lectures I drew a parallel
between George Eliot and Victoria. I was showing
the difference between a woman who had won her
position in the world of thought, and one who was
queen by chance. This is what I said:

"It no longer satisfies the ambition of a great man
"to be a king or emperor. The last Napoleon was
"not satisfied with being the Emperor of the French.
"He was not satisfied with having a circlet of gold
"about his head—he wanted some evidence that he
"had something of value in his head. So he wrote
"the life of Julius Caesar that he might become a
"member of the French Academy. The emperors,
"the kings, the popes, no longer tower above their
"fellows. Compare King William with the philoso-
"pher Haeckel. The king is one of the 'anointed

74

"'of the Most High'—as they claim—one upon
"whose head has been poured the divine petroleum
"of authority. Compare this king with Haeckel, who
"towers an intellectual Colossus above the crowned
"mediocrity. Compare George Eliot with Queen
"Victoria. The queen is clothed in garments given
"her by blind fortune and unreasoning chance, while
"George Eliot wears robes of glory, woven in the
"loom of her own genius. The world is beginning
"to pay homage to intellect, to genius, to heart."
I said not one word against Queen Victoria, and did
not intend to even intimate that she was not an ex-
cellent woman, wife and mother. I was simply trying
to show that the world was getting great enough to
place a genius above an accidental queen. Mr. Tal-
mage, true to the fawning, cringing spirit of ortho-
doxy, lauds the living queen and cruelly maligns the
genius dead. He digs open the grave of George Eliot,
and tries to stain the sacred dust of one who was the
greatest woman England has produced. He calls her
"an adultress." He attacks her because she was an
atheist—because she abhorred Jehovah, denied the
inspiration of the Bible, denied the dogma of eternal
pain, and with all her heart despised the Presbyterian
creed. He hates her because she was great and brave

75

and free—because she lived without "faith" and died
without fear—because she dared to give her honest
thought, and grandly bore the taunts and slanders of
the Christian world.

George Eliot tenderly carried in her heart the
burdens of our race. She looked through pity's tears
upon the faults and frailties of mankind. She knew
the springs and seeds of thought and deed, and saw,
with cloudless eyes, through all the winding ways of
greed, ambition and deceit, where folly vainly plucks
with thorn-pierced hands the fading flowers of selfish
joy—the highway of eternal right. Whatever her
relations may have been—no matter what I think, or
others say, or how much all regret the one mistake in
all her self-denying, loving life—I feel and know that
in the court where her own conscience sat as judge, she
stood acquitted—pure as light and stainless as a star.

How appropriate here, with some slight change,
the wondrously poetic and pathetic words of Laertes
at Ophelia's grave:

> _Leave her i' the earth;
> And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
> May violets spring!
> I tell thee, churlish priest,
> A ministering angel shall this woman be,
> When thou liest howling!_

I have no words with which to tell my loathing for
a man who violates a noble woman's grave.

76

_Question_. Do you think that the spirit in which
Mr. Talmage reviews your lectures is in accordance
with the teachings of Christianity?

_Answer_. I think that he talks like a true Presby-
terian. If you will read the arguments of Calvin
against the doctrines of Castalio and Servetus, you will
see that Mr. Talmage follows closely in the footsteps
of the founder of his church. Castalio was such a
wicked and abandoned wretch, that he taught the
innocence of honest error. He insisted that God
would not eternally damn a man for being honestly
mistaken. For the utterance of such blasphemous
sentiments, abhorrent to every Christian mind, Calvin
called him "a dog of Satan, and a child of hell." In
short, he used the usual arguments. Castalio was
banished, and died in exile. In the case of Servetus,
after all the epithets had been exhausted, an appeal
was made to the stake, and the blasphemous wretch
was burned to ashes.

If you will read the life of John Knox, you will find
that Mr. Talmage is as orthodox in his methods of
dealing with infidels, as he is in his creed. In my
opinion, he would gladly treat unbelievers now, as the
Puritans did the Quakers, as the Episcopalians did the
Presbyterians, as the Presbyterians did the Baptists,

77

and as the Catholics have treated all heretics. Of
course, all these sects will settle their differences in
heaven. In the next world, they will laugh at the
crimes they committed in this.

The course pursued by Mr. Talmage is consistent.
The pulpit cannot afford to abandon the weapons of
falsehood and defamation. Candor sows the seeds of
doubt. Fairness is weakness. The only way to suc-
cessfully uphold the religion of universal love, is to
denounce all Freethinkers as blasphemers, adulterers,
and criminals. No matter how generous they may
appear to be, no matter how fairly they may deal with
their fellow-men, rest assured that they are actuated
by the lowest and basest motives. Infidels who out-
wardly live honest and virtuous lives, are inwardly
vicious, virulent and vile. After all, morality is only
a veneering. God is not deceived with the varnish of
good works. We know that the natural man is
totally depraved, and that until he has been regene-
rated by the spirit of God, he is utterly incapable of a
good action. The generosity of the unbeliever is, in
fact, avarice. His honesty is only a form of larceny.
His love is only hatred. No matter how sincerely
he may love his wife,—how devoted he may be to
his children,—no matter how ready he may be 'to

78

sacrifice even his life for the good of mankind, God,
looking into his very heart, finds it only a den of
hissing snakes, a lair of wild, ferocious beasts, a cage
of unclean birds.

The idea that God will save a man simply because
he is honest and generous, is almost too preposterous
for serious refutation. No man should rely upon his
own goodness. He should plead the virtue of another.
God, in his infinite justice, damns a good man on his
own merits, and saves a bad man on the merits of
another. The repentant murderer will be an angel
of light, while his honest and unoffending victim will
be a fiend in hell.

A little while ago, a ship, disabled, was blown about
the Atlantic for eighty days. Everything had been
eaten. Nothing remained but bare decks and hunger.
The crew consisted of Captain Kruger and nine others.
For nine days, nothing had been eaten. The captain,
taking a revolver in his hand, said: "Mates, some
"one must die for the rest. I am willing to sacrifice
"myself for you." One of his comrades grasped his
hand, and implored him to wait one more day. The
next morning, a sail was seen upon the horizon, and
the dying men were rescued.

To an ordinary man,—to one guided by the light of

79

reason,—it is perfectly clear that Captain Kruger was
about to do an infinitely generous action. Yet Mr.
Talmage will tell us that if that captain was not a
Christian, and if he had sent the bullet crashing
through his brain in order that his comrades might eat
his body, and live to reach their wives and homes,—
his soul, from that ship, would have gone, by dark
and tortuous ways, down to the prison of eternal pain.

Is it possible that Christ would eternally damn a
man for doing exactly what Christ would have done,
had he been infinitely generous, under the same cir-
cumstances? Is not self-denial in a man as praise-
worthy as in a God? Should a God be worshiped,
and a man be damned, for the same action?

According to Mr. Talmage, every soldier who fought
for our country in the Revolutionary war, who was
not a Christian, is now in hell. Every soldier, not a
Christian, who carried the flag of his country to vic-
tory—either upon the land or sea, in the war of 1812,
is now in hell. Every soldier, not a Christian, who
fought for the preservation of this Union,—to break
the chains of slavery—to free four millions of people
—to keep the whip from the naked back—every man
who did this—every one who died at Andersonville
and Libby, dreaming that his death would help make

80

the lives of others worth living, is now a lost and
wretched soul. These men are now in the prison of
God,—a prison in which the cruelties of Libby and
Andersonville would be regarded as mercies,—in
which famine would be a joy.

## Third Interview

_Sinner. Is God infinite in wisdom and power?

Parson. He is.

Sinner. Does he at all times know just what ought
to be done?

Parson. He does.

Sinner. Does he always do just what ought to be
done?

Parson. He does.

Sinner. Why do you pray to him?

Parson. Because he is unchangeable._

_Question_. I want to ask you a few questions
about Mr. Talmage's third sermon. What do
you think of it?

_Answer_. I often ask myself the questions: Is
there anything in the occupation of a minister,—any-
thing in his surroundings, that makes him incapable
of treating an opponent fairly, or decently? Is there
anything in the doctrine of universal forgiveness that
compels a man to speak of one who differs with him
only in terms of disrespect and hatred? Is it neces-
sary for those who profess to love the whole world,
to hate the few they come in actual contact with?

84

Mr. Talmage, no doubt, professes to love all man-
kind,—Jew and Gentile, Christian and Pagan. No
doubt, he believes in the missionary effort, and thinks
we should do all in our power to save the soul of the
most benighted savage; and yet he shows anything
but affection for the "heathen" at home. He loves
the ones he never saw,—is real anxious for their wel-
fare,—but for the ones he knows, he exhibits only
scorn and hatred. In one breath, he tells us that
Christ loves us, and in the next, that we are "wolves
"and dogs." We are informed that Christ forgave
even his murderers, but that now he hates an honest
unbeliever with all his heart. He can forgive the
ones who drove the nails into his hands and feet,—
the one who thrust the spear through his quivering
flesh,—but he cannot forgive the man who entertains
an honest doubt about the "scheme of salvation."
He regards the man who thinks, as a "mouth-maker
"at heaven." Is it possible that Christ is less for-
giving in heaven than he was in Jerusalem? Did he
excuse murderers then, and does he damn thinkers
now? Once he pitied even thieves; does he now
abhor an intellectually honest man?

_Question_. Mr. Talmage seems to think that you
have no right to give your opinion about the Bible.

85

Do you think that laymen have the same right as
ministers to examine the Scriptures?

_Answer_. If God only made a revelation for
preachers, of course we will have to depend on the
preachers for information. But the preachers have
made the mistake of showing the revelation. They
ask us, the laymen, to read it, and certainly there is
no use of reading it, unless we are permitted to think
for ourselves while we read. If after reading the Bible
we believe it to be true, we will say so, if we are
honest. If we do not believe it, we will say so, if we
are honest.

But why should God be so particular about our
believing the stories in his book? Why should God
object to having his book examined? We do not
have to call upon legislators, or courts, to protect
Shakespeare from the derision of mankind. Was not
God able to write a book that would command the
love and admiration of the world? If the God of
Mr. Talmage is infinite, he knew exactly how the
stories of the Old Testament would strike a gentle-
man of the nineteenth century. He knew that many
would have their doubts,—that thousands of them—
and I may say most of them,—would refuse to believe
that a miracle had ever been performed.

86

Now, it seems to me that he should either have left
the stories out, or furnished evidence enough to con-
vince the world. According to Mr. Talmage, thou-
sands of people are pouring over the Niagara of
unbelief into the gulf of eternal pain. Why does not
God furnish more evidence? Just in proportion as
man has developed intellectually, he has demanded
additional testimony. That which satisfies a barbarian,
excites only the laughter of a civilized man. Cer-
tainly God should furnish evidence in harmony with
the spirit of the age. If God wrote his Bible for the
average man, he should have written it in such a way
that it would have carried conviction to the brain and
heart of the average man; and he should have
made no man in such a way that he could not, by any
possibility, believe it. There certainly should be a
harmony between the Bible and the human brain. If
I do not believe the Bible, whose fault is it? Mr.
Talmage insists that his God wrote the Bible for me.
and made me. If this is true, the book and the man
should agree. There is no sense in God writing
a book for me and then making me in such a way that
I cannot believe his book.

_Question_. But Mr. Talmage says the reason why
you hate the Bible is, that your soul is poisoned; that

87

the Bible "throws you into a rage precisely as pure
"water brings on a paroxysm of hydrophobia."

_Answer_. Is it because the mind of the infidel is
poisoned, that he refuses to believe that an infinite
God commanded the murder of mothers, maidens and
babes? Is it because their minds are impure, that
they refuse to believe that a good God established
the institution of human slavery, or that he protected
it when established? Is it because their minds are
vile, that they refuse to believe that an infinite God
established or protected polygamy? Is it a sure
sign of an impure mind, when a man insists that
God never waged wars of extermination against his
helpless children? Does it show that a man has
been entirely given over to the devil, because he
refuses to believe that God ordered a father to sacri-
fice his son? Does it show that a heart is entirely
without mercy, simply because a man denies the
justice of eternal pain?

I denounce many parts of the Old Testament
because they are infinitely repugnant to my sense
of justice,—because they are bloody, brutal and in-
famous,—because they uphold crime and destroy
human liberty. It is impossible for me to imagine
a greater monster than the God of the Old Testa-

88

ment. He is unworthy of my worship. He com-
mands only my detestation, my execration, and my
passionate hatred. The God who commanded the
murder of children is an infamous fiend. The God
who believed in polygamy, is worthy only of con-
tempt. The God who established slavery should be
hated by every free man. The Jehovah of the Jews
was simply a barbarian, and the Old Testament is
mostly the barbarous record of a barbarous people.

If the Jehovah of the Jews is the real God, I do
not wish to be his friend. From him I neither ask,
nor expect, nor would I be willing to receive, even an
eternity of joy. According to the Old Testament,
he established a government,—a political state,—and
yet, no civilized country to-day would re-enact these
laws of God.

_Question_. What do you think of the explanation
given by Mr. Talmage of the stopping of the sun and
moon in the time of Joshua, in order that a battle
might be completed?

_Answer_. Of course, if there is an infinite God,
he could have stopped the sun and moon. No one
pretends to prescribe limits to the power of the
infinite. Even admitting that such a being existed,
the question whether he did stop the sun and moon,

89

or not, still remains. According to the account, these
planets were stopped, in order that Joshua might con-
tinue the pursuit of a routed enemy. I take it for
granted that a being of infinite wisdom would not
waste any force,—that he would not throw away any
"omnipotence," and that, under ordinary circum-
stances, he would husband his resources. I find that
this spirit exists, at least in embryo, in Mr. Talmage.
He proceeds to explain this miracle. He does not
assert that the earth was stopped on its axis, but sug-
gests "refraction" as a way out of the difficulty. Now,
while the stopping of the earth on its axis accounts for
the sun remaining in the same relative position, it does
not account for the stoppage of the moon. The moon
has a motion of its own, and even if the earth had been
stopped in its rotary motion, the moon would have gone
on. The Bible tells us that the moon was stopped. One
would suppose that the sun would have given sufficient
light for all practical purposes. Will Mr. Talmage be
kind enough to explain the stoppage of the moon?
Every one knows that the moon is somewhat obscure
when the sun is in the midst of the heavens. The moon
when compared with the sun at such a time, is much
like one of the discourses of Mr. Talmage side by side
with a chapter from Humboldt;—it is useless.

90

In the same chapter in which the account of the
stoppage of the sun and moon is given, we find that
God cast down from heaven great hailstones on
Joshua's enemies. Did he get out of hailstones?
Had he no "omnipotence" left? Was it necessary
for him to stop the sun and moon and depend entirely
upon the efforts of Joshua? Would not the force
employed in stopping the rotary motion of the earth
have been sufficient to destroy the enemy? Would
not a millionth part of the force necessary to stop the
moon, have pierced the enemy's centre, and rolled up
both his flanks? A resort to lightning would have
been, in my judgment, much more economical and
rather more effective. If he had simply opened the
earth, and swallowed them, as he did Korah and his
company, it would have been a vast saving of
"omnipotent" muscle. Yet, the foremost orthodox
minister of the Presbyterian Church,—the one who
calls all unbelievers "wolves and dogs," and "brazen
"fools," in his effort to account for this miracle, is
driven to the subterfuge of an "optical illusion."
We are seriously informed that "God probably
"changed the nature of the air," and performed this
feat of ledgerdemain through the instrumentality of
"refraction." It seems to me it would have been fully

91

as easy to have changed the nature of the air breathed
by the enemy, so that it would not have supported
life. He could have accomplished this by changing
only a little air, in that vicinity; whereas, according
to the Talmagian view, he changed the atmosphere
of the world. Or, a small "local flood" might have
done the work. The optical illusion and refraction
view, ingenious as it may appear, was not original
with Mr. Talmage. The Rev. Henry M. Morey, of
South Bend, Indiana, used, upon this subject, the fol-
lowing language; "The phenomenon was simply
"optical. The rotary motion of the earth was not
"disturbed, but the light of the sun was prolonged by
"the same laws of refraction and reflection by which
"the sun now appears to be above the horizon when
"it is really below. The medium through which the
"sun's rays passed, might have been miraculously
"influenced so as to have caused the sun to linger
"above the horizon long after its usual time for dis-
"appearance."

I pronounce the opinion of Mr. Morey to be the
ripest product of Christian scholarship. According to
the Morey-Talmage view, the sun lingered somewhat
above the horizon. But this is inconsistent with the
Bible account. We are not told in the Scriptures that

92

the sun "lingered above the horizon," but that it "stood
"still in the midst of heaven for about a whole day."
The trouble about the optical-illusion view is, that it
makes the day too long. If the air was miraculously
changed, so that it refracted the rays of the sun, while
the earth turned over as usual for about a whole day,
then, at the end of that time, the sun must have been
again visible in the east. It would then naturally
shine twelve hours more, so that this miraculous day
must have been at least thirty-six hours in length.
There were first twelve hours of natural light, then
twelve hours of refracted and reflected light, and then
twelve hours more of natural light. This makes the
day too long. So, I say to Mr. Talmage, as I said to
Mr. Morey: If you will depend a little less on
refraction, and a little more on reflection, you will see
that the whole story is a barbaric myth and foolish
fable.

For my part, I do not see why God should be
pleased to have me believe a story of this character.
I can hardly think that there is great joy in heaven
over another falsehood swallowed. I can imagine
that a man may deny this story, and still be an excel-
lent citizen, a good father, an obliging neighbor, and
in all respects a just and truthful man. I can also

93

imagine that a man may believe this story, and yet
assassinate a President of the United States.

I am afraid that Mr. Talmage is beginning to be
touched, in spite of himself, with some new ideas. He
tells us that worlds are born and that worlds die.
This is not exactly the Bible view. You would think
that he imagined that a world was naturally pro-
duced,—that the aggregation of atoms was natural,
and that disintegration came to worlds, as to men,
through old age. Yet this is not the Bible view.
According to the Bible, these worlds were not born,—
they were created out of "nothing," or out of
"omnipotence," which is much the same. According
to the Bible, it took this infinite God six days to make
this atom called earth; and according to the account,
he did not work nights,—he worked from the morn-
ings to the evenings,—and I suppose rested nights,
as he has since that time on Sundays.

Admitting that the battle which Joshua fought
was exceedingly important—which I do not think—
is it not a little strange that this God, in all subse-
quent battles of the world's history, of which we
know anything, has maintained the strictest neu-
trality? The earth turned as usual at Yorktown,
and at Gettysburg the moon pursued her usual

94

course; and so far as I know, neither at Waterloo
nor at Sedan were there any peculiar freaks of "re-
"fraction" or "reflection."

_Question_. Mr. Talmage tells us that there was in
the early part of this century a dark day, when
workmen went home from their fields, and legis-
latures and courts adjourned, and that the darkness
of that day has not yet been explained. What is
your opinion about that?

_Answer_. My opinion is, that if at that time we
had been at war with England, and a battle had
been commenced in the morning, and in the after-
noon the American forces had been driven from their
position and were hard pressed by the enemy, and
if the day had become suddenly dark, and so dark
that the Americans were thereby enabled to escape,
thousands of theologians of the calibre of Mr. Tal-
mage would have honestly believed that there had
been an interposition of divine Providence. No
battle was fought that day, and consequently, even
the ministers are looking for natural causes. In
olden times, when the heavens were visited by
comets, war, pestilence and famine were predicted.
If wars came, the prediction was remembered; if

95

nothing happened, it was forgotten. When eclipses
visited the sun and moon, the barbarian fell upon his
knees, and accounted for the phenomena by the
wickedness of his neighbor. Mr. Talmage tells us
that his father was terrified by the meteoric shower
that visited our earth in 1833. The terror of the
father may account for the credulity of the son.
Astronomers will be surprised to read the declaration
of Mr. Talmage that the meteoric shower has never
been explained. Meteors visit the earth every year
of its life, and in a certain portion of the orbit they
are always expected, and they always come. Mr.
Newcomb has written a work on astronomy that
all ministers ought to read.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage also charges you with
"making light of holy things," and seems to be aston-
ished that you should ridicule the anointing oil of
Aaron?

_Answer_. I find that the God who had no time to
say anything on the subject of slavery, and who found
no room upon the tables of stone to say a word
against polygamy, and in favor of the rights of
woman, wife and mother, took time to give a recipe
for making hair oil. And in order that the priests

96

might have the exclusive right to manufacture this oil,
decreed the penalty of death on all who should
infringe. I admit that I am incapable of seeing the
beauty of this symbol. Neither could I ever see the
necessity of Masons putting oil on the corner-stone
of a building. Of course, I do not know the exact
chemical effect that oil has on stone, and I see no harm
in laughing at such a ceremony. If the oil does good,
the laughter will do no harm; and if the oil will do no
harm, the laughter will do no good. Personally, I am
willing that Masons should put oil on all stones; but,
if Masons should insist that I must believe in the effi-
cacy of the ceremony, or be eternally damned, I
would have about the same feeling toward the
Masons that I now have toward Mr. Talmage. I
presume that at one time the putting of oil on a
corner-stone had some meaning; but that it ever did
any good, no sensible man will insist. It is a custom
to break a bottle of champagne over the bow of
a newly-launched ship, but I have never considered
this ceremony important to the commercial interests
of the world.

I have the same opinion about putting oil on
stones, as about putting water on heads. For my
part, I see no good in the rite of baptism. Still, it

97

may do no harm, unless people are immersed during
cold weather. Neither have I the slightest objection
to the baptism of anybody; but if people tell me that
I must be baptized or suffer eternal agony, then I deny
it. If they say that baptism does any earthly good, I
deny it. No one objects to any harmless ceremony;
but the moment it is insisted that a ceremony is neces-
sary, the reason of which no man can see, then the
practice of the ceremony becomes hurtful, for the
reason that it is maintained only at the expense of
intelligence and manhood.

It is hurtful for people to imagine that they can
please God by any ceremony whatever. If there is
any God, there is only one way to please him, and
that is, by a conscientious discharge of your obliga-
tions to your fellow-men. Millions of people imagine
that they can please God by wearing certain kinds
of cloth. Think of a God who can be pleased with
a coat of a certain cut! Others, to earn a smile of
heaven, shave their heads, or trim their beards, or
perforate their ears or lips or noses. Others maim
and mutilate their bodies. Others think to please
God by simply shutting their eyes, by swinging
censers, by lighting candles, by repeating poor Latin,
by making a sign of the cross with holy water, by

98

ringing bells, by going without meat, by eating fish,
by getting hungry, by counting beads, by making
themselves miserable Sundays, by looking solemn,
by refusing to marry, by hearing sermons; and
others imagine that they can please God by calumni-
ating unbelievers.

There is an old story of an Irishman who, when
dying, sent for a priest. The reputation of the
dying man was so perfectly miserable, that the priest
refused to administer the rite of extreme unction.
The priest therefore asked him if he could recollect
any decent action that he had ever done. The dying
man said that he could not. "Very well," said the
priest, "then you will have to be damned." In a
moment, the pinched and pale face brightened, and
he said to the priest: "I have thought of one good
"action." "What is it?" asked the priest. And the
dying man said, "Once I killed a gauger."

I suppose that in the next world some ministers,
driven to extremes, may reply: "Once I told a lie
"about an infidel."

_Question_. You see that Mr. Talmage still sticks to
the whale and Jonah story. What do you think of
his argument, or of his explanation, rather, of that
miracle?

99

_Answer_. The edge of his orthodoxy seems to be
crumbling. He tells us that "there is in the mouth
"of the common whale a cavity large enough for a
"man to live in without descent into his stomach,"—
and yet Christ says, that Jonah was in the whale's
belly, not in his mouth. But why should Mr. Tal-
mage say that? We are told in the sacred account
that "God prepared a great fish" for the sole pur-
pose of having Jonah swallowed. The size of the
present whale has nothing to do with the story. No
matter whether the throat of the whale of to-day is
large or small,—that has nothing to do with it. The
simple story is, that God prepared a fish and had
Jonah swallowed. And yet Mr. Talmage throws out
the suggestion that probably this whale held Jonah
in his mouth for three days and nights. I admit that
Jonah's chance for air would have been a little better
in his mouth, and his chance for water a little worse.
Probably the whale that swallowed Jonah was the
same fish spoken of by Procopius,—both accounts
being entitled, in my judgment, to equal credence.
I am a little surprised that Mr. Talmage forgot
to mention the fish spoken of by Munchausen—an
equally reliable author,—and who has given, not
simply the bald fact that a fish swallowed a ship, but

100

was good enough to furnish the details. Mr. Talmage
should remember that out of Jonah's biography
grew the habit of calling any remarkable lie, "a fish
"story." There is one thing that Mr. Talmage
should not forget; and that is, that miracles should
not be explained. Miracles are told simply to be
believed, not to be understood.

Somebody suggested to Mr. Talmage that, in
all probability, a person in the stomach of a whale
would be digested in less than three days. Mr. Tal-
mage, again showing his lack of confidence in God,
refusing to believe that God could change the nature
of gastric juice,—having no opportunity to rely
upon "refraction or reflection," frankly admits that
Jonah had to save himself by keeping on the
constant go and jump. This gastric-juice theory of
Mr. Talmage is an abandonment of his mouth hy-
pothesis. I do not wonder that Mr. Talmage thought
of the mouth theory. Possibly, the two theories had
better be united—so that we may say that Jonah,
when he got tired of the activity necessary to
avoid the gastric juice, could have strolled into
the mouth for a rest. What a picture! Jonah
sitting on the edge of the lower jaw, wiping the
perspiration and the gastric juice from his anxious

101

face, and vainly looking through the open mouth
for signs of land!

In this story of Jonah, we are told that "the Lord
"spake unto the fish." In what language? It must
be remembered that this fish was only a few hours
old. He had been prepared during the storm, for
the sole purpose of swallowing Jonah. He was a
fish of exceedingly limited experience. He had no
hereditary knowledge, because he did not spring
from ancestors; consequently, he had no instincts.
Would such a fish understand any language? It
may be contended that the fish, having been made
for the occasion, was given a sufficient knowledge
of language to understand an ordinary command-
ment; but, if Mr. Talmage is right, I think an order
to the fish would have been entirely unnecessary.
When we take into consideration that a thing the
size of a man had been promenading up and down
the stomach of this fish for three days and three
nights, successfully baffling the efforts of gastric
juice, we can readily believe that the fish was as
anxious to have Jonah go, as Jonah was to leave.

But the whale part is, after all, not the most won-
derful portion of the book of Jonah. According to
this wonderful account, "the word of the Lord came

102

"to Jonah," telling him to "go and cry against the
"city of Nineveh;" but Jonah, instead of going,
endeavored to evade the Lord by taking ship for
Tarshish. As soon as the Lord heard of this, he
"sent out a great wind into the sea," and frightened
the sailors to that extent that after assuring them-
selves, by casting lots, that Jonah was the man, they
threw him into the sea. After escaping from the
whale, he went to Nineveh, and delivered his pre-
tended message from God. In consequence of his
message, Jonah having no credentials from God,—
nothing certifying to his official character, the King
of Nineveh covered himself with sack-cloth and sat
down in some ashes. He then caused a decree to
be issued that every man and beast should abstain
from food and water; and further, that every man and
beast should be covered with sack-cloth. This was
done in the hope that Jonah's God would repent, and
turn away his fierce anger. When we take into con-
sideration the fact that the people of Nineveh were
not Hebrews, and had not the slightest confidence in
the God of the Jews—knew no more of, and cared no
more for, Jehovah than we now care for Jupiter, or
Neptune; the effect produced by the proclamation of
Jonah is, to say the least of it, almost incredible.

103

We are also informed, in this book, that the
moment God saw all the people sitting in the ashes,
and all the animals covered with sack-cloth, he
repented. This failure on the part of God to destroy
the unbelievers displeased Jonah exceedingly, and
he was very angry. Jonah was much like the
modern minister, who seems always to be personally
aggrieved if the pestilence and famine prophesied by
him do not come. Jonah was displeased to that
degree, that he asked God to kill him. Jonah then
went out of the city, even after God had repented,
made him a booth and sat under it, in the shade,
waiting to see what would become of the city. God
then "prepared a gourd, and made it to come up
"over Jonah that it might be a shadow over his
"head to deliver him from his grief." And then we
have this pathetic line: "So Jonah was exceedingly
"glad of the gourd."

God having prepared a fish, and also prepared
a gourd, proposed next morning to prepare a worm.
And when the sun rose next day, the worm that
God had prepared, "smote the gourd, so that
"it withered." I can hardly believe that an in-
finite being prepared a worm to smite a gourd
so that it withered, in order to keep the sun from

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the bald head of a prophet. According to the
account, after sunrise, and after the worm had
smitten the gourd, "God prepared a vehement east
"wind." This was not an ordinary wind, but one
prepared expressly for that occasion. After the wind
had been prepared, "the sun beat upon the head of
"Jonah, and he fainted, and wished in himself to
"die." All this was done in order to convince
Jonah that a man who would deplore the loss of a
gourd, ought not to wish for the destruction of a city.

Is it possible for any intelligent man now to
believe that the history of Jonah is literally true?
For my part, I cannot see the necessity either of
believing it, or of preaching it. It has nothing to do
with honesty, with mercy, or with morality. The
bad may believe it, and the good may hold it in
contempt. I do not see that civilization has the
slightest interest in the fish, the gourd, the worm, or
the vehement east wind.

Does Mr. Talmage think that it is absolutely neces-
sary to believe _all_ the story? Does he not think it
probable that a God of infinite mercy, rather than
damn the soul of an honest man to hell forever, would
waive, for instance, the worm,—provided he believed
in the vehement east wind, the gourd and the fish?

105

Mr. Talmage, by insisting on the literal truth of
the Bible stories, is doing Christianity great harm.
Thousands of young men will say: "I can't become
"a Christian if it is necessary to believe the adven-
"tures of Jonah." Mr. Talmage will put into the
paths of multitudes of people willing to do right,
anxious to make the world a little better than it is,—
this stumbling block. He could have explained it,
called it an allegory, poetical license, a child of the
oriental imagination, a symbol, a parable, a poem, a
dream, a legend, a myth, a divine figure, or a great
truth wrapped in the rags and shreds and patches of
seeming falsehood. His efforts to belittle the miracle,
to suggest the mouth instead of the stomach,—to
suggest that Jonah took deck passage, or lodged in
the forecastle instead of in the cabin or steerage,—
to suggest motion as a means of avoiding digestion,
is a serious theological blunder, and may cause the
loss of many souls.

If Mr. Talmage will consult with other ministers,
they will tell him to let this story alone—that he will
simply "provoke investigation and discussion"—two
things to be avoided. They will tell him that they
are not willing their salary should hang on so slender
a thread, and will advise him not to bother his gourd

106

about Jonah's. They will also tell him that in this
age of the world, arguments cannot be answered by
"a vehement east wind."

Some people will think that it would have been
just as easy for God to have pulled the gourd up, as
to have prepared a worm to bite it.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage charges that you have
said there are indecencies in the Bible. Are you
still of that opinion?

_Answer_. Mr. Talmage endeavors to evade the
charge, by saying that "there are things in the Bible
"not intended to be read, either in the family circle,
"or in the pulpit, but nevertheless they are to be
"read." My own judgment is, that an infinite being
should not inspire the writing of indecent things.
It will not do to say, that the Bible description of sin
"warns and saves." There is nothing in the history
of Tamar calculated to "warn and save and the
same may be said of many other passages in the
Old Testament. Most Christians would be glad
to know that all such passages are interpolations.
I regret that Shakespeare ever wrote a line that
could not be read any where, and by any person.
But Shakespeare, great as he was, did not rise en-

107

tirely above his time. So of most poets. Nearly all
have stained their pages with some vulgarity; and I
am sorry for it, and hope the time will come when
we shall have an edition of all the great writers and
poets from which every such passage is elimi-
nated.

It is with the Bible as with most other books. It
is a mingling of good and bad. There are many
exquisite passages in the Bible,—many good laws,—
many wise sayings,—and there are many passages
that should never have been written. I do not pro-
pose to throw away the good on account of the
bad, neither do I propose to accept the bad on
account of the good. The Bible need not be taken
as an entirety. It is the business of every man who
reads it, to discriminate between that which is good
and that which is bad. There are also many passages
neither good nor bad,—wholly and totally indifferent
—conveying 110 information—utterly destitute of
ideas,—and as to these passages, my only objection
to them is that they waste time and paper.

I am in favor of every passage in the Bible that
conveys information. I am in favor of every wise
proverb, of every verse coming from human ex-
perience and that appeals to the heart of man. I am

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in favor of every passage that inculcates justice,
generosity, purity, and mercy. I am satisfied that
much of the historical part is false. Some of it
is probably true. Let us have the courage to take
the true, and throw the false away. I am satisfied
that many of the passages are barbaric, and many of
them are good. Let us have the wisdom to accept
the good and to reject the barbaric.

No system of religion should go in partnership
with barbarism. Neither should any Christian feel
it his duty to defend the savagery of the past. The
philosophy of Christ must stand independently of the
mistakes of the Old Testament. We should do jus-
tice whether a woman was made from a rib or from
"omnipotence." We should be merciful whether
the flood was general, or local. We should be kind
and obliging whether Jonah was swallowed by a fish
or not. The miraculous has nothing to do with the
moral. Intelligence is of more value than inspiration.
Brain is better than Bible. Reason is above all
religion. I do not believe that any civilized human
being clings to the Bible on account of its barbaric
passages. I am candid enough to believe that every
Christian in the world would think more of the Bible,
if it had not upheld slavery, if it had denounced

109

polygamy, if it had cried out against wars of exter-
mination, if it had spared women and babes, if it had
upheld everywhere, and at all times, the standard of
justice and mercy. But when it is claimed that the
book is perfect, that it is inspired, that it is, in fact,
the work of an infinitely wise and good God,—then
it should be without a defect. There should not be
within its lids an impure word; it should not express
an impure thought. There should not be one word
in favor of injustice, not one word in favor of slavery,
not one word in favor of wars of extermination.
There must be another revision of the Scriptures.
The chaff must be thrown away. The dross must
be rejected; and only that be retained which is in
exact harmony with the brain and heart of the
greatest and the best.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage charges you with unfair-
ness, because you account for the death of art in
Palestine, by the commandment which forbids the
making of graven images.

_Answer_. I have said that that commandment was
the death of art, and I say so still. I insist that by
reason of that commandment, Palestine produced no
painter and no sculptor until after the destruction of

110

Jerusalem. Mr. Talmage, in order to answer that
statement, goes on to show that hundreds and thou-
sands of pictures were produced in the Middle Ages.
That is a departure in pleading. Will he give us the
names of the painters that existed in Palestine from
Mount Sinai to the destruction of the temple? Will
he give us the names of the sculptors between those
times? Mohammed prohibited his followers from
making any representation of human or animal life,
and as a result, Mohammedans have never produced
a painter nor a sculptor, except in the portrayal and
chiseling of vegetable forms. They were confined
to trees and vines, and flowers. No Mohammedan
has portrayed the human face or form. But the
commandment of Jehovah went farther than that of
Momammed, and prevented portraying the image of
anything. The assassination of art was complete.

There is another thing that should not be forgotten.

We are indebted for the encouragement of
art, not to the Protestant Church; if indebted to any,
it is to the Catholic. The Catholic adorned the cathedral

with painting and statue—not the Protestant.
The Protestants opposed music and painting, and
refused to decorate their temples. But if Mr. Tal-
mage wishes to know to whom we are indebted for

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art, let him read the mythology of Greece and Rome.
The early Christians destroyed paintings and statues.
They were the enemies of all beauty. They hated
and detested every expression of art. They looked
upon the love of statues as a form of idolatry. They
looked upon every painting as a remnant of Pagan-
ism. They destroyed all upon which they could lay
their ignorant hands. Hundred of years afterwards,
the world was compelled to search for the fragments
that Christian fury had left. The Greeks filled the
world with beauty. For every stream and mountain
and cataract they had a god or goddess. Their
sculptors impersonated every dream and hope, and
their mythology feeds, to-day, the imagination of
mankind. The Venus de Milo is the impersonation
of beauty, in ruin—the sublimest fragment of the
ancient world. Our mythology is infinitely unpoetic
and barren—our deity an old bachelor from eternity,
who once believed in indiscriminate massacre. Upon
the throne of our heaven, woman finds no place.
Our mythology is destitute of the maternal.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage denies your statement
that the Old Testament humiliates woman. He also
denies that the New Testament says anything
against woman. How is it?

112

_Answer_. Of course, I never considered a book up-
holding polygamy to be the friend of woman. Eve,
according to that book, is the mother of us all, and
yet the inspired writer does not tell us how long she
lived,—does not even mention her death,—makes
not the slightest reference as to what finally became
of her. Methuselah lived nine hundred and sixty-
nine years, and yet, there is not the slightest mention
made of Mrs. Methuselah. Enoch was translated,
and his widow is not mentioned. There is not a
word about Mrs. Seth, or Mrs. Enos, or Mrs. Cainan,
or Mrs. Mahalaleel, or Mrs. Jared. We do not
know the name of Mrs. Noah, and I believe not the
name of a solitary woman is given from the creation
of Eve—with the exception of two of Lamech's
wives—until Sarai is mentioned as being the wife
of Abram.

If you wish really to know the Bible estimation of
woman, turn to the fourth and fifth verses of the
twelfth chapter of Leviticus, in which a woman, for
the crime of having borne a son, is unfit to touch a
hallowed thing, or to come in the holy sanctuary for
thirty-three days; but if a woman was the mother
of a girl, then she became totally unfit to enter the
sanctuary, or pollute with her touch a hallowed thing,

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for sixty-six days. The pollution was twice as great
when she had borne a daughter.

It is a little difficult to see why it is a greater crime
to give birth to a daughter than to a son. Surely, a
law like that did not tend to the elevation of woman.
You will also find in the same chapter that a woman
had to offer a pigeon, or a turtle-dove, as a sin offer-
ing, in order to expiate the crime of having become a
mother. By the Levitical law, a mother was unclean.
The priest had to make an atonement for her.

If there is, beneath the stars, a figure of complete
and perfect purity, it is a mother holding in her arms
her child. The laws respecting women, given by
commandment of Jehovah to the Jews, were born of
barbarism, and in this day and age should be re-
garded only with detestation and contempt. The
twentieth and twenty-first verses of the nineteenth
chapter of Leviticus show that the same punishment
was not meted to men and women guilty of the
same crime.

The real explanation of what we find in the Old
Testament degrading to woman, lies in the fact, that
the overflow of Love's mysterious Nile—the sacred
source of life—was, by its savage authors, deemed
unclean.

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_Question_. But what have you to say about the
women of the Bible, mentioned by Mr. Talmage,
and held up as examples for all time of all that is
sweet and womanly?

_Answer_. I believe that Esther is his principal
heroine. Let us see who she was.

According to the book of Esther, Ahasuerus who
was king of Persia, or some such place, ordered
Vashti his queen to show herself to the people
and the princes, because she was "exceedingly fair
"to look upon." For some reason—modesty per-
haps—she refused to appear. And thereupon the
king "sent letters into all his provinces and to every
"people after their language, that every man should
"bear rule in his own house;" it being feared that
if it should become public that Vashti had disobeyed,
all other wives might follow her example. The king
also, for the purpose of impressing upon all women
the necessity of obeying their husbands, issued a
decree that "Vashti should come no more before
"him," and that he would "give her royal estate
"unto another." This was done that "all the
"wives should give to their husbands honor, both to
"great and small."

After this, "the king appointed officers in all the

115

"provinces of his kingdom that they might gather
"together all the fair young virgins," and bring
them to his palace, put them in the custody of
his chamberlain, and have them thoroughly washed.
Then the king was to look over the lot and take
each day the one that pleased him best until he found
the one to put in the place of Vashti. A fellow by
the name of Mordecai, living in that part of the
country, hearing of the opportunity to sell a girl,
brought Esther, his uncle's daughter,—she being an
orphan, and very beautiful—to see whether she
might not be the lucky one.

The remainder of the second chapter of this
book, I do not care to repeat. It is sufficient to say
that Esther at last was chosen.

The king at this time did not know that Esther
was a Jewess. Mordecai her kinsman, however,
discovered a plot to assassinate the king, and Esther
told the king, and the two plotting gentlemen were
hanged on a tree.

After a while, a man by the name of Haman was
made Secretary of State, and everybody coming in
his presence bowed except Mordecai. Mordecai was
probably depending on the influence of Esther.
Haman finally became so vexed, that he made up

116

his mind to have all the Jews in the kingdom
destroyed. (The number of Jews at that time
in Persia must have been immense.) Haman there-
upon requested the king to have an order issued to
destroy all the Jews, and in consideration of the
order, proposed to pay ten thousand talents of silver.
And thereupon, letters were written to the governors
of the various provinces, sealed with the king's ring,
sent by post in all directions, with instructions to kill
all the Jews, both young and old—little children and
women,—in one day. (One would think that the
king copied this order from another part of the Old
Testament, or had found an original by Jehovah.) The
people immediately made preparations for the killing.
Mordecai clothed himself with sack-cloth, and Esther
called upon one of the king's chamberlains, and she
finally got the history of the affair, as well as a copy
of the writing, and thereupon made up her mind to
go in and ask the king to save her people.

At that time, Bismarck's idea of government being
in full force, any one entering the king's presence with-
out an invitation, was liable to be put to death. And
in case any one did go in to see the king, if the king
failed to hold out his golden sceptre, his life was not
spared. Notwithstanding this order, Esther put on

117

her best clothes, and stood in the inner court of the
king's house, while the king sat on his royal throne.
When the king saw her standing in the court, he
held out his sceptre, and Esther drew near, and he
asked her what she wished; and thereupon she
asked that the king and Haman might take dinner
with her that day, and it was done. While they were
feasting, the king again asked Esther what she
wanted; and her second request was, that they
would come and dine with her once more. When
Haman left the palace that day, he saw Mordecai
again at the gate, standing as stiffly as usual, and it
filled Haman with indignation. So Haman, taking
the advice of his wife, made a gallows fifty cubits
high, for the special benefit of Mordecai. The next
day, when Haman went to see the king, the king,
having the night before refreshed his memory in
respect to the service done him by Mordecai, asked
Haman what ought to be done for the man whom
the king wished to honor. Haman, supposing of
course that the king referred to him, said that royal
purple ought to be brought forth, such as the king
wore, and the horse that the king rode on, and the
crown-royal should be set on the man's head;—that
one of the most noble princes should lead the horse,

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and as he went through the streets, proclaim: "Thus
"shall it be done to the man whom the king de-
"lighteth to honor."

Thereupon the king told Haman that Mordecai
was the man that the king wished to honor. And
Haman was forced to lead this horse, backed by
Mordecai, through the streets, shouting: "This shall
"be done to the man whom the king delighteth to
"honor." Immediately afterward, he went to the
banquet that Esther had prepared, and the king
again asked Esther her petition. She then asked
for the salvation of her people; stating at the same
time, that if her people had been sold into slavery,
she would have held her tongue; but since they
were about to be killed, she could not keep silent.
The king asked her who had done this thing; and
Esther replied that it was the wicked Haman.

Thereupon one of the chamberlains, remembering
the gallows that had been made for Mordecai, men-
tioned it, and the king immediately ordered that
Haman be hanged thereon; which was done. And
Mordecai immediately became Secretary of State.
The order against the Jews was then rescinded; and
Ahasuerus, willing to do anything that Esther de-
sired, hanged all of Haman's folks. He not only did

119

this, but he immediately issued an order to all the
Jews allowing them to kill the other folks. And the
Jews got together throughout one hundred and
twenty-seven provinces, "and such was their power,
"that no man could stand against them; and there-
"upon the Jews smote all their enemies with the
"stroke of the sword, and with slaughter and de-
"struction, and did whatever they pleased to those
"who hated them." And in the palace of the king,
the Jews slew and destroyed five hundred men, besides
ten sons of Haman; and in the rest of the provinces,
they slew seventy-five thousand people. And after
this work of slaughter, the Jews had a day of glad-
ness and feasting.

One can see from this, what a beautiful Bible
character Esther was—how filled with all that is
womanly, gentle, kind and tender!

This story is one of the most unreasonable, as well
as one of the most heartless and revengeful, in the
whole Bible. Ahasuerus was a monster, and Esther
equally infamous; and yet, this woman is held up for
the admiration of mankind by a Brooklyn pastor.
There is this peculiarity about the book of Esther:
the name of God is not mentioned in it, and the
deity is not referred to, directly or indirectly;—yet

120

it is claimed to be an inspired book. If Jehovah
wrote it, he certainly cannot be charged with
egotism.

I most cheerfully admit that the book of Ruth is
quite a pleasant story, and the affection of Ruth for
her mother-in-law exceedingly touching, but I am of
opinion that Ruth did many things that would be re-
garded as somewhat indiscreet, even in the city of
Brooklyn.

All I can find about Hannah is, that she made a
little coat for her boy Samuel, and brought it to him
from year to year. Where he got his vest and
pantaloons we are not told. But this fact seems
hardly enough to make her name immortal.

So also Mr. Talmage refers us to the wonderful
woman Abigail. The story about Abigail, told in
plain English, is this: David sent some of his fol-
lowers to Nabal, Abigail's husband, and demanded
food. Nabal, who knew nothing about David, and
cared less, refused. Abigail heard about it, and took
food to David and his servants. She was very much
struck, apparently, with David and David with her.
A few days afterward Nabal died—supposed to have
been killed by the Lord—but probably poisoned;
and thereupon David took Abigail to wife. The

121

whole matter should have been investigated by the
grand jury.

We are also referred to Dorcas, who no doubt was a
good woman—made clothes for the poor and gave
alms, as millions have done since then. It seems
that this woman died. Peter was sent for, and there-
upon raised her from the dead, and she is never men-
tioned any more. Is it not a little strange that a
woman who had been actually raised from the dead,
should have so completely passed out of the memory
of her time, that when she died the second time, she
was entirely unnoticed?

Is it not astonishing that so little is in the New
Testament concerning the mother of Christ? My
own opinion is, that she was an excellent woman, and
the wife of Joseph; and that Joseph was the actual
father of Christ. I think there can be no reasonable
doubt that such was the opinion of the authors of the
original gospels. Upon any other hypothesis, it is
impossible to account for their having given the
genealogy of Joseph to prove that Christ was of the
blood of David. The idea that he was the Son of
God, or in any way miraculously produced, was an
afterthought, and is hardly entitled now to serious
consideration. The gospels were written so long after

122

the death of Christ, that very little was known of him,
and substantially nothing of his parents. How is it
that not one word is said about the death of Mary—
not one word about the death of Joseph? How did
it happen that Christ did not visit his mother after his
resurrection? The first time he speaks to his mother
is when he was twelve years old. His mother having
told him that she and his father had been seeking
him, he replied: "How is it that ye sought me: wist
"ye not that I must be about my Father s business?"

The second time was at the marriage feast in Cana,
when he said to her: "Woman, what have I to do
"with thee?" And the third time was at the cross,
when "Jesus, seeing his mother standing by the
"disciple whom he loved, said to her: Woman, be-
"hold thy son;" and to the disciple: "Behold thy
"mother." And this is all.

The best thing about the Catholic Church is
the deification of Mary,—and yet this is denounced
by Protestantism as idolatry. There is something
in the human heart that prompts man to tell his faults
more freely to the mother than to the father. The
cruelty of Jehovah is softened by the mercy of
Mary.

Is it not strange that none of the disciples of Christ

123

said anything about their parents,—that we know
absolutely nothing of them? Is there any evidence
that they showed any particular respect even for the
mother of Christ?

Mary Magdalen is, in many respects, the tenderest
and most loving character in the New Testament.
According to the account, her love for Christ knew
no abatement,—no change—true even in the hopeless
shadow of the cross. Neither did it die with his
death. She waited at the sepulchre; she hasted in
the early morning to his tomb, and yet the only
comfort Christ gave to this true and loving soul lies
in these strangely cold and heartless words: "Touch
"me not."

There is nothing tending to show that the women
spoken of in the Bible were superior to the ones we
know. There are to-day millions of women making
coats for their sons,—hundreds of thousands of
women, true not simply to innocent people, falsely
accused, but to criminals. Many a loving heart is
as true to the gallows as Mary was to the cross.
There are hundreds of thousands of women accept-
ing poverty and want and dishonor, for the love they
bear unworthy men; hundreds and thousands, hun-
dreds and thousands, working day and night, with

124

strained eyes and tired hands, for husbands and
children,—clothed in rags, housed in huts and hovels,
hoping day after day for the angel of death. There are
thousands of women in Christian England, working in
iron, laboring in the fields and toiling in mines. There
are hundreds and thousands in Europe, everywhere,
doing the work of men—deformed by toil, and who
would become simply wild and ferocious beasts,
except for the love they bear for home and child.

You need not go back four thousand years for
heroines. The world is filled with them to-day.
They do not belong to any nation, nor to any religion,
nor exclusively to any race. Wherever woman is
found, they are found.

There is no description of any women in the Bible
that equal thousands and thousands of women known
to-day. The women mentioned by Mr. Talmage fall
almost infinitely below, not simply those in real life, but
the creations of the imagination found in the world of
fiction. They will not compare with the women born
of Shakespeare's brain. You will find none like
Isabella, in whose spotless life, love and reason
blended into perfect truth; nor Juliet, within whose
heart passion and purity met, like white and red within
the bosom of a rose; nor Cordelia, who chose to

125

suffer loss rather than show her wealth of love with
those who gilded dross with golden words in hope
of gain; nor Miranda, who told her love as freely
as a flower gives its bosom to the kisses of the sun;
nor Imogene, who asked: "What is it to be false?"
nor Hermione, who bore with perfect faith and hope
the cross of shame, and who at last forgave with all
her heart; nor Desdemona, her innocence so perfect
and her love so pure, that she was incapable of sus-
pecting that another could suspect, and sought with
dying words to hide her lover's crime.

If we wish to find what the Bible thinks of
woman, all that is necessary to do is to read it.
We will find that everywhere she is spoken of
simply as property,—as belonging absolutely to the
man. We will find that whenever a man got tired
of his wife, all he had to do was to give her a writing
of divorcement, and that then the mother of his
children became a houseless and a homeless wanderer.
We will find that men were allowed to have as
many wives as they could get, either by courtship,
purchase, or conquest. The Jewish people in the
olden time were in many respects like their barbarian
neighbors.

If we read the New Testament, we will find in the

126

epistle of Paul to Timothy, the following gallant
passages:

"Let the woman learn in silence, with all
"subjection."

"But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp
"authority over the man, but to be in silence."

And for these kind, gentle and civilized remarks,
the apostle Paul gives the following reasons:

"For Adam was first formed, then Eve."

"And Adam was not deceived, but the woman
"being deceived was in the transgression."

Certainly women ought to feel under great obli-
gation to the apostle Paul.

In the fifth chapter of the same epistle, Paul,
advising Timothy as to what kind of people he
should admit into his society or church, uses the
following language:

"Let not a widow be taken into the number under
"threescore years old, having been the wife of one
"man."

"But the younger widows refuse, for when they
"have begun to wax wanton against Christ, they will
"marry."

This same Paul did not seem to think polygamy
wrong, except in a bishop. He tells Timothy that:

127

"A bishop must be blameless, the husband of one
"wife."

He also lays down the rule that a deacon should be
the husband of one wife, leaving us to infer that the
other members might have as many as they could get.

In the second epistle to Timothy, Paul speaks of
"grandmother Lois," who was referred to in such
extravagant language by Mr. Talmage, and nothing
is said touching her character in the least. All her
virtues live in the imagination, and in the imagina-
tion alone.

Paul, also, in his epistle to the Ephesians, says:

"Wives, submit yourselves unto your own hus-
"bands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the
"head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the
"church."

"Therefore, as the church is subject unto Christ,
"so let the wives be to their own husbands, in
"everything."

You will find, too, that in the seventh chapter of
First Corinthians, Paul laments that all men are not
bachelors like himself, and in the second verse of
that chapter he gives the only reason for which he
was willing that men and women should marry. He
advised all the unmarried, and all widows, to remain

128

as he was. In the ninth verse of this same chapter
is a slander too vulgar for repetition,—an estimate
of woman and of woman's love so low and vile, that
every woman should hold the inspired author in
infinite abhorrence.

Paul sums up the whole matter, however, by telling
those who have wives or husbands, to stay with
them—as necessary evils only to be tolerated—but
sincerely regrets that anybody was ever married;
and finally says that:

"They that have wives should be as though they
"had none;" because, in his opinion:

"He that is unmarried careth for the things that
"belong to the Lord, how he may please the Lord;
"but he that is married careth for the things that are
"of the world, how he may please his wife."

"There is this difference also," he tells us, "be-
"tween a wife and a virgin. The unmarried woman
"careth for the things of the Lord, that she may be
"holy both in body and in spirit; but she that is
"married careth for the things of the world, how she
" may please her husband."

Of course, it is contended that these things have
tended to the elevation of woman.

The idea that it is better to love the Lord than to

129

love your wife, or your husband, is infinitely absurd.
Nobody ever did love the Lord,—nobody can—until
he becomes acquainted with him.

Saint Paul also tells us that "Man is the image
"and glory of God; but woman is the glory of
"man;" and for the purpose of sustaining this posi-
tion, says:

"For the man is not of the woman, but the woman
"of the man; neither was the man created for the
"woman, but the woman for the man."

Of course, we can all see that man could have
gotten along well enough without woman, but woman,
by no possibility, could have gotten along without
man. And yet, this is called "inspired;" and this
apostle Paul is supposed to have known more than
all the people now upon the earth. No wonder Paul
at last was constrained to say: "We are fools for
"Christ's sake."

_Question_. How do you account for the present
condition of woman in what is known as "the civilized
"world," unless the Bible has bettered her condition?

_Answer_. We must remember that thousands of
things enter into the problem of civilization. Soil,
climate, and geographical position, united with count-

130

less other influences, have resulted in the civilization
of our time. If we want to find what the influence of
the Bible has been, we must ascertain the condition
of Europe when the Bible was considered as abso-
lutely true, and when it wielded its greatest influence.

Christianity as a form of religion had actual posses-
sion of Europe during the Middle Ages. At that
time, it exerted its greatest power. Then it had the
opportunity of breaking the shackles from the limbs
of woman. Christianity found the Roman matron a
free woman. Polygamy was never known in Rome;
and although divorces were allowed by law, the
Roman state had been founded for more than five
hundred years before either a husband or a wife
asked for a divorce. From the foundation of Chris-
tianity,—I mean from the time it became the force in
the Roman state,—woman, as such, went down in
the scale of civilization. The sceptre was taken from
her hands, and she became once more the slave and
serf of man. The men also were made slaves, and
woman has regained her liberty by the same means
that man has regained his,—by wresting authority
from the hands of the church. While the church had
power, the wife and mother was not considered as
good as the begging nun; the husband and father
was far below the vermin-covered monk; homes
were of no value compared with the cathedral; for
God had to have a house, no matter how many of
his children were wanderers. During all the years in
which woman has struggled for equal liberty with
man, she has been met with the Bible doctrine that
she is the inferior of the man; that Adam was made
first, and Eve afterwards; that man was not made for
woman, but that woman was made for man.

I find that in this day and generation, the meanest
men have the lowest estimate of woman; that the
greater the man is, the grander he is, the more he
thinks of mother, wife and daughter. I also find that
just in the proportion that he has lost confidence in the
polygamy of Jehovah and in the advice and philosophy
of Saint Paul, he believes in the rights and liberties of
woman. As a matter of fact, men have risen from a
perusal of the Bible, and murdered their wives. They
have risen from reading its pages, and inflicted cruel
and even mortal blows upon their children. Men
have risen from reading the Bible and torn the flesh
of others with red-hot pincers. They have laid
down the sacred volume long enough to pour molten
lead into the ears of others. They have stopped
reading the sacred Scriptures for a sufficient time to

132

incarcerate their fellow-men, to load them with chains,
and then they have gone back to their reading,
allowing their victims to die in darkness and despair.
Men have stopped reading the Old Testament long
enough to drive a stake into the ground and collect a
few fagots and burn an honest man. Even ministers
have denied themselves the privilege of reading the
sacred book long enough to tell falsehoods about
their fellow-men. There is no crime that Bible
readers and Bible believers and Bible worshipers and
Bible defenders have not committed. There is no
meanness of which some Bible reader, believer, and
defender, has not been guilty. Bible believers and
Bible defenders have filled the world with calumnies
and slanders. Bible believers and Bible defenders
have not only whipped their wives, but they have
murdered them; they have murdered their children.
I do not say that reading the Bible will necessarily
make men dishonest, but I do say, that reading the
Bible will not prevent their committing crimes. I do
not say that believing the Bible will necessarily make
men commit burglary, but I do say that a belief in the
Bible has caused men to persecute each other, to
imprison each other, and to burn each other.

Only a little while ago, a British clergyman mur-

133

dered his wife. Only a little while ago, an American
Protestant clergyman whipped his boy to death be-
cause the boy refused to say a prayer.

The Rev. Mr. Crowley not only believed the Bible,
but was licensed to expound it. He had been
"called" to the ministry, and upon his head had
been laid the holy hands; and yet, he deliberately
starved orphans, and while looking upon their
sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, sung pious hymns
and quoted with great unction: "Suffer little chil-
"dren to come unto me."

As a matter of fact, in the last twenty years,
more money has been stolen by Christian cashiers,
Christian presidents, Christian directors, Christian
trustees and Christian statesmen, than by all other
convicts in all the penitentiaries in all the Christian
world.

The assassin of Henry the Fourth was a Bible reader
and a Bible believer. The instigators of the massacre
of St. Bartholomew were believers in your sacred
Scriptures. The men who invested their money in the
slave-trade believed themselves filled with the Holy
Ghost, and read with rapture the Psalms of David and
the Sermon on the Mount. The murderers of Scotch
Presbyterians were believers in Revelation, and the

134
Presbyterians, when they murdered others, were also
believers. Nearly every man who expiates a crime
upon the gallows is a believer in the Bible. For a
thousand years, the daggers of assassination and the
swords of war were blest by priests—by the believers
in the sacred Scriptures. The assassin of President
Garfield is a believer in the Bible, a hater of infidelity,
a believer in personal inspiration, and he expects in a
few weeks to join the winged and redeemed in
heaven.

If a man would follow, to-day, the teachings of the
Old Testament, he would be a criminal. If he would
follow strictly the teachings of the New, he would be
insane.

## Fourth Interview

_Son. There is no devil.

Mother. I know there is.

Son. How do you know?

Mother. Because they make pictures that look just
like him.

Son. But, mother—

Mother. Don't "mother" me! You are trying to
disgrace your parents._

_Question_. I want to ask you a few questions about
Mr. Talmage's fourth sermon against you, entitled:
"The Meanness of Infidelity," in which he compares
you to Jehoiakim, who had the temerity to throw
some of the writings of the weeping Jeremiah into
the fire?

_Answer_. So far as I am concerned, I really re-
gret that a second edition of Jeremiah's roll was
gotten out. It would have been far better for us all,
if it had been left in ashes. There was nothing but
curses and prophecies of evil, in the sacred roll that

138

Jehoiakim burned. The Bible tells us that Jehovah
became exceedingly wroth because of the destruction
of this roll, and pronounced a curse upon Jehoiakim
and upon Palestine. I presume it was on account of
the burning of that roll that the king of Babylon
destroyed the chosen people of God. It was on
account of that sacrilege that the Lord said of
Jehoiakim: "He shall have none to sit upon the
"throne of David; and his dead body shall be cast
"out in the day to the heat, and in the night to the
"frost." Any one can see how much a dead body
would suffer under such circumstances. Imagine an
infinitely wise, good and powerful God taking ven-
geance on the corpse of a barbarian king! What
joy there must have been in heaven as the angels
watched the alternate melting and freezing of the
dead body of Jehoiakim!

Jeremiah was probably the most accomplished
croaker of all time. Nothing satisfied him. He was
a prophetic pessimist,—an ancient Bourbon. He
was only happy when predicting war, pestilence and
famine. No wonder Jehoiakim despised him, and
hated all he wrote.

One can easily see the character of Jeremiah from
the following occurrence: When the Babylonians

139

had succeeded in taking Jerusalem, and in sacking
the city, Jeremiah was unfortunately taken prisoner;
but Captain Nebuzaradan came to Jeremiah, and told
him that he would let him go, because he had pro-
phesied against his own country. He was regarded
as a friend by the enemy.

There was, at that time, as now, the old fight
between the church and the civil power. Whenever
a king failed to do what the priests wanted, they
immediately prophesied overthrow, disaster, and de-
feat. Whenever the kings would hearken to their
voice, and would see to it that the priests had plenty
to eat and drink and wear, then they all declared
that Jehovah would love that king, would let him live
out all his days, and allow his son to reign in his
stead. It was simply the old conflict that is still being
waged, and it will be carried on until universal civil-
ization does away with priestcraft and superstition.

The priests in the days of Jeremiah were the same
as now. They sought to rule the State. They pre-
tended that, at their request, Jehovah would withhold
or send the rain; that the seasons were within their
power; that they with bitter words could blight the
fields and curse the land with want and death. They
gloried then, as now, in the exhibition of God's wrath.

140

In prosperity, the priests were forgotten. Success
scorned them; Famine flattered them; Health laughed
at them; Pestilence prayed to them; Disaster was
their only friend.

These old prophets prophesied nothing but evil,
and consequently, when anything bad happened, they
claimed it as a fulfillment, and pointed with pride to
the fact that they had, weeks or months, or years
before, foretold something of that kind. They were
really the originators of the phrase, "I told you so!"

There was a good old Methodist class-leader that
lived down near a place called Liverpool, on the
Illinois river. In the spring of 1861 the old man,
telling his experience, among other things said, that he
had lived there by the river for more than thirty
years, and he did not believe that a year had passed
that there were not hundreds of people during the
hunting season shooting ducks on Sunday; that he
had told his wife thousands of times that no good
would come of it; that evil would come of it; "And
"now, said the old man, raising his voice with the
importance of the announcement, "war is upon us!"

_Question_. Do you wish, as Mr. Talmage says, to de-
stroy the Bible—to have all the copies burned to ashes?
What do you wish to have done with the Bible?

141

_Answer_. I want the Bible treated exactly as we
treat other books—preserve the good and throw
away the foolish and the hurtful. I am fighting the
doctrine of inspiration. As long as it is believed that
the Bible is inspired, that book is the master—no
mind is free. With that belief, intellectual liberty is
impossible. With that belief, you can investigate
only at the risk of losing your soul. The Catholics
have a pope. Protestants laugh at them, and yet the
pope is capable of intellectual advancement. In
addition to this, the pope is mortal, and the church
cannot be afflicted with the same idiot forever. The
Protestants have a book for their pope. The book
cannot advance. Year after year, and century after
century, the book remains as ignorant as ever. It is
only made better by those who believe in its inspira-
tion giving better meanings to the words than their
ancestors did. In this way it may be said that the
Bible grows a little better.

Why should we have a book for a master? That
which otherwise might be a blessing, remains a curse.
If every copy of the Bible were destroyed, all that is
good in that book would be reproduced in a single
day. Leave every copy of the Bible as it is, and
have every human being believe in its inspiration,

142

and intellectual liberty would cease to exist. The
whole race, from that moment, would go back to-
ward the night of intellectual death.

The Bible would do more harm if more people
really believed it, and acted in accordance with its
teachings. Now and then a Freeman puts the knife
to the heart of his child. Now and then an assassin
relies upon some sacred passage; but, as a rule, few
men believe the Bible to be absolutely true.

There are about fifteen hundred million people in
the world. There are not two million who have read
the Bible through. There are not two hundred
million who ever saw the Bible. There are not five
hundred million who ever heard that such a book
exists.

Christianity is claimed to be a religion for all
mankind. It was founded more than eighteen cen-
turies ago; and yet, not one human being in three
has ever heard of it. As a matter of fact, for more
than fourteen centuries and-a-half after the crucifixion
of Christ, this hemisphere was absolutely unknown.
There was not a Christian in the world who knew
there was such a continent as ours, and all the
inhabitants of this, the New World, were deprived
of the gospel for fourteen centuries and-a-half, and

143

knew nothing of its blessings until they were in-
formed by Spanish murderers and marauders. Even
in the United States, Christianity is not keeping pace
with the increase of population. When we take
into consideration that it is aided by the momentum
of eighteen centuries, is it not wonderful that it is not
to-day holding its own? The reason of this is, that
we are beginning to understand the Scriptures. We
are beginningto see, and to see clearly, that they are
simply of human origin, and that the Bible bears
the marks of the barbarians who wrote it. The best
educated among the clergy admit that we know but
little as to the origin of the gospels; that we do not
positively know the author of one of them; that it is
really a matter of doubt as to who wrote the five
books attributed to Moses. They admit now, that
Isaiah was written by more than one person; that
Solomon's Song was not written by that king; that
Job is, in all probability, not a Jewish book; that
Ecclesiastes must have been written by a Freethinker,
and by one who had his doubts about the immortality
of the soul. The best biblical students of the so-
called orthodox world now admit that several stories
were united to make the gospel of Saint Luke; that
Hebrews is a selection from many fragments, and

144

that no human being, not afflicted with delirium
tremens, can understand the book of Revelation.

I am not the only one engaged in the work of
destruction. Every Protestant who expresses a doubt
as to the genuineness of a passage, is destroying the
Bible. The gentlemen who have endeavored to treat
hell as a question of syntax, and to prove that eternal
punishment depends upon grammar, are helping to
bring the Scriptures into contempt. Hundreds of
years ago, the Catholics told the Protestant world that
it was dangerous to give the Bible to the people.
The Catholics were right; the Protestants were
wrong. To read is to think. To think is to investi-
gate. To investigate is, finally, to deny. That book
should have been read only by priests. Every copy
should have been under the lock and key of bishop,
cardinal and pope. The common people should have
received the Bible from the lips of the ministers.
The world should have been kept in ignorance. In
that way, and in that way only, could the pulpit have
maintained its power. He who teaches a child
the alphabet sows the seeds of heresy. I have lived
to see the schoolhouse in many a village larger than
the church. Every man who finds a fact, is the
enemy of theology. Every man who expresses an

145

honest thought is a soldier in the army of intellectual
liberty.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage thinks that you laugh too
much,—that you exhibit too much mirth, and that no
one should smile at sacred things?

_Answer_. The church has always feared ridicule.
The minister despises laughter. He who builds upon
ignorance and awe, fears intelligence and mirth. The
theologians always begin by saying: "Let us be
"solemn." They know that credulity and awe are
twins. They also know that while Reason is the
pilot of the soul, Humor carries the lamp. Whoever
has the sense of humor fully developed, cannot, by
any possibility, be an orthodox theologian. He would
be his own laughing stock. The most absurd stories,
the most laughable miracles, read in a solemn, stately
way, sound to the ears of ignorance and awe like
truth. It has been the object of the church for
eighteen hundred years to prevent laughter.

A smile is the dawn of a doubt.

Ministers are always talking about death, and
coffins, and dust, and worms,—the cross in this life,
and the fires of another. They have been the
enemies of human happiness. They hate to hear

146

even the laughter of children. There seems to have
been a bond of sympathy between divinity and
dyspepsia, between theology and indigestion. There
is a certain pious hatred of pleasure, and those who
have been "born again" are expected to despise
"the transitory joys of this fleeting life." In this,
they follow the example of their prophets, of whom
they proudly say: "They never smiled."

Whoever laughs at a holy falsehood, is called a
"scoffer." Whoever gives vent to his natural feel-
ings is regarded as a "blasphemer," and whoever
examines the Bible as he examines other books, and
relies upon his reason to interpret it, is denounced
as a "reprobate."

Let us respect the truth, let us laugh at miracles,
and above all, let us be candid with each other.

'Question. Mr. Talmage charges that you have, in
your lectures, satirized your early home; that you
have described with bitterness the Sundays that were
forced upon you in your youth; and that in various
ways you have denounced your father as a "tyrant,"
or a "bigot," or a "fool"?

_Answer_. I have described the manner in which
Sunday was kept when I was a boy. My father for

147

many years regarded the Sabbath as a sacred day.
We kept Sunday as most other Christians did. I think
that my father made a mistake about that day. I
have no doubt he was honest about it, and really
believed that it was pleasing to God for him to keep
the Sabbath as he did.

I think that Sunday should not be a day of gloom,
of silence and despair, or a day in which to hear that
the chances are largely in favor of your being eternally
damned. That day, in my opinion, should be one of
joy; a day to get acquainted with your wife and
children; a day to visit the woods, or the sea, or the
murmuring stream; a day to gather flowers, to visit
the graves of your dead, to read old poems, old
letters, old books; a day to rekindle the fires of
friendship and love.

Mr. Talmage says that my father was a Christian,
and he then proceeds to malign his memory. It
seems to me that a living Christian should at least
tell the truth about one who sleeps the silent sleep
of death.

I have said nothing, in any of my lectures, about
my father, or about my mother, or about any of my
relatives. I have not the egotism to bring them
forward. They have nothing to do with the subject

148

in hand. That my father was mistaken upon the
subject of religion, I have no doubt. He was a good,
a brave and honest man. I loved him living, and
I love him dead. I never said to him an unkind
word, and in my heart there never was of him an
unkind thought. He was grand enough to say to
me, that I had the same right to my opinion that he
had to his. He was great enough to tell me to read
the Bible for myself, to be honest with myself, and if
after reading it I concluded it was not the word of
God, that it was my duty to say so.

My mother died when I was but a child; and from
that day—the darkest of my life—her memory has
been within my heart a sacred thing, and I have felt,
through all these years, her kisses on my lips.

I know that my parents—if they are conscious now
—do not wish me to honor them at the expense of
my manhood. I know that neither my father nor my
mother would have me sacrifice upon their graves my
honest thought. I know that I can only please them by
being true to myself, by defending what I believe is
good, by attacking what I believe is bad. Yet this min-
ister of Christ is cruel enough, and malicious enough,
to attack the reputation of the dead. What he says
about my father is utterly and unqualifiedly false.

149

Right here, it may be well enough for me to say,
that long before my father died, he threw aside, as
unworthy of a place in the mind of an intelligent
man, the infamous dogma of eternal fire; that he
regarded with abhorrence many passages in the Old
Testament; that he believed man, in another world,
would have the eternal opportunity of doing right,
and that the pity of God would last as long as the
suffering of man. My father and my mother were
good, in spite of the Old Testament. They were mer-
ciful, in spite of the one frightful doctrine in the New.
They did not need the religion of Presbyterianism.
Presbyterianism never made a human being better.
If there is anything that will freeze the generous
current of the soul, it is Calvinism. If there is any
creed that will destroy charity, that will keep the
tears of pity from the cheeks of men and women, it
is Presbyterianism. If there is any doctrine calcu-
lated to make man bigoted, unsympathetic, and
cruel, it is the doctrine of predestination. Neither
my father, nor my mother, believed in the damnation
of babes, nor in the inspiration of John Calvin.

Mr. Talmage professes to be a Christian. What
effect has the religion of Jesus Christ had upon him?
Is he the product—the natural product—of Chris-

150

tianity? Does the real Christian violate the sanctity
of death? Does the real Christian malign the
memory of the dead? Does the good Christian
defame unanswering and unresisting dust?

But why should I expect kindness from a Chris-
tian? Can a minister be expected to treat with
fairness a man whom his God intends to damn? If
a good God is going to burn an infidel forever, in
the world to come, surely a Christian should have
the right to persecute him a little here.

What right has a Christian to ask anybody to love
his father, or mother, or wife, or child? According
to the gospels, Christ offered a reward to any one
who would desert his father or his mother. He
offered a premium to gentlemen for leaving their
wives, and tried to bribe people to abandon their
little children. He offered them happiness in this
world, and a hundred fold in the next, if they would
turn a deaf ear to the supplications of a father, the
beseeching cry of a wife, and would leave the out-
stretched arms of babes. They were not even
allowed to bury their fathers and their mothers. At
that time they were expected to prefer Jesus to their
wives and children. And now an orthodox minister
says that a man ought not to express his honest

151

thoughts, because they do not happen to be in accord
with the belief of his father or mother.

Suppose Mr. Talmage should read the Bible care-
fully and without fear, and should come to the honest
conclusion that it is not inspired, what course would
he pursue for the purpose of honoring his parents?
Would he say, "I cannot tell the truth, I must lie,
"for the purpose of shedding a halo of glory around
"the memory of my mother"? Would he say: "Of
"course, my father and mother would a thousand
"times rather have their son a hypocritical Christian
"than an honest, manly unbeliever"? This might
please Mr. Talmage, and accord perfectly with his
view, but I prefer to say, that my father wished me to
be an honest man. If he is in "heaven" now, I am
sure that he would rather hear me attack the
"inspired" word of God, honestly and bravely, than
to hear me, in the solemn accents of hypocrisy, defend
what I believe to be untrue.

I may be mistaken in the estimate angels put upon
human beings. It may be that God likes a pretended
follower better than an honest, outspoken man—one
who is an infidel simply because he does not under-
stand this God. But it seems to me, in my unregenerate
condition, touched and tainted as I am by original sin,

152

that a God of infinite power and wisdom ought to be
able to make a man brave enough to have an opinion
of his own. I cannot conceive of God taking any
particular pride in any hypocrite he has ever made.
Whatever he may say through his ministers, or
whatever the angels may repeat, a manly devil
stands higher in my estimation than an unmanly
angel. I do not mean by this, that there are any
unmanly angels, neither do I pretend that there
are any manly devils. My meaning is this: If I have
a Creator, I can only honor him by being true to
myself, and kind and just to my fellow-men. If I wish
to shed lustre upon my father and mother, I can
only do so by being absolutely true to myself.
Never will I lay the wreath of hypocrisy upon the
tombs of those I love.

Mr. Talmage takes the ground that we must defend
the religious belief of our parents. He seems to
forget that all parents do not believe exactly alike,
and that everybody has at least two parents. Now,
suppose that the father is an infidel, and the mother
a Christian, what must the son do? Must he "drive
"the ploughshare of contempt through the grave of
"the father," for the purpose of honoring the mother;
or must he drive the ploughshare through the grave

153

of the mother to honor the father; or must he com-
promise, and talk one way and believe another? If
Mr. Talmage's doctrine is correct, only persons who
have no knowledge of their parents can have liberty
of opinion. Foundlings would be the only free
people. I do not suppose that Mr. Talmage would
go so far as to say that a child would be bound by
the religion of the person upon whose door-steps he
was found. If he does not, then over every foundling
hospital should be these words: "Home of Intel-
"lectual Liberty."

_Question_. Do you suppose that we will care
nothing in the next world for those we loved in this?
Is it worse in a man than in an angel, to care nothing
for his mother?

_Answer_. According to Mr. Talmage, a man can
be perfectly happy in heaven, with his mother in hell.
He will be so entranced with the society of Christ,
that he will not even inquire what has become of his
wife. The Holy Ghost will keep him in such a state
of happy wonder, of ecstatic joy, that the names,
even, of his children will never invade his memory.
It may be that I am lacking in filial affection, but
I would much rather be in hell, with my parents

154

in heaven, than be in heaven with my parents in hell.
I think a thousand times more of my parents than I
do of Christ. They knew me, they worked for me,
they loved me, and I can imagine no heaven, no
state of perfect bliss for me, in which they have no
share. If God hates me, because I love them,
I cannot love him.

I cannot truthfully say that I look forward with any
great degree of joy, to meeting with Haggai and
Habakkuk; with Jeremiah, Nehemiah, Obadiah,
Zechariah or Zephaniah; with Ezekiel, Micah, or
Malachi; or even with Jonah. From what little
I have read of their writings, I have not formed a
very high opinion of the social qualities of these
gentlemen.

I want to meet the persons I have known; and if
there is another life, I want to meet the really and
the truly great—men who have been broad enough to
be tender, and great enough to be kind.

Because I differ with my parents, because I am
convinced that my father was wrong in some of
his religious opinions, Mr. Talmage insists that I dis-
grace my parents. How did the Christian religion
commence? Did not the first disciples advocate
theories that their parents denied? Were they

155

not false,—in his sense of the word,—to their
fathers and mothers? How could there have been
any progress in this world, if children had not
gone beyond their parents? Do you consider that
the inventor of a steel plow cast a slur upon his
father who scratched the ground with a wooden
one? I do not consider that an invention by the
son is a slander upon the father; I regard each
invention simply as an improvement; and every
father should be exceedingly proud of an ingenious
son. If Mr. Talmage has a son, it will be impossible
for him to honor his father except by differing with
him.

It is very strange that Mr. Talmage, a believer in
Christ, should object to any man for not loving his
mother and his father, when his Master, according
to the gospel of Saint Luke, says: "If any man
"come to me, and hate not his father, and mother,
"and wife, and children, and brethren, and sis-
"ters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my
"disciple."

According to this, I have to make my choice be-
tween my wife, my children, and Jesus Christ. I have
concluded to stand by my folks—both in this world,
and in "the world to come."

156

_Question_. Mr. Talmage asks you whether, in your
judgment, the Bible was a good, or an evil, to your
parents?

_Answer_. I think it was an evil. The worst thing
about my father was his religion. He would have
been far happier, in my judgment, without it. I
think I get more real joy out of life than he did.
He was a man of a very great and tender heart. He
was continually thinking—for many years of his
life—of the thousands and thousands going down to
eternal fire. That doctrine filled his days with
gloom, and his eyes with tears. I think that my
father and mother would have been far happier had
they believed as I do. How any one can get any
joy out of the Christian religion is past my compre-
hension. If that religion is true, hundreds of mil-
lions are now in hell, and thousands of millions yet
unborn will be. How such a fact can form any part
of the "glad tidings of great joy," is amazing to me.
It is impossible for me to love a being who would
create countless millions for eternal pain. It is
impossible for me to worship the God of the Bible,
or the God of Calvin, or the God of the Westminster
Catechism.

157

_Question_. I see that Mr. Talmage challenges you
to read the fourteenth chapter of Saint John. Are
you willing to accept the challenge; or have you
ever read that chapter?

_Answer_. I do not claim to be very courageous,
but I have read that chapter, and am very glad that
Mr. Talmage has called attention to it. According
to the gospels, Christ did many miracles. He healed
the sick, gave sight to the blind, made the lame
walk, and raised the dead. In the fourteenth chapter
of Saint John, twelfth verse, I find the following:

"Verily, verily, I say unto you: He that believeth
"on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and
"greater works than these shall he do, because I go
"unto my Father."

I am willing to accept that as a true test of a
believer. If Mr. Talmage really believes in Jesus
Christ, he ought to be able to do at least as great
miracles as Christ is said to have done. Will Mr.
Talmage have the kindness to read the fourteenth
chapter of John, and then give me some proof, in
accordance with that chapter, that he is a believer in
Jesus Christ? Will he have the kindness to perform
a miracle?—for instance, produce a "local flood,"
make a worm to smite a gourd, or "prepare a fish"?

158

Can he do anything of that nature? Can he even
cause a "vehement east wind"? What evidence,
according to the Bible, can Mr. Talmage give of his
belief? How does he prove that he is a Christian?
By hating infidels and maligning Christians? Let
Mr. Talmage furnish the evidence, according to the
fourteenth chapter of Saint John, or forever after
hold his peace.

He has my thanks for calling my attention to the
fourteenth chapter of Saint John.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage charges that you are at-
tempting to destroy the "chief solace of the world,"
without offering any substitute. How do you answer
this?

_Answer_. If he calls Christianity the "chief solace
"of the world," and if by Christianity he means that all
who do not believe in the inspiration of the Scrip-
tures, and have no faith in Jesus Christ, are to be
eternally damned, then I admit that I am doing the
best I can to take that "solace" from the human
heart. I do not believe that the Bible, when prop-
erly understood, is, or ever has been, a comfort to
any human being. Surely, no good man can be
comforted by reading a book in which he finds that

159

a large majority of mankind have been sentenced to
eternal fire. In the doctrine of total depravity there
is no "solace." In the doctrine of "election" there can
be no joy until the returns are in, and a majority
found for you.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage says that you are taking
away the world's medicines, and in place of anaes-
thetics, in place of laudanum drops, you read an
essay to the man in pain, on the absurdities of mor-
phine and nervines in general.

_Answer_. It is exactly the other way. I say, let
us depend upon morphine, not upon prayer. Do
not send for the minister—take a little laudanum.
Do not read your Bible,—chloroform is better. Do
not waste your time listening to meaningless ser-
mons, but take real, genuine soporifics.

I regard the discoverer of ether as a benefactor.
I look upon every great surgeon as a blessing to
mankind. I regard one doctor, skilled in his profes-
sion, of more importance to the world than all the
orthodox ministers.

Mr. Talmage should remember that for hundreds
of years, the church fought, with all its power, the
science of medicine. Priests used to cure diseases

160

by selling little pieces of paper covered with cabalistic
marks. They filled their treasuries by the sale of
holy water. They healed the sick by relics—the teeth
and ribs of saints, the finger-nails of departed wor-
thies, and the hair of glorified virgins. Infidelity
said: "Send for the doctor." Theology said: "Stick
"to the priest." Infidelity,—that is to say, science,—
said: "Vaccinate him." The priest said: "Pray;—
"I will sell you a charm." The doctor was regarded
as a man who was endeavoring to take from God his
means of punishment. He was supposed to spike
the artillery of Jehovah, to wet the powder of the
Almighty, and to steal the flint from the musket of
heavenly retribution.

Infidelity has never relied upon essays, it has
never relied upon words, it has never relied upon
prayers, it has never relied upon angels or gods; it
has relied upon the honest efforts of men and women.
It has relied upon investigation, observation, experi-
ence, and above all, upon human reason.

We, in America, know how much prayers are
worth. We have lately seen millions of people upon
their knees. What was the result?

In the olden times, when a plague made its ap-
pearance, the people fell upon their knees and died.

161

When pestilence came, they rushed to their ca-
thedrals, they implored their priests—and died. God
had no pity upon his ignorant children. At last,
Science came to the rescue. Science,—not in the
attitude of prayer, with closed eyes, but in the atti-
tude of investigation, with open eyes,—looked for and
discovered some of the laws of health. Science
found that cleanliness was far better than godliness. It
said: Do not spend your time in praying;—clean your
houses, clean your streets, clean yourselves. This pest-
ilence is not a punishment. Health is not simply a favor
of the gods. Health depends upon conditions, and
when the conditions are violated, disease is inevitable,
and no God can save you. Health depends upon
your surroundings, and when these are favorable,
the roses are in your cheeks.

We find in the Old Testament that God gave
to Moses a thousand directions for ascertaining
the presence of leprosy. Yet it never occurred
to this God to tell Moses how to cure the disease.
Within the lids of the Old Testament, we have no
information upon a subject of such vital importance
to mankind.

It may, however, be claimed by Mr. Talmage, that
this statement is a little too broad, and I will therefore

162

give one recipe that I find in the fourteenth chapter
of Leviticus:

"Then shall the priest command to take for him
" that is to be cleansed two birds alive and clean, and
"cedar wood, and scarlet, and hyssop; and the priest
"shall command that one of the birds be killed in an
"earthen vessel over running water. As for the
"living bird, he shall take it, and the cedar wood,
"and the scarlet, and the hyssop, and shall dip them
"and the living bird in the blood of the bird that was
"killed over the running water. And he shall
"sprinkle upon him that is to be cleansed from the
"leprosy seven times, and shall pronounce him clean,
"and shall let the living bird loose into the open
"field."

Prophets were predicting evil—filling the country
with their wails and cries, and yet it never occurred
to them to tell one solitary thing of the slightest
importance to mankind. Why did not these inspired
men tell us how to cure some of the diseases that
have decimated the world? Instead of spending
forty days and forty nights with Moses, telling him
how to build a large tent, and how to cut the gar-
ments of priests, why did God not give him a little
useful information in respect to the laws of health?

163

Mr. Talmage must remember that the church has
invented no anodynes, no anaesthetics, no medicines,
and has affected no cures. The doctors have not
been inspired. All these useful things men have
discovered for themselves, aided by no prophet and
by no divine Savior. Just to the extent that man
has depended upon the other world, he has failed to
make the best of this. Just in the proportion that he
has depended on his own efforts, he has advanced.
The church has always said:

"Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not,
"neither do they spin." "Take no thought for the
"morrow." Whereas, the real common sense of this
world has said: "No matter whether lilies toil and
spin, or not, if you would succeed, you must work;
you must take thought for the morrow, you must
look beyond the present day, you must provide for
your wife and your children."

What can I be expected to give as a substitute for
perdition? It is enough to show that it does not
exist. What does a man want in place of a disease?
Health. And what is better calculated to increase
the happiness of mankind than to know that the
doctrine of eternal pain is infinitely and absurdly
false?

164

Take theology from the world, and natural Love
remains, Science is still here, Music will not be lost,
the page of History will still be open, the walls of
the world will still be adorned with Art, and the
niches rich with Sculpture.

Take theology from the world, and we all shall
have a common hope,—and the fear of hell will be
removed from every human heart.

Take theology from the world, and millions of
men will be compelled to earn an honest living.
Impudence will not tax credulity. The vampire of
hypocrisy will not suck the blood of honest toil.

Take theology from the world, and the churches
can be schools, and the cathedrals universities.

Take theology from the world, and the money
wasted on superstition will do away with want.

Take theology from the world, and every brain
will find itself without a chain.

There is a vast difference between what is called
infidelity and theology.

Infidelity is honest. When it reaches the confines
of reason, it says: "I know no further."

Infidelity does not palm its guess upon an ignorant
world as a demonstration.

165

Infidelity proves nothing by slander—establishes
nothing by abuse.

Infidelity has nothing to hide. It has no "holy
"of holies," except the abode of truth. It has no
curtain that the hand of investigation has not the
right to draw aside. It lives in the cloudless light,
in the very noon, of human eyes.

Infidelity has no bible to be blasphemed. It does
not cringe before an angry God.

Infidelity says to every man: Investigate for
yourself. There is no punishment for unbelief.

Infidelity asks no protection from legislatures. It
wants no man fined because he contradicts its doc-
trines.

Infidelity relies simply upon evidence—not evi-
dence of the dead, but of the living.

Infidelity has no infallible pope. It relies only
upon infallible fact. It has no priest except the
interpreter of Nature. The universe is its church.
Its bible is everything that is true. It implores every
man to verify every word for himself, and it implores
him to say, if he does not believe it, that he does
not.

Infidelity does not fear contradiction. It is not
afraid of being laughed at. It invites the scrutiny

166

of all doubters, of all unbelievers. It does not rely
upon awe, but upon reason. It says to the whole
world: It is dangerous not to think. It is dan-
gerous not to be honest. It is dangerous not to
investigate. It is dangerous not to follow where
your reason leads.

Infidelity requires every man to judge for himself.
Infidelity preserves the manhood of man.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage also says that you are
trying to put out the light-houses on the coast of the
next world; that you are "about to leave everybody
"in darkness at the narrows of death"?

_Answer_. There can be no necessity for these
light-houses, unless the God of Mr. Talmage has
planted rocks and reefs within that unknown sea.
If there is no hell, there is no need of any light-
house on the shores of the next world; and only
those are interested in keeping up these pretended
light-houses who are paid for trimming invisible
wicks and supplying the lamps with allegorical oil.
Mr. Talmage is one of these light-house keepers,
and he knows that if it is ascertained that the coast
is not dangerous, the light-house will be abandoned,
and the keeper will have to find employment else-

167

where. As a matter of fact, every church is a use-
less light-house. It warns us only against breakers
that do not exist. Whenever a mariner tells one of
the keepers that there is no danger, then all the
keepers combine to destroy the reputation of that
mariner.

No one has returned from the other world to tell
us whether they have light-houses on that shore or
not; or whether the light-houses on this shore—one
of which Mr. Talmage is tending—have ever sent a
cheering ray across the sea.

Nature has furnished every human being with
a light more or less brilliant, more or less powerful.
That light is Reason; and he who blows that light
out, is in utter darkness. It has been the business of
the church for centuries to extinguish the lamp of the
mind, and to convince the people that their own
reason is utterly unreliable. The church has asked
all men to rely only upon the light of the church.

Every priest has been not only a light-house but
a guide-board. He has threatened eternal damna-
tion to all who travel on some other road. These
guide-boards have been toll-gates, and the principal
reason why the churches have wanted people to go
their road is, that tolls might be collected. They

168

have regarded unbelievers as the owners of turnpikes
do people who go 'cross lots. The toll-gate man
always tells you that other roads are dangerous—
filled with quagmires and quicksands.

Every church is a kind of insurance society, and
proposes, for a small premium, to keep you from
eternal fire. Of course, the man who tells you that
there is to be no fire, interferes with the business,
and is denounced as a malicious meddler and blas-
phemer. The fires of this world sustain the same
relation to insurance companies that the fires of the
next do to the churches.

Mr. Talmage also insists that I am breaking up the
"life-boats." Why should a ship built by infinite
wisdom, by an infinite shipbuilder, carry life-boats?
The reason we have life-boats now is, that we are
not entirely sure of the ship. We know that man
has not yet found out how to make a ship that can
certainly brave all the dangers of the deep. For this
reason we carry life-boats. But infinite wisdom must
surely build ships that do not need life-boats. Is there
to be a wreck at last? Is God's ship to go down in
storm and darkness? Will it be necessary at last to
forsake his ship and depend upon life-boats?

For my part, I do not wish to be rescued by a life-

169

boat. When the ship, bearing the whole world, goes
down, I am willing to go down with it—with my
wife, with my children, and with those I have loved.
I will not slip ashore in an orthodox canoe with
somebody else's folks,—I will stay with my own.

What a picture is presented by the church! A few
in life's last storm are to be saved; and the saved,
when they reach shore, are to look back with joy
upon the great ship going down to the eternal depths!
This is what I call the unutterable meanness of or-
thodox Christianity.

Mr. Talmage speaks of the "meanness of in-
"fidelity."

The meanness of orthodox Christianity permits the
husband to be saved, and to be ineffably happy, while
the wife of his bosom is suffering the tortures of hell.

The meanness of orthodox Christianity tells the
boy that he can go to heaven and have an eternity
of bliss, and that this bliss will not even be clouded
by the fact that the mother who bore him writhes in
eternal pain.

The meanness of orthodox Christianity allows
a soul to be so captivated with the companionship
of angels as to forget all the old loves and friend-
ships of this world.

170

The meanness of orthodox Christianity, its un-
speakable selfishness, allows a soul in heaven to exult
in the fact of its own salvation, and at the same time
to care nothing for the damnation of all the rest.

The orthodox Christian says that if he can only
save his little soul, if he can barely squeeze into
heaven, if he can only get past Saint Peter's gate,
if he can by hook or crook climb up the opposite
bank of Jordan, if he can get a harp in his hand, it
matters not to him what becomes of brother or
sister, father or mother, wife or child. He is willing
that they should burn if he can sing.

Oh, the unutterable meanness of orthodox Chris-
tianity, the infinite heartlessness of the orthodox
angels, who with tearless eyes will forever gaze upon
the agonies of those who were once blood of their
blood and flesh of their flesh!

Mr. Talmage describes a picture of the scourging
of Christ, painted by Rubens, and he tells us that
he was so appalled by this picture—by the sight of
the naked back, swollen and bleeding—that he could
not have lived had he continued to look; yet this
same man, who could not bear to gaze upon a
painted pain, expects to be perfectly happy in heaven,
while countiess billions of actual—not painted—men,

171

women, and children writhe—not in a pictured flame,
but in the real and quenchless fires of hell.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage also claims that we are
indebted to Christianity for schools, colleges, univer-
sities, hospitals and asylums?

_Answer_. This shows that Mr. Talmage has not
read the history of the world. Long before Chris-
tianity had a place, there were vast libraries. There
were thousands of schools before a Christian existed
on the earth. There were hundreds of hospitals
before a line of the New Testament was written.
Hundreds of years before Christ, there were hospitals
in India,—not only for men, women and children, but
even for beasts. There were hospitals in Egypt long
before Moses was born. They knew enough then
to cure insanity with music. They surrounded the
insane with flowers, and treated them with kindness.

The great libraries at Alexandria were not Chris-
tian. The most intellectual nation of the Middle
Ages was not Christian. While Christians were
imprisoning people for saying that the earth is round,
the Moors in Spain were teaching geography with
globes. They had even calculated the circumference
of the earth by the tides of the Red Sea.

Where did education come from? For a thousand

172

years Christianity destroyed books and paintings and
statues. For a thousand years Christianity was filled
with hatred toward every effort of the human mind.
We got paper from the Moors. Printing had been
known thousands of years before, in China. A few
manuscripts, containing a portion of the literature of
Greece, a few enriched with the best thoughts of
the Roman world, had been preserved from the
general wreck and ruin wrought by Christian hate.
These became the seeds of intellectual progress.
For a thousand years Christianity controlled Europe.
The Mohammedans were far in advance of the
Christians with hospitals and asylums and institutions
of learning.

Just in proportion that we have done away with
what is known as orthodox Christianity, humanity
has taken its place. Humanity has built all the asy-
lums, all the hospitals. Humanity, not Christianity,
has done these things. The people of this country
are all willing to be taxed that the insane may be
cared for, that the sick, the helpless, and the desti-
tute may be provided for, not because they are
Christians, but because they are humane; and they
are not humane because they are Christians.

The colleges of this country have been poisoned by

173

theology, and their usefulness almost destroyed. Just
in proportion that they have gotten from ecclesiastical
control, they have become a good. That college, to-
day, which has the most religion has the least true
learning; and that college which is the nearest free,
does the most good. Colleges that pit Moses against
modern geology, that undertake to overthrow the
Copernican system by appealing to Joshua, have
done, and are doing, very little good in this world.

Suppose that in the first century Pagans had said
to Christians: Where are your hospitals, where are
your asylums, where are your works of charity, where
are your colleges and universities?

The Christians undoubtedly would have replied:
We have not been in power. There are but few
of us. We have been persecuted to that degree
that it has been about as much as we could do to
maintain ourselves.

Reasonable Pagans would have regarded such an
answer as perfectly satisfactory. Yet that question
could have been asked of Christianity after it had
held the reins of power for a thousand years, and
Christians would have been compelled to say: We
have no universities, we have no colleges, we have
no real asylums.

174

The Christian now asks of the atheist: Where
is your asylum, where is your hospital, where is your
university? And the atheist answers: There have
been but few atheists. The world is not yet suffi-
ciently advanced to produce them. For hundreds
and hundreds of years, the minds of men have been
darkened by the superstitions of Christianity. Priests
have thundered against human knowledge, have de-
nounced human reason, and have done all within
their power to prevent the real progress of mankind.

You must also remember that Christianity has
made more lunatics than it ever provided asylums
for. Christianity has driven more men and women
crazy than all other religions combined. Hundreds
and thousands and millions have lost their reason in
contemplating the monstrous falsehoods of Chris-
tianity. Thousands of mothers, thinking of their
sons in hell—thousands of fathers, believing their
boys and girls in perdition, have lost their reason.

So, let it be distinctly understood, that Christianity
has made ten lunatics—twenty—one hundred—
where it has provided an asylum for one.

Mr. Talmage also speaks of the hospitals. When
we take into consideration the wars that have been
waged on account of religion, the countless thou-

175

sands who have been maimed and wounded, through
all the years, by wars produced by theology—then I
say that Christianity has not built hospitals enough
to take care of her own wounded—not enough to
take care of one in a hundred. Where Christianity
has bound up the wounds of one, it has pierced the
bodies of a hundred others with sword and spear,
with bayonet and ball. Where she has provided
one bed in a hospital, she has laid away a hundred
bodies in bloody graves.

Of course I do not expect the church to do
anything but beg. Churches produce nothing. They
are like the lilies of the field. "They toil not, neither
"do they spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not
"arrayed like most of them."

The churches raise no corn nor wheat. They
simply collect tithes. They carry the alms' dish.
They pass the plate. They take toll. Of course
a mendicant is not expected to produce anything.
He does not support,—he is supported. The church
does not help. She receives, she devours, she
consumes, and she produces only discord. She ex-
changes mistakes for provisions, faith for food,
prayers for pence. The church is a beggar. But we
have this consolation: In this age of the world, this

176

beggar is not on horseback, and even the walking is
not good.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage says that infidels have
done no good?

_Answer_. Well, let us see. In the first place,
what is an "infidel"? He is simply a man in advance
of his time. He is an intellectual pioneer. He is
the dawn of a new day. He is a gentleman with an
idea of his own, for which he gave no receipt to the
church. He is a man who has not been branded as
the property of some one else. An "infidel" is one
who has made a declaration of independence. In
other words, he is a man who has had a doubt. To
have a doubt means that you have thought upon
the subject—that you have investigated the question;
and he who investigates any religion will doubt.

All the advance that has been made in the religious
world has been made by "infidels," by "heretics,"
by "skeptics," by doubters,—that is to say, by
thoughtful men. The doubt does not come from the
ignorant members of your congregations. Heresy is
not born of stupidity,—it is not the child of the brain-
less. He who is so afraid of hurting the reputation
of his father and mother that he refuses to advance,

177

is not a "heretic." The "heretic" is not true to
falsehood. Orthodoxy is. He who stands faithfully
by a mistake is "orthodox." He who, discovering
that it is a mistake, has the courage to say so, is an
"infidel."

An infidel is an intellectual discoverer—one who
finds new isles, new continents, in the vast realm of
thought. The dwellers on the orthodox shore de-
nounce this brave sailor of the seas as a buccaneer.

And yet we are told that the thinkers of new
thoughts have never been of value to the world.
Voltaire did more for human liberty than all the
orthodox ministers living and dead. He broke a
thousand times more chains than Luther. Luther
simply substituted his chain for that of the Catholics.
Voltaire had none. The Encyclopaedists of France
did more for liberty than all the writers upon theology.
Bruno did more for mankind than millions of "be-
"lievers." Spinoza contributed more to the growth
of the human intellect than all the orthodox theolo-
gians.

Men have not done good simply because they have
believed this or that doctrine. They have done good
in the intellectual world as they have thought and
secured for others the liberty to think and to ex-

178

press their thoughts. They have done good in the
physical world by teaching their fellows how to
triumph over the obstructions of nature. Every
man who has taught his fellow-man to think, has
been a benefactor. Every one who has supplied his
fellow-men with facts, and insisted upon their right
to think, has been a blessing to his kind.

Mr. Talmage, in order to show what Christians
have done, points us to Whitefield, Luther, Oberlin,
Judson, Martyn, Bishop Mcllvaine and Hannah
More. I would not for one moment compare George
Whitefield with the inventor of movable type, and
there is no parallel between Frederick Oberlin and
the inventor of paper; not the slightest between
Martin Luther and the discoverer of the New World;
not the least between Adoniram Judson and the in-
ventor of the reaper, nor between Henry Martyn
and the discoverer of photography. Of what use to
the world was Bishop Mcllvaine, compared with
the inventor of needles? Of what use were a
hundred such priests compared with the inventor
of matches, or even of clothes-pins? Suppose that
Hannah More had never lived? about the same
number would read her writings now. It is hardly fair
to compare her with the inventor of the steamship?

179

The progress of the world—its present improved
condition—can be accounted for only by the discov-
eries of genius, only by men who have had the
courage to express their honest thoughts.

After all, the man who invented the telescope
found out more about heaven than the closed eyes of
prayer had ever discovered. I feel absolutely certain
that the inventor of the steam engine was a greater
benefactor to mankind than the writer of the Presby-
terian creed. I may be mistaken, but I think that
railways have done more to civilize mankind, than any
system of theology. I believe that the printing press
has done more for the world than the pulpit. It is
my opinion that the discoveries of Kepler did a
thousand times more to enlarge the minds of men
than the prophecies of Daniel. I feel under far
greater obligation to Humboldt than to Haggai.
The inventor of the plow did more good than the
maker of the first rosary—because, say what you
will, plowing is better than praying; we can live by
plowing without praying, but we can not live by
praying without plowing. So I put my faith in the
plow.

As Jehovah has ceased to make garments for his
children,—as he has stopped making coats of skins,

180

I have great respect for the inventors of the spinning-
jenny and the sewing machine. As no more laws
are given from Sinai, I have admiration for the real
statesmen. As miracles have ceased, I rely on
medicine, and on a reasonable compliance with the
conditions of health.

I have infinite respect for the inventors, the
thinkers, the discoverers, and above all, for the un-
known millions who have, without the hope of fame,
lived and labored for the ones they loved.

## Fifth Interview

_Parson. You had belter join the church; it is
the safer way.

Sinner. I can't live up to your doctrines, and you
know it.

Parson. Well, you can come as near it in the
church as out; and forgiveness

will be easier if you join us.

Sinner. What do you mean by that?

Parson. I will tell you. If you join the church,
and happen to back-slide now and then, Christ will
say to his Father: "That man is a "friend of mine,
and you may charge his account to me."_

_Question_. What have you to say about the
fifth sermon of the Rev. Mr. Talmage in reply
to you?

_Answer_. The text from which he preached is:
"Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?"
I am compelled to answer these questions in the
negative. That is one reason why I am an infidel.
I do not believe that anybody can gather grapes of
thorns, or figs of thistles. That is exactly my doctrine.
But the doctrine of the church is, that you can. The

184

church says, that just at the last, no matter if you
have spent your whole life in raising thorns and thistles,
in planting and watering and hoeing and plowing
thorns and thistles—that just at the last, if you will
repent, between hoeing the last thistle and taking the
last breath, you can reach out the white and palsied
hand of death and gather from every thorn a cluster
of grapes and from every thistle an abundance of
figs. The church insists that in this way you can
gather enough grapes and figs to last you through all
eternity.

My doctrine is, that he who raises thorns must
harvest thorns. If you sow thorns, you must reap
thorns; and there is no way by which an innocent
being can have the thorns you raise thrust into his
brow, while you gather his grapes.

But Christianity goes even further than this. It
insists that a man can plant grapes and gather thorns.
Mr. Talmage insists that, no matter how good you
are, no matter how kind, no matter how much you
love your wife and children, no matter how many
self-denying acts you do, you will not be allowed to
eat of the grapes you raise; that God will step be-
tween you and the natural consequences of your
goodness, and not allow you to reap what you sow.

185

Mr. Talmage insists, that if you have no faith in the
Lord Jesus Christ, although you have been good
here, you will reap eternal pain as your harvest; that
the effect of honesty and kindness will not be peace
and joy, but agony and pain. So that the church
does insist not only that you can gather grapes from
thorns, but thorns from grapes.

I believe exactly the other way. If a man is a
good man here, dying will not change him, and he
will land on the shore of another world—if there is
one—the same good man that he was when he left
this; and I do not believe there is any God in this
universe who can afford to damn a good man. This
God will say to this man: You loved your wife,
your children, and your friends, and I love you.
You treated others with kindness; I will treat you
in the same way. But Mr. Talmage steps up to
his God, nudges his elbow, and says: Although he
was a very good man, he belonged to no church;
he was a blasphemer; he denied the whale story, and
after I explained that Jonah was only in the whale's
mouth, he still denied it; and thereupon Mr. Tal-
mage expects that his infinite God will fly in a
passion, and in a perfect rage will say: What! did
he deny that story? Let him be eternally damned!

186

Not only this, but Mr. Talmage insists that a man
may have treated his wife like a wild beast; may have
trampled his child beneath the feet of his rage; may
have lived a life of dishonesty, of infamy, and yet,
having repented on his dying bed, having made his
peace with God through the intercession of his Son,
he will be welcomed in heaven with shouts of joy.
I deny it. I do not believe that angels can be so
quickly made from rascals. I have but little confi-
dence in repentance without restitution, and a hus-
band who has driven a wife to insanity and death by
his cruelty—afterward repenting and finding himself
in heaven, and missing his wife,—were he worthy to
be an angel, would wander through all the gulfs of
hell until he clasped her once again..

Now, the next question is, What must be done with
those who are sometimes good and sometimes bad?
That is my condition. If there is another world, I
expect to have the same opportunity of behaving
myself that I have here. If, when I get there, I fail
to act as I should, I expect to reap what I sow. If,
when I arrive at the New Jerusalem, I go into the
thorn business, I expect to harvest what I plant. If
I am wise enough to start a vineyard, I expect to
have grapes in the early fall. But if I do there as I

187

have done here—plant some grapes and some thorns,
and harvest them together—I expect to fare very
much as I have fared here. But I expect year by
year to grow wiser, to plant fewer thorns every
spring, and more grapes.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage charges that you have
taken the ground that the Bible is a cruel book, and
has produced cruel people?

_Answer_. Yes, I have taken that ground, and I
maintain it. The Bible was produced by cruel people,
and in its turn it has produced people like its authors.
The extermination of the Canaanites was cruel.
Most of the laws of Moses were bloodthirsty and
cruel. Hundreds of offences were punishable by
death, while now, in civilized countries, there are only
two crimes for which the punishment is capital. I
charge that Moses and Joshua and David and Samuel
and Solomon were cruel. I believe that to read and
believe the Old Testament naturally makes a man
careless of human life. That book has produced
hundreds of religious wars, and it has furnished the
battle-cries of bigotry for fifteen hundred years.

The Old Testament is filled with cruelty, but its
cruelty stops with this world, its malice ends with

188

death; whenever its victim has reached the grave,
revenge is satisfied. Not so with the New Testament.
It pursues its victim forever. After death, comes
hell; after the grave, the worm that never dies. So
that, as a matter of fact, the New Testament is in-
finitely more cruel than the Old.

Nothing has so tended to harden the human heart
as the doctrine of eternal punishment, and that
passage: "He that believeth and is baptized shall be
"saved, and he that believeth not shall be damned,"
has shed more blood than all the other so-called
"sacred books" of all this world.

I insist that the Bible is cruel. The Bible invented
instruments of torture. The Bible laid the foundations
of the Inquisition. The Bible furnished the fagots and
the martyrs. The Bible forged chains not only for the
hands, but for the brains of men. The Bible was at
the bottom of the massacre of St. Bartholomew.
Every man who has been persecuted for religion's
sake has been persecuted by the Bible. That sacred
book has been a beast of prey.

The truth is, Christians have been good in spite of
the Bible. The Bible has lived upon the reputations of
good men and good women,—men and women who
were good notwithstanding the brutality they found

189

upon the inspired page. Men have said: "My mother
"believed in the Bible; my mother was good; there-
"fore, the Bible is good," when probably the mother
never read a chapter in it.

The Bible produced the Church of Rome, and
Torquemada was a product of the Bible. Philip of
Spain and the Duke of Alva were produced by the
Bible. For thirty years Europe was one vast battle-
field, and the war was produced by the Bible. The re-
vocation of the Edict of Nantes was produced by the
sacred Scriptures. The instruments of torture—the
pincers, the thumb-screws, the racks, were produced
by the word of God. The Quakers of New England
were whipped and burned by the Bible—their children
were stolen by the Bible. The slave-ship had for its
sails the leaves of the Bible. Slavery was upheld in
the United States by the Bible. The Bible was the
auction-block. More than this, worse than this,
infinitely beyond the computation of imagination, the
despotisms of the old world all rested and still rest
upon the Bible. "The powers that be" were sup-
posed to have been "ordained of God;" and he who
rose against his king periled his soul.

In this connection, and in order to show the state
of society when the church had entire control of civil

190

and ecclesiastical affairs, it may be well enough to
read the following, taken from the _New York Sun_ of
March 21, 1882. From this little extract, it will be
easy in the imagination to re-organize the government
that then existed, and to see clearly the state of so-
ciety at that time. This can be done upon the same
principle that one scale tells of the entire fish, or one
bone of the complete animal:

"From records in the State archives of Hesse-
"Darmstadt, dating back to the thirteenth century,
"it appears that the public executioner's fee for boiling
"a criminal in oil was twenty-four florins; for decapi-
"tating with the sword, fifteen florins and-a-half; for
"quartering, the same; for breaking on the wheel,
"five florins, thirty kreuzers; for tearing a man to
"pieces, eighteen florins. Ten florins per head was
"his charge for hanging, and he burned delinquents
"alive at the rate of fourteen florins apiece. For ap-
"plying the 'Spanish boot' his fee was only two
"florins. Five florins were paid to him every time he
"subjected a refractory witness to the torture of the
"rack. The same amount was his due for 'branding
"'the sign of the gallows with a red-hot iron upon
"'the back, forehead, or cheek of a thief,' as well as
"for 'cutting off the nose and ears of a slanderer or

191

"'blasphemer.' Flogging with rods was a cheap
"punishment, its remuneration being fixed at three
"florins, thirty kreuzers."

The Bible has made men cruel. It is a cruel book.
And yet, amidst its thorns, amidst its thistles, amidst
its nettles and its swords and pikes, there are some
flowers, and these I wish, in common with all good
men, to save.

I do not believe that men have ever been made
merciful in war by reading the Old Testament. I do
not believe that men have ever been prompted to
break the chain of a slave by reading the Pentateuch.
The question is not whether Florence Nightingale and
Miss Dix were cruel. I have said nothing about
John Howard, nothing about Abbott Lawrence.
I say nothing about people in this connection. The
question is: Is the Bible a cruel book? not: Was
Miss Nightingale a cruel woman? There have been
thousands and thousands of loving, tender and char-
itable Mohammedans. Mohammedan mothers love
their children as well as Christian mothers can.
Mohammedans have died in defence of the Koran—
died for the honor of an impostor. There were
millions of charitable people in India—millions in
Egypt—and I am not sure that the world has ever

192

produced people who loved one another better than
the Egyptians.

I think there are many things in the Old Testament
calculated to make man cruel. Mr. Talmage asks:
"What has been the effect upon your children? As
"they have become more and more fond of the
"Scriptures have they become more and more fond
"of tearing off the wings of flies and pinning grass-
"hoppers and robbing birds' nests?"

I do not believe that reading the bible would make
them tender toward flies or grasshoppers. According
to that book, God used to punish animals for the
crimes of their owners. He drowned the animals in
a flood. He visited cattle with disease. He bruised
them to death with hailstones—killed them by the
thousand. Will the reading of these things make
children kind to animals? So, the whole system of
sacrifices in the Old Testament is calculated to harden
the heart. The butchery of oxen and lambs, the killing
of doves, the perpetual destruction of life, the con-
tinual shedding of blood—these things, if they have
any tendency, tend only to harden the heart of child-
hood.

The Bible does not stop simply with the killing of
animals. The Jews were commanded to kill their

193

neighbors—not only the men, but the women; not
only the women, but the babes. In accordance with
the command of God, the Jews killed not only their
neighbors, but their own brothers; and according to
this book, which is the foundation, as Mr. Talmage
believes, of all mercy, men were commanded to kill
their wives because they differed with them on the
subject of religion.

Nowhere in the world can be found laws more un-
just and cruel than in the Old Testament.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage wants you to tell where
the cruelty of the Bible crops out in the lives of Chris-
tians?

_Answer_. In the first place, millions of Christians
have been persecutors. Did they get the idea of
persecution from the Bible? Will not every honest
man admit that the early Christians, by reading the
Old Testament, became convinced that it was not
only their privilege, but their duty, to destroy heathen
nations? Did they not, by reading the same book,
come to the conclusion that it was their solemn duty
to extirpate heresy and heretics? According to the
New Testament, nobody could be saved unless he
believed in the Lord Jesus Christ. The early Chris-

194

tians believed this dogma. They also believed that
they had a right to defend themselves and their
children from "heretics."

We all admit that a man has a right to defend his
children against the assaults of a would-be murderer,
and he has the right to carry this defence to the
extent of killing the assailant. If we have the right
to kill people who are simply trying to kill the bodies
of our children, of course we have the right to kill
them when they are endeavoring to assassinate, not
simply their bodies, but their souls. It was in this
way Christians reasoned. If the Testament is right,
their reasoning was correct. Whoever believes the
New Testament literally—whoever is satisfied that it
is absolutely the word of God, will become a perse-
cutor. All religious persecution has been, and is, in
exact harmony with the teachings of the Old and
New Testaments. Of course I mean with some of
the teachings. I admit that there are passages in
both the Old and New Testaments against persecu-
tion. These are passages quoted only in time of
peace. Others are repeated to feed the flames of
war.

I find, too, that reading the Bible and believing the
Bible do not prevent even ministers from telling false-

195

hoods about their opponents. I find that the Rev.
Mr. Talmage is willing even to slander the dead,—
that he is willing to stain the memory of a Christian,
and that he does not hesitate to give circulation
to what he knows to be untrue. Mr. Talmage
has himself, I believe, been the subject of a church
trial. How many of the Christian witnesses against
him, in his judgment, told the truth? Yet they were
all Bible readers and Bible believers. What effect, in
his judgment, did the reading of the Bible have upon
his enemies? Is he willing to admit that the testi-
mony of a Bible, reader and believer is true? Is he
willing to accept the testimony even of ministers?
—of his brother ministers? Did reading the Bible
make them bad people? Was it a belief in the Bible
that colored their testimony? Or, was it a belief in
the Bible that made Mr. Talmage deny the truth of
their statements?

_Question_. Mr. Talmage charges you with having
said that the Scriptures are a collection of polluted
writings?

_Answer_. I have never said such a thing. I have
said, and I still say, that there are passages in the
Bible unfit to be read—passages that never should

196

have been written—passages, whether inspired or
uninspired, that can by no possibility do any human
being any good. I have always admitted that there
are good passages in the Bible—many good, wise
and just laws—many things calculated to make men
better—many things calculated to make men worse.
I admit that the Bible is a mixture of good and bad,
of truth and falsehood, of history and fiction, of sense
and nonsense, of virtue and vice, of aspiration and
revenge, of liberty and tyranny.

I have never said anything against Solomon's
Song. I like it better than I do any book that pre-
cedes it, because it touches upon the human. In the
desert of murder, wars of extermination, polygamy,
concubinage and slavery, it is an oasis where the
trees grow, where the birds sing, and where human
love blossoms and fills the air with perfume. I do
not regard that book as obscene. There are many
things in it that are beautiful and tender, and it is
calculated to do good rather than harm.

Neither have I any objection to the book of Eccle-
siastes—except a few interpolations in it. That book
was written by a Freethinker, by a philosopher.
There is not the slightest mention of God in it, nor
of another state of existence. All portions in which

197

God is mentioned are interpolations. With some of
this book I agree heartily. I believe in the doctrine
of enjoying yourself, if you can, to-day. I think it
foolish to spend all your years in heaping up treas-
ures, not knowing but he who will spend them is to
be an idiot. I believe it is far better to be happy with
your wife and child now, than to be miserable here,
with angelic expectations in some other world.

Mr. Talmage is mistaken when he supposes that all
Bible believers have good homes, that all Bible readers
are kind in their families. As a matter of fact, nearly all
the wife-whippers of the United States are orthodox.
Nine-tenths of the people in the penitentiaries are
believers. Scotland is one of the most orthodox
countries in the world, and one of the most intem-
perate. Hundreds and hundreds of women are
arrested every year in Glasgow for drunkenness.
Visit the Christian homes in the manufacturing dis-
tricts of England. Talk with the beaters of children
and whippers of wives, and you will find them be-
lievers. Go into what is known as the "Black
"Country," and you will have an idea of the Chris-
tian civilization of England.

Let me tell you something about the "Black
"Country." There women work in iron; there women

198

do the work of men. Let me give you an instance:
A commission was appointed by Parliament to ex-
amine into the condition of the women in the "Black
"Country," and a report was made. In that report
I read the following:

"A superintendent of a brickyard where women
"were engaged in carrying bricks from the yard to
"the kiln, said to one of the women:

"'Eliza, you don't appear to be very uppish this
"morning.'"

"'Neither would you be very uppish, sir,' she re-
"plied, 'if you had had a child last night.'"

This gives you an idea of the Christian civilization
of England.

England and Ireland produce most of the prize-
fighters. The scientific burglar is a product of Great
Britain. There is not the great difference that Mr.
Talmage supposes, between the morality of Pekin
and of New York. I doubt if there is a city in
the world with more crime according to the population
than New York, unless it be London, or it may be
Dublin, or Brooklyn, or possibly Glasgow, where
a man too pious to read a newspaper published on
Sunday, stole millions from the poor.

I do not believe there is a country in the world

199

where there is more robbery than in Christian lands—
no country where more cashiers are defaulters, where
more presidents of banks take the money of depositors,
where there is more adulteration of food, where
fewer ounces make a pound, where fewer inches make
a yard, where there is more breach of trust, more
respectable larceny under the name of embezzlement,
or more slander circulated as gospel.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage insists that there are no
contradictions in the Bible—that it is a perfect har-
mony from Genesis to Revelation—a harmony as
perfect as any piece of music ever written by
Beethoven or Handel?

_Answer_. Of course, if God wrote it, the Bible
ought to be perfect. I do not see why a minister
should be so perfectly astonished to find that an
inspired book is consistent with itself throughout.
Yet the truth is, the Bible is infinitely inconsistent.

Compare the two systems—the system of Jehovah
and that of Jesus. In the Old Testament the doctrine
of "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth" was
taught. In the New Testament, "forgive your
"enemies," and "pray for those who despitefully
"use you and persecute you." In the Old Testament

200

it is kill, burn, massacre, destroy; in the New forgive.
The two systems are inconsistent, and one is just
about as far wrong as the other. To live for and
thirst for revenge, to gloat over the agony of an
enemy, is one extreme; to "resist not evil" is the
other extreme; and both these extremes are equally
distant from the golden mean of justice.

The four gospels do not even agree as to the terms
of salvation. And yet, Mr. Talmage tells us that
there are four cardinal doctrines taught in the Bible—
the goodness of God, the fall of man, the sympathetic
and forgiving nature of the Savior, and two desti-
nies—one for believers and the other for unbelievers.
That is to say:

1. That God is good, holy and forgiving.

2. That man is a lost sinner.

3. That Christ is "all sympathetic," and ready to
take the whole world to his heart.

4. Heaven for believers and hell for unbelievers.

_First_. I admit that the Bible says that God is

good and holy. But this Bible also tells what God
did, and if God did what the Bible says he did, then I
insist that God is not good, and that he is not holy,
or forgiving. According to the Bible, this good
God believed in religious persecution; this good

201

God believed in extermination, in polygamy, in con-
cubinage, in human slavery; this good God com-
manded murder and massacre, and this good God
could only be mollified by the shedding of blood.
This good God wanted a butcher for a priest. This
good God wanted husbands to kill their wives—
wanted fathers and mothers to kill their children.
This good God persecuted animals on account of the
crimes of their owners. This good God killed the
common people because the king had displeased him.
This good God killed the babe even of the maid
behind the mill, in order that he might get even with
a king. This good God committed every possible
crime.

_Second_. The statement that man is a lost sinner
is not true. There are thousands and thousands of
magnificent Pagans—men ready to die for wife, or
child, or even for friend, and the history of Pagan
countries is filled with self-denying and heroic acts.
If man is a failure, the infinite God, if there be one,
is to blame. Is it possible that the God of Mr. Tal-
mage could not have made man a success? Accord-
ing to the Bible, his God made man knowing that in
about fifteen hundred years he would have to drown
all his descendants.

202

Why would a good God create a man that he
knew would be a sinner all his life, make hundreds
of thousands of his fellow-men unhappy, and who at
last would be doomed to an eternity of suffering?
Can such a God be good? How could a devil have
done worse?

_Third._ If God is infinitely good, is he not fully as
sympathetic as Christ? Do you have to employ
Christ to mollify a being of infinite mercy? Is Christ
any more willing to take to his heart the whole world
than his Father is? Personally, I have not the
slightest objection in the world to anybody believing
in an infinitely good and kind God—not the slightest
objection to any human being worshiping an infi-
nitely tender and merciful Christ—not the slightest
objection to people preaching about heaven, or about
the glories of the future state—not the slightest.

_Fourth_. I object to the doctrine of two destinies
for the human race. I object to the infamous false-
hood of eternal fire. And yet, Mr. Talmage is en-
deavoring to poison the imagination of men, women
and children with the doctrine of an eternal hell.
Here is what he preaches, taken from the "Constitu-
"tion of the Presbyterian Church of the United
"States:"

203

"By the decrees of God, for the manifestation of
"his glory, some men and angels are predestinated
"to everlasting life, and others foreordained to ever-
"lasting death."

That is the doctrine of Mr. Talmage. He wor-
ships a God who damns people "for the manifesta-
"tion of his glory,"—a God who made men, knowing
that they would be damned—a God who damns
babes simply to increase his reputation with the
angels. This is the God of Mr. Talmage. Such a
God I abhor, despise and execrate.

_Question_. What does Mr. Talmage think of man-
kind? What is his opinion of the "unconverted"?
How does he regard the great and glorious of the
earth, who have not been the victims of his particular
superstition? What does he think of some of the
best the earth has produced?

_Answer_. I will tell you how he looks upon all
such. Read this from his "Confession of Faith:"

"Our first parents, being seduced by the subtlety
"of the tempter, sinned in eating the forbidden fruit.
"By this sin, they fell from their original righteous-
"ness and communion with God, and so became
"dead in sin, and wholly defiled in all the faculties

204

"and parts of soul and body; and they being the
"root of all mankind, the guilt of this sin was
"imputed, and the same death in sin and corrupted
"nature conveyed to all their posterity. From this
"original corruption—whereby we are utterly indis-
"posed, disabled, and made opposite to all good,
"and wholly inclined to all evil, do proceed all actual
"transgressions."

This is Mr. Talmage's view of humanity.

Why did his God make a devil? Why did he
allow the devil to tempt Adam and Eve? Why did
he leave innocence and ignorance at the mercy of
subtlety and wickedness? Why did he put "the
"tree of the knowledge of good and evil" in the
garden? For what reason did he place temptation
in the way of his children? Was it kind, was it just,
was it noble, was it worthy of a good God? No
wonder Christ put into his prayer: "Lead us not
"into temptation."

At the time God told Adam and Eve not to eat,
why did he not tell them of the existence of Satan?
Why were they not put upon their guard against the
serpent? Why did not God make his appearance
just before the sin, instead of just after. Why did
he not play the role of a Savior instead of that of a

205

detective? After he found that Adam and Eve had
sinned—knowing as he did that they were then
totally corrupt—knowing that all their children
would be corrupt, knowing that in fifteen hundred
years he would have to drown millions of them, why
did he not allow Adam and Eve to perish in accord-
ance with natural law, then kill the devil, and make a
new pair?

When the flood came, why did he not drown all?
Why did he save for seed that which was "perfectly
"and thoroughly corrupt in all its parts and facul-
"ties"? If God had drowned Noah and his sons
and their families, he could have then made a new
pair, and peopled the world with men not "wholly
"defiled in all their faculties and parts of soul and
"body."

Jehovah learned nothing by experience. He per-
sisted in his original mistake. What would we think
of a man who finding that a field of wheat was
worthless, and that such wheat never could be
raised with profit, should burn all of the field with the
exception of a few sheaves, which he saved for seed?
Why save such seed? Why should God have pre-
served Noah, knowing that he was totally corrupt,
and that he would again fill the world with infamous

206

people—people incapable of a good action? He
must have known at that time, that by preserving
Noah, the Canaanites would be produced, that these
same Canaanites would have to be murdered, that
the babes in the cradles would have to be strangled.
Why did he produce them? He knew at that time,
that Egypt would result from the salvation of Noah,
that the Egyptians would have to be nearly de-
stroyed, that he would have to kill their first-born,
that he would have to visit even their cattle with
disease and hailstones. He knew also that the
Egyptians would oppress his chosen people for two
hundred and fifteen years, that they would upon the
back of toil inflict the lash. Why did he preserve
Noah? He should have drowned all, and started
with a new pair. He should have warned them
against the devil, and he might have succeeded, in
that way, in covering the world with gentlemen and
ladies, with real men and real women.

We know that most of the people now in the
world are not Christians. Most who have heard the
gospel of Christ have rejected it, and the Presby-
terian Church tells us what is to become of all these
people. This is the "glad tidings of great joy."
Let us see:

207

"All mankind, by their fall, lost communion with
"God, are under his wrath and curse, and so made
"liable to all the miseries of this life, to death itself,
"and to the pains of hell forever."

According to this good Presbyterian doctrine, all
that we suffer in this world, is the result of Adam's
fall. The babes of to-day suffer for the crime of the
first parents. Not only so; but God is angry at us
for what Adam did. We are under the wrath of an
infinite God, whose brows are corrugated with eternal
hatred.

Why should God hate us for being what we are
and necessarily must have been? A being that God
made—the devil—for whose work God is responsible,
according to the Bible wrought this woe. God of his
own free will must have made the devil. What did
he make him for? Was it necessary to have a devil
in heaven? God, having infinite power, can of
course destroy this devil to-day. Why does he per-
mit him to live? Why did he allow him to thwart his
plans? Why did he permit him to pollute the inno-
cence of Eden? Why does he allow him now to
wrest souls by the million from the redeeming hand
of Christ?

According to the Scriptures, the devil has always

208

been successful. He enjoys himself. He is called
"the prince of the power of the air." He has no
conscientious scruples. He has miraculous power.
All miraculous power must come of God, otherwise
it is simply in accordance with nature. If the devil
can work a miracle, it is only with the consent and
by the assistance of the Almighty. Is the God of
Mr. Talmage in partnership with the devil? Do
they divide profits?

We are also told by the Presbyterian Church—
I quote from their Confession of Faith—that "there
"is no sin so small but it deserves damnation.'' Yet
Mr. Talmage tells us that God is good, that he is filled
with mercy and loving-kindness. A child nine or ten
years of age commits a sin, and thereupon it deserves
eternal damnation. That is what Mr. Talmage calls,
not simply justice, but mercy; and the sympathetic
heart of Christ is not touched. The same being who
said: "Suffer little children to come unto me," tells
us that a child, for the smallest sin, deserves to be
eternally damned. The Presbyterian Church tells us
that infants, as well as adults, in order to be saved,
need redemption by the blood of Christ, and regen-
eration by the Holy Ghost.

I am charged with trying to take the consolation

209

of this doctrine from the world. I am a criminal
because I am endeavoring to convince the mother
that her child does not deserve eternal punishment.
I stand by the graves of those who "died in their
"sins," by the tombs of the "unregenerate," over the
ashes of men who have spent their lives working for
their wives and children, and over the sacred dust of
soldiers who died in defence of flag and country,
and I say to their friends—I say to the living who
loved them, I say to the men and women for whom
they worked, I say to the children whom they edu-
cated, I say to the country for which they died:
These fathers, these mothers, these wives, these
husbands, these soldiers are not in hell.

_Question_. Mr. Talmage insists that the Bible is
scientific, and that the real scientific man sees no
contradiction between revelation and science; that,
on the contrary, they are in harmony. What is your
understanding of this matter?

_Answer_. I do not believe the Bible to be a sci-
entific book. In fact, most of the ministers now admit
that it was not written to teach any science. They
admit that the first chapter of Genesis is not geo-
logically true. They admit that Joshua knew nothing

210

of science. They admit that four-footed birds did
not exist in the days of Moses. In fact, the only
way they can avoid the unscientific statements of the
Bible, is to assert that the writers simply used the
common language of their day, and used it, not with
the intention of teaching any scientific truth, but for
the purpose of teaching some moral truth. As a
matter of fact, we find that moral truths have been
taught in all parts of this world. They were taught
in India long before Moses lived; in Egypt long be-
fore Abraham was born; in China thousands of
years before the flood. They were taught by hundreds
and thousands and millions before the Garden of
Eden was planted.

It would be impossible to prove the truth of a
revelation simply because it contained moral truths.
If it taught immorality, it would be absolutely certain
that it was not a revelation from an infinitely good
being. If it taught morality, it would be no reason
for even suspecting that it had a divine origin. But
if the Bible had given us scientific truths; if the
ignorant Jews had given us the true theory of our
solar system; if from Moses we had learned the
nature of light and heat; if from Joshua we had
learned something of electricity; if the minor pro-

211

phets had given us the distances to other planets;
if the orbits of the stars had been marked by the
barbarians of that day, we might have admitted that
they must have been inspired. If they had said any-
thing in advance of their day; if they had plucked
from the night of ignorance one star of truth, we
might have admitted the claim of inspiration; but
the Scriptures did not rise above their source, did
not rise above their ignorant authors—above the
people who believed in wars of extermination, in
polygamy, in concubinage, in slavery, and who taught
these things in their "sacred Scriptures."

The greatest men in the scientific world have not
been, and are not, believers in the inspiration of the
Scriptures. There has been no greater astronomer
than Laplace. There is no greater name than
Humboldt. There is no living scientist who stands
higher than Charles Darwin. All the professors in
all the religious colleges in this country rolled into
one, would not equal Charles Darwin. All the cow-
ardly apologists for the cosmogony of Moses do not
amount to as much in the world of thought as Ernst
Haeckel. There is no orthodox scientist the equal
of Tyndall or Huxley. There is not one in this
country the equal of John Fiske. I insist, that the

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foremost men to-day in the scientific world reject the
dogma of inspiration. They reject the science of the
Bible, and hold in utter contempt the astronomy of
Joshua, and the geology of Moses.

Mr. Talmage tells us "that Science is a boy and
"Revelation is a man." Of course, like the most he
says, it is substantially the other way. Revelation,
so-called, was the boy. Religion was the lullaby of
the cradle, the ghost-story told by the old woman,
Superstition. Science is the man. Science asks for
demonstration. Science impels us to investigation,
and to verify everything for ourselves. Most pro-
fessors of American colleges, if they were not afraid
of losing their places, if they did not know that
Christians were bad enough now to take the bread
from their mouths, would tell their students that the
Bible is not a scientific book.

I admit that I have said:

1. That the Bible is cruel.

2. That in many passages it is impure.

3. That it is contradictory.

4. That it is unscientific.

Let me now prove these propositions one by one.

First. The Bible is cruel.

I have opened it at random, and the very first

213

chapter that has struck my eye is the sixth of First
Samuel. In the nineteenth verse of that chapter, I
find the following:

"And he smote the men of Bethshemesh, because
"they had looked into the ark of the Lord; even he
"smote of the people fifty thousand and three-score
"and ten men."

All this slaughter was because some people had
looked into a box that was carried upon a cart. Was
that cruel?

I find, also, in the twenty-fourth chapter of Second
Samuel, that David was moved by God to number
Israel and Judah. God put it into his heart to take
a census of his people, and thereupon David said to
Joab, the captain of his host:

"Go now through all the tribes of Israel, from
"Dan even to Beersheba, and number ye the people,
"that I may know the number of the people."

At the end of nine months and twenty days, Joab
gave the number of the people to the king, and
there were at that time, according to that census,
"eight hundred thousand valiant men that drew the
"sword," in Israel, and in Judah, "five hundred
"thousand men," making a total of thirteen hundred
thousand men of war. The moment this census was

214

taken, the wrath of the Lord waxed hot against
David, and thereupon he sent a seer, by the name of
Gad, to David, and asked him to choose whether he
would have seven years of famine, or fly three
months before his enemies, or have three days of
pestilence. David concluded that as God was so
merciful as to give him a choice, he would be more
merciful than man, and he chose the pestilence.

Now, it must be remembered that the sin of taking
the census had not been committed by the people,
but by David himself, inspired by God, yet the
people were to be punished for David's sin. So,,
when David chose the pestilence, God immediately
killed "seventy thousand men, from Dan even to
"Beersheba."

"And when the angel stretched out his hand upon
"Jerusalem to destroy it, the Lord repented him of
"the evil, and said to the angel that destroyed the
"people, It is enough; stay now thine hand."

Was this cruel?

Why did a God of infinite mercy destroy seventy
thousand men? Why did he fill his land with widows
and orphans, because King David had taken the cen-
sus? If he wanted to kill anybody, why did he not
kill David? I will tell you why. Because at that

215

time, the people were considered as the property of
the king. He killed the people precisely as he killed
the cattle. And yet, I am told that the Bible is not a
cruel book.

In the twenty-first chapter of Second Samuel, I
find that there were three years of famine in the days
of David, and that David inquired of the Lord the
reason of the famine; and the Lord told him that it
was because Saul had slain the Gibeonites. Why did
not God punish Saul instead of the people? And
David asked the Gibeonites how he should make
atonement, and the Gibeonites replied that they
wanted no silver nor gold, but they asked that seven
of the sons of Saul might be delivered unto them, so
that they could hang them before the Lord, in Gibeah.
And David agreed to the proposition, and thereupon
he delivered to the Gibeonites the two sons of Rizpah,
Saul's concubine, and the five sons of Michal, the
daughter of Saul, and the Gibeonites hanged all
seven of them together. And Rizpah, more tender
than them all, with a woman's heart of love kept
lonely vigil by the dead, "from the beginning of har-
"vest until water dropped upon them out of heaven,
"and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest upon
"them by day, nor the beast of the field by night."

216

I want to know if the following, from the fifteenth
chapter of First Samuel, is inspired:

"Thus saith the Lord of hosts; I remember that
"which Amalek did to Israel, how he laid wait for
"him in the way when he came up from Egypt. Now
"go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that
"they have, and spare them not, but slay both man
"and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep,
"camel and ass."

We must remember that those he was commanded
to slay had done nothing to Israel. It was something
done by their forefathers, hundreds of years before;
and yet they are commanded to slay the women and
children and even the animals, and to spare none.

It seems that Saul only partially carried into exe-
cution this merciful command of Jehovah. He spared
the life of the king. He "utterly destroyed all the
"people with the edge of the sword," but he kept
alive the best of the sheep and oxen and of the fat-
lings and lambs. Then God spake unto Samuel and
told him that he was very sorry he had made Saul
king, because he had not killed all the animals, and
because he had spared Agag; and Samuel asked
Saul: "What meaneth this bleating of sheep in mine
"ears, and the lowing of the oxen which I hear?"

217

Are stories like this calculated to make soldiers
merciful?

So I read in the sixth chapter of Joshua, the fate
of the city of Jericho: "And they utterly destroyed
"all that was in the city, both man and woman,
"young and old, and ox, and sheep, and ass, with the
"edge of the sword. And they burnt the city with
"fire, and all that was therein." But we are told that
one family was saved by Joshua, out of the general
destruction: "And Joshua saved Rahab, the harlot,
"alive, and her father's household, and all that she
"had." Was this fearful destruction an act of
mercy?

It seems that they saved the money of their
victims: "the silver and gold and the vessels of brass
"and of iron they put into the treasury of the house
"of the Lord."

After all this pillage and carnage, it appears
that there was a suspicion in Joshua's mind that
somebody was keeping back a part of the treasure.
Search was made, and a man by the name of Achan
admitted that he had sinned against the Lord, that he
had seen a Babylonish garment among the spoils, and
two hundred shekels of silver and a wedge of gold of
fifty shekels' weight, and that he took them and hid

2l8

them in his tent. For this atrocious crime it seems
that the Lord denied any victories to the Jews until
they found out the wicked criminal. When they dis-
covered poor Achan, "they took him and his sons
"and his daughters, and his oxen and his asses and
"his sheep, and all that he had, and brought them unto
"the valley of Achor; and all Israel stoned him with
"stones and burned them with fire after they had
"stoned them with stones."

After Achan and his sons and his daughters and
his herds had been stoned and burned to death, we
are told that "the Lord turned from the fierceness of
"his anger."

And yet it is insisted that this God "is merciful,
"and that his loving-kindness is over all his works."
In the eighth chapter of this same book, the infi-
nite God, "creator of heaven and earth and all that is
"therein," told his general, Joshua, to lay an ambush
for a city—to "lie in wait against the city, even be-
"hind the city; go not very far from the city, but be
"ye all ready." He told him to make an attack and
then to run, as though he had been beaten, in order
that the inhabitants of the city might follow, and
thereupon his reserves that he had ambushed might
rush into the city and set it on fire. God Almighty

219

planned the battle. God himself laid the snare. The
whole programme was carried out. Joshua made
believe that he was beaten, and fled, and then the
soldiers in ambush rose out of their places, enter-
ed the city, and set it on fire. Then came the
slaughter. They "utterly destroyed all the inhabit-
"ants of Ai," men and maidens, women and babes,
sparing only their king till evening, when they
hanged him on a tree, then "took his carcase down
"from the tree and cast it at the entering of the
"gate, and raised thereon a great heap of stones
"which remaineth unto this day." After having
done all this, "Joshua built an altar unto the Lord
"God of Israel, and offered burnt offerings unto the
"Lord." I ask again, was this cruel?

Again I ask, was the treatment of the Gibeonites
cruel when they sought to make peace but were
denied, and cursed instead; and although permitted
to live, were yet made slaves? Read the mandate
consigning them to bondage: "Now therefore ye
"are cursed, and there shall none of you be freed
"from being bondmen and hewers of wood and
"drawers of water for the house of my God."

Is it possible, as recorded in the tenth chapter of
Joshua, that the Lord took part in these battles, and

220

cast down great hail-stones from the battlements of
heaven upon the enemies of the Israelites, so that
"they were more who died with hail-stones, than
"they whom the children of Israel slew with the
"sword"?

Is it possible that a being of infinite power would
exercise it in that way instead of in the interest of
kindness and peace?

I find, also, in this same chapter, that Joshua took
Makkedah and smote it with the edge of the sword,
that he utterly destroyed all the souls that were
therein, that he allowed none to remain.

I find that he fought against Libnah, and smote
it with the edge of the sword, and utterly destroyed
all the souls that were therein, and allowed none to
remain, and did unto the king as he did unto the king
of Jericho.

I find that he also encamped against Lachish, and
that God gave him that city, and that he "smote it
"with the edge of the sword, and all the souls that
"were therein," sparing neither old nor young, help-
less women nor prattling babes.

He also vanquished Horam, King of Gezer, "and
"smote him and his people until he left him none
"remaining."

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He encamped against the city of Eglon, and killed
every soul that was in it, at the edge of the sword,
just as he had done to Lachish and all the others.

He fought against Hebron, "and took it and
"smote it with the edge of the sword, and the king
"thereof,"—and it appears that several cities, their
number not named, were included in this slaughter,
for Hebron "and all the cities thereof and all the
"souls that were therein," were utterly destroyed.

He then waged war against Debir and took it, and
more unnumbered cities with it, and all the souls that
were therein shared the same horrible fate—he did
not leave a soul alive.

And this chapter of horrors concludes with this
song of victory:

"So Joshua smote all the country of the hills, and
"of the south, and of the vale, and of the springs,
"and all their kings: he left none remaining, but
"utterly destroyed all that breathed, as the Lord
"God of Israel commanded. And Joshua smote
"them from Kadeshbarnea even unto Gaza, and all the
"country of Goshen, even unto Gibeon. And all these
"kings and their land did Joshua take at one time,
"because the Lord God of Israel fought for Israel."
Was God, at that time, merciful?

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I find, also, in the twenty-first chapter that many
Icings met, with their armies, for the purpose of
overwhelming Israel, and the Lord said unto Joshua:
"Be not afraid because of them, for to-morrow about
"this time I will deliver them all slain before Israel.
"I will hough their horses and burn their chariots
"with fire." Were animals so treated by the com-
mand of a merciful God?

Joshua captured Razor, and smote all the souls
that were therein with the edge of the sword, there
was not one left to breathe; and he took all the
cities of all the kings that took up arms against him,
and utterly destroyed all the inhabitants thereof.
He took the cattle and spoils as prey unto himself,
and smote every man with the edge of the sword;
and not only so, but left not a human being to
breathe.

I find the following directions given to the Israel-
ites who were waging a war of conquest. They are
in the twentieth chapter of Deuteronomy, from the
tenth to the eighteenth verses:

"When thou comest nigh unto a city to fight
"against it, then proclaim peace unto it. And it
"shall be, if it make thee an answer of peace, and
"open unto thee, then it shall be that all the people

223

"that is found therein shall be tributaries unto thee,
"and they shall serve thee. And if it will make no
"peace with thee, but will war against thee, then
"thou shalt besiege it. And when the Lord thy
"God hath delivered it into thine hands, thou shalt
"smite every male thereof with the edge of the
"sword; but the women, and the little ones, and
"the cattle, and all that is in the city, even the spoil
"thereof, shalt thou take unto thyself; and thou
"shalt eat the spoil of thine enemies, which the
"Lord thy God hath given thee. Thus shalt thou
"do unto all the cities which are very far off from
"thee, which are not of the cities of these nations."
It will be seen from this that people could take
their choice between death and slavery, provided
these people lived a good ways from the Israelites.
Now, let us see how they were to treat the inhabit-
ants of the cities near to them:

"But of the cities of these people which the Lord
"thy God doth give thee for an inheritance, thou
"shalt save alive nothing that breatheth. But thou
"shalt utterly destroy them; namely, the Hittites,
"and the Amorites, the Canaanites, and the Perizzites,
"the Hivites and the Jebusites, as the Lord thy God
"hath commanded thee."

224

It never occurred to this merciful God to send
missionaries to these people. He built them no
schoolhouses, taught them no alphabet, gave them
no book; they were not supplied even with a copy of
the Ten Commandments. He did not say "Reform,"
but "Kill;" not "Educate," but "Destroy." He gave
them no Bible, built them no church, sent them no
preachers. He knew when he made them that he
would have to have them murdered. When he
created them he knew that they were not fit to live;
and yet, this is the infinite God who is infinitely
merciful and loves his children better than an earthly
mother loves her babe.

In order to find just how merciful God is, read the
twenty-eighth chapter of Deuteronomy, and see what
he promises to do with people who do not keep all of
his commandments and all of his statutes. He curses
them in their basket and store, in the fruit of their
body, in the fruit of their land, in the increase of their
cattle and sheep. He curses them in the city and in
the field, in their coming in and their going out. He
curses them with pestilence, with consumption, with
fever, with inflammation, with extreme burning, with
sword, with blasting, with mildew. He tells them
that the heavens shall be as brass over their heads

225

and the earth as iron under their feet; that the rain
shall be powder and dust and shall come down on
them and destroy them; that they shall flee seven
ways before their enemies; that their carcasses shall
be meat for the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the
earth; that he will smite them with the botch of
Egypt, and with the scab, and with the itch, and with
madness and blindness and astonishment; that he
will make them grope at noonday; that they shall be
oppressed and spoiled evermore; that one shall be-
troth a wife and another shall have her; that they
shall build a house and not dwell in it; plant a vine-
yard and others shall eat the grapes; that their
sons and daughters shall be given to their enemies;
that he will make them mad for the sight of their
eyes; that he will smite them in the knees and in the
legs with a sore botch that cannot be healed, and
from the sole of the foot to the top of the head;
that they shall be a by-word among all nations; that
they shall sow much seed and gather but little; that
the locusts shall consume their crops; that they shall
plant vineyards and drink no wine,—that they shall
gather grapes, but worms shall eat them; that they
shall raise olives but have no oil; beget sons and
daughters, but they shall go into captivity; that all

226

the trees and fruit of the land shall be devoured by
locusts, and that all these curses shall pursue them
and overtake them, until they be destroyed; that they
shall be slaves to their enemies, and be constantly in
hunger and thirst and nakedness, and in want of all
things. And as though this were not enough, the
Lord tells them that he will bring a nation against
them swift as eagles, a nation fierce and savage, that
will show no mercy and no favor to old or young,
and leave them neither corn, nor wine, nor oil, nor
flocks, nor herds; and this nation shall besiege them
in their cities until they are reduced to the necessity
of eating the flesh of their own sons and daughters;
so that the men would eat their wives and their
children, and women eat their husbands and their
own sons and daughters, and their own babes.

All these curses God pronounced upon them if they
did not observe to do all the words of the law that
were written in his book.

This same merciful God threatened that he would
bring upon them all the diseases of Egypt—every
sickness and every plague; that he would scatter
them from one end of the earth to the other; that
they should find no rest; that their lives should hang
in perpetual doubt; that in the morning they would

227

say: Would God it were evening! and in the even-
ing, Would God it were morning! and that he would
finally take them back to Egypt where they should
be again sold for bondmen and bondwomen.

This curse, the foundation of the _Anathema
maranatha_; this curse, used by the pope of Rome to
prevent the spread of thought; this curse used even
by the Protestant Church; this curse born of barba-
rism and of infinite cruelty, is now said to have
issued from the lips of an infinitely merciful God. One
would suppose that Jehovah had gone insane; that
he had divided his kingdom like Lear, and from the
darkness of insanity had launched his curses upon a
world.

In order that there may be no doubt as to the
mercy of Jehovah, read the thirteenth chapter of
Deuteronomy:

"If thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy
"son, or thy daughter, or the wife of thy bosom, or
"thy friend, which is as thine own soul, entice thee
"secretly, saying, Let us go and serve other gods,
"which thou hast not known, thou nor thy fathers;
" * * * thou shalt not consent unto him, nor
"hearken unto him; neither shall thine eyes pity him,
"neither shalt thou spare, neither shalt thou conceal

228

"him; but thou shalt surely kill him: thine hand
"shall be first upon him to put him to death, and
"afterwards the hand of all the people; and thou
"shalt stone him with stones that he die, because he
"hath sought to entice thee away from the Lord thy
"God."

This, according to Mr. Talmage, is a commandment
of the infinite God. According to him, God ordered
a man to murder his own son, his own wife, his own
brother, his own daughter, if they dared even to sug-
gest the worship of some other God than Jehovah.
For my part, it is impossible not to despise such
a God—a God not willing that one should worship
what he must. No one can control his admiration,
and if a savage at sunrise falls upon his knees and
offers homage to the great light of the East, he can-
not help it. If he worships the moon, he cannot help
it. If he worships fire, it is because he cannot control
his own spirit. A picture is beautiful to me in spite
of myself. A statue compels the applause of my
brain. The worship of the sun was an exceedingly
natural religion, and why should a man or woman be
destroyed for kneeling at the fireside of the world?

No wonder that this same God, in the very next
chapter of Deuteronomy to that quoted, says to his

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chosen people: "Ye shall not eat of anything that
"dieth of itself: thou shalt give it unto the stranger
"that is within thy gates, that he may eat it; or thou
"mayest sell it unto an alien: for thou art a holy
"people unto the Lord thy God."

What a mingling of heartlessness and thrift—the
religion of sword and trade!

In the seventh chapter of Deuteronomy, Jehovah
gives his own character. He tells the Israelites that
there are seven nations greater and mightier than
themselves, but that he will deliver them to his chosen
people, and that they shall smite them and utterly
destroy them; and having some fear that a drop of
pity might remain in the Jewish heart, he says:

"Thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor
"show mercy unto them. * * * Know therefore
"that the Lord thy God, he is God, the faithful God,
"which keepeth covenant and mercy with them that
"love him and keep his commandments to a thousand
"generations, and repayeth them that hate him to
"their face, to destroy them: he will not be slack to
"him that hateth him, he will repay him to his face."
This is the description which the merciful, long-suffer-
ing Jehovah gives of himself.

So, he promises great prosperity to the Jews if

230

they will only obey his commandments, and says:
"And the Lord will take away from thee all sickness,
"and will put none of the evil diseases of Egypt
"upon thee, but will lay them upon all them that
"hate thee. And thou shalt consume all the people
"which the Lord thy God shall deliver thee; thine
"eye shall have no pity upon them."

Under the immediate government of Jehovah,
mercy was a crime. According to the law of God,
pity was weakness, tenderness was treason, kindness
was blasphemy, while hatred and massacre were
virtues.

In the second chapter of Deuteronomy we find
another account tending to prove that Jehovah is a
merciful God. We find that Sihon, king of Heshbon,
would not let the Hebrews pass by him, and the
reason given is, that "the Lord God hardened his
"spirit and made his heart obstinate, that he might
"deliver him into the hand" of the Hebrews. Sihon,
his heart having been hardened by God, came out
against the chosen people, and God delivered him to
them, and "they smote him, and his sons, and all his
"people, and took all his cities, and utterly destroyed
"the men and the women, and the little ones of
"every city: they left none to remain." And in this

231

same chapter this same God promises that the dread
and fear of his chosen people should be "upon all the
"nations that are under the whole heaven," and that
"they should "tremble and be in anguish because of"
the Hebrews.

Read the thirty-first chapter of Numbers, and see
how the Midianites were slain. You will find that
"the children of Israel took all the women of Midian
"captives, and their little ones," that they took "all
"their cattle, and all their flocks, and all their goods,"
that they slew all the males, and burnt all their cities
and castles with fire, that they brought the captives
and the prey and the spoil unto Moses and Eleazar
the priest; that Moses was wroth with the officers
of his host because they had saved all the women
alive, and thereupon this order was given: "Kill
"every male among the little ones, and kill every
"woman, * * * but all the women children
"keep alive for yourselves."

After this, God himself spake unto Moses, and
said: "Take the sum of the prey that was taken,
"both of man and of beast, thou and Eleazar the
"priest * * * and divide the prey into two
"parts, between those who went to war, and between
"all the congregation, and levy a tribute unto the

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"Lord, one soul of five hundred of the persons,
"and the cattle; take it of their half and give it to
"the priest for an offering * * * and of the
"children of Israel's half, take one portion of fifty of
"the persons and the animals and give them unto
"the Levites. * * * And Moses and the priest
"did as the Lord had commanded." It seems that
they had taken six hundred and seventy-five thou-
sand sheep, seventy-two thousand beeves, sixty-one
thousand asses, and thirty-two thousand women
children and maidens. And it seems, by the fortieth
verse, _that the Lord's tribute of the maidens was thirty-
two_,—the rest were given to the soldiers and to the
congregation of the Lord.

Was anything more infamous ever recorded in the
annals of barbarism? And yet we are told that the
Bible is an inspired book, that it is not a cruel book,
and that Jehovah is a being of infinite mercy.

In the twenty-fifth chapter of Numbers we find
that the Israelites had joined themselves unto Baal-
Peor, and thereupon the anger of the Lord was
kindled against them, as usual. No being ever lost
his temper more frequently than this Jehovah. Upon
this particular occasion, "the Lord said unto Moses,
"Take all the heads of the people, and hang them

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"up before the Lord against the sun, that the fierce
"anger of the Lord may be turned away from Israel."
And thereupon "Moses said unto the judges of Israel,
"Slay ye every one his men that were joined unto
"Baal-peor."

Just as soon as these people were killed, and their
heads hung up before the Lord against the sun, and
a horrible double murder of a too merciful Israelite
and a Midianitish woman, had been committed by
Phinehas, the son of Eleazar, "the plague was stayed
"from the children of Israel." Twenty-four thousand
had died. Thereupon, "the Lord spake unto Moses
"and said"—and it is a very merciful commandment
—"Vex the Midianites and smite them."

In the twenty-first chapter of Numbers is more evi-
dence that God is merciful and compassionate.

The children of Israel had become discouraged.
They had wandered so long in the desert that they
finally cried out: "Wherefore have ye brought us
"up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There
"is no bread, there is no water, and our soul loatheth
"this light bread." Of course they were hungry and
thirsty. Who would not complain under similar cir-
cumstances? And yet, on account of this complaint,
the God of infinite tenderness and compassion sent

234

serpents among them, and these serpents bit them—
bit the cheeks of children, the breasts of maidens,
and the withered faces of age. Why would a God
do such an infamous thing? Why did he not, as the
leader of this people, his chosen children, feed them
better? Certainly an infinite God had the power
to satisfy their hunger and to quench their thirst.
He who overwhelmed a world with water, certainly
could have made a few brooks, cool and babbling,
to follow his chosen people through all their jour-
neying. He could have supplied them with miracu-
lous food.

How fortunate for the Jews that Jehovah was not
revengeful, that he was so slow to anger, so patient,
so easily pleased. What would they have done had
he been exacting, easily incensed, revengeful, cruel,
or blood-thirsty?

In the sixteenth chapter of Numbers, an account is
given of a rebellion. It seems that Korah, Dathan
and Abiram got tired of Moses and Aaron. They
thought the priests were taking a little too much
upon themselves. So Moses told them to have two
hundred and fifty of their men bring their censers
and put incense in them before the Lord, and stand
in the door of the tabernacle of the congregation

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with Moses and Aaron. That being done, the Lord
appeared, and told Moses and Aaron to separate
themselves from the people, that he might consume
them all in a moment. Moses and Aaron, having a
little compassion, begged God not to kill everybody.
The people were then divided, and Dathan and
Abiram came out and stood in the door of their
tents with their wives and their sons and their little
children. And Moses said:

"Hereby ye shall know that the Lord hath sent
"me to do all these works; for I have not done them
"of my mine own mind. If these men die the
"common death of all men, or if they be visited
"after the common visitation of all men, then the
"Lord hath not sent me. But if the Lord make a
"new thing, and the earth open her mouth and
"swallow them up, with all that appertain unto them,
"and they go down quick into the pit, then ye shall
"understand that these men have provoked the
"Lord." The moment he ceased speaking, "the
"ground clave asunder that was under them; and
"the earth opened her mouth and swallowed them up,
"and their houses, and all the men that appertained
"unto Korah, and all their goods. They, and all that
"appertained to them went down alive into the pit,

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"and the earth closed upon them, and they perished
"from among the congregation."

This, according to Mr. Talmage, was the act of an
exceedingly merciful God, prompted by infinite kind-
ness, and moved by eternal pity. What would he
have done had he acted from motives of revenge?
What would he Jiave done had he been remorse-
lessly cruel and wicked?

In addition to those swallowed by the earth, the
two hundred and fifty men that offered the incense
were consumed by "a fire that came out from the
"Lord." And not only this, but the same merciful
Jehovah wished to consume all the people, and he
would have consumed them all, only that Moses pre-
vailed upon Aaron to take a censer and put fire
therein from off the altar of incense and go quickly
to the congregation and make an atonement for them.
He was not quick enough. The plague had already
begun; and before he could possibly get the censers
and incense among the people, fourteen thousand and
seven hundred had died of the plague. How many
more might have died, if Jehovah had not been so
slow to anger and so merciful and tender to his
children, we have no means of knowing.

In the thirteenth chapter of the same book of

237

Numbers, we find that some spies were sent over
into the promised land, and that they brought back
grapes and figs and pomegranates, and reported that
the whole land was flowing with milk and honey, but
that the people were strong, that the cities were
walled, and that the nations in the promised land
were mightier than the Hebrews. They reported that
all the people they met were men of a great stature,
that they had seen "the giants, the sons of Anak
"which come of giants," compared with whom the
Israelites were "in their own sight as grasshoppers,
"and so were we in their sight." Entirely discour-
aged by these reports, "all the congregation lifted up
"their voice and cried, and the people wept that
"night * * * and murmured against Moses and
"against Aaron, and said unto them: Would God
"that we had died in the land of Egypt! or would
"God we had died in this wilderness!" Some of
them thought that it would be better to go back,—
that they might as well be slaves in Egypt as to be
food for giants in the promised land. They did not
want their bones crunched between the teeth of the
sons of Anak.

Jehovah got angry again, and said to Moses:
"How long will these people provoke me? * * *

238

"I will smite them with pestilence, and disinherit
"them." But Moses said: Lord, if you do this,
the Egyptians will hear of it, and they will say that
you were not able to bring your people into the
promised land. Then he proceeded to flatter him by
telling him how merciful and long-suffering he had
been. Finally, Jehovah concluded to pardon the
people this time, but his pardon depended upon the
violation of his promise, for he said: "They shall
"not see the land which I sware unto their fathers,
"neither shall any of them that provoked me see it;
"but my servant Caleb, * * * him will I bring
"into the land." And Jehovah said to the people:
"Your carcasses shall fall in this wilderness, and all
"that were numbered of you according to your
"whole number, from twenty years old and upward,
"which have murmured against me, ye shall not
"come into the land concerning which I sware to
"make you dwell therein, save Caleb the son of
"Jephunneh, and Joshua the son of Nun. But your
"little ones, which ye said should be a prey, them
"will I bring in, and they shall know the land
"which ye have despised. But as for you, your
"carcasses shall fall in this wilderness. And your
"children shall wander in the wilderness forty

239

"years * * * until your carcasses be wasted in
"the wilderness."

And all this because the people were afraid of
giants, compared with whom they were but as grass-
hoppers.

So we find that at one time the people became
exceedingly hungry. They had no flesh to eat.
There were six hundred thousand men of war, and
they had nothing to feed on but manna. They
naturally murmured and complained, and thereupon a
wind from the Lord went forth and brought quails
from the sea, (quails are generally found in the sea,)
"and let them fall by the camp, as it were a day's
"journey on this side, and as it were a day's journey
"on the other side, round about the camp, and as it
"were two cubits high upon the face of the earth.
"And the people stood up all that day, and all that
"night, and all the next day, and they gathered the
"quails. * * * And while the flesh was yet be-
"tween their teeth, ere it was chewed, the wrath of
"the Lord was kindled against the people, and the
"Lord smote the people with a very great plague."

Yet he is slow to anger, long-suffering, merciful
and just.

In the thirty-second chapter of Exodus, is the ac-

240

count of the golden calf. It must be borne in mind
that the worship of this calf by the people was before
the Ten Commandments had been given to them.
Christians now insist that these commandments must
have been inspired, because no human being could
have constructed them,—could have conceived of
them.

It seems, according to this account, that Moses had
been up in the mount with God, getting the Ten Com-
mandments, and that while he was there the people
had made the golden calf. When he came down and
saw them, and found what they had done, having in
his hands the two tables, the work of God, he cast
the tables out of his hands, and broke them beneath
the mount. He then took the calf which they had
made, ground it to powder, strewed it in the water,
and made the children of Israel drink of it. And in the
twenty-seventh verse we are told what the Lord did:
"Thus saith the Lord God of Israel: Put every man
"his sword by his side, and go in and out from gate
"to gate throughout the camp, and slay every man
"his brother, and every man his companion, and
"every man his neighbor. And the children of Levi
"did according to the word of Moses; and there fell
"of the people that day about three thousand men."

241

The reason for this slaughter is thus given: "For
"Moses had said: Consecrate yourselves to-day to
"the Lord, even every man upon his son, and upon
" his brother, that he may bestow upon you a blessing
"this day."

Now, it must be remembered that there had not
been as yet a promulgation of the commandment
u Thou shalt have no other gods before me." This
was a punishment for the infraction of a law before
the law was known—before the commandment had
been given. Was it cruel, or unjust?

Does the following sound as though spoken by a
God of mercy: "I will make mine arrows drunk
"with blood, and my sword shall devour flesh"?
And yet this is but a small part of the vengeance and
destruction which God threatens to his enemies, as
recorded in the thirty-second chapter of the book of
Deuteronomy.

In the sixty-eighth Psalm is found this merciful
passage: "That thy foot may be dipped in the blood
"of thine enemies, and the tongue of thy dogs in the
"same.

So we find in the eleventh chapter of Joshua the
reason why the Canaanites and other nations made
war upon the Jews. It is as follows: "For it was of

242

"the Lord to harden their hearts that they should
"come against Israel in battle, that he might destroy
"them utterly, and that they might have no favor, but
"that he might destroy them."

Read the thirtieth chapter of Exodus and you will
find that God gave to Moses a recipe for making
the oil of holy anointment, and in the thirty-second
verse we find that no one was to make any oil like it
and in the next verse it is declared that whoever
compounded any like it, or whoever put any of it on
a stranger, should be cut off from the Lord's people.

In the same chapter, a recipe is given for per-
fumery, and it is declared that whoever shall make
any like it, or that smells like it, shall suffer death.

In the next chapter, it is decreed that if any one fails
to keep the Sabbath "he shall be surely put to death."

There are in the Pentateuch hundreds and hun-
dreds of passages showing the cruelty of Jehovah.
What could have been more cruel than the flood?
What more heartless than to overwhelm a world?
What more merciless than to cover a shoreless sea
with the corpses of men, women and children?

The Pentateuch is filled with anathemas, with
curses, with words of vengeance, of jealousy, of
hatred, and brutality. By reason of these passages,

243

millions of people have plucked from their hearts the
flowers of pity and justified the murder of women
and the assassination of babes.

In the second chapter of Second Kings we find
that the prophet Elisha was on his way to a place
called Bethel, and as he was going, there came forth
little children out of the city and mocked him and
said: "Go up thou bald head; Go up thou bald
"head! And he turned back and looked on them
"and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And
"there came forth two she bears out of the wood and
"tare forty and two children of them."

Of course he obtained his miraculous power from
Jehovah; and there must have been some communi-
cation between Jehovah and the bears. Why did the
bears come? How did they happen to be there?
Here is a prophet of God cursing children in the
name of the Lord, and thereupon these children
are torn in fragments by wild beasts.

This is the mercy of Jehovah; and yet I am told
that the Bible has nothing cruel in it; that it preaches
only mercy, justice, charity, peace; that all hearts
are softened by reading it; that the savage nature of
man is melted into tenderness and pity by it, and that
only the totally depraved can find evil in it.

244

And so I might go on, page after page, book after
book, in the Old Testament, and describe the cruelties
committed in accordance with the commands of
Jehovah.

But all the cruelties in the Old Testament are ab-
solute mercies compared with the hell of the New
Testament. In the Old Testament God stops with
the grave. He seems to have been satisfied when he
saw his enemies dead, when he saw their flesh rotting
in the open air, or in the beaks of birds, or in the teeth
of wild beasts. But in the New Testament, ven-
geance does not stop with the grave. It begins there,
and stops never. The enemies of Jehovah are to be
pursued through all the ages of eternity. There is to
be no forgiveness—no cessation, no mercy, nothing
but everlasting pain.

And yet we are told that the author of hell is a
being of infinite mercy.

_Second_; All intelligent Christians will admit that
there are many passages in the Bible that, if found in
the Koran, they would regard as impure and immoral.

It is not necessary for me to specify the passages,
nor to call the attention of the public to such things.
I am willing to trust the judgment of every honest
reader, and the memory of every biblical student.

245

The Old Testament upholds polygamy. That is
infinitely impure. It sanctions concubinage. That
is impure; nothing could or can be worse. Hun-
dreds of things are publicly told that should have re-
mained unsaid. No one is made better by reading
the history of Tamar, or the biography of Lot, or
the memoirs of Noah, of Dinah, of Sarah and
Abraham, or of Jacob and Leah and Rachel and others
that I do not care to mention. No one is improved
in his morals by reading these things.

All I mean to say is, that the Bible is like other
books produced by other nations in the same stage
of civilization. What one age considers pure, the
next considers impure. What one age may consider
just, the next may look upon as infamous. Civiliza-
tion is a growth. It is continually dying, and continu-
ally being born. Old branches rot and fall, new buds
appear. It is a perpetual twilight, and a perpetual
dawn—the death of the old, and the birth of the new.

I do not say, throw away the Bible because there
are some foolish passages in it, but I say, throw away
the foolish passages. Don't throw away wisdom
because it is found in company with folly; but do not
say that folly is wisdom, because it is found in its
company. All that is true in the Bible is true whether

246

it is inspired or not. All that is true did not need to
be inspired. Only that which is not true needs the
assistance of miracles and wonders. I read the Bible
as I read other books. What I believe to be good,
I admit is good; what I think is bad, I say is bad;
what I believe to be true, I say is true, and what I
believe to be false, I denounce as false.

_Third_. Let us see whether there are any contra-
dictions in the Bible.

A little book has been published, called "Self
"Contradictions of the Bible," by J. P. Mendum, of
The Boston Investigator. I find many of the apparent
contradictions of the Bible noted in this book.

We all know that the Pentateuch is filled with the
commandments of God upon the subject of sacrificing
animals. We know that God declared, again and
again, that the smell of burning flesh was a sweet
savor to him. Chapter after chapter is filled with direc-
tions how to kill the beasts that were set apart for
sacrifices; what to do with their blood, their flesh and
their fat. And yet, in the seventh chapter of Jeremiah,
all this is expressly denied, in the following language:
"For I spake not unto your fathers, nor commanded
"them in the day that I brought them out of the land
"of Egypt, concerning burnt offerings or sacrifices."

247

And in the sixth chapter of Jeremiah, the same
Jehovah says; "Your burnt offerings are not ac-
"ceptable, nor your sacrifices sweet unto me."

In the Psalms, Jehovah derides the idea of
sacrifices, and says: "Will I eat of the flesh of
"bulls, or drink the blood of goats? Offer unto God
"thanksgiving, and pay thy vows unto the Most
"High."

So I find in Isaiah the following: "Bring no more
"vain oblations; incense is an abomination unto me;
"the new moons and sabbaths, the calling of as-
"semblies, I cannot away with; it is iniquity, even
"the solemn meeting. Your new moons and your
"appointed feasts my soul hateth; they are a trouble
"to me; I am weary to bear them." "To what
"purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices unto me?
"saith the Lord. I am full of the burnt offerings of
"rams, and the fat of fed beasts; and I delight not
"in the blood of bullocks, or of lambs, or of he goats.
"When ye come to appear before me, who hath re-
"quired this at your hand?"

So I find in James: "Let no man say when he is
"tempted: I am tempted of God; for God cannot be
"tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any man;"
and yet in the twenty-second chapter of Genesis I

248

find this: "And it came to pass after these things,
"that God did tempt Abraham."

In Second Samuel we see that he tempted David.
He also tempted Job, and Jeremiah says: "O Lord,
"thou hast deceived me, and I was deceived." To
such an extent was Jeremiah deceived, that in the
fourteenth chapter and eighteenth verse we find him
crying out to the Lord: "Wilt thou be altogether
"unto me as a liar?"

So in Second Thessalonians: "For these things
"God shall send them strong delusions, that they
"should believe a lie."

So in First Kings, twenty-second chapter: "Behold,
"the Lord hath put a lying spirit in the mouth of all
"these thy prophets, and the Lord hath spoken evil
"concerning thee."

So in Ezekiel: "And if the prophet be deceived
"when he hath spoken a thing, I, the Lord, have de-
"ceived that prophet."

So I find: "Thou shalt not bear false witness;"
and in the book of Revelation: "All liars shall have
"their part in the lake which burneth with fire and
"brimstone;" yet in First Kings, twenty-second
chapter, I find the following: "And the Lord said:
"Who shall persuade Ahab, that he may go up and

249

"fall at Ramoth-Gilead? And one said on this
"manner, and another said on that manner. And
"there came forth a spirit and stood before the Lord,
"and said: I will persuade him. And the Lord said
"unto him: Wherewith? And he said: I will go
"forth, and I will be a lying spirit in the mouth of all
"his prophets. And he said: Thou shalt persuade
"him, and prevail also. Go forth, and do so."

In the Old Testament we find contradictory laws
about the same thing, and contradictory accounts of
the same occurrences.

In the twentieth chapter of Exodus we find the first
account of the giving of the Ten Commandments. In
the thirty-fourth chapter another account of the same
transaction is given. These two accounts could not
have been written by the same person. Read them,
and you will be forced to admit that both of them
cannot by any possibility be true. They differ in so
many particulars, and the commandments themselves
are so different, that it is impossible that both can be
true.

So there are two histories of the creation. If you
will read the first and second chapters of Genesis,
you will find two accounts inconsistent with each
other, both of which cannot be true. The first account

250

ends with the third verse of the second chapter of
Genesis. By the first account, man and woman were
made at the same time, and made last of all. In the
second account, not to be too critical, all the beasts
of the field were made before Eve was, and Adam
was made before the beasts of the field; whereas in
the first account, God made all the animals before he
made Adam. In the first account there is nothing
about the rib or the bone or the side,—that is only
found in the second account. In the first account,
there is nothing about the Garden of Eden, nothing
about the four rivers, nothing about the mist that
went up from the earth and watered the whole face
of the ground; nothing said about making man from
dust; nothing about God breathing into his nostrils
the breath of life; yet according to the second ac-
count, the Garden of Eden was planted, and all the
animals were made before Eve was formed. It is
impossible to harmonize the two accounts.

So, in the first account, only the word God is
used—"God said so and so,—God did so and so."
In the second account he is called Lord God,—"the
"Lord God formed man,"—"the Lord God caused
"it to rain,"—"the Lord God planted a garden." It
is now admitted that the book of Genesis is made up

251

of two stories, and it is very easy to take them apart
and show exactly how they were put together.

So there are two stories of the flood, differing
almost entirely from each other—that is to say, so
contradictory that both cannot be true.

There are two accounts of the manner in which
Saul was made king, and the accounts are inconsistent
with each other.

Scholars now everywhere admit that the copyists
made many changes, pieced out fragments, and made
additions, interpolations, and meaningless repetitions.
It is now generally conceded that the speeches of
Elihu, in Job, were interpolated, and most of the
prophecies were made by persons whose names even
are not known.

The manuscripts of the Old Testament were not
alike. The Greek version differed from the Hebrew,
and there was no generally received text of the Old
Testament until after the beginning of the Christian
era. Marks and points to denote vowels were in-
vented probably in the seventh century after Christ;
and whether these marks and points were put in the
proper places, is still an open question. The Alex-
andrian version, or what is known as the Septuagint,
translated by seventy-two learned Jews assisted by

252

miraculous power, about two hundred years before
Christ, could not, it is now said, have been translated
from the Hebrew text that we now have. This can
only be accounted for by supposing that we have a
different Hebrew text. The early Christians adopted
the Septuagint and were satisfied for a time; but so
many errors were found, and so many were scanning
every word in search of something to assist their
peculiar views, that new versions were produced,
and the new versions all differed somewhat from the
Septuagint as well as from each other. These ver-
sions were mostly in Greek. The first Latin Bible
was produced in Africa, and no one has ever found
out which Latin manuscript was original. Many were
produced, and all differed from each other. These
Latin versions were compared with each other and
with the Hebrew, and a new Latin version was made
in the fifth century, and the old ones held their own
for about four hundred years, and no one knows
which version was right. Besides, there were Ethi-
opie, Egyptian, Armenian and several other ver-
sions, all differing from each other as well as from all
others. It was not until the fourteenth century that
the Bible was translated into German, and not until
the fifteenth that Bibles were printed in the principal

253

languages of Europe; and most of these Bibles
differed from each other, and gave rise to endless
disputes and to almost numberless crimes.

No man in the world is learned enough, nor has
he time enough, even if he could live a thousand
years, to find what books belonged to and consti-
tuted the Old Testament. He could not ascertain
the authors of the books, nor when they were written,
nor what they mean. Until a man has sufficient
time to do all this, no one can tell whether he be-
lieves the Bible or not. It is sufficient, however, to
say that the Old Testament is filled with contradic-
tions as to the number of men slain in battle, as to
the number of years certain kings reigned, as to the
number of a woman's children, as to dates of events,
and as to locations of towns and cities.

Besides all this, many of its laws are contradictory,
often commanding and prohibiting the same thing.

The New Testament also is filled with contradic-
tions. The gospels do not even agree upon the
terms of salvation. They do not even agree as to
the gospel of Christ, as to the mission of Christ.
They do not tell the same story regarding the be-
trayal, the crucifixion, the resurrection or the ascen-
sion of Christ. John is the only one that ever heard

254

of being "born again." The evangelists do not give
the same account of the same miracles, and the
miracles are not given in the same order. They do
not agree even in the genealogy of Christ.

_Fourth_. Is the Bible scientific? In my judgment
it is not

It is unscientific to say that this world was "cre-
"ated that the universe was produced by an infinite
being, who had existed an eternity prior to such
"creation." My mind is such that I cannot possibly
conceive of a "creation." Neither can I conceive of
an infinite being who dwelt in infinite space an infi-
nite length of time.

I do not think it is scientific to say that the uni-
verse was made in six days, or that this world is only
about six thousand years old, or that man has only
been upon the earth for about six thousand years.

If the Bible is true, Adam was the first man. The
age of Adam is given, the age of his children, and
the time, according to the Bible, was kept and known
from Adam, so that if the Bible is true, man has only
been in this world about six thousand years. In my
judgment, and in the judgment of every scientific
man whose judgment is worth having or quoting,
man inhabited this earth for thousands of ages prior

255

to the creation of Adam. On one point the Bible is
at least certain, and that is, as to the life of Adam.
The genealogy is given, the pedigree is there, and it
is impossible to escape the conclusion that, according
to the Bible, man has only been upon this earth
about six thousand years. There is no chance there
to say "long periods of time," or "geological ages."
There we have the years. And as to the time of the
creation of man, the Bible does not tell the truth.

What is generally called "The Fall of Man" is
unscientific. God could not have made a moral
character for Adam. Even admitting the rest of the
story to be true, Adam certainly had to make char-
acter for himself.

The idea that there never would have been any
disease or death in this world had it not been for the
eating of the forbidden fruit is preposterously unsci-
entific. Admitting that Adam was made only six
thousand years ago, death was in the world millions of
years before that time. The old rocks are filled with re-
mains of what were once living and breathing animals.
Continents were built up with the petrified corpses of
animals. We know, therefore, that death did not enter
the world because of Adam's sin. We know that life
and death are but successive links in an eternal chain.

256

So it is unscientific to say that thorns and brambles
were produced by Adam's sin.

It is also unscientific to say that labor was pro-
nounced as a curse upon man. Labor is not a curse.
Labor is a blessing. Idleness is a curse.

It is unscientific to say that the sons of God,
living, we suppose, in heaven, fell in love with the
daughters of men, and that on account of this a
flood was sent upon the earth that covered the
highest mountains.

The whole story of the flood is unscientific, and no
scientific man worthy of the name, believes it.

Neither is the story of the tower of Babel a scien-
tific thing. Does any scientific man believe that
God confounded the language of men for fear they
would succeed in building a tower high enough to
reach to heaven?

It is not scientific to say that angels were in the
habit of walking about the earth, eating veal dressed
with butter and milk, and making bargains about the
destruction of cities.

The story of Lot's wife having been turned into a
pillar of salt is extremely unscientific.

It is unscientific to say that people at one time lived
to be nearly a thousand years of age. The history

257

of the world shows that human life is lengthening
instead of shortening.

It is unscientific to say that the infinite God
wrestled with Jacob and got the better of him, put-
ting his thigh out of joint.

It is unscientific to say that God, in the likeness of
a flame of fire, inhabited a bush.

It is unscientific to say that a stick could be
changed into a living snake. Living snakes can not
be made out of sticks. There are not the necessary
elements in a stick to make a snake.

It is not scientific to say that God changed water
into blood. All the elements of blood are not in
water.

It is unscientific to declare that dust was changed
into lice.

It is not scientific to say that God caused a thick
darkness over the land of Egypt, and yet allowed it
to be light in the houses of the Jews.

It is not scientific to say that about seventy people
could, in two hundred and fifteen years increase to
three millions.

It is not scientific to say that an infinitely good
God would destroy innocent people to get revenge
upon a king.

258

It is not scientific to say that slavery was once
right, that polygamy was once a virtue, and that ex-
termination was mercy.

It is not scientific to assert that a being of infinite
power and goodness went into partnership with in-
sects,—granted letters of marque and reprisal to
hornets.

It is unscientific to insist that bread was really
rained from heaven.

It is not scientific to suppose that an infinite being
spent forty days and nights furnishing Moses with plans
and specifications for a tabernacle, an ark, a mercy seat,
cherubs of gold, a table, four rings, some dishes, some
spoons, one candlestick, several bowls, a few knobs,
seven lamps, some snuffers, a pair of tongs, some cur-
tains, a roof for a tent of rams' skins dyed red, a few
boards, an altar with horns, ash pans, basins and flesh
hooks, shovels and pots and sockets of silver and
ouches of gold and pins of brass—for all of which this
God brought with him patterns from heaven.

It is not scientific to say that when a man commits
a sin, he can settle with God by killing a sheep.

It is not scientific to say that a priest, by laying
his hands on the head of a goat, can transfer the sins
of a people to the animal.

259

Was it scientific to endeavor to ascertain whether
a woman was virtuous or not, by compelling her to
drink water mixed with dirt from the floor of the
sanctuary?

Is it scientific to say that a dry stick budded,
blossomed, and bore almonds; or that the ashes of a
red heifer mixed with water can cleanse us of sin;
or that a good being gave cities into the hands of the
Jews in consideration of their murdering all the in-
habitants?

Is it scientific to say that an animal saw an angel,
and conversed with a man?

Is it scientific to imagine that thrusting a spear
through the body of a woman ever stayed a plague?

Is it scientific to say that a river cut itself in two
and allowed the lower end to run off?

Is it scientific to assert that seven priests blew
seven rams' horns loud enough to blow down the
walls of a city?

Is it scientific to say that the sun stood still in the
midst of heaven, and hasted not to go down for
about a whole day, and that the moon also stayed?

Is it scientifically probable that an angel of the
Lord devoured unleavened cakes and broth with
fire that came out of the end of a stick, as he sat

260

under an oak tree; or that God made known his
will by letting dew fall on wool without wetting the
ground around it; or that an angel of God appeared
to Manoah in the absence of her husband, and that
this angel afterwards went up in a flame of fire, and
as the result of this visit a child was born whose
strength was in his hair?

Is it scientific to say that the muscle of a man de-
pended upon the length of his locks?

Is it unscientific to deny that water gushed from a
hollow place in a dry bone?

Is it evidence of a thoroughly scientific mind to
believe that one man turned over a house so large
that three thousand people were on its roof?

Is it purely scientific to say that a man was once
fed by the birds of the air, who brought him bread
and meat every morning and evening, and that after-
ward an angel turned cook and prepared two sup-
pers in one night, for the same prophet, who ate
enough to last him forty days and forty nights?

Is it scientific to say that a river divided because
the water had been struck with a cloak; or that a
man actually went to heaven in a chariot of fire
drawn by horses of fire; or that a being of infinite
mercy would destroy children for laughing at a bald-

261

headed prophet; or curse children and childrens
children with leprosy for a father's fault; or that he
made iron float in water; or that when one corpse
touched another it came to life; or that the sun went
backward in heaven so that the shadow on a sun-
dial went back ten degrees, as a sign that a miserable
barbarian king would get well?

Is it scientific to say that the earth not only
stopped in its rotary motion, but absolutely turned
the other way,—that its motion was reversed simply
as a sign to a petty king?

Is it scientific to say that Solomon made gold and
silver at Jerusalem as plentiful as stones, when we
know that there were kings in his day who could
have thrown away the value of the whole of Palestine
without missing the amount?

Is it scientific to say that Solomon exceeded all
the kings of the earth in glory, when his country
was barren, without roads, when his people were
few, without commerce, without the arts, without the
sciences, without education, without luxuries?

According to the Bible, as long as Jehovah attended
to the affairs of the Jews, they had nothing but war,
pestilence and famine; after Jehovah abandoned them,
and the Christians ceased, in a measure, to persecute

262

them, the Jews became the most prosperous of people.
Since Jehovah in his anger cast them away, they have
produced painters, sculptors, scientists, statesmen,
composers, soldiers and philosophers.

It is not scientific to believe that God ever pre-
vented rain, that he ever caused famine, that he ever
sent locusts to devour the wheat and corn, that he
ever relied on pestilence for the government of man-
kind; or that he ever killed children to get even with
their parents.

It is not scientific to believe that the king of Egypt
invaded Palestine with seventy thousand horsemen
and twelve hundred chariots of war. There was not,
at that time, a road in Palestine over which a chariot
could be driven.

It is not scientific to believe that in a battle between
Jeroboam and Abijah, the army of Abijah slew in
one day five hundred thousand chosen men.

It is not scientific to believe that Zerah, the Ethio-
pian, invaded Palestine with a million of men who
were overthrown and destroyed; or that Jehoshaphat
had a standing army of nine hundred and sixty
thousand men.

It is unscientific to believe that Jehovah advertised
for a liar, as is related in Second Chronicles.

263

It is not scientific to believe that fire refused to
burn, or that water refused to wet.

It is not scientific to believe in dreams, in visions,
and in miracles.

It is not scientific to believe that children have
been born without fathers, that the dead have ever
been raised to life, or that people have bodily as-
cended to heaven taking their clothes with them.

It is not scientific to believe in the supernatural.
Science dwells in the realm of fact, in the realm of
demonstration. Science depends upon human ex-
perience, upon observation, upon reason.

It is unscientific to say that an innocent man can
be punished in place of a criminal, and for a criminal,
and that the criminal, on account of such punishment,
can be justified.

It is unscientific to say that a finite sin deserves
infinite punishment.

It is unscientific to believe that devils can inhabit
human beings, or that they can take possession of
swine, or that the devil could bodily take a man, or
the Son of God, and carry him to the pinnacle of a
temple.

In short, the foolish, the unreasonable, the false,
the miraculous and the supernatural are unscientific.

264

_Question_. Mr. Talmage gives his reason for
accepting the New Testament, and says: "You
"can trace it right out. Jerome and Eusebius in the
"first century, and Origen in the second century,
"gave lists of the writers of the New Testament.
"These lists correspond with our list of the writers
"of the New Testament, showing that precisely as
"we have it, they had it in the third and fourth cen-
"turies. Where did they get it? From Irenaeus.
"Where did he get it? From Polycarp. Where did
"Polycarp get it? From Saint John, who was a per-
"sonal associate of Jesus. The line is just as clear
"as anything ever was clear." How do you under-
stand this matter, and has Mr. Talmage stated the
facts?

_Answer_. Let us examine first the witnesses pro-
duced by Mr. Talmage. We will also call attention
to the great principle laid down by Mr. Talmage for
the examination of evidence,—that where a witness
is found false in one particular, his entire testimony
must be thrown away.

Eusebius was born somewhere about two hundred
and seventy years after Christ. After many vicissi-
tudes he became, it is said, the friend of Constantine.
He made an oration in which he extolled the virtues

265

of this murderer, and had the honor of sitting at the
right hand of the man who had shed the blood of his
wife and son. In the great controversy with regard
to the position that Christ should occupy in the Trinity,
he sided with Arius, "and lent himself to the perse-
"cution of the orthodox with Athanasius." He in-
sisted that Jesus Christ was not the same as God,
and that he was not of equal power and glory. Will
Mr. Talmage admit that his witness told the truth in
this? "He would not even call the Son co-eternal
"with God."

Eusebius must have been an exceedingly truthful
man. He declared that the tracks of Pharaoh's chariots
were in his day visible upon the shores of the Red
Sea; that these tracks had been through all the years
miraculously preserved from the action of wind and
wave, as a supernatural testimony to the fact that
God miraculously overwhelmed Pharaoh and his
hosts.

Eusebius also relates that when Joseph and Mary
arrived in Eygpt they took up their abode in Hermopolis,

a city of Thebaeus, in which was the superb
temple of Serapis. When Joseph and Mary entered
the temple, not only the great idol, but all the lesser
idols fell down before him.

266

"It is believed by the learned Dr. Lardner, that
"Eusebius was the one guilty of the forgery in the
"passage found in Josephus concerning Christ. Un-
"blushing falsehoods and literary forgeries of the
"vilest character darkened the pages of his historical
"writings." (Waites History.)

From the same authority I learn that Eusebius
invented an eclipse, and some earthquakes, to agree
with the account of the crucifixion. It is also be-
lieved that Eusebius quoted from works that never
existed, and that he pretended a work had been
written by Porphyry, entitled: "The Philosophy of
"Oracles," and then quoted from it for the purpose
of proving the truth of the Christian religion.

The fact is, Eusebius was utterly destitute of truth.
He believed, as many still believe, that he could
please God by the fabrication of lies.

Irenaeus lived somewhere about the end of the
second century. "Very little is known of his early
"history, and the accounts given in various biogra-
"phies are for the most part conjectural." The
writings of Irenaeus are known to us principally
through Eusebius, and we know the value of his
testimony.

Now, if we are to take the testimony of Irenaeus,

267

why not take it? He says that the ministry of Christ
lasted for twenty years, and that Christ was fifty years
old at the time of his crucifixion. He also insisted
that the "Gospel of Paul" was written by Luke, "a
"statement made to give sanction to the gospel of
"Luke."

Irenaeus insisted that there were four gospels, that
there must be, and "he speaks frequently of these
"gospels, and argues that they should be four in
"number, neither more nor less, because there are
"four universal winds, and four quarters of the
"world;" and he might have added: because
donkeys have four legs.

These facts can be found in "The History of the
"Christian Religion to A. D. 200," by Charles B.
Waite,—a book that Mr. Talmage ought to read.

According to Mr. Waite, Irenaeus, in the thirty-
third chapter of his fifth book, _Adversus Haereses_,
cites from Papias the following sayings of Christ:
"The days will come in which vines shall grow
"which shall have ten thousand branches, and on
"each branch ten thousand twigs, and in each twig
"ten thousand shoots, and in each shoot ten thousand
"clusters, and in every one of the clusters ten
"thousand grapes, and every grape when pressed

268

"will give five and twenty metrets of wine." Also
that "one thousand million pounds of clear, pure, fine
"flour will be produced from one grain of wheat."
Irenaeus adds that "these things were borne witness
"to by Papias the hearer of John and the companion
"of Polycarp."

Is it possible that the eternal welfare of a human
being depends upon believing the testimony of Poly-
carp and Irenaeus? Are people to be saved or lost
on the reputation of Eusebius? Suppose a man is
firmly convinced that Polycarp knew nothing about
Saint John, and that Saint John knew nothing about
Christ,—what then? Suppose he is convinced that
Eusebius is utterly unworthy of credit,—what then?
Must a man believe statements that he has every
reason to think are false?

The question arises as to the witnesses named by
Mr. Talmage, whether they were competent to decide
as to the truth or falsehood of the gospels. We have
the right to inquire into their mental traits for the
purpose of giving only due weight to what they have
said.

Mr. Bronson C. Keeler is the author of a book
called: "A Short History of the Bible." I avail
myself of a few of the facts he has there collected. I

269

find in this book, that Irenaeus, Clement and Origen
believed in the fable of the Phoenix, and insisted that
God produced the bird on purpose to prove the
probability of the resurrection of the body. Some
of the early fathers believed that the hyena changed
its sex every year. Others of them gave as a reason
why good people should eat only animals with a
cloven foot, the fact that righteous people lived not
only in this world, but had expectations in the next.
They also believed that insane people were pos-
sessed by devils; that angels ate manna; that some
angels loved the daughters of men and fell; that the
pains of women in childbirth, and the fact that ser-
pents crawl on their bellies, were proofs that the
account of the fall, as given in Genesis, is true; that
the stag renewed its youth by eating poisonous
snakes; that eclipses and comets were signs of God's
anger; that volcanoes were openings into hell; that
demons blighted apples; that a corpse in a cemetery
moved to make room for another corpse to be placed
beside it. Clement of Alexandria believed that hail
storms, tempests and plagues were caused by demons.
He also believed, with Mr. Talmage, that the events
in the life of Abraham were typical and prophetical
of arithmetic and astronomy.

270

Origen, another of the witnesses of Mr. Talmage,
said that the sun, moon and stars were living crea-
tures, endowed with reason and free will, and occa-
sionally inclined to sin. That they had free will, he
proved by quoting from Job; that they were rational
creatures, he inferred from the fact that they moved.
The sun, moon and stars, according to him, were
"subject to vanity," and he believed that they prayed
to God through his only begotten son.

These intelligent witnesses believed that the blight-
ing of vines and fruit trees, and the disease and de-
struction that came upon animals and men, were all
the work of demons; but that when they had entered
into men, the sign of the cross would drive them out.
They derided the idea that the earth is round, and
one of them said: "About the antipodes also, one
"can neither hear nor speak without laughter. It is
"asserted as something serious that we should be-
"lieve that there are men who have their feet oppo-
"site to ours. The ravings of Anaxagoras are more
"tolerable, who said that snow was black."

Concerning these early fathers, Professor Davidson,
as quoted by Mr. Keeler, uses the following lan-
guage: "Of the three fathers who contributed
"most to the growth of the canon, Irenaeus was

 271

"credulous and blundering; Tertullian passionate
"and one-sided; and Clement of Alexandria, im-
"bued with the treasures of Greek wisdom, was
"mainly occupied with ecclesiastical ethics. Their
"assertions show both ignorance and exaggeration."
These early fathers relied upon by Mr. Talmage,
quoted from books now regarded as apocryphal—
books that have been thrown away by the church
and are no longer considered as of the slightest
authority. Upon this subject I again quote Mr.
Keeler: "Clement quoted the 'Gospel according to
"'the Hebrews,' which is now thrown away by the
"church; he also quoted from the Sibylline books
"and the Pentateuch in the same sentence. Origen
"frequently cited the Gospel of the Hebrews. Jerome
"did the same, and Clement believed in the 'Gospel
"'according to the Egyptians.' The Shepherd of
"Hermas, a book in high repute in the early church,
"and one which distinctly claims to have been
"inspired, was quoted by Irenaeus as Scripture.
"Clement of Alexandria said it was a divine revela-
"tion. Origen said it was divinely inspired, and
"quoted it as Holy Scripture at the same time that
"he cited the Psalms and Epistles of Paul. Jerome
"quoted the 'Wisdom of Jesus, the Son of Sirach,'

272

"as divine Scripture. Origen quotes the 'Wisdom
"of Solomon' as the 'Word of God' and 'the
"'words of Christ himself.' Eusebius of Caesarea
"cites it as a * Divine Oracle,' and St. Chrysostom
"used it as Scripture. So Eusebius quotes the
"thirteenth chapter of Daniel as Scripture, but as a
"matter of fact, Daniel has not a thirteenth chapter,—
"the church has taken it away. Clement spoke of
"the writer of the fourth book of Esdras as a prophet;
"he thought Baruch as much the word of God as
"any other book, and he quotes it as divine Scripture.
"Clement cites Barnabas as an apostle. Origen
"quotes from the Epistle of Barnabas, calls it 'Holy
" 'Scripture,' and places it on a level with the Psalms
"and the Epistles of Paul; and Clement of Alexan-
"dria believed in the 'Epistle of Barnabas,' and the
"'Revelation, of Peter,' and wrote comments upon
"these holy books."

Nothing can exceed the credulity of the early
fathers, unless it may be their ignorance. They be-
lieved everything that was miraculous. They believed
everything except the truth. Anything that really
happened was considered of no importance by them.
They looked for wonders, miracles, and monstrous
things, and—generally found them. They revelled

273

in the misshapen and the repulsive. They did not
think it wrong to swear falsely in a good cause.
They interpolated, forged, and changed the records to
suit themselves, for the sake of Christ. They quoted
from persons who never wrote. They misrepresented
those who had written, and their evidence is abso-
lutely worthless. They were ignorant, credulous,
mendacious, fanatical, pious, unreasonable, bigoted,
hypocritical, and for the most part, insane. Read the
book of Revelation, and you will agree with me that
nothing that ever emanated from a madhouse can
more than equal it for incoherence. Most of the
writings of the early fathers are of the same kind.

As to Saint John, the real truth is, that we know
nothing certainly of him. We do not know that he
ever lived.

We know nothing certainly of Jesus Christ. We
know nothing of his infancy, nothing of his youth,
and we are not sure that such a person ever existed.

We know nothing of Polycarp. We do not know
where he was born, or where, or how he died. We
know nothing for certain about Irenaeus. All the
names quoted by Mr. Talmage as his witnesses
are surrounded by clouds and doubts, by mist and
darkness. We only know that many of their

274

statements are false, and do not know that any of
them are true.

_Question_. What do you think of the following state-
ment by Mr. Talmage: "Oh, I have to tell you that no
"man ever died for a lie cheerfully and triumphantly"?

_Answer_. There was a time when men "cheerfully
"and triumphantly died" in defence of the doctrine
of the "real presence" of God in the wafer and wine.
Does Mr. Talmage believe in the doctrine of "tran-
"substantiation"? Yet hundreds have died "cheer-
"fully and triumphantly" for it. Men have died for
the idea that baptism by immersion is the only
scriptural baptism. Did they die for a lie? If not,
is Mr. Talmage a Baptist?

Giordano Bruno was an atheist, yet he perished at
the stake rather than retract his opinions. He did
not expect to be welcomed by angels and by God.
He did not look for a crown of glory. He expected
simply death and eternal extinction. Does the fact
that he died for that belief prove its truth?

Thousands upon thousands have died in defence of
the religion of Mohammed. Was Mohammed an im-
postor? Thousands have welcomed death in defence
of the doctrines of Buddha. Is Buddhism true?

275

So I might make a tour of the world, and of all
ages of human history, and find that millions and
millions have died "cheerfully and triumphantly" in
defence of their opinions. There is not the slightest
truth in Mr. Talmage's statement.

A little while ago, a man shot at the Czar of Russia.
On the day of his execution he was asked if he
wished religious consolation. He replied that he
believed in no religion. What did that prove? It
proved only the man's honesty of opinion. All the
martyrs in the world cannot change, never did
change, a falsehood into a truth, nor a truth into
a falsehood. Martyrdom proves nothing but the
sincerity of the martyr and the cruelty and mean-
ness of his murderers. Thousands and thousands of
people have imagined that they knew things, that
they were certain, and have died rather than retract
their honest beliefs.

Mr. Talmage now says that he knows all about the
Old Testament, that the prophecies were fulfilled,
and yet he does not know when the prophecies were
made—whether they were made before or after the
fact. He does not know whether the destruction of
Babylon was told before it happened, or after. He
knows nothing upon the subject. He does not know

276

who made the pretended prophecies. He does not
know that Isaiah, or Jeremiah, or Habakkuk, or
Hosea ever lived in this world. He does not know
who wrote a single book of the Old Testament. He
knows nothing on the subject. He believes in the
inspiration of the Old Testament because ancient
cities finally fell into decay—were overrun and de-
stroyed by enemies, and he accounts for the fact that
the Jew does not lose his nationality by saying that
the Old Testament is true.

The Jews have been persecuted by the Christians,
and they are still persecuted by them; and Mr. Tal-
mage seems to think that this persecution was a part
of Gods plan, that the Jews might, by persecution,
be prevented from mingling with other nationalities,
and so might stand, through the instrumentality of
perpetual hate and cruelty, the suffering witnesses of
the divine truth of the Bible.

The Jews do not testify to the truth of the Bible,
but to the barbarism and inhumanity of Christians—
to the meanness and hatred of what we are pleased
to call the "civilized world." They testify to the fact
that nothing so hardens the human heart as religion.

There is no prophecy in the Old Testament fore-
telling the coming of Jesus Christ. There is not one

277

word in the Old Testament referring to him in any
way—not one word. The only way to prove this
is to take your Bible, and wherever you find these
words: "That it might be fulfilled," and "which
"was spoken," turn to the Old Testament and
find what was written, and you will see that it had
not the slightest possible reference to the thing re-
counted in the New Testament—not the slightest.

Let us take some of the prophecies of the Bible,
and see how plain they are, and how beautiful they
are. Let us see whether any human being can tell
whether they have ever been fulfilled or not.

Here is a vision of Ezekiel: "I looked, and be-
"hold a whirlwind came out of the north, a great
"cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness
"was about it, and out of the midst thereof as the
"color of amber, out of the midst of the fire. Also
"out of the midst thereof came the likeness of four
"living creatures. And this was their appearance;
"they had the likeness of a man. And every one
"had four faces, and every one had four wings.
"And their feet were straight feet; and the sole of
"their feet was like the sole of a calf's foot: and they
"sparkled like the color of burnished brass. And
"they had the hands of a man under their wings on

278

"their four sides; and they four had their faces and
"their wings. Their wings were joined one to
"another; they turned not when-they went; they
"went every one straight forward. As for the like-
"ness of their faces, they four had the face of a man,
"and the face of a lion, on the right side: and they
"four had the face of an ox on the left side; they
"four also had the face of an eagle.

"Thus were their faces: and their wings were
"stretched upward; two wings of every one were
"joined one to another, and two covered their bodies.
"And they went every one straight forward: whither
"the spirit was to go, they went; and they turned not
"when they went.

"As for the likeness of the living creatures, their
"appearance was like burning coals of fire, and like
"the appearance of lamps: it went up and down
"among the living creatures; and the fire was bright,
"and out of the fire went forth lightning. And the
"living creatures ran and returned as the appearance
"of a flash of lightning.

"Now as I beheld the living creatures, behold one
"wheel upon the earth by the living creatures, with
"his four faces. The appearance of the wheels and
"their work was like unto the color of a beryl: and

279

"they four had one likeness: and their appearance
"and their work was as it were a wheel in the middle
"of a wheel. When they went, they went upon
"their four sides: and they turned not when they
"went. As for their rings, they were so high that
"they were dreadful; and their rings were full of
"eyes round about them four. And when the living
"creatures went, the wheels went by them: and
"when the living creatures were lifted up from the
"earth, the wheels were lifted up. Whithersoever
"the spirit was to go, they went, thither was their
"spirit to go; and the wheels were lifted up over
"against them: for the spirit of the living creature
"was in the wheels. When those went, these went;
"and when those stood, these stood; and when those
"were lifted up from the earth, the wheels were
"lifted up over against them: for the spirit of the
"living creature was in the wheels. And the like-
"ness of the firmament upon the heads of the living
"creature was as the color of the terrible crystal,
"stretched forth over their heads above. And under
"the firmament were their wings straight, the one
"toward the other; every one had two, which
"covered on this side, and every one had two,
"which covered on that side, their bodies."

280

Is such a vision a prophecy? Is it calculated
to convey the slightest information? If so, what?

So, the following vision of the prophet Daniel is
exceedingly important and instructive:

"Daniel spake and said: I saw in my vision by
"night, and behold, the four winds of the heaven
"strove upon the great sea. And four great beasts
"came up from the sea, diverse one from another.
"The first was like a lion, and had eagle's wings:
"I beheld till the wings thereof were plucked, and it
"was lifted up from the earth, and made stand upon
"the feet as a man, and a man's heart was given to
"it. And behold another beast, a second, like to a
"bear, and it raised up itself on one side, and it had
"three ribs in the mouth of it between the teeth of
"it: and they said thus unto it, Arise, devour much
"flesh.

"After this I beheld, and lo another, like a leopard,
"which had upon the back of it four wings of a fowl;
"the beast had also four heads, and dominion was
"given to it.

"After this I saw in the night visions, and behold
"a fourth beast, dreadful and terrible, and strong ex-
"ceedingly; and it had great iron teeth; it devoured
"and brake in pieces, and stamped the residue with

281

"the feet of it; and it was diverse from all the beasts
"that were before it, and it had ten horns. I con-
"sidered the horns, and, behold, there came up
"among them another little horn, before whom
"there were three of the first horns plucked up by
"the roots: and behold, in this horn were eyes like
"the eyes of man, and a mouth speaking great
"things."

I have no doubt that this prophecy has been liter-
ally fulfilled, but I am not at present in condition to
give the time, place, or circumstances.

A few moments ago, my attention was called to
the following extract from _The New York Herald_ of
the thirteenth of March, instant:

"At the Fifth Avenue Baptist Church, Dr. Armi-
"tage took as his text, 'A wheel in the middle of a
"'wheel'—Ezekiel, i., 16. Here, said the preacher,
"are three distinct visions in one—the living crea-
"tures, the moving wheels and the fiery throne. We
"have time only to stop the wheels of this mystic
"chariot of Jehovah, that we may hold holy converse
"with Him who rides upon the wings of the wind.
"In this vision of the prophet we have a minute and
"amplified account of these magnificent symbols or
"hieroglyphics, this wondrous machinery which de-

282

"notes immense attributes and agencies and voli-
"tions, passing their awful and mysterious course of
"power and intelligence in revolution after revolu-
"tion of the emblematical mechanism, in steady and
"harmonious advancement to the object after which
"they are reaching. We are compelled to look
"upon the whole as symbolical of that tender and
"endearing providence of which Jesus spoke when
"He said, 'The very hairs of your head are num-
"* bered.'"

Certainly, an ordinary person, not having been
illuminated by the spirit of prophecy, would never
have even dreamed that there was the slightest re-
ference in Ezekiel's vision to anything like counting
hairs. As a commentator, the Rev. Dr. Armitage
has no equal; and, in my judgment, no rival. He
has placed himself beyond the reach of ridicule. It
is impossible to say anything about his sermon as
laughable as his sermon.

_Question_. Have you no confidence in any pro-
phecies? Do you take the ground that there never
has been a human being who could predict the
future?

_Answer_. I admit that a man of average intelli-

283

gence knows that a certain course, when pursued
long enough, will bring national disaster, and it is
perfectly safe to predict the downfall of any and
every country in the world. In my judgment,
nations, like individuals, have an average life.
Every nation is mortal. An immortal nation cannot
be constructed of mortal individuals. A nation has
a reason for existing, and that reason sustains the
same relation to the nation that the acorn does to
the oak. The nation will attain its growth—other
things being equal. It will reach its manhood and
its prime, but it will sink into old age, and at last
must die. Probably, in a few thousand years, men
will be able to calculate the average life of nations,
as they now calculate the average life of persons.
There has been no period since the morning of his-
tory until now, that men did not know of dead and
dying nations. There has always been a national
cemetery. Poland is dead, Turkey is dying. In
every nation are the seeds of dissolution. Not only
nations die, but races of men. A nation is born,
becomes powerful, luxurious, at last grows weak, is
overcome, dies, and another takes its place, In this
way civilization and barbarism, like day and night,
alternate through all of history's years.

284

In every nation there are at least two classes of
men: First, the enthusiastic, the patriotic, who be-
lieve that the nation will live forever,—that its flag
will float while the earth has air; Second, the owls
and ravens and croakers, who are always predicting
disaster, defeat, and death. To the last class belong
the Jeremiahs, Ezekiels, and Isaiahs of the Jews.
They were always predicting the downfall of Jeru-
salem. They revelled in defeat and captivity. They
loved to paint the horrors of famine and war. For
the most part, they were envious, hateful, misan-
thropic and unjust.

There seems to have been a war between church
and state. The prophets were endeavoring to pre-
serve the ecclesiastical power. Every king who would
listen to them, was chosen of God. He instantly
became the model of virtue, and the prophets assured
him that he was in the keeping of Jehovah. But if
the king had a mind of his own, the prophets im-
mediately called down upon him all the curses of
heaven, and predicted the speedy destruction of his
kingdom.

If our own country should be divided, if an empire
should rise upon the ruins of the Republic, it would
be very easy to find that hundreds and thousands of

285

people had foretold that very thing. If you will read
the political speeches of the last twenty-two years,
you will find prophecies to fit any possible future
state of affairs in our country. No matter what
happens, you will find that somebody predicted it.
If the city of London should lose her trade, if the
Parliament house should become the abode of moles
and bats, if "the New Zealander should sit upon the
"ruins of London Bridge," all these things would be
simply the fulfillment of prophecy. The fall of every
nation under the sun has been predicted by hundreds
and thousands of people.

The prophecies of the Old Testament can be made
to fit anything that may happen, or that may not
happen. They will apply to the death of a king, or
to the destruction of a people,—to the loss of com-
merce, or the discovery of a continent. Each pro-
phecy is a jugglery of words, of figures, of symbols,
so put together, so used, so interpreted, that they
can mean anything, everything, or nothing.

_Question_. Do you see anything "prophetic" in
the fate of the Jewish people themselves? Do you
think that God made the Jewish people wanderers, so
that they might be perpetual witnesses to the truth
of the Scriptures?

286

_Answer_. I cannot believe that an infinitely good
God would make anybody a wanderer. Neither can
I believe that he would keep millions of people with-
out country and without home, and allow them to be
persecuted for thousands of years, simply that they
might be used as witnesses. Nothing could be more
absurdly cruel than this.

The Christians justify their treatment of the Jews
on the ground that they are simply fulfilling prophecy.
The Jews have suffered because of the horrid story
that their ancestors crucified the Son of God. Chris-
tianity, coming into power, looked with horror upon
the Jews, who denied the truth of the gospel. Each
Jew was regarded as a dangerous witness against
Christianity. The early Christians saw how neces-
sary it was that the people who lived in Jerusalem
at the time of Christ should be convinced that
he was God, and should testify to the miracles he
wrought. Whenever a Jew denied it, the Christian
was filled with malignity and hatred, and immediately
excited the prejudice of other Christians against the
man simply because he was a Jew. They forgot, in
their general hatred, that Mary, the mother of Christ,
was a Jewess; that Christ himself was of Jewish
blood; and with an inconsistency of which, of all

287

religions, Christianity alone could have been guilty,
the Jew became an object of especial hatred and
aversion.

When we remember that Christianity pretends to
be a religion of love and kindness, of charity and for-
giveness, must not every intelligent man be shocked
by the persecution of the Jews? Even now, in learned
and cultivated Germany, the Jew is treated as though
he were a wild beast. The reputation of this great
people has been stained by a persecution spring-
ing only from ignorance and barbarian prejudice.
So in Russia, the Christians are anxious to shed
every drop of Jewish blood, and thousands are to-day
fleeing from their homes to seek a refuge from Chris-
tian hate. And Mr. Talmage believes that all these
persecutions are kept up by the perpetual intervention
of God, in order that the homeless wanderers of the
seed of Abraham may testify to the truth of the Old
and New Testaments. He thinks that every burning
Jewish home sheds light upon the gospel,—that
every gash in Jewish flesh cries out in favor of the
Bible,—that every violated Jewish maiden shows the
interest that God still takes in the preservation of
his Holy Word.

I am endeavoring to do away with religious

288

prejudice. I wish to substitute humanity for super-
stition, the love of our fellow-men, for the fear of
God. In the place of ignorant worship, let us put
good deeds. We should be great enough and grand
enough to know that the rights of the Jew are pre-
cisely the same as our own. We cannot trample
upon their rights, without endangering our own; and
no man who will take liberty from another, is great
enough to enjoy liberty himself.

Day by day Christians are laying the foundation
of future persecution. In every Sunday school little
children are taught that Jews killed the God of this
universe. Their little hearts are filled with hatred
against the Jewish people. They are taught as a
part of the creed to despise the descendants of the
only people with whom God is ever said to have had
any conversation whatever.

When we take into consideration what the Jewish
people have suffered, it is amazing that every one of
them does not hate with all his heart and soul and
strength the entire Christian world. But in spite of
the persecutions they have endured, they are to-day,
where they are permitted to enjoy reasonable liberty,
the most prosperous people on the globe. The idea
that their condition shows, or tends to show, that

289

upon them abides the wrath of Jehovah, cannot be
substantiated by the facts.

The Jews to-day control the commerce of the
world. They control the money of the world. It is
for them to say whether nations shall or shall not go
to war. They are the people of whom nations borrow
money. To their offices kings come with their hats
in their hands. Emperors beg them to discount their
notes. Is all this a consequence of the wrath of
God?

We find upon our streets no Jewish beggars. It is
a rare sight to find one of these people standing as
a criminal before a court. They do not fill our alms-
houses, nor our penitentiaries, nor our jails. In-
tellectually and morally they are the equal of any
people. They have become illustrious in every de-
partment of art and science. The old cry against
them is at last perceived to be ignorant. Only a few
years ago, Christians would rob a Jew, strip him of
his possessions, steal his money, declare him an out-
cast, and drive him forth. Then they would point
to him as a fulfillment of prophecy.

If you wish to see the difference between some
Jews and some Christians, compare the addresses of
Felix Adler with the sermons of Mr. Talmage.

290

I cannot convince myself that an infinitely good
and wise God holds a Jewish babe in the cradle of
to-day responsible for the crimes of Caiaphas the
high priest. I hardly think that an infinitely good
being would pursue this little babe through all its life
simply to get revenge on those who died two thou-
sand years ago. An infinite being ought certainly to
know that the child is not to blame; and an infinite
being who does not know this, is not entitled to the
love or adoration of any honest man.

There is a strange inconsistency in what Mr. Tal-
mage says. For instance, he finds great fault with
me because I do not agree with the religious ideas
of my father; and he finds fault equally with the
Jews who do. The Jews who were true to the re-
ligion of their fathers, according to Mr. Talmage,
have been made a by-word and a hissing and a re-
proach among all nations, and only those Jews were
fortunate and blest who abandoned the religion of
their fathers. The real reason for this inconsistency
is this: Mr. Talmage really thinks that a man can
believe as he wishes. He imagines that evidence de-
pends simply upon volition; consequently, he holds
every one responsible for his belief. Being satisfied
that he has the exact truth in this matter, he meas-

291

ures all other people by his standard, and if they
fail by that measurement, he holds them personally
responsible, and believes that his God does the same.
If Mr. Talmage had been born in Turkey, he would
in all probability have been a Mohammedan, and
would now be denouncing some man who had denied
the inspiration of the Koran, as the "champion blas-
"phemer" of Constantinople. Certainly he would
have been, had his parents been Mohammedans;
because, according to his doctrine, he would have
been utterly lacking in respect and love for his father
and mother had he failed to perpetuate their errors.
So, had he been born in Utah, of Mormon parents,
he would now have been a defender of polygamy.
He would not "run the ploughshare of contempt
"through the graves of his parents," by taking the
ground that polygamy is wrong.

I presume that all of Mr. Talmage's forefathers
were not Presbyterians. There must have been
a time when one of his progenitors left the faith of
his father, and joined the Presbyterian Church. Ac-
cording to the reasoning of Mr. Talmage, that particular
progenitor was an exceedingly bad man; but had it
not been for the crime of that bad man, Mr. Talmage
might not now have been on the road to heaven.

292

I hardly think that all the inventors, the thinkers,
the philosophers, the discoverers, dishonored their
parents. Fathers and mothers have been made
immortal by such sons. And yet these sons demon-
strated the errors of their parents. A good father
wishes to be excelled by his children.

## Sixth Interview

_It is a contradiction in terms and ideas to call
anything a revelation that comes to us at second-
hand, either verbally or in writing. Revelation is
necessarily limited to the first communication—
after this, it is only an account of something
which that person says was a revelation made to
him; and though he may find himself obliged to
believe it, it cannot be incumbent on me to
believe it in the same manner; for it was not a
revelation made to me, and I have only his word
for it that it was made to him.—Thomas Paine._

_Question_. What do you think of the argu-
ments presented by Mr. Talmage in favor of
the inspiration of the Bible?

_Answer_. Mr. Talmage takes the ground that
there are more copies of the Bible than of any
other book, and that consequently it must be in-
spired.

It seems to me that this kind of reasoning proves
entirely too much. If the Bible is the inspired word
of God, it was certainly just as true when there was
only one copy, as it is to-day; and the facts con-
tained in it were just as true before they were

296

written, as afterwards. We all know that it is a fact
in human nature, that a man can tell a falsehood so
often that he finally believes it himself; but I never
suspected, until now, that a mistake could be printed
enough times to make it true.

There may have been a time, and probably there
was, when there were more copies of the Koran
than of the Bible. When most Christians were ut-
terly ignorant, thousands of Moors were educated;
and it is well known that the arts and sciences
flourished in Mohammedan countries in a far greater
degree than in Christian. Now, at that time, it may
be that there were more copies of the Koran than of
the Bible. If some enterprising Mohammedan had
only seen the force of such a fact, he might have
established the inspiration of the Koran beyond
a doubt; or, if it had been found by actual count that
the Koran was a little behind, a few years of in-
dustry spent in the multiplication of copies, might
have furnished the evidence of its inspiration.

Is it not simply amazing that a doctor of divinity,
a Presbyterian clergyman, in this day and age, should
seriously rely upon the number of copies of the Bible
to substantiate the inspiration of that book? Is it
possible to conceive of anything more fig-leaflessly

297

absurd? If there is anything at all in this argument,
it is, that all books are true in proportion to the
number of copies that exist. Of course, the same
rule will work with newspapers; so that the news-
paper having the largest circulation can consistently
claim infallibility. Suppose that an exceedingly absurd
statement should appear in _The New York Herald_,
and some one should denounce it as utterly without
any foundation in fact or probability; what would
Mr. Talmage think if the editor of the Herald, as an
evidence of the truth of the statement, should rely
on the fact that his paper had the largest circulation
of any in the city? One would think that the whole
church had acted upon the theory that a falsehood re-
peated often enough was as good as the truth.

Another evidence brought forward by the reverend
gentleman to prove the inspiration of the Scriptures,
is the assertion that if Congress should undertake to
pass a law to take the Bible from the people, thirty,
millions would rise in defence of that book.

This argument also seems to me to prove too much,
and as a consequence, to prove nothing. If Con-
gress should pass a law prohibiting the reading of
Shakespeare, every American would rise in defence
of his right to read the works of the greatest man

298

this world has known. Still, that would not even
tend to show that Shakespeare was inspired. The
fact is, the American people would not allow Con-
gress to pass a law preventing them from reading
any good book. Such action would not prove the
book to be inspired; it would prove that the American
people believe in liberty.

There are millions of people in Turkey who would
peril their lives in defence of the Koran. A fact like
this does not prove the truth of the Koran; it simply
proves what Mohammedans think of that book, and
what they are willing to do for its preservation.

It can not be too often repeated, that martyrdom
does not prove the truth of the thing for which the
martyr dies; it only proves the sincerity of the martyr
and the cruelty of his murderers. No matter how
many people regard the Bible as inspired,—that fact
furnishes no evidence that it is inspired. Just as many
people have regarded other books as inspired; just as
many millions have been deluded about the inspiration
of books ages and ages before Christianity was born.

The simple belief of one man, or of millions of men,
is no evidence to another. Evidence must be based,
not upon the belief of other people, but upon facts.
A believer may state the facts upon which his belief

299

is founded, and the person to whom he states them
gives them the weight that according to the con-
struction and constitution of his mind he must. But
simple, bare belief is not testimony. We should build
upon facts, not upon beliefs of others, nor upon the
shifting sands of public opinion. So much for this
argument.

The next point made by the reverend gentleman
is, that an infidel cannot be elected to any office in
the United States, in any county, precinct, or ward.

For the sake of the argument, let us admit that this
is true. What does it prove? There was a time
when no Protestant could have been elected to any
office. What did that prove? There was a time
when no Presbyterian could have been chosen to fill
any public station. What did that prove? The
same may be said of the members of each religious
denomination. What does that prove?

Mr. Talmage says that Christianity must be true,
because an infidel cannot be elected to office. Now,
suppose that enough infidels should happen to settle
in one precinct to elect one of their own number to
office; would that prove that Christianity was not
true in that precinct? There was a time when no
man could have been elected to any office, who in-

300

sisted on the rotundity of the earth; what did that
prove? There was a time when no man who denied
the existence of witches, wizards, spooks and devils,
could hold any position of honor; what did that
prove? There was a time when an abolitionist could
not be elected to office in any State in this Union;
what did that prove? There was a time when they
were not allowed to express their honest thoughts;
what does that prove? There was a time when a
Quaker could not have been elected to any office;
there was a time in the history of this country when
but few of them were allowed to live; what does
that prove? Is it necessary, in order to ascertain the
truth of Christianity, to look over the election re-
turns? Is "inspiration" a question to be settled by
the ballot? I admit that it was once, in the first
place, settled that way. I admit that books were
voted in and voted out, and that the Bible was finally
formed in accordance with a vote; but does Mr.
Talmage insist that the question is not still open?
Does he not know, that a fact cannot by any possi-
bility be affected by opinion? We make laws for
the whole people, by the whole people. We agree
that a majority shall rule, but nobody ever pretended
that a question of taste could be settled by an appeal

301

to majorities, or that a question of logic could be
affected by numbers. In the world of thought, each
man is an absolute monarch, each brain is a king-
dom, that cannot be invaded even by the tyranny of
majorities.

No man can avoid the intellectual responsibility of
deciding for himself.

Suppose that the Christian religion had been put
to vote in Jerusalem? Suppose that the doctrine of
the "fall" had been settled in Athens, by an appeal
to the people, would Mr. Talmage have been willing
to abide by their decision? If he settles the inspira-
tion of the Bible by a popular vote, he must settle the
meaning of the Bible by the same means. There are
more Methodists than Presbyterians—why does the
gentleman remain a Presbyterian? There are more
Buddhists than Christians—why does he vote against
majorities? He will remember that Christianity was
once settled by a popular vote—that the divinity of
Christ was submitted to the people, and the people
said: "Crucify him!"

The next, and about the strongest, argument Mr.
Talmage makes is, that I am an infidel because I was
defeated for Governor of Illinois.

When put in plain English, his statement is this:

302

that I was defeated because I was an infidel, and that
I am an infidel because I was defeated. This, I be-
lieve, is called reasoning in a circle. The truth is,
that a good many people did object to me because I
was an infidel, and the probability is, that if I had
denied being an infidel, I might have obtained an
office. The wonderful part is, that any Christian
should deride me because I preferred honor to po-
litical success. He who dishonors himself for the
sake of being honored by others, will find that two
mistakes have been made—one by himself, and the
other, by the people.

I presume that Mr.Talmage really thinks that I was
extremely foolish to avow my real opinions. After
all, men are apt to judge others somewhat by them-
selves. According to him, I made the mistake of
preserving my manhood and losing an office. Now,
if I had in fact been an infidel, and had denied it, for
the sake of position, then I admit that every Christian
might have pointed at me the finger of contempt.
But I was an infidel, and admitted it. Surely, I should
not be held in contempt by Christians for having
made the admission. I was not a believer in the
Bible, and I said so. I was not a Christian, and I said
so. I was not willing to receive the support of any

303

man under a false impression. I thought it better to
be honestly beaten, than to dishonestly succeed.
According to the ethics of Mr. Talmage I made a
mistake, and this mistake is brought forward as
another evidence of the inspiration of the Scriptures.
If I had only been elected Governor of Illinois,—that
is to say, if I had been a successful hypocrite, I might
now be basking in the sunshine of this gentleman's
respect. I preferred to tell the truth—to be an
honest man,—and I have never regretted the course
I pursued.

There are many men now in office who, had they
pursued a nobler course, would be private citizens.
Nominally, they are Christians; actually, they are
nothing; and this is the combination that generally
insures political success.

Mr. Talmage is exceedingly proud of the fact that
Christians will not vote for infidels. In other words,
he does not believe that in our Government the
church has been absolutely divorced from the state.
He believes that it is still the Christian's duty to
make the religious test. Probably he wishes to get
his God into the Constitution. My position is this:

Religion is an individual matter—a something for
each individual to settle for himself, and with which

304

no other human being has any concern, provided the
religion of each human being allows liberty to every
other. When called upon to vote for men to fill the
offices of this country, I do not inquire as to the re-
ligion of the candidates. It is none of my business.
I ask the questions asked by Jefferson: "Is he
"honest; is he capable?" It makes no difference to
me, if he is willing that others should be free, what
creed he may profess. The moment I inquire into his
religious belief, I found a little inquisition of my own;
I repeat, in a small way, the errors of the past, and
reproduce, in so far as I am capable, the infamy of
the ignorant orthodox years.

Mr. Talmage will accept my thanks for his frankness.
I now know what controls a Presbyterian when he
casts his vote. He cares nothing for the capacity,
nothing for the fitness, of the candidate to discharge
the duties of the office to which he aspires; he
simply asks: Is he a Presbyterian, is he a Protestant,
does he believe our creed? and then, no matter how
ignorant he may be, how utterly unfit, he receives the
Presbyterian vote. According to Mr. Talmage, he
would vote for a Catholic who, if he had the power,
would destroy all liberty of conscience, rather than
vote for an infidel who, had he the power, would

305

destroy all the religious tyranny of the world, and
allow every human being to think for himself, and
to worship God, or not, as and how he pleased.

Mr. Talmage makes the serious mistake of placing
the Bible above the laws and Constitution of his
country. He places Jehovah above humanity. Such
men are not entirely safe citizens of any republic.
And yet, I am in favor of giving to such men all the
liberty I ask for myself, trusting to education and the
spirit of progress to overcome any injury they may
do, or seek to do.

When this country was founded, when the Con-
stitution was adopted, the churches agreed to let the
State alone. They agreed that all citizens should have
equal civil rights. Nothing could be more dangerous
to the existence of this Republic than to introduce
religion into politics. The American theory is, that
governments are founded, not by gods, but by men,
and that the right to govern does not come from
God, but "from the consent of the governed." Our
fathers concluded that the people were sufficiently
intelligent to take care of themselves—to make good
laws and to execute them. Prior to that time, all
authority was supposed to come from the clouds.
Kings were set upon thrones by God, and it was the

306

business of the people simply to submit. In all really
civilized countries, that doctrine has been abandoned.
The source of political power is here, not in heaven.
We are willing that those in heaven should control
affairs there; we are willing that the angels should
have a government to suit themselves; but while we
live here, and while our interests are upon this earth,
we propose to make and execute our own laws.

If the doctrine of Mr. Talmage is the true doctrine,
if no man should be voted for unless he is a Christian,
then no man should vote unless he is a Christian. It
will not do to say that sinners may vote, that an infidel
may be the repository of political power, but must not
be voted for. A decent Christian who is not willing
that an infidel should be elected to an office, would
not be willing to be elected to an office by infidel
votes. If infidels are too bad to be voted for, they
are certainly not good enough to vote, and no
Christian should be willing to represent such an
infamous constituency.

If the political theory of Mr. Talmage is carried
out, of course the question will arise in a little while,
What is a Christian? It will then be necessary to
write a creed to be subscribed by every person before
he is fit to vote or to be voted for. This of course

307

must be done by the State, and must be settled,
under our form of government, by a majority vote.
Is Mr. Talmage willing that the question, What is
Christianity? should be so settled? Will he pledge
himself in advance to subscribe to such a creed? Of
course he will not. He will insist that he has the
right to read the Bible for himself, and that he must
be bound by his own conscience. In this he would
be right. If he has the right to read the Bible for
himself, so have I. If he is to be bound by his con-
science, so am I. If he honestly believes the Bible to
be true, he must say so, in order to preserve his man-
hood; and if I honestly believe it to be uninspired,—
filled with mistakes,—I must say so, or lose my man-
hood. How infamous I would be should I endeavor
to deprive him of his vote, or of his right to be voted
for, because he had been true to his conscience! And
how infamous he is to try to deprive me of the right
to vote, or to be voted for, because I am true to my
conscience!

When we were engaged in civil war, did Mr. Tal-
mage object to any man's enlisting in the ranks who
was not a Christian? Was he willing, at that time,
that sinners should vote to keep our flag in heaven?
Was he willing that the "unconverted" should cover

308

the fields of victory with their corpses, that this nation
might not die? At the same time, Mr. Talmage
knew that every "unconverted" soldier killed, went
down to eternal fire. Does Mr. Talmage believe that
it is the duty of a man to fight for a government in
which he has no rights? Is the man who shoulders
his musket in the defence of human freedom good
enough to cast a ballot? There is in the heart of this
priest the safne hatred of real liberty that drew the
sword of persecution, that built dungeons, that forged
chains and made instruments of torture.

Nobody, with the exception of priests, would be
willing to trust the liberties of this country in the
hands of any church. In order to show the political
estimation in which the clergy are held, in order to
show the confidence the people at large have in the
sincerity and wisdom of the clergy, it is sufficient to
state, that no priest, no bishop, could by any possi-
bility be elected President of the United States. No
party could carry that load. A fear would fall upon
the mind and heart of every honest man that this
country was about to drift back to the Middle Ages,
and that the old battles were to be refought. If the
bishop running for President was of the Methodist
Church, every other church would oppose him. If

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he was a Catholic, the Protestants would as a body
combine against him. Why? The churches have
no confidence in each other. Why? Because they
are acquainted with each other.

As a matter of fact, the infidel has a thousand
times more reason to vote against the Christian,
than the Christian has to vote against the infidel.
The Christian believes in a book superior to the
Constitution—superior to all Constitutions and all
laws. The infidel believes that the Constitution and
laws are superior to any book. He is not controlled
by any power beyond the seas or above the clouds.
He does not receive his orders from Rome, or Sinai.
He receives them from his fellow-citizens, legally and
constitutionally expressed. The Christian believes in
a power greater than man, to which, upon the peril
of eternal pain, he must bow. His allegiance, to say
the best of it, is divided. The Christian puts the for-
tune of his own soul over and above the temporal
welfare of the entire world; the infidel puts the good
of mankind here and now, beyond and over all.

There was a time in New England when only
church members were allowed to vote, and it may be
instructive to state the fact that during that time
Quakers were hanged, women were stripped, tied to

310

carts, and whipped from town to town, and their
babes sold into slavery, or exchanged for rum. Now
in that same country, thousands and thousands of
infidels vote, and yet the laws are nearer just, women
are not whipped and children are not sold.

If all the convicts in all the penitentiaries of the
United States could be transported to some island in
the sea, and there allowed to make a government for
themselves, they would pass better laws than John
Calvin did in Geneva. They would have clearer and
better views of the rights of men, than unconvicted
Christians used to have. I do not say that these
convicts are better people, but I do say that, in my
judgment, they would make better laws. They cer-
tainly could not make worse.

If these convicts were taken from the prisons of
the United States, they would not dream of uniting
church and state. They would have no religious
test. They would allow every man to vote and to be
voted for, no matter what his religious views might
be. They would not dream of whipping Quakers, of
burning Unitarians, of imprisoning or burning Uni-
versalists or infidels. They would allow all the people
to guess for themselves. Some of these convicts, of
course, would believe in the old ideas, and would
insist upon the suppression of free thought. Those
coming from Delaware would probably repeat with
great gusto the opinions of Justice Comegys, and
insist that the whipping-post was the handmaid of
Christianity.

It would be hard to conceive of a much worse
government than that founded by the Puritans.
They took the Bible for the foundation of their
political structure. They copied the laws given to
Moses from Sinai, and the result was one of the
worst governments that ever disgraced this world.
They believed the Old Testament to be inspired.
They believed that Jehovah made laws for all people
and for all time. They had not learned the hypoc-
risy that believes and avoids. They did not say:
This law was once just, but is now unjust; it was
once good, but now it is infamous; it was given by
God once, but now it can only be obeyed by the
devil. They had not reached the height of biblical
exegesis on which we find the modern theologian
perched, and who tells us that Jehovah has reformed.
The Puritans were consistent. They did what people
must do who honestly believe in the inspiration of
the Old Testament. If God gave laws from Sinai
what right have we to repeal them?

312

As people have gained confidence in each other,
they have lost confidence in the sacred Scriptures.
We know now that the Bible can not be used as the
foundation of government. It is capable of too many
meanings. Nobody can find out exactly what it
upholds, what it permits, what it denounces, what it
denies. These things depend upon what part you
read. If it is all true, it upholds everything bad and
denounces everything good, and it also denounces
the bad and upholds the good. Then there are
passages where the good is denounced and the bad
commanded; so that any one can go to the Bible
and find some text, some passage, to uphold anything
he may desire. If he wishes to enslave his fellow-
men, he will find hundreds of passages in his favor.
If he wishes to be a polygamist, he can find his
authority there. If he wishes to make war, to exter-
minate his neighbors, there his warrant can be found.
If, on the other hand, he is oppressed himself, and
wishes to make war upon his king, he can find a
battle-cry. And if the king wishes to put him down,
he can find text for text on the other side. So, too,
upon all questions of reform. The teetotaler goes
there to get his verse, and the moderate drinker
finds within the sacred lids his best excuse.

313

Most intelligent people are now convinced that the
bible is not a guide; that in reading it you must
exercise your reason; that you can neither safely
reject nor accept all; that he who takes one passage
for a staff, trips upon another; that while one text is
a light, another blows it out; that it is such a ming-
ling of rocks and quicksands, such a labyrinth of
clews and snares—so few flowers among so many
nettles and thorns, that it misleads rather than di-
rects, and taken altogether, is a hindrance and not
a help.

Another important point made by Mr. Talmage is,
that if the Bible is thrown away, we will have nothing
left to swear witnesses on, and that consequently the
administration of justice will become impossible.

There was a time when the Bible did not exist, and
if Mr. Talmage is correct, of course justice was im-
possible then, and truth must have been a stranger
to human lips. How can we depend upon the testi-
mony of those who wrote the Bible, as there was no
Bible in existence while they were writing, and con-
sequently there was no way to take their testimony,
and we have no account of their having been sworn
on the Bible after they got it finished. It is extremely
sad to think that all the nations of antiquity were left

314

entirely without the means of eliciting truth. No
wonder that Justice was painted blindfolded.

What perfect fetichism it is, to imagine that a man
will tell the truth simply because he has kissed an
old piece of sheepskin stained with the saliva of all
classes. A farce of this kind adds nothing to the
testimony of an honest man; it simply allows a rogue
to give weight to his false testimony. This is really
the only result that can be accomplished by kissing
the Bible. A desperate villain, for the purpose of
getting revenge, or making money, will gladly go
through the ceremony, and ignorant juries and su-
perstitious judges will be imposed upon. The whole
system of oaths is false, and does harm instead of
good. Let every man walk into court and tell his
story, and let the truth of the story be judged by its
reasonableness, taking into consideration the charac-
ter of the witness, the interest he has, and the posi-
tion he occupies in the controversy, and then let it
be the business of the jury to ascertain the real truth
—to throw away the unreasonable and the impossi-
ble, and make up their verdict only upon what they
believe to be reasonable and true. An honest man
does not need the oath, and a rascal uses it simply
to accomplish his purpose. If the history of courts

315

proved that every man, after kissing the Bible, told
the truth, and that those who failed to kiss it some-
times lied, I should be in favor of swearing all people
on the Bible; but the experience of every lawyer is,
that kissing the Bible is not always the preface of a
true story. It is often the ceremonial embroidery
of a falsehood.

If there is an infinite God who attends to the
affairs of men, it seems to me almost a sacrilege to
publicly appeal to him in every petty trial. If one
will go into any court, and notice the manner in
which oaths are administered,—the utter lack of
solemnity—the matter-of-course air with which the
whole thing is done, he will be convinced that it is a
form of no importance. Mr. Talmage would probably
agree with the judge of whom the following story is
told:

A witness was being sworn. The judge noticed
that he was not holding up his hand. He said to the
clerk: "Let the witness hold up his right hand."
"His right arm was shot off," replied the clerk. "Let
"him hold up his left, then." "That was shot off, too,
"your honor." "Well, then, let him raise one foot;
"no man can be sworn in this court without holding
"something up."

My own opinion is, that if every copy of the Bible
in the world were destroyed, there would be some
way to ascertain the truth in judicial proceedings;
and any other book would do just as well to swear
witnesses upon, or a block in the shape of a book
covered with some kind of calfskin could do equally
well, or just the calfskin would do. Nothing is more
laughable than the performance of this ceremony,
and I have never seen in court one calf kissing the
skin of another, that I did not feel humiliated that
such things were done in the name of Justice.

Mr. Talmage has still another argument in favor
of the preservation of the Bible. He wants to
know what book could take its place on the centre-
table.

I admit that there is much force in this. Suppose
we all admitted the Bible to be an uninspired book,
it could still be kept on the centre-table. It would
be just as true then as it is now. Inspiration can not
add anything to a fact; neither can inspiration make
the immoral moral, the unjust just, or the cruel merci-
ful. If it is a fact that God established human slavery,
that does not prove slavery to be right; it simply
shows that God was wrong. If I have the right to
use my reason in determining whether the Bible is

317

inspired or not, and if in accordance with my reason
I conclude that it is inspired, I have still the right to
use my reason in determining whether the command-
ments of God are good or bad. Now, suppose we
take from the Bible every word upholding slavery,
every passage in favor of polygamy, every verse
commanding soldiers to kill women and children, it
would be just as fit for the centre-table as now. Sup-
pose every impure word was taken from it; suppose
that the history of Tamar was left out, the biography
of Lot, and all other barbarous accounts of a barbarous
people, it would look just as well upon the centre-
table as now.

Suppose that we should become convinced that
the writers of the New Testament were mistaken as
to the eternity of punishment, or that all the passages
now relied upon to prove the existence of perdition
were shown to be interpolations, and were thereupon
expunged, would not the book be dearer still to
every human being with a heart? I would like to
see every good passage in the Bible preserved. I
would like to see, with all these passages from the
Bible, the loftiest sentiments from all other books
that have ever been uttered by men in all ages and
of all races, bound in one volume, and to see that

318

volume, filled with the greatest, the purest and the
best, become the household book.

The average Bible, on the average centre-table, is
about as much used as though it were a solid block.
It is scarcely ever opened, and people who see its
covers every day are unfamiliar with its every page.

I admit that some things have happened some-
what hard to explain, and tending to show that the
Bible is no ordinary book. I heard a story, not long
ago, bearing upon this very subject.

A man was a member of the church, but after a
time, having had bad luck in business affairs, became
somewhat discouraged. Not feeling able to con-
tribute his share to the support of the church, he
ceased going to meeting, and finally became an
average sinner. His bad luck pursued him until he
found himself and his family without even a crust to
eat. At this point, his wife told him that she be-
lieved they were suffering from a visitation of God,
and begged him to restore family worship, and see if
God would not do something for them. Feeling that
he could not possibly make matters worse, he took
the Bible from its resting place on a shelf where
it had quietly slumbered and collected the dust of
many months, and gathered his family about him.

319

He opened the sacred volume, and to his utter as-
tonishment, there, between the divine leaves, was a
ten-dollar bill. He immediately dropped on his
knees. His wife dropped on hers, and the children on
theirs, and with streaming eyes they returned thanks
to God. He rushed to the butcher's and bought
some steak, to the baker's and bought some bread,
to the grocer's and got some eggs and butter and tea,
and joyfully hastened home. The supper was cooked,
it was on the table, grace was said, and every face
was radiant with joy. Just at that happy moment a
knock was heard, the door was opened, and a police-
man entered and arrested the father for passing
counterfeit money.

Mr. Talmage is also convinced that the Bible is
inspired and should be preserved because there is no
other book that a mother could give her son as he
leaves the old home to make his way in the world.

Thousands and thousands of mothers have pre-
sented their sons with Bibles without knowing really
what the book contains. They simply followed the
custom, and the sons as a rule honored the Bible, not
because they knew anything of it, but because it was
a gift from mother. But surely, if all the passages
upholding polygamy were out, the mother would give

320

the book to her son just as readily, and he would re-
ceive it just as joyfully. If there were not one word
in it tending to degrade the mother, the gift would cer-
tainly be as appropriate. The fact that mothers have
presented Bibles to their sons does not prove that the
book is inspired. The most that can be proved by
this fact is that the mothers believed it to be inspired.
It does not even tend to show what the book is,
neither does it tend to establish the truth of one
miracle recorded upon its pages. We cannot believe
that fire refused to burn, simply because the state-
ment happens to be in a book presented to a son by
his mother, and if all the mothers of the entire world
should give Bibles to all their children, this would not
prove that it was once right to murder mothers, or to
enslave mothers, or to sell their babes.

The inspiration of the Bible is not a question of
natural affection. It can not be decided by the love
a mother bears her son. It is a question of fact, to
be substantiated like other facts. If the Turkish
mother should give a copy of the Koran to her
son, I would still have my doubts about the in-
spiration of that book; and if some Turkish soldier
saved his life by having in his pocket a copy of
the Koran that accidentally stopped a bullet just

321

opposite his heart, I should still deny that Mohammed
was a prophet of God.

Nothing can be more childish than to ascribe
mysterious powers to inanimate objects. To imagine
that old rags made into pulp, manufactured into
paper, covered with words, and bound with the skin
of a calf or a sheep, can have any virtues when thus
put together that did not belong to the articles out
of which the book was constructed, is of course
infinitely absurd.

In the days of slavery, negroes used to buy dried
roots of other negroes, and put these roots in their
pockets, so that a whipping would not give them
pain. Kings have bought diamonds to give them
luck. Crosses and scapularies are still worn for the
purpose of affecting the inevitable march of events.
People still imagine that a verse in the Bible can step
in between a cause and its effect; really believe that
an amulet, a charm, the bone of some saint, a piece
of a cross, a little image of the Virgin, a picture of a
priest, will affect the weather, will delay frost, will
prevent disease, will insure safety at sea, and in some
cases prevent hanging. The banditti of Italy have
great confidence in these things, and whenever they
start upon an expedition of theft and plunder, they

322

take images and pictures of saints with them, such
as have been blest by a priest or pope. They pray
sincerely to the Virgin, to give them luck, and see not
the slightest inconsistency in appealing to all the
saints in the calendar to assist them in robbing honest
people.

Edmund About tells a story that illustrates the belief
of the modern Italian. A young man was gambling.
Fortune was against him. In the room was a little
picture representing the Virgin and her child. Before
this picture he crossed himself, and asked the assist-
ance of the child. Again he put down his money
and again lost. Returning to the picture, he told the
child that he had lost all but one piece, that he was
about to hazard that, and made a very urgent request
that he would favor him with divine assistance. He
put down the last piece. He lost. Going to the
picture and shaking his fist at the child, he cried out:
"Miserable bambino, I am glad they crucified you!"

The confidence that one has in an image, in a relic,
in a book, comes from the same source,—fetichism.
To ascribe supernatural virtues to the skin of a snake,
to a picture, or to a bound volume, is intellectually
the same.

Mr. Talmage has still another argument in favor

323

of the inspiration of the Scriptures. He takes the
ground that the Bible must be inspired, because so
many people believe it.

Mr. Talmage should remember that a scientific
fact does not depend upon the vote of numbers;—
it depends simply upon demonstration; it depends
upon intelligence and investigation, not upon an
ignorant multitude; it appeals to the highest, in-
stead of to the lowest. Nothing can be settled
by popular prejudice.

According to Mr. Talmage, there are about three
hundred million Christians in the world. Is this true?
In all countries claiming to be Christian—including
all of civilized Europe, Russia in Asia, and every
country on the Western hemisphere, we have nearly
four hundred millions of people. Mr. Talmage claims
that three hundred millions are Christians. I sup-
pose he means by this, that if all should perish to-
night, about three hundred millions would wake up
in heaven—having lived and died good and consist-
ent Christians.

There are in Russia about eighty millions of people
—how many Christians? I admit that they have re-
cently given more evidence of orthodox Christianity
than formerly. They have been murdering old men;

324

they have thrust daggers into the breasts of women;
they have violated maidens—because they were Jews.
Thousands and thousands are sent each year to the
mines of Siberia, by the Christian government of
Russia. Girls eighteen years of age, for having ex-
pressed a word in favor of human liberty, are to-day
working like beasts of burden, with chains upon
their limbs and with the marks of whips upon
their backs. Russia, of course, is considered by Mr.
Talmage as a Christian country—a country utterly
destitute of liberty—without freedom of the press,
without freedom of speech, where every mouth is
locked and every tongue a prisoner—a country filled
with victims, soldiers, spies, thieves and executioners.
What would Russia be, in the opinion of Mr. Tal-
mage, but for Christianity? How could it be worse,
when assassins are among the best people in it?
The truth is, that the people in Russia, to-day, who
are in favor of human liberty, are not Christians.
The men willing to sacrifice their lives for the good
of others, are not believers in the Christian religion.
The men who wish to break chains are infidels;
the men who make chains are Christians. Every
good and sincere Catholic of the Greek Church
is a bad citizen, an enemy of progress, a foe of

325

human liberty. Yet Mr. Talmage regards Russia
as a Christian country.

The sixteen millions of people in Spain are claimed
as Christians. Spain, that for centuries was the as-
sassin of human rights; Spain, that endeavored to
spread Christianity by flame and fagot; Spain, the
soil where the Inquisition flourished, where bigotry
grew, and where cruelty was worship,—where
murder was prayer. I admit that Spain is a Chris-
tian nation. I admit that infidelity has gained no
foothold beyond the Pyrenees. The Spaniards are
orthodox. They believe in the inspiration of the
Old and New Testaments. They have no doubts
about miracles—no doubts about heaven, no doubts
about hell. I admit that the priests, the highway-
men, the bishops and thieves, are equally true be-
lievers. The man who takes your purse on the
highway, and the priest who forgives the robber,
are alike orthodox.

It gives me pleasure, however, to say that even in
Spain there is a dawn. Some great men, some men
of genius, are protesting against the tyranny of Cath-
olicism. Some men have lost confidence in the
cathedral, and are beginningto ask the State to erect
the schoolhouse. They are beginning to suspect

326

that priests are for the most part impostors and
plunderers.

According to Mr. Talmage, the twenty-eight mil-
lions in Italy are Christians. There the Christian
Church was early established, and the popes are to-
day the successors of St. Peter. For hundreds and
hundreds of years, Italy was the beggar of the world,
and to her, from every land, flowed streams of gold
and silver. The country was covered with convents,
and monasteries, and churches, and cathedrals filled
with monks and nuns. Its roads were crowded with
pilgrims, and its dust was on the feet of the world.
What has Christianity done for Italy—Italy, its soil a
blessing, its sky a smile—Italy, with memories great
enough to kindle the fires of enthusiasm in any
human breast?

Had it not been for a few Freethinkers, for a few
infidels, for such men as Garibaldi and Mazzini, the
heaven of Italy would still have been without a star.

I admit that Italy, with its popes and bandits, with
its superstition and ignorance, with its sanctified
beggars, is a Christian nation; but in a little while,—
in a few days,—when according to the prophecy of
Garibaldi priests, with spades in their hands, will
dig ditches to drain the Pontine marshes; in a little

327

while, when the pope leaves the Vatican, and seeks
the protection of a nation he has denounced,—asking
alms of intended victims; when the nuns shall marry,
and the monasteries shall become factories, and the
whirl of wheels shall take the place of drowsy prayers
—then, and not until then, will Italy be,—not a
Christian nation, but great, prosperous, and free.

In Italy, Giordano Bruno was burned. Some day,
his monument will rise above the cross of Rome.

We have in our day one example,—and so far as I
know, history records no other,—of the resurrection
of a nation. Italy has been called from the grave of
superstition. She is "the first fruits of them that
"slept."

I admit with Mr. Talmage that Portugal is a Chris-
tian country—that she engaged for hundreds of years
in the slave trade, and that she justified the infamous
traffic by passages in the Old Testament. I admit,
also, that she persecuted the Jews in accordance
with the same divine volume. I admit that all the
crime, ignorance, destitution, and superstition in that
country were produced by the Catholic Church. I
also admit that Portugal would be better if it were
Protestant.

Every Catholic is in favor of education enough to

328

change a barbarian into a Catholic; every Protestant
is in favor of education enough to change a Catholic
into a Protestant; but Protestants and Catholics alike
are opposed to education that will lead to any
real philosophy and science. I admit that Portugal
is what it is, on account of the preaching of the
gospel. I admit that Portugal can point with pride
to the triumphs of what she calls civilization within
her borders, and truthfully ascribe the glory to the
church. But in a litde while, when more railroads
are built, when telegraphs connect her people with
the civilized world, a spirit of doubt, of investigation,
will manifest itself in Portugal.

When the people stop counting beads, and go to
the study of mathematics; when they think more of
plows than of prayers for agricultural purposes; when
they find that one fact gives more light to the mind
than a thousand tapers, and that nothing can by any
possibility be more useless than a priest,—then Por-
tugal will begin to cease to be what is called a
Christian nation.

I admit that Austria, with her thirty-seven millions,
is a Christian nation—including her Croats, Hungar-
ians, Servians, and Gypsies. Austria was one of the
assassins of Poland. When we remember that John

329

Sobieski drove the Mohammedans from the gates of
Vienna, and rescued from the hand of the "infidel"
the beleagured city, the propriety of calling Austria a
Christian nation becomes still more apparent. If one
wishes to know exactly how "Christian" Austria is,
let him read the history of Hungary, let him read
the speeches of Kossuth. There is one good thing
about Austria: slowly but surely she is undermining
the church by education. Education is the enemy
of superstition. Universal education does away with
the classes born of the tyranny of ecclesiasticism—
classes founded upon cunning, greed, and brute
strength. Education also tends to do away with
intellectual cowardice. The educated man is his
own priest, his own pope, his own church.

When cunning collects tolls from fear, the church
prospers.

Germany is another Christian nation. Bismarck is
celebrated for his Christian virtues.

Only a little while ago, Bismarck, when a bill was
under consideration for ameliorating the condition
of the Jews, stated publicly that Germany was a
Christian nation, that her business was to extend
and protect the religion of Jesus Christ, and that
being a Christian nation, no laws should be passed

330

ameliorating the condition of the Jews. Certainly a
remark like this could not have been made in any
other than a Christian nation. There is no freedom
of the press, there is no freedom of speech, in Ger-
many. The Chancellor has gone so far as to declare
that the king is not responsible to the people. Ger-
many must be a Christian nation. The king gets his
right to govern, not from his subjects, but from God.
He relies upon the New Testament. He is satisfied
that "the powers that be in Germany are ordained
"of God." He is satisfied that treason against the
German throne is treason against Jehovah. There
are millions of Freethinkers in Germany. They are
not in the majority, otherwise there would be more
liberty in that country. Germany is not an infidel
nation, or speech would be free, and every man
would be allowed to express his honest thoughts.

Wherever I see Liberty in chains, wherever the
expression of opinion is a crime, I know that that
country is not infidel; I know that the people are not
ruled by reason. I also know that the greatest men
of Germany—her Freethinkers, her scientists, her
writers, her philosophers, are, for the most part, in-
fidel. Yet Germany is called a Christian nation, and
ought to be so called until her citizens are free.

331

France is also claimed as a Christian country. This
is not entirely true. France once was thoroughly
Catholic, completely Christian. At the time of the
massacre of Saint Bartholomew, the French were
Christians. Christian France made exiles of the
Huguenots. Christian France for years and years
was the property of the Jesuits. Christian France
was ignorant, cruel, orthodox and infamous. When
France was Christian, witnesses were cross-examined
with instruments of torture.

Now France is not entirely under Catholic control,
and yet she is by far the most prosperous nation in
Europe. I saw, only the other day, a letter from a
Protestant bishop, in which he states that there are
only about a million Protestants in France, and only
four or five millions of Catholics, and admits, in a
very melancholy way, that thirty-four or thirty-five
millions are Freethinkers. The bishop is probably
mistaken in his figures, but France is the best housed,
the best fed, the best clad country in Europe.

Only a little while ago, France was overrun, trampled
into the very earth, by the victorious hosts of Ger-
many, and France purchased her peace with the
savings of centuries. And yet France is now rich and
prosperous and free, and Germany poor, discontented

332

and enslaved. Hundreds and thousands of Germans,
unable to find liberty at home, are coming to the
United States.

I admit that England is a Christian country. Any
doubts upon this point can be dispelled by reading
her history—her career in India, what she has done
in China, her treatment of Ireland, of the American
Colonies, her attitude during our Civil war; all these
things show conclusively that England is a Christian
nation.

Religion has filled Great Britain with war. The
history of the Catholics, of the Episcopalians, of
Cromwell—all the burnings, the maimings, the brand-
ings, the imprisonments, the confiscations, the civil
wars, the bigotry, the crime—show conclusively that
Great Britain has enjoyed to the full the blessings of
"our most holy religion."

Of course, Mr. Talmage claims the United States
as a Christian country. The truth is, our country is
not as Christian as it once was. When heretics were
hanged in New England, when the laws of Virginia
and Maryland provided that the tongue of any man
who denied the doctrine of the Trinity should be
bored with hot iron,, and that for the second offence
he should suffer death, I admit that this country was

333

Christian. When we engaged in the slave trade,
when our flag protected piracy and murder in every
sea, there is not the slightest doubt that the United
States was a Christian country. When we believed
in slavery, and when we deliberately stole the labor
of four millions of people; when we sold women
and babes, and when the people of the North
enacted a law by virtue of which every Northern
man was bound to turn hound and pursue a human
being who was endeavoring to regain his liberty, I
admit that the United States was a Christian nation.
I admit that all these things were upheld by the Bible
—that the slave trader was justified by the Old Testa-
ment, that the bloodhound was a kind of missionary
in disguise, that the auction block was an altar, the
slave pen a kind of church, and that the whipping-
post was considered almost as sacred as the cross.
At that time, our country was a Christian nation.

I heard Frederick Douglass say that he lectured
against slavery for twenty years before the doors
of a single church were opened to him. In New
England, hundreds of ministers were driven from
their pulpits because they preached against the
crime of human slavery. At that time, this country
was a Christian nation.

334

Only a few years ago, any man speaking in favor
of the rights of man, endeavoring to break a chain
from a human limb, was in danger of being mobbed
by the Christians of this country. I admit that Dela-
ware is still a Christian State. I heard a story about
that State the other day.

About fifty years ago, an old Revolutionary soldier
applied for a pension. He was asked his age, and he
replied that he was fifty years old. He was told that
if that was his age, he could not have been in the
Revolutionary War, and consequently was not en-
titled to any pension. He insisted, however, that he
was only fifty years old. Again they told him that
there must be some mistake. He was so wrinkled,
so bowed, had so many marks of age, that he must
certainly be more than fifty years old. "Well," said
the old man, "if I must explain, I will: I lived forty
"years in Delaware; but I never counted that time,
"and I hope God won't."

The fact is, we have grown less and less Christian
every year from 1620 until now, and the fact is that
we have grown more and more civilized, more and
more charitable, nearer and nearer just.

Mr. Talmage speaks as though all the people in
what he calls the civilized world were Christians. Ad-

335

mitting this to be true, I find that in these countries
millions of men are educated, trained and drilled to
kill their fellow Christians. I find Europe covered
with forts to protect Christians from Christians, and
the seas filled with men-of-war for the purpose of
ravaging the coasts and destroying the cities of Chris-
tian nations. These countries are filled with prisons,
with workhouses, with jails and with toiling, ignorant
and suffering millions. I find that Christians have
invented most of the instruments of death, that
Christians are the greatest soldiers, fighters, de-
stroyers. I find that every Christian country is taxed
to its utmost to support these soldiers; that every
Christian nation is now groaning beneath the grievous
burden of monstrous debt, and that nearly all these
debts were contracted in waging war. These bonds,
these millions, these almost incalculable amounts,
were given to pay for shot and shell, for rifle and
torpedo, for men-of-war, for forts and arsenals, and
all the devilish enginery of death. I find that each
of these nations prays to God to assist it as against
all others; and when one nation has overrun, ravaged
and pillaged another, it immediately returns thanks
to the Almighty, and the ravaged and pillaged kneel
and thank God that it is no worse.

336

Mr. Talmage is welcome to all the evidence he can
find in the history of what he is pleased to call the
civilized nations of the world, tending to show the
inspiration of the Bible.

And right here it may be well enough to say again,
that the question of inspiration can not be settled by
the votes of the superstitious millions. It can not be
affected by numbers. It must be decided by each
human being for himself. If every man in this world,
with one exception, believed the Bible to be the in-
spired word of God, the man who was the exception
could not lose his right to think, to investigate, and to
judge for himself.

_Question_. You do not think, then, that any of the
arguments brought forward by Mr. Talmage for the
purpose of establishing the inspiration of the Bible,
are of any weight whatever?

_Answer_. I do not. I do not see how it is possible
to make poorer, weaker or better arguments than he
has made.

Of course, there can be no "evidence" of the in-
spiration of the Scriptures. What is "inspiration"?
Did God use the prophets simply as instruments?
Did he put his thoughts in their minds, and use their

337

hands to make a record? Probably few Christians
will agree as to what they mean by "inspiration."
The general idea is, that the minds of the writers of
the books of the Bible were controlled by the divine
will in such a way that they expressed, independently
of their own opinions, the thought of God. I believe it
is admitted that God did not choose the exact words,
and is not responsible for the punctuation or syntax.
It is hard to give any reason for claiming more for
the Bible than is claimed by those who wrote it.
There is no claim of "inspiration" made by the writer
of First and Second Kings. Not one word about the
author having been "inspired" is found in the book
of Job, or in Ruth, or in Chronicles, or in the Psalms,
or Ecclesiastes, or in Solomon's Song, and nothing is
said about the author of the book of Esther having
been "inspired." Christians now say that Matthew,
Mark, Luke and John were "inspired" to write the
four gospels, and yet neither Mark, nor Luke, nor
John, nor Matthew claims to have been "inspired."
If they were "inspired," certainly they should have
stated that fact. The very first thing stated in each
of the gospels should have been a declaration by the
writer that he had been "inspired," and that he was
about to write the book under the guidance of God,

338

and at the conclusion of each gospel there should
have been a solemn statement that the writer had
put down nothing of himself, but had in all things
followed the direction and guidance of the divine
will. The church now endeavors to establish the
inspiration of the Bible by force, by social ostracism,
and by attacking the reputation of every man who
denies or doubts. In all Christian countries, they
begin with the child in the cradle. Each infant is
told by its mother, by its father, or by some of its
relatives, that "the Bible is an inspired book." This
pretended fact, by repetition "in season and out of
"season," is finally burned and branded into the
brain to such a degree that the child of average
intelligence never outgrows the conviction that the
Bible is, in some peculiar sense, an "inspired" book.
The question has to be settled for each generation.
The evidence is not sufficient, and the foundation of
Christianity is perpetually insecure. Beneath this great
religious fabric there is no rock. For eighteen centu-
ries, hundreds and thousands and millions of people
have been endeavoring to establish the fact that the
Scriptures are inspired, and since the dawn of science,
since the first star appeared in the night of the
Middle Ages, until this moment, the number of

339

people who have doubted the fact of inspiration
has steadily increased. These doubts have not been
born of ignorance, they have not been suggested by
the unthinking. They have forced themselves upon
the thoughtful, upon the educated, and now the ver-
dict of the intellectual world is, that the Bible is not
inspired. Notwithstanding the fact that the church
has taken advantage of infancy, has endeavored to
control education, has filled all primers and spelling-
books and readers and text books with superstition—
feeding all minds with the miraculous and super-
natural, the growth toward a belief in the natural
and toward the rejection of the miraculous has been
steady and sturdy since the sixteenth century. There
has been, too, a moral growth, until many passages
in the Bible have become barbarous, inhuman and
infamous. The Bible has remained the same, while
the world has changed. In the light of physical and
moral discovery, "the inspired volume" seems in
many respects absurd. If the same progress is made
in the next, as in the last, century, it is very easy to
predict the place that will then be occupied by the
Bible. By comparing long periods of time, it is easy
to measure the advance of the human race. Com-
pare the average sermon of to-day with the average

340

sermon of one hundred years ago. Compare what
ministers teach to-day with the creeds they profess
to believe, and you will see the immense distance
that even the church has traveled in the last century.

The Christians tell us that scientific men have
made mistakes, and that there is very little certainty
in the domain of human knowledge. This I admit.
The man who thought the world was flat, and who
had a way of accounting for the movement of the
heavenly bodies, had what he was pleased to call a
philosophy. He was, in his way, a geologist and an
astronomer. We admit that he was mistaken; but
if we claimed that the first geologist and the first
astronomer were inspired, it would not do for us to
admit that any advance had been made, or that any
errors of theirs had been corrected. We do not
claim that the first scientists were inspired. We do
not claim that the last are inspired. We admit that
all scientific men are fallible. We admit that they do
not know everything. We insist that they know but
little, and that even in that little which they are sup-
posed to know, there is the possibility of error. The
first geologist said: "The earth is flat." Suppose
that the geologists of to-day should insist that that
man was inspired, and then endeavor to show that

341

the word "flat," in the "Hebrew," did not mean
quite flat, but just a little rounded; what would we
think of their honesty? The first astronomer in-
sisted that the sun and moon and stars revolved
around this earth—that this little earth was the centre
of the entire system. Suppose that the astronomers
of to-day should insist that that astronomer was in-
spired, and should try to explain, and say that he
simply used the language of the common people, and
when he stated that the sun and moon and stars re-
volved around the earth, he merely meant that they
"apparently revolved," and that the earth, in fact,
turned over, would we consider them honest men?
You might as well say that the first painter was in-
spired, or that the first sculptor had the assistance of
God, as to say that the first writer, or the first book-
maker, was divinely inspired. It is more probable
that the modern geologist is inspired than that the an-
cient one was, because the modern geologist is nearer
right. It is more probable that William Lloyd Gar-
rison was inspired upon the question of slavery than
that Moses was. It is more probable that the author
of the Declaration of Independence spoke by divine
authority than that the author of the Pentateuch did.
In other words, if there can be any evidence of

342

"inspiration," it must lie in the fact of doing or
saying the best possible thing that could have been
done or said at that time or upon that subject.

To make myself clear: The only possible evidence
of "inspiration" would be perfection—a perfection ex-
celling anything that man unaided had ever attained.
An "inspired" book should excel all other books; an
inspired statue should be the best in this world; an in-
spired painting should be beyond all others. If the Bible
has been improved in any particular, it was not, in that
particular, ''inspired." If slavery is wrong, the Bible is
not inspired. If polygamy is vile and loathsome, the
Bible is not inspired. If wars of extermination are cruel
and heartless, the Bible is not "inspired." If there is
within that book a contradiction of any natural fact; if
there is one ignorant falsehood, if there is one mistake,
then it is not "inspired." I do not mean mistakes that
have grown out of translations; but if there was in
the original manuscript one mistake, then it is not
"inspired." I do not demand a miracle; I do not
demand a knowledge of the future; I simply demand
an absolute knowledge of the past. I demand an ab-
solute knowledge of the then present; I demand a
knowledge of the constitution of the human mind—
of the facts in nature, and that is all I demand.

343

_Question_. If I understand you, you think that all
political power should come from the people; do you
not believe in any "special providence," and do you
take the ground that God does not interest himself
in the affairs of nations and individuals?

_Answer_. The Christian idea is that God made the
world, and made certain laws for the government of
matter and mind, and that he never interferes except
upon special occasions, when the ordinary laws fail to
work out the desired end. Their notion is, that the
Lord now and then stops the horses simply to show
that he is driving. It seems to me that if an infinitely
wise being made the world, he must have made it
the best possible; and that if he made laws for the
government of matter and mind, he must have made
the best possible laws. If this is true, not one of
these laws can be violated without producing a posi-
tive injury. It does not seem probable that infinite
wisdom would violate a law that infinite wisdom had
made.

Most ministers insist that God now and then in-
terferes in the affairs of this world; that he has not
interfered as much lately as he did formerly. When
the world was comparatively new, it required alto-
gether more tinkering and fixing than at present.

344

Things are at last in a reasonably good condition,
and consequently a great amount of interference is
not necessary. In old times it was found necessary fre-
quently to raise the dead, to change the nature of fire
and water, to punish people with plagues and famine,
to destroy cities by storms of fire and brimstone, to
change women into salt, to cast hailstones upon
heathen, to interfere with the movements of our
planetary system, to stop the earth not only, but
sometimes to make it turn the other way, to arrest
the moon, and to make water stand up like a wall.
Now and then, rivers were divided by striking them
with a coat, and people were taken to heaven in
chariots of fire. These miracles, in addition to curing
the sick, the halt, the deaf and blind, were in former
times found necessary, but since the "apostolic age,"
nothing of the kind has been resorted to except in
Catholic countries. Since the death of the last
apostle, God has appeared only to members of the
Catholic Church, and all modern miracles have been
performed for the benefit of Catholicism. There is
no authentic account of the Virgin Mary having ever
appeared to a Protestant. The bones of Protestant
saints have never cured a solitary disease. Protest-
ants now say that the testimony of the Catholics can

345

not be relied upon, and yet, the authenticity of every
book in the New Testament was established by Cath-
olic testimony. Some few miracles were performed
in Scotland, and in fact in England and the United
States, but they were so small that they are hardly
worth mentioning. Now and then, a man was struck
dead for taking the name of the Lord in vain. Now
and then, people were drowned who were found in
boats on Sunday. Whenever anybody was about to
commit murder, God has not interfered—the reason
being that he gave man free-will, and expects to hold
him accountable in another world, and there is no
exception to this free-will doctrine, but in cases
where men swear or violate the Sabbath. They are
allowed to commit all other crimes without any in-
terference on the part of the Lord.

My own opinion is, that the clergy found it neces-
sary to preserve the Sabbath for their own uses, and
for that reason endeavored to impress the people
with the enormity of its violation, and for that purpose
gave instances of people being drowned and suddenly
struck dead for working or amusing themselves on that
day. The clergy have objected to any other places of
amusement except their own, being opened on that
day. They wished to compel people either to go to

346

church or stay at home. They have also known
that profanity tended to do away with the feelings
of awe they wished to cultivate, and for that reason
they have insisted that swearing was one of the most
terrible of crimes, exciting above all others the wrath
of God.

There was a time when people fell dead for having
spoken disrespectfully to a priest. The priest at that
time pretended to be the visible representative of
God, and as such, entitled to a degree of reverence
amounting almost to worship. Several cases are
given in the ecclesiastical history of Scotland where
men were deprived of speech for having spoken
rudely to a parson.

These stories were calculated to increase the im-
portance of the clergy and to convince people that
they were under the special care of the Deity. The
story about the bears devouring the little children
was told in the first place, and has been repeated
since, simply to protect ministers from the laughter
of children. There ought to be carved on each side
of every pulpit a bear with fragments of children in
its mouth, as this animal has done so much to protect
the dignity of the clergy.

Besides the protection of ministers, the drowning

347

of breakers of the Sabbath, and striking a few people
dead for using profane language, I think there is no
evidence of any providential interference in the affairs
of this world in what may be called modern times.
Ministers have endeavored to show that great calam-
ities have been brought upon nations and cities as a
punishment for the wickedness of the people. They
have insisted that some countries have been visited
with earthquakes because the people had failed to
discharge their religious duties; but as earthquakes
happened in uninhabited countries, and often at sea,
where no one is hurt, most people have concluded
that they are not sent as punishments. They have
insisted that cities have been burned as a punish-
ment, and to show the indignation of the Lord, but
at the same time they have admitted that if the
streets had been wider, the fire departments better
organized, and wooden buildings fewer, the design
of the Lord would have been frustrated.

After reading the history of the world, it is some-
what difficult to find which side the Lord is really on.
He has allowed Catholics to overwhelm and de-
stroy Protestants, and then he has allowed Protestants
to overwhelm and destroy Catholics. He has allowed
Christianity to triumph over Paganism, and he allowed

348

Mohammedans to drive back the hosts of the cross
from the sepulchre of his son. It is curious that this
God would allow the slave trade to go on, and yet
punish the violators of the Sabbath. It is simply
wonderful that he would allow kings to wage cruel
and remorseless war, to sacrifice millions upon the
altar of heartless ambition, and at the same time
strike a man dead for taking his name in vain. It is
wonderful that he allowed slavery to exist for centu-
ries in the United States; that he allows polygamy
now in Utah; that he cares nothing for liberty in
Russia, nothing for free speech in Germany, nothing
for the sorrows of the overworked, underpaid millions
of the world; that he cares nothing for the innocent
languishing in prisons, nothing for the patriots con-
demned to death, nothing for the heart-broken
widows and orphans, nothing for the starving, and
yet has ample time to note a sparrow's fall. If he
would only strike dead the would-be murderers; if
he would only palsy the hands of husbands' uplifted
to strike their wives; if he would render speechless
the cursers of children, he could afford to overlook
the swearers and breakers of his Sabbath.

For one, I am not satisfied with the government
of this world, and I am going to do what little I can

349

to make it better. I want more thought and less
fear, more manhood and less superstition, less prayer
and more help, more education, more reason, more
intellectual hospitality, and above all, and over all,
more liberty and kindness.

_Question_. Do you think that God, if there be one,
when he saves or damns a man, will take into con-
sideration all the circumstances of the man's life?

_Answer_. Suppose that two orphan boys, James
and John, are given homes. James is taken into a
Christian family and John into an infidel. James
becomes a Christian, and dies in the faith. John be-
comes an infidel, and dies without faith in Christ.
According to the Christian religion, as commonly
preached, James will go to heaven, and John to hell.

Now, suppose that God knew that if James had
been raised by the infidel family, he would have died
an infidel, and that if John had been raised by the
Christian family, he would have died a Christian.
What then? Recollect that the boys did not choose
the families in which they were placed.

Suppose that a child, cast away upon an island in
which he found plenty of food, grew to manhood;
and suppose that after he had reached mature years,

350

the island was visited by a missionary who taught a
false religion; and suppose that this islander was con-
vinced that he ought to worship a wooden idol; and
suppose, further, that the worship consisted in sacri-
ficing animals; and suppose the islander, actuated
only by what he conceived to be his duty and by
thankfulness, sacrificed a toad every night and every
morning upon the altar of his wooden god; that
when the sky looked black and threatening he sacri-
ficed two toads; that when feeling unwell he sacrificed
three; and suppose that in all this he was honest, that
he really believed that the shedding of toad-blood
would soften the heart of his god toward him? And
suppose that after he had become fully-convinced
of the truth of his religion, a missionary of the
"true religion" should visit the island, and tell the
history of the Jews—unfold the whole scheme of
salvation? And suppose that the islander should
honestly reject the true religion? Suppose he should
say that he had "internal evidence" not only, but
that many miracles had been performed by his god,
in his behalf; that often when the sky was black
with storm, he had sacrificed a toad, and in a few
moments the sun was again visible, the heavens blue,
and without a cloud; that on several occasions, having

351

forgotten at evening to sacrifice his toad, he found
himself unable to sleep—that his conscience smote
him, he had risen, made the sacrifice, returned to his
bed, and in a few moments sunk into a serene and
happy slumber? And suppose, further, that the man
honestly believed that the efficacy of the sacrifice
depended largely on the size of the toad? Now
suppose that in this belief the man had died,—what
then?

It must be remembered that God knew when the
missionary of the false religion went to the island;
and knew that the islander would be convinced of the
truth of the false religion; and he also knew that the
missionary of the true religion could not, by any
possibility, convince the islander of the error of his
way; what then?

If God is infinite, we cannot speak of him as
making efforts, as being tired. We cannot con-
sistently say that one thing is easy to him, and
another thing is hard, providing both are possible.
This being so, why did not God reveal himself to
every human being? Instead of having an inspired
book, why did he not make inspired folks? Instead
of having his commandments put on tables of stone,
why did he not write them on each human brain?

352

Why was not the mind of each man so made that
every religious truth necessary to his salvation was
an axiom?

Do we not know absolutely that man is greatly
influenced by his surroundings? If Mr. Talmage
had been born in Turkey, is it not probable that
he would now be a whirling Dervish? If he had
first seen the light in Central Africa, he might now
have been prostrate before some enormous serpent;
if in India, he might have been a Brahmin, running a
prayer-machine; if in Spain, he would probably have
been a priest, with his beads and holy water. Had
he been born among the North American Indians,
he would speak of the "Great Spirit," and solemnly
smoke the the pipe of peace.

Mr. Talmage teaches that it is the duty of children
to perpetuate the errors of their parents; conse-
quently, the religion of his parents determined his
theology. It is with him not a question of reason,
but of parents; not a question of argument, but of
filial affection. He does not wish to be a philoso-
pher, but an obedient son. Suppose his father had
been a Catholic, and his mother a Protestant,—what
then? Would he show contempt for his mother by
following the path of his father; or would he show

353

disrespect for his father, by accepting the religion of
his mother; or would he have become a Protestant
with Catholic proclivities, or a Catholic with Protest-
ant leanings? Suppose his parents had both been
infidels—what then?

Is it not better for each one to decide honestly for
himself? Admitting that your parents were good and
kind; admitting that they were honest in their views,
why not have the courage to say, that in your opinion,
father and mother were both mistaken? No one can
honor his parents by being a hypocrite, or an intellectu-
al coward. Whoever is absolutely true to himself, is
true to his parents, and true to the whole world. Who-
ever is untrue to himself, is false to all mankind. Re-
ligion must be an individual matter. If there is a God,
and if there is a day of judgment, the church that a man
belongs to will not be tried, but the man will be tried.

It is a fact that the religion of most people was made
for them by others; that they have accepted certain
dogmas, not because they have examined them, but
because they were told that they were true. Most of
the people in the United States, had they been born in
Turkey, would now be Mohammedans, and most of
the Turks, had they been born in Spain, would now
be Catholics.

354

It is almost, if not quite, impossible for a man to
rise entirely above the ideas, views, doctrines and re-
ligions of his tribe or country. No one expects to
find philosophers in Central Africa, or scientists
among the Fejees. No one expects to find philoso-
phers or scientists in any country where the church
has absolute control.

If there is an infinitely good and wise God, of
course he will take into consideration the surround-
ings of every human being. He understands the
philosophy of environment, and of heredity. He
knows exactly the influence of the mother, of all
associates, of all associations. He will also take into
consideration the amount, quality and form of each
brain, and whether the brain was healthy or diseased.
He will take into consideration the strength of the
passions, the weakness of the judgment. He will
know exactly the force of all temptation—what was
resisted. He will take an account of every effort
made in the right direction, and will understand
all the winds and waves and quicksands and shores
and shallows in, upon and around the sea of every
life.

My own opinion is, that if such a being exists, and
all these things are taken into consideration, we will

355

be absolutely amazed to see how small the difference
is between the "good" and the "bad." Certainly
there is no such difference as would justify a being
of infinite wisdom and benevolence in rewarding one
with eternal joy and punishing the other with eternal
pain.

_Question_. What are the principal reasons that
have satisfied you that the Bible is not an inspired
book?

_Answer_. The great evils that have afflicted this
world are:

_First_. Human slavery—where men have bought
and sold their fellow-men—sold babes from mothers,
and have practiced) every conceivable cruelty upon
the helpless.

_Second_. Polygamy—an institution that destroys
the home, that treats woman as a simple chattel, that
does away with the sanctity of marriage, and with all
that is sacred in love.

_Third_. Wars of conquest and extermination—
by which nations have been made the food of the
sword.

_Fourth_. The idea entertained by each nation that
all other nations are destitute of rights—in other

356

words, patriotism founded upon egotism, prejudice,
and love of plunder.

_Fifth_. Religious persecution.

_Sixth_. The divine right of kings—an idea that
rests upon the inequality of human rights, and insists
that people should be governed without their con-
sent; that the right of one man to govern another
comes from God, and not from the consent of the
governed. This is caste—one of the most odious
forms of slavery.

_Seventh_. A belief in malicious supernatural be-
ings—devils, witches, and wizards.

_Eighth_. A belief in an infinite being who or-
dered, commanded, established and approved all
these evils.

_Ninth_. The idea that one man can be good for
another, or bad for another—that is to say, that one
can be rewarded for the goodness of another, or
justly punished for the sins of another.

_Tenth_. The dogma that a finite being can commit
an infinite sin, and thereby incur the eternal dis-
pleasure of an infinitely good being, and be justly
subjected to eternal torment.

My principal objection to the Bible is that it sus-
tains all of these ten evils—that it is the advocate of

357

human slavery, the friend of polygamy; that within
its pages I find the command to wage wars of ex-
termination; that I find also that the Jews were
taught to hate foreigners—to consider all human
beings as inferior to themselves; I also find persecu-
tion commanded as a religious duty; that kings were
seated upon their thrones by the direct act of God,
and that to rebel against a king was rebellion against
God. I object to the Bible also because I find within
its pages the infamous spirit of caste—I see the sons
of Levi set apart as the perpetual beggars and
governors of a people; because I find the air filled
with demons seeking to injure and betray the sons
of men; because this book is the fountain of modern
superstition, the bulwark of tyranny and the fortress
of caste. This book also subverts the idea of justice
by threatening infinite punishment for the sins of a
finite being.

At the same time, I admit—as I always have ad-
mitted—that there are good passages in the Bible—
good laws, good teachings, with now and then a true
line of history. But when it is asserted that every
word was written by inspiration—that a being of in-
finite wisdom and goodness is its author,—then
I raise the standard of revolt.

358

_Question_. What do you think of the declaration
of Mr. Talmage that the Bible will be read in heaven
throughout all the endless ages of eternity?

_Answer_. Of course I know but very little as to
what is or will be done in heaven. My knowledge
of that country is somewhat limited, and it may be
possible that the angels will spend most of their time
in turning over the sacred leaves of the Old Testa-
ment. I can not positively deny the statement of the
Reverend Mr. Talmage as I have but very little idea
as to how the angels manage to kill time.

The Reverend Mr. Spurgeon stated in a sermon
that some people wondered what they would do
through all eternity in heaven. He said that, as for
himself, for the first hundred thousand years he
would look at the wound in one of the Savior's
feet, and for the next hundred thousand years he
would look at the wound in his other foot, and
for the next hundred thousand years he would
look at the wound in one of his hands, and for
the next hundred thousand years he would look at
the wound in the other hand, and for the next
hundred thousand years he would look at the wound
in his side.

Surely, nothing could be more delightful than this

359

A man capable of being happy in such employment,
could of course take great delight in reading even
the genealogies of the Old Testament. It is very
easy to see what a glow of joy would naturally over-
spread the face of an angel while reading the history
of the Jewish wars, how the seraphim and cherubim
would clasp their rosy palms in ecstasy over the fate
of Korah and his company, and what laughter would
wake the echoes of the New Jerusalem as some one
told again the story of the children and the bears;
and what happy groups, with folded pinions, would
smilingly listen to the 109th Psalm.

[Illustration:  371]

An orthodox "state of mind"
---
# The Talmagian Catechism
_Dresden Edition, Volume 5, 1882_
_As Mr. Talmage delivered the series of sermons
referred to in these interviews, for the purpose
of furnishing arguments to the young, so that they
might not be misled by the sophistry of modern
infi-delity, I have thought it best to set forth,
for use in Sunday schools, the pith and marrow of
what he has been pleased to say, in the form of_

## A Shorter Catechism

_Question_. Who made you?

_Answer_. Jehovah, the original Presbyterian.

_Question_. What else did he make?

_Answer_. He made the world and all things.

_Question_. Did he make the world out of nothing?

_Answer_. No.

_Question_. What did he make it out of?

_Answer_. Out of his "omnipotence." Many infidels
have pretended that if God made the universe, and if
there was nothing until he did make it, he had nothing
to make it out of. Of course this is perfectly absurd
when we remember that he always had his "omnipo-
tence and that is, undoubtedly, the material used.

364

_Question_. Did he create his own "omnipotence"?

_Answer_. Certainly not, he was always omnipo-
tent.

_Question_. Then if he always had "omnipotence,"
he did not "create" the material of which the uni-
verse is made; he simply took a portion of his
"omnipotence" and changed it to "universe"?

_Answer_. Certainly, that is the way I under-
stand it.

_Question_. Is he still omnipotent, and has he as
much "omnipotence" now as he ever had?

_Answer_. Well, I suppose he has.

_Question_. How long did it take God to make the
universe?

_Answer_. Six "good-whiles."

_Question_. How long is a "good-while"?

_Answer_. That will depend upon the future dis-
coveries of geologists. "Good-whiles" are of such
a nature that they can be pulled out, or pushed up;
and it is utterly impossible for any infidel, or scien-
tific geologist, to make any period that a "good-while"
won't fit.

_Question_. What do you understand by "the
"morning and evening" of a "good-while"?

_Answer_. Of course the words "morning and

365

"evening" are used figuratively, and mean simply
the beginning and the ending, of each "good-while."

_Question_. On what day did God make vegetation?

_Answer_. On the third day.

_Question_. Was that before the sun was made?

_Answer_. Yes; a "good-while" before.

_Question_. How did vegetation grow without sun-
light?

_Answer_. My own opinion is, that it was either
"nourished by the glare of volcanoes in the moon
or "it may have gotten sufficient light from rivers
"of molten granite;" or, "sufficient light might have
"been emitted by the crystallization of rocks." It
has been suggested that light might have been fur-
nished by fire-flies and phosphorescent bugs and
worms, but this I regard as going too far.

_Question_. Do you think that light emitted by
rocks would be sufficient to produce trees?

_Answer_. Yes, with the assistance of the "Aurora
"Borealis, or even the Aurora Australis;" but with
both, most assuredly.

_Question_. If the light of which you speak was
sufficient, why was the sun made?

_Answer_. To keep time with.

_Question_. What did God make man of?

366

_Answer_. He made man of dust and "omnipo-
"tence."

_Question_. Did he make a woman at the same
time that he made a man?

_Answer_. No; he thought at one time to avoid
the necessity of making a woman, and he caused all
the animals to pass before Adam, to see what he
would call them, and to see whether a fit companion
could be found for him. Among them all, not one
suited Adam, and Jehovah immediately saw that he
would have to make an help-meet on purpose.

_Question_. What was woman made of?

_Answer_. She was made out of "man's side, out of
his right side," and some more "omnipotence." Infi-
dels say that she was made out of a rib, or a bone, but
that is because they do not understand Hebrew.

_Question_. What was the object of making woman
out of man's side?

_Answer_. So that a young man would think more
of a neighbor's girl than of his own uncle or grand-
father.

_Question_. What did God do with Adam and Eve
after he got them done?

_Answer_. He put them into a garden to see what
they would do.

367

_Question_. Do we know where the Garden of Eden
was, and have we ever found any place where a
"river parted and became into four heads"?

_Answer_. We are not certain where this garden
was, and the river that parted into four heads cannot
at present be found. Infidels have had a great deal
to say about these four rivers, but they will wish
they had even one, one of these days.

_Question_. What happened to Adam and Eve in
the garden?

_Answer_. They were tempted by a snake who was
an exceedingly good talker, and who probably came
in walking on the end of his tail. This supposition
is based upon the fact that, as a punishment, he was
condemned to crawl on his belly. Before that time,
of course, he walked upright.

_Question_. What happened then?

_Answer_. Our first parents gave way, ate of the
forbidden fruit, and in consequence, disease and
death entered the world. Had it not been for this,
there would have been no death and no disease.
Suicide would have been impossible, and a man
could have been blown into a thousand atoms by
dynamite, and the pieces would immediately have
come together again. Fire would have refused to

368

burn and water to drown; there could have been no
hunger, no thirst; all things would have been equally
healthy.

_Question_. Do you mean to say that there would
have been no death in the world, either of animals,
insects, or persons?

_Answer_. Of course.

_Question_. Do you also think that all briers and
thorns sprang from the same source, and that had
the apple not been eaten, no bush in the world
would have had a thorn, and brambles and thistles
would have been unknown?

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Would there have been no poisonous
plants, no poisonous reptiles?

_Answer_. No, sir; there would have been none;
there would have been no evil in the world if Adam
and Eve had not partaken of the forbidden fruit.

_Question_. Was the snake who tempted them to
eat, evil?

_Answer_. Certainly. '

_Question_. Was he in the world before the for-
bidden fruit was eaten?

_Answer_. Of course he was; he tempted them to
eat it

369

_Question_. How, then, do you account for the fact
that, before the forbidden fruit was eaten, an evil
serpent was in the world?

_Answer_. Perhaps apples had been eaten in other
worlds.

_Question_. Is it not wonderful that such awful con-
sequences flowed from so small an act?

_Answer_. It is not for you to reason about it; you
should simply remember that God is omnipotent.
There is but one way to answer these things, and
that is to admit their truth. Nothing so puts the
Infinite out of temper as to see a human being
impudent enough to rely upon his reason. The
moment we rely upon our reason, we abandon God,
and try to take care of ourselves. Whoever relies
entirely upon God, has no need of reason, and
reason has no need of him.

_Question_. Were our first parents under the im-
mediate protection of an infinite God?

_Answer_. They were.

_Question_. Why did he not protect them? Why
did he not warn them of this snake? Why did he
not put them on their guard? Why did he not
make them so sharp, intellectually, that they could
not be deceived? Why did he not destroy that

370

snake; or how did he come to make him; what did
he make him for?

_Answer_. You must remember that, although God
made Adam and Eve perfectly good, still he was very
anxious to test them. He also gave them the power
of choice, knowing at the same time exactly what they
would choose, and knowing that he had made them
so that they must choose in a certain way. A being
of infinite wisdom tries experiments. Knowing ex-
actly what will happen, he wishes to see if it will.

_Question_. What punishment did God inflict upon
Adam and Eve for the sin of having eaten the for-
bidden fruit?

_Answer_. He pronounced a curse upon the woman,
saying that in sorrow she should bring forth children,
and that her husband should rule over her; that she,
having tempted her husband, was made his slave;
and through her, all married women have been de-
prived of their natural liberty. On account of the
sin of Adam and Eve, God cursed the ground, saying
that it should bring forth thorns and thistles, and
that man should eat his bread in sorrow, and that he
should eat the herb of the field.

_Question_. Did he turn them out of the garden
because of their sin?

371

_Answer_. No. The reason God gave for turning
them out of the garden was: "Behold the man is
"become as one of us, to know good and evil; and
"now, lest he put forth his hand and take of the
"tree of life and eat and live forever, therefore, the
"Lord God sent him forth from the Garden of Eden
"to till the ground from whence he was taken."

_Question_. If the man had eaten of the tree of life,
would he have lived forever?

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Was he turned out to prevent his
eating?

_Answer_. He was.

_Question_. Then the Old Testament tells us how we
lost immortality, not that we are immortal, does it?

_Answer_. Yes; it tells us how we lost it.

_Question_. Was God afraid that Adam and Eve
might get back into the garden, and eat of the fruit
of the tree of life?

_Answer_. I suppose he was, as he placed "cher-
"ubim and a flaming sword which turned every
"way to guard the tree of life."

_Question_. Has any one ever seen any of these
cherubim?

_Answer_. Not that I know of.

372

_Question_. Where is the flaming sword now?

_Answer_. Some angel has it in heaven.

_Question_. Do you understand that God made
coats of skins, and clothed Adam and Eve when
he turned them out of the garden?

_Answer_. Yes, sir.

_Question_. Do you really believe that the infinite
God killed some animals, took their skins from them,
cut out and sewed up clothes for Adam and Eve?

_Answer_. The Bible says so; we know that he
had patterns for clothes, because he showed some
to Moses on Mount Sinai.

_Question_. About how long did God continue
to pay particular attention to his children in this
world?

_Answer_. For about fifteen hundred years; and
some of the people lived to be nearly a thousand
years of age.

_Question_. Did this God establish any schools or
institutions of learning? Did he establish any church?
Did he ordain any ministers, or did he have any re-
vivals?

_Answer_. No; he allowed the world to go on
pretty much in its own way. He did not even keep
his own boys at home. They came down and made

373

love to the daughters of men, and finally the world
got exceedingly bad.

_Question_. What did God do then?

_Answer_. He made up his mind that he would drown
them. You see they were all totally depraved,—in
every joint and sinew of their bodies, in every drop
of their blood, and in every thought of their brains.

_Question_. Did he drown them all?

_Answer_. No, he saved eight, to start with again.

_Question_. Were these eight persons totally de-
praved?

_Answer_. Yes.

_Question_. Why did he not kill them, and start
over again with a perfect pair? Would it not have
been better to have had his flood at first, before he
made anybody, and drowned the snake?

_Answer_. "God's way are not our ways;" and
besides, you must remember that "a thousand years
"are as one day" with God.

_Question_. How did God destroy the people?

_Answer_. By water; it rained forty days and forty
nights, and "the fountains of the great deep were
"broken up."

_Question_. How deep was the water?

_Answer_. About five miles.

374

_Question_. How much did it rain each day?

_Answer_. About eight hundred feet; though the
better opinion now is, that it was a local flood. In-
fidels have raised objections and pressed them to that
degree that most orthodox people admit that the
flood was rather local.

_Question_. If it was a local flood, why did they put
birds of the air into the ark? Certainly, birds could
have avoided a local flood?

_Answer_. If you take this away from us, what do
you propose to give us in its place? Some of the
best people of the world have believed this story.
Kind husbands, loving mothers, and earnest patriots
have believed it, and that is sufficient.

_Question_. At the time God made these people,
did he know that he would have to drown them all?

_Answer_. Of course he did.

_Question_. Did he know when he made them that
they would all be failures?

_Answer_. Of course.

_Question_. Why, then, did he make them?

_Answer_. He made them for his own glory, and
no man should disgrace his parents by denying it.

_Question_. Were the people after the flood just as
bad as they were before?

375

_Answer_. About the same.

_Question_. Did they try to circumvent God?

_Answer_. They did.

_Question_. How?

_Answer_. They got together for the purpose of build-
ing a tower, the top of which should reach to heaven,
so that they could laugh at any future floods, and go
to heaven at any time they desired.

_Question_. Did God hear about this?

_Answer_. He did.

_Question_. What did he say?

_Answer_. He said: "Go to; let us go down," and
see what the people are doing; I am satisfied they
will succeed.

_Question_. How were the people prevented from
succeeding?

_Answer_. God confounded their language, so that
the mason on top could not cry "mort'!" to the
hod-carrier below; he could not think of the word
to use, to save his life, and the building stopped.

_Question_. If it had not been for the confusion of
tongues at Babel, do you really think that all the
people in the world would have spoken just the same
language, and would have pronounced every word
precisely the same?

376

_Answer_. Of course.

_Question_. If it had not been, then, for the con-
fusion of languages, spelling books, grammars and
dictionaries would have been useless?

_Answer_. I suppose so.

_Question_. Do any two people in the whole world
speak the same language, now?

_Answer_. Of course they don't, and this is one of
the great evidences that God introduced confusion
into the languages. Every error in grammar, every
mistake in spelling, every blunder in pronunciation,
proves the truth of the Babel story.

_Question_. This being so, this miracle is the best
attested of all?

_Answer_. I suppose it is.

_Question_. Do you not think that a confusion of
tongues would bring men together instead of separa-
ting them? Would not a man unable to converse
with his fellow feel weak instead of strong; and
would not people whose language had been con-
founded cling together for mutual support?

_Answer_. According to nature, yes; according to
theology, no; and these questions must be answered
according to theology. And right here, it may be
well enough to state, that in theology the unnatural

377

is the probable, and the impossible is what has always
happened. If theology were simply natural, anybody
could be a theologian.

_Question_. Did God ever make any other special
efforts to convert the people, or to reform the world?

_Answer_. Yes, he destroyed the cities of Sodom
and Gomorrah with a storm of fire and brimstone.

_Question_. Do you suppose it was really brim-
stone?

_Answer_. Undoubtedly.

_Question_. Do you think this brimstone came from
the clouds?

_Answer_. Let me tell you that you have no right
to examine the Bible in the light of what people are
pleased to call "science." The natural has nothing
to do with the supernatural. Naturally there would
be no brimstone in the clouds, but supernaturally
there might be. God could make brimstone out of
his "omnipotence." We do not know really what
brimstone is, and nobody knows exactly how brim-
stone is made. As a matter of fact, all the brimstone
in the world might have fallen at that time.

_Question_. Do you think that Lot's wife was
changed into salt?

_Answer_. Of course she was. A miracle was per-

378

formed. A few centuries ago, the statue of salt made
by changing Lot's wife into that article, was standing.
Christian travelers have seen it.

_Question_. Why do you think she was changed
into salt?

_Answer_. For the purpose of keeping the event
fresh in the minds of men.

_Question_. God having failed to keep people in-
nocent in a garden; having failed to govern them
outside of a garden; having failed to reform them by
water; having failed to produce any good result by a
confusion of tongues; having failed to reform them
with fire and brimstone, what did he then do?

_Answer_. He concluded that he had no time to
waste on them all, but that he would have to select
one tribe, and turn his entire attention to just a few
folks.

_Question_. Whom did he select?

_Answer_. A man by the name of Abram.

_Question_. What kind of man was Abram?

_Answer_. If you wish to know, read the twelfth
chapter of Genesis; and if you still have any doubts
as to his character, read the twentieth chapter of the
same book, and you will see that he was a man who
made merchandise of his wife's body. He had had

379

such good fortune in Egypt, that he tried the experi-
ment again on Abimelech.

_Question_. Did Abraham show any gratitude?

_Answer_. Yes; he offered to sacrifice his son, to
show his confidence in Jehovah.

_Question_. What became of Abraham and his
people?

_Answer_. God took such care of them, that in
about two hundred and fifteen years they were all
slaves in the land of Egypt.

_Question_. How long did they remain in slavery?

_Answer_. Two hundred and fifteen years.

_Question_. Were they the same people that God
had promised to take care of?

_Answer_. They were.

_Question_. Was God at that time, in favor of
slavery?

_Answer_. Not at that time. He was angry at the
Egyptians for enslaving the Jews, but he afterwards
authorized the Jews to enslave other people.

_Question_. What means did he take to liberate
the Jews?

_Answer_. He sent his agents to Pharaoh, and de-
manded their freedom; and upon Pharaoh s refusing,
he afflicted the people, who had nothing to do with

380

it, with various plagues,—killed children, and tor-
mented and tortured beasts.

_Question_. Was such conduct Godlike?

_Answer_. Certainly. If you have anything against
your neighbor, it is perfectly proper to torture his
horse, or torment his dog. Nothing can be nobler
than this. You see it is much better to injure his
animals than to injure him. To punish animals for
the sins of their owners must be just, or God would
not have done it. Pharaoh insisted on keeping the
people in slavery, and therefore God covered the
bodies of oxen and cows with boils. He also bruised
them to death with hailstones. From this we infer,
that "the loving kindness of God is over all his works."

_Question_. Do you consider such treatment of ani-
mals consistent with divine mercy?

_Answer_. Certainly. You know that under the
Mosaic dispensation, when a man did a wrong, he
could settle with God by killing an ox, or a sheep,
or some doves. If the man failed to kill them, of
course God would kill them. It was upon this prin-
ciple that he destroyed the animals of the Egyptians.
They had sinned, and he merely took his pay.

_Question_. How was it possible, under the old dis-
pensation, to please a being of infinite kindness?

381

_Answer_. All you had to do was to take an innocent
animal, bring it to the altar, cut its throat, and sprinkle
the altar with its blood. Certain parts of it were to be
given to the butcher as his share, and the rest was to
be burnt on the altar. When God saw an animal thus
butchered, and smelt the warm blood mingled with
the odor of burning flesh, he was pacified, and the
smile of forgiveness shed its light upon his face.
Of course, infidels laugh at these things; but what
can you expect of men who have not been "born
"again"? "The carnal mind is enmity with God."
_Question_. What else did God do in order to in-
duce Pharaoh to liberate the Jews?

_Answer_. He had his agents throw down a cane
in the presence of Pharaoh and thereupon Jehovah
changed this cane into a serpent.

_Question_. Did this convince Pharaoh?

_Answer_. No; he sent for his own magicians.
_Question_. What did they do?

_Answer_. They threw down some canes and they
also were changed into serpents.

_Question_. Did Jehovah change the canes of the
Egyptian magicians into snakes?

_Answer_. I suppose he did, as he is the only one
capable of performing such a miracle.

382

_Question_. If the rod of Aaron was changed into
a serpent in order to convince Pharaoh that God had
sent Aaron and Moses, why did God change the
sticks of the Egyptian magicians into serpents—why
did he discredit his own agents, and render worth-
less their only credentials?

_Answer_. Well, we cannot explain the conduct of
Jehovah; we are perfectly satisfied that it was for
the best. Even in this age of the world God allows
infidels to overwhelm his chosen people with argu-
ments; he allows them to discover facts that his
ministers can not answer, and yet we are satisfied
that in the end God will give the victory to us. All
these things are tests of faith. It is upon this prin-
ciple that God allows geology to laugh at Genesis,
that he permits astronomy apparently to contradict
his holy word.

_Question_. What did God do with these people
after Pharaoh allowed them to go?

_Answer_. Finding that they were not fit to settle
a new country, owing to the fact that when hungry
they longed for food, and sometimes when their lips
were cracked with thirst insisted on having water,
God in his infinite mercy had them marched round
and round, back and forth, through a barren wilder-

383

ness, until all, with the exception of two persons,
died.

_Question_. Why did he do this?

_Answer_. Because he had promised these people
that he would take them "to a land flowing with
"milk and honey."

_Question_. Was God always patient and kind and
merciful toward his children while they were in the
wilderness?

_Answer_. Yes, he always was merciful and kind
and patient. Infidels have taken the ground that he
visited them with plagues and disease and famine;
that he had them bitten by serpents, and now and
then allowed the ground to swallow a few thousands
of them, and in other ways saw to it that they were
kept as comfortable and happy as was consistent with
good government; but all these things were for their
good; and the fact is, infidels have no real sense of
justice.

_Question_. How did God happen to treat the Is-
raelites in this way, when he had promised Abraham
that he would take care of his progeny, and when he
had promised the same to the poor wretches while
they were slaves in Egypt?

_Answer_. Because God is unchangeable in his na-

384

ture, and wished to convince them that every being
should be perfectly faithful to his promise.

_Question_. Was God driven to madness by the
conduct of his chosen people?

_Answer_. Almost.

_Question_. Did he know exactly what they would
do when he chose them?

_Answer_. Exactly.

_Question_. Were the Jews guilty of idolatry?

_Answer_. They were. They worshiped other gods
—gods made of wood and stone.

_Question_. Is it not wonderful that they were not
convinced of the power of God, by the many mira-
cles wrought in Egypt and in the wilderness?

_Answer_. Yes, it is very wonderful; but the Jews,
who must have seen bread rained from heaven; who
saw water gush from the rocks and follow them up hill
and down; who noticed that their clothes did not
wear out, and did not even get shiny at the knees,
while the elbows defied the ravages of time, and
their shoes remained perfect for forty years; it is
wonderful that when they saw the ground open
and swallow their comrades; when they saw God
talking face to face with Moses as a man talks with
his friend; after they saw the cloud by day and the

385

pillar of fire by night,—it is absolutely astonishing
that they had more faith in a golden calf that they
made themselves, than in Jehovah.

_Question_. How is it that the Jews had no confi-
dence in these miracles?

_Answer_. Because they were there and saw them.

_Question_. Do you think that it is necessary for
us to believe all the miracles of the Old Testament
in order to be saved?

_Answer_. The Old Testament is the foundation of
the New. If the Old Testament is not inspired, then
the New is of no value. If the Old Testament is
inspired, all the miracles are true, and we cannot
believe that God would allow any errors, or false
statements, to creep into an inspired volume, and to
be perpetuated through all these years.

_Question_. Should we believe the miracles, whether
they are reasonable or not?

_Answer_. Certainly; if they were reasonable, they
would not be miracles. It is their unreasonableness
that appeals to our credulity and our faith. It is im-
possible to have theological faith in anything that
can be demonstrated. It is the office of faith to
believe, not only without evidence, but in spite of
evidence. It is impossible for the carnal mind to

386

believe that Samsons muscle depended upon the
length of his hair. "God has made the wisdom of
"this world foolishness." Neither can the uncon-
verted believe that Elijah stopped at a hotel kept by
ravens. Neither can they believe that a barrel would
in and of itself produce meal, or that an earthen pot
could create oil. But to a Christian, in order that a
widow might feed a preacher, the truth of these
stories is perfectly apparent.

_Question_. How should we regard the wonderful
stories of the Old Testament?

_Answer_. They should be looked upon as "types"
and "symbols." They all have a spiritual signifi-
cance. The reason I believe the story of Jonah is,
that Jonah is a type of Christ.

_Question_. Do you believe the story of Jonah to
be a true account of a literal fact?

_Answer_. Certainly. You must remember that
Jonah was not swallowed by a whale. God "pre-
"pared a great fish" for that occasion. Neither is it by
any means certain that Jonah was in the belly of
this whale. "He probably stayed in his mouth."
Even if he was in his stomach, it was very easy
for him to defy the ordinary action of gastric juice
by rapidly walking up and down..

387

_Question_. Do you think that Jonah was really in
the whale's stomach?

_Answer_. My own opinion is that he stayed in his
mouth. The only objection to this theory is, that it
is more reasonable than the other and requires less
faith. Nothing could be easier than for God to make
a fish large enough to furnish ample room for one
passenger in his mouth. I throw out this suggestion
simply that you may be able to answer the objections
of infidels who are always laughing at this story.

_Question_. Do you really believe that Elijah went
to heaven in a chariot of fire, drawn by horses of
fire?

_Answer_. Of course he did.

_Question_. What was this miracle performed for?

_Answer_. To convince the people of the power of
God.

_Question_. Who saw the miracle?

_Answer_. Nobody but Elisha.

_Question_. Was he convinced before that time?

_Answer_. Oh yes; he was one of God's prophets.

_Question_. Suppose that in these days two men
should leave a town together, and after a while one
of them should come back having on the clothes of
the other, and should account for the fact that he had

388

his friend's clothes by saying that while they were
going along the road together a chariot of fire came
down from heaven drawn by fiery steeds, and there-
upon his friend got into the carriage, threw him his
clothes, and departed,—would you believe it?

_Answer_. Of course things like that don't happen
in these days; God does not have to rely on wonders
now.

_Question_. Do you mean that he performs no
miracles at the present day?

_Answer_. We cannot say that he does not perform
miracles now, but we are not in position to call atten-
tion to any particular one. Of course he supervises
the affairs of nations and men and does whatever in
his judgment is necessary.

_Question_. Do you think that Samson's strength
depended on the length of his hair?

_Answer_. The Bible so states, and the Bible is true.
A physiologist might say that a man could not use
the muscle in his hair for lifting purposes, but these
same physiologists could not tell you how you move
a finger, nor how you lift a feather; still, actuated by
the pride of intellect, they insist that the length of a
man's hair could not determine his strength. God
says it did; the physiologist says that it did not; we

389

can not hesitate whom to believe. For the purpose
of avoiding eternal agony I am willing to believe
anything; I am willing to say that strength depends
upon the length of hair, or faith upon the length of
ears. I am perfectly willing to believe that a man
caught three hundred foxes, and put fire brands be-
tween their tails; that he slew thousands with a bone,
and that he made a bee hive out of a lion. I will
believe, if necessary, that when this man's hair was
short he hardly had strength enough to stand, and
that when it was long, he could carry away the gates
of a city, or overthrow a temple filled with people.
If the infidel is right, I will lose nothing by believing,
but if he is wrong, I shall gain an eternity of joy.
If God did not intend that we should believe these
stories, he never would have told them, and why
should a man put his soul in peril by trying to dis-
prove one of the statements of the Lord?

_Question_. Suppose it should turn out that some
of these miracles depend upon mistranslations of the
original Hebrew, should we still believe them?

_Answer_. The safe side is the best side. It is
far better to err on the side of belief, than on the
side of infidelity. God does not threaten anybody
with eternal punishment for believing too much.

390

Danger lies on the side of investigation, on the
side of thought. The perfectly idiotic are absolutely
safe. As they diverge from that point,—as they rise
in the intellectual scale, as the brain develops, as the
faculties enlarge, the danger increases. I know that
some biblical students now take the ground that
Samson caught no foxes,—that he only took sheaves
of wheat that had been already cut and bound, set
them on fire, and threw them into the grain still
standing. If this is what he did, of course there is
nothing miraculous about it, and the value of the
story is lost. So, others contend that Elijah was not
fed by the ravens, but by the Arabs. They tell us
that the Hebrew word standing for "Arab" also
stands for "bird," and that the word really means
"migratory—going from place to place—homeless."
But I prefer the old version. It certainly will do no
harm to believe that ravens brought bread and flesh
to a prophet of God. Where they got their bread
and flesh is none of my business; how they knew
where the prophet was, and recognized him; or how
God talks to ravens, or how he gave them directions,
I have no right to inquire. I leave these questions
to the scientists, the blasphemers, and thinkers.
There are many people in the church anxious to

391

get the miracles out of the Bible, and thousands,
I have no doubt, would be greatly gratified to learn
that there is, in fact, nothing miraculous in Scripture;
but when you take away the miraculous, you take
away the supernatural; when you take away the
supernatural, you destroy the ministry; and when
you take away the ministry, hundreds of thousands
of men will be left without employment.

_Question_. Is it not wonderful that the Egyptians
were not converted by the miracles wrought in their
country?

_Answer_. Yes, they all would have been, if God
had not purposely hardened their hearts to prevent
it. Jehovah always took great delight in furnishing
the evidence, and then hardening the man's heart so
that he would not believe it. After all the miracles
that had been performed in Egypt,—the most won-
derful that were ever done in any country, the
Egyptians were as unbelieving as at first; they pur-
sued the Israelites, knowing that they were protected
by an infinite God, and failing to overwhelm them,
came back and worshiped their own false gods just as
firmly as before. All of which shows the unreason-
ableness of a Pagan, and the natural depravity of
human nature.

392

_Question_. How did it happen that the Canaanites
were never convinced that the Jews were assisted by
Jehovah?

_Answer_. They must have been an exceedingly
brave people to contend so many years with the
chosen people of God. Notwithstanding all their
cities were burned time and time again; notwith-
standing all the men, women and children were put
to the edge of the sword; notwithstanding the taking
of all their cattle and sheep, they went right on
fighting just as valiantly and desperately as ever.
Each one lost his life many times, and was just as
ready for the next conflict. My own opinion is, that
God kept them alive by raising them from the dead
after each battle, for the purpose of punishing the
Jews. God used his enemies as instruments for the
civilization of the Jewish people. He did not wish
to convert them, because they would give him much
more trouble as Jews than they did as Canaanites.
He had all the Jews he could conveniently take care
of. He found it much easier to kill a hundred
Canaanites than to civilize one Jew.

_Question_. How do you account for the fact that
the heathen were not surprised at the stopping of the
sun and moon?

393

_Answer_. They were so ignorant that they had
not the slightest conception of the real cause of
the phenomenon. Had they known the size of
the earth, and the relation it sustained to the other
heavenly bodies; had they known the magnitude of
the sun, and the motion of the moon, they would,
in all probability, have been as greatly astonished as
the Jews were; but being densely ignorant of as-
tronomy, it must have produced upon them not the
slightest impression. But we must remember that
the sun and moon were not stopped for the purpose
of converting these people, but to give Joshua more
time to kill them. As soon as we see clearly the
purpose of Jehovah, we instantly perceive how ad-
mirable were the means adopted.

_Question_. Do you not consider the treatment
of the Canaanites to have been cruel and ferocious?

_Answer_. To a totally depraved man, it does look
cruel; to a being without any good in him,—to one
who has inherited the rascality of many generations,
the murder of innocent women and little children
does seem horrible; to one who is "contaminated in
"all his parts," by original sin,—who was "conceived
"in sin, and brought forth in iniquity," the assassina-
tion of men, and the violation of captive maidens,

394

do not seem consistent with infinite goodness. But
when one has been "born again," when "the love
"of God has been shed abroad in his heart," when
he loves all mankind, when he "overcomes evil with
"good," when he "prays for those who despite-
"fully use him and persecute him,"—to such a man,
the extermination of the Canaanites, the violation
of women, the slaughter of babes, and the destruc-
tion of countless thousands, is the highest evidence
of the goodness, the mercy, and the long-suffering
of God. When a man has been "born again," all
the passages of the Old Testament that appear so
horrible and so unjust to one in his natural state,
become the dearest, the most consoling, and the
most beautiful of truths. The real Christian reads
the accounts of these ancient battles with the greatest
possible satisfaction. To one who really loves his
enemies, the groans of men, the shrieks of women,
and the cries of babes, make music sweeter than the
zephyr's breath.

_Question_. In your judgment, why did God destroy
the Canaanites?

_Answer_. To prevent their contaminating his
chosen people. He knew that if the Jews were
allowed to live with such neighbors, they would

395

finally become as bad as the Canaanites themselves.
He wished to civilize his chosen people, and it was
therefore necessary for him to destroy the heathen.

_Question_. Did God succeed in civilizing the Jews
after he had "removed" the Canaanites?

_Answer_. Well, not entirely. He had to allow the
heathen he had not destroyed to overrun the whole
land and make captives of the Jews. This was done
for the good of his chosen people.

_Question_. Did he then succeed in civilizing them?

_Answer_. Not quite.

_Question_. Did he ever quite succeed in civilizing
them?

_Answer_. Well, we must admit that the experi-
ment never was a conspicuous success. The Jews
were chosen by the Almighty 430 years before he
appeared to Moses on Mount Sinai. He was their
direct Governor. He attended personally to their
religion and politics, and gave up a great part of his
valuable time for about two thousand years, to the
management of their affairs; and yet, such was the
condition of the Jewish people, after they had had all
these advantages, that when there arose among them
a perfectly kind, just, generous and honest man, these
people, with whom God had been laboring for so

396

many centuries, deliberately put to death that good
and loving man.

_Question_. Do you think that God really endeav-
ored to civilize the Jews?

_Answer_. This is an exceedingly hard question.
If he had really tried to do it, of course he could
have done it. We must not think of limiting the
power of the infinite. But you must remember that
if he had succeeded in civilizing the Jews, if he had
educated them up to the plane of intellectual liberty,
and made them just and kind and merciful, like him-
self, they would not have crucified Christ, and you
can see at once the awful condition in which we
would all be to-day. No atonement could have
been made; and if no atonement had been made,
then, according to the Christian system, the whole
world would have been lost. We must admit that
there was no time in the history of the Jews from
Sinai to Jerusalem, that they would not have put a
man like Christ to death.

_Question_. So you think that, after all, it was not
God's intention that the Jews should become civilized?

_Answer_. We do not know. We can only say
that "God's ways are not our ways." It may be
that God took them in his special charge, for the

397

purpose of keeping them bad enough to make the
necessary sacrifice. That may have been the divine
plan. In any event, it is safer to believe the explana-
tion that is the most unreasonable.

_Question_. Do you think that Christ knew the
Jews would crucify him?

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Do you think that when he chose
Judas he knew that he would betray him?

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Did he know when Judas went to the
chief priest and made the bargain for the delivery
of Christ?

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Why did he allow himself to be be-
trayed, if he knew the plot?

_Answer_. Infidelity is a very good doctrine to live
by, but you should read the last words of Paine and
Voltaire.

_Question_. If Christ knew that Judas would betray
him, why did he choose him?

_Answer_. Nothing can exceed the atrocities of the
French Revolution—when they carried a woman
through the streets and worshiped her as the goddess
of Reason.

398

_Question_. Would not the mission of Christ have
been a failure had no one betrayed him?

_Answer_. Thomas Paine was a drunkard, and re-
canted on his death-bed, and died a blaspheming
infidel besides.

_Question_. Is it not clear that an atonement was
necessary; and is it not equally clear that the atone-
ment could not have been made unless somebody
had betrayed Christ; and unless the Jews had been
wicked and orthodox enough to crucify him?

_Answer_. Of course the atonement had to be
made. It was a part of the "divine plan" that Christ
should be betrayed, and that the Jews should be
wicked enough to kill him. Otherwise, the world
would have been lost.

_Question_. Suppose Judas had understood the
divine plan, what ought he to have done? Should
he have betrayed Christ, or let somebody else do it;
or should he have allowed the world to perish, in-
cluding his own soul?

_Answer_. If you take the Bible away from the
world, "how would it be possible to have witnesses
"sworn in courts;" how would it be possible to ad-
minister justice?

_Question_. If Christ had not been betrayed and

399

crucified, is it true that his own mother would be in
perdition to-day?

_Answer_. Most assuredly. There was but one
way by which she could be saved, and that was by
the death of her son—through the blood of the
atonement. She was totally depraved through the
sin of Adam, and deserved eternal death. Even her
love for the infant Christ was, in the sight of God,—
that is to say, of her babe,—wickedness. It can not
be repeated too often that there is only one way to
be saved, and that is, to believe in the Lord Jesus
Christ.

_Question_. Could Christ have prevented the Jews
from crucifying him?

_Answer_. He could.

_Question_. If he could have saved his life and did
not, was he not guilty of suicide?

_Answer_. No one can understand these questions
who has not read the prophecies of Daniel, and has
not a clear conception of what is meant by "the full-
"ness of time."

_Question_. What became of all the Canaanites, the
Egyptians, the Hindus, the Greeks and Romans and
Chinese? What became of the billions who died
before the promise was made to Abraham; of the

400

billions and billions who never heard of the Bible,
who never heard the name, even, of Jesus Christ—
never knew of "the scheme of salvation"? What
became of the millions and billions who lived in this
hemisphere, and of whose existence Jehovah himself
seemed perfectly ignorant?

_Answer_. They were undoubtedly lost. God
having made them, had a right to do with them as
he pleased. They are probably all in hell to-day, and
the fact that they are damned, only adds to the joy
of the redeemed. It is by contrast that we are able
to perceive the infinite kindness with which God has
treated us.

_Question_. Is it not possible that something can
be done for a human soul in another world as well as
in this?

_Answer_. No; this is the only world in which
God even attempts to reform anybody. In the
other world, nothing is done for the purpose of
making anybody better. Here in this world, where
man lives but a few days, is the only opportunity
for moral improvement. A minister can do a thou-
sand times more for a soul than its creator; and this
country is much better adapted to moral growth than
heaven itself. A person who lived on this earth a

401

few years, and died without having been converted,
has no hope in another world. The moment he arrives
at the judgment seat, nothing remains but to damn
him. Neither God, nor the Holy Ghost, nor Jesus
Christ, can have the least possible influence with
him there.

_Question_. When God created each human being,
did he know exactly what would be his eternal fate?

_Answer_. Most assuredly he did.

_Question_. Did he know that hundreds and millions
and billions would suffer eternal pain?

_Answer_. Certainly. But he gave them freedom
of choice between good and evil.

_Question_. Did he know exactly how they would
use that freedom?

_Answer_. Yes.

_Question_. Did he know that billions would use
it wrong?

_Answer_. Yes.

_Question_. Was it optional with him whether he
should make such people or not?

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Had these people any option as to
whether they would be made or not?

_Answer_, No.

402

_Question_. Would it not have been far better to
leave them unconscious dust?

_Answer_. These questions show how foolish it is
to judge God according to a human standard. What
to us seems just and merciful, God may regard in an
exactly opposite light; and we may hereafter be
developed to such a degree that we will regard the
agonies of the damned as the highest possible evi-
dence of the goodness and mercy of God.

_Question_. How do you account for the fact that
God did not make himself known except to Abra-
ham and his descendants? Why did he fail to
reveal himself to the other nations—nations that,
compared with the Jews, were learned, cultivated
and powerful? Would you regard a revelation now
made to the Esquimaux as intended for us; and
would it be a revelation of which we would be
obliged to take notice?

_Answer_. Of course, God could have revealed him-
self, not only to all the great nations, but to each
individual. He could have had the Ten Command-
ments engraved on every heart and brain; or he
could have raised up prophets in every land; but
he chose, rather, to allow countless millions of his
children to wander in the darkness and blackness of

403

Nature; chose, rather, that they should redden their
hands in each other's blood; chose, rather, that they
should live without light, and die without hope;
chose, rather, that they should suffer, not only in this
world, but forever in the next. Of course we have
no right to find fault with the choice of God.

_Question_. Now you can tell a sinner to "believe
"on the Lord Jesus Christ;" what could a sinner have
been told in Egypt, three thousand years ago; and
in what language would you have addressed a Hindu
in the days of Buddha—the "divine scheme" at that
time being a secret in the divine breast?

_Answer_. It is not for us to think upon these
questions. The moment we examine the Christian
system, we begin to doubt. In a little while, we shall
be infidels, and shall lose the respect of those who
refuse to think. It is better to go with the majority.
These doctrines are too sacred to be touched. You
should be satisfied with the religion of your father
and your mother. "You want some book on the
"centre-table," in the parlor; it is extremely handy
to have a Family Record; and what book, other than
the Bible, could a mother give a son as he leaves the
old homestead?

_Question_. Is it not wonderful that all the writers

404

of the four gospels do not give an account of the
ascension of Jesus Christ?

_Answer_. This question has been answered long
ago, time and time again.

_Question_. Perhaps it has, but would it not be
well enough to answer it once more? Some may
not have seen the answer?

_Answer_. Show me the hospitals that infidels
have built; show me the asylums that infidels
have founded.

_Question_. I know you have given the usual an-
swer; but after all, is it not singular that a miracle
so wonderful as the bodily ascension of a man, should
not have been mentioned by all the writers of that
man's life? Is it not wonderful that some of them
said that he did ascend, and others that he agreed to
stay with his disciples always?

_Answer_. People unacquainted with the Hebrew,
can have no conception of these things. A story
in plain English, does not sound as it does in Hebrew.
Miracles seem altogether more credible, when told in
a dead language.

_Question_. What, in your judgment, became of
the dead who were raised by Christ? Is it not
singular that they were never mentioned afterward?

405

Would not a man who had been raised from the
dead naturally be an object of considerable interest,
especially to his friends and acquaintances? And
is it not also wonderful that Christ, after having
wrought so many miracles, cured so many lame and
halt and blind, fed so many thousands miraculously,
and after having entered Jerusalem in triumph as a
conqueror and king, had to be pointed out by one
of his own disciples who was bribed for the purpose?

_Answer_. Of course, all these things are exceed-
ingly wonderful, and if found in any other book,
would be absolutely incredible; but we have no
right to apply the same kind of reasoning to the
Bible that we apply to the Koran or to the sacred
books of the Hindus. For the ordinary affairs of
this world, God has given us reason; but in the
examination of religious questions, we should de-
pend upon credulity and faith.

_Question_. If Christ came to offer himself a sacri-
fice, for the purpose of making atonement for the
sins of such as might believe on him, why did he
not make this fact known to all of his disciples?

_Answer_. He did. This was, and is, the gospel.

_Question_. How is it that Matthew says nothing
about "salvation by faith," but simply says that God

406

will be merciful to the merciful, that he will forgive
the forgiving, and says not one word about the
necessity of believing anything?

_Answer_. But you will remember that Mark says,
in the last chapter of his gospel, that "whoso be-
"lieveth not shall be damned."

_Question_. Do you admit that Matthew says
nothing on the subject?

_Answer_. Yes, I suppose I must.

_Question_. Is not that passage in Mark generally
admitted to be an interpolation?

_Answer_. Some biblical scholars say that it is.

_Question_. Is that portion of the last chapter of
Mark found in the Syriac version of the Bible?

_Answer_. It is not.

_Question_. If it was necessary to believe on Jesus
Christ, in order to be saved, how is it that Matthew
failed to say so?

_Answer_. "There are more copies of the Bible
"printed to-day, than of any other book in the world,
"and it is printed in more languages than any other
"book."

_Question_. Do you consider it necessary to be
"regenerated"—to be "born again"—in order to be
saved?

407

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Did Matthew say anything on the sub-
ject of "regeneration"?

_Answer_. No.

_Question_. Did Mark?

_Answer_. No.

_Question_. Did Luke?

_Answer_. No.

_Question_. Is Saint John the only one who speaks
of the necessity of being "born again"?

_Answer_. He is.

_Question_. Do you think that Matthew, Mark and
Luke knew anything about the necessity of "regen-
"eration"?

_Answer_. Of course they did.

_Question_. Why did they fail to speak of it?

_Answer_. There is no civilization without the Bible.
The moment you throw away the sacred Scriptures,
you are all at sea—you are without an anchor and
without a compass.

_Question_. You will remember that, according to
Mark, Christ said to his disciples: "Go ye into all
"the world, and preach the gospel to every creature."
Did he refer to the gospel set forth by Mark?

_Answer_. Of course he did.

408

_Question_. Well, in the gospel set forth by Mark,
there is not a word about "regeneration," and no
word about the necessity of believing anything—ex-
cept in an interpolated passage. Would it not seem
from this, that "regeneration" and a "belief in the
"Lord Jesus Christ," are no part of the gospel?

_Answer_. Nothing can exceed in horror the last
moments of the infidel; nothing can be more ter-
rible than the death of the doubter. When the
glories of this world fade from the vision; when am-
bition becomes an empty name; when wealth turns
to dust in the palsied hand of death, of what use is
philosophy then? Who cares then for the pride of
intellect? In that dread moment, man needs some-
thing to rely on, whether it is true or not.

_Question_. Would it not have been more con-
vincing if Christ, after his resurrection, had shown
himself to his enemies as well as to his friends?
Would it not have greatly strengthened the evidence
in the case, if he had visited Pilate; had presented
himself before Caiaphas, the high priest; if he had
again entered the temple, and again walked the
streets of Jerusalem?

_Answer_. If the evidence had been complete and
overwhelming, there would have been no praise-

409

worthiness in belief; even publicans and sinners
would have believed, if the evidence had been suffi-
cient. The amount of evidence required is the test
of the true Christian spirit.

_Question_. Would it not also have been better
had the ascension taken place in the presence of
unbelieving thousands; it seems such a pity to have
wasted such a demonstration upon those already
convinced?

_Answer_. These questions are the natural fruit of
the carnal mind, and can be accounted for only by
the doctrine of total depravity. Nothing has given
the church more trouble than just such questions.
Unholy curiosity, a disposition to pry into the divine
mysteries, a desire to know, to investigate, to explain
—in short, to understand, are all evidences of a re-
probate mind.

_Question_. How can we account for the fact that
Matthew alone speaks of the wise men of the East
coming with gifts to the infant Christ; that he alone
speaks of the little babes being killed by Herod? Is
it possible that the other writers never heard of these
things?

_Answer_. Nobody can get any good out of the
Bible by reading it in a critical spirit. The contra-

410

dictions and discrepancies are only apparent, and melt
away before the light of faith. That which in other
books would be absolute and palpable contradiction,
is, in the Bible, when spiritually discerned, a perfect
and beautiful harmony. My own opinion is, that
seeming contradictions are in the Bible for the pur-
pose of testing and strengthening the faith of Chris-
tians, and for the further purpose of ensnaring infidels,
"that they might believe a lie and be damned."
_Question_. Is it possible that a good God would
take pains to deceive his children?

_Answer_. The Bible is filled with instances of that
kind, and all orthodox ministers now know that
fossil animals—that is, representations of animals in
stone, were placed in the rocks on purpose to mis-
lead men like Darwin and Humboldt, Huxley and
Tyndall. It is also now known that God, for the
purpose of misleading the so-called men of science,
had hairy elephants preserved in ice, made stomachs
for them, and allowed twigs of trees to be found in
these stomachs, when, as a matter of fact, no such
elephants ever lived or ever died. These men who
are endeavoring to overturn the Scriptures with the
lever of science will find that they have been de-
ceived. Through all eternity they will regret their

411

philosophy. They will wish, in the next world, that
they had thrown away geology and physiology and
all other "ologies" except theology. The time is
coming when Jehovah will "mock at their fears and
"laugh at their calamity."

_Question_. If Joseph was not the father of Christ,
why was his genealogy given to show that Christ
was of the blood of David; why would not the
genealogy of any other Jew have done as well?

_Answer_. That objection was raised and answered
hundreds of years ago.

_Question_. If they wanted to show that Christ was of
the blood of David, why did they not give the gene-
alogy of his mother if Joseph was not his father?

_Answer_. That objection was answered hundreds
of years ago.

_Question_. How was it answered?

_Answer_. When Voltaire was dying, he sent for a
priest.

_Question_. How does it happen that the two gene-
alogies given do not agree?

_Answer_. Perhaps they were written by different
persons.

_Question_. Were both these persons inspired by
the same God?

412

_Answer_. Of course.

_Question_. Why were the miracles recorded in the
New Testament performed?

_Answer_. The miracles were the evidence relied
on to prove the supernatural origin and the divine
mission of Jesus Christ.

_Question_. Aside from the miracles, is there any
evidence to show the supernatural origin or character
of Jesus Christ?

_Answer_. Some have considered that his moral
precepts are sufficient, of themselves, to show that
he was divine.

_Question_. Had all of his moral precepts been
taught before he lived?

_Answer_. The same things had been said, but they
did not have the same meaning.

_Question_. Does the fact that Buddha taught the
same tend to show that he was of divine origin?

_Answer_. Certainly not. The rules of evidence
applicable to the Bible are not applicable to other
books. We examine other books in the light of
reason; the Bible is the only exception. So, we
should not judge of Christ as we do of any other
man.

_Question_. Do you think that Christ wrought

413

many of his miracles because he was good, charitable,
and filled with pity?

_Answer_. Certainly

_Question_. Has he as much power now as he had
when on earth?

_Answer_. Most assuredly.

_Question_. Is he as charitable and pitiful now, as
he was then?

_Answer_. Yes.

_Question_. Why does he not now cure the lame
and the halt and the blind?

_Answer_. It is well known that, when Julian the
Apostate was dying, catching some of his own blood
in his hand and throwing it into the air he exclaimed:
"Galileean, thou hast conquered!"

_Question_. Do you consider it our duty to love our
neighbor?

_Answer_. Certainly.

_Question_. Is virtue the same in all worlds?

_Answer_. Most assuredly.

_Question_. Are we under obligation to render good
for evil, and to "pray for those who despitefully use us"?

_Answer_. Yes.

_Question_. Will Christians in heaven love their
neighbors?

414

_Answer_. Y es; if their neighbors are not in hell.

_Question_. Do good Christians pity sinners in this
world?

_Answer_. Yes.

_Question_. Why?

_Answer_. Because they regard them as being in
great danger of the eternal wrath of God.

_Question_. After these sinners have died, and
been sent to hell, will the Christians in heaven then
pity them?

_Answer_. No. Angels have no pity.

_Question_. If we are under obligation to love our
enemies, is not God under obligation to love his?
If we forgive our enemies, ought not God to forgive
his? If we forgive those who injure us, ought not
God to forgive those who have not injured him?

_Answer_. God made us, and he has therefore the
right to do with us as he pleases. Justice demands
that he should damn all of us, and the few that he
will save will be saved through mercy and without
the slightest respect to anything they may have done
themselves. Such is the justice of God, that those
in hell will have no right to complain, and those in
heaven will have no right to be there. Hell is justice,
and salvation is charity.

415

_Question_. Do you consider it possible for a law to
be jusdy satisfied by the punishment of an innocent
person?

_Answer_. Such is the scheme of the atonement.
As man is held responsible for the sin of Adam, so
he will be credited with the virtues of Christ; and
you can readily see that one is exactly as reasonable
as the other.

_Question_. Suppose a man honestly reads the New
Testament, and honestly concludes that it is not an
inspired book; suppose he honestly makes up his
mind that the miracles are not true; that the devil
never really carried Christ to the pinnacle of the
temple; that devils were really never cast out of a
man and allowed to take refuge in swine;—I say,
suppose that he is honestly convinced that these
things are not true, what ought he to say?

_Answer_. He ought to say nothing.

_Question_. Suppose that the same man should read
the Koran, and come to the conclusion that it is not
an inspired book; what ought he to say?

_Answer_. He ought to say that it is not inspired;
his fellow-men are entitled to his honest opinion, and
it is his duty to do what he can do to destroy a per-
nicious superstition.

416

_Question_. Suppose then, that a reader of the Bible,
having become convinced that it is not inspired—
honestly convinced—says nothing—keeps his con-
clusion absolutely to himself, and suppose he dies in
that belief, can he be saved?

_Answer_. Certainly not.

_Question_. Has the honesty of his belief anything
to do with his future condition?

_Answer_. Nothing whatever.,

_Question_. Suppose that he tried to believe, that
he hated to disagree with his friends, and with his
parents, but that in spite of himself he was forced to
the conclusion that the Bible is not the inspired word
of God, would he then deserve eternal punishment?

_Answer_. Certainly he would.

_Question_. Can a man control his belief?

_Answer_. He cannot—except as to the Bible.

_Question_. Do you consider it just in God to
create a man who cannot believe the Bible, and then
damn him because he does not?

_Answer_. Such is my belief.

_Question_. Is it your candid opinion that a man
who does not believe the Bible should keep his
belief a secret from his fellow-men?

_Answer_. It is.

417

_Question_. How do I know that you believe the
Bible? You have told me that if you did not be-
lieve it, you would not tell me?

_Answer_. There is no way for you to ascertain,
except by taking my word for it.

_Question_. What will be the fate of a man who
does not believe it, and yet pretends to believe it?

_Answer_. He will be damned.

_Question_. Then hypocrisy will not save him?

_Answer_. No.

_Question_. And if he does not believe it, and ad-
mits that he does not believe it, then his honesty will
not save him?

_Answer_. No. Honesty on the wrong side is no
better than hypocrisy on the right side.

_Question_. Do we know who wrote the gospels?

_Answer_. Yes; we do.

_Question_. Are we absolutely sure who wrote
them?

_Answer_. Of course; we have the evidence as it
has come to us through the Catholic Church.

_Question_. Can we rely upon the Catholic Church
now?

_Answer_. No; assuredly no! But we have the
testimony of Polycarp and Irenaeus and Clement,

418

and others of the early fathers, together with that of
the Christian historian, Eusebius.

_Question_. What do we really know about Polycarp?

_Answer_. We know that he suffered martyrdom un-
der Marcus Aurelius, and that for quite a time the fire
refused to burn his body, the flames arching over him,
leaving him in a kind of fiery tent; and we also know
that from his body came a fragrance like frankincense,
and that the Pagans were so exasperated at seeing
the miracle, that one of them thrust a sword through
the body of Polycarp; that the blood flowed out and
extinguished the flames and that out of the wound
flew the soul of the martyr in the form of a dove.

_Question_. Is that all we know about Polycarp?

_Answer_. Yes, with the exception of a few more
like incidents.

_Question_. Do we know that Polycarp ever met
St. John?

_Answer_. Yes; Eusebius says so.

_Question_. Are we absolutely certain that he ever
lived?

_Answer_. Yes, or Eusebius could not have written
about him.

_Question_. Do we know anything of the character
of Eusebius?

419

_Answer_. Yes; we know that he was untruthful
only when he wished to do good. But God can use
even the dishonest. Other books have to be sub-
stantiated by truthful men, but such is the power of
God, that he can establish the inspiration of the Bible
by the most untruthful witnesses. If God's witnesses
were honest, anybody could believe, and what be-
comes of faith, one of the greatest virtues?

_Question_. Is the New Testament now the same as
it was in the days of the early fathers?

_Answer_. Certainly not. Many books now thrown
out, and not esteemed of divine origin, were esteemed
divine by Polycarp and Irenaeus and Clement and
many of the early churches. These books are now
called "apocryphal."

_Question_. Have you not the same witnesses in
favor of their authenticity, that you have in favor of
the gospels?

_Answer_. Precisely the same. Except that they
were thrown out.

_Question_. Why were they thrown out?

_Answer_. Because the Catholic Church did not es-
teem them inspired.

_Question_. Did the Catholics decide for us which
are the true gospels and which are the true epistles?

420

_Answer_. Yes. The Catholic Church was then the
only church, and consequently must have been the
true church.

_Question_. How did the Catholic Church select the
true books?

_Answer_. Councils were called, and votes were
taken, very much as we now pass resolutions in
political meetings.

_Question_. Was the Catholic Church infallible then?

_Answer_. It was then, but it is not now.

_Question_. If the Catholic Church at that time
had thrown out the book of Revelation, would it
now be our duty to believe that book to have been
inspired?

_Answer_. No, I suppose not.

_Question_. Is it not true that some of these books
were adopted by exceedingly small majorities?

_Answer_. It is.

_Question_. If the Epistle to the Hebrews and to
the Romans, and the book of Revelation had been
thrown out, could a man now be saved who honestly
believes the rest of the books?

_Answer_. This is doubtful.

_Question_. Were the men who picked out the in-
spired books inspired?

421

_Answer_. We cannot tell, but the probability is
that they were.

_Question_. Do we know that they picked out the
right ones?

_Answer_. Well, not exactly, but we believe that
they did.

_Question_. Are we certain that some of the books
that were thrown out were not inspired?

_Answer_. Well, the only way to tell is to read
them carefully.

_Question_. If upon reading these apocryphal books
a man concludes that they are not inspired, will he be
damned for that reason?

_Answer_. No. Certainly not.

_Question_. If he concludes that some of them are
inspired, and believes them, will he then be damned
for that belief?

_Answer_. Oh, no! Nobody is ever damned for
believing too much.

_Question_. Does the fact that the books now com-
prising the New Testament were picked out by the
Catholic Church prevent their being examined now
by an honest man, as they were examined at the time
they were picked out?

422

_Answer_. No; not if the man comes to the con-
clusion that they are inspired.

_Question_. Does the fact that the Catholic Church
picked them out and declared them to be inspired,
render it a crime to examine them precisely as you
would examine the books that the Catholic Church
threw out and declared were not inspired?

_Answer_. I think it does.

_Question_. At the time the council was held in which
it was determined which of the books of the New
Testament are inspired, a respectable minority voted
against some that were finally decided to be inspired.
If they were honest in the vote they gave, and died
without changing their opinions, are they now in hell?

_Answer_. Well, they ought to be.

_Question_. If those who voted to leave the book
of Revelation out of the canon, and the gospel of
Saint John out of the canon, believed honestly that
these were not inspired books, how should they have
voted?

_Answer_. Well, I suppose a man ought to vote as
he honestly believes—except in matters of religion.

_Question_. If the Catholic Church was not infal-
lible, is the question still open as to what books are,
and what are not, inspired?

423

_Answer_. I suppose the question is still open—
but it would be dangerous to decide it.

_Question_. If, then, I examine all the books again,
and come to the conclusion that some that were
thrown out were inspired, and some that were ac-
cepted were not inspired, ought I to say so?

_Answer_. Not if it is contrary to the faith of your
father, or calculated to interfere with your own po-
litical prospects.

_Question_. Is it as great a sin to admit into the
Bible books that are uninspired as to reject those
that are inspired?

_Answer_. Well, it is a crime to reject an inspired
book, no matter how unsatisfactory the evidence is
for its inspiration, but it is not a crime to receive an
uninspired book. God damns nobody for believing
too much. An excess of credulity is simply to err in
the direction of salvation.

_Question_. Suppose a man disbelieves in the inspira-
tion of the New Testament—believes it to be entirely
the work of uninspired men; and suppose he also be-
lieves—but not from any evidence obtained in the New
Testament—that Jesus Christ was the son of God, and
that he made atonement for his soul, can he then be
saved without a belief in the inspiration of the Bible?

424

_Answer_. This has not yet been decided by
our church, and I do not wish to venture an
opinion.

_Question_. Suppose a man denies the inspiration
of the Scriptures; suppose that he also denies the
divinity of Jesus Christ; and suppose, further, that
he acts precisely as Christ is said to have acted;
suppose he loves his enemies, prays for those who
despitefully use him, and does all the good he pos-
sibly can, is it your opinion that such a man will be
saved?

_Answer_. No, sir. There is "none other name
"given under heaven and among men," whereby a
sinner can be saved but the name of Christ.

_Question_. Then it is your opinion that God
would save a murderer who believed in Christ, and
would damn another man, exactly like Christ, who
failed to believe in him?

_Answer_. Yes; because we have the blessed
promise that, out of Christ, "our God is a consuming
"fire."

_Question_. Suppose a man read the Bible care-
fully and honestly, and was not quite convinced that
it was true, and that while examining the subject, he
died; what then?

425

_Answer_. I do not believe that God would allow
him to examine the matter in another world, or to
make up his mind in heaven. Of course, he would
eternally perish.

_Question_. Could Christ now furnish evidence
enough to convince every human being of the truth
of the Bible?

_Answer_. Of course he could, because he is in-
finite.

_Question_. Are any miracles performed now?

_Answer_. Oh, no!

_Question_. Have we any testimony, except human
testimony, to substantiate any miracle?

_Answer_. Only human testimony.

_Question_. Do all men give the same force to the
same evidence?

_Answer_. By no means.

_Question_. Have all honest men who have exam-
ined the Bible believed it to be inspired?

_Answer_. Of course they have. Infidels are not
honest.

_Question_. Could any additional evidence have
been furnished?

_Answer_. With perfect ease.

_Question_. Would God allow a soul to suffer

426

eternal agony rather than furnish evidence of the
truth of his Bible?

_Answer_. God has furnished plenty of evidence,
and altogether more than was really necessary. We
should read the Bible in a believing spirit.

_Question_. Are all parts of the inspired books
equally true?

_Answer_. Necessarily.

_Question_. According to Saint Matthew, God
promises to forgive all who will forgive others; not
one word is said about believing in Christ, or believ-
ing in the miracles, or in any Bible; did Matthew tell
the truth?

_Answer_. The Bible must be taken as a whole;
and if other conditions are added somewhere else,
then you must comply with those other conditions.
Matthew may not have stated all the conditions.

_Question_. I find in another part of the New
Testament, that a young man came to Christ and
asked him what was necessary for him to do in order
that he might inherit eternal life. Christ did not tell
him that he must believe the Bible, or that he must
believe in him, or that he must keep the Sabbath-
day; was Christ honest with that young man?

_Answer_. Well, I suppose he was.

427

_Question_. You will also recollect that Zaccheus
said to Christ, that where he had wronged any man
he had made restitution, and further, that half his
goods he had given to the poor; and you will re-
member that Christ said to Zaccheus: "This day
"hath salvation come to thy house." Why did not
Christ tell Zaccheus that he "must be born again;"
that he must "believe on the Lord Jesus Christ"?

_Answer_. Of course there are mysteries in our
holy religion that only those who have been "born
"again" can understand. You must remember that
"the carnal mind is enmity with God."

_Question_. Is it not strange that Christ, in his Ser-
mon on the Mount, did not speak of "regeneration,"
or of the "scheme of salvation"?

_Answer_. Well, it may be.

_Question_. Can a man be saved now by living
exactly in accordance with the Sermon on the Mount?

_Answer_. He can not.

_Question_. Would then a man, by following the
course of conduct prescribed by Christ in the Sermon
on the Mount, lose his soul?

_Answer_. He most certainly would, because there
is not one word in the Sermon on the Mount about
believing on the Lord Jesus Christ; not one word

428

about believing in the Bible; not one word about the
"atonement;" not one word about "regeneration."
So that, if the Presbyterian Church is right, it is abso-
lutely certain that a man might follow the teachings
of the Sermon on the Mount, and live in accordance
with its every word, and yet deserve and receive the
eternal condemnation of God. But we must remem-
ber that the Sermon on the Mount was preached be-
fore Christianity existed. Christ was talking to Jews.

_Question_. Did Christ write anything himself, in
the New Testament?

_Answer_. Not a word.

_Question_. Did he tell any of his disciples to write
any of his words?

_Answer_. There is no account of it, if he did.

_Question_. Do we know whether any of the dis-
ciples wrote anything?

_Answer_. Of course they did.

_Question_. How do you know?

_Answer_. Because the gospels bear their names.

_Question_. Are you satisfied that Christ was abso-
lutely God?

_Answer_. Of course he was. We believe that
Christ and God and the Holy Ghost are all the same,
that the three form one, and that each one is three.

429

_Question_. Was Christ the God of the universe at
the time of his birth?

_Answer_. He certainly was.

_Question_. Was he the infinite God, creator
and controller of the entire universe, before he was
born?

_Answer_. Of course he was. This is the mystery
of "God manifest in the flesh." The infidels have
pretended that he was like any other child, and was
in fact supported by Nature instead of being the
supporter of Nature. They have insisted that like
other children, he had to be cared for by his mother.
Of course he appeared to be cared for by his mother.
It was a part of the plan that in all respects he should
appear to be like other children.

_Question_. Did he know just as much before he
was born as after?

_Answer_. If he was God of course he did.

_Question_. How do you account for the fact that
Saint Luke tells us, in the last verse of the second
chapter of his gospel, that "Jesus increased in wis-
"dom and stature"?

_Answer_. That I presume is a figure of speech;
because, if he was God, he certainly could not have
increased in wisdom. The physical part of him could

430

increase in stature, but the intellectual part must have
been infinite all the time.

_Question_. Do you think that Luke was mistaken?

_Answer_. No; I believe what Luke said. If it
appears untrue, or impossible, then I know that it is
figurative or symbolical.

_Question_. Did I understand you to say that Christ
was actually God?

_Answer_. Of course he was.

_Question_. Then why did Luke say in the same
verse of the same chapter that "Jesus increased in
"favor with God"?

_Answer_. I dare you to go into a room by your-
self and read the fourteenth chapter of Saint John!

_Question_. Is it necessary to understand the Bible
in order to be saved?

_Answer_. Certainly not; it is only necessary that
you believe it.

_Question_. Is it necessary to believe all the
miracles?

_Answer_. It may not be necessary, but as it is im-
possible to tell which ones can safely be left out, you
had better believe them all.

_Question_. Then you regard belief as the safe
way?

431

_Answer_. Of course it is better to be fooled in this
world than to be damned in the next.

_Question_. Do you think that there are any cruel-
ties on God's part recorded in the Bible?

_Answer_. At first flush, many things done by God
himself, as well as by his prophets, appear to be
cruel; but if we examine them closely, we will find
them to be exactly the opposite.

_Question_. How do you explain the story of Elisha
and the children,—where the two she-bears destroyed
forty-two children on account of their impudence?

_Answer_. This miracle, in my judgment, estab-
lishes two things: 1. That children should be polite
to ministers, and 2. That God is kind to animals—
"giving them their meat in due season." These
bears have been great educators—they are the
foundation of the respect entertained by the young
for theologians. No child ever sees a minister now
without thinking of a bear.

_Question_. What do you think of the story of
Daniel—you no doubt remember it? Some men
told the king that Daniel was praying contrary to
law, and thereupon Daniel was cast into a den of
lions; but the lions could not touch him, their
mouths having been shut by angels. The next

432

morning, the king, finding that Daniel was still
intact, had him taken out; and then, for the purpose
of gratifying Daniels God, the king had all the men
who had made the complaint against Daniel, and
their wives and their little children, brought and cast
into the lions' den. According to the account, the
lions were so hungry that they caught these wives
and children as they dropped, and broke all their
bones in pieces before they had even touched the
ground. Is it not wonderful that God failed to pro-
tect these innocent wives and children?

_Answer_. These wives and children were heathen;
they were totally depraved. And besides, they were
used as witnesses. The fact that they were devoured
with such quickness shows that the lions were
hungry. Had it not been for this, infidels would
have accounted for the safety of Daniel by saying
that the lions had been fed.

_Question_. Do you believe that Shadrach, Meshach
and Abednego were cast "into a burning fiery furnace
"heated one seven times hotter than it was wont to
"be heated," and that they had on "their coats, their
"hosen and their hats," and that when they came
out "not a hair of their heads was singed, nor was
"the smell of fire upon their garments"?

433

_Answer_. The evidence of this miracle is exceed-
ingly satisfactory. It resulted in the conversion of
Nebuchadnezzar.

_Question_. How do you know he was converted?

_Answer_. Because immediately after the miracle
the king issued a decree that "every people, nation
"and language that spoke anything amiss against
"the God of Shadrach and Company, should be cut
"in pieces." This decree shows that he had become
a true disciple and worshiper of Jehovah.

_Question_. If God in those days preserved from
the fury of the fire men who were true to him and
would not deny his name, why is it that he has failed
to protect thousands of martyrs since that time?

_Answer_. This is one of the divine mysteries.
God has in many instances allowed his enemies to
kill his friends. I suppose this was allowed for the
good of his enemies, that the heroism of the mar-
tyrs might convert them.

_Question_. Do you believe all the miracles?

_Answer_. I believe them all, because I believe the
Bible to be inspired.

_Question_. What makes you think it is inspired?

_Answer_. I have never seen anybody who knew
it was not; besides, my father and mother believed it.

434

_Question_. Have you any other reasons for be-
lieving it to be inspired?

_Answer_. Yes; there are more copies of the Bible
printed than of any other book; and it is printed in
more languages. And besides, it would be impossible
to get along without it.

_Question_. Why could we not get along without it?

_Answer_. We would have nothing to swear wit-
nesses by; no book in which to keep the family
record; nothing for the centre-table, and nothing for
a mother to give her son. No nation can be civilized
without the Bible.

_Question_. Did God always know that a Bible was
necessary to civilize a country?

_Answer_. Certainly he did.

_Question_. Why did he not give a Bible to
the Egyptians, the Hindus, the Greeks and the
Romans?

_Answer_. It is astonishing what perfect fools in-
fidels are.

_Question_. Why do you call infidels "fools"?

_Answer_. Because I find in the fifth chapter of the
gospel according to Matthew the following: "Who-
"soever shall say 'Thou fool!' shall be in danger of
"hell fire."

435

_Question_. Have I the right to read the Bible?

_Answer_. Yes. You not only have the right, but
it is your duty.

_Question_. In reading the Bible the words make
certain impressions on my mind. These impressions
depend upon my brain,—upon my intelligence. Is
not this true?

_Answer_. Of course, when you read the Bible, im-
pressions are made upon your mind.

_Question_. Can I control these impressions?

_Answer_. I do not think you can, as long as you
remain in a sinful state.

_Question_. How am I to get out of this sinful state?

_Answer_. You must believe on the Lord Jesus
Christ, and you must read the Bible in a prayerful
spirit and with a believing heart.

_Question_. Suppose that doubts force themselves
upon my mind?

_Answer_. Then you will know that you are a sin-
ner, and that you are depraved.

_Question_. If I have the right to read the Bible,
have I the right to try to understand it?

_Answer_. Most assuredly.

_Question_. Do you admit that I have the right to
reason about it and to investigate it?

436

_Answer_. Yes; I admit that. Of course you can-
not help reasoning about what you read.

_Question_. Does the right to read a book include
the right to give your opinion as to the truth of what
the book contains?

_Answer_. Of course,—if the book is not inspired.
Infidels hate the Bible because it is inspired, and
Christians know that it is inspired because infidels
say that it is not.

_Question_. Have I the right to decide for myself
whether or not the book is inspired?

_Answer_. You have no right to deny the truth of
God's Holy Word.

_Question_. Is God the author of all books?

_Answer_. Certainly not.

_Question_. Have I the right to say that God did
not write the Koran?

_Answer_. Yes.

_Question_. Why?

_Answer_. Because the Koran was written by an
impostor.

_Question_. How do you know?

_Answer_. My reason tells me so.

_Question_. Have you the right to be guided by
your reason?

437

_Answer_. I must be.

_Question_. Have you the same right to follow your
reason after reading the Bible?

_Answer_. No. The Bible is the standard of reason.
The Bible is not to be judged or corrected by your
reason. Your reason is to be weighed and measured
by the Bible. The Bible is different from other
books and must not be read in the same critical spirit,
nor judged by the same standard.

_Question_. What did God give us reason for?

_Answer_. So that we might investigate other
religions, and examine other so-called sacred books.

_Question_. If a man honestly thinks that the Bible
is not inspired, what should he say?

_Answer_. He should admit that he is mistaken.

_Question_. When he thinks he is right?

_Answer_. Yes. The Bible is different from other
books. It is the master of reason. You read the
Bible, not to see if that is wrong, but to see
whether your reason is right. It is the only book
about which a man has no right to reason. He must
believe. The Bible is addressed, not to the reason,
but to the ears: "He that hath ears to hear, let
"him hear."

_Question_. Do you think we have the right to tell

438

what the Bible means—what ideas God intended to
convey, or has conveyed to us, through the medium
of the Bible?

_Answer_. Well, I suppose you have that right.
Yes, that must be your duty. You certainly ought
to tell others what God has said to you.

_Question_. Do all men get the same ideas from
the Bible?

_Answer_. No.

_Question_. How do you account for that?

_Answer_. Because all men are not alike; they
differ in intellect, in education, and in experience.

_Question_. Who has the right to decide as to the
real ideas that God intended to convey?

_Answer_. I am a Protestant, and believe in the
right of private judgment. Whoever does not is a
Catholic. Each man must be his own judge, but God
will hold him responsible.

_Question_. Does God believe in the right of private
judgment?

_Answer_. Of course he does.

_Question_. Is he willing that I should exercise my
judgment in deciding whether the Bible is inspired or
not?

_Answer_. No. He believes in the exercise of

439

private judgment only in the examination and rejec-
tion of other books than the Bible.

_Question_. Is he a Catholic?

_Answer_. I cannot answer blasphemy! Let me
tell you that God will "laugh at your calamity, and
"will mock when your fear cometh." You will be
accursed.

_Question_. Why do you curse infidels?

_Answer_. Because I am a Christian.

_Question_. Did not Christ say that we ought to
"bless those who curse us," and that we should
"love our enemies"?

_Answer_. Yes, but he cursed the Pharisees and
called them "hypocrites" and "vipers."

_Question_. How do you account for that?

_Answer_. It simply shows the difference between
theory and practice.

_Question_. What do you consider the best way to
answer infidels.

_Answer_. The old way is the best. You should
say that their arguments are ancient, and have been
answered over and over again. If this does not
satisfy your hearers, then you should attack the
character of the infidel—then that of his parents—
then that of his children.

440

_Question_. Suppose that the infidel is a good man,
how will you answer him then?

_Answer_. But an infidel cannot be a good man.
Even if he is, it is better that he should lose his
reputation, than that thousands should lose their
souls. We know that all infidels are vile and infa-
mous. We may not have the evidence, but we know
that it exists.

_Question_. How should infidels be treated? Should
Christians try to convert them?

_Answer_. Christians should have nothing to do
with infidels. It is not safe even to converse with
them. They are always talking about reason, and
facts, and experience. They are filled with sophistry
and should be avoided.

_Question_. Should Christians pray for the con-
version of infidels?

_Answer_. Yes; but such prayers should be made
in public and the name of the infidel should be given
and his vile and hideous heart portrayed so that the
young may be warned.

_Question_. Whom do you regard as infidels?

_Answer_. The scientists—the geologists, the as-
tronomers, the naturalists, the philosophers. No one
can overestimate the evil that has been wrought

441

by Laplace, Humboldt, Darwin, Huxley, Haeckel,
Renan, Emerson, Strauss, Bikhner, Tyndall, and
their wretched followers. These men pretended to
know more than Moses and the prophets. They
were "dogs baying at the moon." They were
"wolves" and "fools." They tried to "assassinate
"God," and worse than all, they actually laughed
at the clergy,

_Question_. Do you think they did, and are doing
great harm?

_Answer_. Certainly. Of what use are all the
sciences, if you lose your own soul? People in hell
will care nothing about education. The rich man
said nothing about science, he wanted water.
Neither will they care about books and theories
in heaven. If a man is perfectly happy, it makes
no difference how ignorant he is.

_Question_. But how can he answer these scientists?

_Answer_. Well, my advice is to let their argu-
ments alone. Of course, you will deny all their
facts; but the most effective way is to attack their
character.

_Question_. But suppose they are good men,—
what then?

_Answer_. The better they are, the worse they are.

442

We cannot admit that the infidel is really good. He
may appear to be good, and it is our duty to strip
the mask of appearance from the face of unbelief. If
a man is not a Christian, he is totally depraved, and
why should we hesitate to make a misstatement
about a man whom God is going to make miserable
forever?

_Question_. Are we not commanded to love our
enemies?

_Answer_. Yes, but not the enemies of God.

_Question_. Do you fear the final triumph of infi-
delity?

_Answer_. No. We have no fear. We believe
that the Bible can be revised often enough to agree
with anything that may really be necessary to the
preservation of the church. We can always rely
upon revision. Let me tell you that the Bible is the
most peculiar of books. At the time God inspired his
holy prophets to write it, he knew exactly what the
discoveries and demonstrations of the future would
be, and he wrote his Bible in such a way that the
words could always be interpreted in accordance with
the intelligence of each age, and so that the words
used are capable of several meanings, so that, no
matter what may hereafter be discovered, the Bible

443

will be found to agree with it,—for the reason that
the knowledge of Hebrew will grow in the exact
proportion that discoveries are made in other depart-
ments of knowledge. You will therefore see, that all
efforts of infidelity to destroy the Bible will simply
result in giving a better translation.

_Question_. What do you consider is the strongest
argument in favor of the inspiration of the Scrip-
tures?

_Answer_. The dying words of Christians.

_Question_. What do you consider the strongest
argument against the truth of infidelity?

_Answer_. The dying words of infidels. You know
how terrible were the death-bed scenes of Hume,
Voltaire, Paine and Hobbes, as described by hundreds
of persons who were not present; while all Christians
have died with the utmost serenity, and with their
last words have testified to the sustaining power of
faith in the goodness of God.

_Question_. What were the last words of Jesus
Christ?

_Answer_. "My God, my God, why hast thou for-
"saken me?"
---
# Divorce
_Dresden Edition, Volume 6, 1889_
A LITTLE while ago the North American Review propounded the following
questions:

1. Do you believe in the principle of divorce under any circumstances?

2. Ought divorced people to be allowed to marry, under any
circumstances?

3. What is the effect of divorce on the integrity of the family?

4. Does the absolute prohibition of divorce, where it exists, contribute
to the moral purity of society?

These questions were answered in the November number of the Review,
1889, by Cardinal Gibbons, Bishop Henry C. Potter and myself. In
the December number, the same questions were again answered by W. E.
Gladstone, Justice Bradley and Senator Dolph. In the following month
Mary A. Livermore, Amelia E. Barr, Rose Terry Cooke, Elizabeth Stuart
Phelps and Jennie June gave their opinions upon the subject of divorce;
and in the February number of this year, Margaret Lee and the Rev.
Phillip S. Moxom contributed articles upon this subject.

I propose to review these articles, and, first, let me say a few words
in answer to Cardinal Gibbons.

## Reply to Cardinal Gibbons

The indissolubility of marriage was a reaction from polygamy. Man
naturally rushes from one extreme to the other. The Cardinal informs us
that "God instituted in Paradise the marriage state, and sanctified it;"
that "he established its law of unity and declared its indissolubility."
The Cardinal, however, accounts for polygamy and divorce by saying that,
"marriage suffered in the fall."

If it be true that God instituted marriage in the Garden of Eden, and
declared its unity and indissolubility, how do you account for the fact
that this same God afterwards upheld polygamy? How is it that he forgot
to say anything on the subject when he gave the Ten Commandments to
Moses? How does it happen that in these commandments he puts women on an
equality with other property—"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife,
or thy neighbor's ox, or anything that is thy neighbor's"? How did it
happen that Jacob, who was in direct communication with God, married,
not his deceased wife's sister, but both sisters, while both were
living? Is there any way of accounting for the fact that God upheld
concubinage?

Neither is it true that "Christ reasserted in clear and unequivocal
terms, the sanctity, unity, and indissolubility of marriage." Neither is
it true that "Christ gave to this state an added holiness and a dignity
higher far than it had 'from the beginning.'" If God declared the
unity and indissolubility of marriage in the Garden of Eden, how was it
possible for Christ to have "added a holiness and dignity to marriage
higher far than it had from the beginning"? How did Christ make marriage
a sacrament? There is nothing on that subject in the new Testament;
besides, Christ did apparently allow divorce, for one cause at least.
He is reported to have said: "Whosoever putteth away his wife, save for
fornication, causeth her to commit adultery."

The Cardinal answers the question, "Can divorce from the bonds of
marriage ever be allowed?" with an emphatic theological "NO," and as a
reason for this "no," says, "Thus saith the Lord."

It is true that we regard Mormonism as a national disgrace, and that
we so regard it because the Mormons are polygamists. At the same time,
intelligent people admit that polygamy is no worse in Utah, than it was
in Palestine—no worse under Joseph Smith, than under Jehovah—that
it has been and must be forever the same, in all countries and in all
times. The Cardinal takes the ground that "there are two species of
polygamy—simultaneous and successive," and yet he seems to regard
both species with equal horror. If a wife dies and the husband marries
another woman, is not that successive polygamy?

The Cardinal takes the ground that while no dissolution of the marriage
bond should be allowed, yet for grave causes a temporary or permanent
separation from bed and board may be obtained, and these causes he
enumerates as "mutual consent, adultery, and grave peril of soul or
body." To those, however, not satisfied with this doctrine, and who are
"so unhappily mated and so constituted that for them no relief can come
save from absolute divorce," the Cardinal says, in a very sympathetic
way, that he "Will not linger here to point out to such the need of
seeking from a higher than earthly power, the grace to suffer and be
strong."

At the foundation and upon the very threshold of this inquiry, one thing
ought to be settled, and that is this: Are we to answer these questions
in the light of human experience; are we to answer them from the
standpoint of what is better here, in this world, for men and
women—what is better for society here and now—or are we to ask: What
is the will of God? And in order to find out what is this will of God,
are we to ask the church, or are we to read what are called "the sacred
writings" for ourselves? In other words, are these questions to be
settled by theological and ecclesiastical authority, or by the common
sense of mankind? No one, in my judgment, should marry for the sake of
God, and no one should be divorced for the sake of God, and no man and
woman should live together as husband and wife, for the sake of God.
God being an infinite being, cannot be rendered unhappy by any action of
man, neither can his well-being be increased; consequently, the will of
God has nothing whatever to do with this matter. The real question then
must be: What is best for man?

Only the other day, a husband sought out his wife and with his own hand
covered her face with sulphuric acid, and in a moment afterward she was
blind. A Cardinal of the Catholic Church tells this woman, sitting in
darkness, that it is her duty to "suffer and be strong"; that she must
still remain the wife of this wretch; that to break the bond that binds
them together, would be an act of sacrilege. So, too, two years ago, a
husband deserted his wife in Germany. He came to this country. She was
poor. She had two children—one a babe. Holding one in her arm, and
leading the other by the hand, she walked hundreds of miles to the shore
of the sea. Overcome by fatigue, she was taken sick, and for months
remained in a hospital. Having recovered, she went to work, and finally
got enough money to pay her passage to New York. She came to this city,
bringing her children with her. Upon her arrival, she commenced a
search for her husband. One day overcome by exertion, she fainted in the
street. Persons took pity upon her and carried her upstairs into a room.
By a strange coincidence, a few moments afterward her husband entered.
She recognized him. He fell upon her like a wild beast, and threw
her down the stairs. She was taken up from the pavement bleeding, and
carried to a hospital.

The Cardinal says to this woman: Remain the wife of this man; it will be
very pleasing to God; "suffer and be strong." But I say to this woman:
Apply to some Court; get a decree of absolute divorce; cling to your
children, and if at any time hereafter some good and honest man offers
you his hand and heart, and you can love him, accept him and build
another home, to the end that you may sit by your own fireside, in your
old age, with your children about you.

It is not true that the indissolubility of marriage preserves the virtue
of mankind. The fact is exactly the opposite. If the Cardinal wishes to
know why there are more divorces now than there were fifty or a hundred
years ago, let me tell him: Women are far more intelligent—some of
them are no longer the slaves either of husbands, or priests. They are
beginning to think for themselves. They can see no good reason why
they should sacrifice their lives to please Popes or Gods. They are
no longer deceived by theological prophecies. They are not willing to
suffer here, with the hope of being happy beyond the clouds—they want
their happiness now.

## Reply to Bishop Potter

Bishop Potter does not agree with the Cardinal, yet they both study
substantially the same bible—both have been set apart for the purpose
of revealing the revelation. They are the persons whose duty it is to
enlighten the common people. Cardinal Gibbons knows that he represents
the only true church, and Bishop Potter is just as sure that he occupies
that position. What is the ordinary man to do?

The Cardinal states, without the slightest hesitation, that "Christ made
marriage a sacrament—made it the type of his own never-ending union
with his one sinless spouse, the church." The Bishop does not agree
with the Cardinal. He says: "Christ's words about divorce are not to be
construed as a positive law, but as expressing the ideal of marriage,
and corresponding to his words about eunuchs, which not everybody can
receive." Ought not the augurs to agree among themselves? What is a man
who has only been born once, to do?

The Cardinal says explicitly that marriage is a sacrament, and the
Bishop cites Article xxv., that "matrimony is not to be accounted for
a sacrament of the gospel," and then admits that "this might seem to
reduce matrimony to a civil contract." For the purpose of bolstering up
that view, he says, "The first rubric in the Form of Solemnization of
Matrimony declares that the minister is left to the direction of those
laws in every thing that regards a civil contract between the parties.'"
He admits that "no minister is allowed, _as a rule_, to solemnize the
marriage of any man or woman who has a divorced husband or wife still
living." As a matter of fact, we know that hundreds of Episcopalians do
marry where a wife or a husband is still living, and they are not turned
out of the Episcopal Church for this offence. The Bishop admits that the
church can do very little on the subject, but seems to gather a little
consolation from the fact, that "the penalty for breach of this law
might involve, for the officiating clergyman, deposition from the
ministry—for the offending man or woman exclusion from the sacraments,
which, in the judgment of a very large number of the clergy, involves
everlasting damnation."

The Cardinal is perfectly satisfied that the prohibition of divorce is
the foundation of morality, and the Bishop is equally certain that "the
prohibition of divorce never prevents illicit sexual connections."

The Bishop also gives us the report of a committee of the last General
Convention, forming Appendix xiii of the Journal. This report, according
to the Bishop, is to the effect "that the Mosaic law of marriage is
still binding upon the church unless directly abrogated by Christ
himself, that it-was abrogated by him only so far that all divorce was
forbidden by him excepting for the cause of fornication; that a woman
might not claim divorce for any reason whatever; that the marriage of a
divorced person until the death of the other party, is wholly forbidden;
that marriage is not merely a civil contract but a spiritual and
supernatural union, requiring for its mutual obligations a supernatural
divine grace, and that such grace is only imparted in the sacrament of
matrimony."

The most beautiful thing about this report is, that a woman might not
claim divorce for any reason whatever. I must admit that the report is
in exact accordance with the words of Jesus Christ. On the other hand,
the Bishop, not to leave us entirely without hope, says that "there is
in his church another school, equally earnest and sincere in its zeal
for the integrity of the family, which would nevertheless repudiate the
greater part of the above report."

There is one thing, however, that I was exceedingly glad to see, and
that is, that according to the Bishop the ideas of the early church are
closely connected with theories about matter, and about the inferiority
of woman, and about married life, which are no longer believed. The
Bishop has, with great clearness, stated several sides of this question;
but I must say, that after reading the Cardinal and the Bishop, the
earnest theological seeker after truth would find himself, to say the
least of it, in some doubt.

As a matter of fact, who cares what the Old Testament says upon this
subject? Are we to be bound forever by the ancient barbarians?

Mr. Gladstone takes the ground, first, "that marriage is essentially a
contract for life, and only expires when life itself expires"; second,
"that Christian marriage involves a vow before God"; third, "that no
authority has been given to the Christian Church to cancel such a vow";
fourth, "that it lies beyond the province of tie civil legislature,
which, from the necessity of things, has a veto within the limits of
reason, upon the making of it, but has no competency to annul it when
once made"; fifth, "that according to the laws of just interpretation,
remarriage is forbidden by the text of Holy Scripture"; and sixth, "that
while divorce of any kind impairs the integrity of the family, divorce
with remarriage destroys it root and branch; that the parental and the
conjugal relations are joined together by the hand of the Almighty
no less than the persons united by the marriage tie, to one another."
_First_. Undoubtedly, a real marriage was never entered into unless the
parties expected to live together as long as they lived. It does not
enter into the imagination of the real lover that the time is coming
when he is to desert the being he adores, neither does it enter into the
imagination of his wife, or of the girl about to become a wife. But how
and in what way, does a Christian marriage involve a vow before God?
Is God a party to the contract? If yes, he ought to see to it that the
contract is carried out. If there are three parties—the man, the woman,
and God—each one should be bound to do something, and what is God
bound to do? Is he to hold the man to his contract, when the woman has
violated hers? Is it his business to hold the woman to the contract,
when the man has violated his? And what right has he to have anything
to say on the subject, unless he has agreed to do something by reason of
this vow? Otherwise, it would be simply a _nudum pactum_—a vow without
consideration.

Mr. Gladstone informs us that no authority has been given to the
Christian Church to cancel such a vow. If he means by that, that God has
not given any such authority to the Christian Church, I most cheerfully
admit it.*

> * Note.—This abrupt termination, together with the
> unfinished replies to Justice Bradley and Senator Dolph,
> which follow, shows that the author must have been
> interrupted in his work, and on next taking it up concluded
> that the colloquial and concrete form would better serve his
> turn than the more formal and didactic style above employed.
> He thereupon dictated his reply to the Gibbon and Gladstone
> arguments in the following form which will be regarded as a
> most interesting instance of the author's wonderful
> versatility of style.

> This unfinished matter was found among Col. Ingersoll's
> manuscripts, and is given as transcribed from the
> stenographic notes of Mr. I. N. Baker, his secretary,
> without revision by the author.

## Justice Bradley

Cardinal Gibbons, Bishop Potter, and Mr. Gladstone represent the
theological side—that is to say, the impracticable, the supernatural,
the unnatural. After reading their opinions, it is refreshing to read
those of Justice Bradley. It is like coming out of the tomb into the
fresh air.

Speaking of the law, whether regarded as divine or human or both,
Justice Bradley says: "I know no other law on the subject but the moral
law, which does not consist of arbitrary enactments and decrees, but
is adapted to our condition as human beings. This is so, whether it
is conceived of as the will of an all-wise creator, or as the voice of
humanity speaking from its experience, its necessities and its higher
instincts. And that law surely does not demand that the injured party
to the marriage bond should be forever tied to one who disregards
and violates every obligation that it imposes—to one with whom it is
impossible to cohabit—to one whose touch is contamination. Nor does
it demand that such injured party, if legally free, should be forever
debarred from forming other ties through which the lost hopes of
happiness for life may be restored. It is not reason, and it can not
be law—divine, or moral—that unfaithfulness, or willful and obstinate
desertion, or persistent cruelty of the stronger party, should afford no
ground for relief.......If no redress be legalized, the law itself will
be set at defiance, and greater injury to soul and body will result from
clandestine methods of relief."

Surely, this is good, wholesome, practical common sense.

## Senator Dolph

Senator Dolph strikes a strong blow, and takes the foundation from under
the idiotic idea of legal separation without divorce. He says: "As there
should be no partial divorce, which leaves the parties in the condition
aptly described by an eminent jurist as 'a wife without a husband and
a husband without a wife,' so, as a matter of public expediency, and
in the interest of public morals, whenever and however the marriage
is dissolved, both parties should be left free to remarry." Again:
"Prohibition of remarriage is likely to injure society more than the
remarriage of the guilty party;" and the Senator says, with great force:
"Divorce for proper causes, free from fraud and collusion, conserves the
moral integrity of the family."

In answering the question as to whether absolute prohibition of divorce
tends to morality or immorality, the Senator cites the case of South
Carolina. In that State, divorces were prohibited, and in consequence
of this prohibition, the proportion of his property which a married man
might give to his concubine was regulated by law.

## The Argument Continued, in Colloquial Form

Those who have written on the subject of divorce seem to be divided into
two classes—the supernaturalists and the naturalists. The first class
rely on tradition, inspired books, the opinions of theologians as
expressed in creeds, and the decisions of ecclesiastical tribunals. The
second class take into account the nature of human beings, their own
experience, and the facts of life, as they know them. The first class
live for another world; the second, for this—the one in which we live.

The theological theorists regard men and women as depraved, in
consequence of what they are pleased to call "the fall of man," while
the men and women of common sense know that the race has slowly and
painfully progressed through countless years of suffering and toil. The
priests insist that marriage is a sacrament; the philosopher, that it is
a contract.

The question as to the propriety of granting divorces cannot now be
settled by quoting passages of Scripture, or by appealing to creeds,
or by citing the acts of legislatures or the decisions of courts. With
intelligent millions, the Scriptures are no longer considered as of the
slightest authority. They pay no more regard to the Bible than to the
Koran, the Zend-Avestas, or the Popol Vuh—neither do they care for the
various creeds that were formulated by barbarian ancestors, nor for the
laws and decisions based upon the savagery of the past.

In the olden times when religions were manufactured—when priest-craft
and lunacy governed the world—the women were not consulted. They were
regarded and treated as serfs and menials—looked upon as a species of
property to be bought and sold like the other domestic animals. This
view or estimation of woman was undoubtedly in the mind of the author of
the Ten Commandments when he said: "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's
wife,—nor his ox."

Such, however, has been the advance of woman in all departments of
knowledge—such advance having been made in spite of the efforts of the
church to keep her the slave of faith—that the obligations, rights
and remedies growing out of the contract of marriage and its violation,
cannot be finally determined without her consent and approbation.
Legislators and priests must consult with wives and mothers. They must
become acquainted with their wants and desires—with their profound
aversions* their pure hatreds, their loving self-denials, and, above
all, with the religion of the body that moulds and dominates their
lives.

We have learned to suspect the truth of the old, because it is old, and
for that reason was born in the days of slavery and darkness—because
the probability is that the parents of the old were ignorance
and superstition. We are beginning to be wise enough to take into
consideration the circumstances of our own time—the theories and
aspirations of the present—the changed conditions of the world—the
discoveries and inventions that have modified or completely changed
the standards of the greatest of the human race. We are on the eve of
discovering that nothing should be done for the sake of gods, but all
for the good of man—nothing for another world—everything for this.

All the theories must be tested by experience, by facts. The moment a
supernatural theory comes in contact with a natural fact, it falls to
chaos. Let us test all these theories about marriage and divorce—all
this sacramental, indissoluble imbecility, with a real case—with a fact
in life.

A few years ago a man and woman fell in love and were married in a
German village. The woman had a little money and this was squandered by
the husband. When the money was gone, the husband deserted his wife and
two little children, leaving them to live as best they might. She had
honestly given her hand and heart, and believed that if she could only
see him once more—if he could again look into her eyes—he would
come back to her. The husband had fled to America. The wife lived four
hundred miles from the sea. Taking her two little children with her, she
traveled on foot the entire distance. For eight weeks she journeyed, and
when she reached the sea—tired, hungry, worn out, she fell unconscious
in the street. She was taken to the hospital, and for many weeks fought
for life upon the shore of death. At last she recovered, and sailed for
New York. She was enabled to get just enough money to buy a steerage
ticket.

A few days ago, while wandering in the streets of New York in search of
her husband, she sank unconscious to the sidewalk. She was taken into
the home of another. In a little while her husband entered. He caught
sight of his wife. She ran toward him, threw her arms about his neck,
and cried: "At last I have found you!" "With an oath, he threw her to
the floor; he bruised her flesh with his feet and fists; he dragged her
into the hall, and threw her into the street."

Let us suppose that this poor wife sought out Cardinal Gibbons and the
Right Honorable William E. Gladstone, for the purpose of asking their
advice. Let us imagine the conversation:

_The Wife_. My dear Cardinal, I was married four years ago. I loved
my husband and I was sure that he loved me. Two babes were born. He
deserted me without cause. He left me in poverty and want. Feeling that
he had been overcome by some delusion—tempted by something more than
he could bear, and dreaming that if I could look upon his face again he
would return, I followed-him on foot. I walked, with my children in my
arms, four hundred miles. I crossed the sea. I found him at last—and
instead of giving me again his love, he fell upon me like a wild beast.
He bruised and blackened my flesh. He threw me from him, and for my
proffered love I received curses and blows. Another man, touched by
the evidence of my devotion, made my acquaintance—came to my
relief—supplied my wants—gave me and my children comfort, and then
offered me his hand and heart, in marriage. My dear Cardinal, I told
him that I was a married woman, and he told me that I should obtain a
divorce, and so I have come to ask your counsel.

_The Cardinal_. My dear woman, God instituted in Paradise the marriage
state and sanctified it, and he established its law of unity and
declared its indissolubility.

_The Wife_. But, Mr. Cardinal, if it be true that "God instituted
marriage in the Garden of Eden, and declared its unity and
indissolubility," how do you account for the fact that this same God
afterward upheld polygamy? How is it that he forgot to say anything on
the subject when he gave the Ten Commandments to Moses?

_The Cardinal_. You must remember that the institution of marriage
suffered in the fall of man.

_The Wife_. How does that throw any light upon my case? That was long
ago. Surely, I was not represented at that time, and is it right that I
should be punished for what was done by others in the very beginning of
the world?

_The Cardinal._ Christ reasserted in clear and unequivocal terms, the
sanctity, unity and indissolubility of marriage, and Christ gave to this
state an added holiness, and a dignity higher far than it had from the
beginning.

_The Wife_. How did it happen that Jacob, while in direct communication
with God, married, not his deceased wife's sister, but both sisters
while both were living? And how, my dear Cardinal, do you account for
the fact that God upheld concubinage?

_The Cardinal._ Marriage is a sacrament. You seem to ask me whether
divorce from the bond of marriage can ever be allowed? I answer with an
emphatic theological No; and as a reason for this No, I say, Thus saith
the Lord. To allow a divorce and to permit the divorced parties, or
either of them, to remarry, is one species of polygamy. There are two
kinds—the simultaneous and the successive.

_The Wife_. But why did God allow simultaneous polygamy in Palestine?
Was it any better in Palestine then than it is in Utah now? If a wife
dies, and the husband marries another wife, is not that successive
polygamy?

_The Cardinal_. Curiosity leads to the commission of deadly sins.
We should be satisfied with a Thus saith the Lord, and you should be
satisfied with a Thus saith the Cardinal. If you have the right to
inquire—to ask questions—then you take upon yourself the right of
deciding after the questions have been answered. This is the end of
authority. This undermines the cathedral. You must remember the words of
our Lord: "What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder."

_The Wife_. Do you really think that God joined us together? Did he at
the time know what kind of man he was joining to me? Did he then know
that he was a wretch, an ingrate, a kind of wild beast? Did he then know
that this husband would desert me—leave me with two babes in my arms,
without raiment and without food? Did God put his seal upon this bond
of marriage, upon this sacrament, and it was well-pleasing in his sight
that my life should be sacrificed, and does he leave me now to crawl
toward death, in poverty and tears?

_The Cardinal_. My dear woman, I will not linger here to point out to
you the need of seeking from a higher than an earthly power the grace to
suffer and be strong.

_The Wife_. Mr. Cardinal, am I under any obligation to God? Will it
increase the happiness of the infinite for me to remain homeless
and husbandless? Another offers to make me his wife and to give me a
home,—to take care of my children and to fill my heart with joy. If I
accept, will the act lessen the felicity or ecstasy of heaven? Will it
add to the grief of God? Will it in any way affect his well-being?

_The Cardinal._ Nothing that we can do can effect the well-being of God.
He is infinitely above his children.

_The Wife_. Then why should he insist upon the sacrifice of my life? Mr.
Cardinal, you do not seem to sympathize with me. You do not understand
the pangs I feel. You are too far away from my heart, and your words
of consolation do not heal the bruise; they leave me as I now leave
you—without hope. I will ask the advice of the Right Honorable William
E. Gladstone.

_The Wife_. Mr. Gladstone, you know my story, and so I ask that you will
give me the benefit of your knowledge, of your advice.

_Mr. Gladstone_. My dear woman, marriage is essentially a contract for
life, and only expires when life itself expires. I say this because
Christian marriage involves a vow before God, and no authority has been
given to the Christian Church to cancel such a vow.

_The Wife_. Do you consider that God was one of the contracting parties
in my marriage? Must all vows made to God be kept? Suppose the vow was
made in ignorance, in excitement—must it be absolutely fulfilled? Will
it make any difference to God whether it is kept or not? Does not an
infinite God know the circumstances under which every vow is made? Will
he not take into consideration the imperfections, the ignorance, the
temptations and the passions of his children? Will God hold a poor girl
to the bitter dregs of a mistaken bargain? Have I not suffered enough?
Is it necessary that my heart should break? Did not God know at the time
the vow was made that it ought not to have been made? If he feels toward
me as a father should, why did he give no warning? Why did he accept
the vow? Why did he allow a contract to be made giving only to death the
annulling power? Is death more merciful than God?

_Mr. Gladstone_. All vows that are made to God must be kept. Do you not
remember that Jephthah agreed to sacrifice the first one who came out of
his house to meet him, and that he fulfilled the vow, although in doing
so, he murdered his own daughter. God makes no allowance for ignorance,
for temptation, for passion—nothing. Besides, my dear woman, to
cancel the contract of marriage lies beyond the province of the civil
legislature; it has no competency to annul the contract of marriage when
once made.

_The Wife_. The man who has rescued me from the tyranny of my
husband—the man who wishes to build me a home and to make my life worth
living, wishes to make with me a contract of marriage. This will give my
babes a home.

_Mr. Gladstone_. My dear madam, while divorce of any kind impairs the
integrity of the family, divorce with remarriage destroys it root and
branch.

_The Wife_. The integrity of my family is already destroyed. My husband
deserted his home—left us in the very depths of want. I have in my
arms two helpless babes. I love my children, and I love the man who has
offered to give them and myself another fireside. Can you say that this
is only destruction? The destruction has already occurred. A remarriage
gives a home to me and mine.

_Mr. Gladstone._ But, my dear mistaken woman, the parental and the
conjugal relations are joined together by the hand of the Almighty.

_The Wife._ Do you believe that the Almighty was cruel enough, in my
case, to join the parental and the conjugal relations, to the end that
they should endure as long as I can bear the sorrow? If there were three
parties to my marriage, my husband, myself, and God, should each be
bound by the contract to do something? What did God bind himself to
do? If nothing, why should he interfere? If nothing, my vow to him
was without consideration. You are as cruel and unsympathetic, Mr.
Gladstone, as the Cardinal. You have not the imagination to put yourself
in my place.

_Mr. Gladstone._ My dear madam, we must be governed by the law of
Christ, and there must be no remarriage. The husband and wife must
remain husband and wife until a separation is caused by death.

_The Wife._ If Christ was such a believer in the sacredness of the
marriage relation, why did he offer rewards not only in this world, but
in the next, to husbands who would desert their wives and follow him?

_Mr. Gladstone._ It is not for us to inquire. God's ways are not our
ways.

_The Wife._ Nature is better than you. A mother's love is higher and
deeper than your philosophy. I will follow the instincts of my heart. I
will provide a home for my babes, and for myself. I will be freed from
the infamous man who betrayed me. I will become the wife of another—of
one who loves me—and after having filled his life with joy, I hope to
die in his arms, surrounded by my children.

A few months ago, a priest made a confession—he could carry his secret
no longer. He admitted that he was married—that he was the father of
two children—that he had violated his priestly vows. He was unfrocked
and cast out. After a time he came back and asked to be restored into
the bosom of the church, giving as his reason that he had abandoned his
wife and babes. This throws a flood of light on the theological view of
marriage.

I know of nothing equal to this, except the story of the Sandwich Island
chief who was converted by the missionaries, and wished to join the
church. On cross-examination, it turned out that he had twelve wives,
and he was informed that a polygamist could not be a Christian. The next
year he presented himself again for the purpose of joining the church,
and stated that he was not a polygamist—that he had only one wife. When
the missionaries asked him what he had done with the other eleven he
replied: "I ate them."

The indissoluble marriage was a reaction from polygamy. The church has
always pretended that it was governed by the will of God, and that for
all its dogmas it had a "thus saith the Lord." Reason and experience
were branded as false guides. The priests insisted that they were in
direct communication with the Infinite—that they spoke by the authority
of God, and that the duty of the people was to obey without question and
to submit with at least the appearance of gladness.

We now know that no such communication exists—that priests spoke
without authority, and that the duty of the people was and is to examine
for themselves. We now know that no one knows what the will of God
is, or whether or not such a being exists. We now know that nature has
furnished all the light there is, and that the inspired books are like
all books, and that their value depends on the truth, the beauty, and
the wisdom they contain. We also know that it is now impossible to
substantiate the supernatural. Judging from experience—reasoning from
known facts—we can safely say that society has no right to demand the
sacrifice of an innocent individual.

Society has no right, under the plea of self-preservation, to compel
women to remain the wives of men who have violated the contract of
marriage, and who have become objects of contempt and loathing to
their wives. It is not to the best interest of society to maintain such
firesides—such homes.

The time has not arrived, in my judgment, for the Congress of the United
States, under an amendment to the Constitution, to pass a general
law applicable to all the States, fixing the terms and conditions of
divorce. The States of the Union are not equally enlightened. Some are
far more conservative than others. Let us wait until a majority of the
States have abandoned the theological theories upon this subject.

Upon this question light comes from the West, where men have recently
laid the foundations of States, and where the people are not manacled
and burdened with old constitutions and statutes and decisions, and
where with a large majority the tendency is to correct the mistakes of
their ancestors.

Let the States in their own way solve this question, and the time will
come when the people will be ready to enact sensible and reasonable
laws touching this important subject, and then the Constitution can be
amended and the whole subject controlled by Federal law.

The law, as it now exists in many of the States, is to the last degree
absurd and cruel. In some States the husband can obtain a divorce on the
ground that the wife has been guilty of adultery, but the wife cannot
secure a divorce from the husband simply for the reason that he has been
guilty of the same offence. So, in most of the States where divorce
is granted on account of desertion for a certain number of years, the
husband can return on the last day of the time fixed, and the poor wife
who has been left in want is obliged to receive the wretch with open
arms. In some States nothing is considered cruelty that does not
endanger life or limb or health. The whole question is in great
confusion, but after all there are some States where the law is
reasonable, and the consequence is, that hundreds and thousands of
suffering wives are released from a bondage worse than death.

The idea that marriage is something more than a contract is at the
bottom of all the legal and judicial absurdities that surround this
subject. The moment that it is regarded from a purely secular standpoint
the infamous laws will disappear. We shall then take into consideration
the real rights and obligations of the parties to the contract of
marriage. We shall have some respect for the sacred feelings of
mothers—for the purity of woman—the freedom of the fireside—the real
democracy of the hearthstone and, above all, for love, the purest, the
profoundest and the holiest of all passions.

We shall no longer listen to priests who regard celibacy as a higher
state than marriage, nor to those statesmen who look upon a barbarous
code as the foundation of all law.

As long as men imagine that they have property in wives; that women can
be owned, body and mind; that it is the duty of wives to obey; that the
husband is the master, the source of authority—that his will is law,
and that he can call on legislators and courts to protect his
superior rights, that to enforce obedience the power of the State is
pledged—just so long will millions of husbands be arrogant, tyrannical
and cruel.

No gentleman will be content to have a slave for the mother of his
children. Force has no place in the world of love. It is impossible to
control likes and dislikes by law. No one ever did and no one ever can
love on compulsion. Courts can not obtain jurisdiction of the heart.

The tides and currents of the soul care nothing for the creeds.
People who make rules for the conduct of others generally break them
themselves. It is so easy to bear with fortitude the misfortunes of
others.

Every child should be well-born—well fathered and mothered. Society has
as great an interest in children as in parents. The innocent should not
be compelled by law to suffer for the crimes of the guilty. Wretched and
weeping wives are not essential to the welfare of States and Nations.

The church cries now "whom God hath joined together let not man put
asunder"; but when the people are really civilized the State will say:
"whom Nature hath put asunder let not man bind and manacle together."

Robert G. Ingersoll.
---
# Reply to Archdeacon Farrar
_Dresden Edition, Volume 6, 1890_
> * This fragment (found among Col. Ingersoll's papers) is a
> mere outline of a contemplated answer to Archdeacon Farrar's
> article in the North American Review, May, 1810, entitled:
> "A Few Words on Col. Ingersoll."

ARCHDEACON FARRAR, in the opening of his article, in a burst of
confidence, takes occasion to let the world know how perfectly angelic
he intends to be. He publicly proclaims that he can criticise the
arguments of one with whom he disagrees, without resorting to invective,
or becoming discourteous. Does he call attention to this because most
theologians are hateful and ungentlemanly? Is it a rare thing for the
pious to be candid? Why should an Archdeacon be cruel, or even ill-bred?
Yet, in the very beginning, the Archdeacon in effect says: Behold, I
show you a mystery—a Christian who can write about an infidel, without
invective and without brutality. Is it then so difficult for those who
love their enemies to keep within the bounds of decency when speaking of
unbelievers who have never injured them?

As a matter of fact, I was somewhat surprised when I read the
proclamation to the effect that the writer was not to use invective,
and was to be guilty of no discourtesy; but on reading the article, and
finding that he had failed to keep his promise, I was not surprised.

It is an old habit with theologians to beat the living with the bones of
the dead. The arguments that cannot be answered provoke epithet.

ARCHDEACON FARRAR criticises several of my statements: _The same rules
or laws of probability must govern in religious questions as in others_.

This apparently self-evident statement seems to excite almost the ire of
this Archdeacon, and for the purpose of showing that it is not true,
he states, first, that "the first postulate of revelation is that it
appeals to man's spirit;" second, that "the spirit is a sphere of being
which transcends the spheres of the senses and the understanding;"
third, that "if a man denies the existence of a spiritual intuition,
he is like a blind man criticising colors, or a deaf man criticising
harmonies;" fourth, that "revelation must be judged by its own
criteria;" and fifth, that "St. Paul draws a marked distinction between
the spirit of the world and the spirit which is of God," and that the
same Saint said that "the natural man receiveth not the things of the
spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him, and he cannot know
them, because they are spiritually discerned." Let us answer these
objections in their order.

1. "The first postulate of revelation is that it appeals to man's
spirit." What does the Archdeacon mean by "spirit"? A man says that he
has received a revelation from God, and he wishes to convince another
man that he has received a revelation—how does he proceed? Does he
appeal to the man's reason? Will he tell him the circumstances under
which he received the revelation? Will he tell him why he is convinced
that it was from God? Will the Archdeacon be kind enough to tell how the
spirit can be approached passing by the reason, the understanding,
the judgment and the intellect? If the Archdeacon replies that the
revelation itself will bear the evidence within itself, what then, I
ask, does he mean by the word "evidence"? Evidence about what? Is it
such evidence as satisfies the intelligence, convinces the reason, and
is it in conformity with the known facts of the mind?

It may be said by the Archdeacon that anything that satisfies what he
is pleased to call the spirit, that furnishes what it seems by nature to
require, is of supernatural origin. We hear music, and this music seems
to satisfy the desire for harmony—still, no one argues, from that
fact, that music is of supernatural origin. It may satisfy a want in the
brain—a want unknown until the music was heard—and yet we all agree
in saying that music has been naturally produced, and no one claims that
Beethoven, or Wagner, was inspired.

The same may be said of things that satisfy the palate—of statues, of
paintings, that reveal to him who looks, the existence of that of
which before that time he had not even dreamed. Why is it that we love
color—that we are pleased with harmonies, or with a succession of
sounds rising and falling at measured intervals? No one would answer
this question by saying that sculptors and painters and musicians were
inspired; neither would they say that the first postulate of art is that
it appeals to man's spirit, and for that reason the rules or laws of
probability have nothing to do with the question of art.

2. That "the spirit is a sphere of being which transcends the spheres of
the senses and the understanding." Let us imagine a man without senses.
He cannot feel, see, hear, taste, or smell. What is he? Would it be
possible for him to have an idea? Would such a man have a spirit to
which revelation could appeal, or would there be locked in the dungeon
of his brain a spirit, that is to say, a "sphere of being which
transcends the spheres of the senses and the understanding"? Admit that
in the person supposed, the machinery of life goes on—what is he more
than an inanimate machine?

3. That "if a man denies the very existence of a spiritual intuition,
he is like a blind man criticising colors, or a deaf man criticising
harmonies." What do you mean by "spiritual intuition"? When did this
"spiritual intuition" become the property of man—before, or after,
birth? Is it of supernatural, or miraculous, origin, and is it possible
that this "spiritual intuition" is independent of the man? Is it based
upon experience? Was it in any way born of the senses, or of the effect
of nature upon the brain—that is to say, of things seen, or heard, or
touched? Is a "spiritual intuition" an entity? If man can exist without
the "spiritual intuition," do you insist that the "spiritual intuition"
can exist without the man?

You may remember that Mr. Locke frequently remarked: "Define your
terms." It is to be regretted that in the hurry of writing your article,
you forgot to give an explanation of "spiritual intuition."

I will also take the liberty of asking you how a blind man could
criticise colors, and how a deaf man could criticise harmonies. Possibly
you may imagine that "spiritual intuition" can take cognizance of
colors, as well as of harmonies. Let me ask: Why cannot a blind man
criticise colors? Let me answer: For the same reason that Archdeacon
Farrar can tell us nothing about an infinite personality.

4. That "revelation must be judged by its own criteria." Suppose the
Bible had taught that selfishness, larceny and murder were virtues;
would you deny its inspiration? Would not your denial be based upon
a conclusion that had been reached by your reason that no intelligent
being could have been its author—that no good being could, by any
possibility, uphold the commission of such crimes? In that case would
you be guided by "spiritual intuition," or by your reason?

When we examine the claims of a history—as, for instance, a history
of England, or of America, are we to decide according to "spiritual
intuition," or in accordance with the laws or rules of probability?
Is there a different standard for a history written in Hebrew, several
thousand years ago, and one written in English in the nineteenth
century? If a history should now be written in England, in which the
most miraculous and impossible things should be related as facts, and
if I should deny these alleged facts, would you consider that the author
had overcome my denial by saying, "history must be judged by its own
criteria"?

5. That "the natural man receiveth not the things of the spirit of God,
for they are foolishness unto him, and he cannot know them, because they
are spiritually discerned." The Archdeacon admits that the natural man
cannot know the things of the spirit, because they are not naturally,
but spiritually, discerned. On the next page we are told, that "the
truths which Agnostics repudiate have been, and are, acknowledged by
all except a fraction of the human race." It goes without saying that
a large majority of the human race are natural; consequently, the
statement of the Archdeacon contradicts the statement of St. Paul.
The Archdeacon insists that all except a fraction of the human race
acknowledge the truths which Agnostics repudiate, and they must
acknowledge them because they are by them spiritually discerned; and
yet, St. Paul says that this is impossible, and insists that "the
natural man cannot know the things of the spirit of God, because they
are spiritually discerned."

There is only one way to harmonize the statement of the Archdeacon and
the Saint, and that is, by saying that nearly all of the human race
are unnatural, and that only a small fraction are natural, and that the
small fraction of men who are natural, are Agnostics, and only those who
accept what the Archdeacon calls "truths" are unnatural to such a degree
that they can discern spiritual things.

Upon this subject, the last things to which the Archdeacon appeals, are
the very things that he, at first, utterly repudiated. He asks, "Are we
contemptuously to reject the witness of innumerable multitudes of the
good and wise, that—with a spiritual reality more convincing to them
than the material evidences which converted the apostles,"—they have
seen, and heard, and their hands have handled the "Word of Life"? Thus
at last the Archdeacon appeals to the evidences of the senses.

II.

THE Archdeacon then proceeds to attack the following statement: _There
is no subject, and can be none, concerning which any human being is
under any obligation to believe without evidence_.

One would suppose that it would be impossible to formulate an objection
to this statement. What is or is not evidence, depends upon the mind
to which it is presented. There is no possible "insinuation" in this
statement, one way or the other. There is nothing sinister in it, any
more than there would be in the statement that twice five are ten. How
did it happen to occur to the Archdeacon that when I spoke of believing
without evidence, I referred to all people who believe in the existence
of a God, and that I intended to say "that one-third of the world's
inhabitants had embraced the faith of Christians without evidence"?

Certain things may convince one mind and utterly fail to convince
others. Undoubtedly the persons who have believed in the dogmas of
Christianity have had what was sufficient evidence for them. All I said
was, that "there is no subject, and can be none, concerning which any
human being is under any obligation to believe without evidence." Does
the Archdeacon insist that there is an obligation resting on any human
mind to believe without evidence? Is he willing to go a step further and
say that there is an obligation resting upon the minds of men to believe
contrary to evidence? If one is under obligation to believe without
evidence, it is just as reasonable to say that he is under obligation to
believe in spite of evidence. What does the word "evidence" mean? A man
in whose honesty I have great confidence, tells me that he saw a dead
man raised to life. I do not believe him. Why? His statement is not
evidence to my mind. Why? Because it contradicts all of my experience,
and, as I believe, the experience of the intelligent world.

No one pretends that "one-third of the world's inhabitants have
embraced the faith of Christians without evidence"—that is, that all
Christians have embraced the faith without evidence. In the olden time,
when hundreds of thousands of men were given their choice between being
murdered and baptized, they generally accepted baptism—probably they
accepted Christianity without critically examining the evidence.

Is it historically absurd that millions of people have believed in
systems of religion without evidence? Thousands of millions have
believed that Mohammed was a prophet of God. And not only so, but have
believed in his miraculous power. Did they believe without evidence? Is
it historically absurd to say that Mohammedanism is based upon mistake?
What shall we say of the followers of Buddha, who far outnumber the
followers of Christ? Have they believed without evidence? And is it
historically absurd to say that our ancestors of a few hundred years ago
were as credulous as the disciples of Buddha? Is it not true that the
same gentlemen who believed thoroughly in all the miracles of the
New Testament also believed the world to be flat, and were perfectly
satisfied that the sun made its daily journey around the earth? Did they
have any evidence? Is it historically absurd to say that they believed
without evidence?

## Iii

_Neither is there any intelligent being who can by any possibility be
flattered by the exercise of ignorant credulity._

THE Archdeacon asks what I "gain by stigmatizing as ignorant credulity
that inspired, inspiring, invincible conviction—the formative principle
of noble efforts and self-sacrificing lives, which at this moment, as
during all the long millenniums of the past, has been held not only
by the ignorant and the credulous, but by those whom all the ages have
regarded as the ablest, the wisest, the most learned and the most gifted
of mankind?"

Does the Archdeacon deny that credulity is ignorant? In this connection,
what does the word "credulity" mean? It means that condition or state of
the mind in which the impossible, or the absurd, is accepted as true.
Is not such credulity ignorant? Do we speak of wise credulity—of
intelligent credulity? We may say theological credulity, or Christian
credulity, but certainly not intelligent credulity. Is the flattery of
the ignorant and credulous—the flattery being based upon that which
ignorance and credulity have accepted—acceptable to any intelligent
being? Is it possible that we can flatter God by pretending to believe,
or by believing, that which is repugnant to reason, that which upon
examination is seen to be absurd? The Archdeacon admits that God cannot
possibly be so flattered. If, then, he agrees with my statement, why
endeavor to controvert it?

IV.

The man who without prejudice reads and understands the Old and New
Testaments will cease to be an orthodox Christian.

THE Archdeacon says that he cannot pretend to imagine what my definition
of an orthodox Christian is. I will use his own language to express my
definition. "By an orthodox Christian I mean one who believes what is
commonly called the Apostles' Creed. I also believe that the essential
doctrines of the church must be judged by her universal formulae, not by
the opinions of this or that theologian, however eminent, or even of
any number of theologians, unless the church has stamped them with the
sanction of her formal and distinct acceptance."

This is the language of the Archdeacon himself, and I accept it as a
definition of orthodoxy. With this definition in mind, I say that
the man who without prejudice reads and understands the Old and New
Testaments will cease to be an orthodox Christian. By "prejudice,"
I mean the tendencies and trends given to his mind by heredity, by
education, by the facts and circumstances entering into the life of man.
We know how children are poisoned in the cradle, how they are deformed
in the Sunday School, how they are misled by the pulpit. And we know how
numberless interests unite and conspire to prevent the individual soul
from examining for itself. We know that nearly all rewards are in the
hands of Superstition—that she holds the sweet wreath, and that her
hands lead the applause of what is called the civilized world. We know
how many men give up their mental independence for the sake of pelf
and power. We know the influence of mothers and fathers—of Church and
State—of Faith and Fashion. All these influences produce in honest
minds what may be known as prejudice,—in other minds, what may be known
as hypocrisy.

It is hardly worth my while to speak of the merits of students of Holy
Writ "who," the Archdeacon was polite enough to say, "know ten thousand
times more of the Scriptures" than I do. This, to say the least of
it, is a gratuitous assertion, and one that does not tend to throw the
slightest ray of light on any matter in controversy. Neither is it true
that it was my "point" to say that all people are prejudiced, merely
because they believe in God; it was my point to say that no man can read
the miracles of the Old Testament, without prejudice, and believe
them; it was my point to say that no man can read many of the cruel
and barbarous laws said to have been given by God himself, and yet
believe,—unless he was prejudiced,—that these laws were divinely
given.

Neither do I believe that there is now beneath the cope of heaven an
intelligent man, without prejudice, who believes in the inspiration of
the Bible.

V.

The intelligent man who investigates the religion of any country,
without fear and without prejudice, will not and cannot be a believer.

IN answering this statement the Archdeacon says: "_Argal_, every
believer in any religion is either an incompetent idiot, or coward—with
a dash of prejudice."

I hardly know what the gentleman means by an "incompetent idiot," as I
know of no competent ones. It was not my intention to say that believers
in religion are idiots or cowards. I did not mean, by using the word
"fear," to say that persons actuated by fear are cowards. That was not
in my mind. By "fear," I intended to convey that fear commonly called
awe, or superstition,—that is to say, fear of the supernatural,—fear
of the gods—fear of punishment in another world—fear of some Supreme
Being; not fear of some other man—not the fear that is branded with
cowardice. And, of course, the Archdeacon perfectly understood my
meaning; but it was necessary to give another meaning in order to make
the appearance of an answer possible.

By "prejudice," I mean that state of mind that accepts the false for the
true. All prejudice is honest. And the probability is, that all men are
more or less prejudiced on some subject. But on that account I do not
call them "incompetent idiots, or cowards, with a dash of prejudice." I
have no doubt that the Archdeacon himself believes that all Mahommedans
are prejudiced, and that they are actuated more or less by fear,
inculcated by their parents and by society at large. Neither have I any
doubt that he regards all Catholics as prejudiced, and believes that
they are governed more or less by fear. It is no answer to what I have
said for the Archdeacon to say that "others have studied every form
of religion with infinitely greater power than I have done." This is a
personality that has nothing to do with the subject in hand. It is
no argument to repeat a list of names. It is an old trick of the
theologians to use names instead of arguments—to appeal to persons
instead of principles—to rest their case upon the views of kings and
nobles and others who pretend eminence in some department of human
learning or ignorance, rather than on human knowledge.

This is the argument of the old against the new, and on this appeal the
old must of necessity have the advantage. When some man announces the
discovery of a new truth, or of some great fact contrary to the opinions
of the learned, it is easy to overwhelm him with names. There is but one
name on his side—that is to say, his own. All others who are living,
and the dead, are on the other side. And if this argument is good, it
ought to have ended all progress many thousands of years ago. If this
argument is conclusive, the first man would have had freedom of opinion;
the second man would have stood an equal chance; but if the third man
differed from the other two, he would have been gone. Yet this is the
argument of the church. They say to every man who advances something
new: Are you greater than the dead? The man who is right is generally
modest. Men in the wrong, as a rule, are arrogant; and arrogance is
generally in the majority.

The Archdeacon appeals to certain names to show that I am wrong. In
order for this argument to be good—that is to say, to be honest—he
should agree with all the opinions of the men whose names he gives. He
shows, or endeavors to show, that I am wrong, because I do not agree
with St. Augustine. Does the Archdeacon agree with St. Augustine? Does
he now believe that the bones of a saint were taken to Hippo—that being
in the diocese of St. Augustine—and that five corpses, having been
touched with these bones, were raised to life? Does he believe that a
demoniac, on being touched with one of these bones, was relieved of a
multitude of devils, and that these devils then and there testified to
the genuineness of the bones, not only, but told the hearers that the
doctrine of the Trinity was true? Does the Archdeacon agree with St.
Augustine that over seventy miracles were performed with these bones,
and that in a neighboring town many hundreds of miracles were performed?
Does he agree with St. Augustine in his estimate of women—placing them
on a par with beasts?

I admit that St. Augustine had great influence with the people of his
day—but what people? I admit also that he was the founder of the first
begging brotherhood—that he organized mendicancy—and that he most
cheerfully lived on the labor of others.

If St. Augustine lived now he would be the inmate of an asylum. This
same St. Augustine believed that the fire of hell was material—that the
body itself having influenced the soul to sin, would be burned forever,
and that God by a perpetual miracle would save the body from being
annihilated and devoured in those eternal flames.

Let me ask the Archdeacon a question: Do you agree with St. Augustine?
If you do not, do you claim to be a greater man? Is "your mole-hill
higher than his Dhawalagiri"? Are you looking down upon him from the
altitude of your own inferiority?

Precisely the same could be said of St. Jerome. The Archdeacon appeals
to Charlemagne, one of the great generals of the world—a man who in his
time shed rivers of blood, and who on one occasion massacred over four
thousand helpless prisoners—a Christian gentleman who had, I think,
about nine wives, and was the supposed father of some twenty children.
'This same Charlemagne had laws against polygamy, and yet practiced
it himself. Are we under the same obligation to share his vices as
his views? It is wonderful how the church has always appealed to the
so-called great—how it has endeavored to get certificates from kings
and queens, from successful soldiers and statesmen, to the truth of the
Bible and the moral character of Christ! How the saints have crawled in
the dust before the slayers of mankind! Think of proving the religion of
love and forgiveness by Charlemagne and Napoleon!

An appeal is also made to Roger Bacon. Yet this man attained all his
eminence by going contrary to the opinions and teachings of the church.
In his time, it was matter of congratulation that you knew nothing of
secular things. He was a student of Nature, an investigator, and by the
very construction of his mind was opposed to the methods of Catholicism.

Copernicus was an astronomer, but he certainly did not get his astronomy
from the church, nor from General Joshua, nor from the story of the
Jewish king for whose benefit the sun was turned back in heaven ten
degrees.

Neither did Kepler find his three laws in the Sermon on the Mount, nor
were they the utterances of Jehovah on Mount Sinai. He did not make his
discoveries because he was a Christian; but in spite of that fact.

As to Lord Bacon, let me ask, are you willing to accept his ideas? If
not, why do you quote his name? Am I bound by the opinions of Bacon in
matters of religion, and not in matters of science? Bacon denied the
Coperni-can system, and died a believer in the Ptolemaic—died believing
that the earth is stationary and that the sun and stars move around it
as a center. Do you agree with Bacon? If not, do you pretend that your
mind is greater? Would it be fair for a believer in Bacon to denounce
you as an egotist and charge you with "obstreperousness" because you
merely suggested that Mr. Bacon was a little off in his astronomical
opinions? Do you not see that you have furnished the cord for me to tie
your hands behind you?

I do not know how you ascertained that Shakespeare was what you call a
believer. Substantially all that we know of Shakespeare is found in what
we know as his "works" All else can be read in one minute. May I ask,
how you know that Shakespeare was a believer? Do you prove it by the
words he put in the mouths of his characters? If so, you can prove that
he was anything, nothing, and everything. Have you literary bread to eat
that I know not of? Whether Dante was, or was not, a Christian, I am
not prepared to say. I have always admired him for one thing: he had the
courage to see a pope in hell.

Probably you are not prepared to agree with Milton—especially in his
opinion that marriage had better be by contract, for a limited time. And
if you disagree with Milton on this point, do you thereby pretend to say
that you could have written a better poem than Paradise Lost?

So Newton is supposed to have been a Trinitarian. And yet it is said
that, after his death, there was found an article, which had been
published by him in Holland, against the dogma of the Trinity.

After all, it is quite difficult to find out what the great men have
believed. They have been actuated by so many unknown motives; they
have wished for place; they have desired to be Archdeacons, Bishops,
Cardinals, Popes; their material interests have sometimes interfered
with the expression of their thoughts. Most of the men to whom you have
alluded lived at a time when the world was controlled by what may be
called a Christian mob—when the expression of an honest thought would
have cost the life of the one who expressed it—when the followers of
Christ were ready with sword and fagot to exterminate philosophy and
liberty from the world.

Is it possible that we are under any obligation to believe the Mosaic
account of the Garden of Eden, or of the talking serpent, because
"Whewell had an encyclopaedic range of knowledge"? Must we believe that
Joshua stopped the sun, because Faraday was "the most eminent man of
science of his day"? Shall we believe the story of the fiery furnace,
because "Mr. Spottiswoode was president of the Royal Society"—had
"rare mathematical genius"—so rare that he was actually "buried in
Westminster Abbey"? Shall we believe that Jonah spent three days and
nights in the inside of a whale because "Professor Clark Maxwell's death
was mourned by all"?

Are we under any obligation to believe that an infinite God sent two she
bears to tear forty children in pieces because they laughed at a prophet
without hair? Must we believe this because "Sir Gabriel Stokes is the
living president of the Royal Society, and a Churchman" besides? Are we
bound to believe that Daniel spent one of the happiest evenings of his
life in the lion's den, because "Sir William Dawson of Canada, two years
ago, presided over the British Association"? And must we believe in the
ten plagues of Egypt, including the lice, because "Professor Max
Mueller made an eloquent plea in Westminster Abbey in favor of Christian
missions"? Possibly he wanted missionaries to visit heathen lands so
that they could see the difference for themselves between theory and
practice, in what is known as the Christian religion.

Must we believe the miracles of the New Testament—the casting out of
devils—because "Lord Tennyson and Mr. Browning stand far above all
other poets of this generation in England," or because "Longfellow,
Holmes, and Lowell and Whittier" occupy the same position in America?
Must we admit that devils entered into swine because "Bancroft and
Parkman are the leading prose writers of America"—which I take this
occasion to deny?

It is to be hoped that some time the Archdeacon will read that portion
of Mr. Bancroft's history in which he gives the account of how
the soldiers, commonly called Hessians, were raised by the British
Government during the American Revolution.

These poor wretches were sold at so much apiece. For every one that was
killed, so much was paid, and for every one that was wounded a certain
amount was given. Mr. Bancroft tells us that God was not satisfied with
this business, and although he did not interfere in any way to save the
poor soldiers, he did visit the petty tyrants who made the bargains with
his wrath. I remember that as a punishment to one of these, his wife was
induced to leave him; another one died a good many years afterwards; and
several of them had exceedingly bad luck.

After reading this philosophic dissertation on the dealings of
Providence, I doubt if the Archdeacon will still remain of the opinion
that Mr. Bancroft is one of the leading prose writers of America. If the
Archdeacon will read a few of the sermons of Theodore Parker, and essays
of Ralph Waldo Emerson, if he will read the life of Voltaire by James
Parton, he may change his opinion as to the great prose writers of
America.

My argument against miracles is answered by reference to "Dr. Lightfoot,
a man of such immense learning that he became the equal of his successor
Dr. Westcott." And when I say that there are errors and imperfections
in the Bible, I am told that Dr. Westcott "investigated the Christian
religion and its earliest documents _au fond_, and was an orthodox
believer." Of course the Archdeacon knows that no one now knows who
wrote one of the books of the Bible. He knows that no one now lives who
ever saw one of the original manuscripts, and that no one now lives
who ever saw anybody who had seen anybody who had seen an original
manuscript.

VI.

Is it possible for the human mind to conceive of an infinite
personality?

THE Archdeacon says that it is, and yet in the same article he quotes
the following from Job: "Canst thou by searching find out God?" "It is
as high as Heaven; what canst thou do? deeper than Hell; what canst thou
know?" And immediately after making these quotations, the Archdeacon
takes the ground of the agnostic, and says, "with the wise ancient
Rabbis, we learn to say, _I do not know_."

It is impossible for me to say what any other human being cannot
conceive; but I am absolutely certain that my mind cannot conceive of an
infinite personality—of an infinite Ego.

Man is conscious of his individuality. Man has wants. A multitude
of things in nature seems to work against him; and others seem to be
favorable to him. There is conflict between him and nature.

If man had no wants—if there were no conflict between him and any other
being, or any other thing, he could not say "I"—that is to say, he
could not be conscious of personality.

Now, it seems to me that an infinite personality is a contradiction in
terms, says "I."

## Vii

THE same line of argument applies to the next statement that
is criticised by the Archdeacon: _Can the human mind conceive a
beginningless being?_

We know that there is such a thing as matter, but we do not know that
there is a beginningless being. We say, or some say, that matter is
eternal, because the human mind cannot conceive of its commencing. Now,
if we knew of the existence of an Infinite Being, we could not conceive
of his commencing. But we know of no such being. We do know of the
existence of matter; and my mind is so, that I cannot conceive of that
matter having been created by a beginningless being. I do not say that
there is not a beginningless being, but I do not believe there is, and
it is beyond my power to conceive of such a being.

The Archdeacon also says that "space is quite as impossible to conceive
as God." But nobody pretends to love space—no one gives intention and
will to space—no one, so far as I know, builds altars or temples to
space. Now, if God is as inconceivable as space, why should we pray to
God?

The Archdeacon, however, after quoting Sir William Hamilton as to the
inconceivability of space as absolute or infinite, takes occasion to say
that "space is an entity." May I be permitted to ask how he knows that
space is an entity? As a matter of fact, the conception of infinite
space is a necessity of the mind, the same as eternity is a necessity of
the mind.

## Viii

THE next sentence or statement to which the Archdeacon objects is as
follows:

_He who cannot harmonize the cruelties of the Bible with the goodness of
Jehovah, cannot harmonize the cruelties of Nature with the goodness or
wisdom of a supposed Deity. He will find it impossible to account for
pestilence and famine, for earthquake and storm, for slavery, and for
the triumph of the strong over the weak._

One objection that he urges to this statement is that St. Paul had made
a stronger one in the same direction. The Archdeacon however insists
that "a world without a contingency, or an agony, could have had no hero
and no saint," and that "science enables us to demonstrate that much of
the apparent misery and anguish is transitory and even phantasmal;
that many of the seeming forces of destruction are overruled to ends of
beneficence; that most of man's disease and anguish is due to his own
sin and folly and wilfulness."

I will not say that these things have been said before, but I will say
that they have been answered before. The idea that the world is a school
in which character is formed and in which men are educated is very old.
If, however, the world is a school, and there is trouble and misfortune,
and the object is to create character—that is to say, to produce heroes
and saints—then the question arises, what becomes of those who die
in infancy? They are left without the means of education. Are they
to remain forever without character? Or is there some other world of
suffering and sorrow?

Is it possible to form character in heaven? How did the angels become
good? How do you account for the justice of God? Did he attain character
through struggle and suffering?

What would you say of a school teacher who should kill one-third of
the children on the morning of the first day? And what can you say of
God,—if this world is a school,—who allows a large per cent, of his
children to die in infancy—consequently without education—therefore,
without character?

If the world is the result of infinite wisdom and goodness, why is the
Christian Church engaged in endeavoring to make it better; or, rather,
in an effort to change it? Why not leave it as an infinite God made it?

Is it true that most of man's diseases are due to his own sin and folly
and wilfulness? Is it not true that no matter how good men are they must
die, and will they not die of diseases? Is it true that the wickedness
of man has created the microbe? Is it possible that the sinfulness of
man created the countless enemies of human life that lurk in air and
water and food? Certainly the wickedness of man has had very little
influence on tornadoes, earthquakes and floods. Is it true that "the
signature of beauty with which God has stamped the visible world—alike
in the sky and on the earth—alike in the majestic phenomena of
an intelligent creation and in its humblest and most microscopic
production—is a perpetual proof that God is a God of love"?

Let us see. The scientists tell us that there is a little microscopic
animal, one who is very particular about his food—so particular,
that he prefers to all other things the optic nerve, and after he has
succeeded in destroying that nerve and covering the eye with the mask of
blindness, he has intelligence enough to bore his way through the bones
of the nose in search of the other optic nerve. Is it not somewhat
difficult to discover "the signature of beauty with which God has
stamped" this animal? For my part, I see but little beauty in poisonous
serpents, in man-eating sharks, in crocodiles, in alligators. It would
be impossible for me to gaze with admiration upon a cancer. Think, for a
moment, of a God ingenious enough and good enough to feed a cancer with
the quivering flesh of a human being, and to give for the sustenance of
that cancer the life of a mother.

It is well enough to speak of "the myriad voices of nature in their
mirth and sweetness," and it is also well enough to think of the other
side. The singing birds have a few notes of love—the rest are all of
warning and of fear. Nature, apparently with infinite care, produces
a living thing, and at the same time is just as diligently at work
creating another living thing to devour the first, and at the same time
a third to devour the second, and so on around the great circle of life
and death, of agony and joy—tooth and claw, fang and tusk, hunger and
rapine, massacre and murder, violence and vengeance and vice everywhere
and through all time. [Here the manuscript ends, with the following
notes.]

## Sayings from the Indian

"The rain seems hardest when the wigwam leaks."

"When the tracks get too large and too numerous, the wise Indian says
that he is hunting something else."

"A little crook in the arrow makes a great miss."

"A great chief counts scalps, not hairs."

"You cannot strengthen the bow by poisoning the arrows."

"No one saves water in a flood."

## Origen

Origen considered that the punishment of the wicked consisted in
separation from God. There was too much pity in his heart to believe in
the flames of hell. But he was condemned as heretical by the Council of
Carthage, A. D., 398, and afterwards by other councils.

## St. Augustine

St. Augustine censures Origen for his merciful view, and says: "The
church, not without reason, condemned him for this error." He also held
that hell was in the centre of the earth, and that God supplied the
centre with perpetual fire by a miracle.

## Dante

Dante is a wonderful mixture of melancholy and malice, of religion and
revenge, and he represents himself as so pitiless that when he found his
political opponents in hell, he struck their faces and pulled the hair
of the tormented.

## Aquinas

Aquinas believed the same. He was the loving gentleman who believed in
the undying worm.

## Is Corporal Punishment Degrading

> * This unfinished and unrevised article was found among Col.
> Ingersoll's papers, and is here reproduced without change.—
> It is a reply to the Dean of St Paul's Contribution to the
> North American Review for Dec., 1891, entitled: "Is Corporal
> Punishment Degrading?"

THE Dean of St. Paul protests against the kindness of parents, guardians
and teachers toward children, wards and pupils. He believes in the
gospel of ferule and whips, and has perfect faith in the efficacy of
flogging in homes and schools. He longs for the return of the good old
days when fathers were severe, and children affectionate and obedient.

In America, for many years, even wife-beating has been somewhat
unpopular, and the flogging of children has been considered cruel
and unmanly. Wives with bruised and swollen faces, and children with
lacerated backs, have excited pity for themselves rather than admiration
for savage husbands and brutal fathers. It is also true that the church
has far less power here than in England, and it may be that those who
wander from the orthodox fold grow merciful and respect the rights even
of the weakest.

But whatever the cause may be, the fact is that we, citizens of the
Republic, feel that certain domestic brutalities are the children of
monarchies and despotisms; that they were produced by superstition,
ignorance, and savagery; and that they are not in accord with the free
and superb spirit that founded and preserves the Great Republic.

Of late years, confidence in the power of kindness has greatly
increased, and there is a wide-spread suspicion that cruelty and
violence are not the instrumentalities of civilization.

Physicians no longer regard corporal punishment as a sure cure even for
insanity—and it is generally admitted that the lash irritates rather
than soothes the victim of melancholia.

Civilized men now insist that criminals cannot always be reformed even
by the most ingenious instruments of torture. It is known that some
convicts repay the smallest acts of kindness with the sincerest
gratitude. Some of the best people go so far as to say that kindness
is the sunshine in which the virtues grow. We know that for many ages
governments tried to make men virtuous with dungeon and fagot and
scaffold; that they tried to cure even disease of the mind with
brandings and maimings and lashes on the naked flesh of men and
women—and that kings endeavored to sow the seeds of patriotism—to
plant and nurture them in the hearts of their subjects—with whip and
chain.

In England, only a few years ago, there were hundreds of brave
soldiers and daring sailors whose breasts were covered with honorable
scars—witnesses of wounds received at Trafalgar and Balaklava—while on
the backs of these same soldiers and sailors were the marks of
English whips. These shameless cruelties were committed in the name of
discipline, and were upheld by officers, statesmen and clergymen. The
same is true of nearly all civilized nations. These crimes have been
excused for the reason that our ancestors were, at that time, in fact,
barbarians—that they had no idea of justice, no comprehension of
liberty, no conception of the rights of men, women, and children.

At that time the church was, in most countries, equal to, or superior
to, the state, and was a firm believer in the civilizing influences of
cruelty and torture.

According to the creeds of that day, God intended to torture the wicked
forever, and the church, according to its power, did all that it could
in the same direction. Learning their rights and duties from priests,
fathers not only beat their children, but their wives. In those days
most homes were penitentiaries, in which wives and children were
the convicts and of which husbands and fathers were the wardens and
turnkeys. The king imitated his supposed God, and imprisoned, flogged,
branded, beheaded and burned his enemies, and the husbands and fathers
imitated the king, and guardians and teachers imitated them.

Yet in spite of all the beatings and burnings, the whippings and
hangings, the world was not reformed. Crimes increased, the cheeks
of wives were furrowed with tears, the faces of children white with
fear—fear of their own fathers; pity was almost driven from the heart
of man and found refuge, for the most part, in the breasts of women,
children, and dogs.

In those days, misfortunes were punished as crimes. Honest debtors were
locked in loathsome dungeons, and trivial offences were punished with
death. Worse than all that, thousands of men and women were destroyed,
not because they were vicious, but because they were virtuous, honest
and noble. Extremes beget obstructions. The victims at last became too
numerous, and the result did not seem to justify the means. The good,
the few, protested against the savagery of kings and fathers.

Nothing seems clearer to me than that the world has been gradually
growing better for many years. Men have a clearer conception of rights
and obligations—a higher philosophy—a far nobler ideal. Even kings
admit that they should have some regard for the well-being of their
subjects. Nations and individuals are slowly outgrowing the savagery of
revenge, the desire to kill, and it is generally admitted that criminals
should neither be imprisoned nor tortured for the gratification of the
public. At last we are beginning to know that revenge is a mistake—that
cruelty not only hardens the victim, but makes a criminal of him who
inflicts it, and that mercy guided by intelligence is the highest form
of justice.

The tendency of the world is toward kindness. The religious creeds
are being changed or questioned, because they shock the heart of the
present. All civilized churches, all humane Christians, have given up
the dogma of eternal pain. This infamous doctrine has for many centuries
polluted the imagination and hardened the heart. This coiled viper no
longer inhabits the breast of a civilized man.

In all civilized countries slavery has been abolished, the honest debtor
released, and all are allowed the liberty of speech.

Long ago flogging was abolished in our army and navy and all cruel and
unusual punishments prohibited by law. In many parts of the Republic the
whip has been banished from the public schools, the flogger of children
is held in abhorrence, and the wife-beater is regarded as a cowardly
criminal. The gospel of kindness is not only preached, but practiced.
Such has been the result of this advance of civilization—of this growth
of kindness—of this bursting into blossom of the flower called pity, in
the heart—that we treat our horses (thanks to Henry Bergh) better than
our ancestors did their slaves, their servants or their tenants. The
gentlemen of to-day show more affection for their dogs than most of the
kings of England exhibited toward their wives. The great tide is toward
mercy; the savage creeds are being changed; heartless laws have been
repealed; shackles have been broken; torture abolished, and the keepers
of prisons are no longer allowed to bruise and scar the flesh of
convicts. The insane are treated with kindness—asylums are in the
midst of beautiful grounds, the rooms are filled with flowers, and the
wandering mind is called back by the golden voice of music.

In the midst of these tendencies—of these accomplishments—in the
general harmony between the minds of men, acting together, to the end
that the world may be governed by kindness through education and the
blessed agencies of reformation and prevention, the Dean of St. Paul
raises his voice in favor of the methods and brutalities of the past.

The reverend gentleman takes the ground that the effect of flogging on
the flogged is not degrading; that the effect of corporal punishment is
ennobling; that it tends to make boys manly by ennobling and teaching
them to bear bodily pain with fortitude. To be flogged develops
character, self-reliance, courage, contempt of pain and the highest
heroism. The Dean therefore takes the ground that parents should flog
their children, guardians their wards, and teachers their pupils.

If the Dean is wrong he goes too far, and if he is right he does not go
far enough. He does not advocate the flogging of children who obey their
parents, or of pupils who violate no rule. It follows then that such
children are in great danger of growing up unmanly, without the courage
and fortitude to bear bodily pain. If flogging is really a blessing it
should not be withheld from the good and lavished on the unworthy. The
Dean should have the courage of his convictions. The teacher should not
make a pretext of the misconduct of the pupil to do him a great service.
He should not be guilty of calling a benefit a punishment He should not
deceive the children under his care and develop their better natures
under false pretences. But what is to become of the boys and girls who
"behave themselves," who attend to their studies, and comply with the
rules? They lose the benefits conferred on those who defy their parents
and teachers, reach maturity without character, and so remain withered
and worthless.

The Dean not only defends his position by an appeal to the Bible, the
history of nations, but to his personal experience. In order to show the
good effects of brutality and the bad consequences of kindness, he gives
two instances that came under his observation. The first is that of
an intelligent father who treated his sons with great kindness and
yet these sons neglected their affectionate father in his old age. The
second instance is that of a mother who beat her daughter. The wretched
child, it seems, was sent out to gather sticks from the hedges, and
when she brought home a large stick, the mother suspected that she had
obtained it wrongfully and thereupon proceeded to beat the child. And
yet the Dean tells us that this abused daughter treated the hyena mother
with the greatest kindness, and loved her as no other daughter ever
loved a mother. In order to make this case strong and convincing the
Dean states that this mother was a most excellent Christian.

From these two instances the Dean infers, and by these two instances
proves, that kindness breeds bad sons, and that flogging makes
affectionate daughters. The Dean says to the Christian mother: "If
you wish to be loved by your daughter, you must beat her." And to the
Christian father he says: "If you want to be neglected in your old age
by your sons, you will treat them with kindness." The Dean does not
follow his logic to the end. Let me give him two instances that support
his theory.

A good man married a handsome woman. He was old, rich, kind and
indulgent. He allowed his wife to have her own way. He never uttered a
cross or cruel word. He never thought of beating her. And yet, as the
Dean would say, in consequence of his kindness, she poisoned him, got
his money and married another man.

In this city, not long ago, a man, a foreigner, beat his wife according
to his habit. On this particular occasion the punishment was excessive.
He beat her until she became unconscious; she was taken to a hospital
and the physician said that she could not live. The husband was brought
to the hospital and preparations were made to take her dying statement.
After being told that she was dying, she was asked if her husband had
beaten her. Her face was so bruised and swollen that the lids of her
eyes had to be lifted in order that she might see the wretch who had
killed her. She beckoned him to her side—threw her arms about his
neck—drew his face to hers—kissed him, and said: "He is not the man.
He did not do it"—then—died.

According to the philosophy of the Dean, these instances show that
kindness causes crime, and that wife-beating cultivates in the highest
degree the affectional nature of woman.

The Dean, if consistent, is a believer in slavery, because the lash
judiciously applied brings out the finer feelings of the heart.
Slaves have been known to die for their masters, while under similar
circumstances hired men have sought safety in flight.

We all know of many instances where the abused, the maligned, and the
tortured have returned good for evil—and many instances where
the loved, the honored, and the trusted have turned against their
benefactors, and yet we know that cruelty and torture are not superior
to love and kindness. Yet, the Dean tries to show that severity is the
real mother of affection, and that kindness breeds monsters. If kindness
and affection on the part of parents demoralize children, will not
kindness and affection on the part of children demoralize the parents?

When the children are young and weak, the parents who are strong beat
the children in order that they may be affectionate. Now, when the
children get strong and the parents are old and weak, ought not the
children to beat them, so that they too may become kind and loving?

If you want an affectionate son, beat him. If you desire a loving wife,
beat her.

This is really the advice of the Dean of St Paul. To me it is one of the
most pathetic facts in nature that wives and children love husbands and
fathers who are utterly unworthy. It is enough to sadden a life to
think of the affection that has been lavished upon the brutal, of the
countless pearls that Love has thrown to swine.

The Dean, quoting from Hooker, insists that "the voice of man is as
the sentence of God himself,"—in other words, that the general voice,
practice and opinion of the human race are true.

And yet, cannibalism, slavery, polygamy, the worship of snakes and
stones, the sacrifice of babes, have during vast periods of time been
practiced and upheld by an overwhelming majority of mankind. Whether the
"general voice" can be depended on depends much on the time, the epoch,
during which the "general voice" was uttered. There was a time when the
"general voice" was in accord with the appetite of man; when all nations
were cannibals and lived on each other, and yet it can hardly be said
that this voice and appetite were in exact accord with divine goodness.
It is hardly safe to depend on the "general voice" of savages, no matter
how numerous they may have been. Like most people who defend the cruel
and absurd, the Dean appeals to the Bible as the supreme authority in
the moral world,—and yet if the English Parliament should re-enact the
Mosaic Code every member voting in the affirmative would be subjected
to personal violence, and an effort to enforce that code would produce a
revolution that could end only in the destruction of the government.

The morality of the Old Testament is not always of the purest; when
Jehovah tried to induce Pharaoh to let the Hebrews go, he never took the
ground that slavery was wrong. He did not seek to convince by argument,
to soften by pity, or to persuade by kindness. He depended on miracles
and plagues. He killed helpless babes and the innocent beasts of the
fields. No wonder the Dean appeals to the Bible to justify the beating
of children. So, too, we are told that "all sensible persons, Christian
and otherwise, will admit that there are in every child born into the
world tendencies to evil that need rooting out."

The Dean undoubtedly believes in the creed of the established church,
and yet he does not hesitate to say that a God of infinite goodness and
intelligence never created a child—never allowed one to be born into
the world without planting in its little heart "tendencies to evil that
need rooting out."

So, Solomon is quoted to the effect "that he that spareth his rod hateth
his son." To me it has always been a matter of amazement why civilized
people, living in the century of Darwin and Humboldt, should quote as
authority the words of Solomon, a murderer, an ingrate, an idolater, and
a polygamist—a man so steeped and sodden in ignorance that he really
believed he could be happy with seven hundred wives and three hundred
concubines. The Dean seems to regret that flogging is no longer
practiced in the British navy, and quotes with great cheerfulness a
passage from Deuteronomy to prove that forty lashes on the naked back
will meet with the approval of God. He insists that St. Paul endured
corporal punishment without the feeling of degradation not only, but
that he remembered his sufferings with a sense of satisfaction. Does the
Dean think that the satisfaction of St. Paul justified the wretches who
beat and stoned him? Leaving the Hebrews, the Dean calls the Greeks as
witnesses to establish the beneficence of flogging. They resorted to
corporal punishment in their schools, says the Dean and then naively
remarks "that Plutarch was opposed to this."

The Dean admits that in Rome it was found necessary to limit by law the
punishment that a father might inflict upon his children, and yet he
seems to regret that the legislature interfered. The Dean observes that
"Quintillian severely censured corporal punishment" and then accounts
for the weakness and folly of the censure, by saying that "Quintillian
wrote in the days when the glories of Rome were departed." And then adds
these curiously savage words: "It is worthy of remark that no children
treated their parents with greater tenderness and reverence than did
those of Rome in the days when the father possessed the unlimited power
of punishment."

Not quite satisfied with the strength of his case although sustained by
Moses and Solomon, St. Paul and several schoolmasters, he proceeds
to show that God is thoroughly on his side, not only in theory, but in
practice; "whom the Lord loveth lie chasteneth, and scourgeth every sou
whom he receiveth.".

The Dean asks this question: "Which custom, kindness or severity, does
experience show to be the less dangerous?" And he answers from a new
heart: "I fear that I must unhesitatingly give the palm to severity."

"I have found that there have been more reverence and affection,
more willingness to make sacrifices for parents, more pleasure in
contributing to their pleasure or happiness in that life where the
tendency has been to a severe method of treatment."

Is it possible that any good mail exists who is willing to gain the
affection of his children in that way? How could such a man beat and
bruise the flesh of his babes, knowing that they would give him in
return obedience and love; that they would fill the evening of his
days—the leafless winter of his life—with perfect peace?

Think of being fed and clothed by children you had whipped—whose
flesh you had scarred! Think of feeling in the hour of death upon your
withered lips, your withered cheeks, the kisses and the tears of one
whom, you had beaten—upon whose flesh were still the marks of your
lash!

The whip degrades; a severe father teaches his children to dissemble;
their love is pretence, and their obedience a species of self-defence.
Fear is the father of lies.
---
# Reply to Dr. Lyman Abbott
_Dresden Edition, Volume 6, 1890_
> * This unfinished article was written as a reply to the Rev.
> Lyman Abbott's article entitled, "Flaws in Ingersollism,"
> which was printed in the April number of the North American
> Review for 1890.

IN your Open Letter to me, published in this Review, you attack what
you supposed to be my position, and ask several questions to which
you demand answers; but in the same letter, you state that you wish no
controversy with me. Is it possible that you wrote the letter to prevent
a controversy? Do you attack only those with whom you wish to live in
peace, and do you ask questions, coupled with a request that they remain
unanswered?

In addition to this, you have taken pains to publish in your own paper,
that it was no part of your design in the article in the _North American
Review_, to point out errors in my statements, and that this design
was distinctly disavowed in the opening paragraph of your article. You
further say, that your simple object was to answer the question "What is
Christianity?" May I be permitted to ask why you addressed the letter to
me, and why do you now pretend that, although you did address a letter
to me, I was not in your mind, and that you had no intention of pointing
out any flaws in my doctrines or theories? Can you afford to occupy this
position?

You also stated in your own paper, _The Christian Union_, that the title
of your article had been changed by the editor of the _Review_, without
your knowledge or consent; leaving it to be inferred that the title
given to the article by you was perfectly consistent with your
statement, that it was no part of your design in the article in the
_North American Review_, to point out errors in my (Ingersoll's)
statements; and that your simple object was to answer the question, What
is Christianity? And yet, the title which you gave your own article was
as follows: "To Robert G. Ingersoll: A Reply."

First. We are told that only twelve crimes were punished by
death: idolatry, witchcraft, blasphemy, fraudulent prophesying,
Sabbath-breaking, rebellion against parents, resistance to judicial
officers, murder, homicide by negligence, adultery, incestuous
marriages, and kidnapping. We are then told that as late as the year
1600 there were 263 crimes capital in England.

Does not the world know that all the crimes or offences punishable
by death in England could be divided in the same way? For instance,
treason. This covered a multitude of offences, all punishable by death.
Larceny covered another multitude. Perjury—trespass, covered many
others. There might still be made a smaller division, and one who had
made up his mind to define the Criminal Code of England might have said
that there was only one offence punishable by death—wrong-doing.

The facts with regard to the Criminal Code of England are, that up to
the reign of George I. there were 167 offences punishable by death.
Between the accession of George I. and termination of the reign of
George III., there were added 56 new crimes to which capital punishment
was attached. So that when George IV. became king, there were 223
offences capital in England.

John Bright, commenting upon this subject, says:

"During all these years, so far as this question goes, our Government
was becoming more cruel and more barbarous, and we do not find, and
have not found, that in the great Church of England, with its fifteen
or twenty thousand ministers, and with its more than score of Bishops
in the House of Lords, there ever was a voice raised, or an organization
formed, in favor of a more merciful code, or in condemnation of the
enormous cruelties which our law was continually inflicting. Was not
Voltaire justified in saying that the English were the only people who
murdered by law?"

As a matter of fact, taking into consideration the situation of the
people, the number of subjects covered by law, there were far more
offences capital in the days of Moses, than in the reign of George IV.
Is it possible that a minister, a theologian of the nineteenth century,
imagines that he has substantiated the divine origin of the Old
Testament by endeavoring to show that the government of God was not
quite as bad as that of England?

Mr. Abbott also informs us that the reason Moses killed so many was,
that banishment from the camp during the wandering in the Wilderness was
a punishment worse than death. If so, the poor wretches should at least
have been given their choice. Few, in my judgment, would have chosen
death, because the history shows that a large majority were continually
clamoring to be led back to Egypt. It required all the cunning and power
of God to keep the fugitives from returning in a body. Many were killed
by Jehovah, simply because they wished to leave the camp—because
they longed passionately for banishment, and thought with joy of the
flesh-pots of Egypt, preferring the slavery of Pharaoh to the liberty
of Jehovah. The memory of leeks and onions was enough to set their faces
toward the Nile.

Second. I am charged with saying that the Christian missionaries say to
the heathen: "You must examine your religion—and not only so, but you
must reject it; and unless you do reject it, and in addition to such
rejection, adopt ours, you will be eternally damned." Mr. Abbott denies
the truth of this statement.

Let me ask him, If the religion of Jesus Christ is preached clearly and
distinctly to a heathen, and the heathen understands it, and rejects it
deliberately, unequivocally, and finally, can he be saved?

This question is capable of a direct answer. The reverend gentleman now
admits that an acceptance of Christianity is not essential to salvation.
If the acceptance of Christianity is not essential to the salvation of
the heathen who has heard Christianity preached—knows what its claims
are, and the evidences that support those claims, is the acceptance of
Christianity essential to the salvation of an adult intelligent citizen
of the United States? Will the reverend gentleman tell us, and without
circumlocution, whether the acceptance of Christianity is necessary to
the salvation of anybody? If he says that it is, then he admits that I
was right in my statement concerning what is said to the heathen. If he
says that it is not, then I ask him, What do you do with the following
passages of Scripture: "There is none other name given under heaven or
among men whereby we must be saved."

"Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature, and
whosoever believeth, and is baptized, shall be saved; and whosoever
believeth not shall be damned"?

I am delighted to know that millions of Pagans will be found to have
entered into eternal life without any knowledge of Christ or his
religion.

Another question naturally arises: If a heathen can hear and reject
the Gospel, and yet be saved, what will become of the heathen who never
heard of the Gospel? Are they all to be saved? If all who never heard
are to be saved, is it not dangerous to hear?—Is it not cruel to
preach? Why not stop preaching and let the entire world become heathen,
so that after this, no soul may be lost?

Third. You say that I desire to deprive mankind of their faith in
God, in Christ and in the Bible. I do not, and have not, endeavored to
destroy the faith of any man in a good, in a just, in a merciful God, or
in a reasonable, natural, human Christ, or in any truth that the Bible
may contain. I have endeavored—and with some degree of success—to
destroy the faith of man in the Jehovah of the Jews, and in the idea
that Christ was in fact the God of this universe. I have also endeavored
to show that there are many things in the Bible ignorant and cruel—that
the book was produced by barbarians and by savages, and that its
influence on the world has been bad.

And I do believe that life and property will be safer, that liberty will
be surer, that homes will be sweeter, and life will be more joyous, and
death less terrible, if the myth called Jehovah can be destroyed from
the human mind.

It seems to me that the heart of the Christian ought to burst into an
efflorescence of joy when he becomes satisfied that the Bible is only
the work of man; that there is no such place as perdition—that there
are no eternal flames—that men's souls are not to suffer everlasting
pain—that it is all insanity and ignorance and fear and horror. I
should think that every good and tender soul would be delighted to know
that there is no Christ who can say to any human being—to any father,
mother, or child—"Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire prepared for
the devil and his angels." I do believe that he will be far happier when
the Psalms of David are sung no more, and that he will be far better
when no one could sing the 109th Psalm without shuddering and horror.
These Psalms for the most part breathe the spirit of hatred, of revenge,
and of everything fiendish in the human heart. There are some good
lines, some lofty aspirations—these should be preserved; and to the
extent that they do give voice to the higher and holier emotions, they
should be preserved.

So I believe the world will be happier when the life of Christ, as it is
written now in the New Testament, is no longer believed.

Some of the Ten Commandments will fall into oblivion, and the world will
be far happier when they do. Most of these commandments are universal.
They were not discovered by Jehovah—they were not original with him.

"Thou shalt not kill," is as old as life. And for this reason a large
majority of people in all countries have objected to being murdered.
"Thou shalt not steal," is as old as industry. There never has been a
human being who was willing to work through the sun and rain and heat of
summer, simply for the purpose that some one who had lived in idleness
might steal the result of his labor. Consequently, in all countries
where it has been necessary to work, larceny has been a crime. "Thou
shalt not lie," is as old as speech. Men have desired, as a rule, to
know the truth; and truth goes with courage and candor. "Thou shalt not
commit adultery," is as old as love. "Honor thy father and thy mother,"
is as old as the family relation.

All these commandments were known among all peoples thousands and
thousands of years before Moses was born. The new one, "Thou shalt
worship no other Gods but me," is a bad commandment—because that God
was not worthy of worship. "Thou shalt make no graven image,"—a bad
commandment. It was the death of art. "Thou shalt do no work on the
Sabbath-day,"—a bad commandment; the object of that being, that
one-seventh of the time should be given to the worship of a monster,
making a priesthood necessary, and consequently burdening industry with
the idle and useless.

If Professor Clifford felt lonely at the loss of such a companion as
Jehovah, it is impossible for me to sympathize with his feelings. No one
wishes to destroy the hope of another life—no one wishes to blot out
any good that is, or that is hoped for, or the hope of which gives
consolation to the world. Neither do I agree with this gentleman when
he says, "Let us have the truth, cost what it may." I say: Let us have
happiness—well-being. The truth upon these matters is of but little
importance compared with the happiness of mankind. Whether there is, or
is not, a God, is absolutely unimportant, compared with the well-being
of the race. Whether the Bible is, or is not, inspired, is not of as
much consequence as human happiness.

Of course, if the Old and New Testaments are true, then human happiness
becomes impossible, either in this world, or in the world to come—that
is, impossible to all people who really believe that these books are
true. It is often necessary to know the truth, in order to prepare
ourselves to bear consequences; but in the metaphysical world, truth is
of no possible importance except as it affects human happiness.

If there be a God, he certainly will hold us to no stricter
responsibility about metaphysical truth than about scientific truth.
It ought to be just as dangerous to make a mistake in Geology as in
Theology—in Astronomy as in the question of the Atonement.

I am not endeavoring to overthrow any faith in God, but the faith in a
bad God. And in order to accomplish this, I have endeavored to show that
the question of whether an Infinite God exists, or not, is beyond the
power of the human mind. Anything is better than to believe in the God
of the Bible.

Fourth. Mr. Abbott, like the rest, appeals to names instead of to
arguments. He appeals to Socrates, and yet he does not agree with
Socrates. He appeals to Goethe, and yet Goethe was far from a Christian.
He appeals to Isaac Newton and to Mr. Gladstone—and after mentioning
these names, says, that on his side is this faith of the wisest, the
best, the noblest of mankind.

Was Socrates after all greater than Epicurus—had he a subtler mind—was
he any nobler in his life? Was Isaac Newton so much greater than
Humboldt—than Charles Darwin, who has revolutionized the thought of
the civilized world? Did he do the one-hundredth part of the good for
mankind that was done by Voltaire—was he as great a metaphysician as
Spinoza?

But why should we appeal to names?

In a contest between Protestantism and Catholicism are you willing
to abide by the tests of names? In a contest between Christianity and
Paganism, in the first century, would you have considered the question
settled by names? Had Christianity then produced the equals of the great
Greeks and Romans? The new can always be overwhelmed with names that
were in favor of the old. Sir Isaac Newton, in his day, could have been
overwhelmed by the names of the great who had preceded him. Christ was
overwhelmed by this same method—Moses and the Prophets were appealed
to as against this Peasant of Palestine. This is the argument of
the cemetery—this is leaving the open field, and crawling behind
gravestones.

Newton was understood to be, all his life, a believer in the Trinity;
but he dared not say what his real thought was. After his death there
was found among his papers an argument that he published against the
divinity of Christ. This had been published in Holland, because he was
afraid to have it published in England. How do we really know what the
great men of whom you speak believed, or believe?

I do not agree with you when you say that Gladstone is the greatest
statesman. He will not, in my judgment, for one moment compare with
Thomas Jefferson—with Alexander Hamilton—or, to come down to later
times, with Gambetta; and he is immeasurably below such a man as Abraham
Lincoln. Lincoln was not a believer. Gambetta was an atheist.

And yet, these names prove nothing. Instead of citing a name, and saying
that this great man—Sir Isaac Newton, for instance—believed in our
doctrine, it is far better to give the reasons that Sir Isaac Newton had
for his belief.

Nearly all organizations are filled with snobbishness. Each church has
a list of great names, and the members feel in duty bound to stand by
their great men.

Why is idolatry the worst of sins? Is it not far better to worship a God
of stone than a God who threatens to punish in eternal flames the most
of his children? If you simply mean by idolatry a false conception of
God, you must admit that no finite mind can have a true conception
of God—and you must admit that no two men can have the same false
conception of God, and that, as a consequence, no two men can worship
identically the same Deity. Consequently they are all idolaters.

I do not think idolatry the worst of sins. Cruelty is the worst of
sins. It is far better to worship a false God, than to injure your
neighbor—far better to bow before a monstrosity of stone, than to
enslave your fellow-men.

Fifth. I am glad that you admit that a bad God is worse than no God.
If so, the atheist is far better than the believer in Jehovah, and far
better than the believer in the divinity of Jesus Christ—because I am
perfectly satisfied that none but a bad God would threaten to say to any
human soul, "Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the
devil and his angels." So that, before any Christian can be better than
an atheist, he must reform his God.

The agnostic does not simply say, "I do not know." He goes another step,
and he says, with great emphasis, that you do not know. He insists that
you are trading on the ignorance of others, and on the fear of others.
He is not satisfied with saying that you do not know,—he demonstrates
that you do not know, and he drives you from the field of fact—he
drives you from the realm of reason—he drives you from the light, into
the darkness of conjecture—into the world of dreams and shadows, and he
compels you to say, at last, that your faith has no foundation in fact.

You say that religion tells us that "life is a battle with
temptation—the result is eternal life to the victors."

But what of the victims? Did your God create these victims, knowing
that they would be victims? Did he deliberately change the clay into
the man—into a being with wants, surrounded by difficulties and
temptations—and did he deliberately surround this being with
temptations that he knew he could not withstand, with obstacles that he
knew he could not overcome, and whom he knew at last would fall a victim
upon the field of death? Is there no hope for this victim? No remedy for
this mistake of your God? Is he to remain a victim forever? Is it not
better to have no God than such a God? Could the condition of this
victim be rendered worse by the death of God?

Sixth. Of course I agree with you when you say that character is worth
more than condition—that life is worth more than place. But I do not
agree with you when you say that being—that simple existence—is better
than happiness. If a man is not happy, it is far better not to be. I
utterly dissent from your philosophy of life. From my standpoint, I
do not understand you when you talk about self-denial. I can imagine a
being of such character, that certain things he would do for the one
he loved, would by others be regarded as acts of self-denial, but they
could not be so regarded by him. In these acts of so-called selfdenial,
he would find his highest joy.

This pretence that to do right is to carry a cross, has done an immense
amount of injury to the world. Only those who do wrong carry a cross. To
do wrong is the only possible self-denial.

The pulpit has always been saying that, although the virtuous and good,
the kind, the tender, and the loving, may have a very bad time here,
yet they will have their reward in heaven—having denied themselves the
pleasures of sin, the ecstasies of crime, they will be made happy in
a world hereafter; but that the wicked, who have enjoyed larceny, and
rascality in all its forms, will be punished hereafter.

All this rests upon the idea that man should sacrifice himself, not
for his fellow-men, but for God—that he should do something for
the Almighty—that he should go hungry to increase the happiness of
heaven—that he should make a journey to Our Lady of Loretto, with dried
peas in his shoes; that he should refuse to eat meat on Friday; that he
should say so many prayers before retiring to rest; that he should
do something that he hated to do, in order that he might win the
approbation of the heavenly powers. For my part, I think it much better
to feed the hungry, than to starve yourself.

You ask me, What is Christianity? You then proceed to partially answer
your own question, and you pick out what you consider the best, and call
that Christianity. But you have given only one side, and that side not
all of it good. Why did you not give the other side of Christianity—the
side that talks of eternal flames, of the worm that dieth not—the side
that denounces the investigator and the thinker—the side that promises
an eternal reward for credulity—the side that tells men to take no
thought for the morrow but to trust absolutely in a Divine Providence?

"Within thirty years after the crucifixion of Jesus, faith in his
resurrection had become the inspiration of the church." I ask you, Was
there a resurrection?

What advance has been made in what you are pleased to call the doctrine
of the brotherhood of man, through the instrumentality of the church?
Was there as much dread of God among the Pagans as there has been among
Christians?

I do not believe that the church is a conservator of civilization. It
sells crime on credit. I do not believe it is an educator of good will.
It has caused more war than all other causes. Neither is it a school of
a nobler reverence and faith. The church has not turned the minds of
men toward principles of justice, mercy and truth—it has destroyed the
foundation of justice. It does not minister comfort at the coffin—it
fills the mourners with fear. It has never preached a gospel of "Peace
on Earth"—it has never preached "Good Will toward men."

For my part, I do not agree with you when you say that: "The most
stalwart anti-Romanists can hardly question that with the Roman Catholic
Church abolished by instantaneous decree, its priests banished and its
churches closed, the disaster to American communities would be simply
awful in its proportions, if not irretrievable in its results."

I may agree with you in this, that the most stalwart anti-Romanists
would not wish to have the Roman Catholic Church abolished by tyranny,
and its priests banished, and its churches closed. But if the abolition
of that church could be produced by the development of the human mind;
and if its priests, instead of being banished, should become good and
useful citizens, and were in favor of absolute liberty of mind, then
I say that there would be no disaster, but a very wide and great and
splendid blessing. The church has been the Centaur—not Theseus; the
church has not been Hercules, but the serpent.

So I believe that there is something far nobler than loyalty to any
particular man. Loyalty to the truth as we perceive it—loyalty to our
duty as we know it—loyalty to the ideals of our brain and heart—is,
to my mind, far greater and far nobler than loyalty to the life of
any particular man or God. There is a kind of slavery—a kind of
abdication—for any man to take any other man as his absolute pattern
and to hold him up as the perfection of all life, and to feel that it
is his duty to grovel in the dust in his presence. It is better to feel
that the springs of action are within yourself—that you are poised upon
your own feet—and that you look at the world with your own eyes, and
follow the path that reason shows.

I do not believe that the world could be re-organized upon the simple
but radical principles of the Sermon on the Mount. Neither do I believe
that this sermon was ever delivered by one man. It has in it many
fragments that I imagine were dropped from many mouths. It lacks
coherence—it lacks form. Some of the sayings are beautiful, sublime and
tender; and others seem to be weak, contradictory and childish.

Seventh. I do not say that I do not know whether this faith is true, or
not. I say distinctly and clearly, that I know it is not true. I admit
that I do not know whether there is any infinite personality or
not, because I do not know that my mind is an absolute standard. But
according to my mind, there is no such personality; and according to
my mind, it is an infinite absurdity to suppose that there is such an
infinite personality. But I do know something of human nature; I do know
a little of the history of mankind; and I know enough to know that what
is known as the Christian faith, is not true. I am perfectly satisfied,
beyond all doubt and beyond all per-adventure, that all miracles are
falsehoods. I know as well as I know that I live—that others live—that
what you call your faith, is not true.

I am glad, however, that you admit that the miracles of the Old
Testament, or the inspiration of the Old Testament, are not essentials.
I draw my conclusion from what you say: "I have not in this paper
discussed the miracles, or the inspiration of the Old Testament; partly
because those topics, in my opinion, occupy a subordinate position in
Christian faith, and I wish to consider only essentials." At the same
time, you tell us that, "On historical evidence, and after a careful
study of the arguments on both sides, I regard as historical the events
narrated in the four Gospels, ordinarily regarded as miracles." At the
same time, you say that you fully agree with me that the order of nature
has never been violated or interrupted. In other words, you must believe
that all these so-called miracles were actually in accordance with the
laws, or facts rather, in nature.

Eighth. You wonder that I could write the following: "To me there is
nothing of any particular value in the Pentateuch. There is not, so
far as I know, a line in the Book of Genesis calculated to make a human
being better." You then call my attention to "The magnificent Psalm of
Praise to the Creator with which Genesis opens; to the beautiful legend
of the first sin and its fateful consequences; the inspiring story of
Abraham—the first selfexile for conscience sake; the romantic story
of Joseph the Peasant boy becoming a Prince," which you say "would have
attraction for any one if he could have found a charm in, for example,
the Legends of the Round Table."

The "magnificent Psalm of Praise to the Creator with which Genesis
opens" is filled with magnificent mistakes, and is utterly absurd.
"The beautiful legend of the first sin and its fateful consequences"
is probably the most contemptible story that was ever written, and the
treatment of the first pair by Jehovah is unparalleled in the cruelty of
despotic governments. According to this infamous account, God cursed the
mothers of the world, and added to the agonies of maternity. Not only
so, but he made woman a slave, and man something, if possible, meaner—a
master.

I must confess that I have very little admiration for Abraham. (Give
reasons.)

So far as Joseph is concerned, let me give you the history of
Joseph,—how he conspired with Pharaoh to enslave the people of Egypt.

You seem to be astonished that I am not in love with the character of
Joseph, as pictured in the Bible. Let me tell you who Joseph was.

It seems, from the account, that Pharaoh had a dream. None of his wise
men could give its meaning. He applied to Joseph, and Joseph, having
been enlightened by Jehovah, gave the meaning of the dream to Pharaoh.
He told the king that there would be in Egypt seven years of great
plenty, and after these seven years of great plenty, there would be
seven years of famine, and that the famine would consume the land.
Thereupon Joseph gave to Pharaoh some advice. First, he was to take up a
fifth part of the land of Egypt, in the seven plenteous years—he was to
gather all the food of those good years, and lay up corn, and he was to
keep this food in the cities. This food was to be a store to the land
against the seven years of famine. And thereupon Pharaoh said unto
Joseph, "Forasmuch as God hath showed thee all this, there is none
so discreet and wise as thou art: thou shalt be over my house, and
according unto thy word shall all my people be ruled: only in the throne
will I be greater than thou. And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, See I have
set thee over all the land of Egypt."

We are further informed by the holy writer, that in the seven plenteous
years the earth brought forth by handfuls, and that Joseph gathered up
all the food of the seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and
laid up the food in the cities, and that he gathered corn as the sand of
the sea. This was done through the seven plenteous years. Then commenced
the years of dearth. Then the people of Egypt became hungry, and they
cried to Pharaoh for bread, and Pharaoh said unto all the Egyptians, Go
unto Joseph. The famine was over all the face of the earth, and Joseph
opened the storehouses, and sold unto the Egyptians, and the famine
waxed sore in the land of Egypt. There was no bread in the land, and
Egypt fainted by reason of the famine. And Joseph gathered up all the
money that was found in the land of Egypt, by the sale of corn, and
brought the money to Pharaoh's house. After a time the money failed in
the land of Egypt, and the Egyptians came unto Joseph and said, "Give
us bread; why should we die in thy presence? for the money faileth." And
Joseph said, "Give your cattle, and I will give you for your cattle."
And they brought their cattle unto Joseph, and he gave them bread in
exchange for horses and flocks and herds, and he fed them with bread for
all their cattle for that year. When the year was ended, they came unto
him the second year, and said, "Our money is spent, our cattle are gone,
naught is left but our bodies and our lands." And they said to Joseph,
"Buy us, and our land, for bread, and we and our land will be servants
unto Pharaoh; and give us seed that we may live and not die, that the
land be not desolate." And Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for
Pharaoh; for the Egyptians sold every man his field, because the famine
prevailed over them. So the land became Pharaoh's. Then Joseph said to
the people, "I have bought you this day, and your land; lo, here is
seed for you, and ye shall sow the land." And thereupon the people said,
"Thou hast saved our lives; we will be Pharaoh's servants." "And Joseph
made it a law over the land of Egypt unto this day, that Pharaoh should
have the fifth part, _except the land of the priests only, which became
not Pharaoh's_."

Yet I am asked, by a minister of the nineteenth century, whether it is
possible that I do not admire the character of Joseph. This man received
information from God—and gave that information to Pharaoh, to the end
that he might impoverish and enslave a nation. This man, by means of
intelligence received from Jehovah, took from the people what they had,
and compelled them at last to sell themselves, their wives and their
children, and to become in fact bondmen forever. Yet I am asked by the
successor of Henry Ward Beecher, if I do not admire the infamous wretch
who was guilty of the greatest crime recorded in the literature of the
world.

So, it is difficult for me to understand why you speak of Abraham as "a
self-exile for conscience sake." If the king of England had told one of
his favorites that if he would go to North America he would give him
a territory hundreds of miles square, and would defend him in its
possession, and that he there might build up an empire, and the favorite
believed the king, and went, would you call him "a self-exile for
conscience sake"?

According to the story in the Bible, the Lord promised Abraham that if
he would leave his country and kindred, he would make of him a great
nation, would bless him, and make his name great, that he would bless
them that blessed Abraham, and that he would curse him whom Abraham
cursed; and further, that in him all the families of the earth should
be blest. If this is true, would you call Abraham "a self-exile for
conscience sake"? If Abraham had only known that the Lord was not to
keep his promise, he probably would have remained where he was—the fact
being, that every promise made by the Lord to Abraham, was broken.

Do you think that Abraham was "a self-exile for conscience sake" when he
told Sarah, his wife, to say that she was his sister—in consequence of
which she was taken into Pharaoh's house, and by reason of which Pharaoh
made presents of sheep and oxen and man servants and maid servants to
Abraham? What would you call such a proceeding now? What would you think
of a man who was willing that his wife should become the mistress of the
king, provided the king would make him presents?

Was it for conscience sake that the same subterfuge was adopted again,
when Abraham said to Abimelech, the King of Gerar, She is my sister—in
consequence of which Abimelech sent for Sarah and took her?

Mr. Ingersoll having been called to Montana, as counsel in a long and
important law suit, never finished this article.
---
# Rome or Reason
_Dresden Edition, Volume 6, 1888_
The Gladstone-Ingersoll Controversy.

THE CHURCH ITS OWN WITNESS, By Cardinal Manning.

THE Vatican Council, in its Decree on Faith has these words: "The
Church itself, by its marvelous propagation, its eminent sanctity, its
inexhaustible fruitfulness in all good things, its catholic unity and
invincible stability, is a vast and perpetual motive of credibility, and
an irrefragable witness of its own Divine legation."* Its Divine Founder
said: "I am the light of the world;" and, to His Apostles, He said also,
"Ye are the light of the world," and of His Church He added, "A city
seated on a hill cannot be hid." The Vatican Council says, "The Church
is its own witness." My purpose is to draw out this assertion more
fully.

> * "Const. Dogm. de Fide Catholica, c. iii.

These words affirm that the Church is self-evident, as light is to the
eye, and through sense, to the intellect. Next to the sun at noonday,
there is nothing in the world more manifest than the one visible
Universal Church. Both the faith and the infidelity of the world bear
witness to it. It is loved and hated, trusted and feared, served and
assaulted, honored and blasphemed: it is Christ or Antichrist, the
Kingdom of God or the imposture of Satan. It pervades the civilized
world. No man and no nation can ignore it, none can be indifferent to
it. Why is all this? How is its existence to be accounted for?

Let me suppose that I am an unbeliever in Christianity, and that some
friend should make me promise to examine the evidence to show that
Christianity is a Divine revelation; I should then sift and test the
evidence as strictly as if it were in a court of law, and in a cause of
life and death; my will would be in suspense: it would in no way
control the process of my intellect. If it had any inclination from the
equilibrium, it would be towards mercy and hope; but this would not
add a feather's weight to the evidence, nor sway the intellect a hair's
breadth.

After the examination has been completed, and my intellect convinced,
the evidence being sufficient to prove that Christianity is a divine
revelation, nevertheless I am not yet a Christian. All this sifting
brings me to the conclusion of a chain of reasoning; but I am not yet
a believer. The last act of reason has brought me to the brink of the
first act of faith. They are generically distinct and separable. The
acts of reason are intellectual, and jealous of the interference of the
will. The act of faith is an imperative act of the will, founded on and
justified by the process and conviction of the intellect. Hitherto I
have been a critic: henceforward, if I will, I become a disciple.

It may here be objected that no man can so far suspend the inclination
of the will when the question is, has God indeed spoken to man or no? is
the revealed law of purity, generosity, perfection, divine, or only the
poetry of imagination? Can a man be indifferent between two such sides
of the problem? Will he not desire the higher and better side to be
true? and if he desire, will he not incline to the side that he desires
to find true? Can a moral being be absolutely indifferent between two
such issues? and can two such issues be equally attractive to a moral
agent? Can it be indifferent and all the same to us whether God has
made Himself and His will known to us or not? Is there no attraction
in light, no repulsion in darkness? Does not the intrinsic and eternal
distinction of good and evil make itself felt in spite of the will?
Are we not responsible to "receive the truth in the love of it?"
Nevertheless, evidence has its own limits and quantities, and cannot be
made more or less by any act of the will. And yet, what is good or bad,
high or mean, lovely or hateful, ennobling or degrading, must attract
or repel men as they are better or worse in their moral sense; for an
equilibrium between good and evil, to God or to man, is impossible.

The last act of my reason, then, is distinct from my first act of
faith precisely in this: so long as I was uncertain I suspended the
inclination of my will, as an act of fidelity to conscience and of
loyalty to truth; but the process once complete, and the conviction once
attained, my will imperatively constrains me to believe, and I become a
disciple of a Divine revelation.

My friend next tells me that there are Christian Scriptures, and I go
through precisely the same process of critical examination and final
conviction, the last act of reasoning preceding, as before, the first
act of faith.

He then tells me that there is a Church claiming to be divinely founded,
divinely guarded, and divinely guided in its custody of Christianity and
of the Christian Scriptures.

Once more I have the same twofold process of reasoning and of believing
to go through.

There is, however, this difference in the subject-matter: Christianity
is an order of supernatural truth appealing intellectually to my reason;
the Christian Scriptures are voiceless, and need a witness. They
cannot prove their own mission, much less their own authenticity or
inspiration. But the Church is visible to the eye, audible to the ear,
self-manifesting and self-asserting: I cannot escape from it. If I go to
the east, it is there; if I go to the west, it is there also. If I stay
at home, it is before me, seated on the hill; if I turn away from it, I
am surrounded by its light. It pursues me and calls to me. I cannot deny
its existence; I cannot be indifferent to it; I must either listen to
it or willfully stop my ears; I must heed it or defy it, love it or
hate it. But my first attitude towards it is to try it with forensic
strictness, neither pronouncing it to be Christ nor Antichrist till I
have tested its origin, claim, and character. Let us take down the case
in short-hand.

1. It says that it interpenetrates all the nations of the civilized
world. In some it holds the whole nation in its unity, in others it
holds fewer; but in all it is present, visible, audible, naturalized,
and known as the one Catholic Church, a name that none can appropriate.
Though often claimed and controversially assumed, none can retain it; it
falls off. The world knows only one Catholic Church, and always restores
the name to the right owner.

2. It is not a national body, but extra-national, accused of its foreign
relations and foreign dependence. It is international, and independent
in a supernational unity.

3. In faith, divine worship, sacred ceremonial, discipline, government,
from the highest to the lowest, it is the same in every place.

4. It speaks all languages in the civilized world.

5. It is obedient to one Head, outside of all nations, except one only;
and in that nation, his headship is not national but world-wide.

6. The world-wide sympathy of the Church in all lands with its Head has
been manifested in our days, and before our eyes, by a series of public
assemblages in Rome, of which nothing like or second to it can be
found. In 1854, 350 Bishops of all nations surrounded their Head when he
defined the Immaculate Conception. In 1862, 400 Bishops assembled at the
canonization of the Martyrs of Japan. In 1867, 500 Bishops came to keep
the eighteenth centenary of St. Peter's martyrdom. In 1870, 700 Bishops
assembled in the Vatican Council. On the Feast of the Epiphany, 1870,
the Bishops of thirty nations during two whole hours made profession of
faith in their own languages, kneeling before their head. Add to this,
that in 1869, in the sacerdotal jubilee of Pius IX., Rome was filled for
months by pilgrims from all lands in Europe and beyond the sea, from the
Old World and from the New, bearing all manner of gifts and oblations
to the Head of the Universal Church. To this, again, must be added the
world-wide outcry and protest of all the Catholic unity against the
seizure and sacrilege of September, 1870, when Rome was taken by the
Italian Revolution.

7. All this came to pass not only by reason of the great love of
the Catholic world for Pius IX., but because they revered him as the
successor of St. Peter and the Vicar of Jesus Christ. For that undying
reason the same events have been reproduced in the time of Leo XIII. In
the early months of this year Rome was once more filled with pilgrims of
all nations, coming in thousands as representatives of millions in all
nations, to celebrate the sacerdotal jubilee of the Sovereign Pontiff.
The courts of the Vatican could not find room for the multitude of gifts
and offerings of every kind which were sent from all quarters of the
world.

8. These things are here said, not because of any other importance,
but because they set forth in the most visible and self-evident way the
living unity and the luminous universality of the One Catholic and Roman
Church.

9. What has thus far been said is before our eyes at this hour. It is no
appeal to history, but to a visible and palpable fact. Men may explain
it as they will; deny it, they cannot. They see the Head of the Church
year by year speaking to the nations of the world; treating with
Empires, Republics and Governments. There is no other man on earth that
can so bear himself. Neither from Canterbury nor from Constantinople can
such a voice go forth to which rulers and people listen.

This is the century of revolutions. Rome has in our time been besieged
three times; three Popes have been driven out of it, two have been shut
up in the Vatican. The city is now full of the Revolution. The whole
Church has been tormented by Falck laws, Mancini laws, and Crispi laws.
An unbeliever in Germany said some years ago, "The net is now drawn so
tight about the Church, that if it escapes this time I will believe in
it." Whether he believes, or is even alive now to believe, I cannot say.

Nothing thus far has been said as proof. The visible, palpable
facts, which are at this moment before the eyes of all men, speak for
themselves. There is one, and only one, worldwide unity of which
these things can be said. It is a fact and a phenomenon for which an
intelligible account must be rendered. If it be only a human system
built up by the intellect, will and energy of men, let the adversaries
prove it. The burden is upon them; and they will have more to do as we
go on.

Thus far we have rested upon the evidence of sense and fact. We must now
go on to history and reason.

Every religion and every religious body known to history has varied
from itself and broken up. Brahminism has given birth to Buddhism;
Mahometanism is parted into the Arabian and European Khalifates;
the Greek schism into the Russian, Constantinopolitan, and Bulgarian
autocephalous fragment; Protestaritism into its multitudinous
diversities. All have departed from their original type, and all
are continually developing new and irreconcilable, intellectual and
ritualistic, diversities and repulsions. How is it that, with all
diversities of language, civilization, race, interest, and conditions,
social and political, including persecution and warfare, the Catholic
nations are at this day, even when in warfare, in unchanged unity of
faith, communion, worship and spiritual sympathy with each other and
with their Head? This needs a rational explanation.

It may be said in answer, endless divisions have come out of the Church,
from Arius to Photius, and from Photius to Luther.

Yes, but they all came out. There is the difference. They did not remain
in the Church, corrupting the faith. They came out, and ceased to belong
to the Catholic unity, as a branch broken from a tree ceases to belong
to the tree. But the identity of the tree remains the same. A branch is
not a tree, nor a tree a branch. A tree may lose branches, but it rests
upon its root, and renews its loss. Not so the religions, so to call
them, that have broken away from unity. Not one has retained its members
or its doctrines. Once separated from the sustaining unity of the
Church, all separations lose their spiritual cohesion, and then their
intellectual identity. _Ramus procisus arescit_.

For the present it is enough to say that no human legislation, authority
or constraint can ever create internal unity of intellect and will; and
that the diversities and contradictions generated by all human systems
prove the absence of Divine authority. Variations or contradictions are
proof of the absence of a Divine mission to mankind. All natural causes
run to disintegration. Therefore, they can render no account of the
world-wide unity of the One Universal Church.

Such, then, are the facts before our eyes at this day. We will seek out
the origin of the body or system called the Catholic Church, and pass at
once to its outset eighteen hundred years ago.

I affirm, then, three things: (1) First, that no adequate account can be
given of this undeniable fact from natural causes; (2) that the history
of the Catholic Church demands causes above nature; and (3) that it has
always claimed for itself a Divine origin and Divine authority.

I. And, first, before we examine what it was and what it has done, we
will recall to mind what was the world in the midst of which it arose.

The most comprehensive and complete description of the old world, before
Christianity came in upon it, is given in the first chapter of the
Epistle to the Romans. Mankind had once the knowledge of God: that
knowledge was obscured by the passions of sense; in the darkness of the
human intellect, with the light of nature still before them, the nations
worshiped the creature—that is, by pantheism, polytheism, idolatry;
and, having lost the knowledge of God and of His perfections, they lost
the knowledge of their own nature and of its laws, even of the natural
and rational laws, which thenceforward ceased to guide, restrain, or
govern them. They became perverted and inverted with every possible
abuse, defeating the end and destroying the powers of creation. The
lights of nature were put out, and the world rushed headlong into
confusions, of which the beasts that perish were innocent. This is
analytically the history of all nations but one. A line of light still
shone from Adam to Enoch, from Enoch to Abraham, to whom the command was
given, "Walk before Me and be perfect." And it ran on from Abraham
to Caiaphas, who crucified the founder of Christianity. Through all
anthropomorphisms of thought and language this line of light still
passed inviolate and inviolable. But in the world, on either side of
that radiant stream, the whole earth was dark. The intellectual and
moral state of the Greek world may be measured in its highest excellence
in Athens; and of the Roman world in Rome. The 'state of Athens—its
private, domestic, and public morality—may be seen in Aristophanes.

The state of Rome is visible in Juvenal, and in the fourth book of St.
Augustine's "City of God." There was only one evil wanting-. The world
was not Atheist. Its polytheism was the example and the warrant of all
forms of moral abominations. Imitary quod colis plunged the nations
in crime. Their theology was their degradation; their text-book of an
elaborate corruption of intellect and will.

Christianity came in "the fullness of time." What that fullness may
mean, is one of the mysteries of times and seasons which it is not for
us to know. But one motive for the long delay of four thousand years
is not far to seek. It gave time, full and ample, for the utmost
development and consolidation of all the falsehood and evil of which the
intellect and will of man are capable. The four great empires were each
of them the concentration of a supreme effort of human power. The second
inherited from the first, the third from both, the fourth from all
three. It was, as it was foretold or described, as a beast, "exceeding
terrible; his teeth and claws were of iron; he devoured and broke in
pieces; and the rest he stamped upon with his feet." * The empire of
man over man was never so widespread, so absolute, so hardened into one
organized mass, as in Imperial Rome. The world had never seen a military
power so disciplined, irresistible, invincible; a legislation so just,
so equitable, so strong in its execution; a government so universal,
so local, so minute. It seemed to be imperishable. Rome was called
the eternal. The religions of all nations were enshrined in Dea Roma;
adopted, practiced openly, and taught. They were all _religiones
licitae_, known to the law; not tolerated only, but recognized. The
theologies of Egypt, Greece, and of the Latin world, met in an empyreum,
consecrated and guarded by the Imperial law, and administered by the
Pontifex Maximus. No fanaticism ever surpassed the religious cruelties
of Rome.. Add to all this the colluvies of false philosophies of every
land, and of every date. They both blinded and hardened the intellect
of public opinion and of private men against the invasion of anything
except contempt, and hatred of both the philosophy of sophists and of
the religion of the people. Add to all this the sensuality of the most
refined and of the grossest luxury the world had ever seen, and a moral
confusion and corruption which violated every law of nature.

> * Daniel, vii. 19.

The god of this world had built his city. From foundation to parapet,
everything that the skill and power of man could do had been done
without stint of means or limit of will. The Divine hand was stayed, or
rather, as St. Augustine says, an unsurpassed natural greatness was the
reward of certain natural virtues, degraded as they were in unnatural
abominations. Rome was the climax of the power of man without God, the
apotheosis of the human will, the direct and supreme antagonist of God
in His own world. In this the fullness of time was come. Man built all
this for himself. Certainly, man could not also build the City of God.
They are not the work of one and the same architect, who capriciously
chose to build first the city of confusion, suspending for a time his
skill and power to build some day the City of God. Such a hypothesis is
folly. Of two things, one. Disputers must choose one or the other.
Both cannot be asserted, and the assertion needs no answer—it refutes
itself. So much for the first point.

II. In the reign of Augustus, and in a remote and powerless Oriental
race, a Child was born in a stable of a poor Mother. For thirty years He
lived a hidden life; for three years He preached the Kingdom of God, and
gave laws hitherto unknown to men. He died in ignominy upon the Cross;
on the third day He rose again; and after forty days He was seen no
more. This unknown Man created the world-wide unity of intellect and
will which is visible to the eye, and audible, in all languages, to the
ear. It is in harmony with the reason and moral nature of all nations,
in all ages, to this day. What proportion is there between the cause
and the effect? What power was there in this isolated Man? What unseen
virtues went out of Him to change the world? For change the world He
did; and that not in the line or on the level of nature as men had
corrupted it, but in direct contradiction to all that was then supreme
in the world. He taught the dependence of the intellect against
its self-trust, the submission of the will against its license,
the subjugation of the passions by temperate control or by absolute
subjection against their willful indulgence. This was to reverse what
men believed to be the laws of nature: to make water climb upward and
fire to point downward. He taught mortification of the lusts of the
flesh, contempt of the lusts of the eyes, and hatred of the pride of
life. What hope was there that such a teacher should convert imperial
Rome? that such a doctrine should exorcise the fullness of human pride
and lust? Yet so it has come to pass; and how? Twelve men more obscure
than Himself, absolutely without authority or influence of this world,
preached throughout the empire and beyond it. They asserted two facts:
the one, that God had been made man; the other, that He died and
rose again. What could be more incredible? To the Jews the unity and
spirituality of God were axioms of reason and faith; to the Gentiles,
however cultured, the resurrection of the flesh was impossible. The
Divine Person Who had died and risen could not be called in evidence as
the chief witness. He could not be produced in court. Could anything be
more suspicious if credible, or less credible even if He were there to
say so? All that they could do was to say, "We knew Him for three years,
both before His death and after He rose from the dead. If you will
believe us, you will believe what we say. If you will not believe us,
we can say no more. He is not here, but in heaven. We cannot call him
down." It is true, as we read, that Peter cured a lame man at the gate
of the Temple. The Pharisees could not deny it, but they would not
believe what Peter said; they only told him to hold his tongue. And yet
thousands in one day in Jerusalem believed in the Incarnation and the
Resurrection; and when the Apostles were scattered by persecution,
wherever they went men believed their word. The most intense persecution
was from the Jews, the people of faith and of Divine traditions. In
the name of God and of religion they stoned Stephen, and sent Saul to
persecute at Damascus. More than this, they stirred up the Romans in
every place. As they had forced Pilate to crucify Jesus of Nazareth, so
they swore to slay Paul. And yet, in spite of all, the faith spread.

It is true, indeed, that the Empire of Alexander, the spread of the
Hellenistic Greek, the prevalence of Greek in Rome itself, the Roman
roads which made the Empire traversable, the Roman peace which sheltered
the preachers of the faith in the outset of their work, gave them
facilities to travel and to be understood. But these were only external
facilities, which in no way rendered more credible or more acceptable
the voice of penance and mortification, or the mysteries of the faith,
which was immutably "to the Jews a stumbling-block and to the Greeks
foolishness." It was in changeless opposition to nature as man had
marred it; but it was in absolute harmony with nature as God had made
it to His own likeness. Its power was its persuasiveness; and its
persuasiveness was in its conformity to the highest and noblest
aspirations and aims of the soul in man. The master-key so long lost
was found at last; and its conformity to the wards of the lock was its
irrefragable witness to its own mission and message.

But if it is beyond belief that Christianity in its outset made good
its foothold by merely human causes and powers, how much more does this
become incredible in every age as we come down from the first century to
the nineteenth, and from the Apostolic mission to the world-wide Church,
Catholic and Roman, at this day.

Not only did the world in the fullness of its power give to the
Christian faith no help to root or to spread itself, but it wreaked all
the fullness of its power upon it to uproot and to destroy it, Of the
first thirty Pontiffs in Rome, twenty-nine were martyred. Ten successive
persecutions, or rather one universal and continuous persecution of two
hundred years, with ten more bitter excesses of enmity in every province
of the Empire, did all that man can do to extinguish the Christian name.
The Christian name may be blotted out here and there in blood, but the
Christian faith can nowhere be slain. It is inscrutable, and beyond the
reach of man. In nothing is the blood of the martyrs more surely the
seed of the faith. Every martyrdom was a witness to the faith, and the
ten persecutions were the sealing of the work of the twelve Apostles.
The destroyer defeated himself. Christ crucified was visibly set forth
before all the nations, the world was a Calvary, and the blood of the
martyrs preached in every tongue the Passion of Jesus Christ. The world
did its worst, and ceased only for weariness and conscious defeat.

Then came the peace, and with peace the peril of the Church. The
world outside had failed; the world inside began to work. It no longer
destroyed life; it perverted the intellect, and, through intellectual
perversion, assailed the faith at its centre, The Angel of light
preached heresy. The Baptismal Creed was assailed all along the line;
Gnosticism assailed the Father-and Creator of all things; Arianism,
the God-head of the Son; Nestorianism, the unity of His person;
Monophysites, the two natures; Monothelites, the divine and human wills;
Macedonians, the person of the Holy Ghost So throughout the centuries,
from Nicaea to the Vatican, every article has been in succession
perverted by heresy and defined by the Church. But of this we shall
speak hereafter. If the human intellect could fasten its perversions
on the Chris tian faith, it would have done so long ago; and if the
Christian faith had been guarded by no more than human intellect, it
would long ago have been disintegrated, as we see in every religion
outside the unity of the one Catholic Church. There is no example in
which fragmentary Christianities have not departed from their original
type. No human system is immutable; no thing human is changeless.
The human intellect, therefore, can give no sufficient account of the
identity of the Catholic faith in all places and in all ages by any
of its own natural processes or powers. The force of this argument is
immensely increased when we trace the tradition of the faith through the
nineteen OEcumenical Councils which, with one continuous intelligence,
have guarded and unfolded the deposit of faith, defining every truth
as it has been successively assailed, in absolute harmony and unity of
progression.

What the Senate is to your great Republic, or the Parliament to our
English monarchy, such are the nineteen Councils of the Church, with
this only difference: the secular Legislatures must meet year by year
with short recesses; Councils have met on the average once in a century.
The reason of this is that the mutabilities of national life, which are
as the water-floods, need constant remedies; the stability of the Church
seldom needs new legislation. The faith needs no definition except in
rare intervals of periodical intellectual disorder. The discipline
of the Church reigns by an universal common law which seldom needs a
change, and by local laws which are provided on the spot. Nevertheless,
the legislation of the Church, the _Corpus Juris_, or _Canon Law_, is
a creation of wisdom and justice, to which no Statutes at large or
Imperial pandects can bear comparison. Human intellect has reached its
climax in jurisprudence, but the world-wide and secular legislation
of the Church has a higher character. How the Christian law corrected,
elevated, and completed the Imperial law, may be seen in a learned and
able work by an American author, far from the Catholic faith, but in the
main just and accurate in his facts and arguments—the _Gesta Christi_
of Charles Loring Brace. Water cannot rise above its source, and if the
Church by mere human wisdom corrected and perfected the Imperial law,
its source must be higher than the sources of the world. This makes a
heavy demand on our credulity.

Starting from St. Peter to Leo XIII., there have been some 258
Pontiffs claiming to be, and recognized by the whole Catholic unity as,
successors of St. Peter and Vicars of Jesus Christ. To them has been
rendered in every age not only the external obedience of outward
submission, but the internal obedience of faith. They have borne the
onset of the nations who destroyed Imperial Rome, and the tyranny of
heretical Emperors of Byzantium; and, worse than this, the alternate
despotism and patronage of the Emperors of the West, and the
substraction of obedience in the great Western schisms, when the unity
of the Church and the authority of its Head were, as men thought, gone
for ever. It was the last assault—the forlorn hope of the gates of
hell. Every art of destruction had been tried: martyrdom, heresy,
secularity, schism; at last, two, and three, and four claimants, or, as
the world says, rival Popes, were set up, that men might believe that
St. Peter had no longer a successor, and our Lord no Vicar, upon earth;
for, though all might be illegitimate, only one could be the lawful and
true Head of the Church. Was it only by the human power of man that the
unity, external and internal, which for fourteen hundred years had been
supreme, was once more restored in the Council of Constance, never to be
broken again? The succession of the English monarchy has been, indeed,
often broken, and always restored, in these thousand years. But here
is a monarchy of eighteen hundred years, powerless in worldly force or
support, claiming and receiving not only outward allegiance, but inward
unity of intellect and will. If any man tell us that these two phenomena
are on the same level of merely human causes, it is too severe a tax
upon our natural reason to believe it.

But the inadequacy of human causes to account for the universality,
unity, and immutability of the Catholic Church, will stand out more
visibly if we look at the intellectual and moral revolution which
Christianity has wrought in the world and upon mankind.

The first effect of Christianity was to fill the world with the true
knowledge of the One True God, and to destroy utterly all idols, not
by fire but by light. Before the Light of the world no false god and no
polytheism could stand. The unity and spirituality of God swept away all
theogonies and theologies of the first four thousand years. The stream
of light which descended from the beginning expanded into a radiance,
and the radiance into a flood, which illuminated all nations, as it had
been foretold, "The earth is filled with the knowledge of the Lord,
as the covering waters of the sea;" "And idols shall be utterly
destroyed."* In this true knowledge of the Divine Nature was revealed to
men their own relation to a Creator as of sons to a father. The Greeks
called the chief of the gods _Zeus Pater_, and the Latins _Jupiter_; but
neither realized the dependence and love of sonship as revealed by the
Founder of Christianity.

> * Isaias, xi. 9-11, 18.

The monotheism of the world comes down from a primeval and Divine
source. Polytheism is the corruption of men and of nations. Yet in
the multiplicity of all polytheisms, ont supreme Deity was always
recognized. The Divine unity was imperishable. Polytheism is of human
imagination: it is of men's manufacture. The deification of nature and
passions and heroes had filled the world with an elaborate and tenacious
superstition, surrounded by reverence, fear, religion, and awe.
Every perversion of what is good in man surrounded it with authority;
everything that is evil in man guarded it with jealous care. Against
this world-wide and imperious demon-ology the science of one God, all
holy and supreme, advanced with resistless force. Beelzebub is not
divided against himself; and if polytheism is not Divine, monotheism
must be. The overthrow of idolatry and demonology was the mastery of
forces that are above nature. This conclusion is enough for our present
purpose.

A second visible effect of Christianity of which nature cannot offer
any adequate cause is to be found in the domestic life of the Christian
world. In some nations the existence of marriage was not so much as
recognized. In others, if recognized, it was dishonored by profuse
concubinage. Even in Israel, the most advanced nation, the law of
divorce was permitted for the hardness of their hearts. Christianity
republished the primitive law by which marriage unites only one man and
one woman indissolubly in a perpetual contract. It raised their mutual
and perpetual contract to a sacrament. This at one blow condemned all
other relations between man and woman, all the legal gradations of
the Imperial law, and all forms and pleas of divorce. Beyond this the
spiritual legislation of the Church framed most elaborate tables of
consanguinity and affinity, prohibiting all marriages between persons in
certain degrees of kinship or relation. This law has created the purity
and peace of domestic life. Neither the Greek nor the Roman world
had any true conception of a home. The _Eoria_ or Vesta was a sacred
tradition guarded by vestals like a temple worship. It was not a law
and a power in the homes of the people. Christianity, by enlarging the
circles of prohibition within which men and women were as brothers and
sisters, has created the home with all its purities and safeguards.

Such a law of unity and indissolubility, encompassed by a multitude of
prohibitions, no mere human legislation could impose on the the passions
and will of mankind. And yet the Imperial laws gradually yielded to its
resistless pressure, and incorporated it in its world-wide legislation.
The passions and practices of four thousand years were against the
change; yet it was accomplished, and it reigns inviolate to this day,
though the relaxations of schism in the East and the laxities of the
West have revived the abuse of divorces, and have partially abolished
the wise and salutary prohibitions which guard the homes of the
faithful. These relaxations prove that all natural forces have been, and
are, hostile to the indissoluble law of Christian marriage. Certainly,
then, it was not by natural forces that the Sacrament of Matrimony and
the legislation springing from it were enacted. If these are restraints
of human liberty and license, either they do not spring from nature, or
they have had a supernatural cause whereby they exist. It was this that
redeemed woman from the traditional degradation in which the world had
held her. The condition of women in Athens and in Rome—which may be
taken as the highest points of civilization—is too well known to need
recital. Women had no rights, no property, no independence. Plato looked
upon them as State property; Aristotle as chattels; the Greeks wrote of
them as [—Greek—].

They were the prey, the sport, the slaves of man. Even in Israel, though
they were raised incomparably higher than in the Gentile world, they
were far below the dignity and authority of Christian women. Libanius,
the friend of Julian, the Apostate, said, "O ye gods of Greece, how
great are the women of the Christians!" Whence came the elevation of
womanhood? Not from the ancient civilization, for it degraded them; not
from Israel, for among the Jews the highest state of womanhood was the
marriage state. The daughter of Jepthe went into the mountains to mourn
not her death but her virginity. The marriage state in the Christian
world, though holy and good, is not the highest state. The state of
virginity unto death is the highest condition of man and woman. But this
is above the law of nature. It belongs to a higher order. And this life
of virginity, in repression of natural passion and lawful instinct, is
both above and against the tendencies of human nature. It begins in a
mortification, and ends in a mastery, over the movements and ordinary
laws of human nature. Who will ascribe this to natural causes? and, if
so, why did it not appear in the first four thousand years? And when has
it ever appeared except in a handful of vestal virgins, or in Oriental
recluses, with what reality history shows? An exception proves a rule.
No one will imagine that a life of chastity is impossible to nature; but
the restriction is a repression of nature which individuals may acquire,
but the multitude have never attained. A religion which imposes chastity
on the unmarried, and upon its priesthood, and upon the multitudes of
women in every age who devote themselves to the service of One Whom they
have never seen, is a mortification of nature in so high a degree as
to stand out as a fact and a phenomenon, of which mere natural causes
afford no adequate solution. Its existence, not in a handful out of the
millions of the world, but its prevalence and continuity in multitudes
scattered throughout the Christian world, proves the presence of a cause
higher than the laws of nature. So true is this, that jurists teach that
the three vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience are contrary to "the
policy of the law," that is, to the interests of the commonwealth, which
desires the multiplication, enrichment, and liberty of its members.

To what has been said may be added the change wrought by Christianity
upon the social, political, and international relations of the world.
The root of this ethical change, private and public, is the Christian
home. The authority of parents, the obedience of children, the love of
brotherhood, are the three active powers which have raised the society
of man above the level of the old world. Israel was head and shoulders
above the world around it; but Christendom is high above Israel. The new
Commandment of brotherly love, and the Sermon on the Mount, have wrought
a revolution, both in private and public life. From this come the laws
of justice and sympathy which bind together the nations of the Christian
world. In the old world, even the most refined races, worshiped by our
modern philosophers, held and taught that man could hold property in
man. In its chief cities there were more slaves than free men. Who has
taught the equality of men before the law, and extinguished the impious
thought that man can hold property in man? It was no philosopher: even
Aristotle taught that a slave was [—Greek—]. It was no lawgiver, for
all taught the lawfulness of slavery till Christianity denied it. The
Christian law has taught that man can lawfully sell his labor, but that
he cannot lawfully be sold, or sell himself.

The necessity of being brief, the impossibility of drawing out the
picture of the old world, its profound immoralities, its unimaginable
cruelties, compels me to argue with my right hand tied behind me. I can
do no more than point again to Mr. Brace's "Gesta Christi," or to Dr.
Dollinger's "Gentile and Jew," as witnesses to the facts which I have
stated or implied. No one who has not read such books, or mastered their
contents by original study, can judge of the force of the assertion that
Christianity has reformed the world by direct antagonism to the human
will, and by a searching and firm repression of human passion. It has
ascended the stream of human license, _contra ictum fluminis_, by a
power mightier than nature, and by laws of a higher order than the
relaxations of this world.

Before Christianity came on earth, the civilization of man by merely
natural force had culminated. It could not rise above its source; all
that it could do was done; and the civilization in every race and
empire had ended in decline and corruption. The old civilization was not
regenerated. It passed away to give place to a new. But the new had
a higher source, nobler laws and supernatural powers. The highest
excellence of men and of nations is the civilization of Christianity.
The human race has ascended into what we call Christendom, that is,
into the new creation of charity and justice among men. Christendom was
created by the worldwide Church as we see it before our eyes at this
day. Philosophers and statesmen believe it to be the work of their own
hands: they did not make it; but they have for three hundred years
been unmaking it by reformations and revolutions. These are destructive
forces. They build up nothing. It has been well said by Donoso Cortez
that "the history of civilization is the history of Christianity, the
history of Christianity is the history of the Church, the history of the
Church is the history of the Pontiffs, the greatest statesmen and rulers
that the world has ever seen."

Some years ago, a Professor of great literary reputation in England, who
was supposed even then to be, as his subsequent writings have proved, a
skeptic or non-Christian, published a well-known and very candid book,
under the title of "Ecce Homo." The writer placed himself, as it were,
outside of Christianity. He took, not the Church in the world as in
this article, but the Christian Scriptures as a historical record, to be
judged with forensic severity and absolute impartiality of mind. To the
credit of the author, he fulfilled this pledge; and his conclusion shall
here be given. After an examination of the life and character of the
Author of Christianity, he proceeded to estimate His teaching and its
effects under the following heads:

> 1. The Christian Legislation.
> 2. The Christian Republic.
> 3. Its Universality.
> 4. The Enthusiasm of Humanity.
> 5. The Lord's Supper.
> 6. Positive Morality.
> 7. Philanthropy.
> 8. Edification.
> 9. Mercy.
> 10. Resentment.
> 11. Forgiveness.

He then draws his conclusion as follows:

"The achievement of Christ in founding by his single will and power a
structure so durable and so universal is like no other achievement which
history records. The masterpieces of the men of action are coarse and
commonplace in comparison with it, and the masterpieces of speculation
flimsy and unsubstantial. When we speak of it the commonplaces of
admiration fail us altogether. Shall we speak of the originality of
the design, of the skill displayed in the execution? All such terms are
inadequate. Originality and contriving skill operate indeed, but, as it
were, implicitly. The creative effort which produced that against which
it is said the gates of hell shall not prevail cannot be analyzed. No
architect's designs were furnished for the New Jerusalem; no committee
drew up rules for the universal commonwealth. If in the works of
nature we can trace the indications of calculation, of a struggle with
difficulties, of precaution, of ingenuity, then in Christ's work it may
be that the same indications occur. But these inferior and secondary
powers were not consciously exercised; they were implicitly present in
the manifold yet single creative act. The inconceivable work was done
in calmness; before the eyes of mea it was noiselessly accomplished,
attracting little attention. Who can describe that which unites men? Who
has entered into the formation of speech, which is the symbol of their
union? Who can describe exhaustively the origin of civil society? He who
can do these things can explain the origin of the Christian Church.
For others it must be enough to say, 'The Holy Ghost fell on those that
believed'. No man saw the building of the New Jerusalem, the workmen
crowded together, the unfinished walla and unpaved streets; no man
heard the clink of trowel and pickaxe: 'it descended out of heaven from
God.'"*

> * "Ece Homo," Conclusion, p. 329, Fifth Edition. Macmillan,
> 1886.

And yet the writer is, as he was then, still outside of Christianity.

III. We come now to our third point, that Christianity has always
claimed a Divine origin and a Divine presence as the source of its
authority and powers.

To prove this by texts from the New Testament would be to transcribe the
volume; and if the evidence of the whole New Testament were put in, not
only might some men deny its weight as evidence, but we should place our
whole argument upon a false foundation. Christianity was anterior to
the New Testament and is independent of it. The Christian Scriptures
presuppose both the faith and the Church as already existing, known, and
believed. _Prior liber quam stylus_: as Tertullian argued. The Gospel
was preached before it was written. The four books were written to
those who already believed, to confirm their faith. They were written
at intervals: St. Matthew in Hebrew in the year 39, in Greek in 45. St.
Mark in 43, St. Luke in 57, St. John about 90, in different places and
for different motives. Four Gospels did not exist for sixty years, or
two generations of men. St. Peter and St. Paul knew of only three of
our four. In those sixty years the faith had spread from east to west.
Saints and Martyrs had gone up to their crown who never saw a sacred
book. The Apostolic Epistles prove the antecedent existence of the
Churches to which they were addressed. Rome and Corinth, and Galatia
and Ephesus, Philippi and Colossae, were Churches with pastors and people
before St. Paul wrote to them. The Church had already attested and
executed its Divine legation before the New Testament existed; and when
all its books were written they were not as yet collected into a volume.
The earliest collection was about the beginning of the second century,
and in the custody of the Church in Rome. We must, therefore, seek to
know what was and is Christianity before and outside of the written
books; and we have the same evidence for the oral tradition of the faith
as we have for the New Testament itself. Both alike were in the custody
of the Church; both are delivered to us by the same witness and on the
same evidence. To reject either, is logically to reject both. Happily
men are not saved by logic, but by faith. The millions of men in
all ages have believed by inheritance of truth divinely guarded and
delivered to them. They have no need of logical analysis. They
have believed from their childhood. Neither children nor those who
_infantibus oquiparantur_ are logicians. It is the penance of the
doubter and the unbeliever to regain by toil his lost inheritance. It
is a hard penance, like the suffering of those who eternally debate on
"predestination, freewill, fate."

Between the death of St. John and the mature lifetime of St. Irenaeus
fifty years elapsed. St. Polycarp was disciple of St. John. St. Irenaeus
was disciple of St. Polycarp. The mind of St. John and the mind of St.
Irenaeus had only one intermediate intelligence, in contact with each. It
would be an affectation of minute criticism to treat the doctrine of
St. Irenaeus as a departure from the doctrine of St. Polycarp, or the
doctrine of St. Polycarp as a departure from the doctrine of St. John.
Moreover, St. John ruled the Church at Ephesus, and St. Irenaeus was
born in Asia Minor about the year A. D. 120—that is, twenty years after
St. John's death, when the Church in Asia Minor was still full of the
light of his teaching and of the accents of his voice. Let us see how
St. Irenaeus describes the faith and the Church. In his work against
Heresies, in Book iii. chap. i., he says, "We have known the way of our
salvation by those through whom the Gospel came to us; which, indeed,
they then preached, but afterwards, by the will of God, delivered to us
in Scriptures, the future foundation and pillar of our faith. It is not
lawful to say that they preached before they had perfect knowledge,
as some dare to affirm, boasting themselves to be correctors of the
Apostles. For after our Lord rose from the dead, and when they had been
clothed with the power of the Holy Ghost, Who came upon them from on
high, they were filled with all truths, and had knowledge which was
perfect." In chapter ii. he adds that, "When they are refuted out
of Scripture, they turn and accuse the Scriptures as erroneous,
unauthoritative, and of various readings, so that the truth cannot be
found by those who do not know tradition"—that is, their own. "But when
we challenge them to come to the tradition of the Apostles, which is in
custody of the succession of Presbyters in the Church, they turn against
tradition, saying that they are not only wiser than the Presbyters, but
even the Apostles, and have found the truth." "It therefore comes
to pass that they will not agree either with the Scriptures or with
tradition." (Ibid. c. iii.) "Therefore, all who desire to know the truth
ought to look to the tradition of the Apostles, which is manifest in all
the world and in all the Church. We are able to count up the Bishops who
were instituted in the Church by the Apostles, and their successors
to our day. They never taught nor knew such things as these men
madly assert." "But as it would be too long in such a book as this to
enumerate the successions of all the Churches, we point to the tradition
of the greatest, most ancient Church, known to all, founded and
constituted in Rome by the two glorious Apostles Peter and Paul, and to
the faith announced to all men, coming down to us by the succession
of Bishops, thereby confounding all those who, in any way, by
self-pleasing, or vainglory, or blindness, or an evil mind, teach
as they ought not. For with this Church, by reason of its greater
principality, it is necessary that all churches should agree; that is,
the faithful, wheresoever they be, for in that Church the tradition of
the Apostles has been preserved." No comment need be made on the
words the "greater principality," which have been perverted by every
anti-Catholic writer from the time they were written to this day. But if
any one will compare them with the words of St. Paul to the Colossians
(chap. i. 18), describing the primacy of the Head of the Church in
heaven, it will appear almost certain that the original Greek of St.
Irenaeus, which is unfortunately lost, contained either [—Greek—], or
some inflection of [—Greek—] which signifies primacy. However this
may be, St. Irenaeus goes on: "The blessed Apostles, having founded
and instructed the Church, gave in charge the Episcopate, for the
administration of the same, to Linus. Of this Linus, Paul, in his
Epistle to Timothy, makes mention. To him succeeded Anacletus, and
after him, in the third place from the Apostles, Clement received the
Episcopate, he who saw the Apostles themselves and conferred with them,
while as yet he had the preaching of the Apostles in his ears and the
tradition before his eyes; and not he only, but many who had been taught
by the Apostles still survived. In the time of this Clement, when no
little dissension had arisen among the brethren in Corinth, the Church
in Rome wrote very powerful letters _potentissimas litteras_ to the
Corinthians, recalling them to peace, restoring their faith, and
declaring the tradition which it had so short a time ago received from
the Apostles." These letters of St. Clement are well known, but have
lately become more valuable and complete by the discovery of fragments
published in a new edition by Light-foot. In these fragments there is
a tone of authority fully explaining the words of St. Irenaeus. He then
traces the succession of the Bishops of Rome to his own day, and adds:
"This demonstration is complete to show that it is one and the same
life-giving faith which has been preserved in the Church from the
Apostles until now, and is handed on in truth." "Polycarp was not only
taught by the Apostles, and conversed with many of those who had seen
our Lord, but he also was constituted by the Apostles in Asia to be
Bishop in the Church of Smyrna. We also saw him in our early youth, for
he lived long, and when very old departed from this life most gloriously
and nobly by martyrdom. He ever taught that what he had learned from
the Apostles, and what the Church had delivered, those things only are
true." In the fourth chapter, St. Irenaeus goes on to say: "Since, then,
there are such proofs (of the faith), the truth is no longer to be
sought for among others, which it is easy to receive from the Church,
forasmuch as the Apostles laid up all truth in fullness in a rich
depository, that all who will may receive from it the water of life."
"But what if the Apostles had not left us the Scriptures: ought we not
to follow the order of tradition, which they gave in charge to them to
whom they intrusted the Churches? To which order (of tradition) many
barbarous nations yield assent, who believe in Christ without paper
and ink, having salvation written by the Spirit in their hearts, and
diligently holding the ancient tradition." In the twenty-sixth chapter
of the same book he says: "Therefore, it is our duty to obey the
Presbyters who are in the Church, who have succession from the Apostles,
as we have already shown; who also with the succession of the Episcopate
have the _charisma veritatis certum_," the spiritual and certain gift of
truth.

I have quoted these passages at length, not so much as proofs of the
Catholic Faith as to show the identity of the Church at its outset with
the Church before our eyes at this hour, proving that the acorn has
grown up into its oak, or, if you will, the identity of the Church at
this hour with the Church of the Apostolic mission. These passages show
the Episcopate, its central principality, its succession, its custody of
the faith, its subsequent reception and guardianship of the Scriptures,
Its Divine tradition, and the charisma or Divine assistance by which its
perpetuity is secured in the succession of the Apostles. This is almost
verbally, after eighteen hundred years, the decree of the Vatican
Council: _Veritatis et fidei nunquam deficientis charisma_.*

> * "Const. Dogmatica Prima de Ecclesia Christi," cap. iv.

But St. Irenaeus draws out in full the Church of this day. He shows the
parallel of the first creation and of the second; of the first Adam and
the Second; and of the analogy between the Incarnation or natural body,
and the Church or mystical body of Christ. He says:

Our faith "we received from the Church, and guard.... as an excellent
gift in a noble vessel, always full of youth, and making youthful the
vessel itself in which it is. For this gift of God is intrusted to the
Church, as the breath of life (_was imparted_) to the first man, so this
end, that all the members partaking of it might be quickened with life.
And thus the communication of Christ is imparted; that is, the Holy
Ghost, the earnest of incorruption, the confirmation of the faith, the
way of ascent to God. For in the Church (St. Paul says) God placed
Apostles, Prophets, Doctors, and all other operations of the Spirit, of
which none are partakers who do not come to the Church, thereby
depriving themselves of life by a perverse mind and worse deeds. For
where the Church is, there is also the Spirit of God; and where the
Spirit of God is, there is the Church, and all grace. But the Spirit is
truth. Wherefore, they who do not partake of Him (_the Spirit_), and are
not nurtured unto life at the breast of the mother (_the Church_), do
not receive of that most pure fountain which proceeds from the Body of
Christ, but dig out for themselves broken pools from the trenches of the
earth, and drink water soiled with mire, because they turn aside from
the faith of the Church lest they should be convicted, and reject the
Spirit lest they should be taught."* Again he says: "The Church,
scattered throughout the world, even unto the ends of the earth,
received from the Apostles and their disciples the faith in one God the
Father Almighty, that made the heaven and the earth, and the seas, and
all things that are in them." &c.**

> *St. Irenaeus, Cont. Hezret lib. iii. cap. xxiv.

> ** Lib. i. cap. x.

He then recites the doctrines of the Holy Trinity, the Incarnation, the
Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, and His
coming again to raise all men, to judge men and angels, and to give
sentence of condemnation or of life everlasting. How much soever
the language may vary from other forms, such is the substance of the
Baptismal Creed. He then adds:

"The Church having received this preaching and this faith, as we have
said before, although it be scattered abroad through the whole world,
carefully preserves it, dwelling as in one habitation, and believes
alike in these (doctrines) as though she had one soul and the same
heart: and in strict accord, as though she had one mouth, proclaims,
and teaches, and delivers onward these things. And although there may be
many diverse languages in the world, yet the power of the tradition is
one and the same. And neither do the Churches planted in Germany believe
otherwise, or otherwise deliver (the faith), nor those in Iberia, nor
among the Celtae, nor in the East, nor in Egypt, nor in Libya, nor
they that are planted in the mainland. But as the sun, which is God's
creature, in all the world is one and the same, so also the preaching of
the truth shineth everywhere, and lightened all men that are willing to
come to the knowledge of the truth. And neither will any ruler of the
Church, though he be mighty in the utterance of truth, teach otherwise
than thus (for no man is above the master), nor will he that is weak in
the same diminish from the tradition; for the faith being one and the
same, he that is able to say most of it hath nothing over, and he that
is able to say least hath no lack."*

> * St. Irenaeus, lib. i. c. x.

To St. Irenaeus, then, the Church was "the irrefragable witness of its
own legation." When did it cease so to be? It would be easy to multiply
quotations from Tertullian in A. D. 200, from St. Cyprian a. d. 250,
from St. Augustine and St. Optatus in A. d. 350, from St. Leo in a. d.
450, all of which are on the same traditional lines of faith in a divine
mission to the world and of a divine assistance in its discharge. But I
refrain from doing so because I should have to write not an article
but a folio. Any Catholic theology will give the passages which are now
before me; or one such book as the Loci Theologici of Melchior Canus
will suffice to show the continuity and identity of the tradition of
St. Irenaeus and the tradition of the Vatican Council, in which the
universal church last declared the immutable faith and its own legation
to mankind.

The world-wide testimony of the Catholic Church is a sufficient witness
to prove the coming of the Incarnate Son to redeem mankind, and to
return to His Father; it is also sufficient to prove the advent of the
Holy Ghost to abide with us for ever. The work of the Son in this world
was accomplished by the Divine acts and facts of His three-and-thirty
years of life, death, Resurrection, and Ascension. The office of the
Holy Ghost is perpetual, not only as the Illuminator and Sanctifier of
all who believe, but also as the Life and Guide of the Church. I may
quote now the words of the Founder of the Church: "It is expedient to
you that I go: for if I go not, the Paraclete will not come to you; but
if I go, I will send Him to you."* "I will ask the Father, and He shall
give you another Paraclete, that He may abide with you for ever."** "The
Spirit of Truth, Whom the world cannot receive, because it seeth Him not
nor knoweth Him; but you shall know Him, because He shall abide with you
and shall be in you."***

> * St. John, xvi. 7.

> ** Ibid, xiv. 16.

> *** St.John, xiv. 16, 17.

St. Paul in the Epistles to the Ephesians describes the Church as a body
of which the Head is in heaven, and the Author of its indefectible life
abiding in it as His temple. Therefore the words, "He that heareth you
heareth Me." This could not be if the witness of the Apostles had been
only human. A Divine guidance was attached to the office they bore. They
were, therefore, also judges of right and wrong, and teachers by Divine
guidance of the truth. But the presence and guidance of the Spirit of
Truth is as full at this day as when St. Irenaeus wrote. As the Churches
then were witnesses, judges, and teachers, so is the Church at this hour
a world-wide witness, an unerring judge and teacher, divinely guided and
guarded in the truth. It is therefore not only a human and historical,
but a Divine witness. This is the chief Divine truth which the last
three hundred years have obscured. Modern Christianity believes in the
one advent of the Redeemer, but rejects the full and personal advent of
the Holy Ghost. And yet the same evidence proves both. The Christianity
of reformers, always returns to Judaism, because they reject the full,
or do not believe the personal, advent of the Holy Ghost. They deny that
there is an infallible teacher, among men; and therefore they return to
the types and shadows of the Law before the Incarnation, when the Head
was not yet incarnate, and the Body of Christ did not as yet exist.

But perhaps some one will say, "I admit your description of the Church
as it is now and as it was in the days of St. Irenaeus; but the eighteen
hundred years of which you have said nothing were ages of declension,
disorder, superstition, demoralization." I will answer by a question:
was not this foretold? Was not the Church to be a field of wheat and
tares growing together till the harvest at the end of the world? There
were Cathari of old, and Puritans since, impatient at the patience
of God in bearing with the perversities and corruptions of the human
intellect and will. The Church, like its Head in heaven, is both human
and divine. "He was crucified in weakness," but no power of man could
wound His divine nature. So with the Church, which is His Body. Its
human element may corrupt and die; its divine life, sanctity, authority,
and structure cannot die; nor can the errors of human intellect fasten
upon its faith, nor the immoralities of the human will fasten upon
its sanctity. Its organization of Head and Body is of divine creation,
divinely guarded by the Holy Ghost, who quickens it by His indwelling,
and guides it by His light. It is in itself incorrupt and incorruptible
in the midst of corruption, as the light of heaven falls upon all the
decay and corruption in the world, unsullied and unalterably pure. We
are never concerned to deny or to cloak the sins of Christians or of
Catholics. They may destroy themselves, but they cannot infect the
Church from which they fall. The fall of Lucifer left no stain behind
him.

When men accuse the Church of corruption, they reveal the fact that to
them the Church is a human institution, of voluntary aggregation or of
legislative enactment. They reveal the fact that to them the Church is
not an object of Divine faith, as the Real Presence in the Sacrament of
the Altar. They do not perceive or will not believe that the articles of
the Baptismal Creed are objects of faith, divinely revealed or divinely
created. "I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the
Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins," are all objects of faith
in a Divine order. They are present in human history, but the human
element which envelops them has no power to infect or to fasten upon
them. Until this is perceived there can be no true or full belief in the
advent and office of the Holy Ghost, or in the nature and sacramental
action of the Church. It is the visible means and pledge of light and
of sanctification to all who do not bar their intellect and their will
against its inward and spiritual grace. The Church is not on probation.
It is the instrument of probation to the world. As the light of
the world, it is changeless as the firmament As the source of
sanctification, it is inexhaustible as the Rivex of Life. The human and
external history of men calling themselves Christian and Catholic has
been at times as degrading and abominable as any adversary is pleased
to say. But the sanctity of the Church is no more affected by human sins
than was Baptism by the hypocrisy of Simon Magus. The Divine foundation,
and office, and mission of the Church is a part of Christianity. They
who deny it deny an article of faith; they who believe it imperfectly
are the followers of a fragmentary Christianity of modern date. Who can
be a disciple of Jesus Christ who does not believe the words? "On this
rock I will build My Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail
against it;" "As the Father hath sent Me, I also send you;"* "I dispose
to you, as My Father hath disposed to Me, a kingdom;"** "All power in
heaven and earth is given unto Me. Go, therefore, and teach all
nations;"*** "He that heareth you heareth Me;"**** "I will be with you
always, even unto the end of the world;"(v) "When the days of Pentecost
were accomplished they were all together in one place: and suddenly
there came a sound from heaven as of a mighty wind coming, and there
appeared to them parted tongues, as it were, of fire;" "And they were
all filled with the Holy Ghost;" (vi) "It seemed good to the Holy Ghost
and to us to lay upon you no other burdens."(vii) But who denies that
the Apostles claimed a Divine mission? and who can deny that the
Catholic and Roman Church from St. Irenaeus to Leo XIII. has ever and
openly claimed the same, invoking in all its supreme acts as witness,
teacher, and legislator the presence, light, and guidance of the Holy
Ghost? As the preservation of all created things is by the same creative
power produced in perpetual and universal action, so the indefectibility
of the Church and of the faith is by the perpetuity of the presence and
office of the Third Person of the Holy Trinity. Therefore, St. Augustine
calls the day of Pentecost, Natalis Spiritus Sancti.

> *St. John, xx. 21.

> ** St. Luke, xxii. 29.

> *** St. Matthew, xxviii. 18, 19.

> **** St. Luke, x. 10.

> (v) St. Matthew, xxviii. 20.

> (vii)Acts, ii. 1-5.

> (viii) Acts, xv. 28.

It is more than time that I should make an end; and to do so it will be
well to sum up the heads of our argument. The Vatican Council declares
that the world-wide Church is the irrefragable witness of its own
legation or mission to mankind.

In proof of this I have affirmed:

1. That the imperishable existence of Christianity, and the vast and
undeniable revolution that it has wrought in men and in nations, in the
moral elevation of manhood and of womanhood, and in the domestic, social
and political life of the Christian world, cannot be accounted for by
any natural causes, or by any forces that are, as philosophers say,
_intra possibilitatem natures_, within the limits of what is possible to
man.

2. That this world-wide and permanent elevation of the Christian world,
in comparison with both the old world and the modern world outside of
Christianity, demands a cause higher than the possibility of nature.

3. That the Church has always claimed a Divine origin and a Divine
office and authority in virtue of a perpetual Divine assistance. To this
even the Christian world, in all its fragments external to the Catholic
unity, bears witness. It is turned to our reproach. They rebuke us for
holding the teaching of the Church to be infallible. We take the rebuke
as a testimony of our changeless faith. It is not enough for men to say
that they refuse to believe this account of the visible and palpable
fact of the imperishable Christianity of the Catholic and Roman Church.
They must find a more reasonable, credible, and adequate account for
it. This no man has yet done. The denials are many and the solutions
are many; but they do not agree together. Their multiplicity is proof
of their human origin. The claim of the Catholic Church to a Divine
authority and to a Divine assistance is one and the same in every age,
and is identical in every place. Error is not the principle of unity,
nor truth of variations.

The Church has guarded the doctrine of the Apostles, by Divine
assistance, with unerring fidelity. The articles of the faith are to-day
the same in number as in the beginning. The explicit definition of
their implicit meaning has expanded from age to age, as the everchanging
denials and perversions of the world have demanded new definitions
of the ancient truth. The world is against all dogma, because it
is impatient of definiteness and certainty in faith. It loves open
questions and the liberty of error. The Church is dogmatic for fear of
error. Every truth defined adds to its treasure. It narrows the field
of error and enlarges the inheritance of truth. The world and the Church
are ever moving in opposite directions. As the world becomes more vague
and uncertain, the Church becomes more definite. It moves against wind
and tide, against the stress and storm of the world. There was never
a more luminous evidence of this supernatural fact than in the Vatican
Council. For eight months all that the world could say and do, like
the four winds of heaven, was directed upon it. Governments, statesmen,
diplomatists, philosophers, intriguers, mockers, and traitors did their
utmost and their worst against it. They were in dread lest the Church
should declare that by Divine assistance its Head in faith and morals
cannot err; for if this be true, man did not found it, man cannot reform
it, man cannot teach it to interpret its history or its acts. It knows
its own history, and is the supreme witness of its own legation.

I am well aware that I have been writing truisms, and repeating trite
and trivial arguments. They are trite because the feet of the faithful
for nearly nineteen hundred years have worn them in their daily life;
they are trivial because they point to the one path in which the
wayfarer, though a fool, shall not err.

Henry Edward, (Cardinal Manning), Card. Archbishop of Westminster.

ROME OR REASON: A REPLY TO CARDINAL MANNING.

> Superstition "has ears more deaf than adders to the voice of
> any true decision."

I.

CARDINAL MANNING has stated the claims of the Roman Catholic Church with
great clearness, and apparently without reserve. The age, position and
learning of this man give a certain weight to his words, apart from
their worth. He represents the oldest of the Christian churches. The
questions involved are among the most important that can engage the
human mind. No one having the slightest regard for that superb thing
known as intellectual honesty, will avoid the issues tendered, or seek
in any way to gain a victory over truth.

Without candor, discussion, in the highest sense, is impossible.
All have the same interest, whether they know it or not, in the
establishment of facts. All have the same to gain, the same to lose. He
loads the dice against himself who scores a point against the right.

Absolute honesty is to the intellectual perception what light is to the
eyes. Prejudice and passion cloud the mind. In each disputant should be
blended the advocate and judge.

In this spirit, having in view only the ascertainment of the truth, let
us examine the arguments, or rather the statements and conclusions, of
Cardinal Manning.

The proposition is that "The church itself, by its marvelous
propagation, its eminent sanctity, its inexhaustible fruitfulness in all
good things, its catholic unity and invincible stability, is a vast and
perpetual motive of credibility, and an irrefragable witness of its own
divine legation."

The reasons given as supporting this proposition are:

That the Catholic Church interpenetrates all the nations of the
civilized world; that it is extranational and independent in a
supernational unity; that it is the same in every place; that it speaks
all languages in the civilized world; that it is obedient to one head;
that as many as seven hundred bishops have knelt before the pope; that
pilgrims from all nations have brought gifts to Rome, and that all these
things set forth in the most self-evident way the unity and universality
of the Roman Church.

It is also asserted that "men see the Head of the Church year by year
speaking to the nations of the world, treating with Empires, Republics
and Governments;" that "there is no other man on earth that can so bear
himself," and that "neither from Canterbury nor from Constantinople can
such a voice go forth to which rulers and people listen."

It is also claimed that the Catholic Church has enlightened and purified
the world; that it has given us the peace and purity of domestic life;
that it has destroyed idolatry and demonology; that it gave us a body of
law from a higher source than man; that it has produced the civilization
of Christendom; that the popes were the greatest of statesmen and
rulers; that celibacy is better than marriage, and that the revolutions
and reformations of the last three hundred years have been destructive
and calamitous.

We will examine these assertions as well as some others.

No one will dispute that the Catholic Church is the best witness of its
own existence. The same is true of every thing that exists—of every
church, great and small, of every man, and of every insect.

But it is contended that the marvelous growth or propagation of the
church is evidence of its divine origin. Can it be said that success is
supernatural? All success in this world is relative. Majorities are not
necessarily right. If anything is known—if anything can be known—we
are sure that very large bodies of men have frequently been wrong. We
believe in what is called the progress of mankind. Progress, for
the most part, consists in finding new truths and getting rid of old
errors—that is to say, getting nearer and nearer in harmony with
the facts of nature, seeing with greater clearness the conditions of
well-being.

There is no nation in which a majority leads the way. In the progress of
mankind, the few have been the nearest right. There have been centuries
in which the light seemed to emanate only from a handful of men, while
the rest of the world was enveloped in darkness. Some great man leads
the way—he becomes the morning star, the prophet of a coming day.
Afterward, many millions accept his views. But there are still heights
above and beyond; there are other pioneers, and the old day, in
comparison with the new, becomes a night. So, we cannot say that success
demonstrates either divine origin or supernatural aid.

We know, if we know anything, that wisdom has often been trampled
beneath the feet of the multitude. We know that the torch of science has
been blown out by the breath of the hydra-headed. We know that the whole
intellectual heaven has been darkened again and again. The truth or
falsity of a proposition cannot be determined by ascertaining the number
of those who assert, or of those who deny.

If the marvelous propagation of the Catholic Church proves its divine
origin, what shall we say of the marvelous propagation of Mohammedanism?

Nothing can be clearer than that Christianity arose out of the ruins
of the Roman Empire—that is to say, the ruins of Paganism. And it is
equally clear that Mohammedanism arose out of the wreck and ruin of
Catholicism.

After Mohammed came upon the stage, "Christianity was forever expelled
from its most glorious seats—from Palestine, the scene of its most
sacred recollections; from Asia Minor, that of its first churches; from
Egypt, whence issued the great doctrine of Trinitarian Orthodoxy, and
from Carthage, who imposed her belief on Europe." Before that time "the
ecclesiastical chiefs of Rome, of Constantinople, and of Alexandria
were engaged in a desperate struggle for supremacy, carrying out their
purposes by weapons and in ways revolting to the conscience of man.
Bishops were concerned in assassinations, poisonings, adulteries,
blindings, riots, treasons, civil war. Patriarchs and primates were
excommunicating and anathematizing one another in their rivalries
for earthly power—bribing eunuchs with gold and courtesans and royal
females with concessions of episcopal love. Among legions of monks who
carried terror into the imperial armies and riot into the great cities
arose hideous clamors for theological dogmas, but never a voice for
intellectual liberty or the outraged rights of man.

"Under these circumstances, amid these atrocities and crimes, Mohammed
arose, and raised his own nation from Fetichism, the adoration of
the meteoric stone, and from the basest idol worship, and irrevocably
wrenched from Christianity more than half—and that by far the
best half—of her possessions, since it included the Holy Land, the
birth-place of the Christian faith, and Africa, which had imparted to
it its Latin form; and now, after a lapse of more than a thousand
years that continent, and a very large part of Asia, remain permanently
attached to the Arabian doctrine."

It may be interesting in this connection to say that the Mohammedan now
proves the divine mission of his apostle by appealing to the marvelous
propagation of the faith. If the argument is good in the mouth of a
Catholic, is it not good in the mouth of a Moslem? Let us see if it is
not better.

According to Cardinal Manning, the Catholic Church triumphed only over
the institutions of men—triumphed only over religions that had been
established by men,—by wicked and ignorant men. But Mohammed triumphed
not only over the religions of men, but over the religion of God.
This ignorant driver of camels, this poor, unknown, unlettered boy,
unassisted by God, unenlightened by supernatural means, drove the armies
of the true cross before him as the winter's storm drives withered
leaves. At his name, priests, bishops, and cardinals fled with white
faces—popes trembled, and the armies of God, fighting for the true
faith, were conquered on a thousand fields.

If the success of a church proves its divinity, and after that another
church arises and defeats the first, what does that prove?

Let us put this question in a milder form: Suppose the second church
lives and flourishes in spite of the first, what does that prove?

As a matter of fact, however, no church rises with everything against
it. Something is favorable to it, or it could not exist. If it succeeds
and grows, it is absolutely certain that the conditions are favorable.
If it spreads rapidly, it simply shows that the conditions are
exceedingly favorable, and that the forces in opposition are weak and
easily overcome.

Here, in my own country, within a few years, has arisen a new religion.
Its foundations were laid in an intelligent community, having had
the advantages of what is known as modern civilization. Yet this new
faith—founded on the grossest absurdities, as gross as we find in the
Scriptures—in spite of all opposition began to grow, and kept growing.
It was subjected to persecution, and the persecution increased its
strength. It was driven from State to State by the believers in
universal love, until it left what was called civilization, crossed the
wide plains, and took up its abode on the shores of the Great Salt
Lake. It continued to grow. Its founder, as he declared, had frequent
conversations with God, and received directions from that source.
Hundreds of miracles were performed—multitudes upon the desert were
miraculously fed—the sick were cured—the dead were raised, and the
Mormon Church continued to grow, until now, less than half a century
after the death of its founder, there are several hundred thousand
believers in the new faith.

Do you think that men enough could join this church to prove the truth
of its creed?

Joseph Smith said that he found certain golden plates that had been
buried for many generations, and upon these plates, in some unknown
language, had been engraved this new revelation, and I think he insisted
that by the use of miraculous mirrors this language was translated.
If there should be Mormon bishops in all the countries of the world,
eighteen hundred years from now, do you think a cardinal of that faith
could prove the truth of the golden plates simply by the fact that the
faith had spread and that seven hundred bishops had knelt before the
head of that church?

It seems to me that a "supernatural" religion—that is to say, a
religion that is claimed to have been divinely founded and to be
authenticated by miracles, is much easier to establish among an ignorant
people than any other—and the more ignorant the people, the easier
such a religion could be established. The reason for this is plain.
All ignorant tribes, all savage men, believe in the miraculous, in the
supernatural. The conception of uniformity, of what may be called the
eternal consistency of nature, is an idea far above their comprehension.
They are forced to think in accordance with their minds, and as a
consequence they account for all phenomena by the acts of superior
beings—that is to say, by the supernatural. In other words, that
religion having most in common with the savage, having most that was
satisfactory to his mind, or to his lack of mind, would stand the best
chance of success.

It is probably safe to say that at one time, or during one phase of the
development of man, everything was miraculous. After a time, the mind
slowly developing, certain phenomena, always happening under like
conditions, were called "natural," and none suspected any special
interference. The domain of the miraculous grew less and less—the
domain of the natural larger; that is to say, the common became the
natural, but the uncommon was still regarded as the miraculous.
The rising and setting of the sun ceased to excite the wonder of
mankind—there was no miracle about that; but an eclipse of the sun was
miraculous. Men did not then know that eclipses are periodical, that
they happen with the same certainty that the sun rises. It took many
observations through many generations to arrive at this conclusion.
Ordinary rains became "natural," floods remained "miraculous."

But it can all be summed up in this: The average man regards the common
as natural, the uncommon as supernatural. The educated man—and by that
I mean the developed man—is satisfied that all phenomena are natural,
and that the supernatural does not and can not exist.

As a rule, an individual is egotistic in the proportion that he lacks
intelligence. The same is true of nations and races. The barbarian is
egotistic enough to suppose that an Infinite Being is constantly doing
something, or failing to do something, on his account. But as man rises
in the scale of civilization, as he becomes really great, he comes to
the conclusion that nothing in Nature happens on his account—that he is
hardly great enough to disturb the motions of the planets.

Let us make an application of this: To me, the success of Mormonism
is no evidence of its truth, because it has succeeded only with the
superstitious. It has been recruited from communities brutalized by
other forms of superstition. To me, the success of Mohammed does not
tend to show that he was right—for the reason that he triumphed only
over the ignorant, over the superstitious. The same is true of the
Catholic Church. Its seeds were planted in darkness. It was accepted by
the credulous, by men incapable of reasoning upon such questions. It
did not, it has not, it can not triumph over the intellectual world. To
count its many millions does not tend to prove the truth of its creed.
On the contrary, a creed that delights the credulous gives evidence
against itself.

Questions of fact or philosophy cannot be settled simply by numbers.
There was a time when the Copernican system of astronomy had but few
supporters—the multitude being on the other side. There was a time when
the rotation of the earth was not believed by the majority.

Let us press this idea further. There was a time when Christianity was
not in the majority, anywhere. Let us suppose that the first Christian
missionary had met a prelate of the Pagan faith, and suppose this
prelate had used against the Christian missionary the Cardinal's
argument—how could the missionary have answered if the Cardinal's
argument is good?

But, after all, is the success of the Catholic Church a marvel? If this
church is of divine origin, if it has been under the especial care,
protection and guidance of an Infinite Being, is not its failure
far more wonderful than its success? For eighteen centuries it has
persecuted and preached, and the salvation of the world is still remote.
This is the result, and it may be asked whether it is worth while to try
to convert the world to Catholicism.

Are Catholics better than Protestants? Are they nearer honest, nearer
just, more charitable? Are Catholic nations better than Protestant?
Do the Catholic nations move in the van of progress? Within their
jurisdiction are life, liberty and property safer than anywhere else? Is
Spain the first nation of the world?

Let me ask another question: Are Catholics or Protestants better than
Freethinkers? Has the Catholic Church produced a greater man than
Humboldt? Has the Protestant produced a greater than Darwin? Was not
Emerson, so far as purity of life is concerned, the equal of any true
believer? Was Pius IX., or any other vicar of Christ, superior to
Abraham Lincoln?

But it is claimed that the Catholic Church is universal, and that its
universality demonstrates its divine origin.

According to the Bible, the apostles were ordered to go into all the
world and preach the gospel—yet not one of them, nor one of their
converts at any time, nor one of the vicars of God, for fifteen hundred
years afterward, knew of the existence of the Western Hemisphere. During
all that time, can it be said that the Catholic Church was universal? At
the close of the fifteenth century, there was one-half of the world in
which the Catholic faith had never been preached, and in the other half
not one person in ten had ever heard of it, and of those who had heard
of it, not one in ten believed it. Certainly the Catholic Church was not
then universal.

Is it universal now? What impression has Catholicism made upon the many
millions of China, of Japan, of India, of Africa? Can it truthfully be
said that the Catholic Church is now universal? When any church becomes
universal, it will be the only church. There cannot be two universal
churches, neither can there be one universal church and any other.

The Cardinal next tries to prove that the Catholic Church is divine,
"by its eminent sanctity and its inexhaustible fruitfulness in all good
things."

And here let me admit that there are many millions of good
Catholics—that is, of good men and women who are Catholics. It is
unnecessary to charge universal dishonesty or hypocrisy, for the reason
that this would be only a kind of personality. Many thousands of heroes
have died in defence of the faith, and millions of Catholics have killed
and been killed for the sake of their religion.

And here it may be well enough to say that martyrdom does not even tend
to prove the truth of a religion. The man who dies in flames, standing
by what he believes to be true, establishes, not the truth of what he
believes, but his sincerity.

Without calling in question the intentions of the Catholic Church, we
can ascertain whether it has been "inexhaustibly fruitful in all good
things," and whether it has been "eminent for its sanctity."

In the first place, nothing can be better than goodness. Nothing is more
sacred, or can be more sacred, than the wellbeing of man. All things
that tend to increase or preserve the happiness of the human race are
good—that is to say, they are sacred. All things that tend to the
destruction of man's well-being, that tend to his unhappiness, are bad,
no matter by whom they are taught or done.

It is perfectly certain that the Catholic Church has taught, and still
teaches, that intellectual liberty is dangerous—that it should not
be allowed. It was driven to take this position because it had taken
another. It taught, and still teaches, that a certain belief is
necessary to salvation. It has always known that investigation and
inquiry led, or might lead, to doubt; that doubt leads, or may lead,
to heresy, and that heresy leads to hell. In other words, the Catholic
Church has something more important than this world, more important than
the well-being of man here. It regards this life as an opportunity for
joining that church, for accepting that creed, and for the saving of
your soul.

If the Catholic Church is right in its premises, it is right in its
conclusion. If it is necessary to believe the Catholic creed in order
to obtain eternal joy, then, of course, nothing else in this world is,
comparatively speaking, of the slightest importance. Consequently,
the Catholic Church has been, and still is, the enemy of intellectual
freedom, of investigation, of inquiry—in other words, the enemy of
progress in secular things.

The result of this was an effort to compel all men to accept the belief
necessary to salvation. This effort naturally divided itself into
persuasion and persecution.

It will be admitted that the good man is kind, merciful, charitable,
forgiving and just. A church must be judged by the same standard. Has
the church been merciful? Has it been "fruitful in the good things"
of justice, charity and forgiveness? Can a good man, believing a good
doctrine, persecute for opinion's sake? If the church imprisons a man
for the expression of an honest opinion, is it not certain, either that
the doctrine of the church is wrong, or that the church is bad? Both
cannot be good. "Sanctity" without goodness is impossible. Thousands of
"saints" have been the most malicious of the human race. If the history
of the world proves anything, it proves that the Catholic Church was for
many centuries the most merciless institution that ever existed among
men. I cannot believe that the instruments of persecution were made and
used by the eminently good; neither can I believe that honest people
were imprisoned, tortured, and burned at the stake by a church that was
"inexhaustibly fruitful in all good things."

And let me say here that I have no Protestant prejudices against
Catholicism, and have no Catholic prejudices against Protestantism.
I regard all religions either without prejudice or with the same
prejudice. They were all, according to my belief, devised by men, and
all have for a foundation ignorance of this world and fear of the next.
All the Gods have been made by men. They are all equally powerful and
equally useless. I like some of them better than I do others, for the
same reason that I admire some characters in fiction more than I do
others. I prefer Miranda to Caliban, but have not the slightest idea
that either of them existed. So I prefer Jupiter to Jehovah, although
perfectly satisfied that both are myths. I believe myself to be in a
frame of mind to justly and fairly consider the claims of different
religions, believing as I do that all are wrong, and admitting as I do
that there is some good in all.

When one speaks of the "inexhaustible fruitfulness in all good things"
of the Catholic Church, we remember the horrors and atrocities of the
Inquisition—the rewards offered by the Roman Church for the capture and
murder of honest men. We remember the Dominican Order, the members of
which, upheld by the vicar of Christ, pursued the heretics like sleuth
hounds, through many centuries.

The church, "inexhaustible in fruitfulness in all good things," not only
imprisoned and branded and burned the living, but violated the dead. It
robbed graves, to the end that it might convict corpses of heresy—to
the end that it might take from widows their portions and from orphans
their patrimony.

We remember the millions in the darkness of dungeons—the millions who
perished by the sword—the vast multitudes destroyed in flames—those
who were flayed alive—those who were blinded—those whose tongues were
cut out—those into whose ears were poured molten lead—those whose eyes
were deprived of their lids—those who were tortured and tormented in
every way by which pain could be inflicted and human nature overcome.

And we remember, too, the exultant cry of the church over the bodies
of her victims: "Their bodies were burned here, but their souls are now
tortured in hell."

We remember that the church, by treachery, bribery, perjury, and the
commission of every possible crime, got possession and control of
Christendom, and we know the use that was made of this power—that it
was used to brutalize, degrade, stupefy, and "sanctify" the children
of men. We know also that the vicars of Christ were persecutors for
opinion's sake—that they sought to destroy the liberty of thought
through fear—that they endeavored to make every brain a bastile in
which the mind should be a convict—that they endeavored to make every
tongue a prisoner, watched by a familiar of the Inquisition—and that
they threatened punishment here, imprisonment here, burnings here, and,
in the name of their God, eternal imprisonment and eternal burnings
hereafter.

We know, too, that the Catholic Church was, during all the years of
its power, the enemy of every science. It preferred magic to medicine,
relics to remedies, priests to physicians. It thought more of
astrologers than of astronomers. It hated geologists—it persecuted
the chemist, and imprisoned the naturalist, and opposed every discovery
calculated to improve the condition of mankind.

It is impossible to forget the persecutions of the Cathari, the
Albigenses, the Waldenses, the Hussites, the Huguenots, and of every
sect that had the courage to think just a little for itself. Think of
a woman—the mother of a family—taken from her children and burned, on
account of her view as to the three natures of Jesus Christ. Think of
the Catholic Church,—an institution with a Divine Founder, presided
over by the agent of God—punishing a woman for giving a cup of cold
water to a fellow-being who had been anathematized. Think of this
church, "fruitful in all good things," launching its curse at an honest
man—not only cursing him from the crown of his head to the soles of
his feet with a fiendish particularity, but having at the same time the
impudence to call on God, and the Holy Ghost, and Jesus Christ, and the
Virgin Mary, to join in the curse; and to curse him not only here, but
forever hereafter—calling upon all the saints and upon all the redeemed
to join in a hallelujah of curses, so that earth and heaven should
reverberate with countless curses launched at a human being simply for
having expressed an honest thought.

This church, so "fruitful in all good things," invented crimes that
it might punish. This church tried men for a "suspicion of
heresy"—imprisoned them for the vice of being suspected—stripped them
of all they had on earth and allowed them to rot in dungeons, because
they were guilty of the crime of having been suspected. This was a part
of the Canon Law.

It is too late to talk about the "invincible stability" of the Catholic
Church.

It was not invincible in the seventh, in the eighth, or in the ninth
centuries. It was not invincible in Germany in Luther's day. It was not
invincible in the Low Countries. It was not invincible in Scotland, or
in England. It was not invincible in France. It is not invincible in
Italy, It is not supreme in any intellectual centre of the world. It
does not triumph in Paris, or Berlin; it is not dominant in London,
in England; neither is it triumphant in the United States. It has not
within its fold the philosophers, the statesmen, and the thinkers, who
are the leaders of the human race.

It is claimed that Catholicism "interpenetrates all the nations of the
civilized world," and that "in some it holds the whole nation in its
unity."

I suppose the Catholic Church is more powerful in Spain than in any
other nation. The history of this nation demonstrates the result of
Catholic supremacy, the result of an acknowledgment by a people that a
certain religion is too sacred to be examined.

Without attempting in an article of this character to point out the many
causes that contributed to the adoption of Catholicism by the Spanish
people, it is enough to say that Spain, of all nations, has been and is
the most thoroughly Catholic, and the most thoroughly interpenetrated
and dominated by the spirit of the Church of Rome.

Spain used the sword of the church. In the name of religion it
endeavored to conquer the Infidel world. It drove from its territory
the Moors, not because they were bad, not because they were idle and
dishonest, but because they were Infidels. It expelled the Jews,
not because they were ignorant or vicious, but because they were
unbelievers. It drove out the Moriscoes, and deliberately made outcasts
of the intelligent, the industrious, the honest and the useful, because
they were not Catholics. It leaped like a wild beast upon the Low
Countries, for the destruction of Protestantism. It covered the seas
with its fleets, to destroy the intellectual liberty of man. And
not only so—it established the Inquisition within its borders. It
imprisoned the honest, it burned the noble, and succeeded after many
years of devotion to the true faith, in destroying the industry, the
intelligence, the usefulness, the genius, the nobility and the wealth
of a nation. It became a wreck, a jest of the conquered, and excited the
pity of its former victims.

In this period of degradation, the Catholic Church held "the whole
nation in its unity."

At last Spain began to deviate from the path of the church It made a
treaty with an Infidel power. In 1782 it became humble enough, and wise
enough, to be friends with Turkey. It made treaties with Tripoli and
Algiers and the Barbary States. It had become too poor to ransom the
prisoners taken by these powers. It began to appreciate the fact that it
could neither conquer nor convert the world by the sword.

Spain has progressed in the arts and sciences, in all that tends to
enrich and ennoble a nation, in the precise proportion that she has lost
faith in the Catholic Church. This may be said of every other nation in
Christendom. Torquemada is dead; Castelar is alive. The dungeons of the
Inquisition are empty, and a little light has penetrated the clouds and
mists—not much, but a little. Spain is not yet clothed and in her
right mind. A few years ago the cholera visited Madrid and other cities.
Physicians were mobbed. Processions of saints carried the host through
the streets for the purpose of staying the plague. The streets were not
cleaned; the sewers were filled. Filth and faith, old partners, reigned
supreme. The church, "eminent for its sanctity," stood in the light and
cast its shadow on the ignorant and the prostrate. The church, in its
"inexhaustible fruitfulness in all good things," allowed its children
to perish through ignorance, and used the diseases it had produced as an
instrumentality to further enslave its votaries and its victims.

No one will deny that many of its priests exhibited heroism of the
highest order in visiting the sick and administering what are called the
consolations of religion to the dying, and in burying the dead. It is
necessary neither to deny or disparage the self-denial and goodness of
these men. But their religion did more than all other causes to produce
the very evils that called for the exhibition of self-denial and
heroism. One scientist in control of Madrid could have prevented the
plague. In such cases, cleanliness is far better than "godliness;"
science is superior to superstition; drainage much better than
divinity; therapeutics more excellent than theology. Goodness is not
enough—intelligence is necessary. Faith is not sufficient, creeds are
helpless, and prayers fruitless.

It is admitted that the Catholic Church exists in many nations; that it
is dominated, at least in a great degree, by the Bishop of Rome—that it
is international in that sense, and that in that sense it has what may
be called a "supernational unity." The same, however, is true of the
Masonic fraternity. It exists in many nations, but it is not a
national body. It is in the same sense extranational, in the same sense
international, and has in the same sense a supernational unity. So the
same may be said of other societies. This, however, does not tend to
prove that anything supernational is supernatural.

It is also admitted that in faith, worship, ceremonial, discipline and
government, the Catholic Church is substantially the same wherever
it exists. This establishes the unity, but not the divinity, of the
institution.

The church that does not allow investigation, that teaches that all
doubts are wicked, attains unity through tyranny, that is, monotony by
repression. Wherever man has had something like freedom, differences
have appeared, heresies have taken root, and the divisions have become
permanent—new sects have been born and the Catholic Church has been
weakened. The boast of unity is the confession of tyranny.

It is insisted that the unity of the church substantiates its claim to
divine origin. This is asserted over and over again, in many ways; and
yet in the Cardinal's article is found this strange mingling of boast
and confession: "Was it only by the human power of man that the unity,
external and internal, which for fourteen hundred years had been
supreme, was once more restored in the Council of Constance, never to be
broken again?"

By this it is admitted that the internal and external unity of the
Catholic Church had been broken, and that it required more than human
power to restore it. Then the boast is made that it will never be broken
again. Yet it is asserted that the internal and external unity of the
Catholic Church is the great fact that demonstrates its divine origin.

Now, if this internal and external unity was broken, and remained broken
for years, there was an interval during which the church had no internal
or external unity, and during which the evidence of divine origin
failed. The unity was broken in spite of the Divine Founder. This is
admitted by the use of the word "again." The unbroken unity of the
church is asserted, and upon this assertion is based the claim of divine
origin; it is then admitted that the unity was broken. The argument is
then shifted, and the claim is made that it required more than human
power to restore the internal and external unity of the church, and that
the restoration, not the unity, is proof of the divine origin. Is there
any contradiction beyond this?

Let us state the case in another way. Let us suppose that a man has a
sword which he claims was made by God, stating that the reason he knows
that God made the sword is that it never had been and never could be
broken. Now, if it was afterwards ascertained that it had been broken,
and the owner admitted that it had been, what would be thought of him
if he then took the ground that it had been welded, and that the welding
was the evidence that it was of divine origin?

A prophecy is then indulged in, to the effect that the internal and
external unity of the church can never be broken again. It is admitted
that it was broken—it is asserted that it was divinely restored—and
then it is declared that it is never to be broken again. No reason is
given for this prophecy; it must be born of the facts already stated.
Put in a form to be easily understood, it is this:

We know that the unity of the church can never be broken, because the
church is of divine origin.

We know that it was broken; but this does not weaken the argument,
because it was restored by God, and it has not been broken since.

Therefore, it never can be broken again.

It is stated that the Catholic Church is immutable, and that its
immutability establishes its claim to divine origin. Was it immutable
when its unity, internal and external, was broken? Was it precisely the
same after its unity was broken that it was before? Was it precisely the
same after its unity was divinely restored that it was while broken?
Was it universal while it was without unity? Which of the fragments was
universal—which was immutable?

The fact that the Catholic Church is obedient to the pope, establishes,
not the supernatural origin of the church, but the mental slavery of its
members. It establishes the fact that it is a successful organization;
that it is cunningly devised; that it destroys the mental independence,
and that whoever absolutely submits to its authority loses the jewel of
his soul.

The fact that Catholics are to a great extent obedient to the pope,
establishes nothing except the thoroughness of the organization.

How was the Roman empire formed? By what means did that Great Power
hold in bondage the then known world? How is it that a despotism is
established? How is it that the few enslave the many? How is it that
the nobility live on the labor of peasants? The answer is in one word,
Organization. The organized few triumph over the unorganized many.
The few hold the sword and the purse. The unorganized are overcome in
detail—terrorized, brutalized, robbed, conquered.

We must remember that when Christianity was established the world
was ignorant, credulous and cruel. The gospel with its idea of
forgiveness—with its heaven and hell—was suited to the barbarians
among whom it was preached. Let it be understood, once for all, that
Christ had but little to do with Christianity. The people became
convinced—being ignorant, stupid and credulous—that the church held
the keys of heaven and hell. The foundation for the most terrible mental
tyranny that has existed among men was in this way laid. The Catholic
Church enslaved to the extent of its power. It resorted to every
possible form of fraud; it perverted every good instinct of the human
heart; it rewarded every vice; it resorted to every artifice that
ingenuity could devise, to reach the highest round of power. It tortured
the accused to make them confess; it tortured witnesses to compel the
commission of perjury; it tortured children for the purpose of making
them convict their parents; it compelled men to establish their own
innocence; it imprisoned without limit; it had the malicious patience to
wait; it left the accused without trial, and left them in dungeons until
released by death. There is no crime that the Catholic Church did not
commit,—no cruelty that it did not practice,—no form of treachery that
it did not reward, and no virtue that it did not persecute. It was
the greatest and most powerful enemy of human rights. It did all that
organization, cunning, piety, self-denial, heroism, treachery, zeal and
brute force could do to enslave the children of men. It was the enemy of
intelligence, the assassin of liberty, and the destroyer of progress. It
loaded the noble with chains and the infamous with honors. In one hand
it carried the alms dish, in the other a dagger. It argued with the
sword, persuaded with poison, and convinced with the fagot.

It is impossible to see how the divine origin of a church can be
established by showing that hundreds of bishops have visited the pope.

Does the fact that millions of the faithful visit Mecca establish the
truth of the Koran? Is it a scene for congratulation when the bishops
of thirty nations kneel before a man? Is it not humiliating to know that
man is willing to kneel at the feet of man? Could a noble man demand, or
joyfully receive, the humiliation of his fellows?

As a rule, arrogance and humility go together. He who in power compels
his fellow-man to kneel, will himself kneel when weak. The tyrant is a
cringer in power; a cringer is a tyrant out of power. Great men stand
face to face. They meet on equal terms. The cardinal who kneels in the
presence of the pope, wants the bishop to kneel in his presence; and the
bishop who kneels demands that the priest shall kneel to him; and the
priest who kneels demands that they in lower orders shall kneel; and
all, from pope to the lowest—that is to say, from pope to exorcist,
from pope to the one in charge of the bones of saints—all demand that
the people, the laymen, those upon whom they live, shall kneel to them.

The man of free and noble spirit will not kneel. Courage has no knees.

Fear kneels, or falls upon its ashen face.

The Cardinal insists that the pope is the vicar of Christ, and that
all popes have been. What is a vicar of Christ? He is a substitute in
office. He stands in the place, or occupies the position in relation
to the church, in relation to the world, that Jesus Christ would occupy
were he the pope at Rome. In other words, he takes Christ's place; so
that, according to the doctrine of the Catholic Church, Jesus Christ
himself is present in the person of the pope.

We all know that a good man may employ a bad agent. A good king might
leave his realm and put in his place a tyrant and a wretch. The good
man and the good king cannot certainly know what manner of man the
agent is—what kind of person the vicar is—consequently the bad may be
chosen. But if the king appointed a bad vicar, knowing him to be bad,
knowing that he would oppress the people, knowing that he would imprison
and burn the noble and generous, what excuse can be imagined for such a
king?

Now, if the church is of divine origin, and if each pope is the vicar of
Jesus Christ, he must have been chosen by Jesus Christ; and when he was
chosen, Christ must have known exactly what his vicar would do. Can we
believe that an infinitely wise and good Being would choose immoral,
dishonest, ignorant, malicious, heartless, fiendish, and inhuman vicars?

The Cardinal admits that "the history of Christianity is the history
of the church, and that the history of the church is the history of the
Pontiffs," and he then declares that "the greatest statesmen and rulers
that the world has ever seen are the Popes of Rome."

Let me call attention to a few passages in Draper's "History of the
Intellectual Development of Europe."

"Constantine was one of the vicars of Christ. Afterwards, Stephen IV.
was chosen. The eyes of Constantine were then put out by Stephen, acting
in Christ's place. The tongue of the Bishop Theodorus was amputated
by the man who had been substituted for God. This bishop was left in a
dungeon to perish of thirst. Pope Leo III. was seized in the street and
forced into a church, where the nephews of Pope Adrian attempted to
put out his eyes and cut off his tongue. His successor, Stephen V., was
driven ignominiously from Rome. His successor, Paschal I., was accused
of blinding and murdering two ecclesiastics in the Lateran Palace.
John VIII., unable to resist the Mohammedans, was compelled to pay them
tribute.

"At this time, the Bishop of Naples was in secret alliance with the
Mohammedans, and they divided with this Catholic bishop the plunder they
collected from other Catholics. This bishop was excommunicated by the
pope; afterwards he gave him absolution because he betrayed the chief
Mohammedans, and assassinated others. There was an ecclesiastical
conspiracy to murder the pope, and some of the treasures of the church
were seized, and the gate of St. Pancrazia was opened with false keys
to admit the Saracens. Formosus, who had been engaged in these
transactions, who had been excommunicated as a conspirator for the
murder of Pope John, was himself elected pope in 891. Boniface VI.
was his successor. He had been deposed from the diaconate and from the
priesthood for his immoral and lewd life. Stephen VII. was the next
pope, and he had the dead body of Formosus taken from the grave, clothed
in papal habiliments, propped up in a chair and tried before a Council.
The corpse was found guilty, three fingers were cut off and the body
cast into the Tiber. Afterwards Stephen VII., this Vicar of Christ, was
thrown into prison and strangled.

"From 896 to 900, five popes were consecrated. Leo V., in less than two
months after he became pope, was cast into prison by Christopher, one of
his chaplains. This Christopher usurped his place, and in a little while
was expelled from Rome by Sergius III., who became pope in 905. This
pope lived in criminal intercourse with the celebrated Theodora, who
with her daughters Marozia and Theodora, both prostitutes, exercised an
extraordinary control over him. The love of Theodora was also shared by
John X. She gave him the Archbishopric of Revenna, and made him pope in
915. The daughter of Theodora overthrew this pope. She surprised him in
the Lateran Palace. His brother, Peter, was killed; the pope was thrown
into prison, where he was afterward murdered. Afterward, this Marozia,
daughter of Theodora, made her own son pope, John XI. Many affirmed that
Pope Sergius was his father, but his mother inclined to attribute him to
her husband Alberic, whose brother Guido she afterward married. Another
of her sons, Alberic, jealous of his brother John, the pope, cast him
and their mother into prison. Alberic's son was then elected pope as
John XII.

"John was nineteen years old when he became the vicar of Christ. His
reign was characterized by the most shocking immoralities, so that the
Emperor Otho I. was compelled by the German clergy to interfere. He was
tried. It appeared that John had received bribes for the consecration
of bishops; that he had ordained one who was only ten years old; that
he was charged with incest, and with so many adulteries that the Lateran
Palace had become a brothel. He put out the eyes of one ecclesiastic;
he maimed another—both dying in consequence of their injuries. He was
given to drunkenness and to gambling. He was deposed at last, and Leo
VII. elected in his stead. Subsequently he got the upper hand. He seized
his antagonists; he cut off the hand of one, the nose, the finger, and
the tongue of others. His life was eventually brought to an end by the
vengeance of a man whose wife he had seduced."

And yet, I admit that the most infamous popes, the most heartless and
fiendish bishops, friars, and priests were models of mercy, charity,
and justice when compared with the orthodox God—with the God they
worshiped. These popes, these bishops, these priests could persecute
only for a few years—they could burn only for a few moments—but their
God threatened to imprison and burn forever; and their God is as much
worse than they were, as hell is worse than the Inquisition.

"John XIII. was strangled in prison. Boniface VII. imprisoned Benedict
VII., and starved him to death. John XIV. was secretly put to death in
the dungeons of the castle of St. Angelo. The corpse of Boniface was
dragged by the populace through the streets."

It must be remembered that the popes were assassinated by
Catholics—murdered by the faithful—that one vicar of Christ strangled
another vicar of Christ, and that these men were "the greatest rulers
and the greatest statesmen of the earth."

"Pope John XVI. was seized, his eyes put out, his nose cut off, his
tongue torn from his mouth, and he was sent through the streets mounted
on an ass, with his face to the tail. Benedict IX., a boy of less than
twelve years of age, was raised to the apostolic throne. One of his
successors, Victor III., declared that the life of Benedict was so
shameful, so foul, so execrable, that he shuddered to describe it. He
ruled like a captain of banditti. The people, unable to bear longer his
adulteries, his homicides and his abominations, rose against him, and
in despair of maintaining his position, he put up the papacy to auction,
and it was bought by a presbyter named John, who became Gregory VI., in
the year of grace 1045. Well may we ask, Were these the vicegerents of
God upon earth—these, who had truly reached that goal beyond which the
last effort of human wickedness cannot pass?"

It may be sufficient to say that there is no crime that man can commit
that has not been committed by the vicars of Christ. They have inflicted
every possible torture, violated every natural right. Greater monsters
the human race has not produced.

Among the "some two hundred and fifty-eight" Vicars of Christ there were
probably some good men. This would have happened even if the intention
had been to get all bad men, for the reason that man reaches perfection
neither in good nor in evil; but if they were selected by Christ
himself, if they were selected by a church with a divine origin and
under divine guidance, then there is no way to account for the selection
of a bad one. If one hypocrite was duly elected pope—one murderer,
one strangler, one starver—this demonstrates that all the popes were
selected by men, and by men only, and that the claim of divine guidance
is born of zeal and uttered without knowledge.

But who were the vicars of Christ? How many have there been? Cardinal
Manning himself does not know. He is not sure. He says: "Starting from
St. Peter to Leo XIII., there have been some two hundred and fifty-eight
Pontiffs claiming to be recognized by the whole Catholic unity as
successors of St. Peter and Vicars of Jesus Christ." Why did he use the
word "some"? Why "claiming"? Does he not positively know? Is it possible
that the present Vicar of Christ is not certain as to the number of his
predecessors? Is he infallible in faith and fallible in fact?

Robert G. Ingersoll.

II.

> "If we live thus tamely,—
> To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet,—
> Farewell nobility."

NO ONE will deny that "the pope speaks to many people in many nations;
that he treats with empires and governments," and that "neither from
Canterbury nor from Constantinople such a voice goes forth."

How does the pope speak? What does he say?

He speaks against the liberty of man—against the progress of the human
race. He speaks to calumniate thinkers, and to warn the faithful
against the discoveries of science. He speaks for the destruction of
civilization.

Who listens? Do astronomers, geologists and scientists put the hand to
the ear fearing that an accent may be lost? Does France listen? Does
Italy hear? Is not the church weakest at its centre? Do those who
have raised Italy from the dead, and placed her again among the great
nations, pay attention? Does Great Britain care for this voice—this
moan, this groan—of the Middle Ages? Do the words of Leo XIII. impress
the intelligence of the Great Republic? Can anything be more absurd
than for the vicar of Christ to attack a demonstration of science with a
passage of Scripture, or a quotation from one of the "Fathers"?

Compare the popes with the kings and queens of England. Infinite wisdom
had but little to do with the selection of these monarchs, and yet they
were far better than any equal number of consecutive popes. This is
faint praise, even for kings and queens, but it shows that chance
succeeded in getting better rulers for England than "Infinite Wisdom"
did for the Church of Rome. Compare the popes with the presidents of the
Republic elected by the people. If Adams had murdered Washington, and
Jefferson had imprisoned Adams, and if Madison had cut out Jefferson's
tongue, and Monroe had assassinated Madison, and John Quincy Adams had
poisoned Monroe, and General Jackson had hung Adams and his Cabinet, we
might say that presidents had been as virtuous as popes. But if this
had happened, the verdict of the world would be that the people are not
capable of selecting their presidents.

But this voice from Rome is growing feebler day by day; so feeble that
the Cardinal admits that the vicar of God, and the supernatural church,
"are being tormented by Falck laws, by Mancini laws and by Crispi laws."
In other words, this representative of God, this substitute of Christ,
this church of divine origin, this supernatural institution—pervaded
by the Holy Ghost—are being "tormented" by three politicians. Is it
possible that this patriotic trinity is more powerful than the other?

It is claimed that if the Catholic Church "be only a human system, built
up by the intellect, will and energy of men, the adversaries must prove
it—that the burden is upon them."

As a general thing, institutions are natural. If this church is
supernatural, it is the one exception. The affirmative is with those who
claim that it is of divine origin. So far as we know, all governments
and all creeds are the work of man. No one believes that Rome was a
supernatural production, and yet its beginnings were as small as those
of the Catholic Church. Commencing in weakness, Rome grew, and
fought, and conquered, until it was believed that the sky bent above a
subjugated world. And yet all was natural. For every effect there was an
efficient cause.

The Catholic asserts that all other religions have been produced by
man—that Brahminism and Buddhism, the religion of Isis and Osiris, the
marvelous mythologies of Greece and Rome, were the work of the human
mind. From these religions Catholicism has borrowed. Long before
Catholicism was born, it was believed that women had borne children
whose fathers were gods. The Trinity was promulgated in Egypt centuries
before the birth of Moses. Celibacy was taught by the ancient Nazarenes
and Essenes, by the priests of Egypt and India, by mendicant monks, and
by the piously insane of many countries long before the apostles lived.
The Chinese tell us that "when there were but one man and one woman upon
the earth, the woman refused to sacrifice her virginity even to people
the globe; and the gods, honoring her purity, granted that she should
conceive beneath the gaze of her lover's eyes, and a virgin mother
became the parent of humanity."

The founders of many religions have insisted that it was the duty of man
to renounce the pleasures of sense, and millions before our era took the
vows of chastity, poverty and obedience, and most cheerfully lived upon
the labor of others.

The sacraments of baptism and confirmation are far older than the Church
of Rome. The Eucharist is pagan. Long before popes began to murder each
other, pagans ate cakes—the flesh of Ceres, and drank wine—the blood
of Bacchus. Holy water flowed in the Ganges and Nile, priests interceded
for the people, and anointed the dying.

It will not do to say that every successful religion that has taught
unnatural doctrines, unnatural practices, must of necessity have been
of divine origin. In most religions there has been a strange mingling
of the good and bad, of the merciful and cruel, of the loving and
malicious. Buddhism taught the universal brotherhood of man, insisted on
the development of the mind, and this religion was propagated not by
the sword, but by preaching, by persuasion, and by kindness—yet in
many things it was contrary to the human will, contrary to the human
passions, and contrary to good sense. Buddhism succeeded. Can we, for
this reason, say that it is a supernatural religion? Is the unnatural
the supernatural?

It is insisted that, while other churches have changed, the Catholic
Church alone has remained the same, and that this fact demonstrates its
divine origin.

Has the creed of Buddhism changed in three thousand years? Is
intellectual stagnation a demonstration of divine origin? When anything
refuses to grow, are we certain that the seed was planted by God? If the
Catholic Church is the same to-day that it has been for many centuries,
this proves that there has been no intellectual development. If men do
not differ upon religious subjects, it is because they do not think.

Differentiation is the law of growth, of progress. Every church must
gain or lose: it cannot remain the same; it must decay or grow. The fact
that the Catholic Church has not grown—that it has been petrified from
the first—does not establish divine origin; it simply establishes
the fact that it retards the progress of man. Everything in nature
changes—every atom is in motion—every star moves. Nations,
institutions and individuals have youth, manhood, old age, death. This
is and will be true of the Catholic Church. It was once weak—it grew
stronger—it reached its climax of power—it began to decay—it never
can rise again. It is confronted by the dawn of Science. In the presence
of the nineteenth century it cowers.

It is not true that "All natural causes run to disintegration."

Natural causes run to integration as well as to disintegration.
All growth is integration, and all growth is natural. All decay is
disintegration, and all decay is natural. Nature builds and nature
destroys. When the acorn grows—when the sunlight and rain fall upon it
and the oak rises—so far as the oak is concerned "all natural causes"
do not "run to disintegration." But there comes a time when the oak
has reached its limit, and then the forces of nature run towards
disintegration, and finally the old oak falls. But if the Cardinal is
right—if "all natural causes run to disintegration," then every success
must have been of divine origin, and nothing is natural but destruction.
This is Catholic science: "All natural causes run to disintegration."
What do these causes find to disintegrate? Nothing that is natural. The
fact that the thing is not disintegrated shows that it was and is of
supernatural origin. According to the Cardinal, the only business
of nature is to disintegrate the supernatural. To prevent this, the
supernatural needs the protection of the Infinite. According to this
doctrine, if anything lives and grows, it does so in spite of nature.
Growth, then, is not in accordance with, but in opposition to nature.
Every plant is supernatural—it defeats the disintegrating influences of
rain and light. The generalization of the Cardinal is half the truth. It
would be equally true to say: All natural causes run to integration. But
the whole truth is that growth and decay are equal.

The Cardinal asserts that "Christendom was created by the world-wide
church as we see it before our eyes at this day."

Philosophers and statesmen believe it to be the work of their own
hands; they did not make it, but they have for three hundred years been
unmaking it by reformations and revolutions.

The meaning of this is that Christendom was far better three hundred
years ago than now; that during these three centuries Christendom has
been going toward barbarism. It means that the supernatural church of
God has been a failure for three hundred years; that it has been unable
to withstand the attacks of philosophers and statesmen, and that it has
been helpless in the midst of "reformations and revolutions."

What was the condition of the world three hundred years ago, the period,
according to the Cardinal, in which the church reached the height of its
influence, and since which it has been unable to withstand the rising
tide of reformation and the whirlwind of revolution?

In that blessed time, Philip II. was king of Spain—he with the cramped
head and the monstrous jaw. Heretics were hunted like wild and poisonous
beasts; the Inquisition was firmly established, and priests were busy
with rack and fire. With a zeal born of the hatred of man and the love
of God, the church, with every instrument of torture, touched every
nerve in the human body.

In those happy days, the Duke of Alva was devastating the homes of
Holland; heretics were buried alive—their tongues were torn from their
mouths, their lids from their eyes; the Armada was on the sea for the
destruction of the heretics of England, and the Moriscoes—a million and
a half of industrious people—were being driven by sword and flame
from their homes. The Jews had been expelled from Spain. This Catholic
country had succeeded in driving intelligence and industry from its
territory; and this had been done with a cruelty, with a ferocity,
unequaled, in the annals of crime.

Nothing was left but ignorance, bigotry, intolerance, credulity, the
Inquisition, the seven sacraments and the seven deadly sins. And yet a
Cardinal of the nineteenth century, living in the land of Shakespeare,
regrets the change that has been wrought by the intellectual efforts, by
the discoveries, by the inventions and heroism of three hundred years.

Three hundred years ago, Charles IX., in France, son of Catherine de
Medici, in the year of grace 1572—after nearly sixteen centuries of
Catholic Christianity—after hundreds of vicars of Christ had sat in St.
Peter's chair—after the natural passions of man had been "softened" by
the creed of Rome—came the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, the result of a
conspiracy between the Vicar of Christ, Philip II., Charles IX., and his
fiendish mother. Let the Cardinal read the account of this massacre
once more, and, after reading it, imagine that he sees the gashed and
mutilated bodies of thousands of men and women, and then let him say
that he regrets the revolutions and reformations of three hundred years.

About three hundred years ago Clement VIII., Vicar of Christ, acting in
God's place, substitute of the Infinite, persecuted Giordano Bruno even
unto death. This great, this sublime man, was tried for heresy. He had
ventured to assert the rotary motion of the earth; he had hazarded the
conjecture that there were in the fields of infinite space worlds larger
and more glorious than ours. For these low and groveling thoughts, for
this contradiction of the word and vicar of God, this man was imprisoned
for many years. But his noble spirit was not broken, and finally, in the
year 1600, by the orders of the infamous vicar, he was chained to
the stake. Priests believing in the doctrine of universal
forgiveness—priests who when smitten upon one cheek turned the
other—carried with a kind of ferocious joy fagots to the feet of this
incomparable man. These disciples of "Our Lord" were made joyous as
the flames, like serpents, climbed around the body of Bruno. In a few
moments the brave thinker was dead, and the priests who had burned him
fell upon their knees and asked the infinite God to continue the blessed
work forever in hell.

There are two things that cannot exist in the same universe—an infinite
God and a martyr.

Does the Cardinal regret that kings and emperors are not now engaged in
the extermination of Protestants? Does he regret that dungeons of the
Inquisition are no longer crowded with the best and bravest? Does he
long for the fires of the _auto da fe_.?

In coming to a conclusion as to the origin of the Catholic Church—in
determining the truth of the claim of infallibility—we are not
restricted to the physical achievements of that church, or to the
history of its propagation, or to the rapidity of its growth.

This church has a creed; and if this church is of divine origin—if
its head is the vicar of Christ, and, as such, infallible in matters
of faith and morals, this creed must be true. Let us start with the
supposition that God exists, and that he is infinitely wise, powerful
and good—and this is only a supposition. Now, if the creed is foolish,
absurd and cruel, it cannot be of divine origin. We find in this creed
the following:

"Whosoever will be saved, before all things it is necessary that he hold
the Catholic faith."

It is not necessary, before all things, that he be good, honest,
merciful, charitable and just. Creed is more important than conduct. The
most important of all things is, that he hold the Catholic faith. There
were thousands of years during which it was not necessary to hold that
faith, because that faith did not exist; and yet during that time the
virtues were just as important as now, just as important as they ever
can be.

Millions of the noblest of the human race never heard of this creed.
Millions of the bravest and best have heard of it, examined, and
rejected it. Millions of the most infamous have believed it, and because
of their belief, or notwithstanding their belief, have murdered millions
of their fellows. We know that men can be, have been, and are just
as wicked with it as without it. We know that it is not necessary to
believe it to be good, loving, tender, noble and self-denying. We admit
that millions who have believed it have also been self-denying and
heroic, and that millions, by such belief, were not prevented from
torturing and destroying the helpless.

Now, if all who believed it were good, and all who rejected it were
bad, then there might be some propriety in saying that "whoever will
be saved, before all things it is necessary that he hold the Catholic
faith." But as the experience of mankind is otherwise, the declaration
becomes absurd, ignorant and cruel.

There is still another clause:

"Which faith, except every one do keep entire and inviolate, without
doubt, he shall everlastingly perish."

We now have both sides of this wonderful truth: The believer will be
saved, the unbeliever will be lost. We know that faith is not the child
or servant of the will. We know that belief is a conclusion based upon
what the mind supposes to be true. We know that it is not an act of the
will. Nothing can be more absurd than to save a man because he is not
intelligent enough to accept the truth, and nothing can be more infamous
than to damn a man because he is intelligent enough to reject the false.
It resolves itself into a question of intelligence. If the creed is
true, then a man rejects it because he lacks intelligence. Is this
a crime for which a man should everlastingly perish? If the creed is
false, then a man accepts it because he lacks intelligence. In both
cases the crime is exactly the same.

If a man is to be damned for rejecting the truth, certainly he should
not be saved for accepting the false. This one clause demonstrates
that a being of infinite wisdom and goodness did not write it. It also
demonstrates that it was the work of men who had neither wisdom nor a
sense of justice.

What is this Catholic faith that must be held? It is this:

"That we worship one God in Trinity and Trinity in Unity, neither
confounding the persons nor dividing the substance." Why should an
Infinite Being demand worship? Why should one God wish to be worshiped
as three? Why should three Gods wished to be worshiped as one? Why
should we pray to one God and think of three, or pray to three Gods
and think of one? Can this increase the happiness of the one or of the
three? Is it possible to think of one as three, or of three as one? If
you think of three as one, can you think of one as none, or of none as
one? When you think of three as one, what do you do with the other two?
You must not "confound the persons"—they must be kept separate. When
you think of one as three, how do you get the other two? You must not
"divide the substance." Is it possible to write greater contradictions
than these?

This creed demonstrates the human origin of the Catholic Church. Nothing
could be more unjust than to punish man for unbelief—for the expression
of honest thought—for having been guided by his reason—for having
acted in accordance with his best judgment.

Another claim is made, to the effect "that the Catholic Church has
filled the world with the true knowledge of the one true God, and that
it has destroyed all idols by light instead of by fire."

The Catholic Church described the true God as a being who would inflict
eternal pain on his weak and erring children; described him as a fickle,
quick-tempered, unreasonable deity, whom honesty enraged, and whom
flattery governed; one who loved to see fear upon its knees, ignorance
with closed eyes and open mouth; one who delighted in useless
self-denial, who loved to hear the sighs and sobs of suffering nuns,
as they lay prostrate on dungeon floors; one who was delighted when
the husband deserted his family and lived alone in some cave in the far
wilderness, tormented by dreams and driven to insanity by prayer and
penance, by fasting and faith.

According to the Catholic Church, the true God enjoyed the agonies of
heretics. He loved the smell of their burning flesh; he applauded with
wide palms when philosophers were flayed alive, and to him the _auto da
fe_ was a divine comedy. The shrieks of wives, the cries of babes when
fathers were being burned, gave contrast, heightened the effect and
filled his cup with joy. This true God did not know the shape of the
earth he had made, and had forgotten the orbits of the stars. "The
stream of light which descended from the beginning" was propagated by
fagot to fagot, until Christendom was filled with the devouring fires of
faith.

It may also be said that the Catholic Church filled the world with the
true knowledge of the one true Devil. It filled the air with malicious
phantoms, crowded innocent sleep with leering fiends, and gave the world
to the domination of witches and wizards, spirits and spooks, goblins
and ghosts, and butchered and burned thousands for the commission of
impossible crimes.

It is contended that: "In this true knowledge of the Divine Nature was
revealed to man their own relation to a Creator as sons to a Father."

This tender relation was revealed by the Catholics to the Pagans, the
Arians, the Cathari, the Waldenses, the Albigenses, the heretics, the
Jews, the Moriscoes, the Protestants—to the natives of the West Indies,
of Mexico, of Peru—to philosophers, patriots and thinkers. All these
victims were taught to regard the true God as a loving father, and this
lesson was taught with every instrument of torture—with brandings and
burnings, with flayings and flames. The world was filled with cruelty
and credulity, ignorance and intolerance, and the soil in which all
these horrors grew was the true knowledge of the one true God, and the
true knowledge of the one true Devil. And yet, we are compelled to say,
that the one true Devil described by the Catholic Church was not as
malevolent as the one true God.

Is it true that the Catholic Church overthrew idolatry? What is
idolatry? What shall we say of the worship of popes—of the doctrine of
the Real Presence, of divine honors paid to saints, of sacred vestments,
of holy water, of consecrated cups and plates, of images and relics, of
amulets and charms?

The Catholic Church filled the world with the spirit of idolatry. It
abandoned the idea of continuity in nature, it denied the integrity of
cause and effect. The government of the world was the composite
result of the caprice of God, the malice of Satan, the prayers of
the faithful—softened, it may be, by the charity of Chance. Yet the
Cardinal asserts, without the preface of a smile, that "Demonology was
overthrown by the church, with the assistance of forces that were
above nature;" and in the same breath gives birth to this enlightened
statement: "Beelzebub is not divided against himself." Is a belief in
Beelzebub a belief in demonology? Has the Cardinal forgotten the Council
of Nice, held in the year of grace 787, that declared the worship of
images to be lawful? Did that infallible Council, under the guidance of
the Holy Ghost, destroy idolatry?

The Cardinal takes the ground that marriage is a sacrament, and
therefore indissoluble, and he also insists that celibacy is far better
than marriage,—holier than a sacrament,—that marriage is not the
highest state, but that "the state of virginity unto death is the
highest condition of man and woman."

The highest ideal of a family is where all are equal—where love has
superseded authority—where each seeks the good of all, and where none
obey—where no religion can sunder hearts, and with which no church can
interfere.

The real marriage is based on mutual affection—the ceremony is but the
outward evidence of the inward flame. To this contract there are but two
parties. The church is an impudent intruder. Marriage is made public to
the end that the real contract may be known, so that the world can see
that the parties have been actuated by the highest and holiest motives
that find expression in the acts of human beings. The man and woman
are not joined together by God, or by the church, or by the state.
The church and state may prescribe certain ceremonies, certain
formalities—but all these are only evidence of the existence of a
sacred fact in the hearts of the wedded. The indissolubility of marriage
is a dogma that has filled the lives of millions with agony and tears.
It has given a perpetual excuse for vice and immorality. Fear has
borne children begotten by brutality. Countless women have endured the
insults, indignities and cruelties of fiendish husbands, because they
thought that it was the will of God. The contract of marriage is the
most important that human beings can make; but no contract can be
so important as to release one of the parties from the obligation of
performance; and no contract, whether made between man and woman, or
between them and God, after a failure of consideration caused by the
willful act of the man or woman, can hold and bind the innocent and
honest.

Do the believers in indissoluble marriage treat their wives better than
others? A little while ago, a woman said to a man who had raised his
hand to strike her: "Do not touch me; you have no right to beat me; I am
not your wife."

About a year ago a husband, whom God in his infinite wisdom had joined
to a loving and patient woman in the indissoluble sacrament of marriage,
becoming enraged, seized the helpless wife and tore out one of her eyes.
She forgave him. A few weeks ago he deliberately repeated this frightful
crime, leaving his victim totally blind. Would it not have been better
if man, before the poor woman was blinded, had put asunder whom God
had joined together? Thousands of husbands, who insist that marriage is
indissoluble, are the beaters of wives.

The law of the church has created neither the purity nor the peace of
domestic life. Back of all churches is human affection. Back of all
theologies is the love of the human heart. Back of all your priests and
creeds is the adoration of the one woman by the one man, and of the one
man by the one woman. Back of your faith is the fireside; back of your
folly is the family; and back of all your holy mistakes and your sacred
absurdities is the love of husband and wife, of parent and child.

It is not true that neither the Greek nor the Roman world had any true
conception of a home. The splendid story of Ulysses and Penelope, the
parting of Hector and Andromache, demonstrate that a true conception of
home existed among the Greeks. Before the establishment of Christianity,
the Roman matron commanded the admiration of the then known world. She
was free and noble. The church degraded woman—made her the property
of the husband, and trampled her beneath its brutal feet. The "fathers"
denounced woman as a perpetual temptation, as the cause of all evil. The
church worshiped a God who had upheld polygamy, and had pronounced his
curse on woman, and had declared that she should be the serf of the
husband. This church followed the teachings of St. Paul. It taught the
uncleanness of marriage, and insisted that all children were conceived
in sin. This church pretended to have been founded by one who offered a
reward in this world, and eternal joy in the next, to husbands who would
forsake their wives and children and follow him. Did this tend to the
elevation of woman? Did this detestable doctrine "create the purity and
peace of domestic life"? Is it true that a monk is purer than a good and
noble father?—that a nun is holier than a loving mother?

Is there anything deeper and stronger than a mother's love? Is there
anything purer, holier than a mother holding her dimpled babe against
her billowed breast?

The good man is useful, the best man is the most useful. Those who fill
the nights with barren prayers and holy hunger, torture themselves
for their own good and not for the benefit of others. They are
earning eternal glory for themselves—they do not fast for their
fellow-men—their selfishness is only equalled by their foolishness.
Compare the monk in his selfish cell, counting beads and saying prayers
for the purpose of saving his barren soul, with a husband and father
sitting by his fireside with wife and children. Compare the nun with the
mother and her babe.

Celibacy is the essence of vulgarity. It tries to put a stain upon
motherhood, upon marriage, upon love—that is to say, upon all that
is holiest in the human heart. Take love from the world, and there is
nothing left worth living for. The church has treated this great, this
sublime, this unspeakably holy passion, as though it polluted the heart.
They have placed the love of God above the love of woman, above the love
of man. Human love is generous and noble. The love of God is selfish,
because man does not love God for God's sake, but for his own.

Yet the Cardinal asserts "that the change wrought by Christianity in the
social, political and international relations of the world"—"that the
root of this ethical change, private and public, is the Christian home."
A moment afterward, this prelate insists that celibacy is far better
than marriage. If the world could be induced to live in accordance with
the "highest state," this generation would be the last. Why were men and
women created? Why did not the Catholic God commence' with the sinless
and sexless? The Cardinal ought to take the ground that to talk well is
good, but that to be dumb is the highest condition; that hearing is a
pleasure, but that deafness is ecstasy; and that to think, to reason, is
very well, but that to be a Catholic is far better.

Why should we desire the destruction of human passions? Take passions
from human beings and what is left? The great object should be not to
destroy passions, but to make them obedient to the intellect. To indulge
passion to the utmost is one form of intemperance—to destroy passion is
another. The reasonable gratification of passion under the domination of
the intellect is true wisdom and perfect virtue.

The goodness, the sympathy, the self-denial of the nun, of the monk, all
come from the mother-instinct, the father-instinct—all were produced by
human affection, by the love of man for woman, of woman for man. Love is
a transfiguration. It ennobles, purifies and glorifies. In true marriage
two hearts burst into flower. Two lives unite. They melt in music. Every
moment is a melody. Love is a revelation, a creation. From love
the world borrows its beauty and the heavens their glory. Justice,
self-denial, charity and pity are the children of love. Lover, wife,
mother, husband, father, child, home—these words shed light—they are
the gems of human speech. Without love all glory fades, the noble falls
from life, art dies, music loses meaning and becomes mere motions of the
air, and virtue ceases to exist.

It is asserted that this life of celibacy is above and against the
tendencies of human nature; and the Cardinal then asks: "Who will
ascribe this to natural causes, and, if so, why did it not appear in the
first four thousand years?"

If there is in a system of religion a doctrine, a dogma, or a practice
against the tendencies of human nature—if this religion succeeds,
then it is claimed by the Cardinal that such religion must be of divine
origin. Is it "against the tendencies of human nature" for a mother to
throw her child into the Ganges to please a supposed God? Yet a religion
that insisted on that sacrifice succeeded, and has, to-day, more
believers than the Catholic Church can boast.

Religions, like nations and individuals, have always gone along the line
of least resistance. Nothing has "ascended the stream of human license
by a power mightier than nature." There is no such power. There never
was, there never can be, a miracle. We know that man is a conditioned
being. We know that he is affected by a change of conditions. If he
is ignorant he is superstitious; this is natural. If his brain is
developed—if he perceives clearly that all things are naturally
produced, he ceases to be superstitious, and becomes scientific. He is
not a saint, but a savant—not a priest, but a philosopher. He does
not worship, he works; he investigates; he thinks; he takes advantage,
through intelligence, of the forces of nature. He is no longer the
victim of appearances, the dupe of his own ignorance, and the persecutor
of his fellow-men.

He then knows that it is far better to love his wife and children than
to love God. He then knows that the love of man for woman, of woman for
man, of parent for child, of child for parent, is far better, far holier
than the love of man for any phantom born of ignorance and fear.

It is illogical to take the ground that the world was cruel and ignorant
and idolatrous when the Catholic Church was established, and that
because the world is better now than then, the church is of divine
origin.

What was the world when science came? What was it in the days of
Galileo, Copernicus and Kepler? What-was it when printing was invented?
What was it when the Western World was found? Would it not be much
easier to prove that science is of divine origin?

Science does not persecute. It does not shed blood—it fills the world
with light. It cares nothing for heresy; it develops the mind, and
enables man to answer his own prayers.

Cardinal Manning takes the ground that Jehovah practically abandoned
the children of men for four thousand years, and gave them over to every
abomination. He claims that Christianity came "in the fullness of time,"
and it is then admitted that "what the fullness of time may mean is one
of the mysteries of times and seasons, that it is not for us to know."
Having declared that it is a mystery, and one that we are not to
know, the Cardinal explains it: "One motive for the long delay of four
thousand years is not far to seek—it gave time, full and ample, for the
utmost development and consolidation of all the falsehood and evil of
which the intellect and will of man are capable."

Is it possible to imagine why an infinitely good and wise being "gave
time full and ample for the utmost development and consolidation of
falsehood and evil"? Why should an infinitely wise God desire this
development and consolidation? What would be thought of a father who
should refuse to teach his son and deliberately allow him to go into
every possible excess, to the end that he might "develop all the
falsehood and evil of which his intellect and will were capable"? If a
supernatural religion is a necessity, and if without it all men simply
develop and consolidate falsehood and evil, why was not a supernatural
religion given to the first man? The Catholic Church, if this be true,
should have been founded in the Garden of Eden.

Was it not cruel to drown a world just for the want of a supernatural
religion—a religion that man, by no possibility, could furnish? Was
there "husbandry in heaven"?

But the Cardinal contradicts himself by not only admitting, but
declaring, that the world had never seen a legislation so just, so
equitable, as that of Rome.

Is it possible that a nation in which falsehood and evil had reached
their highest development was, after all, so wise, so just and so
equitable?

Was not the civil law far better than the Mosaic—more philosophical,
nearer just?

The civil law was produced without the assistance of God.

According to the Cardinal, it was produced by men in whom all the
falsehood and evil of which they were capable had been developed and
consolidated, while the cruel and ignorant Mosaic code came from the
lips of infinite wisdom and compassion.

It is declared that the history of Rome shows what man can do without
God, and I assert that the history of the Inquisition shows what man
can do when assisted by a church of divine origin, presided over, by the
infallible vicars of God.

The fact that the early Christians not only believed incredible things,
but persuaded others of their truth, is regarded by the Cardinal as a
miracle. This is only another phase of the old argument that success is
the test of divine origin. All supernatural religions have been founded
in precisely the same way. The credulity of eighteen hundred years ago
believed everything except the truth.

A religion is a growth, and is of necessity adapted in some degree to
the people among whom it grows. It is shaped and molded by the general
ignorance, the superstition and credulity of the age in which it lives.
The key is fashioned by the lock.

Every religion that has succeeded has in some way supplied the wants of
its votaries, and has to a certain extent harmonized with their hopes,
their fears, their vices, and their virtues.

If, as the Cardinal says, the religion of Christ is in absolute harmony
with nature, how can it be supernatural? The Cardinal also declares that
"the religion of Christ is in harmony with the reason and moral nature
in all nations and all ages to this day."

What becomes of the argument that Catholicism must be of divine origin
because "it has ascended the stream of human license, _contra ictum
fluminis_, by a power mightier than nature"?

If "it is in harmony with the reason and moral nature of all nations and
all ages to this day," it has gone with the stream, and not against
it. If "the religion of Christ is in harmony with the reason and moral
nature of all nations," then the men who have rejected it are unnatural,
and these men have gone against the stream. How then can it be said
that Christianity has been in changeless opposition to nature as man has
marred it? To what extent has man marred it?

In spite of the marring by man, we are told that the reason and moral
nature of all nations in all ages to this day is in harmony with the
religion of Jesus Christ.

Are we justified in saying that the Catholic Church is of divine origin
because the Pagans failed to destroy it by persecution?

We will put the Cardinal's statement in form:

Paganism failed to destroy Catholicism by persecution, therefore
Catholicism is of divine origin.

Let us make an application of this logic:

Paganism failed to destroy Catholicism by persecution; therefore,
Catholicism is of divine origin.

Catholicism failed to destroy Protestantism by persecution; therefore,
Protestantism is of divine origin.

Catholicism and Protestantism combined failed to destroy Infidelity;
therefore, Infidelity is of divine origin.

Let us make another application:

Paganism did not succeed in destroying Catholicism; therefore, Paganism
was a false religion.

Catholicism did not succeed in destroying Protestantism; therefore,
Catholicism is a false religion.

Catholicism and Protestantism combined failed to destroy Infidelity;
therefore, both Catholicism and Protestantism are false religions.

The Cardinal has another reason for believing the Catholic Church of
divine origin. He declares that the "Canon Law is a creation of wisdom
and justice to which no statutes at large or imperial pandects can bear
comparison;" "that the world-wide and secular legislation of the church
was of a higher character, and that as water cannot rise above its
source, the church could not, by mere human wisdom, have corrected and
perfected the imperial law, and therefore its source must have been
higher than the sources of the world."

When Europe was the most ignorant, the Canon Law was supreme.

As a matter of fact, the good in the Canon Law was borrowed—the bad
was, for the most part, original. In my judgment, the legislation of the
Republic of the United States is in many respects superior to that of
Rome, and yet we are greatly indebted to the Civil Law. Our legislation
is superior in many particulars to that of England, and yet we are
greatly indebted to the Common Law; but it never occurred to me that our
Statutes at Large are divinely inspired.

If the Canon Law is, in fact, the legislation of infinite wisdom, then
it should be a perfect code. Yet, the Canon Law made it a crime next to
robbery and theft to take interest for money. Without the right to take
interest the business of the whole world, would to a large extent, cease
and the prosperity of mankind end. There are railways enough in the
United States to make six tracks around the globe, and every mile was
built with borrowed money on which interest was paid or promised. In no
other way could the savings of many thousands have been brought together
and a capital great enough formed to construct works of such vast and
continental importance.

It was provided in this same wonderful Canon Law that a heretic could
not be a witness against a Catholic. The Catholic was at liberty to
rob and wrong his fellow-man, provided the fellow-man was not a fellow
Catholic, and in a court established by the vicar of Christ, the man
who had been robbed was not allowed to open his mouth. A Catholic could
enter the house of an unbeliever, of a Jew, of a heretic, of a Moor, and
before the eyes of the husband and father murder his wife and children,
and the father could not pronounce in the hearing of a judge the name of
the murderer.

The world is wiser now, and the Canon Law, given to us by infinite
wisdom, has been repealed by the common sense of man.

In this divine code it was provided that to convict a cardinal bishop,
seventy-two witnesses were required; a cardinal presbyter, forty-four;
a cardinal deacon, twenty-four; a subdeacon, acolyth, exorcist, reader,
ostiarius, seven; and in the purgation of a bishop, twelve witnesses
were invariably required; of a presbyter, seven; of a deacon, three.
These laws, in my judgment, were made, not by God, but by the clergy.

So too in this cruel code it was provided that those who gave aid,
favor, or counsel, to excommunicated persons, should be anathema, and
that those who talked with, consulted, or sat at the same table with or
gave anything in charity to the excommunicated should be anathema.

Is it possible that a being of infinite wisdom made hospitality a crime?
Did he say: "Whoso giveth a cup of cold water to the excommunicated
shall wear forever a garment of fire"? Were not the laws of the Romans
much better? Besides all this, under the Canon Law the dead could be
tried for heresy, and their estates confiscated—that is to say, their
widows and orphans robbed.

The most brutal part of the common law of England is that in relation
to the rights of women—all of which was taken from the _Corpus Juris
Canonici_, "the law that came from a higher source than man."

The only cause of absolute divorce as laid down by the pious canonists
was _propter infidelitatem_, which was when one of the parties became
Catholic, and would not live with the other who continued still an
unbeliever. Under this divine statute, a pagan wishing to be rid of
his wife had only to join the Catholic Church, provided she remained
faithful to the religion of her fathers. Under this divine law, a man
marrying a widow was declared to be a bigamist.

It would require volumes to point out the cruelties, absurdities and
inconsistencies of the Canon Law. It has been thrown away by the world.
Every civilized nation has a code of its own, and the Canon Law is
of interest only to the historian, the antiquarian, and the enemy of
theological government.

Under the Canon Law, people were convicted of being witches and wizards,
of holding intercourse with devils. Thousands perished at the stake,
having been convicted of these impossible crimes. Under the Canon Law,
there was such a crime as the suspicion of heresy. A man or woman could
be arrested, charged with being suspected, and under this Canon Law,
flowing from the intellect of infinite wisdom, the presumption was in
favor of guilt. The suspected had to prove themselves innocent. In all
civilized courts, the presumption of innocence is the shield of the
indicted, but the Canon Law took away this shield, and put in the hand
of the priest the sword of presumptive guilt.

If the real pope is the vicar of Christ, the true shepherd of the sheep,
this fact should be known not only to the vicar, but to the sheep. A
divinely founded and guarded church ought to know its own shepherd, and
yet the Catholic sheep have not always been certain who the shepherd
was.

The Council of Pisa, held in 1409, deposed two popes—rivals—Gregory
and Benedict—that is to say, deposed the actual vicar of Christ and the
pretended. This action was taken because a council, enlightened by the
Holy Ghost, could not tell the genuine from the counterfeit. The council
then elected another vicar, whose authority was afterwards denied.
Alexander V. died, and John XXIII. took his place; Gregory XII. insisted
that he was the lawful pope; John resigned, then he was deposed, and
afterward imprisoned; then Gregory XII. resigned, and Martin V. was
elected. The whole thing reads like the annals of a South American
revolution.

The Council of Constance restored, as the Cardinal declares, the unity
of the church, and brought back the consolation of the Holy Ghost.
Before this great council John Huss appeared and maintained his own
tenets. The council declared that the church was not bound to keep its
promise with a heretic. Huss was condemned and executed on the 6th
of July, 1415. His disciple, Jerome of Prague, recanted, but having
relapsed, was put to death, May 30, 1416. This cursed council shed the
blood of Huss and Jerome.

The Cardinal appeals to the author of "Ecce Homo" for the purpose of
showing that Christianity is above nature, and the following passages,
among others, are quoted:

"Who can describe that which unites men? Who has entered into the
formation of speech, which is the symbol of their union? Who can
describe exhaustively the origin of civil society? He who can do these
things can explain the origin of the Christian Church."

These passages should not have been quoted by the Cardinal. The author
of these passages simply says that the origin of the Christian Church
is no harder to find and describe than that which unites men—than that
which has entered into the formation of speech, the symbol of their
union—no harder to describe than the origin of civil society—because
he says that one who can describe these can describe the other.

Certainly none of these things are above nature. We do not need the
assistance of the Holy Ghost in these matters. We know that men are
united by common interests, common purposes, common dangers—by race,
climate and education. It is no more wonderful that people live in
families, tribes, communities and nations, than that birds, ants and
bees live in flocks and swarms.

If we know anything, we know that language is natural—that it is a
physical science. But if we take the ground occupied by the Cardinal,
then we insist that everything that cannot be accounted for by man,
is supernatural. Let me ask, by what man? What man must we take as the
standard?

Cosmas or Humboldt, St. Irenaeus or Darwin? If everything that we
cannot account for is above nature, then ignorance is the test of the
supernatural. The man who is mentally honest, stops where his knowledge
stops. At that point he says that he does not know. Such a man is a
philosopher. Then the theologian steps forward, denounces the modesty
of the philosopher as blasphemy, and proceeds to tell what is beyond the
horizon of the human intellect.

Could a savage account for the telegraph, or the telephone, by natural
causes? How would he account for these wonders? He would account for
them precisely as the Cardinal accounts for the Catholic Church.

Belonging to no rival church, I have not the slightest interest in the
primacy of Leo XIII., and yet it is to be regretted that this primacy
rests upon such a narrow and insecure foundation.

The Cardinal says that "it will appear almost certain that the original
Greek of St. Irenaeus, _which is unfortunately lost_, contained either
[—Greek—], or some inflection of [—Greek—], which signifies
primacy."

From this it appears that the primacy of the Bishop of Rome rests on
some "inflection" of a Greek word—and that this supposed inflection
was in a letter supposed to have been written by St. Irenaeus, which has
certainly been lost. Is it possible that the vast fabric of papal power
has this, and only this, for its foundation? To this "inflection" has it
come at last?

The Cardinal's case depends upon the intelligence and veracity of his
witnesses. The Fathers of the church were utterly incapable of examining
a question of fact. They were all believers in the miraculous. The same
is true of the apostles. If St. John was the author of the Apocalypse,
he was undoubtedly insane. If Polycarp said the things attributed to him
by Catholic writers, he was certainly in the condition of his master.
What is the testimony of St. John worth in the light of the following?
"Cerinthus, the heretic, was in a bathhouse. St. John and another
Christian were about to enter. St. John cried out: 'Let us run away,
lest the house fall upon us while the enemy of truth is in it.'" Is
it possible that St. John thought that God would kill two eminent
Christians for the purpose of getting even with one heretic?

Let us see who Polycarp was. He seems to have been a prototype of the
Catholic Church, as will be seen from the following statement concerning
this Father: "When any heretical doctrine was spoken in his presence
he would stop his ears." After this, there can be no question of his
orthodoxy. It is claimed that Polycarp was a martyr—that a spear was
run through his body, and that from the wound his soul, in the shape
of a bird, flew away. The history of his death is just as true as the
history of his life.

Irenaeus, another witness, took the ground that there was to be a
millennium—a thousand years of enjoyment in which celibacy would not be
the highest form of virtue. If he is called as a witness for the purpose
of establishing the divine origin of the church, and if one of his
"inflections" is the basis of papal supremacy, is the Cardinal also
willing to take his testimony as to the nature of the millennium?

All the Fathers were infinitely credulous. Every one of them believed,
not only in the miracles said to have been wrought by Christ, by the
apostles, and by other Christians, but every one of them believed in
the Pagan miracles. All of these Fathers were familiar with wonders and
impossibilities. Nothing was so common with them as to work miracles,
and on many occasions they not only cured diseases, not only reversed
the order of nature, but succeeded in raising the dead.

It is very hard, indeed, to prove what the apostles said, or what the
Fathers of the church wrote. There were many centuries filled with
forgeries—many generations in which the cunning hands of ecclesiastics
erased, obliterated or interpolated the records of the past—during
which they invented books, invented authors, and quoted from works that
never existed.

The testimony of the "Fathers" is without the slightest value.
They believed everything—they examined nothing. They received as a
waste-basket receives. Whoever accepts their testimony will exclaim with
the Cardinal: "Happily, men are not saved by logic."

Robert G. Ingersoll.

## Is Divorce Wrong

By Cardinal Gibbons, Bishop Henry C. Potter, and Colonel Robert G.
Ingersoll.

THE attention of the public has been particularly directed of late
to the abuses of divorce, and to the facilities afforded by
the complexities of American law, and by the looseness of its
administration, for the disruption of family ties. Therefore the _North
American Review_ has opened its pages for the thorough discussion of
the subject in its moral, social, and religious aspects, and some of the
most eminent leaders of modern thought have contributed their opinions.
The Rev. S. W. Dike, LL.D., who is a specialist on the subject of
divorce, has prepared some statistics touching the matter, and, with
the assistance of Bishop Potter, the four following questions have been
formulated as a basis for the discussion:

1. Do you believe in the principle of divorce under any circumstances?

2. Ought divorced people to be allowed to marry under any circumstances?

3. What is the effect of divorce on the integrity of the family?

4. Does the absolute prohibition of divorce where it exists contribute
to the moral purity of society?

Editor North American Review,

Introduction by the Rev. S. W. Dike, LL.D.

I AM to introduce this discussion with some facts and make a few
suggestions upon them. In the dozen years of my work at this problem I
have steadily insisted upon a broad basis of fact as the only foundation
of sound opinion. We now have a great statistical advance in the report
of the Department of labor. A few of these statistics will serve the
present purpose.

There were in the United States 9,937 divorces reported for the year
1867 and 25,535 for 1886, or a total 328,716 in the twenty years. This
increase is more than twice as great as the population, and has been
remarkably uniform throughout the period. With the exception of New
York, perhaps Delaware, and the three or four States where special
legislative reforms have been secured, the increase covers the
country and has been more than twice the gain in population. The South
apparently felt the movement later than the North and West, but its
greater rapidity there will apparently soon obliterate most existing
differences. The movement is well-nigh as universal in Europe as here.
Thirteen European countries, including Canada, had 6,540 divorces in
1876 and 10,909 in 1886—an increase of 67 per cent. In the same period
the increase with us was 72.5 per cent. But the ratios of divorce
to population are here generally three or four times greater than in
Europe. The ratios to marriage in the United States are sometimes as
high as 1 to 10, 1 to 9, or even a little more for single years. In
heathen Japan for three years they were more than 1 to 3. But divorce
there is almost wholly left to the regulation of the family, and
practically optional with the parties. It is a re-transference of the
wife by a simple writing to her own family.

1. The increase of divorce is one of several evils affecting the family.
Among these are hasty or ill-considered marriages, the decline of
marriage and the decrease of children,—too generally among classes
pecuniarily best able to maintain domestic life,—the probable increase
in some directions of marital infidelity and sexual vice, and last, but
not least, a tendency to reduce the family to a minimum of force in the
life of society. All these evils should be studied and treated in their
relations to each other. Carefully-conducted investigations alone can
establish these latter statements beyond dispute, although there can be
little doubt of their general correctness as here carefully made. And
the conclusion is forced upon us that the toleration of the increase
of divorce, touching as it does the vital bond of the family, is so far
forth a confession of our western civilization that it despairs of
all remedies for ills of the family, and is becoming willing, in great
degree, to look away from all true remedies to a dissolution of the
family by the courts in all serious cases. If this were our settled
purpose, it would look like giving up the idea of producing and
protecting a family increasingly capable of enduring to the end of its
natural existence. If the drift of things on this subject during the
present century may be taken as prophetic, our civilization moves in an
opposite direction in its treatment of the family from its course with
the individual.

2. Divorce, including these other evils related to the family, is
preeminently a social problem. It should therefore be reached by all
the forces of our great social institutions—religious, educational,
industrial, and political. Each of these should be brought to bear on it
proportionately and in cooperation with the others. But I can here take
up only one or two lines for further suggestion.

3. The causes of divorces, like those of most social evils, are
often many and intricate. The statistics for this country, when the
forty-three various statutory causes are reduced to a few classes, show
that 20 per cent, of the divorces were based on adultery, 16 on cruelty,
38 were granted for desertion, 4 for drunkenness, less than 3 for
neglect to provide, and so on. But these tell very little, except that
it is easier or more congenial to use one or another of the statutory
causes, just as the old "omnibus clause," which gave general discretion
to the courts in Connecticut, and still more in some other States, was
made to cover many cases. A special study of forty-five counties in
twelve States, however, shows that drunkenness was a direct or indirect
cause in 20.1 per cent, of 29,665 cases. That is, it could be found
either alone or in conjunction with others, directly or indirectly, in
one-fifth of the cases.

4. Laws and their administration affect divorce. New York grants
absolute divorce for only one cause, and New Jersey for two. Yet New
York has many more divorces in proportion to population, due largely to
a looser system of administration. In seventy counties of twelve States
68 per cent, of the applications are granted. The enactment of a more
stringent law is immediately followed by a decrease of divorces, from
which there is a tendency to recover. Personally, I think stricter
methods of administration, restrictions upon remarriage, proper delays
in hearing suits, and some penal inflictions for cruelty, desertion,
neglect of support, as well as for adultery, would greatly reduce
divorces, even without removing a single statutory cause. There would
be fewer unhappy families, not more. For people would then look to real
remedies instead of confessing the hopelessness of remedy by appeals to
the courts. A multitude of petty ills and many utterly wicked frauds
and other abuses would disappear. "Your present methods," said a
Nova Scotian to a man from Maine a few years ago, "are simply ways of
multiplying and magnifying domestic ills." There is much force in this.
But let us put reform of marriage laws along with these measures.

5. The evils of conflicting and diverse marriage and divorce laws are
doing immense harm. The mischief through which innocent parties are
defrauded, children rendered illegitimate, inheritance made uncertain,
and actual imprisonments for bigamy grow out of divorce and remarriage,
are well known to most. Uniformity through a national law or by
conventions of the States has been strongly urged for many years.
Uniformity is needed. But for one, I have long discouraged too early
action, because the problem is too difficult, the consequences too
serious, and the elements of it still too far out of our reach for any
really wise action at present. The government report grew immediately
out of this conviction. It will, I think, abundantly justify the
caution. For it shows that uniformity could affect at the utmost only a
small percentage of the total divorces in the United States. _Only 19.9
percent of all the divorced who were married in this country obtained
their divorces in a different State from the one in which their marriage
had taken place, in all these twenty years, 80.1 per cent, having been
divorced in the State where married_. Now, marriage on the average lasts
9.17 years before divorce occurs, which probably is nearly two-fifths
the length of a married life before its dissolution by death. From this
19.9 per cent, there must, therefore, be subtracted the large migration
of married couples for legitimate purposes, in order to get any fair
figure to express the migration for divorce. But the movement of the
native population away from the State of birth is 22 or 23 per cent.
This, however, includes all ages. For all who believe that divorce
itself is generally a great evil, the conclusion is apparently
inevitable that the question of uniformity, serious as it is, is a very
small part of the great legal problem demanding solution at our hands.
This general problem, aside from its graver features in the more
immediate sphere of sociology and religion, must evidently tax our
publicists and statesmen severely. The old temptation to meet special
evils by general legislation besets us on this subject. I think
comparative and historical study of the law of the family, (the
_Familienrecht_ of the Germans), especially if the movement of European
law be seen, points toward the need of a pretty comprehensive and
thorough examination of our specific legal problem of divorce
and marriage law in this fuller light, before much legislation is
undertaken.

Samuel W. Dike.

However much men may differ in their views of the nature and attributes
of the matrimonial contract, and in their concept of the rights and
obligations of the marriage state, no one will deny that these are grave
questions; since upon marriage rests the family, and upon the family
rest society, civilization, and the highest interests of religion and
the state. Yet, strange to say, divorce, the deadly enemy of marriage,
stalks abroad to-day bold and unblushing, a monster licensed by the laws
of Christian states to break hearts, wreck homes and ruin souls. And
passing strange is it, too, that so many, wise and far-seeing in less
weighty concerns, do not appear to see in the evergrowing power of
divorce a menace not only to the sacredness of the marriage institution,
but even to the fair social fabric reared upon matrimony as its
corner-stone.

God instituted in Paradise the marriage state and sanctified it. He
established its law of unity and declared its indissolubility. By divine
authority Adam spoke when of his wife he said: "This now is bone of my
bones, and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman, because she
was taken out of man. Wherefore a man shall leave father and mother, and
shall cleave to his wife: and they shall be two in one flesh."*

> * Gen., ii., 23-24.

But like other things on earth, marriage suffered in the fall; and
little by little polygamy and divorce began to assert themselves against
the law of matrimonial unity and indissolubility. Yet the ideal of the
marriage institution never faded away. It survived, not only among the
chosen people, but even among the nations of heathendom, disfigured
much, 'tis true, but with its ancient beauty never wholly destroyed.

When, in the fullness of time, Christ came to restore the things
that were perishing, he reasserted in clear and unequivocal terms the
sanctity, unity, and indissolubility of marriage. Nay, more. He gave to
this state added holiness and a dignity higher far than it had "from the
beginning." He made marriage a sacrament, made it the type of his own
never-ending union with his one spotless spouse, the church. St. Paul,
writing to the Ephesians, says: "Husbands, love your wives, as Christ
also loved the church, and delivered himself up for it, that he might
sanctify it, cleansing it by the laver of water in the word of life,
that he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot
or wrinkle, or any such thing, but that it should be holy and without
blemish. So also ought men to love their wives as their own bodies....
For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall cleave
to his wife, and they shall be two in one flesh."*

> * Ephes., v., 25-31.

In defence of Christian marriage, the church was compelled from the
earliest days of her existence to do frequent and stern battle. But
cultured pagan, and rough barbarian, and haughty Christian lord were
met and conquered. Men were taught to master passion, and Christian
marriage, with all its rights secured and reverenced, became a ruling
power in the world.

The Council of Trent, called, in the throes of the mighty moral upheaval
of the sixteenth century, to deal with the new state of things, again
proclaimed to a believing and an unbelieving world the Catholic doctrine
of the holiness, unity, and indissolubility of marriage, and the
unlawfulness of divorce. The council declared no new dogmas: it simply
reaffirmed the common teaching of the church for centuries. But some
of the most hallowed attributes of marriage seemed to be objects of
peculiar detestation to the new teachers, and their abolition was
soon demanded. "The leaders in the changes of matrimonial law," writes
Professor Woolsey, "were the Protestant reformers themselves, and that
almost from the beginning of the movement.... The reformers, when they
discarded the sacramental view of marriage and the celibacy of the
clergy, had to make out a new doctrine of marriage and of divorce."*
The "new doctrine of marriage and of divorce," pleasing as it was to the
sensual man, was speedily learned and as speedily put in practice. The
sacredness with which Christian marriage had been hedged around began to
be more and more openly trespassed upon, and restive shoulders wearied
more and more quickly of the marriage yoke when divorce promised freedom
for newer joys.

To our own time the logical consequences of the "new doctrine" have
come. To-day "abyss calls upon abyss," change calls for change, laxity
calls for license. Divorce is now a recognized presence in high life and
low; and polygamy, the first-born of divorce, sits shameless in palace
and in hovel. Yet the teacher that feared not to speak the words of
truth in bygone ages is not silent now. In no uncertain tones, the
church proclaims to the world to-day the unchangeable law of the strict
unity and absolute indissolubility of valid and consummated Christian
marriage.

To the question then, "Can divorce from the bond of marriage ever be
allowed?" the Catholic can only answer no.

> * "Divorce and Divorce Legislation," by Theodore D. Woolsey,
> 2d Ed., p. 126.

And for this no, his first and last and best reason can be but this:
"_Thus saith the Lord_."

As time goes on the wisdom of the church in absolutely forbidding
divorce from the marriage bond grows more and more plain even to the
many who deny to this prohibition a divine and authoritative sanction.
And nowhere is this more true than in our own country. Yet our
experience of the evils of divorce is but the experience of every people
that has cherished this monster.

Let us take but a hasty view of the consequences of divorce in ancient
times. Turn only to pagan Greece and Rome, two peoples that practised
divorce most extensively. In both we find divorce weakening their
primitive virtue and making their latter corruption more corrupt. Among
the Greeks morality declined as material civilization advanced. Divorce
grew easy and common, and purity and peace were banished from the family
circle. Among the Romans divorce was not common until the latter days of
the Republic. Then the flood-gates of immorality were opened, and, with
divorce made easy, came rushing in corruption of morals among both sexes
and in every walk of life. "Passion, interest, or caprice," Gibbon, the
historian, tells us, "suggested daily motives for the dissolution
of marriage; a word, a sign, a message, a letter, the mandate of a
freedman, declared the separation; the most tender of human connections
was degraded to a transient society of profit or pleasure."* Each
succeeding generation witnessed moral corruption more general, moral
degradation more profound; men and women were no longer ashamed of
licentiousness; until at length the nation that became mighty because
built on a pure family fell when its corner-stone crumbled away in
rottenness.

> * "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," Milman's Ed., Vol.
> III., p. 236.

Heedless of the lessons taught by history, modern nations, too, have
made trial of divorce. In Europe, wherever the new gospel of marriage
and divorce has had! notable influence, divorce has been legalized; and
in due proportion to the extent of that influence causes for divorce
have been multiplied, the bond of marriage more and more recklessly
broken, and the obligations of that sacred state more and more
shamelessly disregarded. In our own country the divorce evil has grown
more rapidly than our growth and strengthened more rapidly than our
strength. Mr. Carroll D. Wright, in a special report on the statistics
of marriage and divorce made to Congress in February, 1889, places the
number of divorces in the United States in 1867 at 9,937, and the number
in 1886 at 25,535. These figures show an increase of the divorce evil
much out of proportion to our increase in population. The knowledge that
divorces can easily be procured encourages hasty marriages and
equally hasty preparations. Legislators and judges in some States
are encouraging inventive genius in the art of finding new causes for
divorce. Frequently the most trivial and even ridiculous pretexts are
recognized as sufficient for the rupture of the marriage bond; and
in some States divorce can be obtained "without publicity," and even
without the knowledge of the defendant—in such cases generally an
innocent wife. Crime has sometimes been committed for the very purpose
of bringing about a divorce, and cases are not rare in which plots have
been laid to blacken the reputation of a virtuous spouse in order
to obtain legal freedom for new nuptials. Sometimes, too, there is a
collusion between the married parties to obtain divorce. One of them
trumps up charges; the other does not oppose the suit; and judgment is
entered for the plaintiff. Every daily newspaper tells us of divorces
applied for or granted, and the public sense of decency is constantly
being shocked by the disgusting recital of of divorce-court scandals.

We are filled with righteous indignation at Mormonism; we brand it as
a national disgrace, and justly demand its suppression. Why? Because,
forsooth, the Mormons are polygamists. Do we forget that there are
two species of polygamy—simultaneous and successive? Mormons practise
without legal recognition the first species; while among us the second
species is indulged in, and with the sanction of law, by thousands in
whose nostrils Mormonism is a stench and an abomination. The Christian
press and pulpit of the land denounce the Mormons as "an adulterous
generation," but too often deal very tenderly with Christian
polygamists. Why? Is Christian polygamy less odious in the eyes of God
than Mormon polygamy? Among us, *tis true, the one is looked upon as
more respectable than the other. Yet we know that the Mormons as a
class, care for their wives and children; while Christian polygamists
but too often leave wretched wives to starve, slave, or sin, and
leave miserable children a public charge. "O divorced and much-married
Christian," says the polygamous dweller by Salt Lake, "pluck first the
beam from thy own eye, and then shalt thou see to pluck the mote from
the eye of thy much-married, but undivorced, Mormon brother." It follows
logically from the Catholic doctrine of the unity and indissolubility
of marriage, and the consequent prohibition of divorce from the marital
bond, that no one, even though divorced _a vinculo_ by the civil power,
can be allowed by the church to take another consort during the lifetime
of the true wife or husband, and such connection the church can but hold
as sinful. It is written: "Whosoever shall put away his wife and marry
another committeth adultery against her. And if the wife shall put away
her husband, and be married to another, she committeth adultery."*

> * Mark, x., ii, 12.

Of course, I am well aware that upon the words of our Saviour as found
in St. Matthew, Chap. xix., 9, many base the right of divorce from the
marriage bond for adultery, with permission to remarry. But, as is
well known, the Catholic Church, upon the concurrent testimony of the
Evangelists Mark* and Luke,** and upon the teaching of St. Paul,***
interprets our Lord's words quoted by St. Matthew as simply permitting,
on account of adultery, divorce from bed and board, with no right to
either party to marry another.

But even if divorce _a vinculo_ were not forbidden by divine law, how
inadequate a remedy would it be for the evils for which so many deem it
a panacea. "Divorce _a vinculo_," as Dr. Brownson truly says, "logically
involves divorce _ad libitum."_*** Now, what reason is there to suppose
that parties divorced and remated will be happier in the new connection
than in the old? As a matter of fact, many persons have been divorced
a number of times. Sometimes, too, it happens that, after a period of
separation, divorced parties repent of their folly, reunite, and are
again divorced. Indeed, experience clearly proves that unhappiness
among married people frequently does not arise so much from "mutual
incompatibility" as from causes inherent in one or both of the
parties—causes that would be likely to make a new union as wretched
as the old one. There is wisdom in the pithy saying of-a recent writer:
"Much ill comes, not because men and women are married, but because they
are fools."***

> * Mark, x., n, 12. Luke, xvi., 18. J I. Cor.,vii., 10, 11.

> ** Essay on "The Family—Christian and Pagan."

> *** Prof. David Swing in Chicago Journal.

There are some who think that the absolute prohibition of divorce does
not contribute to the purity of society, and are therefore of opinion
that divorce with liberty to remarry does good in this regard. He who
believes the matrimonial bond indissoluble, divorce a vinculo evil, and
the connection resulting from it criminal, can only say: "Evil should
not be done that good may come." But, after all, would even passing good
come from this greater freedom? In a few exceptional cases—Yes: in
the vast majority of cases—No. The trying of divorce as a safeguard of
purity is an old experiment, and an unsuccessful one. In Rome adulteries
increased as divorces were multiplied. After speaking of the facility
and frequency of divorce among the Romans, Gibbon adds:

"A specious theory is confuted by this free and perfect experiment,
which demonstrates that the liberty of divorce does not contribute
to happiness and virtue. The facility of separation would destroy
all mutual confidence, and inflame every trifling dispute. The minute
difference between a husband and a stranger, which might so easily be
removed, might still more easily be forgotten."*

How _apropos_ in this connection are the words of Professor Woolsey:

"Nothing is more startling than to pass from the first part of the
eighteenth to this latter part of the nineteenth century, and to observe
how law has changed and opinion has altered in regard to marriage, the
great foundation of society, and to divorce; and how, almost pari passu,
various offences against chastity, such as concubinage, prostitution,
illegitimate births, abortion, disinclination to family life, have
increased also—not, indeed, at the same pace everywhere, or all of them
equally in all countries, yet have decidedly increased on the whole."!

Surely in few parts of the wide world is the truth of these strong words
more evident than in those parts of our own country where loose divorce
laws have long prevailed.

It should be noted that, while never allowing the dissolution of the
marriage bond, the Catholic Church has always permitted, for grave
causes and under certain conditions, a temporary or permanent
"separation from bed and board."

> * "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," Milman's Ed., Vol.
> III., p. 236.

> ** "Divorce and Divorce Legislation," 2d Ed., p. 274.

The causes which, _positis ponendis_, justify such separation may be
briefly given thus: mutual consent, adultery, and grave peril of soul or
body.

It may be said that there are persons so unhappily mated and so
constituted that for them no relief can come save from divorce _a
vinculo_, with permission to remarry. I shall not linger here to point
out to such the need of seeking from a higher than earthly power the
grace to suffer and be strong. But for those whose reasoning on this
subject is of the earth, earthy, I shall add some words of practical
worldly wisdom from eminent jurists. In a note to his edition of
Blackstone's "Commentaries," Mr. John Taylor Coleridge says:

"It is no less truly than beautifully said by Sir W. Scott, in the case
of Evans v. Evans, that 'though in particular cases the repugnance
of the law to dissolve the obligation of matrimonial cohabitation may
operate with great severity upon individuals, yet it must be carefully
remembered that the general happiness of the married life is secured
by its indissolubility.' When people understand that they must live
together, except for a few reasons known to the law, they learn to
soften by mutual accommodation that yoke which they know they cannot
shake off: they become good husbands and good wives from the necessity
of remaining husbands and wives: for necessity is a powerful master in
teaching the duties which it imposes. If it were once understood that
upon mutual disgust married persons might be legally separated, many
couples who now pass through the world with mutual comfort, with
attention to their common offspring, and to the moral order of civil
society, might have been at this moment living in a state of mutual
unkindness, in a state of estrangement from their common offspring, and
in a state of the most licentious and unrestrained immorality. In this
case, as in many other cases, the happiness of some individuals must be
sacrificed to the greater and more general good."

The facility and frequency of divorce, and its lamentable consequences,
are nowadays calling much attention to measures of "divorce reform."
"How can divorce reform be best secured?" it may be asked. Believing,
as I do, that divorce is evil, I also believe that its "reformation"
and its death must be simultaneous. It should cease to be. Divorce as we
know it began when marriage was removed from the domain of the church:
divorce shall cease when the old order shall be restored. Will this ever
come to pass? Perhaps so—after many days. Meanwhile, something might
be done, something should be done, to lessen the evils of divorce. Our
present divorce legislation must be presumed to be such as the majority
of the people wish it. A first step, therefore, in the way of "divorce
reform" should be the creation of a more healthy public sentiment on
this question. Then will follow measures that will do good in proportion
to their stringency. A few practical suggestions as to the salient
features of remedial divorce legislation may not be out of place.
Persons seeking at the hands of the civil law relief in matrimonial
troubles should have the right to ask for divorce _a vinculo_, or
simple separation _a mensa et thoro_, as they may elect. The number
of legally-recognized grounds for divorce should be lessened, and
"noiseless" divorces forbidden. "Rapid-transit" facilities for passing
through divorce courts should be cut off, and divorce "agencies" should
be suppressed. The plaintiff in a divorce case should be a _bona fide_
resident of the judicial district in which his petition is filed, and in
every divorce case the legal representatives of the State should appear
for the defendant, and, by all means, the right of remarriage after
divorce should be restricted. If divorce cannot be legislated out of
existence, let, at least, its power for evil be diminished.

James Cardinal Gibbons.

I am asked certain questions with regard to the attitude of the
Episcopal Church towards the matter of divorce. In undertaking to answer
them, it is to be remembered that there is a considerable variety of
opinion which is held in more or less precise conformity with doctrinal
or canonical declarations of the church. With these variations this
paper, except in so far as it may briefly indicate them, is not
concerned. Nor is it an expression of individual opinion. That is not
what has been asked for or attempted.

The doctrine and law of the Protestant Episcopal Church on the subject
of divorce is contained in canon 13, title II., of the "Digest of the
Canons," 1887. That, canon has been to a certain extent interpreted by
Episcopal judgments under section IV. The "public opinion" of the
clergy or laity can only be ascertained in the usual way; especially
by examining their published treatises, letters, etc., and perhaps most
satisfactorily by the reports of discussion in the diocesan and general
conventions on the subject of divorce. Among members of the Protestant
Episcopal Church divorce is excessively rare, cases of uncertainty in
the application of the canon, are much more rare, and the practice of
the clergy is almost perfectly uniform. There is, however, by no means
the same uniformity in their opinions either as to divorce or marriage.

As divorce is necessarily a mere accident of marriage, and as divorce is
impossible without a precedent marriage, much practical difficulty might
arise, and much difference of opinion does arise, from the fact that the
Protestant Episcopal Church has nowhere defined marriage. Negatively,
it is explicitly affirmed (Article XXV.) that "matrimony is not to
be counted for a sacrament of the Gospel." This might seem to reduce
matrimony to a civil contract. And accordingly the first rubric in
the _Form of Solemnization of Matrimony_ directs, on the ground of
differences of laws in the various States, that "the minister is left
to the direction of those laws in everything that regards the civil
contract between the parties." Laws determining what persons shall be
capable of contracting would seem to be included in "everything that
regards the civil contract;" and unquestionably the laws of most of
the States render all persons legally divorced capable of at once
contracting a new marriage. Both the first section of canon 13 and the
_Form of Solemnization_, affirm that, "if any persons be joined together
otherwise than as God's word doth allow, their marriage is not
lawful." But it is nowhere excepting as to divorce, declared _what the
impediments are_. The Protestant Episcopal Church has never, by canon
or express legislation, published, for instance, a table of prohibited
degrees.

On the matter of divorce, however, canon 13, title II., supersedes, for
the members of the Protestant Episcopal Church, both a part of the civil
law relating to the persons capable of contracting marriage, and also
all private judgment as to the teaching of "the Word of God" on that
subject. No minister is allowed, as a rule, to solemnize the marriage of
any man or woman who has a divorced husband or wife still living. But
if the person seeking to be married is the innocent party in the divorce
for adultery, that person, whether man or woman, may be married by
a minister of the church. With the above exception, the clergy are
forbidden to administer the sacraments to any divorced and remarried
person without the express permission of the bishop, unless that person
be "penitent" and "in imminent danger of death." Any doubts "as to the
facts of any case under section II. of this canon" must be referred to
the bishop. Of course, where there is no reasonable doubt the minister
may proceed. It may be added that the sacraments are to be refused also
to persons who may be reasonably supposed to have contracted marriage
"otherwise," in any respect, "than as the Word of God and the discipline
of this Church doth allow." These impediments are nowhere defined; and
accordingly it has happened that a man who had married a deceased wife's
sister and the woman he had married were, by the private judgment of
a priest, refused the holy communion. The civil courts do not seem
inclined to protect the clergy from consequences of interference with
the civil law. In Southbridge, Mass., a few weeks ago, a man who
had been denounced from the altar for marrying again after a divorce
obtained a judgment for $1,720 damages. The law of the church would
seem to be that, even though a legal divorce may have been obtained,
remarriage is absolutely forbidden, excepting to the innocent party,
whether man or woman, in a divorce for adultery. The penalty for breach
of this law might involve, for the officiating clergyman, deposition
from the ministry; for the offending man or woman, exclusion from the
sacraments, which, in the judgment of a very large number of the clergy,
involves everlasting damnation.

It is obvious, then, that the Protestant Episcopal Church allows the
complete validity of a divorce _a vinculo_ in the case of adultery, and
the right of remarriage to the innocent party. But that church has
not determined in what manner either the grounds of the divorce or the
"innocence" of either party is to be ascertained. The canon does not
require a clergyman to demand, nor can the church enable him to secure,
the production of a copy of the record or decree of the court of law
by which a divorce is granted, nor would such decree indicate the
"innocence" of one party, though it might prove the guilt of the other.

The effect of divorce upon the integrity of the family is too obvious to
require stating. As the father and mother are the heads of the family,
their separation must inevitably destroy the common family life. On the
other hand, it is often contended that the destruction has been already
completed, and that a divorce is only the legal recognition of what has
already taken place; "the integrity of the family" can scarcely remain
when either a father or mother, or both, are living in violation of the
law on which that integrity rests. The question may be asked whether the
absolute prohibition of divorce would contribute to the moral purity of
society. It is difficult to answer such a question, because anything
on the subject must be comparatively worthless until verified by
experience. It is quite certain that the prohibition of divorce never
prevents illicit sexual connections, as was abundantly proved when
divorce in England was put within the reach of persons who were not able
to afford the expense of a special act of Parliament. It is, indeed,
so palpable a fact that any amount of evidence or argument is wholly
superfluous.

The law of the Protestant Episcopal Church is by no means identical with
the opinion of either the clergy or the laity. In the judgment of many,
the existing law is far too lax, or, at least, the whole doctrine
of marriage is far too inadequately dealt with in the authoritative
teaching of the church. The opinion of this school finds, perhaps,
its most adequate expression in the report of a committee of the last
General Convention forming Appendix XIII. of the "Journal" of that
convention. It is, substantially, that the Mosaic law of marriage is
still binding upon the church, unless directly abrogated by Christ
himself; that it was abrogated by him only so far that all divorce was
forbidden by him, excepting for the cause of fornication; that a woman
might not claim divorce for any reason whatever; that the marriage of a
divorced person until the death of the other party is wholly forbidden;
that marriage is not merely a civil contract, but a spiritual and
supernatural union, requiring for its mutual obligation a supernatural,
divine grace; that such grace is only imparted in the sacrament of
matrimony, which is a true sacrament and does actually confer grace;
that marriage is wholly within the jurisdiction of the church, though
the State may determine such rules and guarantees as may secure
publicity and sufficient evidence of a marriage, etc.; that severe
penalties should be inflicted by the State, on the demand of the church,
for the suppression of all offences against the seventh commandment and
sundry other parts of the Mosaic legislation, especially in relation to
"prohibited degrees."

There is another school, equally earnest and sincere in its zeal for
the integrity of the family and sexual purity, which would nevertheless
repudiate much the greater part of the above assumption. This school, if
one may so venture to combine scattered opinions, argues substantially
as follows: The type of all Mosaic legislation was circumcision; that
rite was of universal obligation and divine authority. St. Paul so
regarded it. The abrogation of the law requiring circumcision was,
therefore, the abrogation of the whole of the Mosaic legislation. The
"burden of proof," therefore, rests upon those who affirm the present
obligation of what formed a part of the Mosaic law; and they must show
that it has been reenacted by Christ and his Apostles or forms some part
of some other and independent system of law or morals still in force.
Christ's words about divorce are not to be construed as a positive law,
but as expressing the ideal of marriage, and corresponding to his words
about eunuchs, which not everybody "can receive." So far as Christ's
words seem to indicate an inequality as to divorce between man and
woman, they are explained by the authoritative and inspired assertion of
St. Paul: "In Christ Jesus there is neither male nor female." A divine
law is equally authoritative by whomsoever declared—whether by the Son
Incarnate or by the Holy Ghost speaking through inspired Apostles. If,
then, a divine law was ever capable of suspension or modification, it
may still be capable of such suspension or modification in corresponding
circumstances. The circumstances which justified a modification of the
original divine law of marriage do still exist in many conditions of
society and even of individual life. The Protestant Episcopal Church
cannot, alone, speak with such authority on disputed passages of
Scripture as to justify her ministers in direct disobedience to the
civil authority, which is also "ordained of God." The exegesis of the
early church was closely connected with theories about matter, and
about the inferiority of women and of married life, which are no longer
believed.

Of course this is a very brief statement. As a matter of fact the actual
effect of the doctrine and discipline of the Protestant Episcopal Church
on marriage and divorce is that divorce among her members is excessively
rare; that it is regarded with extreme aversion; and that the public
opinion of the church maintains the law as it now is, but could not be
trusted to execute laws more stringent. A member of the committee of the
General Convention whose report has been already referred to closes that
report with the following protest:

"The undersigned finds himself unable to concur in so much of the
[proposed] canon as forbids the holy communion to a truly pious and
godly woman who has been compelled by long years of suffering from
a drunken and brutal husband to obtain a divorce, and has regularly
married some suitable person according to the established laws of the
land. And also from so much of the [proposed] canon as may seem to
forbid marriage with a deceased wife's sister."

The final action on these points, which has already been stated,
indicates that the proposed report thus referred to was, in one
particular at least, in advance of the sentiment of the church as
expressed in her General Convention.

Henry C. Potter.

_Question (1.) Do you believe in the principle of divorce under any
circumstances?_

The world for the most part is ruled by the tomb, and the living are
tyrannized over by the dead. Old ideas, long after the conditions under
which they were produced have passed away, often persist in surviving.
Many are disposed to worship the ancient—to follow the old paths,
without inquiring where they lead, and without knowing exactly where
they wish to go themselves.

Opinions on the subject of divorce have been, for the most part,
inherited from the early Christians. They have come to us through
theological and priestly channels. The early Christians believed that
the world was about to be destroyed, or that it was to be purified by
fire; that all the wicked were to perish, and that the good were to
be caught up in the air to meet their Lord—to remain there, in all
probability, until the earth was prepared as a habitation for the
blessed. With this thought or belief in their minds, the things of this
world were of comparatively no importance. The man who built larger
barns in which to store his grain was regarded as a foolish farmer, who
had forgotten, in his greed for gain, the value of his own soul.
They regarded prosperous people as the children of Mammon, and the
unfortunate, the wretched and diseased, as the favorites of God. They
discouraged all worldly pursuits, except the soliciting of alms. There
was no time to marry or to be given in marriage; no time to build homes
and have families. All their thoughts were centred upon the heaven
they expected to inherit. Business, love, all secular things, fell into
disrepute.

Nothing is said in the Testament about the families of the apostles;
nothing of family life, of the sacredness of home; nothing about the
necessity of education, the improvement and development of the mind.
These things were forgotten, for the reason that nothing, in the
presence of the expected event, was considered of any importance, except
to be ready when the Son of Man should come. Such was the feeling, that
rewards were offered by Christ himself to those who would desert their
wives and children. Human love was spoken of with contempt. "Let the
dead bury their dead. What is that to thee? Follow thou me." They not
only believed these things, but acted in accordance with them; and, as a
consequence, all the relations of life were denied or avoided, and their
obligations disregarded. Marriage was discouraged. It was regarded as
only one degree above open and unbridled vice, and was allowed only
in consideration of human weakness. It was thought far better not to
marry—that it was something grander for a man to love God than to
love woman. The exceedingly godly, the really spiritual, believed in
celibacy, and held the opposite sex in a kind of pious abhorrence. And
yet, with that inconsistency so characteristic of theologians, marriage
was held to be a sacrament. The priest said to the man who married:
"Remember that you are caught for life. This door opens but once. Before
this den of matrimony the tracks are all one way." This was in the
nature of a punishment for having married. The theologian felt that the
contract of marriage, if not contrary to God's command, was at least
contrary to his advice, and that the married ought to suffer in some
way, as a matter of justice. The fact that there could be no divorce,
that a mistake could not be corrected, was held up as a warning. At
every wedding feast this skeleton stretched its fleshless finger towards
bride and groom.

Nearly all intelligent people have given up the idea that the world is
about to come to an end. They do not now believe that prosperity is a
certain sign of wickedness, or that poverty and wretchedness are sure
certificates of virtue. They are hardly convinced that Dives should have
been sent to hell simply for being rich, or that Lazarus was entitled
to eternal joy on account of his poverty. We now know that prosperous
people may be good, and that unfortunate people may be bad. We have
reached the conclusion that the practice of virtue tends in the
direction of prosperity, and that a violation of the conditions of
well-being brings, with absolute certainty, wretchedness and misfortune.

There was a time when it was believed that the sin of an individual
was visited upon the tribe, the community, or the nation to which he
belonged. It was then thought that if a man or woman had made a vow
to God, and had failed to keep the vow, God might punish the entire
community; therefore it was the business of the community to see to it
that the vow was kept. That idea has been abandoned. As we progress, the
rights of the individual are perceived, and we are now beginning dimly
to discern that there are no rights higher than the rights of the
individual. There was a time when nearly all believed in the reforming
power of punishment—in the beneficence of brute force. But the world is
changing. It was at one time thought that the Inquisition was the savior
of society; that the persecution of the philosopher was requisite to the
preservation of the state, and that, no matter what happened, the state
should be preserved. We have now more light. And standing upon this
luminous point that we call the present, let me answer your questions.

Marriage is the most important, the most sacred, contract that
human beings can make. No matter whether we call it a contract, or a
sacrament, or both, it remains precisely the same. And no matter whether
this contract is entered into in the presence of magistrate or priest,
it is exactly the same. A true marriage is a natural concord and
agreement of souls, a harmony in which discord is not even imagined;
it is a mingling so perfect that only one seems to exist; all other
considerations are lost; the present seems to be eternal. In this
supreme moment there is no shadow—or the shadow is as luminous as
light. And when two beings thus love, thus unite, this is the true
marriage of soul and soul. That which is said before the altar, or
minister, or magistrate, or in the presence of witnesses, is only the
outward evidence of that which has already happened within; it simply
testifies to a union that has already taken place—to the uniting of two
mornings of hope to reach the night together. Each has found the ideal;
the man has found the one woman of all the world—the impersonation of
affection, purity, passion, love, beauty, and grace; and the woman has
found the one man of all the world, her ideal, and all that she knows of
romance, of art, courage, heroism, honesty, is realized in him. The
idea of contract is lost. Duty and obligation are instantly changed into
desire and joy, and two lives, like uniting streams, flow on as one.
Nothing can add to the sacredness of this marriage, to the obligation
and duty of each to each. There is nothing in the ceremony except the
desire on the part of the man and woman that the whole world should know
that they are really married and that their souls have been united.

Every marriage, for a thousand reasons, should be public, should be
recorded, should be known; but, above all, to the end that the purity of
the union should appear. These ceremonies are not only for the good and
for the protection of the married, but also for the protection of their
children, and of society as well. But, after all, the marriage remains
a contract of the highest possible character—a contract in which each
gives and receives a heart.

The question then arises, Should this marriage, under any circumstances,
be dissolved? It is easy to understand the position taken by the various
churches; but back of theological opinions is the question of contract.

In this contract of marriage, the man agrees to protect and cherish his
wife. Suppose that he refuses to protect; that he abuses, assaults, and
tramples upon the woman he wed. What is her redress? Is she under
any obligation to him? He has violated the contract. He has failed to
protect, and, in addition, he has assaulted her like a wild beast. Is
she under any obligation to him? Is she bound by the contract he has
broken? If so, what is the consideration for this obligation? Must she
live with him for his sake? or, if she leaves him to preserve her life,
must she remain his wife for his sake? No intelligent man will answer
these questions in the affirmative.

If, then, she is not bound to remain his wife for the husband's sake,
is she bound to remain his wife because the marriage was a sacrament? Is
there any obligation on the part of the wife to remain with the brutal
husband for the sake of God? Can her conduct affect in any way the
happiness of an infinite being? Is it possible for a human being to
increase or diminish the well-being of the Infinite?

The next question is as to the right of society in this matter. It must
be admitted that the peace of society will be promoted by the separation
of such people. Certainly society cannot insist upon a wife remaining
with a husband who bruises and mangles her flesh. Even married women
have a right to personal security. They do not lose, either by contract
or sacrament, the right of self-preservation; this they share in common,
to say the least of it, with the lowest living creatures.

This will probably be admitted by most of the enemies of divorce; but
they will insist that while the wife has the right to flee from
her husband's roof and seek protection of kindred or friends, the
marriage—the sacrament—must remain unbroken. Is it to the interest of
society that those who despise each other should live together? Ought
the world to be peopled by the children of hatred or disgust, the
children of lust and loathing, or by the welcome babes of mutual love?
Is it possible that an infinitely wise and compassionate God insists
that a helpless woman shall remain the wife of a cruel wretch? Can
this add to the joy of Paradise, or tend to keep one harp in tune? Can
anything be more infamous than for a government to compel a woman to
remain the wife of a man she hates—of one whom she justly holds in
abhorrence? Does any decent man wish the assistance of a constable,
a sheriff, a judge, or a church, to keep his wife in his house? Is it
possible to conceive of a more contemptible human being than a man who
would appeal to force in such a case? It may be said that the woman is
free to go, and that the courts will protect her from the brutality of
the man who promised to be her protector; but where shall the woman go?
She may have no friends; or they may be poor; her kindred may be
dead. Has she no right to build another home? Must this woman, full of
kindness, affection, health, be tied and chained to this living corpse?
Is there no future for her? Must she be an outcast forever—deceived and
betrayed for her whole life? Can she never sit by her own hearth, with
the arms of her children about her neck, and with a husband who loves
and protects her? Is she to become a social pariah, and is this for the
benefit of society?—or is it for the sake of the wretch who destroyed
her life?

The ground has been taken that woman would lose her dignity if marriage
could be annulled. Is it necessary to lose your liberty in order to
retain your moral character—in order to be pure and womanly? Must a
woman, in order to retain her virtue, become a slave, a serf, with a
beast for a master, or with society for a master, or with a phantom for
a master?

If an infinite being is one of the parties to the contract, is it not
the duty of this being to see to it that the contract is carried out?
What consideration does the infinite being give? What consideration does
he receive? If a wife owes no duty to her husband because the husband
has violated the contract, and has even assaulted her life, is it
possible for her to feel toward him any real thrill of affection? If she
does not, what is there left of marriage? What part of this contract or
sacrament remains in living force? She can not sustain the relation of
wife, because she abhors him; she cannot remain under the same roof, for
fear that she may be killed. They sustain, then, only the relations
of hunter and hunted—of tyrant and victim. Is it desirable that this
relation should last through life, and that it should be rendered sacred
by the ceremony of a church?

Again I ask, Is it desirable to have families raised under such
circumstances? Are we in need of children born of such parents? Can the
virtue of others be preserved only by this destruction of happiness, by
this perpetual imprisonment?

A marriage without love is bad enough, and a marriage for wealth or
position is low enough; but what shall we say of a marriage where the
parties actually abhor each other? Is there any morality in this?
any virtue in this? Is there virtue in retaining the name of wife, or
husband, without the real and true relation? Will any good man say, will
any good woman declare, that a true, loving woman should be compelled
to be the mother of children whose father she detests? Is there a good
woman in the world who would not shrink from this herself; and is there
a woman so heartless and so immoral that she would force another to bear
that from which she would shudderingly and shriekingly shrink?

Marriages are made by men and women; not by society; not by the state;
not by the church; not by supernatural beings. By this time we should
know that nothing is moral that does not tend to the well-being of
sentient beings; that nothing is virtuous the result of which is not
good. We know now, if we know anything, that all the reasons for doing
right, and all the reasons against doing wrong, are here in this world.
We should have imagination enough to put ourselves in the place of
another. Let a man suppose himself a helpless woman beaten by a brutal
husband—would he advocate divorces then?

Few people have an adequate idea of the sufferings of women and
children, of the number of wives who tremble when they hear the
footsteps of a returning husband, of the number of children who hide
when they hear the voice of a father. Few people know the number of
blows that fall on the flesh of the helpless every day, and few know
the nights of terror passed by mothers who hold babes to their breasts.
Compared with these, all the hardships of poverty borne by those who
love each other are as nothing. Men and women truly married bear the
sufferings and misfortunes of poverty together. They console each
other. In the darkest night they see the radiance of a star, and their
affection gives to the heart of each perpetual sunshine.

The good home is the unit of the good government. The hearthstone is
the corner-stone of civilization. Society is not interested in the
preservation of hateful homes, of homes where husbands and wives are
selfish, cold, and cruel. It is not to the interest of society that good
women should be enslaved, that they should live in fear, or that they
should become mothers by husbands whom they hate. Homes should be filled
with kind and generous fathers, with true and loving mothers; and when
they are so filled, the world will be civilized. Intelligence will rock
the cradle; justice will sit in the courts; wisdom in the legislative
halls; and above all and over all, like the dome of heaven, will be the
spirit of liberty.

Although marriage is the most important and the most sacred contract
that human beings can make, still when that contract has been violated,
courts should have the power to declare it null and void upon such
conditions as may be just.

As a rule, the woman dowers the husband with her youth, her beauty, her
love—with all she has; and from this contract certainly the husband
should never be released, unless the wife has broken the conditions of
that contract. Divorces should be granted publicly, precisely as the
marriage should be solemnized. Every marriage should be known, and
there should be witnesses, to the end that the character of the contract
entered into should be understood; the record should be open and public.
And the same is true of divorces. The conditions should be determined,
the property should be divided by a court of equity, and the custody of
the children given under regulations prescribed.

Men and women are not virtuous by law. Law does not of itself create
virtue, nor is it the foundation or fountain of love. Law should protect
virtue, and law should protect the wife, if she has kept her contract,
and the husband, if he has fulfilled his. But the death of love is the
end of marriage. Love is natural. Back of all ceremony burns and will
forever burn the sacred flame. There has been no time in the world's
history when that torch was extinguished. In all ages, in all climes,
among all people, there has been true, pure, and unselfish love. Long
before a ceremony was thought of, long before a priest existed, there
were true and perfect marriages. Back of public opinion is natural
modesty, the affections of the heart; and in spite of all law, there is
and forever will be the realm of choice. Wherever love is, it is pure;
and everywhere, and at all times, the ceremony of marriage testifies to
that which has happened within the temple of the human heart.

_Question (2). Ought divorced people to be allowed to marry under any
circumstances?_

This depends upon whether marriage is a crime. If it is not a crime, why
should any penalty be attached? Can any one conceive of any reason why
a woman obtaining a divorce, without fault on her part, should be
compelled as a punishment to remain forever single? Why should she be
punished for the dishonesty or brutality of another? Why should a man
who faithfully kept his contract of marriage, and who was deserted by an
unfaithful wife, be punished for the benefit of society? Why should he
be doomed to live without a home?

There is still another view. We must remember that human passions are
the same after as before divorce. To prevent remarriage is to give
excuse for vice.

_Question (3). What is the effect of divorce upon the integrity of the
family?_

The real marriage is back of the ceremony, and the real divorce is
back of the decree. When love is dead, when husband and wife abhor each
other, they are divorced. The decree records in a judicial way what has
really taken place, just as the ceremony of marriage attests a contract
already made.

The true family is the result of the true marriage, and the institution
of the family should above all things be preserved. What becomes of the
sacredness of the home, if the law compels those who abhor each other to
sit at the same hearth? This lowers the standard, and changes the happy
haven of home into the prison-cell. If we wish to preserve the integrity
of the family, we must preserve the democracy of the fireside, the
republicanism of the home, the absolute and perfect equality of husband
and wife. There must be no exhibition of force, no spectre of fear. The
mother must not remain through an order of court, or the command of a
priest, or by virtue of the tyranny of society; she must sit in absolute
freedom, the queen of herself, the sovereign of her own soul and of
her own body. Real homes can never be preserved through force, through
slavery, or superstition. Nothing can be more sacred than a home, no
altar purer than the hearth.

_Question (4). Does the absolute prohibition of divorce where it exists
contribute to the moral purity of society?_

We must define our terms. What is moral purity? The intelligent of
this world seek the well-being of themselves and others. They know that
happiness is the only good; and this they strive to attain. To live in
accordance with the conditions of well-being is moral in the highest
sense. To use the best instrumentalities to attain the highest ends is
our highest conception of the moral. In other words, morality is the
melody of the perfection of conduct. A man is not moral because he
is obedient through fear or ignorance. Morality lives in the realm
of perceived obligation, and where a being acts in accordance with
perceived obligation, that being is moral. Morality is not the child of
slavery. Ignorance is not the corner-stone of virtue.

The first duty of a human being is to himself. He must see to it that
he does not become a burden upon others. To be self-respecting, he must
endeavor to be self-sustaining. If by his industry and intelligence he
accumulates a margin, then he is under obligation to do with that margin
all the good he can. He who lives to the ideal does the best he can. In
true marriage men and women give not only their bodies, but their souls.
This is the ideal marriage; this is moral. They who give their bodies,
but not their souls, are not married, whatever the ceremony may be; this
is immoral.

If this be true, upon what principle can a woman continue to sustain the
relation of wife after love is dead? Is there some other consideration
that can take the place of genuine affection? Can she be bribed with
money, or a home, or position, or by public opinion, and still remain a
virtuous woman? Is it for the good of society that virtue should be thus
crucified between church and state? Can it be said that this contributes
to the moral purity of the human race?

Is there a higher standard of virtue in countries where divorce is
prohibited than in those where it is granted? Where husbands and wives
who have ceased to love cannot be divorced, there are mistresses and
lovers.

The sacramental view of marriage is the shield of vice. The world looks
at the wife who has been abused, who has been driven from the home of
her husband, and the world pities; and when this wife is loved by some
other man, the world excuses. So, too, the husband who cannot live in
peace, who leaves his home, is pitied and excused.

Is it possible to conceive of anything more immoral than for a husband
to insist on living with a wife who has no love for him? Is not this a
perpetual crime? Is the wife to lose her personality? Has she no right
of choice? Is her modesty the property of another? Is the man she hates
the lord of her desire? Has she no right to guard the jewels of her
soul? Is there a depth below this? And is this the foundation of
morality? this the corner-stone of society? this the arch that supports
the dome of civilization? Is this pathetic sacrifice on the one hand,
this sacrilege on the other, pleasing in the sight of heaven?

To me, the tenderest word in our language, the most pathetic fact within
our knowledge, is maternity. Around this sacred word cluster the joys
and sorrows, the agonies and ecstasies, of the human race. The mother
walks in the shadow of death that she may give another life. Upon
the altar of love she puts her own life in pawn. When the world is
civilized, no wife will become a mother against her will. Man will then
know that to enslave another is to imprison himself.

Robert G. Ingersoll.
---
# The Christian Religion
_Dresden Edition, Volume 6, 1881_
In the presence of eternity the mountains are as transient as the
clouds.

A PROFOUND change has taken place in the world of thought. The pews are
trying to set themselves somewhat above the pulpit. The layman discusses
theology with the minister, and smiles. Christians excuse themselves
for belonging to the church, by denying a part of the creed. The idea
is abroad that they who know the most of nature believe the least about
theology. The sciences are regarded as infidels, and facts as scoffers.
Thousands of most excellent people avoid churches, and, with few
exceptions, only those attend prayer-meetings who wish to be alone. The
pulpit is losing because the people are growing.

Of course it is still claimed that we are a Christian people, indebted
to something called Christianity for all the progress we have made.
There is still a vast difference of opinion as to what Christianity
really is, although many warring sects have been discussing that
question, with fire and sword, through centuries of creed and crime.
Every new sect has been denounced at its birth as illegitimate, as
a something born out of orthodox wedlock, and that should have been
allowed to perish on the steps where it was found. Of the relative
merits of the various denominations, it is sufficient to say that
each claims to be right. Among the evangelical churches there is a
substantial agreement upon what they consider the fundamental truths of
the gospel. These fundamental truths, as I understand them, are:

That there is a personal God, the creator of the material universe; that
he made man of the dust, and woman from part of the man; that the man
and woman were tempted by the devil; that they were turned out of the
Garden of Eden; that, about fifteen hundred years afterward, God's
patience having been exhausted by the wickedness of mankind, he drowned
his children with the exception of eight persons; that afterward he
selected from their descendants Abraham, and through him the Jewish
people; that he gave laws to these people, and tried to govern them in
all things; that he made known his will in many ways; that he wrought a
vast number of miracles; that he inspired men to write the Bible; that,
in the fullness of time, it having been found impossible to reform
mankind, this God came upon earth as a child born of the Virgin Mary;
that he lived in Palestine; that he preached for about three years,
going from place to place, occasionally raising the dead, curing the
blind and the halt; that he was crucified—for the crime of blasphemy,
as the Jews supposed, but that, as a matter of fact, he was offered as
a sacrifice for the sins of all who might have faith in him; that he was
raised from the dead and ascended into heaven, where he now is, making
intercession for his followers; that he will forgive the sins of all who
believe on him, and that those who do not believe will be consigned to
the dungeons of eternal pain. These—it may be with the addition of the
sacraments of Baptism and the Last Supper—constitute what is generally
known as the Christian religion.

It is most cheerfully admitted that a vast number of people not only
believe these things, but hold them in exceeding reverence, and imagine
them to be of the utmost importance to mankind. They regard the Bible as
the only light that God has given for the guidance of his children; that
it is the one star in nature's sky—the foundation of all morality, of
all law, of all order, and of all individual and national progress. They
regard it as the only means we have for ascertaining the will of God,
the origin of man, and the destiny of the soul.

It is needless to inquire into the causes that have led so many people
to believe in the inspiration of the Scriptures. In my opinion, they
were and are mistaken, and the mistake has hindered, in countless ways,
the civilization of man. The Bible has been the fortress and defence of
nearly every crime. No civilized country could re-enact its laws, and in
many respects its moral code is abhorrent to every good and tender man.
It is admitted that many of its precepts are pure, that many of its laws
are wise and just, and that many of its statements are absolutely true.

Without desiring to hurt the feeling? of anybody, I propose to give
a few reasons for thinking that a few passages, at least, in the Old
Testament are the product of a barbarous people.

In all civilized countries it is not only admitted, but it is
passionately asserted, that slavery is and always was a hideous
crime; that a war of conquest is simply murder; that polygamy is the
enslavement of woman, the degradation of man, and the destruction of
home; that nothing is more infamous than the slaughter of decrepit men,
of helpless women, and of prattling babes; that captured maidens should
not be given to soldiers; that wives should not be stoned to death on
account of their religious opinions, and that the death penalty ought
not to be inflicted for a violation of the Sabbath. We know that
there was a time, in the history of almost every nation, when
slavery, polygamy, and wars of extermination were regarded as divine
institutions; when women were looked upon as beasts of burden, and when,
among some people, it was considered the duty of the husband to murder
the wife for differing with him on the subject of religion. Nations that
entertain these views to-day are regarded as savage, and, probably, with
the exception of the South Sea Islanders, the Feejees, some citizens
of Delaware, and a few tribes in Central Africa, no human beings can be
found degraded enough to agree upon these subjects with the Jehovah of
the ancient Jews. The only evidence we have, or can have, that a
nation has ceased to be savage is the fact that it has abandoned these
doctrines. To every one, except the theologian, it is perfectly easy to
account for the mistakes, atrocities, and crimes of the past, by
saying that civilization is a slow and painful growth; that the moral
perceptions are cultivated through ages of tyranny, of want, of crime,
and of heroism; that it requires centuries for man to put out the eyes
of self and hold in lofty and in equal poise the scales of justice;
that conscience is born of suffering; that mercy is the child of the
imagination—of the power to put oneself in the sufferer's place, and
that man advances only as he becomes acquainted with his surroundings,
with the mutual obligations of life, and learns to take advantage of the
forces of nature.

But the believer in the inspiration of the Bible is compelled to declare
that there was a time when slavery was right—when men could buy, and
women could sell, their babes. He is compelled to insist that there
was a time when polygamy was the highest form of virtue; when wars
of extermination were waged with the sword of mercy; when religious
toleration was a crime, and when death was the just penalty for having
expressed an honest thought. He must maintain that Jehovah is just as
bad now as he was four thousand years ago, or that he was just as
good then as he is now, but that human conditions have so changed that
slavery, polygamy, religious persecutions, and wars of conquest are now
perfectly devilish. Once they were right—once they were commanded by
God himself; now, they are prohibited. There has been such a change in
the conditions of man that, at the present time, the devil is in favor
of slavery, polygamy, religious persecution, and wars of conquest. That
is to say, the devil entertains the same opinion to-day that Jehovah
held four thousand years ago, but in the meantime Jehovah has remained
exactly the same—changeless and incapable of change.

We find that other nations beside the Jews had similar laws and ideas;
that they believed in and practiced slavery and polygamy, murdered women
and children, and exterminated their neighbors to the extent of their
power. It is not claimed that they received a revelation. It is admitted
that they had no knowledge of the true God. And yet, by a strange
coincidence, they practised the same crimes, of their own motion, that
the Jews did by the command of Jehovah. From this it would seem that man
can do wrong without a special revelation.

It will hardly be claimed, at this day, that the passages in the Bible
upholding slavery, polygamy, war and religious persecution are evidences
of the inspiration of that book. Suppose that there had been nothing
in the Old Testament upholding these crimes, would any modern Christian
suspect that it was not inspired, on account of the omission? Suppose
that there had been nothing in the Old Testament but laws in favor of
these crimes, would any intelligent Christian now contend that it was
the work of the true God? If the devil had inspired a book, will some
believer in the doctrine of inspiration tell us in what respect, on the
subjects of slavery, polygamy, war, and liberty, it would have differed
from some parts of the Old Testament? Suppose that we should now
discover a Hindu book of equal antiquity with the Old Testament,
containing a defence of slavery, polygamy, wars of extermination, and
religious persecution, would we regard it as evidence that the writers
were inspired by an infinitely wise and merciful God? As most other
nations at that time practiced these crimes, and as the Jews would have
practiced them all, even if left to themselves, one can hardly see
the necessity of any inspired commands upon these subjects. Is there a
believer in the Bible who does not wish that God, amid the thunders and
lightnings of Sinai, had distinctly said to Moses that man should not
own his fellow-man; that women should not sell their babes; that men
should be allowed to think and investigate for themselves, and that the
sword should never be unsheathed to shed the blood of honest men? Is
there a believer in the world, who would not be delighted to find that
every one of these infamous passages are interpolations, and that the
skirts of God were never reddened by the blood of maiden, wife, or babe?
Is there a believer who does not regret that God commanded a husband to
stone his wife to death for suggesting the worship of the sun or moon?
Surely, the light of experience is enough to tell us that slavery is
wrong, that polygamy is infamous, and that murder is not a virtue.
No one will now contend that it was worth God's while to impart the
information to Moses, or to Joshua, or to anybody else, that the Jewish
people might purchase slaves of the heathen, or that it was their duty
to exterminate the natives of the Holy Land. The deists have contended
that the Old Testament is too cruel and barbarous to be the work of a
wise and loving God. To this, the theologians have replied, that nature
is just as cruel; that the earthquake, the volcano, the pestilence and
storm, are just as savage as the Jewish God; and to my mind this is a
perfect answer.

Suppose that we knew that after "inspired" men had finished the Bible,
the devil got possession of it, and wrote a few passages; what part of
the sacred Scriptures would Christians now pick out as being probably
his work? Which of the following passages would naturally be selected
as having been written by the devil—"Love thy neighbor as thyself," or
"Kill all the males among the little ones, and kill every woman; but all
the women children keep alive for yourselves."?

It may be that the best way to illustrate what I have said of the Old
Testament is to compare some of the supposed teachings of Jehovah with
those of persons who never read an "inspired" line, and who lived and
died without having received the light of revelation. Nothing can be
more suggestive than a comparison of the ideas of Jehovah—the inspired
words of the one claimed to be the infinite God, as recorded in the
Bible—with those that have been expressed by men who, all admit,
received no help from heaven.

In all ages of which any record has been preserved, there have been
those who gave their ideas of justice, charity, liberty, love and law.
Now, if the Bible is really the work of God, it should contain the
grandest and sublimest truths. It should, in all respects, excel the
works of man. Within that book should be found the best and loftiest
definitions of justice; the truest conceptions of human liberty; the
clearest outlines of duty; the tenderest, the highest, and the noblest
thoughts,—not that the human mind has produced, but that the human mind
is capable of receiving. Upon every page should be found the luminous
evidence of its divine origin. Unless it contains grander and more
wonderful things than man has written, we are not only justified in
saying, but we are compelled to say, that it was written by no being
superior to man. It may be said that it is unfair to call attention
to certain bad things in the Bible, while the good are not so much as
mentioned. To this it may be replied that a divine being would not put
bad things in a book. Certainly a being of infinite intelligence,
power, and goodness could never fall below the ideal of "depraved and
barbarous" man. It will not do, after we find that the Bible upholds
what we now call crimes, to say that it is not verbally inspired. If the
words are not inspired, what is? It may be said that the thoughts are
inspired. But this would include only the thoughts expressed without
words. If ideas are inspired, they must be contained in and expressed
only by inspired words; that is to say, the arrangement of the words,
with relation to each other, must have been inspired. For the purpose of
this perfect arrangement, the writers, according to the Christian world,
were inspired. Were some sculptor inspired of God to make a statue
perfect in its every part, we would not say that the marble was
inspired, but the statue—the relation of part to part, the married
harmony of form and function. The language, the words, take the place
of the marble, and it is the arrangement of these words that Christians
claim to be inspired. If there is one uninspired word,—that is, one
word in the wrong place, or a word that ought not to be there,—to that
extent the Bible is an uninspired book. The moment it is admitted that
some words are not, in their arrangement as to other words, inspired,
then, unless with absolute certainty these words can be pointed out, a
doubt is cast on all the words the book contains. If it was worth God's
while to make a revelation to man at all, it was certainly worth his
while to see that it was correctly made. He would not have allowed the
ideas and mistakes of pretended prophets and designing priests to become
so mingled with the original text that it is impossible to tell where he
ceased and where the priests and prophets began. Neither will it do to
say that God adapted his revelation to the prejudices of mankind. Of
course it was necessary for an infinite being to adapt his revelation to
the intellectual capacity of man; but why should God confirm a barbarian
in his prejudices? Why should he fortify a heathen in his crimes? If a
revelation is of any importance whatever, it is to eradicate prejudices
from the human mind. It should be a lever with which to raise the human
race. Theologians Have exhausted their ingenuity in finding excuses
for God. It seems to me that they would be better employed in finding
excuses for men. They tell us that the Jews were so cruel and ignorant
that God was compelled to justify, or nearly to justify, many of their
crimes, in order to have any influence with them whatever. They tell us
that if he had declared slavery and polygamy to be criminal, the Jews
would have refused to receive the Ten Commandments. They insist that,
under the circumstances, God did the best he could; that his real
intention was to lead them along slowly, step by step, so that, in a few
hundred years, they would be induced to admit that it was hardly fair to
steal a babe from its mother's breast. It has always seemed reasonable
that an infinite God ought to have been able to make man grand enough to
know, even without a special revelation, that it is not altogether right
to steal the labor, or the wife, or the child, of another. When the
whole question is thoroughly examined, the world will find that Jehovah
had the prejudices, the hatreds, and superstitions of his day.

If there is anything of value, it is liberty. Liberty is the air of the
soul, the sunshine of life. Without it the world is a prison and the
universe an infinite dungeon.

If the Bible is really inspired, Jehovah commanded the Jewish people to
buy the children of the strangers that sojourned among them, and ordered
that the children thus bought should be an inheritance for the children
of the Jews, and that they should be bondmen and bondwomen forever.
Yet Epictetus, a man to whom no revelation was made, a man whose soul
followed only the light of nature, and who had never heard of the Jewish
God, was great enough to say: "Will you not remember that your servants
are by nature your brothers, the children of God? In saying that you
have bought them, you look down on the earth, and into the pit, on the
wretched law of men long since dead, but you see not the laws of the
gods."

We find that Jehovah, speaking to his chosen people, assured them that
their bondmen and their bondmaids must be "of the heathen that were
round about them." "Of them," said Jehovah, "shall ye buy bondmen
and bondmaids." And yet Cicero, a pagan, Cicero, who had never been
enlightened by reading the Old Testament, had the moral grandeur to
declare: "They who say that we should love our fellow-citizens, but not
foreigners, destroy the universal brotherhood of mankind, with which
benevolence and justice would perish forever."

If the Bible is inspired, Jehovah, God of all worlds, actually said:
"And if a man smite his servant or his maid with a rod, and he die under
his hand, he shall be surely punished; notwithstanding, if he continue
a day or two, he shall not be punished, for he is his money." And yet
Zeno, founder of the Stoics, centuries before Christ was born, insisted
that no man could be the owner of another, and that the title was bad,
whether the slave had become so by conquest, or by purchase. Jehovah
ordered a Jewish general to make war, and gave, among others, this
command: "When the Lord thy God shall drive them before thee, thou shalt
smite them and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant with
them, nor show mercy unto them." And yet Epictetus, whom we have already
quoted, gave this marvelous rule for the guidance of human conduct:
"Live with thy inferiors as thou would'st have thy superiors live with
thee."

Is it possible, after all, that a being of infinite goodness and wisdom
said: "I will heap mischief upon them: I will spend mine arrows upon
them. They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat,
and with bitter destruction: I will also send the teeth of beasts upon
them, with the poison of serpents of the dust. The sword without, and
terror within, shall destroy both the young man and the virgin, the
suckling also, with the man of gray hairs"; while Seneca, an uninspired
Roman, said: "The wise man will not pardon any crime that ought to be
punished, but he will accomplish, in a nobler way, all that is sought
in pardoning. He will spare some and watch over some, because of their
youth, and others on account of their ignorance. His clemency will not
fall short of justice, but will fulfill it perfectly."

Can we believe that God ever said of any one: "Let his children be
fatherless and his wife a widow; let his children be continually
vagabonds, and beg; let them seek their bread also out of their desolate
places; let the extortioner catch all that he hath and let the stranger
spoil his labor; let there be none to extend mercy unto him, neither let
there be any to favor his fatherless children." If he ever said these
words, surely he had never heard this line, this strain of music, from
the Hindu: "Sweet is the lute to those who have not heard the prattle of
their own children."

Jehovah, "from the clouds and darkness of Sinai," said to the Jews:
"Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.... Thou shalt not bow down
thyself to them nor serve them; for I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous
God, visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children, unto the
third and fourth generation of them that hate me." Contrast this with
the words put by the Hindu into the mouth of Brahma:

"I am the same to all mankind. They who honestly serve other gods,
involuntarily worship me. I am he who partaketh of all worship, and I am
the reward of all worshipers."

Compare these passages. The first, a dungeon where crawl the things
begot of jealous slime; the other, great as the domed firmament inlaid
with suns.

II.

WAIVING the contradictory statements in the various books of the New
Testament; leaving out of the question the history of the manuscripts;
saying nothing about the errors in translation and the interpolations
made by the fathers; and admitting, for the time being, that the books
were all written at the times claimed, and by the persons whose names
they bear, the questions of inspiration, probability, and absurdity
still remain.

As a rule, where several persons testify to the same transaction, while
agreeing in the main points, they will disagree upon many minor things,
and such disagreement upon minor matters is generally considered as
evidence that the witnesses have not agreed among themselves upon the
story they should tell. These differences in statement we account for
from the facts that all did not see alike, that all did not have the
same opportunity for seeing, and that all had not equally good memories.
But when we claim that the witnesses were inspired, we must admit that
he who inspired them did know exactly what occurred, and consequently
there should be no contradiction, even in the minutest detail. The
accounts should be not only substantially, but they should be actually,
the same. It is impossible to account for any differences, or any
contradictions, except from the weaknesses of human nature, and these
weaknesses cannot be predicated of divine wisdom. Why should there
be more than one correct account of anything? Why were four gospels
necessary? One inspired record of all that happened ought to be enough.

One great objection to the Old Testament is the cruelty said to have
been commanded by God, but all the cruelties recounted in the Old
Testament ceased with death. The vengeance of Jehovah stopped at the
portal of the tomb. He never threatened to avenge himself upon the dead;
and not one word, from the first mistake in Genesis to the last curse
of Malachi, contains the slightest intimation that God will punish in
another world. It was reserved for the New Testament to make known the
frightful doctrine of eternal pain. It was the teacher of universal
benevolence who rent the veil between time and eternity, and fixed the
horrified gaze of man on the lurid gulfs of hell. Within the breast of
non-resistance was coiled the worm that never dies.

One great objection to the New Testament is that it bases salvation upon
belief. This, at least, is true of the Gospel according to John, and of
many of the Epistles. I admit that Matthew never heard of the atonement,
and died utterly ignorant of the scheme of salvation. I also admit that
Mark never dreamed that it was necessary for a man to be born again;
that he knew nothing of the mysterious doctrine of regeneration, and
that he never even suspected that it was necessary to believe anything.
In the sixteenth chapter of Mark, we are told that "He that believeth
and is baptized shall be saved, but he that believeth not shall be
damned"; but this passage has been shown to be an interpolation, and,
consequently, not a solitary word is found in the Gospel according to
Mark upon the subject of salvation by faith. The same is also true
of the Gospel of Luke. It says not one word as to the necessity of
believing on Jesus Christ, not one word as to the atonement, not one
word upon the scheme of salvation, and not the slightest hint that it is
necessary to believe anything here in order to be happy hereafter.

And I here take occasion to say, that with most of the teachings of the
Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke I most heartily agree. The miraculous
parts must, of course, be thrown aside. I admit that the necessity of
belief, the atonement, and the scheme of salvation are all set forth
in the Gospel of John,—a gospel, in my opinion, not written until long
after the others.

According to the prevailing Christian belief, the Christian religion
rests upon the doctrine of the atonement. If this doctrine is without
foundation, if it is repugnant to justice and mercy, the fabric falls.
We are told that the first man committed a crime for which all his
posterity are responsible,—in other words, that we are accountable,
and can be justly punished for a sin we never in fact committed. This
absurdity was the father of another, namely, that a man can be rewarded
for a good action done by another. God, according to the modern
theologians, made a law, with the penalty of eternal death for its
infraction. All men, they say, have broken that law. In the economy of
heaven, this law had to be vindicated. This could be done by damning the
whole human race. Through what is known as the atonement, the salvation
of a few was made possible. They insist that the law—whatever that
is—demanded the extreme penalty, that justice called for its victims,
and that even mercy ceased to plead. Under these circumstances, God, by
allowing the innocent to suffer, satisfactorily settled with the law,
and allowed a few of the guilty to escape. The law was satisfied with
this arrangement. To carry out this scheme, God was born as a babe into
this world. "He grew in stature and increased in knowledge." At the age
of thirty-three, after having lived a life filled with kindness, charity
and nobility, after having practiced every virtue, he was sacrificed as
an atonement for man. It is claimed that he actually took our place,
and bore our sins and our guilt; that in this way the justice of God was
satisfied, and that the blood of Christ was an atonement, an expiation,
for the sins of all who might believe on him.

Under the Mosaic dispensation, there was no remission of sin except
through the shedding of blood. If a man committed certain sins, he
must bring to the priest a lamb, a bullock, a goat, or a pair of
turtle-doves. The priest would lay his hands upon the animal, and the
sin of the man would be transferred. Then the animal would be killed in
the place of the real sinner, and the blood thus shed and sprinkled upon
the altar would be an atonement. In this way Jehovah was satisfied.
The greater the crime, the greater the sacrifice—the more blood, the
greater the atonement. There was always a certain ratio between the
value of the animal and the enormity of the sin. The most minute
directions were given about the killing of these animals, and about
the sprinkling of their blood. Every priest became a butcher, and every
sanctuary a slaughter-house. Nothing could be more utterly shocking to
a refined and loving soul. Nothing could have been better calculated to
harden the heart than this continual shedding of innocent blood. This
terrible system is supposed to have culminated in the sacrifice of
Christ. His blood took the place of all other. It is necessary to shed
no more. The law at last is satisfied, satiated, surfeited. The idea
that God wants blood is at the bottom of the atonement, and rests
upon the most fearful savagery. How can sin be transferred from men to
animals, and how can the shedding of the blood of animals atone for the
sins of men?

The church says that the sinner is in debt to God, and that the
obligation is discharged by the Savior. The best that can possibly be
said of such a transaction is, that the debt is transferred, not paid.
The truth is, that a sinner is in debt to the person he has injured.
If a man injures his neighbor, it is not enough for him to get the
forgiveness of God, but he must have the forgiveness of his neighbor.
If a man puts his hand in the fire and God forgives him, his hand will
smart exactly the same. You must, after all, reap what you sow. No god
can give you wheat when you sow tares, and no devil can give you tares
when you sow wheat.

There are in nature neither rewards nor punishments—there are
consequences. The life of Christ is worth its example, its moral force,
its heroism of benevolence.

To make innocence suffer is the greatest sin; how then is it possible to
make the suffering of the innocent a justification for the criminal? Why
should a man be willing to let the innocent suffer for him? Does not
the willingness show that he is utterly unworthy of the sacrifice?
Certainly, no man would be fit for heaven who would consent that an
innocent person should suffer for his sin. What would we think of a
man who would allow another to die for a crime that he himself had
committed? What would we think of a law that allowed the innocent to
take the place of the guilty? Is it possible to vindicate a just law
by inflicting punishment on the innocent? Would not that be a second
violation instead of a vindication?

If there was no general atonement until the crucifixion of Christ, what
became of the countless millions who died before that time? And it must
be remembered that the blood shed by the Jews was not for other nations.
Jehovah hated foreigners. The Gentiles were left without forgiveness
What has become of the millions who have died since, without having
heard of the atonement? What becomes of those who have heard but have
not believed? It seems to me that the doctrine of the atonement is
absurd, unjust, and immoral. Can a law be satisfied by the execution
of the wrong person? When a man commits a crime, the law demands his
punishment, not that of a substitute; and there can be no law, human
or divine, that can be satisfied by the punishment of a substitute. Can
there be a law that demands that the guilty be rewarded? And yet, to
reward the guilty is far nearer justice than to punish the innocent.

According to the orthodox theology, there would have been no heaven had
no atonement been made. All the children of men would have been cast
into hell forever. The old men bowed with grief, the smiling mothers,
the sweet babes, the loving maidens, the brave, the tender, and the
just, would have been given over to eternal pain. Man, it is claimed,
can make no atonement for himself. If he commits one sin, and with
that exception lives a life of perfect virtue, still that one sin would
remain unexpiated, unatoned, and for that one sin he would be forever
lost. To be saved by the goodness of another, to be a redeemed debtor
forever, has in it something repugnant to manhood.

We must also remember that Jehovah took special charge of the Jewish
people; and we have always been taught that he did so for the purpose
of civilizing them. If he had succeeded in civilizing the Jews, he would
have made the damnation of the entire human race a certainty; because,
if the Jews had been a civilized people when Christ appeared,—a
people whose hearts had not been hardened by the laws and teachings of
Jehovah,—they would not have crucified him, and, as a consequence,
the world would have been lost. If the Jews had believed in religious
freedom,—in the right of thought and speech,—not a human soul could
ever have been saved. If, when Christ was on his way to Calvary, some
brave, heroic soul had rescued him from the holy mob, he would not
only have been eternally damned for his pains, but would have rendered
impossible the salvation of any human being, and, except for the
crucifixion of her son, the Virgin Mary, if the church is right, would
be to-day among the lost.

In countless ways the Christian world has endeavored, for nearly two
thousand years, to explain the atonement, and every effort has ended
in an admission that it cannot be understood, and a declaration that it
must be believed. Is it not immoral to teach that man can sin, that he
can harden his heart and pollute his soul, and that, by repenting
and believing something that he does not comprehend, he can avoid the
consequences of his crimes? Has the promise and hope of forgiveness ever
prevented the commission of a sin? Should men be taught that sin gives
happiness here; that they ought to bear the evils of a virtuous life in
this world for the sake of joy in the next; that they can repent between
the last sin and the last breath; that after repentance every stain
of the soul is washed away by the innocent blood of another; that the
serpent of regret will not hiss in the ear of memory; that the saved
will not even pity the victims of their own crimes; that the goodness
of another can be transferred to them; and that sins forgiven cease to
affect the unhappy wretches sinned against?

Another objection is that a certain belief is necessary to save the
soul. It is often asserted that to believe is the only safe way. If you
wish to be safe, be honest. Nothing can be safer than that. No matter
what his belief may be, no man, even in the hour of death, can regret
having been honest. It never can be necessary to throw away your reason
to save your soul. A soul without reason is scarcely worth saving. There
is no more degrading doctrine than that of mental non-resistance. The
soul has a right to defend its castle—the brain, and he who waives that
right becomes a serf and slave. Neither can I admit that a man, by doing
me an injury, can place me under obligation to do him a service. To
render benefits for injuries is to ignore all distinctions between
actions. He who treats his friends and enemies alike has neither love
nor justice. The idea of non-resistance never occurred to a man with
power to protect himself. This doctrine was the child of weakness, born
when resistance was impossible. To allow a crime to be committed when
you can prevent it, is next to committing the crime yourself. And yet,
under the banner of non-resistance, the church has shed the blood of
millions, and in the folds of her sacred vestments have gleamed the
daggers of assassination. With her cunning hands she wove the purple for
hypocrisy, and placed the crown upon the brow of crime. For a thousand
years larceny held the scales of justice, while beggars scorned the
princely sons of toil, and ignorant fear denounced the liberty of
thought.

If Christ was in fact God, he knew all the future. Before him, like a
panorama, moved the history yet to be. He knew exactly how his words
would be interpreted. He knew what crimes, what horrors, what infamies,
would be committed in his name. He knew that the fires of persecution
would climb around the limbs of countless martyrs. He knew that brave
men would languish in dungeons, in darkness, filled with pain; that the
church would use instruments of torture, that his followers would appeal
to whip and chain. He must have seen the horizon of the future red with
the flames of the _auto da fe_. He knew all the creeds that would spring
like poison fungi from every text. He saw the sects waging war against
each other. He saw thousands of men, under the orders of priests,
building dungeons for their fellow-men. He saw them using instruments
of pain. He heard the groans, saw the faces white with agony, the tears,
the blood—heard the shrieks and sobs of all the moaning, martyred
multitudes. He knew that commentaries would be written on his words with
swords, to be read by the light of fagots. He knew that the Inquisition
would be born of teachings attributed to him. He saw all the
interpolations and falsehoods that hypocrisy would write and tell. He
knew that above these fields of death, these dungeons, these burnings,
for a thousand years would float the dripping banner of the cross. He
knew that in his name his followers would trade in human flesh, that
cradles would be robbed, and women's breasts unbabed for gold, and yet
he died with voiceless lips. Why did he fail to speak? Why did he not
tell his disciples, and through them the world, that man should not
persecute, for opinion's sake, his fellow-man? Why did he not cry, You
shall not persecute in my name; you shall not burn and torment those who
differ from you in creed? Why did he not plainly say, I am the Son of
God? Why did he not explain the doctrine of the Trinity? Why did he not
tell the manner of baptism that was pleasing to him? Why did he not say
something positive, definite, and satisfactory about another world? Why
did he not turn the tear-stained hope of heaven to the glad knowledge
of another life? Why did he go dumbly to his death, leaving the world to
misery and to doubt?

He came, they tell us, to make a revelation, and what did he reveal?
"Love thy neighbor as thyself"? That was in the Old Testament. "Love
God with all thy heart"? That was in the Old Testament. "Return good for
evil"? That was said by Buddha seven hundred years before he was born.
"Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you"? This was the
doctrine of Lao-tsze. Did he come to give a rule of action? Zoroaster
had done this long before: "Whenever thou art in doubt as to whether
an action is good or bad, abstain from it." Did he come to teach us of
another world? The immortality of the soul had been taught by Hindus,
Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans hundreds of years before he was born. Long
before, the world had been told by Socrates that: "One who is injured
ought not to return the injury, for on no account can it be right to do
an injustice; and it is not right to return an injury, or to do evil
to any man, however much we may have suffered from him." And Cicero had
said:

"Let us not listen to those who think that we ought to be angry with
our enemies, and who believe this to be great and manly: nothing is
more praiseworthy, nothing so clearly shows a great and noble soul, as
clemency and readiness to forgive."

Is there anything nearer perfect than this from Confucius: "For benefits
return benefits; for injuries return justice without any admixture of
revenge"?

The dogma of eternal punishment rests upon passages in the New
Testament. This infamous belief subverts every idea of justice. Around
the angel of immortality the church has coiled this serpent. A finite
being can neither commit an infinite sin, nor a sin against the
infinite. A being of infinite goodness and wisdom has no right,
according to the human standard of justice, to create any being destined
to suffer eternal pain. A being of infinite wisdom would not create
a failure, and surely a man destined to everlasting agony is not a
success.

How long, according to the universal benevolence of the New Testament,
can a man be reasonably punished in the next world for failing to
believe something unreasonable in this? Can it be possible that any
punishment can endure forever? Suppose that every flake of snow that
ever fell was a figure nine, and that the first flake was multiplied by
the second, and that product by the third, and so on to the last flake.
And then suppose that this total should be multiplied by every drop of
rain that ever fell, calling each drop a figure nine; and that total by
each blade of grass that ever helped to weave a carpet for the earth,
calling each blade a figure nine; and that again by every grain of sand
on every shore, so that the grand total would make a line of nines so
long that it would require millions upon millions of years for light,
traveling at the rate of one hundred and eighty-five thousand miles per
second, to reach the end. And suppose, further, that each unit in this
almost infinite total stood for billions of ages—still that vast and
almost endless time, measured by all the years beyond, is as one flake,
one drop, one leaf, one blade, one grain, compared with all the flakes
and drops and leaves and blades and grains. Upon love's breast the
church has placed the eternal asp. And yet, in the same book in which is
taught this most infamous of doctrines, we are assured that "The Lord is
good to all, and his tender mercies are over all his works."

## Iii

SO FAR as we know, man is the author of all books. If a book had been
found on the earth by the first man, he might have regarded it as the
work of God; but as men were here a good while before any books were
found, and as man has produced a great many books, the probability is
that the Bible is no exception.

Most nations, at the time the Old Testament was written, believed in
slavery, polygamy, wars of extermination, and religious persecution;
and it is not wonderful that the book contained nothing contrary to such
belief. The fact that it was in exact accord with the morality of its
time proves that it was not the product of any being superior to man.
"The inspired writers" upheld or established slavery, countenanced
polygamy, commanded wars of extermination, and ordered the slaughter
of women and babes. In these respects they were precisely like the
uninspired savages by whom they were surrounded. They also taught and
commanded religious persecution as a duty, and visited the most trivial
offences with the punishment of death. In these particulars they were in
exact accord with their barbarian neighbors. They were utterly ignorant
of geology and astronomy, and knew no more of what had happened than of
what would happen; and, so far as accuracy is concerned, their history
and prophecy were about equal; in other words, they were just as
ignorant as those who lived and died in nature's night.

Does any Christian believe that if God were to write a book now, he
would uphold the crimes commanded in the Old Testament? Has Jehovah
improved? Has infinite mercy-become more merciful? Has infinite wisdom
intellectually-advanced? Will any one claim that the passages upholding
slavery have liberated mankind; that we are indebted for our modern
homes to the texts that made polygamy a virtue; or that religious
liberty found its soil, its light, and rain in the infamous verse
wherein the husband is commanded to stone to death the wife for
worshiping an unknown god?

The usual answer to these objections is that no country has ever been
civilized without the Bible.

The Jews were the only people to whom Jehovah made his will directly
known,—the only people who had the Old Testament. Other nations were
utterly neglected by their Creator. Yet, such was the effect of the Old
Testament on the Jews, that they crucified a kind, loving, and perfectly
innocent man. They could not have done much worse without a Bible. In
the crucifixion of Christ, they followed the teachings of his Father.
If, as it is now alleged by the theologians, no nation can be civilized
without a Bible, certainly God must have known the fact six thousand
years ago, as well as the theologians know it now. Why did he not
furnish every nation with a Bible?

As to the Old Testament, I insist that all the bad passages were written
by men; that those passages were not inspired. I insist that a being of
infinite goodness never commanded man to enslave his fellow-man, never
told a mother to sell her babe, never established polygamy, never
ordered one nation to exterminate another, and never told a husband to
kill his wife because she suggested the worshiping of some other God.

I also insist that the Old Testament would be a much better book with
all of these passages left out; and, whatever may be said of the rest,
the passages to which attention has been drawn can with vastly more
propriety be attributed to a devil than to a god.

Take from the New Testament all passages upholding the idea that belief
is necessary to salvation; that Christ was offered as an atonement for
the sins of the world; that the punishment of the human soul will go
on forever; that heaven is the reward of faith, and hell the penalty of
honest investigation; take from it all miraculous stories,—and I admit
that all the good passages are true. If they are true, it makes no
difference whether they are inspired or not. Inspiration is only
necessary to give authority to that which is repugnant to human reason.
Only that which never happened needs to be substantiated by miracles.
The universe is natural.

The church must cease to insist that the passages upholding the
institutions of savage men were inspired of God. The dogma of the
atonement must be abandoned. Good deeds must take the place of faith.
The savagery of eternal punishment must be renounced. Credulity is not
a virtue, and investigation is not a crime. Miracles are the children
of mendacity. Nothing can be more wonderful than the majestic, unbroken,
sublime, and eternal procession of causes and effects.

Reason must be the final arbiter. "Inspired" books attested by miracles
cannot stand against a demonstrated fact. A religion that does not
command the respect of the greatest minds will, in a little while,
excite the mockery of all. Every civilized man believes in the liberty
of thought. Is it possible that God is intolerant? Is an act infamous in
man one of the virtues of the Deity? Could there be progress in heaven
without intellectual liberty? Is the freedom of the future to exist only
in perdition? Is it not, after all, barely possible that a man acting
like Christ can be saved? Is a man to be eternally rewarded for
believing according to evidence, without evidence, or against evidence?
Are we to be saved because we are good, or because another was virtuous?
Is credulity to be winged and crowned, while honest doubt is chained and
damned?

Do not misunderstand me. My position is that the cruel passages in
the Old Testament are not inspired; that slavery, polygamy, wars of
extermination, and religious persecution always have been, are, and
forever will be, abhorred and cursed by the honest, the virtuous, and
the loving; that the innocent cannot justly suffer for the guilty,
and that vicarious vice and vicarious virtue are equally absurd; that
eternal punishment is eternal revenge; that only the natural can happen;
that miracles prove the dishonesty of the few and the credulity of the
many; and that, according to Matthew, Mark, and Luke, salvation does not
depend upon belief, nor the atonement, nor a "second birth," but that
these gospels are in exact harmony with the declaration of the great
Persian: "Taking the first footstep with the good thought, the second
with the good word, and the third with the good deed, I entered
paradise."

The dogmas of the past no longer reach the level of the highest thought,
nor satisfy the hunger of the heart. While dusty faiths, embalmed and
sepulchered in ancient texts, remain the same, the sympathies of men
enlarge; the brain no longer kills its young; the happy lips give
liberty to honest thoughts; the mental firmament expands and lifts; the
broken clouds drift by; the hideous dreams, the foul, misshapen children
of the monstrous night, dissolve and fade.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

## The Christian Religion, by Jeremiah S. Black

"Gratiano speaks of an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in
all Venice: his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of
chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them
they are not worth the search."—_Merchant of Venice_.

THE request to answer the foregoing paper comes to me, not in the form
but with the effect of a challenge, which I cannot decline without
seeming to acknowledge that the religion of the civilized world is an
absurd superstition, propagated by impostors, professed by hypocrites,
and believed only by credulous dupes.

But why should I, an unlearned and unauthorized layman, be placed in
such a predicament? The explanation is easy enough. This is no business
of the priests. Their prescribed duty is to preach the word, in the full
assurance that it will commend itself to all good and honest hearts by
its own manifest veracity and the singular purity of its precepts. They
cannot afford to turn away from their proper work, and leave willing
hearers uninstructed, while they wrangle in vain with a predetermined
opponent. They were warned to expect slander, indignity, and insult, and
these are among the evils which they must not resist.

It will be seen that I am assuming no clerical function. I am not out on
the forlorn hope of converting Mr. Ingersoll. I am no preacher exhorting
a sinner to leave the seat of the scornful and come up to the bench of
the penitents. My duty is more analogous to that of the policeman who
would silence a rude disturber of the congregation by telling him that
his clamor is false and his conduct an offence against public decency.

Nor is the Church in any danger which calls for the special vigilance
of its servants. Mr. Ingersoll thinks that the rock-founded faith
of Christendom is giving way before his assaults, but he is grossly
mistaken. The first sentence of his essay is a preposterous blunder. It
is not true that "_a profound change_ has taken place in the world of
_thought,_" unless a more rapid spread of the Gospel and a more faithful
observance of its moral principles can be called so. Its truths are
everywhere proclaimed with the power of sincere conviction, and accepted
with devout reverence by uncounted multitudes of all classes. Solemn
temples rise to its honor in the great cities; from every hill-top in
the country you see the church-spire pointing toward heaven, and on
Sunday all the paths that lead to it are crowded with worshipers. In
nearly all families, parents teach their children that Christ is God,
and his system of morality absolutely perfect. This belief lies so deep
in the popular heart that, if every written record of it were destroyed
to-day, the memory of millions could reproduce it to-morrow. Its
earnestness is proved by its works. Wherever it goes it manifests itself
in deeds of practical benevolence. It builds, not churches alone, but
almshouses, hospitals, and asylums. It shelters the poor, feeds the
hungry, visits the sick, consoles the afflicted, provides for the
fatherless, comforts the heart of the widow, instructs the ignorant,
reforms the vicious, and saves to the uttermost them that are ready to
perish. To the common observer, it does not look as if Christianity
was making itself ready to be swallowed up by Infidelity. Thus far,
at least, the promise has been kept that "the gates of hell shall not
prevail against it."

There is, to be sure, a change in the party hostile to religion—not "a
profound change," but a change entirely superficial—which consists, not
in thought, but merely in modes of expression and methods of attack. The
bad classes of society always hated the doctrine and discipline which
reproached their wickedness and frightened them by threats of punishment
in another world. Aforetime they showed their contempt of divine
authority only by their actions; but now, under new leadership, their
enmity against God breaks out into articulate blasphemy. They assemble
themselves together, they hear with passionate admiration the bold
harangue which ridicules and defies the Maker of the universe; fiercely
they rage against the Highest, and loudly they laugh, alike at the
justice that condemns, and the mercy that offers to pardon them. The
orator who relieves them by assurances of impunity, and tells them that
no supreme authority has made any law to control them, is applauded to
the echo and paid a high price for his congenial labor; he pockets their
money, and flatters himself that he is a great power, profoundly moving
"the world of thought."

There is another totally false notion expressed in the opening
paragraph, namely, that "they who know most of nature believe the least
about theology." The truth is exactly the other way. The more clearly
one sees "the grand procession of causes and effects," the more awful
his reverence becomes for the author of the "sublime and unbroken" law
which links them together. Not self-conceit and rebellious pride, but
unspeakable humility, and a deep sense of the measureless distance
between the Creator and the creature, fills the mind of him who looks
with a rational spirit upon the works of the All-wise One. The heart
of Newton repeats the solemn confession of David: "When I consider thy
heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast
ordained; what is man that thou art mindful of him or the son of man
that thou visitest him?" At the same time, the lamentable fact must be
admitted that "a little learning is a dangerous thing" to some persons.
The sciolist with a mere smattering of physical knowledge is apt to
mistake himself for a philosopher, and swelling with his own importance,
he gives out, like Simon Magus, "that himself is some great one." His
vanity becomes inflamed more and more, until he begins to think he
knows all things. He takes every occasion to show his accomplishments by
finding fault with the works of creation* and Providence; and this is an
exercise in which he cannot long continue without learning to disbelieve
in any Being greater than himself. It was to such a person, and not
to the unpretending simpleton, that Solomon applied his often quoted
aphorism: "The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God." These are
what Paul refers to as "vain babblings and the opposition of science,
falsely so called;" but they are perfectly powerless to stop or turn
aside the great current of human thought on the subject of Christian
theology. That majestic stream, supplied from a thousand unfailing
fountains, rolls on and will roll forever.

_Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum_.

Mr. Ingersoll is not, as some have estimated him, the most formidable
enemy that Christianity has encountered since the time of Julian the
Apostate. But he stands at the head of living infidels, "by merit raised
to that bad eminence." His mental organization has the peculiar defects
which fit him for such a place. He is all imagination and no discretion.
He rises sometimes into a region of wild poetry, where he can color
everything to suit himself. His motto well expresses the character of
his argumentation—"mountains are as unstable as clouds:" a fancy is
as good as a fact, and a high-sounding period is rather better than a
logical demonstration. His inordinate self-confidence makes him at once
ferocious and fearless. He was a practical politician before he "took
the stump" against Christianity, and at all times he has proved his
capacity to "split the ears of the groundlings," and make the unskillful
laugh. The article before us is the least objectionable of all his
productions. Its style is higher, and better suited to the weight of
the theme. Here the violence of his fierce invective is moderated; his
scurrility gives place to an attempt at sophistry less shocking if not
more true; and his coarse jokes are either excluded altogether, or else
veiled in the decent obscurity of general terms. Such a paper from such
a man, at a time like the present, is not wholly unworthy of a grave
contradiction.

He makes certain charges which we answer by an explicit denial, and thus
an issue is made, upon which, as a pleader would say, we "put
ourselves upon the country." He avers that a certain "something called
Christianity" is a false faith imposed on the world without evidence;
that the facts it pretends to rest on are mere inventions; that its
doctrines are pernicious; that its requirements are unreasonable,
and that its sanctions are cruel. I deny all this, and assert, on the
contrary, that its doctrines are divinely revealed; its fundamental
facts incontestably proved; its morality perfectly free from all taint
of error, and its influence most beneficent upon society in general, and
upon all individuals who accept it and make it their rule of action.

How shall this be determined? Not by what we call divine revelation, for
that would be begging the question; not by sentiment, taste, or temper,
for these are as likely to be false as true; but by inductive reasoning
from evidence, of which the value is to be measured according to those
rules of logic which enlightened and just men everywhere have adopted to
guide them in the search for truth. We can appeal only to that rational
love of justice, and that detestation of falsehood, which fair-minded
persons of good intelligence bring to the consideration of other
important subjects when it becomes their duty to decide upon them. In
short, I want a decision upon sound judicial principles.

Gibson, the great Chief-Justice of Pennsylvania, once said to certain
skeptical friends of his: "Give Christianity a common-law trial; submit
the evidence _pro_ and _con_ to an impartial jury under the direction of
a competent court, and the verdict will assuredly be in its favor." This
deliverance, coming from the most illustrious judge of his time, not at
all given to expressions of sentimental piety, and quite incapable of
speaking on any subject for mere effect, staggered the unbelief of those
who heard it. I did not know him then, except by his great reputation
for ability and integrity, but my thoughts were strongly influenced by
his authority, and I learned to set a still higher value upon all his
opinions, when, in after life, I was honored with his close and intimate
friendship.

Let Christianity have a trial on Mr. Ingersoll's indictment, and give
us a decision _secundum allegata et probata_. I will confine myself
strictly to the record; that is to say, I will meet the accusations
contained in this paper, and not those made elsewhere by him or others.

His first specification against Christianity is the belief of its
disciples "that there is a personal God, the creator of the material
universe." If God made the world it was a most stupendous miracle, and
all miracles, according to Mr. Ingersoll's idea are "the children of
mendacity." To admit the one great miracle of creation would be an
admission that other miracles are at least probable, and that would ruin
his whole case. But you cannot catch the leviathan of atheism with a
hook. The universe, he says, is natural—it came into being of its own
accord; it made its own laws at the start, and afterward improved itself
considerably by spontaneous evolution. It would be a mere waste of
time and space to enumerate the proofs which show that the universe was
created by a pre-existent and self-conscious Being, of power and wisdom
to us inconceivable. Conviction of the fact (miraculous though it
be) forces itself on every one whose mental faculties are healthy and
tolerably well balanced. The notion that all things owe their origin and
their harmonious arrangement to the fortuitous concurrence of atoms is
a kind of lunacy which very few men in these days are afflicted with. I
hope I may safely assume it as certain that all, or nearly all, who read
this page will have sense and reason enough to see for themselves that
the plan of the universe could not have been designed without a Designer
or executed without a Maker.

But Mr. Ingersoll asserts that, at all events, this material world had
not a good and beneficent creator; it is a bad, savage, cruel piece of
work, with its pestilences, storms, earthquakes, and volcanoes; and man,
with his liability to sickness, suffering, and death, is not a success,
but, on the contrary, a failure. To defend the Creator of the world
against an arraignment so foul as this would be almost as unbecoming
as to make the accusation. We have neither jurisdiction nor capacity
to rejudge the justice of God. Why man is made to fill this particular
place in the scale of creation—a little lower than the angels, yet far
above the brutes; not passionless and pure, like the former, nor mere
machines, like the latter; able to stand, yet free to fall; knowing the
right, and accountable for going wrong; gifted with reason, and impelled
by self-love to exercise the faculty—these are questions on which we
may have our speculative opinions, but knowledge is out of our reach.
Meantime, we do not discredit our mental independence by taking it for
granted that the Supreme Being has done all things well. Our ignorance
of the whole scheme makes us poor critics upon the small part that comes
within our limited perceptions. Seeming defects in the structure of
the world may be its most perfect ornament—all apparent harshness the
tenderest of mercies.

> "All discord, harmony not understood,
> All partial evil, universal good."

But worse errors are imputed to God as moral ruler of the world than
those charged against him as creator. He made man badly, but governed
him worse; if the Jehovah of the Old Testament was not merely an
imaginary being, then, according to Mr. Ingersoll, he was a prejudiced,
barbarous, criminal tyrant. We will see what ground he lays, if any, for
these outrageous assertions.

Mainly, principally, first and most important of all, is the unqualified
assertion that the "moral code" which Jehovah gave to his people "is
in many respects abhorrent to every good and tender man." Does Mr.
Ingersoll know what he is talking about? The moral code of the Bible
consists of certain immutable rules to govern the conduct of all men, at
all times and all places, in their private and personal relations with
one another. It is entirely separate and apart from the civil polity,
the religious forms, the sanitary provisions, the police regulations,
and the system of international law laid down for the special and
exclusive observance of the Jewish people. This is a distinction which
every intelligent man knows how to make. Has Mr. Ingersoll fallen into
the egregious blunder of confounding these things? or, understanding the
true sense of his words, is he rash and shameless enough to assert that
the moral code of the Bible excites the abhorrence of good men? In
fact, and in truth, this moral code, which he reviles, instead of being
abhorred, is entitled to, and has received, the profoundest respect of
all honest and sensible persons. The second table of the Decalogue is a
perfect compendium of those duties which every man owes to himself, his
family, and his neighbor. In a few simple words, which he can commit
to memory almost in a minute, it teaches him to purify his heart from
covetousness; to live decently, to injure nobody in reputation, person,
or property, and to give every one his own. By the poets, the prophets,
and the sages of Israel, these great elements are expanded into a volume
of minuter rules, so clear, so impressive, and yet so solemn and so
lofty, that no pre-existing system of philosophy can compare with it for
a moment. If this vain mortal is not blind with passion, he will see,
upon reflection, that he has attacked the Old Testament precisely where
it is most impregnable.

Dismissing his groundless charge against the moral code, we come to his
strictures on the civil government of the Jews, which he says was so bad
and unjust that the Lawgiver by whom it was established must have been
as savagely cruel as the Creator that made storms and pestilences; and
the work of both was more worthy of a devil than a God. His language
is recklessly bad, very defective in method, and altogether lacking
in precision. But, apart from the ribaldry of it, which I do not
feel myself bound to notice, I find four objections to the Jewish
constitution—not more than four—which are definite enough to admit
of an answer. These relate to the provisions of the Mosaic law on
the subjects of (1) Blasphemy and Idolatry; (2) War; (3) Slavery; (4)
Polygamy. In these respects he pronounces the Jewish system not only
unwise but criminally unjust.

Here let me call attention to the difficulty of reasoning about justice
with a man who has no acknowledged standard of right and wrong. What is
justice? That which accords with law; and the supreme law is the will of
God. But I am dealing with an adversary who does not admit that there is
a God. Then for him there is no standard at all; one thing is as right
as another, and all things are equally wrong. Without a sovereign
ruler there is no law, and where there is no law there can be no
transgression. It is the misfortune of the atheistic theory that it
makes the moral world an anarchy; it refers all ethical questions to
that confused tribunal where chaos sits as umpire and "by decision more
embroils the fray." But through the whole of this cloudy paper there
runs a vein of presumptuous egotism which says as plainly as words can
speak it that the author holds _himself_ to be the ultimate judge of
all good and evil; what he approves is right, and what he dislikes is
certainly wrong. Of course I concede nothing to a claim like that. I
will not admit that the Jewish constitution is a thing to be condemned
merely because he curses it. I appeal from his profane malediction to
the conscience of men who have a rule to judge by. Such persons will
readily see that his specific objections to the statesmanship which
established the civil government of the Hebrew people are extremely
shallow, and do not furnish the shade of an excuse for the indecency of
his general abuse.

_First_. He regards the punishments inflicted for blasphemy and idolatry
as being immoderately cruel. Considering them merely as religious
offences,—as sins against God alone,—I agree that civil laws should
notice them not at all. But sometimes they affect very injuriously
certain social rights which it is the duty of the state to protect.
Wantonly to shock the religious feelings of your neighbor is a grievous
wrong. To utter blasphemy or obscenity in the presence of a Christian
woman is hardly better than to strike her in the face. Still, neither
policy nor justice requires them to be ranked among the highest crimes
in a government constituted like ours. But things were wholly different
under the Jewish theocracy, where God was the personal head of the
state. There blasphemy was a breach of political allegiance; idolatry
was an overt act of treason; to worship the gods of the hostile heathen
was deserting to the public enemy, and giving him aid and comfort. These
are crimes which every independent community has always punished with
the utmost rigor. In our own very recent history, they were repressed at
the cost of more lives than Judea ever contained at any one time.

Mr. Ingersoll not only ignores these considerations, but he goes the
length of calling God a religious persecutor and a tyrant because he
does not encourage and reward the service and devotion paid by his
enemies to the false gods of the pagan world. He professes to believe
that all kinds of worship are equally meritorious, and should meet the
same acceptance from the true God. It is almost incredible that such
drivel as this should be uttered by anybody. But Mr. Ingersoll not only
expresses the thought plainly—he urges it with the most extravagant
figures of his florid rhetoric. He quotes the first commandment, in
which Jehovah claims for himself the exclusive worship of His people,
and cites, in contrast, the promise put in the mouth of Brahma, that
he will appropriate the worship of all gods to himself, and reward all
worshipers alike. These passages being compared, he declares the first
"a dungeon, where crawl the things begot of jealous slime;" the other,
"great as the domed firmament, inlaid with suns." Why is the living God,
whom Christians believe to be the Lord of liberty and Father of lights,
denounced as the keeper of a loathsome dungeon? Because he refuses to
encourage and reward the worship of Mammon and Moloch, of Belial and
Baal; of Bacchus, with its drunken orgies, and Venus, with its wanton
obscenities; the bestial religion which degraded the soul of Egypt and
the "dark idolatries of alienated Judah," polluted with the moral filth
of all the nations round about.

Let the reader decide whether this man, entertaining such sentiments and
opinions, is fit to be a teacher, or at all likely to lead us in the way
we should go.

_Second_. Under the constitution which God provided for the Jews, they
had, like every other nation, the war-making power. They could not have
lived a day without it. The right to exist implied the right to repel,
with all their strength, the opposing force which threatened their
destruction. It is true, also, that in the exercise of this power they
did not observe those rules of courtesy and humanity which have been
adopted in modern times by civilized belligerents. Why? Because their
enemies, being mere savages, did not understand and would not practise,
any rule whatever; and the Jews were bound _ex necessitate rei_—not
merely justified by the _lex talionis_—to do as their enemies did. In
your treatment of hostile barbarians, you not only may lawfully, but
must necessarily, adopt their mode of warfare. If they come to conquer
you, they may be conquered by you; if they give no quarter, they
are entitled to none; if the death of your whole population be their
purpose, you may defeat it by exterminating theirs. This sufficiently
answers the silly talk of atheists and semi-atheists about the warlike
wickedness of the Jews.

But Mr. Ingersoll positively, and with the emphasis of supreme and
all-sufficient authority, declares that "a war of conquest is simply
murder." He sustains this proposition by no argument founded in
principle. He puts sentiment in place of law, and denounces aggressive
fighting because it is offensive to his "tender and refined soul;" the
atrocity of it is therefore proportioned to the sensibilities of his own
heart. He proves war a desperately wicked thing by continually vaunting
his own love for small children. Babes—sweet babes—the prattle of
babes—are the subjects of his most pathetic eloquence, and his idea
of music is embodied in the commonplace expression of a Hindu, that the
lute is sweet only to those who have not heard the prattle of their own
children. All this is very amiable in him, and the more so, perhaps,
as these objects of his affection are the young ones of a race in
his opinion miscreated by an evil-working chance. But his
_philoprogenitiveness_ proves nothing against Jew or Gentile, seeing
that all have it in an equal degree, and those feel it most who make the
least parade of it. Certainly it gives him no authority to malign the
God who implanted it alike in the hearts of us all. But I admit that his
benevolence becomes peculiar and ultra when it extends to beasts as well
as babes. He is struck with horror by the sacrificial solemnities of
the Jewish religion. "The killing of those animals was," he says, "a
terrible system," a "shedding of innocent blood," "shocking to a
refined and sensitive soul." There is such a depth of tenderness in this
feeling, and such a splendor of refinement, that I give up without
a struggle to the superiority of a man who merely professes it. A
carnivorous American, full of beef and mutton, who mourns with indignant
sorrow because bulls and goats were killed in Judea three thousand
years ago, has reached the climax of sentimental goodness, and should
be permitted to dictate on all questions of peace and war. Let Grotius,
Vattel, and Pufendorf, as well as Moses and the prophets, hide their
diminished heads.

But to show how inefficacious, for all practical purposes, a mere
sentiment is when substituted for a principle, it is only necessary to
recollect that Mr. Ingersoll is himself a warrior who staid not behind
the mighty men of his tribe when they gathered themselves together for
a war of conquest. He took the lead of a regiment as eager as himself
to spoil the Philistines, "and out he went a-coloneling." How many
Amale-kites, and Hittites, and Amorites he put to the edge of the sword,
how many wives he widowed, or how many mothers he "unbabed" cannot
now be told. I do not even know how many droves of innocent oxen he
condemned to the slaughter.

But it is certain that his refined and tender soul took great pleasure
in the terror, conflagration, blood, and tears with which the war was
attended, and in all the hard oppressions which the conquered people
were made to suffer afterwards. I do not say that the war was either
better or worse for his participation and approval. But if his own
conduct (for which he professes neither penitence nor shame) was right,
it was right on grounds which make it an inexcusable outrage to call the
children of Israel savage criminals for carrying on wars of aggression
to save the life of their government. These inconsistencies are the
necessary consequence of having no rule of action and no guide for the
conscience. When a man throws away the golden metewand of the law which
God has provided, and takes the elastic cord of feeling for his measure
of righteousness, you cannot tell from day to day what he will think or
do.

_Third_. But Jehovah permitted his chosen people to hold the captives
they took in war or purchased from the heathen as servants for life.
This was slavery, and Mr. Ingersoll declares that "in all civilized
countries it is not only admitted, but it is passionately asserted, that
slavery is, and always was, a hideous crime," therefore he concludes that
Jehovah was a criminal. This would be a _non sequitur_, even if the
premises were true. But the premises are false; civilized countries have
admitted no such thing. That slavery is a crime, under all circumstances
and at all times, is a doctrine first started by the adherents of a
political faction in this country, less than forty years ago. They
denounced God and Christ for not agreeing with them, in terms very
similar to those used here by Mr. Ingersoll. But they did not constitute
the civilized world; nor were they, if the truth must be told, a very
respectable portion of it. Politically, they were successful; I need not
say by what means, or with what effect upon the morals of the country.
Doubtless Mr. Ingersoll gets a great advantage by invoking their
passions and their interests to his aid, and he knows how to use it.
I can only say that, whether American Abolitionism was right or wrong
under the circumstances in which we were placed, my faith and my reason
both assure me that the infallible God proceeded upon good grounds when
he authorized slavery in Judea. Subordination of inferiors to superiors
is the groundwork of human society. All improvement of our race, in this
world and the next, must come from obedience to some master better and
wiser than ourselves. There can be no question that, when a Jew took
a neighboring savage for his bond-servant, incorporated him into his
family, tamed him, taught him to work, and gave him a knowledge of the
true God, he conferred upon him a most beneficent boon.

_Fourth_. Polygamy is another of his objections to the Mosaic
constitution. Strange to say, it is not there. It is neither commanded
nor prohibited; it is only discouraged. If Mr. Ingersoll were a
statesman instead of a mere politician, he would see good and sufficient
reasons for the forbearance to legislate directly upon the subject. It
would be improper for me to set them forth here. He knows, probably,
that the influence of the Christian Church alone, and without the aid
of state enactments, has extirpated this bad feature of Asiatic manners
wherever its doctrines were carried. As the Christian faith prevails in
any community, in that proportion precisely marriage is consecrated
to its true purpose, and all intercourse between the sexes refined
and purified. Mr. Ingersoll got his own devotion to the principle of
monogamy—his own respect for the highest type of female character—his
own belief in the virtue of fidelity to one good wife—from the example
and precept of his Christian parents. I speak confidently, because these
are sentiments which do not grow in the heart of the natural man without
being planted. Why, then, does he throw polygamy into the face of the
religion which abhors it? Because he is nothing if not political. The
Mormons believe in polygamy, and the Mormons are unpopular. They are
guilty of having not only many wives but much property, and if a war
could be hissed up against them, its fruits might be more "gaynefull
pilladge than wee doe now conceyve of." It is a cunning maneuver, this,
of strengthening atheism by enlisting anti-Mormon rapacity against the
God of the Christians. I can only protest against the use he would make
of these and other political interests. It is not argument; it is mere
stump oratory.

I think I have repelled all of Mr. Ingersoll's accusations against the
Old Testament that are worth noticing, and I might stop here. But I will
not close upon him without letting him see, at least, some part of the
case on the other side.

I do not enumerate in detail the positive proofs which support the
authenticity of the Hebrew Bible, though they are at hand in great
abundance, because the evidence in support of the new dispensation will
establish the verity of the old—the two being so connected together
that if one is true the other cannot be false.

When Jesus of Nazareth announced himself to be Christ, the Son of God,
in Judea, many thousand persons who heard his words and saw his works
believed in his divinity without hesitation. Since the morning of the
creation, nothing has occurred so wonderful as the rapidity with which
this religion spread itself abroad. Men who were in the noon of life
when Jesus was put to death as a malefactor lived to see him worshiped
as God by organized bodies of believers in every province of the Roman
empire. In a few more years it took complete possession of the general
mind, supplanted all other religions, and wrought a radical change in
human society. It did this in the face of obstacles which, according to
every human calculation, were insurmountable. It was antagonized by all
the evil propensities, the sensual wickedness, and the vulgar crimes of
the multitude, as well as the polished vices of the luxurious classes;
and was most violently opposed even by those sentiments and habits of
thought which were esteemed virtuous, such as patriotism and military
heroism. It encountered not only the ignorance and superstition, but
the learning and philosophy, the poetry, eloquence, and art of the time.
Barbarism and civilization were alike its deadly enemies. The priesthood
of every established religion and the authority of every government were
arrayed against it. All these, combined together and roused to ferocious
hostility, were overcome, not by the enticing words of man's wisdom, but
by the simple presentation of a pure and peaceful doctrine, preached
by obscure strangers at the daily peril of their lives. Is it Mr.
Ingersoll's idea that this happened by chance, like the creation of the
world? If not, there are but two other ways to account for it; either
the evidence by which the Apostles were able to prove the supernatural
origin of the gospel was overwhelming and irresistible, or else its
propagation was provided for and carried on by the direct aid of the
Divine Being himself. Between these two, infidelity may make its own
choice.

Just here another dilemma presents its horns to our adversary. If
Christianity was a human fabrication, its authors must have been either
good men or bad. It is a moral impossibility—a mere contradiction in
terms—to say that good, honest, and true men practised a gross and
willful deception upon the world. It is equally incredible that any
combination of knaves, however base, would fraudulently concoct a
religious system to denounce themselves, and to invoke the curse of God
upon their own conduct. Men that love lies, love not such lies as that.
Is there any way out of this difficulty, except by confessing that
Christianity is what it purports to be—a divine revelation?

The acceptance of Christianity by a large portion of the generation
contemporary with its Founder and his apostles was, under the
circumstances, an adjudication as solemn and authoritative as mortal
intelligence could pronounce. The record of that judgment has come down
to us, accompanied by the depositions of the principal witnesses. In
the course of eighteen centuries many efforts have been made to open
the judgment or set it aside on the ground that the evidence was
insufficient to support it. But on every rehearing the wisdom and virtue
of mankind have re-affirmed it. And now comes Mr. Ingersoll, to try
the experiment of another bold, bitter, and fierce reargument. I will
present some of the considerations which would compel me, if I were
a judge or juror in the cause, to decide it just as it was decided
originally.

_First_. There is no good reason to doubt that the statements of the
evangelists, as we have them now, are genuine. The multiplication of
copies was a sufficient guarantee against any material alteration of the
text. Mr. Ingersoll speaks of interpolations made by the fathers of the
Church. All he knows and all he has ever heard on that subject is
that some of the innumerable transcripts contained errors which were
discovered and corrected. That simply proves the present integrity of
the documents.

_Second_. I call these statements _depositions_, because they are
entitled to that kind of credence which we give to declarations made
under oath—but in a much higher degree, for they are more than sworn
to. They were made in the immediate prospect of death. Perhaps this
would not affect the conscience of an atheist,—neither would an
oath,—but these people manifestly believed in a judgment after death,
before a God of truth, whose displeasure they feared above all things.

_Third_. The witnesses could not have been mistaken. The nature of the
facts precluded the possibility of any delusion about them. For every
averment they had "the sensible and true avouch of their own eyes" and
ears. Besides, they were plain-thinking, sober, unimaginative men, who,
unlike Mr. Ingersoll, always, under all circumstances, and especially
in the presence of eternity, recognized the difference between mountains
and clouds. It is inconceivable how any fact could be proven by evidence
more conclusive than the statement of such persons, publicly given and
steadfastly persisted in through every kind of persecution, imprisonment
and torture to the last agonies of a lingering death.

_Fourth_. Apart from these terrible tests, the more ordinary claims to
credibility are not wanting. They were men of unimpeachable character.
The most virulent enemies of the cause they spoke and died for have
never suggested a reason for doubting their personal honesty. But there
is affirmative proof that they and their fellow-disciples were held by
those who knew them in the highest estimation for truthfulness. Wherever
they made their report it was not only believed, but believed with a
faith so implicit that thousands were ready at once to seal it with
their blood.

_Fifth_. The tone and temper of their narrative impress us with a
sentiment of profound respect. It is an artless, unimpassioned, simple
story. No argument, no rhetoric, no epithets, no praises of friends, no
denunciation of enemies, no attempts at concealment. How strongly these
qualities commend the testimony of a witness to the confidence of judge
and jury is well known to all who have any experience in such matters.

_Sixth_. The statements made by the evangelists are alike upon every
important point, but are different in form and expression, some of
them including details which the others omit. These variations make it
perfectly certain that there could have been no previous concert
between the witnesses, and that each spoke independently of the
others, according to his own conscience and from his own knowledge. In
considering the testimony of several witnesses to the same transaction,
their substantial agreement upon the main facts, with circumstantial
differences in the detail, is always regarded as the great
characteristic of truth and honesty. There is no rule of evidence
more universally adopted than this—none better sustained by general
experience, or more immovably fixed in the good sense of mankind. Mr.
Ingersoll, himself, admits the rule and concedes its soundness. The
logical consequence of that admission is that we are bound to take this
evidence as incontestably true. But mark the infatuated perversity
with which he seeks to evade it. He says that when we claim that the
witnesses were inspired, the rule does not apply, because the witnesses
then speak what is known to him who inspired them, and all must speak
exactly the same, even to the minutest detail. Mr. Ingersoll's notion
of an inspired witness is that he is no witness at all, but an
irresponsible medium who unconsciously and involuntarily raps out
or writes down whatever he is prompted to say. But this is a false
assumption, not countenanced or even suggested by anything contained in
the Scriptures. The apostles and evangelists are expressly declared
to be witnesses, in the proper sense of the word, called and sent to
testify the truth according to their knowledge. If they had all told
the same story in the same way, without variation, and accounted for its
uniformity by declaring that they were inspired, and had spoken without
knowing whether their words were true or false, where would have been
their claim to credibility? But they testified what they knew; and here
comes an infidel critic impugning their testimony because the impress of
truth is stamped upon its face.

_Seventh_. It does not appear that the statements of the evangelists
were ever denied by any person who pretended to know the facts. Many
there were in that age and afterward who resisted the belief that
Jesus was the Christ, the Son of God, and only Saviour of man; but his
wonderful works, the miraculous purity of his life, the unapproachable
loftiness of his doctrines, his trial and condemnation by a judge who
pronounced him innocent, his patient suffering, his death on the
cross, and resurrection from the grave,—of these not the faintest
contradiction was attempted, if we except the false and feeble story
which the elders and chief priests bribed the guard at the tomb to put
in circulation.

_Eighth_. What we call the fundamental truths of Christianity consist
of great public events which are sufficiently established by history
without special proof. The value of mere historical evidence increases
according to the importance of the facts in question, their general
notoriety, and the magnitude of their visible consequences. Cornwallis
surrendered to Washington at Yorktown, and changed the destiny of Europe
and America. Nobody would think of calling a witness or even citing an
official report to prove it. Julius Caesar was assassinated. We do not
need to prove that fact like an ordinary murder. He was master of the
world, and his death was followed by a war with the conspirators, the
battle at Philippi, the quarrel of the victorious triumvirs, Actium, and
the permanent establishment of imperial government under Augustus. The
life and character, the death and resurrection, of Jesus are just as
visibly connected with events which even an infidel must admit to be of
equal importance. The Church rose and armed herself in righteousness for
conflict with the powers of darkness; innumerable multitudes of the best
and wisest rallied to her standard and died in her cause; her enemies
employed the coarse and vulgar machinery of human government against
her, and her professors were brutally murdered in large numbers, her
triumph was complete; the gods of Greece and Rome crumbled on their
altars; the world was revolutionized and human society was transformed.
The course of these events, and a thousand others, which reach down to
the present hour, received its first propulsion from the transcendent
fact of Christ's crucifixion. Moreover, we find the memorial monuments
of the original truth planted all along the way. The sacraments of
baptism and the supper constantly point us back to the author and
finisher of our faith. The mere historical evidence is for these reasons
much stronger than what we have for other occurrences which are regarded
as undeniable. When to this is added the cumulative evidence given
directly and positively by eye-witnesses of irreproachable character,
and wholly uncontradicted, the proof becomes so strong that the
disbelief we hear of seems like a kind of insanity.

> "It is the very error of the moon,
> Which comes more near the earth than she was wont,
> And makes men mad!"

From the facts established by this evidence, it follows irresistibly
that the Gospel has come to us from God. That silences all reasoning
about the wisdom and justice of its doctrines, since it is impossible,
even to imagine that wrong can be done or commanded by that Sovereign
Being whose will alone is the ultimate standard of all justice.

But Mr. Ingersoll is still dissatisfied. He raises objections as false,
fleeting, and baseless as clouds, and insists that they are as stable as
the mountains, whose everlasting foundations are laid by the hand of the
Almighty. I will compress his propositions into plain words printed in
_italics_, and, taking a look at his misty creations, let them roll away
and vanish into air, one after another.

_Christianity offers eternal salvation as the reward of belief alone_.
This is a misrepresentation simple and naked. No such doctrine is
propounded in the Scriptures, or in the creed of any Christian church.
On the contrary, it is distinctly taught that faith avails nothing
without repentance, reformation, and newness of life.

_The mere failure to believe it is punished in hell_. I have never known
any Christian man or woman to assert this. It is universally agreed that
children too young to understand it do not need to believe it. And this
exemption extends to adults who have never seen the evidence, or, from
weakness of intellect, are incapable of weighing it. Lunatics and idiots
are not in the least danger, and for aught I know, this category may, by
a stretch of God's mercy, include minds constitutionally sound, but with
faculties so perverted by education, habit, or passion that they are
incapable of reasoning. I sincerely hope that, upon this or some other
principle, Mr. Ingersoll may escape the hell he talks about so much. But
there is no direct promise to save him in spite of himself. The plan
of redemption contains no express covenant to pardon one who rejects
it with scorn and hatred. Our hope for him rests upon the infinite
compassion of that gracious Being who prayed on the cross for the
insulting enemies who nailed him there.

_The mystery of the second birth is incomprehensible_. Christ
established a new kingdom in the world, but not of it. Subjects were
admitted to the privileges and protection of its government by a process
equivalent to naturalization. To be born again, or regenerated is to be
naturalized. The words all mean the same thing. Does Mr. Ingersoll want
to disgrace his own intellect by pretending that he cannot see this
simple analogy?

_The doctrine of the atonement is absurd, unjust, and immoral_. The
plan of salvation, or any plan for the rescue of sinners from the legal
operation of divine justice, could have been framed only in the councils
of the Omniscient. Necessarily its heights and depths are not easily
fathomed by finite intelligence. But the greatest, ablest, wisest,
and most virtuous men that ever lived have given it their profoundest
consideration, and found it to be not only authorized by revelation,
but theoretically conformed to their best and highest conceptions of
infinite goodness. Nevertheless, here is a rash and superficial man,
without training or habits of reflection, who, upon a mere glance,
declares that it "must be abandoned," because it _seems to him_ "absurd,
unjust, and immoral." I would not abridge his freedom of thought or
speech, and the _argumentum ad verecundiam_ would be lost upon him.
Otherwise I might suggest that, when he finds all authority, human and
divine, against him, he had better speak in a tone less arrogant.

_He does not comprehend how justice and mercy can be blended together in
the plan of redemption, and therefore it cannot be true_. A thing is
not necessarily false because he does not understand it: he cannot
annihilate a principle or a fact by ignoring it. There are many truths
in heaven and earth which no man can see through; for instance, the
union of man's soul with his body, is not only an unknowable but an
unimaginable mystery. Is it therefore false that a connection does exist
between matter and spirit?

_How, he asks, can the sufferings of an innocent person satisfy justice
for the sins of the guilty?_ This raises a metaphysical question, which
it is not necessary or possible for me to discuss here. As matter of
fact, Christ died that sinners might be reconciled to God, and in that
sense he died for them; that is, to furnish them with the means of
averting divine justice, which their crimes had provoked..

_What, he again asks, would we think of a man who allowed another to die
for a crime which he himself had committed?_ I answer that a man who, by
any contrivance, causes his own offence to be visited upon the head of
an innocent person is unspeakably depraved. But are Christians guilty of
this baseness because they accept the blessings of an institution which
their great benefactor died to establish? Loyalty to the King who
has erected a most beneficent government for us at the cost of his
life—fidelity to the Master who bought us with his blood—is not the
fraudulent substitution of an innocent person in place of a criminal.

_The doctrine of non-resistance, forgiveness of injuries, reconciliation
with enemies, as taught in the New Testament, is the child of weakness,
degrading and unjust_. This is the whole substance of a long, rambling
diatribe, as incoherent as a sick man's dream. Christianity does not
forbid the necessary defense of civil society, or the proper vindication
of personal rights. But to cherish animosity, to thirst for mere
revenge, to hoard up wrongs, real or fancied, and lie in wait for the
chance of paying them back; to be impatient, unforgiving, malicious,
and cruel to all who have crossed us—these diabolical propensities
are checked and curbed by the authority and spirit of the Christian
religion, and the application of it has converted men from low savages
into refined and civilized beings.

_The punishment of sinners in eternal hell is excessive_. The future of
the soul is a subject on which we have very dark views. In our present
state, the mind takes no idea except what is conveyed to it through the
bodily senses. All our conceptions of the spiritual world are derived
from some analogy to material things, and this analogy must necessarily
be very remote, because the nature of the subjects compared is so
diverse that a close similarity cannot be even supposed. No revelation
has lifted the veil between time and eternity; but in shadowy figures we
are warned that a very marked distinction will be made between the
good and the bad in the next world. Speculative opinions concerning the
punishment of the wicked, its nature and duration, vary with the temper
and the imaginations of men. Doubtless we are many of us in error; but
how can Mr. Ingersoll enlighten us? Acknowledge ing no standard of
right and wrong in this world, he can have no theory of rewards and
punishments in the next. The deeds done in the body, whether good or
evil, are all morally alike in his eyes, and if there be in heaven a
congregation of the just, he sees no reason why the worst rogue should
not be a member of it. It is supposed, however, that man has a soul as
well as a body, and that both are subject to certain laws, which cannot
be violated without incurring the proper penalty—or consequence, if he
likes that word better.

_If Christ was God, he knew that his followers would persecute and
murder men for their opinions; yet he did not forbid it_. There is
but one way to deal with this accusation, and that is to contradict it
flatly. Nothing can be conceived more striking than the prohibition, not
only of persecution, but of all the passions which lead or incite to
it. No follower of Christ indulges in malice even to his enemy without
violating the plainest rule of his faith. He cannot love God and hate
his brother: if he says he can, St. John pronounces him a liar. The
broadest benevolence, universal philanthropy, inexhaustible charity,
are inculcated in every line of the New Testament. It is plain that
Mr. Ingersoll never read a chapter of it; otherwise he would not have
ventured upon this palpable falsification of its doctrines. Who told him
that the devilish spirit of persecution was authorized, or encouraged,
or not forbidden, by the Gospel? The person, whoever it was, who imposed
upon his trusting ignorance should be given up to the just reprobation
of his fellow-citizens.

_Christians in modern times carry on wars of detraction and slander
against one another_. The discussions of theological subjects by men who
believe in the fundamental doctrines of Christ are singularly free from
harshness and abuse. Of course I cannot speak with absolute certainty,
but I believe most confidently that there is not in all the religious
polemics of this century as much slanderous invective as can be found
in any ten lines of Mr. Ingersoll's writings. Of course I do not include
political preachers among my models of charity and forbearance. They
are a mendacious set, but Christianity is no more responsible for their
misconduct than it is for the treachery of Judas Iscariot or the wrongs
done to Paul by Alexander the coppersmith.

_But, says he, Christians have been guilty of wanton and wicked
Persecution_. It is true that some persons, professing Christianity,
have violated the fundamental principles of their faith by inflicting
violent injuries and bloody wrongs upon their fellow-men. But the
perpetrators of these outrages were in fact not Christians: they were
either hypocrites from the beginning or else base apostates—infidels or
something worse—hireling wolves, whose gospel was their maw. Not one of
them ever pretended to find a warrant for his conduct in any precept
of Christ or any doctrine of his Church. All the wrongs of this nature
which history records have been the work of politicians, aided often by
priests and ministers who were willing to deny their Lord and desert to
the enemy, for the sake of their temporal interests. Take the cases most
commonly cited and see if this be not a true account of them. The
_auto da fe_ of Spain and Portugal, the burnings at Smithfield, and the
whipping of women in Massachusetts, were the outcome of a cruel, false,
and antichristian policy. Coligny and his adherents were killed by
an order of Charles IX., at the instance of the Guises, who headed a
hostile faction, and merely for reasons of state. Louis XIV. revoked the
edict of Nantes, and banished the Waldenses under pain of confiscation
and death; but this was done on the declared ground that the victims
were not safe subjects. The brutal atrocities of Cromwell and the
outrages of the Orange lodges against the Irish Catholics were not
persecutions by religious people, but movements as purely political as
those of the Know-Nothings, Plug-Uglys, and Blood-Tubs of this country.
If the Gospel should be blamed for these acts in opposition to its
principles, why not also charge it with the cruelties of Nero, or the
present persecution of the Jesuits by the infidel republic of France?

_Christianity is opposed to freedom of thought_. The kingdom of Christ
is based upon certain principles, to which it requires the assent of
every one who would enter therein. If you are unwilling to own his
authority and conform your moral conduct to his laws, you cannot
expect that he will admit you to the privileges of his government. But
naturalization is not forced upon you if you prefer to be an alien. The
Gospel makes the strongest and tenderest appeal to the heart, reason,
and conscience of man—entreats him to take thought for his own highest
interest, and by all its moral influence provokes him to good works;
but he is not constrained by any kind of duress to leave the service or
relinquish the wages of sin. Is there anything that savors of tyranny in
this? A man of ordinary judgment will say, no. But Mr. Ingersoll thinks
it as oppressive as the refusal of Jehovah to reward the worship of
demons.

_The gospel of Christ does not satisfy the hunger of the heart_.
That depends upon what kind of a heart it is. If it hungers after
righteousness, it will surely be filled. It is probable, also, that if
it hungers for the filthy food of a godless philosophy it will get what
its appetite demands. That was an expressive phrase which Carlyle used
when he called modern infidelity "the gospel of dirt." Those who are
greedy to swallow it will doubless be supplied satisfactorily.

_Accounts of miracles are always false_. Are miracles impossible? No one
will say so who opens his eyes to the miracles of creation with which
we are surrounded on every hand. You cannot even show that they are
_a priori_ improbable. God would be likely to reveal his will to the
rational creatures who were required to obey it; he would authenticate
in some way the right of prophets and apostles to speak in his name;
supernatural power was the broad seal which he affixed to their
commission. From this it follows that the improbability of a miracle is
no greater than the original improbability of a revelation, and that is
not improbable at all. Therefore, if the miracles of the New Testament
are proved by sufficient evidence, we believe them as we believe any
other established fact. They become deniable only when it is shown that
the great miracle of making the world was never performed. Accordingly
Mr. Ingersoll abolishes creation first, and thus clears the way to his
dogmatic conclusion that _all_ miracles are "the children of mendacity."

_Christianity is pernicious in its moral effect, darkens the mind,
narrows the soul, arrests the progress of human society, and hinders
civilization_. Mr. Ingersoll, as a zealous apostle of "the gospel of
dirt," must be expected to throw a good deal of mud. But this is too
much: it injures himself instead of defiling the object of his assault.
When I answer that all we have of virtue, justice, intellectual liberty,
moral elevation, refinement, benevolence, and true wisdom came to us
from that source which he reviles as the fountain of evil, I am
not merely putting one assertion against the other; for I have
the advantage, which he has not, of speaking what every tolerably
well-informed man knows to be true. Reflect what kind of a world this
was when the disciples of Christ undertook to reform it, and compare it
with the condition in which their teachings have put it. In its mighty
metropolis, the center of its intellectual and political power, the best
men were addicted to vices so debasing that I could not even allude to
them without soiling the paper I write upon. All manner of unprincipled
wickedness was practiced in the private life of the whole population
without concealment or shame, and the magistrates were thoroughly and
universally corrupt. Benevolence in any shape was altogether unknown.
The helpless and the weak got neither justice nor mercy. There was
no relief for the poor, no succor for the sick, no refuge for the
unfortunate. In all pagandom there was not a hospital, asylum,
almshouse, or organized charity of any sort. The indifference to human
life was literally frightful. The order of a successful leader to
assassinate his opponents was always obeyed by his followers with the
utmost alacrity and pleasure. It was a special amusement of the populace
to witness the shows at which men were compelled to kill one another,
to be torn in pieces by wild beasts, or otherwise "butchered, to make a
Roman holiday." In every province paganism enacted the same cold-blooded
cruelties; oppression and robbery ruled supreme; murder went rampaging
and red over all the earth. The Church came, and her light penetrated
this moral darkness like a new sun. She covered the globe with
institutions of mercy, and thousands upon thousands of her disciples
devoted themselves exclusively to works of charity at the sacrifice
of every earthly interest. Her earliest adherents were killed without
remorse—beheaded, crucified, sawn asunder, thrown to the beasts, or
covered with pitch, piled up in great heaps, and slowly burnt to death.
But her faith was made perfect through suffering, and the law of love
rose in triumph from the ashes of her martyrs. This religion has come
down to us through the ages, attended all the way by righteousness,
justice, temperance, mercy, transparent truthfulness, exulting hope,
and white-winged charity. Never was its influence for good more plainly
perceptible than now. It has not converted, purified, and reformed all
men, for its first principle is the freedom of the human will, and there
are those who choose to reject it. But to the mass of mankind, directly
and indirectly, it has brought uncounted benefits and blessings. Abolish
it—take away the restraints which it imposes on evil passions—silence
the admonitions of its preachers—let all Christians cease their
labors of charity—blot out from history the records of its heroic
benevolence—repeal the laws it has enacted and the institutions it has
built up—let its moral principles be abandoned and all its miracles
of light be extinguished—what would we come to? I need not answer this
question: the experiment has been partially tried. The French nation
formally renounced Christianity, denied the existence of the Supreme
Being, and so satisfied the hunger of the infidel heart for a time.
What followed? Universal depravity, garments rolled in blood, fantastic
crimes unimagined before, which startled the earth with their sublime
atrocity. The American people have and ought to have no special desire
to follow that terrible example of guilt and misery.

It is impossible to discuss this subject within the limits of a review.
No doubt the effort to be short has made me obscure. If Mr. Ingersoll
thinks himself wronged, or his doctrines misconstrued, let him not lay
my fault at the door of the Church, or cast his censure on the clergy.

"_Adsum qui feci, in me convertite ferrum_."

J. S. Black.

## The Christian Religion, by Robert G. Ingersoll

III.

"Apart from moral conduct, all that man thinks himself able to do, in
order to become acceptable to God, is mere superstition and religious
folly." Kant.

"Apart from moral conduct, all that man thinks himself able to do, in
order to become acceptable to God, is mere superstition and religious
folly." Kant.

SEVERAL months ago, The North American Review asked me to write an
article, saying that it would be published if some one would furnish a
reply. I wrote the article that appeared in the August number, and by
me it was entitled "Is All of the Bible Inspired?" Not until the
article was written did I know who was expected to answer. I make this
explanation for the purpose of dissipating the impression that Mr. Black
had been challenged by me. To have struck his shield with my lance might
have given birth to the impression that I was somewhat doubtful as to
the correctness of my position. I naturally expected an answer from some
professional theologian, and was surprised to find that a reply had been
written by a "policeman," who imagined that he had answered my arguments
by simply telling me that my statements were false. It is somewhat
unfortunate that in a discussion like this any one should resort to the
slightest personal detraction. The theme is great enough to engage the
highest faculties of the human mind, and in the investigation of such a
subject vituperation is singularly and vulgarly out of place. Arguments
cannot be answered with insults. It is unfortunate that the intellectual
arena should be entered by a "policeman," who has more confidence in
concussion than discussion. Kindness is strength. Good-nature is often
mistaken for virtue, and good health sometimes passes for genius.
Anger blows out the lamp of the mind. In the examination of a great and
important question, every one should be serene, slow-pulsed, and calm.
Intelligence is not the foundation of arrogance. Insolence is not logic.
Epithets are the arguments of malice. Candor is the courage of the soul.
Leaving the objectionable portions of Mr. Black's reply, feeling that so
grand a subject should not be blown and tainted with malicious words, I
proceed to answer as best I may the arguments he has urged.

I am made to say that "the universe is natural"; that "it came into
being of its own accord"; that "it made its own laws at the start, and
afterward improved itself considerably by spontaneous evolution."

I did say that "the universe is natural," but I did not say that "it
came into being of its own accord"; neither did I say that "it made its
own laws and afterward improved itself." The universe, according to my
idea, is, always was, and forever will be. It did not "come into being,"
it is the one eternal being,—the only thing that ever did, does, or can
exist. It did not "make its own laws." We know nothing of what we
call the laws of nature except as we gather the idea of law from the
uniformity of phenomena springing from like conditions. To make myself
clear: Water always runs down-hill. The theist says that this happens
because there is behind the phenomenon an active law. As a matter
of fact, law is this side of the phenomenon. Law does not cause the
phenomenon, but the phenomenon causes the idea of law in our minds; and
this idea is produced from the fact that under like circumstances the
same phenomenon always happens. Mr. Black probably thinks that the
difference in the weight of rocks and clouds was created by law; that
parallel lines fail to unite only because it is illegal that diameter
and circumference could have been so made that it would be a greater
distance across than around a circle; that a straight line could enclose
a triangle if not prevented by law, and that a little legislation could
make it possible for two bodies to occupy the same space at the same
time. It seems to me that law cannot be the cause of phenomena, but is
an effect produced in our minds by their succession and resemblance.
To put a God back of the universe, compels us to admit that there was a
time when nothing existed except this God; that this God had lived from
eternity in an infinite vacuum, and in absolute idleness. The mind of
every thoughtful man is forced to one of these two conclusions:
either that the universe is self-existent, or that it was created by a
self-existent being. To my mind, there are far more difficulties in the
second hypothesis than in the first.

Of course, upon a question like this, nothing can be absolutely known.
We live on an atom called Earth, and what we know of the infinite is
almost infinitely limited; but, little as we know, all have an equal
right to give their honest thought. Life is a shadowy, strange,
and winding road on which we travel for a little way—a few short
steps—-just from the cradle, with its lullaby of love, to the low and
quiet way-side inn, where all at last must sleep, and where the only
salutation is—Good-night.

I know as little as any one else about the "plan" of the universe; and
as to the "design," I know just as little. It will not do to say that
the universe was designed, and therefore there must be a designer. There
must first be proof that it was "designed." It will not do to say that
the universe has a "plan," and then assert that there must have been an
infinite maker. The idea that a design must have a beginning and that a
designer need not, is a simple expression of human ignorance. We find
a watch, and we say: "So curious and wonderful a thing must have had a
maker." We find the watch-maker, and we say: "So curious and wonderful
a thing as man must have had a maker." We find God, and we then say: "He
is so wonderful that he must _not_ have had a maker." In other words,
all things a little wonderful must have been created, but it is possible
for something to be so wonderful that it always existed. One would
suppose that just as the wonder increased the necessity for a creator
increased, because it is the wonder of the thing that suggests the idea
of creation. Is it possible that a designer exists from all eternity
without design? Was there no design in having an infinite designer? For
me, it is hard to see the plan or design in earthquakes and pestilences.
It is somewhat difficult to discern the design or the benevolence in so
making the world that billions of animals live only on the agonies of
others. The justice of God is not visible to me in the history of this
world. When I think of the suffering and death, of the poverty and
crime, of the cruelty and malice, of the heartlessness of this "design"
and "plan," where beak and claw and tooth tear and rend the quivering
flesh of weakness and despair, I cannot convince myself that it is the
result of infinite wisdom, benevolence, and justice.

Most Christians have seen and recognized this difficulty, and have
endeavored to avoid it by giving God an opportunity in another world
to rectify the seeming mistakes of this. Mr. Black, however, avoids the
entire question by saying: "We have neither jurisdiction nor capacity to
rejudge the justice of God." In other words, we have no right to think
upon this subject, no right to examine the questions most vitally
affecting human kind. We are simply to accept the ignorant statements of
barbarian dead. This question cannot be settled by saying that "it would
be a mere waste of time and space to enumerate the proofs which show
that the Universe was created by a preexistent and self-conscious
Being." The time and space should have been "wasted," and the proofs
should have been enumerated. These "proofs" are what the wisest and
greatest are trying to find. Logic is not satisfied with assertion.
It cares nothing for the opinions of the "great,"—nothing for the
prejudices of the many, and least of all for the superstitions of the
dead. In the world of Science, a fact is a legal tender. Assertions and
miracles are base and spurious coins. We have the right to rejudge the
justice even of a god. No one should throw away his reason—the fruit
of all experience. It is the intellectual capital of the soul, the only
light, the only guide, and without it the brain becomes the palace of an
idiot king, attended by a retinue of thieves and hypocrites.

Of course it is admitted that most of the Ten Commandments are wise and
just. In passing, it may be well enough to say, that the commandment,
"Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of
anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or
that is in the water under the earth," was the absolute death of Art,
and that not until after the destruction of Jerusalem was there a Hebrew
painter or sculptor. Surely a commandment is not inspired that drives
from the earth the living canvas and the breathing stone—leaves all
walls bare and all the niches desolate. In the tenth commandment we find
woman placed on an exact equality with other property, which, to say the
least of it, has never tended to the amelioration of her condition.

A very curious thing about these commandments is that their supposed
author violated nearly every one. From Sinai, according to the account,
he said: "Thou shalt not kill," and yet he ordered the murder of
millions; "Thou shalt not commit adultery," and yet he gave captured
maidens to gratify the lust of captors; "Thou shalt not steal," and yet
he gave to Jewish marauders the flocks and herds of others; "Thou shalt
not covet thy neighbor's house, nor his wife," and yet he allowed his
chosen people to destroy the homes of neighbors and to steal their
wives; "Honor thy father and thy mother," and yet this same God had
thousands of fathers butchered, and with the sword of war killed
children yet unborn; "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy
neighbor," and yet he sent abroad "lying spirits" to deceive his own
prophets, and in a hundred ways paid tribute to deceit. So far as we
know, Jehovah kept only one of these commandments—he worshiped no other
god.

The religious intolerance of the Old Testament is justified upon the
ground that "blasphemy was a breach of political allegiance," that
"idolatry was an act of overt treason," and that "to worship the gods
of the hostile heathen was deserting to the public enemy, and giving him
aid and comfort." According to Mr. Black, we should all have liberty of
conscience except when directly governed by God. In that country where
God is king, liberty cannot exist. In this position, I admit that he
is upheld and fortified by the "sacred" text. Within the Old Testament
there is no such thing as religious toleration. Within that volume can
be found no mercy for an unbeliever. For all who think for themselves,
there are threatenings, curses, and anathemas. Think of an infinite
being who is so cruel, so unjust, that he will not allow one of his own
children the liberty of thought! Think of an infinite God acting as the
direct governor of a people, and yet not able to command their love!
Think of the author of all mercy imbruing his hands in the blood of
helpless men, women, and children, simply because he did not furnish
them with intelligence enough to understand his law! An earthly father
who cannot govern by affection is not fit to be a father; what,
then, shall we say of an infinite being who resorts to violence, to
pestilence, to disease, and famine, in the vain effort to obtain even
the respect of a savage? Read this passage, red from the heart of
cruelty:

"_If thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy son, or thy daughter, or
the wife of thy bosom, or thy friend, which is as thine own soul, entice
thee secretly, saying, Let us go and serve other gods which thou hast
not known, thou nor thy fathers,... thou shalt not consent unto him, nor
hearken unto him, neither shalt thine eye pity him, neither shalt thou
spare, neither shalt thou conceal him, but thou shalt surely kill him;
thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to death, and afterwards
the hand of all the people; and thou shalt stone him with stones, that
he die_."

This is the religious liberty of the Bible. If you had lived in
Palestine, and if the wife of your bosom, dearer to you than your
own soul, had said: "I like the religion of India better than that of
Palestine," it would have been your duty to kill her.

"Your eye must not pity her, your hand must be first upon her, and
afterwards the hand of all the people." If she had said: "Let us worship
the sun—the sun that clothes the earth in garments of green—the
sun, the great fireside of the world—the sun that covers the hills and
valleys with flowers—that gave me your face, and made it possible for
me to look into the eyes of my babe—let us worship the sun," it was
your duty to kill her. You must throw the first stone, and when against
her bosom—a bosom filled with love for you—you had thrown the jagged
and cruel rock, and had seen the red stream of her life oozing from
the dumb lips of death, you could then look up and receive the
congratulations of the God whose commandment you had obeyed. Is it
possible that a being of infinite mercy ordered a husband to kill his
wife for the crime of having expressed an opinion on the subject of
religion? Has there been found upon the records of the savage world
anything more perfectly fiendish than this commandment of Jehovah? This
is justified on the ground that "blasphemy was a breach of political
allegiance, and idolatry an act of overt treason." We can understand
how a human king stands in need of the service of his people. We can
understand how the desertion of any of his soldiers weakens his army;
but were the king infinite in power, his strength would still remain the
same, and under no conceivable circumstances could the enemy triumph.

I insist that, if there is an infinitely good and wise God, he beholds
with pity the misfortunes of his children. I insist that such a God
would know the mists, the clouds, the darkness enveloping the human
mind. He would know how few stars are visible in the intellectual sky.
His pity, not his wrath, would be excited by the efforts of his
blind children, groping in the night to find the cause of things, and
endeavoring, through their tears, to see some dawn of hope. Filled with
awe by their surroundings, by fear of the unknown, he would know that
when, kneeling, they poured out their gratitude to some unseen power,
even to a visible idol, it was, in fact, intended for him. An infinitely
good being, had he the power, would answer the reasonable prayer of an
honest savage, even when addressed to wood and stone.

The atrocities of the Old Testament, the threatenings, maledictions, and
curses of the "inspired book," are defended on the ground that the Jews
had a right to treat their enemies as their enemies treated them; and
in this connection is this remarkable statement: "In your treatment
of hostile barbarians you not only may lawfully, you must necessarily,
adopt their mode of warfare. If they come to conquer you, they may be
conquered by you; if they give no quarter, they are entitled to none; if
the death of your whole population be their purpose, you may defeat it
by exterminating theirs."

For a man who is a "Christian policeman," and has taken upon himself to
defend the Christian religion; for one who follows the Master who said
that when smitten on one cheek you must turn the other, and who again
and again enforced the idea that you must overcome evil with good, it is
hardly consistent to declare that a civilized nation must of necessity
adopt the warfare of savages. Is it possible that in fighting, for
instance, the Indians of America, if they scalp our soldiers we should
scalp theirs? If they ravish, murder, and mutilate our wives, must we
treat theirs in the same manner? If they kill the babes in our cradles,
must we brain theirs? If they take our captives, bind them to the trees,
and if their squaws fill their quivering flesh with sharpened fagots and
set them on fire, that they may die clothed with flame, must our wives,
our mothers, and our daughters follow the fiendish example? Is this the
conclusion of the most enlightened Christianity? Will the pulpits of the
United States adopt the arguments of this "policeman"? Is this the last
and most beautiful blossom of the Sermon on the Mount? Is this the echo
of "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do"?

Mr. Black justifies the wars of extermination and conquest because the
American people fought for the integrity of their own country; fought to
do away with the infamous institution of slavery; fought to preserve the
jewels of liberty and justice for themselves and for their children.
Is it possible that his mind is so clouded by political and religious
prejudice, by the recollections of an unfortunate administration,
that he sees no difference between a war of extermination and one of
self-preservation? that he sees no choice between the murder of helpless
age, of weeping women and of sleeping babes, and the defence of liberty
and nationality?

The soldiers of the Republic did not wage a war of extermination. They
did not seek to enslave their fellow-men. They did not murder trembling
age. They did not sheathe their swords in women's breasts. They gave
the old men bread, and let the mothers rock their babes in peace.
They fought to save the world's great hope—to free a race and put the
humblest hut beneath the canopy of liberty and law.

Claiming neither praise nor dispraise for the part taken by me in the
Civil war, for the purposes of this argument, it is sufficient to say
that I am perfectly willing that my record, poor and barren as it is,
should be compared with his.

Never for an instant did I suppose that any respectable American citizen
could be found willing at this day to defend the institution of slavery;
and never was I more astonished than when I found Mr. Black denying that
civilized countries passionately assert that slavery is and always was
a hideous crime. I was amazed when he declared that "the doctrine that
slavery is a crime under all circumstances and at all times was first
started by the adherents of a political faction in this country less
than forty years ago." He tells us that "they denounced God and Christ
for not agreeing with them," but that "they did not constitute the
civilized world; nor were they, if the truth must be told, a very
respectable portion of it. Politically they were successful; I need not
say by what means, or with what effect upon the morals of the country."

Slavery held both branches of Congress, filled the chair of the
Executive, sat upon the Supreme Bench, had in its hands all rewards, all
offices; knelt in the pew, occupied the pulpit, stole human beings in
the name of God, robbed the trundle-bed for love of Christ; incited
mobs, led ignorance, ruled colleges, sat in the chairs of professors,
dominated the public press, closed the lips of free speech, and
polluted with its leprous hand every source and spring of power. The
abolitionists attacked this monster. They were the bravest, grandest
men of their country and their century. Denounced by thieves, hated
by hypocrites, mobbed by cowards, slandered by priests, shunned by
politicians, abhorred by the seekers of office,—these men "of whom the
world was not worthy," in spite of all opposition, in spite of poverty
and want, conquered innumerable obstacles, never faltering for one
moment, never dismayed—accepting defeat with a smile born of infinite
hope—knowing that they were right—insisted and persisted until every
chain was broken, until slave-pens became schoolhouses, and three
millions of slaves became free men, women, and children. They did not
measure with "the golden metewand of God," but with "the elastic cord of
human feeling." They were men the latchets of whose shoes no believer
in human slavery was ever worthy to unloose. And yet we are told by
this modern defender of the slavery of Jehovah that they were not even
respectable; and this slander is justified because the writer is assured
"that the infallible God proceeded upon good grounds when he authorized
slavery in Judea."

Not satisfied with having slavery in this world, Mr. Black assures us
that it will last through all eternity, and that forever and forever
inferiors must be subordinated to superiors. Who is the superior man?
According to Mr. Black, he is superior who lives upon the unpaid labor
of the inferior. With me, the superior man is the one who uses his
superiority in bettering the condition of the inferior. The superior man
is strength for the weak, eyes for the blind, brains for the simple;
he is the one who helps carry the burden that nature has put upon the
inferior. Any man who helps another to gain and retain his liberty is
superior to any infallible God who authorized slavery in Judea. For my
part, I would rather be the slave than the master. It is better to be
robbed than to be a robber. I had rather be stolen from than to be a
thief.

According to Mr. Black, there will be slavery in heaven, and fast by
the throne of God will be the auction-block, and the streets of the New
Jerusalem will be adorned with the whipping post, while the music of
the harp will be supplemented by the crack of the driver's whip. If some
good Republican would catch Mr. Black, "incorporate him into his family,
tame him, teach him to think, and give him a knowledge of the true
principles of human liberty and government, he would confer upon him a
most beneficent boon."

Slavery includes all other crimes. It is the joint product of the
kidnapper, pirate, thief, murderer, and hypocrite. It degrades labor and
corrupts leisure. To lacerate the naked back, to sell wives, to steal
babes, to breed bloodhounds, to debauch your own soul—this is slavery.
This is what Jehovah "authorized in Judea." This is what Mr. Black
believes in still. He "measures with the golden metewand of God." I
abhor slavery. With me, liberty is not merely a means—it is an end.
Without that word, all other words are empty sounds.

Mr. Black is too late with his protest against the freedom of his
fellow-man. Liberty is making the tour of the world. Russia has
emancipated her serfs; the slave trade is prosecuted only by thieves and
pirates; Spain feels upon her cheek the burning blush of shame; Brazil
with proud and happy eyes is looking for the dawn of freedom's day; the
people of the South rejoice that slavery is no more, and every good and
honest man (excepting Mr. Black), of every land and clime, hopes that
the limbs of men will never feel again the weary weight of chains.

We are informed by Mr. Black that polygamy is neither commanded nor
prohibited in the Old Testament—that it is only "discouraged." It seems
to me that a little legislation on that subject might have tended to its
"discouragement." But where is the legislation? In the moral code, which
Mr. Black assures us "consists of certain immutable rules to govern the
conduct of all men at all times and at all places in their private and
personal relations with others," not one word is found on the subject of
polygamy. There is nothing "discouraging" in the Ten Commandments, nor
in the records of any conversation Jehovah is claimed to have had with
Moses upon Sinai. The life of Abraham, the story of Jacob and Laban,
the duty of a brother to be the husband of the widow of his deceased
brother, the life of David, taken in connection with the practice of
one who is claimed to have been the wisest of men—all these things are
probably relied on to show that polygamy was at least "discouraged."
Certainly, Jehovah had time to instruct Moses as to the infamy of
polygamy. He could have spared a few moments from a description of the
patterns of tongs and basins, for a subject so important as this. A
few words in favor of the one wife and the one husband—in favor of the
virtuous and loving home—might have taken the place of instructions
as to cutting the garments of priests and fashioning candlesticks and
ouches of gold. If he had left out simply the order that rams' skins
should be dyed red, and in its place had said, "A man shall have but one
wife, and the wife but one husband," how much better would it have been.

All the languages of the world are not sufficient to express the filth
of polygamy. It makes man a beast, and woman a slave. It destroys the
fireside and makes virtue an outcast. It takes us back to the barbarism
of animals, and leaves the heart a den in which crawl and hiss the slimy
serpents of most loathsome lust. And yet Mr. Black insists that we owe
to the Bible the present elevation of woman. Where will he find in the
Old Testament the rights of wife, and mother, and daughter defined?
Even in the New Testament she is told to "learn in silence, with all
subjection;" that she "is not suffered to teach, nor to usurp any
authority over the man, but to be in silence." She is told that "the
head of every man is Christ, and the head of the woman is man, and the
head of Christ is God." In other words, there is the same difference
between the wife and husband that there is between the husband and
Christ.

The reasons given for this infamous doctrine are that "Adam was first
formed, and then Eve;" that "Adam was not deceived," but that "the woman
being deceived, was in the transgression." These childish reasons are
the only ones given by the inspired writers. We are also told that "a
man, indeed, ought to cover his head, forasmuch as he is the image and
glory of God;" but that "the woman is the glory of the man," and this is
justified from the fact, and the remarkable fact, set forth in the very
next verse—that "the man is not of the woman, but the woman of the
man." And the same gallant apostle says: "Neither was the man created
for the woman, but the woman for the man;" "Wives, submit yourselves
unto your husbands as unto the Lord; for the husband is the head of the
wife, even as Christ is the head of the church, and he is the savior of
the body. Therefore, as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the
wives be subject to their own husbands in everything." These are the
passages that have liberated woman!

According to the Old Testament, woman had to ask pardon, and had to be
purified, for the crime of having borne sons and daughters. If in this
world there is a figure of perfect purity, it is a mother holding in her
thrilled and happy arms her child. The doctrine that woman is the slave,
or serf, of man—whether it comes from heaven or from hell, from God or
a demon, from the golden streets of the New Jerusalem or from the very
Sodom of perdition—is savagery, pure and simple.

In no country in the world had women less liberty than in the Holy Land,
and no monarch held in less esteem the rights of wives and mothers than
Jehovah of the Jews. The position of woman was far better in Egypt than
in Palestine. Before the pyramids were built, the sacred songs of Isis
were sung by women, and women with pure hands had offered sacrifices to
the gods. Before Moses was born, women had sat upon the Egyptian throne.
Upon ancient tombs the husband and wife are represented as seated in
the same chair. In Persia women were priests, and in some of the oldest
civilizations "they were reverenced on earth, and worshiped afterward
as goddesses in heaven." At the advent of Christianity, in all pagan
countries women officiated at the sacred altars. They guarded the
eternal fire. They kept the sacred books. From their lips came the
oracles of fate. Under the domination of the Christian Church, woman
became the merest slave for at least a thousand years. It was claimed
that through woman the race had fallen, and that her loving kiss had
poisoned all the springs of life. Christian priests asserted that but
for her crime the world would have been an Eden still. The ancient
fathers exhausted their eloquence in the denunciation of woman, and
repeated again and again the slander of St. Paul. The condition of woman
has improved just in proportion that man has lost confidence in the
inspiration of the Bible.

For the purpose of defending the character of his infallible God, Mr.
Black is forced to defend religious intolerance, wars of extermination,
human slavery, and _almost_ polygamy. He admits that God established
slavery; that he commanded his chosen people to buy the children of the
heathen; that heathen fathers and mothers did right to sell their girls
and boys; that God ordered the Jews to wage wars of extermination and
conquest; that it was right to kill the old and young; that God forged
manacles for the human brain; that he commanded husbands to murder their
wives for suggesting the worship of the sun or moon; and that every
cruel, savage passage in the Old Testament was inspired by him. Such is
a "policeman's" view of God.

Will Mr. Black have the kindness to state a few of his objections to the
devil?

Mr. Black should have answered my arguments, instead of calling me
"blasphemous" and "scurrilous." In the discussion of these questions
I have nothing to do with the reputation of my opponent. His character
throws no light on the subject, and is to me a matter of perfect
indifference. Neither will it do for one who enters the lists as the
champion of revealed religion to say that "we have no right to rejudge
the justice of God."

Such a statement is a white flag. The warrior eludes the combat when he
cries out that it is a "metaphysical question." He deserts the field and
throws down his arms when he admits that "no revelation has lifted the
veil between time and eternity." Again I ask, why were the Jewish people
as wicked, cruel, and ignorant with a revelation from God, as other
nations were without? Why were the worshipers of false deities as brave,
as kind, and generous as those who knew the only true and living God?

How do you explain the fact that while Jehovah was waging wars of
extermination, establishing slavery, and persecuting for opinion's sake,
heathen philosophers were teaching that all men are brothers, equally
entitled to liberty and life? You insist that Jehovah believed in
slavery and yet punished the Egyptians for enslaving the Jews. Was your
God once an abolitionist? Did he at that time "denounce Christ for not
agreeing with him"? If slavery was a crime in Egypt, was it a virtue
in Palestine? Did God treat the Canaanites better than Pharaoh did
the Jews? Was it right for Jehovah to kill the children of the people
because of Pharaoh's sin? Should the peasant be punished for the king's
crime? Do you not know that the worst thing that can be said of Nero,
Caligula, and Commodus is that they resembled the Jehovah of the Jews?
Will you tell me why God failed to give his Bible to the whole world?
Why did he not give the Scriptures to the Hindu, the Greek, and Roman?
Why did he fail to enlighten the worshipers of "Mammon" and Moloch, of
Belial and Baal, of Bacchus and Venus? After all, was not Bacchus as
good as Jehovah? Is it not better to drink wine than to shed blood?
Was there anything in the worship of Venus worse than giving captured
maidens to satisfy the victor's lust? Did "Mammon" or Moloch do anything
more infamous than to establish slavery? Did they order their soldiers
to kill men, women, and children, and to save alive nothing that had
breath? Do not answer these questions by saying that "no veil has been
lifted between time and eternity," and that "we have no right to rejudge
the justice of God."

If Jehovah was in fact God, he knew the end from the beginning. He knew
that his Bible would be a breastwork behind which tyranny and hypocrisy
would crouch; that it would be quoted by tyrants; that it would be the
defence of robbers, called kings, and of hypocrites called priests. He
knew that he had taught the Jewish people but little of importance. He
knew that he found them free and left them captives. He knew that he
had never fulfilled the promises made to them. He knew that while other
nations had advanced in art and science, his chosen people were savage
still. He promised them the world, and gave them a desert. He promised
them liberty, and he made them slaves. He promised them victory, and he
gave them defeat. He said they should be kings, and he made them
serfs. He promised them universal empire, and gave them exile. When one
finishes the Old Testament, he is compelled to say: Nothing can add to
to the misery of a nation whose king is Jehovah!

And here I take occasion to thank Mr. Black for having admitted that
Jehovah gave no commandment against the practice of polygamy, that he
established slavery, waged wars of extermination, and persecuted for
opinion's sake even unto death. Most theologians endeavor to putty,
patch, and paint the wretched record of inspired crime, but Mr. Black
has been bold enough and honest enough to admit the truth. In this age
of fact and demonstration it is refreshing to find a man who believes
so thoroughly in the monstrous and miraculous, the impossible and
immoral—who still clings lovingly to the legends of the bib and
rattle—who through the bitter experiences of a wicked world has kept
the credulity of the cradle, and finds comfort and joy in thinking about
the Garden of Eden, the subtle serpent, the flood, and Babel's tower,
stopped by the jargon of a thousand tongues—who reads with happy eyes
the story of the burning brimstone storm that fell upon the cities
of the plain, and smilingly explains the transformation of the
retrospective Mrs. Lot—who laughs at Egypt's plagues and Pharaoh's
whelmed and drowning hosts—eats manna with the wandering Jews, warms
himself at the burning bush, sees Korah's company by the hungry earth
devoured, claps his wrinkled hands with glee above the heathens'
butchered babes, and longingly looks back to the patriarchal days of
concubines and slaves. How touching when the learned and wise crawl back
in cribs and ask to hear the rhymes and fables once again! How charming
in these hard and scientific times to see old age in Superstition's lap,
with eager lips upon her withered breast!

Mr. Black comes to the conclusion that the Hebrew Bible is in exact
harmony with the New Testament, and that the two are "connected
together;" and "that if one is true the other cannot be false."

If this is so, then he must admit that if one is false the other
cannot be true; and it hardly seems possible to me that there is a
right-minded, sane man, except Mr. Black, who now believes that a God of
infinite kindness and justice ever commanded one nation to exterminate
another; ever ordered his soldiers to destroy men, women, and babes;
ever established the institution of human slavery; ever regarded the
auction-block as an altar, or a bloodhound as an apostle.

Mr. Black contends (after having answered my indictment against the Old
Testament by admitting the allegations to be true) that the rapidity
with which Christianity spread "proves the supernatural origin of the
Gospel, or that it was propagated by the direct aid of the Divine Being
himself."

Let us see. In his efforts to show that the "infallible God established
slavery in Judea," he takes occasion to say that "the doctrine that
slavery is a crime under all circumstances was first started by the
adherents of a political faction in this, country less than forty years
ago;" that "they denounced God and Christ for not agreeing with them;"
but that "they did not constitute the civilized world; nor were they,
if the truth must be told, a very respectable portion of it." Let it be
remembered that this was only forty years ago; and yet, according to Mr.
Black, a few disreputable men changed the ideas of nearly fifty millions
of people, changed the Constitution of the United States, liberated
a race from slavery, clothed three millions of people with political
rights, took possession of the Government, managed its affairs for more
than twenty years, and have compelled the admiration of the civilized
world. Is it Mr. Black's idea that this happened by chance? If not, then
according to him, there are but two ways to account for it; either the
rapidity with which Republicanism spread proves its supernatural origin,
"or else its propagation was provided for and carried on by the direct
aid of the Divine Being himself." Between these two, Mr. Black may make
his choice. He will at once see that the rapid rise and spread of any
doctrine does not even tend to show that it was divinely revealed.

This argument is applicable to all religions. Mohammedans can use it as
well as Christians. Mohammed was a poor man, a driver of camels. He was
without education, without influence, and without wealth, and yet in a
few years he consolidated thousands of tribes, and made millions of
men confess that there is "one God, and Mohammed is his prophet."
His success was a thousand times greater during his life than that
of Christ. He was not crucified; he was a conqueror. "Of all men, he
exercised the greatest influence upon the human race." Never in the
world's history did a religion spread with the rapidity of his. It burst
like a storm over the fairest portions of the globe. If Mr. Black is
right in his position that rapidity is secured only by the direct aid of
the Divine Being, then Mohammed was most certainly the prophet of God.
As to wars of extermination and slavery, Mohammed agreed with Mr. Black,
and upon polygamy, with Jehovah. As to religious toleration, he was
great enough to say that "men holding to any form of faith might be
saved, provided they were virtuous." In this, he was far in advance both
of Jehovah and Mr. Black.

It will not do to take the ground that the rapid rise and spread of a
religion demonstrates its divine character. Years before Gautama
died, his religion was established, and his disciples were numbered by
millions. His doctrines were not enforced by the sword, but by an
appeal to the hopes, the fears, and the reason of mankind; and more than
one-third of the human race are to-day the followers of Gautama. His
religion has outlived all that existed in his time; and according to Dr.
Draper, "there is no other country in the world except India that
has the religion to-day it had at the birth of Jesus Christ." Gautama
believed in the equality of all men; abhorred the spirit of caste, and
proclaimed justice, mercy, and education for all.

Imagine a Mohammedan answering an infidel; would he not use the
argument of Mr Black, simply substituting Mohammed for Christ, just as
effectually as it has been used against me? There was a time when India
was the foremost nation of the world. Would not your argument, Mr.
Black, have been just as good in the mouth of a Brahmin then, as it is
in yours now? Egypt, the mysterious mother of mankind, with her pyramids
built thirty-four hundred years before Christ, was once the first in
all the earth, and gave to us our Trinity, and our symbol of the cross.
Could not a priest of Isis and Osiris have used your arguments to prove
that his religion was divine, and could he not have closed by saying:
"From the facts established by this evidence it follows irresistibly
that our religion came to us from God"? Do you not see that your
argument proves too much, and that it is equally applicable to all the
religions of the world?

Again, it is urged that "the acceptance of Christianity by a large
portion of the generation contemporary with its founder and his
apostles was, under the circumstances, an adjudication as solemn and
authoritative as mortal intelligence could pronounce." If this is true,
then "the acceptance of Buddhism by a large portion of the generation
contemporary with its founder was an adjudication as solemn and
authoritative as mortal intelligence could pronounce." The same could
be said of Mohammedanism, and, in fact, of every religion that has
ever benefited or cursed this world. This argument, when reduced to its
simplest form, is this: All that succeeds is inspired.

The old argument that if Christianity is a human fabrication its authors
must have been either good men or bad men, takes it for granted that
there are but two classes of persons—the good and the bad. There is at
least one other class—_the mistaken_, and both of the other classes may
belong to this. Thousands of most excellent people have been deceived,
and the history of the world is filled with instances where men have
honestly supposed that they had received communications from angels and
gods.

In thousands of instances these pretended communications contained the
purest and highest thoughts, together with the most important truths;
yet it will not do to say that these accounts are true; neither can they
be proved by saying that the men who claimed to be inspired were good.
What we must say is, that being good men, they were mistaken; and it is
the charitable mantle of a mistake that I throw over Mr. Black, when
I find him defending the institution of slavery. He seems to think it
utterly incredible that any "combination of knaves, however base, would
fraudulently concoct a religious system to denounce themselves, and to
invoke the curse of God upon their own conduct." How did religions
other than Christianity and Judaism arise? Were they all "concocted by
a combination of knaves"? The religion of Gautama is filled with most
beautiful and tender thoughts, with most excellent laws, and hundreds of
sentences urging mankind to deeds of love and self-denial. Was Gautama
inspired?

Does not Mr. Black know that thousands of people charged with witchcraft
actually confessed in open court their guilt? Does he not know that
they admitted that they had spoken face to face with Satan, and had sold
their souls for gold and power? Does he not know that these admissions
were made in the presence and expectation of death? Does he not know
that hundreds of judges, some of them as great as the late lamented
Gibson, believed in the existence of an impossible crime?

We are told that "there is no good reason to doubt that the statements
of the Evangelists, as we have them now, are genuine." The fact is, no
one knows who made the "statements of the Evangelists."

There are three important manuscripts upon which the Christian world
relies. "The first appeared in the catalogue of the Vatican, in 1475.
This contains the Old Testament. Of the New, it contains the four
gospels,—the Acts, the seven Catholic Epistles, nine of the Pauline
Epistles, and the Epistle to the Hebrews, as far as the fourteenth verse
of the ninth chapter,"—and nothing more. This is known as the Codex
Vatican. "The second, the Alexandrine, was presented to King Charles
the First, in 1628. It contains the Old and New Testaments, with
some exceptions; passages are wanting in Matthew, in John, and in II.
Corinthians. It also contains the Epistle of Clemens Romanus, a letter
of Athanasius, and the treatise of Eusebius on the Psalms." The last
is the Sinaitic Codex, discovered about 1850, at the Convent of St.
Catherine's, on Mount Sinai. "It contains the Old and New Testaments,
and in addition the entire Epistle of Barnabas, and a portion of the
Shepherd of Hermas—two books which, up to the beginning of the fourth
century, were looked upon by many as Scripture." In this manuscript,
or codex, the gospel of St. Mark concludes with the eighth verse of the
sixteenth chapter, leaving out the frightful passage: "Go ye into all
the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth
and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be
damned."

In matters of the utmost importance these manuscripts disagree, but even
if they all agreed it would not furnish the slightest evidence of
their truth. It will not do to call the statements made in the gospels
"depositions," until it is absolutely established who made them, and the
circumstances under which they were made. Neither can we say that "they
were made in the immediate prospect of death," until we know who made
them. It is absurd to say that "the witnesses could not have been
mistaken, because the nature of the facts precluded the possibility of
any delusion about them." Can it be pretended that the witnesses could
not have been mistaken about the relation the Holy Ghost is alleged
to have sustained to Jesus Christ? Is there no possibility of delusion
about a circumstance of that kind? Did the writers of the four gospels
have "'the sensible and true avouch of their own eyes' and ears" in
that behalf? How was it possible for any one of the four Evangelists
to know that Christ was the Son of God, or that he was God? His mother
wrote nothing on the subject. Matthew says that an angel of the Lord
told Joseph in a dream, but Joseph never wrote an account of this
wonderful vision. Luke tells us that the angel had a conversation with
Mary, and that Mary told Elizabeth, but Elizabeth never wrote a word.
There is no account of Mary or Joseph or Elizabeth or the angel, having
had any conversation with Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John in which one word
was said about the miraculous origin of Jesus Christ. The persons who
knew did not write, so that the account is nothing but hearsay. Does Mr.
Black pretend that such statements would be admitted as evidence in any
court? But how do we know that the disciples of Christ wrote a word of
the gospels? How did it happen that Christ wrote nothing? How do we know
that the writers of the gospels "were men of unimpeachable character"?

All this is answered by saying "that nothing was said by the most
virulent enemies against the personal honesty of the Evangelists." How
is this known? If Christ performed the miracles recorded in the New
Testament, why would the Jews put to death a man able to raise their
dead? Why should they attempt to kill the Master of Death? How did
it happen that a man who had done so many miracles was so obscure, so
unknown, that one of his disciples had to be bribed to point him out? Is
it not strange that the ones he had cured were not his disciples? Can
we believe, upon the testimony of those about whose character we know
nothing, that Lazarus was raised from the dead? What became of Lazarus?
We never hear of him again. It seems to me that he would have been an
object of great interest. People would have said: "He is the man who was
once dead." Thousands would have inquired of him about the other world;
would have asked him where he was when he received the information that
he was wanted on the earth. His experience would have been vastly
more interesting than everything else in the New Testament. A returned
traveler from the shores of Eternity—one who had walked twice through
the valley of the shadow—would have been the most interesting of human
beings. When he came to die again, people would have said: "He is not
afraid; he has had experience; he knows what death is." But, strangely
enough, this Lazarus fades into obscurity with "the wise men of the
East," and with the dead who came out of their graves on the night of
the crucifixion. How is it known that it was claimed, during the life of
Christ, that he had wrought a miracle? And if the claim was made, how
is it known that it was not denied? Did the Jews believe that Christ was
clothed with miraculous power? Would they have dared to crucify a man
who had the power to clothe the dead with life? Is it not wonderful that
no one at the trial of Christ said one word about the miracles he had
wrought? Nothing about the sick he had healed, nor the dead he had
raised?

Is it not wonderful that Josephus, the best historian the Hebrews
produced, says nothing about the life or death of Christ; nothing about
the massacre of the infants by Herod; not one word about the wonderful
star that visited the sky at the birth of Christ; nothing about the
darkness that fell upon the world for several hours in the midst of day;
and failed entirely to mention that hundreds of graves were opened, and
that multitudes of Jews arose from the dead, and visited the Holy
City? Is it not wonderful that no historian ever mentioned any of these
prodigies? and is it not more amazing than all the rest, that Christ
himself concealed from Matthew, Mark, and Luke the dogma of the
atonement, the necessity of belief, and the mystery of the second birth?

Of course I know that two letters were said to have been written by
Pilate to Tiberius, concerning the execution of Christ, but they have
been shown to be forgeries. I also know that "various letters were
circulated attributed to Jesus Christ," and that one letter is said to
have been written by him to Abgarus, king of Edessa; but as there was
no king of Edessa at that time, this letter is admitted to have been a
forgery. I also admit that a correspondence between Seneca and St. Paul
was forged.

Here in our own country, only a few years ago, men claimed to have found
golden plates upon which was written a revelation from God. They founded
a new religion, and, according to their statement, did many miracles.
They were treated as outcasts, and their leader was murdered. These men
made their "depositions" "in the immediate prospect of death." They were
mobbed, persecuted, derided, and yet they insisted that their prophet
had miraculous power, and that he, too, could swing back the hingeless
door of death. The followers of these men have increased, in these
few years, so that now the murdered prophet has at least two hundred
thousand disciples. It will be hard to find a contradiction of these
pretended miracles, although this is an age filled with papers,
magazines, and books. As a matter of fact, the claims of Joseph Smith
were so preposterous that sensible people did not take the pains to
write and print denials. When we remember that eighteen hundred years
ago there were but few people who could write, and that a manuscript did
not become public in any modern sense, it was possible for the gospels
to have been written with all the foolish claims in reference to
miracles without exciting comment or denial. There is not, in all the
contemporaneous literature of the world, a single word about Christ
or his apostles. The paragraph in Josephus is admitted to be an
interpolation, and the letters, the account of the trial, and several
other documents forged by the zeal of the early fathers, are now
admitted to be false.

Neither will it do to say that "the statements made by the Evangelists
are alike upon every important point." If there is anything of
importance in the New Testament, from the theological standpoint, it is
the ascension of Jesus Christ. If that happened, it was a miracle great
enough to surfeit wonder. Are the statements of the inspired witnesses
alike on this important point? Let us see.

Matthew says nothing upon the subject. Either Matthew was not there, had
never heard of the ascension,—or, having heard of it, did not believe
it, or, having seen it, thought it too unimportant to record. To this
wonder of wonders Mark devotes one verse: "So then, after the Lord
had spoken unto them, he was received up into heaven, and sat on the
right-hand of God." Can we believe that this verse was written by one
who witnessed the ascension of Jesus Christ; by one who watched his
Master slowly rising through the air till distance reft him from his
tearful sight? Luke, another of the witnesses, says: "And it came to
pass, while he blessed them, he was parted from them, and carried
up into heaven." John corroborates Matthew by saying nothing on the
subject. Now, we find that the last chapter of Mark, after the eighth
verse, is an interpolation; so that Mark really says nothing about the
occurrence. Either the ascension of Christ must be given up, or it must
be admitted that the witnesses do not agree, and that three of them
never heard of that most stupendous event.

Again, if anything could have left its "form and pressure" on the
brain, it must have been the last words of Jesus Christ. The last words,
according to Matthew, are: "Go ye, therefore, and teach all nations,
baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have
commanded you: and lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the
world." The last words, according to the inspired witness known as Mark,
are: "And these signs shall follow them that believe: in my name shall
they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take
up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them;
they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover." Luke tells us
that the last words uttered by Christ, with the exception of a blessing,
were: "And behold, I send forth the promise of my Father upon you; but
tarry ye in the city of Jerusalem, until ye be endued with power from
on high." The last words, according to John, were: "Peter, seeing Him,
saith to Jesus: Lord, and what shall this man do? Jesus saith unto him,
If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee? follow thou
me."

An account of the ascension is also given in the Acts of the Apostles;
and the last words of Christ, according to that inspired witness, are:
"But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you;
and ye shall be witnesses unto me, both in Jerusalem and in all Judea,
and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth." In this
account of the ascension we find that two men stood by the disciples in
white apparel, and asked them: "Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing
up into heaven? This same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven,
shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven."
Matthew says nothing of the two men. Mark never saw them. Luke may have
forgotten them when writing his gospel, and John may have regarded them
as optical illusions.

Luke testifies that Christ ascended on the very day of his resurrection.
John deposes that eight days after the resurrection Christ appeared to
the disciples and convinced Thomas. In the Acts we are told that
Christ remained on earth for forty days after his resurrection. These
"depositions" do not agree. Neither do Matthew and Luke agree in their
histories of the infancy of Christ. It is impossible for both to be
true. One of these "witnesses" must have been mistaken.

The most wonderful miracle recorded in the New Testament, as having been
wrought by Christ, is the resurrection of Lazarus. While all the writers
of the gospels, in many instances, record the same wonders and the
same conversations, is it not remarkable that the greatest miracle is
mentioned alone by John?

Two of the witnesses, Matthew and Luke, give the genealogy of Christ.
Matthew says that there were forty-two generations from Abraham to
Christ. Luke insists that there were forty-two from Christ to David,
while Matthew gives the number as twenty-eight. It may be said that
this is an old objection. An objection-remains young until it has been
answered. Is it not wonderful that Luke and Matthew do not agree on a
single name of Christ's ancestors for thirty-seven generations?

There is a difference of opinion among the "witnesses" as to what the
gospel of Christ is. If we take the "depositions" of Matthew, Mark, and
Luke, then the gospel of Christ amounts simply to this: That God will
forgive the forgiving, and that he will be merciful to the merciful.
According to three witnesses, Christ knew nothing of the doctrine of the
atonement; never heard of the second birth; and did not base salvation,
in whole nor in part, on belief. In the "deposition" of John, we find
that we must be born again; that we must believe on the Lord Jesus
Christ; and that an atonement was made for us. If Christ ever said these
things to, or in the hearing of, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, they forgot to
mention them.

To my mind, the failure of the evangelists to agree as tu what is
necessary for man to do in order to insure the salvation of his soul, is
a demonstration that they were not inspired.

Neither do the witnesses agree as to the last words of Christ when he
was crucified. Matthew says that he cried: "My God, my God, why hast
thou forsaken me?" Mark agrees with Matthew. Luke testifies that his
last words were: "Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit." John
states that he cried: "It is finished."

Luke says that Christ said of his murderers: "Father, forgive them; for
they know not what they do." Matthew, Mark, and John do not record these
touching words. John says that Christ, on the day of his resurrection,
said to his disciples: "Whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted
unto them; and whosesoever sins ye retain, they are retained."

The other disciples do not record this monstrous passage. They did not
hear the abdication of God. They were not present when Christ placed
in their hands the keys of heaven and hell, and put a world beneath the
feet of priests.

It is easy to account for the differences and contradictions in these
"depositions" (and there are hundreds of them) by saying that each one
told the story as he remembered it, or as he had heard it, or that the
accounts have been changed, but it will not do to say that the witnesses
were inspired of God. We can account for these contradictions by the
infirmities of human nature; but, as I said before, the infirmities of
human nature cannot be predicated of a divine being.

Again, I ask, why should there be more than one inspired gospel? Of
what use were the other three? There can be only one true account of
anything. All other true accounts must simply be copies of that. And
I ask again, why should there have been more than one inspired
gospel? That which is the test of truth as to ordinary witnesses is a
demonstration against their inspiration. It will not do at this late day
to say that the miracles worked by Christ demonstrated his divine origin
or mission. The wonderful works he did, did not convince the people
with whom he lived. In spite of the miracles, he was crucified. He was
charged with blasphemy. "Policemen" denounced the "scurrility" of his
words, and the absurdity of his doctrines. He was no doubt told that
it was "almost a crime to utter blasphemy in the presence of a Jewish
woman;" and it may be that he was taunted for throwing away "the golden
metewand" of the "infallible God who authorized slavery in Judea," and
taking the "elastic cord of human feeling."

Christians tell us that the citizens of Mecca refused to believe on
Mohammed because he was an impostor, and that the citizens of Jerusalem
refused to believe on Jesus Christ because he was _not_ an impostor.

If Christ had wrought the miracles attributed to him—if he had cured
the maimed, the leprous, and the halt—if he had changed the night of
blindness into blessed day—if he had wrested from the fleshless hand
of avaricious death the stolen jewel of a life, and clothed again with
throbbing flesh the pulseless dust, he would have won the love and
adoration of mankind. If ever there shall stand upon this earth the king
of death, all human knees will touch the ground.

We are further informed that "what we call the fundamental truths of
Christianity consist of great public events which are sufficiently
established by history without special proof."

Of course, we admit that the Roman Empire existed; that Julius Caesar
was assassinated; and we may admit that Rome was founded by Romulus and
Remus; but will some one be kind enough to tell us how the assassination
of Caesar even tends to prove that Romulus and Remus were suckled by
a wolf? We will all admit that, in the sixth century after Christ,
Mohammed was born at Mecca; that his victorious hosts vanquished half
the Christian world; that the crescent triumphed over the cross upon a
thousand fields; that all the Christians of the earth were not able to
rescue from the hands of an impostor the empty grave of Christ. We will
all admit that the Mohammedans cultivated the arts and sciences; that
they gave us our numerals; taught us the higher mathematics; gave us our
first ideas of astronomy, and that "science was thrust into the brain of
Europe on the point of a Moorish lance;" and yet we will not admit that
Mohammed was divinely inspired, nor that he had frequent conversations
with the angel Gabriel, nor that after his death his coffin was
suspended in mid-air.

A little while ago, in the city of Chicago, a gentleman addressed a
number of Sunday-school children. In his address, he stated that some
people were wicked enough to deny the story of the deluge; that he was
a traveler; that he had been to the top of Mount Ararat, and had brought
with him a stone from that sacred locality. The children were then
invited to form in procession and walk by the pulpit, for the purpose of
seeing this wonderful stone. After they had looked at it, the lecturer
said: "Now, children, if you ever hear anybody deny the story of the
deluge, or say that the ark did not rest on Mount Ararat, you can tell
them that you know better, because you have seen with your own eyes a
stone from that very mountain."

The fact that Christ lived in Palestine does not tend to show that he
was in any way related to the Holy Ghost; nor does the existence of the
Christian religion substantiate the ascension of Jesus Christ. We all
admit that Socrates lived in Athens, but we do not admit that he had a
familiar spirit. I am satisfied that John Wesley was an Englishman, but
I hardly believe that God postponed a rain because Mr. Wesley wanted
to preach. All the natural things in the world are not sufficient to
establish the supernatural. Mr. Black reasons in this way: There was a
hydra-headed monster. We know this, because Hercules killed him. There
must have been such a woman as Proserpine, otherwise Pluto could not
have carried her away. Christ must have been divine, because the Holy
Ghost was his father. And there must have been such a being as the Holy
Ghost, because without a father Christ could not have existed. Those who
are disposed to deny everything because a part is false, reason exactly
the other way. They insist that because there was no hydra-headed
monster, Hercules did not exist. The true position, in my judgment, is
that the natural is not to be discarded because found in the company
of the miraculous, neither should the miraculous be believed because
associated with the probable. There was in all probability such a man
as Jesus Christ. He may have lived in Jerusalem. He may have been
crucified, but that he was the Son of God, or that he was raised from
the dead, and ascended bodily to heaven, has never been, and, in the
nature of things, can never be, substantiated.

Apparently tired with his efforts to answer what I really said, Mr.
Black resorted to the expedient of "compressing" my propositions and
putting them in italics. By his system of "compression" he was enabled
to squeeze out what I really said, and substitute a few sentences of his
own. I did not say that "Christianity offers eternal salvation as the
reward of belief alone," but I did say that no salvation is offered
_without_ belief. There must be a difference of opinion in the minds of
Mr. Black's witnesses on this subject. In one place we are told that
a man is "justified by faith without the deeds of the law;" and in
another, "to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth
the ungodly, his faith is counted to him for righteousness;" and the
following passages seem to show the necessity of belief:

"_He that believeth on Him is not condemned; but he that believeth not
is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of
the only begotten Son of God." "He that believeth on the Son hath
everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son, shall not see life;
but the wrath of God abideth on him." "Jesus said unto her, I am the
resurrection and the life; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead,
yet shall he live." "And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me, shall
never die." "For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance."
"For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves;
it is the gift of God." "Not of works, lest any man should boast."
"Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in
him, and he in God." "Whosoever believeth not shall be damned._"

I do not understand that the Christians of to-day insist that simple
belief will secure the salvation of the soul. I believe it is stated in
the Bible that "the very devils believe;" and it would seem from this
that belief is not such a meritorious thing, after all. But Christians
do insist that without belief no man can be saved; that faith is
necessary to salvation, and that there is "none other name under heaven
given among men whereby we can be saved," except that of Christ. My
doctrine is that there is only one way to be saved, and that is to act
in harmony with your surroundings—to live in accordance with the facts
of your being. A Being of infinite wisdom has no right to create a
person destined to everlasting pain. For the honest infidel, according
to the American Evangelical pulpit, there is no heaven. For the upright
atheist, there is nothing in another world but punishment. Mr. Black
admits that lunatics and idiots are in no danger of hell. This being
so, his God should have created only lunatics and idiots. Why should the
fatal gift of brain be given to any human being, if such gift renders
him liable to eternal hell? Better be a lunatic here and an angel there.
Better be an idiot in this world, if you can be a seraph in the next.

As to the doctrine of the atonement, Mr. Black has nothing to offer
except the barren statement that it is believed by the wisest and the
best. A Mohammedan, speaking in Constantinople, will say the same of the
Koran. A Brahmin, in a Hindu temple, will make the same remark, and so
will the American Indian, when he endeavors to enforce something upon
the young of his tribe. He will say: "The best, the greatest of our
tribe have believed in this." This is the argument of the cemetery, the
philosophy of epitaphs, the logic of the coffin. Who are the greatest
and wisest and most virtuous of mankind? This statement, that it has
been believed by the best, is made in connection with an admission that
it cannot be fathomed by the wisest. It is not claimed that a thing is
necessarily false because it is not understood, but I do claim that
it is not necessarily true because it cannot be comprehended. I still
insist that "the plan of redemption," as usually preached, is absurd,
unjust, and immoral.

For nearly two thousand years Judas Iscariot has been execrated by
mankind; and yet, if the doctrine of the atonement is true, upon his
treachery hung the plan of salvation. Suppose Judas had known of this
plan—known that he was selected by Christ for that very purpose, that
Christ was depending on him. And suppose that he also knew that only
by betraying Christ could he save either himself or others; what ought
Judas to have done? Are you willing to rely upon an argument that
justifies the treachery of that wretch?

I insisted upon knowing how the sufferings of an innocent man could
satisfy justice for the sins of the guilty. To this, Mr. Black replies
as follows: "This raises a metaphysical question, which it is not
necessary or possible for me to discuss here." Is this considered an
answer? Is it in this way that "my misty creations are made to roll away
and vanish into air one after another?" Is this the best that can be
done by one of the disciples of the infallible God who butchered babes
in Judea? Is it possible for a "policeman" to "silence a rude disturber"
in this way? To answer an argument, is it only necessary to say that
it "raises a metaphysical question"? Again I say: The life of Christ
is worth its example, its moral force, its heroism of benevolence. And
again I say: The effort to vindicate a law by inflicting punishment on
the innocent is a second violation instead of a vindication.

Mr. Black, under the pretence of "compressing," puts in my mouth the
following: "The doctrine of non-resistance, forgiveness of injuries,
reconciliation with enemies, as taught in the New Testament, is the
child of weakness, degrading and unjust."

This is entirely untrue. What I did say is this: "The idea of
non-resistance never occurred to a man who had the power to protect
himself. This doctrine was the child of weakness, born when resistance
was impossible." I said not one word against the forgiveness of
injuries, not one word against the reconciliation of enemies—not
one word. I believe in the reconciliation of enemies. I believe in a
reasonable forgiveness of injuries. But I do not believe in the doctrine
of non-resistance. Mr. Black proceeds to say that Christianity forbids
us "to cherish animosity, to thirst for mere revenge, to hoard up wrongs
real or fancied, and lie in wait for the chance of paying them back; to
be impatient, unforgiving, malicious, and cruel to all who have crossed
us." And yet the man who thus describes Christianity tells us that it is
not only our right, but our duty, to fight savages as savages fight us;
insists that where a nation tries to exterminate us, we have a right
to exterminate them. This same man, who tells us that "the diabolical
propensities of the human heart are checked and curbed by the spirit of
the Christian religion," and that this religion "has converted men from
low savages into refined and civilized beings," still insists that the
author of the Christian religion established slavery, waged wars of
extermination, abhorred the liberty of thought, and practiced the divine
virtues of retaliation and revenge. If it is our duty to forgive our
enemies, ought not God to forgive his? Is it possible that God will hate
his enemies when he tells us that we must love ours? The enemies of
God cannot injure him, but ours can injure us. If it is the duty of the
injured to forgive, why should the uninjured insist upon having revenge?
Why should a being who destroys nations with pestilence and famine
expect that his children will be loving and forgiving?

Mr. Black insists that without a belief in God there can be no
perception of right and wrong, and that it is impossible for an atheist
to have a conscience. Mr. Black, the Christian, the believer in God,
upholds wars of extermination. I denounce such wars as murder. He
upholds the institution of slavery. I denounce that institution as the
basest of crimes. Yet I am told that I have no knowledge of right and
wrong; that I measure with "the elastic cord of human feeling," while
the believer in slavery and wars of extermination measures with "the
golden metewand of God."

What is right and what is wrong? Everything is right that tends to the
happiness of mankind, and everything is wrong that increases the sum of
human misery. What can increase the happiness of this world more than to
do away with every form of slavery, and with all war? What can increase
the misery of mankind more than to increase wars and put chains
upon more human limbs? What is conscience? If man were incapable of
suffering, if man could not feel pain, the word "conscience" never would
have passed his lips. The man who puts himself in the place of another,
whose imagination has been cultivated to the point of feeling the
agonies suffered by another, is the man of conscience. But a man who
justifies slavery, who justifies a God when he commands the soldier
to rip open the mother and to pierce with the sword of war the child
unborn, is controlled and dominated, not by conscience, but by a cruel
and remorseless superstition.

Consequences determine the quality of an action. If consequences are
good, so is the action. If actions had no consequences, they would be
neither good nor bad. Man did not get his knowledge of the consequences
of actions from God, but from experience and reason. If man can, by
actual experiment, discover the right and wrong of actions, is it not
utterly illogical to declare that they who do not believe in God can
have no standard of right and wrong? Consequences are the standard by
which actions are judged. They are the children that testify as to the
real character of their parents. God or no God, larceny is the enemy of
industry—industry is the mother of prosperity—prosperity is a good,
and therefore larceny is an evil. God or no God, murder is a crime.
There has always been a law against larceny, because the laborer wishes
to enjoy the fruit of his toil. As long as men object to being killed,
murder will be illegal.

According to Mr. Black, the man who does not believe in a supreme being
acknowledges no standard of right and wrong in this world, and therefore
can have no theory of rewards and punishments in the next. Is it
possible that only those who believe in the God who persecuted for
opinion's sake have any standard of right and wrong? Were the greatest
men of all antiquity without this standard? In the eyes of intelligent
men of Greece and Rome, were all deeds, whether good or evil, morally
alike? Is it necessary to believe in the existence of an infinite
intelligence before you can have any standard of right and wrong? Is it
possible that a being cannot be just or virtuous unless he believes in
some being infinitely superior to himself? If this doctrine be true, how
can God be just or virtuous? Does he believe in some being superior to
himself?

It may be said that the Pagans believed in a god, and consequently had
a standard of right and wrong. But the Pagans did not believe in the
"true" God. They knew nothing of Jehovah. Of course it will not do to
believe in the wrong God. In order to know the difference between right
and wrong, you must believe in the right God—in the one who established
slavery. Can this be avoided by saying that a false god is better than
none?

The idea of justice is not the child of superstition—it was not born of
ignorance; neither was it nurtured by the passages in the Old Testament
upholding slavery, wars of extermination, and religious persecution.
Every human being necessarily has a standard of right and wrong; and
where that standard has not been polluted by superstition, man abhors
slavery, regards a war of extermination as murder, and looks upon
religious persecution as a hideous crime. If there is a God, infinite
in power and wisdom, above him, poised in eternal calm, is the figure of
Justice. At the shrine of Justice the infinite God must bow, and in her
impartial scales the actions even of Infinity must be weighed. There
is no world, no star, no heaven, no hell, in which gratitude is not a
virtue and where slavery is not a crime.

According to the logic of this "reply," all good and evil become mixed
and mingled—equally good and equally bad, unless we believe in the
existence of the infallible God who ordered husbands to kill their
wives. We do not know right from wrong now, unless we are convinced
that a being of infinite mercy waged wars of extermination four thousand
years ago. We are incapable even of charity, unless we worship the being
who ordered the husband to kill his wife for differing with him on the
subject of religion.

We know that acts are good or bad only as they effect the actors, and
others. We know that from every good act good consequences flow, and
that from every bad act there are only evil results. Every virtuous deed
is a star in the moral firmament. There is in the moral world, as in
the physical, the absolute and perfect relation of cause and effect. For
this reason, the atonement becomes an impossibility. Others may suffer
by your crime, but their suffering cannot discharge you; it simply
increases your guilt and adds to your burden. For this reason happiness
is not a reward—it is a consequence. Suffering is not a punishment—it
is a result.

It is insisted that Christianity is not opposed to freedom of thought,
but that "it is based on certain principles to which it requires the
assent of all." Is this a candid statement? Are we only required to
give our assent to certain principles in order to be saved? Are the
inspiration of the Bible, the divinity of Christ, the atonement, and the
Trinity, principles? Will it be admitted by the orthodox world that good
deeds are sufficient unto salvation—that a man can get into heaven by
living in accordance with certain principles? This is a most excellent
doctrine, but it is not Christianity. And right here, it may be well
enough to state what I mean by Christianity. The morality of the world
is not distinctively Christian. Zoroaster, Gautama, Mohammed, Confucius,
Christ, and, in fact, all founders of religions, have said to their
disciples: You must not steal; You must not murder; You must not bear
false witness; You must discharge your obligations. Christianity is the
ordinary moral code, _plus_ the miraculous origin of Jesus Christ, his
crucifixion, his resurrection, his ascension, the inspiration of the
Bible, the doctrine of the atonement, and the necessity of belief.
Buddhism is the ordinary moral code, _plus_ the miraculous illumination
of Buddha, the performance of certain ceremonies, a belief in the
transmigration of the soul, and in the final absorption of the human
by the infinite. The religion of Mohammed is the ordinary moral code,
_plus_ the belief that Mohammed was the prophet of God, total abstinence
from the use of intoxicating drinks, a harem for the faithful here and
hereafter, ablutions, prayers, alms, pilgrimages, and fasts.

The morality in Christianity has never opposed the freedom of thought.
It has never put, nor tended to put, a chain on a human mind, nor a
manacle on a human limb; but the doctrines distinctively Christian—the
necessity of believing a certain thing; the idea that eternal punishment
awaited him who failed to believe; the idea that the innocent can suffer
for the guilty—these things have opposed, and for a thousand years
substantially destroyed, the freedom of the human mind. All religions
have, with ceremony, magic, and mystery, deformed, darkened, and
corrupted the soul. Around the sturdy oaks of morality have grown and
clung the parasitic, poisonous vines of the miraculous and monstrous.

I have insisted, and I still insist, that it is impossible for a finite
man to commit a crime deserving infinite punishment; and upon this
subject Mr. Black admits that "no revelation has lifted the veil between
time and eternity;" and, consequently, neither the priest nor the
"policeman" knows anything with certainty regarding another world. He
simply insists that "in shadowy figures we are warned that a very marked
distinction will be made between the good and bad in the next world."
There is "a very marked distinction" in this; but there is this rainbow
on the darkest human cloud: The worst have hope of reform. All I insist
is, if there is another life, the basest soul that finds its way to that
dark or radiant shore will have the everlasting chance of doing right.
Nothing but the most cruel ignorance, the most heartless superstition,
the most ignorant theology, ever imagined that the few days of human
life spent here, surrounded by mists and clouds of darkness, blown over
life's sea by storms and tempests of passion, fixed for all eternity the
condition of the human race. If this doctrine be true, this life is but
a net, in which Jehovah catches souls for hell.

The idea that a certain belief is necessary to salvation unsheathed the
swords and lighted the fagots of persecution. As long as heaven is the
reward of creed instead of deed, just so long will every orthodox church
be a bastile, every member a prisoner, and every priest a turnkey.

In the estimation of good orthodox Christians, I am a criminal, because
I am trying to take from loving mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters,
husbands, wives, and lovers the consolations naturally arising from
a belief in an eternity of grief and pain. I want to tear, break, and
scatter to the winds the God that priests erected in the fields of
innocent pleasure—a God made of sticks, called creeds, and of old
clothes, called myths. I have tried to take from the coffin its horror,
from the cradle its curse, and put out the fires of revenge kindled by
the savages of the past. Is it necessary that heaven should borrow its
light from the glare of hell? Infinite punishment is infinite cruelty,
endless injustice, immortal meanness. To worship an eternal gaoler
hardens, debases, and pollutes the soul. While there is one sad and
breaking heart in the universe, no perfectly good being can be perfectly
happy. Against the heartlessness of this doctrine every grand and
generous soul should enter its solemn protest. I want no part in any
heaven where the saved, the ransomed, and redeemed drown with
merry shouts the cries and sobs of hell—in which happiness forgets
misery—where the tears of the lost increase laughter and deepen the
dimples of joy. The idea of hell was born of ignorance, brutality,
fear, cowardice, and revenge. This idea tends to show that our remote
ancestors were the lowest beasts. Only from dens, lairs, and caves—only
from mouths filled with cruel fangs—only from hearts of fear and
hatred—only from the conscience of hunger and lust—only from the
lowest and most debased, could come this most cruel, heartless, and
absurd of all dogmas.

Our ancestors knew but little of nature. They were too astonished
to investigate. They could not divest themselves of the idea that
everything happened with reference to them; that they caused storms and
earthquakes; that they brought the tempest and the whirlwind; that on
account of something they had done, or omitted to do, the lightning of
vengeance leaped from the darkened sky. They made up their minds that
at least two vast and powerful beings presided over this world; that
one was good and the other bad; that both of these beings wished to get
control of the souls of men; that they were relentless enemies, eternal
foes; that both welcomed recruits and hated deserters; that one offered
rewards in this world, and the other in the next. Man saw cruelty and
mercy in nature, because he imagined that phenomena were produced to
punish or to reward him. It was supposed that God demanded worship; that
he loved to be flattered; that he delighted in sacrifice; that nothing
made him happier than to see ignorant faith upon its knees; that above
all things he hated and despised doubters and heretics, and regarded
investigation as rebellion. Each community felt it a duty to see that
the enemies of God were converted or killed. To allow a heretic to
live in peace was to invite the wrath of God. Every public evil—every
misfortune—was accounted for by something the community had permitted
or done. When epidemics appeared, brought by ignorance and welcomed by
filth, the heretic was brought out and sacrificed to appease the anger
of God. By putting intention behind what man called good, God was
produced. By putting intention behind what man called bad, the Devil was
created. Leave this "intention" out, and gods and devils fade away. If
not a human being existed, the sun would continue to shine, and tempest
now and then would devastate the earth; the rain would fall in pleasant
showers; violets would spread their velvet bosoms to the sun, the
earthquake would devour, birds would sing and daisies bloom and roses
blush, and volcanoes fill the heavens with their lurid glare; the
procession of the seasons would not be broken, and the stars would shine
as serenely as though the world were filled with loving hearts and happy
homes. Do not imagine that the doctrine of eternal revenge belongs
to Christianity alone. Nearly all religions have had this dogma for a
corner-stone. Upon this burning foundation nearly all have built. Over
the abyss of pain rose the glittering dome of pleasure. This world was
regarded as one of trial. Here, a God of infinite wisdom experimented
with man. Between the outstretched paws of the Infinite, the
mouse—man—was allowed to play. Here, man had the opportunity of
hearing priests and kneeling in temples. Here, he could read, and hear
read, the sacred books. Here, he could have the example of the pious and
the counsels of the holy. Here, he could build churches and cathedrals.
Here, he could burn incense, fast, wear hair-cloth, deny himself all the
pleasures of life, confess to priests, construct instruments of torture,
bow before pictures and images, and persecute all who had the courage
to despise superstition, and the goodness to tell their honest thoughts.
After death, if he died out of the church, nothing could be done to make
him better. When he should come into the presence of God, nothing was
left except to damn him. Priests might convert him here, but God could
do nothing there. All of which shows how much more a priest can do for
a soul than its creator. Only here, on the earth, where the devil is
constantly active, only where his agents attack every soul, is there
the slightest hope of moral improvement. Strange! that a world cursed by
God, filled with temptations, and thick with fiends, should be the only
place where man can repent, the only place where reform is possible!

Masters frightened slaves with the threat of hell, and slaves got a
kind of shadowy revenge by whispering back the threat. The imprisoned
imagined a hell for their gaolers; the weak built this place for the
strong; the arrogant for their rivals; the vanquished for their victors;
the priest for the thinker; religion for reason; superstition for
science. All the meanness, all the revenge, all the selfishness, all
the cruelty, all the hatred, all the infamy of which the heart of man is
capable, grew, blossomed, and bore fruit in this one word—Hell. For
the nourishment of this dogma, cruelty was soil, ignorance was rain, and
fear was light.

Why did Mr. Black fail to answer what I said in relation to the doctrine
of inspiration? Did he consider that a "metaphysical question"? Let us
see what inspiration really is. A man looks at the sea, and the sea says
something to him. It makes an impression on his mind. It awakens memory,
and this impression depends upon his experience—upon his intellectual
capacity. Another looks upon the same sea. He has a different brain;
he has a different experience. The sea may speak to him of joy, to the
other of grief and tears. The sea cannot tell the same thing to any two
human beings, because no two human beings have had the same experience.
One may think of wreck and ruin, and another, while listening to the
"multitudinous laughter of the sea," may say: Every drop has visited
all the shores of earth; every one has been frozen in the vast and icy
North, has fallen in snow, has whirled in storms around the mountain
peaks, been kissed to vapor by the sun, worn the seven-hued robe of
light, fallen in pleasant rain, gurgled from springs, and laughed in
brooks while lovers wooed upon the banks. Everything in nature tells a
different story to all eyes that see and to all ears that hear. So, when
we look upon a flower, a painting, a statue, a star, or a violet, the
more we know, the more we have experienced, the more we have thought,
the more we remember, the more the statue, the star, the painting,
the violet has to tell. Nature says to me all that I am capable of
understanding—gives all that I can receive. As with star, or flower,
or sea, so with a book. A thoughtful man reads Shakespeare. What does he
get? All that he has the mind to understand. Let another read him, who
knows nothing of the drama, nothing of the impersonations of passion,
and what does he get? Almost nothing. Shakespeare has a different
story for each reader. He is a world in which each recognizes his
acquaintances. The impression that nature makes upon the mind, the
stories told by sea and star and flower, must be the natural food
of thought. Leaving out for the moment the impressions gained from
ancestors, the hereditary fears and drifts and trends—the natural food
of thought must be the impressions made upon the brain by coming in
contact through the medium of the senses with what we call the outward
world. The brain is natural; its food is natural; the result, thought,
must be natural. Of the supernatural we have no conception. Thought may
be deformed, and the thought of one may be strange to, and denominated
unnatural by, another; but it cannot be supernatural. It may be weak, it
may be insane, but it is not supernatural. Above the natural, man cannot
rise. There can be deformed ideas, as there are deformed persons.
There may be religions monstrous and misshapen, but they were naturally
produced. The world is to each man according to each man. It takes the
world as it really is and that man to make that man's world.

You may ask, And what of all this? I reply, As with everything in
nature, so with the Bible. It has a different story for each reader. Is,
then, the Bible a different book to every human being who reads it? It
is. Can God, through the Bible, make precisely the same revelation to
two persons? He cannot. Why? Because the man who reads is not inspired.
God should inspire readers as well as writers.

You may reply: God knew that his book would be understood differently by
each one, and intended that it should be understood as it is understood
by each. If this is so, then my understanding of the Bible is the
real revelation to me. If this is so, I have no right to take the
understanding of another. I must take the revelation made to me through
my understanding, and by that revelation I must stand. Suppose then,
that I read this Bible honestly, fairly, and when I get through am
compelled to say, "The book is not true." If this is the honest result,
then you are compelled to say, either that God has made no revelation to
me, or that the revelation that it is not true is the revelation made to
me, and by which I am bound. If the book and my brain are both the work
of the same infinite God, whose fault is it that the book and brain do
not agree? Either God should have written a book to fit my brain, or
should have made my brain to fit his book. The inspiration of the Bible
depends on the credulity of him who reads. There was a time when
its geology, its astronomy, its natural history, were thought to be
inspired; that time has passed. There was a time when its morality
satisfied the men who ruled the world of thought; that time has passed.

Mr. Black, continuing his process of compressing my propositions,
attributes to me the following statement: "The gospel of Christ does not
satisfy the hunger of the heart." I did not say this. What I did say
is: "The dogmas of the past no longer reach the level of the highest
thought, nor satisfy the hunger of the heart." In so far as Christ
taught any doctrine in opposition to slavery, in favor of intellectual
liberty, upholding kindness, enforcing the practice of justice and
mercy, I most cheerfully admit that his teachings should be followed.
Such teachings do not need the assistance of miracles. They are not in
the region of the supernatural. They find their evidence in the glad
response of every honest heart that superstition has not touched and
stained. The great question under discussion is, whether the immoral,
absurd, and infamous can be established by the miraculous. It cannot be
too often repeated, that truth scorns the assistance of miracle. That
which actually happens sets in motion innumerable effects, which, in
turn, become causes producing other effects. These are all "witnesses"
whose "depositions" continue. What I insist on is, that a miracle cannot
be established by human testimony. We have known people to be mistaken.
We know that all people will not tell the truth. We have never seen the
dead raised. When people assert that they have, we are forced to weigh
the probabilities, and the probabilities are on the other side. It will
not do to assert that the universe was created, and then say that such
creation was miraculous, and, therefore, all miracles are possible. We
must be sure of our premises. Who knows that the universe was created?
If it was not; if it has existed from eternity; if the present is the
necessary child of all the past, then the miraculous is the impossible.
Throw away all the miracles of the New Testament, and the good teachings
of Christ remain—all that is worth preserving will be there still. Take
from what is now known as Christianity the doctrine of the atonement,
the fearful dogma of eternal punishment, the absurd idea that a certain
belief is necessary to salvation, and with most of the remainder the
good and intelligent will most heartily agree.

Mr. Black attributes to me the following expression: "Christianity is
pernicious in its moral effect, darkens the mind, narrows the soul,
arrests the progress of human society, and hinders civilization." I said
no such thing. Strange, that he is only able to answer what I did
not say. I endeavored to show that the passages in the Old Testament
upholding slavery, polygamy, wars of extermination, and religious
intolerance had filled the world with blood and crime. I admitted
that there are many wise and good things in the Old Testament. I also
insisted that the doctrine of the atonement—that is to say, of moral
bankruptcy—the idea that a certain belief is necessary to salvation,
and the frightful dogma of eternal pain, had narrowed the soul, had
darkened the mind, and had arrested the progress of human society. Like
other religions, Christianity is a mixture of good and evil. The church
has made more orphans than it has fed. It has never built asylums enough
to hold the insane of its own making. It has shed more blood than light.

Mr. Black seems to think that miracles are the most natural things
imaginable, and wonders that anybody should be insane enough to deny the
probability of the impossible. He regards all who doubt the miraculous
origin, the resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ, as afflicted
with some "error of the moon," and declares that their "disbelief seems
like a kind of insanity."

To ask for evidence is not generally regarded as a symptom of a brain
diseased. Delusions, illusions, phantoms, hallucinations, apparitions,
chimeras, and visions are the common property of the religious and the
insane. Persons blessed with sound minds and healthy bodies rely on
facts, not fancies—on demonstrations instead of dreams. It seems to me
that the most orthodox Christians must admit that many of the miracles
recorded in the New Testament are extremely childish. They must see that
the miraculous draught of fishes, changing water into wine, fasting for
forty days, inducing devils to leave an insane man by allowing them to
take possession of swine, walking on the water, and using a fish for a
pocket-book, are all unworthy of an infinite being, and are calculated
to provoke laughter—to feed suspicion and engender doubt.

Mr. Black takes the ground that if a man believes in the creation of the
universe—that being the most stupendous miracle of which the mind can
conceive—he has no right to deny anything. He asserts that God created
the universe; that creation was a miracle; that "God would be likely to
reveal his will to the rational creatures who were required to obey it,"
and that he would authenticate his revelation by giving his prophets and
apostles supernatural power.

After making these assertion, he triumphantly exclaims: "It therefore
follows that the improbability of a miracle is no greater than the
original improbability of a revelation, and that is not improbable at
all."

How does he know that God made the universe? How does he know what God
would be likely to do? How does he know that any revelation was made?
And how did he ascertain that any of the apostles and prophets were
entrusted with supernatural power? It will not do to prove your premises
by assertions, and then claim that your conclusions are correct, because
they agree with your premises.

If "God would be likely to reveal his will to the rational creatures
who were required to obey it," why did he reveal it only to the Jews?
According to Mr. Black, God is the only natural thing in the universe.

We should remember that ignorance is the mother of credulity; that
the early Christians believed everything but the truth, and that
they accepted Paganism, admitted the reality of all the Pagan
miracles—taking the ground that they were all forerunners of their own.
Pagan miracles were never denied by the Christian world until late in
the seventeenth century. Voltaire was the third man of note in Europe
who denied the truth of Greek and Roman mythology. "The early Christians
cited Pagan oracles predicting in detail the sufferings of Christ. They
forged prophecies, and attributed them to the heathen sibyls, and they
were accepted as genuine by the entire church."

St. Irenaeus assures us that all Christians possessed the power of
working miracles; that they prophesied, cast out devils, healed the
sick, and even raised the dead. St. Epiphanius asserts that some rivers
and fountains were annually transmuted into wine, in attestation of the
miracle of Cana, adding that he himself had drunk of these fountains.
St. Augustine declares that one was told in a dream where the bones
of St. Stephen were buried, that the bones were thus discovered, and
brought to Hippo, and that they raised five dead persons to life, and
that in two years seventy miracles were performed with these relics.
Justin Martyr states that God once sent some angels to guard the human
race, that these angels fell in love with the daughters of men, and
became the fathers of innumerable devils.

For hundreds of years, miracles were about the only things that
happened. They were wrought by thousands of Christians, and testified
to by millions. The saints and martyrs, the best and greatest, were the
witnesses and workers of wonders. Even heretics, with the assistance
of the devil, could suspend the "laws of nature." Must we believe
these wonderful accounts because they were written by "good men," by
Christians, "who made their statements in the presence and expectation
of death"? The truth is that these "good men" were mistaken. They
expected the miraculous. They breathed the air of the marvelous. They
fed their minds on prodigies, and their imaginations feasted on effects
without causes. They were incapable of investigating. Doubts were
regarded as "rude disturbers of the congregation." Credulity and
sanctity walked hand in hand. Reason was danger. Belief was safety.
As the philosophy of the ancients was rendered almost worthless by the
credulity of the common people, so the proverbs of Christ, his religion
of forgiveness, his creed of kindness, were lost in the mist of miracle
and the darkness of superstition.

If Mr. Black is right, there were no virtue, justice, intellectual
liberty, moral elevation, refinement, benevolence, or true wisdom,
until Christianity was established. He asserts that when Christ came,
"benevolence, in any shape, was altogether unknown."

He insists that "the infallible God who authorized slavery in Judea"
established a government; that he was the head and king of the Jewish
people; that for this reason heresy was treason. Is it possible that God
established a government in which benevolence was unknown? How did it
happen that he established no asylums for the insane? How do you account
for the fact that your God permitted some of his children to become
insane? Why did Jehovah fail to establish hospitals and schools? Is it
reasonable to believe that a good God would assist his chosen people to
exterminate or enslave his other children? Why would your God people
a world, knowing that it would be destitute of benevolence for four
thousand years? Jehovah should have sent missionaries to the heathen.
He ought to have reformed the inhabitants of Canaan. He should have sent
teachers, not soldiers—missionaries, not murderers. A God should not
exterminate his children; he should reform them.

Mr. Black gives us a terrible picture of the condition of the world at
the coming of Christ; but did the God of Judea treat his own children,
the Gentiles, better than the Pagans treated theirs? When Rome enslaved
mankind—when with her victorious armies she sought to conquer or to
exterminate tribes and nations, she but followed the example of Jehovah.
Is it true that benevolence came with Christ, and that his coming
heralded the birth of pity in the human heart? Does not Mr. Black know
that, thousands of years before Christ was born, there were hospitals
and asylums for orphans in China? Does he not know that in Egypt, before
Moses lived, the insane were treated with kindness and wooed back to
natural thought by music's golden voice? Does he not know that in all
times, and in all countries, there have been great and loving souls who
wrought, and toiled, and suffered, and died that others might enjoy? Is
it possible that he knows nothing of the religion of Buddha—a religion
based upon equality, charity and forgiveness? Does he not know that,
centuries before the birth of the great Peasant of Palestine, another,
upon the plains of India, had taught the doctrine of forgiveness; and
that, contrary to the tyranny of Jehovah, had given birth to the sublime
declaration that all men are by nature free and equal? Does he not know
that a religion of absolute trust in God had been taught thousands of
years before Jerusalem was built—a religion based upon absolute special
providence, carrying its confidence to the extremest edge of human
thought, declaring that every evil is a blessing in disguise, and that
every step taken by mortal man, whether in the rags of poverty or the
royal robes of kings, is the step necessary to be taken by that soul in
order to reach perfection and eternal joy? But how is it possible for
a man who believes in slavery to have the slightest conception of
benevolence, justice or charity? If Mr. Black is right, even Christ
believed and taught that man could buy and sell his fellow-man. Will
the Christians of America admit this? Do they believe that Christ from
heaven's throne mocked when colored mothers, reft of babes, knelt by
empty cradles and besought his aid?

For the man Christ—for the reformer who loved his fellow-men—for the
man who believed in an Infinite Father, who would shield the innocent
and protect the just—for the martyr who expected to be rescued from the
cruel cross, and who at last, finding that his hope was dust, cried out
in the gathering gloom of death: "My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken
me?"—for that great and suffering man, mistaken though he was, I have
the highest admiration and respect. That man did not, as I believe,
claim a miraculous origin; he did not pretend to heal the sick nor raise
the dead. He claimed simply to be a man, and taught his fellow-men
that love is stronger far than hate. His life was written by reverent
ignorance. Loving credulity belittled his career with feats of jugglery
and magic art, and priests, wishing to persecute and slay, put in his
mouth the words of hatred and revenge. The theological Christ is the
impossible union of the human and divine—man with the attributes of
God, and God with the limitations and weaknesses of man.

After giving a terrible description of the Pagan world, Mr. Black says:
"The church came, and her light penetrated the moral darkness like a new
sun; she covered the globe with institutions of mercy."

Is this true? Do we not know that when the Roman empire fell, darkness
settled on the world? Do we not know that this darkness lasted for a
thousand years, and that during all that time the church of Christ held,
with bloody hands, the sword of power? These years were the starless
midnight of our race. Art died, law was forgotten, toleration ceased
to exist, charity fled from the human breast, and justice was unknown.
Kings were tyrants, priests were pitiless, and the poor multitude were
slaves. In the name of Christ, men made instruments of torture, and the
_auto da fe_ took the place of the gladiatorial show. Liberty was in
chains, honesty in dungeons, while Christian superstition ruled mankind.
Christianity compromised with Paganism. The statues of Jupiter were used
to represent Jehovah. Isis and her babe were changed to Mary and the
infant Christ. The Trinity of Egypt became the Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost. The simplicity of the early Christians was lost in heathen rites
and Pagan pomp. The believers in the blessedness of poverty became rich,
avaricious, and grasping, and those who had said, "Sell all, and give to
the poor," became the ruthless gatherers of tithes and taxes. In a
few years the teachings of Jesus were forgotten. The gospels were
interpolated by the designing and ambitious. The church was infinitely
corrupt. Crime was crowned, and virtue scourged. The minds of men were
saturated with superstition. Miracles, apparitions, angels, and devils
had possession of the world. "The nights were filled with incubi and
succubi; devils', clad in wondrous forms, and imps in hideous shapes,
sought to tempt or fright the soldiers of the cross. The maddened
spirits of the air sent hail and storm. Sorcerers wrought sudden death,
and witches worked with spell and charm against the common weal."
In every town the stake arose. Faith carried fagots to the feet of
philosophy. Priests—not "politicians"—fed and fanned the eager flames.
The dungeon was the foundation of the cathedral.

Priests sold charms and relics to their flocks to keep away the wolves
of hell. Thousands of Christians, failing to find protection in the
church, sold their poor souls to Satan for some magic wand. Suspicion
sat in every house, families were divided, wives denounced husbands,
husbands denounced wives, and children their parents. Every calamity
then, as now, increased the power of the church. Pestilence supported
the' pulpit, and famine was the right hand of faith. Christendom was
insane.

Will Mr. Black be kind enough to state at what time "the church covered
the globe with institutions of mercy"? In his reply, he conveys the
impression that these institutions were organized in the first century,
or at least in the morning of Christianity. How many hospitals for the
sick were established by the church during a thousand years? Do we not
know that for hundreds of years the Mohammedans erected more hospitals
and asylums than the Christians? Christendom was filled with racks
and thumbscrews, with stakes and fagots, with chains and dungeons, for
centuries before a hospital was built. Priests despised doctors. Prayer
was medicine. Physicians interfered with the sale of charms and relics.
The church did not cure—it killed. It practiced surgery with the sword.
The early Christians did not build asylums for the insane. They charged
them with witchcraft, and burnt them. They built asylums, not for the
mentally diseased, but for the mentally developed. These asylums were
graves.

All the languages of the world have not words of horror enough to
paint the agonies of man when the church had power. Tiberius, Caligula,
Claudius, Nero, Domitian, and Commodus were not as cruel, false, and
base as many of the Christians Popes. Opposite the names of these
imperial criminals write John the XII., Leo the VIII., Boniface the
VII., Benedict the IX., Innocent the III., and Alexander the VI.

Was it under these pontiffs that the "church penetrated the moral
darkness like a new sun," and covered the globe with institutions of
mercy? Rome was far better when Pagan than when Catholic. It was better
to allow gladiators and criminals to fight than to burn honest men.
The greatest of the Romans denounced the cruelties of the arena. Seneca
condemned the combats even of wild beasts. He was tender enough to say
that "we should have a bond of sympathy for all sentient beings, knowing
that only the depraved and base take pleasure in the sight of blood
and suffering." Aurelius compelled the gladiators to fight with blunted
swords. Roman lawyers declared that all men are by nature free and
equal. Woman, under Pagan rule in Rome, became as free as man. Zeno,
long before the birth of Christ, taught that virtue alone establishes a
difference between men. We know that the Civil Law is the foundation
of our codes. We know that fragments of Greek and Roman art—a few
manuscripts saved from Christian destruction, some inventions and
discoveries of the Moors—were the seeds of modern civilization.
Christianity, for a thousand years, taught memory to forget and reason
to believe. Not one step was taken in advance. Over the manuscripts of
philosophers and poets, priests with their ignorant tongues thrust out,
devoutly scrawled the forgeries of faith. For a thousand years the torch
of progress was extinguished in the blood of Christ, and his disciples,
moved by ignorant zeal, by insane, cruel creeds, destroyed with flame
and sword a hundred millions of their fellow-men. They made this world
a hell. But if cathedrals had been universities—if dungeons of the
Inquisition had been laboratories—if Christians had believed in
character instead of creed—if they had taken from the Bible all the
good and thrown away the wicked and absurd—if domes of temples had been
observatories—if priests had been philosophers—if missionaries had
taught the useful arts—if astrology had been astronomy—if the black
art had been chemistry—if superstition had been science—if religion
had been humanity—it' would have been a heaven filled with love, with
liberty, and joy.

We did not get our freedom from the church. The great truth, that all
men are by nature free, was never told on Sinai's barren crags, nor by
the lonely shores of Galilee.

The Old Testament filled this world with tyranny and crime, and the New
gives us a future filled with pain for nearly all the sons of men. The
Old describes the hell of the past, and the New the hell of the future.
The Old tells us the frightful things that God has done—the New the
cruel things that he will do. These two books give us the sufferings of
the past and future—the injustice, the agony, the tears of both
worlds. If the Bible is true—if Jehovah is God—if the lot of countless
millions is to be eternal pain—better a thousand times that all the
constellations of the shoreless vast were eyeless darkness and eternal
space. Better that all that is should cease to be. Better that all the
seeds and springs of things should fail and wither from great Nature's
realm. Better that causes and effects should lose relation and become
unmeaning phrases and forgotten sounds. Better that every life should
change to breathless death, to voiceless blank, and every world to blind
oblivion and to moveless naught.

Mr. Black justifies all the crimes and horrors, excuses all the tortures
of all the Christian years, by denouncing the cruelties of the French
Revolution. Thinking people will not hasten to admit that an infinitely
good being authorized slavery in Judea, because of the atrocities of the
French Revolution. They will remember the sufferings of the Huguenots.
They will remember the massacre of St. Bartholomew. They will not forget
the countless cruelties of priest and king. They will not forget the
dungeons of the Bastile. They will know that the Revolution was an
effect, and that liberty was not the cause—that atheism was not the
cause. Behind the Revolution they will see altar and throne—sword and
fagot—palace and cathedral—king and priest—master and slave—tyrant
and hypocrite. They will see that the excesses, the cruelties, and
crimes were but the natural fruit of seeds the church had sown. But the
Revolution was not entirely evil. Upon that cloud of war, black with
the myriad miseries of a thousand years, dabbled with blood of king and
queen, of patriot and priest, there was this bow: "Beneath the flag of
France all men are free." In spite of all the blood and crime, in spite
of deeds that seem insanely base, the People placed upon a Nation's brow
these stars:—Liberty, Fraternity, Equality—grander words than ever
issued from Jehovah's lips.

Robert G. Ingersoll.
---
# The Field–Ingersoll Discussion
_Dresden Edition, Volume 6, 1887_
An Open Letter to Robert G. Ingersoll.

Dear Sir: I am glad that I know you, even though some of my brethren
look upon you as a monster because of your unbelief. I shall never
forget the long evening I spent at your house in Washington; and in what
I have to say, however it may fail to convince you, I trust you
will feel that I have not shown myself unworthy of your courtesy or
confidence.

Your conversation, then and at other times, interested me greatly. I
recognized at once the elements of your power over large audiences, in
your wit and dramatic talent—personating characters and imitating tones
of voice and expressions of countenance—and your remarkable use of
language, which even in familiar talk often rose to a high degree of
eloquence. All this was a keen intellectual stimulus. I was, for the
most part, a listener; but as we talked freely of religious matters, I
protested against your unbelief as utterly without reason. Yet there
was no offence given or taken, and we parted, I trust, with a feeling of
mutual respect.

Still further, we found many points of sympathy. I do not hesitate to
say that there are many things in which I agree with you, in which I
love what you love and hate what you hate. A man's hatreds are not the
least important part of him; they are among the best indications of his
character. You love truth, and hate lying and hypocrisy—all the petty
arts and deceits of the world by which men represent themselves to be
other than they are—as well as the pride and arrogance, in which they
assume superiority over their fellow-beings. Above all, you hate every
form of injustice and oppression. Nothing moves your indignation so
much as "man's inhumanity to man," and you mutter "curses, not loud but
deep," on the whole race of tyrants and oppressors, whom you would sweep
from the face of the earth. And yet, you do not hate oppression more
than I; nor love liberty more. Nor will I admit that you have any
stronger desire for that intellectual freedom, to the attainment of
which you look forward as the last and greatest emancipation of mankind.

Nor have you a greater horror of superstition. Indeed, I might say that
you cannot have so great, for the best of all reasons, that you have not
seen so much of it; you have not stood on the banks of the Ganges, and
seen the Hindoos by tens of thousands rushing madly to throw themselves
into the sacred river, even carrying the ashes of their dead to cast
them upon the waters. It seems but yesterday that I was sitting on
the back of an elephant, looking down on this horrible scene of human
degradation. Such superstition overthrows the very foundations of
morality. In place of the natural sense of right and wrong, which is
written in men's consciences and hearts, it introduces an artificial
standard, by which the order of things is totally reversed: right is
made wrong, and wrong is made right. It makes that a virtue which is not
a virtue, and that a crime which is not a crime. Religion consists in a
round of observances that have no relation whatever to natural goodness,
but which rather exclude it by being a substitute for it. Penances
and pilgrimages take the place of justice and mercy, benevolence and
charity. Such a religion, so far from being a purifier, is the greatest
corrupter of morals; so that it is no extravagance to say of the
Hindoos, who are a gentle race, that they might be virtuous and good if
they were not so religious. But this colossal superstition weighs upon
their very existence, crushing out even natural virtue. Such a religion
is an immeasurable curse.

I hope this language is strong enough to satisfy even your own intense
hatred of superstition. You cannot loathe it more than I do. So far we
agree perfectly. But unfortunately you do not limit your crusade to
the religions of Asia, but turn the same style of argument against
the religion of Europe and America, and, indeed, against the religious
belief and worship of every country and clime. In this matter you make
no distinctions: you would sweep them all away; church and cathedral
must go with the temple and the pagoda, as alike manifestations of
human credulity, and proofs of the intellectual feebleness and folly of
mankind. While under the impression of that memorable evening at your
house, I took up some of your public addresses, and experienced a
strange revulsion of feeling. I could hardly believe my eyes as I read,
so inexpressibly was I shocked. Things which I held sacred you not only
rejected with unbelief, but sneered at with contempt. Your words were
full of a bitterness so unlike anything I had heard from your lips, that
I could not reconcile the two, till I reflected that in Robert Ingersoll
(as in the most of us) there were two men, who were not only distinct,
but contrary the one to the other—the one gentle and sweet-tempered;
the other delighting in war as his native element. Between the two, I
have a decided preference for the former. I have no dispute with the
quiet and peaceable gentleman, whose kindly spirit makes sunshine in his
home; but it is _that other man_ over yonder, who comes forth into
the arena like a gladiator, defiant and belligerent, that rouses my
antagonism. And yet I do not intend to _stand up_ even against him; but
if he will only _sit down_ and listen patiently, and answer in those
soft tones of voice which he knows so well how to use, we can have a
quiet talk, which will certainly do him no harm, while it relieves my
troubled mind.

What then is the basis of this religion which you despise? At the
foundation of every form of religious faith and worship, is the idea of
God. Here you take your stand; you do not believe in God. Of course you
do not deny absolutely the existence of a Creative Power: for that would
be to assume a knowledge which no human being can possess. How small is
the distance that we can see before us! The candle of our intelligence
throws its beams but a little way, beyond which the circle of light
is compassed by universal darkness. Upon this no one insists more than
yourself. I have heard you discourse upon the insignificance of man in
a way to put many preachers to shame. I remember your illustration from
the myriads of creatures that live on plants, from which you picked out,
to represent human insignificance, an insect too small to be seen by the
naked eye, whose world was a leaf, and whose life lasted but a single
day! Surely a creature that can only be seen with a microscope, cannot
_know_ that a Creator does not exist!

This, I must do you the justice to say, you do not affirm. All that you
can say is, that if there be no knowledge on one side, neither is there
on the other; that it is only a matter of probability; and that, judging
from such evidence as appeals to your senses and your understanding,
you do not _believe_ that there is a God. Whether this be a reasonable
conclusion or not, it is at least an intelligible state of mind.

Now I am not going to argue against what the Catholics call "invincible
ignorance"—an incapacity on account of temperament—for I hold that the
belief in God, like the belief in all spiritual things, comes to some
minds by a kind of intuition. There are natures so finely strung that
they are sensitive to influences which do not touch others. You may say
that it is mere poetical rhapsody when Shelley writes:

> "The awful shadow of some unseen power,
> Floats, though unseen, among us."

But there are natures which are not at all poetical or dreamy, only most
simple and pure, which, in moments of spiritual exaltation, are almost
_conscious_ of a Presence that is not of this world. But this, which is
a matter of experience, will have no weight with those who do not have
that experience. For the present, therefore, I would not be swayed one
particle by mere sentiment, but look at the question in the cold light
of reason alone.

The idea of God is, indeed, the grandest and most awful that can be
entertained by the human mind. Its very greatness overpowers us, so that
it seems impossible that such a Being should exist. But if it is hard
to conceive of Infinity, it is still harder to get any intelligible
explanation of the present order of things without admitting the
existence of an intelligent Creator and Upholder of all. Galileo, when
he swept the sky with his telescope, traced the finger of God in every
movement of the heavenly bodies. Napoleon, when the French savants on
the voyage to Egypt argued that there was no God, disdained any other
answer than to point upward to the stars and ask, "Who made all these?"
This is the first question, and it is the last. The farther we go, the
more we are forced to one conclusion. No man ever studied nature with a
more simple desire to know the truth than Agassiz, and yet the more he
explored, the more he was startled as he found himself constantly face
to face with the evidences of mind.

Do you say this is "a great mystery," meaning that it is something that
we do not know anything about? Of course, it is "a mystery." But do
you think to escape mystery by denying the Divine existence? You only
exchange one mystery for another. The first of all mysteries is, not
that God exists, but that _we_ exist. Here we are. How did we come here?
We go back to our ancestors; but that does not take away the difficulty;
it only removes it farther off. Once begin to climb the stairway of past
generations, and you will find that it is a Jacob's ladder, on which
you mount higher and higher until you step into the very presence of the
Almighty.

But even if we know that there is a God, what can we know of His
character? You say, "God is whatever we conceive Him to be." We frame
an image of Deity out of our consciousness—it is simply a reflection of
our own personality, cast upon the sky like the image seen in the Alps
in certain states of the atmosphere—and then fall down and worship that
which we have created, not indeed with our hands, but out of our minds.
This may be true to some extent of the gods of mythology, but not of the
God of Nature, who is as inflexible as Nature itself. You might as well
say that the laws of nature are whatever we imagine them to be. But we
do not go far before we find that, instead of being pliant to our will,
they are rigid and inexorable, and we dash ourselves against them to our
own destruction. So God does not bend to human thought any more than to
human will. The more we study Him the more we find that He is _not_ what
we imagined him to be; that He is far greater than any image of Him that
we could frame.

But, after all, you rejoin that the conception of a Supreme Being is
merely an abstract idea, of no practical importance, with no bearing
upon human life. I answer, it is of immeasurable importance. Let go the
idea of God, and you have let go the highest moral restraint. There is
no Ruler above man; he is a law unto himself—a law which is as impotent
to produce order, and to hold society together, as man is with his
little hands to hold the stars in their courses.

I know how you reason against the Divine existence from the moral
disorder of the world. The argument is one that takes strong hold of the
imagination, and may be used with tremendous effect. You set forth in
colors none too strong the injustice that prevails in the relations of
men to one another—the inequalities of society; the haughtiness of the
rich and the misery of the poor; you draw lurid pictures of the vice
and crime which run riot in the great capitals which are the centres of
civilization; and when you have wound up your audience to the highest
pitch, you ask, "How can it be that there is a just God in heaven, who
looks down upon the earth and sees all this horrible confusion, and yet
does not lift His hand to avenge the innocent or punish the guilty?"
To this I will make but one answer: Does it convince yourself? I do not
mean to imply that you are conscious of insincerity. But an orator is
sometimes carried away by his own eloquence, and states things more
strongly than he would in his cooler moments. So I venture to ask: With
all your tendency to skepticism, do you really believe that there is
no moral government of the world—no Power behind nature "making for
righteousness?" Are there no retributions in history? When Lincoln
stood on the field of Gettysburg, so lately drenched with blood,
and, reviewing the carnage of that terrible day, accepted it as the
punishment of our national sins, was it a mere theatrical flourish in
him to lift his hand to heaven, and exclaim, "Just and true are Thy
ways, Lord God Almighty!"

Having settled it to your own satisfaction that there is no God, you
proceed in the same easy way to dispose of that other belief which lies
at the foundation of all religion—the immortality of the soul. With an
air of modesty and diffidence that would carry an audience by storm, you
confess your ignorance of what, perhaps, others are better acquainted
with, when you say, "This world is all that _I_ know anything about, _so
far as I recollect_." This is very wittily put, and some may suppose
it contains an argument; but do you really mean to say that you do not
_know_ anything except what you "recollect," or what you have seen with
your eyes? Perhaps you never saw your grandparents; but have you any
more doubt of their existence than of that of your father and mother
whom you did see?

Here, as when you speak of the existence of God, you carefully avoid
any positive affirmation: you neither affirm nor deny. You are ready
for whatever may "turn up." In your jaunty style, if you find yourself
hereafter in some new and unexpected situation, you will accept it and
make the best of it, and be "as ready as the next man to enter on any
remunerative occupation!"

But while airing this pleasant fancy, you plainly regard the hope of
another life as a beggar's dream—the momentary illusion of one who,
stumbling along life's highway, sets him down by the roadside, footsore
and weary, cold and hungry, and falls asleep, and dreams of a time when
he shall have riches and plenty. Poor creature! let him dream; it helps
him to forget his misery, and may give him a little courage for his
rude awaking to the hard reality of life. But it is all a dream, which
dissolves in thin air, and floats away and disappears. This illustration
I do not take from you, but simply choose to set forth what (as I infer
from the sentences above quoted and many like expressions) may describe,
not unfairly, your state of mind. Your treatment of the subject is one
of trifling. You do not speak of it in a serious way, but lightly and
flippantly, as if it were all a matter of fancy and conjecture, and not
worthy of sober consideration.

Now, does it never occur to you that there is something very cruel in
this treatment of the belief of your fellow-creatures, on whose hope
of another life hangs all that relieves the darkness of their present
existence? To many of them life is a burden to carry, and they need all
the helps to carry it that can be found in reason, in philosophy, or in
religion. But what support does your hollow creed supply? You are a man
of warm heart, of the tenderest sympathies. Those who know you best, and
love you most, tell me that you cannot bear the sight of suffering
even in animals; that your natural sensibility is such that you find no
pleasure in sports, in hunting or fishing; to shoot a robin would make
you feel like a murderer. If you see a poor man in trouble your first
impulse is to help him. You cannot see a child in tears but you want to
take up the little fellow in your arms, and make him smile again.
And yet, with all your sensibility, you hold the most remorseless and
pitiless creed in the world—a creed in which there is not a gleam of
mercy or of hope. A mother has lost her only son. She goes to his grave
and throws herself upon it, the very picture of woe. One thought only
keeps her from despair: it is that beyond this life there is a world
where she may once more clasp her boy in her arms. What will you say to
that mother? You are silent, and your silence is a sentence of death to
her hopes. By that grave you cannot speak; for if you were to open your
lips and tell that mother what you really believe, it would be that her
son is blotted out of existence, and that she can never look upon his
face again. Thus with your iron heel do you trample down and crush the
last hope of a broken heart.

When such sorrow comes to you, you feel it as keenly as any man. With
your strong domestic attachments one cannot pass out of your little
circle without leaving a great void in your heart, and your grief is as
eloquent as it is hopeless. No sadder words ever fell from human lips
than these, spoken over the coffin of one to whom you were tenderly
attached: "Life is but a narrow vale, between the cold and barren peaks
of two eternities!" This is a doom of annihilation, which strikes a
chill to the stoutest heart. Even you must envy the faith which, as
it looks upward, sees those "peaks of two eternities," not "cold and
barren," but warm with the glow of the setting sun, which gives promise
of a happier to-morrow!

I think I hear you say, "So might it be! Would that I could believe
it!" for no one recognizes more the emptiness of life as it is. I do not
forget the tone in which you said: "Life is very sad to me; it is very
pitiful; there isn't much to it." True indeed! With your belief, or want
of belief, there is very little to it; and if this were all, it would be
a fair question whether life were worth living. In the name of humanity,
let us cling to all that is left us that can bring a ray of hope into
its darkness, and thus lighten its otherwise impenetrable gloom.

I observe that you not unfrequently entertain yourself and your
audiences by caricaturing certain doctrines of the Christian religion.
The "Atonement," as you look upon it, is simply "punishing the wrong
man"—letting the guilty escape and putting the innocent to death. This
is vindicating justice by permitting injustice. But is there not another
side to this? Does not the idea of sacrifice run through human life,
and ennoble human character? You see a mother denying herself for her
children, foregoing every comfort, enduring every hardship, till at
last, worn out by her labor and her privation, she folds her hands upon
her breast. May it not be said truly that she gives her life for the
life of her children? History is full of sacrifice, and it is the best
part of history. I will not speak of "the noble army of martyrs," but
of heroes who have died for their country or for liberty—what is it but
this element of devotion for the good of others that gives such glory
to their immortal names? How then should it be thought a thing without
reason that a Deliverer of the race should give His life for the life of
the world?

So, too, you find a subject for caricature in the doctrine of
"Regeneration." But what is regeneration but a change of character
shown in a change of life? Is that so very absurd? Have you never seen a
drunkard reformed? Have you never seen a man of impure life, who, after
running his evil course, had, like the prodigal, "come to himself"—that
is, awakened to his shame, and turning from it, come back to the path
of purity, and finally regained a true and noble manhood? Probably you
would admit this, but say that the change was the result of reflection,
and of the man's own strength of will. The doctrine of regeneration only
adds to the will of man the power of God. We believe that man is weak,
but that God is mighty; and that when man tries to raise himself, an arm
is stretched out to lift him up to a height which he could not attain
alone. Sometimes one who has led the worst life, after being plunged
into such remorse and despair that he feels as if he were enduring the
agonies of hell, turns back and takes another course: he becomes "a new
creature," whom his friends can hardly recognize as he "sits clothed and
in his right mind." The change is from darkness to light, from death
to life; and he who has known but one such case will never say that the
language is too strong which describes that man as "born again."

If you think that I pass lightly over these doctrines, not bringing out
all the meaning which they bear, I admit it. I am not writing an essay
in theology, but would only show, in passing, by your favorite method of
illustration, that the principles involved are the same with which you
are familiar in everyday life.

But the doctrine which excites your bitterest animosity is that of
Future Retribution. The prospect of another life, reaching on into an
unknown futurity, you would contemplate with composure were it not for
the dark shadow hanging over it. But to live only to suffer; to live
when asking to die; to "long for death, and not be able to find it"—is
a prospect which arouses the anger of one who would look with calmness
upon death as an eternal sleep. The doctrine loses none of its terrors
in passing through your hands; for it is one of the means by which
you work upon the feelings of your hearers. You pronounce it "the most
horrible belief that ever entered the human mind: that the Creator
should bring beings into existence to destroy them! This would make
Him the most fearful tyrant in the universe—a Moloch devouring his
own children!" I shudder when I recall the fierce energy with which
you spoke as you said, "Such a God I hate with all the intensity of my
being!"

But gently, gently, Sir! We will let this burst of fury pass before we
resume the conversation. When you are a little more tranquil, I would
modestly suggest that perhaps you are fighting a figment of your
imagination. I never heard of any Christian teacher who said that "the
Creator brought beings into the world to destroy them!" Is it not better
to moderate yourself to exact statements, especially when, with all
modifications, the subject is one to awaken a feeling the most solemn
and profound?

Now I am not going to enter into a discussion of this doctrine. I will
not quote a single text. I only ask you whether it is not a scientific
truth that _the effect of everything which is of the nature of a cause
is eternal_. Science has opened our eyes to some very strange facts
in nature. The theory of vibrations is carried by the physicists to an
alarming extent. They tell us that it is literally and mathematically
true that you cannot throw a ball in the air but it shakes the solar
system. Thus all things act upon all. What is true in space may be true
in time, and the law of physics may hold in the spiritual realm.
When the soul of man departs out of the body, being released from the
grossness of the flesh, it may enter on a life a thousand times more
intense than this: in which it will not need the dull senses as avenues
of knowledge, because the spirit itself will be all eye, all ear, all
intelligence; while memory, like an electric flash, will in an instant
bring the whole of the past into view; and the moral sense will be
quickened as never before. Here then we have all the conditions of
retribution—a world which, however shadowy it may be seem, is yet as
real as the homes and habitations and activities of our present state;
with memory trailing the deeds of a lifetime behind it, and conscience,
more inexorable than any judge, giving its solemn and final verdict.

With such conditions assumed, let us take a case which would awaken your
just indignation—that of a selfish, hardhearted, and cruel man; who
sacrifices the interests of everybody to his own; who grinds the faces
of the poor, robbing the widow and the orphan of their little all; and
who, so far from making restitution, dies with his ill-gotten gains held
fast in his clenched hand. How long must the night be to sleep away the
memory of such a hideous life? If he wakes, will not the recollection
cling to him still? Are there any waters of oblivion that can cleanse
his miserable soul? If not—if he cannot forget—surely he cannot
forgive himself for the baseness which now he has no opportunity to
repair. Here, then, is a retribution which is inseparable from his
being, which is a part of his very existence. The undying memory brings
the undying pain.

Take another case—alas! too sadly frequent. A man of pleasure betrays
a young, innocent, trusting woman by the promise of his love, and then
casts her off, leaving her to sink down, down, through every degree
of misery and shame, till she is lost in depths, which plummet never
sounded, and disappears. Is he not to suffer for this poor creature's
ruin? Can he rid himself of it by fleeing beyond "that bourne from
whence no traveler returns"? Not unless he can flee from himself: for
in the lowest depths of the under-world—a world in which the sun never
shines—that image will still pursue him. As he wanders in its gloomy
shades a pale form glides by him like an affrighted ghost. The face is
the same, beautiful even in its sorrow, but with a look upon it as of
one who has already suffered an eternity of woe. In an instant all the
past comes back again. He sees the young, unblessed mother wandering in
some lonely place, that only the heavens may witness her agony and her
despair. There he sees her holding up in her arms the babe that had no
right to be born, and calling upon God to judge her betrayer. How far
in the future must he travel to forget that look? Is there any escape
except by plunging into the gulf of annihilation?

Thus far in this paper I have taken a tone of defence. But I do not
admit that the Christian religion needs any apology,—it needs only to
be rightly understood to furnish its own complete vindication. Instead
of considering its "evidences," which is but going round the outer
walls, let us enter the gates of the temple and see what is within. Here
we find something better than "towers and bulwarks" in the character of
Him who is the Founder of our Religion, and not its Founder only but its
very core and being. Christ is Christianity. Not only is He the Great
Teacher, but the central subject of what He taught, so that the whole
stands or falls with Him.

In our first conversation, I observed that, with all your sharp
comments on things sacred, you professed great respect for the ethics
of Christianity, and for its author. "Make the Sermon on the Mount your
religion," you said, "and there I am with you." Very well! So far, so
good. And now, if you will go a little further, you may find still more
food for reflection.

All who have made a study of the character and teachings of Christ, even
those who utterly deny the supernatural, stand in awe and wonder before
the gigantic figure which is here revealed. Renan closes his "Life of
Jesus" with this as the result of his long study: "Jesus will never
be surpassed. His worship will be renewed without ceasing; his
story [legende] will draw tears from beautiful eyes without end; his
sufferings will touch the finest natures; all the ages will proclaim

THAT AMONG THE SONS OF MEN THERE HAS NOT RISEN A GREATER THAN JESUS;"

while Rousseau closes his immortal eulogy by saying, "Socrates died like
a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!"

Here is an argument for Christianity to which I pray you to address
yourself. As you do not believe in miracles, and are ready to explain
everything by natural causes, I beg you to tell us how came it to pass
that a Hebrew peasant, born among the hills of Judea, had a wisdom above
that of Socrates or Plato, of Confucius or Buddha? This is the greatest
of miracles, that such a Being has lived and died on the earth.

Since this is the chief argument for Religion, does it not become
one who undertakes to destroy it to set himself first to this central
position, instead of wasting his time on mere outposts? When you next
address one of the great audiences that hang upon your words, is it
unfair to ask that you lay aside such familiar topics as Miracles or
Ghosts, or a reply to Talmage, and tell us what you think of Jesus
Christ; whether you look upon Him as an impostor, or merely as a
dreamer—a mild and harmless enthusiast; or are you ready to acknowledge
that He is entitled to rank among the great teachers of mankind?

But if you are compelled to admit the greatness of Christ, you take your
revenge on the Apostles, whom you do not hesitate to say that you "don't
think much of." In fact, you set them down in a most peremptory way
as "a poor lot." It did seem rather an unpromising "lot," that of
a boat-load of fishermen, from which to choose the apostles of a
religion—almost as unpromising as it was to take a rail-splitter to be
the head of a nation in the greatest crisis of its history! But perhaps
in both cases there was a wisdom higher than ours, that chose better
than we. It might puzzle even you to give a better definition of
religion than this of the Apostle James: "Pure religion and undefiled
before God and the Father is this: to visit the fatherless and widows
in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world," or
to find among those sages of antiquity, with whose writings you are
familiar, a more complete and perfect delineation of that which is
the essence of all goodness and virtue, than Paul's description of the
charity which "suffereth long and is kind;" or to find in the sayings of
Confucius or of Buddha anything more sublime than this aphorism of John:
"God is love, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in
him."

And here you must allow me to make a remark, which is not intended as a
personal retort, but simply in the interest of that truth which we both
profess to seek, and to count worth more than victory. Your language is
too sweeping to indicate the careful thinker, who measures his words
and weighs them in a balance. Your lectures remind me of the pictures of
Gustave Dore, who preferred to paint on a large canvas, with figures as
gigantesque as those of Michael Angelo in his Last Judgment. The effect
is very powerful, but if he had softened his colors a little,—if there
were a few delicate touches, a mingling of light and shade, as when
twilight is stealing over the earth,—the landscape would be more true
to nature. So, believe me, your words would be more weighty if they were
not so strong. But whenever you touch upon religion you seem to lose
control of yourself, and a vindictive feeling takes possession of
you, which causes you to see things so distorted from their natural
appearance that you cannot help running into the broadest caricature.
You swing your sentences as the woodman swings his axe. Of course, this
"slashing" style is very effective before a popular audience, which does
not care for nice distinctions, or for evidence that has to be sifted
and weighed; but wants opinions off hand, and likes to have its
prejudices and hatreds echoed back in a ringing voice. This carries
the crowd, but does not convince the philosophic mind. The truth-seeker
cannot cut a road through the forest with sturdy blows; he has a hidden
path to trace, and must pick his way with slow and cautious step to find
that which is more precious than gold.

But if it were possible for you to sweep away the "evidences of
Christianity," you have not swept away Christianity itself; it still
lives, not only in tradition, but in the hearts of the people, entwined
with all that is sweetest in their domestic life, from which it must
be torn out with unsparing hand before it can be exterminated. To
begin with, you turn your back upon history. All that men have done and
suffered for the sake of religion was folly. The Pilgrims, who crossed
the sea to find freedom to worship God in the forests of the New World,
were miserable fanatics. There is no more place in the world for heroes
and martyrs. He who sacrifices his life for a faith, or an idea, is
a fool. The only practical wisdom is to have a sharp eye to the main
chance. If you keep on in this work of demolition, you will soon destroy
all our ideals. Family life withers under the cold sneer—half pity and
half scorn—with which you look down on household worship. Take from
our American firesides such scenes as that pictured in the _Cotter's
Saturday Night_, and you have taken from them their most sacred hours
and their tenderest memories.

The same destructive spirit which intrudes into our domestic as well as
our religious life, would take away the beauty of our villages as well
as the sweetness of our homes. In the weary round of a week of toil,
there comes an interval of rest; the laborer lays down his burden, and
for a few hours breathes a serener air. The Sabbath morning has come:

> "Sweet day I so cool, so calm, so bright,
> The bridal of the earth and sky."

At the appointed hour the bell rings across the valley, and sends its
echoes among the hills; and from all the roads the people come trooping
to the village church. Here they gather, old and young, rich and poor;
and as they join in the same act of worship, feel that God is the maker
of them all? Is there in our national life any influence more elevating
than this—one which tends more to bring a community together; to
promote neighborly feeling; to refine the manners of the people; to
breed true courtesy, and all that makes a Christian village different
from a cluster of Indian wigwams—a civilized community different from a
tribe of savages?

All this you would destroy: you would abolish the Sabbath, or have it
turned into a holiday; you would tear down the old church, so full of
tender associations of the living and the dead, or at least have it
"razeed," cutting off the tall spire that points upward to heaven;
and the interior you would turn into an Assembly room—a place of
entertainment, where the young people could have their merry-makings,
except perchance in the warm' Summer-time, when they could dance on the
village green! So far you would have gained your object. But would that
be a more orderly community, more refined or more truly happy?

You may think this a mere sentiment—that we care more for the
picturesque than for the true. But there is one result which is
fearfully real: the destructive creed, or no creed, which despoils
our churches and our homes, attacks society in its first principles
by taking away the support of morality. I do not believe that general
morality can be upheld without the sanctions of religion. There may
be individuals of great natural force of character, who can stand
alone—men of superior intellect and strong will. But in general human
nature is weak, and virtue is not the spontaneous growth of childish
innocence. Men do not become pure and good by instinct. Character, like
mind, has to be developed by education; and it needs all the elements
of strength which can be given it, from without as well as from within,
from the government of man and the government of God. To let go of these
restraints is a peril to public morality.

You feel strong in the strength of a robust manhood, well poised in body
and mind, and in the centre of a happy home, where loving hearts cling
to you like vines round the oak. But many to whom you speak are quite
otherwise. You address thousands of young men who have come out of
country homes, where they have been brought up in the fear of God, and
have heard the morning and evening prayer. They come into a city full of
temptations, but are restrained from evil by the thought of father and
mother, and reverence for Him who is the Father of us all—a feeling
which, though it may not have taken the form of any profession, is yet
at the bottom of their hearts, and keeps them from many a wrong and
wayward step. A young man, who is thus "guarded and defended" as by
unseen angels, some evening when he feels very lonely, is invited
to "go and hear Ingersoll," and for a couple of hours listens to your
caricatures of religion, with descriptions of the prayers and the
psalm-singing, illustrated by devout grimaces and nasal tones, which
set the house in roars of laughter, and are received with tumultuous
applause. When it is all over, and the young man finds himself again
under the flaring lamps of the city streets, he is conscious of a
change; the faith of his childhood has been rudely torn from him, and
with it "a glory has passed away from the earth;" the Bible which his
mother gave him, the morning that he came away, is "a mass of fables;"
the sentence which she wished him to hang on the wall, "Thou, God, seest
me," has lost its power, for there is no God that sees him, no moral
government, no law and no retribution. So he reasons as he walks
slowly homeward, meeting the temptations which haunt these streets at
night—temptations from which he has hitherto turned with a shudder, but
which he now meets with a diminished power of resistance. Have you done
that young man any good in taking from him what he held sacred before?
Have you not left him morally weakened? From sneering at religion, it
is but a step to sneering at morality, and then but one step more to a
vicious and profligate career. How are you going to stop this downward
tendency? When you have stripped him of former restraints, do you
leave him anything in their stead, except indeed a sense of honor,
self-respect, and self-interest?—worthy motives, no doubt, but all
too feeble to withstand the fearful temptations that assail him. Is the
chance of his resistance as good as it was before? Watch him as he goes
along that street at midnight! He passes by the places of evil resort,
of drinking and gambling—those open mouths of hell; he hears the sound
of music and dancing, and for the first time pauses to listen. How long
will it be before he will venture in?

With such dangers in his path, it is a grave responsibility to loosen
the restraints which hold such a young man to virtue. These gibes
and sneers which you utter so lightly, may have a sad echo in a lost
character and a wretched life. Many a young man has been thus taunted
until he has pushed off from the shore, under the idea of gaining his
"liberty," and ventured into the rapids, only to be carried down the
stream, and left a wreck in the whirlpool below.

You tell me that your object is to drive fear out of the world. That
is a noble ambition; if you succeed, you will be indeed a deliverer. Of
course you mean only irrational fears. You would not have men throw
off the fear of violating the laws of nature; for that would lead to
incalculable misery. You aim only at the terrors born of ignorance and
superstition. But how are you going to get rid of these? You trust to
the progress of science, which has dispelled so many fears arising from
physical phenomena, by showing that calamities ascribed to spiritual
agencies are explained by natural causes. But science can only go a
certain way, beyond which we come into the sphere of the unknown, where
all is dark as before. How can you relieve the fears of others—indeed
how can you rid yourself of fear, believing as you do that there is no
Power above which can help you in any extremity; that you are the sport
of accident, and may be dashed in pieces by the blind agency of nature?
If I believed this, I should feel that I was in the grasp of some
terrible machinery which was crushing me to atoms, with no possibility
of escape.

Not so does Religion leave man here on the earth, helpless and
hopeless—in abject terror, as he is in utter darkness as to
his fate—but opening the heaven above him, it discovers a Great
Intelligence, compassing all things, seeing the end from the beginning,
and ordering our little lives so that even the trials that we bear, as
they call out the finer elements of character, conduce to our future
happiness. God is our Father. We look up into His face with childlike
confidence, and find that "His service is perfect freedom." "Love casts
out fear." That, I beg to assure you, is the way, and the only way,
by which man can be delivered from those fears by which he is all his
lifetime subject to bondage.

In your attacks upon Religion you do violence to your own manliness.
Knowing you as I do, I feel sure that you do not realize where your
blows fall, or whom they wound, or you would not use your weapons so
freely. The faiths of men are as sacred as the most delicate manly or
womanly sentiments of love and honor. They are dear as the beloved
faces that have passed from our sight. I should think myself wanting in
respect to the memory of my father and mother if I could speak lightly
of the faith in which they lived and died. Surely this must be mere
thoughtlessness, for I cannot believe that you find pleasure in giving
pain. I have not forgotten the gentle hand that was laid upon your
shoulder, and the gentle voice which said, "Uncle Robert wouldn't hurt
a fly." And yet you bruise the tenderest sensibilities, and trample down
what is most cherished by millions of sisters and daughters and mothers,
little heeding that you are sporting with "human creatures' lives."

You are waging a hopeless war—a war in which you are certain only of
defeat. The Christian Religion began to be nearly two thousand years
before you and I were born, and it will live two thousand years after we
are dead. Why is it that it lives on and on, while nations and kingdoms
perish? Is not this "the survival of the fittest?" Contend against
it with all your wit and eloquence, you will fail, as all have failed
before you. You cannot fight against the instincts of humanity. It is as
natural for men to look up to a Higher Power as it is to look up to the
stars. Tell them that there is no God! You might as well tell them that
there is no Sun in heaven, even while on that central light and heat all
life on earth depends.

I do not presume to, think that I have convinced you, or changed your
opinion; but it is always right to appeal to a man's "sober second
thought"—to that better judgment that comes with increasing knowledge
and advancing years; and I will not give up hope that you will yet see
things more clearly, and recognize the mistake you have made in not
distinguishing Religion from Superstition—two things as far apart as
"the hither from the utmost pole." Superstition is the greatest enemy
of Religion. It is the nightmare of the mind, filling it with all
imaginable terrors—a black cloud which broods over half the world.
Against this you may well invoke the light of science to scatter its
darkness. Whoever helps to sweep it away, is a benefactor of his race.
But when this is done, and the moral atmosphere is made pure and sweet,
then you as well as we may be conscious of a new Presence coming into
the hushed and vacant air, as Religion, daughter of the skies, descends
to earth to bring peace and good will to men.

Henry M. Field.

## A Reply to the Rev. Henry M. Field, D.d

> "Doubt is called the beacon of the wise."

My Dear Mr. Field:

I answer your letter because it is manly, candid and generous. It is not
often that a minister of the gospel of universal benevolence speaks of
an unbeliever except in terms of reproach, contempt and hatred. The meek
are often malicious. The statement in your letter, that some of your
brethren look upon me as a monster on account of my unbelief, tends
to show that those who love God are not always the friends of their
fellow-men.

Is it not strange that people who admit that they ought to be eternally
damned, that they are by nature totally depraved, and that there is no
soundness or health in them, can be so arrogantly egotistic as to look
upon others as "monsters"? And yet "some of your brethren," who regard
unbelievers as infamous, rely for salvation entirely on the goodness of
another, and expect to receive as alms an eternity of joy.

The first question that arises between us, is as to the innocence of
honest error—as to the right to express an honest thought.

You must know that perfectly honest men differ on many important
subjects. Some believe in free trade, others are the advocates of
protection. There are honest Democrats and sincere Republicans. How do
you account for these differences? Educated men, presidents of colleges,
cannot agree upon questions capable of solution—questions that the mind
can grasp, concerning which the evidence is open to all and where the
facts can be with accuracy ascertained. How do you explain this? If
such differences can exist consistently with the good faith of those
who differ, can you not conceive of honest people entertaining different
views on subjects about which nothing can be positively known?

You do not regard me as a monster. "Some of your brethren" do. How do
you account for this difference? Of course, your brethren—their hearts
having been softened by the Presbyterian God—are governed by charity
and love. They do not regard me as a monster because I have committed
an infamous crime, but simply for the reason that I have expressed my
honest thoughts.

What should I have done? I have read the Bible with great care, and
the conclusion has forced itself upon my mind not only that it is
not inspired, but that it is not true. Was it my duty to speak or act
contrary to this conclusion? Was it my duty to remain silent? If I had
been untrue to myself, if I had joined the majority,—if I had declared
the book to be the inspired word of God,—would your brethren still have
regarded me as a monster? Has religion had control of the world so long
that an honest man seems monstrous?

According to your creed—according to your Bible—the same Being who
made the mind of man, who fashioned every brain, and sowed within
those wondrous fields the seeds of every thought and deed, inspired the
Bible's every word, and gave it as a guide to all the world. Surely the
book should satisfy the brain. And yet, there are millions who do not
believe in the inspiration of the Scriptures. Some of the greatest and
best have held the claim of inspiration in contempt. No Presbyterian
ever stood higher in the realm of thought than Humboldt. He was familiar
with Nature from sands to stars, and gave his thoughts, his discoveries
and conclusions, "more precious than the tested gold," to all mankind.
Yet he not only rejected the religion of your brethren, but denied
the existence of their God. Certainly, Charles Darwin was one of the
greatest and purest of men,—as free from prejudice as the mariner's
compass,—desiring only to find amid the mists and clouds of ignorance
the star of truth. No man ever exerted a greater influence on the
intellectual world. His discoveries, carried to their legitimate
conclusion, destroy the creeds and sacred Scriptures of mankind. In the
light of "Natural Selection," "The Survival of the Fittest," and "The
Origin of Species," even the Christian religion becomes a gross and
cruel superstition. Yet Darwin was an honest, thoughtful, brave and
generous man.

Compare, I beg of you, these men, Humboldt and Darwin, with the founders
of the Presbyterian Church. Read the life of Spinoza, the loving
pantheist, and then that of John Calvin, and tell me, candidly, which,
in your opinion, was a "monster." Even your brethren do not claim that
men are to be eternally punished for having been mistaken as to the
truths of geology, astronomy, or mathematics. A man may deny the
rotundity and rotation of the earth, laugh at the attraction of
gravitation, scout the nebular hypothesis, and hold the multiplication
table in abhorrence, and yet join at last the angelic choir. I insist
upon the same freedom of thought in all departments of human knowledge.
Reason is the supreme and final test.

If God has made a revelation to man, it must have been addressed to his
reason. There is no other faculty that could even decipher the address.
I admit that reason is a small and feeble flame, a flickering torch by
stumblers carried in the starless night,—blown and flared by passion's
storm,—and yet it is the only light. Extinguish that, and nought
remains.

You draw a distinction between what you are pleased to call
"superstition" and religion. You are shocked at the Hindoo mother when
she gives her child to death at the supposed command of her God. What
do you think of Abraham, of Jephthah? What is your opinion of Jehovah
himself? Is not the sacrifice of a child to a phantom as horrible in
Palestine as in India? Why should a God demand a sacrifice from man? Why
should the infinite ask anything from the finite? Should the sun beg
of the glow-worm, and should the momentary spark excite the envy of the
source of light?

You must remember that the Hindoo mother believes that her child will be
forever blest—that it will become the especial care of the God to whom
it has been given. This is a sacrifice through a false belief on the
part of the mother. She breaks her heart for the love of her babe. But
what do you think of the Christian mother who expects to be happy in
heaven, with her child a convict in the eternal prison—a prison in
which none die, and from which none escape? What do you say of those
Christians who believe that they, in heaven, will be so filled with
ecstasy that all the loved of earth will be forgotten—that all the
sacred relations of life, and all the passions of the heart, will fade
and die, so that they will look with stony, un-replying, happy eyes upon
the miseries of the lost?

You have laid down a rule by which superstition can be distinguished
from religion. It is this: "It makes that a crime which is not a crime,
and that a virtue which is not a virtue." Let us test your religion by
this rule.

Is it a crime to investigate, to think, to reason, to observe? Is it
a crime to be governed by that which to you is evidence, and is it
infamous to express your honest thought? There is also another question:
Is credulity a virtue? Is the open mouth of ignorant wonder the only
entrance to Paradise?

According to your creed, those who believe are to be saved, and those
who do not believe are to be eternally lost. When you condemn men to
everlasting pain for unbelief—that is to say, for acting in accordance
with that which is evidence to them—do you not make that a crime which
is not a crime? And when you reward men with an eternity of joy for
simply believing that which happens to be in accord with their minds, do
you not make that a virtue which is not a virtue? In other words, do
you not bring your own religion exactly within your own definition of
superstition?

The truth is, that no one can justly be held responsible for his
thoughts. The brain thinks without asking our consent. We believe, or we
disbelieve, without an effort of the will. Belief is a result. It is the
effect of evidence upon the mind. The scales turn in spite of him who
watches. There is no opportunity of being honest or dishonest in the
formation of an opinion. The conclusion is entirely independent of
desire. We must believe, or we must doubt, in spite of what we wish.

That which must be, has the right to be.

We think in spite of ourselves. The brain thinks as the heart beats,
as the eyes see, as the blood pursues its course in the old accustomed
ways.

The question then is, not have we the right to think,—that being a
necessity,—but have we the right to express our honest thoughts? You
certainly have the right to express yours, and you have exercised that
right. Some of your brethren, who regard me as a monster, have expressed
theirs. The question now is, have I the right to express mine? In other
words, have I the right to answer your letter? To make that a crime in
me which is a virtue in you, certainly comes within your definition
of superstition. To exercise a right yourself which you deny to me is
simply the act of a tyrant. Where did you get your right to express your
honest thoughts? When, and where, and how did I lose mine?

You would not burn, you would not even imprison me, because I differ
with you on a subject about which neither of us knows anything. To you
the savagery of the Inquisition is only a proof of the depravity of man.
You are far better than your creed. You believe that even the Christian
world is outgrowing the frightful feeling that fagot, and dungeon, and
thumb-screw are legitimate arguments, calculated to convince those upon
whom they are used, that the religion of those who use them was
founded by a God of infinite compassion. You will admit that he who now
persecutes for opinion's sake is infamous. And yet, the God you worship
will, according to your creed, torture through all the endless years
the man who entertains an honest doubt. A belief in such a God is the
foundation and cause of all religious persecution. You may reply that
only the belief in a false God causes believers to be inhuman. But you
must admit that the Jews believed in the true God, and you are forced
to say that they were so malicious, so cruel, so savage, that they
crucified the only Sinless Being who ever lived. This crime was
Committed, not in spite of their religion, but in accordance with it.
They simply obeyed the command of Jehovah. And the followers of this
Sinless Being, who, for all these centuries, have denounced the cruelty
of the Jews for crucifying a man on account of his opinion, have
destroyed millions and millions of their fellow-men for differing with
them. And this same Sinless Being threatens to torture in eternal fire
countless myriads for the same offence. Beyond this, inconsistency
cannot go. At this point absurdity becomes infinite.

Your creed transfers the Inquisition to another world, making it
eternal. Your God becomes, or rather is, an infinite Torquemada, who
denies to his countless victims even the mercy of death. And this you
call "a consolation."

You insist that at the foundation of every religion is the idea of God.
According to your creed, all ideas of God, except those entertained by
those of your faith, are absolutely false. You are not called upon to
defend the Gods of the nations dead; nor the Gods of heretics. It
is your business to defend the God of the Bible—the God of the
Presbyterian Church. When in the ranks doing battle for your creed,
you must wear the uniform of your church. You dare not say that it is
sufficient to insure the salvation of a soul to believe in a god, or in
some god. According to your creed, man must believe in your God. All
the nations dead believed in gods, and all the worshipers of Zeus, and
Jupiter, and Isis, and Osiris, and Brahma prayed and sacrificed in
vain. Their petitions were not answered, and their souls were not saved.
Surely you do not claim that it is sufficient to believe in any one of
the heathen gods.

What right have you to occupy the position of the deists, and to put
forth arguments that even Christians have answered? The deist denounced
the God of the Bible because of his cruelty, and at the same time lauded
the God of Nature. The Christian replied that the God of Nature was as
cruel as the God of the Bible. This answer was complete.

I feel that you are entitled to the admission that none have been, that
none are, too ignorant, too degraded, to believe in the supernatural;
and I freely give you the advantage of this admission. Only a few—and
they among the wisest, noblest, and purest of the human race—have
regarded all gods as monstrous myths. Yet a belief in "the true God"
does not seem to make men charitable or just. For most people, theism
is the easiest solution of the universe. They are satisfied with saying
that there must be a Being who created and who governs the world. But
the universality of a belief does not tend to establish its truth. The
belief in the existence of a malignant Devil has been as universal as
the belief in a beneficent God, yet few intelligent men will say that
the universality of this belief in an infinite demon even tends to prove
his existence. In the world of thought, majorities count for nothing.
Truth has always dwelt with the few.

Man has filled the world with impossible monsters, and he has been the
sport and prey of these phantoms born of ignorance and hope and fear. To
appease the wrath of these monsters man has sacrificed his fellow-man.
He has shed the blood of wife and child; he has fasted and prayed; he
has suffered beyond the power of language to express, and yet he has
received nothing from these gods—they have heard no supplication, they
have answered no prayer.

You may reply that your God "sends his rain on the just and on the
unjust," and that this fact proves that he is merciful to all alike.
I answer, that your God sends his pestilence on the just and on the
unjust—that his earthquakes devour and his cyclones rend and wreck the
loving and the vicious, the honest and the criminal. Do not these facts
prove that your God is cruel to all alike? In other words, do they not
demonstrate the absolute impartiality of divine negligence?

Do you not believe that any honest man of average intelligence, having
absolute control of the rain, could do vastly better than is being done?
Certainly there would be no droughts or floods; the crops would not be
permitted to wither and die, while rain was being wasted in the sea. Is
it conceivable that a good man with power to control the winds would not
prevent cyclones? Would you not rather trust a wise and honest man with
the lightning?

Why should an infinitely wise and powerful God destroy the good and
preserve the vile? Why should he treat all alike here, and in another
world make an infinite difference? Why should your God allow his
worshipers, his adorers, to be destroyed by his enemies? Why should he
allow the honest, the loving, the noble, to perish at the stake? Can you
answer these questions? Does it not seem to you that your God must have
felt a touch of shame when the poor slave mother—one that had been
robbed of her babe—knelt and with clasped hands, in a voice broken with
sobs, commenced her prayer with the words "Our Father"?

It gave me pleasure to find that, notwithstanding your creed, you are
philosophical enough to say that some men are incapacitated, by reason
of temperament, for believing in the existence of God. Now, if a belief
in God is necessary to the salvation of the soul, why should God create
a soul without this capacity? Why should he create souls that he knew
would be lost? You seem to think that it is necessary to be poetical, or
dreamy, in order to be religious, and by inference, at least, you deny
certain qualities to me that you deem necessary. Do you account for the
atheism of Shelley by saying that he was not poetic, and do you quote
his lines to prove the existence of the very God whose being he so
passionately denied? Is it possible that Napoleon—one of the most
infamous of men—had a nature so finely strung that he was sensitive to
the divine influences? Are you driven to the necessity of proving the
existence of one tyrant by the words of another? Personally, I have but
little confidence in a religion that satisfied the heart of a man who,
to gratify his ambition, filled half the world with widows and orphans.
In regard to Agassiz, it is just to say that he furnished a vast amount
of testimony in favor of the truth of the theories of Charles Darwin,
and then denied the correctness of these theories—preferring the
good opinions of Harvard for a few days to the lasting applause of the
intellectual world.

I agree with you that the world is a mystery, not only, but that
everything in nature is equally mysterious, and that there is no way of
escape from the mystery of life and death. To me, the crystallization of
the snow is as mysterious as the constellations. But when you endeavor
to explain the mystery of the universe by the mystery of God, you do not
even exchange mysteries—you simply make one more.

Nothing can be mysterious enough to become an explanation.

The mystery of man cannot be explained by the mystery of God. That
mystery still asks for explanation. The mind is so that it cannot grasp
the idea of an infinite personality. That is beyond the circumference.
This being so, it is impossible that man can be convinced by any
evidence of the existence of that which he cannot in any measure
comprehend. Such evidence would be equally incomprehensible with the
incomprehensible fact sought to be established by it, and the intellect
of man can grasp neither the one nor the other.

You admit that the God of Nature—that is to say, your God—is as
inflexible as nature itself. Why should man worship the inflexible? Why
should he kneel to the unchangeable? You say that your God "does not
bend to human thought any more than to human will," and that "the more
we study him, the more we find that he is not what we imagined him to
be." So that, after all, the only thing you are really certain of in
relation to your God is, that he is not what you think he is. Is it
not almost absurd to insist that such a state of mind is necessary to
salvation, or that it is a moral restraint, or that it is the foundation
of social order?

The most religious nations have been the most immoral, the cruelest
and the most unjust. Italy was far worse under the Popes than under the
Caesars. Was there ever a barbarian nation more savage than the Spain
of the sixteenth century? Certainly you must know that what you call
religion has produced a thousand civil wars, and has severed with the
sword all the natural ties that produce "the unity and married calm of
States." Theology is the fruitful mother of discord; order is the child
of reason. If you will candidly consider this question—if you will for
a few moments forget your preconceived opinions—you will instantly see
that the instinct of self-preservation holds society together. Religion
itself was born of this instinct. People, being ignorant, believed that
the Gods were jealous and revengeful. They peopled space with phantoms
that demanded worship and delighted in sacrifice and ceremony, phantoms
that could be flattered by praise and changed by prayer. These ignorant
people wished to preserve themselves. They supposed that they could in
this way avoid pestilence and famine, and postpone perhaps the day of
death. Do you not see that self-preservation lies at the foundation
of worship? Nations, like individuals, defend and protect themselves.
Nations, like individuals, have fears, have ideals, and live for the
accomplishment of certain ends. Men defend their property because it
is of value. Industry is the enemy of theft. Men, as a rule, desire to
live, and for that reason murder is a crime. Fraud is hateful to the
victim. The majority of mankind work and produce the necessities, the
comforts, and the luxuries of life. They wish to retain the fruits
of their labor. Government is one of the instrumentalities for the
preservation of what man deems of value. This is the foundation of
social order, and this holds society together.

Religion has been the enemy of social order, because it directs the
attention of man to another world. Religion teaches its votaries to
sacrifice this world for the sake of that other. The effect is to weaken
the ties that hold families and States together. Of what consequence is
anything in this world compared with eternal joy?

You insist that man is not capable of self-government, and that God made
the mistake of filling a world with failures—in other words, that man
must be governed not by himself, but by your God, and that your God
produces order, and establishes and preserves all the nations of the
earth. This being so, your God is responsible for the government of this
world. Does he preserve order in Russia? Is he accountable for Siberia?
Did he establish the institution of slavery? Was he the founder of the
Inquisition?

You answer all these questions by calling my attention to "the
retributions of history." What are the retributions of history? The
honest were burned at the stake; the patriotic, the generous, and
the noble were allowed to die in dungeons; whole races were enslaved;
millions of mothers were robbed of their babes. What were the
retributions of history? They who committed these crimes wore crowns,
and they who justified these infamies were adorned with the tiara.

You are mistaken when you say that Lincoln at Gettysburg said: "Just and
true are thy judgments, Lord God Almighty." Something like this occurs
in his last inaugural, in which he says,—speaking of his hope that
the war might soon be ended,—"If it shall continue until every drop of
blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword,
still it must be said, 'The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous
altogether.'" But admitting that you are correct in the assertion, let
me ask you one question: Could one standing over the body of Lincoln,
the blood slowly oozing from the madman's wound, have truthfully said:
"Just and true are thy judgments, Lord God Almighty"?

Do you really believe that this world is governed by an infinitely wise
and good God? Have you convinced even yourself of this? Why should God
permit the triumph of injustice? Why should the loving be tortured? Why
should the noblest be destroyed? Why should the world be filled
with misery, with ignorance, and with want? What reason have you for
believing that your God will do better in another world than he has done
and is doing in this? Will he be wiser? Will he have more power? Will he
be more merciful?

When I say "your God," of course I mean the God described in the Bible
and the Presbyterian Confession of Faith. But again I say, that in
the nature of things, there can be no evidence of the existence of an
infinite being.

An infinite being must be conditionless, and for that reason there is
nothing that a finite being can do that can by any possibility affect
the well-being of the conditionless. This being so, man can neither owe
nor discharge any debt or duty to an infinite being. The infinite
cannot want, and man can do nothing for a being who wants nothing.
A conditioned being can be made happy, or miserable, by changing
conditions, but the conditionless is absolutely independent of cause and
effect.

I do not say that a God does not exist, neither do I say that a God does
exist; but I say that I do not know—that there can be no evidence to my
mind of the existence of such a being, and that my mind is so that it
is incapable of even thinking of an infinite personality. I know that in
your creed you describe God as "without body, parts, or passions." This,
to my mind, is simply a description of an infinite vacuum. I have had
no experience with gods. This world is the only one with which I am
acquainted, and I was surprised to find in your letter the expression
that "perhaps others are better acquainted with that of which I am so
ignorant." Did you, by this, intend to say that you know anything of
any other state of existence—that you have inhabited some other
planet—that you lived before you were born, and that you recollect
something of that other world, or of that other state?

Upon the question of immortality you have done me, unintentionally,
a great injustice. With regard to that hope, I have never uttered "a
flippant or a trivial" word. I have said a thousand times, and I say
again, that the idea of immortality, that, like a sea, has ebbed and
flowed in the human heart, with its countless waves of hope and fear
beating against the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of
any book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. It was born of human
affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and
clouds of doubt and darkness as long as love kisses the lips of death.

I have said a thousand times, and I say again, that we do not know, we
cannot say, whether death is a wall or a door—the beginning, or end,
of a day—the spreading of pinions to soar, or the folding forever of
wings—the rise or the set of a sun, or an endless life, that brings
rapture and love to every one.

The belief in immortality is far older than Christianity. Thousands of
years before Christ was born billions of people had lived and died in
that hope. Upon countless graves had been laid in love and tears the
emblems of another life. The heaven of the New Testament was to be in
this world. The dead, after they were raised, were to live here. Not
one satisfactory word was said to have been uttered by Christ—nothing
philosophic, nothing clear, nothing that adorns, like a bow of promise,
the cloud of doubt.

According to the account in the New Testament, Christ was dead for a
period of nearly three days. After his resurrection, why did not some
one of his disciples ask him where he had been? Why did he not tell them
what world he had visited? There was the opportunity to "bring life and
immortality to light." And yet he was as silent as the grave that he had
left—speechless as the stone that angels had rolled away.

How do you account for this? Was it not infinitely cruel to leave the
world in darkness and in doubt, when one word could have filled all time
with hope and light?

The hope of immortality is the great oak round which have climbed
the poisonous vines of superstition. The vines have not supported the
oak—the oak has supported the vines. As long as men live and love and
die, this hope will blossom in the human heart.

All I have said upon this subject has been to express my hope and
confess my lack of knowledge. Neither by word nor look have I expressed
any other feeling than sympathy with those who hope to live again—for
those who bend above their dead and dream of life to come. But I have
denounced the selfishness and heartlessness of those who expect for
themselves an eternity of joy, and for the rest of mankind predict,
without a tear, a world of endless pain. Nothing can be more
contemptible than such a hope—a hope that can give satisfaction only to
the hyenas of the human race.

When I say that I do not know—when I deny the existence of perdition,
you reply that "there is something very cruel in this treatment of the
belief of my fellow-creatures."

You have had the goodness to invite me to a grave over which a mother
bends and weeps for her only son. I accept your invitation. We will
go together. Do not, I pray you, deal in splendid generalities. Be
explicit. Remember that the son for whom the loving mother weeps was not
a Christian, not a believer in the inspiration of the Bible nor in the
divinity of Jesus Christ. The mother turns to you for consolation, for
some star of hope in the midnight of her grief. What must you say? Do
not desert the Presbyterian creed. Do not forget the threatenings
of Jesus Christ. What must you say? Will you read a portion of the
Presbyterian Confession of Faith? Will you read this?

"Although the light of Nature, and the works of creation and Providence,
do so far manifest the goodness, wisdom, and power of God as to leave
man inexcusable, yet they are not sufficient to give that knowledge of
God and of his will which is necessary to salvation."

Or, will you read this?

"By the decree of God, for the manifestation of his glory, some men and
angels are predestined unto everlasting life and others foreordained
to everlasting death. These angels and men, thus predestined and
foreordained, are particularly and unchangeably designed, and their
number is so certain and definite that it cannot be either increased or
diminished."

Suppose the mother, lifting her tear-stained face, should say: "My son
was good, generous, loving and kind. He gave his life for me. Is there
no hope for him?" Would you then put this serpent in her breast?

"Men not professing the Christian religion cannot be saved in any
other way whatsoever, be they never so diligent to conform their lives
according to the light of Nature. We cannot by our best works merit
pardon of sin. There is no sin so small but that it deserves damnation.
Works done by unregenerate men, although, for the matter of that, they
may be things which God commands, and of good use both to themselves and
others, are sinful and cannot please God or make a man meet to receive
Christ or God."

And suppose the mother should then sobbingly ask: "What has become of
my son? Where is he now?" Would you still read from your Confession of
Faith, or from your Catechism—this?

"The souls of the wicked are cast into hell, where they remain in
torment and utter darkness, reserved to the judgment of the great day.
At the last day the righteous shall come into everlasting life, but the
wicked shall be cast into eternal torment and punished with everlasting
destruction. The wicked shall be cast into hell, to be punished with
unspeakable torment, both of body and soul, with the devil and his
angels forever."

If the poor mother still wept, still refused to be comforted, would you
thrust this dagger in her heart?

"At the Day of Judgment you, being caught up to Christ in the clouds,
shall be seated at his right hand and there openly acknowledged and
acquitted, and you shall join with him in the damnation of your son."

If this failed to still the beatings of her aching heart, would you
repeat these words which you say came from the loving soul of Christ?

"They who believe and are baptized shall be saved, and they who believe
not shall be damned; and these shall go away into everlasting fire
prepared for the devil and his angels."

Would you not be compelled, according to your belief, to tell this
mother that "there is but one name given under heaven and among men
whereby" the souls of men can enter the gates of Paradise? Would you not
be compelled to say: "Your son lived in a Christian land. The means of
grace were within his reach. He died not having experienced a change of
heart, and your son is forever lost. You can meet your son again only by
dying in your sins; but if you will give your heart to God you can never
clasp him to your breast again."

What could I say? Let me tell you:

"My dear madam, this reverend gentleman knows nothing of another
world. He cannot see beyond the tomb. He has simply stated to you the
superstitions of ignorance, of cruelty and fear. If there be in this
universe a God, he certainly is as good as you are. Why should he have
loved your son in life—loved him, according to this reverend gentleman,
to that degree that he gave his life for him; and why should that love
be changed to hatred the moment your son was dead?

"My dear woman, there are no punishments, there are no rewards—there
are consequences; and of one thing you may rest assured, and that is,
that every soul, no matter what sphere it may inhabit, will have the
everlasting opportunity of doing right.

"If death ends all, and if this handful of dust over which you weep
is all there is, you have this consolation: Your son is not within the
power of this reverend gentleman's God—that is something. Your son does
not suffer. Next to a life of joy is the dreamless sleep of death."

Does it not seem to you infinitely absurd to call orthodox Christianity
"a consolation"? Here in this world, where every human being is
enshrouded in cloud and mist,—where all lives are filled with
mistakes,—where no one claims to be perfect, is it "a consolation" to
say that "the smallest sin deserves eternal pain"? Is it possible for
the ingenuity of man to extract from the doctrine of hell one drop,
one ray, of "consolation"? If that doctrine be true, is not your God
an infinite criminal? Why should he have created uncounted billions
destined to suffer forever? Why did he not leave them unconscious dust?
Compared with this crime, any crime that man can by any possibility
commit is a virtue.

Think for a moment of your God,—the keeper of an infinite penitentiary
filled with immortal convicts,—your God an eternal turnkey, without
the pardoning power. In the presence of this infinite horror, you
complacently speak of the atonement,—a scheme that has not yet gathered
within its horizon a billionth part of the human race,—an atonement
with one-half the world remaining undiscovered for fifteen hundred years
after it was made.

If there could be no suffering, there could be no sin. To unjustly cause
suffering is the only possible crime. How can a God accept the suffering
of the innocent in lieu of the punishment of the guilty?

According to your theory, this infinite being, by his mere will, makes
right and wrong. This I do not admit. Right and wrong exist in the
nature of things—in the relation they bear to man, and to sentient
beings. You have already admitted that "Nature is inflexible, and that a
violated law calls for its consequences." I insist that no God can step
between an act and its natural effects. If God exists, he has nothing
to do with punishment, nothing to do with reward. From certain acts
flow certain consequences; these consequences increase or decrease the
happiness of man; and the consequences must be borne.

A man who has forfeited his life to the commonwealth may be pardoned,
but a man who has violated a condition of his own well-being cannot be
pardoned—there is no pardoning power. The laws of the State are made,
and, being made, can be changed; but the facts of the universe cannot be
changed. The relation of act to consequence cannot be altered. This is
above all power, and, consequently, there is no analogy between the laws
of the State and the facts in Nature. An infinite God could not change
the relation between the diameter and circumference of the circle.

A man having committed a crime may be pardoned, but I deny the right
of the State to punish an innocent man in the place of the pardoned—no
matter how willing the innocent man may be to suffer the punishment.
There is no law in Nature, no fact in Nature, by which the innocent can
be justly punished to the end that the guilty may go free. Let it be
understood once for all: Nature cannot pardon.

You have recognized this truth. You have asked me what is to become
of one who seduces and betrays, of the criminal with the blood of
his victim upon his hands? Without the slightest hesitation I answer,
whoever commits a crime against another must, to the utmost of his
power in this world and in another, if there be one, make full and ample
restitution, and in addition must bear the natural consequences of his
offence. No man can be perfectly happy, either in this world or in any
other, who has by his perfidy broken a loving and confiding heart.
No power can step between acts and consequences—no forgiveness, no
atonement.

But, my dear friend, you have taught for many years, if you are a
Presbyterian, or an evangelical Christian, that a man may seduce and
betray, and that the poor victim, driven to insanity, leaping from
some wharf at night where ships strain at their anchors in storm and
darkness—you have taught that this poor girl may be tormented forever
by a God of infinite compassion. This is not all that you have taught.
You have said to the seducer, to the betrayer, to the one who would not
listen to her wailing cry,—who would not even stretch forth his hand
to catch her fluttering garments,—you have said to him: "Believe in the
Lord Jesus Christ, and you shall be happy forever; you shall live in the
realm of infinite delight, from which you can, without a shadow falling
upon your face, observe the poor girl, your victim, writhing in the
agonies of hell." You have taught this. For my part, I do not see how an
angel in heaven meeting another angel whom he had robbed on the earth,
could feel entirely blissful. I go further. Any decent angel, no matter
if sitting at the right hand of God, should he see in hell one of his
victims, would leave heaven itself for the purpose of wiping one tear
from the cheek of the damned.

You seem to have forgotten your statement in the commencement of your
letter, that your God is as inflexible as Nature—that he bends not to
human thought nor to human will. You seem to have forgotten the line
which you emphasized with italics: "_The effect of everything which is
of the nature of a cause, is eternal_." In the light of this sentence,
where do you find a place for forgiveness—for your atonement? Where is
a way to escape from the effect of a cause that is eternal? Do you not
see that this sentence is a cord with which I easily tie your hands? The
scientific part of your letter destroys the theological. You have put
"new wine into old bottles," and the predicted result has followed. Will
the angels in heaven, the redeemed of earth, lose their memory? Will
not all the redeemed rascals remember their rascality? Will not all
the redeemed assassins remember the faces of the dead? Will not all the
seducers and betrayers remember her sighs, her tears, and the tones of
her voice, and will not the conscience of the redeemed be as inexorable
as the conscience of the damned?

If memory is to be forever "the warder of the brain," and if the
redeemed can never forget the sins they committed, the pain and anguish
they caused, then they can never be perfectly happy; and if the lost can
never forget the good they did, the kind actions, the loving words,
the heroic deeds; and if the memory of good deeds gives the slightest
pleasure, then the lost can never be perfectly miserable. Ought not the
memory of a good action to live as long as the memory of a bad one? So
that the undying memory of the good, in heaven, brings undying pain, and
the undying memory of those in hell brings undying pleasure. Do you not
see that if men have done good and bad, the future can have neither a
perfect heaven nor a perfect hell?

I believe in the manly doctrine that every human being must bear the
consequences of his acts, and that no man can be justly saved or damned
on account of the goodness or the wickedness of another.

If by atonement you mean the natural effect of self-sacrifice, the
effects following a noble and disinterested action; if you mean that
the life and death of Christ are worth their effect upon the human
race,—which your letter seems to show,—then there is no question
between us. If you have thrown away the old and barbarous idea that a
law had been broken, that God demanded a sacrifice, and that Christ, the
innocent, was offered up for us, and that he bore the wrath of God and
suffered in our place, then I congratulate you with all my heart.

It seems to me impossible that life should be exceedingly joyous to any
one who is acquainted with its miseries, its burdens, and its tears.
I know that as darkness follows light around the globe, so misery and
misfortune follow the sons of men. According to your creed, the future
state will be worse than this. Here, the vicious may reform; here, the
wicked may repent; here, a few gleams of sunshine may fall upon the
darkest life. But in your future state, for countless billions of the
human race, there will be no reform, no opportunity of doing right, and
no possible gleam of sunshine can ever touch their souls. Do you not
see that your future state is infinitely worse than this? You seem to
mistake the glare of hell for the light of morning.

Let us throw away the dogma of eternal retribution. Let us "cling to all
that can bring a ray of hope into the darkness of this life."

You have been kind enough to say that I find a subject for caricature
in the doctrine of regeneration. If, by regeneration, you mean
reformation,—if you mean that there comes a time in the life of a young
man when he feels the touch of responsibility, and that he leaves his
foolish or vicious ways, and concludes to act like an honest man,—if
this is what you mean by regeneration, I am a believer. But that is
not the definition of regeneration in your creed—that is not Christian
regeneration. There is some mysterious, miraculous, supernatural,
invisible agency, called, I believe, the Holy Ghost, that enters and
changes the heart of man, and this mysterious agency is like the wind,
under the control, apparently, of no one, coming and going when and
whither it listeth. It is this illogical and absurd view of regeneration
that I have attacked.

You ask me how it came to' pass that a Hebrew peasant, born among the
hills of Galilee, had a wisdom above that of Socrates or Plato, of
Confucius or Buddha, and you conclude by saying, "This is the greatest
of miracles—that such a being should live and die on the earth."

I can hardly admit your conclusion, because I remember that Christ said
nothing in favor of the family relation. As a matter of fact, his life
tended to cast discredit upon marriage. He said nothing against the
institution of slavery; nothing against the tyranny of government;
nothing of our treatment of animals; nothing about education, about
intellectual progress; nothing of art, declared no scientific truth, and
said nothing as to the rights and duties of nations.

You may reply that all this is included in "Do unto others as you would
be done by;" and "Resist not evil." More than this is necessary to
educate the human race. It is not enough to say to your child or to
your pupil, "Do right." The great question still remains: What is right?
Neither is there any wisdom in the idea of non-resistance. Force without
mercy is tyranny. Mercy without force is but a waste of tears. Take
from virtue the right of self-defence and vice becomes the master of the
world.

Let me ask you how it came to pass that an ignorant driver of camels,
a man without family, without wealth, became master of hundreds of
millions of human beings? How is it that he conquered and overran more
than half of the Christian world? How is it that on a thousand fields
the banner of the cross went down in blood, while that of the crescent
floated in triumph? How do you account for the fact that the flag of
this impostor floats to-day above the sepulchre of Christ? Was this a
miracle? Was Mohammed inspired? How do you account for Confucius, whose
name is known wherever the sky bends? Was he inspired—this man who
for many centuries has stood first, and who has been acknowledged
the superior of all men by hundreds and thousands of millions of
his fellow-men? How do you account for Buddha,—in many respects the
greatest religious teacher this world has ever known,—the broadest,
the most intellectual of them all; he who was great enough, hundreds of
years before Christ was born, to declare the universal brotherhood of
man, great enough to say that intelligence is the only lever capable of
raising mankind? How do you account for him, who has had more followers
than any other? Are you willing to say that all success is divine? How
do you account for Shakespeare, born of parents who could neither read
nor write, held in the lap of ignorance and love, nursed at the breast
of poverty—how do you account for him, by far the greatest of the human
race, the wings of whose imagination still fill the horizon of human
thought; Shakespeare, who was perfectly acquainted with the human heart,
knew all depths of sorrow, all heights of joy, and in whose mind were
the fruit of all thought, of all experience, and a prophecy of all to
be; Shakespeare, the wisdom and beauty and depth of whose words increase
with the intelligence and civilization of mankind? How do you account
for this miracle? Do you believe that any founder of any religion could
have written "Lear" or "Hamlet"? Did Greece produce a man who could
by any possibility have been the author of "Troilus and Cressida"? Was
there among all the countless millions of almighty Rome an intellect
that could have written the tragedy of "Julius Caesar"? Is not the play
of "Antony and Cleopatra" as Egyptian as the Nile? How do you account
for this man, within whose veins there seemed to be the blood of every
race, and in whose brain there were the poetry and philosophy of a
world?

You ask me to tell my opinion of Christ. Let me say here, once for all,
that for the man Christ—for the man who, in the darkness, cried out,
"My God, why hast thou forsaken me!" —for that man I have the greatest
possible respect. And let me say, once for all, that the place where man
has died for man is holy ground. To that great and serene peasant of
Palestine I gladly pay the tribute of my admiration and my tears. He was
a reformer in his day—an infidel in his time. Back of the theological
mask, and in spite of the interpolations of the New Testament, I see a
great and genuine man.

It is hard to see how you can consistently defend the course pursued
by Christ himself. He attacked with great bitterness "the religion of
others." It did not occur to him that "there was something very cruel in
this treatment of the belief of his fellow-creatures." He denounced the
chosen people of God as a "generation of vipers." He compared them to
"whited sepulchres." How can you sustain the conduct of missionaries?
They go to other lands and attack the sacred beliefs of others. They
tell the people of India and of all heathen lands, not only that their
religion is a lie, not only that their gods are myths, but that the
ancestors of these people—their fathers and mothers who never heard
of God, of the Bible, or of Christ—are all in perdition. Is not this a
cruel treatment of the belief of a fellow-creature?

A religion that is not manly and robust enough to bear attack with
smiling fortitude is unworthy of a place in the heart or brain. A
religion that takes refuge in sentimentality, that cries out: "Do not, I
pray you, tell me any truth calculated to hurt my feelings," is fit only
for asylums.

You believe that Christ was God, that he was infinite in power. While in
Jerusalem he cured the sick, raised a few from the dead, and opened the
eyes of the blind. Did he do these things because he loved mankind, or
did he do these miracles simply to establish the fact that he was the
very Christ? If he was actuated by love, is he not as powerful now as
he was then? Why does he not open the eyes of the blind now? Why does
he not with a touch make the leper clean? If you had the power to give
sight to the blind, to cleanse the leper, and would not exercise it,
what would be thought of you? What is the difference between one who can
and will not cure, and one who causes disease?

Only the other day I saw a beautiful girl—a paralytic, and yet her
brave and cheerful spirit shone over the wreck and ruin of her body like
morning on the desert. What would I think of myself, had I the power by
a word to send the blood through all her withered limbs freighted again
with life, should I refuse?

Most theologians seem to imagine that the virtues have been produced by
and are really the children of religion.

Religion has to do with the supernatural. It defines our duties and
obligations to God. It prescribes a certain course of conduct by means
of which happiness can be attained in another world. The result here is
only an incident. The virtues are secular. They have nothing whatever to
do with the supernatural, and are of no kindred to any religion. A man
may be honest, courageous, charitable, industrious, hospitable, loving
and pure, without being religious—that is to say, without any belief
in the supernatural; and a man may be the exact opposite and at the same
time a sincere believer in the creed of any church—that is to say, in
the existence of a personal God, the inspiration of the Scriptures and
in the divinity of Jesus Christ. A man who believes in the Bible may or
may not be kind to his family, and a man who is kind and loving in his
family may or may not believe in the Bible.

In order that you may see the effect of belief in the formation of
character, it is only necessary to call your attention to the fact that
your Bible shows that the devil himself is a believer in the existence
of your God, in the inspiration of the Scriptures, and in the divinity
of Jesus Christ. He not only believes these things, but he knows them,
and yet, in spite of it all, he remains a devil still.

Few religions have been bad enough to destroy all the natural goodness
in the human heart. In the deepest midnight of superstition some natural
virtues, like stars, have been visible in the heavens. Man has committed
every crime in the name of Christianity—or at least crimes that
involved the commission of all others. Those who paid for labor with
the lash, and who made blows a legal tender, were Christians. Those who
engaged in the slave trade were believers in a personal God. One
slave ship was called "The Jehovah." Those who pursued with hounds the
fugitive led by the Northern star prayed fervently to Christ to crown
their efforts with success, and the stealers of babes, just before
falling asleep, commended their souls to the keeping of the Most High.

As you have mentioned the apostles, let me call your attention to an
incident.

You remember the story of Ananias and Sapphira. The apostles, having
nothing themselves, conceived the idea of having all things in common.
Their followers who had something were to sell what little they had, and
turn the proceeds over to these theological financiers. It seems that
Ananias and Sapphira had a piece of land. They sold it, and after
talking the matter over, not being entirely satisfied with the
collaterals, concluded to keep a little—just enough to keep them from
starvation if the good and pious bankers should abscond.

When Ananias brought the money, he was asked whether he had kept back
a part of the price. He said that he had not. Whereupon God, the
compassionate, struck him dead. As soon as the corpse was removed, the
apostles sent for his wife. They did not tell her that her husband had
been killed. They deliberately set a trap for her life. Not one of them
was good enough or noble enough to put her on her guard; they allowed
her to believe that her husband had told his story, and that she was
free to corroborate what he had said. She probably felt that they were
giving more than they could afford, and, with the instinct of woman,
wanted to keep a little. She denied that any part of the price had been
kept back. That moment the arrow of divine vengeance entered her heart.

Will you be kind enough to tell me your opinion of the apostles in the
light of this story? Certainly murder is a greater crime than mendacity.

You have been good enough, in a kind of fatherly way, to give me some
advice. You say that I ought to soften my colors, and that my words
would be more weighty if not so strong. Do you really desire that I
should add weight to my words? Do you really wish me to succeed? If the
commander of one army should send word to the general of the other that
his men were firing too high, do you think the general would be misled?
Can you conceive of his changing his orders by reason of the message?

I deny that "the Pilgrims crossed the sea to find freedom to worship
God in the forests of the new world." They came not in the interest of
freedom. It never entered their minds that other men had the same right
to worship God according to the dictates of their consciences that the
Pilgrims themselves had. The moment they had power they were ready to
whip and brand, to imprison and burn. They did not believe in religious
freedom. They had no more idea of liberty of conscience than Jehovah.

I do not say that there is no place in the world for heroes and martyrs.
On the contrary, I declare that the liberty we now have was won for us
by heroes and by martyrs, and millions of these martyrs were burned, or
flayed alive, or torn in pieces, or assassinated by the church of God.
The heroism was shown in fighting the hordes of religious superstition.

Giordano Bruno was a martyr. He was a hero. He believed in no God, in no
heaven, and in no hell, yet he perished by fire. He was offered liberty
on condition that he would recant. There was no God to please, no heaven
to expect, no hell to fear, and yet he died by fire, simply to preserve
the unstained whiteness of his soul.

For hundreds of years every man who attacked the church was a hero. The
sword of Christianity has been wet for many centuries with the blood of
the noblest. Christianity has been ready with whip and chain and fire to
banish freedom from the earth.

Neither is it true that "family life withers under the cold sneer—half
pity and half scorn—with which I look down on household worship."

Those who believe in the existence of God, and believe that they are
indebted to this divine being for the few gleams of sunshine in this
life, and who thank God for the little they have enjoyed, have my entire
respect. Never have I said one word against the spirit of thankfulness.
I understand the feeling of the man who gathers his family about him
after the storm, or after the scourge, or after long sickness, and pours
out his heart in thankfulness to the supposed God who has protected his
fireside. I understand the spirit of the savage who thanks his idol of
stone, or his fetich of wood. It is not the wisdom of the one or of the
other that I respect, it is the goodness and thankfulness that prompt
the prayer.

I believe in the family. I believe in family life; and one of my
objections to Christianity is that it divides the family. Upon this
subject I have said hundreds of times, and I say again, that the
roof-tree is sacred, from the smallest fibre that feels the soft, cool
clasp of earth, to the topmost flower that spreads its bosom to the
sun, and like a spendthrift gives its perfume to the air. The home where
virtue dwells with love is like a lily with a heart of fire, the fairest
flower in all this world.

What did Christianity in the early centuries do for the home? What have
nunneries and monasteries, and what has the glorification of celibacy
done for the family? Do you not know that Christ himself offered rewards
in this world and eternal happiness in another to those who would desert
their wives and children and follow him? What effect has that promise
had upon family life?

As a matter of fact, the family is regarded as nothing. Christianity
teaches that there is but one family, the family of Christ, and that all
other relations are as nothing compared with that. Christianity teaches
the husband to desert the wife, the wife to desert the husband, children
to desert their parents, for the miserable and selfish purpose of saving
their own little, shriveled souls.

It is far better for a man to love his fellow-men than to love God. It
is better to love wife and children than to love Christ. It is better
to serve your neighbor than to serve your God—even if God exists. The
reason is palpable. You can do nothing for God. You can do something for
wife and children. You can add to the sunshine of a life. You can plant
flowers in the pathway of another.

It is true that I am an enemy of the orthodox Sabbath. It is true that
I do not believe in giving one-seventh of our time to the service of
superstition. The whole scheme of your religion can be understood by any
intelligent man in one day. Why should he waste a seventh of his whole
life in hearing the same thoughts repeated again and again?

Nothing is more gloomy than an orthodox Sabbath. The mechanic who has
worked during the week in heat and dust, the laboring man who has barely
succeeded in keeping his soul in his body, the poor woman who has
been sewing for the rich, may go to the village church which you have
described. They answer the chimes of the bell, and what do they hear in
this village church? Is it that God is the Father of the human race; is
that all? If that were all, you never would have heard an objection from
my lips. That is not all. If all ministers said: Bear the evils of this
life; your Father in heaven counts your tears; the time will come when
pain and death and grief will be forgotten words; I should have listened
with the rest. What else does the minister say to the poor people
who have answered the chimes of your bell? He says: "The smallest sin
deserves eternal pain." "A vast majority of men are doomed to suffer
the wrath of God forever." He fills the present with fear and the future
with fire. He has heaven for the few, hell for the many. He describes a
little grass-grown path that leads to heaven, where travelers are "few
and far between," and a great highway worn with countless feet that
leads to everlasting death.

Such Sabbaths are immoral. Such ministers are the real savages. Gladly
would I abolish such a Sabbath. Gladly would I turn it into a holiday,
a day of rest and peace, a day to get acquainted with your wife and
children, a day to exchange civilities with your neighbors; and gladly
would I see the church in which such sermons are preached changed to
a place of entertainment. Gladly would I have the echoes of orthodox
sermons—the owls and bats among the rafters, the snakes in crevices
and corners—driven out by the glorious music of Wagner and Beethoven.
Gladly would I see the Sunday school where the doctrine of eternal fire
is taught, changed to a happy dance upon the village green.

Music refines. The doctrine of eternal punishment degrades. Science
civilizes. Superstition looks longingly back to savagery.

You do not believe that general morality can be upheld without the
sanctions of religion.

Christianity has sold, and continues to sell, crime on a credit. It
has taught, and it still teaches, that there is forgiveness for all. Of
course it teaches morality. It says: "Do not steal, do not murder;" but
it adds, "but if you do both, there is a way of escape: believe on
the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved." I insist that such a
religion is no restraint. It is far better to teach that there is no
forgiveness, and that every human being must bear the consequences of
his acts.

The first great step toward national reformation is the universal
acceptance of the idea that there is no escape from the consequences of
our acts. The young men who come from their country homes into a city
filled with temptations, may be restrained by the thought of father and
mother. This is a natural restraint. They may be restrained by
their knowledge of the fact that a thing is evil on account of its
consequences, and that to do wrong is always a mistake. I cannot
conceive of such a man being more liable to temptation because he has
heard one of my lectures in which I have told him that the only good
is happiness—that the only way to attain that good is by doing what he
believes to be right. I cannot imagine that his moral character will be
weakened by the statement that there is no escape from the consequences
of his acts. You seem to think that he will be instantly led
astray—that he will go off under the flaring lamps to the riot of
passion. Do you think the Bible calculated to restrain him? To prevent
this would you recommend him to read the lives of Abraham, of Isaac, and
of Jacob, and the other holy polygamists of the Old Testament? Should he
read the life of David, and of Solomon? Do you think this would enable
him to withstand temptation? Would it not be far better to fill the
young man's mind with facts so that he may know exactly the physical
consequences of such acts? Do you regard ignorance as the foundation of
virtue? Is fear the arch that supports the moral nature of man?

You seem to think that there is danger in knowledge, and that the best
chemists are most likely to poison themselves.

You say that to sneer at religion is only a step from sneering at
morality, and then only another step to that which is vicious and
profligate.

The Jews entertained the same opinion of the teachings of Christ. He
sneered at their religion. The Christians have entertained the same
opinion of every philosopher. Let me say to you again—and let me say
it once for all—that morality has nothing to do with religion. Morality
does not depend upon the supernatural. Morality does not walk with the
crutches of miracles. Morality appeals to the experience of mankind. It
cares nothing about faith, nothing about sacred books. Morality depends
upon facts, something that can be seen, something known, the product of
which can be estimated. It needs no priest, no ceremony, no mummery. It
believes in the freedom of the human mind. It asks for investigation. It
is founded upon truth. It is the enemy of all religion, because it has
to do with this world, and with this world alone.

My object is to drive fear out of the world. Fear is the jailer of
the mind. Christianity, superstition—that is to say, the
supernatural—makes every brain a prison and every soul a convict. Under
the government of a personal deity, consequences partake of the nature
of punishments and rewards.

Under the government of Nature, what you call punishments and rewards
are simply consequences. Nature does not punish. Nature does not reward.
Nature has no purpose. When the storm comes, I do not think: "This is
being done by a tyrant." When the sun shines, I do not say: "This is
being done by a friend." Liberty means freedom from personal dictation.
It does not mean escape from the relations we sustain to other facts in
Nature. I believe in the restraining influences of liberty. Temperance
walks hand in hand with freedom. To remove a chain from the body puts
an additional responsibility upon the soul. Liberty says to the man:
You injure or benefit yourself; you increase or decrease your own
well-being. It is a question of intelligence. You need not bow to
a supposed tyrant, or to infinite goodness. You are responsible to
yourself and to those you injure, and to none other.

I rid myself of fear, believing as I do that there is no power above
which can help me in any extremity, and believing as I do that there is
no power above or below that can injure me in any extremity. I do not
believe that I am the sport of accident, or that I may be dashed in
pieces by the blind agency of Nature. There is no accident, and there is
no agency. That which happens must happen. The present is the necessary
child of all the past, the mother of all the future.

Does it relieve mankind from fear to believe that there is some God who
will help them in extremity? What evidence have they on which to found
this belief? When has any God listened to the prayer of any man? The
water drowns, the cold freezes, the flood destroys, the fire burns,
the bolt of heaven falls—when and where has the prayer of man been
answered?

Is the religious world to-day willing to test the efficacy of prayer?
Only a few years ago it was tested in the United States. The Christians
of Christendom, with one accord, fell upon their knees and asked God to
spare the life of one man. You know the result. You know just as well
as I that the forces of Nature produce the good and bad alike. You know
that the forces of Nature destroy the good and bad alike. You know
that the lightning feels the same keen delight in striking to death the
honest man that it does or would in striking the assassin with his knife
lifted above the bosom of innocence.

Did God hear the prayers of the slaves? Did he hear the prayers of
imprisoned philosophers and patriots? Did he hear the prayers of
martyrs, or did he allow fiends, calling themselves his followers, to
pile the fagots round the forms of glorious men? Did he allow the flames
to devour the flesh of those whose hearts were his? Why should any man
depend on the goodness of a God who created countless millions, knowing
that they would suffer eternal grief?

The faith that you call sacred—"sacred as the most delicate manly or
womanly sentiment of love and honor"—is the faith that nearly all of
your fellow-men are to be lost. Ought an honest man to be restrained
from denouncing that faith because those who entertain it say that their
feelings are hurt? You say to me: "There is a hell. A man advocating the
opinions you advocate will go there when he dies." I answer: "There is
no hell. The Bible that teaches it is not true." And you say: "How can
you hurt my feelings?"

You seem to think that one who attacks the religion of his parents is
wanting in respect to his father and his mother.

Were the early Christians lacking in respect for their fathers and
mothers? Were the Pagans who embraced Christianity heartless sons and
daughters? What have you to say of the apostles? Did they not heap
contempt upon the religion of their fathers and mothers? Did they not
join with him who denounced their people as a "generation of vipers"?
Did they not follow one who offered a reward to those who would
desert fathers and mothers? Of course you have only to go back a few
generations in your family to find a Field who was not a Presbyterian.
After that you find a Presbyterian. Was he base enough and infamous
enough to heap contempt upon the religion of his father and mother? All
the Protestants in the time of Luther lacked in respect for the religion
of their fathers and mothers. According to your idea, Progress is a
Prodigal Son. If one is bound by the religion of his father and mother,
and his father happens to be a Presbyterian and his mother a Catholic,
what is he to do? Do you not see that your doctrine gives intellectual
freedom only to foundlings?

If by Christianity you mean the goodness, the spirit of forgiveness, the
benevolence claimed by Christians to be a part, and the principal part,
of that peculiar religion, then I do not agree with you when you say
that "Christ is Christianity and that it stands or falls with him."
You have narrowed unnecessarily the foundation of your religion. If it
should be established beyond doubt that Christ never existed, all that
is of value in Christianity would remain, and remain unimpaired.
Suppose that we should find that Euclid was a myth, the science known
as mathematics would not suffer. It makes no difference who painted
or chiseled the greatest pictures and statues, so long as we have the
pictures and statues. When he who has given the world a truth passes
from the earth, the truth is left. A truth dies only when forgotten
by the human race. Justice, love, mercy, forgiveness, honor, all the
virtues that ever blossomed in the human heart, were known and practiced
for uncounted ages before the birth of Christ.

You insist that religion does not leave man in "abject terror"—does not
leave him "in utter darkness as to his fate."

Is it possible to know who will be saved? Can you read the names
mentioned in the decrees of the Infinite? Is it possible to tell who
is to be eternally lost? Can the imagination conceive a worse fate than
your religion predicts for a majority of the race? Why should not every
human being be in "abject terror" who believes your doctrine? How many
loving and sincere women are in the asylums to-day fearing that they
have committed "the unpardonable sin"—a sin to which your God has
attached the penalty of eternal torment, and yet has failed to describe
the offence? Can tyranny go beyond this—fixing the penalty of eternal
pain for the violation of a law not written, not known, but kept in the
secrecy of infinite darkness? How much happier it is to know nothing
about it, and to believe nothing about it! How much better to have no
God!

You discover a "Great Intelligence ordering our little lives, so that
even the trials that we bear, as they call out the finer elements
of character, conduce to our future happiness." This is an old
explanation—probably as good as any. The idea is, that this world is a
school in which man becomes educated through tribulation—the muscles
of character being developed by wrestling with misfortune. If it is
necessary to live this life in order to develop character, in order to
become worthy of a better world, how do you account for the fact that
billions of the human race die in infancy, and are thus deprived of
this necessary education and development? What would you think of a
schoolmaster who should kill a large proportion of his scholars during
the first day, before they had even had the opportunity to look at "A"?

You insist that "there is a power behind Nature making for
righteousness."

If Nature is infinite, how can there be a power outside of Nature? If
you mean by "a power making for righteousness" that man, as he becomes
civilized, as he becomes intelligent, not only takes advantage of
the forces of Nature for his own benefit, but perceives more and more
clearly that if he is to be happy he must live in harmony with the
conditions of his being, in harmony with the facts by which he is
surrounded, in harmony with the relations he sustains to others and
to things; if this is what you mean, then there is "a power making for
righteousness." But if you mean that there is something supernatural
back of Nature directing events, then I insist that there can by no
possibility be any evidence of the existence of such a power.

The history of the human race shows that nations rise and fall. There
is a limit to the life of a race; so that it can be said of every
dead nation, that there was a period when it laid the foundations of
prosperity, when the combined intelligence and virtue of the people
constituted a power working for righteousness, and that there came
a time when this nation became a spendthrift, when it ceased to
accumulate, when it lived on the labors of its youth, and passed from
strength and glory to the weakness of old age, and finally fell palsied
to its tomb.

The intelligence of man guided by a sense of duty is the only power that
makes for righteousness.

You tell me that I am waging "a hopeless war," and you give as a reason
that the Christian religion began to be nearly two thousand years before
I was born, and that it will live two thousand years after I am dead.

Is this an argument? Does it tend to convince even yourself? Could not
Caiaphas, the high priest, have said substantially this to Christ? Could
he not have said: "The religion of Jehovah began to be four thousand
years before you were born, and it will live two thousand years after
you are dead"? Could not a follower of Buddha make the same illogical
remark to a missionary from Andover with the glad tidings? Could he not
say: "You are waging a hopeless war. The religion of Buddha began to be
twenty-five hundred years before you were born, and hundreds of millions
of people still worship at Great Buddha's shrine"?

Do you insist that nothing except the right can live for two thousand
years? Why is it that the Catholic Church "lives on and on, while
nations and kingdoms perish"? Do you consider that the "survival of the
fittest"?

Is it the same Christian religion now living that lived during the
Middle Ages? Is it the same Christian religion that founded the
Inquisition and invented the thumbscrew? Do you see no difference
between the religion of Calvin and Jonathan Edwards and the Christianity
of to-day? Do you really think that it is the same Christianity that
has been living all these years? Have you noticed any change in the last
generation? Do you remember when scientists endeavored to prove a theory
by a passage from the Bible, and do you now know that believers in
the Bible are exceedingly anxious to prove its truth by some fact that
science has demonstrated? Do you know that the standard has changed?
Other things are not measured by the Bible, but the Bible has to submit
to another test. It no longer owns the scales. It has to be weighed,—it
is being weighed,—it is growing lighter and lighter every day. Do you
know that only a few years ago "the glad tidings of great joy"
consisted mostly in a description of hell? Do you know that nearly every
intelligent minister is now ashamed to preach about it, or to read about
it, or to talk about it? Is there any change? Do you know that but few
ministers now believe in the "plenary inspiration" of the Bible,
that from thousands of pulpits people are now told that the creation
according to Genesis is a mistake, that it, never was as wet as the
flood, and that the miracles of the Old Testament are considered simply
as myths or mistakes?

How long will what you call Christianity endure, if it changes as
rapidly during the next century as it has during the last? What will
there be left of the supernatural?

It does not seem possible that thoughtful people can, for many years,
believe that a being of infinite wisdom is the author of the Old
Testament, that a being of infinite purity and kindness upheld polygamy
and slavery, that he ordered his chosen people to massacre their
neighbors, and that he commanded husbands and fathers to persecute wives
and daughters unto death for opinion's sake.

It does not seem within the prospect of belief that Jehovah, the cruel,
the jealous, the ignorant, and the revengeful, is the creator and
preserver of the universe.

Does it seem possible that infinite goodness would create a world in
which life feeds on life, in which everything devours and is devoured?
Can there be a sadder fact than this: Innocence is not a certain shield?

It is impossible for me to believe in the eternity of punishment. If
that doctrine be true, Jehovah is insane.

Day after day there are mournful processions of men and women, patriots
and mothers, girls whose only crime is that the word Liberty burst into
flower between their pure and loving lips, driven like beasts across
the melancholy wastes of Siberian snow. These men, these women, these
daughters, go to exile and to slavery, to a land where hope is satisfied
with death. Does it seem possible to you that an "Infinite Father" sees
all this and sits as silent as a god of stone?

And yet, according to your Presbyterian creed, according to your
inspired book, according to your Christ, there is another procession, in
which are the noblest and the best, in which you will find the wondrous
spirits of this world, the lovers of the human race, the teachers of
their fellow-men, the greatest soldiers that ever battled for the right;
and this procession of countless millions, in which you will find the
most generous and the most loving of the sons and daughters of men, is
moving on to the Siberia of God, the land of eternal exile, where agony
becomes immortal.

How can you, how can any man with brain or heart, believe this infinite
lie?

Is there not room for a better, for a higher philosophy? After all, is
it not possible that we may find that everything has been necessarily
produced, that all religions and superstitions, all mistakes and all
crimes, were simply necessities? Is it not possible that out of this
perception may come not only love and pity for others, but absolute
justification for the individual? May we not find that every soul
has, like Mazeppa, been lashed to the wild horse of passion, or like
Prometheus to the rocks of fate?

You ask me to take the "sober second thought." I beg of you to take the
first, and if you do, you will throw away the Presbyterian creed; you
will instantly perceive that he who commits the "smallest sin" no
more deserves eternal pain than he who does the smallest virtuous deed
deserves eternal bliss; you will become convinced that an infinite God
who creates billions of men knowing that they will suffer through all
the countless years is an infinite demon; you will be satisfied that
the Bible, with its philosophy and its folly, with its goodness and its
cruelty, is but the work of man, and that the supernatural does not and
cannot exist.

For you personally, I have the highest regard and the sincerest
respect, and I beg of you not to pollute the soul of childhood, not
to furrow the cheeks of mothers, by preaching a creed that should be
shrieked in a mad-house. Do not make the cradle as terrible as the
coffin. Preach, I pray you, the gospel of Intellectual Hospitality—the
liberty of thought and speech. Take from loving hearts the awful fear.
Have mercy on your fellow-men. Do not drive to madness the mothers whose
tears are falling on the pallid faces of those who died in unbelief.
Pity the erring, wayward, suffering, weeping world. Do not proclaim as
"tidings of great joy" that an Infinite Spider is weaving webs to catch
the souls of men.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

## A Last Word to Robert G. Ingersoll

My Dear Colonel Ingersoll:

I have read your Reply to my Open Letter half a dozen times, and each
time with new appreciation of your skill as an advocate. It is written
with great ingenuity, and furnishes probably as complete an argument as
you are able to give for the faith (or want of faith) that is in you.
Doubtless you think it unanswerable, and so it will seem to those who
are predisposed to your way of thinking. To quote a homely saying of Mr.
Lincoln, in which there is as much of wisdom as of wit, "For those who
like that sort of thing, no doubt that is the sort of thing they do
like." You may answer that we, who cling to the faith of our fathers,
are equally prejudiced, and that it is for that reason that we are not
more impressed by the force of your pleading. I do not deny a strong
leaning that way, and yet our real interest is the same—to get at the
truth; and, therefore, I have tried to give due weight to whatever of
argument there is in the midst of so much eloquence; but must confess
that, in spite of all, I remain in the same obdurate frame of mind as
before. With all the candor that I can bring to bear upon the question,
I find on reviewing my Open Letter scarcely a sentence to change and
nothing to withdraw; and am quite willing to leave it as my Declaration
of Faith, to stand side by side with your Reply, for intelligent and
candid men to judge between us. I need only to add a few words in taking
leave of the subject.

You seem a little disturbed that "some of my brethren" should look upon
you as "a monster" because of your unbelief. I certainly do not approve
of such language, although they would tell me that it is the only word
which is a fit response to your ferocious attacks upon what they hold
most sacred. You are a born gladiator, and when you descend into the
arena, you strike heavy blows, which provoke blows in return. In this
very Reply you manifest a particular animosity against Presbyterians.
Is it because you were brought up in that Church, of which your father,
whom you regard with filial respect and affection, was an honored
minister? You even speak of "the Presbyterian God!" as if we assumed to
appropriate the Supreme Being, claiming to be the special objects of
His favor. Is there any ground for this imputation of narrowness? On the
contrary, when we bow our knees before our Maker, it is as the God and
Father of all mankind; and the expression you permit yourself to use,
can only be regarded as grossly offensive. Was it necessary to offer
this rudeness to the religious denomination in which you were born?

And this may explain, what you do not seem fully to understand, why it
is that you are sometimes treated to sharp epithets by the religious
press and public. You think yourself persecuted for your opinions. But
others hold the same opinions without offence. Nor is it because you
express your opinions. Nobody would deny you the same freedom which is
accorded to Huxley or Herbert Spencer. It is not because you exercise
your liberty of judgment or of speech, but because of the way in which
you attack others, holding up their faith to all manner of ridicule,
and speaking of those who profess it as if they must be either knaves or
fools. It is not in human nature not to resent such imputations on that
which, however incredible to you, is very precious to them. Hence it is
that they think you a rough antagonist; and when you shock them by
such expressions as I have quoted, you must expect some pretty strong
language in return. I do not join them in this, because I know you,
and appreciate that other side of you which is manly and kindly and
chivalrous. But while I recognize these better qualities, I must add
in all frankness that I am compelled to look upon you as a man so
embittered against religion that you cannot think of it except as
associated with cant, bigotry, and hypocrisy. In such a state of mind
it is hardly possible for you to judge fairly of the arguments for its
truth.

I believe with you, that reason was given us to be exercised, and that
when man seeks after truth, his mind should be, as you say Darwin's was,
"as free from prejudice as the mariner's compass." But if he is warped
by passion so that he cannot see things truly, then is he responsible.
It is the moral element which alone makes the responsibility. Nor do I
believe that any man will be judged in this world or the next for what
does not involve a moral wrong. Hence your appalling statement, "The God
you worship will, according to your creed, torture (!) through all the
endless years the man who entertains an honest doubt," does not produce
the effect intended, simply because I do not affirm nor believe any such
thing. I believe that, in the future world, every man will be judged
according to the deeds done in the body, and that the judgment, whatever
it may be, will be transparently just. God is more merciful than man.
He desireth not the death of the wicked. Christ forgave, where men would
condemn, and whatever be the fate of any human soul, it can never be
said that the Supreme Ruler was wanting either in justice or mercy.
This I emphasize because you dwell so much upon the subject of future
retribution, giving it an attention so constant as to be almost
exclusive. Whatever else you touch upon, you soon come back to this as
the black thunder-cloud that darkens all the horizon, casting its
mighty shadows over the life that now is and that which is to come. Your
denunciations of this "inhuman" belief are so reiterated that one would
be left to infer that there is nothing else in Religion; that it is all
wrath and terror. But this is putting a part for the whole. Religion
is a vast system, of which this is but a single feature: it is but one
doctrine of many; and indeed some whom no one will deny to be devout
Christians, do not hold it at all, or only in a modified form, while
with all their hearts they accept and profess the Religion that Christ
came to bring into the world.

Archdeacon Farrar, of Westminster Abbey, the most eloquent preacher in
the Church of England, has written a book entitled "Eternal Hope," in
which he argues from reason and the Bible, that this life is not "the
be-all and end-all" of human probation; but that in the world to come
there will be another opportunity, when countless millions, made wiser
by unhappy experience, will turn again to the paths of life; and that so
in the end the whole human race, with the exception of perhaps a few who
remain irreclaimable, will be recovered and made happy forever. Others
look upon "eternal death" as merely the extinction of being, while
immortality is the reward of pre-eminent virtue, interpreting in that
sense the words, "The wages of sin is death but the gift of God is
eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." The latter view might
recommend itself to you as the application of "the survival of the
fittest" to another world, the worthless, the incurably bad, of the
human race being allowed to drop out of existence (an end which can
have no terrors for you, since you look upon it as the common lot of all
men,) while the good are continued in being forever. The acceptance
of either of these theories would relieve your mind of that "horror of
great darkness" which seems to come over it whenever you look forward to
retribution beyond the grave.

But while conceding all liberty to others I cannot so easily relieve
myself of this stern and rugged truth. To me moral evil in the universe
is a tremendous reality, and I do not see how to limit it within the
bounds of time. Retribution is to me a necessary part of the Divine law.
A law without a penalty for its violations is no law. But I rest the
argument for it, not on the Bible, but _on principles which you yourself
acknowledge_. You say, "There are no punishments, no rewards: there are
consequences." Very well, take the "consequences," and see where they
lead you. When a man by his vices has reduced his body to a wreck and
his mind to idiocy, you say this is the "consequence" of his vicious
life. Is it a great stretch of language to say that it is his
"punishment," and nonetheless punishment because self-inflicted? To the
poor sufferer raving in a madhouse, it matters little what it is called,
so long as he is experiencing the agonies of hell. And here your theory
of "consequences," if followed up, will lead you very far. For if
man lives after death, and keeps his personal identity, do not the
"consequences" of his past life follow him into the future? And if his
existence is immortal, are not the consequences immortal also? And what
is this but endless retribution?

But you tell me that the moral effect of retribution is destroyed by the
easy way in which a man escapes the penalty. He has but to repent, and
he is restored to the same condition before the law as if he had not
sinned. Not so do I understand it. "I believe in the forgiveness of
sins," but forgiveness does not reverse the course of nature; it does
not prevent the operation of natural law. A drunkard may repent as he is
nearing his end, but that does not undo the wrong that he has done, nor
avert the consequences. In spite of his tears, he dies in an agony of
shame and remorse. The inexorable law must be fulfilled.

And so in the future world. Even though a man be forgiven, he does not
wholly escape the evil of his past life. A retribution follows him even
within the heavenly gates; for if he does not suffer, still that bad
life has so shriveled up his moral nature as to diminish his power of
enjoyment. There are degrees of happiness, as one star differeth from
another star in glory; and he who begins wrong, will find that it is
not as well to sin and repent of it as not to sin at all. He enters the
other world in a state of spiritual infancy, and will have to begin at
the bottom and climb slowly upward.

We might go a step farther, and say that perhaps heaven itself has not
only its lights but its shadows, in the reflections that must come even
there. We read of "the book of God's remembrance," but is there not
another book of remembrance in the mind itself—a book which any man may
well fear to open and to look thereon? When that book is opened, and we
read its awful pages, shall we not all think "what might have been?" And
will those thoughts be wholly free from sadness? The drunken brute who
breaks the heart that loved him may weep bitterly, and his poor wife may
forgive him with her dying lips; but _he cannot forgive himself _, and
_never_ can he recall without grief that bowed head and that broken
heart. This preserves the element of retribution, while it does not shut
the door to forgiveness and mercy.

But we need not travel over again the round of Christian doctrines.
My faith is very simple; it revolves around two words; God and
Christ. These are the two centres, or, as an astronomer might say, the
double-star, or double-sun, of the great orbit of religious truth.

As to the first of these, you say "There can be no evidence to my mind
of the existence of such a being, and my mind is so that it is incapable
of even thinking of an infinite personality;" and you gravely put to me
this question: "Do you really believe that this world is governed by an
infinitely wise and good God? Have you convinced even yourself of this?"
Here are two questions—one as to the existence of God, and the other
as to His benevolence. I will answer both in language as plain as it is
possible for me to use.

First, Do I believe in the existence of God? I answer that it is
impossible for me not to believe it. I could not disbelieve it if I
would. You insist that belief or unbelief is not a matter of choice or
of the will, but of evidence. You say "the brain thinks as the
heart beats, as the eyes see." Then let us stand aside with all our
prepossessions, and open our eyes to what we can see.

When Robinson Crusoe in his desert island came down one day to the
seashore, and saw in the sand the print of a human foot, could he help
the instantaneous conviction that a man had been there? You might have
tried to persuade him that it was all chance,—that the sand had been
washed up by the waves or blown by the winds, and taken this form, or
that some marine insect had traced a figure like a human foot,—you
would not have moved him a particle. The imprint was there, and the
conclusion was irresistible: he did not believe—he knew that some human
being, whether friend or foe, civilized or savage, had set his foot upon
that desolate shore. So when I discover in the world (as I think I do)
mysterious footprints that are certainly not human, it is not a question
whether I shall believe or not: I cannot help believing that some Power
greater than man has set foot upon the earth.

It is a fashion among atheistic philosophers to make light of the
argument from design; but "my mind is so that it is incapable" of
resisting the conclusion to which it leads me. And (since personal
questions are in order) I beg to ask if it is possible for you to take
in your hands a watch, and believe that there was no "design" in its
construction; that it was not made to keep time, but only "happened" so;
that it is the product of some freak of nature, which brought together
its parts and set it going. Do you not know with as much positiveness as
can belong to any conviction of your mind, that it was not the work of
accident, but of design; and that if there was a design, there was a
designer? And if the watch was made to keep time, was not the eye made
to see and the ear to hear? Skeptics may fight against this argument as
much as they please, and try to evade the inevitable conclusion, and
yet it remains forever entwined in the living frame of man as well as
imbedded in the solid foundations of the globe. Wherefore I repeat, it
is not a question with me whether I will believe or not—I cannot help
believing; and I am not only surprised, but amazed, that you or
any thoughtful man can come to any other conclusion.' In wonder and
astonishment I ask, "Do you really believe" that in all the wide
universe there is no Higher Intelligence than that of the poor human
creatures that creep on this earthly ball? For myself, it is with the
pro-foundest conviction as well as the deepest reverence that I repeat
the first sentence of my faith: "I believe in God the Father Almighty."

And not the Almighty only, but the Wise and the Good. Again I ask, How
can I help believing what I see every day of my life? Every morning,
as the sun rises in the East, sending light and life over the world, I
behold a glorious image of the beneficent Creator. The exquisite beauty
of the dawn, the dewy freshness of the air, the fleecy clouds floating
in the sky—all speak of Him. And when the sun goes down, sending shafts
of light through the dense masses that would hide his setting, and
casting a glory over the earth and sky, this wondrous illumination is
to me but the reflection of Him who "spreadeth out the heavens like a
curtain; who maketh the clouds His chariot; who walketh upon the wings
of the wind."

How much more do we find the evidences of goodness in man himself:
in the power of thought; of acquiring knowledge; of penetrating the
mysteries of nature and climbing among the stars. Can a being endowed
with such transcendent gifts doubt the goodness of his Creator?

Yes, I believe with all my heart and soul in One who is not only
Infinitely Great, but Infinitely Good; who loves all the creatures He
has made; bending over them as the bow in the cloud spans the arch of
heaven, stretching from horizon to horizon; looking down upon them with
a tenderness compared to which all human love is faint and cold. "Like
as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear
Him; for He knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are dust."

On the question of immortality you are equally "at sea." You know
nothing and believe nothing; or, rather, you know only that you do not
know, and believe that you do not believe. You confess indeed to a faint
hope, and admit a bare possibility, that there may be another life,
though you are in an uncertainty about it that is altogether bewildering
and desperate. But your mind is so poetical that you give a certain
attractiveness even to the prospect of annihilation. You strew the
sepulchre with such flowers as these:

"I have said a thousand times, and I say again, that the idea of
immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart,
with its countless waves of hope and fear beating against the shores and
rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor
of any religion. It was born of human affection, and it will continue to
ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long
as love kisses the lips of death.

"I have said a thousand times, and I say again, that we do not know, we
cannot say, whether death is a wall or a door; the beginning or end of a
day; the spreading of pinions to soar, or the folding forever of wings;
the rise or the set of a sun, or an endless life that brings rapture and
love to every one."

Beautiful words! but inexpressibly sad! It is a silver lining to the
cloud, and yet the cloud is there, dark and impenetrable. But perhaps
we ought not to expect anything clearer and brighter from one who
recognizes no light but that of Nature.

That light is very dim. If it were all we had, we should be just where
Cicero was, and say with him, and with you, that a future life was "to
be hoped for rather than believed." But does not that very uncertainty
show the need of a something above Nature, which is furnished in Him who
"was crucified, dead and buried, and the third day rose again from the
dead?" It is the Conqueror of Death who calls to the fainthearted: "I am
the Resurrection and the Life." Since He has gone before us, lighting
up the dark passage of the grave, we need not fear to follow, resting on
the word of our Leader: "Because I live, ye shall live also."

This faith in another life is a precious inheritance, which cannot
be torn from the agonized bosom without a wrench that tears every
heartstring; and it was to this I referred as the last refuge of a poor,
suffering, despairing soul, when I asked: "Does it never occur to you
that there is something very cruel in this treatment of the belief of
your fellow-creatures, on whose hope of another life hangs all that
relieves the darkness of their present existence?" The imputation of
cruelty you repel with some warmth, saying (with a slight variation of
my language): "_When I deny the existence of perdition_, you reply that
there is something very cruel in this treatment of the belief of my
fellow-creatures." Of course, this change of words, putting perdition in
the place of immortal life and hope, was a mere inadvertence. But it
was enough to change the whole character of what I wrote. As I described
"the treatment of the belief of my fellow-creatures," I did think it
"very cruel," and I think so still.

While correcting this slight misquotation, I must remove from your mind
a misapprehension, which is so very absurd as to be absolutely comical.
In my Letter referring to your disbelief of immortality, I had said:
"With an air of modesty and diffidence that would carry an audience
by storm, you confess your ignorance of what perhaps others are better
acquainted with, when you say, 'This world is all that I know anything
about, _so far as I recollect_'" Of course "what perhaps others are
better acquainted with" was a part of what you said, or at least implied
by your manner (for you do not convey your meaning merely by words,
but by a tone of voice, by arched eyebrows, or a curled lip); and yet,
instead of taking the sentence in its plain and obvious sense, you
affect to understand it as an assumption on my part to have some private
and mysterious knowledge of another world (!), and gravely ask me, "Did
you by this intend to say that you know anything of any other state of
existence; that you have inhabited some other planet; that you lived
before you were born; and that you recollect something of that other
world or of that other state?" No, my dear Colonel! I have been a good
deal of a traveler, and have seen all parts of this world, but I have
never visited any other. In reading your sober question, if I did not
know you to be one of the brightest wits of the day, I should be tempted
to quote what Sidney Smith says of a Scotchman, that "you cannot get a
joke into his head except by a surgical operation!"

But to return to what is serious: you make light of our faith and
our hopes, because you know not the infinite solace they bring to the
troubled human heart. You sneer at the idea that religion can be a
"consolation." Indeed! Is it not a consolation to have an Almighty
Friend? Was it a light matter for the poor slave mother, who sat alone
in her cabin, having been robbed of her children, to sing in her wild,
wailing accents:

> "Nobody knows the sorrows I've seen:
> Nobody knows but Jesus?"

Would you rob her of that Unseen Friend—the only Friend she had on
earth or in heaven?

But I will do you the justice to say that your want of religious faith
comes in part from your very sensibility and tenderness of heart. You
cannot recognize an overruling Providence, because your mind is so
harassed by scenes that you witness. Why, you ask, do men suffer so? You
draw frightful pictures of the misery which exists in the world, as a
proof of the incapacity of its Ruler and Governor, and do not hesitate
to say that "any honest man of average intelligence could do vastly
better." If you could have your way, you would make everybody happy;
there should be no more poverty, and no more sickness or pain.

This is a pleasant picture to look at, and yet you must excuse me for
saying that it is rather a child's picture than that of a stalwart man.
The world is not a playground in which men are to be petted and indulged
like children: spoiled children they would soon become. It is an arena
of conflict, in which we are to develop the manhood that is in us. We
all have to take the "rough-and-tumble" of life, and are the better
for it—physically, intellectually, and morally. If there be any true
manliness within us, we come out of the struggle stronger and better;
with larger minds and kinder hearts; a broader wisdom and a gentler
charity.

Perhaps we should not differ on this point if we could agree as to the
true end of life. But here I fear the difference is irreconcilable. You
think that end is happiness: I think it is character. I do not believe
that the highest end of life upon earth is to "have a good time to get
from it the utmost amount of enjoyment;" but to be truly and greatly
GOOD; and that to that end no discipline can be too severe which leads
us "to suffer and be strong." That discipline answers its end when it
raises the spirit to the highest pitch of courage and endurance. The
splendor of virtue never appears so bright as when set against a dark
background. It was in prisons and dungeons that the martyrs showed the
greatest degree of moral heroism, the power of

> "Man's unconquerable mind."

But I know well that these illustrations do not cover the whole case.
There is another picture to be added to those of heroic struggle and
martyrdom—that of silent suffering, which makes of life one long agony,
and which often comes upon the good, so that it seems as if the best
suffered the most. And yet when you sit by a sick bed, and look into a
face whiter than the pillow on which it rests, do you not sometimes mark
how that very suffering refines the nature that bears it so meekly? This
is the Christian theory: that suffering, patiently borne, is a means
of the greatest elevation of character, and, in the end, of the highest
enjoyment. Looking at it in this light, we can understand how it should
be that "the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be
compared [or even to be named] with the glory which shall be revealed."
When the heavenly morning breaks, brighter than any dawn that blushes
"o'er the world," there will be "a restitution of all things:" the poor
will be made rich, and the most suffering the most serenely happy; as in
the vision of the Apocalypse, when it is asked "What are these which are
arrayed in white robes, and whence came they?" the answer is, "These are
they which came our of great tribulation."

In this conclusion, which is not adopted lightly, but after innumerable
struggles with doubt, after the experience and the reflection of years,
I feel "a great peace." It is the glow of sunset that gilds the approach
of evening. For (we must confess it) it is towards that you and I are
advancing. The sun has passed the meridian, and hastens to his going
down. Whatever of good this life has for us (and I am far from being one
of those who look upon it as a vale of tears) will soon be behind us. I
see the shadows creeping on; yet I welcome the twilight that will soon
darken into night, for I know that it will be a night all glorious with
stars. As I look upward, the feeling of awe is blended with a strange,
overpowering sense of the Infinite Goodness, which surrounding me like
an atmosphere:

> "And so beside the Silent Sea,
> I wait the muffled oar;
> No harm from Him can come to me
> On ocean or on shore.

> I know not where His Islands lift
> Their fronded palms in air;
> I only know I cannot drift
> Beyond His love and care."

Would that you could share with me this confidence and this hope! But
you seem to be receding farther from any kind of faith. In one of your
closing paragraphs, you give what is to you "the conclusion of the whole
matter." After repudiating religion with scorn, you ask, "Is there not
room for a better, for a higher philosophy?" and thus indicate the true
answer to be given, to which no words can do justice but your own:

"After all, is it not possible that we may find that everything has been
necessarily produced; that all religions and superstitions, all mistakes
and all crimes, were simply necessities? Is it not possible that out of
this perception may come not only love and pity for others, but absolute
justification for the individual? May we not find that every soul
has, like Mazeppa, been lashed to the wild horse of passion, or like
Prometheus to the rocks of fate?"

If this be the end of all philosophy, it is equally the end of "all
things." Not only does it make an end of us and of our hopes of
futurity, but of all that makes the present life worth living—of
all freedom, and hence of all virtue. There are no more any moral
distinctions in the world—no good and no evil, no right and no wrong;
nothing but grim necessity. With such a creed, I wonder how you can ever
stand at the bar, and argue for the conviction of a criminal. Why should
he be convicted and punished for what he could not help? Indeed he is
not a criminal, since there is no such thing as crime. He is not to
blame. Was he not "lashed to the wild horse of passion," carried away by
a power beyond his control?

What cruelty to thrust him behind iron bars! Poor fellow! he deserves
our pity. Let us hasten to relieve him from a position which must be so
painful, and make our humble apology for having presumed to punish him
for an act in which he only obeyed an impulse which he could not resist.
This will be "absolute justification for the individual." But what will
become of society, you do not tell us.

Are you aware that in this last attainment of "a better, a higher
philosophy" (which is simply absolute fatalism), you have swung round
to the side of John Calvin, and gone far beyond him? That you, who have
exhausted all the resources of the English language in denouncing
his creed as the most horrible of human beliefs—brainless, soulless,
heartless; who have held it up to scorn and derision; now hold to the
blackest Calvinism that was ever taught by man? You cannot find words
sufficient to express your horror of the doctrine of Divine decrees;
and yet here you have decrees with a vengeance—predestination and
damnation, both in one. Under such a creed, man is a thousand times
worse off than under ours: for he has absolutely no hope. You may say
that at any rate he cannot suffer forever. You do not know even that;
but at any rate _he suffers as long as he exists_. There is no God above
to show him pity, and grant him release; but as long as the ages roll,
he is "lashed to the rocks of fate," with the insatiate vulture tearing
at his heart!

In reading your glittering phrases, I seem to be losing hold of
everything, and to be sinking, sinking, till I touch the lowest
depths of an abyss; while from the blackness above me a sound like a
death-knell tolls the midnight of the soul. If I believed this I should
cry, God help us all! Or no—for there would be no God, and even this
last consolation would be denied us: for why should we offer a prayer
which can neither be heard nor answered? As well might we ask mercy from
"the rocks of fate" to which we are chained forever!

Recoiling from this Gospel of Despair, I turn to One in whose face there
is something at once human and divine—an indescribable majesty, united
with more than human tenderness and pity; One who was born among the
poor, and had not where to lay His head, and yet went about doing good;
poor, yet making many rich; who trod the world in deepest loneliness,
and yet whose presence lighted up every dwelling into which He came; who
took up little children in His arms, and blessed them; a giver of joy to
others, and yet a sufferer himself; who tasted every human sorrow, and
yet was always ready to minister to others' grief; weeping with them
that wept; coming to Bethany to comfort Mary and Martha concerning their
brother; rebuking the proud, but gentle and pitiful to the most abject
of human creatures; stopping amid the throng at the cry of a blind
beggar by the wayside; willing to be known as "the friend of sinners,"
if He might recall them into the way of peace; who did not scorn even
the fallen woman who sank at His feet, but by His gentle word, "Neither
do I condemn thee; go and sin no more," lifted her up, and set her in
the path of a virtuous womanhood; and who, when dying on the cross,
prayed: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." In this
Friend of the friendless, Comforter of the comfortless, Forgiver of the
penitent, and Guide of the erring, I find a greatness that I had not
found in any of the philosophers or teachers of the world. No voice
in all the ages thrills me like that which whispers close to my heart,
"Come unto me and I will give you rest," to which I answer: This is my
Master, and I will follow Him.

Henry M. Field.

## Letter to Dr. Field

My Dear Mr. Field:

With great pleasure I have read your second letter, in which you seem to
admit that men may differ even about religion without being responsible
for that difference; that every man has the right to read the Bible for
himself, state freely the conclusion at which he arrives, and that it is
not only his privilege, but his duty to speak the truth; that Christians
can hardly be happy in heaven, while those they loved on earth are
suffering with the lost; that it is not a crime to investigate, to
think, to reason, to observe, and to be governed by evidence; that
credulity is not a virtue, and that the open mouth of ignorant wonder
is not the only entrance to Paradise; that belief is not necessary to
salvation, and that no man can justly be made to suffer eternal pain for
having expressed an intellectual conviction.

You seem to admit that no man can justly be held responsible for his
thoughts; that the brain thinks without asking our consent, and that we
believe or disbelieve without an effort of the will.

I congratulate you upon the advance that you have made. You not only
admit that we have the right to think, but that we have the right to
express our honest thoughts. You admit that the Christian world no
longer believes in the fagot, the dungeon, and the thumbscrew. Has the
Christian world outgrown its God? Has man become more merciful than his
maker? If man will not torture his fellow-man on account of a difference
of opinion, will a God of infinite love torture one of his children for
what is called the sin of unbelief? Has man outgrown the Inquisition,
and will God forever be the warden of a penitentiary? The walls of the
old dungeons have fallen, and light now visits the cell where brave
men perished in darkness. Is Jehovah to keep the cells of perdition in
repair forever, and are his children to be the eternal prisoners?

It seems hard for you to appreciate the mental condition of one who
regards all gods as substantially the same; that is to say, who thinks
of them all as myths and phantoms born of the imagination,—characters
in the religious fictions of the race. To you it probably seems strange
that a man should think far more of Jupiter than of Jehovah. Regarding
them both as creations of the mind, I choose between them, and I prefer
the God of the Greeks, on the same principle that I prefer Portia
to Iago; and yet I regard them, one and all, as children of the
imagination, as phantoms born of human fears and human hopes.

Surely nothing was further from my mind than to hurt the feelings of any
one by speaking of the Presbyterian God. I simply intended to speak of
the God of the Presbyterians. Certainly the God of the Presbyterian
is not the God of the Catholic, nor is he the God of the Mohammedan or
Hindoo. He is a special creation suited only to certain minds. These
minds have naturally come together, and they form what we call the
Presbyterian Church. As a matter of fact, no two churches can by any
possibility have precisely the same God; neither can any two human
beings conceive of precisely the same Deity. In every man's God there
is, to say the least, a part of that man. The lower the man, the lower
his conception of God. The higher the man, the grander his Deity must
be. The savage who adorns his body with a belt from which hang the
scalps of enemies slain in battle, has no conception of a loving, of
a forgiving God; his God, of necessity, must be as revengeful, as
heartless, as infamous as the God of John Calvin.

You do not exactly appreciate my feeling. I do not hate Presbyterians; I
hate Presbyterianism. I hate with all my heart the creed of that church,
and I most heartily despise the God described in the Confession of
Faith. But some of the best friends I have in the world are afflicted
with the mental malady known as Presbyterianism. They are the victims of
the consolation growing out of the belief that a vast majority of their
fellow-men are doomed to suffer eternal torment, to the end that their
Creator may be eternally glorified. I have said many times, and I say
again, that I do not despise a man because he has the rheumatism; I
despise the rheumatism because it has a man.

But I do insist that the Presbyterians have assumed to appropriate to
themselves their Supreme Being, and that they have claimed, and that
they do claim, to be the "special objects of his favor." They do claim
to be the very elect, and they do insist that God looks upon them as
the objects of his special care. They do claim that the light of Nature,
without the torch of the Presbyterian creed, is insufficient to guide
any soul to the gate of heaven. They do insist that even those who never
heard of Christ, or never heard of the God of the Presbyterians, will be
eternally lost; and they not only claim this, but that their fate will
illustrate not only the justice but the mercy of God. Not only so, but
they insist that the morality of an unbeliever is displeasing to God,
and that the love of an unconverted mother for her helpless child is
nothing less than sin.

When I meet a man who really believes the Presbyterian creed, I think of
the Laocoon. I feel as though looking upon a human being helpless in the
coils of an immense and poisonous serpent. But I congratulate you with
all my heart that you have repudiated this infamous, this savage creed;
that you now admit that reason was given us to be exercised; that God
will not torture any man for entertaining an honest doubt, and that in
the world to come "every man will be judged according to the deeds done
in the body."

Let me quote your exact language: "I believe that in the future world
every man will be judged according to the deeds done in the body." Do
you not see that you have bidden farewell to the Presbyterian Church?
In that sentence you have thrown away the atonement, you have denied the
efficacy of the blood of Jesus Christ, and you have denied the necessity
of belief. If we are to be judged by the deeds done in the body, that
is the end of the Presbyterian scheme of salvation. I sincerely
congratulate you for having repudiated the savagery of Calvinism.

It also gave me great pleasure to find that you have thrown away, with
a kind of glad shudder, that infamy of infamies, the dogma of eternal
pain. I have denounced that inhuman belief; I have denounced every creed
that had coiled within it that viper; I have denounced every man who
preached it, the book that contains it, and with all my heart the God
who threatens it; and at last I have the happiness of seeing the editor
of the New York _Evangelist_ admit that devout Christians do not believe
that lie, and quote with approbation the words of a minister of the
Church of England to the effect that all men will be finally recovered
and made happy.

Do you find this doctrine of hope in the Presbyterian creed? Is this
star, that sheds light on every grave, found in your Bible? Did Christ
have in his mind the shining truth that all the children of men will at
last be filled with joy, when he uttered these comforting words: "Depart
from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his
angels"?

Do you find in this flame the bud of hope, or the flower of promise?

You suggest that it is possible that "the incurably bad will be
annihilated," and you say that such a fate can have no terrors for me,
as I look upon annihilation as the common lot of all. Let us examine
this position. Why should a God of infinite wisdom create men and women
whom he knew would be "incurably bad"? What would you say of a mechanic
who was forced to destroy his own productions on the ground that they
were "incurably bad"? Would you say that he was an infinitely wise
mechanic? Does infinite justice annihilate the work of infinite wisdom?
Does God, like an ignorant doctor, bury his mistakes?

Besides, what right have you to say that I "look upon annihilation as
the common lot of all"? Was there any such thought in my Reply? Do you
find it in any published words of mine? Do you find anything in what I
have written tending to show that I believe in annihilation? Is it not
true that I say now, and that I have always said, that I do not know?
Does a lack of knowledge as to the fate of the human soul imply a belief
in annihilation? Does it not equally imply a belief in immortality?

You have been—at least until recently—a believer in the inspiration
of the Bible and in the truth of its every word. What do you say to the
following: "For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts;
even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other;
yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence above
a beast." You will see that the inspired writer is not satisfied with
admitting that he does not know. "As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth
away; so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more." Was it
not cruel for an inspired man to attack a sacred belief?

You seem surprised that I should speak of the doctrine of eternal pain
as "the black thunder-cloud that darkens all the horizon, casting its
mighty shadows over the life that now is and that which is to come."
If that doctrine be true, what else is there worthy of engaging the
attention of the human mind? It is the blackness that extinguishes
every star. It is the abyss in which every hope must perish. It leaves a
universe without justice and without mercy—a future without one ray
of light, and a present with nothing but fear. It makes heaven an
impossibility, God an infinite monster, and man an eternal victim.
Nothing can redeem a religion in which this dogma is found. Clustered
about it are all the snakes of the Furies.

But you have abandoned this infamy, and you have admitted that we are to
be judged according to the deeds done in the body. Nothing can be nearer
self-evident than the fact that a finite being cannot commit an infinite
sin; neither can a finite being do an infinitely good deed. That is to
say, no one can deserve for any act eternal pain, and no one for any
deed can deserve eternal joy. If we are to be judged by the deeds done
in the body, the old orthodox hell and heaven both become impossible.

So, too, you have recognized the great and splendid truth that sin
cannot be predicated of an intellectual conviction. This is the first
great step toward the liberty of soul. You admit that there is no
morality and no immorality in belief—that is to say, in the simple
operation of the mind in weighing evidence, in observing facts, and in
drawing conclusions. You admit that these things are without sin and
without guilt. Had all men so believed there never could have been
religious persecution—the Inquisition could not have been built, and
the idea of eternal pain never could have polluted the human heart.

You have been driven to the passions for the purpose of finding what you
are pleased to call "sin" and "responsibility" and you say, speaking of
a human being, "but if he is warped by passion so that he cannot see
things truly, then is he responsible." One would suppose that the use of
the word "cannot" is inconsistent with the idea of responsibility. What
is passion? There are certain desires, swift, thrilling, that quicken
the action of the heart—desires that fill the brain with blood, with
fire and flame—desires that bear the same relation to judgment that
storms and waves bear to the compass on a ship. Is passion necessarily
produced? Is there an adequate cause for every effect? Can you by any
possibility think of an effect without a cause, and can you by any
possibility think of an effect that is not a cause, or can you think of
a cause that is not an effect? Is not the history of real civilization
the slow and gradual emancipation of the intellect, of the judgment,
from the mastery of passion? Is not that man civilized whose reason sits
the crowned monarch of his brain—whose passions are his servants?

Who knows the strength of the temptation to another? Who knows how
little has been resisted by those who stand, how much has been resisted
by those who fall? Who knows whether the victor or the victim made the
braver and the more gallant fight? In judging of our fellow-men we
must take into consideration the circumstances of ancestry, of race,
of nationality, of employment, of opportunity, of education, and of the
thousand influences that tend to mold or mar the character of man. Such
a view is the mother of charity, and makes the God of the Presbyterians
impossible.

At last you have seen the impossibility of forgiveness. That is to say,
you perceive that after forgiveness the crime remains, and its children,
called consequences, still live. You recognize the lack of philosophy
in that doctrine. You still believe in what you call "the forgiveness
of sins," but you admit that forgiveness cannot reverse the course of
nature, and cannot prevent the operation of natural law. You also admit
that if a man lives after death, he preserves his personal identity, his
memory, and that the consequences of his actions will follow him through
all the eternal years. You admit that consequences are immortal. After
making this admission, of what use is the old idea of the forgiveness
of sins? How can the criminal be washed clean and pure in the blood of
another? In spite of this forgiveness, in spite of this blood, you have
taken the ground that consequences, like the dogs of Actaeon, follow even
a Presbyterian, even one of the elect, within the heavenly gates. If you
wish to be logical, you must also admit that the consequences of good
deeds, like winged angels, follow even the atheist within the gates of
hell.

You have had the courage of your convictions, and you have said that
we are to be judged according to the deeds done in the body. By that
judgment I am willing to abide. But, whether willing or not, I must
abide, because there is no power, no God that can step between me and
the consequences of my acts. I wish no heaven that I have not earned,
no happiness to which I am not entitled. I do not wish to become an
immortal pauper; neither am I willing to extend unworthy hands for alms.

My dear Mr. Field, you have outgrown your creed—as every Presbyterian
must who grows at all. You are far better than the spirit of the Old
Testament; far better, in my judgment, even than the spirit of the New.
The creed that you have left behind, that you have repudiated, teaches
that a man may be guilty of every crime—that he may have driven his
wife to insanity, that his example may have led his children to the
penitentiary, or to the gallows, and that yet, at the eleventh hour, he
may, by what is called "repentance," be washed absolutely pure by
the blood of another and receive and wear upon his brow the laurels of
eternal peace. Not only so, but that creed has taught that this wretch
in heaven could look back on the poor earth and see the wife, whom he
swore to love and cherish, in the mad-house, surrounded by imaginary
serpents, struggling in the darkness of night, made insane by his
heartlessness—that creed has taught and teaches that he could look back
and see his children in prison cells, or on the scaffold with the noose
about their necks, and that these visions would not bring a shade of
sadness to his redeemed and happy face. It is this doctrine, it is this
dogma—so bestial, so savage as to beggar all the languages of men—that
I have denounced. All the words of hatred, loathing and contempt, found
in all the dialects and tongues of men, are not sufficient to express my
hatred, my contempt, and my loathing of this creed.

You say that it is impossible for you not to believe in the existence of
God. With this statement, I find no fault. Your mind is so that a belief
in the existence of a Supreme Being gives satisfaction and content. Of
course, you are entitled to no credit for this belief, as you ought
not to be rewarded for believing that which you cannot help believing;
neither should I be punished for failing to believe that which I cannot
believe.

You believe because you see in the world around you such an adaptation
of means to ends that you are satisfied there is design. I admit that
when Robinson Crusoe saw in the sand the print of a human foot, like and
yet unlike his own, he was justified in drawing the conclusion that
a human being had been there. The inference was drawn from his own
experience, and was within the scope of his own mind. But I do not
agree with you that he "knew" a human being had been there; he had only
sufficient evidence upon which to found a belief. He did not know the
footsteps of all animals; he could not have known that no animal except
man could have made that footprint: In order to have known that it was
the foot of man, he must have known that no other animal was capable of
making it, and he must have known that no other being had produced in
the sand the likeness of this human foot.

You see what you call evidences of intelligence in the universe, and you
draw the conclusion that there must be an infinite intelligence. Your
conclusion is far wider than your premise. Let us suppose, as Mr.
Hume supposed, that there is a pair of scales, one end of which is
in darkness, and you find that a pound weight, or a ten-pound weight,
placed upon that end of the scale in the light is raised; have you the
right to say that there is an infinite weight on the end in darkness, or
are you compelled to say only that there is weight enough on the end in
darkness to raise the weight on the end in light?

It is illogical to say, because of the existence of this earth and
of what you can see in and about it, that there must be an infinite
intelligence. You do not know that even the creation of this world,
and of all planets discovered, required an infinite power, or infinite
wisdom. I admit that it is impossible for me to look at a watch and draw
the inference that there was no design in its construction, or that
it only happened. I could not regard it as a product of some freak of
nature, neither could I imagine that its various parts were brought
together and set in motion by chance. I am not a believer in chance. But
there is a vast difference between what man has made and the materials
of which he has constructed the things he has made. You find a watch,
and you say that it exhibits, or shows design. You insist that it is so
wonderful it must have had a designer—in other words, that it is too
wonderful not to have been constructed. You then find the watchmaker,
and you say with regard to him that he too must have had a designer, for
he is more wonderful than the watch. In imagagination you go from
the watchmaker to the being you call God, and you say he designed the
watchmaker, but he himself was not designed because he is too wonderful
to have been designed. And yet in the case of the watch and of the
watchmaker, it was the wonder that suggested design, while in the case
of the maker of the watchmaker the wonder denied a designer. Do you not
see that this argument devours itself?

If wonder suggests a designer, can it go on increasing until it denies
that which it suggested?

You must remember, too, that the argument of design is applicable to
all. You are not at liberty to stop at sunrise and sunset and growing
corn and all that adds to the happiness of man; you must go further. You
must admit that an infinitely wise and merciful God designed the fangs
of serpents, the machinery by which the poison is distilled, the ducts
by which it is carried to the fang, and that the same intelligence
impressed this serpent with a desire to deposit this deadly virus in
the flesh of man. You must believe that an infinitely wise God so
constructed this world, that in the process of cooling, earthquakes
would be caused—earthquakes that devour and overwhelm cities and
states. Do you see any design in the volcano that sends its rivers of
lava over the fields and the homes of men? Do you really think that a
perfectly good being designed the invisible parasites that infest the
air, that inhabit the water, and that finally attack and destroy the
health and life of man? Do you see the same design in cancers that you
do in wheat and corn? Did God invent tumors for the brain? Was it his
ingenuity that so designed the human race that millions of people should
be born deaf and dumb, that millions should be idiotic? Did he knowingly
plant in the blood or brain the seeds of insanity? Did he cultivate
those seeds? Do you see any design in this?

Man calls that good which increases his happiness, and that evil which
gives him pain. In the olden time, back of the good he placed a God;
back of the evil a devil; but now the orthodox world is driven to admit
that the God is the author of all.

For my part, I see no goodness in the pestilence—no mercy in the bolt
that leaps from the cloud and leaves the mark of death on the breast of
a loving mother. I see no generosity in famine, no goodness in disease,
no mercy in want and agony.

And yet you say that the being who created parasites that live only
by inflicting pain—the being responsible for all the sufferings of
mankind—you say that he has "a tenderness compared to which all human
love is faint and cold." Yet according to the doctrine of the orthodox
world, this being of infinite love and tenderness so created nature
that its light misleads, and left a vast majority of the human race to
blindly grope their way to endless pain.

You insist that a knowledge of God—a belief in God—is the foundation
of social order; and yet this God of infinite tenderness has left for
thousands and thousands of years nearly all of his children without a
revelation. Why should infinite goodness leave the existence of God in
doubt? Why should he see millions in savagery destroying the lives of
each other, eating the flesh of each other, and keep his existence a
secret from man? Why did he allow the savages to depend on sunrise
and sunset and clouds? Why did he leave this great truth to a few
half-crazed prophets, or to a cruel, heartless, and ignorant church? The
sentence "There is a God".could have been imprinted on every blade of
grass, on every leaf, on every star. An infinite God has no excuse for
leaving his children in doubt and darkness.

There is still another point. You know that for thousands of ages men
worshiped wild beasts as God. You know that for countless generations
they knelt by coiled serpents, believing those serpents to be gods. Why
did the real God secrete himself and allow his poor, ignorant, savage
children to imagine that he was a beast, a serpent? Why did this God
allow mothers to sacrifice their babes? Why did he not emerge from the
darkness? Why did he not say to the poor mother, "Do not sacrifice your
babe; keep it in your arms; press it to your bosom; let it be the solace
of your declining years. I take no delight in the death of children; I
am not what you suppose me to be; I am not a beast; I am not a serpent;
I am full of love and kindness and mercy, and I want my children to be
happy in this world"? Did the God who allowed a mother to sacrifice her
babe through the mistaken idea that he, the God, demanded the sacrifice,
feel a tenderness toward that mother "compared to which all human love
is faint and cold"? Would a good father allow some of his children to
kill others of his children to please him?

There is still another question. Why should God, a being of infinite
tenderness, leave the question of immortality in doubt? How is it that
there is nothing in the Old Testament on this subject? Why is it that
he who made all the constellations did not put in his heaven the star
of hope? How do you account for the fact that you do not find in the
Old Testament, from the first mistake in Genesis, to the last curse in
Malachi, a funeral service? Is it not strange that some one in the Old
Testament did not stand by an open grave of father or mother and say:
"We shall meet again"? Was it because the divinely inspired men did not
know?

You taunt me by saying that I know no more of the immortality of the
soul than Cicero knew. I admit it. I know no more than the lowest
savage, no more than a doctor of divinity—that is to say, nothing.

Is it not, however, a curious fact that there is less belief in
the immortality of the soul in Christian countries than in heathen
lands—that the belief in immortality, in an orthodox church, is faint
and cold and speculative, compared with that belief in India, in China,
or in the Pacific Isles? Compare the belief in immortality in America,
of Christians, with that of the followers of Mohammed. Do not Christians
weep above their dead? Does a belief in immortality keep back their
tears? After all, the promises are so far away, and the dead are so
near—the echoes of words said to have been spoken more than eighteen
centuries ago are lost in the sounds of the clods that fall on the
coffin, And yet, compared with the orthodox hell, compared with the
prison-house of God, how ecstatic is the grave—the grave without a
sigh, without a tear, without a dream, without a fear. Compared with
the immortality promised by the Presbyterian creed, how beautiful
annihilation seems. To be nothing—how much better than to be a convict
forever. To be unconscious dust—how much better than to be a heartless
angel.

There is not, there never has been, there never will be, any consolation
in orthodox Christianity. It offers no consolation to any good and
loving man. I prefer the consolation of Nature, the consolation of hope,
the consolation springing from human affection. I prefer the simple
desire to live and love forever.

Of course, it would be a consolation to know that we have an "Almighty
Friend" in heaven; but an "Almighty Friend" who cares nothing for us,
who allows us to be stricken by his lightning, frozen by his winter,
starved by his famine, and at last imprisoned in his hell, is a friend I
do not care to have.

I remember "the poor slave mother who sat alone in her cabin, having
been robbed of her children;" and, my dear Mr. Field, I also remember
that the people who robbed her justified the robbery by reading passages
from the sacred Scriptures. I remember that while the mother wept, the
robbers, some of whom were Christians, read this: "Buy of the heathen
round about, and they shall be your bondmen and bondwomen forever." I
remember, too, that the robbers read: "Servants be obedient unto your
masters;" and they said, this passage is the only message from the
heart of God to the scarred back of the slave. I remember this, and I
remember, also, that the poor slave mother upon her knees in wild and
wailing accents called on the "Almighty Friend," and I remember that her
prayer was never heard, and that her sobs died in the negligent air.

You ask me whether I would "rob this poor woman of such a friend?" My
answer is this: I would give her liberty; I would break her chains. But
let me ask you, did an "Almighty Friend" see the woman he loved "with a
tenderness compared to which all human love is faint and cold," and
the woman who loved him, robbed of her children? What was the "Almighty
Friend" worth to her? She preferred her babe.

How could the "Almighty Friend" see his poor children pursued by
hounds—his children whose only crime was the love of liberty—how could
he see that, and take sides with the hounds? Do you believe that the
"Almighty Friend" then governed the world? Do you really think that he

> "Bade the slave-ship speed from coast to coast,
> Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost"?

Do you believe that the "Almighty Friend" saw all of the tragedies that
were enacted in the jungles of Africa—that he watched the wretched
slave-ships, saw the miseries of the middle passage, heard the blows of
all the whips, saw all the streams of blood, all the agonized faces of
women, all the tears that were shed? Do you believe that he saw and knew
all these things, and that he, the "Almighty Friend," looked coldly down
and stretched no hand to save?

You persist, however, in endeavoring to account for the miseries of the
world by taking the ground that happiness is not the end of life. You
say that "the real end of life is character, and that no discipline can
be too severe which leads us to suffer and be strong." Upon this subject
you use the following language: "If you could have your way you would
make everybody happy; there would be no more poverty, and no more
sickness or pain." And this you say, is a "child's picture, hardly
worthy of a stalwart man." Let me read you another "child's picture,"
which you will find in the twenty-first chapter of Revelation, supposed
to have been written by St. John, the Divine: "And I heard a great voice
out of heaven saying, behold the tabernacle of God is with men, and
he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself
shall be with them, and be their God; and God shall wipe away all tears
from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor
crying, neither shall there be any more pain.".

If you visited some woman living in a tenement, supporting by her poor
labor a little family—a poor woman on the edge of famine, sewing, it
may be, her eyes blinded by tears—would you tell her that "the world
is not a playground in which men are to be petted and indulged like
children."? Would you tell her that to think of a world without poverty,
without tears, without pain, is "a child's picture"? If she asked you
for a little assistance, would you refuse it on the ground that by being
helped she might lose character? Would you tell her: "God does not wish
to have you happy; happiness is a very foolish end; character is what
you want, and God has put you here with these helpless, starving babes,
and he has put this burden on your young life simply that you may suffer
and be strong. I would help you gladly, but I do not wish to defeat the
plans of your Almighty Friend"? You can reason one way, but you would
act the other.

I agree with you that work is good, that struggle is essential; that
men are made manly by contending with each other and with the forces
of nature; but there is a point beyond which struggle does not make
character; there is a point at which struggle becomes failure.

Can you conceive of an "Almighty Friend" deforming his children because
he loves them? Did he allow the innocent to languish in dungeons because
he was their friend? Did he allow the noble to perish upon the scaffold,
the great and the self-denying to be burned at the stake, because he had
the power to save? Was he restrained by love? Did this "Almighty Friend"
allow millions of his children to be enslaved to the end that the
"splendor of virtue might have a dark background"? You insist that
"suffering patiently borne, is a means of the greatest elevation of
character, and in the end of the highest enjoyment." Do you not then
see that your "Almighty Friend" has been unjust to the happy—that he is
cruel to those whom we call the fortunate—that he is indifferent to the
men who do not suffer—that he leaves all the happy and prosperous
and joyous without character, and that in the end, according to your
doctrine, they are the losers?

But, after all, there is no need of arguing this question further. There
is one fact that destroys forever your theory—and that is the fact that
millions upon millions die in infancy. Where do they get "elevation of
character"? What opportunity is given to them to "suffer and be strong"?
Let us admit that we do not know. Let us say that the mysteries of
life, of good and evil, of joy and pain, have never been explained. Is
character of no importance in heaven? How is it possible for angels,
living in "a child's picture," to "suffer and be strong"? Do you not see
that, according to your philosophy, only the damned can grow great—only
the lost can become sublime?

You do not seem to understand what I say with regard to what I call the
higher philosophy. When that philosophy is accepted, of course there
will be good in the world, there will be evil, there will still be right
and wrong. What is good? That which tends to the happiness of sentient
beings. What is evil? That which tends to the misery, or tends to lessen
the happiness of sentient beings. What is right? The best thing to
be done under the circumstances—that is to say, the thing that will
increase or preserve the happiness of man. What is wrong? That which
tends to the misery of man.

What you call liberty, choice, morality, responsibility, have nothing
whatever to do with this. There is no difference between necessity and
liberty. He who is free, acts from choice. What is the foundation of
his choice? What we really mean by liberty is freedom from personal
dictation—we do not wish to be controlled by the will of others. To us
the nature of things does not seem to be a master—Nature has no will.

Society has the right to protect itself by imprisoning those who prey
upon its interests; but it has no right to punish. It may have the right
to destroy the life of one dangerous to the community; but what has
freedom to do with this? Do you kill the poisonous serpent because
he knew better than to bite? Do you chain a wild beast because he is
morally responsible? Do you not think that the criminal deserves the
pity of the virtuous?

I was looking forward to the time when the individual might feel
justified—when the convict who had worn the garment of disgrace might
know and feel that he had acted as he must.

There is an old Hindoo prayer to which I call your attention:

> "Have mercy, God, upon the vicious;
> Thou hast already had mercy upon the just by making them just."

Is it not possible that we may find that everything has been necessarily
produced? This, of course, would end in the justification of men. Is not
that a desirable thing? Is it not possible that intelligence may at last
raise the human race to that sublime and philosophic height?

You insist, however, that this is Calvinism. I take it for granted that
you understand Calvinism—but let me tell you what it is. Calvinism
asserts that man does as he must, and that, notwithstanding this fact,
he is responsible for what he does—that is to say, for what he is
compelled to do—that is to say, for what God does with him; and that,
for doing that which he must, an infinite God, who compelled him to do
it, is justified in punishing the man in eternal fire; this, not because
the man ought to be damned, but simply for the glory of God.

Starting from the same declaration, that man does as he must, I reach
the conclusion that we shall finally perceive in this fact justification
for every individual. And yet you see no difference between my
doctrine and Calvinism. You insist that damnation and justification
are substantially the same; and yet the difference is as great as human
language can express. You call the justification of all the world "the
Gospel of Despair," and the damnation of nearly all the human race the
"Consolation of Religion."

After all, my dear friend, do you not see that when you come to speak
of that which is really good, you are compelled to describe your ideal
human being? It is the human in Christ, and only the human, that you by
any possibility can understand. You speak of one who was born among
the poor, who went about doing good, who sympathized with those who
suffered. You have described, not only one, but many millions of the
human race, Millions of others have carried light to those sitting
in darkness; millions and millions have taken children in their arms;
millions have wept that those they love might smile. No language can
express the goodness, the heroism, the patience and self-denial of the
many millions, dead and living, who have preserved in the family of man
the jewels of the heart. You have clad one being in all the virtues of
the race, in all the attributes of gentleness, patience, goodness, and
love, and yet that being, according to the New Testament, had to his
character another side. True, he said, "Come unto me and I will give
you rest;" but what did he say to those who failed to come? You pour out
your whole heart in thankfulness to this one man who suffered for the
right, while I thank not only this one, but all the rest. My heart goes
out to all the great, the self-denying and the good,—to the founders of
nations, singers of songs, builders of homes; to the inventors, to
the artists who have filled the world with beauty, to the composers of
music, to the soldiers of the right, to the makers of mirth, to honest
men, and to all the loving mothers of the race.

Compare, for one moment, all that the Savior did, all the pain and
suffering that he relieved,—compare all this with the discovery of
anaesthetics. Compare your prophets with the inventors, your Apostles
with the Keplers, the Humboldts and the Darwins.

I belong to the great church that holds the world within its starlit
aisles; that claims the great and good of every race and clime; that
finds with joy the grain of gold in every creed, and floods with light
and love the germs of good in every soul.

Most men are provincial, narrow, one sided, only partially developed. In
a new country we often see a little patch of land, a clearing in which
the pioneer has built his cabin. This little clearing is just large
enough to support a family, and the remainder of the farm is still
forest, in which snakes crawl and wild beasts occasionally crouch. It
is thus with the brain of the average man. There is a little clearing,
a little patch, just large enough to practice medicine with, or sell
goods, or practice law; or preach with, or do some kind of business,
sufficient to obtain bread and food and shelter for a family, while
all the rest of the brain is covered with primeval forest, in which
lie coiled the serpents of superstition and from which spring the wild
beasts of orthodox religion.

Neither in the interest of truth, nor for the benefit of man, is it
necessary to assert what we do not know. No cause is great enough to
demand a sacrifice of candor. The mysteries of life and death, of good
and evil, have never yet been solved.

I combat those only who, knowing nothing of the future, prophesy an
eternity of pain—those only who sow the seeds of fear in the hearts of
men—those only who poison all the springs of life, and seat a skeleton
at every feast.

Let us banish the shriveled hags of superstition; let us welcome the
beautiful daughters of truth and joy.

Robert G. Ingersoll.
---
# The Ingersoll–Gladstone Controversy
_Dresden Edition, Volume 6, 1888_
COLONEL INGERSOLL ON CHRISTIANITY; SOME REMARKS ON HIS REPLY TO DR.
FIELD.

By Hon. Wm. E. Gladstone.

AS a listener from across the broad Atlantic to the clash of arms in the
combat between Colonel Ingersoll and Dr. Field on the most momentous
of all subjects, I have not the personal knowledge which assisted these
doughty champions in making reciprocal acknowledgments, as broad as
could be desired, with reference to personal character and motive. Such
acknowledgments are of high value in keeping the issue clear, if not
always of all adventitious, yet of all venomous matter. Destitute of
the experience on which to found them as original testimonies, still,
in attempting partially to criticise the remarkable Reply of Colonel
Ingersoll, I can both accept in good faith what has been said by Dr.
Field, and add that it seems to me consonant with the strain of the
pages I have set before me. Having said this, I shall allow myself the
utmost freedom in remarks, which will be addressed exclusively to the
matter, not the man.

Let me begin by making several acknowledgments of another kind, but
which I feel to be serious. The Christian Church has lived long enough
in external triumph and prosperity to expose those of whom it is
composed to all such perils of error and misfeasance, as triumph
and prosperity bring with them. Belief in divine guidance is not of
necessity belief that such guidance can never be frustrated by the
laxity, the infirmity, the perversity of man, alike in the domain of
action and in the domain of thought. Believers in the perpetuity of the
life of the Church are not tied to believing in the perpetual health
of the Church. Even the great Latin Communion, and that communion even
since the Council of the Vatican in 1870, theoretically admits, or does
not exclude, the possibility of a wide range of local and partial error
in opinion as well as conduct. Elsewhere the admission would be more
unequivocal. Of such errors in tenet, or in temper and feeling more
or less hardened into tenet, there has been a crop alike abundant and
multifarious. Each Christian party is sufficiently apt to recognize this
fact with regard to every other Christian party; and the more impartial
and reflective minds are aware that no party is exempt from mischiefs,
which lie at the root of the human constitution in its warped, impaired,
and dislocated condition. Naturally enough, these deformities help
to indispose men towards belief; and when this indisposition has been
developed into a system of negative warfare, all the faults of all the
Christian bodies, and sub-divisions of bodies, are, as it was natural
to expect they would be, carefully raked together, and become part and
parcel of the indictment against the divine scheme of redemption. I
notice these things in the mass, without particularity, which might be
invidious, for two important purposes. First, that we all, who hold by
the Gospel and the Christian Church, may learn humility and modesty, as
well as charity and indulgence, in the treatment of opponents, from
our consciousness that we all, alike by our exaggerations and our
shortcomings in belief, no less than by faults of conduct, have
contributed to bring about this condition of fashionable hostility to
religious faith: and, secondly, that we may resolutely decline to be
held bound to tenets, or to consequences of tenets, which represent not
the great Christendom of the past and present, but only some hole and
corner of its vast organization; and not the heavenly treasure, but the
rust or the canker to which that treasure has been exposed through the
incidents of its custody in earthen vessels.

I do not remember ever to have read a composition, in which the
merely local coloring of particular, and even very limited sections of
Christianity, was more systematically used as if it had been available
and legitimate argument against the whole, than in the Reply before us.
Colonel Ingersoll writes with a rare and enviable brilliancy, but also
with an impetus which he seems unable to control. Denunciation, sarcasm,
and invective, may in consequence be said to constitute the staple of
his work; and, if argument or some favorable admission here and there
peeps out for a moment, the writer soon leaves the dry and barren
heights for his favorite and more luxurious galloping grounds beneath.
Thus, when the Reply has consecrated a line (N. A. R., No. 372, p. 473)
to the pleasing contemplation of his opponent as "manly, candid, and
generous," it immediately devotes more than twelve to a declamatory
denunciation of a practice (as if it were his) altogether contrary to
generosity and to candor, and reproaches those who expect (_ibid._) "to
receive as alms an eternity of joy." I take this as a specimen of
the mode of statement which permeates the whole Reply. It is not the
statement of an untruth. The Christian receives as alms all whatsoever
he receives at all. _Qui salvandos salvas gratis_ is his song of
thankful praise. But it is the statement of one-half of a truth, which
lives only in its entirety, and of which the Reply gives us only a
mangled and bleeding _frustum_. For the gospel teaches that the faith
which saves is a living and energizing faith, and that the most precious
part of the alms which we receive lies in an ethical and spiritual
process, which partly qualifies for, but also and emphatically composes,
this conferred eternity of joy. Restore this ethical element to the
doctrine from which the Reply has rudely displaced it, and the whole
force of the assault is gone, for there is now a total absence of point
in the accusation; it conies only to this, that "mercy and judgment are
met together," and that "righteousness and peace have kissed each other"
(Ps. lxxxv. 10).

Perhaps, as we proceed, there will be supplied ampler means of judging
whether I am warranted in saying that the instance I have here given
is a normal instance of a practice so largely followed as to divest
the entire Reply of that calmness and sobriety of movement which are
essential to the just exercise of the reasoning power in subject matter
not only grave, but solemn. Pascal has supplied us, in the "Provincial
Letters," with an unique example of easy, brilliant, and fascinating
treatment of a theme both profound and complex. But where shall we find
another Pascal? And, if we had found him, he would be entitled to point
out to us that the famous work was not less close and logical than it
was witty. In this case, all attempt at continuous argument appears to
be deliberately abjured, not only as to pages, but, as may almost be
said, even as to lines. The paper, noteworthy as it is, leaves on my
mind the impression of a battle-field where every man strikes at every
man, and all is noise, hurry, and confusion. Better surely had it been,
and worthier of the great weight and elevation of the subject, if the
controversy had been waged after the pattern of those engagements where
a chosen champion on either side, in a space carefully limited and
reserved, does battle on behalf of each silent and expectant host. The
promiscuous crowds represent all the lower elements which enter
into human conflicts: the chosen champions, and the order of their
proceeding, signify the dominion of reason over force, and its just
place as the sovereign arbiter of the great questions that involve the
main destiny of man.

I will give another instance of the tumultuous method in which the
Reply conducts, not, indeed, its argument, but its case. Dr. Field had
exhibited an example of what he thought superstition, and had drawn a
distinction between superstition and religion. But to the author of
the Reply all religion is superstition, and, accordingly, he writes as
follows (p. 475): "You are shocked at the Hindoo mother, when she gives
her child to death at the supposed command of her God. What do you think
of Abraham? of Jephthah? What is your opinion of Jehovah himself?"

Taking these three appeals in the reverse order to that in which they
are written, I will briefly ask, as to the closing challenge, "What
do you think of Jehovah himself?" whether this is the tone in which
controversy ought to be carried on? Not only is the name of Jehovah
encircled in the heart of every believer with the profoundest reverence
and love, but the Christian religion teaches, through the Incarnation,
a doctrine of personal union with God so lofty that it can only be
approached in a deep, reverential calm. I do not deny that a person
who deems a given religion to be wicked may be led onward by logical
consistency to impugn in strong terms the character of the Author and
Object of that religion. But he is surely bound by the laws of social
morality and decency to consider well the terms and the manner of his
indictment. If he founds it upon allegations of fact, these allegations
should be carefully stated, so as to give his antagonists reasonable
evidence that it is truth and not temper which wrings from him a
sentence of condemnation, delivered in sobriety and sadness, and
not without a due commiseration for those, whom he is attempting to
undeceive, who think he is himself both deceived and a deceiver, but who
surely are entitled, while this question is in process of decision, to
require that He whom they adore should at least be treated with those
decent reserves which are deemed essential when a human being, say
a parent, wife, or sister, is in question. But here a contemptuous
reference to Jehovah follows, not upon a careful investigation of the
cases of Abraham and of Jephthah, but upon a mere summary citation of
them to surrender themselves, so to speak, as culprits; that is to say,
a summons to accept at once, on the authority of the Reply, the view
which the writer is pleased to take of those cases. It is true that he
assures us in another part of his paper that he has read the scriptures
with care; and I feel bound to accept this assurance, but at the same
time to add that if it had not been given I should, for one, not
have made the discovery, but might have supposed that the author had
galloped, not through, but about, the sacred volume, as a man glances
over the pages of an ordinary newspaper or novel.

Although there is no argument as to Abraham or Jephthah expressed upon
the surface, we must assume that one is intended, and it seems to be of
the following kind: "You are not entitled to reprove the Hindoo mother
who cast her child under the wheels of the car of Juggernaut, for
you approve of the conduct of Jephthah, who (probably) sacrificed his
daughter in fulfilment of a vow (Judges xi. 31) that he would make a
burnt offering of whatsoever, on his safe return, he should meet coming
forth from the doors of his dwelling." Now the whole force of this
rejoinder depends upon our supposed obligation as believers to approve
the conduct of Jephthah. It is, therefore, a very serious question
whether we are or are not so obliged. But this question the Reply does
not condescend either to argue, or even to state. It jumps to an extreme
conclusion without the decency of an intermediate step. Are not such
methods of proceeding more suited to placards at an election, than to
disquisitions on these most solemn subjects?

I am aware of no reason why any believer in Christianity should not
be free to canvass, regret, condemn the act of Jephthah. So far as the
narration which details it is concerned, there is not a word of sanction
given to it more than to the falsehood of Abraham in Egypt, or of
Jacob and Rebecca in the matter of the hunting (Gen. xx. 1-18, and Gen.
xxiii.); or to the dissembling of St. Peter in the case of the Judaizing
converts (Gai. ii. 11). I am aware of no color of approval given to
it elsewhere. But possibly the author of the Reply may have thought he
found such an approval in the famous eleventh chapter of the Epistle to
the Hebrews, where the apostle, handling his subject with a discernment
and care very different from those of the Reply, writes thus (Heb. xi.
32):

"And what shall I say more? For the time would fail me to tell of
Gideon, and of Barak, and of Samson, and of Jephthah: of David also, and
Samuel, and of the prophets."

Jephthah, then, is distinctly held up to us by a canonical writer as an
object of praise. But of praise on what account? Why should the Reply
assume that it is on account of the sacrifice of his child? The writer
of the Reply has given us no reason, and no rag of a reason, in support
of such a proposition. But this was the very thing he was bound by every
consideration to prove, upon making his indictment against the Almighty.
In my opinion, he could have one reason only for not giving a reason,
and that was that no reason could be found.

The matter, however, is so full of interest, as illustrating both the
method of the Reply and that of the Apostolic writer, that I shall enter
farther into it, and draw attention to the very remarkable structure of
this noble chapter, which is to Faith what the thirteenth of Cor. I. is
to Charity. From the first to the thirty-first verse, it commemorates
the achievements of faith in ten persons: Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham,
Sarah, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses (in greater detail than any one
else), and finally Rahab, in whom, I observe in passing, it will hardly
be pretended that she appears in this list on account of the profession
she had pursued. Then comes the rapid recital (v. 31), without any
specification of particulars whatever, of these four names: Gideon,
Barak, Samson, Jephthah. Next follows a kind of recommencement,
indicated by the word also; and the glorious acts and sufferings of the
prophets are set forth largely with a singular power and warmth, headed
by the names of David and Samuel, the rest of the sacred band being
mentioned only in the mass.

Now, it is surely very remarkable that, in the whole of this recital,
the Apostle, whose "feet were shod with the preparation of the gospel
of peace," seems with a tender instinct to avoid anything like stress
on the exploits of warriors. Of the twelve persons having a share in the
detailed expositions, David is the only warrior, and his character as
a man of war is eclipsed by his greater attributes as a prophet, or
declarer of the Divine counsels. It is yet more noteworthy that Joshua,
who had so fair a fame, but who was only a warrior, is never named in
the chapter, and we are simply told that "by faith the walls of Jericho
fell down, after they had been compassed about seven times" (Hebrews
xi. 30). But the series of four names, which are given without any
specification of their title to appear in the list, are all names
of distinguished warriors. They had all done great acts of faith
and patriotism against the enemies of Israel,—Gideon against the
Midianites, Barak against the hosts of Syria, Samson against the
Philistines, and Jephthah against the children of Ammon. Their tide to
appear in the list at all is in their acts of war, and the mode of their
treatment as men of war is in striking accordance with the analogies
of the chapter. All of them had committed errors. Gideon had again and
again demanded a sign, and had made a golden ephod, "which thing became
a snare unto Gideon and to his house" (Judges viii. 27). Barak had
refused to go up against Jabin unless Deborah would join the venture
(Judges v. 8). Samson had been in dalliance with Delilah. Last came
Jephthah, who had, as we assume, sacrificed his daughter in fulfilment
of a rash vow. No one supposes that any of the others are honored by
mention in the chapter on account of his sin or error: why should that
supposition be made in the case of Jephthah, at the cost of all the
rules of orderly interpretation?

Having now answered the challenge as to Jephthah, I proceed to the
case of Abraham. It would not be fair to shrink from touching it in
its tenderest point. That point is nowhere expressly touched by the
commendations bestowed upon Abraham in Scripture. I speak now of the
special form, of the words that are employed. He is not commended
because, being a father, he made all the preparations antecedent to
plunging the knife into his son. He is commended (as I read the text)
because, having received a glorious promise, a promise that his wife
should be a mother of nations, and that kings should be born of her
(Gen. xvii. 6), and that by his seed the blessings of redemption should
be conveyed to man, and the fulfilment of this promise depending solely
upon the life of Isaac, he was, nevertheless, willing that the chain of
these promises should be broken by the extinction of that life, because
his faith assured him that the Almighty would find the way to give
effect to His own designs (Heb. xi. 17-19). The offering of Isaac is
mentioned as a completed offering, and the intended blood-shedding, of
which I shall speak presently, is not here brought into view.

The facts, however, which we have before us, and which are treated in
Scripture with caution, are grave and startling. A father is commanded
to sacrifice his son. Before consummation, the sacrifice is interrupted.
Yet the intention of obedience had been formed, and certified by a
series of acts. It may have been qualified by a reserve of hope that God
would interpose before the final act, but of this we have no distinct
statement, and it can only stand as an allowable conjecture. It may be
conceded that the narrative does not supply us with a complete statement
of particulars. That being so, it behooves us to tread cautiously in
approaching it. Thus much, however, I think, may further be said: the
command was addressed to Abraham under conditions essentially different
from those which now determine for us the limits of moral obligation.

For the conditions, both socially and otherwise, were indeed very
different. The estimate of human life at the time was different. The
position of the father in the family was different: its members were
regarded as in some sense his property. There is every reason to suppose
that, around Abraham in "the land of Moriah," the practice of human
sacrifice as an act of religion was in vigor. But we may look more
deeply into the matter. According to the Book of Genesis, Adam and Eve
were placed under a law, not of consciously perceived right and wrong,
but of simple obedience. The tree, of which alone they were forbidden to
eat, was the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Duty lay for them
in following the command of the Most High, before and until they,
or their descendants, should become capable of appreciating it by an
ethical standard. Their condition was greatly analogous to that of the
infant, who has just reached the stage at which he can comprehend that
he is ordered to do this or that, but not the nature of the thing
so ordered. To the external standard of right and wrong, and to the
obligation it entails per se, the child is introduced by a process
gradually unfolded with the development of his nature, and the opening
out of what we term a moral sense. If we pass at once from the epoch
of Paradise to the period of the prophets, we perceive the important
progress that has been made in the education of the race. The Almighty,
in His mediate intercourse with Israel, deigns to appeal to an
independently conceived criterion, as to an arbiter between His people
and Himself. "Come, now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord"
(Isaiah i. 18). "Yet ye say the way of the Lord is not equal. Hear now,
O house of Israel, is not my way equal, are not your ways unequal?"
(Ezekiel xvii. 25). Between these two epochs how wide a space of moral
teaching has been traversed! But Abraham, so far as we may judge from
the pages of Scripture, belongs essentially to the Adamic period, far
more than to the prophetic. The notion of righteousness and sin was not
indeed hidden from him: transgression itself had opened that chapter,
and it was never to be closed: but as yet they lay wrapped up, so to
speak, in Divine command and prohibition. And what God commanded, it was
for Abraham to believe that He himself would adjust to the harmony of
His own character.

The faith of Abraham, with respect to this supreme trial, appears to
have been centered in this, that he would trust God to all extremities,
and in despite of all appearances. The command received was obviously
inconsistent with the promises which had preceded it. It was also
inconsistent with the morality acknowledged in later times, and perhaps
too definitely reflected in our minds, by an anachronism easy to
conceive, on the day of Abraham. There can be little doubt, as between
these two points of view, that the strain upon his faith was felt
mainly, to say the least, in connection with the first mentioned.
This faith is not wholly unlike the faith of Job; for Job believed, in
despite of what was to the eye of flesh an unrighteous government of
the world. If we may still trust the Authorized Version, his cry was,
"though he slay me, yet will I trust in him" (Job xiii. 15). This cry
was, however, the expression of one who did not expect to be slain; and
it may be that Abraham, when he said, "My son, God will provide Himself
a lamb for a burnt offering," not only believed explicitly that God
would do what was right, but, moreover, believed implicitly that a way
of rescue would be found for his son. I do not say that this case is
like the case of Jephthah, where the introduction of difficulty is only
gratuitous. I confine myself to these propositions. Though the law
of moral action is the same everywhere and always, it is variously
applicable to the human being, as we know from experience, in the
various stages of his development; and its first form is that of
simple obedience to a superior whom there is every ground to trust. And
further, if the few straggling rays of our knowledge in a case of this
kind rather exhibit a darkness lying around us than dispel it, we do
not even know all that was in the mind of Abraham, and are not in a
condition to pronounce upon it, and cannot, without departure from sound
reason, abandon that anchorage by which he probably held, that the law
of Nature was safe in the hands of the Author of Nature, though the
means of the reconciliation between the law and the appearances have not
been fully placed within our reach.

But the Reply is not entitled to so wide an answer as that which I
have given. In the parallel with the case of the Hindoo widow, it
sins against first principles. An established and habitual practice
of child-slaughter, in a country of an old and learned civilization,
presents to us a case totally different from the issue of a command
which was not designed to be obeyed and which belongs to a period when
the years of manhood were associated in great part with the character
that appertains to childhood.

It will already have been seen that the method of this Reply is not to
argue seriously from point to point, but to set out in masses, without
the labor of proof, crowds of imputations, which may overwhelm an
opponent like balls from a _mitrailleuse_. As the charges lightly run
over in a line or two require pages for exhibition and confutation, an
exhaustive answer to the Reply within the just limits of an article is
on this account out of the question; and the only proper course left
open seems to be to make a selection of what appears to be the favorite,
or the most formidable and telling assertions, and to deal with these in
the serious way which the grave interests of the theme, not the manner
of their presentation, may deserve.

It was an observation of Aristotle that weight attaches to the
undemonstrated propositions of those who are able to speak on any given
subject matter from experience. The Reply abounds in undemonstrated
propositions. They appear, however, to be delivered without any sense of
a necessity that either experience or reasoning are required in order
to give them a title to acceptance. Thus, for example, the system of
Mr. Darwin is hurled against Christianity as a dart which cannot but be
fatal (p. 475):

"His discoveries, carried to their legitimate conclusion, destroy the
creeds and sacred Scriptures of mankind."

This wide-sweeping proposition is imposed upon us with no exposition
of the how or the why; and the whole controversy of belief one might
suppose is to be determined, as if from St. Petersburgh, by a series of
_ukases_. It is only advanced, indeed, to decorate the introduction of
Darwin's name in support of the proposition, which I certainly should
support and not contest, that error and honesty are compatible.

On what ground, then, and for what reason, is the system of Darwin fatal
to Scriptures and to creeds? I do not enter into the question whether
it has passed from the stage of working hypothesis into that of
demonstration, but I assume, for the purposes of the argument, all that,
in this respect, the Reply can desire.

It is not possible to discover, from the random language of the Reply,
whether the scheme of Darwin is to sweep away all theism, or is to be
content with extinguishing revealed religion. If the latter is meant, I
should reply that the moral history of man, in its principal stream,
has been distinctly an evolution from the first until now; and that the
succinct though grand account of the Creation in Genesis is singularly
accordant with the same idea, but is wider than Darwinism, since it
includes in the grand progression the inanimate world as well as the
history of organisms. But, as this could not be shown without much
detail, the Reply reduces me to the necessity of following its own
unsatisfactory example in the bald form of an assertion, that there
is no colorable ground for assuming evolution and revelation to be at
variance with one another.

If, however, the meaning be that theism is swept away by Darwinism, I
observe that, as before, we have only an unreasoned dogma or dictum to
deal with, and, dealing perforce with the unknown, we are in danger of
striking at a will of the wisp. Still, I venture on remarking that the
doctrine of Evolution has acquired both praise and dispraise which
it does not deserve. It is lauded in the skeptical camp because it is
supposed to get rid of the shocking idea of what are termed sudden acts
of creation; and it is as unjustly dispraised, on the opposing side,
because it is thought to bridge over the gap between man and the
inferior animals, and to give emphasis to the relationship between them.
But long before the day either of Mr. Darwin or his grandfather, Dr.
Erasmus Darwin, this relationship had been stated, perhaps even more
emphatically by one whom, were it not that I have small title to deal
in undemonstrated assertion, I should venture to call the most cautious,
the most robust, and the most comprehensive of our philosophers.
Suppose, says Bishop Butler (Analogy, Part 2, Chap. 2), that it were
implied in the natural immortality of brutes, that they must arrive at
great attainments, and become (like us) rational and moral agents; even
this would be no difficulty, since we know not what latent powers and
capacities they may be endowed with. And if pride causes us to deem it
an indignity that our race should have proceeded by propagation from an
ascending scale of inferior organisms, why should it be a more repulsive
idea to have sprung immediately from something less than man in brain
and body, than to have been fashioned according to the expression in
Genesis (Chap. II., v. 7), "out of the dust of the ground?" There are
halls and galleries of introduction in a palace, but none in a cottage;
and this arrival of the creative work at its climax through an ever
aspiring preparatory series, rather than by transition at a step from
the inanimate mould of earth, may tend rather to magnify than to
lower the creation of man on its physical side. But if belief has
(as commonly) been premature in its alarms, has non-belief been more
reflective in its exulting anticipations, and its paeans on the assumed
disappearance of what are strangely enough termed sudden acts of
creation from the sphere of our study and contemplation?

One striking effect of the Darwinian theory of descent is, so far as I
understand, to reduce the breadth of all intermediate distinctions
in the scale of animated life. It does not bring all creatures into a
single lineage, but all diversities are to be traced back, at some point
in the scale and by stages indefinitely minute, to a common ancestry.
All is done by steps, nothing by strides, leaps, or bounds; all from
protoplasm up to Shakespeare, and, again, all from primal night and
chaos up to protoplasm. I do not ask, and am incompetent to judge,
whether this is among the things proven, but I take it so for the sake
of the argument; and I ask, first, why and whereby does this doctrine
eliminate the idea of creation? Does the new philosophy teach that if
the passage from pure reptile to pure bird is achieved by a spring (so
to speak) over a chasm, this implies and requires creation; but that
if reptile passes into bird, and rudimental into finished bird, by a
thousand slight and but just discernible modifications, each one of
these is so small that they are not entitled to a name so lofty, may be
set down to any cause or no cause, as we please? I should have supposed
it miserably unphilosophical to treat the distinction between creative
and non-creative function as a simply quantitative distinction. As
respects the subjective effect on the human mind, creation in small,
when closely regarded, awakens reason to admiring wonder, not less than
creation in great: and as regards that function itself, to me it appears
no less than ridiculous to hold that the broadly outlined and large
advances of so-called Mosaism are creation, but the refined and stealthy
onward steps of Darwinism are only manufacture, and relegate the
question of a cause into obscurity, insignificance, or oblivion.

But does not reason really require us to go farther, to turn the tables
on the adversary, and to contend that evolution, by how much it binds
more closely together the myriad ranks of the living, aye, and of all
other orders, by so much the more consolidates, enlarges, and enhances
the true argument of design, and the entire theistic position? If orders
are not mutually related, it is easier to conceive of them as sent at
haphazard into the world. We may, indeed, sufficiently, draw an argument
of design from each separate structure, but we have no further title to
build upon the position which each of them holds as towards any other.
But when the connexion between these objects has been established, and
so established that the points of transition are almost as indiscernible
as the passage from day to night, then, indeed, each preceding stage is
a prophecy of the following, each succeeding one is a memorial of the
past, and, throughout the immeasurable series, every single member of
it is a witness to all the rest. The Reply ought surely to dispose of
these, and probably many more arguments in the case, before assuming
so absolutely the rights of dictatorship, and laying it down that
Darwinism, carried to its legitimate conclusion (and I have nowhere
endeavored to cut short its career), destroys the creeds and Scriptures
of mankind. That I maybe the more definite in my challenge, I would,
with all respect, ask the author of the Reply to set about confuting the
succinct and clear argument of his countryman, Mr. Fiske, who, in the
earlier part of the small work entitled _Man's Destiny_ (Macmillan,
London, 1887) has given what seems to me an admissible and also striking
interpretation of the leading Darwinian idea in its bearings on the
theistic argument. To this very partial treatment of a great subject I
must at present confine myself; and I proceed to another of the notions,
as confident as they seem to be crude, which the Reply has drawn into
its wide-casting net (p. 475):

"Why should God demand a sacrifice from; man? Why should the Infinite
ask anything from the finite? Should the sun beg of the glow-worm, and
should the momentary spark excite the envy of the source of light?"

This is one of the cases in which happy or showy illustration is, in the
Reply before me, set to carry with a rush the position which argument
would have to approach more laboriously and more slowly. The case of the
glow-worm with the sun cannot but move a reader's pity, it seems so
very hard. But let us suppose for a moment that the glow-worm was so
constituted, and so related to the sun that an interaction between them
was a fundamental condition of its health and life; that the glowworm
must, by the law of its nature, like the moon, reflect upon the sun,
according to its strength and measure, the light which it receives,
and that only by a process involving that reflection its own store of
vitality could be upheld? It will be said that this is a very large
_petitio_ to import into the glowworm's case. Yes, but it is the very
_petitio_ which is absolutely requisite in order to make it parallel to
the case of the Christian. The argument which the Reply has to destroy
is and must be the Christian argument, and not some figure of straw,
fabricated at will. It is needless, perhaps, but it is refreshing, to
quote the noble Psalm (Ps. 1. 10, 12, 14, 15), in which this assumption
of the Reply is rebuked. "All the beasts of the forest are mine; and so
are the cattle upon a thousand hills.... If I be hungry I will not tell
thee; for the whole world is mine, and all that is therein.... Offer
unto God thanksgiving; and pay thy vows unto the Most Highest, and call
upon Me in the time of trouble; so will I hear thee, and thou shalt
praise Me." Let me try my hand at a counter-illustration. If the Infinite
is to make no demand upon the finite, by parity of reasoning the great
and strong should scarcely make them on the weak and small. Why then
should the father make demands of love, obedience, and sacrifice, from
his young child? Is there not some flavor of the sun and glow-worm here?
But every man does so make them, if he is a man of sense and feeling;
and he makes them for the sake and in the interest of the son himself,
whose nature, expanding in the warmth of affection and pious care,
requires, by an inward law, to return as well as to receive. And so God
asks of us, in order that what we give to Him may be far more our own
than it ever was before the giving, or than it could have been unless
first rendered up to Him, to become a part of what the gospel calls our
treasure in heaven.

Although the Reply is not careful to supply us with whys, it does not
hesitate to ask for them (p. 479):

"Why should an infinitely wise and powerful God destroy the good and
preserve the vile? Why should He treat all alike here, and in another
world make an infinite difference? Why should your God allow His
worshipers, His adorers, to be destroyed by His enemies? Why should He
allow the honest, the loving, the noble, to perish at the stake?"

The upholders of belief or of revelation, from Claudian down to Cardinal
Newman (see the very remarkable passage of the _Apologia pro vita sua_,
pp. 376-78), cannot and do not, seek to deny that the methods of divine
government, as they are exhibited by experience, present to us many and
varied moral problems, insoluble by our understanding. Their existence
may not, and should not, be dissembled. But neither should they be
exaggerated. Now exaggeration by mere suggestion is the fault, the
glaring fault, of these queries. One who had no knowledge of mundane
affairs beyond the conception they insinuate would assume that, as a
rule, evil has the upper hand in the management of the world. Is this
the grave philosophical conclusion of a careful observer, or is it a
crude, hasty, and careless overstatement?

It is not difficult to conceive how, in times of sadness and of storm,
when the suffering soul can discern no light at any point of the
horizon, place is found for such an idea of life. It is, of course,
opposed to the Apostolic declaration that godliness hath the promise
of the life that now is (1 Tim. iv. 8), but I am not to expect such a
declaration to be accepted as current coin, even of the meanest value,
by the author of the Reply. Yet I will offer two observations founded
on experience in support of it, one taken from a limited, another from
a larger and more open sphere. John Wesley, in the full prime of his
mission, warned the converts whom he was making among English laborers
of a spiritual danger that lay far ahead. It was that, becoming godly,
they would become careful, and, becoming careful, they would become
wealthy. It was a just and sober forecast, and it represented with
truth the general rule of life, although it be a rule perplexed with
exceptions. But, if this be too narrow a sphere of observation, let
us take a wider one, the widest of all. It is comprised in the brief
statement that Christendom rules the world, and rules it, perhaps it
should be added, by the possession of a vast surplus of material as well
as moral force. Therefore the assertions carried by implication in the
queries of the Reply, which are general, are because general untrue,
although they might have been true within those prudent limitations
which the method of this Reply appears especially to eschew.

Taking, then, these challenges as they ought to have been given, I admit
that great believers, who have been also great masters of wisdom and
knowledge, are not able to explain the inequalities of adjustment
between human beings and the conditions in which they have been set down
to work out their destiny. The climax of these inequalities is perhaps
to be found in the fact that, whereas rational belief, viewed at large,
founds the Providential government of the world upon the hypothesis of
free agency, there are so many cases in which the overbearing mastery
of circumstance appears to reduce it to extinction or paralysis. Now,
in one sense, without doubt, these difficulties are matter for our
legitimate and necessary cognizance. It is a duty incumbent upon us
respectively, according to our means and opportunities, to decide for
ourselves, by the use of the faculty of reason given us, the great
questions of natural and revealed religion. They are to be decided
according to the evidence; and, if we cannot trim the evidence into a
consistent whole, then according to the balance of the evidence. We are
not entitled, either for or against belief, to set up in this province
any rule of investigation, except such as common-sense teaches us to
use in the ordinary conduct of life. As in ordinary conduct, so in
considering the basis of belief, we are bound to look at the evidence as
a whole. We have no right to demand demonstrative proofs, or the removal
of all conflicting elements, either in the one sphere or in the other.
What guides us sufficiently in matters of common practice has the very
same authority to guide us in matters of speculation; more properly,
perhaps, to be called the practice of the soul. If the evidence in the
aggregate shows the being of a moral Governor of the world, with the
same force as would suffice to establish an obligation to act in a
matter of common conduct, we are bound in duty to accept it, and have no
right to demand as a condition previous that all occasions of doubt or
question be removed out of the way. Our demands for evidence must be
limited by the general reason of the case. Does that general reason of
the case make it probable that a finite being, with a finite place in
a comprehensive scheme, devised and administered by a Being who is
infinite, would be able either to embrace within his view, or rightly to
appreciate, all the motives and the aims that may have been in the
mind of the Divine Disposer? On the contrary, a demand so unreasonable
deserves to be met with the scornful challenge of Dante (Paradise xix.
79):

> Or tu chi sei, che vuoi sedere a scranna
> Per giudicar da lungi mille miglia
> Colla veduta corta d'una spanna?

Undoubtedly a great deal here depends upon the question whether, and in
what degree, our knowledge is limited. And here the Reply seems to be
by no means in accord with Newton and with Butler. By its contempt for
authority, the Reply seems to cut off from us all knowledge that is not
at first hand; but then also it seems to assume an original and first
hand knowledge of all possible kinds of things. I will take an instance,
all the easier to deal with because it is outside the immediate sphere
of controversy. In one of those pieces of fine writing with which the
Reply abounds, it is determined _obiter_ by a backhanded stroke (N. A.
R., p. 491) that Shakespeare is "by far the greatest of the human
race." I do not feel entitled to assert that he is not; but how vast and
complex a question is here determined for us in this airy manner! Has
the writer of the Reply really weighed the force, and measured the sweep
of his own words? Whether Shakespeare has or has not the primacy of
genius over a very few other names which might be placed in competition
with his, is a question which has not yet been determined by the general
or deliberate judgment of lettered mankind. But behind it lies another
question, inexpressibly difficult, except for the Reply, to solve. That
question is, what is the relation of human genius to human greatness.
Is genius the sole constitutive element of greatness, or with what other
elements, and in what relations to them, is it combined? Is every man
great in proportion to his genius? Was Goldsmith, or was Sheridan,
or was Burns, or was Byron, or was Goethe, or was Napoleon, or
was Alcibiades, no smaller, and was Johnson, or was Howard, or was
Washington, or was Phocion, or Leonidas, no greater, than in proportion
to his genius properly so-called? How are we to find a common measure,
again, for different kinds of greatness; how weigh, for example, Dante
against Julius Caesar? And I am speaking of greatness properly so
called, not of goodness properly so called. We might seem to be dealing
with a writer whose contempt for authority in general is fully balanced,
perhaps outweighed, by his respect for one authority in particular.

The religions of the world, again, have in many cases given to many men
material for life-long study. The study of the Christian Scriptures,
to say nothing of Christian life and institutions, has been to many and
justly famous men a study "never ending, still beginning"; not, like
the world of Alexander, too limited for the powerful faculty that ranged
over it; but, on the contrary, opening height on height, and with deep
answering to deep, and with increase of fruit ever prescribing increase
of effort. But the Reply has sounded all these depths, has found them
very shallow, and is quite able to point out (p. 490) the way in which
the Saviour of the world might have been a much greater teacher than
He actually was; had He said anything, for instance, of the family
relation, had He spoken against slavery and tyranny, had He issued a
sort of _code Napoleon_ embracing education, progress, scientific truth,
and international law. This observation on the family relation seems to
me beyond even the usual measure of extravagance when we bear in mind
that, according to the Christian scheme, the Lord of heaven and earth
"was subject" (St. Luke ii. 51) to a human mother and a reputed human
father, and that He taught (according to the widest and, I believe, the
best opinion) the absolute indissolubility of marriage. I might cite
many other instances in reply. But the broader and the true answer to
the objection is, that the Gospel was promulgated to teach principles
and not a code; that it included the foundation of a society in which
those principles were to be conserved, developed, and applied; and that
down to this day there is not a moral question of all those which
the Reply does or does not enumerate, nor is there a question of duty
arising in the course of life for any of us, that is not determinable
in all its essentials by applying to it as a touchstone the principles
declared in the Gospel. Is not, then, the _hiatus_, which the Reply has
discovered in the teaching of our Lord, an imaginary _hiatus_? Nay, are
the suggested improvements of that teaching really gross deteriorations?
Where would have been the wisdom of delivering to an uninstructed
population of a particular age a codified religion, which was to serve
for all nations, all ages, all states of civilization? Why was not
room to be left for the career of human thought in finding out, and in
working out, the adaptation of Christianity to the ever varying
movement of the world? And how is it that they who will not admit that a
revelation is in place when it has in view the great and necessary work
of conflict against sin, are so free in recommending enlargements of
that Revelation for purposes, as to which no such necessity can be
pleaded?

I have known a person who, after studying the old classical or Olympian
religion for the third part of a century, at length began to hope that
he had some partial comprehension of it, some inkling of what it meant.
Woe is him that he was not conversant either with the faculties or with
the methods of the Reply, which apparently can dispose in half an hour
of any problem, dogmatic, historical, or moral: and which accordingly
takes occasion to assure us that Buddha was "in many respects the
greatest religious teacher this world has ever known, the broadest, the
most intellectual of them all" (p. 491). On this I shall only say that
an attempt to bring Buddha and Buddhism into line together is far beyond
my reach, but that every Christian, knowing in some degree what Christ
is, and what He has done for the world, can only be the more thankful if
Buddha, or Confucius, or any other teacher has in any point, and in
any measure, come near to the outskirts of His ineffable greatness and
glory.

It is my fault or my misfortune to remark, in this Reply, an inaccuracy
of reference, which would of itself suffice to render it remarkable.
Christ, we are told (pp. 492, 500), denounced the chosen people of God
as "a generation of vipers." This phrase is applied by the Baptist to
the crowd who came to seek baptism from him; but it is only applied
by our Lord to Scribes or Pharisees (Luke iii. 7, Matthew xxiii. 33,
and xii.34), who are so commonly placed by Him in contrast with the
people. The error is repeated in the mention of whited sepulchres. Take
again the version of the story of Ananias and Sapphira. We are told
(p. 494) that the Apostles conceived the idea "of having all things in
common." In the narrative there is no statement, no suggestion of
the kind; it is a pure interpolation (Acts iv. 32-7). Motives of a
reasonable prudence are stated as a mattei of fact to have influenced
the offending couple—another pure interpolation. After the catastrophe
of Ananias "the Apostles sent for his wife"—a third interpolation. I
refer only to these points as exhibitions of an habitual and dangerous
inaccuracy, and without any attempt at present to discuss the case, in
which the judgments of God are exhibited on their severer side, and in
which I cannot, like the Reply, undertake summarily to determine for
what causes the Almighty should or should not take life, or delegate the
power to take it.

Again, we have (p. 486) these words given as a quotation from the Bible:

"They who believe and are baptized shall be saved, and they who believe
not shall be damned; and these shall go away into everlasting fire,
prepared for the devil and his angels."

The second clause thus reads as if applicable to the persons mentioned
in the first; that is to say, to those who reject the tidings of the
Gospel. But instead of its being a continuous passage, the latter
section is brought out of another gospel (St. Matthew's) and another
connection; and it is really written, not of those who do not believe,
but those who refuse to perform offices of charity to their neighbor in
his need. It would be wrong to call this intentional misrepresentation;
but can it be called less than somewhat reckless negligence?

It is a more special misfortune to find a writer arguing on the same
side with his critic, and yet for the critic not to be able to
agree with him. But so it is with reference to the great subject of
immortality, as treated in the Reply.

"The idea of immortality, that, like a sea, has ebbed and flowed in the
human heart, with its countless waves of hope and fear beating against
the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of
any creed, nor of any religion. It was born of human affection; and it
will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mist and clouds of doubt and
darkness, as long as love kisses the lips of death" (p. 483).

Here we have a very interesting chapter of the history of human opinion
disposed of in the usual summary way, by a statement which, as it
appears to me, is developed out of the writer's inner consciousness.
If the belief in immortality is not connected with any revelation
or religion, but is simply the expression of a subjective want, then
plainly we may expect the expression of it to be strong and clear in
proportion to the various degrees in which faculty is developed
among the various races of mankind. But how does the matter stand
historically? The Egyptians were not a people of high intellectual
development, and yet their religious system was strictly associated
with, I might rather say founded on, the belief in immortality. The
ancient Greeks, on the other hand, were a race of astonishing, perhaps
unrivalled, intellectual capacity. But not only did they, in prehistoric
ages, derive their scheme of a future world from Egypt; we find
also that, with the lapse of time and the advance of the Hellenic
civilization, the constructive ideas of the system lost all life and
definite outline, and the most powerful mind of the Greek philosophy,
that of Aristotle, had no clear perception whatever of a personal
existence in a future state.

The favorite doctrine of the Reply is the immunity of all error in
belief from moral responsibility. In the first page (p. 473) this is
stated with reserve as the "innocence of honest error." But why such a
limitation? The Reply warms with its subject; it shows us that no
error can be otherwise than honest, inasmuch as nothing which involves
honesty, or its reverse, can, from the constitution of our nature, enter
into the formation of opinion. Here is the full blown exposition (p.
476):

"The brain thinks without asking our consent. We believe, or we
disbelieve, without an effort of the will. Belief is a result. It is the
effect of evidence upon the mind. The scales turn in spite of him who
watches. _There is no opportunity of being honesty or dishonest, in
the formation of an opinion_. The conclusion is entirely independent of
desire."

The reasoning faculty is, therefore, wholly extrinsic to our moral
nature, and no influence is or can be received or imparted between them.
I know not whether the meaning is that all the faculties of our nature
are like so many separate departments in one of the modern shops that
supply all human wants; that will, memory, imagination, affection,
passion, each has its own separate domain, and that they meet only for a
comparison of results, just to tell one another what they have severally
been doing. It is difficult to conceive, if this be so, wherein consists
the personality, or individuality or organic unity of man. It is not
difficult to see that while the Reply aims at uplifting human nature,
it in reality plunges us (p. 475) into the abyss of degradation by the
destruction of moral freedom, responsibility, and unity. For we are
justly told that "reason is the supreme and final test." Action may be
merely instinctive and habitual, or it may be consciously founded
on formulated thought; but, in the cases where it is instinctive and
habitual, it passes over, so soon as it is challenged, into the other
category, and finds a basis for itself in some form of opinion. But,
says the Reply, we have no responsibility for our opinions: we cannot
help forming them according to the evidence as it presents itself to us.
Observe, the doctrine embraces every kind of opinion, and embraces all
alike, opinion on subjects where we like or dislike, as well as upon
subjects where we merely affirm or deny in some medium absolutely
colorless. For, if a distinction be taken between the colorless and the
colored medium, between conclusions to which passion or propensity or
imagination inclines us, and conclusions to which these have nothing to
say, then the whole ground will be cut away from under the feet of the
Reply, and it will have to build again _ab initio_. Let us try this by
a test case. A father who has believed his son to have been through
life upright, suddenly finds that charges are made from various quarters
against his integrity. Or a friend, greatly dependent for the work
of his life on the co-operation of another friend, is told that that
comrade is counterworking and betraying him. I make no assumption now
as to the evidence or the result; but I ask which of them could approach
the investigation without feeling a desire to be able to acquit? And
what shall we say of the desire to condemn? Would Elizabeth have had
no leaning towards finding Mary Stuart implicated in a conspiracy? Did
English judges and juries approach with an unbiassed mind the trials for
the Popish plot? Were the opinions formed by the English Parliament on
the Treaty of Limerick formed without the intervention of the will? Did
Napoleon judge according to the evidence when he acquitted himself in
the matter of the Due d' Enghien? Does the intellect sit in a solitary
chamber, like Galileo in the palace of the Vatican, and pursue celestial
observation all untouched, while the turmoil of earthly business is
raging everywhere around? According to the Reply, it must be a mistake
to suppose that there is anywhere in the world such a thing as bias, or
prejudice, or prepossession: they are words without meaning in regard to
our judgments, for even if they could raise a clamor from without, the
intellect sits within, in an atmosphere of serenity, and, like Justice,
is deaf and blind, as well as calm.

In addition to all other faults, I hold that this philosophy, or
phantasm of philosophy, is eminently retrogressive. Human nature, in its
compound of flesh and spirit, becomes more complex with the progress of
civilization; with the steady multiplication of wants, and of means for
their supply. With complication, introspection has largely extended, and
I believe that, as observation extends its field, so far from isolating
the intelligence and making it autocratic, it tends more and more to
enhance and multiply the infinitely subtle, as well as the broader and
more palpable modes, in which the interaction of the human faculties is
carried on. Who among us has not had occasion to observe, in the course
of his experience, how largely the intellectual power of a man is
affected by the demands of life on his moral powers, and how they open
and grow, or dry up and dwindle, according to the manner in which those
demands are met.

Genius itself, however purely a conception of the intellect, is not
exempt from the strong influences of joy and suffering, love and hatred,
hope and fear, in the development of its powers. It may be that Homer,
Shakespeare, Goethe, basking upon the whole in the sunshine of life,
drew little supplementary force from its trials and agitations. But
the history of one not less wonderful than any of these, the career of
Dante, tells a different tale; and one of the latest and most searching
investigators of his history (Scartazzini, Dante Alighieri, _seine zeit,
sein leben, und seine werkes_, B. II. Ch. 5, p. 119; also pp. 438,
9. Biel, 1869) tells and shows us, how the experience of his life
co-operated with his extraordinary natural gifts and capabilities to
make him what he was. Under the three great heads of love, belief, and
patriotism, his life was a continued course of ecstatic or agonizing
trials. The strain of these trials was discipline; discipline was
experience; and experience was elevation. No reader of his greatest work
will, I believe, hold with the Reply that his thoughts, conclusions,
judgments, were simple results of an automatic process, in which the
will and affections had no share, that reasoning operations are like the
whir of a clock running down, and we can no more arrest the process
or alter the conclusion than the wheels can stop the movement or the
noise.*

> * I possess the confession of an illiterate criminal, made,
> I think, in 1834, under the following circumstances: The new
> poor law had just been passed in England, and it required
> persons needing relief to go into the workhouse as a
> condition of receiving it. In some parts of the country,
> this provision produced a profound popular panic. The man in
> question was destitute at the time. He was (I think) an old
> widower with four very young sons. He rose in the night and
> strangled them all, one after another, with a blue
> handkerchief, not from want of fatherly affection, but to
> keep them out of the workhouse. The confession of this
> peasant, simple in phrase, but intensely impassioned,
> strongly reminds me of the Ugolino of Dante, and appears to
> make some approach to its sublimity. Such, in given
> circumstances, is the effect of moral agony on mental power.

The doctrine taught in the Reply, that belief is, as a general, nay,
universal law, independent of the will, surely proves, when examined, to
be a plausibility of the shallowest kind. Even in arithmetic, if a boy,
through dislike of his employment, and consequent lack of attention,
brings out a wrong result for his sum, it can hardly be said that his
conclusion is absolutely and in all respects independent of his will.
Moving onward, point by point, toward the centre of the argument, I will
next take an illustration from mathematics. It has (I apprehend) been
demonstrated that the relation of the diameter to the circumference of
a circle is not susceptible of full numerical expression. Yet, from time
to time, treatises are published which boldly announce that they set
forth the quadrature of the circle. I do not deny that this may be
purely intellectual error; but would it not, on the other hand, be
hazardous to assert that no grain of egotism or ambition has ever
entered into the composition of any one of such treatises? I have
selected these instances as, perhaps, the most favorable that can be
found to the doctrine of the Reply. But the truth is that, if we
set aside matters of trivial import, the enormous majority of human
judgments are those into which the biassing power off likes and dislikes
more or less largely enters. I admit, indeed, that the illative faculty
works under rules upon which choice and inclination ought to exercise no
influence whatever. But even if it were granted that in fact the
faculty of discourse is exempted from all such influence within its own
province, yet we come no nearer to the mark, because that faculty has
to work upon materials supplied to it by other faculties; it draws
conclusions according to premises, and the question has to be determined
whether our conceptions set forth in those premises are or are not
influenced by moral causes. For, if they be so influenced, then in vain
will be the proof that the understanding has dealt loyally and exactly
with the materials it had to work upon; inasmuch as, although the
intellectual process be normal in itself, the operation may have been
tainted _ab initio_ by coloring and distorting influences which have
falsified the primary conceptions.

Let me now take an illustration from the extreme opposite quarter to
that which I first drew upon. The system called Thuggism, represented
in the practice of the Thugs, taught that the act, which we describe
as murder, was innocent. Was this an honest error? Was it due, in its
authors as well as in those who blindly followed them, to an automatic
process of thought, in which the will was not consulted, and which
accordingly could entail no responsibility? If it was, then it is plain
that the whole foundations, not of belief, but of social morality, are
broken up. If it was not, then the sweeping doctrine of the present
writer on the necessary blamelessness of erroneous conclusions tumbles
to the ground like a house of cards at the breath of the child who built
it.

In truth, the pages of the Reply, and the Letter which has more recently
followed it,* themselves demonstrate that what the writer has asserted
wholesale he overthrows and denies in detail.

> * North American Review for January, 1888, "Another Letter
> to Dr. Field."

"You will admit," says the Reply (p. 477), "that he who now persecutes
for opinion's sake is infamous." But why? Suppose he thinks that by
persecution he can bring a man from soul-destroying falsehood to
soul-saving truth, this opinion may reflect on his intellectual
debility: but that is his misfortune, not his fault. His brain has
thought without asking his consent; he has believed or disbelieved
without an effort of the will (p. 476). Yet the very writer, who has
thus established his title to think, is the first to hurl at him an
anathema for thinking. And again, in the Letter to Dr. Field (N. A. R.,
vol. 146, p. 33), "the dogma of eternal pain" is described as "that
infamy of infamies." I am not about to discuss the subject of future
retribution. If I were, it would be my first duty to show that this
writer has not adequately considered either the scope of his own
arguments (which in no way solve the difficulties he presents) or the
meaning of his words; and my second would be to recommend his perusal of
what Bishop Butler has suggested on this head. But I am at present on
ground altogether different. I am trying another issue. This author says
we believe or disbelieve without the action of the will, and,
consequently, belief or disbelief is not the proper subject of praise or
blame. And yet, according to the very same authority, the dogma of
eternal pain is what?—not "an error of errors," but an "infamy of
infamies;" and though to hold a negative may not be a subject of moral
reproach, yet to hold the affirmative may. Truly it may be asked, is not
this a fountain which sends forth at once sweet waters and bitter?

Once more. I will pass away from tender ground, and will endeavor to
lodge a broader appeal to the enlightened judgment of the author. Says
Odysseus in the Illiad (B. II.) [—Greek—]: and a large part of the
world, stretching this sentiment beyond its original meaning, have held
that the root of civil power is not in the community, but in its head.
In opposition to this doctrine, the American written Constitution, and
the entire American tradition, teach the right of a nation to
self-government. And these propositions, which have divided and still
divide the world, open out respectively into vast systems of
irreconcilable ideas and laws, practices and habits of mind. Will any
rational man, above all will any American, contend that these
conflicting systems have been adopted, upheld, and enforced on one side
and the other, in the daylight of pure reasoning only, and that moral,
or immoral, causes have had nothing to do with their adoption? That the
intellect has worked impartially, like a steam-engine, and that
selfishness, love of fame, love of money, love of power, envy, wrath,
and malice, or again bias, in its least noxious form, have never had
anything to do with generating the opposing movements, or the frightful
collisions in which they have resulted? If we say that they have not, we
contradict the universal judgment of mankind. If we say they have, then
mental processes are not automatic, but may be influenced by the will
and by the passions, affections, habits, fancies that sway the will; and
this writer will not have advanced a step toward proving the universal
innocence of error, until he has shown that propositions of religion are
essentially unlike almost all other propositions, and that no man ever
has been, or from the nature of the case can be, affected in their
acceptance or rejection by moral causes.*

> * The chief part of these observations were written before I
> had received the January number of the Review, with Col.
> Ingersoll's additional letter to Dr. Field. Much, of this
> letter is specially pointed at Dr. Field, who can defend
> himself, and at Calvin, whose ideas I certainly cannot
> undertake to defend all along the line. I do not see that
> the Letter adds to those, the most salient, points of the
> earlier article which I have endeavored to select for
> animadversion.

To sum up. There are many passages in these noteworthy papers, which,
taken by themselves, are calculated to command warm sympathy. Towards
the close of his final, or latest letter, the writer expresses himself
as follows (N. A. R., vol. 146, p. 46.):

"Neither in the interest of truth, nor for the benefit of man, is it
necessary to assert what we do not know. No cause is great enough to
demand a sacrifice of candor. The mysteries of life and death, of good
and evil, have never yet been solved." How good, how wise are these
words! But coming at the close of the controversy, have they not some of
the ineffectual features of a death-bed repentance? They can hardly
be said to represent in all points the rules under which the pages
preceding them have been composed; or he, who so justly says that we
ought not to assert what we do not know, could hardly have laid down
the law as we find it a few pages earlier (ibid, p. 40) when it is
pronounced that "an infinite God has no excuse for leaving his children
in doubt and darkness." Candor and upright intention are indeed every
where manifest amidst the flashing corruscations which really compose
the staple of the articles. Candor and upright intention also impose
upon a commentator the duty of formulating his animadversions. I sum
them up under two heads. Whereas we are placed in an atmosphere of
mystery, relieved only by a little sphere of light round each of us,
like a clearing in an American forest (which this writer has so well
described), and rarely can see farther than is necessary for the
direction of our own conduct from day to day, we find here, assumed by
a particular person, the character of an universal judge without appeal.
And whereas the highest self-restraint is necessary in these dark but,
therefore, all the more exciting inquiries, in order to maintain the
ever quivering balance of our faculties, this rider chooses to ride an
unbroken horse, and to throw the reins upon his neck. I have endeavored
to give a sample of the results.

W. E. Gladstone.

## Col. Ingersoll to Mr. Gladstone

To The Right Honorable W. E. Gladstone, M. P.:

My Dear Sir:

At the threshold of this Reply, it gives me pleasure to say that for
your intellect and character I have the greatest respect; and let me
say further, that I shall consider your arguments, assertions, and
inferences entirely apart from your personality—apart from the exalted
position that you occupy in the estimation of the civilized world. I
gladly acknowledge the inestimable services that you have rendered, not
only to England, but to mankind. Most men are chilled and narrowed by
the snows of age; their thoughts are darkened by the approach of night.
But you, for many years, have hastened toward the light, and your mind
has been "an autumn that grew the more by reaping."

Under no circumstances could I feel justified in taking advantage of the
admissions that you have made as to the "errors" the "misfeasance" the
"infirmities and the perversity" of the Christian Church.

It is perfectly apparent that churches, being only aggregations of
people, contain the prejudice, the ignorance, the vices and the
virtues of ordinary human beings. The perfect cannot be made out of the
imperfect.

A man is not necessarily a great mathematician because he admits the
correctness of the multiplication table. The best creed may be believed
by the worst of the human race. Neither the crimes nor the virtues
of the church tend to prove or disprove the supernatural origin of
religion. The massacre of St. Bartholomew tends no more to establish the
inspiration of the Scriptures, than the bombardment of Alexandria.

But there is one thing that cannot be admitted, and that is your
statement that the constitution of man is in a "warped, impaired, and
dislocated condition," and that "these deformities indispose men to
belief." Let us examine this.

We say that a thing is "warped" that was once nearer level, flat, or
straight; that it is "impaired" when it was once nearer perfect, and
that it is "dislocated" when once it was united. Consequently, you have
said that at some time the human constitution was unwarped, unimpaired,
and with each part working in harmony with all. You seem to believe
in the degeneracy of man, and that our unfortunate race, starting at
perfection, has traveled downward through all the wasted years.

It is hardly possible that our ancestors were perfect. If history proves
anything, it establishes the fact that civilization was not first, and
savagery afterwards. Certainly the tendency of man is not now toward
barbarism. There must have been a time when language was unknown,
when lips had never formed a word. That which man knows, man must have
learned. The victories of our race have been slowly and painfully won.
It is a long distance from the gibberish of the savage to the sonnets
of Shakespeare—a long and weary road from the pipe of Pan to the great
orchestra voiced with every tone from the glad warble of a mated bird
to the hoarse thunder of the sea. The road is long that lies between the
discordant cries uttered by the barbarian over the gashed body of
his foe and the marvelous music of Wagner and Beethoven. It is hardly
possible to conceive of the years that lie between the caves in which
crouched our naked ancestors crunching the bones of wild beasts, and the
home of a civilized man with its comforts, its articles of luxury and
use,—with its works of art, with its enriched and illuminated walls.
Think of the billowed years that must have rolled between these shores.
Think of the vast distance that man has slowly groped from the dark dens
and lairs of ignorance and fear to the intellectual conquests of our
day.

Is it true that these deformities, these warped, impaired, and
dislocated constitutions indispose men to belief? Can we in this
way account for the doubts entertained by the intellectual leaders of
mankind?

It will not do, in this age and time, to account for unbelief in this
deformed and dislocated way. The exact opposite must be true. Ignorance
and credulity sustain the relation of cause and effect. Ignorance is
satisfied with assertion, with appearance. As man rises in the scale of
intelligence he demands evidence. He begins to look back of appearance.
He asks the priest for reasons. The most ignorant part of Christendom is
the most orthodox.

You have simply repeated a favorite assertion of the clergy, to the
effect that man rejects the gospel because he is naturally depraved and
hard of heart—because, owing to the sin of Adam and Eve, he has fallen
from the perfection and purity of Paradise to that "impaired" condition
in which he is satisfied with the filthy rags of reason, observation and
experience.

The truth is, that what you call unbelief is only a higher and holier
faith. Millions of men reject Christianity because of its cruelty. The
Bible was never rejected by the cruel. It has been upheld by countless
tyrants—by the dealers in human flesh—by the destroyers of nations—by
the enemies of intelligence—by the stealers of babes and the whippers
of women.

It is also true that it has been held as sacred by the good, the
self-denying, the virtuous and the loving, who clung to the sacred
volume on account of the good it contains and in spite of all its
cruelties and crimes.

You are mistaken when you say that all "the faults of all the Christian
bodies and subdivisions of bodies have been carefully raked together,"
in my Reply to Dr. Field, "and made part and parcel of the indictment
against the divine scheme of salvation."

No thoughtful man pretends that any fault of any Christian body can
be used as an argument against what you call the "divine scheme of
redemption."

I find in your Remarks the frequent charge that I am guilty of making
assertions and leaving them to stand without the assistance of argument
or fact, and it may be proper, at this particular point, to inquire how
you know that there is "a divine scheme of redemption."

My objections to this "divine scheme of redemption" are: _first_, that
there is not the slightest evidence that it is divine; _second_, that
it is not in any sense a "scheme," human or divine; and _third_, that it
cannot, by any possibility, result in the redemption of a human being.

It cannot be divine, because it has no foundation in the nature of
things, and is not in accordance with reason. It is based on the idea
that right and wrong are the expression of an arbitrary will, and not
words applied to and descriptive of acts in the light of consequences.
It rests upon the absurdity called "pardon," upon the assumption that
when a crime has been committed justice will be satisfied with the
punishment of the innocent. One person may suffer, or reap a benefit, in
consequence of the act of another, but no man can be justly punished for
the crime, or justly rewarded for the virtues, of another. A "scheme"
that punishes an innocent man for the vices of another can hardly be
called divine. Can a murderer find justification in the agonies of his
victim? There is no vicarious vice; there is no vicarious virtue. For me
it is hard to understand how a just and loving being can charge one of
his children with the vices, or credit him with the virtues, of another.

And why should we call anything a "divine scheme" that has been a
failure from the "fall of man" until the present moment? What race, what
nation, has been redeemed through the instrumentality of this "divine
scheme"? Have not the subjects of redemption been for the most part the
enemies of civilization? Has not almost every valuable book since the
invention of printing been denounced by the believers in the "divine
scheme"? Intelligence, the development of the mind, the discoveries of
science, the inventions of genius, the cultivation of the imagination
through art and music, and the practice of virtue will redeem the human
race. These are the saviors of mankind.

You admit that the "Christian churches have by their exaggerations and
shortcomings, and by their faults of conduct, contributed to bring about
a condition of hostility to religious faith."

If one wishes to know the worst that man has done, all that power guided
by cruelty can do, all the excuses that can be framed for the commission
of every crime, the infinite difference that can exist between that
which is professed and that which is practiced, the marvelous malignity
of meekness, the arrogance of humility and the savagery of what is known
as "universal love," let him read the history of the Christian Church.

Yet, I not only admit that millions of Christians have been honest in
the expression of their opinions, but that they have been among the best
and noblest of our race.

And it is further admitted that a creed should be examined apart from
the conduct of those who have assented to its truth. The church should
be judged as a whole, and its faults should be accounted for either by
the weakness of human nature, or by reason of some defect or vice in the
religion taught,—or by both.

Is there anything in the Christian religion—anything in what you are
pleased to call the "Sacred Scriptures" tending to cause the crimes and
atrocities that have been committed by the church?

It seems to be natural for man to defend himself and the ones he loves.
The father slays the man who would kill his child—he defends the body.
The Christian father burns the heretic—he defends the soul.

If "orthodox Christianity" be true, an infidel has not the right to
live. Every book in which the Bible is attacked should be burned with
its author. Why hesitate to burn a man whose constitution is "warped,
impaired and dislocated," for a few moments, when hundreds of others
will be saved from eternal flames?

In Christianity you will find the cause of persecution. The idea
that belief is essential to salvation—this ignorant and merciless
dogma—accounts for the atrocities of the church. This absurd
declaration built the dungeons, used the instruments of torture, erected
the scaffolds and lighted the fagots of a thousand years.

What, I pray you, is the "heavenly treasure" in the keeping of your
church? Is it a belief in an infinite God? That was believed thousands
of years before the serpent tempted Eve. Is it the belief in the
immortality of the soul? That is far older. Is it that man should treat
his neighbor as himself? That is more ancient. What is the treasure in
the keeping of the church? Let me tell you. It is this: That there is
but one true religion—Christianity,—and that all others are false;
that the prophets, and Christs, and priests of all others have been and
are impostors, or the victims of insanity; that the Bible is the one
inspired book—the one authentic record of the words of God; that all
men are naturally depraved and deserve to be punished with unspeakable
torments forever; that there is only one path that leads to heaven,
while countless highways lead to hell; that there is only one name under
heaven by which a human being can be saved; that we must believe in
the Lord Jesus Christ; that this life, with its few and fleeting years,
fixes the fate of man; that the few will be saved and the many forever
lost. This is "the heavenly treasure" within the keeping of your church.

And this "treasure" has been guarded by the cherubim of persecution,
whose flaming swords were wet for many centuries with the best and
bravest blood. It has been guarded by cunning, by hypocrisy, by
mendacity, by honesty, by calumniating the generous, by maligning the
good, by thumbscrews and racks, by charity and love, by robbery and
assassination, by poison and fire, by the virtues of the ignorant and
the vices of the learned, by the violence of mobs and the whirlwinds of
war, by every hope and every fear, by every cruelty and every crime, and
by all there is of the wild beast in the heart of man.

With great propriety it may be asked: In the keeping of which church is
this "heavenly treasure"? Did the Catholics have it, and was it taken
by Luther? Did Henry the VIII. seize it, and is it now in the keeping
of the Church of England? Which of the warring sects in America has this
treasure; or have we, in this country, only the "rust and cankers"? Is
it in an Episcopal Church, that refuses to associate with a colored
man for whom Christ died, and who is good enough for the society of the
angelic host?

But wherever this "heavenly treasure" has been, about it have always
hovered the Stymphalian birds of superstition, thrusting their brazen
beaks and claws deep into the flesh of honest men.

You were pleased to point out as the particular line justifying your
assertion "that denunciation, sarcasm, and invective constitute the
staple of my work," that line in which I speak of those who expect to
receive as alms an eternity of joy, and add: "I take this as a specimen
of the mode of statement which permeates the whole."

Dr. Field commenced his Open Letter by saying: "I am glad that I know
you, _even though some of my brethren look upon you as a monster,
because of your unbelief_."

In reply I simply said: "The statement in your Letter that some of your
brethren look upon me as a monster on account of my unbelief tends
to show that those who love God are not always the friends of their
fellow-men. Is it not strange that people who admit that they ought to
be eternally damned—that they are by nature depraved—that there is no
soundness or health in them, can be so arrogantly egotistic as to look
upon others as monsters? And yet some of your brethren, who regard
unbelievers as infamous, rely for salvation entirely on the goodness of
another, and expect to receive as alms an eternity of joy." Is there any
denunciation, sarcasm or invective in this?

Why should one who admits that he himself is totally depraved call
any other man, by way of reproach, a monster? Possibly, he might be
justified in addressing him as a fellow-monster.

I am not satisfied with your statement that "the Christian receives as
alms all whatsoever he receives at all." Is it true that man deserves
only punishment? Does the man who makes the world better, who works and
battles for the right, and dies for the good of his fellow-men, deserve
nothing but pain and anguish? Is happiness a gift or a consequence? Is
heaven only a well-conducted poorhouse? Are the angels in their highest
estate nothing but happy paupers? Must all the redeemed feel that they
are in heaven simply because there was a miscarriage of justice? Will
the lost be the only ones who will know that the right thing has been
done, and will they alone appreciate the "ethical elements of religion"?
Will they repeat the words that you have quoted: "Mercy and judgment are
met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other"? or will
those words be spoken by the redeemed as they joyously contemplate the
writhings of the lost?

No one will dispute "that in the discussion of important questions
calmness and sobriety are essential." But solemnity need not be carried
to the verge of mental paralysis. In the search for truth,—that
everything in nature seems to hide,—man needs the assistance of all his
faculties. All the senses should be awake. Humor should carry a torch,
Wit should give its sudden light, Candor should hold the scales, Reason,
the final arbiter, should put his royal stamp on every fact, and Memory,
with a miser's care, should keep and guard the mental gold.

The church has always despised the man of humor, hated laughter, and
encouraged the lethargy of solemnity. It is not willing that the mind
should subject its creed to every test of truth. It wishes to overawe.
It does not say, "He that hath a mind to think, let him think;" but, "He
that hath ears to hear, let him hear." The church has always abhorred
wit,—that is to say, it does not enjoy being struck by the lightning
of the soul. The foundation of wit is logic, and it has always been the
enemy of the supernatural, the solemn and absurd.

You express great regret that no one at the present day is able to
write like Pascal. You admire his wit and tenderness, and the unique,
brilliant, and fascinating manner in which he treated the profoundest
and most complex themes. Sharing in your admiration and regret, I
call your attention to what might be called one of his religious
generalizations: "Disease is the natural state of a Christian."
Certainly it cannot be said that I have ever mingled the profound and
complex in a more fascinating manner.

Another instance is given of the "tumultuous method in which I conduct,
not, indeed, my argument, but my case."

Dr. Field had drawn a distinction between superstition and religion, to
which I replied: "You are shocked at the Hindoo mother when she gives
her child to death at the supposed command of her God. What do you think
of Abraham, of Jephthah? What is your opinion of Jehovah himself?"

These simple questions seem to have excited you to an unusual degree,
and you ask in words of some severity:

"Whether this is the tone in which controversies ought be carried on?"
And you say that—"not only is the name of Jehovah encircled in the
heart of every believer with the pro-foundest reverence and love, but
that the Christian religion teaches, through the incarnation, a personal
relation with God so lofty that it can only be approached in a deep,
reverential calm." You admit that "a person who deems a given religion
to be wicked, may be led onward by logical consistency to impugn in
strong terms the character of the author and object of that religion,"
but you insist that such person is "bound by the laws of social morality
and decency to consider well the terms and meaning of his indictment."

Was there any lack of "reverential calm" in my question? I gave no
opinion, drew no indictment, but simply asked for the opinion of
another. Was that a violation of the "laws of social morality and
decency"?

It is not necessary for me to discuss this question with you. It has
been settled by Jehovah himself. You probably remember the account given
in the eighteenth chapter of I. Kings, of a contest between the prophets
of Baal and the prophets of Jehovah. There were four hundred and fifty
prophets of the false God who endeavored to induce their deity to
consume with fire from heaven the sacrifice upon his altar. According
to the account, they were greatly in earnest. They certainly appeared to
have some hope of success, but the fire did not descend.

"And it came to pass at noon, that Elijah mocked them and said 'Cry
aloud, for he is a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he
is in a journey, or peradventure, he sleepeth and must be awaked.'"

Do you consider that the proper way to attack the God of another? Did
not Elijah know that the name of Baal "was encircled in the heart of
every believer with the profoundest reverence and love"? Did he "violate
the laws of social morality and decency"?

But Jehovah and Elijah did not stop at this point. They were not
satisfied with mocking the prophets of Baal, but they brought them down
to the brook Kishon—four hundred and fifty of them—and there they
murdered every one.

Does it appear to you that on that occasion, on the banks of the brook
Kishon—"Mercy and judgment met together, and that righteousness and
peace kissed each other"?

The question arises: Has every one who reads the Old Testament the right
to express his thought as to the character of Jehovah? You will admit
that as he reads his mind will receive some impression, and that when
he finishes the "inspired volume" he will have some opinion as to the
character of Jehovah. Has he the right to express that opinion? Is the
Bible a revelation from God to man? Is it a revelation to the man who
reads it, or to the man who does not read it? If to the man who reads
it, has he the right to give to others the revelation that God has given
to him? If he comes to the conclusion at which you have arrived,—that
Jehovah is God,—has he the right to express that opinion?

If he concludes, as I have done, that Jehovah is a myth, must he refrain
from giving his honest thought? Christians do not hesitate to give their
opinion of heretics, philosophers, and infidels. They are not restrained
by the "laws of social morality and decency." They have persecuted to
the extent of their power, and their Jehovah pronounced upon unbelievers
every curse capable of being expressed in the Hebrew dialect. At this
moment, thousands of missionaries are attacking the gods of the heathen
world, and heaping contempt on the religion of others.

But as you have seen proper to defend Jehovah, let us for a moment
examine this deity of the ancient Jews.

There are several tests of character. It may be that all the virtues can
be expressed in the word "kindness," and that nearly all the vices are
gathered together in the word "cruelty."

Laughter is a test of character. When we know what a man laughs at,
we know what he really is. Does he laugh at misfortune, at poverty,
at honesty in rags, at industry without food, at the agonies of his
fellow-men? Does he laugh when he sees the convict clothed in the
garments of shame—at the criminal on the scaffold? Does he rub his
hands with glee over the embers of an enemy's home? Think of a man
capable ol laughing while looking at Marguerite in the prison cell with
her dead babe by her side. What must be the real character of a God who
laughs at the calamities of his children, mocks at their fears, their
desolation, their distress and anguish? Would an infinitely loving God
hold his ignorant children in derision? Would he pity, or mock? Save, or
destroy? Educate, or exterminate? Would he lead them with gentle hands
toward the light, or lie in wait for them like a wild beast? Think of
the echoes of Jehovah's laughter in the rayless caverns of the eternal
prison. Can a good man mock at the children of deformity? Will he deride
the misshapen? Your Jehovah deformed some of his own children, and then
held them up to scorn and hatred. These divine mistakes—these blunders
of the infinite—were not allowed to enter the temple erected in honor
of him who had dishonored them. Does a kind father mock his deformed
child? What would you think of a mother who would deride and taunt her
misshapen babe?

There is another test. How does a man use power? Is he gentle or cruel?
Does he defend the weak, succor the oppressed, or trample on the fallen?

If you will read again the twenty-eighth chapter of Deuteronomy, you
will find how Jehovah, the compassionate, whose name is enshrined in so
many hearts, threatened to use his power.

"The Lord shall smite thee with a consumption, and with a fever, and
with an inflammation, and with an extreme burning, and with the sword,
and with blasting and mildew. And thy heaven that is over thy head shall
be brass, and the earth that is under thee shall be iron. The Lord shall
make the rain of thy land powder and dust.".... "And thy carcass shall
be meat unto all fowls of the air and unto the beasts of the earth."....
"The Lord shall smite thee with madness and blindness. And thou shalt
eat of the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and thy
daughters. The tender and delicate woman among you,... her eye shall be
evil... toward her young one and toward her children which she shall
bear; for she shall eat them."

Should it be found that these curses were in fact uttered by the God of
hell, and that the translators had made a mistake in attributing them
to Jehovah, could you say that the sentiments expressed are inconsistent
with the supposed character of the Infinite Fiend?

A nation is judged by its laws—by the punishment it inflicts. The
nation that punishes ordinary offences with death is regarded as
barbarous, and the nation that tortures before it kills is denounced as
savage.

What can you say of the government of Jehovah, in which death was the
penalty for hundreds of offences?—death for the expression of an honest
thought—death for touching with a good intention a sacred ark—death
for making hair oil—for eating shew bread—for imitating incense and
perfumery?

In the history of the world a more cruel code cannot be found. Crimes
seem to have been invented to gratify a fiendish desire to shed the
blood of men.

There is another test: How does a man treat the animals in his
power—his faithful horse—his patient ox—his loving dog?

How did Jehovah treat the animals in Egypt? Would a loving God, with
fierce hail from heaven, bruise and kill the innocent cattle for the
crimes of their owners? Would he torment, torture and destroy them for
the sins of men?

Jehovah was a God of blood. His altar was adorned with the horns of
a beast. He established a religion in which every temple was a
slaughter-house, and every priest a butcher—a religion that demanded
the death of the first-born, and delighted in the destruction of life.

There is still another test: The civilized man gives to others the
rights that he claims for himself. He believes in the liberty of thought
and expression, and abhors persecution for conscience sake.

Did Jehovah believe in the innocence of thought and the liberty of
expression? Kindness is found with true greatness. Tyranny lodges only
in the breast of the small, the narrow, the shriveled and the selfish.
Did Jehovah teach and practice generosity? Was he a believer in
religious liberty? If he was and is, in fact, God, he must have known,
even four thousand years ago, that worship must be free, and that he who
is forced upon his knees cannot, by any possibility, have the spirit of
prayer.

Let me call your attention to a few passages in the thirteenth chapter
of Deuteronomy:

"If thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy son, or thy daughter, or
the wife of thy bosom, or thy friend, which is as thine own soul, entice
thee secretly, saying, Let us go and serve other gods,... thou shalt
not consent unto him, nor hearken unto him; neither shall thine eye pity
him, neither shalt thou spare, neither shalt thou conceal him; but thou
shalt surely kill him; thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to
death, and afterwards the hand of all the people. And thou shalt stone
him with stones, that he die."

Is it possible for you to find in the literature of this world more
awful passages than these? Did ever savagery, with strange and uncouth
marks, with awkward forms of beast and bird, pollute the dripping walls
of caves with such commands? Are these the words of infinite mercy? When
they were uttered, did "righteousness and peace kiss each other"? How
can any loving man or woman "encircle the name of Jehovah"—author of
these words—"with profoundest reverence and love"? Do I rebel because
my "constitution is warped, impaired and dislocated"? Is it because of
"total depravity" that I denounce the brutality of Jehovah? If my heart
were only good—if I loved my neighbor as myself—would I then see
infinite mercy in these hideous words? Do I lack "reverential calm"?

These frightful passages, like coiled adders, were in the hearts of
Jehovah's chosen people when they crucified "the Sinless Man."

Jehovah did not tell the husband to reason with his wife. She was to
be answered only with death. She was to be bruised and mangled to a
bleeding, shapeless mass of quivering flesh, for having breathed an
honest thought.

If there is anything of importance in this world, it is the family, the
home, the marriage of true souls, the equality of husband and wife—the
true republicanism of the heart—the real democracy of the fireside.

Let us read the sixteenth verse of the third chapter of Genesis:

"Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy
conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire
shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee."

Never will I worship any being who added to the sorrows and agonies of
maternity. Never will I bow to any God who introduced slavery into every
home—who made the wife a slave and the husband a tyrant.

The Old Testament shows that Jehovah, like his creators, held women
in contempt. They were regarded as property: "Thou shalt not covet thy
neighbor's wife,—nor his ox."

Why should a pure woman worship a God who upheld polygamy? Let us finish
this subject: The institution of slavery involves all crimes. Jehovah
was a believer in slavery. This is enough. Why should any civilized man
worship him? Why should his name "be encircled with love and tenderness
in any human heart"?

He believed that man could become the property of man—that it was right
for his chosen people to deal in human flesh—to buy and sell mothers
and babes. He taught that the captives were the property of the captors
and directed his chosen people to kill, to enslave, or to pollute.

In the presence of these commandments, what becomes of the fine
saying, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"? What shall we say of a God who
established slavery, and then had the effrontery to say, "Thou shalt not
steal"?

It may be insisted that Jehovah is the Father of all—and that he
has "made of one blood all the nations of the earth." How then can we
account for the wars of extermination? Does not the commandment "Love
thy neighbor as thyself," apply to nations precisely the same as to
individuals? Nations, like individuals, become great by the practice of
virtue. How did Jehovah command his people to treat their neighbors?

He commanded his generals to destroy all, men, women and babes: "Thou
shalt save nothing alive that breatheth."

"I will make mine arrows drunk with blood, and my sword shall devour
flesh."

"That thy foot may be dipped in the blood of thine enemies, and the
tongue of thy dogs in the same."

"... I will also send the teeth of beasts upon them, with the poison of
serpents of the dust...."

"The sword without and terror within shall destroy both the young man
and the virgin, the suckling also, with the man of gray hairs."

Is it possible that these words fell from the lips of the Most Merciful?

You may reply that the inhabitants of Canaan were unfit to live—that
they were ignorant and cruel. Why did not Jehovah, the "Father of all,"
give them the Ten Commandments? Why did he leave them without a bible,
without prophets and priests? Why did he shower all the blessings of
revelation on one poor and wretched tribe, and leave the great world
in ignorance and crime—and why did he order his favorite children to
murder those whom he had neglected?

By the question I asked of Dr. Field, the intention was to show that
Jephthah, when he sacrificed his daughter to Jehovah, was as much the
slave of superstition as is the Hindoo mother when she throws her babe
into the yellow waves of the Ganges.

It seems that this savage Jephthah was in direct communication with
Jehovah at Mizpeh, and that he made a vow unto the Lord and said:

"If thou shalt without fail deliver the children of Ammon into mine
hands, then it shall be that whatsoever cometh forth of the doors of
my house to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon,
shall surely be the Lord's, and I will offer it up as a burnt offering."

In the first place, it is perfectly clear that the sacrifice intended
was a human sacrifice, from the words: "that whatsoever cometh forth
of the doors of my house to meet me." Some human being—wife,
daughter, friend, was expected to come. According to the account, his
daughter—his only daughter—his only child—came first.

If Jephthah was in communication with God, why did God allow this man
to make this vow; and why did he allow the daughter that he loved to be
first, and why did he keep silent and allow the vow to be kept, while
flames devoured the daughter's flesh?

St. Paul is not authority. He praises Samuel, the man who hewed Agag in
pieces; David, who compelled hundreds to pass under the saws and
harrows of death, and many others who shed the blood of the innocent and
helpless. Paul is an unsafe guide. He who commends the brutalities of
the past, sows the seeds of future crimes.

If "believers are not obliged to approve of the conduct of Jephthah"
are they free to condemn the conduct of Jehovah? If you will read the
account you will see that the "spirit of the Lord was upon Jephthah"
when he made the cruel vow. If Paul did not commend Jephthah for keeping
this vow, what was the act that excited his admiration? Was it because
Jephthah slew on the banks of the Jordan "forty and two thousand" of the
sons of Ephraim?

In regard to Abraham, the argument is precisely the same, except that
Jehovah is said to have interfered, and allowed an animal to be slain
instead.

One of the answers given by you is that "it may be allowed that the
narrative is not within our comprehension"; and for that reason you
say that "it behooves us to tread cautiously in approaching it." Why
cautiously?

These stories of Abraham and Jephthah have cost many an innocent life.
Only a few years ago, here in my country, a man by the name of Freeman,
believing that God demanded at least the show of obedience—believing
what he had read in the Old Testament that "without the shedding of
blood there is no remission," and so believing, touched with insanity,
sacrificed his little girl—plunged into her innocent breast the dagger,
believing it to be God's will, and thinking that if it were not God's
will his hand would be stayed.

I know of nothing more pathetic than the story of this crime told by
this man.

Nothing can be more monstrous than the conception of a God who demands
sacrifice—of a God who would ask of a father that he murder his
son—of a father that he would burn his daughter. It is far beyond my
comprehension how any man ever could have believed such an infinite,
such a cruel absurdity.

At the command of the real God—if there be one—I would not sacrifice
my child, I would not murder my wife. But as long as there are people
in the world whose minds are so that they can believe the stories of
Abraham and Jephthah, just so long there will be men who will take the
lives of the ones they love best.

You have taken the position that the conditions are different; and you
say that: "According to the book of Genesis, Adam and Eve were placed
under a law, not of consciously perceived right and wrong, but of simple
obedience. The tree of which alone they were forbidden to eat was the
tree of the knowledge of good and evil; duty lay for them in following
the command of the Most High, before and until they became capable of
appreciating it by an ethical standard. Their knowledge was but that of
an infant who has just reached the stage at which he can comprehend that
he is ordered to do this or that, but not the nature of the things so
ordered.".

If Adam and Eve could not "consciously perceive right and wrong," how
is it possible for you to say that "duty lay for them in following the
command of the Most High"? How can a person "incapable of perceiving
right and wrong" have an idea of duty? You are driven to say that Adam
and Eve had no moral sense. How under such circumstances could they have
the sense of guilt, or of obligation? And why should such persons be
punished? And why should the whole human race become tainted by the
offence of those who had no moral sense?

Do you intend to be understood as saying that Jehovah allowed his
children to enslave each other because "duty lay for them in following
the command of the Most High"? Was it for this reason that he caused
them to exterminate each other? Do you account for the severity of his
punishments by the fact that the poor creatures punished were not aware
of the enormity of the offences they had committed? What shall we say of
a God who has one of his children stoned to death for picking up sticks
on Sunday, and allows another to enslave his fellow-man? Have you
discovered any theory that will account for both of these facts?

Another word as to Abraham:—You defend his willingness to kill his son
because "the estimate of human life at the time was different"—because
"the position of the father in the family was different; its members
were regarded as in some sense his property;" and because "there is
every reason to suppose that around Abraham in the 'land of Moriah' the
practice of human sacrifice as an act of religion was in full vigor."

Let us examine these three excuses: Was Jehovah justified in putting a
low estimate on human life? Was he in earnest when he said "that whoso
sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed"? Did he pander
to the barbarian view of the worthlessness of life? If the estimate of
human life was low, what was the sacrifice worth?

Was the son the property of the father? Did Jehovah uphold this savage
view? Had the father the right to sell or kill his child?

Do you defend Jehovah and Abraham because the ignorant wretches in the
"land of Moriah," knowing nothing of the true God, cut the throats of
their babes "as an act of religion"?

Was Jehovah led away by the example of the Gods of Moriah? Do you not
see that your excuses are simply the suggestions of other crimes?

You see clearly that the Hindoo mother, when she throws her babe into
the Ganges at the command of her God, "sins against first principles";
but you excuse Abraham because he lived in the childhood of the race.
Can Jehovah be excused because of his youth? Not satisfied with your
explanation, your defences and excuses, you take the ground that when
Abraham said: "My son, God will provide a lamb for a burnt offering,"
he may have "believed implicitly that a way of rescue would be found for
his son." In other words, that Abraham did not believe that he would be
required to shed the blood of Isaac. So that, after all, the faith of
Abraham consisted in "believing implicitly" that Jehovah was not in
earnest.

You have discovered a way by which, as you think, the neck of orthodoxy
can escape the noose of Darwin, and in that connection you use this
remarkable language:

"I should reply that the moral history of man, in its principal stream,
has been distinctly an evolution from the first until now." It is hard
to see how this statement agrees with the one in the beginning of your
Remarks, in which you speak of the human constitution in its "warped,
impaired and dislocated" condition. When you wrote that line you were
certainly a theologian—a believer in the Episcopal creed—and your
mind, by mere force of habit, was at that moment contemplating man as
he is supposed to have been created—perfect in every part. At that time
you were endeavoring to account for the unbelief now in the world, and
you did this by stating that the human constitution is "warped, impaired
and dislocated"; but the moment you are brought face to face with the
great truths uttered by Darwin, you admit "that the moral history of man
has been distinctly an evolution from the first until now." Is not this
a fountain that brings forth sweet and bitter waters?

I insist, that the discoveries of Darwin do away absolutely with the
inspiration of the Scriptures—with the account of creation in Genesis,
and demonstrate not simply the falsity, not simply the wickedness, but
the foolishness of the "sacred volume." There is nothing in Darwin to
show that all has been evolved from "primal night and from chaos." There
is no evidence of "primal night." There is no proof of universal chaos.
Did your Jehovah spend an eternity in "primal night," with no companion
but chaos.

It makes no difference how long a lower form may require to reach a
higher. It makes no difference whether forms can be simply modified or
absolutely changed. These facts have not the slightest tendency to throw
the slightest light on the beginning or on the destiny of things.

I most cheerfully admit that gods have the right to create swiftly
or slowly. The reptile may become a bird in one day, or in a thousand
billion years—this fact has nothing to do with the existence or
non-existence of a first cause, but it has something to do with the
truth of the Bible, and with the existence of a personal God of infinite
power and wisdom.

Does not a gradual improvement in the thing created show a corresponding
improvement in the creator? The church demonstrated the falsity and
folly of Darwin's theories by showing that they contradicted the Mosaic
account of creation, and now the theories of Darwin having been fairly
established, the church says that the Mosaic account is true, because
it is in harmony with Darwin. Now, if it should turn out that Darwin was
mistaken, what then?

To me it is somewhat difficult to understand the mental processes of one
who really feels that "the gap between man and the inferior animals or
their relationship was stated, perhaps, even more emphatically by Bishop
Butler than by Darwin."

Butler answered deists, who objected to the cruelties of the Bible, and
yet lauded the God of Nature by showing that the God of Nature is as
cruel as the God of the Bible. That is to say, he succeeded in showing
that both Gods are bad. He had no possible conception of the splendid
generalizations of Darwin—the great truths that have revolutionized the
thought of the world.

But there was one question asked by Bishop Butler that throws a flame
of light upon the probable origin of most, if not all, religions: "Why
might not whole communities and public bodies be seized with fits of
insanity as well as individuals?"

If you are convinced that Moses and Darwin are in exact accord, will you
be good enough to tell who, in your judgment, were the parents of Adam
and Eve? Do you find in Darwin any theory that satisfactorily
accounts for the "inspired fact" that a Rib, commencing with
Monogonic Propagation—falling into halves by a contraction in the
middle—reaching, after many ages of Evolution, the Amphigonie stage,
and then, by the Survival of the Fittest, assisted by Natural Selection,
moulded and modified by Environment, became at last, the mother of the
human race?

Here is a world in which there are countless varieties of life—these
varieties in all probability related to each other—all living upon
each other—everything devouring something, and in its turn devoured by
something else—everywhere claw and beak, hoof and tooth,—everything
seeking the life of something else—every drop of water a battle-field,
every atom being for some wild beast a jungle—every place a
golgotha—and such a world is declared to be the work of the infinitely
wise and compassionate.

According to your idea, Jehovah prepared a home for his children—first
a garden in which they should be tempted and from which they should
be driven; then a world filled with briers and thorns and wild and
poisonous beasts—a world in which the air should be filled with the
enemies of human life—a world in which disease should be contagious,
and in which it was impossible to tell, except by actual experiment, the
poisonous from the nutritious. And these children were allowed to live
in dens and holes and fight their way against monstrous serpents and
crouching beasts—were allowed to live in ignorance and fear—to have
false ideas of this good and loving God—ideas so false, that they made
of him a fiend—ideas so false, that they sacrificed their wives and
babes to appease the imaginary wrath of this monster. And this God
gave to different nations different ideas of himself, knowing that in
consequence of that these nations would meet upon countless fields of
death and drain each other's veins.

Would it not have been better had the world been so that parents would
transmit only their virtues—only their perfections, physical and
mental,—allowing their diseases and their vices to perish with them?

In my reply to Dr. Field I had asked: Why should God demand a sacrifice
from man? Why should the infinite ask anything from the finite? Should
the sun beg from the glowworm, and should the momentary spark excite the
envy of the source of light?

Upon which you remark, "that if the infinite is to make no demands upon
the finite, by parity of reasoning, the great and strong should scarcely
make them on the weak and small." Can this be called reasoning? Why
should the infinite demand a sacrifice from man? In the first place, the
infinite is conditionless—the infinite cannot want—the infinite has.
A conditioned being may want; but the gratification of a want involves
a change of condition. If God be conditionless, he can have no
wants—consequently, no human being can gratify the infinite.

But you insist that "if the infinite is to make no demands upon the
finite, by parity of reasoning, the great and strong should scarcely
make them on the weak and small."

The great have wants. The strong are often in need, in peril, and the
great and strong often need the services of the small and weak. It
was the mouse that freed the lion. England is a great and powerful
nation—yet she may need the assistance of the weakest of her citizens.
The world is filled with illustrations.

The lack of logic is in this: The infinite cannot want anything; the
strong and the great may, and as a fact always do. The great and the
strong cannot help the infinite—they can help the small and the weak,
and the small and the weak can often help the great and strong.

You ask: "Why then should the father make demands of love, obedience,
and sacrifice from his young child?"

No sensible father ever demanded love from his child. Every civilized
father knows that love rises like the perfume from a flower. You cannot
command it by simple authority.

It cannot obey. A father demands obedience from a child for the good
of the child and for the good of himself. But suppose the father to be
infinite—why should the child sacrifice anything for him?

But it may be that you answer all these questions, all these
difficulties, by admitting, as you have in your Remarks, "that these
problems are insoluble by our understanding."

Why, then, do you accept them? Why do you defend that which you cannot
understand? Why does your reason volunteer as a soldier under the flag
of the incomprehensible?

I asked of Dr. Field, and I ask again, this question: Why should an
infinitely wise and powerful God destroy the good and preserve the vile?

What do I mean by this question? Simply this: The earthquake, the
lightning, the pestilence, are no respecters of persons. The vile are
not always destroyed, the good are not always saved. I asked: Why should
God treat all alike in this world, and in another make an infinite
difference? This, I suppose, is "insoluble to our understanding."

Why should Jehovah allow his worshipers, his adorers, to be destroyed by
his enemies? Can you by any possibility answer this question?

You may account for all these inconsistencies, these cruel
contradictions, as John Wesley accounted for earthquakes when he
insisted that they were produced by the wickedness of men, and that the
only way to prevent them was for everybody to believe on the Lord Jesus
Christ. And you may have some way of showing that Mr. Wesley's idea is
entirely consistent with the theories of Mr. Darwin.

You seem to think that as long as there is more goodness than evil in
the world—as long as there is more joy than sadness—we are compelled
to infer that the author of the world is infinitely good, powerful, and
wise, and that as long as a majority are out of gutters and prisons, the
"divine scheme" is a success.

According to this system of logic, if there were a few more
unfortunates—if there was just a little more evil than good—then
we would be driven to acknowledge that the world was created by an
infinitely malevolent being.

As a matter of fact, the history of the world has been such that not
only your theologians but your apostles, and not only your apostles but
your prophets, and not only your prophets but your Jehovah, have all
been forced to account for the evil, the injustice and the suffering, by
the wickedness of man, the natural depravity of the human heart and the
wiles and machinations of a malevolent being second only in power to
Jehovah himself.

Again and again you have called me to account for "mere suggestions
and assertions without proof"; and yet your remarks are filled with
assertions and mere suggestions without proof.

You admit that "great believers are not able to explain the inequalities
of adjustment between human beings and the conditions in which they have
been set down to work out their destiny."

How do you know "that they have been set down to work out their
destiny"? If that was, and is, the purpose, then the being who settled
the "destiny," and the means by which it tvas to be "worked out," is
responsible for all that happens.

And is this the end of your argument, "That you are not able to explain
the inequalities of adjustment between human beings"? Is the solution
of this problem beyond your power? Does the Bible shed no light? Is the
Christian in the presence of this question as dumb as the agnostic? When
the injustice of this world is so flagrant that you cannot harmonize
that awful fact with the wisdom and goodness of an infinite God, do you
not see that you have surrendered, or at least that you have raised
a flag of truce beneath which your adversary accepts as final your
statement that you do not know and that your imagination is not
sufficient to frame an excuse for God?

It gave me great pleasure to find that at last even you have been driven
to say that: "it is a duty incumbent upon us respectively according
to our means and opportunities, to decide by the use of the faculty of
reason given us, the great questions of natural and revealed religion."

You admit "that I am to decide for myself, by the use of my reason,"
whether the Bible is the word of God or not—whether there is any
revealed religion—and whether there be or be not an infinite being who
created and who governs this world.

You also admit that we are to decide these questions according to the
balance of the evidence.

Is this in accordance with the doctrine of Jehovah? Did Jehovah say to
the husband that if his wife became convinced, according to her means
and her opportunities, and decided according to her reason, that it was
better to worship some other God than Jehovah, then that he was to say
to her: "You are entitled to decide according to the balance of the
evidence as it seems to you"?

Have you abandoned Jehovah? Is man more just than he? Have you appealed
from him to the standard of reason? Is it possible that the leader of
the English Liberals is nearer civilized than Jehovah?

Do you know that in this sentence you demonstrate the existence of a
dawn in your mind? This sentence makes it certain that in the East of
the midnight of Episcopal superstition there is the herald of the coming
day. And if this sentence shows a dawn, what shall I say of the next:

"We are not entitled, either for or against belief, to set up in this
province any rule of investigation except such as common sense teaches
us to use in the ordinary conduct of life"?

This certainly is a morning star. Let me take this statement, let me
hold it as a torch, and by its light I beg of you to read the Bible once
again.

Is it in accordance with reason that an infinitely good and loving God
would drown a world that he had taken no means to civilize—to whom he
had given no bible, no gospel,—taught no scientific fact and in which
the seeds of art had not been sown; that he would create a world that
ought to be drowned? That a being of infinite wisdom would create a
rival, knowing that the rival would fill perdition with countless souls
destined to suffer eternal pain? Is it according to common sense that
an infinitely good God would order some of his children to kill others?
That he would command soldiers to rip open with the sword of war the
bodies of women—wreaking vengeance on babes unborn? Is it according to
reason that a good, loving, compassionate, and just God would establish
slavery among men, and that a pure God would uphold polygamy? Is it
according to common sense that he who wished to make men merciful and
loving would demand the sacrifice of animals, so that his altars would
be wet with the blood of oxen, sheep, and doves? Is it according
to reason that a good God would inflict tortures upon his ignorant
children—that he would torture animals to death—and is it in
accordance with common sense and reason that this God would create
countless billions of people knowing that they would be eternally
damned?

What is common sense? Is it the result of observation, reason and
experience, or is it the child of credulity?

There is this curious fact: The far past and the far future seem to
belong to the miraculous and the monstrous. The present, as a rule, is
the realm of common sense. If you say to a man: "Eighteen hundred years
ago the dead were raised," he will reply: "Yes, I know that." And if you
say: "A hundred thousand years from now all the dead will be raised," he
will probably reply: "I presume so." But if you tell him: "I saw a dead
man raised to-day," he will ask, "From what madhouse have you escaped?"

The moment we decide "according to reason," "according to the balance
of evidence," we are charged with "having violated the laws of social
morality and decency," and the defender of the miraculous and the
incomprehensible takes another position.

The theologian has a city of refuge to which he flies—an old breastwork
behind which he kneels—a rifle-pit into which he crawls. You have
described this city, this breastwork, this rifle-pit and also the leaf
under which the ostrich of theology thrusts its head. Let me quote:

"Our demands for evidence must be limited by the general reason of
the case. Does that general reason of the case make it probable that a
finite being, with a finite place in a comprehensive scheme devised and
administered by a being who is infinite, would be able even to embrace
within his view, or rightly to appreciate all the motives or aims that
there may have been in the mind of the divine disposer?"

And this is what you call "deciding by the use of the faculty of
reason," "according to the evidence," or at least "according to the
balance of evidence." This is a conclusion reached by a "rule of
investigation such as common sense teaches us to use in the ordinary
conduct of life." Will you have the kindness to explain what it is to
act contrary to evidence, or contrary to common sense? Can you imagine a
superstition so gross that it cannot be defended by that argument?

Nothing, it seems to me, could have been easier than for Jehovah to have
reasonably explained his scheme. You may answer that the human intellect
is not sufficient to understand the explanation. Why then do not
theologians stop explaining? Why do they feel it incumbent upon them
to explain that which they admit God would have explained had the human
mind been capable of understanding it?

How much better would it have been if Jehovah had said a few things on
these subjects. It always seemed wonderful to me that he spent several
days and nights on Mount Sinai explain* ing to Moses how he could
detect the presence of leprosy, without once thinking to give him a
prescription for its cure.

There were thousands and thousands of opportunities for this God to
withdraw from these questions the shadow and the cloud. When Jehovah out
of the whirlwind asked questions of Job, how much better it would have
been if Job had asked and Jehovah had answered.

You say that we should be governed by evidence and by common sense. Then
you tell us that the questions are beyond the reach of reason, and with
which common sense has nothing to do. If we then ask for an explanation,
you reply in the scornful challenge of Dante.

You seem to imagine that every man who gives an opinion, takes his
solemn oath that the opinion is the absolute end of all investigation on
that subject.

In my opinion, Shakespeare was, intellectually, the greatest of the
human race, and my intention was simply to express that view. It never
occurred to me that any one would suppose that I thought Shakespeare
a greater actor than Garrick, a more wonderful composer than Wagner, a
better violinist than Remenyi, or a heavier man than Daniel Lambert. It
is to be regretted that you were misled by my words and really supposed
that I intended to say that Shakespeare was a greater general than
Caesar. But, after all, your criticism has no possible bearing on the
point at issue. Is it an effort to avoid that which cannot be met?
The real question is this: If we cannot account for Christ without a
miracle, how can we account for Shakespeare? Dr. Field took the ground
that Christ himself was a miracle; that it was impossible to account for
such a being in any natural way; and, guided by common sense, guided
by the rule of investigation such as common sense teaches, I called
attention to Buddha, Mohammed, Confucius, and Shakespeare.

In another place in your Remarks, when my statement about Shakespeare
was not in your mind, you say: "All is done by steps—nothing by
strides, leaps or bounds—all from protoplasm up to Shakespeare." Why
did you end the series with Shakespeare? Did you intend to say Dante, or
Bishop Butler?

It is curious to see how much ingenuity a great man exercises when
guided by what he calls "the rule of investigation as suggested
by common sense." I pointed out some things that Christ did not
teach—among others, that he said nothing with regard to the family
relation, nothing against slavery, nothing about education, nothing as
to the rights and duties of nations, nothing as to any scientific truth.
And this is answered by saying that "I am quite able to point out the
way in which the Savior of the world might have been much greater as a
teacher than he actually was."

Is this an answer, or is it simply taking refuge behind a name? Would it
not have been better if Christ had told his disciples that they must not
persecute; that they had no right to destroy their fellow-men; that they
must not put heretics in dungeons, or destroy them with flames; that
they must not invent and use instruments of torture; that they must not
appeal to brutality, nor endeavor to sow with bloody hands the seeds
of peace? Would it not have been far better had he said: "I come not to
bring a sword, but peace"? Would not this have saved countless cruelties
and countless lives?

You seem to think that you have fully answered my objection when you say
that Christ taught the absolute indissolubility of marriage.

Why should a husband and wife be compelled to live with each other after
love is dead? Why should the wife still be bound in indissoluble chains
to a husband who is cruel, infamous, and false? Why should her life be
destroyed because of his? Why should she be chained to a criminal and an
outcast? Nothing can be more unphilosophic than this. Why fill the world
with the children of indifference and hatred?

The marriage contract is the most important, the most sacred, that human
beings can make. It will be sacredly kept by good men and by good women.
But if a loving woman—tender, noble, and true—makes this contract with
a man whom she believed to be worthy of all respect and love, and who is
found to be a cruel, worthless wretch, why should her life be lost?

Do you not know that the indissolubility of the marriage contract leads
to its violation, forms an excuse for immorality, eats out the very
heart of truth, and gives to vice that which alone belongs to love?

But in order that you may know why the objection was raised, I call your
attention to the fact that Christ offered a reward, not only in this
world but in another, to any husband who would desert his wife. And do
you know that this hideous offer caused millions to desert their wives
and children?

Theologians have the habit of using names instead of arguments—of
appealing to some man, great in some direction, to establish their
creed; but we all know that no man is great enough to be an authority,
except in that particular domain in which he won his eminence; and we
all know that great men are not great in all directions. Bacon died
a believer in the Ptolemaic system of astronomy. Tycho Brahe kept an
imbecile in his service, putting down with great care the words that
fell from the hanging lip of idiocy, and then endeavored to put them
together in a way to form prophecies. Sir Matthew Hale believed in
witchcraft not only, but in its lowest and most vulgar forms; and some
of the greatest men of antiquity examined the entrails of birds to find
the secrets of the future.

It has always seemed to me that reasons are better than names.

After taking the ground that Christ could not have been a greater
teacher than he actually was, you ask: "Where would have been the
wisdom of delivering to an uninstructed population of a particular age
a codified religion which was to serve for all nations, all ages, all
states of civilization?"

Does not this question admit that the teachings of Christ will not serve
for all nations, all ages and all states of civilization?

But let me ask: If it was necessary for Christ "to deliver to an
uninstructed population of a particular age a certain religion suited
only for that particular age," why should a civilized and scientific age
eighteen hundred years afterwards be absolutely bound by that religion?
Do you not see that your position cannot be defended, and that you have
provided no way for retreat? If the religion of Christ was for that age,
is it for this? Are you willing to admit that the Ten Commandments
are not for all time? If, then, four thousand years before Christ,
commandments were given not simply for "an uninstructed population of
a particular age, but for all time," can you give a reason why the
religion of Christ should not have been of the same character?

In the first place you say that God has revealed himself to the
world—that he has revealed a religion; and in the next place, that "he
has not revealed a perfect religion, for the reason that no room would
be left for the career of human thought."

Why did not God reveal this imperfect religion to all people instead of
to a small and insignificant tribe, a tribe without commerce and without
influence among the nations of the world? Why did he hide this imperfect
light under a bushel? If the light was necessary for one, was it not
necessary for all? And why did he drown a world to whom he had not even
given that light? According to your reasoning, would there not have been
left greater room for the career of human thought, had no revelation
been made?

You say that "you have known a person who after studying the old
classical or Olympian religion for a third part of a century, at length
began to hope that he had some partial comprehension of it—some
inkling of what is meant." You say this for the purpose of showing how
impossible it is to understand the Bible. If it is so difficult, why do
you call it a revelation? And yet, according to your creed, the man
who does not understand the revelation and believe it, or who does not
believe it, whether he understands it or not, is to reap the harvest of
everlasting pain. Ought not the revelation to be revealed?

In order to escape from the fact that Christ denounced the chosen people
of God as "a generation of vipers" and as "whited sepulchres," you take
the ground that the scribes and pharisees were not the chosen people.
Of what blood were they? It will not do to say that they were not the
people. Can you deny that Christ addressed the chosen people when he
said: "Jerusalem, which killest the prophets and stonest them that are
sent unto thee"?

You have called me to an account for what I said in regard to Ananias
and Sapphira. _First_, I am charged with having said that the apostles
conceived the idea of having all things in common, and you denounce this
as an interpolation; _second_, "that motives of prudence are stated as
a matter of fact to have influenced the offending couple"—and this
is charged as an interpolation; and, _third_, that I stated that the
apostles sent for the wife of Ananias—and this is characterized as a
pure invention.

To me it seems reasonable to suppose that the idea of having all things
in common was conceived by those who had nothing, or had the least, and
not by those who had plenty. In the last verses of the fourth chapter of
the Acts, you will find this:

"Neither was there any among them that lacked, for as many as were
possessed of lands or houses sold them, and brought the prices of the
things that were sold, and laid them down at the apostles' feet: and
distribution was made unto every man according as he had need. And
Joses, who by the apostles was surnamed Barnabas (which is, being
interpreted, the son of consolation), a Levite and of the country of
Cyprus, having land, sold it, and brought the money, and laid it at the
apostles' feet."

Now it occurred to me that the idea was in all probability suggested by
the men at whose feet the property was laid. It never entered my mind
that the idea originated with those who had land for sale. There may be
a different standard by which human nature is measured in your country,
than in mine; but if the thing had happened in the United States, I feel
absolutely positive that it would have been at the suggestion of the
apostles.

"Ananias, with Sapphira, his wife, sold a possession and kept back part
of the price, his wife also being privy to it, and brought a certain
part and laid it at the apostles' feet."

In my Letter to Dr. Field I stated—not at the time pretending to quote
from the New Testament—that Ananias and Sapphira, after talking the
matter over, not being entirely satisfied with the collaterals, probably
concluded to keep a little—just enough to keep them from starvation if
the good and pious bankers should abscond. It never occurred to me that
any man would imagine that this was a quotation, and I feel like asking
your pardon for having led you into this error. We are informed in the
Bible that "they kept back a part of the price." It occurred to me,
"judging by the rule of investigation according to common sense," that
there was a reason for this, and I could think of no reason except that
they did not care to trust the apostles with all, and that they kept
back just a little, thinking it might be useful if the rest should be
lost.

According to the account, after Peter had made a few remarks to Ananias,

"Ananias fell down and gave up the ghost;.... and the young men arose,
wound him up, and carried him out, and buried him. And it was about the
space of three hours after, when his wife, not knowing what was done,
came in."

Whereupon Peter said:

"'Tell me whether ye sold the land for so much?' And she said, 'Yea,
for so much.' Then Peter said unto her, 'How is it that ye have agreed
together to tempt the spirit of the Lord? Behold, the feet of them which
have buried thy husband are at the door, and shall carry thee out.' Then
fell she down straightway at his feet, and yielded up the ghost; and the
young men came in, and found her dead, and, carrying her forth, buried
her by her husband."

The only objection found to this is, that I inferred that the apostles
had sent for her. Sending for her was not the offence. The failure to
tell her what had happened to her husband was the offence—keeping his
fate a secret from her in order that she might be caught in the same net
that had been set for her husband by Jehovah. This was the offence.
This was the mean and cruel thing to which I objected. Have you answered
that?

Of course, I feel sure that the thing never occurred—the probability
being that Ananias and Sapphira never lived and never died. It is
probably a story invented by the early church to make the collection of
subscriptions somewhat easier.

And yet, we find a man in the nineteenth century, foremost of his
fellow-citizens in the affairs of a great nation, upholding this
barbaric view of God.

Let me beg of you to use your reason "according to the rule suggested
by common sense." Let us do what little we can to rescue the reputation,
even of a Jewish myth, from the calumnies of Ignorance and Fear.

So, again, I am charged with having given certain words as a quotation
from the Bible in which two passages are combined—"They who believe and
are baptized shall be saved, and they who believe not shall be damned.
And these shall go away into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and
his angels."

They were given as two passages. No one for a moment supposed that
they would be read together as one, and no one imagined that any one in
answering the argument would be led to believe that they were intended
as one. Neither was there in this the slightest negligence, as I was
answering a man who is perfectly familiar with the Bible. The objection
was too small to make. It is hardly large enough to answer—and had it
not been made by you it would not have been answered.

You are not satisfied with what I have said upon the subject of
immortality. What I said was this: The idea of immortality, that like a
sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, with its countless waves of
hope and fear beating against the shores and rocks of time and fate, was
not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor of any religion. It was born
of human affection, and it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the
mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long as love kisses the lips
of death.

You answer this by saying that "the Egyptians were believers in
immortality, but were not a people of high intellectual development."

How such a statement tends to answer what I have said, is beyond my
powers of discernment. Is there the slightest connection between my
statement and your objection?

You make still another answer, and say that "the ancient Greeks were
a race of perhaps unparalled intellectual capacity, and that
notwithstanding that, the most powerful mind of the Greek philosophy,
that of Aristotle, had no clear conception of a personal existence in a
future state." May I be allowed to ask this simple question: Who has?

Are you urging an objection to the dogma of immortality, when you say
that a race of unparalled intellectual capacity had no confidence in
it? Is that a doctrine believed only by people who lack intellectual
capacity? I stated that the idea of immortality was born of love, You
reply, "the Egyptians believed it, but they were not intellectual." Is
not this a _non sequitur?_ The question is: Were they a loving people?

Does history show that there is a moral governor of the world? What
witnesses shall we call? The billions of slaves who were paid with
blows?—the countless mothers whose babes were sold? Have we time to
examine the Waldenses, the Covenanters of Scotland, the Catholics of
Ireland, the victims of St. Bartholomew, of the Spanish Inquisition, all
those who have died in flames? Shall we hear the story of Bruno? Shall
we ask Servetus? Shall we ask the millions slaughtered by Christian
swords in America—all the victims of ambition, of perjury, of
ignorance, of superstition and revenge, of storm and earthquake, of
famine, flood and fire?

Can all the agonies and crimes, can all the inequalities of the world
be answered by reading the "noble Psalm" in which are found the words:
"Call upon me in the day of trouble, so I will hear thee, and thou shalt
praise me"? Do you prove the truth of these fine words, this honey of
Trebizond, by the victims of religious persecution? Shall we hear the
sighs and sobs of Siberia?

Another thing. Why should you, from the page of Greek history, with the
sponge of your judgment, wipe out all names but one, and tell us that
the most powerful mind of the Greek philosophy was that of Aristotle?
How did you ascertain this fact? Is it not fair to suppose that you
merely intended to say that, according to your view, Aristotle had the
most powerful mind among all the philosophers of Greece? I should not
call attention to this, except for your criticism on a like remark of
mine as to the intellectual superiority of Shakespeare. But if you knew
the trouble I have had in finding out your meaning, from your words, you
would pardon me for calling attention to a single line from Aristotle:
"Clearness is the virtue of style."

To me Epicurus seems far greater than Aristotle, He had clearer
vision. His cheek was closer to the breast of nature, and he planted his
philosophy nearer to the bed-rock of fact. He was practical enough to
know that virtue is the means and happiness the end; that the highest
philosophy is the art of living. He was wise enough to say that nothing
is of the slightest value to man that does not increase or preserve
his wellbeing, and he was great enough to know and courageous enough
to declare that all the gods and ghosts were monstrous phantoms born of
ignorance and fear.

I still insist that human affection is the foundation of the idea of
immortality; that love was the first to speak that word, no matter
whether they who spoke it were savage or civilized, Egyptian or Greek.
But if we are immortal—if there be another world—why was it not
clearly set forth in the Old Testament? Certainly, the authors of that
book had an opportunity to learn it from the Egyptians. Why was it not
revealed by Jehovah? Why did he waste his time in giving orders for the
consecration of priests—in saying that they must have sheep's blood
put on their right ears and on their right thumbs and on their right big
toes? Could a God with any sense of humor give such directions, or watch
without huge laughter the performance of such a ceremony? In order to
see the beauty, the depth and tenderness of such a consecration, is it
essential to be in a state of "reverential calm"?

Is it not strange that Christ did not tell of another world distinctly,
clearly, without parable, and without the mist of metaphor?

The fact is that the Hindoos, the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the
Romans taught the immortality of the soul, not as a glittering guess—a
possible perhaps—but as a clear and demonstrated truth for many
centuries before the birth of Christ.

If the Old Testament proves anything, it is that death ends all. And the
New Testament, by basing immortality on the resurrection of the body,
but "keeps the word of promise to our ear and breaks it to our hope."

In my Reply to Dr. Field, I said: "The truth is, that no one can justly
be held responsible for his thoughts. The brain thinks without asking
our consent; we believe, or disbelieve, without an effort of the will.
Belief is a result. It is the effect of evidence upon the mind. The
scales turn in spite of him who watches. There is no opportunity of
being honest or dishonest in the formation of an opinion. The conclusion
is entirely independent of desire. We must believe, or we must doubt, in
spite of what we wish."

Does the brain think without our consent? Can we control our thought?
Can we tell what we are going to think tomorrow?

Can we stop thinking?

Is belief the result of that which to us is evidence, or is it a product
of the will? Can the scales in which reason weighs evidence be turned by
the will? Why then should evidence be weighed? If it all depends on the
will, what is evidence? Is there any opportunity of being dishonest in
the formation of an opinion? Must not the man who forms the opinion know
what it is? He cannot knowingly cheat himself. He cannot be deceived
with dice that he loads. He cannot play unfairly at solitaire without
knowing that he has lost the game. He cannot knowingly weigh with false
scales and believe in the correctness of the result.

You have not even attempted to answer my arguments upon these points,
but you have unconsciously avoided them. You did not attack the citadel.
In military parlance, you proceeded to "shell the woods." The noise is
precisely the same as though every shot had been directed against the
enemy's position, but the result is not. You do not seem willing to
implicitly trust the correctness of your aim. You prefer to place the
target after the shot.

The question is whether the will knowingly can change evidence, and
whether there is any opportunity of being dishonest in the formation
of an opinion. You have changed the issue. You have erased the word
formation and interpolated the word expression.

Let us suppose that a man has given an opinion, knowing that it is not
based on any fact. Can you say that he has given his opinion? The moment
a prejudice is known to be a prejudice, it disappears. Ignorance is the
soil in which prejudice must grow. Touched by a ray of light, it dies.
The judgment of man may be warped by prejudice and passion, but it
cannot be consciously warped. It is impossible for any man to be
influenced by a known prejudice, because a known prejudice cannot exist.

I am not contending that all opinions have been honestly expressed. What
I contend is that when a dishonest opinion has been expressed it is not
the opinion that was formed.

The cases suggested by you are not in point. Fathers are honestly
swayed, if really swayed, by love; and queens and judges have pretended
to be swayed by the highest motives, by the clearest evidence, in order
that they might kill rivals, reap rewards, and gratify revenge. But what
has all this to do with the fact that he who watches the scales in which
evidence is weighed knows the actual result?

Let us examine your case: If a father is _consciously_ swayed by his
love for his son, and for that reason says that his son is innocent,
then he has not expressed his opinion. If he is unconsciously swayed
and says that his son is innocent, then he has expressed his opinion. In
both instances his opinion was independent of his will; but in the first
instance he did not express his opinion. You will certainly see this
distinction between the formation and the expression of an opinion.

The same argument applies to the man who consciously has a desire to
condemn. Such a _conscious_ desire cannot affect the testimony—cannot
affect the opinion. Queen Elizabeth undoubtedly desired the death
of Mary Stuart, but this conscious desire could not have been the
foundation on which rested Elizabeth's opinion as to the guilt or
innocence of her rival. It is barely possible that Elizabeth did not
express her real opinion. Do you believe that the English judges in
the matter of the Popish Plot gave judgment in accordance with their
opinions? Are you satisfied that Napoleon expressed his real opinion
when he justified himself for the assassination of the Duc d'Enghien?

If you answer these questions in the affirmative, you admit that I am
right. If you answer in the negative, you admit that you are wrong. The
moment you admit that the opinion formed cannot be changed by expressing
a pretended opinion, your argument is turned against yourself.

It is admitted that prejudice strengthens, weakens and colors evidence;
but prejudice is honest. And when one acts knowingly against the
evidence, that is not by reason of prejudice.

According to my views of propriety, it would be unbecoming for me to
say that your argument on these questions is "a piece of plausible
shallowness." Such language might be regarded as lacking "reverential
calm," and I therefore refrain from even characterizing it as plausible.

Is it not perfectly apparent that you have changed the issue, and that
instead of showing that opinions are creatures of the will, you have
discussed the quality of actions? What have corrupt and cruel judgments
pronounced by corrupt and cruel judges to do with their real opinions?
When a judge forms one opinion and renders another he is called corrupt.
The corruption does not consist in forming his opinion, but in rendering
one that he did not form. Does a dishonest creditor, who incorrectly
adds a number of items making the aggregate too large, necessarily
change his opinion as to the relations of numbers? When an error is
known, it is not a mistake; but a conclusion reached by a mistake, or by
a prejudice, or by both, is a necessary conclusion. He who pretends to
come to a conclusion by a mistake which he knows is not a mistake, knows
that he has not expressed his real opinion.

Can any thing be more illogical than the assertion that because a boy
reaches, through negligence in adding figures, a wrong result, that
he is accountable for his opinion of the result? If he knew he was
negligent, what must his opinion of the result have been?

So with the man who boldly announces that he has discovered the
numerical expression of the relation sustained by the diameter to the
circumference of a circle. If he is honest in the announcement, then the
announcement was caused not by his will but by his ignorance. His will
cannot make the announcement true, and he could not by any possibility
have supposed that his will could affect the correctness of his
announcement. The will of one who thinks that he has invented or
discovered what is called perpetual motion, is not at fault. The man, if
honest, has been misled; if not honest, he endeavors to mislead others.
There is prejudice, and prejudice does raise a clamor, and the intellect
is affected and the judgment is darkened and the opinion is deformed;
but the prejudice is real and the clamor is sincere and the judgment is
upright and the opinion is honest.

The intellect is not always supreme. It is surrounded by clouds.
It sometimes sits in darkness. It is often misled—sometimes, in
superstitious fear, it abdicates. It is not always a white light. The
passions and prejudices are prismatic—they color thoughts. Desires
betray the judgment and cunningly mislead the will.

You seem to think that the fact of responsibility is in danger unless
it rests upon the will, and this will you regard as something without
a cause, springing into being in some mysterious way, without father or
mother, without seed or soil, or rain or light. You must admit that man
is a conditioned being—that he has wants, objects, ends, and aims, and
that these are gratified and attained only by the use of means. Do not
these wants and these objects have something to do with the will, and
does not the intellect have something to do with the means? Is not the
will a product? Independently of conditions, can it exist? Is it not
necessarily produced? Behind every wish and thought, every dream and
fancy, every fear and hope, are there not countless causes? Man
feels shame. What does this prove? He pities himself. What does this
demonstrate?

The dark continent of motive and desire has never been explored. In the
brain, that wondrous world with one inhabitant, there are recesses dim
and dark, treacherous sands and dangerous shores, where seeming sirens
tempt and fade; streams that rise in unknown lands from hidden springs,
strange seas with ebb and flow of tides, resistless billows urged by
storms of flame, profound and awful depths hidden by mist of dreams,
obscure and phantom realms where vague and fearful things are half
revealed, jungles where passion's tigers crouch, and skies of cloud and
blue where fancies fly with painted wings that dazzle and mislead; and
the poor sovereign of this pictured world is led by old desires and
ancient hates, and stained by crimes of many vanished years, and pushed
by hands that long ago were dust, until he feels like some bewildered
slave that Mockery has throned and crowned.

No one pretends that the mind of man is perfect—that it is not affected
by desires, colored by hopes, weakened by fears, deformed by ignorance
and distorted by superstition. But all this has nothing to do with the
innocence of opinion.

It may be that the Thugs were taught that murder is innocent; but
did the teachers believe what they taught? Did the pupils believe the
teachers? Did not Jehovah teach that the act that we describe as murder
was a duty? Were not his teachings practiced by Moses and Joshua and
Jephthah and Samuel and David? Were they honest? But what has all this
to do with the point at issue?

Society has the right to protect itself, even from honest murderers
and conscientious thieves. The belief of the criminal does not disarm
society; it protects itself from him as from a poisonous serpent, or
from a beast that lives on human flesh. We are under no obligation
to stand still and allow ourselves to be murdered by one who honestly
thinks that it is his duty to take our lives. And yet according to your
argument, we have no right to defend ourselves from honest Thugs. Was
Saul of Tarsus a Thug when he persecuted Christians "even unto strange
cities"? Is the Thug of India more ferocious than Torquemada, the Thug
of Spain?

If belief depends upon the will, can all men have correct opinions
who will to have them? Acts are good or bad, according to their
consequences, and not according to the intentions of the actors. Honest
opinions may be wrong, and opinions dishonestly expressed may be right.

Do you mean to say that because passion and prejudice, the reckless
"pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores of will and judgment," sway the
mind, that the opinions which you have expressed in your Remarks to me
are not your opinions? Certainly you will admit that in all probability
you have prejudices and passions, and if so, can the opinions that
you have expressed, according to your argument, be honest? My lack of
confidence in your argument gives me perfect confidence in your candor.
You may remember the philosopher who retained his reputation for
veracity, in spite of the fact that he kept saying: "There is no truth
in man."

Are only those opinions honest that are formed without any interference
of passion, affection, habit or fancy? What would the opinion of a man
without passions, affections, or fancies be worth? The alchemist gave
up his search for an universal solvent upon being asked in what kind of
vessel he expected to keep it when found.

It may be admitted that Biel "shows us how the life of Dante co-operated
with his extraordinary natural gifts and capabilities to make him what
he was," but does this tend to show that Dante changed his opinions
by an act of his will, or that he reached honest opinions by knowingly
using false weights and measures?

You must admit that the opinions, habits and religions of men depend, at
least in some degree, on race, occupation, training and capacity. Is
not every thoughtful man compelled to agree with Edgar Fawcett, in
whose brain are united the beauty of the poet and the subtlety of the
logician,

> "Who sees how vice her venom wreaks
> On the frail babe before it speaks,
> And how heredity enslaves
> With ghostly hands that reach from graves"?

Why do you hold the intellect criminally responsible for opinions, when
you admit that it is controlled by the will? And why do you hold the
will responsible, when you insist that it is swayed by the passions
and affections? But all this has nothing to do with the fact that every
opinion has been honestly formed, whether honestly expressed or not.

No one pretends that all governments have been honestly formed and
honestly administered. All vices, and some virtues are represented in
most nations. In my opinion a republic is far better than a monarchy.
The legally expressed will of the people is the only rightful sovereign.
This sovereignty, however, does not embrace the realm of thought or
opinion. In that world, each human being is a sovereign,—throned and
crowned: One is a majority. The good citizens of that realm give to
others all rights that they claim for themselves, and those who appeal
to force are the only traitors.

The existence of theological despotisms, of God-anointed kings, does
not tend to prove that a known prejudice can determine the weight of
evidence. When men were so ignorant as to suppose that God would
destroy them unless they burned heretics, they lighted the fagots in
selfdefence.

Feeling as I do that man is not responsible for his opinions, I
characterized persecution for opinion's sake as infamous. So, it is
perfectly clear to me, that it would be the infamy of infamies for an
infinite being to create vast numbers of men knowing that they would
suffer eternal pain. If an infinite God creates a man on purpose to damn
him, or creates him knowing that he will be damned, is not the crime the
same? We make mistakes and failures because we are finite; but can you
conceive of any excuse for an infinite being who creates failures? If
you had the power to change, by a wish, a statue into a human being,
and you knew that this being would die without a "change of heart" and
suffer endless pain, what would you do?

Can you think of any excuse for an earthly father, who, having wealth,
learning and leisure, leaves his own children in ignorance and darkness?
Do you believe that a God of infinite wisdom, justice and love, called
countless generations of men into being, knowing that they would be used
as fuel for the eternal fire?

Many will regret that you did not give your views upon the main
questions—the principal issues—involved, instead of calling attention,
for the most part, to the unimportant. If men were discussing the causes
and results of the Franco-Prussian war, it would hardly be worth while
for a third person to interrupt the argument for the purpose of calling
attention to a misspelled word in the terms of surrender.

If we admit that man is responsible for his opinions and his thoughts,
and that his will is perfectly free, still these admissions do not even
tend to prove the inspiration of the Bible, or the "divine scheme of
redemption."

In my judgment, the days of the supernatural are numbered. The dogma
of inspiration must be abandoned. As man advances,—as his intellect
enlarges,—as his knowledge increases,—as his ideals become nobler,
the bibles and creeds will lose their authority—the miraculous will be
classed with the impossible, and the idea of special providence will be
discarded. Thousands of religions have perished, innumerable gods have
died, and why should the religion of our time be exempt from the common
fate?

Creeds cannot remain permanent in a world in which knowledge increases.
Science and superstition cannot peaceably occupy the same brain. This is
an age of investigation, of discovery and thought. Science destroys the
dogmas that mislead the mind and waste the energies of man. It points
out the ends that can be accomplished; takes into consideration the
limits of our faculties; fixes our attention on the affairs of this
world, and erects beacons of warning on the dangerous shores. It seeks
to ascertain the conditions of health, to the end that life may be
enriched and lengthened, and it reads with a smile this passage:

"And God-wrought special miracles by the hands of Paul, so that from
his body were brought unto the sick handkerchiefs or aprons, and the
diseases departed from them, and the evil spirits went out of them."

Science is the enemy of fear and credulity. It invites investigation,
challenges the reason, stimulates inquiry, and welcomes the unbeliever.
It seeks to give food and shelter, and raiment, education and liberty to
the human race. It welcomes every fact and every truth. It has furnished
a foundation for morals, a philosophy for the guidance of man. From all
books it selects the good, and from all theories, the true. It seeks to
civilize the human race by the cultivation of the intellect and'
heart. It refines through art, music and the drama—giving voice and
expression to every noble thought. The mysterious does not excite the
feeling of worship, but the ambition to understand. It does not pray—it
works. It does not answer inquiry with the malicious cry of "blasphemy."
Its feelings are not hurt by contradiction, neither does it ask to be
protected by law from the laughter of heretics. It has taught man that
he cannot walk beyond the horizon—that the questions of origin and
destiny cannot be answered—that an infinite personality cannot be
comprehended by a finite being, and that the truth of any system
of religion based on the supernatural cannot by any possibility be
established—such a religion not being within the domain of evidence.
And, above all, it teaches that all our duties are here—that all
our obligations are to sentient beings; that intelligence, guided by
kindness, is the highest possible wisdom; and that "man believes not
what he would, but what he can."

And after all, it may be that "to ride an unbroken horse with the reins
thrown upon his neck"—as you charge me with doing—gives a greater
variety of sensations, a keener delight, and a better prospect of
winning the race than to sit solemnly astride of a dead one, in "a deep
reverential calm," with the bridle firmly in your hand.

Again assuring you of my profound respect, I remain, Sincerely yours,

Robert G. Ingersoll.
---
# A Christmas Sermon
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1891_
> * This is the famous Christmas Sermon written by Colonel
> Ingersoll and printed in the Evening Telegram, on December
> 19,1891.

I.

THE good part of Christmas is not always Christian—it is generally
Pagan; that is to say, human, natural.

Christianity did not come with tidings of great joy, but with a message
of eternal grief. It came with the threat of everlasting torture on its
lips. It meant war on earth and perdition hereafter.

It taught some good things—the beauty of love and kindness in man. But
as a torch-bearer, as a bringer of joy, it has been a failure. It has
given infinite consequences to the acts of finite beings, crushing the
soul with a responsibility too great for mortals to bear. It has filled
the future with fear and flame, and made God the keeper of an eternal
penitentiary, destined to be the home of nearly all the sons of men. Not
satisfied with that, it has deprived God of the pardoning power.

In answer to this "Christmas Sermon" the Rev. Dr. J. M. Buckley, editor
of the Christian Advocate, the recognized organ of the Methodist
Church, wrote an article, calling upon the public to boycott the Evening
Telegram for publishing such a "sermon."

This attack was headed "Lies That Are Mountainous." The Telegram
promptly accepted the issue raised by Dr. Buckley and dared him to do
his utmost. On the very same day it published an answer from Colonel
Ingersoll that echoed throughout America.'

And yet it may have done some good by borrowing from the Pagan world the
old festival called Christmas.

Long before Christ was born the Sun-God triumphed over the powers
of Darkness. About the time that we call Christmas the days begin
perceptibly to lengthen. Our barbarian ancestors were worshipers of the
sun, and they celebrated his victory over the hosts of night. Such a
festival was natural and beautiful. The most natural of all religions is
the worship of the sun. Christianity adopted this festival. It borrowed
from the Pagans the best it has.

I believe in Christmas and in every day that has been set apart for joy.
We in America have too much work and not enough play. We are too much
like the English.

I think it was Heinrich Heine who said that he thought a blaspheming
Frenchman was a more pleasing object to God than a praying Englishman.
We take our joys too sadly. I am in favor of all the good free days—the
more the better.

Christmas is a good day to forgive and forget—a good day to throw away
prejudices and hatreds—a good day to fill your heart and your house,
and the hearts and houses of others, with sunshine.

R. G Ingersoll.

COL. INGERSOLL'S REPLY TO Dr. BUCKLEY.

II.

WHENEVER an orthodox editor attacks an unbeliever, look out for
kindness, charity and love.

The gentle editor of the _Christian Advocate_ charges me with having
written three "gigantic falsehoods," and he points them out as follows:
_First_—"Christianity did not come with tidings of great joy? but with
a message of eternal grief."

_Second_—"It [Christianity] has filled the future with fear and flame,
and made God the keeper of an eternal penitentiary, destined to be the
home of nearly all the sons of men."

_Third_—"Not satisfied with that, it [Christianity] has deprived God of
the pardoning power."

Now, let us take up these "gigantic falsehoods" in their order and see
whether they are in accord with the New Testament or not—whether they
are supported by the creed of the Methodist Church.

I insist that Christianity did not come with tidings of great joy, but
with a message of eternal grief.

According to the orthodox creeds, Christianity came with the tidings
that the human race was totally depraved, and that all men were in a
lost condition, and that all who rejected or failed to believe the new
religion, would be tormented in eternal fire.

These were not "tidings of great joy."

If the passengers on some great ship were told that the ship was to be
wrecked, that a few would be saved and that nearly all would go to
the bottom, would they talk about "tidings of great joy"? It is to be
presumed that Christ knew what his mission was, and what he came for.
He says: "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth; I came not to
send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against
his father, and the daughter against her mother." In my judgment, these
are not "tidings of great joy."

Now, as to the message of eternal grief:

"Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye
cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels."

"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous
[meaning the Methodists] into life eternal."

"He that believeth not shall be damned."

"He that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God
abideth on him."

"Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul;
but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in
hell."

"And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever."

Knowing, as we do, that but few people have been believers, that during
the last eighteen hundred years not one in a hundred has died in the
faith, and that consequently nearly all the dead are in hell, it can
truthfully be said that Christianity came with a message of eternal
grief.

Now, as to the second "gigantic falsehood," to the effect that
Christianity filled the future with fear and flame, and made God the
keeper of an eternal penitentiary, destined to be the home of nearly all
the sons of men.

In the Old Testament there is nothing about punishment in some other
world, nothing about the flames and torments of hell. When Jehovah
killed one of his enemies he was satisfied. His revenge was glutted
when the victim was dead. The Old Testament gave the future to sleep and
oblivion. But in the New Testament we are told that the punishment
in another world is everlasting, and that "the smoke of their torment
ascendeth up forever and ever."

This awful doctrine, these frightful texts, filled the future with
fear and flame. Building on these passages, the orthodox churches have
constructed a penitentiary, in which nearly all the sons of men are
to be imprisoned and tormented forever, and of this prison God is the
keeper. The doors are opened only to receive.

The doctrine of eternal punishment is the infamy of infamies. As I have
often said, the man who believes in eternal torment, in the justice of
endless pain, is suffering from at least two diseases—petrifaction of
the heart and putrefaction of the brain.

The next question is whether Christianity has deprived God of the
pardoning power.

The Methodist Church and every orthodox church teaches that this life
is a period of probation; that there is no chance given for reformation
after death; that God gives no opportunity to repent in another world.

This is the doctrine of the Christian world. If this dogma be true, then
God will never release a soul from hell—the pardoning power will never
be exercised.

How happy God will be and how happy all the saved will be, knowing
that billions and billions of his children, of their fathers, mothers,
brothers, sisters, wives, and children are convicts in the eternal
dungeons, and that the words of pardon will never be spoken!

Yet this is in accordance with the promise contained in the New
Testament, of happiness here and eternal joy hereafter, to those who
would desert brethren or sisters, or father or mother, or wife or
children.

It seems to me clear that Christianity did not bring "tidings of great
joy," but that it came with a "message of eternal grief"—that it did
"fill the future with fear and flame," that it did make God "the keeper
of an eternal penitentiary," that the penitentiary "was destined to be
the home of nearly all the sons of men," and that "it deprived God of
the pardoning power."

Of course you can find passages full of peace, in the Bible, others of
war—some filled with mercy, and others cruel as the fangs of a wild
beast.

According to the Methodists, God has an eternal prison—an everlasting
Siberia. There is to be an eternity of grief, of agony and shame.

What do I think of what the Doctor says about the _Telegram_ for having
published my Christmas sermon?

The editor of the _Christian Advocate_ has no idea of what intellectual
liberty means. He ought to know that a man should not be insulted
because another man disagrees with him.

What right has Dr. Buckley to disagree with Cardinal Gibbons, and what
right has Cardinal Gibbons to disagree with Dr. Buckley? The same right
that I have to disagree with them both.

I do not warn people against reading Catholic or Methodist papers or
books. But I do tell them to investigate for themselves—to stand by
what they believe to be true, to deny the false, and, above all things,
to preserve their mental manhood. The good Doctor wants the _Telegram_
destroyed—wants all religious people to unite for the purpose of
punishing the _Telegram_—because it published something with which the
reverend Doctor does not agree, or rather that does not agree with the
Doctor.

It is too late. That day has faded in the West of the past. The doctor
of theology has lost his power. Theological thunder has lost its
lightning—it is nothing now but noise, pleasing those who make it and
amusing those who hear.

The _Telegram_ has nothing to fear. It is, in the highest sense, a
newspaper—wide-awake, alive, always on time, good to its friends, fair
with its enemies, and true to the public.

What have I to say to the Doctor's personal abuse?

Nothing. A man may call me a devil, or the devil, or he may say that I
am incapable of telling the truth, or that I tell lies, and yet all this
proves nothing. My arguments remain unanswered.

I cannot afford to call Dr. Buckley names, I have good mental manners.
The cause I represent (in part) is too great, too sacred, to be stained
by an ignorant or a malicious personality.

I know that men do as they must with the light they have, and so I
say—More light!

## Iii

THE Rev. James M. King—who seems to have taken this occasion to become
known—finds fault because "blasphemous utterances concerning Christmas"
were published in the _Telegram_, and were allowed "to greet the eyes of
innocent children and pure women."

How is it possible to blaspheme a day? One day is not, in and of itself,
holier than another—that is to say, two equal spaces of time are
substantially alike. We call a day "good" or "bad" according to what
happens in the day. A day filled with happiness, with kind words, with
noble deeds, is a good day. A day filled with misfortunes and anger and
misery we call a bad day. But how is it possible to blaspheme a day?

A man may or may not believe that Christ was born on the 2 5th of
December, and yet he may fill that day, so far as he is concerned,
with good thoughts and words and deeds. Another may really believe
that Christ was born on that day, and yet do his worst to make all
his friends unhappy. But how can the rights of what are called "clean
families" be violated by reading the honest opinions of others as to
whether Christmas is kept in honor of the birth of Christ, or in honor
of the triumph of the sun over the hosts of darkness? Are Christian
families so weak intellectually that they cannot bear to hear the other
side? Or is their case so weak that the slightest evidence overthrows
it? Why do all these ministers insist that it is ill-bred to even raise
a question as to the truth of the improbable, or as to the improbability
of the impossible?

A minister says to me that I am going to hell—that I am bound to be
punished forever and ever—and thereupon I say to him: "There is no
hell you are mistaken; your Bible is not inspired; no human being is to
suffer agony forever;" and thereupon, with an injured look, he asks me
this question: "Why do you hurt my feelings?" It does not occur to him
that I have the slightest right to object to his sentence of eternal
grief.

Does the gentleman imagine that true men and pure women cannot differ
with him? There are many thousands of people who love and honor the
memory of Jesus Christ, who yet have not the slightest belief in his
divine origin, and who do not for one moment imagine that he was other
than a good and heroic man. And there are thousands of people who
admire the character of Jesus Christ who do not believe that he ever
existed—who admire the character of Christ as they admire Imogen, or
Per-dita, not believing that any of the characters mentioned actually
lived.

And it may be well enough here to state that no human being hates any
really good man or good woman—that is, no human being hates a man known
to be good—a woman known to be pure and good. No human being hates a
lovable character.

It is perfectly easy for any one with the slightest imagination to
understand how other people differ from him. I do not attribute a bad
motive to a man simply because he disagrees with me. I do not say that a
man is a Christian or a Mohammedan "for revenue only." I do not say that
a man joins the Democratic party simply for office, or that he marches
with the Republicans simply for position. I am willing to hear his
reasons—with his motives I have nothing to do.

Mr. King imagines that I have denounced Christianity "for revenue
only." Is he willing to admit that we have drifted so far from orthodox
religion that the way to make money is to denounce Christianity? I can
hardly believe, for joy, that liberty of thought has advanced so far.
I regret exceedingly that there is not an absolute foundation for his
remark. I am indeed sorry that it is possible in this world of ours for
any human being to make a living out of the ignorance and fear of his
fellow-men. Still, it gives me great hope for the future to read, even
in this ignorant present, that there is one man, and that man myself,
who advocates human liberty—the absolute enfranchisement of the
soul—and does it "for revenue"—because this charge is such a splendid
compliment to my fellow-men.

Possibly the remark of the Rev. Mr. King will be gratifying to the
_Telegram_ and will satisfy that brave and progressive sheet that it is
in harmony with the intelligence of the age.

My opinion is that the _Telegram_ will receive the praise of enlightened
and generous people.

Personally I judge a man not so much by his theories as by his practice,
and I would much rather meet on the desert—were I about to perish for
want of water—a Mohammedan who would give me a drink than a Christian
who would not; because, after all is said and done, we are compelled to
judge people by their actions.

I do not know what takes place in the invisible world called the brain,
inhabited by the invisible something we call the mind. All that takes
place there is invisible and soundless. This mind, hidden in this brain,
masked by flesh, remains forever unseen, and the only evidence we
can possibly have as to what occurs in that world, we obtain from the
actions of the man, of the woman. By these actions we judge of the
character, of the soul. So I make up my mind as to whether a man is good
or bad, not by his theories, but by his actions.

Under no circumstances can the expression of an honest opinion, couched
in becoming language, amount to blasphemy. And right here it may be well
enough to inquire: What is blasphemy?

A man who knowingly assaults the true, who knowingly endeavors to stain
the pure, who knowingly maligns the good and noble, is a blasphemer. A
man who deserts the truth because it is unpopular is a blasphemer. He
who runs with the hounds knowing that the hare is in the right is a
blasphemer.

In the soul of every man, or in the temple inhabited by the soul, there
is one niche in which can be found the statue of the ideal. In
the presence of this statue the good man worships—the bad man
blasphemes—that is to say, he is not true to the ideal.

A man who slanders a pure woman or an honest man is a blasphemer. So,
too, a man who does not give the honest transcript of his mind is
a blasphemer. If a man really thinks the character of Jehovah, as
portrayed in the Old Testament, is good, and he denounces Jehovah as
bad, he is a blasphemer. If he really believes that the character of
Jehovah, as portrayed in the Old Testament, is bad, and he pronounces it
good, he is a blasphemer and a coward.

All laws against "blasphemy" have been passed by the numerically strong
and intellectually weak. These laws have been passed by those who,
finding no help in logic, appealed to the legislature.

Back of all these superstitions you will find some self-interest. I do
not say that this is true in every case, but I do say that if priests
had not been fond of mutton, lambs never would have been sacrificed to
God. Nothing was ever carried to the temple that the priest could not
use, and it always so happened that God wanted what his agents liked.

Now, I will not say that all priests have been priests "for revenue
only," but I must say that the history of the world tends to show that
the sacerdotal class prefer revenue without religion to religion without
revenue.

I am much obliged to the Rev. Mr. King for admitting that an infidel
has a right to publish his views at his own expense, and with the utmost
cheerfulness I accord that right to a Christian. The only thing I have
ever objected to is the publication of his views at the expense of
others.

I cannot admit, however, that the ideas contained in what is known as
the Christmas Sermon are "revolting to a vast majority of the people who
give character to the community in which we live." I suppose that a
very large majority of men and women who disagree with me are perfectly
satisfied that I have the right to disagree with them, and that I do not
disagree with them to any greater degree than they disagree with me.
And I also imagine that a very large majority of intelligent people are
perfectly willing to hear the other side.

I do not regard religious opinions or political opinions as exotics that
have to be kept under glass, protected from the frosts of common sense
or the tyrannous north wind of logic. Such plants are hardly worth
preserving. They certainly ought to be hardy enough to stand the climate
of free discussion, and if they cannot, the sooner they die the better.

I do not think there was anything blasphemous or impure in the words
published by, the _Telegram_. The most that can possibly be said against
them, calculated to excite the prejudice of Christians, is that they
were true—that they cannot be answered except by abuse.

It is not possible, in this day and generation, to stay the rising flood
of intellectual freedom by keeping the names of thinkers out of print.
The church has had the field for eighteen hundred years. For most
of this time it has held the sword and purse of the world. For many
centuries it controlled colleges and universities and schools. It had
within its gift wealth and honor. It held the keys, so far as this world
is concerned, of heaven and hell—that is to say, of prosperity and
misfortune. It pursued its enemies even to the grave. It reddened the
scaffold with the best blood, and kept the sword of persecution wet
for many centuries. Thousands and thousands have died in its dungeons.
Millions of reputations have been blasted by its slanders. It has made
millions of widows and orphans, and it has not only ruled this world,
but it has pretended to hold the keys of eternity, and under this
pretence it has sentenced countless millions to eternal flames.

At last the spirit of independence rose against its monstrous
assumptions. It has been growing some-what weaker. It has been for many
years gradually losing its power. The sword of the state belongs now
to the people. The partnership between altar and throne has in many
countries been dissolved. The adulterous marriage of church and state
has ceased to exist. Men are beginning to express their honest thoughts.
In the arena where speech is free, superstition is driven to the wall.
Man relies more and more on the facts in nature, and the real priest is
the interpreter of nature. The pulpit is losing its power. In a little
while religion will take its place with astrology, with the black art,
and its ministers will take rank with magicians and sleight-of-hand
performers.

With regard to the letter of the Rev. Thomas Dixon, Jr., I have but
little to say.

I am glad that he believes in a free platform and a free press—that he,
like Lucretia Mott, believes in "truth for authority, and not authority
for truth." At the same time I do not see how the fact that I am not a
scientist has the slightest bearing upon the question; but if there is
any fact that I have avoided or misstated, then I wish that fact to be
pointed out. I admit also, that I am a "sentimentalist"—that is, that I
am governed, to a certain extent, by sentiment—that my mind is so that
cruelty is revolting and that mercy excites my love and admiration. I
admit that I am so much of "a sentimentalist" that I have no love for
the Jehovah of the Old Testament, and that it is impossible for me
to believe a creed that fills the prison house of hell with countless
billions of men, women and children.

I am also glad that the reverend gentleman admits that I have "stabbed
to the heart hundreds of superstitions and lies," and I hope to stab
many, many more, and if I succeed in stabbing all lies to the
heart there will be no foundation left for what I called "orthodox"
Christianity—but goodness will survive, justice will live, and the
flower of mercy will shed its perfume forever.

When we take into consideration the fact that the Rev. Mr. Dixon is a
minister and believes that he is called upon to deliver to the people a
divine message, I do not wonder that he makes the following assertion:
"If God could choose Balaam's ass to speak a divine message, I do not
see why he could not utilize the Colonel." It is natural for a man to
justify himself and to defend his own occupation. Mr. Dixon, however,
will remember that the ass was much superior to the prophet of God, and
that the argument was all on the side of the ass. And, furthermore, that
the spiritual discernment of the ass far exceeded that of the prophet.
It was the ass who saw the angel when the prophet's eye was dim. I
suggest to the Rev. Mr. Dixon that he read the account once more, and he
will find:—

_First_, that the ass _first_ saw the angel of the Lord; _second_, that
the prophet Balaam was cruel, unreasonable, and brutal; _third_, that
the prophet so lost his temper that he wanted to kill the innocent
ass, and the ass, not losing her temper, reasoned with the prophet and
demonstrated not only her intellectual but her moral superiority. In
addition to all this the angel of the Lord had to open the eyes of the
prophet—in other words, had to work a miracle—in order to make the
prophet equal to the ass, and not only so, but rebuked him for his
cruelty. And this same angel admitted that without any miracle whatever
the ass saw him—the angel—showing that the spiritual discernment of
the ass in those days was far superior to that of the prophet.

I regret that the Rev. Mr. King loses his temper and that the Rev. Mr.
Dixon is not quite polite.

All of us should remember that passion clouds the judgment, and that he
who seeks for victory loses sight of the cause.

And there is another thing: He who has absolute confidence in the
justice of his position can afford to be good-natured. Strength is the
foundation of kindness; weakness is often malignant, and when argument
fails passion comes to the rescue.

Let us be good-natured. Let us have respect for the rights of each
other.

The course pursued by the _Telegram_ is worthy of all praise. It has not
only been just to both sides, but it has been—as is its custom—true to
the public.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

## Ingersoll Again Answers His Critics

IV.

_To the Editor of the Evening Telegram _:

SOME of the gentlemen who have given their ideas through the columns of
the _Telegram_ have wandered from the questions under discussion. It may
be well enough to state what is really in dispute.

I was called to account for having stated that Christianity did not
bring "tidings of great joy," but a message of eternal grief—that it
filled the future with fear and flame—made God the keeper of an eternal
penitentiary, in which most of the children of men were to be imprisoned
forever, and that, not satisfied with that, it had deprived God of the
pardoning power.

These statements were called "mountainous lies" by the Rev. Dr.
Buckley, and because the _Telegram_ had published the "Christmas Sermon"
containing these statements, he insisted that such a paper should not be
allowed in the families of Christians or of Jews—in other words, that
the _Telegram_ should be punished, and that good people should refuse to
allow that sheet to come into their homes.

It will probably be admitted by all fair-minded people that if the
orthodox creeds be true, then Christianity was and is the bearer of a
message of eternal grief, and a large majority of the human race are to
become eternal convicts, and God has deprived himself of the pardoning
power. According to those creeds, no word of mercy to any of the lost
can ever fall from the lips of the Infinite.

The Universalists deny that such was or is the real message of
Christianity. They insist that all are finally to be saved. If that
doctrine be true, then I admit that Christianity came with "tidings of
great joy."

Personally I have no quarrel with the Univer-salist Church. I have no
quarrel with any creed that expresses hope for all of the human race.
I find fault with no one for filling the future with joy—for dreaming
splendid dreams and for uttering splendid prophecies. I do not object
to Christianity because it promises heaven to a few, but because it
threatens the many with perdition.

It does not seem possible to me that a God who loved men to that degree
that he died that they might be saved, abandons his children the moment
they are dead. It seems to me that an infinite God might do something
for a soul after it has reached the other world.

Is it possible that infinite wisdom can do no more than is done for a
majority of souls in this world?

Think of the millions born in ignorance and filth, raised in poverty and
crime. Think of the millions who are only partially developed in this
world. Think of the weakness of the will, of the power of passion. Think
of the temptations innumerable. Think, too, of the tyranny of man, of
the arrogance of wealth and position, of the sufferings of the weak—and
can we then say that an infinite God has done, in this world, all
that could be done for the salvation of his children? Is it not barely
possible that something may be done in another world? Is there nothing
left for God to do for a poor, ignorant, criminal human soul after it
leaves this world? Can God do nothing except to pronounce the sentence
of eternal pain?

I insist that if the orthodox creed be true, Christianity did not come
with "tidings of great joy," but that its message was and is one of
eternal grief.

If the orthodox creed be true, the universe is a vast blunder—an
infinite crime. Better, a thousand times, that every pulse of life
should cease—better that all the gods should fall palsied from their
thrones, than that the creed of Christendom should be true.

There is another question and that involves the freedom of the press.

The _Telegram_ has acted with the utmost fairness and with the highest
courage. After all, the American people admire the man who takes
his stand and bravely meets all comers. To be an instrumentality of
progress, the press must be free. Only the free can carry a torch.
Liberty sheds light.

The editor or manager of a newspaper occupies a public position, and
he must not treat his patrons as though they were weak and ignorant
children. He must not, in the supposed interest of any ism, suppress the
truth—neither must he be dictated to by any church or any society of
believers or unbelievers. The _Telegram_, by its course, has given
a certificate of its manliness, and the public, by its course, has
certified that it appreciates true courage.

All Christians should remember that facts are not sectarian, and that
the sciences are not bound by the creeds. We should remember that there
are no such things as Methodist mathematics, or Baptist botany, or
Catholic chemistry. The sciences are secular. .

The Rev. Mr. Peters seems to have mistaken the issues—and yet, in some
things, I agree with him. He is certainly right when he says that "Mr.
Buckley's cry to boycott the Telegram is unmanly and un-American," but I
am not certain that he is right when he says that it is un-Christian.

The church has not been in the habit of pursuing enemies with kind
words and charitable deeds. To tell the truth, it has always been rather
relentless. It has preached forgiveness, but it has never forgiven.
There is in the history of Christendom no instance where the church has
extended the hand of friendship to a man who denied the truth of its
creed.

There is in the church no spirit—no climate—of compromise. In the
nature of things there can be none, because the church claims that it
is absolutely right—that there is only one road leading to heaven.
It demands unconditional surrender. It will not bear contradiction.
It claims to have the absolute truth. For these reasons it cannot
consistently compromise, any more than a mathematician could change the
multiplication table to meet the view of some one who should deny that
five times five are twenty-five.

The church does not give its opinion—it claims to know—it demands
belief. Honesty, industry, generosity count for nothing in the absence
of belief. It has taught and still teaches that no man can reach heaven
simply through good and honest deeds. It believes and teaches that the
man who relies upon himself will be eternally punished—and why should
the church forgive a man whom it thinks its God is waiting somewhat
impatiently to damn?

The Rev. Mr. Peters asks—and probably honestly thinks that the
questions are pertinent to the issues involved—"What has infidelity
done for the world? What colleges, hospitals, and schools has it
founded? What has it done for the elevation of public morals?" And he
inquires what science or art has been originated by infidelity. He asks
how many slaves it has liberated, how many inebriates it has reclaimed,
how many fallen women it has restored, and what it did for the relief
of the wounded and dying soldiers; and concludes by asking what life it
ever assisted to higher holiness, and what death it has ever cheered.

Although these questions have nothing whatever to do with the matters
under discussion, still it may be well enough to answer them.

It is cheerfully admitted that hospitals and asylums have been built
by Christians in Christian countries, and it is also admitted that
hospitals and asylums have been built in countries not Christian; that
there were such institutions in China thousands of years before Christ
was born, and that many centuries before the establishment of any
orthodox church there were asylums on the banks of the Nile—asylums for
the old, the poor, the infirm—asylums for the blind and for the insane,
and that the Egyptians, even of those days, endeavored to cure insanity
with kindness and affection. The same is true of India and probably of
most ancient nations.

There has always been more or less humanity in man—more or less
goodness in the human heart. So far as we know, mothers have always
loved their children. There must always have been more good than evil,
otherwise the human race would have perished. The best things in the
Christian religion came from the heart of man. Pagan lips uttered
the sublimest of truths, and all ages have been redeemed by honesty,
heroism, and love.

But let me answer these questions in their order.

_First_—As to the schools.

It is most cheerfully admitted that the Catholics have always been
in favor of education—that is to say, of education enough to make a
Catholic out of a heathen. It is also admitted that Protestants have
always been in favor of enough education to make a Protestant out of a
Catholic. Many schools and many colleges have been established for the
spread of what is called the Gospel and for the education of the clergy.
Presbyterians have founded schools for the benefit of their creed.
The Methodists have established colleges for the purpose of making
Methodists. The same is true of nearly all the sects. As a matter of
fact, these schools have in many important directions hindered rather
than helped the cause of real education. The pupils were not taught to
investigate for themselves. They were not allowed to think. They were
told that thought is dangerous. They were stuffed and crammed with
creeds—with the ideas of others. Their credulity was applauded and
their curiosity condemned. If all the people had been educated in these
sectarian schools, all the people would have been far more ignorant
than they are. These schools have been, and most of them still are, the
enemies of higher education, and just to the extent that they are under
the control of theologians they are hindrances, and just to the extent
that they have become secularized they have been and are a benefit.

Our public-school system is not Christian. It is secular. Yet I admit
that it never could have been established without the assistance of
Christians—neither could it have been supported without the assistance
of others. But such is the value placed upon education that people of
nearly all denominations, and of nearly all religions, and of nearly all
opinions, for the most part agree that the children of a nation should
be educated by the nation. Some religious people are opposed to these
schools because they are not religious—because they do not teach some
creed—but a large majority of the people stand by the public schools
as they are. These schools are growing better and better, simply because
they are growing less and less theological, more and more secular.

Infidelity, or agnosticism, or free thought, has insisted that only that
should be taught in schools which somebody knows or has good reason to
believe.

The greatest professors in our colleges to-day are those who have the
least confidence in the supernatural, and the schools that stand highest
in the estimation of the most intelligent are those that have drifted
farthest from the orthodox creeds. Free thought has always been and ever
must be the friend of education. Without free thought there can be no
such thing—in the highest sense—as a school. Unless the mind is free,
there are no teachers and there are no pupils, in any just and splendid
sense.

The church has been and still is the enemy of education, because it has
been in favor of intellectual slavery, and the theological schools have
been what might be called the deformatories of the human mind.

For instance: A man is graduated from an orthodox university. In this
university he has studied astronomy, and yet he believes that Joshua
stopped the sun. He has studied geology, and yet he asserts the truth
of the Mosaic cosmogony. He has studied chemistry, and yet believes that
water was turned into wine. He has been taught the ordinary theory of
cause and effect, and at the same time he thoroughly believes in the
miraculous multiplication of loaves and fishes. Can such an institution,
with any propriety, be called a seat of learning? Can we not say of such
a university what Bruno said of Oxford: "Learning is dead and Oxford is
its widow."

Year after year the religious colleges are improving—simply because
they are becoming more and more secular, less and less theological.
Whether infidelity has founded universities or not, it can truthfully be
said that the spirit of investigation, the spirit of free thought, the
attitude of mental independence, contended for by those who are called
infidels, have made schools useful instead of hurtful.

Can it be shown that any infidel has ever raised his voice against
education? Can there be found in the literature of free thought one
line against the enlightenment of the human race? Has free thought ever
endeavored to hide or distort, a fact? Has it not always appealed to the
senses—to demonstration? It has not said, "He that hath ears to hear,
let him hear," but it has said, "He that hath brains to think, let him
think."

The object of a school should be to ascertain truth in every direction,
to the end that man may know the conditions of happiness—and every
school should be absolutely free. No teacher should be bound by anything
except a perceived fact. He should not be the slave of a creed, engaged
in the business of enslaving others.

So much for schools.

Second—As to public morals.

Christianity teaches that all offences can be forgiven. Every church
unconsciously allows people to commit crimes on a credit. I do not
mean by this that any church consciously advocates immorality. I
most cheerfully admit that thousands and thousands of ministers are
endeavoring to do good—that they are pure, self-denying men, trying
to make this world better. But there is a frightful defect in their
philosophy. They say to the bank cashier: You must not steal, you must
not take a dollar—larceny is wrong, it is contrary to all law, human
and divine—but if you do steal every cent in the bank, God will as
gladly, quickly forgive you in Canada as he will in the United States.
On the other hand, what is called infidelity says: There is no being in
the universe who rewards, and there is no being who punishes—every act
has its consequences. If the act is good, the consequences are good; if
the act is bad, the consequences are bad; and these consequences must be
borne by the actor. It says to every human being: You must reap what
you sow. There is no reward, there is no punishment, but there are
consequences, and these consequences are the invisible and implacable
police of nature. They cannot be avoided. They cannot be bribed. No
power can awe them, and there is not gold enough in the world to make
them pause. Even a God cannot induce them to release for one instant
their victim.

This great truth is, in my judgment, the gospel of morality. If all
men knew that they must inevitably bear the consequences of their own
actions—if they absolutely knew that they could not injure another
without injuring themselves, the world, in my judgment, would be far
better than it is.

Free thought has attacked the morality of what is called the atonement.
The innocent should not suffer for the guilty, and if the innocent
does suffer for the guilty, that cannot by any possibility justify the
guilty. The reason a thing is wrong is because it, in some way, causes
the innocent to suffer. This being the very essence of wrong, how can
the suffering of innocence justify the guilty? If there be a world of
joy, he who is worthy to enter that world must be willing to carry his
own burdens in this.

So much for morality.

Third—As to sciences and art.

I do not believe that we are indebted to Christianity for any science.
I do not remember that one science is mentioned in the New Testament.
There is not one word, so far as I remember, about education—nothing
about any science, nothing about art. The writers of the New Testament
seem to have thought that the world was about coming to an end. This
world was to be sacrificed absolutely to the next. The affairs of this
life were not worth speaking of. All people were exhorted to prepare at
once for the other life.

The sciences have advanced in the proportion that they did not interfere
with orthodox theology. To the extent that they were supposed to
interfere with theology they have been obstructed and denounced.
Astronomy was found to be inconsistent with the Scriptures, and the
astronomers were imprisoned and despised. Geology contradicted the
Mosaic account, and the geologists were denounced and persecuted. Every
step taken in astronomy was taken in spite of the church, and every fact
in geology had to fight its way. The same is true as to the science of
medicine. The church wished to cure disease by necromancy, by charm and
prayer, and with the bones of the saints. The church wished man to
rely entirely upon God—that is to say, upon the church—and not upon
himself. The physician interfered with the power and prosperity of the
priest, and those who appealed to physicians were denounced as lacking
faith in God. This state of things existed even in the Old Testament
times. A king failed to send for the prophets, but sent for a physician,
and then comes this piece of grim humor: "And Asa slept with his
fathers."

The great names in science are not those of recognized saints.

Bruno—one of the greatest and bravest of men—greatest of all
martyrs—perished at the stake, because he insisted on the existence of
other worlds and taught the astronomy of Galileo.

Humboldt—in some respects the wisest man known to the scientific
world—denied the existence of the supernatural and "the truths of
revealed religion," and yet he revolutionized the thought of his day and
left a legacy of intellectual glory to the race.

Darwin—greatest of scientists—so great that our time will probably
be known as "Darwin's Century"—had not the slightest confidence in any
possible phase of the so-called supernatural. This great man left the
creed of Christendom without a foundation. He brought as witnesses
against the inspiration of the Scriptures such a multitude of facts,
such an overwhelming amount of testimony, that it seems impossible to
me that any unprejudiced man can, after hearing the testimony, remain
a believer in evangelical religion. He accomplished more than all the
schools, colleges, and universities that Christianity has founded. He
revolutionized the philosophy of the civilized world.

The writers who have done most for science have been the most bitterly
opposed by the church. There is hardly a valuable book in the libraries
of the world that cannot be found on the "Index Expurgatorius." Kant
and Fichte and Spinoza were far above and beyond the orthodox-world.
Voltaire did more for freedom than any other man, and yet the church
denounced him with a fury amounting to insanity—called him an atheist,
although he believed not only in God, but in special providence. He was
opposed to the church—that is to say, opposed to slavery, and for that
reason he was despised.

And what shall I say of D'Holbach, of Hume, of Buckle, of Draper,
of Haeckel, of Buechner, of Tyndall and Huxley, of Auguste Comte, and
hundreds and thousands of others who have filled the scientific world
with light and the heart of man with love and kindness?

It may be well enough, in regard to art, to say that Christianity is
indebted to Greece and Rome for its highest conceptions, and it may be
well to add that for many centuries Christianity did the best it could
to destroy the priceless marbles of Greece and Rome. A few were buried,
and in that way were saved from Christian fury.

The same is true of the literature of the classic world. A few fragments
were rescued, and these became the seeds of modern literature. A few
statues were preserved, and they are to-day models for all the world.

Of course it will be admitted that there is much art in Christian lands,
because, in spite of the creeds, Christians, so-called, have turned
their attention to this world. They have beautified their homes, they
have endeavored to clothe themselves in purple and fine linen. They have
been forced from banquets or from luxury by the difficulty of camels
going through the eyes of needles or the impossibility of carrying water
to the rich man. They have cultivated this world, and the arts have
lived. Did they obey the precepts that they find in their sacred
writings there would be no art, they would "take no thought for the
morrow," they would "consider the lilies of the field."

Fourth—As to the liberation of slaves.

It was exceedingly unfortunate for the Rev. Mr. Peters that he spoke of
slavery. The Bible upholds human slavery—white slavery. The Bible was
quoted by all slaveholders and slave-traders. The man who went to Africa
to steal women and children took the Bible with him. He planted himself
firmly on the Word of God. As Whittier says of Whitefield:

> "He bade the slave ship speed from coast to coast,
> Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost."

So when the poor wretches were sold to the planters, the planters
defended their action by reading the Bible. When a poor woman was sold,
her children torn from her breast, the auction block on which she stood
was the Bible; the auctioneer who sold her quoted the Scriptures; the
man who bought her repeated the quotations, and the ministers from
the pulpit said to the weeping woman, as her child was carried away:
"Servants, be obedient unto your masters."

Freethinkers in all ages have been opposed to slavery. Thomas Paine
did more for human liberty than any other man who ever stood upon the
western world. The first article he ever wrote in this country was one
against the institution of slavery. Freethinkers have also been in favor
of free bodies. Freethinkers have always said "free hands," and the
infidels, the wide world over, have been friends of freedom.

Fifth—As to the reclamation of inebriates.

Much has been said, and for many years, on the subject of
temperance—much has been uttered by priests and laymen—and yet there
seems to be a subtle relation between rum and religion. Scotland is
extremely orthodox, yet it is not extremely temperate. England is
nothing if not religious, and London is, par excellence, the
Christian city of the world, and yet it is the most intemperate. The
Mohammedans—followers of a false prophet—do not drink.

Sixth—As to the humanity of infidelity.

Can it be said that people have cared for the wounded and dying only
because they were orthodox?

Is it not true that religion, in its efforts to propagate the creed of
forgiveness by the sword, has caused the death of more than one hundred
and fifty millions of human beings? Is it not true that where the church
has cared for one orphan it has created hundreds? Can Christianity
afford to speak of war?

The Christian nations of the world to-day are armed against each
other. In Europe, all that can be gathered by taxation—all that can be
borrowed by pledging the prosperity of the future—the labor of those
yet unborn—is used for the purpose of keeping Christians in the field,
to the end that they may destroy other Christians, or at least prevent
other Christians from destroying them. Europe is covered with churches
and fortifications, with temples and with forts—hundreds of thousands
of priests, millions of soldiers, countless Bibles and countless
bayonets—and that whole country is oppressed and impoverished for the
purpose of carrying on war. The people have become deformed by labor,
and yet Christianity boasts of peace.

Seventh—"And what death has infidelity ever cheered?"

Is it possible for the orthodox Christian to cheer the dying when the
dying is told that there is a world of eternal pain, and that he, unless
he has been forgiven, is to be an eternal convict? Will it cheer him to
know that, even if he is to be saved, countless millions are to be lost?
Is it possible for the Christian religion to put a smile upon the face
of death?

On the other hand, what is called infidelity says to the dying: What
happens to you will happen to all. If there be another world of joy, it
is for all. If there is another life, every human being will have the
eternal opportunity of doing right—the eternal opportunity to live, to
reform, to enjoy. There is no monster in the sky. There is no Moloch who
delights in the agony of his children. These frightful things are savage
dreams.

Infidelity puts out the fires of hell with the tears of pity.

Infidelity puts the seven-hued arch of Hope over every grave.

Let us then, gentlemen, come back to the real questions under
discussion. Let us not wander away.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

Jan'y 9, 1891.

## Ingersoll Continues the Battle

V.

NO one objects to the morality of Christianity.

The industrious people of the world—those who have anything—are, as
a rule, opposed to larceny; a very large majority of people object to
being murdered, and so we have laws against larceny and murder. A large
majority of people believe in what they call, or what they understand
to be, justice—at least as between others. There is no very great
difference of opinion among civilized people as to what is or is not
moral.

It cannot truthfully be said that the man who attacks Buddhism attacks
all morality. He does not attack goodness, justice, mercy, or anything
that tends in his judgment to the welfare of mankind; but he attacks
Buddhism. So one attacking what is called Christianity does not attack
kindness, charity, or any virtue. He attacks something that has been
added to the virtues. He does not attack the flower, but what he
believes to be the parasite.

If people, when they speak of Christianity, include the virtues common
to all religions, they should not give Christianity credit for all the
good that has been done. There were millions of virtuous men and women,
millions of heroic and self-denying souls before Christianity was known.

It does not seen possible to me that love, kindness, justice, or
charity ever caused any one who possessed and practiced these virtues
to persecute his fellow-man on account of a difference of belief. If
Christianity has persecuted, some reason must exist outside of the
virtues it has inculcated. If this reason—this cause—is inherent in
that something else, which has been added to the ordinary virtues, then
Christianity can properly be held accountable for the persecution. Of
course back of Christianity is the nature of man, and, primarily, it may
be responsible.

Is there anything in Christianity that will account for such
persecutions—for the Inquisition? It certainly was taught by the church
that belief was necessary to salvation, and it was thought at the same
time that the fate of man was eternal punishment; that the state of man
was that of depravity, and that there was but one way by which he could
be saved, and that was through belief—through faith. As long as this
was honestly believed, Christians would not allow heretics or infidels
to preach a doctrine to their wives, to their children, or to themselves
which, in their judgment, would result in the damnation of souls.

The law gives a father the right to kill one who is about to do great
bodily harm to his son. Now, if a father has the right to take the life
of a man simply because he is attacking the body of his son, how much
more would he have the right to take the life of one who was about to
assassinate the soul of his son!

Christians reasoned in this way. In addition to this, they felt that
God would hold the community responsible if the community allowed
a blasphemer to attack the true religion. Therefore they killed the
freethinker, or rather the free talker, in self-defence.

At the bottom of religious persecution is the doctrine of self-defence;
that is to say, the defence of the soul. If the founder of Christianity
had plainly said: "It is not necessary to believe in order to be saved;
it is only necessary to do, and he who really loves his fellow-men, who
is kind, honest, just and charitable, is to be forever blest"—if he had
only said that, there would probably have been but little persecution.

If he had added to this: "You must not persecute in my name. The
religion I teach is the Religion of Love—not the Religion of Force and
Hatred. You must not imprison your fellow-men. You must not stretch them
upon racks, or crush their bones in iron boots. You must not flay them
alive. You must not cut off their eyelids, or pour molten lead into
their ears. You must treat all with absolute kindness. If you cannot
convert your neighbor by example, persuasion, argument, that is the end.
You must never resort to force, and, whether he believes as you do or
not, treat him always with kindness"—his followers then would not have
murdered their fellows in his name.

If Christ was in fact God, he knew the persecutions that would be
carried on in his name; he knew the millions that would suffer death
through torture; and yet he died without saying one word to prevent what
he must have known, if he were God, would happen.

All that Christianity has added to morality is worthless and useless.
Not only so—it has been hurtful. Take Christianity from morality and
the useful is left, but take morality from Christianity and the useless
remains.

Now, falling back on the old assertion, "By its fruits we may know
Christianity," then I think we are justified in saying that, as
Christianity consists of a mixture of morality and _something else_, and
as morality never has persecuted a human being, and as Christianity has
persecuted millions, the cause of the persecution must be the _something
else_ that was added to morality.

I cannot agree with the reverend gentleman when he says that
"Christianity has taught mankind the priceless value and dignity of
human nature." On the other hand, Christianity has taught that the
whole human race is by nature depraved, and that if God should act
in accordance with his sense of justice, all the sons of men would be
doomed to eternal pain. Human nature has been derided, has been held up
to contempt and scorn, all our desires and passions denounced as wicked
and filthy.

Dr. Da Costa asserts that Christianity has taught mankind the value of
freedom. It certainly has not been the advocate of free thought; and
what is freedom worth if the mind is to be enslaved?

Dr. Da Costa knows that millions have been sacrificed in their efforts
to be free; that is, millions have been sacrificed for exercising their
freedom as against the church.

It is not true that the church "has taught and established the fact of
human brotherhood." This has been the result of a civilization to which
Christianity itself has been hostile.

Can we prove that "the church established human brotherhood" by
banishing the Jews from Spain; by driving out the Moors; by the tortures
of the Inquisition; by butchering the Covenanters of Scotland; by the
burning of Bruno and Servetus; by the persecution of the Irish; by
whipping and hanging Quakers in New England; by the slave trade; and by
the hundreds of wars waged in the name of Christ?

We all know that the Bible upholds slavery in its very worst and most
cruel form; and how it can be said that a religion founded upon a Bible
that upholds the institution of slavery has taught and established the
fact of human brotherhood, is beyond my imagination to conceive.

Neither do I think it true that "we are indebted to Christianity for the
advancement of science, art, philosophy, letters and learning."

I cheerfully admit that we are indebted to Christianity for some
learning, and that the human mind has been developed by the discussion
of the absurdities of superstition. Certainly millions and millions have
had what might be called mental exercise, and their minds may have
been somewhat broadened by the examination, even, of these absurdities,
contradictions, and impossibilities. The church was not the friend of
science or learning when it burned Vanini for writing his "Dialogues
Concerning Nature." What shall we say of the "Index Expurgatorius"? For
hundreds of years all books of any particular value were placed on the
"Index," and good Catholics forbidden to read them. Was this in favor of
science and learning?

That we are indebted to Christianity for the advancement of science
seems absurd. What science? Christianity was certainly the enemy of
astronomy, and I believe that it was Mr. Draper who said that astronomy
took her revenge, so that not a star that glitters in all the heavens
bears a Christian name.

Can it be said that the church has been the friend of geology, or of any
true philosophy? Let me show how this is impossible.

The church accepts the Bible as an inspired book. Then the only object
is to find its meaning, and if that meaning is opposed to any result
that the human mind may have reached, the meaning stands and the result
reached by the mind must be abandoned.

For hundreds of years the Bible was the standard, and whenever
anything was asserted in any science contrary to-the Bible, the church
immediately denounced the scientist. I admit the standard has been
changed, and ministers are very busy, not trying to show that science
does not agree with the Bible, but that the Bible agrees with science.

Certainly Christianity has done little for art. The early Christians
destroyed all the marbles of Greece and Rome upon which they could lay
their violent hands; and nothing has been produced by the Christian
world equal to the fragments that were accidentally preserved. There
have been many artists who were Christians; but they were not artists
because they were Christians; because there have been many Christians
who were not artists. It cannot be said that art is born of any creed.
The mode of expression may be determined, and probably is to a certain
degree, by the belief of the artist; but not his artistic perception and
feeling.

So, Galileo did not make his discoveries because he was a Christian,
but in spite of it. His Bible was the other way, and so was his creed.
Consequently, they could not by any possibility have assisted him.
Kepler did not discover or announce what are known as the "Three Laws"
because he was a Christian; but, as I said about Galileo, in spite of
his creed.

Every Christian who has really found out and demonstrated and clung to
a fact inconsistent with the absolute inspiration of the Scriptures, has
done so certainly without the assistance of his creed.

Let me illustrate this: When our ancestors were burning each other to
please God; when they were ready to destroy a man with sword and
flame for teaching the rotundity of the world, the Moors in Spain were
teaching geography to their children with brass globes. So, too, they
had observatories and knew something of the orbits of the stars.

They did not find out these things because they were Mohammedans, or
on account of their belief in the impossible. They were far beyond the
Christians, intellectually, and it has been very poetically said by Mrs.
Browning, that "Science was thrust into the brain of Europe on the point
of a Moorish lance."

From the Arabs we got our numerals, making mathematics of the higher
branches practical. We also got from them the art of making cotton
paper, which is almost at the foundation of modern intelligence. We
learned from them to make cotton cloth, making cleanliness possible in
Christendom.

So from among people of different religions we have learned many useful
things; but they did not discover them on account of their religion.

It will not do to say that the religion of Greece was true because the
Greeks were the greatest sculptors. Neither is it an argument in favor
of monarchy that Shakespeare, the greatest of men, was born and lived in
a monarchy.

Dr. Da Costa takes one of the effects of a general cause, or of a vast
number of causes, and makes it the cause, not only of other effects,
but of the general cause. He seems to think that all events for
many centuries, and especially all the good ones, were caused by
Christianity.

As a matter of fact, the civilization of our time is the result of
countless causes with which Christianity had little to do, except by way
of hindrance.

Does the Doctor think that the material progress of the world was caused
by this passage: "Take no thought for the morrow"?

Does he seriously insist that the wealth of Christendom rests on this
inspired declaration: "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye
of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven"?

The Rev. Mr. Peters, in answer, takes the ground that the Bible has
produced the richest and most varied literature the world has ever seen.

This, I think, is hardly true. Has not most of modern literature
been produced in spite of the Bible? Did not Christians, for many
generations, take the ground that the Bible was the only important book,
and that books differing from the Bible should be destroyed?

If Christianity—Catholic and Protestant—could have had its way, the
works of Voltaire, Spinoza, Hume, Paine, Humboldt, Darwin, Haeckel,
Spencer, Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Draper, Goethe, Gibbon, Buckle and
Buechner would not have been published. In short, the philosophy that
enlightens and the fiction that enriches the brain would not exist.

The greatest literature the world has ever seen is, in my judgment, the
poetic—the dramatic; that is to say, the literature of fiction in its
widest sense. Certainly if the church could have had control, the plays
of Shakespeare never would have been written; the literature of the
stage could not have existed; most works of fiction, and nearly all
poetry, would have perished in the brain. So I think it hardly fair to
say that "the Bible has produced the richest and most varied literature
the world has ever seen."

Thousands of theological books have been written on thousands of
questions of no possible importance. Libraries have been printed on
subjects not worth discussing—not worth thinking about—and that will,
in a few years, be regarded as puerile by the whole world.

Mr. Peters, in his enthusiasm, asks this question:

"Who raised our great institutions of learning? Infidels never a stone
of them!"

Stephen Girard founded the best institution of learning, the best
charity, the noblest ever founded in this or any other land; and under
the roof built by his wisdom and his wealth many thousands of orphans
have been reared, clothed, fed and educated, not only in books, but in
avocations, and become happy and useful citizens. Under his will
there has been distributed to the poor, fuel to the value of more than
$500,000; and this distribution goes on year after year.

One of the best observatories in the world was built by the generosity
of James Lick, an infidel. I call attention to these two cases simply
to show that the gentleman is mistaken, and that he was somewhat carried
away by his zeal.

So, too, Mr. Peters takes the ground that "we are indebted to
Christianity for our chronology."

According to Christianity this world has been peopled about six thousand
years. Christian chronology gives the age of the first man, and then
gives the line from father to son down to the flood, and from the flood
down to the coming of Christ, showing that men have been upon the earth
only about six thousand years. This chronology is infinitely absurd, and
I do not believe that there is an intelligent, well-educated Christian
in the world, having examined the subject, who will say that the
Christian chronology is correct.

Neither can it, I think, truthfully be said that "we are indebted
to Christianity for the continuation of history." The best modern
historians of whom I have any knowledge are Voltaire, Hume, Gibbon,
Buckle and Draper.

Neither can I admit that "we are indebted to Christianity for natural
philosophy."

I do not deny that some natural philosophers have also been Christians,
or, rather, that some Christians have been natural philosophers to the
extent that their Christianity permitted. But Lamarck and Humboldt and
Darwin and Spencer and Haeckel and Huxley and Tyndall have done far more
for natural philosophy than they have for orthodox religion.

Whoever believes in the miraculous must be the enemy of natural
philosophy. To him there is something above nature, liable to interfere
with nature. Such a man has two classes of ideas in his mind, each
inconsistent with the other. To the extent that he believes in the
supernatural he is incapacitated for dealing with the natural, and to
that extent fails to be a philosopher. Philosophy does not include the
caprice of the Infinite. It is founded on the absolute integrity and
invariability of nature.

Neither do I agree with the reverend gentleman when he says that "we are
indebted to Christianity for our knowledge of philology."

The church taught for a long time that Hebrew was the first language and
that other languages had been derived from that; and for hundreds and
hundreds of years the efforts of philologists were arrested simply
because they started with that absurd assumption and believed in the
Tower of Babel.

Christianity cannot now take the credit for "metaphysical research." It
has always been the enemy of metaphysical research. It never has said
to any human being, "Think!" It has always said, "Hear!" It does not
ask anybody to investigate. It lays down certain doctrines as absolutely
true, and, instead of asking investigation, it threatens every
investigator with eternal pain. Metaphysical research is destroying what
has been called Christianity, and Christians have always feared it.

This gentleman makes another mistake, and a very common one. This is his
argument: Christian countries are the most intelligent; therefore they
owe that intelligence to Christianity. Then the next step is taken.
Christianity, being the best, having produced these results, must have
been of divine origin.

Let us see what this proves. There was a time when Egypt was the first
nation in the world. Could not an Egyptian, at that time have used the
same arguments that Mr. Peters uses now, to prove that the religion
of Egypt was divine? Could he not then have said: "Egypt is the most
intelligent, the most civilized and the richest of all nations; it has
been made so by its religion; its religion is, therefore, divine"?

So there was a time when a Hindoo could have made the same argument.
Certainly this argument could have been made by a Greek. It could have
been repeated by a Roman. And yet Mr. Peters will not admit that the
religion of Egypt was divine, or that the mythology of Greece was true,
or that Jupiter was in fact a god.

Is it not evident to all that if the churches in Europe had been
institutions of learning; if the domes of cathedrals had been
observatories; if priests had been teachers of the facts in nature, the
world would have been far in advance of what it is to-day?

Countries depend on something besides their religion for progress.
Nations with a good soil can get along quite well with an exceedingly
poor religion; and no religion yet has been good enough to give wealth
or happiness to human beings where the climate and soil were bad and
barren.

Religion supports nobody. It has to be supported. It produces no wheat,
no corn; it ploughs no land; it fells no forests. It is a perpetual
mendicant. It lives on the labor of others, and then has the arrogance
to pretend that it supports the giver.

Mr. Peters makes this exceedingly strange statement: "Every discovery in
science, invention and art has been the work of Christian men. Infidels
have contributed their share, but never one of them has reached the
grandeur of originality."

This, I think, so far as invention is concerned, can be answered with
one name—John Ericsson, one of the profoundest agnostics I ever met.

I am almost certain that Humboldt and Goethe were original. Darwin was
certainly regarded as such.

I do not wish to differ unnecessarily with Mr. Peters, but I have some
doubts about Morse having been the inventor of the telegraph.

Neither can I admit that Christianity abolished slavery. Many of
the abolitionists in this country were infidels; many of them were
Christians. But the church itself did not stand for liberty. The
Quakers, I admit, were, as a rule, on the side of freedom. But the
Christians of New England persecuted these Quakers, whipped them from
town to town, lacerated their naked backs, and maimed their bodied, not
only, but took their lives.

Mr. Peters asks: "What name is there among the world's emancipators
after which you cannot write the name 'Christian?'" Well, let me give
him a few—Voltaire, Jefferson, Paine, Franklin, Lincoln, Darwin.

Mr. Peters asks: "Why is it that in Christian countries you find the
greatest amount of physical and intellectual liberty, the greatest
freedom of thought, speech, and action?"

Is this true of all? How about Spain and Portugal? There is more
infidelity in France than in Spain, and there is far more liberty in
France than in Spain.

There is far more infidelity in England than there was a century ago,
and there is far more liberty than there was a century ago. There is far
more infidelity in the United States than there was fifty years ago, and
a hundred infidels to-day where there was one fifty years ago; and there
is far more intellectual liberty, far greater freedom of speech and
action, than ever before.

A few years ago Italy was a Christian country to the fullest extent.
Now there are a thousand times more liberty and a thousand times less
religion.

Orthodoxy is dying; Liberty is growing.

Mr. Ballou, a grandson, or grand-nephew, of Hosea Ballou, seems to have
wandered from the faith. As a rule, Christians insist that when one
denies the religion of Christian parents he is an exceedingly bad man,
but when he denies the religion of parents not Christians, and becomes a
Christian, that he is a very faithful, good and loving son.

Mr. Ballou insists that God has the same right to punish us that Nature
has, or that the State has. I do not think he understands what I have
said. The State ought not to punish for the sake of punishment. The
State may imprison, or inflict what is called punishment, first, for its
own protection, and, secondly, for the reformation of the punished. If
no one could do the State any injury, certainly the State would have
no right to punish under the plea of protection; and if no human being
could by any possibility be reformed, then the excuse of reformation
could not be given.

Let us apply this: If God be infinite, no one can injure him. Therefore
he need not punish anybody or damn anybody or burn anybody for his
protection.

Let us take another step. Punishment being justified only on two
grounds—that is, the protection of society and the reformation of the
punished—how can eternal punishment be justified? In the first place,
God does not punish to protect himself, and, in the second place, if the
punishment is to be forever, he does not punish to reform the punished.
What excuse then is left?

Let us take still another step. If, instead of punishment, we say
"consequences," and that every good man has the right to reap the good
consequences of good actions, and that every bad man must bear the
consequences of bad actions, then you must say to the good: If you stop
doing good you will lose the harvest. You must say to the bad: If you
stop doing bad you need not increase your burdens. And if it be a fact
in Nature that all must reap what they sow, there is neither mercy nor
cruelty in this fact, and I hold no God responsible for it. The trouble
with the Christian creed is that God is described as the one who gives
rewards and the one who inflicts eternal pain.

There is still another trouble. This God, if infinite, must have known
when he created man, exactly who would be eternally damned. What right
had he to create men, knowing that they were to be damned?

So much for Mr. Ballou.

The Rev. Dr. Hillier seems to reason in a kind of circle. He takes the
ground, in the first place, that "infidelity, Christianity, science, and
experience all agree, without the slightest tremor of uncertainty, in
the inexorable law that whatsoever a man sows that shall he also reap."
He then takes the ground that, "if we wish to be rid of the harvest, we
must not sow the seed; if we would avoid the result, we must remove the
cause; the only way to be rid of hell is to stop doing evil; that this,
and this only, is the way to abolish an eternal penitentiary."

Very good; but that is not the point. The real thing under discussion
is this: Is this life a state of probation, and if a man fails to live
a good life here, will he have no opportunity for reformation in
another world, if there be one? Can he cease to do evil in the eternal
penitentiary? and if he does, can he be pardoned—can he be released?

It is admitted that man must bear the consequences of his acts. If the
consequences are good, then the acts are good. If the consequences are
bad, the acts are bad. Through experience we find that certain acts tend
to unhappiness and others to happiness.

Now, the only question is whether we have wisdom enough to live in
harmony with our conditions here; and if we fail here, will we have an
opportunity of reforming in another world? If not, then the few years
that we live here determine whether we shall be angels or devils
forever.

It seems to me, if there be another life, that in that life men may do
good, and men may do evil; and if they may do good it seems to me that
they may reform.

I do not see why God, if there be one, should lose all interest in his
children, simply because they leave this world and go where he is. Is
it possible that an infinite God does all for his children here, in this
poor ignorant world, that it is possible for him to do, and that if he
fails to reform them here, nothing is left to do except to make them
eternal convicts?

The Rev. Mr. Haldeman mistakes my position. I do not admit that "an
infinite God, as revealed in Nature, has allowed men to grow up
under conditions which no ordinary mortal can look at in all their
concentrated agony and not break his heart."

I do not confess that God reveals himself in Nature as an infinite God,
without mercy. I do not admit that there is an infinite Being anywhere
responsible for the agonies and tears, for the barbarities and horrors
of this life. I cannot believe that there is in the universe a Being
with power to prevent these things. I hold no God responsible. I
attribute neither cruelty nor mercy to Nature. Nature neither weeps
nor rejoices. I cannot believe that this world, as it now is, as it has
been, was created by an infinitely wise, powerful, and benevolent
God. But it is far better that we should all go down "with souls
unsatisfied" to the dreamless grave, to the tongueless silence of the
voiceless dust, than that countless millions of human souls should
suffer forever.

Eternal sleep is better than eternal pain. Eternal punishment is eternal
revenge, and can be inflicted only by an eternal monster.

Mr. George A. Locey endeavors to put his case in an extremely small
compass, and satisfies himself with really one question, and that is:
"If a man in good health is stricken with disease, is assured that a
physician can cure him, but refuses to take the medicine and dies, ought
there to be any escape?"

He concludes that the physician has done his duty; that the patient was
obdurate and suffered the penalty.

The application he makes is this:

"The Christian's 'tidings of great joy' is the message that the Great
Physician tendered freely. Its acceptance is a cure certain, and a
life of eternal happiness the reward. If the soul accepts, are they not
tidings of great joy; and if the soul rejects, is it not unreasonable on
the part of Colonel Ingersoll to try and sneak out and throw the blame
on God?"

The answer to this seems easy. The cases are not parallel. If an
infinite God created us all, he knew exactly what we would do. If he
gave us free will it does not change the result, because he knew how we
would use the free will.

Now, if he knew that billions upon billions would refuse to take the
remedy, and consequently would suffer eternal pain, why create them?
There would have been much less misery in the world had he left them
dust.

What right has a God to make a failure? Why should he change dust into
a sentient being, knowing that that being was to be the heir of endless
agony?

If the supposed physician had created the patient who refused to take
the medicine, and had so created him that he knew he would refuse to
take it, the cases might be parallel.

According to the orthodox creed, millions are to be damned who never
heard of the medicine or of the "Great Physician."

There is one thing said by the Rev. Mr. Talmage that I hardly think
he could have intended. Possibly there has been a misprint. It is the
following paragraph:

"Who" (speaking of Jesus) "has such an eye to our need; such a lip to
kiss away our sorrow; such a hand to snatch us out of the fire; _such
a foot to trample our enemies_; such a heart to embrace all our
necessities?"

What does the reverend gentleman mean by "_such a foot to trample our
enemies_"?

This, to me, is a terrible line. But it is in accordance with the
history of the church. In the name of its founder it has "trampled on
its enemies," and beneath its cruel feet have perished the noblest of
the world.

The Rev. J. Benson Hamilton, of Brooklyn, comes into this discussion
with a great deal of heat and considerable fury. He states that
"Infidelity is the creed of prosperity, but when sickness or trouble or
sorrow comes he" (meaning the infidel) "does not paw nor mock nor cry
'Ha! ha!' He sneaks and cringes like a whipped cur, and trembles and
whines and howls."

The spirit of Mr. Hamilton is not altogether admirable. He seems to
think that a man establishes the truth of his religion by being brave,
or demonstrates its falsity by trembling in the presence of death.

Thousands of people have died for false religions and in honor of false
gods. Their heroism did not prove the truth of the religion, but it did
prove the sincerity of their convictions.

A great many murderers have been hanged who exhibited on the scaffold
the utmost contempt of death; and yet this courage exhibited by dying
murderers has never been appealed to in justification of murder.

The reverend gentleman tells again the story of the agonies endured by
Thomas Paine when dying; tells us that he then said that he wished his
work had been thrown into the fire, and that if the devil ever had any
agency in any work he had in the writing of that book (meaning "The Age
of Reason,") and that he frequently asked the Lord Jesus to have mercy
upon him.

Of course there is not a word of truth in this story. Its falsity has
been demonstrated thousands and thousands of times, and yet ministers of
the Gospel go right on repeating it just the same.

So this gentleman tells us that Voltaire was accustomed to close his
letters with the words, "Crush the wretch!" (meaning Christ). This is
not so. He referred to superstition, to religion, not to Christ.

This gentleman also says that "Voltaire was the prey of anguish and
dread, alternately supplicating and blaspheming God; that he complained
that he was abandoned by God; that when he died his friends fled from
the room, declaring the sight too terrible to be endured."

There is not one word of truth in this. Everybody who has read the life
of Voltaire knows that he died with the utmost serenity.

Let me tell you how Voltaire died.

He was an old man of eighty-four. He had been surrounded by the comforts
of life. He was a man of wealth—of genius. Among the literary men of
the world he stood first. God had allowed him to have the appearance of
success. His last years were filled with the intoxication of flattery.
He stood at the summit of his age. The priests became anxious. They
began to fear that God would forget, in a multiplicity of business, to
make a terrible example of Voltaire.

Toward the last of May, 1788, it was whispered in Paris that Voltaire
was dying. Upon the fences of expectation gathered the unclean birds of
superstition, impatiently waiting for their prey.

"Two days before his death his nephew went to seek the Cure of St.
Sulpice and the Abbe Gautier, and brought them into his uncle's
sick-chamber, who was informed that they were there.

"'Ah, well,' said Voltaire; 'give them my compliments and my thanks.'

"The abbe spoke some words to Voltaire, exhorting him to patience. The
Cure of St. Sulpice then came forward, having announced himself, and
asked Voltaire, lifting his voice, if he acknowledged the divinity of
our Lord Jesus Christ. The sick man pushed one of his hands against the
cure's coif shoving him back, and cried, turning abruptly to the other
side:

"'Let me die in peace!'

"The cure seemingly considered his person soiled and his coif dishonored
by the touch of the philosopher. He made the nurse give him a little
brushing and went out with the Abbe Gautier.

"He expired," says Wagniere, "on the 30th of May, 1788, at about a
quarter past eleven at night, with the most perfect tranquillity.

"Ten minutes before his last breath he took the hand of Morand, his
_valet-de-chambre_, who was watching by him, pressed it and said:
'Adieu, my dear Morand. I am gone!'

"These were his last words."

From this death, so simple and serene, so natural and peaceful—from
these words so utterly destitute of cant or dramatic touch—all the
frightful pictures, all the despairing utterances have been drawn and
made. From these materials, and from these alone, have been constructed
all the shameless calumnies about the death of this great and wonderful
man.

Voltaire was the intellectual autocrat of his time. From his throne at
the foot of the Alps he pointed the finger of scorn at every hypocrite
in Europe. He was the pioneer of his century. He was the assassin
of superstition. Through the shadows of faith and fable; through the
darkness of myth and miracle; through the midnight of Christianity;
through the blackness of bigotry; past cathedral and dungeon; past rack
and stake; past altar and throne, he carried, with chivalric hands, the
sacred torch of Reason.

Let me also tell you about the death of Thomas Paine. After the
publication of his "Rights of Man" and "The Age of Reason", every
falsehood that malignity could coin and malice pass, was given to the
world. On his return to America, although Thomas Jefferson, another
infidel, was President, it was hardly safe for Paine to appear in the
public streets.

Under the very flag he had helped to put in heaven, his rights were not
respected. Under the Constitution that he had first suggested, his life
was insecure. He had helped to give liberty to more than three millions
of his fellow-citizens, and they were willing to deny it unto him.

He was deserted, ostracized, shunned, maligned and cursed. But he
maintained his integrity. He stood by the convictions of his mind, and
never for one moment did he hesitate or waver. He died almost alone.

The moment he died the pious commenced manufacturing horrors for his
death-bed. They had his chamber filled with devils rattling chains,
and these ancient falsehoods are certified to by the clergy even of the
present day.

The truth is that Thomas Paine died as he had lived. Some ministers
were impolite enough to visit him against his will. Several of them he
ordered from his room. A couple of Catholic priests, in all the meekness
of arrogance, called that they might enjoy the agonies of the dying
friend of man. Thomas Paine, rising in his bed, the few moments of
expiring life fanned into flame by the breath of indignation, had the
goodness to curse them both.

His physician, who seems to have been a meddling fool, just as the cold
hand of Death was touching the patriot's heart, whispered in the dulled
ear of the dying man: "Do you believe, or do you wish to believe, that
Jesus Christ is the Son of God?"

And the reply was: "I have no wish to believe on that subject."

These were the last remembered words of Thomas Paine. He died as
serenely as ever mortal passed away. He died in the full possession of
his mind, and on the brink and edge of death proclaimed the doctrines of
his life.

Every philanthropist, every believer in human liberty, every lover of
the great Republic, should feel under obligation to Thomas Paine for the
splendid services rendered by him in the darkest days of the American
Revolution. In the midnight of Valley Forge, "The Crisis" was the first
star that glittered in the wide horizon of despair.

We should remember that Thomas Paine was the first man to write these
words: "The United States of America."

The Rev. Mr. Hamilton seems to take a kind of joy in imagining what
infidels will suffer when they come to die, and he writes as though he
would like to be present.

For my part I hope that all the sons and daughters of men will die in
peace; that they will pass away as easily as twilight fades to night.

Of course when I said that "Christianity did not bring tidings of great
joy, but a message of eternal grief," I meant orthodox Christianity; and
when I said that "Christianity fills the future with fire and flame,
and made God the keeper of an eternal penitentiary, in which most of
the children of men were to be imprisoned forever," I was giving what I
understood to be the Evangelical belief on that subject.

If the churches have given up the doctrine of eternal punishment, then
for one I am delighted, and I shall feel that what little I have done
toward that end has not been done in vain.

The Rev. Mr. Hamilton, enjoying my dying agony in imagination, says:
"Let the world wait but for a few years at the most, when Death's icy
fingers feel for the heartstrings of the boaster, and, as most of his
like who have gone before him have done, he will sing another strain."

How shall I characterize the spirit that could prompt the writing of
such a sentence?

The reverend gentleman "loves his enemies," and yet he is filled with
glee when he thinks of the agonies I shall endure when Death's icy
fingers feel for the strings of my heart! Yet I have done him no harm.

He then quotes, as being applicable to me, a passage from the prophet
Isaiah, commencing: "The vile person will speak villainy."

Is this passage applicable only to me?

The Rev. Mr. Holloway is not satisfied with the "Christmas Sermon."
For his benefit I repeat, in another form, what the "Christmas Sermon"
contains:

If orthodox Christianity teaches that this life is a period of
probation, that we settle here our eternal destiny, and that all who
have heard the Gospel and who have failed to believe it are to be
eternally lost, then I say that Christianity did not "bring tidings of
great joy," but a Message of Eternal Grief. And if the orthodox churches
are still preaching the doctrine of Endless Pain, then I say it would be
far better if every church crumbled into dust than that such preaching
and such teaching should be continued.

It would be far better yet, however, if the ministers could be converted
and their congregations enlightened.

I admit that the orthodox churches preach some things beside hell; but
if they do not believe in the eternity of punishment they ought publicly
to change their creeds.

I admit, also, that the average minister advises his congregation to be
honest and to treat all with kindness, and I admit that many of these
ministers fail to follow their own advice when they make what they call
"replies" to me.

Of course there are many good things about the church. To the extent
that it is charitable, or rather to the extent that it causes charity,
it is good. To the extent that it causes men and women to lead moral
lives it is good. But to the extent that it fills the future with fear
it is bad. To the extent that it convinces any human being that there is
any God who not only can, but will, inflict eternal torments on his own
children, it is bad.

And such teaching does tend to blight humanity. Such teaching does
pollute the imagination of childhood. Such teaching does furrow the
cheeks of the best and tenderest with tears..Such teaching does rob old
age of all its joy, and covers every cradle with a curse!

The Rev. Mr. Holloway seems to be extremely familiar with God. He says:
"God seems to have delayed his advent through all the ages to give unto
the world the fullest opportunity to do all that the human mind could
suggest for the weal of the race."

According to this gentleman, God just delayed his advent for the purpose
of seeing what the world would do, _knowing all the time exactly what
would be done_.

Let us make a suggestion: If the orthodox creed be true, then all people
became tainted or corrupted or depraved, or in some way spoiled by what
is known as "Original Sin."

According to the Old Testament, these people kept getting worse and
worse. It does not seem that Jehovah made any effort to improve them,
but he patiently waited for about fifteen hundred years without having
established any church, without having given them a Bible, and then he
drowned all but eight persons.

Now, those eight persons were also depraved. The taint of Original Sin
was also in their blood.

It seems to me that Jehovah made a mistake. He should also have killed
the remaining eight, and started new, kept the serpent out of his
garden, and furnished the first pair with a Bible and the Presbyterian
Confession of Faith.

The Rev. Dr. Tyler takes it for granted that all charity and goodness
are the children of Christianity. This is a mistake. All the virtues
were in the world long before Christ came. Probably Mr. Tyler will be
convinced by the words of Christ himself. He will probably remember
the story of the Good Samaritan, and if he does he will see that it is
exactly in point. The Good Samaritan was not a Hebrew. He was not one
of "the chosen people." He was a poor, "miserable heathen," who knew
nothing about the Jehovah of the Old Testament, and who had never heard
of the "scheme of salvation." And yet, according to Christ, he was far
more charitable than the Levites—the priests of Jehovah, the highest
of "the chosen people." Is it not perfectly plain from this story that
charity was in the world before Christianity was established?

A great deal has been said about asylums and hospitals, as though the
Christians are entitled to great credit on that score. If Dr. Tyler
will read what is said in the British Encyclopaedia, under the head of
"Mental Diseases," he will find that the Egyptians treated the insane
with the utmost kindness, and that they called reason back to its throne
by the voice of music; that the temples were resorted to by crowds of
the insane; and that "whatever gifts of nature or productions of art
were calculated to impress the imagination were there united. Games
and recreations were instituted in the temples. Groves and gardens
surrounded these holy retreats. Gayly decorated boats sometimes
transported patients to breathe the pure breezes of the Nile."

So in ancient Greece it is said that "from the hands of the priest the
cure of the disordered mind first passed into the domain of medicine,
with the philosophers. Pythagoras is said to have employed music for the
cure of mental diseases. The order of the day for his disciples exhibits
a profound knowledge of the relations of body and mind. The early
morning was divided between gentle exercise, conversation and music.
Then came conversation, followed by gymnastic exercise and a temperate
diet. Afterward, a bath and supper with a sparing allowance of wine;
then reading, music and conversation concluded the day."

So "Asclepiades was celebrated for his treatment of mental disorders.
He recommended that bodily restraint should be avoided as much as
possible." It is also stated that "the philosophy and arts of Greece
spread to Rome, and the first special treatise on insanity is that
of Celsus, which distinguishes varieties of insanity and their proper
treatment."

"Over the arts and sciences of Greece and Rome the errors and ignorance
of the Middle Ages gradually crept, until they enveloped them in a cloud
worse than Egyptian darkness. The insane were again consigned to the
miracle-working-ordinances of o o priests or else totally neglected.
Idiots and imbeciles were permitted to go clotheless and homeless. The
frantic and furious were chained in lonesome dungeons and exhibited
for money, like wild beasts. The monomaniacs became, according to
circumstance, the objects of superstitious horror or reverence. They
were regarded as possessed with demons and subjected either to priestly
exorcism, or cruelly destroyed as wizards and witches. This cruel
treatment of the insane continued with little or no alleviation down to
the end of the last century in all the civilized countries of Europe."

Let me quote a description of these Christian asylums.

"Public asylums indeed existed in most of the metropolitan cities of
Europe, but the insane were more generally, if at all troublesome,
confined in jails, where they were chained in the lowest dungeons or
made the butts and menials of the most debased criminals. In public
asylums the inmates were confined in cellars, isolated in cages, chained
to floors or walls. These poor victims were exhibited to the public like
wild beasts. They were often killed by the ignorance and brutality of
their keepers."

I call particular attention to the following paragraph: "Such was the
state of the insane generally throughout Europe at the commencement of
this century. Such it continued to be in England so late as 1815 and
in Ireland as 1817, as revealed by the inquiries of parliamentary
commissions in those years respectively."

Dr. Tyler is entirely welcome to all the comfort these facts can give.

Not only were the Greeks and Romans and Egyptians far in advance of
the Christians in the treatment of the mentally diseased, but even the
Mohammedans were in advance of the Christians about 700 years, and in
addition to this they treated their lunatics with great kindness.

The temple of Diana of Ephesus was a refuge for insolvent debtors, and
the Thesium was a refuge for slaves.

Again, I say that hundreds of years before the establishment of
Christianity there were in India not only hospitals and asylums for
people, but even for animals. The great mistake of the Christian clergy
is that they attribute all goodness to Christianity. They have always
been engaged in maligning human nature—in attacking the human heart—in
efforts to destroy all natural passions.

Perfect maxims for the conduct of life were uttered and repeated in
India and China hundreds and hundreds of years before the Christian
era. Every virtue was lauded and every vice denounced. All the good that
Christianity has in it came from the human heart. Everything in that
system of religion came from this world; and in it you will find not
only the goodness of man, but the imperfections of man—not only the
love of man, but the malice of man.

Let me tell you why the Christians for so many centuries neglected
or abused the insane. They believed the New Testament, and honestly
supposed that the insane were filled with devils.

In regard to the contest between Dr. Buckley, who, as I understand it,
is a doctor of theology—and I should think such theology stood in need
of a doctor—and the _Telegram_, I have nothing to say. There is only
one side to that contest; and so far as the Doctor heretofore criticised
what is known as the "Christmas Sermon," I have answered him, leaving
but very little to which I care to reply in his last article.

Dr. Buckley, like many others, brings forward names instead of
reasons—instead of arguments. Milton, Pascal, Elizabeth Fry, John
Howard, and Michael Faraday are not arguments. They are only names;
and, instead of giving the names, Dr. Buckley should give the reasons
advanced by those whose names he pronounces.

Jonathan Edwards may have been a good man, but certainly his theology
was infamous. So Father Mathew was a good man, but it was impossible
for him to be good enough to convince Dr. Buckley of the doctrine of the
"Real Presence."

Milton was a very good man, and he described God as a kind of
brigadier-general, put the angels in uniform and had regular battles;
but Milton's goodness can by no possibility establish the truth of his
poetical and absurd vagaries.

All the self-denial and goodness in the world do not even tend to prove
the existence of the supernatural or of the miraculous. Millions
and millions of the most devoted men could not, by their devotion,
substantiate the inspiration of the Scriptures.

There are, however, some misstatements in Dr. Buckley's article that
ought not to be passed over in silence.

The first is to the effect that I was invited to write an article for
the _North American Review_, Judge Jeremiah Black to reply, and that
Judge Black was improperly treated.

Now, it is true that I was invited to write an article, and did write
one; but I did not know at the time who was to reply. It is also true
that Judge Black did reply, and that my article and his reply appeared
in the same number of the _Review._

Dr. Buckley alleges that the _North American Review_ gave me an
opportunity to review the Judge, but denied to Judge Black an
opportunity to respond. This is without the slightest foundation in
fact. Mr. Metcalf, who at that time was manager of the _Review_, is
still living and will tell the facts. Personally I had nothing to do
with it, one way or the other. I did not regard Judge Black's reply as
formidable, and was not only willing that he should be heard again, but
anxious that he should.

So much for that.

As to the debate, with Dr. Field and Mr. Gladstone, I leave them to say
whether they were or were not fairly treated. Dr. Field, by his candor,
by his fairness, and by the manly spirit he exhibited won my respect and
love.

Most ministers imagine that any man who differs from them is a
blasphemer. This word seems to leap unconsciously from their lips.
They cannot imagine that another man loves liberty as much and with
as sincere devotion as they love God. They cannot imagine that another
prizes liberty above all gods, even if gods exist. They cannot imagine
that any mind is so that it places Justice above all persons, a mind
that cannot conceive even of a God who is not bound to do justice.

If God exists, above him, in eternal calm, is the figure of Justice.

Neither can some ministers understand a man who regards Jehovah and
Jupiter as substantially the same, with this exception—that he thinks
far more of Jupiter, because Jupiter had at least some human feelings.

I do not understand that a man can be guilty of blasphemy who states his
honest thoughts in proper language, his object being, not to torture
the feelings of others, but simply to give his thought—to find and
establish the truth.

Dr. Buckley makes a charge that he ought to have known to be without
foundation. Speaking of myself, he said: "In him the laws to prevent the
circulation of obscene publications through the mails have found their
most vigorous opponent."

It is hardly necessary for me to say that this is untrue. The facts are
that an effort was made to classify obscene literature with what the
pious call "blasphemous and immoral works." A petition was forwarded to
Congress to amend the law so that the literature of Freethought could
not be thrown from the mails, asking that, if no separation could be
made, the law should be repealed.

It was said that I had signed this petition, and I certainly should have
done so had it been presented to me. The petition was absolutely proper.

A few years ago I found the petition, and discovered that while it bore
my name it had never been signed by me. But for the purposes of this
answer I am perfectly willing that the signature should be regarded as
genuine, as there is nothing in the petition that should not have been
granted.

The law as it stood was opposed by the Liberal League—but not a member
of that society was in favor of the circulation of obscene literature;
but they did think that the privacy of the mails had been violated, and
that it was of the utmost importance to maintain the inviolability of
the postal service.

I disagreed with these people, and favored the destruction of obscene
literature not only, but that it be made a criminal offence to send it
through the mails. As a matter of fact I drew up resolutions to that
effect that were passed. Afterward they were changed, or some others
were passed, and I resigned from the League on that account.

Nothing can be more absurd than that I was, directly or indirectly, or
could have been, interested in the circulation of obscene publications
through the mails; and I will pay a premium of $1,000 a word for
each and every word I ever said or wrote in favor of sending obscene
publications through the mails.

I might use much stronger language. I might follow the example of
Dr. Buckley himself. But I think I have said enough to satisfy all
unprejudiced people that the charge is absurdly false.

Now, as to the eulogy of whiskey. It gives me a certain pleasure to read
that even now, and I believe the readers of the _Telegram_ would like to
read it once more; so here it is:

"I send you some of the most wonderful whiskey that ever drove the
skeleton from a feast or painted landscapes in the brain of man. It is
the mingled souls of wheat and corn. In it you will find the sunshine
and the shadow that chased each other over the billowy fields; the
breath of June; the carol of the lark; the dews of night; the wealth
of summer and autumn's rich content, all golden with imprisoned light.
Drink it and you will hear the voices of men and maidens singing the
'Harvest Home,' mingled with the laughter of children. Drink it and you
will feel within your blood the star-lit dawns, the dreamy, tawny dusks
of many perfect days. For forty years this liquid joy has been within
the happy staves of oak, longing to touch the lips of men."

I re-quote this for the reason that Dr. Buckley, who is not very
accurate, made some mistakes in his version.

Now, in order to show the depth of degradation to which I have sunk in
this direction, I will confess that I also wrote a eulogy of tobacco,
and here it is:

"Nearly four centuries ago Columbus, the adventurous, in the blessed
island of Cuba, saw happy people with rolled leaves between their lips.
Above their heads were little clouds of smoke. Their faces were serene,
and in their eyes was the autumnal heaven of content. These people were
kind, innocent, gentle and loving.

"The climate of Cuba is the friendship of the earth and air, and of this
climate the sacred leaves were born—the leaves that breed in the mind
of him who uses them the cloudless, happy days in which they grew.

"These leaves make friends, and celebrate with gentle rites the vows of
peace. They have given consolation to the world. They are the companions
of the lonely—the friends of the imprisoned, of the exile, of workers
in mines, of fellers of forests, of sailors on the desolate seas. They
are the givers of strength and calm to the vexed and wearied minds of
those who build with thought and dream the temples of the soul.

"They tell of hope and rest. They smooth the wrinkled brows of
pain—drive fears and strange misshapen dreads from out the mind and
fill the heart with rest and peace. Within their magic warp and woof
some potent gracious spell imprisoned lies, that, when released by fire,
doth softly steal within the fortress of the brain and bind in sleep the
captured sentinels of care and grief.

"These leaves are the friends of the fireside, and their smoke, like
incense, rises from myriads of happy homes. Cuba is the smile of the
sea."

There are some people so constituted that there is no room in the heaven
of their minds for the butterflies and moths of fancy to spread their
wings. Everything is taken in solemn and stupid earnest. Such men would
hold Shakespeare responsible for what Falstaff said about "sack," and
for Mrs. Quickly's notions of propriety.

There is an old Greek saying which is applicable here: "In the presence
of human stupidity, even the gods stand helpless."

John Wesley, founder of the Methodist Church, lacked all sense of humor.
He preached a sermon on "The Cause and Cure of Earthquakes." He insisted
that they were caused by the wickedness of man, and that the only way to
cure them was to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.

The man who does not carry the torch of Humor is always in danger of
falling into the pit of Absurdity.

The Rev. Charles Deems, pastor of the Church of the Strangers,
contributes his part to the discussion.

He took a text from John, as follows: "He that committeth sin is of the
devil, for the devil sinneth from the beginning. For this purpose
the Son of God was manifested, that he might destroy the works of the
devil."

According to the orthodox creed of the Rev. Dr. Deems all have committed
sin, and consequently all are of the devil. The Doctor is not a
metaphysician. He does not care to play at sleight of hand with words.
He stands on bed-rock, and he asserts that the devil is no Persian myth,
but a personality, who works unhindered by the limitations of a physical
body, and gets human personalities to aid him in his works.

According to the text, it seems that the devil was a sinner from the
beginning. I suppose that must mean from his beginning, or from the
beginning of things. According to Dr. Deems' creed, his God is the
Creator of all things, and consequently must have been the Creator of
the devil. According to the Scriptures the devil is the father of lies,
and Dr. Deems' God is the father of the devil—that is to say, the
grandfather of lies. This strikes me as almost "blasphemous."

The Doctor also tells us "that Jesus believed as much in the personality
of the devil as in that of Herod or Pilate or John or Peter."

That I admit. There is not the slightest doubt, if the New Testament be
true, that Christ believed in a personal devil—a devil with whom he had
conversations; a devil who took him to the pinnacle of the Temple and
endeavored to induce him to leap to the earth below.

Of course he believed in a personal devil. Not only so; he believed
in thousands of personal devils. He cast seven devils out of Mary
Magdalene. He cast a legion of devils out of the man in the tombs, or,
rather, made a bargain with these last-mentioned devils that they might
go into a drove or herd of swine, if they would leave the man.

I not only admit that Christ believed in devils, but he believed that
some devils were deaf and dumb, and so declared.

Dr. Deems is right, and I hope he will defend against all comers the
integrity of the New Testament.

The Doctor, however, not satisfied exactly with what he finds in the New
Testament, draws a little on his own imagination. He says:

"The devil is an organizing, imperial intellect, vindictive, sharp,
shrewd, persevering, the aim of whose works is to overthrow the
authority of God's law."

How does the Doctor know that the devil has an organizing, imperial
intellect? How does he know that he is vindictive and sharp and shrewd
and persevering?

If the devil has an "imperial intellect," why does he attempt the
impossible?

Robert Burns shocked Scotland by saying of the devil, or, rather, to the
devil, that he was sorry for him, and hoped he would take a thought and
mend.

Dr. Deems has gone far in advance of Burns. For a clergyman he seems
to be exceedingly polite. Speaking of the "Arch Enemy of God"—of
that "organizing, imperial intellect who is seeking to undermine the
church"—the Doctor says:

"The devil may be conceded to be sincere."

It has been said:

"An honest God is the noblest work of man," and it may now be added: A
sincere devil is the noblest work of Dr. Deems.

But, with all the devil's smartness, sharpness, and shrewdness, the
Doctor says that he "cannot write a book; that he cannot deliver
lectures" (like myself, I suppose), "edit a newspaper" (like the editor
of the _Telegram_), "or make after-dinner speeches; but he can get his
servants to do these things for him."

There is one thing in the Doctor's address that I feel like correcting
(I quote from the _Telegram's_ report):

"Dr. Deems showed at length how the Son of God, the Christ of the
Bible—_not the Christ of the lecture platform caricatures_—is
operating to overcome all these works."

I take it for granted that he refers to what he supposes I have said
about Christ, and, for fear that he may not have read it, I give it
here:

"And let me say here, once for all, that for the man Christ I have
infinite respect. Let me say, once for all, that the place where man has
died for man, is holy ground. And let me say, once for all, that to that
great and serene man I gladly pay, the tribute of my admiration and my
tears. He was a reformer in his day. He was an infidel in his time. He
was regarded as a blasphemer, and his life was destroyed by hypocrites,
who have, in all ages, done what they could to trample freedom and
manhood out of the human mind. Had I lived at that time I would have
been his friend, and should he come again he will not find a better
friend than I will be. That is for the man. For the theological creation
I have a different feeling."

I have not answered each one who has attacked by name. Neither have I
mentioned those who have agreed with me. But I do take this occasion to
thank all, irrespective of their creeds, who have manfully advocated the
right of free speech, and who have upheld the _Telegram_ in the course
it has taken.

I thank all who have said a kind word for me, and I also feel quite
grateful to those who have failed to say unkind words. Epithets are
not arguments. To abuse is not to convince. Anger is stupid and malice
illogical.

And, after all that has appeared by way of reply, I still insist that
orthodox Christianity did not come with "tidings of great joy," but with
a message of eternal grief.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

New York, February 5, 1892.
---
# A Reply to Rev. Drs. Thomas and Lorimer
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1882_
> * Col. Ingersoll filled McVickor's Theatre again yesterday
> afternoon, when he answered the question "What Must We Do to
> Be Saved?" But before doing so he replied to the recent
> criticisms of city clergymen on his "Talmagian Theology"—
> Chicago Tribune, Nov. 27, 1882.

_Ladies and Gentlemen_:

WHEREVER I lecture, as a rule, some ministers think it their duty to
reply for the purpose of showing either that I am unfair, or that I am
blasphemous, or that I laugh. And laughing has always been considered
by theologians as a crime. Ministers have always said you will have no
respect for our ideas unless you are solemn. Solemnity is a condition
precedent to believing anything without evidence. And if you can only
get a man solemn enough, awed enough, he will believe anything.

In this city the Rev. Dr. Thomas has made a few remarks, and I may say
by way of preface that I have always held him in the highest esteem. He
struggles, according to his statement, with the problem of my sincerity,
and he about half concludes that I am not sincere. There is a little
of the minister left in Dr. Thomas. Ministers always account for a
difference of opinion by attacking the motive. Now, to him, it makes no
difference whether I am sincere or insincere; the question is, Can my
argument be answered? Suppose you could prove that the maker of the
multiplication table held mathematics in contempt; what of it? Ten times
ten would be a hundred still.

My sincerity has nothing to do with the force of the argument—not the
slightest. But this gentleman begins to suspect that I am doing what
I do for the sake of applause. What a commentary on the Christian
religion, that, after they have been preaching it for sixteen or
eighteen hundred years, a man attacks it for the sake of popularity—a
man attacks it for the purpose of winning applause! When I commenced to
speak upon this subject there was no appreciable applause; most of my
fellow-citizens differed with me; and I was denounced as though I had
been a wild beast. But I have lived to see the majority of the men and
women of intellect in the United States on my side; I have lived to see
the church deny her creed; I have lived to see ministers apologize in
public for what they preached; and a great and glorious work is going
on until, in a little while, you will not find one of them, unless it
is some old petrifaction of the red-stone period, who will admit that
he ever believed in the Trinity, in the Atonement, or in the doctrine of
Eternal Agony. The religion preached in the pulpits does not satisfy the
intellect of America, and if Dr. Thomas wishes to know why people go
to hear infidelity it is this: Because they are not satisfied with the
orthodox Christianity of the day. That is the reason. They are beginning
to hold it in contempt.

But this gentleman imagines that I am insincere because I attacked
certain doctrines of the Bible. I attacked the doctrine of eternal pain.
I hold it in infinite and utter abhorrence. And if there be a God in
this universe who made a hell; if there be a God in this universe who
denies to any human being the right of reformation, then that God is not
good, that God is not just, and the future of man is infinitely dark. I
despise that doctrine, and I have done what little I could to get that
horror from the cradle, that horror from the hearts of mothers, that
horror from the hearts of husbands and fathers, and sons, and brothers,
and sisters. It is a doctrine that turns to ashes all the humanities of
life and all the hopes of mankind. I despise it.

And the gentleman also charges that I am wanting in reverence. I admit
here to-day that I have no reverence for a falsehood. I do not care how
old it is, and I do not care who told it, whether the men were inspired
or not. I have no reverence for what I believe to be false, and in
determining what is false I go by my reason. And whenever another man
gives me an argument I examine it. If it is good I follow it. If it is
bad I throw it away. I have no reverence for any book that upholds human
slavery. I despise such a book. I have no reverence for any book that
upholds or palliates the infamous institution of polygamy. I have no
reverence for any book that tells a husband to kill his wife if she
differs with him upon the subject of religion. I have no reverence for
any book that defends wars of conquest and extermination. I have
no reverence for a God that orders his legions to slay the old and
helpless, and to whet the edge of the sword with the blood of mothers
and babes. I have no reverence for such a book; neither have I any
reverence for the author of that book. No matter whether he be God or
man, I have no reverence. I have no reverence for the miracles of the
Bible. I have no reverence for the story that God allowed bears to tear
children in pieces. I have no reverence for the miraculous, but I have
reverence for the truth, for justice, for charity, for humanity, for
intellectual liberty, and for human progress.

I have the right to do my own thinking. I am going to do it. I have
never met any minister that I thought had brain enough to think for
himself and for me too. I do my own. I have no reverence for barbarism,
no matter how ancient it may be, and no reverence for the savagery of
the Old Testament; no reverence for the malice of the New. And let me
tell you here to-night that the Old Testament is a thousand times better
than the New. The Old Testament threatened no vengeance beyond the
grave. God was satisfied when his enemy was? dead. It was reserved for
the New Testament—it was reserved for universal benevolence—to rend
the veil between time and eternity and fix the horrified gaze of man
upon the abyss of hell. The New Testament is just as much worse than the
Old, as hell is worse than sleep. And yet it is the fashion to say that
the Old Testament is bad and that the New Testament is good. I have no
reverence for any book that teaches a doctrine contrary to my reason;
no reverence for any book that teaches a doctrine contrary to my heart;
and, no matter how old it is, no matter how many have believed it, no
matter how many have died on account of it, no matter how many live for
it, I have no reverence for that book, and I am glad of it.

Dr. Thomas seems to think that I should approach these things with
infinite care, that I should not attack slavery, or polygamy,
or religious persecution, but that I should "mildly
suggest"—mildly,—should not hurt anybody's feelings. When I go to
church the ministers tell me I am going to hell. When I meet one I tell
him, "There is no hell," and he says: "What do you want to hurt our
feelings for?" He wishes me mildly to suggest that the sun and moon did
not stop, that may be the bears only frightened the children, and that,
after all, Lot's wife was only scared. Why, there was a minister in this
city of Chicago who imagined that his congregation were progressive,
and, in his pulpit, he said that he did not believe the story of Lot's
wife—said that he did not think that any sensible man would believe
that a woman was changed into salt; and they tried him, and the
congregation thought he was entirely too fresh. And finally he went
before that church and admitted that he was mistaken, and owned up to
the chloride of sodium, and said: "I not only take the Bible _cum grano
salis_, but with a whole barrelful."

My doctrine is, if you do not believe a thing, say so, say so; no need
of going away around the bush and suggesting may be, perhaps, possibly,
peradventure. That is the ministerial way, but I do not like it.

I am also charged with making an onslaught upon the good as well as the
bad. I say here today that never in my life have I said one word against
honesty, one word against liberty, one word against charity, one word
against any institution that is good. I attack the bad, not the good,
and I would like to have some minister point out in some lecture or
speech that I have delivered, one word against the good, against the
highest happiness of the human race.

I have said all I was able to say in favor of justice, in favor of
liberty, in favor of home, in favor of wife and children, in favor of
progress, and in favor of universal kindness; but not one word in favor
of the bad, and I never expect to.

Dr. Thomas also attacks my statement that the brain thinks in spite of
us.

Doesn't it? Can any man tell what he is going to think to-morrow? You
see, you hear, you taste, you feel, you smell—these are the avenues by
which Nature approaches the brain, the consequence of this is thought,
and you cannot by any possibility help thinking.

Neither can you determine what you will think. These impressions are
made independently of your will. "But," says this reverend doctor,
"Whence comes this conception of space?" I can tell him. There is such
a thing as matter. We conceive that matter occupies room—space—and,
in our minds, space is simply the opposite of matter. And it comes
naturally—not supernaturally.

Does the gentleman contend there had to be a revelation of God for us to
conceive of a place where there is nothing? We know there is something.
We can think of the opposite of something, and therefore we say space.
"But," says this gentleman, "Where do we get the idea of good and bad?"
I can tell him; no trouble about that. Every man has the capacity to
enjoy and the capacity to suffer—every man. Whenever a man enjoys
himself he calls that good; whenever he suffers he calls that bad.
The animals that are useful to him he calls good; the poisonous, the
hurtful, he calls bad. The vegetables that he can eat and use he calls
good; those that are of no use except to choke the growth of the good
ones, he calls bad. When the sun shines, when everything in nature is
out that ministers to him, he says "this is good;" when the storm comes
and blows down his hut, when the frost comes and lays down his crop,
he says "this is bad." And all phenomena that affect men well he calls
good; all that affect him ill he calls bad.

Now, then, the foundation of the idea of right and wrong is the effect
in nature that we are capable of enjoying or capable of suffering. That
is the foundation of conscience; and if man could not suffer, if man
could not enjoy, we never would have dreamed of the word conscience; and
the words right and wrong never could have passed human lips. There are
no supernatural fields. We get our ideas from experience—some of them
from our forefathers, many from experience. A man works—food does not
come of itself. A man works to raise it, and, after he has worked in
the sun and heat, do you think it is necessary that he should have a
revelation from heaven before he thinks that he has a better right to it
than the man who did not work? And yet, according to these gentlemen,
we never would have known it was wrong to steal had not the Ten
Commandments been given from Mount Sinai.

You go into a savage country where they never heard of the Bible, and
let a man hunt all day for game, and finally get one little bird, and
the hungry man that staid at home endeavor to take it from him, and you
would see whether he would need a direct revelation from God in order
to make up his mind who had the better right to that bird. Our ideas of
right and wrong are born of our surroundings, and if a man will think
for a moment he will see it. But they deny that the mind thinks in spite
of us. I heard a story of a man who said, "No man can think of one thing
a minute, he will think of something else." Well, there was a little
Methodist preacher. He said he could think of a thing a minute—that he
could say the Lord's Prayer and never think of another thing. "Well,"
said the man, "I'll tell you what I will do. There is the best
road-horse in the country. I will give you that horse if you will just
say the Lord's Prayer, and not think of another thing." And the little
fellow shut up his eyes: "Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be
thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done—I suppose you will throw
in the saddle and bridle?"

I have always insisted, and I shall always insist, until I find some
fact in Nature correcting the statement, that Nature sows the seeds of
thought—that every brain is a kind of field where the seeds are sown,
and that some are very poor, and some are very barren, and some are very
rich. That is my opinion.

Again he asks: "If one is not responsible for his thought, why is any
one blamed for thinking as he does?" It is not a question of blame, it
is a question of who is right—a question of who is wrong. Admit that
every one thinks exactly as he must, that does not show that his thought
is right; that does not show that his thought is the highest thought.
Admit that every piece of land in the world produces what it must; that
does not prove that the land covered with barren rocks and a little moss
is just as good as the land covered with wheat or corn; neither does it
prove that the mind has to act as the wheat or the corn; neither does it
prove that the land had any choice as to what it would produce. I hold
men responsible not for their thoughts; I hold men responsible for their
actions. And I have said a thousand times: Physical liberty is this—the
right to do anything that does not interfere with another—in other
words, to act right; and intellectual liberty is this—the right to
think right, and the right to think wrong, provided you do your best to
think right. I have always said it, and I expect to say it always.

The reverend gentleman is also afflicted with the gradual theory. I
believe in that theory.

If you will leave out inspiration, if you will leave out the direct
interference of an infinite God, the gradual theory is right. It is a
theory of evolution.

I admit that astronomy has been born of astrology, that chemistry came
from the black art; and I also contend that religion will be lost in
science. I believe in evolution. I believe in the budding of the seed,
the shining of the sun, the dropping of the rain; I believe in the
spreading and the growing; and that is as true in every other department
of the world as it is in vegetation. I believe it; but that does not
account for the Bible doctrine. We are told we have a book absolutely
inspired, and it will not do to say God gradually grows. If he is
infinite now, he knows as much as he ever will. If he has been always
infinite, he knew as much at the time he wrote the Bible as he knows
to-day; and, consequently, whatever he said then must be as true now
as it was then. You see they mix up now a little bit of philosophy with
religion—a little bit of science with the shreds and patches of the
supernatural.

Hear this: I said in my lecture the other day that all the clergymen in
the world could not get one drop of rain out of the sky. I insist on it.
All the prayers on earth cannot produce one drop of rain. I also said
all the clergymen of the world could not save one human life. They tried
it last year. They tried it in the United States. The Christian world
upon its knees implored God to save one life, and the man died. The man
died! Had the man recovered the whole church would have claimed that it
was in answer to prayer. The man having died, what does the church say
now? What is the answer to this? The Rev. Dr. Thomas says: "There is
prayer and there is rain." Good. "Can he that is himself or any one else
say there is no possible relation between one and the other?" I do. Let
us put it another way. There is rain and there is infidelity; can any
one say there is no possible relation between the two? How does Dr.
Thomas know that he is not indebted to me for this year's crops? And yet
this gentleman really throws out the idea that there is some possible
relation between prayer and rain, between rain and health; and he tells
us that he would have died twenty-five years ago had it not been for
prayer. I doubt it. Prayer is not a medicine. Life depends upon certain
facts—not upon prayer. All the prayer in the world cannot take the
place of the circulation of the blood. All the prayer in the world is
no substitute for digestion. All the prayer in the world cannot take the
place of food; and whenever a man lives by prayer you will find that he
eats considerable besides. It will not do. Again: This reverend Doctor
says: "Shall we say that all the love of the unseen world"—how does he
know there is any love in the unseen world? "and the love of God"—how
does he know there is any love in God? "heed not the cries and tears of
earth?"

I do not know; but let the gentleman read the history of religious
persecution. Let him read the history of those who were put in dungeons,
of those who lifted their chained hands to God and mingled prayer with
the clank of fetters; men that were in the dungeons simply for loving
this God, simply for worshiping this God. And what did God do? Nothing.
The chains remained upon the limbs of his worshipers. They remained in
the dungeons built by theology, by malice, and hatred; and what did God
do? Nothing. Thousands of men were taken from their homes, fagots were
piled around their bodies; they were consumed to ashes, and what did
God do? Nothing. The sword of extermination was unsheathed, hundreds and
thousands of men, women and children perished. Women lifted their hands
to God and implored him to protect their children, their daughters; and
what did God do?

Nothing. Whole races were enslaved, and the cruel lash was put upon the
naked back of toil. What did God do? Nothing. Children were sold from
the arms of mothers. All the sweet humanities of life were trodden
beneath the brutal foot of creed; and what did God do? Nothing. Human
beings, his children, were tracked through swamps by bloodhounds; and
what did God do? Nothing. Wild storms sweep over the earth and the
shipwrecked go down in the billows; and what does God do? Nothing. There
come plague and pestilence and famine. What does God do? Thousands
and thousands perish. Little children die upon the withered breasts of
mothers; and what does God do? Nothing.

What evidence has Dr. Thomas that the cries and tears of man have ever
touched the heart of God? Let us be honest. I appeal to the history
of the world; I appeal to the tears, and blood, and agony, and
imprisonment, and death of hundreds and millions of the bravest and
best. Have they ever touched the heart of the Infinite? Has the hand of
help ever been reached from heaven? I do not know; but I do not believe
it.

Dr. Thomas tells me that is orthodox Christianity. What right has he
to tell what is orthodox Christianity? He is a heretic. He had too much
brain to remain in the Methodist pulpit. He had a doubt—and a doubt is
born of an idea. And his doctrine has been declared by his own church
to be unorthodox. They have passed on his case and they have found him
unconstitutional. What right has he to state what is orthodox? And here
is what he says: "Christianity"—orthodox Christianity I suppose
he means—"teaches, concerning the future world, that rewards and
punishments are carried over from time to eternity; that the principles
of the government of God are the same there as here; that character, and
not profession determines destiny; and that Humboldt, and Dickens, and
all others who have gone and shall go to that world shall receive their
just rewards; that souls will always be in the place in which for the
time, be it now or a million years hence, they are fitted. That is what
Christianity teaches."

If it does, never will I have another word to say against Christianity.
It never has taught it. Christianity—orthodox Christianity—teaches
that when you draw your last breath you have lost the last opportunity
for reformation. Christianity teaches that this little world is the
eternal line between time and eternity, and if you do not get religion
in this life, you will be eternally damned in the next. That is
Christianity. They say: "Now is the accepted time." If you put it off
until you die, that is too late; and the doctrine of the Christian world
is that there is no opportunity for reformation in another world. The
doctrine of orthodox Christianity is that you must believe on the Lord
Jesus Christ here in this life, and it will not do to believe on him in
the next world. You must believe on him here and that if you fail here,
God in his infinite wisdom will never give you another chance. That
is orthodox Christianity; and according to orthodox Christianity, the
greatest, the best and the sublimest of the world are now in hell. And
why is it that they say it is not orthodox Christianity? I have made
them ashamed of their doctrine. When I called to their attention the
fact that such men as Darwin, such men as Emerson, Dickens, Longfellow,
Laplace, Shakespeare, and Humboldt, were in hell, it struck them all at
once that the company in heaven would not be very interesting with such
men left out.

And now they begin to say: "We think the Lord will give those men
another chance." I have succeeded in my mission beyond my most sanguine
expectations. I have made orthodox ministers deny their creeds; I have
made them ashamed of their doctrine—and that is glory enough. They will
let me in, a few years after I am dead. I admit that the doctrine that
God will treat us as we treat others—I admit that is taught by Matthew,
Mark, and Luke; but it is not taught by the Orthodox church. I want that
understood. I admit also that Dr. Thomas is not orthodox, and that he
was driven out of the church because he thought God too good to damn
men forever without giving them the slightest chance. Why, the Catholic
Church is a thousand times better than your Protestant Church upon that
question. The Catholic Church believes in purgatory—that is, a place
where a fellow can get a chance to make a motion for a new trial.

Dr. Thomas, all I ask of you is to tell all that you think. Tell
your congregation whether you believe the Bible was written by divine
inspiration. Have the courage and the grandeur to tell your people
whether, in your judgment, God ever upheld slavery.

Do not shrink. Do not shirk. Tell your people whether God ever upheld
polygamy. Do not shrink. Tell them whether God was ever in favor of
religious persecution. Stand right to it. Then tell your people whether
you honestly believe that a good man can suffer for a bad one and the
bad one get the credit. Be honor bright. Tell what you really think
and there will not be as much difference between you and myself as you
imagine.

The next gentleman, I believe, is the Rev. Dr. Lorimer. He comes to the
rescue, and I have an idea of his mental capacity from the fact that he
is a Baptist. He believes that the infinite God has a choice as to the
manner in which a man or babe shall be dampened. This gentleman
regards modern infidelity as "pitifully shallow" as to its intellectual
conceptions and as to its philosophical views of the universe and of
the problems regarding man's place in it and of his destiny. "Pitifully
shallow!"

What is the modern conception of the universe? The modern conception
is that the universe always has been and forever will be. The modern
conception of the universe is that it embraces within its infinite arms
all matter, all spirit, all forms of force, all that is, all that has
been, all that can be. That is the modern conception of this universe.
And this is called "pitiful."

What is the Christian conception? It is that all the matter in the
universe is dead, inert, and that back of it is a Jewish Jehovah who
made it, and who is now engaged in managing the affairs of this world.
And they even go so far as to say that that Being made experiments in
which he signally failed. That Being made man and woman and put them in
a garden and allowed them to become totally depraved. That Being of
infinite wisdom made hundreds and millions of people when he knew he
would have to drown them. That Being peopled a planet like this with
men, women and children, knowing that he would have to consign most of
them to eternal fire. That is a pitiful conception of the universe. That
is an infamous conception of the universe. Give me rather the conception
of Spinoza, the conception of Humboldt, of Darwin, of Huxley, of Tyndall
and of every other man who has thought. I love to think of the whole
universe together as one eternal fact. I love to think that everything
is alive; that crystallization is itself a step toward joy. I love to
think that when a bud bursts into blossom it feels a thrill. I love to
have the universe full of feeling and full of joy, and not full of
simple dead, inert matter, managed by an old bachelor for all eternity.

Another thing to which this gentleman objects is that I propose
to banish such awful thoughts as the mystery of our origin and our
relations to the present and to the possible future from human thought.

I have never said so. Never. I have said, One world at a time. Why? Do
not make yourself miserable about another. Why? Because I do not know
anything about it, and it may be good. So do not worry. That is all. Y
or do not know where you are going to land. It may be the happy port of
heaven. Wait until you get there. It will be time enough to make trouble
then. This is what I have said. I have said that the golden bridge of
life from gloom emerges, and on shadow rests. I do not know. I admit it.
Life is a shadowy strange and winding road on which we travel for a few
short steps, just a little way from the cradle with its lullaby of love,
to the low and quiet wayside inn where all at last must sleep, and where
the only salutation is "Good-Night!" Whether there is a good morning I
do not know, but I am willing to wait.

Let us think these high and splendid thoughts. Let us build palaces for
the future, but do not let us spend time making dungeons for men who
happen to differ from us. I am willing to take the conceptions of
Humboldt and Darwin, of Haeckel and Spinoza, and I am willing to compare
their splendid conceptions with the doctrine embraced in the Baptist
creed. This gentleman has his ideas upon a variety of questions, and he
tells me that, "No one has a right to say that Dickens, Longfellow, and
Darwin are castaways!" Why not? They were not Christians. They did
not believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. They did not believe in the
inspiration of the Scriptures. And, if orthodox religion be true, they
are castaways. But he says: "No one has the right to say that orthodoxy
condemns to perdition any man who has struggled toward the right, and
who has tried to bless the earth he is raised on." That is what I say,
but that is not what orthodoxy says. Orthodoxy says that the best man
in the world, if he fails to believe in the existence of God, or in the
divinity of Christ, will be eternally lost. Does it not say it? Is there
an orthodox minister in this town now who will stand up and say that an
honest atheist can be saved? He will not. Let any preacher say it, and
he will be tried for heresy.

I will tell you what orthodoxy is. A man goes to the day of judgment,
and they cross-examine him, and they say to him:

"Did you believe the Bible?"

"No."

"Did you belong to the church?"

"No."

"Did you take care of your wife and children?"

"Yes?"

"Pay your debts?"

"Yes."

"Love your country?"

"Yes."

"Love the whole world?"

"Yes."

"Never made anybody unhappy?"

"Not that I know of. If there is any man or woman that I ever wronged
let them stand up and say so. That is the kind of man I am; but," said
he, "I did not believe the Bible. I did not believe in the divinity
of Jesus Christ, and, to tell you the truth, I did not believe in the
existence of God. I now find I was mistaken; but that was my doctrine."
Now, I want to know what, according to the orthodox church, is done with
that man?

He is sent to hell.

That is their doctrine.

Then the next fellow comes. He says:

"Where did you come from?"

And he looks off kind of stiffly, with his head on one side and he says:

"I came from the gallows. I was just hung."

"What were you hung for?"

"Murdering my wife. She wasn't a Christian either, she got left. The day
I was hung I was washed in the blood of the Lamb."

That is Christianity. And they say to him: "Come in! Let the band play!"

That is orthodox Christianity. Every man that is hanged—there is a
minister there, and the minister tells him he is all right. All he has
to do is just to believe on the Lord.

Another objection this gentleman has, and that is that I am scurrilous.
Scurrilous! And the gentleman, in order to show that he is not
scurrilous, calls infidels, "donkeys, serpents, buzzards." That is
simply to show that he is not scurrilous.

Dr. Lorimer is also of the opinion that the mind thinks independently of
the will; and I propose to prove by him that it does. He is the last
man in the world to controvert that doctrine—the last man. In spite of
himself his mind absorbed the sermon of another man, and he repeated it
as his own. I am satisfied he is an honest man; consequently his mind
acted independently of his will, and he furnishes the strongest evidence
in favor of my position that it is possible to conceive. I am infinitely
obliged to him for the testimony he has unconsciously offered.

He also takes the ground that infidelity debases a man and renders him
unfit for the discharge of the highest duties pertaining to life, and
that we show the greatest shallowness when we endeavor to overthrow
Calvinism. What is Calvinism? It is the doctrine that an infinite God
made millions of people, knowing that they would be damned. I have
answered that a thousand times. I answer it again. No God has a right to
make a mistake, and then damn the mistake. No God has a right to make
a failure, and a man who is to be eternally damned is not a conspicuous
success. No God has a right to make an investment that will not finally
pay a dividend.

The world is getting better, and the ministers, all your life and all
mine, have been crying out from the pulpit that we are all going wrong,
that immorality was stalking through the land, that crime was about to
engulf the world, and yet, in spite of all their prophecies, the world
has steadily grown better, and there is more justice, more charity, more
kindness, more goodness, and more liberty in the world to-day than
ever before. And there is more infidelity in the world to-day than ever
before.
---
# A Reply to Rev. John Hall and Warner Van Norden
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1894_
> * The attention of the Morning Advertiser readers was, in the
> issue of February 27th, called to two sets of facts
> transpiring contemporaneously in this city. One was the
> starving condition of four hundred cloakmakers who had
> struck because they could not live on reduced wages.
> Arbitration had failed; two hundred of the number, seeing
> starvation staring them in the face, were forced to give up
> the fight, and the remaining number continued to do battle
> for higher wages

> While these cloakmakers were in the extremity of
> destitution, millionaires were engaged in subscribing to a
> fund "for the extension of the church." The extension
> committee, received at the home of Jay Gould, had met with
> such signal success as to cause comment throughout the city.
> The host subscribed ten thousand dollars, his daughter
> twenty-five hundred and the assembled guests sums ranging
> between five hundred and one thousand. The Morning
> Advertiser made inquiry as to whether any of the money
> contributed for the extension of the church would find its
> way into the pockets of the hungry cloakmakers.

> Dr. John Hall said he did not have time to discuss the
> matter of aiding the needy poor, as there were so many other
> things that demanded his immediate attention.

> Mr. Warner Van Norden, Treasurer of the Church Extension
> Committee, was seen at his office in the North American
> Bank, of which institution he is President.

> He took the view that the cloakmakers had brought their
> trouble upon themselves, and it was not the duty of the
> charitable to extend to them direct aid.

> Generally speaking, he was not in favor of helping the poor
> and needy of the city, save in the way employed by the
> church.

> "The experience of centuries, said he, "teaches us that the
> giving of alms to the poor only encourage them in their
> idleness and their crimes. The duty of the church is to save
> men's a souls, and to minister to their bodies incidentally.

> "It is best to teach people to rely upon their own
> resources. If the poor felt that they could get material
> help, they would want it always. In these days if a man or
> woman can't get along it's their own fault. There is my
> typewriter. She was brought up in a tenement house. Now she
> gets two dollars a day, and dresses better than did the
> lords and ladies of other times. You'll find that where
> people are poor, it's their own fault.

> "After all, happiness does not lie in the enjoyment of
> material things—it is the soul that makes life worth
> living. You should come to our Working Girls' Club and see
> this fact illustrated. There you will see girls who have
> been working all day, singing hymns and following the leader
> in prayer."

> Don't you think there are many worthy poor in this city who
> need material help?" was asked.

> "No, sir; I do not," said Mr. Van Norden. "If a man or woman
> wants money, they should work for It."

> "But is employment always to be had?"

> "I think it is by Americans. You'll find that most of the
> people out of work are those who are not adapted to the
> conditions of this country.

Colonel Robert Ingersoll was asked what he thought of such
philosophy.—New York Morning Advertiser, March 10,1892.

_Question_. Have you read the article in the Morning Advertiser entitled
"Workers Starving"?

_Answer._ I have read it, and was greatly surprised at the answers made
to the reporter of the Advertiser.

_Question_. What do you think of the remarks of the Rev. John Hall and
by Mr. Warner Van Norden, Treasurer of the "Church Extension Committee"?

_Answer._ My opinion is that Dr. Hall must have answered under some
irritation, or that the reporter did not happen to take down all he
said. It hardly seems probable that Dr. Hall should have said that he
had no time to discuss the matter of aiding the needy poor, giving as a
reason that there were so many other things that demanded his immediate
attention. The church is always insisting that it is, above all things,
a charitable institution; that it collects and distributes many millions
every year for the relief of the needy, and it is always quoting: "Sell
that thou hast and give to the poor." It is hard to imagine anything of
more importance than to relieve the needy, or to succor the oppressed.
Of course, I know that the church itself produces nothing, and that it
lives on contributions; but its claim is that it receives from those who
are able to give, and gives to those who are in urgent need.

I have sometimes thought, that the most uncharitable thing in the
world is an organized charity. It seems to have the peculiarities of a
corporation, and becomes as soulless as its kindred. To use a very old
phrase, it generally acts like "a beggar on horseback."

Probably Dr. Hall, in fact, does a great deal for the poor, and I
imagine that he must have been irritated or annoyed when he made the
answer attributed to him in the _Advertiser_. The good Samaritan may
have been in a hurry, but he said nothing about it. The Levites
that passed by on the other side seemed to have had other business.
Understand me, I am saying nothing against Dr. Hall, but it does seem
to me that there are few other matters more important than assisting our
needy fellow-men.

_Question_. What do you think of Mr. Warner Van Norden's sentiments as
expressed to the reporter?

_Answer._ In the first place, I think he is entirely mistaken. I do not
think the cloakmakers brought their trouble upon themselves. The wages
they receive were and are insufficient to support reasonable human
beings. They work for almost nothing, and it is hard for me to
understand why they live at all, when life is so expensive and death so
cheap. All they can possibly do is to earn enough one day to buy food
to enable them to work the next. Life with them is a perpetual struggle.
They live on the edge of death. Under their feet they must feel the side
of the grave crumbling, and thus they go through, day by day, month by
month, year by year. They are, I presume, sustained by a hope that is
never realized.

Mr. Van Norden says that he is not in favor of helping the poor and
needy of the city, save in the way employed by the church, and that the
experience of centuries teaches us that the giving of alms to the poor
only encourages them in their idleness and their crimes.

Is Mr. Van Norden ready to take the ground that when Christ said: "Sell
that thou hast and give to the poor," he intended to encourage idleness
and crime?

Is it possible that when it was said, "It is better to give than to
receive," the real meaning was, It is better to encourage idleness and
crime than to receive assistance?

For instance, a man falls into the water. Why should one standing on the
shore attempt to rescue him? Could he not properly say: "If all who fall
into the water are rescued, it will only encourage people to fall into
the water; it will make sailors careless, and persons who stand on
wharves, will care very little whether they fall in or not. Therefore,
in order to make people careful who have not fallen into the water,
let those in the water drown." In other words, why should anybody
be assisted, if assistance encourages carelessness, or idleness, or
negligence?

According to Mr. Van Norden, charity is out of place in this world,
kindness is a mistake, and hospitality springs from a lack of
philosophy. In other words, all should take the consequences of their
acts, not only, but the consequences of the acts of others.

If I knew this doctrine to be true, I should still insist that men
should be charitable on their own account. A man without pity, no matter
how intelligent he may be, is at best only an intellectual beast, and
if by withholding all assistance we could finally people the world
with those who are actually self-supporting, we would have a population
without sympathy, without charity—that is to say, without goodness. In
my judgment, it would be far better that none should exist.

Mr. Van Norden takes the ground that the duty of the church is to save
men's souls, and to minister to their bodies incidentally. I think that
conditions have a vast deal to do with morality and goodness. If you
wish to change the conduct of your fellow-men, the first thing to do is
to change their conditions, their surroundings; in other words, to help
them to help themselves—help them to get away from bad influences, away
from the darkness of ignorance, away from the temptations of poverty and
want, not only into the light intellectually, but into the climate of
prosperity. It is useless to give a hungry man a religious tract, and it
is almost useless to preach morality to those who are so situated that
the necessity of the present, the hunger of the moment, overrides every
other consideration. There is a vast deal of sophistry in hunger, and a
good deal of persuasion in necessity.

Prosperity is apt to make men selfish. They imagine that because they
have succeeded, others and all others, might or may succeed. If any man
will go over his own life honestly, he will find that he has not always
succeeded because he was good, or that he has always failed because
he was bad. He will find that many things happened with which he had
nothing to do, for his benefit, and that, after all is said and done, he
cannot account for all of his successes by his absolute goodness. So,
if a man will think of all the bad things he has done—of all the bad
things he wanted to do—of all the bad things he would have done had he
had the chance, and had he known that detection was impossible, he will
find but little foundation for egotism.

_Question_. What do you say to this language of Mr. Van Norden. "It is
best to teach people to rely upon their own resources. If the poor felt
that they could get material help they would want it always, and in this
day, if a man and woman cannot get along, it is their own fault"?

_Answer._ All I can say is that I do not agree with him. Often there are
many more men in a certain trade than there is work for such men. Often
great factories shut down, leaving many thousands out of employment. You
may say that it was the fault of these men that they learned that trade;
that they might have known it would be overcrowded; so you may say it
was the fault of the capitalist to start a factory in that particular
line, because he should have known that it was to be overdone.

As no man can look very far into the future, the truth is it was
nobody's fault, and without fault thousands and thousands are thrown out
of employment. Competition is so sharp, wages are so small, that to be
out of employment for a few weeks means want. You cannot say that this
is the fault of the man who wants bread. He certainly did not wish to go
hungry; neither did he deliberately plan a failure. He did the best he
could. There are plenty of bankers who fail in business, not because
they wish to fail; so there are plenty of professional men who cannot
make a living, yet it may not be their fault; and there are others who
get rich, and it may not be by reason of their virtues.

Without doubt, there are many people in the city of New York who
cannot make a living. Competition is too sharp; life is too complex;
consequently the percentage of failures is large. In savage life there
are few failures, but in civilized life there are many. There are many
thousands out of work and out of food in Berlin to-day. It can hardly be
said to be their fault. So there are many thousands in London, and every
other great city of the world. You cannot account for all this want by
saying that the people who want are entirely to blame.

A man gets rich, and he is often egotistic enough to think that his
wealth was the result of his own unaided efforts; and he is sometimes
heartless enough to say that others should get rich by following his
example.

Mr. Van Norden states that he has a typewriter who gets two dollars a
day, and that she dresses better than the lords and ladies did of olden
times. He must refer to the times of the Garden of Eden. Out of two
dollars a day one must live, and there is very little left for gorgeous
robes. I hardly think a lady is to be envied because she receives two
dollars a day, and the probability is that the manner in which she
dresses on that sum—having first deducted the expenses of living—is
not calculated to excite envy.

The philosophy of Mr. Van Norden seems to be concentrated into this
line: "Where people are poor it is their own fault." Of course this is
the death of all charity.

We are then informed by this gentleman that "happiness does not lie in
the enjoyment of material things—that it is the soul that makes life
worth living."

Is it the soul without pity that makes life worth living? Is it the soul
in which the blossom of charity has never shed its perfume that makes
life so desirable? Is it the soul, having all material things, wrapped
in the robes of prosperity, and that says to all the poor: It is your
own fault; die of hunger if you must—that makes life worth living?

It may be asked whether it is worth while for such a soul to live.

If this is the philosophy of Mr. Van Norden, I do not wish to visit his
working girls' club, or to "hear girls who have been working all day
singing hymns and following the leader in prayer." Why should a soul
without pity pray? Why should any one ask God to be merciful to the poor
if he is not merciful himself? For my own part, I would rather see
poor people eat than to hear them pray. I would rather see them clothed
comfortably than to see them shivering, and at the same time hear them
sing hymns.

It does not seem possible that any man can say that there are no worthy
poor in this city who need material help. Neither does it seem possible
that any man can say to one who is starving that if he wants money he
must work for it. There are hundreds and thousands in this city willing
to work who can find no employment. There are good and pure women
standing between their children and starvation, living in rooms
worse than cells in penitentiaries—giving their own lives to their
children—hundreds and hundreds of martyrs bearing the cross of every
suffering, worthy of the reverence and love of mankind. So there are men
wandering about these streets in search of work, willing to do anything
to feed the ones they love.

Mr. Van Norden has not done himself justice. I do not believe that he
expresses his real sentiments. But, after all, why should we expect
charity in a church that believes in the dogma of eternal pain? Why
cannot the rich be happy here in their palaces, while the poor suffer
and starve in huts, when these same rich expect to enjoy heaven forever,
with all the unbelievers in hell? Why should the agony of time interfere
with their happiness, when the agonies of eternity will not and cannot
affect their joy? But I have nothing against Dr. John Hall or Mr. Van
Norden—only against their ideas.
---
# A Reply to the Cincinnati Gazette and Catholic Telegraph
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1878_
> * The Cincinnati Gazette, 1878. An Interview.

_Question_. Colonel, have you noticed the criticisms made on your
lectures by the _Cincinnati Gazette_ and the _Catholic Telegraph_?

_Answer._ I have read portions of the articles.

_Question_. What do you think of them?

_Answer._ Well, they are hardly of importance enough to form a distinct
subject of thought.

_Question_. Well, what do you think of the attempted argument of the
_Gazette_ against your lecture on Moses?

_Answer._ The writer endeavors to show that considering the ignorance
prevalent four thousand years ago, God did as well as one could
reasonably expect; that God at that time did not have the advantage
of telescope, microscope, and spectrum, and that for this reason a
few mistakes need not excite our special wonder. He also shows that,
although God was in favor of slavery he introduced some reforms; but
whether the reforms were intended to perpetuate slavery or to help the
slave is not stated. The article has nothing to do with my position. I
am perfectly willing to admit that there is a land called Egypt; that
the Jews were once slaves; that they got away and started a little
country of their own. All this may be true without proving that they
were miraculously fed in the wilderness, or that water ran up hill, or
that God went into partnership with hornets or snakes. There may have
been a man by the name of Moses without proving that sticks were turned
into snakes.

A while ago a missionary addressed a Sunday school. In the course of
his remarks he said that he had been to Mount Ararat, and had brought
a stone from the mountain. He requested the children to pass in line
before him so that they could all get a look at this wonderful stone.
After they had all seen it he said: "You will as you grow up meet people
who will deny that there ever was a flood, or that God saved Noah and
the animals in the ark, and then you can tell them that you know better,
because you saw a stone from the very mountain where the ark rested."

That is precisely the kind of argument used in the _Gazette_. The
article was written by some one who does not quite believe in the
inspiration of the Scriptures himself, and were it not for the fear of
hell, would probably say so.

I admit that there was such a man as Mohammed, such a city as Mecca,
such a general as Omar, but I do not admit that God made known his will
to Mohammed in any substantial manner. Of course the _Gazette_ would
answer all this by saying that Mohammed did exist, and that therefore
God must have talked with him. I admit that there was such a general
as Washington, but I do not admit that God kept him from being shot. I
admit that there is a portrait of the Virgin Mary in Rome, but I do not
admit that it shed tears. I admit that there was such a man as Moses,
but I do not admit that God hunted for him in a tavern to kill him. I
admit that there was such a priest as St. Denis, but I do not admit
that he carried his head in his hand, after it was cut off, and swam the
river, and put his head on again and eventually recovered. I admit
that the article appeared in the _Gazette_, but I do not admit that it
amounted to anything whatever.

_Question_. Did you notice what the _Catholic Telegraph_ said about your
lecture being ungrammatical?

_Answer._ Yes; I saw an extract from it. In the _Catholic Telegraph_
occurs the following: "The lecture was a failure as brilliant as
Ingersoll's flashes of ungrammatical rhetoric." After making this
statement with the hereditary arrogance of a priest, after finding fault
with my "ungrammatical rhetoric" he then writes the following sentence:
"It could not boast neither of novelty in argument or of attractive
language." After this, nothing should be noticed that this gentleman
says on the subject of grammar.

In this connection it may be proper for me to say that nothing is more
remarkable than the fact that Christianity destroys manners. With one
exception, no priest has ever written about me, so far as I know, except
in an arrogant and insolent manner. They seem utterly devoid of the
usual amenities of life. Every one who differs with them is vile,
ignorant and malicious. But, after all, what can you expect of a
gentleman who worships a God who will damn dimpled babes to an eternity
of fire, simply because they were not baptized.

_Question_. This Catholic writer says that the oldest page of history
and the newest page of science are nothing more than commentaries on the
Mosaic Record. He says the Cosmogony of Moses has been believed in, and
has been received as the highest truth by the very brightest names in
science. What do you think of that statement?

_Answer._ I think it is without the least foundation in fact, and is
substantially like the gentleman's theology, depending simply upon
persistent assertion.

I see he quotes Cuvier as great authority. Cuvier denied that the fossil
animals were in any way related to the animals now living, and believed
that God had frequently destroyed all life upon the earth and then
produced other forms. Agassiz was the last scientist of any standing who
ventured to throw a crumb of comfort to this idea.

_Question_. Do you mean to say that all the great living scientists
regard the Cosmogony of Moses as a myth?

_Answer._ I do. I say this: All men of science and men of sense look
upon the Mosaic account as a simple myth. Humboldt, who stands in the
same relation to science that Shakespeare did to the drama, held this
opinion. The same is held by the best minds in Germany, by Huxley,
Tyndall and Herbert Spencer in England, by John W. Draper and others
in the United States. Whoever agrees with Moses is some poor frightened
orthodox gentleman afraid of losing his soul or his salary, and as a
rule, both are exceedingly small.

_Question_. Some people say that you slander the Bible in saying that
God went into partnership with hornets, and declare that there is no
such passage in the Bible.

_Answer._ Well, let them read the twenty-eighth verse of the
twenty-third chapter of Exodus, "And I will send hornets before thee,
which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaanite and the Hittite from
before thee."

_Question_. Do you find in lecturing through the country that your ideas
are generally received with favor?

_Answer._ Astonishingly so. There are ten times as many freethinkers
as there were five years ago. In five years more we will be in the
majority.

_Question_. Is it true that the churches, as a general thing, make
strong efforts, as I have seen it stated, to prevent people from going
to hear you?

_Answer._ Yes; in many places ministers have advised their congregations
to keep away, telling them I was an exceedingly dangerous man. The
result has generally been a full house, and I have hardly ever failed to
publicly return my thanks to the clergy for acting as my advance agents.

_Question_. Do you ever meet Christian people who try to convert you?

_Answer._ Not often. But I do receive a great many anonymous letters,
threatening me with the wrath of God, and calling my attention to the
uncertainty of life and the certainty of damnation. These letters are
nearly all written in the ordinary Christian spirit; that is to say,
full of hatred and impertinence.

_Question_. Don't you think it remarkable that the _Telegraph_, a
Catholic paper, should quote with extravagant praise, an article from
such an orthodox sheet as the _Gazette_?

_Answer._ I do not. All the churches must make common cause. All
superstitions lead to Rome; all facts lead to science. In a few
years all the churches will be united. This will unite all forms of
liberalism. When that is done the days of superstition, of arrogance,
of theology, will be numbered. It is very laughable to see a Catholic
quoting scientific men in favor of Moses, when the same men would have
taken great pleasure in swearing that the Catholic Church was the
worst possible organization. That church should forever hold its peace.
Wherever it has had authority it has destroyed human liberty. It reduced
Italy to a hand organ, Spain to a guitar, Ireland to exile, Portugal to
contempt. Catholicism is the upas tree in whose shade the intellect of
man has withered. The recollection of the massacre of St. Bartholomew
should make a priest silent, and the recollection of the same massacre
should make a Protestant careful.

I can afford to be maligned by a priest, when the same party denounces
Garibaldi, the hero of Italy, as a "pet tiger" to Victor Emmanuel. I
could not afford to be praised by such a man. I thank him for his abuse.

_Question_. What do you think of the point that no one is able to judge
of these things unless he is a Hebrew scholar?

_Answer._ I do not think it is necessary to understand Hebrew to decide
as to the probability of springs gushing out of dead bones, or of
the dead getting out of their graves, or of the probability of ravens
keeping a hotel for wandering prophets. I hardly think it is necessary
even to be a Greek scholar to make up my mind as to whether devils
actually left a person and took refuge in the bodies of swine. Besides,
if the Bible is not properly translated, the circulation ought to stop
until the corrections are made. I am not accountable if God made a
revelation to me in a language that he knew I never would understand. If
he wishes to convey any information to my mind, he certainly should do
it in English before he eternally damns me for paying no attention to
it.

_Question_. Are not many of the contradictions in the Bible owing to
mistranslations?

_Answer._ No. Nearly all of the mistranslations have been made to help
out the text. It would be much worse, much more contradictory had it
been correctly translated. Nearly all of the _mistakes_, as Mr. Weller
would say, have been made for the purposes of harmony.

_Question_. How many errors do you suppose there are?

_Answer._ Well, I do not know. It has been reported that the American
Bible Society appointed a committee to hunt for errors, and the said
committee returned about twenty-four to twenty-five thousand. And
thereupon the leading men said, to correct so many errors will destroy
the confidence of the common people in the sacredness of the Scriptures.
Thereupon it was decided not to correct any. I saw it stated the other
day that a very prominent divine charged upon the Bible Society that
they knew they were publishing a book full of errors.

_Question_. What is your opinion of the Bible anyhow?

_Answer._ My first objection is, it is not true.

Second.—It is not inspired.

Third.—It upholds human slavery.

Fourth.—It sanctions concubinage.

Fifth.—It commands the most infamously cruel acts of war, such as the
utter destruction of old men and little children.

Sixth.—After killing fathers, mothers and brothers, it commands the
generals to divide the girls among the soldiers and priests. Beyond
this, infamy has never gone. If any God made this order I am opposed to
him.

Seventh.—It upholds human sacrifice, or, at least, seems to, from the
following:

"Notwithstanding no devoted thing that a man shall devote unto the Lord
of all that he hath, both of _man_ and _beast_, and of the field of his
possession, shall be sold or redeemed; every devoted thing is most holy
unto the Lord."

"None devoted, which shall be devoted, of men, shall be redeemed; but
shall surely be put to death." (Twenty-seventh Chapter of Leviticus,
28th and 29th verses.)

Eighth.—Its laws are absurd, and the punishments cruel and unjust.
Think of killing a man for making hair oil! Think of killing a man for
picking up sticks on Sunday!

Ninth.—It upholds polygamy.

Tenth.—It knows nothing of astronomy, nothing of geology, nothing of
any science whatever.

Eleventh.—It is opposed to religious liberty, and teaches a man to kill
his own wife if she differs with him on religion; that is to say, if he
is orthodox. There is no book in the world in which can be found so much
that is thoroughly despicable and infamous. Of course there are some
good passages, some good sentiments. But they are, at least in the Old
Testament, few and far between.

Twelfth.—It treats woman like a beast, and man like a slave. It fills
heaven with tyranny, and earth with hypocrisy and grief.

_Question_. Do you think any book inspired?

_Answer._ No. I do not think any book is inspired. But, if it had been
the intention of this God to give to man an inspired book, he should
have waited until Shakespeare's time, and used Shakespeare as the
instrument. Then there never would have been any doubt as to the
inspiration of the book. There is more beauty, more goodness, more
intelligence in Shakespeare than in all the sacred books of this world.

_Question_. What do you think as a freethinker of the Sunday question in
Cincinnati?

_Answer._ I think that it is a good thing to have a day of recreation, a
day of rest, a day of joy, not a day of dyspepsia and theology. I am
in favor of operas and theaters, music and happiness on Sunday. I am
opposed to all excesses on any day. If the clergy will take half
the pains to make the people intelligent that they do to make them
superstitious, the world will soon have advanced so far that it can
enjoy itself without excess. The ministers want Sunday for themselves.
They want everybody to come to church because they can go no where
else. It is like the story of a man coming home at three o'clock in the
morning, who, upon being asked by his wife how he could come at such a
time of night, replied, "The fact is, every other place is shut up." The
orthodox clergy know that their churches will remain empty if any other
place remains open. Do not forget to say that I mean orthodox churches,
orthodox clergy, because I have great respect for Unitarians and
Universalists.
---
# A Reply to the New York Clergy on Superstition
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1898_
> * New York Journal, 1898. An Interview.

_Question_. Have you followed the controversy, or rather, the interest
manifested in the letters to the _Journal_ which have followed your
lecture of Sunday, and what do you think of them?

_Answer._ I have read the letters and reports that have been published
in the _Journal_. Some of them seem to be very sincere, some not quite
honest, and some a little of both.

The Rev. Robert S. MacArthur takes the ground that very many Christians
do not believe in a personal devil, but are still Christians. He states
that they hold that the references in the New Testament to the devil
are simply to personifications of evil, and do not apply to any personal
existence. He says that he could give the names of a number of pastors
who hold such views. He does not state what his view is. Consequently, I
do not know whether he is a believer in a personal devil or not.

The statement that the references in the New Testament to a devil
are simply to personifications of evil, not applying to any personal
existence, seems to me utterly absurd.

The references to devils in the New Testament are certainly as good and
satisfactory as the references to angels. Now, are the angels referred
to in the New Testament simply personifications of good, and are there
no such personal existences? If devils are only personifications of
evil, how is it that these personifications of evil could hold arguments
with Jesus Christ? How could they talk back? How could they publicly
acknowledge the divinity of Christ? As a matter of fact, the best
evidences of Christ's divinity in the New Testament are the declarations
of devils. These devils were supposed to be acquainted with supernatural
things, and consequently knew a God when they saw one, whereas the
average Jew, not having been a citizen of the celestial world, was
unable to recognize a deity when he met him.

Now, these personifications of evil, as Dr. Mac-Arthur calls them, were
of various kinds. Some of them were dumb, while others could talk, and
Christ said, speaking of the dumb devils, that they were very difficult
to expel from the bodies of men; that it required fasting and prayer to
get them out. Now, did Christ mean that these dumb devils did not exist?
That they were only "personifications of evil"?

Now, we are also told in the New Testament that Christ was tempted
by the devil; that is, by a "personification of evil," and that this
personification took him to the pinnacle of the temple and tried to
induce him to jump off. Now, where did this personification of evil come
from? Was it an actual existence? Dr. MacArthur says that it may not
have been. Then it did not come from the outside of Christ. If it
existed it came from the inside of Christ, so that, according to
MacArthur, Christ was the creator of his own devil.

I do not know that I have a right to say that this is Dr. MacArthur's
opinion, as he has wisely refrained from giving his opinion. I hope some
time he will tell us whether he really believes in a devil or not, or
whether he thinks all allusions and references to devils in the New
Testament can be explained away by calling the devils "personifications
of evil." Then, of course, he will tell us whether it was a
"personification of evil" that offered Christ all the kingdoms of the
world, and whether Christ expelled seven "personifications of evil" from
Mary Magdalene, and how did they come to count these "personifications
of evil"? If the devils, after all, are only "personifications of evil,"
then, of course, they cannot be numbered. They are all one. There may
be different manifestations, but, in fact, there can be but one, and yet
Mary Magdalene had seven.

Dr. MacArthur states that I put up a man of straw, and then vigorously
beat him down. Now, the question is, do I attack a man of straw? I take
it for granted that Christians to some extent, at least, believe in
their creeds. I suppose they regard the Bible as the inspired word
of God; that they believe in the fall of man, in the atonement, in
salvation by faith, in the resurrection and ascension of Christ. I
take it for granted that they believe these things. Of course, the only
evidence I have is what they say. Possibly that cannot be depended upon.
They may be dealing only in the "personification of truth."

When I charge the orthodox Christians with believing these things, I am
told that I am far behind the religious thinking of the hour, but after
all, this "man of straw" is quite powerful. Prof. Briggs attacked this
"man of straw," and the straw man turned on him and put him out. A
preacher by the name of Smith, a teacher in some seminary out in Ohio,
challenged this "man of straw," and the straw man put him out.

Both these reverend gentlemen were defeated by the straw man, and if the
Rev. Dr. MacArthur will explain to his congregation, I mean only explain
what he calls the "religious thinking of the hour," the "straw man" will
put him out too.

Dr. MacArthur finds fault with me because I put into the minds of
representative thinkers of to-day the opinions of medieval monks, which
leading religious teachers long ago discarded. Will Dr. MacArthur have
the goodness to point out one opinion that I have put into the minds
of representative thinkers—that is, of orthodox thinkers—that any
orthodox religious teacher of to-day has discarded? Will he have the
kindness to give just one?

In my lecture on "Superstition" I did say that to deny the existence
of evil spirits, or to deny the existence of the devil, is to deny the
truth of the New Testament; and that to deny the existence of these imps
of darkness is to contradict the words of Jesus Christ. I did say that
if we give up the belief in devils we must give up the inspiration of
the Old and New Testaments, and we must give up the divinity of Christ.
Upon that declaration I stand, because if devils do not exist, then
Jesus Christ was mistaken, or we have not in the New Testament a true
account of what he said and of what he pretended to do. If the New
Testament gives a true account of his words and pretended actions, then
he did claim to cast out devils. That was his principal business. That
was his certificate of divinity, casting out devils. That authenticated
his mission and proved that he was superior to the hosts of darkness.

Now, take the devil out of the New Testament, and you also take the
veracity of Christ; with that veracity you take the divinity; with that
divinity you take the atonement, and when you take the atonement, the
great fabric known as Christianity becomes a shapeless ruin.

Now, let Dr. Mac Arthur answer this, and answer it not like a minister,
but like a man. Ministers are unconsciously a little unfair. They have
a little tendency to what might be called a natural crook. They become
spiritual when they ought to be candid. They become a little ingenious
and pious when they ought to be frank; and when really driven into
a corner, they clasp their hands, they look upward, and they cry
"_Blasphemy!_" I do not mean by this that they are dishonest. I simply
mean that they are illogical.

Dr. MacArthur tells us also that Spain is not a representative of
progressive religious teachers. I admit that. There are no progressive
religious teachers in Spain, and right here let me make a remark. If
religion rests on an inspired revelation, it is incapable of progress.
It may be said that year after year we get to understand it better, but
if it is not understood when given, why is it called a "revelation"?
There is no progress in the multiplication table. Some men are better
mathematicians than others, but the old multiplication table remains the
same. So there can be no progress in a revelation from God.

Now, Spain—and that is the great mistake, the great misfortune—has
remained orthodox. That is to say, the Spaniards have been true to
their superstition. Of course the Rev. Dr. MacArthur will not admit that
Catholicism is Christianity, and I suppose that the pope would hardly
admit that a Baptist is a very successful Christian. The trouble with
Spain is, and the trouble with the Baptist Church is, that neither of
them has progressed to any great extent.

Now, in my judgment, what is called religion must grow better as man
grows better, simply because it was produced by man and the better man
is, the nearer civilized he is, the better, the nearer civilized,
will be what he calls his religion; and if the Baptist religion has
progressed, it is a demonstration that it was not originally founded on
a revelation from God.

In my lecture I stated that we had no right to make any distinction
between the actions of infinite wisdom and goodness, and that if God
created and governs this world we ought to thank him, if we thanked him
at all, for all that happens; that we should thank him just as heartily
for famine and cyclone as for sunshine and harvest, and that if
President McKinley thanked God for the victory at Santiago, he also
should have thanked him for sending the yellow fever.

I stand by these words. A finite being has no right to make any
distinction between the actions of the infinitely good and wise. If God
governs this world, then everything that happens is the very best that
could happen. When A murders B, the best thing that could happen to A is
to be a murderer and the best thing that could have happened to B was
to be murdered. There is no escape from this if the world is governed by
infinite wisdom and goodness.

It will not do to try and dodge by saying that man is free. This God who
made man and made him free knew exactly how he would use his freedom,
and consequently this God cannot escape the responsibility for the
actions of men. He made them. He knew exactly what they would do. He is
responsible.

If I could turn a piece of wood into a human being, and I knew that he
would murder a man, who is the real murderer? But if Dr. MacArthur would
think as much as he preaches, he would come much nearer agreeing with
me.

The Rev. Dr. J. Lewis Parks is very sorry that he cannot discuss
Ingersoll's address, because to do so would be dignifying Ingersoll. Of
course I deeply regret the refusal of Dr. J. Lewis Parks to discuss the
address. I dislike to be compelled to go to the end of my life without
being dignified. At the same time I will forgive the Rev. Dr. J. Lewis
Parks for not answering me, because I know that he cannot.

The Rev. Dr. Moldehnke, whose name seems chiefly made of consonants,
denounces me as a scoffer and as illogical, and says that Christianity
is not founded upon the devil, but upon Christ. He further says that
we do not believe in such a thing as a devil in human form, but we know
that there is evil, and that evil we call the devil. He hides his head
under the same leaf with Dr. MacArthur by calling the devil evil.

Now, is this gentleman willing to say that all the allusions to the
devil in the Old and New Testaments can be harmonized with the idea that
the devil is simply a personification of evil? Can he say this and say
it honestly?

But the Rev. Dr. Moldehnke, I think, seems to be consistent; seems to go
along with the logic of his creed. He says that the yellow fever, if it
visited our soldiers, came from God, and that we should thank God for
it. He does not say the soldiers should thank God for it, or that those
who had it should thank God for it, but that we should thank God for it,
and there is this wonderful thing about Christianity. It enables us
to bear with great fortitude, with a kind of sublime patience, the
misfortunes of others.

He says that this yellow fever works out God's purposes. Of course I am
not as well acquainted with the Deity as the Rev. Moldehnke appears to
be. I have not the faintest idea of what God's purposes are. He works,
even according to his messengers, in such a mysterious way, that with
the little reason I have I find it impossible to follow him. Why God
should have any purpose that could be worked out with yellow fever, or
cholera, or why he should ever ask the assistance of tapeworms, or go in
partnership with cancers, or take in the plague as an assistant, I have
never been able to understand. I do not pretend to know. I admit my
ignorance, and after all, the Rev. Dr. Moldehnke may be right. It may be
that everything that happens is for the best. At the same time, I do not
believe it.

There is a little old story on this subject that throws some light on
the workings of the average orthodox mind.

One morning the son of an old farmer came in and said to his father,
"One of the ewe lambs is dead."

"Well," said the father; "that is all for the best. Twins never do very
well, any how."

The next morning the son reported the death of the other lamb, and the
old man said, "Well, that is all for the best; the old ewe will have
more wool."

The next morning the son said, "The old ewe is dead."

"Well," replied the old man; "that may be for the best, but I don't see
it this morning."

The Rev. Mr. Hamlin has the goodness to say that my influence is on
the wane. This is an admission that I have some, for which I am greatly
obliged to him. He further states that all my arguments are easily
refuted, but fails to refute them on the ground that such refutation
might be an advertisement for me.

Now, if Mr. Hamlin would think a little, he would see that there are
some things in the lecture on "Superstition" worth the while even of a
Methodist minister to answer.

Does Mr. Hamlin believe in the existence of the devil? If he does, will
he Have the goodness to say who created the devil? He may say that God
created him, as he is the creator of all. Then I ask Mr. Hamlin this
question: Why did God create a successful rival? When God created the
devil, did he not know at that time that he was to make this world? That
he was to create Adam and Eve and put them in the Garden of Eden, and
did he not know that this devil would tempt this Adam and Eve? That
in consequence of that they would fall? That in consequence of that
he would have to drown all their descendants except eight? That in
consequence of that he himself would have to be born into this world as
a Judean peasant? That he would have to be crucified and suffer for
the sins of these people who had been misled by this devil that he
deliberately created, and that after all he would be able only to save a
few Methodists?

Will the Rev. Mr. Hamlin have the goodness to answer this? He can
answer it as mildly as he pleases, so that in any event it will be no
advertisement for him.

The Rev. Mr. F. J. Belcher pays me a great compliment, for which I
now return my thanks. He has the goodness to say, "Ingersoll in many
respects is like Voltaire." I think no finer compliment has been paid me
by any gentleman occupying a pulpit, for many years, and again I thank
the Rev. Mr. Belcher.

The Rev. W. D. Buchanan, does not seem to be quite fair. He says that
every utterance of mine impresses men with my insincerity, and that
every argument I bring forward is specious, and that I spend my time in
ringing the changes on arguments that have been answered over and over
again for hundreds of years.

Now, Dr. Buchanan should remember that he ought not to attack motives;
that you cannot answer an argument by vilifying the man who makes it.
You must answer not the man, but the argument.

Another thing this reverend gentleman should remember, and that is that
no argument is old until it has been answered. An argument that has not
been answered, although it has been put forward for many centuries, is
still as fresh as a flower with the dew on its breast. It never is old
until it has been answered.

It is well enough for this gentleman to say that these arguments have
been answered, and if they have and he knows that they have, of course
it will be but a little trouble to him to repeat these answers.

Now, my dear Dr. Buchanan, I wish to ask you some questions. Do you
believe in a personal devil? Do you believe that the bodies of men and
women become tenements for little imps and goblins and demons? Do you
believe that the devil used to lead men and women astray? Do you believe
the stories about devils that you find in the Old and New Testaments?

Now, do not tell me that these questions have been answered long ago.
Answer them now. And if you say the devil does exist, that he is
a person, that he is an enemy of God, then let me ask you another
question: Why should this devil punish souls in hell for rebelling
against God? Why should the devil, who is an enemy of God, help punish
God's enemies? This may have been answered many times, but one more
repetition will do but little harm.

Another thing: Do you believe in the eternity of punishment? Do you
believe that God is the keeper of an eternal prison, the doors of which
open only to receive sinners, and do you believe that eternal punishment
is the highest expression of justice and mercy?

If you had the power to change a stone into a human being, and you
knew that that human being would be a sinner and finally go to hell and
suffer eternal torture, would you not leave it stone? And if, knowing
this, you changed the stone into a man, would you not be a fiend?
Now, answer this fairly. I want nothing spiritual; nothing with the
Presbyterian flavor; just good, honest talk, and tell us how that is.

I say to you that if there is a place of eternal torment or misery for
any of the children of men—I say to you that your God is a wild beast,
an insane fiend, whom I abhor and despise with every drop of my blood.

At the same time you may say whether you are up, according to Dr. Mac
Arthur, with the religious thinking of the hour.

The Rev. J. W. Campbell I rather like. He appears to be absolutely
sincere. He is orthodox—true blue. He believes in a devil; in an
acting, thinking devil, and a clever devil. Of course he does not think
this devil is as stout as God, but he is quicker; not quite as wise, but
a little more cunning.

According to Mr. Campbell, the devil is the bunco steerer of the
universe—king of the green goods men; but, after all, Mr. Campbell will
not admit that if this devil does not exist the Christian creeds all
crumble, but I think he will admit that if the devil does not exist,
then Christ was mistaken, or that the writers of the New Testament did
not truthfully give us his utterances.

Now, if Christ was mistaken about the existence of the devil, may be he
was mistaken about the existence of God. In other words, if Christ
made a mistake, then he was ignorant. Then we cannot say he was divine,
although ignorance has generally believed in divinity. So I do not see
exactly how Mr. Campbell can say that if the devil does not exist the
Christian creeds do not crumble, and when I say Christian creeds I mean
orthodox creeds. Is there any orthodox Christian creed without the devil
in it?

Now, if we throw away the devil we throw away original sin, the fall
of man, and we throw away the atonement. Of this arch the devil is the
keystone. Remove him, the arch falls.

Now, how can you say that an orthodox Christian creed remains intact
without crumbling when original sin, the fall of man, the atonement and
the existence of the devil are all thrown aside?

Of course if you mean by Christianity, acting like Christ, being
good, forgiving, that is another matter, but that is not Christianity.
Orthodox Christians say that a man must believe on Christ, must have
faith, and that to act as Christ did, is not enough; that a man who acts
exactly as Christ did, dying without faith, would go to hell. So when
Mr. Campbell speaks of a Christian, I suppose he means an orthodox
Christian.

Now, Dr. Campbell not only knows that the devil exists, but he knows
a good deal about him. He knows that he can assume every conceivable
disguise or shape; that he can go about like a roaring lion; that at
another time he is a god of this world; on another occasion a dragon,
and in the afternoon of the same day may be Lucifer, an angel of light,
and all the time, I guess, a prince of lies. So he often assumes the
disguise of the serpent.

So the Doctor thinks that when the devil invited Christ into the
wilderness to tempt him, that he adopted some disguise that made him
more than usually attractive. Does the Doctor think that Christ could
not see through the disguise? Was it possible for the devil with a mask
to fool God, his creator? Was it possible for the devil to tempt Christ
by offering him the kingdoms of the earth when they already belonged to
Christ, and when Christ knew that the devil had no title, and when the
devil knew that Christ knew that he had no title, and when the devil
knew that Christ knew that he was the devil, and when the devil knew
that he was Christ? Does the reverend gentleman still think that it was
the disguise of the devil that tempted Christ?

I would like some of these questions answered, because I have a very
inquiring mind.

So Mr. Campbell tells us—and it is very good and comforting of
him—that there is a time coming when the devil shall deceive the
nations no more. He also tells us that God is more powerful than the
devil, and that he is going to put an end to him.

Will Mr. Campbell have the goodness to tell me why God made the devil?
If he is going to put an end to him why did he start him? Was it not a
waste of raw material to make him? Was it not unfair to let this devil,
so powerful, so cunning, so attractive, into the Garden of Eden, and put
Adam and Eve, who were then scarcely half dry, within his power, and not
only Adam and Eve within his power, but their descendants, so that the
slime of the serpent has been on every babe, and so that, in consequence
of what happened in the Garden of Eden, flames will surround countless
millions in the presence of the most merciful God?

Now, it may be that the Rev. Dr. Campbell can explain all these things.
He may not care to do it for my benefit, but let him think of his own
congregation; of the lambs he is protecting from the wolves of doubt and
thought.

The Rev. Henry Frank appears to be a man of exceedingly good sense; one
who thinks for himself, and who has the courage of his convictions. Of
course I am sorry that he does not agree with me, but I have become used
to that, and so I thank him for the truths he utters.

He does not believe in the existence of a personal devil, and I guess by
following him up we would find that he did not believe in the existence
of a personal God, or in the inspiration of the Scriptures. In fact,
he tells us that he has given up the infallibility of the Bible. At the
same time, he says it is the most perfect compendium of religious and
moral thought. In that I think he is a little mistaken. There is a vast
deal of irreligion in the Bible, and there is a good deal of immoral
thought in the Bible; but I agree with him that it is neither inspired
nor infallible.

The Rev. E. C. J. Kraeling, pastor of the Zion Lutheran Church, declares
that those who do not believe in a personal God do not believe in a
personal Satan, and _vice versa_. The one, he says, necessitates the
other. In this I do not think he is quite correct. I think many people
believe in a personal God who do not believe in a personal devil, but I
know of none who do believe in a personal devil who do not also believe
in a personal God. The orthodox generally believe in both of them, and
for many centuries Christians spoke with great respect of the devil.
They were afraid of him.

But I agree with the Rev. Mr. Kraeling when he says that to deny a
personal Satan is to deny the infallibility of God's word. I agree with
this because I suppose by "God's word" he means the Bible.

He further says, and I agree with him, that a "Christian" needs no
scientific argument on which to base his belief in the personality of
Satan. That certainly is true, and if a Christian does need a scientific
argument it is equally true that he never will have one.

You see this word "Science" means something that somebody knows; not
something that somebody guesses, or wishes, or hopes, or believes, but
something that somebody knows.

Of course there cannot be any scientific argument proving the existence
of the devil. At the same time I admit, as the Rev. Mr. Kraeling says,
and I thank him for his candor, that the Bible does prove the existence
of the devil from Genesis to the. Apocalypse, and I do agree with him
that the "revealed word" teaches the existence of a personal devil,
and that all truly orthodox Christians believe that there is a personal
devil, and the Rev. Mr. Kraeling proves this by the fall of man, and he
proves that without this devil there could be no redemption for the
evil spirits; so he brings forward the temptation of Christ in the
wilderness. At the same time that Mr. Kraeling agrees with me as to what
the Bible says, he insists that I bring no arguments, that I blaspheme,
and then he drops into humor and says that if any further arguments are
needed to prove the existence of the devil, that I furnish them.

How a man believing the creed of the orthodox Mr. Kraeling can have
anything like a sense of humor is beyond even my imagination.

Now, I want to ask Mr. Kraeling a few questions, and I will ask him
the same questions that I ask all orthodox people in my lecture on
"Superstition."

Now, Mr. Kraeling believes that this world was created by a being of
infinite wisdom, power and goodness, and that the world he created has
been governed by him.

Now, let me ask the reverend gentleman a few plain questions, with
the request that he answer them without mist or mystery. If you, Mr.
Kraeling, had the power to make a world, would you make an exact copy of
this? Would you make a man and woman, put them in a garden, knowing that
they would be deceived, knowing that they would fall? Knowing that all
the consequences believed in by orthodox Christians would follow from
that fall? Would you do it? And would you make your world so as to
provide for earthquakes and cyclones? Would you create the seeds of
disease and scatter them in the air and water? Would you so arrange
matters as to produce cancers? Would you provide for plague and
pestilence? Would you so make your world that life should feed on life,
that the quivering flesh should be torn by tooth and beak and claw?
Would you?

Now, answer fairly. Do not quote Scripture; just answer, and be honest.

Would you make different races of men? Would you make them of different
colors, and would you so make them that they would persecute and enslave
each other? Would you so arrange matters that millions and millions
should toil through many generations, paid only by the lash on the back?
Would you have it so that millions and millions of babes would be sold
from the breasts of mothers? Be honest, would you provide for religious
persecution? For the invention and use of instruments of torture? Would
you see to it that the rack was not forgotten, and that the fagot was
not overlooked or unlighted? Would you make a world in which the wrong
would triumph? Would you make a world in which innocence would not be
a shield? Would you make a world where the best would be loaded with
chains? Where the best would die in the darkness of dungeons? Where the
best would make scaffolds sacred with their blood?

Would you make a world where hypocrisy and cunning and fraud should
represent God, and where meanness would suck the blood of honest
credulity?

Would you provide for the settlement of all difficulties by war? Would
you so make your world that the weak would bear the burdens, so that
woman would be a slave, so that children would be trampled upon as
though they were poisonous reptiles? Would you fill the woods with wild
beasts? Would you make a few volcanoes to overwhelm your children? Would
you provide for earthquakes that would swallow them? Would you make them
ignorant, savage, and fill their minds with all the phantoms of horror?
Would you?

Now, it will only take you a few moments to answer these questions, and
if you say you would, then I shall be satisfied that you believe in the
orthodox God, and that you are as bad as he. If you say you would not, I
will admit that there is a little dawn of intelligence in your brain.

At the same time I want it understood with regard to all these
ministers that I am a friend of theirs. I am trying to civilize their
congregations, so that the congregations may allow the ministers to
develop, to grow, to become really and truly intelligent. The process is
slow, but it is sure.
---
# A Reply to the Rev. Dr. Plumb
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1898_
> * Boston, 1898.

_Question_. Last Sunday the Rev. Dr. Plumb paid some attention to the
lecture which you delivered here on the 23rd of October. Have you read a
report of it, and what have you to say?

_Answer._ Dr. Plumb attacks not only myself, but the Rev. Mr. Mills. I
do not know the position that Mr. Mills takes, but from what Dr.
Plumb says, I suppose that he has mingled a little philosophy with his
religion and some science with his superstition. Dr. Plumb appears to
have successfully avoided both. His manners do not appear to me to be of
the best. Why should he call an opponent coarse and blasphemous, simply
because he does not happen to believe as he does? Is it blasphemous to
say that this "poor" world never was visited by a Redeemer from Heaven,
a majestic being—unique—peculiar—who "trod the sea and hushed the
storm and raised the dead"? Why does Dr. Plumb call this world a "poor"
world? According to his creed, it was created by infinite wisdom,
infinite goodness and infinite power. How dare he call the work of such
a being "poor"?

Is it not blasphemous for a Boston minister to denounce the work of the
Infinite and say to God that he made a "poor" world? If I believed
this world had been made by an infinitely wise and good Being, I should
certainly insist that this is not a poor world, but, on the contrary,
a perfect world. I would insist that everything that happens is for the
best. Whether it looks wise or foolish to us, I would insist that the
fault we thought we saw, lies in us and not in the infinitely wise and
benevolent Creator.

Dr. Plumb may love God, but he certainly regards him as a poor mechanic
and a failure as a manufacturer. There Dr. Plumb, like all religious
preachers, takes several things for granted; things that have not been
established by evidence, and things which in their nature cannot be
established.

He tells us that this poor world was visited by a mighty Redeemer from
Heaven. How does he know? Does he know where heaven is? Does he know
that any such place exists? Is he perfectly sure that an infinite God
would be foolish enough to make people who needed a redeemer?

He also says that this Being "trod the sea, hushed the storm and raised
the dead." Is there any evidence that this Being trod the sea? Any more
evidence than that Venus rose from the foam of the ocean? Any evidence
that he hushed the storm any more than there is that the storm comes
from the cave of AEolus? Is there any evidence that he raised the dead?
How would it be possible to prove that the dead were raised? How
could we prove such a thing if it happened now? Who would believe
the evidence? As a matter of fact, the witnesses themselves would
not believe and could not believe until raising of the dead became so
general as to be regarded as natural.

Dr. Plumb knows, if he knows anything, that gospel gossip is the only
evidence he has, or anybody has, that Christ trod the sea, hushed the
storm and raised the dead. He also knows, if he knows anything, that
these stories were not written until Christ himself had been dead for at
least four generations. He knows also that these accounts were written
at a time when the belief in miracles was almost universal, and
when everything that actually happened was regarded of no particular
importance, and only the things that did not happen were carefully
written out with all the details.

So Dr. Plumb says that this man who hushed the storm "spake as never man
spake." Did the Doctor ever read Zeno? Zeno, who denounced human slavery
many years before Christ was born? Did he ever read Epicurus, one of the
greatest of the Greeks? Has he read anything from Buddha? Has he read
the dialogues between Arjuna and Krishna? If he has, he knows that every
great and splendid utterance of Christ was uttered centuries before he
lived. Did he ever read Lao-tsze? If he did—and this man lived many
centuries before the coming of our Lord—he knows that Lao-tsze said "we
should render benefits for injuries. We should love our enemies, and
we should not resist evil." So it will hardly do now to say that Christ
spake as never man spake, because he repeated the very things that other
men had said.

So he says that I am endeavoring to carry people back to a dimly groping
Socrates or a vague Confucius. Did Dr. Plumb ever read Confucius? Only a
little while ago a book was published by Mr. For-long showing the origin
of the principal religion and the creeds that have been taught. In this
book you will find the cream of Buddha, of Christ, of Zoroaster, and you
will also find a few pages devoted to the philosophy of Confucius; and
after you have read the others, then read what Confucius says, and you
will find that his philosophy rises like a monolith touching the clouds,
while the creeds and sayings of the others appear like heaps of stone or
piles of rubbish. The reason of this is that Confucius was not simply
a sentimentalist. He was not controlled entirely by feeling, but he had
intelligence—a great brain in which burned the torch of reason. Read
Confucius, and you will think that he must have known the sciences of
to-day; that is to say, the conclusions that have been reached by modern
thinkers. It could have been easily said of Confucius in his day that he
spake as never man had spoken, and it may be that after you read him
you will change your mind just a little as to the wisdom and the
intelligence contained in many of the sayings of our Lord.

Dr. Plumb charges that Mr. Mills is trying to reconstruct theology.
Whether he is right in this charge I do not know, but I do know that I
am not trying to reconstruct theology. I am endeavoring to destroy it.
I have no more confidence in theology than I have in astrology or in
the black art. Theology is a science that exists wholly independent of
facts, and that reaches conclusions without the assistance of evidence.
It also scorns experience and does what little it can to do away with
thought.

I make a very great distinction between theology and real religion. I
can conceive of no religion except usefulness. Now, here we are, men
and women in this world, and we have certain faculties, certain senses.
There are things that we can ascertain, and by developing our brain we
can avoid mistakes, keep a few thorns out of our feet, a few thistles
out of our hands, a few diseases from our flesh. In my judgment, we
should use all our senses, gathering information from every possible
quarter, and this information should be only used for the purpose of
ascertaining the facts, for finding out the conditions of well-being, to
the end that we may add to the happiness of ourselves and fellows.

In other words, I believe in intellectual veracity and also in mental
hospitality. To me reason is the final arbiter, and when I say reason,
I mean my reason. It may be a very poor light, the flame small and
flickering, but, after all, it is the only light I have, and never with
my consent shall any preacher blow it out.

Now, Dr. Plumb thinks that I am trying to despoil my fellow-men of their
greatest inheritance; that is to say, divine Christ. Why do you call
Christ good? Is it because he was merciful? Then why do you put him
above mercy? Why do you call Christ good? Is it because he was just? Why
do you put him before justice? Suppose it should turn out that no such
person as Christ ever lived. What harm would that do justice or mercy?
Wouldn't the tear of pity be as pure as now, and wouldn't justice,
holding aloft her scales, from which she blows even the dust of
prejudice, be as noble, as admirable as now? Is it not better to love,
justice and mercy than to love a name, and when you put a name above
justice, above mercy, are you sure that you are benefiting your
fellow-men?

If Dr. Plumb wanted to answer me, why did he not take my argument
instead of my motive? Why did he not point out my weakness instead
of telling the consequences that would follow from my action? We have
nothing to do with the consequences. I said that to believe without
evidence, or in spite of evidence, was superstition. If that definition
is correct, Dr. Plumb is a superstitious man, because he believes at
least without evidence. What evidence has he that Christ was God? In
the nature of things, how could he have evidence? The only evidence
he pretends to have is the dream of Joseph, and he does not know that
Joseph ever dreamed the dream, because Joseph did not write an account
of his dream, so that Dr. Plumb has only hearsay for the dream, and the
dream is the foundation of his creed.

Now, when I say that that is superstition, Dr. Plumb charges me with
being a burglar—a coarse, blasphemous burglar—who wishes to rob
somebody of some great blessing. Dr. Plumb would not hesitate to tell a
Mohammedan that Mohammed was an impostor. He would tell a Mormon in
Utah that Joseph Smith was a vulgar liar and that Brigham Young was
no better. In other words, if in Turkey, he would be a coarse and
blasphemous burglar, and he would follow the same profession in Utah. So
probably he would tell the Chinese that Confucius was an ignorant
wretch and that their religion was idiotic, and the Chinese priest would
denounce Dr. Plumb as a very coarse and blasphemous burglar, and Dr.
Plumb would be perfectly astonished that a priest could be so low, so
impudent and malicious.

Of course my wonder is not excited. I have become used to it.

If Dr. Plumb would think, if he would exercise his imagination a
little and put himself in the place of others, he would think, in all
probability, better things of his opponents. I do not know Dr. Plumb,
and yet I have no doubt that he is a good and sincere man; a little
superstitious, superficial, and possibly, mingled with his many virtues,
there may be a little righteous malice.

The Rev. Mr. Mills used to believe as Dr. Plumb does now, and I suppose
he has changed for reasons that were sufficient for him. So I believe
him to be an honest, conscientious man, and so far as I am concerned, I
have no objection to Mr. Mills doing what little he can to get all the
churches to act together. He may never succeed, but I am not responsible
for that.

So I have no objection to Dr. Plumb preaching what he believes to be the
gospel. I admit that he is honest when he says that an infinitely good
God made a poor world; that he made man and woman and put them in the
Garden of Eden, and that this same God before that time had manufactured
a devil, and that when he manufactured this devil, he knew that he would
corrupt the man and woman that he had determined to make; that he could
have defeated the devil, but that for a wise purpose, he allowed his
Satanic Majesty to succeed; that at the time he allowed him to succeed,
he knew that in consequence of his success that he (God) in about
fifteen or sixteen hundred years would be compelled to drown the whole
world with the exception of eight people. These eight people he kept for
seed. At the time he kept them for seed, he knew that they were totally
depraved, that they were saturated with the sin of Adam and Eve, and
that their children would be their natural heirs. He also knew at the
time he allowed the devil to succeed, that he (God), some four thousand
years afterward, would be compelled to be born in Palestine as a babe,
to learn the carpenter's trade, and to go about the country for three
years preaching to the people and discussing with the rabbis of his
chosen people, and he also knew that these chosen people—these people
who had been governed and educated by him, to whom he had sent a
multitude of prophets, would at that time be so savage that they would
crucify him, although he would be at that time the only sinless being
who had ever stood upon the earth. This he knew would be the effect of
his government, of his education of his chosen people. He also knew at
the time he allowed the devil to succeed, that in consequence of that
success a vast majority of the human race would become eternal convicts
in the prison of hell.

All this he knew, and yet Dr. Plumb insists that he was and is
infinitely wise, infinitely powerful and infinitely good. What would
this God have done if he had lacked wisdom, or power, or goodness?

Of all the religions that man has produced, of all the creeds of
savagery, there is none more perfectly absurd than Christianity.
---
# Interview on Chief Justice Comegys
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1881_
> * Brooklyn Eagle, 1881.

_Question_. I understand, Colonel Ingersoll, that you have been indicted
in the State of Delaware for the crime of blasphemy?

_Answer._ Well, not exactly indicted. The Judge, who, I believe, is the
Chief Justice of the State, dedicated the new court-house at Wilmington
to the service of the Lord, by a charge to the grand jury, in which he
almost commanded them to bring in a bill of indictment against me, for
what he was pleased to call the crime of blasphemy. Now, as a matter
of fact, there can be no crime committed by man against God, provided
always that a correct definition of the Deity has been given by
the orthodox churches. They say that he is infinite. If so, he is
conditionless. I can injure a man by changing his conditions. Take
from a man water, and he perishes of thirst; take from him air, and
he suffocates; he may die from too much, or too little heat. That is
because he is a conditioned being. But if God is conditionless,
he cannot in any way be affected by what anybody else may do; and,
consequently, a sin against God is as impossible as a sin against the
principle of the lever or inclined plane. This crime called blasphemy
was invented by priests for the purpose of defending doctrines not able
to take care of themselves. Blasphemy is a kind of breastwork behind
which hypocrisy has crouched for thousands of years. Injustice is the
only blasphemy that can be committed, and justice is the only true
worship. Man can sin against man, but not against God. But even if man
could sin against God, it has always struck me that an infinite being
would be entirely able to take care of himself without the assistance of
a Chief Justice. Men have always been violating the rights of men, under
the plea of defending the rights of God, and nothing, for ages, was so
perfectly delightful to the average Christian as to gratify his revenge,
and get God in his debt at the same time. Chief Justice Comegys has
taken this occasion to lay up for himself what he calls treasures in
heaven, and on the last great day he will probably rely on a certified
copy of this charge. The fact that he thinks the Lord needs help
satisfies me that in that particular neighborhood I am a little ahead.

The fact is, I never delivered but one lecture in Delaware. That
lecture, however, had been preceded by a Republican stump speech; and,
to tell you the truth, I imagine that the stump speech is what a Yankee
would call the heft of the offence. It is really hard for me to tell
whether I have blasphemed the Deity or the Democracy. Of course I have
no personal feeling whatever against the Judge. In fact he has done me
a favor. He has called the attention of the civilized world to certain
barbarian laws that disfigure and disgrace the statute books of most
of the States. These laws were passed when our honest ancestors were
burning witches, trading Quaker children to the Barbadoes for rum and
molasses, branding people upon the forehead, boring their tongues with
hot irons, putting one another in the pillory, and, generally, in the
name of God, making their neighbors as uncomfortable as possible. We
have outgrown these laws without repealing them. They are, as a matter
of fact, in most communities actually dead; but in some of the States,
like Delaware, I suppose they could be enforced, though there might be
trouble in selecting twelve men, even in Delaware, without getting one
man broad enough, sensible enough, and honest enough, to do justice. I
hardly think it would be possible in any State to select a jury in the
ordinary way that would convict any person charged with what is commonly
known as blasphemy.

All the so-called Christian churches have accused each other of being
blasphemers, in turn. The Catholics denounced the Presbyterians as
blasphemers, the Presbyterians denounced the Baptists; the Baptists, the
Presbyterians, and the Catholics all united in denouncing the Quakers,
and they all together denounced the Unitarians—called them blasphemers
because they did not acknowledge the divinity of Jesus Christ—the
Unitarians only insisting that three infinite beings were not necessary,
that one infinite being could do all the business, and that the other
two were absolutely useless. This was called blasphemy.

Then all the churches united to call the Universalists blasphemers.
I can remember when a Uni-versalist was regarded with a thousand times
more horror than an infidel is to-day. There is this strange thing about
the history of theology—nobody has ever been charged with blasphemy
who thought God bad. For instance, it never would have excited any
theological hatred if a man had insisted that God would finally damn
everybody. Nearly all heresy has consisted in making God better than the
majority in the churches thought him to be. The orthodox Christian never
will forgive the Univer-salist for saying that God is too good to damn
anybody eternally. Now, all these sects have charged each other with
blasphemy, without anyone of them knowing really what blasphemy is. I
suppose they have occasionally been honest, because they have mostly
been ignorant. It is said that Torquemada used to shed tears over the
agonies of his victims and that he recommended slow burning, not because
he wished to inflict pain, but because he really desired to give the
gentleman or lady he was burning a chance to repent of his or her sins,
and make his or her peace with God previous to becoming a cinder.

The root, foundation, germ and cause of nearly all religious persecution
is the idea that some certain belief is necessary to salvation. If
orthodox Christians are right in this idea, then persecution of all
heretics and infidels is a duty. If I have the right to defend my body
from attack, surely I should have a like right to defend my soul. Under
our laws I could kill any man who was endeavoring, for example, to take
the life of my child. How much more would I be justified in killing
any wretch who was endeavoring to convince my child of the truth of a
doctrine which, if believed, would result in the eternal damnation of
that child's soul?

If the Christian religion, as it is commonly understood, is true, no
infidel should be allowed to live; every heretic should be hunted
from the wide world as you would hunt a wild beast. They should not
be allowed to speak, they should not be allowed to poison the minds of
women and children; in other words, they should not be allowed to empty
heaven and fill hell. The reason I have liberty in this country is
because the Christians of this country do not believe their doctrine.
The passage from the Bible, "Go ye into all the world and preach the
Gospel to every creature," coupled with the assurance that, "Whosoever
believeth and is baptized shall be saved, and whoso believeth not shall
be damned," is the foundation of most religious persecution. Every
word in that passage has been fire and fagot, whip and sword, chain
and dungeon. That one passage has probably caused more agony among men,
women and children, than all the passages of all other books that
were ever printed. Now, this passage was not in the book of Mark when
originally written, but was put there many years after the gentleman who
evolved the book of Mark from his inner consciousness, had passed
away. It was put there by the church—that is to say, by hypocrisy and
priestly craft, to bind the consciences of men and force them to come
under ecclesiastical and spiritual power; and that passage has been
received and believed, and been made binding by law in most countries
ever since.

What would you think of a law compelling a man to admire Shakespeare, or
calling it blasphemy to laugh at Hamlet? Why is not a statute necessary
to uphold the reputation of Raphael or of Michael Angelo? Is it possible
that God cannot write a book good enough and great enough and grand
enough not to excite the laughter of his children? Is it possible that
he is compelled to have his literary reputation supported by the State
of Delaware?

There is another very strange thing about this business. Admitting that
the Bible is the work of God, it is not any more his work than are the
sun, the moon and the stars or the earth, and if for disbelieving this
Bible we are to be damned forever, we ought to be equally damned for
a mistake in geology or astronomy. The idea of allowing a man to go
to heaven who swears that the earth is flat, and damning a fellow who
thinks it is round, but who-has his honest doubts about Joshua, seems to
me to be perfectly absurd. It seems to me that in this view of it, it
is just as necessary to be right on the subject of the equator as on the
doctrine of infant baptism.

_Question_. What was in your judgment the motive of Judge Comegys? Is he
a personal enemy of yours? Have you ever met him? Have you any idea what
reason he had for attacking you?

_Answer._ I do not know the gentleman, personally. Outside of the
political reason I have intimated, I do not know why he attacked me. I
once delivered a lecture entitled "What must we do to be Saved?" in the
city of Wilmington, and in that lecture I proceeded to show, or at
least tried to show, that Matthew, Mark and Luke knew nothing about
Christianity, as it is understood in Delaware; and I also endeavored to
show that all men have an equal right to think, and that a man is only
under obligations to be honest with himself, and with all men, and that
he is not accountable for the amount of mind that he has been endowed
with—otherwise it might be Judge Comegys himself would be damned—but
that he is only accountable for the use he makes of what little mind
he has received. I held that the safest thing for every man was to be
absolutely honest, and to express his honest thought. After the delivery
of this lecture various ministers in Wilmington began replying, and
after the preaching of twenty or thirty sermons, not one of which,
considered as a reply, was a success, I presume it occurred to these
ministers that the shortest and easiest way would be to have me indicted
and imprisoned.

In this I entirely agree with them. It is the old and time-honored way.
I believe it is, as it always has been, easier to kill two infidels than
to answer one; and if Christianity expects to stem the tide that is
now slowly rising over the intellectual world, it must be done by brute
force, and by brute force alone. And it must be done pretty soon,
or they will not have the brute force. It is doubtful if they have a
majority of the civilized world on their side to-day. No heretic ever
would have been burned if he could have been answered. No theologian
ever called for the help of the law until his logic gave out.

I suppose Judge Comegys to be a Presbyterian. Where did he get his right
to be a Presbyterian? Where did he get his right to decide which creed
is the correct one? How did he dare to pit his little brain against the
word of God? He may say that his father was a Presbyterian. But what
was his grandfather? If he will only go back far enough he will, in all
probability, find that his ancestors were Catholics, and if he will go
back a little farther still, that they were barbarians; that at one time
they were naked, and had snakes tattooed on their bodies. What right
had they to change? Does he not perceive that had the savages passed the
same kind of laws that now exist in Delaware, they could have prevented
any change in belief? They would have had a whipping-post, too, and they
would have said: "Any gentleman found without snakes tattooed upon his
body shall be held guilty of blasphemy;" and all the ancestors of this
Judge, and of these ministers, would have said, Amen!

What right had the first Presbyterian to be a Presbyterian? He must have
been a blasphemer first. A small dose of pillory might have changed
his religion. Does this Judge think that Delaware is incapable of
any improvement in a religious point of view? Does he think that the
Presbyterians of Delaware are not only the best now, but that they will
forever be the best that God can make? Is there to be no advancement?
Has there been no advancement? Are the pillory and the whipping-post to
be used to prevent an excess of thought in the county of New Castle? Has
the county ever been troubled that way? Has this Judge ever had symptoms
of any such disease? Now, I want it understood that I like this Judge,
and my principal reason for liking him is that he is the last of his
race. He will be so inundated with the ridicule of mankind that no
other Chief Justice in Delaware, or anywhere else, will ever follow his
illustrious example. The next Judge will say: "So far as I am concerned,
the Lord may attend to his own business, and deal with infidels as he
may see proper." Thus great good has been accomplished by this Judge,
which shows, as Burns puts it, "that a pot can be boiled, even if the
devil tries to prevent it."

_Question_. How will this action of Delaware, in your opinion, affect
the other States?

_Answer._ Probably a few other States needed an example exactly of this
kind. New Jersey, in all probability, will say: "Delaware is perfectly
ridiculous," and yet, had Delaware waited awhile, New Jersey might have
done the same thing. Maryland will exclaim: "Did you ever see such a
fool!" And yet I was threatened in that State. The average American
citizen, taking into consideration the fact that we are blest, or
cursed, with about one hundred thousand preachers, and that these
preachers preach on the average one hundred thousand sermons a
week—some of which are heard clear through—will unquestionably hold
that a man who happens to differ with all these parsons, ought to have
and shall have the privilege of expressing his mind; and that the one
hundred thousand clergymen ought to be able to put down the one man who
happens to disagree with them, without calling on the army or navy to do
it, especially when it is taken into consideration that an infinite
God is already on their side. Under these circumstances, the average
American will say: "Let him talk, and let the hundred thousand preachers
answer him to their hearts' content." So that in my judgment the result
of the action of Delaware will be: First, to liberalize all other
States, and second, finally to liberalize Delaware itself. In many of
the States they have the same idiotic kind of laws as those found in
Delaware—with the exception of those blessed institutions for the
spread of the Gospel, known as the pillory and the whipping-post. There
is a law in Maine by which a man can be put into the penitentiary
for denying the providence of God, and the day of judgment. There are
similar laws in most of the New England States. One can be imprisoned in
Maryland for a like offence.

In North Carolina no man can hold office that has not a certain
religious belief; and so in several other of the Southern States.
In half the States of this Union, if my wife and children should be
murdered before my eyes, I would not be allowed in a court of justice
to tell who the murderer was. You see that, for hundreds of years,
Christianity has endeavored to put the brand of infamy on every
intellectual brow.

_Question_. I see that one objection to your lectures urged by Judge
Comegys on the grand jury is, that they tend to a breach of the
peace—to riot and bloodshed.

_Answer._ Yes; Judge Comegys seems to be afraid that people who love
their enemies will mob their friends. He is afraid that those disciples
who, when smitten on one cheek turn the other to be smitten also, will
get up a riot. He seems to imagine that good Christians feel called upon
to violate the commands of the Lord in defence of the Lord's reputation.
If Christianity produces people who cannot hear their doctrines
discussed without raising mobs, and shedding blood, the sooner it is
stopped being preached the better.

There is not the slightest danger of any infidel attacking a Christian
for His belief, and there never will be an infidel mob for such a
purpose. Christians can teach and preach their views to their hearts'
content. They can send all unbelievers to an eternal hell, if it gives
them the least pleasure, and they may bang their Bibles as long as their
fists last, but no infidel will be in danger of raising a riot to stop
them, or put them down by brute force, or even by an appeal to the
law, and I would advise Judge Comegys, if he wishes to compliment
Christianity, to change his language and say that he feared a breach of
the peace might be committed by the infidels—not by the Christians. He
may possibly have thought that it was my intention to attack his State.
But I can assure him, that if ever I start a warfare of that kind,
I shall take some State of my size. There is no glory to be won in
wringing the neck of a "Blue Hen!"

_Question_. I should judge, Colonel, that you are prejudiced against the
State of Delaware?

_Answer._ Not by any means. Oh, no! I know a great many splendid people
in Delaware, and since I have known more of their surroundings, my
admiration for them has increased. They are, on the whole, a very good
people in that State. I heard a story the other day: An old fellow in
Delaware has been for the last twenty or thirty years gathering peaches
there in their season—a kind of peach tramp. One day last fall, just as
the season closed, he was leaning sadly against a tree, "Boys!" said he,
"I'd like to come back to Delaware a hundred years from now." The boys
asked, "What for?" The old fellow replied: "Just to see how damned
little they'd get the baskets by that time." And it occurred to me that
people who insist that twenty-two quarts make a bushel, should be as
quiet as possible on the subject of blasphemy.

## An Interview on Chief Justice Comegys

> * Chicago Times, Feb. 14, 1881.

_Question_. Have you read Chief Justice Comegys' compliments to you
before the Delaware grand jury?

_Answer._ Yes, I have read his charge, in which he relies upon the law
passed in 1740. After reading his charge it seemed to me as though he
had died about the date of the law, had risen from the dead, and had
gone right on where he had left off. I presume he is a good man, but
compared with other men, is something like his State when compared with
other States.

A great many people will probably regard the charge of Judge Comegys
as unchristian, but I do not. I consider that the law of Delaware is in
exact accord with the Bible, and that the pillory, the whip-ping-post,
and the suppression of free speech are the natural fruit of the Old and
New Testament.

Delaware is right. Christianity can not succeed, can not exist, without
the protection of law. Take from orthodox Christianity the protection
of law, and all church property would be taxed like other property. The
Sabbath would be no longer a day devoted to superstition. Everyone
could express his honest thought upon every possible subject. Everyone,
notwithstanding his belief, could testify in a court of justice. In
other words, honesty would be on an equality with hypocrisy.
Science would stand on a level, so far as the law is concerned, with
superstition. Whenever this happens the end of orthodox Christianity
will be near.

By Christianity I do not mean charity, mercy, kindness, forgiveness. I
mean no natural virtue, because all the natural virtues existed and had
been practiced by hundreds and thousands of millions before Christ was
born. There certainly were some good men even in the days of Christ in
Jerusalem, before his death.

By Christianity I mean the ideas of redemption, atonement, a good man
dying for a bad man, and the bad man getting a receipt in full. By
Christianity I mean that system that insists that in the next world a
few will be forever happy, while the many will be eternally miserable.
Christianity, as I have explained it, must be protected, guarded, and
sustained by law. It was founded by the sword that is to say, by physical
force,—and must be preserved by like means.

In many of the States of the Union an infidel is not allowed to testify.
In the State of Delaware, if Alexander von Humboldt were living, he
could not be a witness, although he had more brains than the State of
Delaware has ever produced, or is likely to produce as long as the laws
of 1740 remain in force. Such men as Huxley, Tyndall and Haeckel could
be fined and imprisoned in the State of Delaware, and, in fact, in many
States of this Union.

Christianity, in order to defend itself, puts the brand of infamy on
the brow of honesty. Christianity marks with a letter "C," standing for
"convict" every brain that is great enough to discover the frauds. I
have no doubt that Judge Comegys is a good and sincere Christian. I
believe that he, in his charge, gives an exact reflection of the Jewish
Jehovah. I believe that every word he said was in exact accord with
the spirit of orthodox Christianity. Against this man personally I have
nothing to say. I know nothing of his character except as I gather it
from this charge, and after reading the charge I am forced simply to
say, Judge Comegys is a Christian.

It seems, however, that the grand jury dared to take no action,
notwithstanding they had been counseled to do so by the Judge. Although
the Judge had quoted to them the words of George I. of blessed memory;
although he had quoted to them the words of Lord Mansfield, who became
a Judge simply because of his hatred of the English colonists, simply
because he despised liberty in the new world; notwithstanding the fact
that I could have been punished with insult, with imprisonment, and with
stripes, and with every form of degradation; notwithstanding that only a
few years ago I could have been branded upon the forehead, bored through
the tongue, maimed and disfigured, still, such has been the advance even
in the State of Delaware, owing, it may be, in great part to the one
lecture delivered by me, that the grand jury absolutely refused to
indict me.

The grand jury satisfied themselves and their consciences simply by
making a report in which they declared that my lecture had "no parallel
in the habits of respectable vagabondism" that I was "an arch-blasphemer
and reviler of God and religion," and recommended that should I ever
attempt to lecture again I should be taught that in Delaware blasphemy
is a crime punishable by fine and imprisonment. I have no doubt that
every member of the grand jury signing this report was entirely honest;
that he acted in exact accord with what he understood to be the demand
of the Christian religion. I must admit that for Christians, the report
is exceedingly mild and gentle.

I have now in the house, letters that passed between certain bishops in
the fifteenth century, in which they discussed the propriety of cutting
out the tongues of heretics before they were burned. Some of the bishops
were in favor of and some against it. One argument for cutting out their
tongues which seemed to have settled the question was, that unless the
tongues of heretics were cut out they might scandalize the gentlemen
who were burning them, by blasphemous remarks during the fire. I would
commend these letters to Judge Comegys and the members of the grand
jury.

I want it distinctly understood that I have nothing against Judge
Comegys or the grand jury. They act as 'most anybody would, raised in
Delaware, in the shadow of the whipping-post and the pillory. We
must remember that Delaware was a slave State; that the Bible
became extremely dear to the people because it upheld that peculiar
institution. We must remember that the Bible was the block on which
mother and child stood for sale when they were separated by the
Christians of Delaware. The Bible was regarded as the title-pages to
slavery, and as the book of all books that gave the right to masters to
whip mothers and to sell children.

There are many offences now for which the punishment is whipping and
standing in the pillory; where persons are convicted of certain crimes
and sent to the penitentiary, and upon being discharged from the
penitentiary are furnished by the State with a dark jacket plainly
marked on the back with a large Roman "C," the letter to be of a light
color. This they are to wear for six months after being discharged,
and if they are found at any time without the dark jacket and the
illuminated "C" they are to be punished with twenty lashes upon the bare
back. The object, I presume, of this law, is to drive from the State all
the discharged convicts for the benefit of New Jersey, Pennsylvania and
Maryland—that is to say, other Christian communities. A cruel people
make cruel laws.

The objection I have to the whipping-post is that it is a punishment
which cannot be inflicted by a gentleman. The person who administers the
punishment must, of necessity, be fully as degraded as the person who
receives it. I am opposed to any kind of punishment that cannot be
administered by a gentleman. I am opposed to corporal punishment
everywhere. It should be taken from the asylums and penitentiaries, and
any man who would apply the lash to the naked back of another is beneath
the contempt of honest people.

_Question_. Have you seen that Henry Bergh has introduced in the New
York Legislature a bill providing for whipping as a punishment for
wife-beating?

_Answer._ The objection I have mentioned is fatal to Mr. Bergh's bill.
He will be able to get persons to beat wife-beaters, who, under the
same circumstances, would be wife-beaters themselves. If they are not
wife-beaters when they commence the business of beating others, they
soon will be. I think that wife-beating in great cities could be stopped
by putting all the wife-beaters at work at some government employment,
the value of the work, however, to go to the wives and children. The
trouble now is that most of the wife-beating is among the extremely
poor, so that the wife by informing against her husband, takes the last
crust out of her own mouth. If you substitute whipping or flogging for
the prison here, you will in the first place prevent thousands of wives
from informing, and in many cases, where the wife would inform, she
would afterward be murdered by the flogged brute. This brute would
naturally resort to the same means to reform his wife that the State
had resorted to for the purpose of reforming him. Flogging would beget
flogging. Mr. Bergh is a man of great kindness of heart. When he reads
that a wife has been beaten, he says the husband deserves to be beaten
himself. But if Mr. Bergh was to be the executioner, I imagine you could
not prove by the back of the man that the punishment had been inflicted.

Another good remedy for wife-beating is the abolition of the Catholic
Church. We should also do away with the idea that a marriage is a
sacrament, and that there is any God who is rendered happy by seeing a
husband and wife live together, although the husband gets most of his
earthly enjoyment from whipping his wife. No woman should live with
a man a moment after he has struck her. Just as the idea of liberty
enlarges, confidence in the whip and fist, in the kick and blow, will
diminish. Delaware occupies toward freethinkers precisely the same
position that a wife-beater does toward the wife. Delaware knows that
there are no reasons sufficient to uphold Christianity, consequently
these reasons are supplemented with the pillory and the whipping-post.
The whipping-post is considered one of God's arguments, and the pillory
is a kind of moral suasion, the use of which fills heaven with a kind
of holy and serene delight. I am opposed to the religion of brute force,
but all these frightful things have grown principally out of a belief in
eternal punishment and out of the further idea that a certain belief is
necessary to avoid eternal pain.

If Christianity is right, Delaware is right. If God will damn every body
forever simply for being intellectually honest, surely he ought to
allow the good people of Delaware to imprison the same gentleman for two
months. Of course there are thousands and thousands of good people in
Delaware, people who have been in other States, people who have listened
to Republican speeches, people who have read the works of scientists,
who hold the laws of 1740 in utter abhorrence; people who pity Judge
Comegys and who have a kind of sympathy for the grand jury.

You will see that at the last election Delaware lacked only six or seven
hundred of being a civilized State, and probably in 1884 will stand
redeemed and regenerated, with the laws of 1740 expunged from the
statute book. Delaware has not had the best of opportunities. You must
remember that it is next to New Jersey, which is quite an obstacle
in the path of progress. It is just beyond Maryland, which is another
obstacle. I heard the other day that God originally made oysters with
legs, and afterward took them off, knowing that the people of Delaware
would starve to death before they would run to catch anything. Judge
Comegys is the last judge who will make such a charge in the United
States. He has immortalized himself as the last mile-stone on that road.
He is the last of his race. No more can be born. Outside of this he
probably was a very clever man, and it may be, he does not believe
a word he utters. The probability is that he has underestimated the
intelligence of the people of Delaware. I am afraid to think that he is
entirely honest, for fear that I may underestimate him intellectually,
and overestimate him morally. Nothing could tempt me to do this man
injustice, though I could hardly add to the injury he has done himself.
He has called attention to laws that ought to be repealed, and to
lectures that ought to be repeated. I feel in my heart that he has done
me a great service, second only to that for which I am indebted to the
grand jury. Had the Judge known me personally he probably would have
said nothing. Should I have the misfortune to be arrested in his State
and sentenced to two months of solitary confinement, the Judge having
become acquainted with me during the trial, would probably insist on
spending most of his time in my cell. At the end of the two months he
would, I think, lay himself liable to the charge of blasphemy, providing
he had honor enough to express his honest thought. After all, it is
all a question of honesty. Every man is right. I cannot convince myself
there is any God who will ever damn a man for having been honest. This
gives me a certain hope for the Judge and the grand jury.

For two or three days I have been thinking what joy there must have been
in heaven when Jehovah heard that Delaware was on his side, and remarked
to the angels in the language of the late Adjt. Gen. Thomas: "The eyes
of all Delaware are upon you."
---
# My Chicago Bible Class
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1879_
> * Chicago Times, 1879.

To the Editor:—

NOTHING is more gratifying than to see ideas that were received with
scorn, flourishing in the sunshine of approval. Only a few weeks ago,
I stated that the Bible was not inspired; that Moses was mistaken; that
the "flood" was a foolish myth; that the Tower of Babel existed only in
credulity; that God did not create the universe from nothing, that he
did not start the first woman with a rib; that he never upheld slavery;
that he was not a polygamist; that he did not kill people for making
hair-oil; that he did not order his generals to kill the dimpled babes;
that he did not allow the roses of love and the violets of modesty to
be trodden under the brutal feet of lust; that the Hebrew language
was written without vowels; that the Bible was composed of many books,
written by unknown men; that all translations differed from each other;
and that this book had filled the world with agony and crime.

At that time I had not the remotest idea that the most learned clergymen
in Chicago would substantially agree with me—in public. I have read
the replies of the Rev. Robert Collyer, Dr. Thomas, Rabbi Kohler, Rev.
Brooke Herford, Prof. Swing and Dr. Ryder, and will now ask them a few
questions, answering them in their own words.

First. Rev. Robert Collyer.

_Question_. What is your opinion of the Bible? Answer. "It is a splendid
book. It makes the noblest type of Catholics and the meanest bigots.
Through this book men give their hearts for good to God, or for evil to
the devil. The best argument for the intrinsic greatness of the book
is that it can touch such wide extremes, and seem to maintain us in the
most unparalleled cruelty, as well as the most tender mercy; that it can
inspire purity like that of the great saints, and afford arguments in
favor of polygamy. The Bible is the text book of ironclad Calvinism and
sunny Universalism. It makes the Quaker quiet, and the Millerite crazy.
It inspired the Union soldier to live and grandly die for the right, and
Stonewall Jackson to live nobly, and die grandly for the wrong."

_Question_. But, Mr. Collyer, do you really think that a book with as
many passages in favor of wrong as right, is inspired?

_Answer._ "I look upon the Old Testament as a rotting tree. When it
falls it will fertilize a bank of violets."

_Question_. Do you believe that God upheld slavery and polygamy? Do
you believe that he ordered the killing of babes and the violation of
maidens?

_Answer._ "There is threefold inspiration in the Bible, the first,
peerless and perfect, the word of God to man; _the second, simply and
purely human, and then below this again, there is an inspiration born of
an evil heart, ruthless and savage there and then as anything well can
be_. A threefold inspiration, of heaven first, then of the earth, and
then of hell, all in the same book, all sometimes in the same chapter,
and then, besides, a great many things that need no inspiration."

_Question_. Then after all you do not pretend that the Scriptures are
really inspired?

_Answer._ "The Scriptures make no such claim for themselves as the
church makes for them. They leave me free to say this is false, or this
is true. The truth even within the Bible, dies and lives, makes on this
side and loses on that."

_Question_. What do you say to the last verse in the Bible, where a
curse is threatened to any man who takes from or adds to the book?

_Answer._ "I have but one answer to this question, and it is: Let who
will have written this, I cannot for an instant believe that it was
written by a divine inspiration. Such dogmas and threats as these are
not of God, but of man, and not of any man of a free spirit and heart
eager for the truth, but a narrow man who would cripple and confine the
human soul in its quest after the whole truth of God, and back those who
have done the shameful things in the name of the most high."

_Question_. Do you not regard such talk as "slang"?

(Supposed) Answer. If an infidel had said that the writer of Revelation
was narrow and bigoted, I might have denounced his discourse as "slang,"
but I think that Unitarian ministers can do so with the greatest
propriety.

_Question_. Do you believe in the stories of the Bible, about Jael, and
the sun standing still, and the walls falling at the blowing of horns?

_Answer._ "They may be legends, myths, poems, or what they will, but
they are not the word of God. So I say again, it was not the God and
Father of us all, who inspired the woman to drive that nail crashing
through the king's temple after she had given him that bowl of milk and
bid him sleep in safety, but a very mean devil of hatred and revenge,
that I should hardly expect to find in a squaw on the plains. It was not
the ram's horns and the shouting before which the walls fell flat. If
they went down at all, it was through good solid pounding. And not for
an instant did the steady sun stand still or let his planet stand still
while barbarian fought barbarian. He kept just the time then he keeps
now. They might believe it who made the record. I do not. And since the
whole Christian world might believe it, still we do not who gather in
this church. A free and reasonable mind stands right in our way. Newton
might believe it as a Christian, and disbelieve it as a philosopher.
We stand then with the philosopher against the Christian, for we must
believe what is true to us in the last test, and these things are not
true."

Second. Rev. Dr. Thomas.

_Question_. What is your opinion of the Old Testament?

_Answer._ "My opinion is that it is not one book, but many—thirty-nine
books bound up in one. The date and authorship of most of these books
are wholly unknown. The Hebrews wrote without vowels, and without
dividing the letters into syllables, words, or sentences. The books
were gathered up by Ezra. At that time only two of the Jewish tribes
remained. All progress has ceased. In gathering up the sacred book,
copyists exercised great liberty in making changes and additions."

_Question_. Yes, we know all that, but is the Old Testament inspired?

_Answer._ "There maybe the inspiration of art, of poetry, or oratory;
of patriotism—and there are such inspirations. There are moments when
great truths and principles come to men. They seek the man, and not the
man them."

_Question_. Yes, we all admit that, but is the Bible inspired?

_Answer._ "But still I know of no way to convince anyone of spirit, and
inspiration, and God, only as his reason may take hold of these things."

_Question_. Do you think the Old Testament true?

_Answer._ "The story of Eden may be an allegory. The history of the
children of Israel may have mistakes."

_Question_. Must inspiration claim infallibility? Answer. "It is a
mistake to say that if you believe one part of the Bible you must
believe all. Some of the thirty-nine books may be inspired, others not;
or there may be degrees of inspiration."

_Question_. Do you believe that God commanded the soldiers to kill the
children and the married women, and save for themselves, the maidens, as
recorded in _Numbers xxxi, 2_,

Do you believe that God upheld slavery?

Do you believe that God upheld polygamy?

_Answer._ "The Bible may be wrong in some statements. God and right
cannot be wrong. We must not exalt the Bible above God. It may be that
we have claimed too much for the Bible, and thereby given not a little
occasion for such men as Mr. Ingersoll to appear at the other extreme,
denying too much."

_Question_. What then shall be done?

_Answer._ "We must take a middle ground. It is not necessary to believe
that the bears devoured the forty-two children, nor that Jonah was
swallowed by the whale."

Third. Rev. Dr. Kohler.

_Question_. What is your opinion about the Old Testament?

_Answer._ "I will not make futile attempts of artificially interpreting
the letter of the Bible so as to make it reflect the philosophical,
moral and scientific views of our time. The Bible is a sacred record of
humanity's childhood."

_Question_. Are you an orthodox Christian?

_Answer._ "No. Orthodoxy, with its face turned backward to a ruined
temple or a dead Messiah, is fast becoming like Lot's wife, a pillar of
salt."

_Question_. Do you really believe the Old Testament was inspired?

_Answer._ "I greatly acknowledge our indebtedness to men like Voltaire
and Thomas Paine, whose bold denial and cutting wit were so instrumental
in bringing about this glorious era of freedom, so congenial and
blissful, particularly to the long-abused Jewish race."

_Question_. Do you believe in the inspiration of the Bible?

_Answer._ "Of course there is a destructive axe needed to strike down
the old building in order to make room for the grander new. The divine
origin claimed by the Hebrews for their national literature, was claimed
by all nations for their old records and laws as preserved by the
priesthood. As Moses, the Hebrew law-giver, is represented as having
received the law from God on the holy mountain, so is Zoroaster the
Persian, Manu the Hindoo, Minos the Cretan, Lycurgus the Spartan, and
Numa the Roman."

_Question_. Do you believe all the stories in the Bible?

_Answer._ "All that can and must be said against them is that they have
been too long retained around the arms and limbs of grown-up manhood, to
check the spiritual progress of religion; that by Jewish ritualism and
Christian dogmatism they became fetters unto the soul, turning the light
of heaven into a misty haze to blind the eye, and even into a hell-fire
of fanaticism to consume souls."

_Question_. Is the Bible inspired?

_Answer._ "True, the Bible is not free from errors, nor is any work of
man and time. It abounds in childish views and offensive matter. I
trust that it will in a time not far off be presented for common use in
families, schools, synagogues and churches, in a refined shape, cleansed
from all dross and chaff, and stumbling blocks in which the scoffer
delights to dwell."

Fourth. Rev. Mr. Herford.

_Question_. Is the Bible true?

_Answer._ "Ingersoll is very fond of saying 'The question is not, is
the Bible inspired, but is it true?' That sounds very plausible, but you
know as applied to _any ancient book_ it is simply nonsense."

_Question_. Do you think the stories in the Bible exaggerated?

_Answer._ "I dare say the numbers are immensely exaggerated."

_Question_. Do you think that God upheld polygamy?

_Answer._ "The truth of which simply is, that four thousand years ago
polygamy existed among the Jews, as everywhere else on earth then, and
even their prophets did not come to the idea of its being wrong. _But
what is there to be indignant_ about in that?"

_Question_. And so you really wonder why any man should be indignant
at the idea that God upheld and sanctioned that beastliness called
polygamy?

_Answer._ "What is there to be indignant about in that?"

Fifth. Prof. Swing.

_Question_. What is your idea of the Bible?

_Answer._ "I think it is a poem."

Sixth. Rev. Dr. Ryder.

_Question_. And what is your idea of the sacred Scriptures?

_Answer._ "Like other nations, the Hebrews had their patriotic,
descriptive, didactic and lyrical poems in the same varieties as other
nations; but with them, unlike other nations, whatever may be the form
of their poetry, it always possesses the characteristic of religion."

_Question_. I suppose you fully appreciate the religious characteristics
of the Song of Solomon.

No answer.

_Question_. Does the Bible uphold polygamy?

_Answer._ "The law of Moses did not forbid it, but contained many
provisions against its worst abuses, and such as were intended to
restrict it within narrow limits."

_Question_. So you think God corrected some of the worst abuses of
polygamy, but preserved the institution itself?

I might question many others, but have concluded not to consider those
as members of my Bible Class who deal in calumnies and epithets.
From the so-called "replies" of such ministers, it appears that while
Christianity changes the heart, it does not improve the manners, and
that one can get into heaven in the next world without having been a
gentleman in this.

It is difficult for me to express the deep and thrilling satisfaction
I have experienced in reading the admissions of the clergy of Chicago.
Surely, the battle of intellectual liberty is almost won, when ministers
admit that the Bible is filled with ignorant and cruel mistakes;
that each man has the right to think for himself, and that it is not
necessary to believe the Scriptures in order to be saved. From the
bottom of my heart I congratulate my pupils on the advance they have
made, and hope soon to meet them on the serene heights of perfect
freedom.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

Washington, D. C., May 7, 1879.
---
# My Reviewers Reviewed
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1877_
> * This lecture was delivered by Col. Ingersoll in San
> Francisco Cal., June 27, 1877. It was a reply to various
> clergymen of that city, who had made violent attacks upon
> him after the delivery of his lectures, "The Liberty of Man,
> Woman and Child," and "The Ghosts."

I.

AGAINST the aspersions of the pulpit and the religious press, I offer
in evidence this magnificent audience. Although I represent but a small
part of the holy cause of intellectual liberty, even that part shall not
be defiled or smirched by a single personality. Whatever I say, I shall
say because I believe it will tend to make this world grander, man
nearer just, the father kinder, the mother more loving, the children
more affectionate, and because I believe it will make an additional
flower bloom in the pathway of every one who hears me.

In the first place, what have I said? What has been my offence? What
have I done? I am spoken of by the clergy as though I were a wolf that
in the absence of the good shepherd had fattened upon his innocent
flock. What have I said?

I delivered a lecture entitled, "The Liberty of Man, Woman and
Child." In that lecture I said that man was entitled to physical and
intellectual liberty. I defined physical liberty to be the right to do
right; the right to do anything that did not interfere with the real
happiness of others. I defined intellectual liberty to be the right to
think right, and the right to think wrong—provided you did your best to
think right.

This must be so, because thought is only an instrumentality by which we
seek to ascertain the truth. Every man has the right to think, whether
his thought is in reality right or wrong; and he cannot be accountable
to any being for thinking wrong. There is upon man, so far as thought
is concerned, the obligation to think the best he can, and to honestly
express his best thought. Whenever he finds what is right, or what he
honestly believes to be the right, he is less than a man if he fears to
express his conviction before an assembled world.

The right to do right is my definition of physical liberty. "The right
of one human being ceases where the right of another commences." My
definition of intellectual liberty is, the right to think, whether you
think right or wrong, provided you do your best to think right.

I believe in Liberty, Fraternity and Equality—the Blessed Trinity of
Humanity.

I believe in Observation, Reason and Experience—the Blessed Trinity of
Science.

I believe in Man, Woman and Child—the Blessed Trinity of Life and Joy.

I have said, and still say, that you have no right to endeavor by force
to compel another to think your way—that man has no right to compel his
fellow-man to adopt his creed, by torture or social ostracism. I have
said, and still say, that even an infinite God has and can have no right
to compel by force or threats even the meanest of mankind to accept
a dogma abhorrent to his mind. As a matter of fact such a power is
incapable of being exercised. You may compel a man to say that he has
changed his mind. You may force him to say that he agrees with you. In
this way, however, you make hypocrites, not converts. Is it possible
that a god wishes the worship of a slave? Does a god desire the homage
of a coward? Does he really long for the adoration of a hypocrite? Is
it possible that he requires the worship of one who dare not think? If I
were a god it seems to me that I had rather have the esteem and love of
one grand, brave man, with plenty of heart and plenty of brain, than
the blind worship, the ignorant adoration, the trembling homage of a
universe of men afraid to reason. And yet I am warned by the orthodox
guardians of this great city not to think. I am told that I am in danger
of hell; that for me to express my honest convictions is to excite the
wrath of God. They inform me that unless I believe in a certain way,
meaning their way, I am in danger of everlasting fire.

There was a time when these threats whitened the faces of men with fear.
That time has substantially passed away. For a hundred years hell has
been gradually growing cool, the flames have been slowly dying out, the
brimstone is nearly exhausted, the fires have been burning lower and
lower, and the climate gradually changing. To such an extent has the
change already been effected that if I were going there to-night I would
take an overcoat and a box of matches.

They say that the eternal future of man depends upon his belief. I deny
it. A conclusion honestly arrived at by the brain cannot possibly be
a crime; and the man who says it is, does not think so. The god who
punishes it as a crime is simply an infamous tyrant. As for me, I would
a thousand times rather go to perdition and suffer its torments with
the brave, grand thinkers of the world, than go to heaven and keep the
company of a god who would damn his children for an honest belief.

The next thing I have said is, that woman is the equal of man; that she
has every right that man has, and one more—the right to be protected,
because she is the weaker. I have said that marriage should be an
absolutely perfect partnership of body and soul; that a man should treat
his wife like a splendid flower, and that she should fill his life with
perfume and with joy. I have said that a husband had no right to be
morose; that he had no right to assassinate the sunshine and murder the
joy of life.

I have said that when he went home he should go like a ray of light, and
fill his house so full of joy that it would burst out of the doors and
windows and illumine even the darkness of night. I said that marriage
was the holiest, highest, the most sacred institution among men; that
it took millions of years for woman to advance from the condition of
absolute servitude, from the absolute slavery where the Bible found her
and left her, up to the position she occupies at present. I have pleaded
for the rights of woman, for the rights of wives, and what is more, for
the rights of little children. I have said that they could be governed
by affection, by love, and that my heart went out to all the children
of poverty and of crime; to the children that live in the narrow streets
and in the sub-cellars; to the children that run and hide when they hear
the footsteps of a brutal father, the children that grow pale when
they hear their names pronounced even by a mother; to all the little
children, the flotsam and jetsam upon the wide, rude sea of life. I have
said that my heart goes out to them one and all; I have asked fathers
and mothers to cease beating their own flesh and blood. I have said to
them, When your child does wrong, put your arms around him; let him feel
your heart beat against his. It is easier to control your child with a
kiss than with a club.

For expressing these sentiments, I have been denounced by the religious
press and by ministers in their pulpits as a demon, as an enemy of
order, as a fiend, as an infamous man. Of this, however, I make no
complaint. A few years ago they would have burned me at the stake and I
should have been compelled to look upon their hypocritical faces through
flame and smoke. They cannot do it now or they would. One hundred years
ago I would have been burned, simply for pleading for the rights of men.
Fifty years ago I would have been imprisoned. Fifty years ago my wife
and my children would have been torn from my arms in the name of the
most merciful God. Twenty-five years ago I could not have made a living
in the United States at the practice of law; but I can now. I would not
then have been allowed to express my thought; but I can now, and I will.
And when I think about the liberty I now enjoy, the whole horizon is
illuminated with glory and the air is filled with wings.

I then delivered another lecture entitled "Ghosts," in which I sought to
show that man had been controlled by phantoms of his own imagination;
in which I sought to show these imps of darkness, these devils, had all
been produced by superstition; in which I endeavored to prove that man
had groveled in the dust before monsters of his own creation; in which I
endeavored to demonstrate that the many had delved in the soil that the
few might live in idleness, that the many had lived in caves and dens
that the few might dwell in palaces of gold; in which I endeavored to
show that man had received nothing from these ghosts except hatred,
except ignorance, except unhappiness, and that in the name of phantoms
man had covered the face of the world with tears. And for this, I have
been assailed, in the name, I presume, of universal forgiveness. So far
as any argument I have produced is concerned, it cannot in any way make
the slightest difference whether I am a good or a bad man. It cannot in
any way make the slightest difference whether my personal character is
good or bad. That is not the question, though, so far as I am concerned,
I am willing to stake the whole question upon that issue. That is not,
however, the thing to be discussed, nor the thing to be decided. The
question is, whether what I said is true.

I did say that from ghosts we had obtained certain things—among other
things a book known as the Bible. From the ghosts we received that
book; and the believers in ghosts pretend that upon that book rests the
doctrine of the immortality of the human soul. This I deny.

Whether or not the soul is immortal is a fact in nature and cannot be
changed by any book whatever. If I am immortal, I am. If am not, no book
can render me so. It is no mure wonderful that I should live again than
that I do live.

The doctrine of immortality is not based upon any book. The foundation
of that idea is not a creed. The idea of immortality, which, like a
sea, has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, beating with its countless
waves of hope and fear against the shores and rocks of fate and time,
was not born of any book, was not born of a creed. It is not the child
of any religion. It was born of human affection; and it will continue to
ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long
as love kisses the lips of death. It is the eternal bow—Hope shining
upon the tears of Grief.

I did say that these ghosts taught that human slavery was right. If
there is a crime beneath the shining stars it is the crime of enslaving
a human being. Slavery enslaves not only the slave, but the master as
well. When you put a chain upon the limbs of another, you put a fetter
also upon your own brain. I had rather be a slave than a slaveholder.
The slave can at least be just—the slaveholder cannot. I had rather be
robbed than be a robber. I had rather be stolen from than to be a
thief. I have said, and I do say, that the Bible upheld, sustained and
sanctioned the institution of human slavery; and before I get through I
will prove it.

I said that to the same book we are indebted, to a great degree, for the
doctrine of witchcraft. Relying upon its supposed sacred texts, people
were hanged and their bodies burned for getting up storms at sea with
the intent of drowning royal vermin. Every possible offence was punished
under the name of witchcraft, from souring beer to high treason.

I also said, and I still say, that the book we obtained from the ghosts,
for the guidance of man, upheld the infamy of infamies, called polygamy;
and I will also prove that. And the same book teaches, not political
liberty, but political tyranny.

I also said that the author of the book given us by the ghosts knew
nothing about astronomy, still less about geology, still less, if
possible, about medicine, and still less about legislation.

This is what I have said concerning the aristocracy of the air. I am
well aware that having said it I ought to be able to prove the truth
of my words. I have said these things. No one ever said them in better
nature than I have. I have not the slightest malice—a victor never
felt malice. As soon as I had said these things, various gentlemen felt
called upon to answer me. I want to say that if there is anything I like
in the world it is fairness. And one reason I like it so well is that
I have had so little of it. I can say, if I wish, extremely mean
and hateful things. I have read a great many religious papers and
discussions and think that I now know all the infamous words in our
language. I know how to account for every noble action by a mean and
wretched motive, and that, in my judgment, embraces nearly the entire
science of modern theology. The moment I delivered a lecture upon "The
Liberty of Man, Woman and Child," I was charged with having said that
there is nothing back of nature, and that nature with its infinite arms
embraces everything; and thereupon I was informed that I believed in
nothing but matter and force, that I believed only in earth, that I did
not believe in spirit. If by spirit you mean that which thinks, then I
am a believer in spirit. If you mean by spirit the something that says
"I," the something that reasons, hopes, loves and aspires, then I am a
believer in spirit. Whatever spirit there is in the universe must be a
natural thing, and not superimposed upon nature. All that I can say
is, that whatever is, is natural. And there is as much goodness, in my
judgment, as much spirit in this world as in any other; and you are just
as near the heart of the universe here as you can be anywhere. One of
your clergymen says in answer, as he supposes, to me, that there is
matter and force and spirit. Well, can matter exist without force? What
would keep it together? What would keep the finest possible conceivable
atom together unless there was force? Can you imagine such a thing as
matter without force? Can you conceive of force without matter? Can you
conceive of force floating about attached to nothing? Can you possibly
conceive of this? No human being can conceive of force without matter.
"You cannot conceive of force being harnessed or hitched to matter as
you would hitch horses to a carriage." You cannot. Now, what is spirit?
They say spirit is the first thing that was. It seems to me, however, as
though spirit was the blossom, the fruit of all, not the commencement.
They say it was first. Very well. Spirit without force, a spirit without
any matter—what would that spirit do? No force, no matter!—a spirit
living in an infinite vacuum. What would such a spirit turn its
particular attention to? This spirit, according to these theologians,
created the world, the universe; and if it did, there must have been a
time when it commenced to create; and back of that there must have
been an eternity spent in absolute idleness. Now, is it possible that
a spirit existed during an eternity without any force and without any
matter? Is it possible that force could exist without matter or spirit?
Is it possible that matter could exist alone, if by matter you mean
something without force? The only answer I can give to all these
questions is, I do not know. For my part, I do not know what spirit is,
if there is any. I do not know what matter is, neither am I acquainted
with the elements of force. If you mean by matter that which I can
touch, that which occupies space, then I believe in matter. If you mean
by force anything that can overcome weight, that can overcome what
we call gravity or inertia; if you mean by force that which moves the
molecules of matter, or the movement itself, then I believe in force.
If you mean by spirit that which thinks and loves, then I believe in
spirit. There is, however, no propriety in wasting any time about the
science of metaphysics. I will give you my definition of metaphysics:
Two fools get together; each admits what neither can prove, and
thereupon both of them say, "hence we infer." That is all there is of
metaphysics.

These gentlemen, however, say to me that all my doctrine about the
treatment of wives and children, all my ideas of the rights of man, all
these are wrong, because I am not exactly correct as to my notion 01
spirit. They say that spirit existed first, at least an eternity before
there was any force or any matter. Exactly how spirit could act without
force we do not understand. That we must take upon credit. How spirit
could create matter without force is a serious question, and we are
too reverent to press such an inquiry. We are bound to be satisfied,
however, that spirit is entirely independent of force and matter, and
any man who denies this must be "a malevolent and infamous wretch."

Another reverend gentleman proceeds to denounce all I have said as the
doctrine of negation. And we are informed by him—speaking I presume
from experience—that negation is a poor thing to die by. He tells us
that the last hours are the grand testing hours. They are the hours when
atheists disown their principles and infidels bewail their folly—"that
Voltaire and Thomas Paine wrote sharply against Christianity, but their
death-bed scenes are too harrowing for recital"—He also states that
"another French infidel philosopher tried in vain to fortify Voltaire,
but that a stronger man than Voltaire had taken possession of him,
and he cried 'Retire! it is you that have brought me to my present
state—Begone! what a rich glory you have brought me.'" This, my
friends, is the same old, old falsehood that has been repeated again and
again by the lips of hatred and hypocrisy. There is not in one of these
stories a solitary word of truth; and every intelligent man knows all
these death-bed accounts to be entirely and utterly false. They
are taken, however, by the mass of the church as evidence that all
opposition to Christianity, so-called, fills the bed of the dying
infidel and scoffer with serpents and scorpions. So far as my experience
goes, the bad die in many instances as placidly as the good. I have
sometimes thought that a hardened wretch, upon whose memory is engraved
the record of nearly every possible crime, dies without a shudder,
without a tremor, while some grand, good man, remembering during his
last moments an unkind word spoken to a stranger, it may be in the
heat of anger, dies with remorseful words upon his lips. Nearly every
murderer who is hanged, dies with an immensity of nerve, but I never
thought it proved that he had lived a good and useful life. Neither have
I imagined that it sanctified the crime for which he suffered death.
The fact is, that when man approaches natural death, his powers, his
intellectual faculties fail and grow dim. He becomes a child. He has
less and less sense. And just in proportion as he loses his reasoning
powers, he goes back to the superstitions of his childhood. The scenes
of youth cluster about him and he is again in the lap of his mother.
Of this very fact, there is not a more beautiful description than that
given by Shakespeare when he takes that old mass of wit and filth, Jack
Falstaff, in his arms, and Mrs Quickly says: "A' made a finer end, and
went away, an it had been my christom child; a' parted ev'n just between
twelve and one, ev'n at the turning o' the tide; for after I saw him
fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his
fingers' end, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp
as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields." As the genius of Shakespeare
makes Falstaff a child again upon sunny slopes, decked with daisies, so
death takes the dying back to the scenes of their childhood, and they
are clasped once more to the breasts of mothers. They go back, for the
reason that nearly every superstition in the world has been sanctified
by some sweet and placid mother. Remember, the superstition has never
sanctified the mother, but the mother has sanctified the superstition.
The young Mohammedan, who now lies dying upon some field of battle,
thinks sweet and tender thoughts of home and mother, and will, as the
blood oozes from his veins, repeat some holy verse from the blessed
Koran. Every superstition in the world that is now held sacred has been
made so by mothers, by fathers, by the recollections of home. I know
what it has cost the noble, the brave, the tender, to throw away every
superstition, although sanctified by the memory of those they loved.
Whoever has thrown away these superstitions has been pursued by his
fellow-men, From the day of the death of Voltaire the church has pursued
him as though he had been the vilest criminal. A little over one hundred
years ago, Catholicism, the inventor of instruments of torture, red with
the innocent blood of millions, felt in its heartless breast the dagger
of Voltaire. From that blow the Catholic Church never can recover. Livid
with hatred she launched at her assassin the curse of Rome, and ignorant
Protestants have echoed that curse. For myself, I like Voltaire, and
whenever I think of that name, it is to me as a plume floating above
some grand knight—a knight who rides to a walled city and demands
an unconditional surrender. I like him. He was once imprisoned in the
Bastile, and while in that frightful fortress—and I like to tell it—he
changed his name. His name was Francois Marie Arouet. In his gloomy cell
he changed this name to Voltaire, and when some sixty years afterward
the Bastile was torn down to the very dust, "Voltaire" was the battle
cry of the destroyers who did it. I like him because he did more for
religious toleration than any other man who ever lived or died. I admire
him because he did more to do away with torture in civil proceedings
than any other man. I like him because he was always upon the side of
justice, upon the side of progress. I like him in spite of his faults,
because he had many and splendid virtues. I like him because his
doctrines have never brought unhappiness to any country. I like him
because he hated tyranny; and when he died he died as serenely as ever
mortal died; he spoke to his servant recognizing him as a man. He said
to him, calling him by name: "My friend, farewell." These were the last
words of Voltaire. And this was the only frightful scene enacted at his
bed of death. I like Voltaire, because for half a century he was the
intellectual emperor of Europe. I like him, because from his throne at
the foot of the Alps he pointed the finger of scorn at every hypocrite
in Christendom.

I will give to any clergyman in the city of San Francisco a thousand
dollars in gold to substantiate the story that the death of Voltaire was
not as peaceful as the coming of the dawn. The same absurd story is told
of Thomas Paine. Thomas Paine was a patriot—he was the first man in
the world to write these words: "The Free and Independent States of
America." He was the first man to convince the American people that they
ought to separate themselves from Great Britain. "His pen did as
much, to say the least, for the liberty of America, as the sword of
Washington." The men who have enjoyed the benefit of his heroic services
repay them with slander and calumny. If there is in this world a crime,
ingratitude is a crime. And as for myself, I am not willing to receive
anything from any man without making at least an acknowledgment of my
obligation. Y et these clergymen, whose very right to stand in their
pulpits and preach, was secured to them by such men as Thomas Paine,
delight in slandering the reputation of that great man. They tell their
hearers that he died in fear,—that he died in agony, hearing devils
rattle chains, and that the infinite God condescended to frighten a
dying man. I will give one thousand dollars in gold to any clergyman
in San Francisco who will substantiate the truth of the absurd stories
concerning the death of Thomas Paine. There is not one word of truth in
these accounts; not one word.

Let me ask one thing, and let me ask it, if you please, in what is
called a reverent spirit. Suppose that Voltaire and Thomas Paine, and
Volney and Hume and Hobbes had cried out when dying "My God, My God, why
hast thou forsaken me?" what would the clergymen of this city then have
said?

To resort to these foolish calumnies about the great men who have
opposed the superstitions of the world, is in my judgment, unbecoming
any intelligent man. The real question is not, who is afraid to die? The
question is, who is right? The great question is not, who died right,
but who lived right? There is infinitely more responsibility in living
than in dying. The moment of death is the most unimportant moment of
life. Nothing can be done then. You cannot even do a favor for a friend,
except to remember him in your will. It is a moment when life ceases to
be of value. While living, while you have health and strength, you
can augment the happiness of your fellow-men; and the man who has made
others happy need not be afraid to die. Yet these believers, as they
call themselves, these believers who hope for immortality—thousands
of them, will rob their neighbors, thousands of them will do numberless
acts of injustice, when, according to their belief, the witnesses of
their infamy will live forever; and the men whom they have injured and
outraged, will meet them in every glittering star through all the ages
yet to be.

As for me, I would rather do a generous action, and read the record in
the grateful faces of my fellow-men.

These gentlemen who attack me are orthodox now, but the men who started
their churches were heretics.

The first Presbyterian was a heretic. The first Baptist was a heretic.
The first Congregationalist was a heretic. The first Christian was
denounced as a blasphemer. And yet these heretics, the moment they get
numerous enough to be in the majority in some locality, begin to call
themselves orthodox. Can there be any impudence beyond this?

The first Baptist, as I said before, was a heretic; and he was the best
Baptist that I have ever heard anything about. I always liked him. He
was a good man—Roger Williams. He was the first man, so far as I know,
in this country, who publicly said that the soul of man should be free.
And it was a wonder to me that a man who had sense enough to say
that, could think that any particular form of baptism was necessary to
salvation. It does strike me that a man of great brain and thought could
not possibly think the eternal welfare of a human being, the question
whether he should dwell with angels, or be tossed upon eternal waves
of fire, should be settled by the manner in which he had been baptized.
That seems, to me so utterly destitute of thought and heart, that it is
a matter of amazement to me that any man ever looked upon the ordinance
of baptism as of any importance whatever. If we were at the judgment
seat to-night, and the Supreme Being, in our hearing, should ask a man:

"Have you been a good man?" and the man replied:

"Tolerably good."

"Did you love your wife and children?"

"Yes."

"Did you try and make them happy?"

"Yes."

"Did you try and make your neighbors happy?" "Yes, I paid my debts: I
gave heaping measure, and I never cared whether I was thanked for it or
not."

Suppose the Supreme Being then should say:

"Were you ever baptized?" and the man should reply:

"I am sorry to say I never was."

Could a solitary person of sense hear that question asked, by the
Supreme Being, without laughing, even if he knew that his own case was
to be called next?

I happened to be in the company of six or seven Baptist elders—how I
ever got into such bad company, I don't know,—and one of them asked
what I thought about baptism. Well, I never thought much about it; did
not know much about it; didn't want to say anything, but they insisted
upon it. I said, "Well, I'll give you my opinion—with soap, baptism is
a good thing."

The Reverend Mr. Guard has answered me, as I am informed, upon several
occasions. I have read the reports of his remarks, and have boiled them
down. He said some things about me not entirely pleasant, which I do not
wish to repeat. In his reply he takes the ground:

_First_. That the Bible is not an immoral book, because he swore upon it
or by it when he joined the Masons.

_Second_. He excuses Solomon for all his crimes upon the supposition
that he had softening of the brain, or a fatty degeneration of the
heart.

_Third._ That the Hebrews had the right to slay all the inhabitants of
Canaan, according to the doctrine of the "survival of the fittest." He
takes the ground that the destruction of these Canaanites, the ripping
open of women with child by the sword of war, was an act of sublime
mercy. He justifies a war of extermination; he applauds every act of
cruelty and murder. He says that the Canaanites ought to have been
turned from their homes; that men guilty of no crime except fighting for
their country, old men with gray hairs, old mothers and little, dimpled,
prattling children, ought to have been sacrificed upon the altar of war;
that it was an act of sublime mercy to plunge the sword of religious
persecution into the bodies of all, old and young. This is what the
reverend gentleman is pleased to call mercy. If this is mercy let us
have injustice. If there is in the heavens such a God I am sorry that
man exists. All this, however, is justified upon the ground that God
has the right to do as he pleases with the being he has created. This I
deny. Such a doctrine is infamously false. Suppose I could take a stone
and in one moment change it into a sentient, hoping, loving human being,
would I have the right to torture it? Would I have the right to give it
pain? No one but a fiend would either exercise or justify such a right.
Even if there is a God who created us all he has no such right. Above
any God that can exist, in the infinite serenity forever sits the figure
of justice; and this God, no matter how great and infinite he may be, is
bound to do justice.

_Fourth._ That God chose the Jews and governed them personally for
thousands of years, and drove out the Canaanites in order that his
peculiar people might not be corrupted by the example of idolaters; that
he wished to make of the Hebrews a great nation, and that, consequently,
he was justified in destroying the original inhabitants of that country.
It seems to me that the end hardly justified the means. According to the
account, God governed the Jews personally for many ages and succeeded
in civilizing them to that degree, that they crucified him the first
opportunity they had. Such an administration can hardly be called a
success.

_Fifth._ The reverend gentleman seems to think that the practice of
polygamy after all is not a bad thing when compared with the crime
of exhibiting a picture of Antony and Cleopatra. Upon the corrupting
influence of such pictures he descants at great length, and attacks with
all the bitterness of the narrow theologian the masterpieces of art.
Allow me to say one word about art. That is one of the most beautiful
words in our language—Art. And it never seemed to me necessary for
art to go in partnership with a rag. I like the paintings of Angelo, of
Raffaelle. I like the productions of those splendid souls that put their
ideas of beauty upon the canvas uncovered.

> "There are brave souls in every land
> Who worship nature, grand and nude,
> And who with swift indignant hand
> Tear off the fig leaves of the prude."

_Sixth_. That it may be true that the Bible sanctions slavery, but that
it is not an immoral book even if it does.

I can account for these statements, for these arguments, only as
the reverend gentleman has accounted for the sins of Solomon—"by a
softening of the brain, or a fatty degeneration of the heart."

It does seem to me that if I were a Christian, and really thought my
fellow-man was going down to the bottomless pit; that he was going to
misery and agony forever, it does seem to me that I would try and save
him. It does seem to me, that instead of having my mouth filled with
epithets and invectives; instead of drawing the lips of malice back from
the teeth of hatred, it seems to me that my eyes would be filled with
tears. It seems to me that I would do what little I could to reclaim
him. I would talk to him and of him, in kindness. I would put the arms
of affection about him. I would not speak of him as though he were a
wild beast. I would not speak to him as though he were a brute. I would
think of him as a man, as a man liable to eternal torture among the
damned, and my heart would be filled with sympathy, not hatred—my eyes
with tears, not scorn.

If there is anything pitiable, it is to see a man so narrowed and
withered by the blight and breath of superstition, as cheerfully to
defend the most frightful crimes of which we have a record—a man so
hardened and petrified by creed and dogma that he hesitates not to
defend even the institution of human slavery—so lost to all sense of
pity that he applauds murder and rapine as though they were acts of the
loftiest self-denial.

The next gentleman who has endeavored to answer what I have said, is the
Rev. Samuel Robinson. This he has done in his sermon entitled "Ghosts
against God or Ingersoll against Honesty." I presume he imagines himself
to be the defendant in both cases.

This gentleman apologized for attending an infidel lecture, upon the
ground that he had to contribute to the support of a "materialistic
demon." To say the least, this is not charitable. But I am satisfied.
I am willing to exchange facts for epithets. I fare so much better than
did the infidels in the olden time that I am more than satisfied. It is
a little thing that I bear.

The brave men of the past endured the instruments of torture. They were
stretched upon racks; their feet were crushed in iron boots; they stood
upon the shores of exile and gazed with tearful eyes toward home and
native land. They were taken from their firesides, from their wives,
from their children; they were taken to the public square; they were
chained to stakes, and their ashes were scattered by the countless hands
of hatred. I am satisfied. The disciples of fear cannot touch me.

This gentlemen hated to contribute a cent to the support of a
"materialistic demon." When I saw that statement I will tell you what I
did. I knew the man's conscience must be writhing in his bosom to think
that he had contributed a dollar toward my support, toward the support
of a "materialistic demon." I wrote him a letter and I said:

"My Dear Sir: In order to relieve your conscience of the crime of having
contributed to the support of an unbeliever in ghosts, I hereby enclose
the amount you paid to attend my lecture." I then gave him a little
good advice. I advised him to be charitable, to be kind, and regretted
exceedingly that any man could listen to one of my talks for an hour
and a half and not go away satisfied that all men had the same right to
think.

This man denied having received the money, but it was traced to him
through a blot on the envelope.

This gentleman avers that everything that I said about persecution
is applicable to the Catholic Church only. That is what he says. The
Catholics have probably persecuted more than any other church, simply
because that church has had more power, simply because it has been more
of a church. It has to-day a better organization, and as a rule, the
Catholics come nearer believing what they say about their church than
other Christians do. Was it a Catholic persecution that drove the
Puritan fathers from England? Was it not the storm of Episcopal
persecution that filled the sails of the Mayflower? Was it not a
Protestant persecution that drove the Ark and Dove to America? Let us be
honest. Who went to Scotland and persecuted the Presbyterians? Who was
it that chained to the stake that splendid girl by the sands of the
sea for not saying "God save the king"? She was worthy to have been the
mother of Caesar. She would not say "God save the king," but she would
say "God save the king, if it be God's will." Protestants ordered her to
say "God save the king," and no more. She said, "I will not," and they
chained her to a stake in the sand and allowed her to be drowned by
the rising of the inexorable tide. Who did this? Protestants. Who drove
Roger Williams from Massachusetts? Protestants. Who sold white Quaker
children into slavery? Protestants. Who cut out the tongues of Quakers?
Who burned and destroyed men and women and children charged with
impossible crimes? Protestants. The Protestants have persecuted exactly
to the extent of their power. The Catholics have done the same.

I want, however, to be just. The first people to pass an act of
religious toleration in the New World were the Catholics of Maryland.
The next were the Baptists of Rhode Island, led by Roger Williams.
The Catholics passed the act of religious toleration, and after the
Protestants got into power again in England, and also in the colony of
Maryland, they repealed the law of toleration and passed another law
declaring the Catholics from under the protection of all law.
Afterward, the Catholics again got into power and had the generosity and
magnanimity to re-enact the old law. And, so far as I know, it is the
only good record upon the subject of religious toleration the Catholics
have in this world, and I am always willing to give them credit for it.

This gentleman also says that infidelity has done nothing for the world
in the development of the arts and sciences. Does he not know that
nearly every man who took a forward step was denounced by the church as
a heretic and infidel? Does he not know that the church has in all ages
persecuted the astronomers, the geologists, the logicians? Does he not
know that even to-day the church slanders and maligns the foremost men?
Has he ever heard of Tyndall, of Huxley? Is he acquainted with John
W. Draper, one of the leading minds of the world? Did he ever hear of
Auguste Comte, the great Frenchman? Did he ever hear of Descartes, of
Laplace, of Spinoza? In short, has he ever heard of a man who took a
step in advance of his time?

Orthodoxy never advances. When it advances, it ceases to be orthodoxy
and becomes heresy. Orthodoxy is putrefaction. It is intellectual
cloaca; it cannot advance. What the church calls infidelity is simply
free thought. Every man who really owns his own brain is, in the
estimation of the church, an infidel.

There is a paper published in this city called _The Occident_. The
Editor has seen fit to speak of me, and of the people who have assembled
to hear me, in the lowest, vilest and most scurrilous terms possible.
I cannot afford to reply in the same spirit. He alleges that the people
who assemble to hear me are the low, the debauched and the infamous.
The man who reads that paper ought to read it with tongs. It is a
Presbyterian sheet; and would gladly treat me as John Calvin treated
Castalio. Castalio was the first minister in the history of Christendom
who acknowledged the innocence of honest error, and John Calvin followed
him like a sleuth-hound of perdition. He called him a "dog of Satan;"
said that he had crucified Christ afresh; and pursued him to the very
grave. The editor of this paper is still warming his hands at the fire
that burned Servetus. He has in his heart the same fierce hatred of
everything that is free. But what right have we to expect anything good
of a man who believes in the eternal damnation of infants?

There may have been sometime in the history of the world a worse
religion than Old School Presbyterianism, but if there ever was, from
cannibalism to civilization, I have never heard of it.

I make a distinction between the members and the creed of that church. I
know many who are a thousand times better than the creed—good, warm and
splendid friends of mine. I would do anything in the world for them. And
I have said to them a hundred times, "You are a thousand times better
than your creed." But when you come down to the doctrine of the
damnation of infants, it is the deformity of deformities. The editor
of this paper is engaged in giving the world the cheerful doctrines of
fore-ordination and damnation—those twin comforts of the Presbyterian
creed, and warning them against the frightful effects of reasoning in
any manner for themselves. He regards the intellectually free as the
lowest, the vilest and the meanest, as men who wish to sin, as men
who are longing to commit crime, men who are anxious to throw off all
restraint.

My friends, every chain thrown from the body puts an additional
obligation upon the soul. Every man who is free, puts a responsibility
upon his brain and upon his heart. You, who never want responsibility,
give your souls to some church. You, who never want the feeling that you
are under obligation to yourselves, give your souls away. But if you are
willing to feel and meet responsibility; if you feel that you must give
an account not only to yourselves but to every human being whom you
injure, then you must be free. Where there is no freedom, there can be
no responsibility.

It is a mystery to me why the editors of religious papers are so
malicious, why they endeavor to answer argument with calumny. Is it
because they feel the sceptre slowly slipping from their hands? Is it
the result of impotent rage? Is it because there is being written upon
every orthodox brain a certificate of intellectual inferiority?

This same editor assures his readers that what I say is not worth
answering, and yet he devotes column after column of his journal to that
very purpose. He states that I am no speaker, no orator; and upon the
same page admits that he did not hear me, giving as a reason that he
does not think it right to pay money for such a purpose. Recollect, that
in a religious paper, a man who professes honesty, criticises a statue
or a painting, condemns it, and at the end of the criticism says that he
never saw it. He criticises what he calls the oratory of a man, and at
the end says, "I never heard him, and I never saw him."

As a matter of fact, I have never heard of any of these gentlemen who
thought it necessary to hear what any man said in order to answer him.

The next gentleman who answered me is the Rev. Mr. Ijams. And I must
say, so far as I can see, in his argument, or in his mode of treatment,
he is a kind and considerate gentleman. He makes several mistakes as
to what I really said, but the fault I suppose must have been in the
report. I am made to say in the report of his sermon, "There is no
sacred place in all the universe." What I did say was, "There is no
sacred place in all the universe of thought. There is nothing too holy
to be investigated, nothing too divine to be understood. The fields of
thought are fenceless, and without a wall." I say this to-night.

Mr. Ijams also says that I had declared that man had not only the right
to do right, but also the right to do wrong. What I really said was, man
has the right to do right, and the right to think right, and the right
to think wrong. Thought is a means of ascertaining truth, a mode by
which we arrive at conclusions. And if no one has a right to think,
unless he thinks right, he would only have the right to think upon
self-evident propositions. In all respects, with the exception of these
misstatements to which I have called your attention, so far as I can
see, Mr. Ijams was perfectly fair, and treated me as though I had the
ordinary rights of a human being. I take this occasion to thank him.

A great many papers, a great many people, a good many ministers and a
multitude of men, have had their say, and have expressed themselves
with the utmost freedom. I cannot reply to them all. I can only reply to
those who have made a parade of answering me. Many have said it is not
worth answering, and then proceeded to answer. They have said, he has
produced no argument, and then have endeavored to refute it. They have
said it is simply the old straw that has been thrashed over and over
again for years and years. If all I have said is nothing, if it is
all idle and foolish, why do they take up the time of their fellow-men
replying to me? Why do they fill their religious papers with criticisms,
if all I have said and done reminds them, according to the Rev. Mr.
Guard, of "some little dog barking at a railway train"? Why stop the
train, why send for the directors, why hold a consultation and finally
say, we must settle with that dog or stop running these cars?

Probably the best way to answer them all, is to prove beyond cavil the
truth of what I have said.

## Does the Bible Teach Man to Enslave His Brother

II.

IF this "sacred" book teaches man to enslave his brother, it is not
inspired. A god who would establish slavery is as cruel and heartless as
any devil could be.

"Moreover, of the children of the strangers that do sojourn among you,
of them shall ye buy, and of their families that are with you, which
they begat in your land, and they shall be your possession.

"And ye shall take them as an inheritance for your children after you,
to inherit them for a possession. They shall be your bondmen forever.

"Both thy bondmen, and thy bondmaids, which thou shalt have, _shall be_
of the heathen that are round about you; of them shall ye buy bondmen
and bondmaids."—Leviticus xxv.

This is white slavery. This allows one white man to buy another, to buy
a woman, to separate families and rob a mother of her child. This makes
the whip upon the naked backs of men and women a legal tender for labor
performed. This is the kind of slavery established by the most merciful
God. The reason given for all this, is, that the persons whom they
enslaved were heathen. You may enslave them because they are not
orthodox. If you can find anybody who does not believe in me, the God
of the Jews, you may steal his wife from his arms, and her babe from
the cradle. If you can find a woman that does not believe in the Hebrew
Jehovah, you may steal her prattling child from her breast. Can any one
conceive of anything more infamous? Can any one find in the literature
of this world more frightful words ascribed even to a demon? And all
this is found in that most beautiful and poetic chapter known as the
25th of Leviticus—from the Bible—from this sacred gift of God—this
"Magna Charta of human freedom."

2. "If thou buy an Hebrew servant, six years he shall serve; and in the
seventh he shall go out free for nothing.

3. "If he came in by himself, he shall go out by himself: if he were
married, then his wife shall go out with him.

4. "If his master have given him a wife, and she hath borne him sons or
daughters; the wife and her children shall be her master's, and he shall
go out by himself.

5. "And if the servant shall plainly say, I love my master, my wife, and
children; I w ill not go out free:

6. "Then his master shall bring him unto the judges: he shall also bring
him to the door, or unto the door-post; and his master shall bore his
ear through with an awl; and he shall serve him forever."—_Exodus,
xxi._

The slave is allowed to have his liberty if he will give up his wife and
children. He must remain in slavery for the sake of wife and child. This
is another of the laws of the most merciful God. This God changes even
love into a chain. Children are used by him as manacles and fetters,
and wives become the keepers of prisons. Any man who believes that such
hideous laws were made by an infinitely wise and benevolent God is, in
my judgment, insane or totally depraved.

These are the doctrines of the Old Testament. What is the doctrine
of the New? What message had he who came from heaven's throne for the
oppressed of earth? What words of sympathy, what words of cheer, for
those who labored and toiled without reward? Let us see:

"Servants, be obedient to them that are _your_ masters, according to
the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto
Christ."—_Ephesians, vi._

This is the salutation of the most merciful God to a slave, to a woman
who has been robbed of her child—to a man tracked by hounds through
lonely swamps—to a girl with flesh torn and bleeding—to a mother
weeping above an empty cradle.

"Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the
good and gentle, but also to the fro ward."—_I Peter ii., 18_.

"For this is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God endure
grief, suffering wrongfully."—_I Peter ii., 19_.

It certainly must be an immense pleasure to God to see a man work
patiently for nothing. It must please the Most High to see a slave with
his wife and child sold upon the auction block. If this slave escapes
from slavery and is pursued, how musical the baying of the bloodhound
must be to the ears of this most merciful God. All this is simply
infamous. On the throne of this universe there sits no such monster.

"Servants, obey in all things your masters, according to the flesh; not
with eye-service, as men pleasers; but in singleness of heart, fearing
God."—_Col. iii., 22_.

The apostle here seems afraid that the slave would not work every moment
that his strength permitted. He really seems to have feared that
he might not at all times do the very best he could to promote the
interests of the thief who claimed to own him. And speaking to all
slaves, in the name of the Father of All, this apostle says: "Obey in
all things your masters, not with eye-service, but with singleness of
heart, fearing God." He says to them in substance, There is no way you
can so well please God as to work honestly for a thief.

1. "Let as many servants as are under the yoke count their own masters
worthy of all honor, that the name of God and _his_ doctrine be not
blasphemed."

Think of serving God by honoring a robber! Think of bringing the name
and doctrine of God into universal contempt by claiming to own yourself!

2. "And they that have believing masters, let them not despise them,
because they are brethren; but rather do them service, because they are
faithful and beloved, partakers of the benefit. These things teach and
exhort."

That is to say, do not despise Christians who steal the labor of others.
Do not hold in contempt the "faithful and beloved, partakers of the
benefit," who turn the cross of Christ into a whipping post.

3. "If any man teach otherwise, and consent not to wholesome words
_even_ to words of our Lord Jesus Christ, and to the doctrine which is
according to godliness.

4. "He is proud, knowing nothing, but doting about questions and strifes
of words, whereof cometh envy, strife, railings, evil surmisings,

5. "Perverse disputings of men of corrupt minds, and destitute of the
truth, supposing that gain is godliness: from such withdraw thyself."

This seems to be the opinion the apostles entertained of the early
abolitionists. Seeking to give human beings their rights, seeking to
give labor its just reward, seeking to clothe all men with that divine
garment of the soul, Liberty,—all this was denounced by the apostle as
a simple strife of words, whereof cometh envy, railings, evil surmisings
and perverse disputing, destitute of truth.

6. "But godliness with contentment is great gain.

7. "For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can
carry nothing out.

8. "And having food and raiment let us be therewith content."—_I Tim.,
vi._

This was intended to make a slave satisfied to hear the clanking of his
chains. This is the reason he should never try to better his condition.
He should be contented simply with the right to work for nothing. If
he only had food and raiment, and a thief to work for, he should be
contented. He should solace himself with the apostolic reflection, that
as he brought nothing into the world, he could carry nothing out, and
that when dead he would be as happily situated as his master.

In order to show you what the inspired writer meant by the word
_servant_, I will read from the 21st chapter of Exodus, verses 20 and
21:

"And if a man smite his servant, or his maid, with a rod, and he die
under his hand; he shall be surely punished.

"Notwithstanding, if he continue a day or two, he shall not be punished:
for he _is_ his money."

Yet, notwithstanding these passages the _Christian Advocate_ says, "the
Bible is the Magna Charta of our liberty."

After reading that, I was not surprised by the following in the same
paper:

"We regret to record that Ingersoll is on a low plane of infidelity and
atheism, not less offensive to good morals than have been the teachings
of infidelity during the last century. France has been cursed with such
teachings for a hundred years, and because of it, to-day her citizens
are incapable of self-government."

What was the condition of France a century ago? Were they capable of
self-government then? For fourteen hundred years the common people of
France had suffered. For fourteen hundred years they had been robbed
by the altar and by the throne. They had been the prey of priests and
nobles. All were exempt from taxation, except the common people. The
cup of their suffering was full, and the French people arose in fury and
frenzy, and tore the drapery from the altars of God, and filled the air
with the dust of thrones.

Surely, the slavery of fourteen centuries had not been produced by the
teachings of Voltaire. I stood only a little while ago at the place
where once stood the Bastile. In my imagination I saw that prison
standing as it stood of yore. I could see it attacked by the populace.
I could see their stormy faces and hear their cries. And I saw that
ancient fortification of tyranny go down forever. And now where once
stood the Bastile stands the Column of July. Upon its summit is a
magnificent statue of Liberty, holding in one hand a banner, in the
other a broken chain, and upon its shining forehead is the star of
progress. There it stands where once stood the Bastile. And France is
as much superior to what it was when Voltaire was born, as that statue,
surmounting the Column of July, is more beautiful than the Bastile that
stood there once with its cells of darkness, and its dungeons of horror.

And yet we are now told that the French people have rendered themselves
incapable of government, simply because they have listened to the voice
of progress. There are magnificent men in France. From that country have
come to the human race some of the grandest and holiest messages the ear
of man has ever heard. The French people have given to history some
of the most touching acts of self-sacrifice ever performed beneath the
amazed stars.

For my part, I admire the French people. I cannot forget the Rue San
Antoine, nor the red cap of liberty. I can never cease to remember that
the tricolor was held aloft in Paris, while Europe was in chains, and
while liberty, with a bleeding breast, was in the Inquisition of Spain.
And yet we are now told by a religious paper, that France is not capable
of self-government. I suppose it was capable of self-government under
the old regime, at the time of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. I
suppose it was capable of self-government when women were seen yoked
with cattle pulling plows. I suppose it was capable of self-government
when all who labored were in a condition of slavery.

In the old times, even among the priests, there were some good, some
sincere and most excellent men. I have read somewhere of a sermon
preached by one of these in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. This old
priest, among other things, said that the soul of a beggar was as dear
to God as the soul of the richest of his people, and that Jesus Christ
died as much for a beggar as for a prince. One French peasant, rough
with labor, cried out: "I propose three cheers for Jesus Christ." I like
such things. I like to hear of them. I like to repeat them. Paris has
been a kind of volcano, and has made the heavens lurid with its lava
of hatred, but it has also contributed more than any other city to the
intellectual development of man. France has produced some infamous
men, among others John Calvin, but for one Calvin, she has produced a
thousand benefactors of the human race.

The moment the French people rise above the superstitions of the church,
they will be in the highest sense capable of self-government. The moment
France succeeds in releasing herself from the coils of Catholicism—from
the shadows of superstition—from the foolish forms and mummeries of the
church—from the intellectual tyranny of a thousand years—she will not
only be capable of self-government, but will govern herself. Let the
priests be usefully employed. We want no overseers of the mind; no
slave-drivers for the soul. We cannot afford to pay hypocrites for
depriving us of liberty. It is a waste of money to pay priests to
frighten our children, and paralyze the intellect of women.

## Was the World Created in Six Days

III.

FOR hundreds of years it was contended by all Christians that the earth
was made in six days, literal days of twenty-four hours each, and that
on the seventh day the Lord rested from his labor. Geologists have
driven the church from this position, and it is now claimed that the
days mentioned in the Bible are periods of time. This is a simple
evasion, not in any way supported by the Scriptures. The Bible
distinctly and clearly says that the world was created in six days.
There is not within its lids a clearer statement. It does not say six
periods. It was made according to that book in six days:

31. "And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very
good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day."—_Genesis i_.

1. "Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of
them.

2. "And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he
rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.

3. "And God blessed the seventh day (not seventh period), and sanctified
it; because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created
and made."—_Genesis ii_.

From the following passages it seems clear what was meant by the word
days:

15. "Six days may work be done; but in the seventh is the Sabbath of
rest, holy to the Lord: whosoever doeth any work in the Sabbath day, he
shall surely be put to death."—Served him right!

16. "Wherefore, the children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath, to
observe the Sabbath, throughout their generations, for a perpetual
covenant.

17. "It is a sign between me and the children of Israel forever; for
in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day he
rested and was refreshed.

18. "And he gave unto Moses, when he had made an end of communing with
him upon Mount Sinai, two tables of testimony, tables of stone, written
with the finger of God."—_Exodus xxxi_.

12. "Then spake Joshua to the Lord in the day when the Lord delivered up
the Amorites before the children of Israel, and he said in the sight of
Israel, Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou, Moon, in the valley
of Ajalon.

13. "And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until the people had
avenged themselves upon their enemies. Is not this written in the book
of Jasher? So the sun stood still in the midst of heaven; and hasted not
to go down about a whole day.

14. "And there was no day like that before it or after it, that the
Lord hearkened unto the voice of a man: for the Lord fought for
Israel."—_Josh. x_.

These passages must certainly convey the idea that this world was made
in six days, not six periods. And the reason why they were to keep the
Sabbath was because the Creator rested on the seventh day—not period.
If you say six periods, instead of six days, what becomes of your
Sabbath? The only reason given in the Bible for observing the Sabbath
is that God observed it—that he rested from his work that day and was
refreshed. Take this reason away and the sacredness of that day has no
foundation in the Scriptures.

## What is the Astronomy of the Bible

IV.

WHEN people were ignorant of all the sciences the Bible was understood
by those who read it the same as by those who wrote it. From time to
time discoveries were made that seemed inconsistent with the
Scriptures. At first, theologians denounced the discoverers of all facts
inconsistent with the Bible, as atheists and scoffers.

The Bible teaches us that the earth is the centre of the universe; that
the sun and moon and stars revolve around this speck called the earth.
The men who discovered that all this was a mistake were denounced by
the ignorant clergy of that day, precisely as the ignorant clergy of our
time denounce the advocates of free thought. When the doctrine of the
earth's place in the solar system was demonstrated; when persecution
could no longer conceal the mighty truth, then it was that the church
made an effort to harmonize the Scriptures with the discoveries of
science. When the utter absurdity of the Mosaic account of creation
became apparent to all thoughtful men, the church changed the reading of
the Bible. Then it was pretended that the "days" of creation were vast
periods of time. When it was shown to be utterly impossible that the sun
revolved around the earth, then the account given by Joshua of the sun
standing still for the space of a whole day, was changed into a figure
of speech. It was said that Joshua merely conformed to the mode of
speech common in his day; and that when he said the sun stood still, he
merely intended to convey the idea that the earth ceased turning upon
its axis. They admitted that stopping the sun could not lengthen the
day, and for that reason it must have been the earth that stopped.
But you will remember that the moon stood still in the valley of
Ajalon—that the moon stayed until the people had avenged themselves
upon their enemies.

One would naturally suppose that the sun would have given sufficient
light to enable the Jews to avenge themselves upon their enemies without
any assistance from the moon. Of course, if the moon had not stopped,
the relations between the earth and moon would have been changed.

Is there a sensible man in the world who believes this wretched piece of
ignorance? Is it possible that the religion of this nineteenth century
has for its basis such childish absurdities? According to this account,
what was the sun, or rather the earth, stopped for? It was stopped in
order that the Hebrews might avenge themselves upon the Amorites. For
the accomplishment of such a purpose the earth was made to pause. Why
should an almost infinite force be expended simply for the purpose of
destroying a handful of men? Why this waste of force? Let me explain.
I strike my hands together. They feel a sudden Heat. Where did the heat
come from? Motion has been changed into heat. You will remember that
there can be no destruction of force. It disappears in one form only
to reappear in another. The earth, rotating at the rate of one thousand
miles an hour, was stopped. The motion of this vast globe would have
instantly been changed into heat. It has been calculated by one of the
greatest scientists of the present day that to stop the earth would
generate as much heat as could be produced by burning a world as large
as this of solid coal. And yet, all this force was expended for the
paltry purpose of defeating a few poor barbarians. The employment of so
much force for the accomplishment of so insignificant an object would
be as useless as bringing all the intellect of a great man to bear in
answering the arguments of the clergymen of San Francisco.

The waste of that immense force in stopping the planets in their grand
courses, for the purpose claimed, would be like using a Krupp gun to
destroy an insect to which a single drop of water is "an unbounded
world." How is it possible for men of ordinary intellect, not only to
endorse such ignorant falsehoods, but to malign those who do not? Can
anything be more debasing to the intellect of man than a belief in the
astronomy of the Bible? According to the Scriptures, the world was
made out of nothing, and the sun, moon, and stars, of the nothing that
happened to be left. To the writers of the Bible the firmament was
solid, and in it were grooves along which the stars were pushed by
angels. From the Bible Cosmas constructed his geography and astronomy.
His book was passed upon by the church, and was declared to be the truth
concerning the subjects upon which he treated.

This eminent geologist and astronomer, taking the Bible as his guide,
found and taught: First, that the earth was flat; second, that it was a
vast parallelogram; third, that in the middle there was a vast body
of land, then a strip of water all around it, then a strip of land.
He thought that on the outer strip of land people lived before the
flood—that at the time of the flood, Noah in his Ark crossed the strip
of water and landed on the shore of the country, in the middle of the
world, where we now are. This great biblical scholar informed the true
believers of his day that in the outer strip of land were mountains,
around which the sun and moon revolved; that when the sun was on the
side of the mountain next the land occupied by man, it was day, and when
on the other side, it was night.

Mr. Cosmas believed the Bible, and regarded Joshua as the most eminent
astronomer of his day. He also taught that the firmament was solid, and
that the angels pushed and drew the stars. He tells us that these angels
attended strictly to their business, that each one watched the motions
of all the others so that proper distances might always be maintained,
and all confusion avoided. All this was believed by the gentlemen who
made most of our religion. The great argument made by Cosmas to show
that the earth must be flat, was the fact that the Bible stated that
when Christ should come the second time, in glory, the whole world
should see him. "Now," said Cosmas, "if the world is round, how could
the people on the other side see the Lord when he comes?" This settled
the question.

These were the ideas of the fathers of the church. These men have been
for centuries regarded as almost divinely inspired. Long after they had
become dust they governed the world. The superstitions they planted,
their descendants watered with the best and bravest blood. To maintain
their ignorant theories, the brain of the world was dwarfed for a
thousand years, and the infamous work is still being prosecuted.

The Bible was regarded as not only true, but as the best of all truth.
Any new theory advanced, was immediately examined in the light, or
rather in the darkness, of revelation, and if according to that test it
was false, it was denounced, and the person bringing it forward forced
to recant. It would have been a far better course to have discovered
every theory found to be in harmony with the Scriptures.

And yet we are told by the clergy and religious press of this city, that
the Bible is the foundation of all science.

DOES THE BIBLE TEACH THE EXISTENCE OF THAT IMPOSSIBLE CRIME CALLED
WITCHCRAFT?

V.

IT was said by Sir Thomas More that to give up witchcraft was to give
up the Bible itself. This idea was entertained by nearly all the eminent
theologians of a hundred years ago. In my judgment, they were right.
To give up witchcraft is to give up, in a great degree at least, the
supernatural. To throw away the little ghosts simply prepares the mind
of man to give up the great ones. The founders of nearly all creeds, and
of all religions properly so called, have taught the existence of good
and evil spirits. They have peopled the dark with devils and the light
with angels. They have crowded hell with demons and heaven with seraphs.
The moment these good and evil spirits, these angels and fiends,
disappear from the imaginations of men, and phenomena are accounted
for by natural rather than by supernatural means, a great step has been
taken in the direction of what is now known as materialism. While the
church believes in witchcraft, it is in a greatly modified form. The
evil spirits are not as plenty as in former times, and more phenomena
are accounted for by natural means. Just to the extent that belief has
been lost in spirits, just to that extent the church has lost its power
and authority. When men ceased to account for the happening of any event
by ascribing it to the direct action of good or evil spirits, and began
to reason from known premises, the chains of superstition began to
grow weak. Into such disrepute has witchcraft at last fallen that many
Christians not only deny the existence of these evil spirits, but take
the ground that no such thing is taught in the Scriptures. Let us see:

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."—_Exodus xxii., 18_.

7. "Then said Saul unto his servants, Seek me a woman that hath a
familiar spirit, that I may go to her, and enquire of her. And his
servants said to him, Behold, there is a woman that hath a spirit at
Endor.

8. "And Saul disguised himself, and put on other raiment, and he went,
and two men with him, and they came to the woman by night; and he said,
I pray thee, divine unto me by the familiar spirit, and bring me him up,
whom I shall name unto thee.

9. "And the woman said unto him, Behold, thou knowest what Saul hath
done, how he hath cut off those that have familiar spirits, and the
wizards out of the land; wherefore, then, layest thou a snare for my
life, to cause me to die?

10. "And Saul sware to her by the Lord, saying, As the Lord liveth,
there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.

11. "Then said the woman, Whom shall I bring up unto thee? And he said,
Bring me up Samuel.

12. "And when the woman saw Samuel she cried with a loud voice: and the
woman spake to Saul, saying, Why hast thou deceived me? for thou art
Saul.

13. "And the king said unto her, Be not afraid: for what sawest thou?
And the woman said unto Saul, I saw gods ascending out of the earth.

14. "And he said unto her, What form is he of? And she said, An old man
cometh up; and he is covered with a mantle. And Saul perceived that
it was Samuel, and he stooped with his face to the ground, and bowed
himself.

15. "And Samuel said to Saul, Why hast thou disquieted me to bring me
up?"—2 Samuels xxviii.

This reads very much like an account of a modern spiritual seance. Is
it not one of the wonderful things of the world that men and women who
believe this account of the witch of Endor, who believe all the miracles
and all the ghost stories of the Bible, deny with all their force the
truth of modern Spiritualism. So far as I am concerned, I would rather
believe some one who has heard what he relates, who has seen what he
tells, or at least thinks he has seen what he tells. I would rather
believe somebody I know, whose reputation for truth is good among those
who know him. I would rather believe these people than to take the words
of those who have been in their graves for four thousand years, and
about whom I know nothing.

31 "Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after
wizards, to be defiled by them; I am the Lord, your God."—_Leviticus
xix_.

6 "And the soul that turneth after such as have familiar spirits, and
after wizards, I will even set my face against that soul, and will cut
him off from among his people."—_Leviticus xx._

10. "There shall not be found among you any one that useth divination,
or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch,

11. "Or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or
a necromancer.

12. "For all that do these things are an abomination unto the
Lord."—_Deut. xviii_.

I have given you a few of the passages found in the Old Testament upon
this subject, showing conclusively that the Bible teaches the existence
of witches, wizards and those who have familiar spirits. In the New
Testament there are passages equally strong, showing that the Savior
himself was a believer in the existence of evil spirits, and in the
existence of a personal devil. Nothing can be plainer than the teaching
of the following:

1. "Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be
tempted of the devil.

2. "And when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward
an hungered.

3. "And when the tempter came to him, he said, If thou be the Son of
God, command that these stones be made bread.

4. "But he answered and said, It is written, Man shall not live by bread
alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.

5. "Then the devil taketh him up into the holy city, and setteth him on
a pinnacle of the temple.

6. "And saith unto him, If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down:
for it is written, He shall give his angels charge concerning thee: and
in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy
foot against a stone.

7. "Jesus said unto him, It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the
Lord, thy God.

8. "Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and
sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them.

9. "And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt
fall down and worship me.

10. "Then saith Jesus unto him, Get thee hence, Satan: for it is
written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou
serve.

11. "Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, angels came and ministered
unto him."—_Matt. iv._

If this does not teach the existence of a personal devil, there is
nothing within the lids of the Scriptures teaching the existence of
a personal God. If this does not teach the existence of evil spirits,
there is nothing in the Bible going to show that good spirits exist
either in this world or the next.

16. "When the even was come they brought unto him many that were
possessed with devils: and he cast out the spirits with his word, and
healed all that were sick."—_Matt. vii._

1. "And they came over unto the other side of the sea, into the country
of the Gadarenes.

2. "And when he was come out of the ship, immediately there met him out
of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit,

3. "Who had his dwelling among the tombs; and no man could bind him, no,
not with chains:

4. "Because that he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and
the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the fetters broken in
pieces: neither could any man tame him.

5. "And always, night and day, he was in the mountains, and in the
tombs, crying and cutting himself with stones.

6. "But when he saw Jesus afar off, he ran and worshipped him,

7. "And cried with a loud voice, and said, What have I to do with thee,
Jesus, thou son of the most high God? I adjure thee by God, that thou
torment me not.

8. "For he said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit.

9. "And he asked him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name
is Legion, for we are many.

11. "Now, there was nigh unto the mountains a great herd of swine
feeding.

12. "And all the devils besought him, saying, Send us into the swine,
that we may enter into them.

13. "And forthwith Jesus gave them leave. And the unclean spirits went
out, and entered into the swine; and the herd ran violently down a steep
place into the sea, and they were about two thousand; and were choked in
the sea."—_Mark v_.

The doctrine of witchcraft does not stop here. The power of casting out
devils was bequeathed by the Savior to his apostles and followers, and
to all who might believe in him throughout all the coming time:

17. "And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name shall
they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues.

18. "And they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly
thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick and they
shall recover."—_Mark xvi._

I would like to see the clergy who have been answering me, tested in
this way: Let them drink poison, let them take up serpents, let them
cure the sick by the laying on of hands, and I will then believe that
they believe.

I deny the witchcraft stories of the world. Witches are born in the
ignorant, frightened minds of men. Reason will exorcise them. "They are
tales told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
These devils have covered the world with blood and tears. They have
filled the earth with fear. They have filled the lives of children with
darkness and horror. They have peopled the sweet world of imagination
with monsters. They have made religion a strange mingling of fear and
ferocity. I am doing what I can to reave the heavens of these monsters.
For my part, I laugh at them all. I hold them all in contempt, ancient
and modern, great and small.

## The Bible Idea of the Rights of Children

VI.

ALL religion has for its basis the tyranny of God and the slavery of
man.

18. "If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey
the voice of his father, or the voice of his mother, and that, when they
have chastened him, will not hearken unto them.

19. "Then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and bring him
out unto the elders of his city, and unto, the gate of his place.

20. "And they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is
stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice, he is a glutton and
a drunkard.

21. "And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he
die; so shalt thou put evil away from among you; and all Israel shall
hear, and fear."—_Deut. xxi._

Abraham was commanded to offer his son Isaac as a sacrifice. He
proceeded to obey. And the boy, being then about thirty years of age,
was not consulted. At the command of a phantom of the air, a man was
willing to offer upon the altar his only son. And such was the slavery
of children, that the only son had not the spirit to resist.

Have you ever read the story of Jephthah?

30 "And Jephthah vowed a vow unto the Lord, and said, If thou shalt
without fail deliver the children of Ammon into mine hands,

31. "Then it shall be, that whatsoever cometh forth of the doors of my
house to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon,
shall surely be the Lord's, and I will offer it up for a burnt offering.

32. "So Jephthah passed over unto the children of Ammon to fight against
them; and the Lord delivered them into his hands.

33. "And he smote them from Aroer, even till thou come to Minnith, even
twenty cities, and unto the plain of the vineyards, with a very great
slaughter. Thus the children of Ammon were subdued before the children
of Israel.

34."And Jephthah came to Mizpeh unto his house, and behold, his daughter
came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances; and she was his only
child; beside her he had neither son nor daughter.

35. "And it came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and
said, Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one
of them that trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I
cannot go back....

39. "And it came to pass at the end of two months, that she returned
unto her father, who did with her according to his vow which he had
vowed."—_Judges xi._

Is there in the history of the world a sadder thing than this? What can
we think of a father who would sacrifice his daughter to a demon God?
And what can we think of a God who would accept such a sacrifice? Can
such a God be worthy of the worship of man? I plead for the rights of
children. I plead for the government of kindness and love. I plead
for the republic of home, the democracy of the fireside. I plead for
affection. And for this I am pursued by invective. For this I am called
a fiend, a devil, a monster, by Christian editors and clergymen,
by those who pretend to love their enemies and pray for those that
despitefully use them.

Allow me to give you another instance of affection related in the
Scriptures. There was, it seems, a most excellent man by the name of
Job. The Lord was walking up and down, and happening to meet Satan, said
to him: "Are you acquainted with my servant Job? Have you noticed what
an excellent man he is?" And Satan replied to him and said: "Why should
he not be an excellent man—you have given him everything he wants? Take
from him what he has and he will curse you." And thereupon the Lord gave
Satan the power to destroy the property and children of Job. In a little
while these high contracting parties met again; and the Lord seemed
somewhat elated with his success, and called again the attention of
Satan to the sinlessness of Job. Satan then told him to touch his body
and he would curse him. And thereupon power was given to Satan over the
body of Job, and he covered his body with boils. Yet in all this, Job
did not sin with his lips.

This book seems to have been written to show the excellence of patience,
and to prove that at last God will reward all who will bear the
afflictions of heaven with fortitude and without complaint. The sons and
daughters of Job had been slain, and then the Lord, in order to reward
Job, gave him other children, other sons and other daughters—not the
same ones he had lost; but others. And this, according to the writer,
made ample amends. Is that the idea we now have of love? If I have a
child, no matter how deformed that child may be, and if it dies, nobody
can make the loss to me good by bringing a more beautiful child. I want
the one I loved and the one I lost.

## The Gallantry of God

VII.

I HAVE said that the Bible is a barbarous book; that it has no respect
for the rights of woman. Now I propose to prove it. It takes something
besides epithets and invectives to prove or disprove anything. Let us
see what the sacred volume says concerning the mothers and daughters of
the human race.

A man who does not in his heart of hearts respect woman, who has not
there an altar at which he worships the memory of mother, is less than a
man.

11. "Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection.

12. "But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the
man, but to be in silence."

The reason given for this, and the only reason that occurred to the
sacred writer, was:

13. "For Adam was first formed, then Eve.

14. "And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the
transgression.

15. "Notwithstanding, she shall be saved in child-bearing, if they
continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety."—_1 Tim. ii._

3. "But I would have you know, that the head of every man is Christ; and
the head of the woman is the man; and the head of Christ is God."

That is to say, the woman sustains the same relation to the man that man
does to Christ, and man sustains the same relation to Christ that Christ
does to God.

This places the woman infinitely below the man. And yet this barbarous
idiocy is regarded as divinely inspired. How can any woman look other
than with contempt upon such passages? How can any woman believe that
this is the will of a most merciful God?

7. "For a man, indeed, ought not to cover his head, forasmuch as he is
the image and glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man."

And this is justified from the remarkable fact set forth in the next
verse:

8. "For the man is not of the woman; but the woman of the man."

This same chivalric gentleman also says:

9. "Neither was the man created for the woman; but the woman for the
man."—_1 Cor. xi._

22. "Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the
Lord."

Is it possible for abject obedience to go beyond this?

23. "For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head
of the Church, and he is the saviour of the body.

24. "Therefore, as the Church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives
be to their own husbands in everything."—_Eph. v._

Even the Savior did not put man and woman upon an equality. A man could
divorce his wife, but the wife could not divorce her husband.

Every noble woman should hold such apostles and such ideas in contempt.
According to the Old Testament, woman had to ask pardon and had to be
purified from the crime of having born sons and daughters. To make love
and maternity crimes is infamous.

10. "When thou goest forth to war against thine enemies, and the Lord
thy God hath delivered them into thine hands, and thou hast taken them
captive,

11. "And seest among the captives a beautiful woman, and hast a desire
unto her, that thou wouldest have her to thy wife,

12. "Then thou shalt bring her home to thy house; and she shall shave
her head, and pare her nails."—_Deut. xxi_.

This is barbarism, no matter whether it came from heaven or from hell,
from a God or from a devil, from the golden streets of the New Jerusalem
or from the very Sodom of perdition. It is barbarism complete and utter.

## Does the Bible Sanction Polygamy and Concubinage

VIII.

READ the infamous order of Moses in the 31st chapter of Numbers—an
order unfit to be reproduced in print—an order which I am unwilling
to repeat. Read the 31 st chapter of Exodus. Read the 21 st chapter of
Deuteronomy. Read the-life of Abraham, of David, of Solomon, of
Jacob, and then tell me the sacred Bible does not teach polygamy and
concubinage. All the languages of the world are insufficient to express
the filth of polygamy. It makes man a beast—woman a slave. It destroys
the fireside. It makes virtue an outcast. It makes home a lair of wild
beasts. It is the infamy of infamies. Yet this is the doctrine of the
Bible—a doctrine defended even by Luther and Melancthon. It is by the
Bible that Brigham Young justifies the practice of this beastly horror.
It takes from language those sweetest words, husband, wife, father
mother, child and lover. It takes us back to the barbarism of animals,
and leaves the heart a den in which crawl and hiss the slimy serpents
of loathsome lust. Yet the book justifying this infamy is the book upon
which rests the civilization of the nineteenth century. And because I
denounce this frightful thing, the clergy denounce me as a demon, and
the infamous _Christian Advocate_ says that the moral sentiment of
this State ought to denounce this Illinois Catiline for his blasphemous
utterances and for his base and debasing scurrility.

## Does the Bible Uphold and Justify Political Tyranny

IX.

FOR my part, I insist that man has not only the capacity, but the right
to govern himself. All political authority is vested in the people
themselves, They have the right to select their officers and agents,
and these officers and agents are responsible to the people. Political
authority does not come from the clouds. Man should not be governed by
the aristocracy of the air. The Bible is not a Republican or Democratic
book. Exactly the opposite doctrine is taught. From that volume we learn
that the people have no power whatever; that all power and political
authority comes from on high, and that all the kings, all the potentates
and powers, have been ordained of God; that all the ignorant and cruel
kings have been placed upon the world's thrones by the direct act of
Deity. The Scriptures teach us that the common people have but one
duty—the duty of obedience. Let me read to you some of the political
ideas in the great "Magna Charta" of human liberty.

1. "Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no
power but of God; the powers that be are ordained of God.

2. "Whosoever, therefore, resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance
of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation."

According to this, George III. was ordained of God. He was King of Great
Britian by divine right, and by divine right was the lawful King of the
American Colonies. The leaders in the Revolutionary struggle resisted
the power, and according to these passages, resisted the ordinances of
God; and for that resistance they are promised the eternal recompense of
damnation.

3. "For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to the evil. Wilt
thou then not be afraid of the power? do that which is good, and thou
shalt have praise of the same....

5. "Wherefore, ye must needs be subject, not only for wrath, but also
for conscience sake.

6. "For, for this cause pay ye tribute also; for they are God's
ministers, attending continually upon this very thing."—_Romans, xiii._

13. "Submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the Lord's sake;
whether it be to the king as supreme.

14. "Or unto governors, as unto them that are sent by him for the
punishment of evil-doers, and for the praise of them that do well.

15. "For so is the will of God."—_1 Pet. ii._

Had these ideas been carried out, political progress in the world would
have been impossible. Upon the necks of the people still would have been
the feet of kings. I deny this wretched, this infamous doctrine.
Whether higher powers are ordained of God or not, if those higher powers
endeavor to destroy the rights of man, I for one shall resist. Whenever
and wherever the sword of rebellion is drawn in support of a human
right, I am a rebel. The despicable doctrine of submission to titled
wrong and robed injustice finds no lodgment in the brain of a man.
The real rulers are the people, and the rulers so-called are but the
servants of the people. They are not ordained of any God. All political
power comes from and belongs to man. Upon these texts of Scripture rest
the thrones of Europe. For fifteen hundred years these verses have been
repeated by brainless kings and heardess priests. For fifteen hundred
years each one of these texts has been a bastile in which has been
imprisoned the pioneers of progress. Each one of these texts has been
an obstruction on the highway of humanity. Each one has been a
fortification behind which have crouched the sainted hypocrites and the
titled robbers. According to these texts, a robber gets his right to rob
from God. And it is the duty of the robbed to submit. The thief gets his
right to steal from God. The king gets his right to trample upon human
liberty from God. I say, fight the king—fight the priest.

## The Religious Liberty of God

X.

THE Bible denounces religious liberty. After covering the world with
blood, after having made it almost hollow with graves, Christians
are beginning to say that men have a right to differ upon religious
questions provided the questions about which they differ are not
considered of great importance. The motto of the Evangelical Alliance
is: "In non-essentials, Liberty; in essentials, Unity."

The Christian world have condescended to say that upon all non-essential
points we shall have the right to think for ourselves; but upon matters
of the least importance, they will think and speak for us. In this they
are consistent. They but follow the teachings of the God they worship.
They but adhere to the precepts and commands of the sacred Scriptures.
Within that volume there is no such thing as religious toleration.
Within that volume there is not one particle of mercy for an
unbeliever. For all who think for themselves, for all who are the owners
of their own souls, there are threatenings, curses and anathemas. Any
Christian who to-day exercises the least toleration is to that extent
false to his religion. Let us see what the "Magna Charta" of liberty
says upon this subject:

6. "If thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy son, or thy daughter,
or the wife of thy bosom, or thy friend, which is as thine own soul,
entice thee secretly, saying, Let us go and serve other gods, which thou
hast not known, thou, nor thy fathers.

7. "Namely of the gods of the people which are round about you, nigh
unto thee, or afar off from thee, from the one end of the earth even
unto the other end of the earth.

8. "Thou shalt not consent unto him; nor hearken unto him; neither shall
thine eye pity him; neither shalt thou spare, neither shalt thou conceal
him.

9. "But thou shalt surely kill him; thine hand shall be first upon him
to put him to death, and afterwards the hand of all the people.

10. "And thou shalt stone him with stones, that he die; because he hath
sought to thrust thee away from the Lord thy God, which brought thee out
of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage."—_Deut. xiii._

That is the religious liberty of the Bible. If the wife of your bosom
had said, "I like the religion of India better than the religion of
Palestine," it was then your duty to kill her, and the merciful Most
High—understand me, I do not believe in any merciful Most High—said:

"Thou shalt not pity her but thou shalt surely kill; thy hand shall be
the first upon her to put her to death."

This I denounce as infamously infamous. If it is necessary to believe
in such a God, if it is necessary to adore such a Deity in order to be
saved, I will take my part joyfully in perdition. Let me read you a few
more extracts from the "Magna Charta" of human liberty.

2. "If there be found among you, within any of thy gates which the Lord
thy God giveth thee, man or woman that hath wrought wickedness in the
sight of the Lord thy God, in transgressing his covenant,

3. "And hath gone and served other gods, and worshipped them, either the
sun, or moon, or any of the host of heaven, which I have not commanded.

4. "And it be told thee, and thou hast heard of it, and enquired
diligently, and behold, it be true, and the thing certain, that such
abomination is wrought in Israel.

5. "Then shalt thou bring forth that man, or that woman, which have
committed that wicked thing, unto thy gates, even that man or that
woman, and shalt stone them with stones till they die."

Under this law if the woman you loved had said: "Let us worship the sun;
I am tired of this jealous and bloodthirsty Jehovah; let us worship the
sun; let us kneel to it as it rises over the hills, filling the world
with light and love, when the dawn stands jocund on the mountain's misty
top; it is the sun whose beams illumine and cover the earth with verdure
and with beauty; it is the sun that covers the trees with leaves, that
carpets the earth with grass and adorns the world with flowers; I adore
the sun because in its light I have seen your eyes; it has given to
me the face of my babe; it has clothed my life with joy; let us in
gratitude fall down and worship the glorious beams of the sun."

For this offence she deserved not only death, but death at your hands:

"Thine eye shall not pity her; neither shalt thou spare; neither shalt
thou conceal her.

"But thou shalt surely kill her: thy hand shall be the first upon her to
put her to death, and afterwards the hand of all the people.

"And thou shalt stone her with stones that she die."

For my part I had a thousand times rather worship the sun than a God who
would make such a law or give such a command. This you may say is the
doctrine of the Old Testament—what is the doctrine of the New?

"He that believes and is baptized shall be saved; and he that believeth
not shall be damned."

That is the religious liberty of the New Testament. That is the "tidings
of great joy."

Every one of these words has been a chain upon the limbs, a whip upon
the backs of men. Every one has been a fagot. Every one has been a
sword. Every one has been a dungeon, a scaffold, a rack. Every one has
been a fountain of tears. These words have filled the hearts of men with
hatred. These words invented all the instruments of torture. These words
covered the earth with blood.

For the sake of argument, suppose that the Bible is an inspired book.
If then, as is contended, God gave these frightful laws commanding
religious intolerance to his chosen people, and afterward this same God
took upon himself flesh, and came among the Jews and taught a different
religion, and they crucified him, did he not reap what he had sown?

## Does the Bible Describe a God of Mercy

XI.

IS it possible to conceive of a more jealous, revengeful, changeable,
unjust, unreasonable, cruel being than the Jehovah of the Hebrews? Is
it possible to read the words said to have been spoken by this Deity,
without a shudder? Is it possible to contemplate his character without
hatred?

"I will make mine arrows drunk with blood and my sword shall devour
flesh."—_Deut. xxxii._

Is this the language of an infinitely kind and tender parent to his
weak, his wandering and suffering children?

"Thy foot may be dipped in the blood of thine enemies, and the tongue of
thy dogs in the same." _Psalms, lxviii._

Is it possible that a God takes delight in seeing dogs lap the blood of
his children?

22. "And the Lord thy God will put out those nations before thee by
little and little; thou mayest not consume them at once, lest the beasts
of the field increase upon thee.

23. "But the Lord thy God shall deliver them unto thee, and shall
destroy them with a mighty destruction, until they be destroyed.

24. "And he shall deliver their kings into thine hand, and thou shalt
destroy their name from under heaven; there shall no man be able to
stand before thee, until thou have destroyed them."—_Deut. vii._

If these words had proceeded from the mouth of a demon, if they had been
spoken by some enraged and infinitely malicious fiend, I should not have
been surprised. But these things are attributed to a God of infinite
mercy.

40. "So Joshua smote all the country of the hills, and of the south,
and of the vale, and of the springs, and all their kings; he left none
remaining, but utterly destroyed all that breathed, as the Lord God of
Israel commanded."—_Josh, x._

14. "And all the spoil of these cities, and the cattle, the children of
Israel took for a prey unto themselves; but every man they smote with
the edge of the sword until they had destroyed them, neither left they
any to breathe."—_Josh. xi._

19. "There was not a city that made peace with the children of Israel,
save the Hivites, the inhabitants of Gibeon; all other they took in
battle.

20. "For it was of the Lord to harden their hearts that they should come
against Israel in battle, that he might destroy them utterly, and that
they might have no favor, but that he might destroy them, as the Lord
commanded Moses."—_Josh. xi._

There are no words in our language with which to express the indignation
I feel when reading these cruel and heartless words.

"When thou comest nigh unto a city to fight against it, then proclaim
peace unto it. And it shall be if it make thee answer of peace, and
open unto thee, then it shall be that all the people therein shall be
tributaries unto thee, and they shall serve thee. And if it will make no
peace with thee, but will make war against thee, then thou shalt besiege
it. And when the Lord thy God hath delivered it into thy hands, thou
shalt smite every male thereof with the sword. But the women, _and the
little ones_, and the cattle, and all that is in the city, even the
spoil thereof, shalt thou take unto thyself, and thou shalt eat the
spoil of thine enemies, which the Lord thy God hath given thee.

"Thus shalt thou do unto all the cities which are very far off from
thee, which are not of the cities of these nations. But of the cities of
these people which the Lord thy God doth give thee for an inheritance,
thou shalt save alive nothing that breatheth."

These terrible instructions were given to an army of invasion. The men
who were thus ruthlessly murdered were fighting for their homes, their
firesides, for their wives and for their little children. Yet these
things, by the clergy of San Francisco, are called acts of sublime
mercy.

All this is justified by the doctrine of the survival of the fittest.
The Old Testament is filled with anathemas, with curses, with words of
vengeance, of revenge, of jealousy, of hatred and of almost infinite
brutality. Do not, I pray you, pluck from the heart the sweet flower
of pity and trample it in the bloody dust of superstition. Do not, I
beseech you, justify the murder of women, the assassination of dimpled
babes. Do not let the gaze of the gorgon of superstition turn your
hearts to stone.

Is there an intelligent Christian in the world who would not with joy
and gladness receive conclusive testimony to the effect that all the
passages in the Bible upholding and sustaining polygamy and concubinage,
political tyranny, the subjection of woman, the enslavement of children,
establishing domestic and political tyranny, and that all the commands
to destroy men, women and children, are but interpolations of kings
and priests, made for the purpose of subjugating mankind through the
instrumentality of fear? Is there a Christian in the world who would
not think vastly more of the Bible if all these infamous things were
eliminated from it?

Surely the good things in that book are not rendered more sacred from
the fact that in the same volume are found the frightful passages I have
quoted. In my judgment the Bible should be read and studied precisely as
we read and study any book whatever. The good in it should be preserved
and cherished, and that which shocks the human heart should be cast
aside forever.

While the Old Testament threatens men, women and children with disease,
famine, war, pestilence and death, there are no threatenings of
punishment beyond this life. The doctrine of eternal punishment is a
dogma of the New Testament. This doctrine, the most cruel, the most
infamous of which the human mind can conceive, is taught, if taught at
all, in the Bible—in the New Testament. One cannot imagine what the
human heart has suffered by reason of the frightful doctrine of eternal
damnation. It is a doctrine so abhorrent to every drop of my blood, so
infinitely cruel, that it is impossible for me to respect either the
head or heart of any human being who teaches or fears it. This
doctrine necessarily subverts all ideas of justice. To inflict infinite
punishment for finite crimes, or rather for crimes committed by finite
beings, is a proposition so monstrous that I am astonished it ever
found lodgment in the brain of man. Whoever says that we can be happy in
heaven while those we loved on earth are suffering infinite torments in
eternal fire, defames and calumniates the human heart.

## The Plan of Salvation

XII.

WE are told, however, that a way has been provided for the salvation
of all men, and that in this plan the infinite mercy of God is made
manifest to the children of men. According to the great scheme of the
atonement, the innocent suffers for the guilty in order to satisfy a
law. What kind of law must it be that is satisfied with the agony of
innocence? Who made this law? If God made it he must have known that the
innocent would have to suffer as a consequence. The whole scheme is
to me a medley of contradictions, impossibilities and theological
conclusions. We are told that if Adam and Eve had not sinned in the
Garden of Eden death never would have entered the world. We are further
informed that had it not been for the devil, Adam and Eve would not
have been led astray; and if they had not, as I said before, death
never would have touched with its icy hand the human heart. If our first
parents had never sinned, and death never had entered the world, you and
I never would have existed. The earth would have been filled thousands
of generations before you and I were born. At the feast of life, death
made seats vacant for us. According to this doctrine, we are indebted
to the devil for our existence. Had he not tempted Eve—no sin. If there
had been no sin—no death. If there had been no death the world would
have been filled ages before you and I were born. Therefore, we owe our
existence to the devil. We are further informed that as a consequence of
original sin the scheme called the atonement became necessary; and that
if the Savior had not taken upon himself flesh and come to this atom
called the earth, and if he had not been crucified for us, we should all
have been cast forever into hell. Had it not been for the bigotry of
the Jews and the treachery of Judas Iscariot, Christ would not have been
crucified; and if he had not been crucified, all of us would have had
our portion in the lake that burneth with eternal fire.

According to this great doctrine, according to this vast and most
wonderful scheme, we owe, as I said before, our existence to the devil,
our salvation to Judas Iscariot and the bigotry of the Jews.

So far as I am concerned, I fail to see any mercy in the plan of
salvation. Is it mercy to reward a man forever in consideration of
believing a certain thing, of the truth of which there is, to his mind,
ample testimony? Is it mercy to punish a man with eternal fire simply
because there is not testimony enough to satisfy his mind? Can there be
such a thing as mercy in eternal punishment?

And yet this same Deity says to me, "resist not evil; pray for those
that despitefully use you; love your enemies, but I will eternally damn
mine." It seems to me that even gods should practice what they preach.

All atonement, after all, is a kind of moral bankruptcy. Under its
provisions, man is allowed the luxury of sinning upon a credit. Whenever
he is guilty of a wicked action he says, "charge it." This kind of
bookkeeping, in my judgment, tends to breed extravagance in sin.

The truth is, most Christians are better than their creeds; most creeds
are better than the Bible, and most men are better than their God.

## Other Religions

XIII.

WE must remember that ours is not the only religion. Man has in all ages
endeavored to answer the great questions Whence? and Whither? He has
endeavored to read his destiny in the stars, to pluck the secret of
his existence from the night. He has questioned the spectres of his own
imagination. He has explored the mysterious avenues of dreams. He
has peopled the heavens with spirits. He has mistaken his visions for
realities. In the twilight of ignorance he has mistaken shadows
for gods. In all ages he has been the slave of misery, the dupe of
superstition and the fool of hope. He has suffered and aspired.

Religion is a thing of growth, of development. As we advance we throw
aside the grosser and absurder forms of faith—practically at first by
ceasing to observe them, and lastly, by denying them altogether. Every
church necessarily by its constitution endeavors to prevent this natural
growth or development. What has happened to other religions must happen
to ours. Ours is not superior to many that have passed, or are passing
away. Other religions have been lived for and died for by men as noble
as ours can boast. Their dogmas and doctrines have, to say the least,
been as reasonable, as full of spiritual grandeur, as ours.

Man has had beautiful thoughts. Man has tried to solve these questions
in all the countries of the world, and I respect all such men and women;
but let me tell you one little thing. I want to show you that in other
countries there is something.

The Parsee sect of Persia say: A Persian saint ascended the three stairs
that lead to heaven's gate, and knocked; a voice said: "Who is there?"
"Thy servant, O God!" But the gates would not open. For seven years he
did every act of kindness; again he came, and the voice said: "Who is
there?" And he replied: "Thy slave, O God!" Yet the gates were shut. Yet
seven other years of kindness, and the man again knocked; and the voice
cried and said: "Who is there?" "Thyself, O God!" And the gates wide
open flew.

I say there is no more beautiful Christian poem than this.

A Persian after having read our religion, with its frightful
descriptions of perdition, wrote these words: "Two angels flying out
from the blissful city of God—the angel of love and the angel of
pity—hovered over the eternal pit where suffered the captives of
hell. One smile of love illumined the darkness and one tear of pity
extinguished all the fires." Has orthodoxy produced anything as
generously beautiful as this? Let me read you this: Sectarians, hear
this: Believers in eternal damnation, hear this: Clergy of America who
expect to have your happiness in heaven increased by seeing me burning
in hell, hear this:

This is the prayer of the Brahmins—a prayer that has trembled from
human lips toward heaven for more than four thousand years:

"Never will I seek or receive private individual salvation. Never will
I enter into final bliss alone. But forever and everywhere will I labor
and strive for the final redemption of every creature throughout all
worlds, and until all are redeemed. Never will I wrongly leave this
world to sin, sorrow and struggle, but will remain and work and suffer
where I am."

Has the orthodox religion produced a prayer like this? See the infinite
charity, not only for every soul in this world, but of all the shining
worlds of the universe. Think of that, ye parsons who imagine that a
large majority are going to eternal ruin.

Compare it with the sermons of Jonathan Edwards, and compare it with the
imprecation of Christ: "Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire prepared
for the devil and his angels;" with the ideas of Jeremy Taylor, with the
creeds of Christendom, with all the prayers of all the saints, and in no
church except the Universalist will you hear a prayer like this.

"When thou art in doubt as to whether an action is good or bad, abstain
from it."

Since the days of Zoroaster has there been any rule for human conduct
given superior to this?

Are the principles taught by us superior to those of Confucius? He was
asked if there was any single word comprising the duties of man. He
replied: "Reciprocity." Upon being asked what he thought of the
doctrine of returning benefits for injuries, he replied: "That is not
my doctrine. If you return benefits for injuries what do you propose
for benefits? My doctrine is; For benefits return benefits; for injuries
return justice without any admixture of revenge."

To return good for evil is to pay a premium upon wickedness. I cannot
put a man under obligation to do me a favor by doing him an injury.

Now, to-day, right now, what is the church doing? What is it doing, I
ask you honestly? Does it satisfy the craving hearts of the nineteenth
century? Are we satisfied? I am not saying this except from the honesty
of my heart. Are we satisfied? Is it a consolation to us now? Is it
even a consolation when those we love die? The dead are so near and the
promises are so far away. It is covered with the rubbish of the past.
I ask you, is it all that is demanded by the brain and heart of the
nineteenth century?

We want something better; we want something grander; we want
something that has more brain in it, and more heart in it. We want to
advance—that is what we want; and you cannot advance without being a
heretic—you cannot do it.

Nearly all these religions have been upheld by persecution and
bloodshed. They have been rendered stable by putting fetters upon the
human brain. They have all, however, been perfectly natural productions,
and under similar circumstances would all be reproduced. Only by
intellectual development are the old superstitions outgrown. As only
the few intellectually advance, the majority is left on the side of
superstition, and remains there until the advanced ideas of the few
thinkers become general; and by that time there are other thinkers still
in advance.

And so the work of development and growth slowly and painfully proceeds
from age to age. The pioneers are denounced as heretics, and the
heretics denounce their denouncers as the disciples of superstition
and ignorance. Christ was a heretic. Herod was orthodox. Socrates was a
blasphemer. Anytus worshiped all the gods. Luther was a skeptic, while
the sellers of indulgences were the best of Catholics. Roger Williams
was a heretic, while the Puritans who drove him from Massachusetts were
all orthodox. Every step in advance in the religious history of the
world has been taken by heretics. No superstition has been destroyed
except by a heretic. No creed has been bettered except by a heretic.
Heretic is the name that the orthodox laggard hurls at the disappearing
pioneer. It is shouted by the dwellers in swamps to the people upon the
hills. It is the opinion that midnight entertains of the dawn. It is
what the rotting says of the growing. Heretic is the name that a stench
gives to a perfume.

With this word the coffin salutes the cradle. It is taken from the lips
of the dead. Orthodoxy is a shroud—heresy is a banner. Orthodoxy is
an epitaph—heresy is a prophecy. Orthodoxy is a cloud, a fog, a
mist—heresy the star shining forever above the child of truth.

I am a believer in the eternity of progress. I do not believe that Want
will forever extend its withered hand, its wan and shriveled palms, for
charity. I do not believe that the children will forever be governed by
cruelty and brute force. I do not believe that poverty will dwell with
man forever. I do not believe that prisons will forever cover the earth,
or that the shadow of the gallows will forever fall upon the ground. I
do not believe that injustice will sit forever upon the bench, or that
malice and superstition will forever stand in the pulpit.

I believe the time will come when there will be charity in every heart,
when there will be love in every family, and when law and liberty and
justice, like the atmosphere, will surround this world.

We have worshiped the ghosts long enough. We have prostrated ourselves
before the ignorance of the past.

Let us stand erect and look with hopeful eyes toward the brightening
future. Let us stand by our convictions. Let us not throw away our idea
of justice for the sake of any book or of any religion whatever. Let us
live according to our highest and noblest and purest ideal.

By this time we should know that the real Bible has not been written.

The real Bible is not the work of inspired men, or prophets, or
apostles, or evangelists, or of Christs.

Every man who finds a fact, adds, as it were, a word to this great
book. It is not attested by prophecy, by miracles, or signs. It makes
no appeal to faith, to ignorance, to credulity or fear. It has no
punishment for unbelief, and no reward for hypocrisy. It appeals to man
in the name of demonstration. It has nothing to conceal. It has no
fear of being read, of being contradicted, of being investigated and
understood. It does not pretend to be holy, or sacred; it simply claims
to be true. It challenges the scrutiny of all, and implores every reader
to verify every line for himself. It is incapable of being blasphemed.
This book appeals to all the surroundings of man. Each thing that exists
testifies to its perfection. The earth, with its heart of fire and
crowns of snow; with its forests and plains, its rocks and seas; with
its every wave and cloud; with its every leaf and bud and flower,
confirms its every word, and the solemn stars, shining in the infinite
abysses, are the eternal witnesses of its truth.

Ladies and gentlemen you cannot tell how I thank you this evening; you
cannot tell how I feel toward the intellectual hospitality of this great
city by the Pacific sea. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you—I thank you
again and again, a thousand times.
---
# Suicide of Judge Normile
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1892_
> *A reply to the Western Watchman, published in the St. Louis
> Globe Democrat, Sept. 1, 1892.

_Question_. Have you read an article in the _Western Watchman_, entitled
"Suicide of Judge Normile"? If so, what is your opinion of it?

_Answer._ I have read the article, and I think the spirit in which it
is written is in exact accord with the creed, with the belief, that
prompted it.

In this article the writer speaks not only of Judge Normile, but of
Henry D'Arcy, and begins by saying that a Catholic community had been
shocked, but that as a matter of fact the Catholics had no right "to
feel special concern in the life or death of either," for the reason,
"that both had ceased to be Catholics, and had lived as infidels and
scoffers."

According to the Catholic creed all infidels and scoffers are on
the direct road to eternal pain; and yet, if the _Watchman_ is to be
believed, Catholics have no right to have special concern for the fate
of such people, even after their death.

The church has always proclaimed that it was seeking the lost—that
it was trying in every way to convert the infidels and save the
scoffers—that it cared less for the ninety-nine sheep safe in the fold
than for the one that had strayed. We have been told that God so loved
infidels and scoffers, that he came to this poor world and gave his life
that they might be saved. But now we are told by the _Western Watchman_
that the church, said to have been founded by Christ, has no right to
feel any special concern about the fate of infidels and scoffers.

Possibly the _Watchman_ only refers to the infidels and scoffers who
were once Catholics.

If the New Testament is true, St. Peter was at one time a Christian;
that is to say, a good Catholic, and yet he fell from grace and not only
denied his Master, but went to the extent of swearing that he did not
know him; that he never had made his acquaintance. And yet, this same
Peter was taken back and became the rock on which the Catholic Church is
supposed to rest.

Are the Catholics of St. Louis following the example of Christ, when
they publicly declare that they care nothing for the fate of one who
left the church and who died in his sins?

The _Watchman_, in order to show that it was simply doing its duty, and
was not actuated by hatred or malice, assures us as follows: "A warm
personal friendship existed between D'Arcy and Normile and the managers
of this paper." What would the _Watchman_ have said if these men had
been the personal enemies of the managers of that paper? Two warm
personal friends, once Catholics, had gone to hell; but the managers
of the _Watchman_, "warm personal friends" of the dead, had no right to
feel any special concern about these friends in the flames of perdition.
One would think that pity had changed to piety.

Another wonderful statement is that "both of these men determined to go
to hell, if there was a hell, and to forego the joys of heaven, if there
was a heaven."

Admitting that heaven and hell exist, that heaven is a good place, and
that hell, to say the least, is, and eternally will be, unpleasant, why
should any sane man unalterably determine to go to hell? It is hard to
think of any reason, unless he was afraid of meeting those Catholics in
heaven who had been his "warm personal friends" in this world. The truth
is that no one wishes to be unhappy in this or any other country. The
truth is that Henry D'Arcy and Judge Normile both became convinced that
the Catholic Church is of human origin, that its creed is not true, that
it is the enemy of progress, and the foe of freedom. It may be that
they were in part led to these conclusions by the conduct of their "warm
personal friends."

It is claimed that these men, Henry D'Arcy and Judge Normile "studied"
to convince themselves "that there was no God, that they went back to
Paganism and lived among the ancients," and "that they soon revelled
in the grossness of Paganism." If they went back to Paganism, they
certainly found plenty of gods. The Pagans filled heaven and earth with
deities. The Catholics have only three, while the Pagans had hundreds.
And yet there were some very good Pagans. By associating with Socrates
and Plato one would not necessarily become a groveling wretch. Zeno was
not altogether abominable. He would compare favorably, at least, with
the average pope. Aristotle was not entirely despicable, although wrong,
it may be, in many things. Epicurus was temperate, frugal and serene. He
perceived the beauty of use, and celebrated the marriage of virtue and
joy. He did not teach his disciples to revel in grossness, although his
maligners have made this charge. Cicero was a Pagan, and yet he uttered
some very sublime and generous sentiments. Among other things, he said
this: "When we say that we should love Romans, but not foreigners, we
destroy the bond of universal brotherhood and drive from our hearts
charity and justice."

Suppose a Pagan had written about "two warm personal friends" of his,
who had joined the Catholic Church, and suppose he had said this:
"Although our two warm personal friends have both died by their own
hands, and although both have gone to the lowest hell, and are now
suffering inconceivable agonies, we have no right to feel any special
concern about them or about their sufferings; and, to speak frankly, we
care nothing for their agonies, nothing for their tears, and we mention
them only to keep other Pagans from joining that blasphemous and
ignorant church. Both of our friends were raised as Pagans, both were
educated in our holy religion, and both had read the works of our
greatest and wisest authors, and yet they fell into apostasy, and
studied day and night, in season and out of season, to convince
themselves that a young carpenter of Palestine was in fact, Jupiter,
whom we call Stator, the creator, the sustainer and governor of all."

It is probable that the editor of the _Watchman_ was perfectly
conscientious in his attack on the dead. Nothing but a sense of
religious duty could induce any man to attack the character of a "warm
personal friend," and to say that although the friend was in hell, he
felt no special concern as to his fate.

The _Watchman_ seems to think that it is hardly probable or possible
that a sane Catholic should become an infidel. People of every religion
feel substantially in this way. It is probable that the Mohammedan is
of the opinion that no sane believer in the religion of Islam could
possibly become a Catholic. Probably there are no sane Mohammedans. I do
not know.

Now, it seems to me, that when a sane Catholic reads the history of
his church, of the Inquisition, of centuries of flame and sword, of
philosophers and thinkers tortured, flayed and burned by the "Bride of
God," and of all the cruelties of Christian years, he may reasonably
come to the conclusion that the Church of Rome is not the best possible
church in this, the best possible of all worlds.

It would hardly impeach his sanity if, after reading the history of
superstition, he should denounce the Hierarchy, from priest to pope. The
truth is, the real opinions of all men are perfectly honest no matter
whether they are for or against the Catholic creed. All intelligent
people are intellectually hospitable. Every man who knows something of
the operations of his own mind is absolutely certain that his wish has
not, to his knowledge, influenced his judgment. He may admit that his
wish has influenced his speech, but he must certainly know that it has
not affected his judgment.

In other words, a man cannot cheat himself in a game of solitaire and
really believe that he has won the game. No matter what the appearance
of the cards may be, he knows whether the game was lost or won. So, men
may say that their judgment is a certain way, and they may so affirm in
accordance with their wish, but neither the wish, nor the declaration
can affect the real judgment. So, a man must know whether he believes a
certain creed or not, or, at least, what the real state of his mind
is. When a man tells me that he believes in the supernatural, in the
miraculous, and in the inspiration of the Scriptures, I take it for
granted that he is telling the truth, although it seems impossible to me
that the man could reach that conclusion. When another tells me that he
does not know whether there is a Supreme Being or not, but that he does
not believe in the supernatural, and is perfectly satisfied that the
Scriptures are for the most part false and barbarous, I implicitly
believe every word he says.

I admit cheerfully that there are many millions of men and women who
believe what to me seems impossible and infinitely absurd; and,
undoubtedly, what I believe seems to them equally impossible.

Let us give to others the liberty which we claim for ourselves.

The _Watchman_ seems to think that unbelief, especially when coupled
with what they call "the sins of the flesh," is the lowest possible
depth, and tells us that "robbers may be devout," "murderers penitent,"
and "drunkards reverential."

In some of these statements the _Watchman_ is probably correct. There
have been "devout robbers." There have been gentlemen of the highway,
agents of the road, who carried sacred images, who bowed, at holy
shrines for the purpose of securing success. For many centuries the
devout Catholics robbed the Jews. The devout Ferdinand and Isabella
were great robbers. A great many popes have indulged in this theological
pastime, not to speak of the rank and file. Yes, the _Watchman_ is
right. There is nothing in robbery that necessarily interferes with
devotion.

There have been penitent murderers, and most murderers, unless impelled
by a religious sense of duty to God, have been penitent. David, with
dying breath, advised his son to murder the old friends of his father.
He certainly was not penitent. Undoubtedly Torquemada murdered without
remorse, and Calvin burned his "warm personal friend" to gain the
applause of God. Philip the Second was a murderer, not penitent, because
he deemed it his duty. The same may be said of the Duke of Alva, and of
thousands of others.

Robert Burns was not, according to his own account, strictly virtuous,
and yet I like him better than I do those who planned and carried into
bloody execution the massacre of St. Bartholomew.

Undoubtedly murderers have been penitent. A man in California cut the
throat of a woman, although she begged for mercy, saying at the same
time that she was not prepared to die. He cared nothing for her prayers.
He was tried, convicted and sentenced to death. He made a motion for
a new trial. This was denied. He appealed to the governor, but the
executive refused to interfere. Then he became penitent and experienced
religion. On the scaffold he remarked that he was going to heaven; that
his only regret was that he would not meet the woman he had murdered,
as she was not a Christian when she died. Undoubtedly murderers can be
penitent.

An old Spaniard was dying. He sent for a priest to administer the last
sacraments of the church. The priest told him that he must forgive all
his enemies. "I have no enemies," said the dying man, "I killed the last
one three weeks ago." Undoubtedly murderers can be penitent.

So, I admit that drunkards have been pious and reverential, and I might
add, honest and generous.

Some good Catholics and some good Protestants have enjoyed a hospitable
glass, and there have been priests who used the blood of the grape for
other than a sacramental purpose. Even Luther, a good Catholic in his
day, a reformer, a Doctor of Divinity, gave to the world this couplet:

> "Who loves not woman, wine and song,
> Will live a fool his whole life long."

The _Watchman_, in effect, says that a devout robber is better than an
infidel; that a penitent murderer is superior to a freethinker, in the
sight of God.

Another curious thing in this article is that after sending both men to
hell, the _Watchman_ says: "As to their moral habits we know nothing."

It may then be taken for granted, if these "warm personal friends" knew
nothing against the dead, that their lives were, at least, what the
church calls moral. We know, if we know anything, that there is no
necessary connection between what is called religion and morality.
Certainly there were millions of moral people, those who loved mercy
and dealt honestly, before the Catholic Church existed. The virtues were
well known, and practiced, before a triple crown surrounded the cunning
brain of an Italian Vicar of God, and before the flames of the _Auto da
fe_ delighted the hearts of a Christian mob. Thousands of people died
for the right, before the wrong organized the infallible church.

But why should any man deem it his duty or feel it a pleasure to say
harsh and cruel things of the dead? Why pierce the brow of death with
the thorns of hatred? Suppose the editor of the _Watchman_ had died, and
Judge Normile had been the survivor, would the infidel and scoffer have
attacked the unreplying dead?

Henry D'Arcy I did not know; but Judge Normile was my friend and I
was his. Although we met but a few times, he excited my admiration and
respect. He impressed me as being an exceedingly intelligent man, well
informed on many subjects, of varied reading, possessed of a clear and
logical mind, a poetic temperament, enjoying the beautiful things in
literature and art, and the noble things in life. He gave his opinions
freely, but without the least arrogance, and seemed perfectly willing
that others should enjoy the privilege of differing with him. He was, so
far as I could perceive, a gentleman, tender of the feelings of others,
free and manly in his bearing, "of most excellent fancy," and a most
charming and agreeable companion.

According, however, to the _Watchman_, such a man is far below a "devout
robber" or a "penitent murderer." Is it possible that an assassin like
Ravillac is far better than a philosopher like Voltaire; and that all
the Catholic robbers and murderers who retain their faith, give greater
delight to God than the Humboldts, Haeckels and Darwins who have filled
the world with intellectual light?

Possibly the Catholic Church is mistaken. Possibly the _Watchman_ is in
error, and possibly there may be for the erring, even in another world,
some asylum besides hell.

Judge Normile died by his own hand. Certainly he was not afraid of
the future. He was not appalled by death. He died by his own hand. Can
anything be more pitiful—more terrible? How can a man in the flowing
tide and noon of life destroy himself? What storms there must have
been within the brain; what tempests must have raved and wrecked; what
lightnings blinded and revealed; what hurrying clouds obscured and hid
the stars; what monstrous shapes emerged from gloom; what darkness fell
upon the day; what visions filled the night; how the light failed; how
paths were lost; how highways disappeared; how chasms yawned; until one
thought—the thought of death—swift, compassionate and endless—became
the insane monarch of the mind.

Standing by the prostrate form of one who thus found death, it is far
better to pity than to revile—to kiss the clay than curse the man.

The editor of the _Watchman_ has done himself injustice. He has not
injured the dead, but the living.

I am an infidel—an unbeliever—and yet I hope that all the children of
men may find peace and joy. No matter how they leave this world, from
altar or from scaffold, crowned with virtue or stained with crime, I
hope that good may come to all.

R. G. Ingersoll.

## Is Suicide a Sin

> * These letters were published in the New York World, 1894.

Col. Ingersoll's First Letter.

I DO not know whether self-killing is on the increase or not. If it
is, then there must be, on the average, more trouble, more sorrow,
more failure, and, consequently, more people are driven to despair. In
civilized life there is a great struggle, great competition, and many
fail. To fail in a great city is like being wrecked at sea. In the
country a man has friends; he can get a little credit, a little help,
but in the city it is different. The man is lost in the multitude. In
the roar of the streets, his cry is not heard. Death becomes his only
friend. Death promises release from want, from hunger and pain, and so
the poor wretch lays down his burden, dashes it from his shoulders and
falls asleep.

To me all this seems very natural. The wonder is that so many endure and
suffer to the natural end, that so many nurse the spark of life in huts
and prisons, keep it and guard it through years of misery and want;
support it by beggary, by eating the crust found in the gutter, and to
whom it only gives days of weariness and nights of fear and dread. Why
should the man, sitting amid the wreck of all he had, the loved ones
dead, friends lost, seek to lengthen, to preserve his life? What can the
future have for him?

Under many circumstances a man has the right to kill himself. When life
is of no value to him, when he can be of no real assistance to others,
why should a man continue? When he is of no benefit, when he is a burden
to those he loves, why should he remain? The old idea was that God made
us and placed us here for a purpose and that it was our duty to remain
until he called us. The world is outgrowing this absurdity. What
pleasure can it give God to see a man devoured by a cancer; to see the
quivering flesh slowly eaten; to see the nerves throbbing with pain? Is
this a festival for God? Why should the poor wretch stay and suffer? A
little morphine would give him sleep—the agony would be forgotten and
he would pass unconsciously from happy dreams to painless death.

If God determines all births and deaths, of what use is medicine and why
should doctors defy with pills and powders, the decrees of God? No one,
except a few insane, act now according to this childish superstition.
Why should a man, surrounded by flames, in the midst of a burning
building, from which there is no escape, hesitate to put a bullet
through his brain or a dagger in his heart? Would it give God pleasure
to see him burn? When did the man lose the right of self-defence?

So, when a man has committed some awful crime, why should he stay and
ruin his family and friends? Why should he add to the injury? Why should
he live, filling his days and nights, and the days and nights of others,
with grief and pain, with agony and tears?

Why should a man sentenced to imprisonment for life hesitate to still
his heart? The grave is better than the cell. Sleep is sweeter than the
ache of toil. The dead have no masters.

So the poor girl, betrayed and deserted, the door of home closed against
her, the faces of friends averted, no hand that will help, no eye that
will soften with pity, the future an abyss filled with monstrous shapes
of dread and fear, her mind racked by fragments of thoughts like clouds
broken by storm, pursued, surrounded by the serpents of remorse, flying
from horrors too great to bear, rushes with joy through the welcome door
of death.

Undoubtedly there are many cases of perfectly justifiable suicide—cases
in which not to end life would be a mistake, sometimes almost a crime.

As to the necessity of death, each must decide for himself. And if a man
honestly decides that death is best—best for him and others—and acts
upon the decision, why should he be blamed?

Certainly the man who kills himself is not a physical coward. He may
have lacked moral courage, but not physical. It may be said that some
men fight duels because they are afraid to decline. They are between two
fires—the chance of death and the certainty of dishonor, and they take
the chance of death. So the Christian martyrs were, according to their
belief, between two fires—the flames of the fagot that could burn but
for a few moments, and the fires of God, that were eternal. And they
chose the flames of the fagot.

Men who fear death to that degree that they will bear all the pains and
pangs that nerves can feel, rather than die, cannot afford to call the
suicide a coward. It does not seem to me that Brutus was a coward or
that Seneca was. Surely Antony had nothing left to live for. Cato was
not a craven. He acted on his judgment. So with hundreds of others who
felt that they had reached the end—-that the journey was done, the
voyage was over, and, so feeling, stopped. It seems certain that the man
who commits suicide, who "does the thing that ends all other deeds,
that shackles accident and bolts up change" is not lacking in physical
courage.

If men had the courage, they would not linger in prisons, in almshouses,
in hospitals; they would not bear the pangs of incurable disease, the
stains of dishonor; they would not live in filth and want, in poverty
and hunger, neither would they wear the chain of slavery. All this can
be accounted for only by the fear of death or "of something after."

Seneca, knowing that Nero intended to take his life, had no fear. He
knew that he could defeat the Emperor. He knew that "at the bottom of
every river, in the coil of every rope, on the point of every dagger,
Liberty sat and smiled." He knew that it was his own fault if he allowed
himself to be tortured to death by his enemy. He said: "There is
this blessing, that while life has but one entrance, it has exits
innumerable, and as I choose the house in which I live, the ship in
which I will sail, so will I choose the time and manner of my death."

To me this is not cowardly, but manly and noble. Under the Roman law
persons found guilty of certain offences were not only destroyed,
but their blood was polluted and their children became outcasts. If,
however, they died before conviction their children were saved. Many
committed suicide to save their babes. Certainly they were not cowards.
Although guilty of great crimes they had enough of honor, of manhood,
left to save their innocent children. This was not cowardice.

Without doubt many suicides are caused by insanity. Men lose their
property. The fear of the future overpowers them. Things lose
proportion, they lose poise and balance, and in a flash, a gleam of
frenzy, kill themselves. The disappointed in love, broken in heart—the
light fading from their lives—seek the refuge of death.

Those who take their lives in painful, barbarous ways—who mangle their
throats with broken glass, dash themselves from towers and roofs, take
poisons that torture like the rack—such persons must be insane. But
those who take the facts into account, who weigh the arguments for and
against, and who decide that death is best—the only good—and then
resort to reasonable means, may be, so far as I can see, in full
possession of their minds.

Life is not the same to all—to some a blessing, to some a curse, to
some not much in any way. Some leave it with unspeakable regret, some
with the keenest joy and some with indifference.

Religion, or the decadence of religion, has a bearing upon the number
of suicides. The fear of God, of judgment, of eternal pain will stay the
hand, and people so believing will suffer here until relieved by natural
death. A belief in eternal agony beyond the grave will cause such
believers to suffer the pangs of this life. When there is no fear of the
future, when death is believed to be a dreamless sleep, men have
less hesitation about ending their lives. On the other hand, orthodox
religion has driven millions to insanity. It has caused parents to
murder their children and many thousands to destroy themselves and
others.

It seems probable that all real, genuine orthodox believers who kill
themselves must be insane, and to such a degree that their belief is
forgotten. God and hell are out of their minds.

I am satisfied that many who commit suicide are insane, many are in the
twilight or dusk of insanity, and many are perfectly sane.

The law we have in this State making it a crime to attempt suicide is
cruel and absurd and calculated to increase the number of successful
suicides. When a man has suffered so much, when he has been so
persecuted and pursued by disaster that he seeks the rest and sleep of
death, why should the State add to the sufferings of that man? A man
seeking death, knowing that he will be punished if he fails, will take
extra pains and precautions to make death certain.

This law was born of superstition, passed by thoughtlessness and
enforced by ignorance and cruelty.

When the house of life becomes a prison, when the horizon has shrunk and
narrowed to a cell, and when the convict longs for the liberty of death,
why should the effort to escape be regarded as a crime?

Of course, I regard life from a natural point of view. I do not take
gods, heavens or hells into account. My horizon is the known, and my
estimate of life is based upon what I know of life here in this world.
People should not suffer for the sake of supernatural beings or for
other worlds or the hopes and fears of some future state. Our joys, our
sufferings and our duties are here.

The law of New York about the attempt to commit suicide and the law
as to divorce are about equal. Both are idiotic. Law cannot prevent
suicide. Those who have lost all fear of death, care nothing for law and
its penalties. Death is liberty, absolute and eternal.

We should remember that nothing happens but the natural. Back of every
suicide and every attempt to commit suicide is the natural and efficient
cause. Nothing happens by chance. In this world the facts touch each
other. There is no space between—no room for chance. Given a certain
heart and brain, certain conditions, and suicide is the necessary
result. If we wish to prevent suicide we must change conditions. We must
by education, by invention, by art, by civilization, add to the value
of the average life. We must cultivate the brain and heart—do away with
false pride and false modesty. We must become generous enough to help
our fellows without degrading them. We must make industry—useful work
of all kinds—honorable. We must mingle a little affection with our
charity—a little fellowship. We should allow those who have sinned to
really reform. We should not think only of what the wicked have done,
but we should think of what we have wanted to do. People do not hate the
sick. Why should they despise the mentally weak—the diseased in brain?

Our actions are the fruit, the result, of circumstances—of
conditions—and we do as we must.

This great truth should fill the heart with pity for the failures of our
race.

Sometimes I have wondered that Christians denounced the suicide; that
in olden times they buried him where the roads crossed, drove a stake
through his body, and then took his property from his children and gave
it to the State.

If Christians would only think, they would see that orthodox religion
rests upon suicide—that man was redeemed by suicide, and that without
suicide the whole world would have been lost.

If Christ were God, then he had the power to protect himself from the
Jews without hurting them. But instead of using his power he allowed
them to take his life.

If a strong man should allow a few little children to hack him to death
with knives when he could easily have brushed them aside, would we not
say that he committed suicide?

There is no escape. If Christ were, in fact, God, and allowed the
Jews to kill him, then he consented to his own death—refused, though
perfectly able, to defend and protect himself, and was, in fact, a
suicide.

We cannot reform the world by law or by superstition. As long as there
shall be pain and failure, want and sorrow, agony and crime, men and
women will untie life's knot and seek the peace of death.

To the hopelessly imprisoned—to the dishonored and despised—to those
who have failed, who have no future, no hope—to the abandoned, the
brokenhearted, to those who are only remnants and fragments of men and
women—how consoling, how enchanting is the thought of death!

And even to the most fortunate, death at last is a welcome deliverer.
Death is as natural and as merciful as life. When we have journeyed
long—when we are weary—when we wish for the twilight, for the dusk,
for the cool kisses of the night—when the senses are dull—when
the pulse is faint and low—when the mists gather on the mirror
of memory—when the past is almost forgotten, the present hardly
perceived—when the future has but empty hands—death is as welcome as a
strain of music.

After all, death is not so terrible as joyless life. Next to eternal
happiness is to sleep in the soft clasp of the cool earth, disturbed by
no dream, by no thought, by no pain, by no fear, unconscious of all and
forever.

The wonder is that so many live, that in spite of rags and want, in
spite of tenement and gutter, of filth and pain, they, limp and stagger
and crawl beneath their burdens to the natural end. The wonder is
that so few of the miserable are brave enough to die—that so many are
terrified by the "something after death"—by the spectres and phantoms
of superstition.

Most people are in love with life. How they cling to it in the arctic
snows—how they struggle in the waves and currents of the sea—how they
linger in famine—how they fight disaster and despair! On the crumbling
edge of death they keep the flag flying and go down at last full of hope
and courage.

But many have not such natures. They cannot bear defeat. They are
disheartened by disaster. They lie down on the field of conflict and
give the earth their blood.

They are our unfortunate brothers and sisters. We should not curse or
blame—we should pity. On their pallid faces our tears should fall.

One of the best men I ever knew, with an affectionate wife, a charming
and loving daughter, committed suicide. He was a man of generous
impulses. His heart was loving and tender. He was conscientious, and
so sensitive that he blamed himself for having done what at the time he
thought was wise and best. He was the victim of his virtues. Let us be
merciful in our judgments.

All we can say is that the good and the bad, the loving and the
malignant, the conscientious and the vicious, the educated and the
ignorant, actuated by many motives, urged and pushed by circumstances
and conditions—sometimes in the calm of judgment, sometimes in
passion's storm and stress, sometimes in whirl and tempest of
insanity—raise their hands against themselves and desperately put out
the light of life.

Those who attempt suicide should not be punished. If they are insane
they should if possible be restored to reason; if sane, they should be
reasoned with, calmed and assisted.

R. G. Ingersoll.

## Col. Ingersoll's Reply to His Critics

IN the article written by me about suicide the ground was taken that
"under many circumstances a man has the right to kill himself."

This has been attacked with great fury by clergymen, editors and
the writers of letters. These people contend that the right of
self-destruction does not and cannot exist. They insist that life is the
gift of God, and that he only has the right to end the days of men; that
it is our duty to bear the sorrows that he sends with grateful patience.
Some have denounced suicide as the worst of crimes—worse than the
murder of another.

The first question, then, is:

Has a man under any circumstances the right to kill himself?

A man is being slowly devoured by a cancer—his agony is intense—his
suffering all that nerves can feel. His life is slowly being taken.
Is this the work of the good God? Did the compassionate God create the
cancer so that it might feed on the quiverering flesh of this victim?

This man, suffering agonies beyond the imagination to conceive, is of no
use to himself. His life is but a succession of pangs. He is of no use
to his wife, his children, his friends or society. Day after day he is
rendered unconscious by drugs that numb the nerves and put the brain to
sleep.

Has he the right to render himself unconscious? Is it proper for him to
take refuge in sleep?

If there be a good God I cannot believe that he takes pleasure in the
sufferings of men—that he gloats over the agonies of his children. If
there be a good God, he will, to the extent of his power, lessen the
evils of life.

So I insist that the man being eaten by the cancer—a burden to himself
and others, useless in every way—has the right to end his pain and pass
through happy sleep to dreamless rest.

But those who have answered me would say to this man: "It is your duty
to be devoured. The good God wishes you to suffer. Your life is the gift
of God. You hold it in trust and you have no right to end it. The cancer
is the creation of God and it is your duty to furnish it with food."

Take another case: A man is on a burning ship, the crew and the rest
of the passengers have escaped—gone in the lifeboats—and he is left
alone. In the wide horizon there is no sail, no sign of help. He cannot
swim. If he leaps into the sea he drowns, if he remains on the ship he
burns. In any event he can live but a few moments.

Those who have answered me, those who insist that under no circumstances
a man has the right to take his life, would say to this man on the deck,
"Remain where you are. It is the desire of your loving, heavenly Father
that you be clothed in flame—that you slowly roast—that your eyes be
scorched to blindness and that you die insane with pain. Your life is
not your own, only the agony is yours."

I would say to this man: Do as you wish. If you prefer drowning to
burning, leap into the sea. Between inevitable evils you have the right
of choice. You can help no one, not even God, by allowing yourself to be
burned, and you can injure no one, not even God, by choosing the easier
death.

Let us suppose another case:

A man has been captured by savages in Central Africa. He is about to
be tortured to death. His captors are going to thrust splinters of pine
into his flesh and then set them on fire. He watches them as they make
the preparations. He knows what they are about to do and what he is
about to suffer. There is no hope of rescue, of help. He has a vial of
poison. He knows that he can take it and in one moment pass beyond their
power, leaving to them only the dead body.

Is this man under obligation to keep his life because God gave it, until
the savages by torture take it? Are the savages the agents of the good
God? Are they the servants of the Infinite? Is it the duty of this man
to allow them to wrap his body in a garment of flame? Has he no right to
defend himself? Is it the will of God that he die by torture? What would
any man of ordinary intelligence do in a case like this? Is there room
for discussion?

If the man took the poison, shortened his life a few moments, escaped
the tortures of the savages, is it possible that he would in another
world be tortured forever by an infinite savage?

Suppose another case: In the good old days, when the Inquisition
flourished, when men loved their enemies and murdered their friends,
many frightful and ingenious ways were devised to touch the nerves of
pain.

Those who loved God, who had been "born twice," would take a fellow-man
who had been convicted of "heresy," lay him upon the floor of a dungeon,
secure his arms and legs with chains, fasten him to the earth so that
he could not move, put an iron vessel, the opening downward, on his
stomach, place in the vessel several rats, then tie it securely to his
body. Then these worshipers of God would wait until the rats, seeking
food and liberty, would gnaw through the body of the victim.

Now, if a man about to be subjected to this torture, had within his hand
a dagger, would it excite the wrath of the "good God," if with one quick
stroke he found the protection of death?

To this question there can be but one answer.

In the cases I have supposed it seems to me that each person would have
the right to destroy himself. It does not seem possible that the man was
under obligation to be devoured by a cancer; to remain upon the ship and
perish in flame; to throw away the poison and be tortured to death by
savages; to drop the dagger and endure the "mercies" of the church.

If, in the cases I have supposed, men would have the right to take their
lives, then I was right when I said that "under many circumstances a man
has a right to kill himself."

_Second_.—I denied that persons who killed themselves were physical
cowards. They may lack moral courage; they may exaggerate their
misfortunes, lose the sense of proportion, but the man who plunges the
dagger in his heart, who sends the bullet through his brain, who leaps
from some roof and dashes himself against the stones beneath, is not and
cannot be a physical coward.

The basis of cowardice is the fear of injury or the fear of death, and
when that fear is not only gone, but in its place is the desire to die,
no matter by what means, it is impossible that cowardice should exist.
The suicide wants the very thing that a coward fears. He seeks the very
thing that cowardice endeavors to escape.

So, the man, forced to a choice of evils, choosing the less is not a
coward, but a reasonable man.

It must be admitted that the suicide is honest with himself. He is to
bear the injury; if it be one. Certainly there is no hypocrisy, and just
as certainly there is no physical cowardice.

Is the man who takes morphine rather than be eaten to death by a cancer
a coward?

Is the man who leaps into the sea rather than be burned a coward? Is
the man that takes poison rather than be tortured to death by savages or
"Christians" a coward?

_Third_.—I also took the position that some suicides were sane; that
they acted on their best judgment, and that they were in full possession
of their minds. Now, if under some circumstances, a man has the right to
take his life, and, if, under such circumstances, he does take his life,
then it cannot be said that he was insane.

Most of the persons who have tried to answer me have taken the ground
that suicide is not only a crime, but some of them have said that it
is the greatest of crimes. Now, if it be a crime, then the suicide must
have been sane. So all persons who denounce the suicide as a criminal
admit that he was sane. Under the law, an insane person is incapable of
committing a crime. All the clergymen who have answered me, and who have
passionately asserted that suicide is a crime, have by that assertion
admitted that those who killed themselves were sane.

They agree with me, and not only admit, but assert that "some who have
committed suicide were sane and in the full possession of their minds."

It seems to me that these three propositions have been demonstrated to
be true: _First_, that under some circumstances a man has the right
to take his life; _second_, that the man who commits suicide is not a
physical coward, and, _third_, that some who have committed suicide were
at the time sane and in full possession of their minds.

_Fourth_.—I insisted, and still insist, that suicide was and is the
foundation of the Christian religion.

I still insist that if Christ were God he had the power to protect
himself without injuring his assailants—that having that power it was
his duty to use it, and that failing to use it he consented to his own
death and was guilty of suicide.

To this the clergy answer that it was self-sacrifice for the redemption
of man, that he made an atonement for the sins of believers. These ideas
about redemption and atonement are born of a belief in the "fall
of man," on account of the sins of our first "parents," and of the
declaration that "without the shedding of blood there is no remission of
sin." The foundation has crumbled. No intelligent person now believes in
the "fall of man"—that our first parents were perfect, and that their
descendants grew worse and worse, at least until the coming of Christ.

Intelligent men now believe that ages and ages before the dawn of
history, man was a poor, naked, cruel, ignorant and degraded savage,
whose language consisted of a few sounds of terror, of hatred and
delight; that he devoured his fellow-man, having all the vices, but
not all the virtues of the beasts; that the journey from the den to the
home, the palace, has been long and painful, through many centuries
of suffering, of cruelty and war; through many ages of discovery,
invention, self-sacrifice and thought.

Redemption and atonement are left without a fact on which to rest. The
idea that an infinite God, creator of all worlds, came to this grain
of sand, learned the trade of a carpenter, discussed with Pharisees and
scribes, and allowed a few infuriated Hebrews to put him to death that
he might atone for the sins of men and redeem a few believers from
the consequences of his own wrath, can find no lodgment in a good and
natural brain.

In no mythology can anything more monstrously unbelievable be found.

But if Christ were a man and attacked the religion of his times because
it was cruel and absurd; if he endeavored to found a religion of
kindness, of good deeds, to take the place of heartlessness and
ceremony, and if, rather than to deny what he believed to be right and
true, he suffered death, then he was a noble man—a benefactor of his
race. But if he were God there was no need of this. The Jews did not
wish to kill God. If he had only made himself known all knees would have
touched the ground. If he were God it required no heroism to die. He
knew that what we call death is but the opening of the gates of eternal
life. If he were God there was no self-sacrifice. He had no need to
suffer pain. He could have changed the crucifixion to a joy.

Even the editors of religious weeklies see that there is no escape from
these conclusions—from these arguments—and so, instead of attacking
the arguments, they attack the man who makes them.

_Fifth_.—I denounced the law of New York that makes an attempt to
commit suicide a crime.

It seems to me that one who has suffered so much that he passionately
longs for death should be pitied, instead of punished—helped rather
than imprisoned.

A despairing woman who had vainly sought for leave to toil, a woman
without home, without friends, without bread, with clasped hands, with
tear-filled eyes, with broken words of prayer, in the darkness of night
leaps from the dock, hoping, longing for the tearless sleep of
death. She is rescued by a kind, courageous man, handed over to the
authorities, indicted, tried, convicted, clothed in a convict's garb and
locked in a felon's cell.

To me this law seems barbarous and absurd, a law that only savages would
enforce.

_Sixth_.—In this discussion a curious thing has happened. For several
centuries the clergy have declared that while infidelity is a very good
thing to live by, it is a bad support, a wretched consolation, in the
hour of death. They have in spite of the truth, declared that all
the great unbelievers died trembling with fear, asking God for mercy,
surrounded by fiends, in the torments of despair. Think of the thousands
and thousands of clergymen who have described the last agonies of
Voltaire, who died as peacefully as a happy child smilingly passes from
play to slumber; the final anguish of Hume, who fell into his last sleep
as serenely as a river, running between green and shaded banks, reaches
the sea; the despair of Thomas Paine, one of the bravest, one of the
noblest men, who met the night of death untroubled as a star that meets
the morning.

At the same time these ministers admitted that the average murderer
could meet death on the scaffold with perfect serenity, and could
smilingly ask the people who had gathered to see him killed to meet him
in heaven.

But the honest man who had expressed his honest thoughts against the
creed of the church in power could not die in peace. God would see to it
that his last moments should be filled with the insanity of fear—that
with his last breath he should utter the shriek of remorse, the cry for
pardon.

This has all changed, and now the clergy, in their sermons answering me,
declare that the atheists, the freethinkers, have no fear of death—that
to avoid some little annoyance, a passing inconvenience, they gladly
and cheerfully put out the light of life. It is now said that infidels
believe that death is the end—that it is a dreamless sleep—that it is
without pain—that therefore they have no fear, care nothing for gods,
or heavens or hells, nothing for the threats of the pulpit, nothing for
the day of judgment, and that when life becomes a burden they carelessly
throw it down.

The infidels are so afraid of death that they commit suicide.

This certainly is a great change, and I congratulate myself on having
forced the clergy to contradict themselves.

_Seventh_.—The clergy take the position that the atheist, the
unbeliever, has no standard of morality—that he can have no real
conception of right and wrong. They are of the opinion that it is
impossible for one to be moral or good unless he believes in some Being
far above himself.

In this connection we might ask how God can be moral or good unless he
believes in some Being superior to himself?

What is morality? It is the best thing to do under the circumstances.
What is the best thing to do under the circumstances? That which will
increase the sum of human happiness—or lessen it the least. Happiness
in its highest, noblest form, is the only good; that which increases
or preserves or creates happiness is moral—that which decreases it, or
puts it in peril, is immoral.

It is not hard for an atheist—for an unbeliever—to keep his hands
out of the fire. He knows that burning his hands will not increase his
well-being, and he is moral enough to keep them out of the flames.

So it may be said that each man acts according to his intelligence—so
far as what he considers his own good is concerned. Sometimes he is
swayed by passion, by prejudice, by ignorance—but when he is really
intelligent, master of himself, he does what he believes is best for
him. If he is intelligent enough he knows that what is really good for
him is good for others—for all the world.

It is impossible for me to see' why any belief in the supernatural is
necessary to have a keen perception of right and wrong. Every man who
has the capacity to suffer and enjoy, and has imagination enough to give
the same capacity to others, has within himself the natural basis of
all morality. The idea of morality was born here, in this world, of the
experience, the intelligence of mankind. Morality is not of supernatural
origin. It did not fall from the clouds, and it needs no belief in
the supernatural, no supernatural promises or threats, no supernatural
heavens or hells to give it force and life. Subjects who are governed
by the threats and promises of a king are merely slaves. They are not
governed by the ideal, by noble views of right and wrong. They are
obedient cowards, controlled by fear, or beggars governed by rewards—by
alms.

Right and wrong exist in the nature of things. Murder was just as
criminal before as after the promulgation of the Ten Commandments.

_Eighth_.—The clergy take the position that the atheist, the
unbeliever, has no standard of morality—that he can have no real
conception of right and wrong. They are of the opinion that it is
impossible for one to be moral or good unless he believes in some Being
far above himself.

In this connection we might ask how God can be moral or good unless he
believes in some Being superior to himself?

What is morality? It is the best thing to do under the circumstances.
What is the best thing to do under the circumstances? That which will
increase the sum of human happiness—or lessen it the least. Happiness
in its highest, noblest form, is the only good; that which increases
or preserves or creates happiness is moral—that which decreases it, or
puts it in peril, is immoral.

It is not hard for an atheist—for an unbeliever—to keep his hands
out of the fire. He knows that burning his hands will not increase his
well-being, and he is moral enough to keep them out of the flames.

So it may be said that each man acts according to his intelligence—so
far as what he Considers his own good is concerned. Sometimes he is
swayed by passion, by prejudice, by ignorance—but when he is really
intelligent, master of himself, he does what he believes is best for
him. If he is intelligent enough he knows that what is really good for
him is food for others—for all the world.

It is impossible for me to see why any belief in the supernatural is
necessary to have a keen perception of right and wrong. Every man who
has the capacity to suffer and enjoy, and has imagination enough to give
the same capacity to others, has within himself the natural basis of
all morality. The idea of morality was born here, in this world, of the
experience, the intelligence of mankind. Morality is not of supernatural
origin. It did not fall from the clouds, and it needs no belief in
the supernatural, no supernatural promises or threats, no supernatural
heavens or hells to give it force and life. Subjects who are governed
by the threats and promises of a king are merely slaves. They are not
governed by the ideal, by noble views of right and wrong. They are
obedient cowards, controlled by fear, or beggars governed by rewards—by
alms.

Right and wrong exist in the nature of things.

Murder was just as criminal before as after the promulgation of the Ten
Commandments.

_Eighth_.—Many of the clergy, some editors and some writers of
letters who have answered me, have said that suicide is the worst of
crimes—that a man had better murder somebody else than himself. One
clergyman gives as a reason for this statement that the suicide dies in
an act of sin, and therefore he had better kill another person. Probably
he would commit a less crime if he would murder his wife or mother.

I do not see that it is any worse to die than to live in sin. To say
that it is not as wicked to murder another as yourself seems absurd.
The man about to kill himself wishes to die. Why is it better for him to
kill another man, who wishes to live?

To my mind it seems clear that you had better injure yourself than
another. Better be a spendthrift than a thief. Better throw away your
own money than steal the money of another—better kill yourself if you
wish to die than murder one whose life is full of joy.

The clergy tell us that God is everywhere, and that it is one of the
greatest possible crimes to rush into his presence. It is wonderful
how much they know about God and how little about their fellow-men.
Wonderful the amount of their information about other worlds and how
limited their knowledge is of this.

There may or may not be an infinite Being. I neither affirm nor deny. I
am honest enough to say that I do not know. I am candid enough to admit
that the question is beyond the limitations of my mind. Yet I think I
know as much on that subject as any human being knows or ever knew, and
that is—nothing. I do not say that there is not another world, another
life; neither do I say that there is. I say that I do not know. It seems
to me that every sane and honest man must say the same. But if there is
an infinitely good God and another world, then the infinitely good
God will be just as good to us in that world as he is in this. If this
infinitely good God loves his children in this world, he will love them
in another. If he loves a man when he is alive, he will not hate him the
instant he is dead.

If we are the children of an infinitely wise and powerful God, he knew
exactly what we would do—the temptations that we could and could not
withstand—knew exactly the effect that everything would have upon us,
knew under what circumstances we would take our lives—and produced
such circumstances himself. It is perfectly apparent that there are many
people incapable by nature of bearing the burdens of life, incapable of
preserving their mental poise in stress and strain of disaster, disease
and loss, and who by failure, by misfortune and want, are driven to
despair and insanity, in whose darkened minds there comes like a flash
of lightning in the night, the thought of death, a thought so strong,
so vivid, that all fear is lost, all ties broken, all duties, all
obligations, all hopes forgotten, and naught remains except a fierce and
wild desire to die. Thousands and thousands become moody, melancholy,
brood upon loss of money, of position, of friends, until reason
abdicates and frenzy takes possession of the soul. If there be an
infinitely wise and powerful God, all this was known to him from the
beginning, and he so created things, established relations, put in
operation causes and effects, that all that has happened was the
necessary result of his own acts.

_Ninth_.—Nearly all who have tried to answer what I said have been
exceedingly careful to misquote me, and then answer something that I
never uttered. They have declared that I have advised people who were in
trouble, somewhat annoyed, to kill themselves; that I have told men who
have lost their money, who had failed in business, who were not good in
health, to kill themselves at once, without taking into consideration
any duty that they owed to wives, children, friends, or society.

No man has a right to leave his wife to fight the battle alone if he
is able to help. No man has a right to desert his children if he can
possibly be of use. As long as he can add to the comfort of those he
loves, as long as he can stand between wife and misery, between child
and want, as long as he can be of any use, it is his duty to remain.

I believe in the cheerful view, in looking at the sunny side of things,
in bearing with fortitude the evils of life, in struggling against
adversity, in finding the fuel of laughter even in disaster, in having
confidence in to-morrow, in finding the pearl of joy among the flints
and shards, and in changing by the alchemy of patience even evil things
to good. I believe in the gospel of cheerfulness, of courage and good
nature.

Of the future I have no fear. My fate is the fate of the world—of
all that live. My anxieties are about this life, this world. About the
phantoms called gods and their impossible hells, I have no care, no
fear.

The existence of God I neither affirm nor deny, I wait. The immortality
of the soul I neither affirm nor deny. I hope—hope for all of the
children of men. I have never denied the existence of another world, nor
the immortality of the soul. For many years I have said that the idea
of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart,
with its countless waves of hope and fear beating against the shores and
rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor
of any religion. It was born of human affection, and it will continue to
ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long
as love kisses the lips of death.

What I deny is the immortality of pain, the eternity of torture.

After all, the instinct of self-preservation is strong. People do not
kill themselves on the advice of friends or enemies. All wish to be
happy, to enjoy life; all wish for food and roof and raiment, for
friends, and as long as life gives joy, the idea of self-destruction
never enters the human mind.

The oppressors, the tyrants, those who trample on the rights of others,
the robbers of the poor, those who put wages below the living point, the
ministers who make people insane by preaching the dogma of eternal pain;
these are the men who drive the weak, the suffering and the helpless
down to death.

It will not do to say that God has appointed a time for each to die. Of
this there is, and there can be, no evidence. There is no evidence that
any god takes any interest in the affairs of men—that any sides with
the right or helps the weak, protects the innocent or rescues the
oppressed. Even the clergy admit that their God, through all ages, has
allowed his friends, his worshipers, to be imprisoned, tortured and
murdered by his enemies. Such is the protection of God. Billions of
prayers have been uttered; has one been answered? Who sends plague,
pestilence and famine? Who bids the earthquake devour and the volcano to
overwhelm?

_Tenth_.—Again, I say that it is wonderful to me that so many men, so
many women endure and carry their burdens to the natural end; that so
many, in spite of "age, ache and penury," guard with trembling hands the
spark of life; that prisoners for life toil and suffer to the last; that
the helpless wretches in poorhouses and asylums cling to life; that the
exiles in Siberia, loaded with chains, scarred with the knout, live
on; that the incurables, whose every breath is a pang, and for whom the
future has only pain, should fear the merciful touch and clasp of death.

It is but a few steps at most from the cradle to the grave; a short
journey. The suicide hastens, shortens the path, loses the afternoon,
the twilight, the dusk of life's day; loses what he does not want, what
he cannot bear. In the tempest of despair, in the blind fury of madness,
or in the calm of thought and choice, the beleaguered soul finds the
serenity of death.

Let us leave the dead where nature leaves them. We know nothing of any
realm that lies beyond the horizon of the known, beyond the end of life.
Let us be honest with ourselves and others. Let us pity the suffering,
the despairing, the men and women hunted and pursued by grief and shame,
by misery and want, by chance and fate until their only friend is death.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

## Suicide a Sin

> * New York Journal, 1805. An Interview.

_Question_. Do you think that what you have written about suicide has
caused people to take their lives?

_Answer._ No, I do not. People do not kill themselves because of the
ideas of others. They are the victims of misfortune.

_Question_. What do you consider the chief cause of suicide?

_Answer._ There are many causes. Some individuals are crossed in love,
others are bankrupt in estate or reputation, still others are diseased
in body and frequently in mind. There are a thousand and one causes that
lead up to the final act.

_Question_. Do you consider that nationality plays a part in these
tragedies?

_Answer._ No, it is a question of individuals. There are those whose
sorrows are greater than they can bear. These sufferers seek the peace
of death.

_Question_. Do you, then, advise suicide?

_Answer._ No, I have never done so, but I have said, and still say, that
there are circumstances under which it is justifiable for a person to
take his life.

_Question_. What do you think of the law which prohibits
self-destruction?

_Answer._ That it is absurd and ridiculous. The other day a man was
tried before Judge Goff for having tried to kill himself. I think he
pleaded guilty, and the Judge, after speaking of the terrible crime of
the poor wretch, sentenced him to the penitentiary for two years.
This was an outrage; infamous in every way, and a disgrace to our
civilization.

_Question_. Do you believe that such a law will prevent the frequency of
suicides?

_Answer._ By no means. After this, persons in New York who have made up
their minds to commit suicide will see to it that they succeed.

_Question_. Have your opinions been in any way modified since your first
announcement of them?

_Answer._ No, I feel now as I have felt for many years. No one can
answer my articles on suicide, because no one can satisfactorily refute
them. Every man of sense knows that a person being devoured by a cancer
has the right to take morphine, and pass from agony to dreamless sleep.
So, too, there are circumstances under which a man has the right to end
his pain of mind.

_Question_. Have you seen in the papers that many who have killed
themselves have had on their persons some article of yours on suicide?

_Answer._ Yes, I have read such accounts, but I repeat that I do not
think these persons were led to kill themselves by reading the articles.
Many people who have killed themselves were found to have Bibles or
tracts in their pockets.

_Question_. How do you account for the presence of the latter?

_Answer._ The reason of this is that the theologians know nothing.
The pious imagine that their God has placed us here for some wise and
inscrutable purpose, and that he will call for us when he wants us. All
this is idiotic. When a man is of no use to himself or to others, when
his days and nights are filled with pain and sorrow, why should he
remain to endure them longer?

## Suicide a Sin

> * New York Herald, 1897. An Interview.

COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL was seen at his house and asked if he had read
the Rev. Merle St. Croix Wright's sermon.

_Answer._ Yes. I have read the sermon, and also an interview had with
the reverend gentleman.

Long ago I gave my views about suicide, and I entertain the same views
still. Mr. Wright's sermon has stirred up quite a commotion among the
orthodox ministers. This commotion may always be expected when anything
sensible comes from a pulpit. Mr. Wright has mixed a little common
sense with his theology, and, of course this has displeased the truly
orthodox.

Sense is the bitterest foe that theology has. No system of supernatural
religion can outlive a good dose of real good sense. The orthodox
ministers take the ground that an infinite Being created man, put him
on the earth and determined his days. They say that God desires every
person to live until he, God, calls for his soul. They insist that
we are all on guard and must remain so until relieved by a higher
power—the superior officer.

The trouble with this doctrine is that it proves too much. It proves
that God kills every person who dies as we say, "according to nature."
It proves that we ought to say, "according to God." It proves that God
sends the earthquake, the cyclone, the pestilence, for the purpose of
killing people. It proves that all diseases and all accidents are his
messengers, and that all who do not kill themselves, die by the act,
and in accordance with the will of God. It also shows that when a man is
murdered, it is in harmony with, and a part of the divine plan. When God
created the man who was murdered, he knew that he would be murdered, and
when he made the man who committed the murder, he knew exactly what he
would do. So that the murder was the act of God.

Can it be said that God intended that thousands should die of famine and
that he, to accomplish his purpose, withheld the rain? Can we say that
he intended that thousands of innocent men should die in dungeons and on
scaffolds?

Is it possible that a man, "slowly being devoured by a cancer," whose
days and nights are filled with torture, who is useless to himself and
a burden to others, is carrying out the will of God? Does God enjoy
his agony? Is God thrilled by the music of his moans—the melody of his
shrieks?

This frightful doctrine makes God an infinite monster, and every human
being a slave; a victim. This doctrine is not only infamous but it is
idiotic. It makes God the only criminal in the universe.

Now, if we are governed by reason, if we use our senses and our minds,
and have courage enough to be honest; if we know a little of the world's
history, then we know—if we know anything—that man has taken his
chances, precisely the same as other animals. He has been destroyed
by heat and cold, by flood and fire, by storm and famine, by countless
diseases, by numberless accidents. By his intelligence, his cunning, his
strength, his foresight, he has managed to escape utter destruction. He
has defended himself. He has received no supernatural aid. Neither has
he been attacked by any supernatural power. Nothing has ever happened in
nature as the result of a purpose to benefit or injure the human race.

Consequently the question of the right or wrong of suicide is not in any
way affected by a supposed obligation to the Infinite.

All theological considerations must be thrown aside because we see and
know that the laws of life are the same for all living things—that when
the conditions are favorable, the living multiply and life lengthens,
and when the conditions are unfavorable, the living decrease and life
shortens. We have no evidence of any interference of any power superior
to nature. Taking into consideration the fact that all the duties and
obligations of man must be to his fellows, to sentient beings, here in
this world, and that he owes no duty and is under no obligation to any
phantoms of the air, then it is easy to determine whether a man under
certain circumstances has the right to end his life.

If he can be of no use to others—if he is of no use to himself—if
he is a burden to others—a curse to himself—why should he remain? By
ending his life he ends his sufferings and adds to the well-being
of others. He lessens misery and increases happiness. Under such
circumstances undoubtedly a man has the right to stop the pulse of pain
and woo the sleep that has no dream.

I do not think that the discussion of this question is of much
importance, but I am glad that a clergyman has taken a natural and a
sensible position, and that he has reasoned not like a minister, but
like a man.

When wisdom comes from the pulpit I am delighted and surprised. I feel
then that there is a little light in the East, possibly the dawn of a
better day.

I congratulate the Rev. Mr. Wright, and thank him for his brave and
philosophic words.

There is still another thing. Certainly a man has the right to avoid
death, to save himself from accident and disease. If he has this right,
then the theologians must admit that God, in making his decrees, took
into consideration the result of such actions. Now, if God knew that
while most men would avoid death, some would seek it, and if his decrees
were so made that they would harmonize with the acts of those who would
avoid death, can we say that he did not, in making his decrees, take
into consideration the acts of those who would seek death? Let us
remember that all actions, good, bad and indifferent, are the necessary
children of conditions—that there is no chance in the natural world in
which we live.

So, we must keep in mind that all real opinions are honest, and that all
have the same right to express their thoughts. Let us be charitable.

When some suffering wretch, wild with pain, crazed with regret, frenzied
with fear, with desperate hand unties the knot of life, let us have
pity—Let us be generous.

## Suicide and Sanity

> * New York Press, 1897. An Interview.

_Question_. Is a suicide necessarily insane? was the first question, to
which Colonel Ingersoll replied:

_Answer._ No. At the same time I believe that a great majority of
suicides are insane. There are circumstances under which suicide is
natural, sensible and right. When a man is of no use to himself, when he
can be of no use to others, when his life is filled with agony, when the
future has no promise of relief, then I think he has the right to cast
the burden of life away and seek the repose of death.

_Question_. Is a suicide necessarily a coward?

_Answer._ I cannot conceive of cowardice in connection with suicide. Of
nearly all things death is the most feared. And the man who voluntarily
enters the realm of death cannot properly be called a coward. Many men
who kill themselves forget the duties they owe to others—forget their
wives and children. Such men are heartless, wicked, brutal; but they are
not cowards.

_Question_. When is the suicide of the sane justifiable?

_Answer._ To escape death by torture; to avoid being devoured by a
cancer; to prevent being a burden on those you love; when you can be of
no use to others or to yourself; when life is unbearable; when in all
the horizon of the future there is no star of hope.

_Question_. Do you believe that any suicides have been caused or
encouraged by your declaration three years ago that suicide sometimes
was justifiable?

_Answer._ Many preachers talk as though I had inaugurated, invented,
suicide, as though no one who had not read my ideas on suicide had ever
taken his own life. Talk as long as language lasts, you cannot induce
a man to kill himself. The man who takes his own life does not go to
others to find reasons or excuses.

_Question_. On the whole is the world made better or worse by suicides?

_Answer._ Better by some and poorer by others.

_Question_. Why is it that Germany, said to be the most educated of
civilized nations, leads the world in suicides?

_Answer._ I do not know that Germany is the most educated; neither do I
know that suicide is more frequent there than in all other countries. I
know that the struggle for life is severe in Germany, that the laws
are unjust, that the government is oppressive, that the people are
sentimental, that they brood over their troubles and easily become
hopeless.

_Question_. If suicide is sometimes justifiable, is not killing of born
idiots and infants hopelessly handicapped at birth equally so?

_Answer._ There is no relation between the questions—between suicides
and killing idiots. Suicide may, under certain circumstances, be right
and killing idiots may be wrong; killing idiots may be right and suicide
may be wrong. When we look about us, when we read interviews with
preachers about Jonah, we know that all the idiots have not been killed.

_Question_. Should suicide be forbidden by law?

_Answer._ No. A law that provides for the punishment of those who
attempt to commit suicide is idiotic. Those who are willing to meet
death are not afraid of law. The only effect of such a law would be to
make the person who had concluded to kill himself a little more careful
to succeed.

_Question_. What is your belief about virtue, morality and religion?

_Answer._ I believe that all actions that tend to the well-being of
sentient beings are virtuous and moral. I believe that real religion
consists in doing good. I do not believe in phantoms. I believe in
the uniformity of nature; that matter will forever attract matter in
proportion to mass and distance; that, under the same circumstances,
falling bodies will attain the same speed, increasing in exact
proportion to distance; that light will always, under the same
circumstances, be reflected at the same angle; that it will always
travel with the same velocity; that air will forever be lighter than
water, and gold heavier than iron; that all substances will be true
to their natures; that a certain degree of heat will always expand the
metals and change water into steam; that a certain degree of cold will
cause the metals to shrink and change water into ice; that all atoms
will forever be in motion; that like causes will forever produce like
effects, that force will be overcome only by force; that no atom
of matter will ever be created or destroyed; that the energy in the
universe will forever remain the same, nothing lost, nothing gained;
that all that has been possible has happened, and that all that will be
possible will happen; that the seeds and causes of all thoughts, dreams,
fancies and actions, of all virtues and all vices, of all successes
and all failures, are in nature; that there is in the universe no power
superior to nature; that man is under no obligation to the imaginary
gods; that all his obligations and duties are to be discharged and done
in this world; that right and wrong do not depend on the will of an
infinite Being, but on the consequences of actions, and that these
consequences necessarily flow from the nature of things. I believe that
the universe is natural.

## Is Avarice Triumphant

> *A reply to General Rush Hawkins' article, "Brutality and
> Avarice Triumphant," published in the North American Review,
> June, 1891.

THERE are many people, in all countries, who seem to enjoy individual
and national decay. They love to prophesy the triumph of evil. They
mistake the afternoon of their own lives for the evening of the world.
To them everything has changed. Men are no longer honest or brave, and
women have ceased to be beautiful. They are dyspeptic, and it gives them
the greatest pleasure to say that the art of cooking has been lost.

For many generations many of these people occupied the pulpits. They
lifted the hand of warning whenever the human race took a step in
advance. As wealth increased, they declared that honesty and goodness
and self-denial and charity were vanishing from the earth. They doubted
the morality of well-dressed people—considered it impossible that the
prosperous should be pious. Like owls sitting on the limbs of a dead
tree, they hooted the obsequies of spring, believing it would come no
more.

There are some patriots who think it their duty to malign and slander
the land of their birth. They feel that they have a kind of Cassandra
mission, and they really seem to enjoy their work. They honestly believe
that every kind of crime is on the increase, that the courts are
all corrupt, that the legislators are bribed, that the witnesses are
suborned, that all holders of office are dishonest; and they feel like a
modern Marius sitting amid the ruins of all the virtues.

It is useless to endeavor to persuade these people that they are wrong.
They do not want arguments, because they will not heed them. They need
medicine. Their case is not for a philosopher, but for a physician.

General Hawkins is probably right when he says that some fraudulent
shoes, some useless muskets, and some worn-out vessels were sold to the
Government during the war; but we must remember that there were millions
and millions of as good shoes as art and honesty could make, millions of
the best muskets ever constructed, and hundreds of the most magnificent
ships ever built, sold to the Government during the same period. We must
not mistake an eddy for the main stream. We must also remember another
thing: there were millions of good, brave, and patriotic men to wear the
shoes, to use the muskets, and to man the ships.

So it is probably true that Congress was extravagant in land subsidies
voted to railroads; but that this legislation was secured by bribery
is preposterous. It was all done in the light of noon. There is not the
slightest evidence tending to show that the general policy of hastening
the construction of railways through the Territories of the United
States was corruptly adopted—not the slightest. At the same time,
it may be that some members of Congress were induced by personal
considerations to vote for such subsidies. As a matter of fact, the
policy was wise, and through the granting of the subsidies thousands
of miles of railways were built, and these railways have given to
civilization vast territories which otherwise would have remained
substantially useless to the world. Where at that time was a wilderness,
now are some of the most thriving cities in the United States—a
great, an industrious, and a happy population. The results have
justified the action of Congress.

It is also true that some railroads have been "wrecked" in the United
States, but most of these wrecks have been the result of competition. It
is the same with corporations as with individuals—the powerful combine
against the weak. In the world of commerce and business is the great
law of the survival of the strongest. Railroads are not eleemosynary
institutions. They have but little regard for the rights of one another.
Some fortunes have been made by the criminal "wrecking" of roads, but
even in the business of corporations honesty is the best policy, and the
companies that have acted in accordance with the highest standard, other
things being equal, have reaped the richest harvest.

Many railways were built in advance of a demand; they had to develop the
country through which they passed. While they waited for immigration,
interest accumulated; as a result foreclosure took place; then
reorganization. By that time the country had been populated; towns were
springing up along the line; increased business was the result. On the
new bonds and the new stock the company paid interest and dividends.
Then the ones who first invested and lost their money felt that they had
been defrauded.

So it is easy to say that certain men are guilty of crimes—easy
to indict the entire nation, and at the same time impossible to
substantiate one of the charges. Everyone who knows the history of
the Star-Route trials knows that nothing was established against the
defendants, knows that every effort was made by the Government to
convict them, and also knows that an unprejudiced jury of twelve men,
never suspected of being improperly influenced, after having heard
the entire case, pronounced the defendants not guilty. After this, of
course, any one can say, who knows nothing of the evidence and who cares
nothing for the facts, that the defendants were all guilty.

It may also be true that some settlers in the far West have taken timber
from the public lands, and it may be that it was a necessity. Our laws
and regulations were such that where a settler was entitled to take up a
certain amount of land he had to take it all in one place; he could not
take a certain number of acres on the plains and a certain number of
acres in the timber. The consequence was that when he settled upon
the land—the land that he could cultivate—he took the timber that he
needed from the Government land, and this has been called stealing. So I
suppose it may be said that the cattle stole the Government's grass and
possibly drank the Government's water.

It will also be admitted with pleasure that stock has been "watered" in
this country. And what is the crime or practice known as watering stock?

For instance, you have a railroad one hundred miles long, worth, we will
say, $3,000,000—able to pay interest on that sum at the rate of six per
cent. Now, we all know that the amount of stock issued has nothing to do
with the value of the thing represented by the stock. If there was
one share of stock representing this railroad, it would be worth three
million dollars, whether it said on its face it was one dollar or one
hundred dollars. If there were three million shares of stock issued on
this property, they would be worth one dollar apiece, and, no matter
whether it said on this stock that each share was a hundred dollars or a
thousand dollars, the share would be worth one dollar—no more, no less.
If any one wishes to find the value of stock, he should find the value
of the thing represented by the stock. It is perfectly clear that, if a
pie is worth one dollar, and you cut it into four pieces, each piece is
worth twenty-five cents; and if you cut it in a thousand pieces, you do
not increase the value of the pie.

If, then, you wish to find the value of a share of stock, find its
relation to the thing represented by all the stock.

It can also be safely admitted that trusts have been formed. The reason
is perfectly clear. Corporations are like individuals—they combine.
Unfortunate corporations become socialistic, anarchistic, and cry out
against the abuses of trusts. It is natural for corporations to defend
themselves—natural for them to stop ruinous competition by a profitable
pool; and when strong corporations combine, little corporations suffer.
It is with corporations as with fishes—the large eat the little; and it
may be that this will prove a public benefit in the end. When the large
corporations have taken possession of the little ones, it may be that
the Government will take possession of them—the Government being the
largest corporation of them all.

It is to be regretted that all houses are not fireproof; but certainly
no one imagines that the people of this country build houses for the
purpose of having them burned, or that they erect hotels having in view
the broiling of guests. Men act as they must; that is to say, according
to wants and necessities. In a new country the buildings are cheaper
than in an old one, money is scarcer, interest higher, and consequently
people build cheaply and take the risks of fire. They do not do this
on account of the Constitution of the United States, or the action of
political parties, or the general idea that man is entitled to be free.
In the hotels of Europe it may be that there is not as great danger of
fire as of famine.

The destruction of game and of the singing birds is to be greatly
regretted, not only in this country, but in all others. The people
of America have been too busy felling forests, ploughing fields, and
building houses, to cultivate, to the highest degree, the aesthetic side
of their natures. Nature has been somewhat ruthless with us. The storms
of winter breasted by the Western pioneer, the whirlwinds of summer,
have tended, it may be, to harden somewhat the sensibilities; in
consequence of which they have allowed their horses and cattle to bear
the rigors of the same climate.

It is also true that the seal-fisheries are being destroyed, in the
interest of the present, by those who care nothing for the future. All
these things are to be deprecated, are to be spoken against; but we
must not hint, provided we are lovers of the Republic, that such things
are caused by free institutions.

General Hawkins asserts that "Christianity has neither preached nor
practiced humanity towards animals," while at the same time "Sunday
school children by hundreds of thousands are taught what a terrible
thing it is to break the Sabbath;" that "museum trustees tremble with
pious horror at the suggestion of opening the doors leading to the
collections on that day," and that no protests have come "from lawmakers
or the Christian clergy." Few people will suspect me of going out of my
way to take care of Christianity or of the clergy. At the same time, I
can afford to state the truth. While there is not much in the Bible with
regard to practicing humanity toward animals, there is at least this:
"The merciful man is merciful to his beast." Of course, I am not
alluding now to the example set by Jehovah when he destroyed the cattle
of the Egyptians with hailstones and diseases on account of the sins of
their owners.

In regard to the treatment of animals Christians have been much like
other people.

So, hundreds of lawmakers have not only protested against cruelty to
animals, but enough have protested against it to secure the enactment of
laws making cruelty toward animals a crime. Henry Bergh, who did as much
good as any man who has lived in the nineteenth century, was seconded
in his efforts by many of the Christian clergy not only, but by hundreds
and thousands of professing Christians—probably millions. Let us be
honest.

It is true that the clergy are apt to lose the distinction between
offences and virtues, to regard the little as the important—that is to
say, to invert the pyramid.

It is true that the Indians have been badly treated. It is true that the
fringe of civilization has been composed of many low and cruel men. It
is true that the red man has been demoralized by the vices of the white.
It is a frightful fact that, when a superior race meets an inferior, the
inferior imitates only the vices of the superior, and the superior those
of the inferior. They exchange faults and failings. This is one of the
most terrible facts in the history of the human race.

Nothing can be said to justify our treatment of the Indians. There is,
however, this shadow of an excuse: In the old times, when we lived along
the Atlantic, it hardly occurred to our ancestors that they could ever
go beyond the Ohio; so the first treaty with the Indians drove them back
but a few miles. In a little while, through immigration, the white race
passed the line, and another treaty was made, forcing the Indians still
further west; yet the tide of immigration kept on, and in a little while
again the line was passed, the treaty violated. Another treaty was
made, pushing the Indians still farther toward the Pacific, across the
Illinois, across the Mississippi, across the Missouri, violating at
every step some treaty made; and each treaty born of the incapacity of
the white men who made it to foretell the growth of the Republic.

But the author of "Brutality and Avarice Triumphant" made a great
mistake when he selected the last thirty years of our national life as
the period within which the Americans have made a change of the national
motto appropriate, and asserted that now there should be in place of the
old motto the words, "Plundering Made Easy."

Most men believe in a sensible and manly patriotism. No one should be
blind to the defects in the laws and institutions of his country. He
should call attention to abuses, not for the purpose of bringing his
country into disrepute, but that the abuses may cease and the defects
be corrected. He should do what he can to make his country great,
prosperous, just, and free. But it is hardly fair to exaggerate the
faults of your country for the purpose of calling attention to your own
virtues, or to earn the praise of a nation that hates your own. This is
what might be called wallowing in the gutter of reform.

The thirty years chosen as the time in which we as a nation have passed
from virtue to the lowest depths of brutality and avarice are, in fact,
the most glorious years in the life of this or of any other nation.

In 1861 slavery was, in a legal sense at least, a national institution.
It was firmly imbedded in the Federal Constitution. The Fugitive Slave
Law was in full force and effect. In all the Southern and in nearly all
of the Northern States it was a crime to give food, shelter, or raiment
to a man or woman seeking liberty by flight. Humanity was illegal,
hospitality a misdemeanor, and charity a crime. Men and women were sold
like beasts. Mothers were robbed of their babes while they stood under
our flag. All the sacred relations of life were trampled beneath the
bloody feet of brutality and avarice. Besides, so firmly was slavery
fixed in law and creed, in statute and Scripture, that the tongues of
honest men were imprisoned. Those who spoke for the slave were mobbed by
Northern lovers of the "Union."

Now, it seems to me that those were the days when the motto could
properly have been, "Plundering Made Easy." Those were the days of
brutality, and the brutality was practiced to the end that we might make
money out of the unpaid labor of others.

It is not necessary to go into details as to the cause of the then
condition; it is enough to say that the whole nation, North and South,
was responsible. There were many years of compromise, and thousands of
statesmen, so-called, through conventions and platforms, did what they
could to preserve slavery and keep the Union. These efforts corrupted
politics, demoralized our statesmen, polluted our courts, and poisoned
our literature. The Websters, Bentons, and Clays mistook temporary
expedients for principles, and really thought that the progress of
the world could be stopped by the resolutions of a packed political
convention. Yet these men, mistaken as they really were, worked and
wrought unconsciously in the cause of human freedom. They believed that
the preservation of the Union was the one important thing, and that it
could not be preserved unless slavery was protected—unless the North
would be faithful to the bargain as written in the Constitution. For
the purpose of keeping the nation true to the Union and false to itself,
these men exerted every faculty and all their strength. They exhausted
their genius in showing that slavery was not, after all, very bad,
and that disunion was the most terrible calamity that could by any
possibility befall the nation, and that the Union, even at the price of
slavery, was the greatest possible blessing. They did not suspect that
slavery would finally strike the blow for disunion. But when the time
came and the South unsheathed the sword, the teachings of these men as
to the infinite value of the Union gave to our flag millions of brave
defenders.

Now, let us see what has been accomplished during the thirty years of
"Brutality and Avarice."

The Republic has been rebuilt and reunited, and we shall remain one
people for many centuries to come. The Mississippi is nature's protest
against disunion. The Constitution of the United States is now the
charter of human freedom, and all laws inconsistent with the idea that
all men are entitled to liberty have been repealed. The black man knows
that the Constitution is his shield, that the laws protect him, that our
flag is his, and the black mother feels that her babe belongs to her.
Where the slave-pen used to be you will find the schoolhouse. The dealer
in human flesh is now a teacher; instead of lacerating the back of a
child, he develops and illumines the mind of a pupil.

There is now freedom of speech. Men are allowed to utter their thoughts.
Lips are no longer sealed by mobs. Never before in the history of our
world has so much been done for education.

The amount of business done in a country on credit is the measure of
confidence, and confidence is based upon honesty. So it may truthfully
be said that, where a vast deal of business is done on credit, an
exceedingly large per cent. of the people are regarded as honest. In our
country a very large per cent. of contracts are faithfully fulfilled.
Probably there is no nation in the world where so much business is
done on credit as in the United States. The fact that the credit of the
Republic is second to that of no other nation on the globe would seem to
be at least an indication of a somewhat general diffusion of honesty.

The author of "Brutality and Avarice Triumphant" seems to be of the
opinion that our country was demoralized by the war. They who fight for
the right are not degraded—they are ennobled. When men face death and
march to the mouths of the guns for a principle, they grow great; and if
they come out of the conflict, they come with added moral grandeur; they
become better men, better citizens, and they love more intensely than
ever the great cause for the success of which they put their lives in
pawn.

The period of the Revolution produced great men. After the great victory
the sons of the heroes degenerated, and some of the greatest principles
involved in the Revolution were almost forgotten.

During the Civil war the North grew great and the South was educated.
Never before in the history of mankind was there such a period of moral
exaltation. The names that shed the brightest, the whitest light on
the pages of our history became famous then. Against the few who were
actuated by base and unworthy motives let us set the great army that
fought for the Republic, the millions who bared their breasts to
the storm, the hundreds and hundreds of thousands who did their duty
honestly, nobly, and went back to their wives and children with no
thought except to preserve the liberties of themselves and their
fellow-men.

Of course there were some men who did not do their duty—some men false
to themselves and to their country. No one expects to find sixty-five
millions of saints in America. A few years ago a lady complained to the
president of a Western railroad that a brakeman had spoken to her with
great rudeness. The president expressed his regret at the incident, and
said among other things: "Madam, you have no idea how difficult it is
for us to get gentlemen to fill all those places."

It is hardly to be expected that the American people should excel all
others in the arts, in poetry, and in fiction. We have been very busy
taking possession of the Republic. It is hard to overestimate the
courage, the industry, the self-denial it has required to fell the
forests, to subdue the fields, to construct the roads, and to build the
countless homes. What has been done is a certificate of the honesty and
industry of our people.

It is not true that "one of the unwritten mottoes of our business morals
seem to say in the plainest phraseology possible: 'Successful wrong is
right.'" Men in this country are not esteemed simply because they are
rich; inquiries are made as to how they made their money, as to how
they use it. The American people do not fall upon their knees before the
golden calf; the worst that can be said is that they think too much
of the gold of the calf—and this distinction is seen by the calves
themselves.

Nowhere in the world is honesty in business esteemed more highly than
here. There are millions of business men—merchants, bankers, and men
engaged in all trades and professions—to whom reputation is as dear as
life.

There is one thing in the article "Brutality and Avarice Triumphant"
that seems even more objectionable than the rest, and that is the
statement, or, rather, the insinuation, that all the crimes and the
shortcomings of the American people can be accounted for by the fact
that our Government is a Republic. We are told that not long ago a
French official complained to a friend that he was compelled to employ
twenty clerks to do the work done by four under the empire, and on being
asked the reason answered: "It is the Republic." He was told that, as
he was the head of the bureau, he could prevent the abuse, to which he
replied: "I know I have the power; but I have been in this position for
more than thirty years, and am now too old to learn another occupation,
and I _must_ make places for the friends of the deputies." And then it
is added by General Hawkins: "_And so it is here_."

It seems to me that it cannot be fairly urged that we have abused the
Indians because we contend that all men have equal rights before the
law, or because we insist that governments derive their just powers from
the consent of the governed. The probability is that a careful reading
of the history of the world will show that nations under the control of
kings and emperors have been guilty of some cruelty. To account for the
bad we do by the good we believe, is hardly logical. Our virtues should
not be made responsible for our vices.

Is it possible that free institutions tend to the demoralization of men?
Is a man dishonest because he is a man and maintains the rights of men?
In order to be a moral nation must we be controlled by king or emperor?
Is human liberty a mistake? Is it possible that a citizen of the great
Republic attacks the liberty of his fellow-citizens? Is he willing to
abdicate? Is he willing to admit that his rights are not equal to the
rights of others? Is he, for the sake of what he calls morality, willing
to become a serf, a servant or a slave?

Is it possible that "high character is impracticable" in this Republic?
Is this the experience of the author of "Brutality and Avarice
Triumphant"? Is it true that "intellectual achievement pays no
dividends"? Is it not a fact that America is to-day the best market in
the world for books, for music, and for art?

There is in our country no real foundation for these wide and sweeping
slanders. This, in my judgment, is the best Government, the best
country, in the world. The citizens of this Republic are, on the
average, better clothed and fed and educated than any other people. They
are fuller of life, more progressive, quicker to take advantage of
the forces of nature, than any other of the children of men. Here
the burdens of government are lightest, the responsibilities of the
individual greatest, and here, in my judgment, are to be worked out the
most important problems of social science.

Here in America is a finer sense of what is due from man to man than
you will find in other lands. We do not cringe to those whom chance has
crowned; we stand erect.

Our sympathies are strong and quick. Generosity is almost a national
failing. The hand of honest want is rarely left unfilled. Great
calamities open the hearts and hands of all.

Here you will find democracy in the family—republicanism by the
fireside. Say what you will, the family is apt to be patterned after the
government. If a king is at the head of the nation, the husband imagines
himself the monarch of the home. In this country we have carried into
the family the idea on which the Government is based. Here husbands and
wives are beginning to be equals.

The highest test of civilization is the treatment of women and children.
By this standard America stands first among nations.

There is a magnitude, a scope, a grandeur, about this country—an
amplitude—that satisfies the heart and the imagination. We have our
faults, we have our virtues, but our country is the best.

No American should ever write a line that can be sneeringly quoted by an
enemy of the great Republic.

Robert G. Ingersoll.
---
# The Brooklyn Divines
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1883_
> * Brooklyn Union, 1883.

_Question_. The clergymen who have been interviewed, almost unanimously
have declared that the church is suffering very little from the
skepticism of the day, and that the influence of the scientific writers,
whose opinions are regarded as atheistic or infidel, is not great; and
that the books of such writers are not read as much as some people think
they are. What is your opinion with regard to that subject?

_Answer._ It is natural for a man to defend his business, to stand by
his class, his caste, his creed. And I suppose this accounts for
the ministers all saying that infidelity is not on the increase. By
comparing long periods of time, it is very easy to see the progress that
has been made. Only a few years ago men who are now considered quite
orthodox would have been imprisoned, or at least mobbed, for heresy.
Only a few years ago men like Huxley and Tyndall and Spencer and
Darwin and Humboldt would have been considered as the most infamous of
monsters.

Only a few years ago science was superstition's hired man. The
scientific men apologized for every fact they happened to find. With hat
in hand they begged pardon of the parson for finding a fossil, and asked
the forgiveness of God for making any discovery in nature. At that
time every scientific discovery was something to be pardoned. Moses was
authority in geology, and Joshua was considered the first astronomer of
the world. Now everything has changed, and everybody knows it except
the clergy. Now religion is taking off its hat to science. Religion is
finding out new meanings for old texts. We are told that God spoke in
the language of the common people; that he was not teaching any science;
that he allowed his children not only to remain in error, but kept them
there. It is now admitted that the Bible is no authority on any question
of natural fact; it is inspired only in morality, in a spiritual way.
All, except the Brooklyn ministers, see that the Bible has ceased to be
regarded as authority. Nobody appeals to a passage to settle a dispute
of fact. The most intellectual men of the world laugh at the idea of
inspiration. Men of the greatest reputations hold all supernaturalism in
contempt. Millions of people are reading the opinions of men who combat
and deny the foundation of orthodox Christianity. Humboldt stands higher
than all the apostles. Darwin has done more to change human thought
than all the priests who have existed. Where there was one infidel
twenty-five years ago, there are one hundred now. I can remember when I
would be the only infidel in the town. Now I meet them thick as autumn
leaves; they are everywhere. In all the professions, trades, and
employments, the orthodox creeds are despised. They are not simply
disbelieved; they are execrated. They are regarded, not with
indifference, but with passionate hatred. Thousands and hundreds of
thousands of mechanics in this country abhor orthodox Christianity.
Millions of educated men hold in immeasurable contempt the doctrine of
eternal punishment. The doctrine of atonement is regarded as absurd
by millions. So with the dogma of imputed guilt, vicarious virtue, and
vicarious vice. I see that the Rev. Dr. Eddy advises ministers not to
answer the arguments of infidels in the pulpit, and gives this wonderful
reason: That the hearers will get more doubts from the answer than from
reading the original arguments. So the Rev. Dr. Hawkins admits that he
cannot defend Christianity from infidel attacks without creating more
infidelity. So the Rev. Dr. Haynes admits that he cannot answer the
theories of Robertson Smith in popular addresses. The only minister who
feels absolutely safe on this subject, so far as his congregation is
concerned, seems to be the Rev. Joseph Pullman. He declares that the
young people in his church don't know enough to have intelligent doubts,
and that the old people are substantially in the same condition. Mr.
Pullman feels that he is behind a breastwork so strong that other
defence is unnecessary. So the Rev. Mr. Foote thinks that infidelity
should never be refuted in the pulpit. I admit that it never has been
successfully done, but I did not suppose so many ministers admitted the
impossibility. Mr. Foote is opposed to all public discussion. Dr. Wells
tells us that scientific atheism should be ignored; that it should not
be spoken of in the pulpit. The Rev, Dr. Van Dyke has the same feeling
of security enjoyed by Dr. Pullman, and he declares that the great
majority of the Christian people of to-day know nothing about current
infidel theories. His idea is to let them remain in ignorance; that it
would be dangerous for the Christian minister even to state the position
of the infidel; that, after stating it, he might not, even with the help
of God, successfully combat the theory. These ministers do not agree.
Dr. Carpenter accounts for infidelity by nicotine in the blood. It is
all smoke.

He thinks the blood of the human family has deteriorated. He thinks
that the church is safe because the Christians read. He differs with his
brothers Pullman and Van Dyke. So the Rev. George E. Reed believes that
infidelity should be discussed in the pulpit. He has more confidence in
his general and in the weapons of his warfare than some of his
brethren. His confidence may arise from the fact that he has never had a
discussion. The Rev. Dr. McClelland thinks the remedy is to stick by the
catechism; that there is not now enough of authority; not enough of the
brute force; thinks that the family, the church, and the state ought to
use the rod; that the rod is the salvation of the world; that the rod is
a divine institution; that fathers ought to have it for their children;
that mothers ought to use it. This is a part of the religion of
universal love. The man who cannot raise children without whipping them
ought not to have them. The man who would mar the flesh of a boy or girl
is unfit to have the control of a human being. The father who keeps
a rod in his house keeps a relic of barbarism in his heart. There
is nothing reformatory in punishment; nothing reformatory in fear.
Kindness, guided by intelligence, is the only reforming force. An appeal
to brute force is an abandonment of love and reason, and puts father and
child upon a savage equality; the savageness in the heart of the father
prompting the use of the rod or club, produces a like savageness in the
victim; The old idea that a child's spirit must be broken is infamous.
All this is passing away, however, with orthodox Christianity. That
children are treated better than formerly shows conclusively the
increase of what is called infidelity. Infidelity has always been a
protest against tyranny in the state, against intolerance in the church,
against barbarism in the family. It has always been an appeal for light,
for justice, for universal kindness and tenderness.

_Question_. The ministers say, I believe, Colonel, that worldliness is
the greatest foe to the church, and admit that it is on the increase?

_Answer._ I see that all the ministers you have interviewed regard
worldliness as the great enemy of the church. What is worldliness? I
suppose worldliness consists in paying attention to the affairs of this
world; getting enjoyment out of this life; gratifying the senses, giving
the ears music, the eyes painting and sculpture, the palate good food;
cultivating the imagination; playing games of chance; adorning the
person; developing the body; enriching the mind; investigating the facts
by which we are surrounded; building homes; rocking cradles; thinking;
working; inventing; buying; selling; hoping—all this, I suppose, is
worldliness. These "worldly" people have cleared the forests, plowed
the land, built the cities, the steamships, the telegraphs, and
have produced all there is of worth and wonder in the world. Yet the
preachers denounce them. Were it not for "worldly" people how would the
preachers get along? Who would build the churches? Who would fill the
contribution boxes and plates, and who (most serious of all questions)
would pay the salaries? It is the habit of the ministers to belittle men
who support them—to slander the spirit by which they live. "It is as
though the mouth should tear the hand that feeds it." The nobility of
the Old World hold the honest workingman in contempt, and yet are so
contemptible themselves that they are willing to live upon his labor.
And so the minister pretending to be spiritual—pretending to be a
spiritual guide—looks with contempt upon the men who make it possible
for him to live. It may be said by "worldliness" they only mean
enjoyment—that is, hearing music, going to the theater and the opera,
taking a Sunday excursion to the silvery margin of the sea. Of course,
ministers look upon theaters as rival attractions, and most of their
hatred is born of business views. They think people ought to be driven
to church by having all other places closed. In my judgment the theater
has done good, while the church has done harm. The drama never has
insisted upon burning anybody. Persecution is not born of the stage. On
the contrary, upon the stage have forever been found impersonations
of patriotism, heroism, courage, fortitude, and justice, and these
impersonations have always been applauded, and have been represented
that they might be applauded. In the pulpit, hypocrites have been
worshiped; upon the stage they have been held up to derision and
execration. Shakespeare has done far more for the world than the Bible.
The ministers keep talking about spirituality as opposed to worldliness.
Nothing can be more absurd than this talk of spirituality. As though
readers of the Bible, repeaters of texts, and sayers of prayers were
engaged in a higher work than honest industry. Is there anything higher
than human love? A man is in love with a girl, and he has determined to
work for her and to give his life that she may have a life of joy. Is
there anything more spiritual than that—anything higher? They marry. He
clears some land. He fences a field. He builds a cabin; and she, of this
hovel, makes a happy home. She plants flowers, puts a few simple things
of beauty upon the walls. This is what the preachers call "worldliness."
Is there anything more spiritual? In a little while, in this cabin, in
this home, is heard the drowsy rhythm of the cradle's rock, while
softly floats the lullaby upon the twilight air. Is there anything more
spiritual, is there anything more infinitely tender than to see husband
and wife bending, with clasped hands, over a cradle, gazing upon the
dimpled miracle of love? I say it is spiritual to work for those you
love; spiritual to improve the physical condition of mankind—for he who
improves the physical condition improves the mental. I believe in the
plowers instead of the prayers. I believe in the new firm of "Health &
Heresy" rather than the old partnership of "Disease & Divinity," doing
business at the old sign of the "Skull & Crossbones." Some of the
ministers that you have interviewed, or at least one of them, tells
us the cure for worldliness. He says that God is sending fires, and
cyclones, and things of that character for the purpose of making people
spiritual; of calling their attention to the fact that everything in
this world is of a transitory nature. The clergy have always had great
faith in famine, in affliction, in pestilence. They know that a man is
a thousand times more apt to thank God for a crust or a crumb than for
a banquet. They know that prosperity has the same effect on the average
Christian that thick soup has, according to Bumble, on the English
pauper: "It makes 'em impudent." The devil made a mistake in not
doubling Job's property instead of leaving him a pauper. In prosperity
the ministers think that we forget death and are too happy. In the arms
of those we love, the dogma of eternal fire is for the moment forgotten.
According to the ministers, God kills our children in order that we
may not forget him. They imagine that the man who goes into Dakota,
cultivates the soil and rears him a little home, is getting too
"worldly." And so God starts a cyclone to scatter his home and the limbs
of wife and children upon the desolate plains, and the ministers in
Brooklyn say this is done because we are getting too "worldly." They
think we should be more "spiritual;" that is to say, willing to live
upon the labor of others; willing to ask alms, saying, in the meantime,
"It is more blessed to give than to receive." If this is so, why not
give the money back? "Spiritual" people are those who eat oatmeal and
prunes, have great confidence in dried apples, read Cowper's "Task" and
Pollok's "Course of Time," laugh at the jokes in _Harper's Monthly_,
wear clothes shiny at the knees and elbows, and call all that has
elevated the world "beggarly elements."

_Question_. Some of the clergymen who have been interviewed admit
that the rich and poor no longer meet together, and deprecate the
establishment of mission chapels in connection with the large and
fashionable churches.

_Answer._ The early Christians supposed that the end of the world was
at hand. They were all sitting on the dock waiting for the ship. In the
presence of such a belief what are known as class distinctions could not
easily exist. Most of them were exceedingly poor, and poverty is a bond
of union. As a rule, people are hospitable in the proportion that they
lack wealth. In old times, in the West, a stranger was always welcome.
He took in part the place of the newspaper. He was a messenger from the
older parts of the country. Life was monotonous. The appearance of the
traveler gave variety. As people grow wealthy they grow exclusive. As
they become educated there is a tendency to pick their society. It is
the same in the church. The church no longer believes the creed, no
longer acts as though the creed were true. If the rich man regarded the
sermon as a means of grace, as a kind of rope thrown by the minister
to a man just above the falls; if he regarded it as a lifeboat, or as
a lighthouse, he would not allow his coachman to remain outside. If
he really believed that the coachman had an immortal soul, capable of
eternal joy, liable to everlasting pain, he would do his utmost to make
the calling and election of the said coachman sure. As a matter of fact
the rich man now cares but little for servants. They are not included
in the scheme of salvation, except as a kind of job lot. The church
has become a club. It is a social affair, and the rich do not care to
associate in the week days with the poor they may happen to meet at
church. As they expect to be in heaven together forever, they can afford
to be separated here. There will certainly be time enough there to
get acquainted. Another thing is the magnificence of the churches. The
church depends absolutely upon the rich. Poor people feel out of place
in such magnificent buildings. They drop into the nearest seat; like
poor relations, they sit on the extreme edge of the chair. At the table
of Christ they are below the salt.

They are constantly humiliated. When subscriptions are asked for they
feel ashamed to have their mite compared with the thousands given by the
millionaire. The pennies feel ashamed to mingle with the silver in the
contribution plate. The result is that most of them avoid the church.
It costs too much to worship God in public. Good clothes are necessary,
fashionably cut. The poor come in contact with too much silk, too
many jewels, too many evidences of what is generally assumed to be
superiority.

_Question_. Would this state of affairs be remedied if, instead of
churches, we had societies of ethical culture? Would not the rich there
predominate and the poor be just as much out of place?

_Answer._ I think the effect would be precisely the same, no matter what
the society is, what object it has, if composed of rich and poor. Class
distinctions, to a greater or less extent, will creep in—in fact, they
do not have to creep in. They are there at the commencement, and they
are born of the different conditions of the members.

These class distinctions are not always made by men of wealth. For
instance, some men obtain money, and are what we call snobs. Others
obtain it and retain their democratic principles, and meet men according
to the law of affinity, or general intelligence, on intellectual
grounds, for instance.

There is not only the distinction produced by wealth and power,
but there are the distinctions born of intelligence, of culture, of
character, of end, object, aim in life. No one can blame an honest
mechanic for holding a wealthy snob in utter contempt. Neither can any
one blame respectable poverty for declining to associate with arrogant
wealth. The right to make the distinction is with all classes, and with
the individuals of all classes. It is impossible to have any society
for any purpose—that is, where they meet together—without certain
embarrassments being produced by these distinctions. Nowt for instance,
suppose there should be a society simply of intelligent and cultured
people. There, wealth, to a great degree, would be disregarded. But,
after all, the distinction that intelligence draws between talent and
genius is as marked and cruel as was ever drawn between poverty and
wealth. Wherever the accomplishment of some object is deemed of such
vast importance that, for the moment, all minor distinctions are
forgotten, then it is possible for the rich and poor, the ignorant and
intelligent, to act in concert. This happens in political parties, in
time of war, and it has also happened whenever a new religion has been
founded. Whenever the rich wish the assistance of the poor, distinctions
are forgotten. It is upon the same principle that we gave liberty to the
slave during the Civil war, and clad him in the uniform of the nation;
we wanted him, we needed him; and, for the time, we were perfectly
willing to forget the distinction of color. Common peril produces pure
democracy. It is with societies as with individuals. A poor young man
coming to New York, bent upon making his fortune, begins to talk about
the old fogies; holds in contempt many of the rules and regulations of
the trade; is loud in his denunciation of monopoly; wants competition;
shouts for fair play, and is a real democrat. But let him succeed;
let him have a palace in Fifth Avenue, with his monogram on spoons and
coaches; then, instead of shouting for liberty, he will call for more
police. He will then say: "We want protection; the rabble must be put
down." We have an aristocracy of wealth. In some parts of our country an
aristocracy of literature—men and women who imagine themselves writers
and who hold in contempt all people who cannot express commonplaces in
the most elegant diction—people who look upon a mistake in grammar as
far worse than a crime. So, in some communities we have an aristocracy
of muscle. The only true aristocracy, probably, is that of kindness.
Intellect, without heart, is infinitely cruel; as cruel as wealth
without a sense of justice; as cruel as muscle without mercy. So that,
after all, the real aristocracy must be that of goodness where the
intellect is directed by the heart.

_Question_. You say that the aristocracy of intellect is quite as cruel
as the aristocracy of wealth—what do you mean by that?

_Answer._ By intellect, I mean simply intellect; that is to say, the
aristocracy of education—of simple brain—expressed in innumerable
ways—in invention, painting, sculpture, literature. And I meant to say
that that aristocracy was as cruel as that of simple arrogant wealth.
After all, why should a man be proud of something given him by
nature—something that he did not earn, did not produce—something that
he could not help? Is it not more reasonable to be proud of wealth which
you have accumulated than of brain which nature gave you? And, to carry
this idea clearly out, why should we be proud of anything? Is there any
proper occasion on which to crow? If you succeed, your success crows for
you; if you fail, certainly crowing is not in the best of taste. And why
should a man be proud of brain? Why should he be proud of disposition or
of good acts?

_Question_. You speak of the cruelty of the intellect, and yet, of
course, you must recognize the right of every one to select his own
companions. Would it be arrogant for the intellectual man to prefer the
companionship of people of his own class in preference to commonplace
and unintelligent persons?

_Answer._ All men should have the same rights, and one right that
every man should have is to associate with congenial people. There are
thousands of good men whose society I do not covet. They may be stupid,
or they may be stupid only in the direction in which I am interested,
and may be exceedingly intelligent as to matters about which I care
nothing. In either case they are not congenial. They have the right to
select congenial company; so have I. And while distinctions are thus
made, they are not cruel; they are not heartless. They are for the
good of all concerned, spring naturally from the circumstances, and
are consistent with the highest philanthropy. Why we notice these
distinctions in the church more than we do in the club is that the
church talks one way and acts another; because the church insists that a
certain line of conduct is essential to salvation, and that every human
being is in danger of eternal pain. If the creed were true, then, in
the presence of such an infinite verity, all earthly distinctions should
instantly vanish. Every Christian should exert himself for the salvation
of the soul of a beggar with the same degree of earnestness that he
would show to save a king. The accidents of wealth, education, social
position, should be esteemed as naught, and the richest should gladly
work side by side with the poorest. The churches will never reach the
poor as long as they sell pews; as long as the rich members wear their
best clothes on Sunday. As long as the fashions of the drawing-room
are taken to the table of the last supper, the poor will remain in the
highways and hedges. Present fashion is more powerful than faith. So
long as the ministers shut up their churches, and allow the poor to go
to hell in summer; as long as they leave the devil without a competitor
for three months in the year, the churches will not materially impede
the march of human progress. People often, unconsciously and without any
malice, say something or do something that throws an unexpected light
upon a question. The other day, in one of the New York comic papers,
there was a picture representing the foremost preachers of the country
at the seaside together. It was regarded as a joke that they could enjoy
each others society. These ministers are supposed to be the apostles of
the religion of kindness. They tell us to love even our enemies, and
yet the idea that they could associate happily together is regarded as
a joke! After all, churches are like other institutions, they have to
be managed, and they now rely upon music and upon elocution rather than
upon the gospel. They are becoming social affairs. They are giving up
the doctrine of eternal punishment, and have consequently lost their
hold. The orthodox churches used to tell us there was to be a fire,
and they offered to insure; and as long as the fire was expected
the premiums were paid and the policies were issued. Then came the
Universalist Church, saying that there would be no fire, and yet
asking the people to insure. For such a church there is no basis. It
undoubtedly did good by its influence upon other churches. So with the
Unitarian. That church has no basis for organization; no reason, because
no hell is threatened, and heaven is but faintly promised. Just as the
churches have lost their belief in eternal fire, they have lost their
influence, and the reason they have lost their belief is on account
of the diffusion of knowledge. That doctrine is becoming absurd and
infamous. Intelligent people are ashamed to broach it. Intelligent
people can no longer believe it. It is regarded with horror, and the
churches must finally abandon it, and when they do, that is the end of
the church militant.

_Question_. What do you say to the progress of the Roman Catholic
Church, in view of the fact that they have not changed their belief, in
any particular, in regard to future punishment?

_Answer._ Neither Catholicism nor Protestantism will ever win another
battle. The last victory of Protestantism was won in Holland. Nations
have not been converted since then. The time has passed to preach
with sword and gun, and for that reason Catholicism can win no
more victories. That church increases in this country mostly from
immigration. Catholicism does not belong to the New World. It is at war
with the idea of our Government, antagonistic to true republicanism, and
is in every sense anti-American. The Catholic Church does not control
its members. That church prevents no crime. It is not in favor of
education. It is not the friend of liberty. In Europe it is now used
as a political power, but here it dare not assert itself. There are
thousands of good Catholics. As a rule they probably believe the creed
of the church. That church has lost the power to anathematize. It can
no longer burn. It must now depend upon other forces—upon persuasion,
sophistry, ignorance, fear, and heredity.

_Question_. You have stated your objections to the churches, what would
you have to take their place?

_Answer._ There was a time when men had to meet together for the purpose
of being told the law. This was before printing, and for hundreds and
hundreds of years most people depended for their information on what
they heard. The ear was the avenue to the brain. There was a time, of
course, when Freemasonry was necessary, so that a man could carry, not
only all over his own country, but to another, a certificate that he
was a gentleman; that he was an honest man. There was a time, and it was
necessary, for the people to assemble. They had no books, no papers, no
way of reaching each other. But now all that is changed. The daily
press gives you the happenings of the world. The libraries give you
the thoughts of the greatest and best. Every man of moderate means can
command the principal sources of information. There is no necessity for
going to the church and hearing the same story forever. Let the minister
write what he wishes to say. Let him publish it. If it is worth buying,
people will read it. It is hardly fair to get them in a church in
the name of duty and there inflict upon them a sermon that under no
circumstances they would read. Of course, there will always be meetings,
occasions when people come together to exchange ideas, to hear what a
man has to say upon some questions, but the idea of going fifty-two days
in a year to hear anybody on the same subject is absurd.

_Question_. Would you include a man like Henry Ward Beecher in that
statement?

_Answer._ Beecher is interesting just in proportion that he is not
orthodox, and he is altogether more interesting when talking against his
creed. He delivered a sermon the other day in Chicago, in which he takes
the ground that Christianity is kindness, and that, consequently, no
one could be an infidel. Every one believes in kindness, at least
theoretically. In that sermon he throws away all creed, and comes to
the conclusion that Christianity is a life, not an aggregation of
intellectual convictions upon certain subjects. The more sermons like
that are preached, probably the better. What I intended was the eternal
repetition of the old story: That God made the world and a man, and
then allowed the devil to tempt him, and then thought of a scheme
of salvation, of vicarious atonement, 1500 years afterwards; drowned
everybody except Noah and his family, and afterward, when he failed
to civilize the Jewish people, came in person and suffered death, and
announced the doctrine that all who believed on him would be saved,
and those who did not, eternally lost. Now, this story, with occasional
references to the patriarchs and the New Jerusalem, and the exceeding
heat of perdition, and the wonderful joys of Paradise, is the average
sermon, and this story is told again, again, and again, by the same men,
listened to by the same people without any effect except to tire the
speaker and the hearer. If all the ministers would take their texts from
Shakespeare; if they would read every Sunday a selection from some of
the great plays, the result would be infinitely better. They would all
learn something; the mind would be enlarged, and the sermon would appear
short. Nothing has shown more clearly the intellectual barrenness of
the pulpit than baccalaureate sermons lately delivered. The dignified
dullness, the solemn stupidity of these addresses has never been
excelled. No question was met. The poor candidates for the ministry were
given no new weapons. Armed with the theological flintlock of a century
ago, they were ordered to do battle for doctrines older than their
weapons. They were told to rely on prayer, to answer all arguments by
keeping out of discussions, and to overwhelm the skeptic by ignoring
the facts. There was a time when the Protestant clergy were in favor
of education; that is to say, education enough to make a Catholic a
Protestant, but not enough to make a Protestant a philosopher. The
Catholics are also in favor of education enough to make a savage a
Catholic, and there they stop. The Christian should never unsettle his
belief. If he studies, if he reads, he is in danger. A new idea is a
doubt; a doubt is the threshold of infidelity. The young ministers are
warned against inquiry. They are educated like robins; they swallow
whatever is thrown in the mouth, worms or shingle-nails, it makes no
difference, and they are expected to get their revenge by treating
their flocks precisely as the professors treated them. The creeds of
the churches are being laughed at. Thousands of young men say nothing,
because they do not wish to hurt the feelings of mothers and maiden
aunts.

Thousands of business men say nothing, for fear it may interfere with
trade. Politicians keep quiet for fear of losing influence. But when you
get at the real opinions of people, a vast majority have outgrown the
doctrines of orthodox Christianity. Some people think these things good
for women and children, and use the Lord as an immense policeman to keep
order. Every day ministers are uttering a declaration of independence.
They are being examined by synods and committees of ministers, and they
are beginning everywhere to say that they do not regard this life as a
probationary stage; that the doctrine of eternal punishment is too bad;
that the Bible is, in many things, foolish, absurd, and infamous; that
it must have been written by men. And the people at large are beginning
to find that the ministers have kept back the facts; have not told the
history of the Bible; have not given to their congregations the latest
advices, and so the feeling is becoming almost general that orthodox
Christianity has outlived its usefulness. The church has a great deal
to contend with. The scientific men are not religious. Geology laughs at
Genesis, and astronomy has concluded that Joshua knew but very little of
the motions of heavenly bodies. Statesmen do not approve of the laws
of Moses; the intellect of the world is on the other side. There is
something besides preaching on Sunday. The newspaper is the rival of the
pulpit. Nearly all the cars are running on that blessed day. Steamers
take hundreds of thousands of excursionists. The man who has been at
work all the week seeks the sight of the sea, and this has become so
universal that the preacher is following his example. The flock has
ceased to be afraid of the wolf, and the shepherd deserts the sheep. In
a little while all the libraries will be open—all the museums. There
will be music in the public parks; the opera, the theater. And what
will churches do then? The cardinal points will be demonstrated to empty
pews, unless the church is wise enough to meet the intellectual demands
of the present.

_Question_. You speak as if the influences working against Christianity
to-day will tend to crush it out of existence. Do you think that
Christianity is any worse off now than it was during the French
Revolution, when the priests were banished from the country and
reason was worshiped; or in England, a hundred years ago, when Hume,
Bolingbroke, and others made their attacks upon it?

_Answer._ You must remember that the French Revolution was produced by
Catholicism; that it was a reaction; that it went to infinite extremes;
that it was a revolution seeking revenge. It is not hard to understand
those times, provided you know the history of the Catholic Church.
The seeds of the French Revolution were sown by priests and kings. The
people had suffered the miseries of slavery for a thousand years, and
the French Revolution came because human nature could bear the wrongs
no longer. It was something not reasoned; it was felt. Only a few acted
from intellectual convictions. The most were stung to madness, and were
carried away with the desire to destroy. They wanted to shed blood, to
tear down palaces, to cut throats, and in some way avenge the wrongs of
all the centuries. Catholicism has never recovered—it never will. The
dagger of Voltaire struck the heart; the wound was mortal. Catholicism
has staggered from that day to this.

It has been losing power every moment. At the death of Voltaire there
were twenty millions less Catholics than when he was born. In the French
Revolution muscle outran mind; revenge anticipated reason. There
was destruction without the genius of construction. They had to use
materials that had been rendered worthless by ages of Catholicism.

The French Revolution was a failure because the French people were a
failure, and the French people were a failure because Catholicism
had made them so. The ministers attack Voltaire without reading him.
Probably there are not a dozen orthodox ministers in the world who have
read the works of Voltaire. I know of no one who has. Only a little
while ago, a minister told me he had read Voltaire. I offered him one
hundred dollars to repeat a paragraph, or to give the title, even, of
one of Voltaire's volumes. Most ministers think he was an atheist. The
trouble with the infidels in England a hundred years ago was that they
did not go far enough. It may be that they could not have gone further
and been allowed to live. Most of them took the ground that there was
an infinite, all-wise, beneficent God, creator of the universe, and that
this all-wise, beneficent God certainly was too good to be the author of
the Bible. They, however, insisted that this good God was the author of
nature, and the theologians completely turned the tables by showing
that this god of nature was in the pestilence and plague business,
manufactured earthquakes, overwhelmed towns and cities, and was, of
necessity, the author of all pain and agony. In my judgment, the Deists
were all successfully answered. The god of nature is certainly as bad as
the God of the Old Testament. It is only when we discard the idea of a
deity, the idea of cruelty or goodness in nature, that we are able
ever to bear with patience the ills of life. I feel that I am neither
a favorite nor a victim. Nature neither loves nor hates me. I do not
believe in the existence of any personal god. I regard the universe as
the one fact, as the one existence—that is, as the absolute thing. I am
a part of this. I do not say that there is no God; I simply say that I
do not believe there is. There may be millions of them. Neither do I say
that man is not immortal. Upon that point I admit that I do not know,
and the declarations of all the priests in the world upon that subject
give me no light, and do not even tend to add to my information on
the subject, because I know that they know that they do not know. The
infidelity of a hundred years ago knew nothing, comparatively speaking,
of geology; nothing of astronomy; nothing of the ideas of Lamarck and
Darwin; nothing of evolution; nothing, comparatively speaking, of other
religions; nothing of India, that womb of metaphysics; in other
words, the infidels of a hundred years ago knew the creed of orthodox
Christianity to be false, but had not the facts to demonstrate it. The
infidels of to-day have the facts; that is the difference. A hundred
years ago it was a guessing prophecy; to-day it is the fact and
fulfillment. Everything in nature is working against superstition
to-day. Superstition is like a thorn in the flesh, and everything, from
dust to stars, is working together to destroy the false. The smallest
pebble answers the greatest parson. One blade of grass, rightly
understood, destroys the orthodox creed.

_Question_. You say that the pews will be empty in the future unless
the church meets the intellectual demands of the present. Are not the
ministers of to-day, generally speaking, much more intellectual than
those of a hundred years ago, and are not the "liberal" views in regard
to the inspiration of the Bible, the atonement, future punishment, the
fall of man, and the personal divinity of Christ which openly prevail in
many churches, an indication that the church is meeting the demands of
many people who do not care to be classed as out-and-out disbelievers in
Christianity, but who have advanced views on those and other questions?

_Answer._ As to the first part of this question, I do not think the
ministers of to-day are more intellectual than they were a hundred years
ago; that is, I do not think they have greater brain capacity, but
I think on the average, the congregations have a higher amount. The
amelioration of orthodox Christianity is not by the intelligence in the
pulpit, but by the brain in the pews. Another thing: One hundred years
ago the church had intellectual honors to bestow. The pulpit opened
a career. Not so now. There are too many avenues to distinction and
wealth—too much worldliness. The best minds do not go into the pulpit.
Martyrs had rather be burned than laughed at. Most ministers of to-day
are not naturally adapted to other professions promising eminence.
There are some great exceptions, but those exceptions are the ministers
nearest infidels. Theodore Parker was a great man. Henry Ward Beecher
is a great man—not the most consistent man in the world—but he is
certainly a man of mark, a remarkable genius. If he could only get rid
of the idea that Plymouth Church is necessary to him—after that time
he would not utter an orthodox word. Chapin was a man of mind. I might
mention some others, but, as a rule, the pulpit is not remarkable
for intelligence. The intelligent men of the world do not believe in
orthodox Christianity. It is to-day a symptom of intellectual decay. The
conservative ministers are the stupid ones. The conservative professors
are those upon whose ideas will be found the centuries' moss, old red
sandstone theories, pre-historic silurian. Now, as to the second part
of the question: The views of the church are changing, the clergy of
Brooklyn to the contrary, notwithstanding. Orthodox religion is a kind
of boa-constrictor; anything it can not dodge it will swallow. The
church is bound to have something for sale that somebody wants to buy.
According to the pew demand will be the pulpit supply. In old times the
pulpit dictated to the pews. Things have changed. Theology is now run on
business principles. The gentleman who pays for the theories insists
on having them suit him. Ministers are intellectual gardeners, and
they must supply the market with such religious vegetables as the
congregations desire. Thousands have given up belief in the inspiration
of the Bible, the divinity of Christ, the atonement idea and original
sin. Millions believe now, that this is not a state of probation; that
a man, provided he is well off and has given liberally to the church, or
whose wife has been a regular attendant, will, in the next world, have
another chance; that he will be permitted to file a motion for a new
trial. Others think that hell is not as warm as it used to be supposed;
that, while it is very hot in the middle of the day, the nights are
cool; and that, after all, there is not so much to fear from the future.
They regard the old religion as very good for the poor, and they give
them the old ideas on the same principle that they give them their old
clothes. These ideas, out at the elbows, out at the knees, buttons off,
somewhat raveled, will, after all, do very well for paupers. There is a
great trade of this kind going on now—selling old theological clothes
to the colored people in the South. All I have said applies to all
churches. The Catholic Church changes every day. It does not change its
ceremonies; but the spirit that begot the ceremonies, the spirit that
clothed the skeleton of ceremony with the flesh and blood and throb of
life and love, is gone. The spirit that built the cathedrals, the spirit
that emptied the wealth of the world into the lap of Rome, has turned in
another direction. Of course, the churches are all going to endeavor to
meet the demands of the hour. They will find new readings for old texts.
They will re-punctuate and re-parse the Old Testament. They will find
that "flat" meant "a little rounding;" that "six days" meant "six long
times;" that the word "flood" should have been translated "dampness,"
"dew," or "threatened rain;" that Daniel in the lion's den was an
historical myth; that Samson and his foxes had nothing to do with
this world. All these things will be gradually explained and made to
harmonize with the facts of modern science. They will not change the
words of the creed; they will simply give "new meanings and the highest
criticism to-day is that which confesses and avoids. In other words, the
churches will change as the people change. They will keep for sale that
which can be sold. Already the old goods are being "marked down." If,
however, the church should fail, why then it must go. I see no reason,
myself, for its existence. It apparently does no good; it devours
without producing; it eats without planting, and is a perpetual burden.
It teaches nothing of value. It misleads, mystifies, and misrepresents.
It threatens without knowledge and promises without power. In my
judgment, the quicker it goes the better for all mankind. But if it
does not go in name, it must go in fact, because it must change; and,
therefore, it is only a question of time when it ceases to divert from
useful channels the blood and muscle of the world.

_Question_. You say that in the baccalaureate sermons delivered lately
the theological students were told to answer arguments by keeping out
of discussion. Is it not the fact that ministers have of late years
preached very largely on scientific disbelief, agnosticism, and
infidelity, so much so as to lead to their being reprimanded by some of
their more conservative brethren?

_Answer._ Of course there are hundreds of thousands of ministers
perpetually endeavoring to answer infidelity. Their answers have done so
much harm that the more conservative among the clergy have advised them
to stop. Thousands have answered me, and their answers, for the most
part, are like this: Paine was a blackguard, therefore the geology of
Genesis is on a scientific basis. We know the doctrine of the atonement
is true, because in the French Revolution they worshiped reason. And
we know, too, all about the fall of man and the Garden of Eden because
Voltaire was nearly frightened to death when he came to die. These are
the usual arguments, supplemented by a few words concerning myself.
And, in my view, they are the best that can be made. Failing to answer
a man's argument, the next best thing is to attack his character. "You
have no case," said an attorney to the plaintiff. "No matter," said the
plaintiff, "I want you to give the defendant the devil."

_Question_. What have you to say to the Rev. Dr. Baker's statement that
he generally buys five or six tickets for your lectures and gives them
to young men, who are shocked at the flippant way in which you are said
to speak of the Bible?

_Answer._ Well, as to that, I have always wondered why I had such
immense audiences in Brooklyn and New York. This tends to clear away
the mystery. If all the clergy follow the example of Dr. Baker, that
accounts for the number seeking admission. Of course, Dr. Baker would
not misrepresent a thing like that, and I shall always feel greatly
indebted to him, shall hereafter regard him as one of my agents, and
take this occasion to return my thanks. He is certainly welcome to all
the converts to Christianity made by hearing me. Still, I hardly think
it honest in young men to play a game like that on the doctor.

_Question_. You speak of the eternal repetition of the old story of
Christianity and say that the more sermons like the one Mr. Beecher
preached lately the better. Is it not the fact that ministers, at the
present time, do preach very largely on questions of purely moral,
social, and humanitarian interest, so much so, indeed, as to provoke
criticism on the part of the secular newspaper press?

_Answer._ I admit that there is a general tendency in the pulpit to
preach about things happening in this world; in other words, that the
preachers themselves are beginning to be touched with worldliness.
They find that the New Jerusalem has no particular interest for persons
dealing in real estate in this world. And thousands of people are
losing interest in Abraham, in David, Haggai, and take more interest
in gentlemen who have the cheerful habit of living. They also find
that their readers do not wish to be reminded perpetually of death and
coffins; and worms and dust and gravestones and shrouds and epitaphs
and hearses, biers, and cheerful subjects of that character. That they
prefer to hear the minister speak about a topic in which they have a
present interest, and about which something cheerful can be said.
In fact, it is a relief to hear about politics, a little about art,
something about stocks or the crops, and most ministers find it
necessary to advertise that they are going to speak on something that
has happened within the last eighteen hundred years, and that, for
the time being, Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego will be left in the
furnace. Of course, I think that most ministers are reasonably honest.
Maybe they don't tell all their doubts, but undoubtedly they are
endeavoring to make the world better, and most of the church members
think that they are doing the best that can be done. I am not
criticising their motives, but their methods. I am not attacking the
character or reputation of ministers, but simply giving my ideas,
avoiding anything personal. I do not pretend to be very good, nor very
bad—-just fair to middling.

_Question_. You say that Christians will not read for fear that they
will unsettle their belief. Father Fransiola (Roman Catholic) said in
the interview I had with him: "If you do not allow man to reason you
crush his manhood. Therefore, he has to reason upon the credibility of
his faith, and through reason, guided by faith, he discovers the truth,
and so satisfies his wants."

_Answer._ Without calling in question the perfect sincerity of Father
Fransiola, I think his statement is exactly the wrong end to. I do not
think that reason should be guided by faith; I think that faith should
be guided by reason. After all, the highest possible conception of faith
would be the science of probabilities, and the probable must not be
based on what has not happened, but upon what has; not upon something
we know nothing about, but the nature of the things with which we are
acquainted. The foundation we must know something about, and whenever we
reason, we must have something as a basis, something secular, something
that we think we know. About these facts we reason, sometimes by
analogy, and we say thus and so has happened, therefore thus and so may
happen. We do not say thus and so _may_ happen, therefore something else
_has_ happened. We must reason from the known to the unknown, not from
the unknown to the known. This Father admits that if you do not allow a
man to reason you crush his manhood. At the same time he says faith must
govern reason. Who makes the faith? The church. And the church tells the
man that he must take the faith, reason or no reason, and that he
may afterward reason, taking the faith as a fact. This makes him an
intellectual slave, and the poor devil mistakes for liberty the right
to examine his own chains. These gentlemen endeavor to satisfy their
prisoners by insisting that there is nothing beyond the walls.

_Question_. You criticise the church for not encouring the poor to
mingle with the rich, and yet you defend the right of a man to choose
his own company. Are not these same distinctions made by non-confessing
Christians in real life, and will not there always be some greater,
richer, wiser, than the rest?

_Answer._ I do not blame the church because there are these distinctions
based on wealth, intelligence, and culture. What I blame the church for
is pretending to do away with these distinctions. These distinctions in
men are inherent; differences in brain, in race, in blood, in education,
and they are differences that will eternally exist—that is, as long as
the human race exists. Some will be fortunate, some unfortunate, some
generous, some stingy, some rich, some poor. What I wish to do away with
is the contempt and scorn and hatred existing between rich and poor. I
want the democracy of kindness—what you might call the republicanism of
justice. I do not have to associate with a man to keep from robbing him.
I can give him his rights without enjoying his company, and he can give
me my rights without inviting me to dinner. Why should not poverty have
rights? And has not honest poverty the right to hold dishonest wealth in
contempt, and will it not do it, whether it belongs to the same church
or not? We cannot judge men by their wealth, or by the position they
hold in society. I like every kind man; I hate every cruel one. I like
the generous, whether they are poor or rich, ignorant or cultivated. I
like men that love their families, that are kind to their wives,
gentle with their children, no matter whether they are millionaires or
mendicants. And to me the blossom of benevolence, of charity, is the
fairest flower, no matter whether it blooms by the side of a hovel, or
bursts from a vine climbing the marble pillar of a palace. I respect no
man because he is rich; I hold in contempt no man because he is poor.

_Question_. Some of the clergymen say that the spread of infidelity is
greatly exaggerated; that it makes more noise and creates more notice
than conservative Christianity simply on account of its being outside of
the accepted line of thought.

_Answer._ There was a time when an unbeliever, open and pronounced, was
a wonder. At that time the church had great power; it could retaliate;
it could destroy. The church abandoned the stake only when too many men
objected to being burned. At that time infidelity was clad not simply in
novelty, but often in fire. Of late years the thoughts of men have been
turned, by virtue of modern discoveries, as the result of countless
influences, to an investigation of the foundation of orthodox religion.
Other religions were put in the crucible of criticism, and nothing was
found but dross. At last it occurred to the intelligent to examine our
own religion, and this examination has excited great interest and great
comment. People want to hear, and they want to hear because they have
already about concluded themselves that the creeds are founded in error.

Thousands come to hear me because they are interested in the question,
because they want to hear a man say what they think. They want to hear
their own ideas from the lips of another. The tide has turned, and the
spirit of investigation, the intelligence, the intellectual courage
of the world is on the other side. A real good old-fashioned orthodox
minister who believes the Thirty-nine articles with all his might, is
regarded to-day as a theological mummy, a kind of corpse acted upon by
the galvanic battery of faith, making strange motions, almost like those
of life—not quite.

_Question_. How would you convey moral instruction from youth up, and
what kind of instruction would you give?

_Answer._ I regard Christianity as a failure. Now, then, what is
Christianity? I do not include in the word "Christianity" the average
morality of the world or the morality taught in all systems of religion;
that is, as distinctive Christianity. Christianity is this: A belief in
the inspiration of the Scriptures, the atonement, the life, death, and
resurrection of Christ, an eternal reward for the believers in Christ,
and eternal punishment for the rest of us. Now, take from Christianity
its miracles, its absurdities of the atonement and fall of man and
the inspiration of the Scriptures, and I have no objection to it as
I understand it. I believe, in the main, in the Christianity which I
suppose Christ taught, that is, in kindness, gentleness, forgiveness.
I do not believe in loving enemies; I have pretty hard work to love my
friends. Neither do I believe in revenge. No man can afford to keep
the viper of revenge in his heart. But I believe in justice, in
self-defence. Christianity—that is, the miraculous part—must be
abandoned. As to morality—morality is born, is born of the instinct of
self-preservation. If man could not suffer, the word "conscience" never
would have passed his lips. Self-preservation makes larceny a crime.
Murder will be regarded as a bad thing as long as a majority object to
being murdered. Morality does not come from the clouds; it is born of
human want and human experience. We need no inspiration, no inspired
work. The industrious man knows that the idle has no right to rob him of
the product of his labor, and the idle man knows that he has no right to
do it. It is not wrong because we find it in the Bible, but I presume
it was put in the Bible because it is wrong. Then, you find in the Bible
other things upheld that are infamous. And why? Because the writers of
the Bible were barbarians, in many things, and because that book is a
mixture of good and evil. I see no trouble in teaching morality without
miracle. I see no use of miracle. What can men do with it? Credulity is
not a virtue. The credulous are not necessarily charitable. Wonder
is not the mother of wisdom. I believe children should be taught to
investigate and to reason for themselves, and that there are facts
enough to furnish a foundation for all human virtue. We will take two
families; in the one, the father and mother are both Christians,
and they teach their children their creed; teach them that they are
naturally totally depraved; that they can only hope for happiness in
a future life by pleading the virtues of another, and that a certain
belief is necessary to salvation; that God punishes his children
forever. Such a home has a certain atmosphere. Take another family; the
father and mother teach their children that they should be kind to each
other because kindness produces happiness; that they should be gentle;
that they should be just, because justice is the mother of joy. And
suppose this father and mother say to their children: "If you are happy
it must be as a result of your own actions; if you do wrong you must
suffer the consequences. No Christ can redeem you; no savior can suffer
for you. You must suffer the consequences of your own misdeeds. If you
plant you must reap, and you must reap what you plant." And suppose
these parents also say: "You must find out the conditions of happiness.
You must investigate the circumstances by which you are surrounded. You
must ascertain the nature and relation of things so that you can act
in accordance with known facts, to the end that you may have health and
peace." In such a family, there would be a certain atmosphere, in my
judgment, a thousand times better and purer and sweeter than in the
other. The church generally teaches that rascality pays in this
world, but not in the next; that here virtue is a losing game, but the
dividends will be large in another world. They tell the people that they
must serve God on credit, but the devil pays cash here. That is not my
doctrine. My doctrine is that a thing is right because it pays, in the
highest sense. That is the reason it is right. The reason a thing is
wrong is because it is the mother of misery. Virtue has its reward here
and now. It means health; it means intelligence, contentment, success.
Vice means exactly the opposite. Most of us have more passion than
judgment, carry more sail than ballast, and by the tempest of passion
we are blown from port, we are wrecked and lost. We cannot be saved
by faith or by belief. It is a slower process: We must be saved by
knowledge, by intelligence—the only lever capable of raising mankind.

_Question_. The shorter catechism, Colonel, you may remember says "that
man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever." What is your
idea of the chief end of man?

_Answer._ It has always seemed a little curious to me that joy should
be held in such contempt here, and yet promised hereafter as an eternal
reward. Why not be happy here, as well as in heaven. Why not have joy
here? Why not go to heaven now—that is, to-day? Why not enjoy the
sunshine of this world, and all there is of good in it? It is bad
enough; so bad that I do not believe it was ever created by a beneficent
deity; but what little good there is in it, why not have it? Neither do
I believe that it is the end of man to glorify God. How can the
Infinite be glorified? Does he wish for reputation? He has no equals, no
superiors. How can he have what we call reputation? How can he achieve
what we call glory? Why should he wish the flattery of the average
Presbyterian? What good will it do him to know that his course has been
approved of by the Methodist Episcopal Church? What does he care, even,
for the religious weeklies, or the presidents of religious colleges?
I do not see how we can help God, or hurt him. If there be an infinite
Being, certainly nothing we can do can in any way affect him. We can
affect each other, and therefore man should be careful not to sin
against man. For that reason I have said a hundred times, injustice is
the only blasphemy. If there be a heaven I want to associate there with
the ones who have loved me here. I might not like the angels and the
angels might not like me. I want to find old friends. I do not care to
associate with the Infinite; there could be no freedom in such society.
I suppose I am not spiritual enough, and am somewhat touched with
worldliness. It seems to me that everybody ought to be honest enough
to say about the Infinite "I know nothing of eternal joy, I have no
conception about another world, I know nothing." At the same time, I am
not attacking anybody for believing in immortality. The more a man can
hope, and the less he can fear, the better. I have done what I could to
drive from the human heart the shadow of eternal pain. I want to put out
the fires of an ignorant and revengeful hell.
---
# The Limitations of Toleration
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1888_
> * A discussion between Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, Hon.
> Frederic R. Coudert, Ex-Gov. Stewart L. Woodford, before the
> Nineteenth Century Club of New York, at the Metropolitan
> Opera House, May 8, 1888. The points for discussion, as
> submitted in advance, were the following propositions:

Colonel Ingersoll's Opening.

Ladies, Mr. President and Gentlemen:

I AM here to-night for the purpose of defending your right to differ
with me. I want to convince you that you are under no compulsion to
accept my creed; that you are, so far as I am concerned, absolutely free
to follow the torch of your reason according to your conscience; and I
believe that you are civilized to that degree that you will extend to me
the right that you claim for yourselves.

First. Thought is a necessary natural product—the result of what is
called impressions made through the medium of the senses upon the brain,
not forgetting the Fact of heredity.

Second. No human being is accountable to any being-human or divine—for
his thoughts.

Third. Human beings have a certain interest in the thoughts of each
other, and one who undertakes to tell his thoughts should be honest.

Fourth. All have an equal right to express their thoughts upon all
subjects.

Fifth. For one man to say to another, "I tolerate you," is an assumption
of authority—not a disclaimer, but a waiver, of the right to persecute.

Sixth. Each man has the same right to express to the whole world his
ideas, that the rest of the world have to express their thoughts to him.

Courtlandt Palmer, Esq., President of the Club, in introducing Mr.
Ingersoll, among other things said:

"The inspiration of the orator of the evening seems to be that of the
great Victor Hugo, who uttered the august saying, 'There shall be no
slavery of the mind.'

"When I was in Paris, about a year ago, I visited the tomb of Victor
Hugo. It was placed in a recess in the crypt of the Pantheon. Opposite
it was the tomb of Jean Jacques Rousseau. Near by, in another recess, was
the memorial statue of Voltaire; and I felt, as I looked at these three
monuments, that had Colonel Ingersoll been born in France, and had he
passed in his long life account, the acclaim of the liberal culture of
France would have enlarged that trio into a quartette.

"Colonel Ingersoll has appeared in several important debates in print,
notably with Judge Jeremiah S. Black formerly Attorney-General of the
United States: lately in the pages of The North American Review with the
Rev. Dr. Henry M. Field, and last but not least the Right Hon. William
E Gladstone, England's greatest citizen, has taken up the cudgel against
him in behalf of his view of Orthodoxy To-night, I believe-for the first
time, the colonel has consented to appear in a colloquial discussion. I
have now the honor to introduce this distinguished orator."

I admit, at the very threshold, that every human being thinks as he
must; and the first proposition really is, whether man has the right to
think. It will bear but little discussion, for the reason that no man
can control his thought. If you think you can, what are you going to
think to-morrow? What are you going to think next year? If you can
absolutely control your thought, can you stop thinking?

The question is, Has the will any power over the thought? What is
thought? It is the result of nature—of the outer world—first upon the
senses—those impressions left upon the brain as pictures of things in
the outward world, and these pictures are transformed into, or produce,
thought; and as long as the doors of the senses are open, thoughts will
be produced. Whoever looks at anything in nature, thinks. Whoever hears
any sound—or any symphony—no matter what—thinks. Whoever looks upon
the sea, or on a star, or on a flower, or on the face of a fellow-man,
thinks, and the result of that look is an absolute necessity. The
thought produced will depend upon your brain, upon your experience, upon
the history of your life.

One who looks upon the sea, knowing that the one he loved the best had
been devoured by its hungry waves, will have certain thoughts; and he
who sees it for the first time, will have different thoughts. In other
words, no two brains are alike; no two lives have been or are or ever
will be the same. Consequently, nature cannot produce the same effect
upon any two brains, or upon any two hearts.

The only reason why we wish to exchange thoughts is that we are
different. If we were all the same, we would die dumb. No thought would
be expressed after we found that our thoughts were precisely alike. We
differ—our thoughts are different. Therefore the commerce that we call
conversation.

Back of language is thought. Back of language is the desire to express
our thought to another. This desire not only gave us language—this
desire has given us the libraries of the world. And not only the
libraries; this desire to express thought, to show to others the
splendid children of the brain, has written every book, formed every
language, painted every picture, and chiseled every statue—this desire
to express our thought to others, to reap the harvest of the brain.

If, then, thought is a necessity, "it follows as the night the day"
that there is, there can be, no responsibility for thought to any being,
human or divine.

A camera contains a sensitive plate. The light flashes upon it, and the
sensitive plate receives a picture. Is it in fault, is it responsible,
for the picture? So with the brain. An image is left on it, a picture
is imprinted there. The plate may not be perfectly level—it may be too
concave, or too convex, and the picture may be a deformity; so with the
brain. But the man does not make his own brain, and the consequence is,
if the picture is distorted it is not the fault of the brain.

We take then these two steps: first, thought is a necessity; and second,
the thought depends upon the brain.

Each brain is a kind of field where nature sows with careless hands
the seeds of thought. Some brains are poor and barren fields, producing
weeds and thorns, and some are like the tropic world where grow the palm
and pine—children of the sun and soil.

You read Shakespeare. What do you get out of Shakespeare? All that your
brain is able to hold. It depends upon your brain. If you are great—if
you have been cultivated—if the wings of your imagination have been
spread—if you have had great, free, and splendid thoughts—'r you have
stood upon the edge of things—if you have had the courage to meet all
that can come—you get an immensity from Shakespeare. If you have lived
nobly—if you have loved with every drop of your blood and every fibre
of your being—if you have suffered—if you have enjoyed—then you get
an immensity from Shakespeare. But if you have lived a poor, little,
mean, wasted, barren, weedy life—you get very little from that immortal
man.

So it is from every source in nature—what you get depends upon what you
are.

Take then the second step. If thought is a necessity, there can be
no responsibility for thought. And why has man ever believed that his
fellow-man was responsible for his thought?

Everything that is, everything that has been, has been naturally
produced. Man has acted as, under the same circumstances, we would have
acted; because when you say "under the circumstances," it is the same as
to say that you would do exactly as they have done.

There has always been in men the instinct of self-preservation. There was
a time when men believed, and honestly believed, that there was above
them a God. Sometimes they believed in many, but it will be sufficient
for my illustration to say, one. Man believed that there was in the sky
above him a God who attended to the affairs of men. He believed that
that God, sitting upon his throne, rewarded virtue and punished vice. He
believed also, that that God held the community responsible for the sins
of individuals. He honestly believed it. When the flood came, or when
the earthquake devoured, he really believed that some God was filled
with anger—with holy indignation—at his children. He believed it, and
so he looked about among his neighbors to see who was in fault, and if
there was any man who had failed to bring his sacrifice to the altar,
had failed to kneel, it may be to the priest, failed to be present in
the temple, or had given it as his opinion that the God of that tribe
or of that nation was of no use, then, in order to placate the God, they
seized the neighbor and sacrificed him on the altar of their ignorance
and of their fear.

They believed when the lightning leaped from the cloud and left its
blackened mark upon the man, that he had done something—that he had
excited the wrath of the gods.

And while man so believed, while he believed that it was necessary, in
order to defend himself, to kill his neighbor—he acted simply according
to the dictates of his nature.

What I claim is that we have nov-advanced far enough not only to
think, but to know, that the conduct of man has nothing to do with the
phenomena of nature. We are now advanced far enough to absolutely know
that no man can be bad enough and no nation infamous enough to cause an
earthquake. I think we have got to that point that we absolutely
know that no man can be wicked enough to entice one of the bolts from
heaven—that no man can be cruel enough to cause a drought—and that you
could not have infidels enough on the earth to cause another flood.
I think we have advanced far enough not only to say that, but to
absolutely know it—I mean people who have thought, and in whose minds
there is something like reasoning.

We know, if we know anything, that the lightning is just as apt to hit
a good man as a bad man. We know it. We know that the earthquake is just
as liable to swallow virtue as to swallow vice. And you know just as
well as I do that a ship loaded with pirates is just as apt to outride
the storm as one crowded with missionaries. You know it.

I am now speaking of the phenomena of nature. I believe, as much as
I believe that I live, that the reason a thing is right is because it
tends to the happiness of mankind. I believe, as much as I be-believe
that I live, that on the average the good man is not only the happier
man, but that no man is happy who is not good.

If then we have gotten over that frightful, that awful superstition—we
are ready to enjoy hearing the thoughts of each other.

I do not say, neither do I intend to be understood as saying, that there
is no God. All I intend to say is, that so far as we can see, no man
is punished, no nation is punished by lightning, or famine, or storm.
Everything happens to the one as to the other.

Now, let us admit that there is an infinite God. That has nothing to do
with the sinlessness of thought—nothing to do with the fact that no man
is accountable to any being, human or divine, for what he thinks. And
let me tell you why.

If there be an infinite God, leave him to deal with men who sin against
him. You can trust him, if you believe in him. He has the power. He has
a heaven full of bolts. Trust him. And now that you are satisfied that
the earthquake will not swallow you, or the lightning strike you, simply
because you tell your thoughts, if one of your neighbors differs with
you, and acts improperly or thinks or speaks improperly of your God,
leave him with your God—he can attend to him a thousand times better
than you can, He has the time. He lives from eternity to eternity. More
than that, he has the means. So that, whether there be this Being or
not, you have no right to interfere with your neighbor.

The next proposition is, that I have the same right to express my
thought to the whole world, that the whole world has to express its
thought to me.

I believe that this realm of thought is not a democracy, where
the majority rule; it is not a republic. It is a country with one
inhabitant. This brain is the world in which my mind lives, and my mind
is the sovereign of that realm. We are all kings, and one man balances
the rest of the world as one drop of water balances the sea. Each soul
is crowned. Each soul wears the purple and the tiara; and only those are
good citizens of the intellectual world who give to every other human
being every right that they claim for themselves, and only those are
traitors in the great realm of thought who abandon reason and appeal to
force.

If now I have got out of your minds the idea that you must abuse your
neighbors to keep on good terms with God, then the question of religion
is exactly like every question—I mean of thought, of mind—I have
nothing to say now about action.

Is there authority in the world of art? Can a legislature pass a law
that a certain picture is beautiful, and can it pass a law putting in
the penitentiary any impudent artistic wretch who says that to him it is
not beautiful? Precisely the same with music. Our ears are not all
the same; we are not touched by the same sounds—the same beautiful
memories* do not arise. Suppose you have an authority in music? You may
make men, it may be, by offering them office or by threatening them with
punishment, swear that they all like that tune—but you never will
know till the day of your death whether they do or not. The moment you
introduce a despotism in the world of thought, you succeed in making
hypocrites—and you get in such a position that you never know what your
neighbor thinks.

So in the great realm of religion, there can be no force. No one can be
compelled to pray. No matter how you tie him down, or crush him down on
his face or on his knees, it is above the power of the human race to put
in that man, by force, the spirit of prayer. You cannot do it. Neither
can you compel anybody to worship a God. Worship rises from the heart
like perfume from a flower. It cannot obey; it cannot do that which
some one else commands. It must be absolutely true to the law of its
own nature. And do you think any God would be satisfied with compulsory
worship? Would he like to see long rows of poor, ignorant slaves on
their terrified knees repeating words without a soul—giving him what
you might call the shucks of sound? Will any God be satisfied with
that? And so I say, we must be as free in one department of thought as
another.

Now, I take the next step, and that is, that the rights of all are
absolutely equal.

I have the same right to give you my opinion that you have to give me
yours. I have no right to compel you to hear, if you do not want to. I
have no right to compel you to speak if you do not want to. If you do
not wish to know my thought, I have no right to force it upon you.

The next thing is, that this liberty of thought, this liberty of
expression, is of more value than any other thing beneath the stars. Of
more value than any religion, of more value than any government, of more
value than all the constitutions that man has written and all the laws
that he has passed, is this liberty—the absolute liberty of the human
mind. Take away that word from language, and all other words become
meaningless sounds, and there is then no reason for a man being and
living upon the earth.

So then, I am simply in favor of intellectual hospitality—that is all.
You come to me with a new idea. I invite you into the house. Let us see
what you have. Let us talk it over. If I do not like your thought, I
will bid it a polite "good day." If I do like it, I will say: "Sit down;
stay with me, and become a part of the intellectual wealth of my world."
That is all.

And how any human being ever has had the impudence to speak against the
right to speak, is beyond the power of my imagination. Here is a man
who speaks—who exercises a right that he, by his speech, denies. Can
liberty go further than that? Is there any toleration possible beyond
the liberty to speak against liberty—the real believer in free speech
allowing others to speak against the right to speak? Is there any
limitation beyond that?

So, whoever has spoken against the right to speak has admitted that he
violated his own doctrine. No man can open his mouth against the freedom
of speech without denying every argument he may put forward. Why? He is
exercising the right that he denies. How did he get it? Suppose there
is one man on an island. You will all admit now that he would have the
right to do his own thinking. You will all admit that he has the right
to express his thought. Now, will somebody tell me how many men would
have to emigrate to that island before the original settler would lose
his right to think and his right to express himself?

If there be an infinite Being—and it is a question that I know nothing
about—you would be perfectly astonished to know how little I do know on
that subject, and yet I know as much as the aggregated world knows, and
as little as the smallest insect that ever fanned with happy wings the
summer air—if there be such a Being, I have the same right to think
that he has simply because it is a necessity of my nature—because I
cannot help it. And the Infinite would be just as responsible to the
smallest intelligence living in the infinite spaces—he would be just
as responsible to that intelligence as that intelligence can be to him,
provided that intelligence thinks as a necessity of his nature.

There is another phrase to which I object—"toleration." "The limits
of toleration." Why say "toleration"? I will tell you why. When
the thinkers were in the minority—when the philosophers were
vagabonds—when the men with brains furnished fuel for bonfires—when
the majority were ignorantly orthodox—when they hated the heretic as a
last year's leaf hates a this year's bud—in that delightful time
these poor people in the minority had to say to ignorant power, to
conscientious rascality, to cruelty born of universal love: "Don't kill
us; don't be so arrogantly meek as to burn us; tolerate us." At that
time the minority was too small to talk about rights, and the great big
ignorant majority when tired of shedding blood, said: "Well, we will
tolerate you; we can afford to wait; you will not live long, and when
the Being of infinite compassion gets hold of you we will glut our
revenge through an eternity of joy; we will ask you every now and then,
'What is your opinion now?'"

Both feeling absolutely sure that infinite goodness would have his
revenge, they "tolerated" these thinkers, and that word finally took
the place almost of liberty. But I do not like it. When you say "I
tolerate," you do not say you have no right to punish, no right to
persecute. It is only a disclaimer for a few moments and for a few
years, but you retain the right. I deny it.

And let me say here to-night—it is your experience, it is mine—that
the bigger a man is the more charitable he is; you know it. The more
brain he has, the more excuses he finds for all the world; you know it.
And if there be in heaven an infinite Being, he must be grander than any
man; he must have a thousand times more charity than the human heart can
hold, and is it possible that he is going to hold his ignorant children
responsible for the impressions made by nature upon their brain? Let us
have some sense.

There is another side to this question, and that is with regard to the
freedom of thought and expression in matters pertaining to this world.

No man has a right to hurt the character of a neighbor. He has no right
to utter slander. He has no right to bear false witness. He has no right
to be actuated by any motive except for the general good—but the
things he does here to his neighbor—these are easily defined and easily
punished. All that I object to is setting up a standard of authority in
the world of art, the world of beauty, the world of poetry, the world
of worship, the world of religion, and the world of metaphysics. That is
what I object to; and if the old doctrines had been carried out, every
human being that has benefited this world would have been destroyed.
If the people who believe that a certain belief is necessary to insure
salvation had had control of this world, we would have been as ignorant
to-night as wild beasts. Every step in advance has been made in spite of
them. There has not been a book of any value printed since the invention
of that art—and when I say "of value," I mean that contained new
and splendid truths—that was not anathematized by the gentlemen who
believed that man is responsible for his thought. Every step has been
taken in spite of that doctrine.

Consequently I simply believe in absolute liberty of mind. And I have no
fear about any other world—not the slightest. When I get there, I will
give my honest opinion of that country; I will give my honest thought
there; and if for that I lose my soul, I will keep at least my
self-respect.

A man tells me a story. I believe it, or disbelieve it. I cannot help
it. I read a story—no matter whether in the original Hebrew, or whether
it has been translated. I believe it or I disbelieve it. No matter
whether it is written in a very solemn or a very flippant manner—I have
my idea about its truth. And I insist that each man has the right to
judge that for himself, and for that reason, as I have already said, I
am defending your right to differ with me—that is all. And if you do
differ with me, all that it proves is that I do not agree with you.
There is no man that lives to-night beneath the stars—there is no
being—that can force my soul upon its knees, unless the reason is
given. I will be no slave. I do not care how big my master is, I am just
as small, if a slave, as though the master were small. It is not the
greatness of the master that can honor the slave. In other words, I
am going to act according to my right, as I understand it, without
interfering with any other human being. And now, if you think—any of
you, that you can control your thought, I want you to try it. There is
not one here who can by any possibility think, only as he must.

You remember the story of the Methodist minister who insisted that he
could control his thoughts. A man said to him, "Nobody can control his
own mind." "Oh, yes, he can," the preacher replied. "My dear sir," said
the man, "you cannot even say the Lord's Prayer without thinking of
something else." "Oh, yes, I can." "Well, if you will do it, I will give
you that horse, the best riding horse in this county." "Well, who is to
judge?" said the preacher. "I will take your own word for it, and if you
say the Lord's Prayer through without thinking of anything else, I will
give you that horse." So the minister shut his eyes and began: "Our
Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy
will be done,"—"I suppose you will throw in the saddle and bridle?"

I say to you to-night, ladies and gentlemen, that I feel more interest
in the freedom of thought and speech than in all other questions,
knowing, as I do, that it is the condition of great and splendid
progress for the race; remembering, as I do, that the opposite idea has
covered the cheek of the world with tears; remembering, and knowing, as
I do, that the enemies of free thought and free speech have covered this
world with blood. These men have filled the heavens with an infinite
monster; they have filled the future with fire and flame, and they have
made the present, when they have had the power, a perdition. These men,
these doctrines, have carried fagots to the feet of philosophy. These
men, these doctrines, have hated to see the dawn of an intellectual day.
These men, these doctrines, have denied every science, and denounced and
killed every philosopher they could lay their bloody, cruel, ignorant
hands upon.

And for that reason, I am for absolute liberty of thought, everywhere,
in every department, domain, and realm of the human mind.

## Remarks of Mr. Coudert

_Ladies and Gentlemen and Mr. President_: It is not only "the sense of
the church" that I am lacking now, I am afraid it is any sense at all;
and I am only wondering how a reasonably intelligent being—meaning
myself—could in view of the misfortune that befell Mr. Kernan, have
undertaken to speak to-night.

This is a new experience. I have never sung in any of Verdi's operas—I
have never listened to one through—but I think I would prefer to try
all three of these performances rather than go on with this duty which,
in a vain moment of deluded vanity, I heedlessly undertook.

I am in a new field here. I feel very much like the master of a ship
who thinks that he can safely guide his bark. (I am not alluding to the
traditional bark of St. Peter, in which I hope that I am and will always
be, but the ordinary bark that requires a compass and a rudder and a
guide.) And I find that all these ordinary things, which we generally
take for granted, and which are as necessary to our safety as the air
which we breathe, or the sunshine that we enjoy, have been quietly,
pleasantly, and smilingly thrown overboard by the gentleman who has just
preceded me.

Carlyle once said—and the thought came to me as the gentleman was
speaking—"A Comic History of England!"—for some wretch had just
written such a book—(talk of free thought and free speech when men do
such things!)—"A Comic History of England!" The next thing we shall
hear of will be "A Comic History of the Bible!" I think we have heard
the first chapter of that comic history to-night; and the only comfort
that I have—and possibly some other antiquated and superannuated
persons of either sex, if such there be within my hearing—is that
such things as have seemed to me charmingly to partake of the order of
blasphemy, have been uttered with such charming bonhomie, and received
with such enthusiastic admiration, that I have wondered whether we are
in a Christian audience of the nineteenth century, or in a possible
Ingersollian audience of the twenty-third.

And let me first, before I enter upon the very few and desultory
remarks, which are the only ones that I can make now and with which I
may claim your polite attention—let me say a word about the comparison
with which your worthy President opened these proceedings.

There are two or three things upon which I am a little sensitive: One,
aspersions upon the land of my birth—the city of New York; the next,
the land of my fathers; and the next, the bark that I was just speaking
of.

Now your worthy President, in his well-meant efforts to exhibit in the
best possible style the new actor upon his stage, said that he had seen
Victor Hugo's remains, and Voltaire's, and Jean Jacques Rousseau's, and
that he thought the niche might well be filled by Colonel Ingersoll.
If that had been merely the expression of a natural desire to see him
speedily annihilated, I might perhaps in the interests of the Christian
community have thought, but not said, "Amen!" (Here you will at once
observe the distinction I make between free thought and free speech!)

I do not think, and I beg that none of you, and particularly the
eloquent rhetorician who preceded me, will think, that in anything I may
say I intend any personal discourtesy, for I do believe to some extent
in freedom of speech upon a platform like this. Such a debate as this
rises entirely above and beyond the plane of personalities.

I suppose that your President intended to compare Colonel Ingersoll to
Voltaire, to Hugo and to Rousseau. I have no retainer from either of
those gentlemen, but for the reason that I just gave you, I wish to
defend their memory from what I consider a great wrong. And so I do not
think—with all respect to the eloquent and learned gentleman—that he
is entitled to a place in that niche. Voltaire did many wrong things.
He did them for many reasons, and chiefly because he was human.
But Voltaire did a great deal to build up. Leaving aside his noble
tragedies, which charmed and delighted his audiences, and dignified the
stage, throughout his work was some effort to ameliorate the condition
of the human race. He fought against torture; he fought against
persecution; he fought against bigotry; he clamored and wrote against
littleness and fanaticism in every way, and he was not ashamed when he
entered upon his domains at Fernay, to erect a church to the God of
whom the most our friend can say is, "I do not know whether he exists or
not."

Rousseau did many noble things, but he was a madman, and in our
day would probably have been locked up in an asylum and treated by
intelligent doctors. His works, however, bear the impress of a religious
education, and if there be in his works or sayings anything to parallel
what we have heard tonight—whether a parody on divine revelation, or a
parody upon the prayer of prayers—I have not seen it.

Victor Hugo has enriched the literature of his day with prose and poetry
that have made him the Shakespeare of the nineteenth century—poems as
deeply imbued with a devout sense of responsibility to the Almighty as
the writings of an archbishop or a cardinal. He has left the traces
of his beneficent action all over the literature of his day, of his
country, and of his race.

All these men, then, have built up something. Will anyone, the most
ardent admirer of Colonel Ingersoll, tell me what he has built up?

To go now to the argument. The learned gentleman says that freedom of
thought is a grand thing. Unfortunately, freedom of thought exists. What
one of us would not put manacles and fetters upon his thoughts, if he
only could? What persecution have any of us suffered to compare with the
involuntary recurrence of these demons that enter our brain—that bring
back past events that we would wipe out with our tears, or even with
our blood—and make us slaves of a power unseen but uncontrollable and
uncontrolled? Is it not unworthy of so eloquent and intelligent a man to
preach before you here to-night that thought must always be free?

When in the history of the world has thought ever been fettered? If
there be a page in history upon which such an absurdity is written, I
have failed to find it.

Thought is beyond the domain of man. The most cruel and arbitrary ruler
can no more penetrate into your bosom and mine and extract the inner
workings of our brain, than he can scale the stars or pull down the sun
from its seat. Thought must be free. Thought is unseen, unhandled and
untouched, and no despot has yet been able to reach it, except when the
thoughts burst into words. And therefore, may we not consider now, and
say, that liberty of word is what he wants, and not liberty of thought,
which no one has ever gainsaid, or disputed?

Liberty of speech!—and the gentleman generously tells us, "Why, I only
ask for myself what I would cheerfully extend to you. I wish you to be
free; and you can even entertain those old delusions which your mothers
taught, and look with envious admiration upon me while I scale the giddy
heights of Olympus, gather the honey and approach the stars and tell
you how pure the air is in those upper regions which you are unable to
reach."

Thanks for his kindness! But I think that it is one thing for us to
extend to him that liberty that he asks for—the liberty to destroy—and
another thing for him to give us the liberty which we claim—the liberty
to conserve.

Oh, destruction is so easy, destruction is so pleasant! It marks the
footsteps all through our life. The baby begins by destroying his bib;
the older child by destroying his horse, and when the man is grown up
and he joins the regiment with the latent instinct that when he gets a
chance he will destroy human life.

This building cost many thousand days' work. It was planned by more or
less skillful architects (ignorant of ventilation, but well-meaning).
Men lavished their thought, and men lavished their sweat for a pittance,
upon this building. It took months and possibly years to build it and to
adorn it and to beautify it. And yet, as it stands complete tonight with
all of you here in the vigor of your life and in the enjoyment of such
entertainment as you may get here this evening, I will find a dozen
men who with a few pounds of dynamite will reduce it and all of us to
instant destruction.

The dynamite man may say to me, "I give you full liberty to build and
occupy and insure, if you will give me liberty to blow up." Is that a
fair bargain? Am I bound in conscience and in good sense to accept it?
Liberty of speech! Tell me where liberty of speech has ever existed.
There have been free societies, England was a free country. France has
struggled through crisis after crisis to obtain liberty of speech. We
think we have liberty of speech, as we understand it, and yet who would
undertake to say that our society could live with liberty of speech?
We have gone through many crises in our short history, and we know that
thought is nothing before the law, but the word is an act—as guilty at
times as the act of killing, or burglary, or any of the violent crimes
that disgrace humanity and require the police.

A word is an act—an act of the tongue; and why should my tongue go
unpunished, and I who wield it mercilessly toward those who are weaker
than I, escape, if my arm is to be punished when I use it tyrannously?
Whom would you punish for the murder of Desdemona—is it Iago, or
Othello? Who was the villain, who was the criminal, who deserved the
scaffold—who but free speech? Iago exercised free speech. He poisoned
the ear of Othello and nerved his arm and Othello was the murderer—but
Iago went scot free. That was a word.

"Oh," says the counsel, "but that does not apply to individuals; be
tender and charitable to individuals." Tender and charitable to men if
they endeavor to destroy all that you love and venerate and respect!

Are you tender and charitable to me if you enter my house, my castle,
and debauch my children from the faith that they have been taught? Are
you tender and charitable to them and to me when you teach them that I
have instructed them in falsehood, that their mother has rocked them in
blasphemy, and that they are now among the fools and the witlings of the
world because they believe in my precepts? Is that the charity that you
speak of? Heaven forbid that liberty of speech such as that, should ever
invade my home or yours!

We all understand, and the learned gentleman will admit, that his
discourse is but an eloquent apology for blasphemy. And when I say this,
I beg you to believe me incapable of resorting to the cheap artifice
of strong words to give point to a pointless argument, or to offend
a courteous adversary. I think if I put it to him he would, with
characteristic candor, say, "Yes, that is what I claim—the liberty to
blaspheme; the world has outgrown these things; and I claim to-day, as I
claimed a few months ago in the neighboring gallant little State of New
Jersey, that while you cannot slander man, your tongue is free to revile
and insult man's maker." New Jersey was behind in the race for progress,
and did not accept his argument. His unfortunate client was convicted
and had to pay the fine which the press—which is seldom mistaken—says
came from the pocket of his generous counsel.

The argument was a strong one; the argument was brilliant, and was able;
and I say now, with all my predilections for the church of my fathers,
and for your church (because it is not a question of our differences,
but it is a question whether the tree shall be torn up by the roots, not
what branches may bear richer fruit or deserve to be lopped off)—I say,
why has every Christian State passed these statutes against blasphemy?
Turning into ridicule sacred things—firing off the Lord's Prayer as
you would a joke from Joe Miller or a comic poem—that is what I mean by
blasphemy. If there is any other or better definition, give it me, and I
will use it.

Now understand. All these States of ours care not one fig what our
religion is. Behave yourselves properly, obey the laws, do not require
the intervention of the police, and the majesty of your conscience will
be as exalted as the sun. But the wisest men and the best men—possibly
not so eloquent as the orator, but I may say it without offence to
him—other names that shine brightly in the galaxy of our best men, have
insisted and maintained that the Christian faith was the ligament that
kept our modern society together, and our laws have said, and the laws
of most of our States say, to this day, "Think what you like, but do
not, like Samson, pull the pillars down upon us all."

If I had anything to say, ladies and gentlemen, it is time that I should
say it now. My exordium has been very long, but it was no longer than
the dignity of the subject, perhaps, demanded.

Free speech we all have. Absolute liberty of speech we never had. Did we
have it before the war? Many of us here remember that if you crossed an
imaginary line and went among some of the noblest and best men that ever
adorned this continent, one word against slavery meant death. And if you
say that that was the influence of slavery, I will carry you to Boston,
that city which numbers within its walls as many intelligent people to
the acre as any city on the globe—was it different there?

Why, the fugitive, beaten, blood-stained slave, when he got there, was
seized and turned back; and when a few good and brave men, in defence
of free speech, undertook to defend the slave and to try and give him
liberty, they were mobbed and pelted and driven through the city. You
may say, "That proves there was no liberty of speech." No; it proves
this: that wherever, and wheresoever, and whenever, liberty of speech is
incompatible with the safety of the State, liberty of speech must fall
back and give way, in order that the State may be preserved.

First, above everything, above all things, the safety of the people is
the supreme law. And if rhetoricians, anxious to tear down, anxious to
pluck the faith from the young ones who are unable to defend it, come
forward with nickel-plated platitudes and commonplaces clothed in
second-hand purple and tinsel, and try to tear down the temple, then
it is time, I shall not say for good men—for I know so few they make a
small battalion—but for good women, to come to the rescue.

## General Woodford's Speech

Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen>: At this late hour, I could not
attempt—even if I would—the eloquence of my friend Colonel Ingersoll;
nor the wit and rapier-like sarcasm of my other valued friend Mr.
Coudert. But there are some things so serious about this subject that
we discuss to-night, that I crave your pardon if, without preface, and
without rhetoric, I get at once to what from my Protestant standpoint
seems the fatal logical error of Mr. Inger-soll's position.

Mr. Ingersoll starts with the statement—and that I may not, for I could
not, do him injustice, nor myself injustice, in the quotation, I will
give it as he stated it—he starts with this statement: that thought is
a necessary natural product, the result of what we call impressions made
through the medium of the senses upon the brain.

Do you think that is thought? Now stop—turn right into your own
minds—is that thought? Does not will power take hold? Does not reason
take hold? Does not memory take hold, and is not thought the action of
the brain based upon the impression and assisted or directed by manifold
and varying influences?

Secondly, our friend Mr. Ingersoll says that no human being is
accountable to any being, human or divine, for his thought.

He starts with the assumption that thought is the inevitable impression
burnt upon the mind at once, and then jumps to the conclusion that there
is no responsibility. Now, is not that a fair logical analysis of what
he has said?

My senses leave upon my mind an impression, and then my mind, out
of that impression, works good or evil. The glass of brandy, being
presented to my physical sense, inspires thirst—inspires the thought
of thirst—inspires the instinct of debauchery. Am I not accountable for
the result of the mind given me, whether I yield to the debauch, or rise
to the dignity of self-control?

Every thing of sense leaves its impression upon the mind. If there be no
responsibility anywhere, then is this world blind chance. If there be
no responsibility anywhere, then my friend deserves no credit if he
be guiding you in the path of truth, and I deserve no censure if I be
carrying you back into the path of superstition. Why, admit for a moment
that a man has no control over his thought, and you destroy absolutely
the power of regenerating the world, the power of improving the world.
The world swings one way, or it swings the other. If it be true that in
all these ages we have come nearer and nearer to a perfect liberty, that
is true simply and alone because the mind of man through reason, through
memory, through a thousand inspirations and desires and hopes, has ever
tended toward better results and higher achievements.

No accountability? I speak not for my friend, but I recognize that I
am accountable to myself; I recognize that whether I rise or fall, that
whether my life goes upward or downward, I am responsible to myself. And
so, in spite of all sophistry, so in spite of all dream, so in spite
of all eloquence, each woman, each man within this audience is
responsible—first of all to herself and himself—whether when bad
thoughts, when passion, when murder, when evil come into the heart or
brain he harbors them there or he casts them out.

I am responsible further—I am responsible to my neighbor. I know that I
am my neighbor's keeper, I know that as I touch your life, as you touch
mine, I am responsible every moment, every hour, every day, for my
influence upon you. I am either helping you up, or I am dragging you
down; you are either helping me up or you are dragging me down—and you
know it. Sophistry cannot get away from this; eloquence cannot seduce us
from it. You know that if you look back through the record of your life,
there are lives that you have helped and lives that you have hurt. You
know that there are lives on the downward plane that went down because
in an evil hour you pushed them; you know, perhaps with blessing, lives
that have gone up because you have reached out to them a helping
hand. That responsibility for your neighbor is a responsibility and an
accountability that you and I cannot avoid or evade.

I believe one thing further: that because there is a creation there is a
Creator. I believe that because there is force, there is a Projector of
force; because there is matter, there is spirit. I reverently believe
these things. I am not angry with my neighbor because he does not; it
may be that he is right, that I am wrong; but if there be a Power
that sent me into this world, so far as that Power has given me wrong
direction, or permitted wrong direction, that Power will judge me
justly. So far as I disregard the light that I have, whatever it
may be—whether it br light of reason, light of conscience, light of
history—so far as I do that which my judgment tells me is wrong, I am
responsible and I am accountable.

Now the Protestant theory, as I understand it, is simply this: It would
vary from the theory as taught by the mother church—it certainly swings
far away from the theory as suggested by my friend; I understand the
Protestant theory to be this: That every man is responsible to himself,
to his neighbor, and to his God, for his thought. Not for the first
impression—but for that impression, for that direction and result which
he intelligently gives to the first impression or deduces from it. I
understand that the Protestant idea is this: that man may think—we know
he will think—for himself; but that he is responsible for it. That a
man may speak his thought, so long as he does not hurt his neighbor. He
must use his own liberty so that he shall not injure the well-being of
any other one—so that when using this liberty, when exercising this
freedom, he is accountable at the last to his God. And so Protestantism
sends me into the world with this terrible and solemn responsibility.

It leaves Mr. Ingersoll free to speak his thought at the bar of his
conscience, before the bar of his fellow-man, but it holds him in the
inevitable grip of absolute responsibility for every light word idly
spoken.

God grant that he may use that power so that he can face that
responsibility at the last!

It leaves to every churchman liberty to believe and stand by his church
according to his own conviction.

It stands for this; the absolute liberty of each individual man to
think, to write, to speak, to act, according to the best light within
him; limited as to his fellows, by the condition that he shall not use
that liberty so as to injure them; limited in the other direction, by
those tremendous laws which are laws in spite of all rhetoric, and in
spite of all logic.

If I put my finger into the fire, that fire burns. If I do a wrong, that
wrong remains. If I hurt my neighbor, the wrong reacts upon myself. If
I would try to escape what you call judgment, what you call penalty, I
cannot escape the working of the inevitable-law that follows a cause by
effect; I cannot escape that inevitable law—not the creation of
some dark monster flashing through the skies—but, as I believe, the
beneficent creation which puts into the spiritual life the same control
of law that guides the material life, which wisely makes me responsible,
that in the solemnity of that responsibility I am bound to lift my
brother up and never to drag my brother down.

## Reply of Colonel Ingersoll

The first gentleman who replied to me took the ground boldly that
expression is not free—that no man has the right to express his real
thoughts—and I suppose that he acted in accordance with that idea. How
are you to know whether he thought a solitary thing that he said, or
not? How is it possible for us to ascertain whether he is simply the
mouthpiece of some other? Whether he is a free man, or whether he says
that which he does not believe, it is impossible for us to ascertain.

He tells you that I am about to take away the religion of your mothers.
I have heard that said a great many times. No doubt Mr. Coudert has
the religion of his mother, and judging from the argument he made, his
mother knew at least as much about these questions as her son. I believe
that every good father and good mother wants to see the son and the
daughter climb higher upon the great and splendid mount of thought than
they reached.

You never can honor your father by going around swearing to his
mistakes. You never can honor your mother by saying that ignorance is
blessed because she did not know everything. I want to honor my parents
by finding out more than they did.

There is another thing that I was a little astonished at—that Mr.
Coudert, knowing that he would be in eternal felicity with his harp in
his hand, seeing me in the world of the damned, could yet grow envious
here to-night at my imaginary monument.

And he tells you—this Catholic—that Voltaire was an exceedingly good
Christian compared with me. Do you know I am glad that I have compelled
a Catholic—one who does not believe he has the right to express his
honest thoughts—to pay a compliment to Voltaire simply because he
thought it was at my expense?

I have an almost infinite admiration for Voltaire; and when I hear that
name pronounced, I think of a plume floating over a mailed knight—I
think of a man that rode to the beleaguered City of Catholicism and
demanded a surrender—I think of a great man who thrust the dagger of
assassination into your Mother Church, and from that wound she never
will recover.

One word more. This gentleman says that children are destructive—that
the first thing they do is to destroy their bibs. The gentleman, I
should think from his talk, has preserved his!

They talk about blasphemy. What is blasphemy? Let us be honest with each
other. Whoever lives upon the unpaid labor of others is a blasphemer.
Whoever slanders, maligns, and betrays is a blasphemer. Whoever denies
to others the rights that he claims for himself is a blasphemer.

Who is a worshiper? One who makes a happy home—one who fills the
lives of wife and children with sunlight—one who has a heart where
the flowers of kindness burst into blossom and fill the air with
perfume—the man who sits beside his wife, prematurely old and wasted,
and holds her thin hands in his and kisses them as passionately and
loves her as truly and as rapturously as when she was a bride—he is a
worshiper—that is worship.

And the gentleman brought forward as a reason why we should not have
free speech, that only a few years ago some of the best men in the
world, if you said a word in favor of liberty, would shoot you down.
What an argument was that! They were not good men. They were
the whippers of women and the stealers of babes—robbers of the
trundlebed—assassins of human liberty. They knew no better, but I do
not propose to follow the example of a barbarian because he was honestly
a barbarian.

So much for debauching his family by telling them that his precepts
are false. If he has taught them as he has taught us to-night, he has
debauched their minds. I would be honest at the cradle. I would not
tell a child anything as a certainty that I did not know. I would be
absolutely honest.

But he says that thought is absolutely free—nobody can control thought.
Let me tell him: Superstition is the jailer of the mind. You can so
stuff a child with superstition that its poor little brain is a bastile
and its poor little soul a convict. Fear is the jailer of the mind, and
superstition is the assassin of liberty.

So when anybody goes into his family and tells these great and shining
truths, instead of debauching his children they will kill the snakes
that crawl in their cradles. Let us be honest and free.

And now, coming to the second gentleman. He is a Protestant. The
Catholic Church says: "Don't think; pay your fare; this is a through
ticket, and we will look out for your baggage." The Protestant Church
says: "Read that Bible for yourselves; think for yourselves; but if you
do not come to a right conclusion you will be eternally damned." Any
sensible man will say, "Then I won't read it—I'll believe it without
reading it." And that is the only way you can be sure you will believe
it; don't read it.

Governor Woodford says that we are responsible for our thoughts. Why?
Could you help thinking as you did on this subject? No, Could you help
believing the Bible? I suppose not. Could you help believing that story
of Jonah? Certainly not—it looks reasonable in Brooklyn.

I stated that thought was the result of the impressions of nature upon
the mind through the medium of the senses. He says you cannot have
thought without memory. How did you get the first one?

Of course I intended to be understood—and the language is clear—that
there could be no thought except through the impressions made upon the
brain by nature through the avenues called the senses. Take away the
senses, how would you think then? If you thought at all, I think you
would agree with Mr. Coudert.

Now, I admit—so we need never have a contradiction about it—I admit
that every human being is responsible to the person he injures. If he
injures any man, woman, or child, or any dog, or the lowest animal that
crawls, he is responsible to that animal, to that being—in other words,
he is responsible to any being that he has injured.

But you cannot injure an infinite Being, if there be one. I will tell
you why. You cannot help him, and you cannot hurt him. If there be an
infinite Being, he is conditionless—he does not want anything—he has
it. You cannot help anybody that does not want something—you cannot
help him. You cannot hurt anybody unless he is a conditioned being
and you change his condition so as to inflict a harm. But if God be
conditionless, you cannot hurt him, and you cannot help him. So do
not trouble yourselves about the Infinite. All our duties lie within
reach—all our duties are right here; and my religion is simply this:

_First_. Give to every other human being every right that you claim for
yourself.

_Second_. If you tell your thought at all, tell your honest thought. Do
not be a parrot—do not be an instrumentality for an organization. Tell
your own thought, honor bright, what you think.

My next idea is, that the only possible good in the universe is
happiness. The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here.
The way to be happy is to try and make somebody else so.

My good friend General Woodford—and he is a good man telling the best
he knows—says that I will be accountable at the bar up yonder. I am
ready to settle that account now, and expect to be, every moment of my
life—and when that settlement comes, if it does come, I do not believe
that a solitary being can rise and say that I ever injured him or her.

But no matter what they say. Let me tell you a story, how we will settle
if we do get there.

You remember the story told about the Mexican who believed that his
country was the only one in the world, and said so. The priest told
him that there was another country where a man lived who was eleven or
twelve feet high, that made the whole world, and if he denied it, when
that man got hold of him he would not leave a whole bone in his body.
But he denied it. He was one of those men who would not believe further
than his vision extended.

So one day in his boat, he was rocking away when the wind suddenly arose
and he was blown out of sight of his home. After several days he was
blown so far that he saw the shores of another country. Then he said,
"My Lord; I am gone! I have been swearing all my life that there was no
other country, and here it is!" So he did his best—paddled with what
little strength he had left, reached the shore, and got out of his boat.
Sure enough, there came down a man to meet him about twelve feet high.
The poor little wretch was frightened almost to death, so he said to the
tall man as he saw him coming down: "Mister, whoever you are, I denied
your existence—I did not believe you lived; I swore there was no such
country as this; but I see I was mistaken, and I am gone. You are going
to kill me, and the quicker you do it the better and get me out of my
misery. Do it now!"

The great man just looked at the little fellow, and said nothing, till
he asked, "What are you going to do with me, because over in that other
country I denied your existence?" "What am I going to do with you?" said
the supposed God. "Now that you have got here, if you behave yourself I
am going to treat you well."
---
# To the Indianapolis Clergy
_Dresden Edition, Volume 7, 1883_
> * The Iconoclast, Indianapolis, Indiana. 1883.

THE following questions have been submitted to me by the Rev. David
Walk, Dr. T. B. Taylor, the Rev. Myron W. Reed, and the Rev. D.
O'Donaghue, of Indianapolis, with the request that I answer.

_Question_. Is the Character of Jesus of Nazareth, as described in the
Four Gospels, Fictional or Real?—Rev. David Walk.

_Answer._ In all probability, there was a man by the name of Jesus
Christ, who was, in his day and generation, a reformer—a man who was
infinitely shocked at the religion of Jehovah—who became almost insane
with pity as he contemplated the sufferings of the weak, the poor, and
the ignorant at the hands of an intolerant, cruel, hypocritical, and
bloodthirsty church. It is no wonder that such a man predicted the
downfall of the temple. In all probability, he hated, at last, every
pillar and stone in it, and despised even the "Holy of Holies." This
man, of course, like other men, grew. He did not die with the opinion
he held in his youth. He changed his views from time to time—fanned the
spark of reason into a flame, and as he grew older his horizon extended
and widened, and he became gradually a wiser, greater, and better man.

I find two or three Christs described in the four Gospels. In some
portions you would imagine that he was an exceedingly pious Jew. When he
says that people must not swear by Jerusalem, because it is God's holy
city, certainly no Pharisee could have gone beyond that expression.
So, too, when it is recorded that he drove the money changers from the
temple. This, had it happened, would have been the act simply of one who
had respect for this temple and not for the religion taught in it.

It would seem that, at first, Christ believed substantially in the
religion of his time; that afterward, seeing its faults, he wished to
reform it; and finally, comprehending it in all its enormity, he devoted
his life to its destruction. This view shows that he "increased in
stature and grew in knowledge."

This view is also supported by the fact that, at first, according to
the account, Christ distinctly stated that his gospel was not for
the Gentiles. At that time he had altogether more patriotism than
philosophy. In my own opinion, he was driven to like the Gentiles by
the persecution he endured at home. He found, as every Freethinker now
finds, that there are many saints not in churches and many devils not
out.

The character of Christ, in many particulars, as described in the
Gospels, depends upon who wrote the Gospels. Each one endeavored to make
a Christ to suit himself. So that Christ, after all, is a growth; and
since the Gospels were finished, millions of men have been adding to and
changing the character of Christ.

There is another thing that should not be forgotten, and that is that
the Gospels were not written until after the Epistles. I take it for
granted that Paul never saw any of the Gospels, for the reason that he
quotes none of them. There is also this remarkable fact: Paul quotes
none of the miracles of the New Testament. He says not one word
about the multitude being fed miraculously, not one word about the
resurrection of Lazarus, nor of the widow's son. He had never heard of
the lame, the halt, and the blind that had been cured; or if he had, he
did not think these incidents of enough importance to be embalmed in an
epistle.

So we find that none of the early fathers ever quoted from the four
Gospels. Nothing can be more certain than that the four Gospels were not
written until after the Epistles, and nothing can be more certain than
that the early Christians knew nothing of what we call the Gospels of
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. All these things have been growths. At
first it was believed that Christ was a direct descendant from David. At
that time the disciples of Christ, of course, were Jews. The Messiah was
expected through the blood of David.—For that reason, the genealogy of
Joseph, a descendant of David, was given. It was not until long after,
that the idea came into the minds of Christians that Christ was the
son of the Holy Ghost. If they, at the time the genealogy was given,
believed that Christ was in fact the son of the Holy Ghost, why did they
give the genealogy of Joseph to show that Christ was related to David?
In other words, why should the son of God attempt to get glory out of
the fact that he had in his veins the blood of a barbarian king? There
is only one answer to this. The Jews expected the Messiah through
David, and in order to prove that Christ was the Messiah, they gave the
genealogy of Joseph. Afterward, the idea became popularized that
Christ was the son of God, and then were interpolated the words "as
was supposed" in the genealogy of Christ. It was a long time before the
disciples became great enough to include the world in their scheme, and
before they thought it proper to tell the "glad tidings of great joy"
beyond the limits of Judea.

My own opinion is that the man called Christ lived; but whether he
lived in Palestine, or not, is of no importance. His life is worth its
example, its moral force, its benevolence, its self-denial and heroism.
It is of no earthly importance whether he changed water into wine or
not. All his miracles are simply dust and darkness compared with what he
actually said and actually did. We should be kind to each other whether
Lazarus was raised or not. We should be just and forgiving whether
Christ lived or not. All the miracles in the world are of no use to
virtue, morality, or justice. Miracles belong to superstition, to
ignorance, to fear and folly.

Neither does it make any difference who wrote the Gospels. They are
worth the truth that is in them and no more.

The words of Paul are often quoted, that "all scripture is given by
inspiration of God." Of course that could not have applied to anything
written after that time. It could have applied only to the Scriptures
then written and then known. It is perfectly clear that the four Gospels
were not at that time written, and therefore this statement of Paul's
does not apply to the four Gospels. Neither does it apply to anything
written after that statement was written. Neither does it apply to that
statement. If it applied to anything it was the Old Testament, and not
the New.

Christ has been belittled by his worshipers. When stripped of the
miraculous; when allowed to be, not divine but divinely human, he will
have gained a thousandfold in the estimation of mankind. I think of him
as I do of Buddha, as I do of Confucius, of Epictetus, of Bruno. I place
him with the great, the generous, the self-denying of the earth, and for
the man Christ, I feel only admiration and respect. I think he was in
many things mistaken. His reliance upon the goodness of God was perfect.
He seemed to believe that his father in heaven would protect him. He
thought that if God clothed the lilies of the field in beauty, if he
provided for the sparrows, he would surely protect a perfectly just
and loving man. In this he was mistaken; and in the darkness of death,
overwhelmed, he cried out: "Why hast thou forsaken me?"

I do not believe that Christ ever claimed to be divine; ever claimed to
be inspired; ever claimed to work a miracle. In short, I believe that he
was an honest man. These claims were all put in his mouth by others—by
mistaken friends, by ignorant worshipers, by zealous and credulous
followers, and sometimes by dishonest and designing priests. This has
happened to all the great men of the world. All historical characters
are, in part, deformed or reformed by fiction. There was a man by the
name of George Washington, but no such George Washington ever existed
as we find portrayed in history. The historical Caesar never lived. The
historical Mohammed is simply a myth. It is the task of modern criticism
to rescue these characters, and in the mass of superstitious rubbish to
find the actual man. Christians borrowed the old clothes of the Olympian
gods and gave them to Christ. To me, Christ the man is far greater than
Christ the god.

To me, it has always been a matter of wonder that Christ said nothing as
to the obligation man is under to his country, nothing as to the rights
of the people as against the wish and will of kings, nothing against the
frightful system of human slavery—almost universal in his time. What
he did not say is altogether more wonderful than what he did say. It is
marvelous that he said nothing upon the subject of intemperance, nothing
about education, nothing about philosophy, nothing about nature, nothing
about art. He said nothing in favor of the home, except to offer a
reward to those who would desert their wives and families. Of course,
I do not believe that he said the words that were attributed to him, in
which a reward is offered to any man who will desert his kindred. But if
we take the account given in the four Gospels as the true account, then
Christ did offer a reward to a father who would desert his children. It
has always been contended that he was a perfect example of mankind, and
yet he never married. As a result of what he did not teach in connection
with what he did teach, his followers saw no harm in slavery, no harm
in polygamy. They belittled this world and exaggerated the importance of
the next. They consoled the slave by telling him that in a little while
he would exchange his chains for wings. They comforted the captive by
saying that in a few days he would leave his dungeon for the bowers
of Paradise. His followers believed that he had said that "Whosoever
believeth not shall be damned." This passage was the cross upon which
intellectual liberty was crucified.

If Christ had given us the laws of health; if he had told us how to
cure disease by natural means; if he had set the captive free; if he had
crowned the people with their rightful power; if he had placed the home
above the church; if he had broken all the mental chains; if he had
flooded all the caves and dens of fear with light, and filled the future
with a common joy, he would in truth have been the Savior of this world.

_Question_. How do you account for the difference between the Christian
and other modern civilizations?

_Answer._ I account for the difference between men by the difference in
their ancestry and surroundings—the difference in soil, climate, food,
and employment. There would be no civilization in England were it not
for the Gulf Stream. There would have been very little here had it not
been for the discovery of Columbus. And even now on this continent there
would be but little civilization had the soil been poor. I might ask:
How do you account for the civilization of Egypt? At one time that was
the greatest civilization in the world. Did that fact prove that the
Egyptian religion was of divine origin? So, too, there was a time when
the civilization of India was beyond all others. Does that prove that
Vishnu was a God? Greece dominated the intellectual world for centuries.
Does that fact absolutely prove that Zeus was the creator of heaven and
earth? The same may be said of Rome. There was a time when Rome governed
the world, and yet I have always had my doubts as to the truth of the
Roman mythology. As a matter of fact, Rome was far better than any
Christian nation ever was to the end of the seventeenth century. A
thousand years of Christian rule produced no fellow for the greatest
of Rome. There were no poets the equals of Horace or Virgil, no
philosophers as great as Lucretius, no orators like Cicero, no emperors
like Marcus Aurelius, no women like the mothers of Rome.

The civilization of a country may be hindered by a religion, but it
has never been increased by any form of superstition. When America was
discovered it had the same effect upon Europe that it would have, for
instance, upon the city of Chicago to have Lake Michigan put the other
side of it. The Mediterranean lost its trade. The centers of commerce
became deserted. The prow of the world turned westward, and, as a
result, France, England, and all countries bordering on the
Atlantic became prosperous. The world has really been civilized by
discoverers—by thinkers. The man who invented powder, and by that means
released hundreds of thousands of men from the occupations of war, did
more for mankind than religion. The inventor of paper—and he was not
a Christian—did more than all the early fathers for mankind. The
inventors of plows, of sickles, of cradles, of reapers; the inventors
of wagons, coaches, locomotives; the inventors of skiffs, sail-vessels,
steamships; the men who have made looms—in short, the inventors of
all useful things—they are the civilizers taken in connection with the
great thinkers, the poets, the musicians, the actors, the painters, the
sculptors. The men who have invented the useful, and the men who have
made the useful beautiful, are the real civilizers of mankind.

The priests, in all ages, have been hindrances—stumbling-blocks. They
have prevented man from using his reason. They have told ghost stories
to courage until courage became fear. They have done all in their power
to keep men from growing intellectually, to keep the world in a state of
childhood, that they themselves might be deemed great and good and wise.
They have always known that their reputation for wisdom depended upon
the ignorance of the people.

I account for the civilization of France by such men as Voltaire. He did
good by assisting to destroy the church. Luther did good exactly in the
same way. He did harm in building another church. I account, in part,
for the civilization of England by the fact that she had interests
greater than the church could control; and by the further fact that her
greatest men cared nothing for the church. I account in part for the
civilization of America by the fact that our fathers were wise enough,
and jealous of each other enough, to absolutely divorce church and
state. They regarded the church as a dangerous mistress—one not fit to
govern a president. This divorce was obtained because men like Jefferson
and Paine were at that time prominent in the councils of the people.
There is this peculiarity in our country—the only men who can be
trusted with human liberty are the ones who are not to be angels
hereafter. Liberty is safe so long as the sinners have an opportunity to
be heard.

Neither must we imagine that our civilization is the only one in the
world. They had no locks and keys in Japan until that country was
visited by Christians, and they are now used only in those ports where
Christians are allowed to enter. It has often been claimed that there
is but one way to make a man temperate, and that is by making him
a Christian; and this is claimed in face of the fact that Christian
nations are the most intemperate in the world. For nearly thirteen
centuries the followers of Mohammed have been absolute teetotalers—not
one drunkard under the flag of the star and crescent. Wherever, in
Turkey, a man is seen under the influence of liquor, they call him a
Christian. You must also remember that almost every Christian nation
has held slaves. Only a few years ago England was engaged in the slave
trade. A little while before that our Puritan ancestors sold white
Quaker children in the Barbadoes, and traded them for rum, sugar, and
negro slaves. Even now the latest champion of Christianity upholds
slavery, polygamy, and wars of extermination.

Sometimes I suspect that our own civilization is not altogether perfect.
When I think of the penitentiaries crammed to suffocation, and of the
many who ought to be in; of the want, the filth, the depravity of the
great cities; of the starvation in the manufacturing centers of Great
Britain, and, in fact, of all Europe; when I see women working like
beasts of burden, and little children deprived, not simply of education,
but of air, light and food, there is a suspicion in my mind that
Christian civilization is not a complete and overwhelming success.

After all, I am compelled to account for the advance that we have made,
by the discoveries and inventions of men of genius. For the future I
rely upon the sciences; upon the cultivation of the intellect. I rely
upon labor; upon human interests in this world; upon the love of wife
and children and home. I do not rely upon sacred books, but upon good
men and women. I do not rely upon superstition, but upon knowledge; not
upon miracles, but upon facts; not upon the dead, but upon the living;
and when we become absolutely civilized, we shall look back upon the
superstitions of the world, not simply with contempt, but with pity.

Neither do I rely upon missionaries to convert those whom we are pleased
to call "the heathen." Honest commerce is the great civilizer. We
exchange ideas when we exchange fabrics. The effort to force a religion
upon the people always ends in war. Commerce, founded upon mutual
advantage, makes peace. An honest merchant is better than a missionary.

Spain was blessed with what is called Christian civilization, and yet,
for hundreds of years, that government was simply an organized crime.
When one pronounces the name of Spain, he thinks of the invasion of
the New World, the persecution in the Netherlands, the expulsion of the
Jews, and the Inquisition. Even to-day, the Christian nations of Europe
preserve themselves from each other by bayonet and ball. Prussia has a
standing army of six hundred thousand men, France a half million, and
all their neighbors a like proportion. These countries are civilized.
They are in the enjoyment of Christian governments—have their hundreds
of a thousands of ministers, and the land covered with cathedrals and
churches—and yet every nation is nearly beggared by keeping armies in
the field. Christian kings have no confidence in the promises of each
other. What they call peace is the little time necessarily spent in
reloading their guns. England has hundreds of ships of war to protect
her commerce from other Christians, and to force China to open her ports
to the opium trade. Only the other day the Prime Minister of China, in
one of his dispatches to the English government, used substantially the
following language: "England regards the opium question simply as one of
trade, but to China, it has a moral aspect." Think of Christian England
carrying death and desolation to hundreds of thousands in the name of
trade. Then think of heathen China protesting in the name of morality.
At the same time England has the impudence to send missionaries to
China.

What has been called Christianity has been a disturber of the public
peace in all countries and at all times. Nothing has so alienated
nations, nothing has so destroyed the natural justice of mankind, as
what has been known as religion. The idea that all men must worship the
same God, believe the same dogmas, has for thousands of years plucked
with bloody hands the flower of pity from the human heart.

Our civilization is not Christian. It does not come from the skies.
It is not a result of "inspiration." It is the child of invention, of
discovery, of applied knowledge—that is to say, of science. When man
becomes great and grand enough to admit that all have equal rights;
when thought is untrammeled; when worship shall consist in doing
useful things; when religion means the discharge of obligations to our
fellow-men, then, and not until then, will the world be civilized.

_Question_. Since Laplace and other most distinguished astronomers hold
to the theory that the earth was originally in a gaseous state, and then
a molten mass in which the germs, even, of vegetable or animal life,
could not exist, how do you account for the origin of life on this
planet without a "Creator"?—Dr. T. B. Taylor.

_Answer._ Whether or not "the earth was originally in a gaseous state
and afterwards a molten mass in which the germs of vegetable and animal
life could not exist," I do not know. My belief is that the earth as it
is, and as it was, taken in connection with the influence of the sun,
and of other planets, produced whatever has existed or does exist on
the earth. I do not see why gas would not need a "creator" as much as
a vegetable. Neither can I imagine that there is any more necessity for
some one to start life than to start a molten mass. There may be now
portions of the world in which there is not one particle of vegetable
life. It may be that on the wide waste fields of the Arctic zone
there are places where no vegetable life exists, and there may be many
thousand miles where no animal life can be found. But if the poles of
the earth could be changed, and if the Arctic zone could be placed in a
different relative position to the sun, the snows would melt, the hills
would appear, and in a little while even the rocks would be clothed with
vegetation. After a time vegetation would produce more soil, and in a
few thousand years forests would be filled with beasts and birds.

I think it was Sir William Thomson who, in his effort to account for the
origin of life upon this earth, stated that it might have come from some
meteoric stone falling from some other planet having in it the germs of
life. What would you think of a farmer who would prepare his land and
wait to have it planted by meteoric stones? So, what would you think
of a Deity who would make a world like this, and allow it to whirl
thousands and millions of years, barren as a gravestone, waiting for
some vagrant comet to sow the seeds of life?

I believe that back of animal life is the vegetable, and back of the
vegetable, it may be, is the mineral. It may be that crystallization is
the first step toward what we call life, and yet I believe life is back
of that. In my judgment, if the earth ever was in a gaseous state, it
was filled with life. These are subjects about which we know but little.
How do you account for chemistry? How do you account for the fact that
just so many particles of one kind seek the society of just so many
particles of another, and when they meet they instantly form a glad and
lasting union? How do you know but atoms have love and hatred? How
do you know that the vegetable does not enjoy growing, and that
crystallization itself is not an expression of delight? How do you know
that a vine bursting into flower does not feel a thrill? We find sex in
the meanest weeds—how can you say they have no loves?

After all, of what use is it to search for a creator? The difficulty is
not thus solved. You leave your creator as much in need of a creator as
anything your creator is supposed to have created. The bottom of your
stairs rests on nothing, and the top of your stairs leans upon nothing.
You have reached no solution.

The word "God" is simply born of our ignorance. We go as far as we can,
and we say the rest of the way is "God." We look as far as we can,
and beyond the horizon, where there is nought so far as we know but
blindness, we place our Deity. We see an infinitesimal segment of a
circle, and we say the rest is "God."

Man must give up searching for the origin of anything. No one knows the
origin of life, or of matter, or of what we call mind. The whence and
the whither are questions that no man can answer. In the presence of
these questions all intellects are upon a level. The barbarian knows
exactly the same as the scientist, the fool as the philosopher. Only
those who think that they have had some supernatural information pretend
to answer these questions, and the unknowable, the impossible, the
unfathomable, is the realm wholly occupied by the "inspired."

We are satisfied that all organized things must have had a beginning,
but we cannot conceive that matter commenced to be. Forms change,
but substance remains eternally the same. A beginning of substance is
unthinkable. It is just as easy to conceive of anything commencing to
exist _without_ a cause as _with_ a cause. There must be something for
cause to operate upon. Cause operating upon nothing—were such a thing
possible—would produce nothing. There can be no relation between cause
and nothing. We can understand how things can be arranged, joined or
separated—and how relations can be changed or destroyed, but we cannot
conceive of creation—of nothing being changed into something, nor of
something being made—except from preexisting materials.

_Question_. Since the universal testimony of the ages is in the
affirmative of phenomena that attest the continued existence of
man after death—which testimony is overwhelmingly sustained by the
phenomena of the nineteenth century—what further evidence should
thoughtful people require in order to settle the question, "Does death
end all?"

_Answer._ I admit that in all ages men have believed in spooks and
ghosts and signs and wonders. This, however, proves nothing. Men have
for thousands of ages believed the impossible, and worshiped the absurd.
Our ancestors have worshiped snakes and birds and beasts. I do not admit
that any ghost ever existed. I know that no miracle was ever performed
except in imagination; and what you are pleased to call the "phenomena
of the nineteenth century," I fear are on an exact equality with the
phenomena of the Dark Ages.

We do not yet understand the action of the brain. No one knows the
origin of a thought. No one knows how he thinks, or why he thinks, any
more than one knows why or how his heart beats. People, I imagine, have
always had dreams. In dreams they often met persons whom they knew to be
dead, and it may be that much of the philosophy of the present was born
of dreams. I cannot admit that anything supernatural ever has happened
or ever will happen. I cannot admit the truth of what you call the
"phenomena of the nineteenth century," if by such "phenomena" you mean
the reappearance of the dead. I do not deny the existence of a future
state, because I do not know. Neither do I aver that there is one,
because I do not know. Upon this question I am simply honest. I find
that people who believe in immortality—or at least those who say they
do—are just as afraid of death as anybody else. I find that the most
devout Christian weeps as bitterly above his dead, as the man who says
that death ends all. You see the promises are so far away, and the dead
are so near. Still, I do not say that man is not immortal; but I do say
that there is nothing in the Bible to show that he is. The Old
Testament has not a word upon the subject—except to show us how we lost
immortality. According to that book, man was driven from the Garden of
Eden, lest he should put forth his hand and eat of the fruit of the tree
of life and live forever. So the fact is, the Old Testament shows us
how we lost immortality. In the New Testament we are told to seek for
immortality, and it is also stated that "God alone hath immortality."

There is this curious thing about Christians and Spiritualists: The
Spiritualists laugh at the Christians for believing the miracles of
the New Testament; they laugh at them for believing the story about the
witch of Endor. And then the Christians laugh at the Spiritualists for
believing that the same kind of things happen now. As a matter of fact,
the Spiritualists have the best of it, because their witnesses are now
living, whereas the Christians take simply the word of the dead—of
men they never saw and of men about whom they know nothing. The
Spiritualist, at least, takes the testimony of men and women that he can
cross-examine. It would seem as if these gentlemen ought to make
common cause. Then the Christians could prove their miracles by the
Spiritualists, and the Spiritualists could prove their "phenomena" by
the Christians.

I believe that thoughtful people require some additional testimony in
order to settle the question, "Does death end all?" If the dead return
to this world they should bring us information of value.

There are thousands of questions that studious historians and savants
are endeavoring to settle—questions of history, of philosophy, of law,
of art, upon which a few intelligent dead ought to be able to shed a
flood of light. All the questions of the past ought to be settled. Some
modern ghosts ought to get acquainted with some of the Pharaohs, and
give us an outline of the history of Egypt. They ought to be able to
read the arrow-headed writing and all the records of the past. The
hieroglyphics of all ancient peoples should be unlocked, and thoughts
and facts that have been imprisoned for so many thousand years should be
released and once again allowed to visit brains. The Spiritualists ought
to be able to give us the history of buried cities. They should clothe
with life the dust of all the past. If they could only bring us valuable
information; if they could only tell us about some steamer in distress
so that succor could be sent; if they could only do something useful,
the world would cheerfully accept their theories and admit their
"facts." I think that thoughtful people have the right to demand such
evidence. I would like to have the spirits give us the history of
all the books of the New Testament and tell us who first told of the
miracles. If they could give us the history of any religion, or nation,
or anything, I should have far more confidence in the "phenomena of the
nineteenth century."

There is one thing about the Spiritualists I like, and that is, they are
liberal. They give to others the rights they claim for themselves. They
do not pollute their souls with the dogma of eternal pain. They do
not slander and persecute even those who deny their "phenomena." But
I cannot admit that they have furnished conclusive evidence that death
does not end all. Beyond the horizon of this life we have not seen. From
the mysterious beyond no messenger has come to me.

For the whole world I would not blot from the sky of the future a single
star. Arched by the bow of hope let the dead sleep.

_Question_. How, when, where, and by whom was our present calendar
originated,—that is "Anno Domini,"—and what event in the history of
the nations does it establish as a fact, if not the birth of Jesus of
Nazareth?

_Answer._ I have already said, in answer to a question by another
gentleman, that I believe the man Jesus Christ existed, and we now date
from somewhere near his birth. I very much doubt about his having been
born on Christmas, because in reading other religions, I find that that
time has been celebrated for thousands of years, and the cause of it is
this:

About the 21st or 22d of December is the shortest day. After that the
days begin to lengthen and the sun comes back, and for many centuries
in most nations they had a festival in commemoration of that event. The
Christians, I presume, adopted this day, and made the birth of Christ
fit it. Three months afterward—the 21st of March—the days and nights
again become equal, and the day then begins to lengthen. For centuries
the nations living in the temperate zones have held festivals to
commemorate the coming of spring—the yearly miracle of leaf, of bud
and flower. This is the celebration known as Easter, and the Christians
adopted that in commemoration of Christ's resurrection. So that, as a
matter of fact, these festivals of Christmas and Easter do not even tend
to show that they stand for or are in any way connected with the birth
or resurrection of Christ. In fact the evidence is overwhelmingly the
other way.

While we are on the calendar business it may be well enough to say that
we get our numerals from the Arabs, from whom also we obtained our ideas
of algebra. The higher mathematics came to us from the same source.
So from the Arabs we receive chemistry, and our first true notions of
geography. They gave us also paper and cotton.

Owing to the fact that the earth does not make its circuit in the exact
time of three hundred and sixty-five days and a quarter, and owing to
the fact that it was a long time before any near approach was made to
the actual time, all calendars after awhile became too inaccurate for
general use, and they were from time to time changed.

Right here, it may be well enough to remark, that all the monuments and
festivals in the world are not sufficient to establish an impossible
event. No amount of monumental testimony, no amount of living evidence,
can substantiate a miracle. The monument only proves the _belief_ of the
builders.

If we rely upon the evidence of monuments, calendars, dates, and
festivals, all the religions on the earth can be substantiated. Turkey
is filled with such monuments and much of the time wasted in such
festivals. We celebrate the Fourth of July, but such celebration does
not even tend to prove that God, by his special providence, protected
Washington from the arrows of an Indian. The Hebrews celebrate what is
called the Passover, but this celebration does not even tend to prove
that the angel of the Lord put blood on the door-posts in Egypt. The
Mohammedans celebrate to-day the flight of Mohammed, but that does not
tend to prove that Mohammed was inspired and was a prophet of God.

Nobody can change a falsehood to a truth by the erection of a monument.
Monuments simply prove that people endeavor to substantiate truths and
falsehoods by the same means.

_Question_. Letting the question as to hell hereafter rest for the
present, how do you account for the hell here—namely, the existence
of pain? There are people who, by no fault of their own, are at this
present time in misery. If for these there is no life to come, their
existence is a mistake; but if there is a life to come, it may be that
the sequel to the acts of the play to come will justify the pain and
misery of this present time?—Rev. Myron W. Reed.

_Answer._ There are four principal theories:

_First_—That there is behind the universe a being of infinite power and
wisdom, kindness, and justice.

_Second_—That the universe has existed from eternity, and that it is
the only eternal existence, and that behind it is no creator.

_Third_—That there is a God who made the universe, but who is not
all-powerful and who is, under the circumstances, doing the best he can.

_Fourth_—That there is an all-powerful God who made the universe, and
that there is also a nearly all-powerful devil, and this devil ravels
about as fast as this God knits.

By the last theory, as taught by Plato, it is extremely easy to account
for the misery in this world. If we admit that there is a malevolent
being with power enough, and with cunning enough, to frequently
circumvent God, the problem of evil becomes solved so far as this world
is concerned. But why this being was evil is still unsolved; why the
devil is malevolent is still a mystery. Consequently you will have to go
back of this world, on that theory, to account for the origin of evil.
If this devil always existed, then, of course, the universe at one time
was inhabited only by this God and this devil.

If the third theory is correct, we can account for the fact that God
does not see to it that justice is always done.

If the second theory is true, that the universe has existed from
eternity, and is without a creator, then we must account for the
existence of evil and good, not by personalities behind the universe,
but by the nature of things.

If there is an infinitely good and wise being who created all, it seems
to me that he should have made a world in which innocence should be a
sufficient shield. He should have made a world where the just man should
have nothing to fear.

My belief is this: We are surrounded by obstacles. We are filled
with wants. We must have clothes. We must have food. We must protect
ourselves from sun and storm, from heat and cold. In our conflict with
these obstacles, with each other, and with what may be called the forces
of nature, all do not succeed. It is a fact in nature that like
begets like; that man gives his constitution, at least in part, to his
children; that weakness and strength are in some degree both hereditary.
This is a fact in nature. I do not hold any god responsible for this
fact—filled as it is with pain and joy. But it seems to me that an
infinite God should so have arranged matters that the bad would not
pass—that it would die with its possessor—that the good should
survive, and that the man should give to his son, not the result of his
vices, but the fruit of his virtues.

I cannot see why we should expect an infinite God to do better in
another world than he does in this. If he allows injustice to prevail
here, why will he not allow the same thing in the world to come? If
there is any being with power to prevent it, why is crime permitted? If
a man standing upon the railway should ascertain that a bridge had been
carried off by a flood, and if he also knew that the train was coming
filled with men, women, and children; with husbands going to their
wives, and wives rejoining their families; if he made no effort to
stop that train; if he simply sat down by the roadside to witness the
catastrophe, and so remained until the train dashed off the precipice,
and its load of life became a mass of quivering flesh, he would be
denounced by every good man as the most monstrous of human beings. And
yet this is exactly what the supposed God does. He, if he exists, sees
the train rushing to the gulf. He gives no notice. He sees the ship
rushing for the hidden rock. He makes no sign. And he so constructed
the world that assassins lurk in the air—hide even in the sunshine—and
when we imagine that we are breathing the breath of life, we are taking
into ourselves the seeds of death.

There are two facts inconsistent in my mind—a martyr and a God.
Injustice upon earth renders the justice of heaven impossible.

I would not take from those suffering in this world the hope of
happiness hereafter. My principal object has been to take away from them
the fear of eternal pain hereafter. Still, it is impossible for me to
explain the facts by which I am surrounded, if I admit the existence of
an infinite Being. I find in this world that physical and mental evils
afflict the good. It seems to me that I have the same reason to expect
the bad to be rewarded hereafter. I have no right to suppose that
infinite wisdom will ever know any more, or that infinite benevolence
will increase in kindness, or that the justice of the eternal can
change. If, then, this eternal being allows the good to suffer pain
here, what right have we to say that he will not allow them to suffer
forever?

Some people have insisted that this life is a kind of school for the
production of self-denying men and women—that is, for the production
of character. The statistics show that a large majority die under five
years of age. What would we think of a schoolmaster who killed the most
of his pupils the first day? If this doctrine is true, and if manhood
cannot be produced in heaven, those who die in childhood are infinitely
unfortunate.

I admit that, although I do not understand the subject, still, all pain,
all misery may be for the best. I do not know. If there is an infinitely
wise Being, who is also infinitely powerful, then everything that
happens must be for the best. That philosophy of special providence,
going to the extreme, is infinitely better than most of the Christian
creeds. There seems to be no half-way house between special providence
and atheism. You know some of the Buddhists say that when a man commits
murder, that is the best thing he could have done, and that to be
murdered was the best thing that could have happened to the killed. They
insist that every step taken is the necessary step and the best step;
that crimes are as necessary as virtues, and that the fruit of crime and
virtue is finally the same.

But whatever theories we have, we have at last to be governed by the
facts. We are in a world where vice, deformity, weakness, and disease
are hereditary. In the presence of this immense and solemn truth rises
the religion of the body. Every man should refuse to increase the misery
of this world. And it may be that the time will come when man will be
great enough and grand enough utterly to refrain from the propagation
of disease and deformity, and when only the healthy will be fathers
and mothers. We do know that the misery in this world can be lessened;
consequently I believe in the religion of this world. And whether there
is a heaven or hell here, or hereafter, every good man has enough to
do to make this world a little better than it is. Millions of lives are
wasted in the vain effort to find the origin of things, and the destiny
of man. This world has been neglected. We have been taught that life
should be merely a preparation for death.

To avoid pain we must know the conditions of health. For the
accomplishment of this end we must rely upon investigation instead
of faith, upon labor in place of prayer. Most misery is produced by
ignorance. Passions sow the seeds of pain.

_Question_. State with what words you can comfort those who have, by
their own fault, or by the fault of others, found this life not worth
living?

_Answer._ If there is no life beyond this, and so believing I come to
the bedside of the dying—of one whose life has been a failure—a "life
not worth living," I could at least say to such an one, "Your failure
ends with your death. Beyond the tomb there is nothing for you—neither
pain nor misery, neither grief nor joy." But if I were a good orthodox
Christen, then I would have to say to this man, "Your life has been a
failure; you have not been a Christian, and the failure will be extended
eternally; you have not only been a failure for a time, but you will be
a failure forever."

Admitting that there is another world, and that the man's life had been
a failure in this, then I should say to him, "If you live again, you
will have the eternal opportunity to reform. There will be no time, no
date, no matter how many millions and billions of ages may have passed
away, at which you will not have the opportunity of doing right."

Under no circumstances could I consistently say to this man: "Although
your life has been a failure; although you have made hundreds and
thousands of others suffer; although you have deceived and betrayed the
woman who loved you; although you have murdered your benefactor; still,
if you will now repent and believe a something that is unreasonable
or reasonable to your mind, you will, at the moment of death, be
transferred to a world of eternal joy." This I could not say. I would
tell him, "If you die a bad man here, you will commence the life to
come with the same character you leave this. Character cannot be made by
another for you. You must be the architect of your own." There is to me
unspeakably more comfort in the idea that every failure ends here, than
that it is to be perpetuated forever.

How can a Christian comfort the mother of a girl who has died without
believing in Christ? What doctrine is there in Christianity to wipe away
her tears? What words of comfort can you offer to the mother whose brave
boy fell in defence of his country, she knowing and you knowing, that
the boy was not a Christian, that he did not believe in the Bible, and
had no faith in the blood of the atonement? What words of comfort have
you for such fathers and for such mothers?

To me, there is no doctrine so infinitely absurd as the idea that this
life is a probationary state—that the few moments spent here decide the
fate of a human soul forever. Nothing can be conceived more merciless,
more unjust. I am doing all I can to destroy that doctrine. I want, if
possible, to get the shadow of hell from the human heart.

Why has any life been a failure here? If God is a being of infinite
wisdom and kindness, why does he make failures? What excuse has infinite
wisdom for peopling the world with savages? Why should one feel grateful
to God for having made him with a poor, weak and diseased brain; for
having allowed him to be the heir of consumption, of scrofula, or of
insanity? Why should one thank God, who lived and died a slave?

After all, is it not of more importance to speak the absolute truth?
Is it not manlier to tell the fact than to endeavor to convey comfort
through falsehood? People must reap not only what they sow, but what
others have sown. The people of the whole world are united in spite of
themselves.

Next to telling a man, whose life has been a failure, that he is to
enjoy an immortality of delight—next to that, is to assure him that a
place of eternal punishment does not exist.

After all, there are but few lives worth living in any great and
splendid sense. Nature seems filled with failure, and she has made no
exception in favor of man. To the greatest, to the most successful,
there comes a time when the fevered lips of life long for the cool,
delicious kiss of death—when, tired of the dust and glare of day, they
hear with joy the rustling garments of the night.

Archibald Armstrong and Jonathan Newgate were fast friends. Their views
in regard to the question of a future life, and the existence of a God,
were in perfect accord. They said:

"'We know so little about these matters that we are not justified in
giving them any serious consideration. Our motto and rule of life shall
be for each one to make himself as comfortable as he can, and enjoy
every pleasure within his reach, not allowing himself to be influenced
at all by thoughts of a future life.'

"Both had some money. Archibald had a large amount. Once upon a time
when no human eye saw him—and he had no belief in a God—Jonathan stole
every dollar of his friend's wealth, leaving him penniless. He had no
fear, no remorse; no one saw him do the deed. He became rich, enjoyed
life immensely, lived in contentment and pleasure, until in mellow old
age he went the way of all flesh. Archibald fared badly. The odds were
against him.

"His money was gone. He lived in penury and discontent, dissatisfied with
mankind and with himself, until at last, overcome by misfortune, and
depressed by an incurable malady, he sought rest in painless suicide."

_Question_. What are we to think of the rule of life laid down by these
men? Was either of them inconsistent or illogical? Is there no remedy to
correct such irregularities?—Rev. D. O'Donaghue.

_Answer._ The Rev. Mr. O'Donaghue seems to entertain strange ideas as
to right and wrong. He tells us that Archibald Armstrong and Jonathan
Newgate concluded to make themselves as comfortable as they could and
enjoy every pleasure within their reach, and the Rev. Mr. O'Donaghue
states that one of the pleasures within the reach of Mr. Newgate was to
steal what little money Mr. Armstrong had. Does the reverend gentleman
think that Mr. Newgate made or could make himself comfortable in that
way? He tells us that Mr. Newgate "had no remorse,"—that he "became
rich and enjoyed life immensely,"—that he "lived in contentment and
pleasure, until, in mellow old age, he went the way of all flesh."

Does the reverend gentleman really believe that a man can steal without
fear, without remorse? Does he really suppose that one can enjoy the
fruits of theft, that a criminal can live a contented and happy life,
that one who has robbed his friend can reach a mellow and delightful old
age? Is this the philosophy of the Rev. Mr. O'Donaghue?

And right here I may be permitted to ask, Why did the Rev. Mr.
O'Donaghue's God allow a thief to live without fear, without remorse, to
enjoy life immensely and to reach a mellow old age? And why did he allow
Mr. Armstrong, who had been robbed, to live in penury and discontent,
until at last, overcome by misfortune, he sought rest in suicide? Does
the Rev. Mr. O'Donaghue mean to say that if there is no future life it
is wise to steal in this? If the grave is the eternal home, would the
Rev. Mr. O'Donaghue advise people to commit crimes in order that they
may enjoy this life? Such is not my philosophy. Whether there is a God
or not, truth is better than falsehood. Whether there is a heaven or
hell, honesty is always the best policy. There is no world, and can be
none, where vice can sow the seed of crime and reap the sheaves of joy.

According to my view, Mr. Armstrong was altogether more fortunate than
Mr. Newgate. I had rather be robbed than to be a robber, and I had
rather be of such a disposition that I would be driven to suicide by
misfortune than to live in contentment upon the misfortunes of
others. The reverend gentleman, however, should have made his question
complete—he should have gone the entire distance. He should have added
that Mr. Newgate, after having reached a mellow old age, was suddenly
converted, joined the church, and died in the odor of sanctity on the
very day that his victim committed suicide.

But I will answer the fable of the reverend gentleman with a fact.

A young man was in love with a girl. She was young, beautiful, and
trustful. She belonged to no church—knew nothing about a future
world—basked in the sunshine of this. All her life had been filled with
gentle deeds. The tears of pity had sanctified her cheeks. She
believed in no religion, worshiped no God, believed no Bible, but loved
everything. Her lover in a fit of jealous rage murdered her. He was
tried; convicted; a motion for a new trial overruled and a pardon
refused. In his cell, in the shadow of death, he was converted—he
became a Catholic. With the white lips of fear he confessed to a priest.
He received the sacrament.

He was hanged, and from the rope's end winged his way to the realms of
bliss. For months the murdered girl had suffered all the pains and pangs
of hell.

The poor girl will endure the agony of the damned forever, while her
murderer will be ravished with angelic chant and song. Such is the
justice of the orthodox God.

Allow me to use the language of the reverend gentleman: "Is there no
remedy to correct such irregularities?"

As long as the idea of eternal punishment remains a part of the
Christian system, that system will be opposed by every man of heart and
brain. Of all religious dogmas it is the most shocking, infamous,
and absurd. The preachers of this doctrine are the enemies of human
happiness; they are the assassins of natural joy. Every father, every
mother, every good man, every loving woman, should hold this doctrine in
abhorrence; they should refuse to pay men for preaching it; they should
not build churches in which this infamy is taught; they should teach
their little children that it is a lie; they should take this horror
from childhood's heart—a horror that makes the cradle as terrible as
the coffin.
---
# Interviews
_Dresden Edition, Volume 8, 1899_
<article class="work-article">
  <header class="work-header">
    <div class="container">
      <a href="/works/volume-8/" class="back-link">&larr; Back to Volume 8</a>
      <div class="work-meta-badges">
        <span class="badge badge--volume">Dresden &mdash; Vol. 8</span>
        <span class="badge badge--year">1878–1899</span>
        <span class="badge badge--category">{{ collections.interviewChapter.length }} interviews</span>
      </div>
      <h1 class="work-title">Interviews</h1>
      <p class="work-subtitle">More than one hundred newspaper interviews, 1878–1899.</p>
      <p class="work-description">{{ description }}</p>
    </div>
  </header>

  <div class="container">
    <div class="interview-index-wrap">
      <p class="interview-index-intro">
        Throughout his public life Ingersoll sat for scores of newspaper interviews.
        Volume VIII of the Dresden Edition gathers them in chronological order, from
        his first conversation with <em>The Post</em> of Washington in 1878 to his
        last remarks before his death in 1899. Each is presented here as its own
        chapter for easier reading.
      </p>

      <ol class="interview-index" aria-label="Interviews in chronological order">
        {% for ch in collections.interviewChapter %}
        <li class="interview-index-item">
          <a class="interview-index-link" href="{{ ch.url }}">
            <span class="interview-index-num">{{ ch.data.order }}</span>
            <span class="interview-index-title">{{ ch.data.title }}</span>
          </a>
        </li>
        {% endfor %}
      </ol>
    </div>
  </div>
</article>
---
# Address to the 86th Illinois Regiment
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1866_
> * This is only a fragment of a speech made by Col. Ingersoll
> at Peoria, 111., in 1866, to the 86th Illinois Regiment, at
> their anniversary meeting.

## Peoria, Ills

1865.

THE history of the past four years seems to me like a terrible dream.
It seems almost impossible that the events that have now passed into
history ever happened. That hundreds of thousands of men, born and
reared under one flag, with the same history, the same future, and, in
truth, the same interests, should have met upon the terrible field of
death, and for four long years should have fought with a bitterness and
determination never excelled; that they should have filled our land with
orphans and widows, and made our country hollow with graves, is
indeed wonderful; but that the people of the South should have thus
fought—thus attempted to destroy and overthrow the Government founded
by the heroes of the Revolution—merely for the sake of perpetuating the
infamous institution of slavery, is wonderful almost beyond belief.

Strange that people should be found in this, the nineteenth century, to
fight against freedom and to die for slavery! It is most wonderful that
the terrible war ceased as suddenly as it did, and that the soldiers of
the Republic, the moment that the angel of peace spread her white wings
over our country, dropped from their hands the instruments of war
and eagerly went back to the plough, the shop and the office, and are
to-day, with the same determination that characterized them in battle,
engaged in effacing every vestige of the desolation and destruction of
war. But the progress we have made as a people is if possible still more
astonishing. We pretended to be the lovers of freedom, yet we defended
slavery. We quoted the Declaration of Independence and voted for the
compromise of 1850.

From servility and slavishness we have marched to heroism. We were
tyrants. We are liberators. We were slave-catchers. We are now the
chivalrous breakers of chains.

From slavery, over a bloody and terrible path, we have marched to
freedom. Hirelings of oppression, we have become the champions of
justice—the defenders of the right—the pillar upon which rests the
hope of the world. To whom are we indebted for this wonderful change?
Most of all to you, the soldiers of the great Republic. We thank you
that the hands of time were not turned back a thousand years—that the
Dark Ages did not again come upon the world—that Prometheus was
not again chained—that the river of progress was not stopped or
stayed—that the dear blood shed during all the past was not rendered
vain—that the sublime faith of all the grand and good did not become
a bitter dream, but a reality more glorious than ever entered into the
imagination of the rapt heroes of the past. Soldiers of the Eighty-sixth
Illinois, we thank you, and through you all the defenders of the
Republic, living and dead. We thank you that the deluge of blood has
subsided, that the ark of our national safety is at rest, that the dove
has returned with the olive branch of peace, and that the dark clouds of
war are in the far distance, covered with the beautiful bow.

In the name of humanity, in the name of progress, in the name of
freedom, in the name of America, in the name of the oppressed of the
whole world, we thank you again and again. We thank you, that in the
darkest hour you never despaired of the Republic, that you were not
dismayed, that through disaster and defeat, through cruelty and famine,
through the serried ranks of the enemy, in spite of false friends, you
marched resolutely, unflinchingly and bravely forward. Forward through
shot and shell! Forward through fire and sword! Forward past the corpses
of your brave comrades, buried in shallow graves by the hurried hands
of heroes! Forward past the scattered bones of starved captives! Forward
through the glittering bayonet lines, and past the brazen throats of the
guns! Forward through the din and roar and smoke and hell of war! Onward
through blood and fire to the shining, glittering mount of perfect and
complete victory, and from the top your august hands unfurled to the
winds the old banner of the stars, and it waves in triumph now, and
shall forever, from the St. Lawrence to the Rio Grande, and from the
Atlantic to the Pacific!

We thank you that our waving fields of golden wheat and rustling corn
are not trodden down beneath the bloody feet of invasion—that our homes
are not ashes—that our hearthstones are not desolate—that our towns
and cities still stand, that our temples and institutions of learning
are secure, that prosperity covers us as with a mantle, and, more than
all, we thank you that the Republic still lives; that law and order
reign supreme; that the Constitution is still sacred; that a republican
government has ceased to be only an experiment, and has become a
certainty for all time; that we have by your heroism established the
sublime and shining truth that a government by the people, for the
people, can and will stand until governments cease among men; that you
have given the lie to the impudent and infamous prophecy of tyranny, and
that you have firmly established the Republic upon the great ideas of
National Unity and Human Liberty.

We thank you for our commerce on the high seas, upon our lakes and
beautiful rivers, for the credit of our nation, for the value of our
money, and for the grand position that we now occupy among the nations
of the earth. We thank you for every State redeemed, for every star
brought back to glitter again upon the old flag, and we thank you
for the grand future that you have opened for us and for our children
through all the ages yet to come; and, not only for us and our children,
but for mankind.

Thanks to your efforts our country is still an asylum for the oppressed
of the Old World; the arms of our charity are still open, we still
beckon them across the sea, and they come in multitudes,'leaving home,
the graves of their sires, and the dear memories of the heart, and with
their wives and little ones come to this, the only free land upon which
the sun shines—and with their countless hands of labor add to the
wealth, the permanence and the glory of our country. And let them come
from the land of Luther, of Hampden and Emmett. Whoever is for freedom
and the sacred rights of man is a true American, and as such, we welcome
them all. We thank you to-day in the name of four millions of people,
whose shackles you have so nobly and generously broken, and who, from
the condition of beasts of burden, have by your efforts become men. We
thank you in the name of this poor and hitherto despised and insulted
race, and say that their emancipation was, and is, the crowning glory
of this most terrible war. Peace without liberty could have been only a
bloody delusion and a snare. Freedom is peace; Slavery is war.

We must act justly and honorably with these emancipated men, knowing
that the eyes of the civilized world are upon us. We must do what is
best for both races. We must not be controlled merely by party.

If the Government is founded upon principle, it will stand against the
shock of revolution and foreign war as long as liberty is sacred, the
rights of man respected, and honor dwells in the hearts of men.

We thank you for the lesson that has been taught the Old World by your
patriotism and valor; believing that when the people shall have learned
that sublime and divine lesson, thrones will become kingless, kings
crownless, royalty an epitaph, the purple of power the shroud of death,
the chains of tyranny will fall from the bodies of men, the shackles
of superstition from the souls of the people, the spirit of persecution
will fly from the earth, and the banner of Universal Freedom, with the
words "Civil and Religious Liberty for the World" written upon every
fold, blazing from every star, will float over every land and sea under
the whole heavens.

We thank you for the glorious past, for the still more glorious future,
and will continue to thank you while our hearts are warm with life. We
will gather around you in the hour of your death and soothe your last
moments with our gratitude. We will follow you tearfully to the narrow
house of the dead, and over your sacred remains erect the whitest and
purest marble. The hands of love will adorn your last abode, and the
chisel will record that beneath rests the sacred dust of the Heroic
Saviors of the Great Republic. Such ground will be holy, and future
generations will draw inspiration from your tombs, courage from your
heroic examples, patience and fortitude from your sufferings, and
strength eternal from your success.

I cannot stop without speaking of the heroic dead. It seems to me as
though their spirits ought to hover over you to-day—that they might
join with us in giving thanks for the great victory,—that their faces
might grow radiant to think that their blood was not shed in vain,—that
the living are worthy to reap the benefits of their sacrifices, their
sufferings and death, and it almost seems as if their sightless eyes are
suffused with tears. Then we think of the dear mothers waiting for their
sons, of the devoted wives waiting for their husbands, of the orphans
asking for fathers whose returning footsteps they can never hear; that
while they can say "my country," they cannot say "my son," "my husband,"
or "my father."

My heart goes out to all the slain, to those heroic corpses sleeping far
away from home and kindred in unknown and lonely graves, to those poor
pieces of dear, bleeding earth that won for me the blessings I enjoy
to-day.

Shall I recount their sufferings? They were starved day by day with
a systematic and calculating cruelty never equaled by the most savage
tribes. They were confined in dens as though they had been beasts, and
then they slowly faded and wasted from life. Some were released from
their sufferings by blessed insanity, until their parched and fevered
lips, their hollow and glittering eyes, were forever closed by the angel
of death. And thus they died, with the voices of loved ones in their
ears; the faces of the dear absent hovering over them; around them their
dying comrades, and the fiendish slaves of slavery.

And what shall I say more of the regiment before me? It is enough that
you were a part of the great army that accomplished so much for America
and mankind.

It is but just, however, to say that you were at the bloody field of
Perryville, that you stood with Thomas at Chickamauga and kept at bay
the rebel host, that you marched to the relief of Knoxville through
bitter cold, hunger and privations, and had the honor of relieving that
heroic garrison.

It is but just to say that you were with Sherman in his wonderful march
through the heart of the Confederacy; that you were in the terrible
charge at Kenesaw Mountain, and held your ground for days within a few
steps of the rebel fortifications; that you were at Atlanta and took
part in the terrible conflict before that city and marched victoriously
through her streets; that you were at Savannah; that you had the honor
of being present when Johnson surrendered, and his ragged rebel horde
laid down their arms; that from there you marched to Washington and
beneath the shadow of the glorious dome of our Capitol, that lifts from
the earth as though jealous of the stars, received the grandest national
ovation recorded in the annals of the world.
---
# An Address to the Colored People
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1867_
> * An address delivered to the colored people at Galesburg,
> Illinois, 1867.

FELLOW-CITIZENS—Slavery has in a thousand forms existed in all ages,
and among all people. It is as old as theft and robbery.

Every nation has enslaved its own people, and sold its own flesh and
blood. Most of the white race are in slavery to-day. It has often been
said that any man who ought to be free, will be. The men who say this
should remember that their own ancestors were once cringing, frightened,
helpless slaves.

When they became sufficiently educated to cease enslaving their own
people, they then enslaved the first race they could conquer. If they
differed in religion, they enslaved them. If they differed in color,
that was sufficient. If they differed even in language, it was enough.
If they were captured, they then pretended that having spared their
lives, they had the right to enslave them. This argument was worthless.
If they were captured, then there was no necessity for killing them. If
there was no necessity for killing them, then they had no right to
kill them. If they had no right to kill them, then they had no right to
enslave them under the pretence that they had saved their lives.

Every excuse that the ingenuity of avarice could devise was believed to
be a complete justification, and the great argument of slaveholders in
all countries has been that slavery is a divine institution, and thus
stealing human beings has always been fortified with a "Thus saith the
Lord."

Slavery has been upheld by law and religion in every country. The word
Liberty is not in any creed in the world. Slavery is right according to
the law of man, shouted the judge. It is right according to the law of
God, shouted the priest. Thus sustained by what they were pleased to
call the law of God and man, slaveholders never voluntarily freed the
slaves, with the exception of the Quakers. The institution has in all
ages been clung to with the tenacity of death; clung to until it sapped
and destroyed the foundations of society; clung to until all law became
violence; clung to until virtue was a thing only of history; clung to
until industry folded its arms—until commerce reefed every sail—until
the fields were desolate and the cities silent, except where the poor
free asked for bread, and the slave for mercy; clung to until the slave
forging the sword of civil war from his fetters drenched the land in the
master's blood. Civil war has been the great liberator of the world.

Slavery has destroyed every nation that has gone down to death. It
caused the last vestige of Grecian civilization to disappear forever,
and it caused Rome to fall with a crash that shook the world. After
the disappearance of slavery in its grossest forms in Europe, Gonzales
pointed out to his countrymen, the Portuguese, the immense profits that
they could make by stealing Africans, and thus commenced the modern
slave-trade—that aggregation of all horror—that infinite of all
cruelty, prosecuted only by demons, and defended only by fiends. And
yet the slave-trade has been defended and sustained by every civilized
nation, and by each and all has been baptized "Legitimate commerce," in
the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost:

It was even justified upon the ground that it tended to Christianize the
negro.

It was of the poor hypocrites who had used this argument that Whittier
said,

> "They bade the slaveship speed from coast to coast,
> Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost."

Backed and supported by such Christian and humane arguments slavery was
planted upon our soil in 1620, and from that day to this it has been
the cause of all our woes, of all the bloodshed—of all the
heart-burnings—hatred and horrors of more than two hundred years, and
yet we hated to part with the beloved institution. Like Pharaoh we would
not let the people go. He was afflicted with vermin, with frogs—with
water turned to blood—with several kinds of lice, and yet would not let
the people go. We were afflicted with worse than all these combined—the
Northern Democracy—before we became grand enough to say, "Slavery
shall be eradicated from the soil of the Republic." When we reached this
sublime moral height we were successful. The Rebellion was crushed and
liberty established.

A majority of the civilized world is for freedom—nearly all the
Christian denominations are for liberty. The world has changed—the
people are nobler, better and purer than ever.

Every great movement must be led by heroic and self-sacrificing
pioneers. In England, in Christian England, the soul of the abolition
cause was Thomas Clarkson. To the great cause of human freedom he
devoted his life. He won over the eloquent and glorious Wilberforce,
the great Pitt, the magnificent orator, Burke, and that far-seeing and
humane statesman, Charles James Fox.

In 1788 a resolution was introduced in the House of Commons declaring
that the slave trade ought to be abolished. It was defeated. Learned
lords opposed it. They said that too much capital was invested by
British merchants in the slave-trade. That if it were abolished the
ships would rot at the wharves, and that English commerce would be swept
from the seas. Sanctified Bishops—lords spiritual—thought the scheme
fanatical, and various resolutions to the same effect were defeated.

The struggle lasted twenty years, and yet during all those years in
which England refused to abolish the hellish trade, that nation had the
impudence to send missionaries all over the world to make converts to
a religion that in their opinion, at least, allowed man to steal his
brother man—that allowed one Christian to rob another of his wife, his
child, and of that greatest of all blessings—his liberty. It was not
until the year 1808 that England was grand and just enough to abolish
the slave-trade, and not until 1833 that slavery was abolished in all
her colonies.

The name of Thomas Clarkson should be remembered and honored through all
coming time by every black man, and by every white man who loves liberty
and hates cruelty and injustice.

Clarkson, Wilberforce, Pitt, Fox, Burke, were the Titans that swept the
accursed slaver from that highway—the sea.

In St. Domingo the pioneers were Oge and Chevannes; they headed
a revolt; they were unsuccessful, but they roused the slaves to
resistance. They were captured, tried, condemned and executed. They were
made to ask forgiveness of God, and of the King, for having attempted to
give freedom to their own flesh and blood. They were broken alive on the
wheel, and left to die of hunger and pain. The blood of these martyrs
became the seed of liberty; and afterward in the midnight assault, in
the massacre and pillage, the infuriated slaves shouted their names
as their battle-cry, until Toussaint, the greatest of the blacks, gave
freedom to them all.

In the United States, among the Revolutionary fathers, such men as John
Adams, and his son John Quincy—such men as Franklin and John Jay were
opposed to the institution of slavery. Thomas Jefferson said, speaking
of the slaves, "When the measure of their tears shall be full—when
their groans shall have involved heaven itself in darkness—doubtless a
God of justice will awaken to their distress, and by diffusing light
and liberality among their oppressors, or at length by his exterminating
thunder manifest his attention to the things of this world, and that
they are not left to the guidance of a blind fatality."

Thomas Paine said, "No man can be happy surrounded by those whose
happiness he has destroyed." And a more self-evident proposition was
never uttered.

These and many more Revolutionary heroes were opposed to slavery and
did what they could to prevent the establishment and spread of this most
wicked and terrible of all institutions.

You owe gratitude to those who were for liberty as a principle and not
from mere necessity. You should remember with more than gratitude that
firm, consistent and faithful friend of your downtrodden race, Wm.
Lloyd Garrison. He has devoted his life to your cause. Many years ago in
Boston he commenced the publication of a paper devoted to liberty.
Poor and despised—friendless and almost alone, he persevered in that
grandest and holiest of all possible undertakings. He never stopped, or
stayed, or paused until the chain was broken and the last slave could
lift his toil-worn face to heaven with the light of freedom shining down
upon him, and say, I am a Free Man.

You should not forget that noble philanthropist, Wendell Phillips, and
your most learned and eloquent defender, Charles Sumner.

But the real pioneer in America was old John Brown. Moved not by
prejudice, not by love of his blood, or his color, but by an infinite
love of Liberty, of Right, of Justice, almost single-handed, he attacked
the monster, with thirty million people against him. His head was wrong.
He miscalculated his forces; but his heart was right. He struck the
sublimest blow of the age for freedom. It was said of him that, he
stepped from the gallows to the throne of God. It was said that he
had made the scaffold to Liberty what Christ had made the cross to
Christianity. The sublime Victor Hugo declared that John Brown was
greater than Washington, and that his name would live forever.

I say, that no man can be greater than the man who bravely and
heroically sacrifices his life for the good of others. No man can be
greater than the one who meets death face to face, and yet will not
shrink from what he believes to be his highest duty. If the black people
want a patron saint, let them take the brave old John Brown. And as the
gentleman who preceded me said, at all your meetings, never separate
until you have sung the grand song,

> "John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave,
> But his soul goes marching on."

You do not, in my opinion, owe a great debt of gratitude to many of the
white people.

Only a few years ago both parties agreed to carry out the Fugitive
Slave Law. If a woman ninety-nine one-hundredths white had fled from
slavery—had traveled through forests, crossed rivers, and through
countless sufferings had got within one step of Canada—of free
soil—with the light of the North Star shining in her eyes, and her babe
pressed to her withered breast, both parties agreed to clutch her and
hand her back to the dominion of the hound and lash. Both parties, as
parties, were willing to do this when the Rebellion commenced.

The truth is, we had to give you your liberty. There came a time in
the history of the war when, defeated at the ballot box and in the
field—driven to the shattered gates of eternal chaos—we were forced
to make you free; and on the first day of January, 1863, the justice so
long delayed was done, and four millions of people were lifted from
the condition of beasts of burden to the sublime heights of freedom.
Lincoln, the immortal, issued, and the men of the North sustained the
great proclamation.

As in the war there came a time when we were forced to make you free, so
in the history of reconstruction came a time when we were forced to make
you citizens; when we were forced to say that you should vote, and that
you should have and exercise all the rights that we claim for ourselves.

And to-day I am in favor of giving you every right that I claim for
myself.

In reconstructing the Southern States, we could take our choice, either
give the ballot to the negro, or allow the rebels to rule. We preferred
loyal blacks to disloyal whites, because we believed liberty safer in
the hands of its friends than in those of its foes.

We must be for freedom everywhere. Freedom is progress—slavery is
desolation, cruelty and want.

Freedom invents—slavery forgets. The problem of the slave is to do the
least work in the longest space of time. The problem of free men is to
do the greatest amount of work in the shortest space of time. The free
man, working for wife and children, gets his head and his hands in
partnership.

Freedom has invented every useful machine, from the lowest to the
highest, from the simplest to the most complex. Freedom believes in
education—the salvation of slavery is ignorance.

The South always dreaded the alphabet. They looked upon each letter as
an abolitionist, and well they might. With a scent keener than their own
bloodhounds they detected everything that could, directly or indirectly,
interfere with slavery. They knew that when slaves begin to think,
masters begin to tremble. They knew that free thought would destroy
them; that discussion could not be endured; that a free press would
liberate every slave; and so they mobbed free thought, and put an end to
free discussion and abolished a free press, and in fact did all the
mean and infamous things they could, that slavery might live, and that
liberty might perish from among men.

You are now citizens of many of the States, and in time you will be
of all. I am astonished when I think how long it took to abolish the
slave-trade, how long it took to abolish slavery in this country. I am
also astonished to think that a few years ago magnificent steamers went
down the Mississippi freighted with your fathers, mothers, brothers,
and sisters, and maybe some of you, bound like criminals, separated from
wives, from husbands, every human feeling laughed at and outraged, sold
like beasts, carried away from homes to work for another, receiving for
pay only the marks of the lash upon the naked back. I am astonished
at these things. I hate to think that all this was done under the
Constitution of the United States, under the flag of my country, under
the wings of the eagle.

The flag was not then what it is now. It was a mere rag in comparison.
The eagle was a buzzard, and the Constitution sanctioned the greatest
crime of the world.

I wonder that you—the black people—have forgotten all this. I wonder
that you ask a white man to address you on this occasion, when the
history of your connection with the white race is written in your blood
and tears—is still upon your flesh, put there by the branding-iron and
the lash.

I feel like asking your forgiveness for the wrongs that my race has
inflicted upon yours. If, in the future, the wheel of fortune should
take a turn, and you should in any country have white men in your power,
I pray you not to execute the villainy we have taught you.

One word in conclusion. You have your liberty—use it to benefit your
race. Educate yourselves, educate your children, send teachers to the
South. Let your brethren there be educated. Let them know something of
art and science. Improve yourselves, stand by each other, and above all
be in favor of liberty the world over.

The time is coming when you will be' allowed to be good and useful
citizens of the Great Republic. This is your country as much as it is
mine. You have the same rights here that I have—the same interest
that I have. The avenues of distinction will be open to you and your
children. Great advances have been made. The rebels are now opposed
to slavery—the Democratic party is opposed to slavery, _as they say_.
There is going to be no war of races. Both parties want your votes in
the South, and there will be just enough negroes without principle to
join the rebels to make them think they will get more, and so the rebels
will treat the negroes well. And the Republicans will be sure to treat
them well in order to prevent any more joining the rebels.

The great problem is solved. Liberty has solved it—and there will be no
more slavery. On the old flag, on every fold and on every star will be
liberty for all, equality before the law. The grand people are marching
forward, and they will not pause until the earth is without a chain, and
without a throne.
---
# Bangor Speech
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1876_
> * Yesterday was a glorious day for the Republicans of
> Bangor. The weather was delightful and all the imposing
> exercises of the day were conducted with a gratifying and
> even inspiring success.

> The noon train from Waterville brought Gov. Connor, Col.
> Ingersoll and Senator Blaine.

> At 3 p. m. the speakers arrived at the grounds and were
> received with applause as they ascended the platform, where
> a number of the most prominent citizens of Bangor and
> vicinity were assembled. At this time the platform was
> surrounded by a dense mass of people, numbering thousands.
> The meeting was called to order by C. A. Boutelle, in behalf
> of the Republican State Committee. As Col. Ingersoll was
> introduced by Gov. Connor he was welcomed by tumultuous
> cheers, which he gracefully acknowledged.

> As we said before, no report could do justice to such a
> masterly effort as that of the great Western Orator, and we
> have not attempted to convey any adequate impression of an
> address which is conceded on all hands to be the most
> remarkable for originality, power and eloquence ever heard
> in this section.

> Such a speech by such a man—if there is another—must be
> heard; the magnetism of the speaker must be felt; the
> indescribable influence must be experienced, in order to
> appreciate his wonderful power. The vast audience was
> alternately swayed from enthusiasm for the grand principles
> advocated, to indignation at the crimes of Democracy, as the
> record of that party was scorched with his invective; from
> laughter at the ludicrous presentment of Democratic
> inconsistencies, to tears brought forth by the pathos and
> eloquence of his appeals for justice and humanity. During
> portions of his address there was moisture in the eyes of
> every person in the audience, and from opening to close he
> held the assemblage by a spell more potent than that of any
> man we have ever heard speak. It was one of the grandest,
> most cogent and thrilling appeals in behalf of the great
> principles of liberty, loyalty and justice to all men, ever
> delivered, and we wish it might have been heard by every
> citizen of our beloved Republic. The Colonel was repeatedly
> urged by the audience to go on, and he spoke for about two
> hours with undiminished fervor. His hearers would gladly
> have given him audience for two hours longer, but with a
> splendid tribute to Mr. Blaine as the strongest tie between
> New England and the West, he took his seat amid the ringing
> cheers and plaudits of the assemblage.—The Whig and
> Courier, Bangor, Maine, August 25,1876.

## Hayes Campaign

1876.

I HAVE the honor to belong to the Republican party; the grandest, the
sublimest party in the history of the world. This grand party is not
only in favor of the liberty of the body, but also the liberty of the
soul. This sublime party gives to all the labor of their hands and of
their brains. This party allows every person to think for himself and
to express his thoughts. The Republican party forges no chains for the
mind, no fetters for the souls of men. It declares that the intellectual
domain shall be forever free. In the free air there is room for every
wing. The Republican party endeavors to remove all obstructions on the
highway of progress. In this sublime undertaking it asks the assistance
of all. Its platform is Continental. Upon it there is room for
the Methodist, the Baptist, the Catholic, the Universalist, the
Presbyterian, and the Freethinker. There is room for all who are in
favor of the preservation of the sacred rights of men.

I am going to give you a few reasons for voting the Republican ticket.
The Republican party depends upon reason, upon argument, upon education,
upon intelligence and upon patriotism. The Republican party makes no
appeal to ignorance and prejudice. It wishes to destroy both.

It is the party of humanity, the party that hates caste, that honors
labor, that rewards toil, that believes in justice. It appeals to all
that is elevated and noble in man, to the higher instincts, to the
nobler aspirations. It has accomplished grand things.

The horizon of the past is filled with the glory of Republican
achievement. The monuments of its wisdom, its power and patriotism crowd
all the fields of conflict. Upon the Constitution this party wrote
equal rights for all; upon every statute book, humanity; upon the flag,
liberty. The Republican party of the United States is the conscience of
the nineteenth century. It is the justice of this age, the embodiment
of social progress and honor. It has no knee for the past. Its face is
toward the future. It is the party of advancement, of the dawn, of the
sunrise.

The Republican party commenced its grand career by saying that the
institution of human slavery had cursed enough American soil; that the
territories should not be damned with that most infamous thing; that
this country was sacred to freedom; that slavery had gone far enough.
Upon that issue the great campaign of 1860 was fought and won. The
Republican party was born of wisdom and conscience.

The people of the South claimed that slavery should be protected; that
the doors of the territories should be thrown open to them and to their
institutions. They not only claimed this, but they also insisted that
the Constitution of the United States protected slave property, the same
as other property everywhere. The South was defeated, and then appealed
to arms. In a moment all their energies were directed toward the
destruction of this Government. They commenced the war—they fired upon
the flag that had protected them for nearly a century.

The North was compelled to decide instantly between the destruction of
the nation and civil war.

The division between the friends and enemies of the Union at once took
place. The Government began to defend itself. To carry on the war money
was necessary. The Government borrowed, and finally issued its notes and
bonds. The Democratic party in the North sympathized with the Rebellion.
Everything was done to hinder, embarrass, obstruct and delay. They
endeavored to make a rebel breastwork of the Constitution; to create
a fire in the rear. They denounced the Government; resisted the draft;
shot United States officers; declared the war a failure and an outrage;
rejoiced over our defeats, and wept and cursed at our victories.

To crush the Rebellion in the South and keep in subjection the
Democratic party at the North, thousands of millions of money were
expended—the nation burdened with a fearful debt, and the best blood of
the country poured out upon the fields of battle.

In order to destroy the Rebellion it became necessary to destroy
slavery. As a matter of fact, slavery was the Rebellion. As soon as
this truth forced itself upon the Government—thrust as it were into
the brain of the North upon the point of a rebel bayonet—the Republican
party resolved to destroy forever the last vestige of that savage and
cruel institution; an institution that made white men devils and black
men beasts.

The Republican party put down the Rebellion; saved the nation; destroyed
slavery; made the slave a citizen; put the ballot in the hands of the
black man; forgave the assassins of the Government; restored nearly
every rebel to citizenship, and proclaimed peace to, and for each and
all.

For sixteen years the country has been in the hands of that great party.
For sixteen years that grand party, in spite of rebels in arms—in spite
of the Democratic party of the North, has preserved the territorial
integrity, and the financial honor of the country. It has endeavored to
enforce the laws; it has tried to protect loyal men at the South; it has
labored to bring murderers and assassins to justice, and it is working
now to preserve the priceless fruits of its great victory.

The present question is, whom shall we trust? To whom shall we give the
reins of power? What party will best preserve the rights of the people?

What party is most deserving of our confidence? There is but one way
to determine the character of a party, and that is, by ascertaining its
history.

Could we have safely trusted the Democratic party in 1860? No. And why
not? Because it was a believer in the right of secession—a believer
in the sacredness of human slavery. The Democratic party then solemnly
declared—speaking through its most honored and trusted leaders—that
each State had the right to secede. This made the Constitution a _nudum
pactum_, a contract without a consideration, a Democratic promise, a
wall of mist, and left every State free to destroy at will the fabric of
American Government—the fabric reared by our fathers through years of
toil and blood.

Could we have safely trusted that party in 1864, when, in convention
assembled, it declared the war a failure, and wished to give up the
contest at a moment when universal victory was within the grasp of the
Republic? Had the people put that party in power then, there would have
been a Southern Confederacy to-day, and upon the limbs of four million
people the chains of slavery would still have clanked. Is there one man
present who, to-day, regrets that the Vallandigham Democracy of 1864 was
spurned and beaten by the American people? Is there one man present who,
to-day, regrets the utter defeat of that mixture of slavery, malice and
meanness, called the Democratic party, in 1864?

Could we have safely trusted that party in 1868?

At that time the Democracy of the South was trying to humble and
frighten the colored people or exterminate them. These inoffensive
colored people were shot down without provocation, without mercy. The
white Democrats were as relentless as fiends. They killed simply to
kill. They murdered these helpless people, thinking that they were in
some blind way getting their revenge upon the people of the North. No
tongue can exaggerate the cruelties practiced upon the helpless freedmen
of the South. These white Democrats had been reared amid and by slavery.
Slavery knows no such thing as justice, no such thing as mercy. Slavery
does not dream of governing by reason, by argument or persuasion.
Slavery depends upon force, upon the bowie-knife, the revolver, the
whip, the chain and the bloodhound. The white Democrats of the South had
been reared amid slavery; they cared nothing for reason; they knew of
but one thing to be used when there was a difference of opinion or a
conflict of interest, and that was brute force. It never occurred to
them to educate, to inform, and to reason. It was easier to shoot than
to reason; it was quicker to stab than to argue; cheaper to kill than
to educate. A grave costs less than a schoolhouse; bullets were cheaper
than books; and one knife could stab more than forty schools could
convert.

They could not bear to see the negro free—to see the former slave
trampling on his old chains, holding a ballot in his hand. They could
not endure the sight of a negro in office. It was gall and wormwood
to think of a slave occupying a seat in Congress; to think of a negro
giving his ideas about the political questions of the day. And so these
white Democrats made up their minds that by a reign of terrorism they
would drive the negro from the polls, drive him from all official
positions, and put him back in reality in the old condition. To
accomplish this they commenced a system of murder, of assassination,
of robbery, theft, and plunder, never before equaled in extent and
atrocity. All this was in its height when in 1868 the Democracy asked
the control of this Government.

Is there a man here who in his heart regrets that the Democrats failed
in 1868? Do you wish that the masked murderers who rode in the darkness
of night to the hut of the freedman and shot him down like a wild beast,
regardless of the prayers and tears of wife and children, were now
holding positions of honor and trust in this Government? Are you sorry
that these assassins were defeated in 1868?

In 1872 the Democratic party, bent upon victory, greedy for office, with
itching palms and empty pockets, threw away all principle—if Democratic
doctrines can be called principles—and nominated a life-long enemy
of their party for President. No one doubted or doubts the loyalty
and integrity of Horace Greeley. But all knew that if elected he would
belong to the party electing him; that he would have to use Democrats as
his agents, and all knew, or at least feared, that the agents would own
and use the principal. All believed that in the malicious clutch of
the Democratic party Horace Greeley would be not a President, but a
prisoner—not a ruler, but a victim. Against that grand man I have
nothing to say. I simply congratulate him upon his escape from being
used as a false key by the Democratic party.

During all these years the Democratic party prophesied the destruction
of the Government, the destruction of the Constitution, and the
banishment of liberty from American soil.

In 1864 that party declared that after four years of failure to restore
the Union by the experiment of war, there should be a cessation of
hostilities. They then declared "that the Constitution had been violated
in every part, and that public liberty and private rights had been
trodden down."

And yet the Constitution remained and still remains; public liberty
still exists, and private rights are still respected.

In 1868, growing more desperate, and being still filled with the spirit
of prophecy, this same party in its platform said: "Under the repeated
assaults of the Republican party, the pillars of the Government are
rocking on their base, and should it succeed in November next, and
inaugurate its President, we will meet as a subjected and conquered
people, amid the ruins of liberty and the scattered fragments of the
Constitution."

The Republican party did succeed in November, 1868, and did inaugurate
its President, and we did not meet as a subjected and conquered
people amid the ruins of liberty and the scattered fragments of
the Constitution. We met as a victorious people, amid the proudest
achievements of liberty, protected by a Constitution spotless and
stainless—pure as the Alpine snow thrice sifted by the northern blast.

You must not forget the condition of the Government when it came into
the hands of the Republican party. Its treasury was empty, its means
squandered, its navy dispersed, its army unreliable, the offices filled
with rebels and rebel spies; the Democratic party of the North rubbing
its hands in a kind of hellish glee and shouting, "I told you so."

When the Republican party came into power in 1861, it found the Southern
States in arms; it came into power when human beings were chained hand
to hand and driven like cattle to market; when white men were engaged
in the ennobling business of raising dogs to pursue and catch men and
women; when the bay of the bloodhound was considered as the music of the
Union. It came into power when, from thousands of pulpits, slavery was
declared to be a divine institution. It took the reins of Government
when education was an offence, when mercy, humanity and justice were
political crimes.

The Republican party came into power when the Constitution of the United
States upheld the crime of crimes, a Constitution that gave the lie
direct to the Declaration of Independence, and, as I said before, when
the Southern States were in arms.

To the fulfillment of its great destiny it gave all its energies. To the
almost superhuman task, it gave its every thought and power. For four
long and terrible years, with vast armies in the field against it; beset
by false friends; in constant peril; betrayed again and again; stabbed
by the Democratic party, in the name of the Constitution; reviled and
slandered beyond conception; attacked in every conceivable manner—the
Republican party never faltered for an instant. Its courage increased
with the difficulties to be overcome. Hopeful in defeat, confident
in disaster, merciful in victory; sustained by high aims and noble
aspirations, it marched forward, through storms of shot and shell—on to
the last fortification of treason and rebellion—forward to the shining
goal of victory, lasting and universal.

During these savage and glorious years, the Democratic party of the
North, as a party, assisted the South. Democrats formed secret societies
to burn cities—to release rebel prisoners. They shot down officers who
were enforcing the draft; they declared the war unconstitutional;
they left nothing undone to injure the credit of the Government; they
persuaded soldiers to desert; they went into partnership with rebels
for the purpose of spreading contagious diseases through the North. They
were the friends and allies of persons who regarded yellow fever and
smallpox as weapons of civilized warfare. In spite of all this, the
Republicans succeeded.

The Democrats declared slavery to be a divine institution; The
Republican party abolished it. The Constitution of the United States was
changed from a sword that stabbed the rights of four million people to a
shield for every human being beneath our flag.

The Democrats of New York burned orphan asylums and inaugurated a reign
of terror in order to co-operate with the raid of John Morgan. Remember,
my friends, that all this was done when the fate of our country trembled
in the balance of war; that all this was done when the great heart of
the North was filled with agony and courage; when the question was,
"Shall Liberty or Slavery triumph?"

No words have ever passed the human lips strong enough to curse the
Northern allies of the South.

The United States wanted money. It wanted money to buy muskets and
cannon and shot and shell, it wanted money to pay soldiers, to buy
horses, wagons, ambulances, clothing and food. Like an individual, it
had to borrow this money; and, like an honest individual, it must pay
this money. Clothed with sovereignty, it had, or at least exercised, the
power to make its notes a legal tender. This quality of being a legal
tender was the only respect in which these notes differ from those
signed by an individual. As a matter of fact, every note issued was
a forced loan from the people, a forced loan from the soldiers in the
field—in short, a forced loan from every person that took a single
dollar. Upon every one of these notes is printed a promise. The belief
that this promise will be made good gives every particle of value to
each note that it has. Although each note, by law, is a legal tender,
yet if the Government declared that it never would redeem these
notes, the people would not take them if revolution could hurl such a
Government from power. So that the belief that these notes will finally
be paid, added to the fact that in the meantime they are a legal tender,
gives them all the value they have. And, although all are substantially
satisfied that they will be paid, none know at what time. This
uncertainty as to the time, as to when, affects the value of these
notes.

They must be paid, unless a promise can be delayed so long as to amount
to a fulfillment. They must be paid. The question is, "How?" The answer
is, "By the industry and prosperity of the people." They cannot be paid
by law. Law made them; labor must pay them; and they must be paid out
of the profits of the people. We must pay the debt with eggs, not with
goose. In a terrible war we spent thousands of millions; all the bullets
thrown; all the powder burned; all the property destroyed, of every
sort, kind, and character; all the time of the people engaged—all these
things were a dead loss. The debt represents the loss. Paying the debt
is simply repairing the loss. When we, as a people, shall have made
a net amount, equal to the amount thrown, as it were, away in war,
or somewhere near that amount, we will resume specie payment; we will
redeem our promises. We promised on paper, we shall pay in gold and
silver. We asked the people to hold this paper until we got the money,
and they are holding the paper and we are getting the money.

As soon as the slaves were free, the Republican party said, "They must
be citizens, not vagrants." The Democratic party opposed this just, this
generous measure. The freedmen were made citizens. The Republican party
then said, "These citizens must vote; they must have the ballot, to keep
what the bullet has won." The Democratic party said "No." The negroes
received the ballot. The Republican party then said, "These voters must
be educated, so that the ballot shall be the weapon of intelligence, not
of ignorance." The Democratic party objected. But schools were founded,
and books were put in the hands of the colored people, instead of whips
upon their backs. We said to the Southern people, "The colored men are
citizens; their rights must be respected; they are voters, they must
be allowed to vote; they were and are our friends, and we are their
protectors."

All this was accomplished by the Republican party.

It changed the organic law of the land, so that it is now a proper
foundation for a free government; it struck the cruel shackles from four
million human beings; it put down the most gigantic rebellion in the
history of the world; it expunged from the statute books of every
State, and of the Nation, all the cruel and savage laws that Slavery
had enacted; it took whips from the backs, and chains from the limbs, of
men; it dispensed with bloodhounds as the instruments of civilization;
it banished to the memory of barbarism the slave-pen, the auction block,
and the whipping-post; it purified a Nation; it elevated the human race.

All this was opposed by the Democratic party; opposed with a bitterness,
compared to which ordinary malice is sweet. I say the Democratic party,
because I consider those who fought against the Government, in the
fields of the South, and those who opposed in the North, as
Democrats—one and all. The Democratic party has been, during all these
years, the enemy of civilization, the hater of liberty, the despiser of
justice.

When I say the Democratic party sympathized with the Rebellion, I mean
a majority of that party. I know there are in the Democratic party,
soldiers who fought for the Union. I do not know why they are there, but
I have nothing to say against them. I will never utter a word against
any man who bared his breast to a storm of shot and shell, for the
preservation of the Republic. When I use the term Democratic party, I do
not mean those soldiers.

There are others in the Democratic party who are there just because
their fathers were Democrats. They do not mean any particular harm.
Others are there because they could not amount to anything in the
Republican party. A man only fit for a corporal in the Republican ranks,
will make a leader in the Democratic party. By the Democratic party,
I mean that party that sided with the South—that believed in
secession—that loved slavery—that hated liberty—that denounced
Lincoln as a tyrant—that burned orphan asylums—that gloried in our
disasters—that denounced every effort to save the nation—they are the
gentlemen I mean, and they constitute a large majority of the Democratic
party.

The Democrats hate the negro to-day, with a hatred begotten of a
well-grounded fear that the colored people are rapidly becoming their
superiors in industry, intellect and character.

The colored people have suffered enough. They were and are our friends.
They are the friends of this country, and cost what it may they must
be protected. The white loyal man must be protected. They have been
ostracized, slandered, mobbed, and murdered. Their very blood cries from
the ground.

These two things—payment of the debt and protection of loyal citizens,
are the things to be done. Which party can be trusted?

Which will be the more apt to pay the debt?

Which will be the more apt to protect the colored and white loyalist at
the South?

Who is Samuel J. Tilden?

Samuel J. Tilden is an attorney. He never gave birth to an elevated,
noble sentiment in his life. He is a kind of legal spider, watching in
a web of technicalities for victims. He is a compound of cunning and
heartlessness—of beak and claw and fang. He is one of the few men who
can grab a railroad and hide the deep cuts, tunnels and culverts in a
single night. He is a corporation wrecker. He is a demurrer filed by the
Confederate congress. He waits on the shores of bankruptcy to clutch the
drowning by the throat. He was never married. The Democratic party
has satisfied the longings of his heart. He has looked upon love as
weakness. He has courted men because women cannot vote. He has contented
himself by adopting a rag-baby, that really belongs to Mr. Hendricks,
and his principal business at present is explaining how he came to adopt
this child.

Samuel J. Tilden has been for years without number a New York Democrat.

New York has been, and still is, the worst governed city in the world.
Political influence is bought and sold like stocks and bonds. Nearly
every contract is larceny in disguise—nearly every appointment is a
reward for crime, and every election is a fraud. Among such men Samuel
J. Tilden has lived; with such men he has acted; by such men he has been
educated; such men have been his scholars, and such men are his friends.
These men resisted the draft, but Samuel J. Tilden remained their
friend. They burned orphan asylums, but Tilden's friendship never
cooled. They inaugurated riot and murder, but Tilden wavered not. They
stole a hundred millions, and when no more was left to steal—when the
people could not even pay the interest on the amount stolen—then these
Democrats, clapping their hands over their bursting pockets, began
shouting for reform. Mr. Tilden has been a reformer for years,
especially of railroads. The vital issue with him has been the issue
of bogus stock. Although a life-long Democrat, he has been an
amalgamationist—of corporations. While amassing millions, he has
occasionally turned his attention to national affairs. He left his
private affairs (and his reputation depends upon these affairs being
kept private) long enough to assist the Democracy to declare the war for
the restoration of the Union a failure; long enough to denounce Lincoln
as a tyrant and usurper. He was generally too busy to denounce the
political murders and assassinations in the South—too busy to say a
word in favor of justice and liberty; but he found time to declare the
war for the preservation of the country an outrage. He managed to spare
time enough to revile the Proclamation of Emancipation—time enough to
shed a few tears over the corpse of slavery; time enough to oppose
the enfranchisement of the colored man; time enough to raise his voice
against the injustice of putting a loyal negro on a political level with
a pardoned rebel; time enough to oppose every forward movement of the
nation.

No man should ever be elected President of this country who raised his
hand to dismember and destroy it. No man should be elected President who
sympathized with those who were endeavoring to destroy it. No man should
be elected President of this great nation who, when it was in deadly
peril, did not endeavor to save it by act and word. No man should
be elected President who does not believe that every negro should be
free—that the colored people should be allowed to vote. No man
should be placed at the head of the nation—in command of the army
and navy—who does not believe that the Constitution, with all its
amendments, should be sacredly enforced. No man should be elected
President of this nation who believes in the Democratic doctrine of
"States Rights;" who believes that this Government is only a federation
of States. No man should be elected President of our great country
who aided and abetted her enemies in war—who advised or countenanced
resistance to a draft in time of war, who by slander impaired her
credit, sneered at her heroes, and laughed at her martyrs. Samuel J.
Tilden is the possessor of nearly every disqualification mentioned.

Mr. Tilden is the author of an essay on finance, commonly called a
letter of acceptance, in which his ideas upon the great subject are
given in the plainest and most direct manner imaginable. All through
this letter or essay there runs a vein of honest bluntness really
refreshing. As a specimen of bluntness and clearness, take the following
extracts:

How shall the Government make these notes at all times as good as
specie? It has to provide in reference to the mass which would be kept
in use by the wants of business a central reservoir of coin, adequate
to the adjustment of the temporary fluctuations of the international
balance, and as a guaranty against transient drains, artificially
created by panic or by speculation. It has also to provide for the
payment in coin of such fractional currency as may be presented
for redemption, and such inconsiderable portion of legal tenders as
individuals may from time to time desire to convert for special use, or
in order to lay by in coin their little store of money. To make the
coin now in the treasury available for the objects of this reserve, to
gradually strengthen and enlarge that reserve, and to provide for such
other exceptional demands for coin as may arise, does not seem to me a
work of difficulty. If wisely planned and discreetly pursued, it ought
not to cost any sacrifice to the business of the country. It should
tend, on the contrary, to the revival of hope and confidence.

In other words, the way to pay the debt is to get the money, and the
way to get the money is to provide a central reservoir of coin to adjust
fluctuations. As to the resumption he gives us this:

The proper time for the resumption is the time when wise preparation
shall have ripened into perfect ability to accomplish the object with
a certainty and ease that will inspire confidence and encourage the
reviving of business.

The earliest time in which such a result can be brought about is best.
Even when preparations shall have been matured, the exact date would
have to be chosen with reference to the then existing state of trade and
credit operations in our own country, and the course of foreign commerce
and condition of exchanges with other nations. The specific measure and
actual date are matters of details, having reference to ever-changing
conditions. They belong to the domain of practical, administrative
statesmanship. The captain of a steamer, about starting from New York to
Liverpool, does not assemble a council over his ocean craft, and fix
an angle by which to lash the rudder for the whole voyage. A human
intelligence must be at the helm to discern the shifting forces of water
and winds. A human mind must be at the helm to feel the elements day by
day, and guide to a mastery over them. Such preparations are everything.
Without them a legislative command fixing a day—an official promise
fixing a day, are shams. They are worse. They are a snare and a delusion
to all who trust them. They destroy all confidence among thoughtful men
whose judgment will at last sway public opinion. An attempt to act on
such a command, or such a promise without preparation, would end in a
new suspension. It would be a fresh calamity, prolific of confusion,
distrust, and distress.

That is to say, Congress has not sufficient intelligence to fix the
date of resumption. They cannot fix the proper time. But a Democratic
convention has human intelligence enough to know that the first day of
January, 1879, is not the proper date. That convention knew what the
state of trade and credit in our country and the course of foreign
commerce and the condition of exchanges with other nations would be on
the first day of January, 1879. Of course they did, or else they
never would have had the impudence to declare that resumption would be
impossible at that date.

The next extract is more luminous still:

The Government of the United States, in my opinion, can advance to a
resumption of specie payments on its legal tender notes by gradual and
safe processes tending to relieve the present business distress. If
charged by the people with the administration of the executive office, I
should deem it a duty so to exercise the powers with which it has or may
be invested by Congress, as the best and soonest to conduct the country
to that beneficent result.

Why did not this great statesman tell us of some "gradual and safe
process"? He promises, if elected, to so administer the Government that
it will soon reach a beneficent result. How is this to be done? What is
his plan? Will he rely on "a human intelligence at the helm," or on "the
central reservoir," or on some "gradual and safe process"?

I defy any man to read this letter and tell me what Mr. Tilden really
proposes to do. There is nothing definite said. He uses such general
terms, such vague and misty expressions, such unmeaning platitudes, that
the real idea, if he had one, is lost in fog and mist.

Suppose I should, in the most solemn and impressive manner, tell
you that the fluctuations caused in the vital stability of shifting
financial operations, not to say speculations of the wildest character,
cannot be rendered instantly accountable to a true financial theory
based upon the great law that the superfluous is not a necessity, except
in vague thoughts of persons unacquainted with the exigencies of the
hour, and cannot, in the absence of a central reservoir of coin with
a human intelligence at the head, hasten by any system of convertible
bonds the expectation of public distrust, no matter how wisely planned
and discreetly pursued, failure is assured whatever the real result may
be.

Must we wage this war for the right forever? Is there no time when the
soldiers of progress can rest? Will the bugles of the great army of
civilization never sound even a halt? It does seem as though there
can be no stop, no rest. It is in the world of mind as in the physical
world. Every plant of value has to be cultivated. The land must be
plowed, the seeds must be planted and watered. It must be guarded every
moment. Its enemies crawl in the earth and fly in the air. The sun
scorches it, the rain drowns it, the dew rusts it. He who wins it must
fight. But the weeds they grow in spite of all. Nobody plows for them
except accident. The winds sow the seeds, chance covers them, and they
flourish and multiply. The sun cannot burn them—they laugh at rain and
frost—they care not for birds and beasts. In spite of all they grow. It
is the same in politics. A true Republican must continue to grow, must
work, must think, must advance. The Republican party is the party of
progress, of ideas, of work. To make a Republican you must have schools,
books, papers. To make a Democrat, take all these away. Republicans are
the useful; Democrats the noxious—corn and wheat against the dog fennel
and Canada thistles.

Republicans of Maine, do not forget that each of you has two votes in
this election—one in Maine and one in Indiana.

Remember that we are relying on you. There is no stronger tie between
the prairies of Illinois and the pines of Maine—between the Western
States and New England, than James G. Blaine.

We are relying on Maine for from twelve to fifteen thousand on the
12th of September, and Indiana will answer with from fifteen to twenty
thousand, and hearing these two votes the Nation in November will
declare for Hayes and Wheeler.*

> * This being a newspaper report, and never revised by the
> author, is of necessity incomplete, but the publisher feels
> that it should not be lost
---
# Brooklyn Speech
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1880_
> * The Rev. Henry Ward Beecher and Colonel Robert G.
> Ingersoll spoke from the same platform last night, and the
> great preacher introduced the great orator and free-thinker
> to the grandest political audience that was ever assembled
> in Brooklyn. The reverend gentleman presided over the
> Republican mass meeting held in the Academy of Music. When
> he introduced Ingersoll he did it with a warmth and
> earnestness of compliment that brought the six thousand
> lookers-on to their feet to applaud. When the expounder of
> the Gospel of Christ took the famous atheist by the hand,
> and shook it fervently, saying that while he respected and
> honored him for the honesty of his convictions and his
> splendid labors for patriotism and the country, the
> enthusiasm knew no bounds, and the great building trembled
> and vibrated with the storm of applause. With such a scene
> to harmonize the multitude at the outstart it is not strange
> that the meeting continued to the end such a one as has no
> parallel even in these days of feverish political excitement
> and turmoil. The orator spoke in his best vein and his
> audience was responsive to the wonderful magical spell of
> his eloquence. And when his last glowing utterance had lost
> its echo in the wild storm of applause that rewarded him at
> the close, Mr. Beecher again stepped forward and, as if to
> emphasize the earnestness of his previous compliments,
> proposed a vote of thanks to the distinguished speaker. The
> vote was a roar of affirmation, whose voice was not stronger
> when Mr. Ingersoll in turn called upon the audience to give
> three cheers for the great preacher. They were given, and
> repeated three times over. Men waved their ats and
> umbrellas, ladies, of whom there were many hundreds present,
> waved their handkerchiefs, and men, strangers to each other,
> shook hands with the fervency of brotherhood. It was indeed
> a strange scene, and the principal actors in it seemed not
> less than the most wildly excited man there to appreciate
> its peculiar import and significance. Standing at the front
> of the stage, underneath a canopy of nags, at either side
> great baskets of flowers, they clasped each other's hands,
> and stood thus for several minutes, while the excited
> thousands cheered themselves hoarse and applauded wildly.

> As Mr. Beecher began to speak, however, the applause that
> broke out was deafening.

> In substance Mr. Beecher spoke as follows:—"I am not
> accustomed to preside at meetings like this; only the
> exigency of the times could induce me to do It. I am not
> here either to make a speech, but more especially to
> introduce the eminent orator of the evening. * * * I stand
> not as a minister, but as a man among men, pleading the
> cause of fellowship and equal rights. We are not here as
> mechanics, as artists, merchants, or professional men, but
> as fellow-citizens. The gentleman who will speak to-night is
> in no Conventicle or Church. He is to speak to a great body
> of citizens, and I take the liberty of saying that I respect
> him as the man that for a full score and more of years has
> worked for the right in the great, broad field of humanity,
> and for the cause of human rights. I consider it an honor to
> extend to him, as I do now, the warm, earnest, right hand of
> fellowship." (As Mr. Beecher said this he turned to Mr.
> Ingersoll and extended his hand. The palms of the two men
> met with a clasp that was heard all over the house, and was
> the signal for tumultuous cheering and applause, which
> continued for several minutes.)

> "I now introduce to you," continued Mr. Beecher, leading Mr.
> Ingersoll forward, "a man who—and I say it not
> flatteringly—is the most brilliant speaker of the English
> tongue of all men on this globe. But as under the brilliancy
> of the blaze or light we find the living coals of fire,
> under the lambent flow of his wit and magnificent antithesis
> we find the glorious flame of genius and honest thought.
> Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Ingersoll."—New York Herald,
> October 81st, 1880.

(Garfield Campaign.)

1880.

LADIES and Gentlemen: Years ago I made up my mind that there was no
particular argument in slander. I made up my mind that for parties, as
well as for individuals, honesty in the long-run is the best policy.
I made up my mind that the people were entitled to know a man's honest
thoughts, and I propose to-night to tell you exactly what I think. And
it may be well enough, in the first place, for me to say that no party
has a mortgage on me. I am the sole proprietor of myself. No party, no
organization, has any deed of trust on what little brains I have, and as
long as I can get my part of the common air I am going to tell my honest
thoughts. One man in the right will finally get to be a majority. I am
not going to say a word to-night that every Democrat here will not know
is true, and, whatever he may say, I will compel him in his heart to
give three cheers.

In the first place, I wish to admit that during the war there were
hundreds of thousands of patriotic Democrats. I wish to admit that if it
had not been for the War Democrats of the North, we never would have put
down the Rebellion. Let us be honest. I further admit that had it
not been for other than War Democrats there never would have been a
rebellion to put down. War Democrats!

Why did we call them War Democrats? Did you ever hear anybody talk about
a War Republican? We spoke of War Democrats to distinguish them from
those Democrats who were in favor of peace upon any terms.

I also wish to admit that the Republican party is not absolutely
perfect. While I believe that it is the best party that ever existed,
while I believe it has, within its organization, more heart, more brain,
more patriotism than any other organization that ever existed beneath
the sun, I still admit that it is not entirely perfect. I admit, in its
great things, in its splendid efforts to preserve this nation, in its
grand effort to keep our flag in heaven, in its magnificent effort to
free four millions of slaves, in its great and sublime effort to save
the financial honor of this Nation, I admit that it has made some
mistakes. In its great effort to do right it has sometimes by mistake
done wrong. And I also wish to admit that the great Democratic party,
in its effort to get office has sometimes by mistake done right. You see
that I am inclined to be perfectly fair.

I am going with the Republican party because it is going my way; but if
it ever turns to the right or left, I intend to go straight ahead.

In every government there is something that ought to be preserved, in
every government there are many things that ought to be destroyed.
Every good man, every patriot, every lover of the human race, wishes to
preserve the good and destroy the bad; and every one in this audience
who wishes to preserve the good will go with that section of our common
country—with that party in our country that he honestly believes will
preserve the good and destroy the bad. It takes a great deal of trouble
to raise a good Republican. It is a vast deal of labor. The Republican
party is the fruit of all ages—of self-sacrifice and devotion. The
Republican party is born of every good thing that was ever done in
this world. The Republican party is the result of all martyrdom, of
all heroic blood shed for the right. It is the blossom and fruit of the
great world's best endeavor. In order to make a Republican you have to
have schoolhouses. You have to have newspapers and magazines. A good
Republican is the best fruit of civilization, of all there is of
intelligence, of art, of music and of song. If you want to make
Democrats, let them alone. The Democratic party is the settlings of
this country. Nobody hoes weeds. Nobody takes especial pains to raise
dog-fennel, and yet it grows under the very hoof of travel, The seeds
are sown by accident and gathered by chance. But if you want to raise
wheat and corn you must plough the ground. You must defend and you must
harvest the crop with infinite patience and toil. It is precisely that
way—if you want to raise a good Republican you must work. If you wish
to raise a Democrat give him wholesome neglect. The Democratic party
flatters the vices of mankind. That party says to the ignorant man, "You
know enough." It says to the vicious man, "You are good enough."

The Republican party says, "You must be better next year than you are
this." A Republican takes a man by the collar and says, "You must do
your best, you must climb the infinite hill of human progress as long as
you live." Now and then one gets tired. He says, "I have climbed enough
and so much better than I expected to do that I do not wish to travel
any farther." Now and then one gets tired and lets go all hold, and he
rolls down to the very bottom, and as he strikes the mud he springs upon
his feet transfigured, and says: "Hurrah for Hancock!"

There are things in this Government that I wish to preserve, and there
are things that I wish to destroy; and in order to convince you that you
ought to go the way that I am going: it is only fair that I give to
you my reasons. This is a Republic founded upon intelligence and
the patriotism of the people, and in every Republic it is absolutely
necessary that there should be free speech. Free speech is the gem of
the human soul. Words are the bodies of thought, and liberty gives to
those words wings, and the whole intellectual heavens are filled with
light. In a Republic every individual tongue has a right to the general
ear. In a Republic every man has the right to give his reasons for the
course he pursues to all his fellow-citizens, and when you say that a
man shall not speak, you also say that others shall not hear. When
you say a man shall not express his honest thought you say his
fellow-citizens shall be deprived of honest thoughts; for of what use
is it to allow the attorney for the defendant to address the jury if the
jury has been bought? Of what use is it to allow the jury to bring in a
verdict of "not guilty," if the defendant is to be hung by a mob? I ask
you to-night, is not every solitary man here in favor of free speech? Is
there a solitary Democrat here who dares say he is not in favor of free
speech? In which part of this country are the lips of thought free—in
the South or in the North? Which section of our country can you trust
the inestimable gem of free speech with? Can you trust it to the
gentlemen of Mississippi or to the gentlemen of Massachusetts? Can you
trust it to Alabama or to New York? Can you trust it to the South or
can you trust it to the great and splendid North? Honor bright—honor
bright, is there any freedom of speech in the South? There never was and
there is none to-night—and let me tell you why.

They had the institution of human slavery in the South, which could
not be defended at the bar of public reason. It was an institution that
could not be defended in the high forum of human conscience. No man
could stand there and defend the right to rob the cradle—none to defend
the right to sell the babe from the breast of the agonized mother—none
to defend the claim that lashes on a bare back are a legal tender for
labor performed. Every man that lived upon the unpaid labor of another
knew in his heart that he was a thief. And for that reason he did not
wish to discuss that question. Thereupon the institution of slavery
said, "You shall not speak; you shall not reason," and the lips of free
thought were manacled. You know it. Every one of you. Every Democrat
knows it as well as every Republican. There never was free speech in the
South.

And what has been the result? And allow me to admit right here, because
I want to be fair, there are thousands and thousands of most excellent
people in the South—thousands of them. There are hundreds and hundreds
of thousands there who would like to vote the Republican ticket. And
whenever there is free speech there and whenever there is a free ballot
there, they will vote the Republican ticket. I say again, there are
hundreds of thousands of good people in the South; but the institution
of human slavery prevented free speech, and it is a splendid fact in
nature that you cannot put chains upon the limbs of others without
putting corresponding manacles upon your own brain. When the South
enslaved the negro, it also enslaved itself, and the result was an
intellectual desert. No book has been produced, with one exception, that
has added to the knowledge of mankind; no paper, no magazine, no poet,
no philosopher, no philanthropist, was ever raised in that desert. Now
and then some one protested against that infamous institution, and
he came as near being a philosopher as the society in which he lived
permitted. Why is it that New England, a rock-clad land, blossoms like a
rose? Why is it that New York is the Empire State of the great Union?
I will tell you. Because you have been permitted to trade in ideas.
Because the lips of speech have been absolutely free for twenty years.

We never had free speech in any State in this Union until the Republican
party was born. That party was rocked in the cradle of intellectual
liberty, and that is the reason I say it is the best party that ever
existed in the wide, wide world. I want to preserve free speech, and, as
an honest man, I look about me and I say, "How can I best preserve
it?" By giving it to the South or North; to the Democracy or to the
Republican party? And I am bound, as an honest man, to say free speech
is safest with its earliest defenders. Where is there such a thing as
a Republican mob to prevent the expression of an honest thought? Where?
The people of the South are allowed to come to the North; they are
allowed to express their sentiments upon every stump in the great East,
the great West, and in the great Middle States; they go to Maine, to
Vermont, and to all our States, and they are allowed to speak, and we
give them a respectful hearing, and the meanest thing we do is to answer
their arguments.

I say to-night that we ought to have the same liberty to discuss these
questions in the South that Southerners have in the North. And I say
more than that, the Democrats of the North ought to compel the Democrats
of the South to treat the Republicans of the South as well as the
Republicans of the North treat them. We treat the Democrats well in the
North; we treat them like gentlemen in the North; and yet they go into
partnership with the Democracy of the South, knowing that the Democracy
of the South will not treat Republicans in that section with fairness. A
Democrat ought to be ashamed of that.

If my friends will not treat other people as well as the friends of the
other people treat me, I'll swap friends.

First, then, I am in favor of free speech, and I am going with that
section of my country that believes in free speech; I am going with
that party that has always upheld that sacred right. When you stop
free speech, when you say that a thought shall die in the womb of the
brain,—why, it would have the same effect upon the intellectual world
that to stop springs at their sources would have upon the physical
world. Stop the springs at their sources and they cease to gurgle,
the streams cease to murmur, and the great rivers cease rushing to the
embrace of the sea. So you stop thought. Stop thought in the brain in
which it is born, and theory dies; and the great ocean of knowledge to
which all should be permitted to contribute, and from which all should
be allowed to draw, becomes a vast desert of ignorance.

I have always said, and I say again, that the more liberty there is
given away, the more you have. I endeavor to be consistent in my life
and action. I am a believer in intellectual liberty, and wherever the
torch of knowledge burns the whole horizon is filled with a glorious
halo. I am a free man. I would be less than a man if I did not wish
to hand this flame to my child with the flame increased rather than
diminished.

Whom will we trust to take care of free speech? Let us consider and be
honest with one another. The gem of the brain is the innocence of the
soul.

I am not only in favor of free speech, but I am also in favor of an
absolutely honest ballot. There is only one emperor in this country;
there is one czar; only one supreme crown and king, and that is the
will, the legally expressed will of the majority. Every American citizen
is a sovereign. The poorest and humblest may wear that crown, the beggar
holds in his hand that sceptre equally with the proudest and richest,
and so far as his sovereignty is concerned, the poorest American, he
who earns but one dollar a day, has the same voice in controlling the
destiny of the United States as the millionaire. The man who casts an
illegal vote, the man who refuses to count a legal vote, poisons the
fountain of power, poisons the springs of justice, and is a traitor
to the only king in this land. The Government is upon the edge of
Mexicanization through fraudulent voting. The ballot-box is the throne
of America; the ballot-box is the ark of the covenant. Unless we see to
it that every man who has a right to vote, votes, and unless we see
to it that every honest vote is counted, the days of this Republic are
numbered.

When you suspect that a Congressman is not elected; when you suspect
that a judge upon the bench holds his place by fraud, then the people
will hold the law in contempt and will laugh at the decisions of courts,
and then come revolution and chaos.

It is the duty of every good man to see to it that the ballot-box is
kept absolutely pure. It is the duty of every patriot, whether he is
a Democrat or Republican—and I want further to admit that I believe
a large majority of Democrats are honest in their opinions, and I know
that all Republicans _must_ be honest in their opinions. It is the duty,
then, of all honest men of both parties to see to it that only honest
votes are cast and counted. Now, honor bright, which section of this
Union can you trust the ballot-box with?

Do you wish to trust Louisiana, or do you wish to trust Alabama that
gave, in 1872, thirty-four thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight
Republican majority and now gives ninety-two thousand Democratic
majority? And of that ninety-two thousand majority, every one is a lie!
A contemptible, infamous lie! Because if every voter had been allowed
to vote, there would have been forty thousand Republican majority.
Honor bright, can you trust it with the masked murderers who rode in
the darkness of night to the hut of the freedman and shot him down,
notwithstanding the supplication of his wife and the tears of his babe?
Can you trust it to the men who since the close of our war have killed
more men, simply because those men wished to vote, simply because they
wished to exercise a right with which they had been clothed by the
sublime heroism of the North—who have killed more men than were killed
on both sides in the Revolutionary war; than were killed on both sides
during the War of 1812; than were killed on both sides in both wars?
Can you trust them? Can you trust the gentlemen who invented the
tissue ballot? Do you wish to put the ballot-box in the keeping of the
shot-gun, of the White-Liners, of the Ku Klux? Do you wish to put the
ballot-box in the keeping of men who openly swear that they will not be
ruled by a majority of American citizens if a portion of that majority
is made of black men? And I want to tell you right here, I like a black
man who loves this country better than I do a white man who hates it. I
think more of a black man who fought for our flag than for any white man
who endeavored to tear it out of heaven!

I say, can you trust the ballot-box to the Democratic party? Read the
history of the State of New York. Read the history of this great and
magnificent city—the Queen of the Atlantic—read her history and tell
us whether you can implicitly trust Democratic returns? Honor bright!

I am not only, then, for free speech, but I am for an honest ballot;
and in order that you may have no doubt left upon your minds as to which
party is in favor of an honest vote, I will call your attention to this
striking fact. Every law that has been passed in every State of this
Union for twenty long years, the object of which was to guard the
American ballot-box, has been passed by the Republican party, and in
every State where the Republican party has introduced such a bill for
the purpose of making it a law; in every State where such a bill has
been defeated, it has been defeated by the Democratic party. That ought
to satisfy any reasonable man to satiety.

I am not only in favor of free speech and an honest ballot, but I am in
favor of collecting and disbursing the revenues of the United States. I
want plenty of money to collect and pay the interest on our debt. I want
plenty of money to pay our debt and to preserve the financial honor of
the United States. I want money enough to be collected to pay pensions
to widows and orphans and to wounded soldiers. And the question is,
which section in this country can you trust to collect and disburse that
revenue? Let us be honest about it. Which section can you trust? In the
last four years we have collected four hundred and sixty-eight million
dollars of the internal revenue taxes. We have collected principally
from taxes upon high wines and tobacco, four hundred and sixty-eight
million dollars, and in those four years we have seized, libeled and
destroyed in the Southern States three thousand eight hundred and
seventy-four illicit distilleries. And during the same time the Southern
people have shot to death twenty-five revenue officers and wounded
fifty-five others, and the only offence that the wounded and dead
committed was an honest effort to collect the revenues of this country.
Recollect it—don't you forget it. And in several Southern States
to-day every revenue collector or officer connected with the revenue is
furnished by the Internal Revenue Department with a breech-loading
rifle and a pair of revolvers, simply for the purpose of collecting the
revenue.

I don't feel like trusting such people to collect the revenue of my
Government.

During the same four years we have arrested and have indicted seven
thousand and eighty-four Southern Democrats for endeavoring to defraud
the revenue of the United States. Recollect—three thousand eight
hundred and seventy-four distilleries seized. Twenty-five revenue
officers killed, fifty-five wounded, and seven thousand and eighty-four
Democrats arrested. Can we trust them?

The State of Alabama in its last Democratic convention passed a
resolution that no man should be tried in a Federal Court for a
violation of the revenue laws—that he should be tried in a State Court.
Think of it—he should be tried in a State Court! Let me tell you how it
will come out if we trust the Southern States to collect this revenue. A
couple of Methodist ministers had been holding a revival for a week, and
at the end of the week one said to the other that he thought it time to
take up a collection. When the hat was returned he found in it pieces of
slate-pencils and nails and buttons, but not a single solitary cent—not
one—and his brother minister got up and looked at the contribution, and
said, "Let us thank God!" And the owner of the hat said, "What for?" And
the brother replied, "Because you got your hat back." If we trust the
South we shan't get our hats back.

I am next in favor of honest money. I am in favor of gold and silver,
and paper with gold and silver behind it. I believe in silver, because
it is one of the greatest of American products, and I am in favor of
anything that will add to the value of an American product. But I want
a silver dollar worth a gold dollar, even if you make it or have to make
it four feet in diameter. No government can afford to be a clipper of
coin. A great Republic cannot afford to stamp a lie upon silver or gold.
Honest money, an honest people, an honest Nation. When our money is only
worth eighty cents on the dollar, we feel twenty per cent, below par.
When our money is good we feel good. When our money is at par, that is
where we are. I am a profound believer in the doctrine that for nations
as well as men, honesty is the best policy, always, everywhere, and
forever.

What section of this country, what party, will give us honest
money—honor bright—honor bright? I have been told that during the war,
we had plenty of money. I never saw it. I lived years without seeing a
dollar. I saw promises for dollars, but not dollars. And the greenback,
unless you have the gold behind it, is no more a dollar than a bill
of fare is a dinner. You cannot make a paper dollar without taking a
dollar's worth of paper. We must have paper that represents money. I
want it issued by the Government, and I want behind every one of these
dollars either a gold or silver dollar, so that every greenback under
the flag can lift up its hand and swear, "I know that my redeemer
liveth."

When we were running into debt, thousands of people mistook that for
prosperity, and when we began paying they regarded it as adversity. Of
course we had plenty when we bought on credit. No man has ever starved
when his credit was good, if there were no famine in that country. As
long as we buy on credit we shall have enough. The trouble commences
when the pay-day arrives. And I do not wonder that after the war
thousands of people said, "Let us have another inflation." Which party
said, "No, we must pay the promise made in war"? Honor bright! The
Democratic party had once been a hard money party, but it drifted from
its metallic moorings and floated off in the ocean of inflation, and you
know it. They said, "Give us more money;" and every man that had bought
on credit and owed a little something on what he had purchased, when the
property went down commenced crying, or many of them did, for inflation.
I understand it.

A man, say, bought a piece of land for six thousand dollars; paid five
thousand dollars on it; gave a mortgage for one thousand dollars, and
suddenly, in 1873, found that the land would not pay the other thousand.
The land had resumed, and then he said, looking lugubriously at his note
and mortgage, "I want another inflation." And I never heard a man call
for it that did not also say, "If it ever comes, and I don't unload, you
may shoot me."

It was very much as it is sometimes in playing poker, and I make this
comparison knowing that hardly a person here will understand it. I have
been told that along toward morning the man that is ahead suddenly
says, "I have got to go home. The fact is, my wife is not well." And the
fellow who is behind says, "Let us have another deal; I have my opinion
of the fellow that will jump a game." And so it was in the hard times
of 1873. They said: "Give us another deal; let us get our driftwood back
into the centre of the stream." And they cried out for more money.
But the Republican party said: "We do want more money, but not more
promises. We have got to pay this first, and if we start out again
upon that wide sea of promise we may never touch the shore." A thousand
theories were born of want; a thousand theories were born of the fertile
brain of trouble; and these people said, "After all, what is money? Why,
it is nothing but a measure of value, just the same as a half bushel or
yardstick." True; and consequently it makes no difference whether your
half bushel is of wood or gold or silver or paper; and it makes no
difference whether your yardstick is gold or paper. But the trouble
about that statement is this: A half bushel is not a measure of value;
it is a measure of quantity, and it measures rubies, diamonds and pearls
precisely the same as corn and wheat. The yardstick is not a measure of
value; it is a measure of length, and it measures lace worth one hundred
dollars a yard precisely as it does cent tape. And another reason why it
makes no difference to the purchaser whether the half bushel is gold or
silver, or whether the yardstick is gold or paper, you do not buy the
yardstick; you do not get the half bushel in the trade. And if it were
so with money—if the people that had the money at the start of the
trade, kept it after the consummation of the bargain—then it would not
make any difference what you made your money of. But the trouble is the
money changes hands. And let me say to-night, money is a thing—it is a
product of nature—and you can no more make a "fiat" dollar than you
can make a fiat star. I am in favor of honest money. Free speech is the
brain of the Republic; an honest ballot is the breath of its life, and
honest money is the blood that courses through its veins.

If I am fortunate enough to leave a dollar when I die, I want it to be
a good one. I do not wish to have it turn to ashes in the hands of
widowhood, or become a Democratic broken promise in the pocket of the
orphan; I want it money. I want money that will outlive the Democratic
party. They told us—and they were honest about it—they said, "When
we have plenty of money, we are prosperous." And I said, "When we are
prosperous, we have plenty of money." When we are prosperous, then we
have credit, and credit inflates the currency. Whenever a man buys a
pound of sugar and says, "Charge it," he inflates the currency; whenever
he gives his note, he inflates the currency; whenever his word takes the
place of money, he inflates the currency. The consequence is that when
we are prosperous, credit takes the place of money, and we have what we
call "plenty."

But you cannot increase prosperity simply by using promises to pay.
Suppose you should come to a river that was about dry, so dry that the
turtle had to help the catfish over the shoals, and there you would see
the ferryboat, and the gentleman who kept the ferry, up on the sand,
high and dry, and the cracks all opening in the sun, filled with
loose oakum, looking like an average Democratic mouth listening to a
constitutional argument, and you should say to him, "How is business?"
And he would say, "Dull." And then you would say to him, "Now, what you
want is more boat." He would probably answer, "If I had a little more
water I could get along with this one."

Suppose I next came to a man running a railroad, complaining of hard
times. "Why," said he, "I did a million dollars' worth of business the
first year and used five hundred thousand dollars' worth of grease. The
second year I did five hundred thousand dollars' worth of business and
used four hundred thousand dollars' worth of grease." "Well," said
I, "the reason your road fell off was because you did not use enough
grease."

But I want to be fair, and I wish to-night to return my thanks to the
Democratic party. You did a great and splendid work. You went all over
the United States and you said upon every stump that a greenback was
better than gold. You said, "We have at last found the money of the poor
man. Gold loves the rich; gold haunts banks and safes and vaults; but we
have money that will go around inquiring for a man that is dead broke.
We have finally found money that will stay in a pocket with holes in
it." But, after all, do you know that money is the most social thing
in this world? If a fellow has one dollar in his pocket, and he meets
another with two, do you know that dollar is absolutely homesick until
it gets where the other two are? And yet the Greenbackers told us that
they had finally invented money that would be the poor mans friend. They
said, "It is better than gold, better than silver," and they got so many
men to believe it that when we resumed and said, "Here is your gold for
your greenback," the fellows who had the greenback said, "We don't want
it. The greenbacks are good enough for us." Do you know, if they had
wanted it we could not have given it to them? And so I return my thanks
to the Greenback party. But allow me to say in this connection, the days
of their usefulness have passed forever.

Now, I am not foolish enough to claim that the Republican party resumed.
I am not silly enough to say that John Sherman resumed. But I will tell
you what I do say. I say that every man who raised a bushel of corn or a
bushel of wheat or a pound of beef or pork for sale helped to resume. I
say that the gentle rain and the loving dew helped to resume. The soil
of the United States impregnated by the loving sun helped to resume. The
men that dug the coal and the iron and the silver and the copper and the
gold helped to resume. And the men upon whose foreheads fell the light
of furnaces helped to resume. And the sailors who fought with the waves
of the seas helped to resume.

I admit to-night that the Democrats earned their share of the money
to resume with. All I claim is that the Republican party furnished the
honesty to pay it over. That is what I claim; and the Republican party
set the day, and the Republican party worked to the promise. That is
what I say. And had it not been for the Republican party this Nation
would have been financially dishonored. I am for honest money, and I am
for the payment of every dollar of our debt, and so is every Democrat
now, I take it. But what did you say a little while ago? Did you say we
could resume? No; you swore we could not, and you swore our bonds would
be worthless as the withered leaves of winter. And now when a Democrat
goes to England and sees an American four per cent, quoted at one
hundred and ten he kind of swells up, and says: "That's the kind of man
I am." In that country he pretends he was a Republican in this. And I do
not blame him. I do not begrudge him enjoying respectability when away
from home. The Republican party is entitled to the credit for keeping
this Nation grandly and splendidly honest. I say, the Republican party
is entitled to the credit of preserving the honor of this Nation.

In 1873 came the crash, and all the languages of the world cannot
describe the agonies suffered by the American people from 1873 to 1879.
A man who thought he was a millionaire came to poverty; he found
his stocks and bonds ashes in the paralytic hand of old age. Men who
expected to live all their lives in the sunshine of joy found themselves
beggars and paupers. The great factories were closed, the workmen were
demoralized, and the roads of the United States were filled with tramps.
In the hovel of the poor and the palace of the rich came the serpent
of temptation and whispered in the American ear the terrible word
"Repudiation." But the Republican party said, "No; we will pay every
dollar. No; we have started toward the shining goal of resumption and we
never will turn back." And the Republican party struggled until it had
the happiness of seeing upon the broad shining forehead of American
labor the words "Financial Honor."

The Republican party struggled until every paper promise was as good
as gold. And the moment we got back to gold then we commenced to rise
again. We could not jump until our feet touched something that they
could be pressed against. And from that moment to this we have been
going, going, going higher and higher, more prosperous every hour. And
now they say, "Let us have a change." When I am sick I want a change;
when I am poor I want a change; and if I were a Democrat I would have a
personal change. We are prosperous to-day, and must keep so. We are back
to gold and silver. Let us stay there; and let us stay with the party
that brought us there.

Now, I am not only in favor of free speech and an honest ballot-box and
an honest collection of the revenue of the United States, and an honest
money, but I am in favor of the idea, of the great and splendid
truth, that this is a Nation one and indivisible. I deny that we are a
confederacy bound together with ropes of cloud and chains of mist. This
is a Nation, and every man in it owes his first allegiance to the grand
old flag for which more brave blood was shed than for any other flag
that waves in the sight of heaven. There is another thing; we all want
to live in a land where the law is supreme. We desire to live beneath a
flag that will protect every citizen beneath its folds. We desire to be
citizens of a Government so great and so grand that it will command
the respect of the civilized world. Most of us are convinced that our
Government is the best upon this earth. It is the only Government
where manhood, and manhood alone, is not made simply a condition of
citizenship, but where manhood, and manhood alone, permits its possessor
to have his equal share in control of the Government. It is the only
Government in the world where poverty is upon an exact equality with
wealth, so far as controlling the destiny of the Republic is concerned.
It is the only Nation where the man clothed in rags stands upon an
equality with the one wearing purple. It is the only country in the
world where, politically, the hut is upon an equality with the palace.

For that reason every poor man should stand by this Government, and
every poor man who does not is a traitor to the best interests of his
children; every poor man who does not is willing his children should
bear the badge of political inferiority; and the only way to make this
Government a complete and perfect success is for the poorest man to
think as much of his manhood as the millionaire does of his wealth. A
man does not vote in this country simply because he is rich; he does
not vote in this country simply because he has an education; he does
not vote simply because he has talent or genius; we say that he votes
because he is a man, and that he has his manhood to support; and we
admit in this country that nothing can be more valuable to any human
being than his manhood, and for that reason we put poverty on an
equality with wealth. We say in this country manhood is worth more than
gold. We say in this country that without Liberty the Nation is not
worth preserving. Now, I appeal to-day to every poor man; I appeal
to-day to every laboring man, and I ask him, is there another country on
this globe where you can have equal rights with others? There is another
thing; do you want a Government of law or of brute force? In which part
of this country do you find law supreme? In which part of this country
can a man find justice in the courts; in the North or in the South?
Where is crime punished? Where is innocence protected, in the North or
in the South? Which section of this country will you trust?

You can tell what a man is by the way he treats persons in his power,
and the man that will sneak and crawl in the presence of greatness, will
trample the weak when he gets them in his power. What class of people
does the State have in its power? Criminals and creditors; and you
can judge of a State by the way it treats its criminals and creditors.
Georgia is the best State in the South. They have a penitentiary system
by which they hire out their convict labor. Only two years ago the whole
thing was examined by a friend of mine, Col. Allston. He had been in the
rebel army and was my good friend. He used to come to my house day after
day to see me. He got converted and had the grit to say so. Being
a member of the Legislature, he had a committee of investigation
appointed. Now, in order that you may understand the difference, you
must know that in the Northern penitentiaries the average annual death
rate is one per cent.; that is, of one thousand convicts, ten will
die in a year, on the average. That low death rate is because we are
civilized, because we do not kill; but in the Georgia penitentiary it
was as high as fifteen, twenty-seven and forty-seven per cent., at a
time when there was no typhoid or yellow fever, or epidemic of any kind.
They died for four months at a rate of ten per cent, per month. They
crowded the convicts in together, regardless of sex. They treated them
precisely as wild beasts, and many of them were shot down. Persons high
in authority, Senators of the United States, held interests in those
contracts, and Robert Allston denounced them. When on a visit he said,
"I believe when I get home I shall be killed." I told him not to go
back to Georgia, but to stay in the civilized North; but no, he would go
back, and on the very day of his arrival he was murdered in cold blood.
Do you want to trust such men? * * *

The Southern people say this is a Confederacy and they are honest in it.
They fought for it, they believed it. They believe in the doctrine of
State Sovereignty, and many Democrats of the North believe in the same
doctrine. No less a man than Horatio Seymour—standing it may be at the
head of Democratic statesmen—said, if he has been correctly reported,
only the other day, that he despised the word "Nation." I bless that
word. I owe my first allegiance to this Nation, and it owes its first
protection to me. I am talking here to-night, not because I am protected
by the flag of New York. I would not know that flag if I should see it.
I am talking here, and have the right to talk here, because the flag of
my country is above us. I have the same right as though I had been born
upon this very platform. I am proud of New York because it is a part of
my country. I am proud of my country because it has such a State as
New York in it, and I will be prouder of New York on a week from next
Tuesday than ever before in my life. I despise the doctrine of State
Sovereignty. I believe in the rights of the States, but not in the
sovereignty of the States. States are political conveniences. Rising
above States, as the Alps above valleys, are the rights of man. Rising
above the rights of the Government, even in this Nation, are the sublime
rights of the people. Governments are good only so long as they protect
human rights. But the rights of a man never should be sacrificed upon
the altar of the State, or upon the altar of the Nation.

Let me tell you a few objections that I have to State Sovereignty. That
doctrine has never been appealed to for any good. The first time it was
appealed to was when our Constitution was made. And the object then was
to keep the slave-trade open until the year 1808. The object then was
to make the sea the highway of piracy—the object then was to allow
American citizens to go into the business of selling men and women and
children, and feed their cargo to the sharks of the sea, and the sharks
of the sea were as merciful as they. That was the first time that the
appeal to the doctrine of State Sovereignty was made, and the next time
was for the purpose of keeping alive the interstate slave-trade, so that
a gentleman in Virginia could sell the slave who had nursed him, and rob
the cradles of their babes. Think of it! It was made so they could rob
the cradle in the name of law. Think of it! Think of it! And the next
time they appealed to the doctrine of State Sovereignty was in favor of
the Fugitive Slave Law—a law that made a bloodhound of every Northern
man; that made charity a crime; a law that made love a state-prison
offence; that branded the forehead of charity as if it were a felon.
Think of it!

It is a part of my honor to hate such principles. I have no respect
for any man who is so mean, cruel and wicked, as to allow himself to be
transformed into a bloodhound to bay upon the tracks of innocent human
prey. I will follow my logic, no matter where it goes, after it has
consulted with my heart. If you ever come to a conclusion without
calling the heart in, you will come to a bad conclusion.

A good man is pretty apt to be right; a perfectly honest man is like the
surface of the stainless mirror, that gives back by simply looking at
him, the image of the one who looks.

The next time they appealed to the doctrine of State Sovereignty was to
increase the area of human slavery, so that the bloodhound, with clots
of blood dropping from his loose and hanging jaws, might traverse the
billowy plains of Kansas. Think of it!

The Democratic party then said the Federal Government had a right to
cross the State line. And the next time they appealed to that infamous
doctrine was in defence of secession and treason; a doctrine that cost
us six thousand millions of dollars; a doctrine that cost four hundred
thousand lives; a doctrine that filled our country with widows, our
homes with orphans. And I tell you, the doctrine of State Sovereignty
is the viper in the bosom of this Republic, and if we do not kill that
viper it will kill us.

The Democrats tell us that in the olden time the Federal Government had
a right to cross a State line to put shackles upon the limbs of men. It
had the right to cross a State line to trample upon the rights of human
beings, but now it has no right to cross those lines upon an errand
of mercy or justice. We are told that now, when the Federal Government
wishes to protect a citizen, a State line rises like a Chinese wall,
and the sword of Federal power turns to air the moment it touches one of
those lines. I deny it and I despise, abhor and execrate the doctrine of
State Sovereignty. The Democrats tell us if we wish to be protected by
the Federal Government we must leave home. I wish they would try it for
about ten days. They say the Federal Government can defend a citizen
in England, France, Spain or Germany, but cannot defend a child of the
Republic sitting around the family hearth. I deny it. A Government that
cannot protect its citizens at home is unfit to be called a Government.
I want a Government with an ear so good that it can hear the faintest
cry of the oppressed wherever its flag floats. I want a Government with
an arm long enough and a sword sharp enough to cut down treason wherever
it may raise its serpent head. I want a Government that will protect
a freedman, standing by his little log hut, with the same alacrity and
with the same efficiency that it would protect Vanderbilt, living in a
palace of marble and gold. Humanity is a sacred thing, and manhood is a
thing to be preserved. Let us look at it. For instance, here is a war,
and the Federal Government says to a man, "We want you," and he says,
"No, I don't want to go," and then they put a lot of pieces of paper in
a wheel and on one of those pieces is his name, and another man turns
the crank, and then they pull it out and there is his name, and
they say, "Come," and so he goes. And they stand him in front of the
brazen-throated guns; they make him fight for his native land, and when
the war is over he goes home and he finds the war has been unpopular
in his neighborhood, and they trample on his rights, and he says to the
Federal Government, "Protect me." And he says to the Government, "I owe
my allegiance to you. You must protect me." What will you say of
that Government if it says to him, "You must look to your State for
protection"? "Ah, but," he says, "my State is the very power trampling
upon me," and, of course, the robber is not going to send for the
police, It is the duty of the Government to defend even its drafted
men; and if that is the duty of the Government, what shall I say of the
volunteer, who for one moment holds his wife in a tremulous and agonized
embrace, kisses his children, shoulders his musket, goes to the field
and says, "Here I am, ready to die for my native land"? A Nation that
will not defend its volunteer defenders is a disgrace to the map of this
world. This is a Nation. Free speech is the brain of the Republic; an
honest ballot is the breath of its life; honest money is the blood of
its veins; and the idea of nationality is its great, beating, throbbing
heart. I am for a Nation. And yet the Democrats tell me that it is
dangerous to have centralized power. How would you have it? I believe in
the localization of power; I believe in having enough of it localized in
one place to be effectively used; I believe in a localization of brain.
I suppose Democrats would like to have it spread all over your body, and
they act as though theirs was.

There is another thing in which I believe: I believe in the protection
of American labor. The hand that holds Aladdin's lamp must be the hand
of toil. This Nation rests upon the shoulders of its workers, and I want
the American laboring man to have enough to wear; I want him to have
enough to eat:

I want him to have something for the ordinary misfortunes of life; I
want him to have the pleasure of seeing his wife well-dressed; I want
him to see a few blue ribbons fluttering about his children; I want him
to see the flags of health flying in their beautiful cheeks; I want him
to feel that this is his country, and the shield of protection is above
his labor.

And I will tell you why I am for protection, too. If we were all farmers
we would be stupid. If we were all shoemakers we would be stupid. If
we all followed one business, no matter what it was, we would become
stupid. Protection to American labor diversifies American industry,
and to have it diversified touches and develops every part of the human
brain. Protection protects ingenuity; it protects intelligence; and
protection raises sense; and by protection we have greater men, better
looking women and healthier children. Free trade means that our laborer
is upon an equality with the poorest paid labor of this world. And allow
me to tell you that for an empty stomach, "Hurrah for Hancock!" is a
poor consolation. I do not think much of a Government where the people
do not have enough to eat. I am a materialist to that extent; I want
something to eat. I have been in countries where the laboring man had
meat once a year; sometimes twice—Christmas and Easter. And I have seen
women carrying upon their heads a burden that no man in this audience
could carry, and at the same time knitting busily with both hands,
and those women lived without meat; and when I thought of the American
laborer, I said to myself, "After all, my country is the best in the
world." And when I came back to the sea and saw the old flag flying, it
seemed to me as though the air from pure joy had burst into blossom.

Labor has more to eat and more to wear in the United States than in
any other land of this earth. I want America to produce everything that
Americans need. I want it so that if the whole world should declare war
against us, if we were surrounded by walls of cannon and bayonets and
swords, we could supply all our material wants in and of ourselves. I
want to live to see the American woman dressed in American silk; the
American man in everything, from hat to boots, produced in America by
the cunning hand of American toil. I want to see the workingman have
a good house, painted white, grass in the front yard, carpets on the
floor, pictures on the wall. I want to see him a man, feeling that he is
a king by the divine right of living in the Republic. And every man here
is just a little bit a king, you know. Every man here is a part of the
sovereign power. Every man wears a little of purple; every man has a
little of crown and a little of sceptre; and every man that will sell
his vote for money or be ruled by prejudice is unfit to be an American
citizen.

I believe in American labor, and I will tell you why. The other day a
man told me that we had produced in the United States of America one
million tons of steel rails. How much are they worth? Sixty dollars a
ton. In other words, the million tons are worth sixty million dollars.
How much is a ton of iron worth in the ground? Twenty-five cents.
American labor takes twenty-five cents worth of iron in the ground and
adds to it fifty-nine dollars and seventy-five cents. One million tons
of rails, and the raw material not worth twenty-four thousand dollars!
We build a ship in the United States worth five hundred thousand
dollars, and the value of the ore in the earth, of the trees in the
great forest, of all that enters into the composition of that ship
bringing five hundred thousand dollars in gold is only twenty thousand
dollars; four hundred and eighty thousand dollars by American labor,
American muscle, coined into gold; American brains made a legal tender
the world round.

I propose to stand by the Nation. I want the furnaces kept hot. I want
the sky to be filled with the smoke of American industry, and upon that
cloud of smoke will rest forever the bow of perpetual promise. That is
what I am for. Where did this doctrine of a tariff for revenue only come
from? From the South. The South would like to stab the prosperity of the
North. They would rather trade with Old England than with New England.
They would rather trade with the people who were willing to help them in
war than with those who conquered the Rebellion. They knew what gave us
our strength in war. They knew that all the brooks and creeks and rivers
of New England were putting down the Rebellion. They knew that every
wheel that turned, every spindle that revolved, was a soldier in the
army of human progress. It won't do! They were so lured by the greed of
office that they were willing to trade upon the misfortunes of a Nation.
It won't do! I do not wish to belong to a party that succeeds only when
my country fails. I do not wish to belong to a party whose banner went
up with the banner of rebellion. I do not wish to belong to a party that
was in partnership with defeat and disaster. I do not. And there is not
a Democrat here who does not know that a failure of the crops this year
would have helped his party. You know that an early frost would have
been a godsend to them. You know that the potato-bug could have done
them more good than all their speakers.

I wish to belong to that party which is prosperous when the country is
prosperous. I belong to that party which is not poor when the golden
billows are running over the seas of wheat. I belong to that party which
is prosperous when there are oceans of corn, and when the cattle are
upon the thousand hills. I belong to that party which is prosperous when
the furnaces are aflame, and when you dig coal and iron and silver; when
everybody has enough to eat; when everybody is happy; when the children
are all going to school, and when joy covers my Nation as with a
garment. That party which is prosperous then, is my party.

Now, then, I have been telling you what I am for. I am for free speech,
and so ought you to be. I am for an honest ballot, and if you are not
you ought to be. I am for the collection of the revenue. I am for honest
money. I am for the idea that this is a Nation forever. I believe in
protecting American labor. I want the shield of my country above every
anvil, above every furnace, above every cunning head and above every
deft hand of American labor.

Now, then, which section of this country will be the more apt to carry
these ideas into execution? Which party will be the more apt to achieve
these grand and splendid things? Honor bright? Now we have not only
to choose between sections of the country; we have to choose between
parties. Here is the Democratic party, and I admit there are thousands
of good Democrats who went to the war, and some of those that stayed at
home were good men; and I want to ask you, and I want you to tell me
in reply what that party did during the war when the War Democrats were
away from home. What did they do? That is the question. I say to you,
that every man who tried to tear our flag out of heaven was a Democrat.
The men who wrote the ordinances of secession, who fired upon Fort
Sumter; the men who starved our soldiers, who fed them with the crumbs
that the worms had devoured before, they were Democrats. The keepers
of Libby, the keepers of Andersonville, were Democrats—Libby and
Andersonville, the two mighty wings that will bear the memory of the
Confederacy to eternal infamy! The men who wished to scatter yellow
fever in the North and who tried to fire the great cities of the
North—they were all Democrats. He who said that the greenback would
never be paid and he who slandered sixty cents out of every dollar of
the Nation's promises were Democrats. Who were joyful when your brothers
and your sons and your fathers lay dead on a field of battle that the
country had lost? They were Democrats. The men who wept when the old
banner floated in triumph above the ramparts of rebellion—they were
Democrats. You know it. The men who wept when slavery was destroyed, who
believed slavery to be a divine institution, who regarded bloodhounds as
apostles and missionaries, and who wept at the funeral of that infernal
institution—they were Democrats. Bad company—bad company!

And let me implore all the young men here not to join that party. Do not
give new blood to that institution. The Democratic party has a yellow
passport. On one side it says "dangerous." They imagine they have not
changed, and that is because they have not intellectual growth. That
party was once the enemy of my country, was once the enemy of our flag,
and more than that, it was once the enemy of human liberty, and that
party to-night is not willing that the citizens of the Republic should
exercise all their rights irrespective of their color. And allow me to
say right here that I am opposed to that party.

We have not only to choose between parties, but to choose between
candidates. The Democracy have put forward as the bearers of their
standard General Hancock and William H. English. The Democrats have at
last nominated a Union soldier. They nominated George B. McClellan once,
because he failed to whip the South; they nominated Mr. Greeley, when
they despised him, and now they have nominated General Hancock. Do they
think the South loves him? At Gettysburg they say he fought against
them, and that is one great reason why he should be President—that he
shot rebels. Do the men that fought at Gettysburg still believe in
State Sovereignty? Wade Hampton says, "We must vote as Lee and Jackson
fought." They fought for State Sovereignty. Has the South changed?
Hancock went to kill them then; they want to vote for him now. Who
has changed? [A voice: "Hancock."] I think so. They are using him as a
figure-head. They have dressed him in the noble blue, with the patriotic
coat and Union buttons, and they do not like him any better than they
did at Gettysburg. It would be just as consistent for the Republicans
to have nominated Wade Hampton. Did General Hancock believe in State
Sovereignty when he was at Gettysburg? If he did, he was a murderer, and
not a Union soldier—he was killing men he believed to be in the right,
and a man cannot fight unless his conscience approves of what his sword
does, and if he was honest at that time, he did not believe in State
Sovereignty, and it seems to me he would hate to have the men who tried
to destroy this Government cheering him. All the glory he ever got was
in the service of the Republican party, and if he does not look out
he will lose it all in the service of the Democratic party. He had
a conversation with General Grant. It was a time when he had
been appointed at the head of the Department of the Gulf. In that
conversation he stated to General Grant that he was opposed to "nigger
domination." Grant said to him, "We must obey the laws of Congress.
We are soldiers." And that meant, the military is not above the civil
authority. And I tell you to-night, that the army and the navy are the
right and left hands of the civil power. Grant said to him: "Three or
four million ex-slaves, without property and without education, cannot
dominate over thirty or forty millions of white people, with education
and property." General Hancock replied to that: "I am opposed to 'nigger
domination.'" Allow me to say that I do not believe any man fit for
the presidency of the great Republic, who is capable of insulting a
down-trodden race. I never meet a negro that I do not feel like asking
his forgiveness for the wrongs that my race has inflicted on his. I
remember that from the white man he received for two hundred years agony
and tears; I remember that my race sold a child from the agonized breast
of a mother; I remember that my race trampled with the feet of greed
upon all the holy relations of life; and I do not feel like insulting
the colored man; I feel rather like asking the forgiveness of his race
for the crimes that my race have put upon him. "Nigger domination!" What
a fine scabbard that makes for the sword of Gettysburg! It won't do!

What is General Hancock for, besides the presidency? How does he stand
upon the great questions affecting American prosperity? He told us the
other day that the tariff is a local question. The tariff affects every
man and woman, live they in hut, hovel or palace; it affects every man
that has a back to be covered or a stomach to be filled, and yet he says
it is a local question. So is death. He also told us that he heard
that question discussed once, in Pennsylvania. He must have been
eavesdropping. And he tells us that his doctrine of the tariff will
continue as long as Nature lasts. Then Senator Randolph wrote him a
letter. I do not know whether Senator Randolph answered it or not; but
that answer was worse than the first interview; and I understand
now that another letter is going through a period of incubation at
Governor's Island, upon the great subject of the tariff. It won't do!

They say one thing they are sure of, he is opposed to paying Southern
pensions and Southern claims. He says that a man that fought against
this Government has no right to a pension. Good! I say a man that fought
against this Government has no right to office. If a man cannot earn
a pension by tearing our flag out of the sky, he cannot earn power. [A
Voice—"How about Longstreet?"] Longstreet has repented of what he did.
Longstreet admits that he was wrong. And there was no braver officer in
the Southern Confederacy. Every man of the South who will say, "I made a
mistake"—I do not want him to say that he knew he was wrong—all I
ask him to say is that he now thinks he was wrong; and every man of the
South to-day who says he was wrong, and who says from this day forward,
henceforth and forever, he is for this being a Nation.

I will take him by the hand. But while he is attempting to do at the
ballot-box what he failed to accomplish upon the field of battle, I am
against him; while he uses a Northern general to bait a Southern trap,
I won't bite. I will forgive men when they deserve to be forgiven; but
while they insist that they were right, while they insist that State
Sovereignty is the proper doctrine, I am opposed to their climbing into
power.

Hancock says that he will not pay these claims; he agrees to veto a
bill that his party may pass; he agrees in advance that he will defeat
a party that he expects will elect him; he, in effect, says to the
people, "You can not trust that party, but you can trust me." He says,
"Look at them; I admit they are a hungry lot; I admit that they haven't
had a bite in twenty years; I admit that an ordinary famine is satiety
compared to the hunger they feel. But between that vast appetite known
as the Democratic party, and the public treasury, I will throw the
shield of my veto." No man has a right to say in advance what he will
veto, any more than a judge has a right to say in advance how he
will decide a case. The veto power is a distinction with which the
Constitution has clothed the Executive, and no President has a right to
say that he will veto until he has heard both sides of the question. But
he agrees in advance.

I would rather trust a party than a man. Death may veto Hancock, and
Death has not been a successful politician in the United States.
Tyler, Fillmore, Andy Johnson—I do not wish Death to elect any more
Presidents; and if he does, and if Hancock is elected, William H.
English becomes President of the United States. No, no, no! All I need
to say about him is simply to pronounce his name; that is all. You do
not want him. Whether the many stories that have been told about him are
true or not I do not know, and I will not give currency to a solitary
word against the reputation of an American citizen unless I know it to
be true. What I have against him is what he has done in public life.
When Charles Sumner, that great and splendid publicist—Charles Sumner,
the philanthropist, one who spoke to the conscience of his time and to
the history of the future—when he stood up in the United States Senate
and made a great and glorious plea for human liberty, there crept into
the Senate a villain and struck him down as though he had been a wild
beast. That man was a member of Congress, and when a resolution was
introduced in the House, to expel that man, William H. English voted
"No." All the stories in the world could not add to the infamy of that
public act. That is enough for me, and whatever his private life may be,
let it be that of an angel, never, never, never would I vote for a man
that would defend the assassin of free speech. General Hancock, they
tell me, is a statesman; that what little time he has had to spare from
war he has given to the tariff, and what little time he could spare
from the tariff he has given to the Constitution of his country;
showing under what circumstances a Major-General can put at defiance the
Congress of the United States. It won't do!

But while I am upon that subject it may be well for me to state that he
never will be President of the United States. Now, I say that a man who
in time of peace prefers peace, and prefers the avocations of peace; a
man who in the time of peace would rather look at the corn in the air of
June, rather listen to the hum of bees, rather sit by his door with his
wife and children; the man who in time of peace loves peace, and yet
when the blast of war blows in his ears, shoulders a musket and goes to
the field of war to defend his country, and when the war is over goes
home and again pursues the avocations of peace—that man is just as
good, to say the least of it, as a man who in a time of profound peace
makes up his mind that he would like to make his living killing other
folks. To say the least of it, he is as good.

The Republicans have named as their standard bearers James A. Garfield
and Chester A. Arthur. James A. Garfield was a volunteer soldier, and
he took away from the field of Chickamauga as much glory as any one
man could carry. He is not only a soldier—7-he is a statesman. He has
studied and discussed all the great questions that affect the prosperity
and well-being of the American people. His opinions are well known, and
I say to you tonight that there is not in this Nation, there is not in
this Republic a man with greater brain and greater heart than James A.
Garfield. I know him and I like him. I know him as well as any other
public man, and I like him. The Democratic party say that he is not
honest. I have been reading some Democratic papers to-day, and you would
say that every one of their editors had a private sewer of his own into
which has been emptied for a hundred years the slops of hell. They tell
me that James A. Garfield is not honest. Are you a Democrat? Your
party tried to steal nearly half of this country. Your party stole the
armament of a nation. Your party was willing to live upon the unpaid
labor of four millions of people. You have no right to the floor for the
purpose of making a motion of honesty. James A. Garfield has been at the
head of the most important committees of Congress; he is a member of the
most important one of the whole House. He has no peer in the Congress of
the United States. And you know it. He is the leader of the House.
With one wave of his hand he can take millions from the pocket of one
industry and put it into the pocket of another; with a motion of his
hand he could have made himself a man of wealth, but he is to-night a
poor man. I know him and I like him. He is as genial as May and he is as
generous as Autumn. And the men for whom he has done unnumbered favors,
the men whom he had pity enough not to destroy with an argument, the men
who, with his great generosity, he has allowed, intellectually, to live,
are now throwing filth at the reputation of that great and splendid man.

Several ladies and gentlemen were passing a muddy place around which
were gathered ragged and wretched urchins. And these little wretches
began to throw mud at them; and one gentleman said, "If you don't stop
I will throw it back at you." And a little fellow said, "You can't do it
without dirtying your hands, and it doesn't hurt us anyway."

I never was more profoundly happy than on the night of that 12th day
of October when I found that between an honest and a kingly man and his
maligners, two great States had thrown their shining shields. When Ohio
said, "Garfield is my greatest son, and there never has been raised in
the cabins of Ohio a grander man"—and when Indiana held up her hands
and said, "Allow me to indorse that verdict," I was profoundly happy,
because that said to me, "Garfield will carry every Northern State;"
that said to me, "The Solid South will be confronted by a great and
splendid North."

I know Garfield—I like him. Some people have said, "How is it that you
support Garfield, when he was a minister?" "How is it that you support
Garfield when he is a Christian?" I will tell you. There are two
reasons. The first is I am not a bigot; and secondly, James A. Garfield
is not a bigot. He believes in giving to every other human being every
right he claims for himself. He believes in freedom of speech and
freedom of thought; untrammeled conscience and upright manhood. He
believes in an absolute divorce between church and state. He believes
that every religion should rest upon its morality, upon its reason,
upon its persuasion, upon its goodness, upon its charity, and that love
should never appeal to the sword of civil power. He disagrees with me in
many things; but in the one thing, that the air is free for all, we do
agree. I want to do equal and exact justice everywhere.

I want the world of thought to be without a chain, without a wall, and I
wish to say to you, [turning toward Mr. Beecher and directly addressing
him] that I thank you for what you have said to-night, and to
congratulate the people of this city and country that you have
intellectual horizon enough, intellectual sky enough to take the hand
of a man, howsoever much he may disagree in some things with you, on the
grand platform and broad principle of citizenship. James A. Garfield,
believing with me as he does, disagreeing with me as he does, is
perfectly satisfactory to me. I know him, and I like him.

Men are to-day blackening his reputation, who are not fit to blacken
his shoes. He is a man of brain. Since his nomination he must have made
forty or fifty speeches, and every one has been full of manhood and
genius. He has not said a word that has not strengthened him with the
American people. He is the first candidate who has been free to express
himself and who has never made a mistake. I will tell you why he does
not make a mistake; because he spoke from the inside out. Because he was
guided by the glittering Northern Star of principle. Lie after lie has
been told about him. Slander after slander has been hatched and put in
the air, with its little short wings, to fly its day, and the last lie
is a forgery.

I saw to-day the fac-simile of a letter that they pretend he wrote upon
the Chinese question. I know his writing; I know his signature; I am
well acquainted with his writing. I know handwriting, and I tell you
to-night, that letter and that signature are forgeries. A forgery
for the benefit of the Pacific States; a forgery for the purpose of
convincing the American workingman that Garfield is without heart. I
tell you, my fellow-citizens, that cannot take from him a vote. But Ohio
pierced their centre and Indiana rolled up both flanks and the rebel
line cannot re-form with a forgery for a standard. They are gone!

Now, some people say to me, "How long are you going to preach the
doctrine of hate?" I never did preach it. In many States of this Union
it is a crime to be a Republican. I am going to preach my doctrine until
every American citizen is permitted to express his opinion and vote
as he may desire in every State of this Union. I am going to preach my
doctrine until this is a civilized country. That is all.

I will treat the gentlemen of the South precisely as we do the gentlemen
of the North. I want to treat every section of the country precisely as
we do ours-. I want to improve their rivers and their harbors; I want
to fill their land with commerce; I want them to prosper; I want them to
build schoolhouses; I want them to open the lands to immigration to all
people who desire to settle upon their soil. I want to be friends with
them; I want to let the past be buried forever; I want to let bygones
be bygones, but only upon the basis that we are now in favor of absolute
liberty and eternal justice. I am not willing to bury nationality or
free speech in the grave for the purpose of being friends. Let us
stand by our colors; let the old Republican party that has made this a
Nation—the old Republican party that has saved the financial honor of
this country—let that party stand by its colors.

Let that party say, "Free speech forever!" Let that party say, "An
honest ballot forever!" Let that party say, "Honest money forever! the
Nation and the flag forever!" And let that party stand by the great men
carrying her banner, James A. Garfield and Chester A. Arthur. I
would rather trust a party than a man. If General Garfield dies, the
Republican party lives; if General Garfield dies, General Arthur will
take his place—a brave, honest, and intelligent gentleman, upon whom
every Republican can rely. And if he dies, the Republican party lives,
and as long as the Republican party does not die, the great Republic
will live. As long as the Republican party lives, this will be the
asylum of the world. Let me tell you, Mr. Irishman, this is the only
country on the earth where Irishmen have had enough to eat. Let me tell
you, Mr. German, that you have more liberty here than you had in the
Fatherland. Let me tell you, all men, that this is the land of humanity.

Oh! I love the old Republic, bounded by the seas, walled by the wide
air, domed by heaven's blue, and lit with the eternal stars. I love the
Republic; I love it because I love liberty. Liberty is my religion, and
at its altar I worship, and will worship.
---
# Centennial Oration
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1876_
> * Delivered on the one hundredth Anniversary of the
> Declaration of Independence, at Peoria, Ill., July 4, 1876.

July 4, 1876.

THE Declaration of Independence is the grandest, the bravest, and
the profoundest political document that was ever signed by the
representatives of a people. It is the embodiment of physical and moral
courage and of political wisdom.

I say of physical courage, because it was a declaration of war against
the most powerful nation then on the globe; a declaration of war by
thirteen weak, unorganized colonies; a declaration of war by a few
people, without military stores, without wealth, without strength,
against the most powerful kingdom on the earth; a declaration of war
made when the British navy, at that day the mistress of every sea, was
hovering along the coast of America, looking after defenceless towns and
villages to ravage and destroy. It was made when thousands of English
soldiers were upon our soil, and when the principal cities of America
were in the substantial possession of the enemy. And so, I say, all
things considered, it was the bravest political document ever signed by
man. And if it was physically brave, the moral courage of the document
is almost infinitely beyond the physical. They had the courage not only,
but they had the almost infinite wisdom, to declare that all men are
created equal.

Such things had occasionally been said by some political enthusiast in
the olden time, but, for the first time in the history of the world,
the representatives of a nation, the representatives of a real, living,
breathing, hoping people, declared that all men are created equal. With
one blow, with one stroke of the pen, they struck down all the cruel,
heartless barriers that aristocracy, that priestcraft, that kingcraft
had raised between man and man. They struck down with one immortal blow
that infamous spirit of caste that makes a god almost a beast, and a
beast almost a god. With one word, with one blow, they wiped away and
utterly destroyed, all that had been done by centuries of war—centuries
of hypocrisy—centuries of injustice.

One hundred years ago our fathers retired the gods from politics.

What more did they do? They then declared that each man has a right to
live. And what does that mean? It means that he has the right to make
his living. It means that he has the right to breathe the air, to work
the land, that he stands the equal of every other human being beneath
the shining stars; entitled to the product of his labor—the labor of
his hand and of his brain.

What more? That every man has the right to pursue his own happiness in
his own way. Grander words than these have never been spoken by man.

And what more did these men say? They laid down the doctrine that
governments were instituted among men for the purpose of preserving the
rights of the people. The old idea was that people existed solely for
the benefit of the state—that is to say, for kings and nobles.

The old idea was that the people were the wards of king and priest—that
their bodies belonged to one and their souls to the other.

And what more? That the people are the source of political power. That
was not only a revelation, but it was a revolution. It changed the ideas
of people with regard to the source of political power. For the first
time it made human beings men. What was the old idea? The old idea was
that no political power came from, or in any manner belonged to, the
people. The old idea was that the political power came from the clouds;
that the political power came in some miraculous way from heaven; that
it came down to kings, and queens, and robbers. That was the old idea.
The nobles lived upon the labor of the people; the people had no rights;
the nobles stole what they had and divided with the kings, and the kings
pretended to divide what they stole with God Almighty. The source, then,
of political power was from above. The people were responsible to the
nobles, the nobles to the king, and the people had no political rights
whatever, no more than the wild beasts of the forest. The kings were
responsible to God; not to the people. The kings were responsible to the
clouds; not to the toiling millions they robbed and plundered.

And our forefathers, in this Declaration of Independence, reversed this
thing, and said: No; the people, they are the source of political power,
and their rulers, these presidents, these kings are but the agents and
servants of the great sublime people. For the first time, really, in the
history of the world, the king was made to get off the throne and the
people were royally seated thereon. The people became the sovereigns,
and the old sovereigns became the servants and the agents of the people.
It is hard for you and me now to even imagine the immense results of
that change. It is hard for you and for me, at this day, to understand
how thoroughly it had been ingrained in the brain of almost every man,
that the king had some wonderful right over him; that in some strange
way the king owned him; that in some miraculous manner he belonged, body
and soul, to somebody who rode on a horse—to somebody with epaulettes
on his shoulders and a tinsel crown upon his brainless head.

Our forefathers had been educated in that idea, and when they first
landed on American shores they believed it. They thought they belonged
to somebody, and that they must be loyal to some thief who could trace
his pedigree back to antiquity's most successful robber.

It took a long time for them to get that idea out of their heads and
hearts. They were three thousand miles away from the despotisms of
the old world, and every wave of the sea was an assistant to them. The
distance helped to disenchant their minds of that infamous belief, and
every mile between them and the pomp and glory of monarchy helped to put
republican ideas and thoughts into their minds. Besides that, when
they came to this country, when the savage was in the forest and three
thousand miles of waves on the other side, menaced by barbarians on
the one hand and famine on the other, they learned that a man who had
courage, a man who had thought, was as good as any other man in the
world, and they built up, as it were, in spite of themselves, little
republics. And the man that had the most nerve and heart was the best
man, whether he had any noble blood in his veins or not.

It has been a favorite idea with me that our forefathers were educated
by Nature, that they grew grand as the continent upon which they landed;
that the great rivers—the wide plains—the splendid lakes—the lonely
forests—the sublime mountains—that all these things stole into and
became a part of their being, and they grew great as the country in
which they lived. They began to hate the narrow, contracted views of
Europe. They were educated by their surroundings, and every little
colony had to be to a certain extent a republic. The kings of the old
world endeavored to parcel out this land to their favorites. But there
were too many Indians. There was too much courage required for them to
take and keep it, and so men had to come here who were dissatisfied with
the old country—who were dissatisfied with England, dissatisfied with
France, with Germany, with Ireland and Holland. The kings' favorites
stayed at home. Men came here for liberty, and on account of certain
principles they entertained and held dearer than life. And they were
willing to work, willing to fell the forests, to fight the savages,
willing to go through all the hardships, perils and dangers of a new
country, of a new land; and the consequence was that our country was
settled by brave and adventurous spirits, by men who had opinions of
their own and were willing to live in the wild forests for the sake of
expressing those opinions, even if they expressed them only to trees,
rocks, and savage men. The best blood of the old world came to the new.

When they first came over they did not have a great deal of political
philosophy, nor the best ideas of liberty. We might as well tell the
truth. When the Puritans first came, they were narrow. They did not
understand what liberty meant—what religious liberty, what political
liberty, was; but they found out in a few years. There was one feeling
among them that rises to their eternal honor like a white shaft to the
clouds—they were in favor of universal education. Wherever they went
they built schoolhouses, introduced books and ideas of literature. They
believed that every man should know how to read and how to write, and
should find out all that his capacity allowed him to comprehend. That is
the glory of the Puritan fathers.

They forgot in a little while what they had suffered, and they forgot
to apply the principle of universal liberty—of toleration. Some of
the colonies did not forget it, and I want to give credit where credit
should be given. The Catholics of Maryland were the first people on the
new continent to declare universal religious toleration. Let this be
remembered to their eternal honor. Let it be remembered to the disgrace
of the Protestant government of England, that it caused this grand law
to be repealed. And to the honor and credit of the Catholics of Maryland
let it be remembered that the moment they got back into power they
re-enacted the old law. The Baptists of Rhode Island also, led by Roger
Williams, were in favor of universal religious liberty.

No American should fail to honor Roger Williams. He was the first grand
advocate of the liberty of the soul. He was in favor of the eternal
divorce of church and state. So far as I know, he was the only man at
that time in this country who was in favor of real religious liberty.
While the Catholics of Maryland declared in favor of religious
_toleration_, they had no idea of religious liberty. They would not
allow anyone to call in question the doctrine of the Trinity, or the
inspiration of the Scriptures. They stood ready with branding-iron and
gallows to burn and choke out of man the idea that he had a right to
think and to express his thoughts.

So many religions met in our country—so many theories and dogmas came
in contact—so many follies, mistakes, and stupidities became acquainted
with each other, that religion began to fall somewhat into disrepute.
Besides this, the question of a new nation began to take precedence of
all others.

The people were too much interested in this world to quarrel about the
next. The preacher was lost in the patriot. The Bible was read to find
passages against kings.

Everybody was discussing the rights of man. Farmers and mechanics
suddenly became statesmen, and in every shop and cabin nearly every
question was asked and answered.

During these years of political excitement the interest in religion
abated to that degree that a common purpose animated men of all sects
and creeds.

At last our fathers became tired of being colonists—tired of writing
and reading and signing petitions, and presenting them on their bended
knees to an idiot king. They began to have an aspiration to form a new
nation, to be citizens of a new republic instead of subjects of an
old monarchy. They had the idea—the Puritans, the Catholics, the
Episcopalians, the Baptists, the Quakers, and a few Freethinkers, all
had the idea—that they would like to form a new nation.

Now, do not understand that all of our fathers were in favor of
independence. Do not understand that they were all like Jefferson; that
they were all like Adams or Lee; that they were all like Thomas Paine
or John Hancock. There were thousands and thousands of them who were
opposed to American independence. There were thousands and thousands who
said: "When you say men are created equal, it is a lie; when you say the
political power resides in the great body of the people, it is false."
Thousands and thousands of them said: "We prefer Great Britain." But
the men who were in favor of independence, the men who knew that a new
nation must be born, went on full of hope and courage, and nothing could
daunt or stop or stay the heroic, fearless few.

They met in Philadelphia; and the resolution was moved by Lee of
Virginia, that the colonies ought to be independent states, and ought to
dissolve their political connection with Great Britain.

They made up their minds that a new nation must be formed. All nations
had been, so to speak, the wards of some church. The religious idea as
to the source of power had been at the foundation of all governments,
and had been the bane and curse of man.

Happily for us, there was no church strong enough to dictate to the
rest. Fortunately for us, the colonists not only, but the colonies
differed widely in their religious views. There were the Puritans who
hated the Episcopalians, and Episcopalians who hated the Catholics,
and the Catholics who hated both, while the Quakers held them all in
contempt. There they were, of every sort, and color and kind, and how
was it that they came together? They had a common aspiration. They
wanted to form a new nation. More than that, most of them cordially
hated Great Britain; and they pledged each other to forget these
religious prejudices, for a time at least, and agreed that there should
be only one religion until they got through, and that was the religion
of patriotism. They solemnly agreed that the new nation should not
belong to any particular church, but that it should secure the rights of
all.

Our fathers founded the first secular government that was ever founded
in this world. Recollect that. The first secular government; the first
government that said every church has exactly the same rights and no
more; every religion has the same rights, and no more. In other words,
our fathers were the first men who had the sense, had the genius, to
know that no church should be allowed to have a sword; that it should be
allowed only to exert its moral influence.

You might as well have a government united by force with Art, or with
Poetry, or with Oratory, as with Religion. Religion should have the
influence upon mankind that its goodness, that its morality, its
justice, its charity, its reason, and its argument give it, and no more.
Religion should have the effect upon mankind that it necessarily has,
and no more. The religion that has to be supported by law is without
value, not only, but a fraud and curse. The religious argument that has
to be supported by a musket, is hardly worth making. A prayer that must
have a cannon behind it, better never be uttered. Forgiveness ought not
to go in partnership with shot and shell. Love need not carry knives and
revolvers.

So our fathers said: "We will form a secular government, and under the
flag with which we are going to enrich the air, we will allow every man
to worship God as he thinks best." They said: "Religion is an individual
thing between each man and his creator, and he can worship as he pleases
and as he desires." And why did they do this? The history of the world
warned them that the liberty of man was not safe in the clutch and grasp
of any church. They had read of and seen the thumbscrews, the racks, and
the dungeons of the Inquisition. They knew all about the hypocrisy of
the olden time. They knew that the church had stood side by side with
the throne; that the high priests were hypocrites, and that the kings
were robbers. They also knew that if they gave power to any church, it
would corrupt the best church in the world. And so they said that power
must not reside in a church, or in a sect, but power must be wherever
humanity is—in the great body of the people. And the officers and
servants of the people must be responsible to them. And so I say again,
as I said in the commencement, this is the wisest, the pro-foundest, the
bravest political document that ever was written and signed by man.

They turned, as I tell you, everything squarely about. They derived
all their authority from the people. They did away forever with the
theological idea of government.

And what more did they say? They said that whenever the rulers abused
this authority, this power, incapable of destruction, returned to the
people. How did they come to say this? I will tell you. They were pushed
into it. How? They felt that they were oppressed; and whenever a man
feels that he is the subject of injustice, his perception of right and
wrong is wonderfully quickened.

Nobody was ever in prison wrongfully who did not believe in the writ
of _habeas corpus_. Nobody ever suffered wrongfully without instantly
having ideas of justice.

And they began to inquire what rights the king of Great Britain had.
They began to search for the charter of his authority. They began to
investigate and dig down to the bed-rock upon which society must be
founded, and when they got down there, forced there, too, by their
oppressors, forced against their own prejudices and education, they
found at' the bottom of things, not lords, not nobles, not pulpits, not
thrones, but humanity and the rights of men.

And so they said, We are men; we are men. They found out they were men.
And the next thing they said, was, "We will be free men; we are weary of
being colonists; we are tired of being subjects; we are men; and these
colonies ought to be states; and these states ought to be a nation; and
that nation ought to drive the last British soldier into the sea." And
so they signed that brave Declaration of Independence.

I thank every one of them from the bottom of my heart for signing
that sublime declaration. I thank them for their courage—for their
patriotism—for their wisdom—for the splendid confidence in themselves
and in the human race. I thank them for what they were, and for what
we are—for what they did, and for what we have received—for what they
suffered, and for what we enjoy.

What would we have been if we had remained colonists and subjects? What
would we have been to-day? Nobodies—ready to get down on our knees and
crawl in the very dust at the sight of somebody that was supposed to
have in him some drop of blood that flowed in the veins of that mailed
marauder—that royal robber, William the Conqueror.

They signed that Declaration of Independence, although they knew that it
would produce a long, terrible, and bloody war. They looked forward and
saw poverty, deprivation, gloom, and death. But they also saw, on the
wrecked clouds of war, the beautiful bow of freedom.

These grand men were enthusiasts; and the world has been raised only
by enthusiasts. In every country there have been a few who have given
a national aspiration to the people. The enthusiasts of 1776 were the
builders and framers of this great and splendid Government; and they
were the men who saw, although others did not, the golden fringe of
the mantle of glory that will finally cover this world. They knew, they
felt, they believed that they would give a new constellation to
the political heavens—that they would make the Americans a grand
people—grand as the continent upon which they lived.

The war commenced. There was little money, and less credit. The new
nation had but few friends. To a great extent each soldier of freedom
had to clothe and feed himself. He was poor and pure, brave and good,
and so he went to the fields of death to fight for the rights of man.

What did the soldier leave when he went?

He left his wife and children.

Did he leave them in a beautiful home, surrounded by civilization, in
the repose of law, in the security of a great and powerful republic?

No. He left his wife and children on the edge, on the fringe of the
boundless forest, in which crouched and crept the red savage, who was at
that time the ally of the still more savage Briton. He left his wife to
defend herself, and he left the prattling babes to be defended by their
mother and by nature. The mother made the living; she planted the corn
and the potatoes, and hoed them in the sun, raised the children, and,
in the darkness of night, told them about their brave father and the
"sacred cause." She told them that in a little while the war would be
over and father would come back covered with honor and glory.

Think of the women, of the sweet children who listened for the footsteps
of the dead—who waited through the sad and desolate years for the dear
ones who never came.

The soldiers of 1776 did not march away with music and banners. They
went in silence, looked at and gazed after by eyes filled with tears.
They went to meet, not an equal, but a superior—to fight five times
their number—to make a desperate stand to stop the advance of the
enemy, and then, when their ammunition gave out, seek the protection of
rocks, of rivers, and of hills.

Let me say here: The greatest test of courage on the earth is to bear
defeat without losing heart. That army is the bravest that can be
whipped the greatest number of times and fight again.

Over the entire territory, so to speak, then settled by our forefathers,
they were driven again and again. Now and then they would meet the
English with something like equal numbers, and then the eagle of victory
would proudly perch upon the stripes and stars. And so they went on as
best they could, hoping and fighting until they came to the dark and
somber gloom of Valley Forge.

There were very few hearts then beneath that flag that did not begin to
think that the struggle was useless; that all the blood and treasure had
been shed and spent in vain. But there were some men gifted with
that wonderful prophecy that fulfills itself, and with that wonderful
magnetic power that makes heroes of everybody they come in contact with.

And so our fathers went through the gloom of that terrible time, and
still fought on. Brave men wrote grand words, cheering the despondent;
brave men did brave deeds, the rich man gave his wealth, the poor man
gave his life, until at last, by the victory of Yorktown, the old banner
won its place in the air, and became glorious forever.

Seven long years of war—fighting for what? For the principle that
all men are created equal—a truth that nobody ever disputed except a
scoundrel; nobody, nobody in the entire history of this world. No man
ever denied that truth who was not a rascal, and at heart a thief;
never, never, and never will. What else were they fighting for? Simply
that in America every man should have a right to life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness. Nobody ever denied that except a villain; never,
never. It has been denied by kings—they were thieves. It has been
denied by statesmen—they were liars. It has been denied by priests, by
clergymen, by cardinals, by bishops, and by popes—they were hypocrites.

What else were they fighting for? For the idea that all political power
is vested in the great body of the people. The great body of the people
make all the money; do all the work. They plow the land, cut down the
forests; they produce everything that is produced. Then who shall say
what shall be done with what is produced except the producer?

Is it the non-producing thief, sitting on a throne, surrounded by
vermin?

Those were the things they were fighting for; and that is all they
were fighting for. They fought to build up a new, a great nation; to
establish an asylum for the oppressed of the world everywhere. They knew
the history of this world. They knew the history of human slavery.

The history of civilization is the history of the slow and painful
enfranchisement of the human race. In the olden times the family was a
monarchy, the father being the monarch. The mother and children were the
veriest slaves. The will of the father was the supreme law. He had the
power of life and death. It took thousands of years to civilize this
father, thousands of years to make the condition of wife and mother and
child even tolerable. A few families constituted a tribe; the tribe
had a chief; the chief was a tyrant; a few tribes formed a nation; the
nation was governed by a king, who was also a tyrant. A strong nation
robbed, plundered, and took captive the weaker ones. This was the
commencement of human slavery.

It is not possible for the human imagination to conceive of the horrors
of slavery. It has left no possible crime uncommitted, no possible
cruelty unperpetrated. It has been practiced and defended by all nations
in some form. It has been upheld by all religions. It has been defended
by nearly every pulpit. From the profits derived from the slave trade
churches have been built, cathedrals reared and priests paid. Slavery
has been blessed by bishop, by cardinal, and by pope. It has received
the sanction of statesmen, of kings, and of queens. It has been defended
by the throne, the pulpit and the bench. Monarchs have shared in
the profits. Clergymen have taken their part of the spoils, reciting
passages of Scripture in its defence at the same time, and judges have
taken their portion in the name of equity and law.

Only a few years ago our ancestors were slaves. Only a few years ago
they passed with and belonged to the soil, like the coal under it and
rocks on it.

Only a few years ago they were treated like beasts of burden, worse far
than we treat our animals at the present day. Only a few years ago it
was a crime in England for a man to have a Bible in his house, a crime
for which men were hanged, and their bodies afterward burned. Only a few
years ago fathers could and did sell their children. Only a few
years ago our ancestors were not allowed to speak or write their
thoughts—that being a crime. Only a few years ago to be honest, at
least in the expression of your ideas, was a felony. To do right was a
capital offence; and in those days chains and whips were the incentives
to labor, and the preventives of thought. Honesty was a vagrant,
justice a fugitive, and liberty in chains. Only a few years ago men were
denounced because they doubted the inspiration of the Bible—because
they denied miracles, and laughed at the wonders recounted by the
ancient Jews.

Only a few years ago a man had to believe in the total depravity of the
human heart in order to be respectable. Only a few years ago, people
who thought God too good to punish in eternal flames an unbaptized child
were considered infamous.

As soon as our ancestors began to get free they began to enslave others.
With an inconsistency that defies explanation, they practiced upon
others the same outrages that had been perpetrated upon them. As soon
as white slavery began to be abolished, black slavery commenced. In this
infamous traffic nearly every nation of Europe embarked. Fortunes were
quickly realized; the avarice and cupidity of Europe were excited; all
ideas of justice were discarded; pity fled from the human breast; a
few good, brave men recited the horrors of the trade; avarice was deaf;
religion refused to hear; the trade went on; the governments of Europe
upheld it in the name of commerce—in the name of civilization and
religion.

Our fathers knew the history of caste. They knew that in the despotisms
of the Old World it was a disgrace to be useful. They knew that a
mechanic was esteemed as hardly the equal of a hound, and far below
a blooded horse. They knew that a nobleman held a son of labor in
contempt—that he had no rights the royal loafers were bound to respect.

The world has changed.

The other day there came shoemakers, potters, workers in wood and iron,
from Europe, and they were received in the city of New York as though
they had been princes. They had been sent by the great republic of
France to examine into the arts and manufactures of the great republic
of America. They looked a thousand times better to me than the Edward
Alberts and Albert Edwards—the royal vermin, that live on the body
politic. And I would think much more of our Government if it would fete
and feast them, instead of wining and dining the imbeciles of a royal
line.

Our fathers devoted their lives and fortunes to the grand work of
founding a government for the protection of the rights of man. The
theological idea as to the source of political power had poisoned the
web and woof of every government in the world, and our fathers banished
it from this continent forever.

What we want to-day is what our fathers wrote down. They did not attain
to their ideal; we approach it nearer, but have not reached it yet. We
want, not only the independence of a State, not only the independence of
a nation, but something far more glorious—the absolute independence of
the individual. That is what we want. I want it so that I, one of the
children of Nature, can stand on an equality with the rest; that I can
say this is my air, my sunshine, my earth, and I have a right to live,
and hope, and aspire, and labor, and enjoy the fruit of that labor, as
much as any individual or any nation on the face of the globe.

We want every American to make to-day, on this hundredth anniversary, a
declaration of individual independence. Let each man enjoy his liberty
to the utmost—enjoy all he can; but be sure it is not at the expense
of another. The French Convention gave the best definition of liberty
I have ever read: "The liberty of one citizen ceases only where the
liberty of another citizen commences." I know of no better definition. I
ask you to-day to make a declaration of individual independence. And
if you are independent be just. Allow everybody else to make his
declaration of individual independence. Allow your wife, allow your
husband, allow your children to make theirs. Let everybody be absolutely
free and independent, knowing only the sacred obligations of honesty and
affection. Let us be independent of party, independent of everybody and
everything except our own consciences and our own brains. Do not belong
to any clique. Have the clear title-deeds in fee simple to yourselves,
without any mortgage on the premises to anybody in the world.

It is a grand thing to be the owner of yourself. It is a grand thing to
protect the rights of others. It is a sublime thing to be free and just.

Only a few days ago I stood in Independence Hall—in that little room
where was signed the immortal paper. A little room, like any other;
and it did not seem possible that from that room went forth ideas,
like cherubim and seraphim, spreading their wings over a continent, and
touching, as with holy fire, the hearts of men.

In a few moments I was in the park, where are gathered the
accomplishments of a century. Our fathers never dreamed of the things I
saw. There were hundreds of locomotives, with their nerves of steel and
breath of flame—every kind of machine, with whirling wheels and curious
cogs and cranks, and the myriad thoughts of men that have been wrought
in iron, brass and steel. And going out from one little building were
wires in the air, stretching to every civilized nation, and they could
send a shining messenger in a moment to any part of the world, and it
would go sweeping under the waves of the sea with thoughts and words
within its glowing heart. I saw all that had been achieved by this
nation, and I wished that the signers of the Declaration—the soldiers
of the Revolution—could see what a century of freedom has produced.
I wished they could see the fields we cultivate—the rivers we
navigate—the railroads running over the Alleghanies, far into what was
then the unknown forest—on over the broad prairies—on over the vast
plains—away over the mountains of the West, to the Golden Gate of the
Pacific. All this is the result of a hundred years of freedom.

Are you not more than glad that in 1776 was announced the sublime
principle that political power resides with the people? That our fathers
then made up their minds nevermore to be colonists and subjects, but
that they would be free and independent citizens of America?

I will not name any of the grand men who fought for liberty. All should
be named, or none. I feel that the unknown soldier who was shot down
without even his name being remembered—who was included only in a
report of "a hundred killed," or "a hundred missing," nobody knowing
even the number that attached to his august corpse—is entitled to as
deep and heartfelt thanks as the titled leader who fell at the head of
the host.

Standing here amid the sacred memories of the first, on the golden
threshold of the second, I ask, Will the second century be as grand
as the first? I believe it will, because we are growing more and more
humane. I believe there is more human kindness, more real, sweet human
sympathy, a greater desire to help one another, in the United States,
than in all the world besides.

We must progress. We are just at the commencement of invention. The
steam engine—the telegraph—these are but the toys with which science
has been amused. Wait; there will be grander things, there will be wider
and higher culture—a grander standard of character, of literature and
art.

We have now half as many millions of people as we have years, and many
of us will live until a hundred millions stand beneath the flag. We are
getting more real solid sense. The schoolhouse is the finest building in
the village. We are writing and reading more books; we are painting
and buying more pictures; we are struggling more and more to get at
the philosophy of life, of things—trying more and more to answer
the questions of the eternal Sphinx. We are looking in every
direction—investigating; in short, we are thinking and working. Besides
all this, I believe the people are nearer honest than ever before. A few
years ago we were willing to live upon the labor of four million slaves.
Was that honest? At last, we have a national conscience. At last, we
have carried out the Declaration of Independence. Our fathers wrote
it—we have accomplished it. The black man was a slave—we made him a
citizen. We found four million human beings in manacles, and now the
hands of a race are held up in the free air without a chain.

I have had the supreme pleasure of seeing a man—once a slave—sitting
in the seat of his former master in the Congress of the United States.
I have had that pleasure, and when I saw it my eyes were filled
with tears. I felt that we had carried, out the Declaration of
Independence—that we had given reality to it, and breathed the breath
of life into its every word. I felt that our flag would float over and
protect the colored man and his little children, standing straight in
the sun, just the same as though he were white and worth a million.
I would protect him more, because the rich white man could protect
himself.

All who stand beneath our banner are free. Ours is the only flag that
has in reality written upon it: Liberty, Fraternity, Equality—the three
grandest words in all the languages of men.

Liberty: Give to every man the fruit of his own labor—the labor of his
hands and of his brain.

Fraternity: Every man in the right is my brother.

Equality: The rights of all are equal: Justice, poised and balanced in
eternal calm, will shake from the golden scales in which are weighed the
acts of men, the very dust of prejudice and caste: No race, no color, no
previous condition, can change the rights of men.

The Declaration of Independence has at last been carried out in letter
and in spirit.

The second century will be grander than the first.

Fifty millions of people are celebrating this day. To-day, the black man
looks upon his child and says: The avenues to distinction are open to
you—upon your brow may fall the civic wreath—this day belongs to you.

We are celebrating the courage and wisdom of our fathers, and the glad
shout of a free people the anthem of a grand nation, commencing at the
Atlantic, is following the sun to the Pacific, across a continent of
happy homes.

We are a great people. Three millions have increased to fifty—thirteen
States to thirty-eight. We have better homes, better clothes, better
food and more of it, and more of the conveniences of life, than any
other people upon the globe.

The farmers of our country live better than did the kings and princes
two hundred years ago—and they have twice as much sense and heart.
Liberty and labor have given us all. I want every person here to believe
in the dignity of labor—to know that the respectable man is the useful
man—the man who produces or helps others to produce something of value,
whether thought of the brain or work of the hand.

I want you to go away with an eternal hatred in your breast of
injustice, of aristocracy, of caste, of the idea that one man has more
rights than another because he has better clothes, more land, more
money, because he owns a railroad, or is famous and in high position.
Remember that all men have equal rights. Remember that the man who acts
best his part—who loves his friends the best—is most willing to
help others—truest to the discharge of obligation—who has the best
heart—the most feeling—the deepest sympathies—and who freely gives
to others the rights that he claims for himself is the best man. I am
willing to swear to this.

What has made this country? I say again, liberty and labor. What would
we be without labor? I want every farmer when plowing the rustling corn
of June—while mowing in the perfumed fields—to feel that he is
adding to the wealth and glory of the United States. I want every
mechanic—every man of toil, to know and feel that he is keeping the
cars running, the telegraph wires in the air; that he is making the
statues and painting the pictures; that he is writing and printing the
books; that he is helping to fill the world with honor, with happiness,
with love and law.

Our country is founded upon the dignity of labor—upon the equality
of man. Ours is the first real Republic in the history of the world.
Beneath our flag the people are free. We have retired the gods from
politics. We have found that man is the only source of political
power, and that the governed should govern. We have disfranchised the
aristocrats of the air and have given one country to mankind.
---
# Chicago Speech
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1876_
> * Col. Robert G. Ingersoll spoke last night at the
> Exposition Building to the largest audience ever drawn by
> one man In Chicago. From 6.30 o'clock the sidewalks fronting
> along the building were jammed. At every entrance there were
> hundreds, and half-an-hour later thousands were clamoring
> for admittance. So great was the pressure the doors were
> finally closed, and the entrances at either end cautiously
> opened to admit the select who knew enough to apply In those
> directions. Occasionally a rush was made for the main door,
> and as the crowd came up against the huge barricade they
> were swept back only for another effort. Wabash Avenue,
> Monroe, Adams, Jackson, and Van Buren Streets were jammed
> with ladies and gentlemen who swept into Michigan Avenue and
> swelled the sea that surged around the building.

> At 7.30 the doors were flung open and the people rushed in.
> Seating accommodations supposed to be adequate to all
> demands, had been provided, but in an Instant they were
> filled, the aisles were jammed and around the sides of the
> building poured a steady stream of humanity, Intent only
> upon some coign of vantage, some place, where they could see
> and where they could hear. Prom the fountain, beyond which
> the building lay in shadow to the northern end, was a
> swaying, surging mass of people.

> Such another attendance of ladies has never been known at a
> political meeting in Chicago. They came by the hundreds, and
> the speaker looked down from his perch upon thousands of
> fair upturned faces, stamped with the most intense interest
> in his remarks.

> The galleries were packed. The frame of the huge elevator
> creaked, groaned, and swayed with the crowd roosting upon
> it. The trusses bore their living weight. The gallery
> railings bent and cracked. The roof was crowded, and the sky
> lights teemed with heads. Here and there an adventurous
> youth crept out on the girders and braces. Towards the
> northern end of the building, on the west side, is a smaller
> gallery, dark, and not particularly strong-looking. It was
> fairly packed—packed like a sardine-box—with men and boys.
> Up in the organ-loft around the sides of the organ,
> everywhere that a human being could sit, stand or hang, was
> pre-empted and filled.

> It was a magnificent, outpouring, at east 50,000 In number,
> a compliment alike to the principle it represented, and the
> orator.—Chicago Tribune., October 21st, 1876.

## Hayes Campaign

1876.

LADIES and Gentlemen:—Democrats and Republicans have a common interest
in the United States. We have a common interest in the preservation of
good order. We have a common interest in the preservation of a common
country. And I appeal to all, Democrats and Republicans, to endeavor
to make a conscientious choice; to endeavor to select as President and
Vice-President of the United States the men and the parties, which, in
your judgment, will best preserve this nation, and preserve all that is
dear to us either as Republicans or Democrats.

The Democratic party comes before you and asks that you will give this
Government into its hands; and you have a right to investigate as to the
reputation and character of the Democratic organization. The Democratic
party says, "Let bygones be bygones." I never knew a man who did a
decent action that wanted it forgotten. I never knew a man who did some
great and shining act of self-sacrifice and heroic devotion who did
not wish that act remembered. Not only so, but he expected his loving
children would chisel the remembrance of it upon the marble that marked
his last resting place. But whenever a man does an infamous thing;
whenever a man commits some crime; whenever a man does that which
mantles the cheeks of his children with shame; he is the man that says,
"Let bygones be bygones." The Democratic party admits that it has a
record, but it says that any man that will look into it, any man that
will tell it, is not a gentleman. I do not know whether, according to
the Democratic standard, I am a gentleman or not; but I do say that in a
certain sense I am one of the historians of the Democratic party.

I do not know that it is true that a man cannot give this record and be
a gentleman, but I admit that a gentleman hates to read this record;
a gentleman hates to give this record to the world; but I do it, not
because I like to do it, but because I believe the best interests
of this country demand that there shall be a history given of the
Democratic party.

In the first place, I claim that the Democratic party embraces within
its filthy arms the worst elements in American society. I claim that
every enemy that this Government has had for twenty years has been and
is a Democrat; every man in the Dominion of Canada that hates the great
Republic, would like to see Tilden and Hendricks successful. Every
titled thief in Great Britain would like to see Tilden and Hendricks the
next President and Vice-President of the United States.

I say more; every State that seceded from this Union was a Democratic
State. Every man who hated to see bloodhounds cease to be the
instrumentalities of a free government—every one was a Democrat. In
short, every enemy that this Government has had for twenty years, every
enemy that liberty and progress has had in the United States for twenty
years, every hater of our flag, every despiser of our Nation, every man
who has been a disgrace to the great Republic for twenty years, has been
a Democrat. I do not say that they are all that way; but nearly all who
are that way are Democrats.

The Democratic party is a political tramp with a yellow passport. This
political tramp begs food and he carries in his pocket old dirty scraps
of paper as a kind of certificate of character. On one of these papers
he will show you the ordinance of 1789; on another one of those papers
he will have a part of the Fugitive Slave Law; on another one some
of the black laws that used to disgrace Illinois; on another Governor
Tilden's Letter to Kent; on another a certificate signed by Lyman
Trumbull that the Republican party is not fit to associate with—that
certificate will be endorsed by Governor John M. Palmer and my friend
Judge Doolittle. He will also have in his pocket an old wood-cut,
somewhat torn, representing Abraham Lincoln falling upon the neck of
S. Corning Judd, and thanking him for saving the Union as
Commander-in-Chief of the Sons of Liberty. This political tramp will
also have a letter dated Boston, Mass., saying: "I hereby certify that
for fifty years I have regarded the bearer as a thief and robber, but
I now look upon him as a reformer. Signed, Charles Francis Adams."
Following this tramp will be a bloodhound; and when he asks for food,
the bloodhound will crouch for employment on his haunches, and the drool
of anticipation will run from his loose and hanging lips. Study the
expression of that dog.

Translate it into English and it means "Oh! I want to bite a nigger!"
And when the dog has that expression he bears a striking likeness to his
master. The question is, Shall that tramp and that dog gain possession
of the White House?

The Democratic party learns nothing; the Democratic party forgets
nothing. The Democratic party does not know that the world has advanced
a solitary inch since 1860. Time is a Democratic dumb watch. It has not
given a tick for sixteen years. The Democratic party does not know that
we, upon the great glittering highway of progress, have passed a single
mile-stone for twenty years. The Democratic party is incapable of
learning. The Democratic party is incapable of anything but prejudice
and hatred. Every man that is a Democrat is a Democrat because he hates
something; every man that is a Republican is a Republican because he
loves something.

The Democratic party is incapable of advancement; the only stock that
it has in trade to-day is the old infamous doctrine of Democratic State
Rights. There never was a more infamous doctrine advanced on this
earth, than the Democratic idea of State Rights. What is it? It has its
foundation in the idea that this is not a Nation; it has its foundation
in the idea that this is simply a confederacy, that this great
Government is simply a bargain, that this great splendid people have
simply made a trade, that the people of any one of the States are
sovereign to the extent that they have the right to trample upon the
rights of their fellow-citizens, and that the General Government cannot
interfere. The great Democratic heart is fired to-day, the Democratic
bosom is bloated with indignation because of an order made by General
Grant sending troops into the Southern States to defend the rights of
American citizens! Who objects to a soldier going? Nobody except a man
who wants to carry an election by fraud, by violence, by intimidation,
by assassination, and by murder.

The Democratic party is willing to-day that Tilden and Hendricks should
be elected by violence; they are willing to-day to go into partnership
with assassination and murder; they are willing to-day that every man in
the Southern States, who is a friend of this Union, and who fought for
our flag—that the rights of every one of these men should be trampled
in the dust, provided that Tilden and Hendricks be elected President
and Vice-President of this country. They tell us that a State line is
sacred; that you never can cross it unless you want to do a mean thing;
that if you want to catch a fugitive slave you have the right to cross
it; but if you wish to defend the rights of men, then it is a sacred
line, and you cannot cross it. Such is the infamous doctrine of the
Democratic party. Who, I say, will be injured by sending soldiers into
the Southern States? No one in the world except the man who wants to
prevent an honest citizen from casting a legal vote for the Government
of his choice. For my part, I think more of the colored Union men of the
South than I do of the white disunion men of the South. For my part, I
think more of a black friend than I do of a white enemy. For my part, I
think more of a friend black outside, and white in, than I do of a man
who is white outside and black inside. For my part, I think more of
black justice, of black charity, and of black patriotism, than I do of
white cruelty, than I do of white treachery and treason. As a matter
of fact, all that is done in the South to-day, of use, is done by the
colored man. The colored man raises everything that is raised in the
South, except hell. And I say here to-night that I think one hundred
times more of the good, honest, industrious black man of the South than
I do of all the white men together that do not love this Government, and
I think more of the black man of the South than I do of the white man of
the North who sympathizes with the white wretch that wishes to trample
upon the rights of that black man.

I believe that this is a Government, first, not only of power, but that
it is the right of this Government to march all the soldiers in the
United States into any sovereign State of this Union to defend the
rights of every American citizen in that State. If it is the duty of the
Government to defend you in time of war, when you were compelled to go
into the army, how much more is it the duty of the Government to defend
in time of peace the man who, in time of war, voluntarily and gladly
rushed to the rescue and defence of his country; and yet the Democratic
doctrine is that you are to answer the call of the Nation, but the
Nation will be deaf to your cry, unless the Governor of your State makes
request of your Government. Suppose the Governors and every man trample
upon your rights, is the Nation then to let you be trampled upon? Will
the Nation hear only the cry of the oppressor, or will it heed the cry
of the oppressed? I believe we should have a Government that can hear
the faintest wail, the faintest cry for justice from the lips of the
humblest citizen beneath the flag. But the Democratic doctrine is that
this Government can protect its citizens only when they are away from
home. This may account for so many Democrats going to Canada during the
war. I believe that the Government must protect you, not only abroad but
must protect you at home; and that is the greatest question before the
American people to-day.

I had thought that human impudence had reached its limit ages and ages
ago. I had believed that some time in the history of the world impudence
had reached its height, and so believed until I read the congratulatory
address of Abram S. Hewitt, Chairman of the National Executive
Democratic Committee, wherein he congratulates the negroes of the South
on what he calls a Democratic victory in the State of Indiana. If human
impudence can go beyond this, all I have to say is, it never has. What
does he say to the Southern people, to the colored people? He says to
them in substance: "The reason the white people trample upon you is
because the white people are weak. Give the white people more strength,
put the white people in authority, and, although they murder you now
when they are weak, when they are strong they will let you alone. Yes;
the only trouble with our Southern white brethren is that they are in
the minority, and they kill you now, and the only way to save your lives
is to put your enemy in the majority." That is the doctrine of Abram S.
Hewitt, and he congratulates the colored people of the South upon the
Democratic victory in Indiana. There is going to be a great crop of
hawks next season—let us congratulate the doves. That is it. The
burglars have whipped the police—let us congratulate the bank. That
is it. The wolves have killed off almost all the shepherds—let us
congratulate the sheep.

In my judgment, the black people have suffered enough. They have
been slaves for two hundred years, and more than all, they have been
compelled to keep the company of the men that owned them. Think of that!
Think of being compelled to keep the society of the man who is stealing
from you! Think of being compelled to live with the man that sold your
wife! Think of being compelled to live with the man that stole your
child from the cradle before your very eyes! Think of being compelled
to live with the thief of your life, and spend your days with the white
robber, and be under his control! The black people have suffered enough.
For two hundred years they were owned and bought and sold and branded
like cattle. For two hundred years every human tie was rent and torn
asunder by the bloody, brutal hands of avarice and might. They have
suffered enough. During the war the black people were our friends not
only, but whenever they were entrusted with the family, with the wives
and children of their masters, they were true to them. They stayed at
home and protected the wife and child of the master while he went into
the field and fought for the right to sell the wife and the right to
whip and steal the child of the very black man that was protecting him.
The black people, I say, have suffered enough, and for that reason I am
in favor of the Government protecting them in every Southern State, if
it takes another war to do it. We can never compromise with the South
at the expense of our friends. We never can be friends with the men that
starved and shot our brothers. We can never be friends with the men
that waged the most cruel war in the world; not for liberty, but for
the right to deprive other men of their liberty. We never can be their
friends until they are the friends of our friends, until they treat the
black man justly; until they treat the white Union man respectfully;
until Republicanism ceases to be a crime; until to vote the Republican
ticket ceases to make you a political and social outcast. We want no
friendship with the enemies of our country. The next question is, who
shall have possession of this country—the men that saved it,—or the
men that sought to destroy it? The Southern people lit the fires of
civil war. They who set the conflagration must be satisfied with the
ashes left. The men that saved this country must rule it. The men
that saved the flag must carry it. This Government is not far from
destruction when it crowns with its highest honor in time of peace, the
man that was false to it in time of war. This Nation is not far from
the precipice of annihilation and destruction when it gives its highest
honor to a man false, false to the country when everything we held
dear trembled in the balance of war, when everything was left to the
arbitrament of the sword.

The next question prominently before the people—though I think the
great question is, whether citizens shall be protected at home—the
next question I say, is the financial question. With that there is no
trouble. We had to borrow money, and we have to pay it. That is all
there is of that, and we are going to pay it just as soon as we make
the money to pay it with, and we are going to make the money out of
prosperity.

We have to dig it out of the earth. You cannot make a dollar by law. You
cannot redeem a cent by statute. You cannot pay one solitary farthing by
all the resolutions, by all the speeches ever made beneath the sun.

If the greenback doctrine is right, that evidence of national
indebtedness is wealth, if that is their idea, why not go another step
and make every individual note a legal tender? Why not pass a law that
every man shall take every other man's note? Then I swear we would have
money in plenty. No, my friends, a promise to pay a dollar is not a
dollar, no matter if that promise is made by the greatest and most
powerful nation on the globe. A promise is not a performance. An
agreement is not an accomplishment and there never will come a time when
a promise to pay a dollar is as good as the dollar, unless everybody
knows that you have the dollar and will pay it whenever they ask for it.
We want no more inflation. We want simply to pay our debts as fast as
the prosperity of the country allows it and no faster. Every speculator
that was caught with property on his hands upon which he owed more
than the property was worth, wanted the game to go on a little longer.
Whoever heard of a man playing poker that wanted to quit when he was
a loser? He wants to have a fresh deal. He wants another hand, and he
don't want any man that is ahead to jump the game. It is so with the
speculators in this country. They bought land, they bought houses, they
bought goods, and when the crisis and crash came, they were caught with
the property on their hands, and they want another inflation, they
want another tide to rise that will again sweep this driftwood into the
middle of the great financial stream. That is all. Every lot in this
city that was worth five thousand and that is now worth two thousand—do
you know what is the matter with that lot? It has been redeeming. It has
been resuming. That is what is the matter with that lot. Every man that
owned property that has now fallen fifty per cent., that property has
been resuming; and if you could have another inflation to-morrow, the
day that the bubble burst would find thousands of speculators who paid
as much for property as property was worth, and they would ask for
another tide of affairs in men. They would ask for another inflation.
What for? To let them out and put somebody else in.

We want no more inflation. We want the simple honest payment of the
debt, and to pay out of the prosperity of this country. But, says the
greenback man, "We never had as good times as when we had plenty of
greenbacks."

Suppose a farmer would buy a farm for ten thousand dollars and give
his note. He would buy carriages, horses, wagons and agricultural
implements, and give his note. He would send Mary, Jane and Lucy to
school. He would buy them pianos, and send them to college, and would
give his note, and the next year he would again give his note for the
interest, and the next year again his note, and finally they would come
to him and say, "We must settle up; we have taken your notes as long as
we can; we want money." "Why," he would say to the gentleman, "I never
had as good a time in my life as while I have been giving those notes.
I never had a farm until the man gave it to me for my note. My children
have been clothed as well as anybody's. We have had carriages; we have
had fine horses; and our house has been filled with music, and laughter,
and dancing; and why not keep on taking those notes?" So it is with the
greenback man; he says, "When we were running in debt we had a jolly
time—let us keep it up." But, my friends, there must come a time when
inflation would reach that point when all the Goverment notes in the
world would not buy a pin; when all the Government notes in the world
would not be worth as much as the last year's Democratic platform. I
have no fear that these debts will not be paid. I have no fear that
every solitary greenback dollar will not be redeemed; but, my friends,
we shall have some trouble doing it. Why? Because the debt is a great
deal larger than it should have been. In the first place, there should
have been po debt. If it had not been for the Southern Democracy there
would have been no war. If it had not been for the Northern Democracy
the war would not have lasted one year.

There was a man tried in court for having murdered his father and
mother. He was found guilty, and the judge asked him, "What have you to
say that sentence of death shall not be pronounced on you?" "Nothing in
the world Judge," said he, "only I hope your Honor will take pity on me
and remember that I am a poor orphan."

I have no doubt that this debt will be paid. We have the honor to pay
it, and we do not pay it on account of the avarice or greed of the
bondholder. An honest man does not pay money to a creditor simply
because the creditor wants it. The honest man pays at the command of his
honor and not at the demand of the creditor.

The United States will pay its debts, not because the creditor demands,
but because we owe it.

The United States will liquidate every debt at the command of its honor,
and every cent will be paid. War is destruction, war is loss, and all
the property destroyed, and the time that is lost, put together, amount
to what we call a national debt. When in peace we shall have made as
much net profit as there was wealth lost in the war, then we shall be a
solvent people. The greenback will be redeemed, we expect to redeem
it on the first day of January, 1879. We may fail; we will fail if the
prosperity of the country fails; but we intend to try to do it, and if
we fail, we will fail as a soldier fails to take a fort, high upon the
rampart, with the flag of resumption in our hands. We will not say that
we cannot pay the debt because there is a date fixed when the debt is to
be paid. I have had to borrow money myself; I have had to give my note,
and I recollect distinctly that every man I ever did give my note to
insisted that somewhere in that note there should be some vague hint
as to the cycle, as to the geological period, as to the time, as to
the century and date when I expected to pay those little notes. I never
understood that having a time fixed would prevent my being industrious;
that it would interfere with my honesty; or with my activity, or with my
desire to discharge that debt. And if any man in this great country owed
you one thousand dollars, due you the first day of next January, and he
should come to you and say: "I want to pay you that debt, but you must
take that date out of that note." "Why?" you would say. "Why," he would
reply in the language of Tilden, "I have to make wise preparation."
"Well," you would say, "why don't you do it?" "Oh," he says, "I cannot
do it while you have that date in that note." "Another thing," he says,
"I have to get me a central reservoir of coin." And do you know I have
always thought I would like to see the Democratic party around a central
reservoir of coin.

Suppose this debtor would also tell you, "I want the date out of that
note, because I have to come at it by a very slow and gradual process."
"Well," you would say, "I do not care how slow or how gradual you are,
provided that you get around by the time the note is due."

What would you think of a man that wanted the date out of the note? You
would think he was a mixture of rascal and Democrat. That is what you
would think.

Now, my friends, the Democratic party (if you may call it a party)
brings forward as its candidate Samuel J. Tilden, of New York. I am
opposed to him, first, because he is an old bachelor. In a country like
ours, depending for its prosperity and glory upon an increase of the
population, to elect an old bachelor is a suicidal policy. Any man that
will live in this country for sixty years, surrounded by beautiful women
with rosy lips and dimpled cheeks, in every dimple lurking a Cupid, with
pearly teeth and sparkling eyes—any man that will push them all aside
and be satisfied with the embraces of the Democratic party, does not
even know the value of time. I am opposed to Samuel J. Tilden, because
he is a Democrat; because he belongs to the Democratic party of the city
of New York; the worst party ever organized in any civilized country.

No man should be President of this Nation who denies that it is a
Nation. Samuel J. Tilden denounced the war as an outrage. No man should
be President of this country that denounced a war waged in its defence
as an outrage. To elect such a man would be an outrage.

Samuel J. Tilden said that the flag stands for a contract; that it
stands for a confederation; that it stands for a bargain. But the great,
splendid Republican party says, "No! That flag stands for a great,
hoping, aspiring, sublime Nation, not for a confederacy."

I am opposed, I say, to the election of Samuel J. Tilden for another
reason. If he is elected he will be controlled by his party, and his
party will be controlled by the Southern stockholders in that party.
They own nineteen-twentieths of the stock, and they will dictate the
policy of the Democratic Corporation.

No Northern Democrat has the manliness to stand up before a Southern
Democrat. Every Democrat, nearly, has a face of dough, and the Southern
Democrat will swap his ears, change his nose, cut his mouth the other
way of the leather, so that his own mother would not know him, in
fifteen minutes. If Samuel J. Tilden is elected President of the
United States, he will be controlled by the Democratic party, and the
Democratic party will be controlled by the Southern Democracy—that is
to say, the late rebels; that is to say, the men that tried to destroy
the Government; that is to say, the men who are sorry they did not
destroy the Government; that is to say, the enemies of every friend of
this Union; that is to say, the murderers and the assassins of Union men
living in the Southern country.

Let me say another thing. If Mr. Tilden does not act in accordance with
the Southern Democratic command, the Southern Democracy will not allow
a single life to stand between them and the absolute control of this
country. Hendricks will then be their man. I say that it would be an
outrage to give this country into the control of men who endeavored to
destroy it, to give this country into the control of the Southern rebels
and haters of Union men.

And on the other hand, the Republican party has put forward Rutherford
B. Hayes. He is an honest man. The Democrats will say, "That is
nothing." Well, let them try it. Rutherford B. Hayes has a good
character.

Rutherford B. Hayes, when this war commenced, did not say with Tilden,
"It is an outrage." He did not say with Tilden, "I never will contribute
to the prosecution of this war." But he did say this, "I would go into
this war if I knew I would be killed in the course of it, rather than
to live through it and take no part in it." During the war Rutherford
B. Hayes received many wounds in his flesh, but not one scratch upon his
honor. Samuel J. Tilden received many wounds upon his honor, but not
one scratch on his flesh. Rutherford B. Hayes is a firm man; not an
obstinate man, but a firm man; and I draw this distinction: A firm man
will do what he believes to be right, because he wants to do right. He
will stand firm because he believes it to be right; but an obstinate
man wants his own way, whether it is right or whether it is wrong.
Rutherford B. Hayes is firm in the right, and obstinate only when he
knows he is in the right. If you want to vote for a man who fought for
you, vote for Rutherford B. Hayes. If you want to vote for a man
that carried our flag through the storm of shot and shell, vote for
Rutherford B. Hayes. If you believe patriotism to be a virtue, vote for
Rutherford B. Hayes. If you believe this country wants heroes, vote for
Rutherford B. Hayes. If you want a man who turned against his country in
time of war, vote for Samuel J. Tilden. If you believe the war waged for
the salvation of our Nation was an outrage, vote for Samuel J. Tilden.
If you believe it is better to stay at home and curse the brave men in
the field, fighting for the sacred rights of man, vote for Samuel J.
Tilden. If you want to pay a premium upon treason, if you want to pay a
premium upon hypocrisy, if you want to pay a premium upon chicanery,
if you want to pay a premium upon sympathizing with the enemies of your
country, vote for Samuel J. Tilden.

If you believe that patriotism is right, if you believe the brave
defender of liberty is better than the assassin of freedom, vote for
Rutherford B. Hayes.

I am proud that I belong to the Republican party. It is the only party
that has not begged pardon for doing right. It is the only party that
has said: "There shall be no distinction on account of race, on account
of color, on account of previous condition." It is the only party that
ever had a platform broad enough for all humanity to stand upon.

It is the first decent party that ever lived. The Republican party made
the first free government that was ever made. The Republican party made
the first decent constitution that any nation ever had. The Republican
party gave to the sky the first pure flag that was ever kissed by the
waves of air. The Republican party is the first party that ever said:
"Every man is entitled to liberty," not because he is white, not because
he is black, not because he is rich, not because he is poor, but because
he is a man.

The Republican party is the first party that knew enough to know that
humanity is more than skin deep. It is the first party that said,
"Government should be for all, as the light, as the air, is for all."

And it is the first party that had the sense to say, "What air is to the
lungs, what light is to the eyes, what love is to the heart, liberty is
to the soul of man." The Republican party is the first party that ever
was in favor of absolute free labor, the first party in favor of giving
to every man, without distinction of race or color, the fruits of the
labor of his hands. The Republican party said, "Free labor will give us
wealth, free thought will give us truth." The Republican party is the
first party that said to every man, "Think for yourself, and express
that thought." I am a free man. I belong to the Republican party. This
is a free country. I will think my thought. I will speak my thought or
die. I say the Republican party is for free labor.

Free labor has invented all the machines that ever added to the power,
added to the wealth, added to the leisure, added to the civilization of
mankind. Every convenience, everything of use, everything of beauty in
the world, we owe to free labor and to free thought. Free labor, free
thought!

Science took the thunderbolt from the gods, and in the electric spark,
freedom, with thought, with intelligence and with love, sweeps under all
the waves of the sea; science, free thought, took a tear from the cheek
of unpaid labor, converted it into steam, and created the giant that
turns, with tireless arms, the countless wheels of toil.

The Republican party, I say, believes in free labor. Every solitary
thing, every solitary improvement made in the United States has been
made by the Republican party. Every reform accomplished was inaugurated,
and was accomplished by the great, grand, glorious Republican party.

The Republican party does not say: "Let bygones be bygones." The
Republican party is proud of the past and confident of the future. The
Republican party brings its record before you and implores you to read
every page, every paragraph, every line and every shining word. On the
first page you will find it written: "Slavery has cursed American soil
long enough;" on the same page you will find it written: "Slavery
shall go no farther." On the same page you will find it written: "The
bloodhounds shall not drip their gore upon another inch of American
soil." On the second page you will find it written: "This is a Nation,
not a Confederacy; every State belongs to every citizen, and no State
has a right to take territory belonging to any citizens in the United
States and set up a separate Government." On the third page you will
find the grandest declaration ever made in this country: "Slavery shall
be extirpated from the American soil." On the next page: "The Rebellion
shall be put down." On the next page: "The Rebellion has been put down."
On the next page: "Slavery has been extirpated from the American soil."
On the next page: "The freedmen shall not be vagrants; they shall be
citizens." On the next page: "They are citizens." On the next page: "The
ballot shall be put in their hands;" and now we will write on the next
page: "Every citizen that has a ballot in his hand, by the gods! shall
have a right to cast that ballot." That in short, that in brief, is the
history of the Republican party. The Republican party says, and it means
what it says: "This shall be a free country forever; every man in it
twenty-one years of age shall have the right to vote for the Government
of his choice, and if any man endeavors to interfere with that right,
the Government of the United States will see to it that the right of
every American citizen is protected at the polls."

Now, my friends, there is one thing that troubles the average Democrat,
and that is the idea that somehow, in some way, the negro will get to be
the better man. It is the trouble in the South to-day. And I say to my
Southern friends (and I admit that there are a great many good men in
the South, but the bad men are in an overwhelming majority; the great
mass of the population is vicious, violent, virulent and malignant; the
great mass of the population is cruel, revengeful, idle, hateful,) and
I tell that population: "If you do not go to work, the negro, by his
patient industry, will pass you." In the long run, the nation that is
honest, the people who are industrious, will pass the people who are
dishonest, and the people who are idle, no matter how grand an ancestry
they may have had, and so I say, Mr. Northern Democrat, look out!

The superior man is the man that loves his fellow-man; the superior man
is the useful man; the superior man is the kind man, the man who lifts
up his down-trodden brothers; and the greater the load of human sorrow
and human want you can get in your arms, the easier you can climb
the great hill of fame. The superior man is the man who loves his
fellow-man. And let me say right here, the good men, the superior
men, the grand men are brothers the world over, no matter what their
complexion may be; centuries may separate them, yet they are hand in
hand; and all the good, and all the grand, and all the superior men,
shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, are fighting the great battle for
the progress of mankind.

I pity the man, I execrate and hate the man who has only to boast that
he is white. Whenever I am reduced to that necessity, I believe shame
will make me red instead of white. I believe another thing. If I cannot
hoe my row, I will not steal corn from the fellow that hoes his row. If
I belong to the superior race, I will be so superior that I can make my
living without stealing from the inferior. I am perfectly willing that
any Democrat in the world that can, shall pass me. I have never seen one
yet, except when I looked over my shoulder. But if they can pass I shall
be delighted.

Whenever we stand in the presence of genius, we take off our hats.
Whenever we stand in the presence of the great, we do involuntary homage
in spite of ourselves. Any one who can go by is welcome, any one in the
world; but until somebody does go by, of the Democratic persuasion,
I shall not trouble myself about the fact that may be, in some future
time, they may get by. The Democrats are afraid of being passed, because
they are being passed.

No man ever was, no man ever will be, the superior of the man whom he
robs. No man ever was, no man ever will be, the superior of the man he
steals from. I had rather be a slave than a slave-master. I had rather
be stolen from than be a thief. I had rather be the wronged than the
wrong-doer. And allow me to say again to impress it forever upon every
man that hears me, you will always be the inferior of the man you wrong.
Every race is inferior to the race it tramples upon and robs. There
never was a man that could trample upon human rights and be superior
to the man upon whom he trampled. And let me say another thing: No
government can stand upon the crushed rights of one single human being;
and any compromise that we make with the South, if we make it at the
expense of our friends, will carry in its own bosom the seeds of its
own death and destruction, and cannot stand. A government founded upon
anything except liberty and justice cannot and ought not to stand. All
the wrecks on either side of the stream of time, all the wrecks of the
great cities and nations that have passed away—all are a warning that
no nation founded upon injustice can stand. From sand-enshrouded Egypt,
from the marble wilderness of Athens, from every fallen, crumbling stone
of the once mighty Rome, comes as it were a wail, comes as it were the
cry, "No nation founded upon injustice can permanently stand." We must
found this Nation anew. We must fight our fight. We must cling to our
old party until there is freedom of speech in every part of the United
States. We must cling to the old party until I can speak in every State
of the South as every Southerner can speak in every State of the North.
We must vote the grand old Republican ticket until there is the same
liberty in every Southern State that there is in every Northern, Eastern
and Western State. We must stand by the party until every Southern man
will admit that this country belongs to every citizen of the United
States as much as to the man that is born in that country. One more
thing. I do not want any man that ever fought for this country to vote
the Democratic ticket. You will swap your respectability for disgrace.
There are thousands of you—great, grand, splendid men—that have fought
grandly for this Union, and now I beseech of you, I beg of you, do not
give respectability to the enemies and haters of your country. Do not
do it. Do not vote with the Democratic party, of the North. Sometimes
I think a rebel sympathizer in the North worse than a rebel, and I will
tell you why. The rebel was carried into the rebellion by public opinion
at home,—his father, his mother, his sweetheart, his brother, and
everybody he knew; and there was a kind of wind, a kind of tornado, a
kind of whirlwind that took him into the army. He went on the rebel side
with his State. The Northern Democrat went against his own State; went
against his own Government; and went against public opinion at home. The
Northern Democrat rowed up stream against wind and tide. The Southern
rebel went with the current; the Northern rebel rowed against the
current from pure, simple cussedness.

And I beg every man that ever fought for the Union, every man that ever
bared his breast to a storm of shot and shell, that the old flag might
float over every inch of American soil redeemed from the clutch of
treason; I beg him, I implore him, do not go with the Democratic party.
And to every young man within the sound of my voice I say, do not tie
your bright and shining prospects to that old corpse of Democracy. You
will get tired of dragging it around. Do not cast your first vote
with the enemies of your country. Do not cast your first vote with the
Democratic party that was glad when the Union army was defeated. Do not
cast your vote with that party whose cheeks flushed with the roses of
joy when the old flag was trailed in disaster upon the field of battle.
Remember, my friends, that that party did every mean thing it could,
every dishonest and treasonable thing it could. Recollect that that
party did all it could to divide this Nation, and destroy this country.

For myself I have no fear; Hayes and Wheeler will be the next President
and Vice-President of the United States of America. Let me beg of
you—let me implore you—let me beseech you, every man, to come out on
election day. Every man, do your duty; every man do his duty with regard
to the State ticket of the great and glorious State of Illinois.

This year we need Republicans; this year we need men that will vote for
the party; and I tell you that a Republican this year, no matter what
you have against him, no matter whether you like him or do not like him,
is better for the country, no matter how much you hate him, he is better
for the country than any Democrat Nature can make, or ever has made.

We must, in this supreme election, we must at this supreme moment, vote
only for the men who are in favor of keeping this Government in
the power, in the custody, in the control of the great, the sublime
Republican party.

Ladies and gentlemen, if I were insensible to the honor you have done me
by this magnificent meeting—the most magnificent I ever saw on earth—a
meeting such as only the marvelous City of Pluck could produce; if I
were insensible of the honor, I would be made of stone. I shall remember
it with delight; I shall remember it with thankfulness all the days of
my life. And I ask in return of every Republican here to remember all
the days of his life, every sacrifice made by this nation for liberty;
every sacrifice made by every private soldier, every sacrifice made by
every patriotic man and patriotic woman.

I do not ask you to remember in revenge, but I ask you never, never to
forget. As the world swings through the constellations year after year,
I want the memory, I want the patriotic memory of this country to sit
by the grave of every Union soldier, and, while her eyes are filled with
tears, to crown him again and again with the crown of everlasting
honor. I thank you, I thank you, ladies and gentlemen, a thousand times.
Good-night.

> Note:—There was no full report made of this speech, the
> above are simply extracts.
---
# Cooper Union Speech
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1876_
> *Col. Robert G. Ingersoll of Illinois last night, at Cooper
> Union, spoke on the political issues of the day, at unusual
> length, to the largest and most enthusiastic audience which,
> during the last ten years, any single speaker has attracted.
> His address was in his happiest epigrammatic style, and was
> interrupted every few moments either by the most uproarious
> laughter or enthusiastic cheering. It is no exaggeration to
> say that the meeting was the largest Cooper Institute has
> seen since the war. Not merely the main hall was filled, but
> the wide corridor in Third Avenue, the entrance hall in
> Eighth Street, and every Committee-room to which his voice
> could reach, though the speaker was unseen, were crowded—in
> fact, literally packed. Half an hour before the hour named
> for the organization of the meeting, admission to the body
> of the hall was almost impossible; and selected officers,
> and the speaker of the evening himself had to beg their way
> to the platform. The latter was as painfully crowded with
> invited guests as the body of the hall; and ingress was
> impossible after the speaker began, and egress was almost as
> difficult owing to the pressure in the committee-room
> through which the platform is approached.

> Not only in numbers alone, but in the prominence of the
> persons present, was the meeting impressive. Besides the
> usual large quota of active politicians always seen at such
> meetings, there were seen numbers of leading merchants,
> financiers, and lawyers of New York, prominent officials not
> only of the City but the State and National Government.

> The speech was nearly two hours In length, but as the
> interruptions were frequent, indeed almost continuous, it
> seemed very short, and when Mr. Ingersoll concluded his fire
> of epigrams, there were loud calls and appeals to him to go
> on. There were suggestions by some of the managers, of other
> speakers who might follow him, but the presiding officer
> wisely decided to submit no other speaker to the too severe
> test of speaking on the same occasion with Mr. Ingersoll.

> Chauncey M. Depew, on leaving the hall, remarked that it was
> the greatest speech he ever heard, and numbers of old
> campaigners were equally enthusiastic. At its conclusion,
> the reception which Mr. Ingersoll held on the platform
> lasted over half-an-hour, and when finally Commissioner
> Wheeler piloted him through the crowd to his coach, three or
> four hundred of the audience followed and gave him lusty
> cheers as he drove off.—New York Tribune, September
> 11,1876.

## Hayes Campaign

1876.

I AM just on my way home from the grand old State of Maine, and there
has followed me a telegraphic dispatch which I will read to you. If it
were not good, you may swear I would not read it: "Every Congressional
district, every county in Maine, Republican by a large majority. The
victory is overwhelming, and the majority will exceed 15,000." That
dispatch is signed by that knight-errant of political chivalry, James G.
Blaine.

I suppose we are all stockholders in the great corporation known as the
United States of America, and as such stockholders we have a right to
vote the way we think will best subserve our own interests. Each one has
certain stock in this Government, whether he is rich, or whether he is
poor, and the poor man has the same interest in the United States of
America that the richest man in it has. It is our duty, conscientiously
and honestly, to hear the argument upon both sides of the political
question, and then go and vote conscientiously for the side that we
believe will best preserve our interest in the United States of America.
Two great parties are before you now asking your support—the Democratic
party and the Republican party. One wishes to be kept in power, the
other wishes to have a chance once more at the Treasury of the United
States. The Democratic party is probably the hungriest organization that
ever wandered over the desert of political disaster in the history of
the world. There never was, in all probability, a political stomach
so thoroughly empty, or an appetite so outrageously keen as the one
possessed by the Democratic party. The Democratic party has been howling
like a pack of wolves looking in with hungry and staring eyes at the
windows of the National Capitol, and scratching at the doors of the
White House. They have been engaged in these elegant pursuits for
sixteen long, weary years. Occasionally they have retired to some
convenient eminence and lugubriously howled about the Constitution.
The Democratic party comes and asks for your vote, not on account of
anything it has done, not on account of anything it has accomplished,
but on account of what it promises to do; the Democratic party can make
just as good a promise as any other party in the world, and it will
come farther from fulfilling it than any other party on this globe. The
Republican party having held this Government for sixteen years, proposes
to hold it for four years more. The Republican party comes to you with
its record open, and asks every man, woman and child in this broad
country to read its every word. And I say to you, that there is not a
line, a paragraph, or a page of that record that is not only an honor
to the Republican party, but to the human race. On every page of that
record is written some great and glorious action, done either for the
liberty of man, or the preservation of our common country. We ask every
body to read its every word. The Democratic party comes before you with
its record closed, recording every blot and blur, and stain and treason,
and slander and malignity, and asks you not to read a single word, but
to be kind enough to take its infamous promises for the future.

Now, my friends, I propose to tell you, to-night, something that has
been done by the Democratic party, and then allow you to judge for
yourselves. Now, if a man came to you, you owning a steamboat on the
Hudson River, and he wished to hire out to you as an engineer, and you
inquired about him, and found he had blown up and destroyed and wrecked
every steamboat he had ever been engineer on, and you should tell him:
"I can't hire you; you blew up such an engine, you wrecked such a ship,"
he would say to you, "My Lord! Mister, you must let bygones be bygones."
If a man came to your bank, or came to a solitary individual here to
borrow a hundred dollars, and you went and inquired about him and found
he never paid a note in his life, found he was a dead-beat, and you say
to him, "I cannot loan you money." "Why?" "Because, I have ascertained
you never pay your debts." "Ah, yes," he says, "you are no gentleman
going prying into a man's record," I tell you, my good friends, a good
character rests upon a record, and not upon a prospectus, a good record
rests upon a deed accomplished, and not upon a promise, a good character
rests upon something really done, and not upon a good resolution, and
you cannot make a good character in a day. If you could, Tilden would
have one to-morrow night.

I propose now to tell you, my friends, a little of the history of the
Republican party, also a little of the history of the Democratic party.

And first, the Republican party. The United States of America is a free
country, it is the only free country upon this earth; it is the only
republic that was ever established among men. We have read, we have
heard, of the republics of Greece, of Egypt, of Venice; we have heard of
the free cities of Europe. There never was a republic of Venice; there
never was a republic of Rome; there never was a republic of Athens;
there never was a free city in Europe; there never was a government not
cursed with caste; there never was a government not cursed with slavery;
there never was a country not cursed with almost every infamy, until the
Republican party of the United States made this a free country. It is
the first party in the world that contended that the respectable man was
the useful man; it is the first party in the world that said, without
regard to previous conditions, without regard to race, every human being
is entitled to life, to liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and it is
the only party in the world that has endeavored to carry those sublime
principles into actual effect. Every other party has been allied to
some piece of rascality; every other party has been patched up with some
thieving, larcenous, leprous compromise. The Republican party keeps
its forehead in the grand dawn of perpetual advancement; the Republican
party is the party of reason; it is the party of argument; it is
the party of education; it believes in free schools, it believes in
scientific schools; it believes that the schools are for the public and
all the public; it believes that science never should be interfered with
by any sectarian influence whatever.

The Republican party is in favor of science; the Republican party, as
I said before, is the party of reason; it argues; it does not mob; it
reasons; it does not murder; it persuades you, not with the shot gun,
not with tar and feathers, but with good sound reason, and argument.

In order for you to ascertain what the Republican party has done for us,
let us refresh ourselves a little; we all know it, but it is well enough
to hear it now and then. Let us then refresh our recollection a little,
in order to understand what the grand and great Republican party has
accomplished in the land.

We will consider, in the first place, the condition of the country when
the Republican party was born. When this Republican party was born there
was upon the statute books of the United States of America a law known
as the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850, by which every man in the State of
New York was made by law a bloodhound, and could be set and hissed upon
a negro, who was simply attempting to obtain his birthright of freedom,
just as you would set a dog upon a wolf. That was the Fugitive Slave Law
of 1850. Around the neck of every man it put a collar as on a dog, but
it had not the decency to put the man's name on the collar. I said in
the State of Maine, and several other States, and expect to say it again
although I hurt the religious sentiment of the Democratic party, and
shocked the piety of that organization by saying it, but I did say then,
and now say, that the Fugitive Slave Law in 1850 would have disgraced
hell in its palmiest days.

I tell you, my friends, you do not know how easy it is to shock the
religious sentiments of the Democratic party; there is a deep and pure
vein of piety running through that organization; it has been for years
spiritually inclined; there is probably no organization in the world
that really will stand by any thing of a spiritual character, at least
until it is gone, as that Democratic party will. Everywhere I have been
I have crushed their religious hopes. You have no idea how sorry I am
that I hurt their feelings so upon the subject of religion. Why, I did
not suppose that they cared anything about Christianity, but I have been
deceived. I now find that they do, and I have done what no other man in
the United States ever did—I have made the Democratic party come to the
defence of Christianity. I have made the Democratic party use what
time they could spare between drinks in quoting Scripture. But
notwithstanding the fact that I have shocked the religious sentiment
of that party, I do not want them to defend Christianity any more; they
will bring it into universal contempt if they do. Yes, yes, they will
make the words honesty and reform a stench in the nostrils of honest
men. They made the words of the Constitution stand almost for treason,
during the entire war, and every decent word that passes the ignorant,
leprous, malignant lips of the Democratic party, becomes dishonored from
that day forth.

At the same time, in 1850, when the Fugitive Slave Law was passed, in
nearly all of the Western States, there was a law by which the virtues
of pity and hospitality became indictable offences. There was a law by
which the virtue of charity became a crime, and the man who performed
a kindness could be indicted, imprisoned, and fined. It was the law of
Illinois—of my own State—that if one gave a drop of cold water, or a
crust of bread, to a fugitive from slavery, he could be indicted, fined
and imprisoned, under the infamous slave law of 1850, under the infamous
black laws of the Western States.

At the time the Republican party was born, (and I have told this many
times) if a woman ninety-nine one-hundredths white had escaped from
slavery, carrying her child on her bosom, having gone through morass and
brush and thorns and thickets, had crossed creeks and rivers, and had
finally got within one step of freedom, with the light of the North
star shining in her tear-filled eyes—with her child upon her withered
breast—it would have been an indictable offence to have given her a
drop of water or a crust of bread; not only that, but under the slave
law of 1850, it was the duty of every Northern citizen claiming to be a
free man, to clutch that woman and hand her back to the dominion of her
master and to the Democratic lash. The Democrats are sorry that those
laws have been repealed. The Republican party with the mailed hand
of war tore from the statute books of the United States, and from the
statute books of each State, every one of those infamous, hellish laws,
and trampled them beneath her glorious feet.

Such laws are infamous beyond expression; one would suppose they had
been passed by a Legislature, the lower house of which were hyenas, the
upper house snakes, and the executive a cannibal king. The institution
of slavery had polluted, had corrupted the church, not only in the
South, but a large proportion of the church in the North; so that
ministers stood up in their pulpits here in New York and defended the
very infamy that I have mentioned. Not only that, but the Presbyterians,
South, in 1863, met in General Synod, and passed two resolutions.

The first resolution read, "Resolved, that slavery is a divine
institution" (and as the boy said, "so is hell").

_Second_, "Resolved, that God raised up the Presbyterian Church, South,
to protect and perpetuate that institution."

Well, all I have to say is that, if God did this, he never chose a more
infamous instrument to carry out a more diabolical object. What more had
slavery done? At that time it had corrupted the very courts, so that in
nearly every State in this Union if a Democrat had gone to the hut of
a poor negro, and had shot down his wife and children before his very
eyes, had strangled the little dimpled babe in the cradle, there was no
court before which this negro could come to give testimony. He was not
allowed to go before a magistrate and indict the murderer; he was not
allowed to go before a grand jury and swear an indictment against the
wretch. Justice was not only blind, but deaf; and that was the idea
of justice in the South, when the Republican party was born. When the
Republican party was born the bay of the bloodhound was the music of the
Union; when this party was born the dome of our Capitol at Washington
cast its shadow upon slave-pens in which crouched and shuddered women
from whose breasts their babes had been torn by wretches who are now
crying for honesty and reform. When the Republican party was born,
a bloodhound was considered as one of the instrumentalities of
republicanism. When the Republican party was born, the church had made
the cross of Christ a whipping-post. When the Republican party was
born, courts of the United States had not the slightest idea of justice,
provided a black man was on the other side. When this party came into
existence, if a negro had a plot of ground and planted corn in it, and
the rain had fallen upon it, and the dew had lain lovingly upon it, and
the arrows of light shot from the exhaustless quiver of the sun, had
quickened the blade, and the leaves waved in the perfumed air of June,
and it finally ripened into the full ear in the golden air of autumn,
the courts of the United States did not know to whom the corn belonged,
and if a Democrat had driven the negro off and shucked the corn, and
that case had been left to the Supreme Court of many of the States in
this Union, they would have read all the authorities, they would have
heard all the arguments, they would have heard all the speeches, then
pushed their spectacles back on their bald and brainless heads and
decided, all things considered, the Democrat was entitled to that
corn. We pretended at that time to be a free country; it was a lie. We
pretended at that time to do justice in our courts; it was a lie, and
above all our pretence and hypocrisy rose the curse of slavery, like
Chimborazo above the clouds.

Now, my friends, what is there about this great Republican party? It is
the party of intellectual freedom. It is one thing to bind the hands of
men; it is one thing to steal the results of physical labor of men, but
it is a greater crime to forge fetters for the souls of men. I am a free
man; I will do my own thinking or die; I give a mortgage on my soul to
nobody; I give a deed of trust on my soul to nobody; no matter whether I
think well or I think ill; whatever thought I have shall be my thought,
and shall be a free thought, and I am going to give cheerfully, gladly,
the same right to thus think to every other human being.

I despise any man who does not own himself. I despise any man who does
not possess his own spirit. I would rather die a beggar, covered with
rags, with my soul erect, fearless and free, than to live a king in a
palace of gold, clothed with the purple of power, with my soul slimy
with hypocrisy, crawling in the dust of fear. I will do my own thinking,
and when I get it thought, I will say it. These are the splendid things,
my friends, about the Republican party; intellectual and physical
liberty for all.

Now, my friends, I have told you a little about the Republican party.
Now, I will tell you a little more about the Republican party. When that
party came into power it elected Abraham Lincoln President of the United
States. I live in the State that holds within its tender embrace the
sacred ashes of Abraham Lincoln, the best, the purest man that was
ever President of the United States. I except none. When he was elected
President of the United States, the Democratic party said: "We will not
stand it;" the Democratic party South said: "We will not bear it;" and
the Democratic party North said: "You ought not to bear it."

James Buchanan was then President. James Buchanan read the Constitution
of the United States, or a part of it, and read several platforms made
by the Democratic party, and gave it as his deliberate opinion that a
State had a right to go out of the Union. He gave it as his deliberate
opinion that this was a Confederacy and not a Nation, and when he said
that, there was another little, dried up, old bachelor sitting over in
the amen corner of the political meeting and he squeaked out: "That is
my opinion too," and the name of that man was Samuel J. Tilden.

The Democratic party then and now says that the Union is simply a
Confederacy; but I want this country to be a Nation. I want to live in
a great and splendid country. A great nation makes a great people. Your
surroundings have something to do with it. Great plains, magnificent
rivers, great ranges of mountains, a country washed by two oceans—all
these things make us great and grand as the continent on which we live.
The war commenced, and the moment the war commenced the whole country
was divided into two parties. No matter what they had been
before, whether Democrats, Freesoilers, Republicans, old Whigs, or
Abolitionists—the whole country divided into two parties—the friends
and enemies of the country—patriots and traitors, and they so continued
until the Rebellion was put down. I cheerfully admit that thousands
of Democrats went into the army, and that thousands of Democrats were
patriotic men. I cheerfully admit that thousands of them thought more of
their country than they did of the Democratic party, and they came with
us to fight for the country, and I honor every one of them from the
bottom of my heart, and nineteen out of twenty of them have voted the
Republican ticket from that day to this. Some of them came back and went
to the Democratic party again and are still in that party; I have not
a word to say against them, only this: They are swapping off
respectability for disgrace. They give to the Democratic party all the
respectability it has, and the Democratic party gives to them all the
disgrace they have.

Democratic soldier, come out of the Democratic party. There was a man in
my State got mad at the railroad and would not ship his hogs on it, so
he drove them to Chicago, and it took him so long to get them there that
the price had fallen; when he came back, they laughed at him, and said
to him, "You didn't make much, did you, driving your hogs to Chicago?"
"No," he said, "I didn't make anything except the company of the hogs on
the way." Soldier of the Republic, I say, with the Democratic party all
you can make is the company of the hogs on the way down. Come out, come
out and leave them alone in their putridity—in their rottenness. Leave
them alone. Do not try to put a new patch on an old garment. Leave them
alone. I tell you the Democratic party must be left alone; it must be
left to enjoy the primal curse, "On thy belly shalt thou crawl and dust
shalt thou eat all the days of thy life," O Democratic party.

Now, my friends, I need not tell you how we put down the Rebellion. You
all know. I need not describe to you the battles you fought. I need not
tell you of the men who sacrificed their lives. I need not tell you of
the old men who are still waiting for footsteps that never will return.
I need not tell you of the women who are waiting for the return of their
loved ones. I need not tell you of all these things. You know we put
down the Rebellion; we fought until the old flag triumphed over every
inch of American soil redeemed from the clutch of treason.

Now, my friends, what was the Democratic party doing when the Republican
party was doing these splendid things? When, the Republican party said
this was a nation; when the Republican party said we shall be free;
when the Republican party said slavery shall be extirpated from American
soil; when the Republican party said the negro shall be a citizen, and
the citizen shall have the ballot, and the citizen shall have the right
to cast that ballot for the government of his choice peaceably—what was
the Democratic party doing?

I will tell you a few things that the Democratic party has done within
the last sixteen years. In the first place, they were not willing that
this country should be saved unless slavery could be saved with it.
There never was a Democrat, North or South—and by Democrat I mean the
fellows who stuck to the party all during the war, the ones that stuck
to the party after it was a disgrace; the ones that stuck to the party
from simple, pure cussedness—there never was one who did not think
more of the institution of slavery than he did of the Government of the
United States; not one that I ever saw or read of. And so they said to
us for all those years: "If you can save the Union with slavery, and
without any help from us, we are willing you should do it; but we do not
propose that this shall be an abolition war." So the Democratic
party from the first said, "An effort to preserve this Union is
unconstitutional," and they made a breastwork of the Constitution for
rebels to get behind and shoot down loyal men, so that the first charge
I lay at the feet of the Democratic party, the first charge I make in
the indictment, is that they thought more of slavery than of liberty and
of this Union, and in my judgment they are in the same condition this
moment. The next thing they did was to discourage enlistments in the
North. They did all in their power to prevent any man's going into the
army to assist in putting down the Rebellion. And that grand reformer
and statesman, Samuel J. Tilden, gave it as his opinion that the South
could sue, and that every soldier who put his foot on sacred Southern
soil would be a trespasser, and could be sued before a Justice of the
Peace. The Democratic party met in their conventions in every State
North, and denounced the war as an abolition war, and Abraham Lincoln
as a tyrant. What more did they do? They went into partnership with
the rebels. They said to the rebels just as plainly as though they had
spoken it: "Hold on, hold out, hold hard, fight hard, until we get the
political possession of the North, and then you can go in peace."

What more? A man by the name of Jacob Thompson—a nice man and a good
Democrat, who thinks that of all the men to reform the Government Samuel
J. Tilden is the best man—Jacob Thompson had the misfortune to be
a very vigorous Democrat, and I will show you what I mean by that. A
Democrat during the war who had a musket—you understand, a musket—he
was a rebel, and during the war a rebel that did not have a musket was
a Democrat. I call Mr. Thompson a vigorous Democrat, because he had a
musket. Jacob Thompson was the rebel agent in Canada, and when he went
there he took between six and seven hundred thousand dollars for the
purpose of co-operating with the Northern Democracy. He got himself
acquainted with and in connection with the Democratic party in Ohio, in
Indiana, and in Illinois. The vigorous Democrats, the real Democrats,
in these States had organized themselves under the heads of "Sons of
Liberty," "Knights of the Golden Circle," "Order of the Star," and
various other beautiful names, and their object was to release rebel
prisoners from Camp Chase, Camp Douglass in Chicago, and from one camp
in Indianapolis and another camp at Rock Island. Their object was to
raise a fire in the rear, as they called it—in other words, to burn
down the homes of Union soldiers while they were in the front fighting
for the honor of their country. That was their object, and they put
themselves in connection with Jacob Thompson. They were to have an
uprising on the 16th of August, 1864. It was thought best to hold a few
public meetings for the purpose of arousing the public mind. They held
the first meeting in the city of Peoria, where I live. That was August
3rd, 1864. Here they came from every part of the State, and were
addressed by the principal Democratic politicians in Illinois.

To that meeting Fernando Wood addressed a letter, in which he said that
although absent in body he should be present in spirit. George Pendleton
of Ohio, George Pugh of the same State, Seymour of Connecticut, and
various other Democratic gentlemen, sent acknowledgments and expressions
of regret to this Democratic meeting that met at this time for the
purpose of organizing an uprising among the Democratic party. I saw that
meeting, and heard some of their speeches. They denounced the war as an
abolition nigger war. They denounced Abraham Lincoln as a tyrant. They
carried transparencies that said, "Is there money enough in the land to
pay this nigger debt? Arouse, brothers, and hurl the tyrant Lincoln from
the throne." And the men that promulgated that very thing are running
for the most important political offices in the country, on the ground
of honesty and reform. And Jacob Thompson says that he furnished the
money to pay the expenses of that Democratic meeting. They were all paid
by rebel gold, by Jacob Thompson. He has on file the voucher from these
Democratic gentlemen in favor of Tilden and Hendricks. The next meetings
were held in Springfield, Illinois, and Indianapolis, Indiana, the
expenses of which were paid in the same way. They shipped to one town
these weapons of our destruction in boxes labeled Sunday school books!

That same rebel agent, Jacob Thompson, hired a Democrat by the name
of Churchill to burn the city of Cincinnati, Ohio, and Thompson coolly
remarked: "I don't think he has had much luck, as I have only heard of a
_few_ fires."

In Indianapolis a man named Dodds was arrested—a sound Democrat—so
sound that the Government had to take him by the nape of the neck and
put him in Fort Lafayette. The convention of Democrats then met in the
city of Chicago, and declared the war a failure. There never was a more
infamous lie on this earth than when the Democratic convention declared
in 1864 that the war was a failure. It was but a few days afterward that
the roar of Grants cannon announced that a lie. Rise from your graves,
Union soldiers, one and all, that fell in support of your country—rise
from your graves, and lift your skeleton hands on high, and swear that
when the Democratic party resolved that the war for the preservation
of your country was a failure, that the Democratic party was a vast
aggregated liar. Well, we grew magnanimous, and let Dodds out of Fort
Lafayette; and where do you suppose Dodds is now? He is in Wisconsin.
What do you suppose Dodds is doing? Making speeches. Whom for? Tilden
and Hendricks—"Honesty and reform!" This same Jacob Thompson, Democrat,
hired men to burn New York, and they did set fire in some twenty places,
and they used Greek fire, as he said in his letter, and ingenuously
adds: "I shall never hereafter advise the use of Greek fire." They
knew that in the smoke and ruins would be found the charred remains of
mothers and children, and that the flames leaping like serpents would
take the child from the mothers arms, and they were ready to do it to
preserve the infamous institution of slavery; and the Democratic party
has never objected to it from that day to this. They burned steamboats,
and many men with them, and the hounds that did it are skulking in the
woods of Missouri. While these things were going on, Democrats in the
highest positions said: "Not one cent to prosecute the war."

The next question we have to consider is about paying the debt. This
is the first question. The second question is the protection of the
citizen, whether he is white or black. We owe a large debt. Two-thirds
of that debt was incurred in consequence of the action and the meanness
of the Democrats. There are some people who think that you can defer
the payment of a promise so long that the postponement of the debt will
serve in lieu of its liquidation—that you pay your debts by putting off
your creditors.

The people have to support the Government; the Government cannot support
the people. The Government has no money but what it received from the
people. It had therefore to borrow money to carry on the war. Every
greenback that it issued was a forced loan. My notes are not a legal
tender, though if I had the power I might possibly make them so. We
borrowed money and we have to pay the debt. That debt represents the
expenses of war. The horses and the gunpowder and the rifles and the
artillery are represented in that debt—it represents all the munitions
of war. Until we pay that debt we can never be a solvent nation. Until
our net profits amount to as much as we lost during the war we can never
be a solvent people. If a man cannot understand that, there is no use in
talking to him on the subject. The alchemists in olden times who fancied
that they could make gold out of nothing were not more absurd than the
American advocates of soft money. They resemble the early explorers of
our continent who lost years in searching for the fountain of eternal
youth, but the ear of age never caught the gurgle of that spring. We
all have heard of men who spent years of labor in endeavoring to produce
perpetual motion. They produced machines of the most ingenious character
with cogs and wheels, and pulleys without number, but these ingenious
machines had one fault, they would not go. You will never find a way to
make money out of nothing. It is as great nonsense as the fountain of
perpetual youth. You cannot do it.

Gold is the best material which labor has yet found as a measure of
value. That measure of value must be as valuable as the object it
measures.

The value of gold arises from the amount of labor expended in producing
it. A gold dollar will buy as much labor as produced that dollar.

> [Here the speaker opened a telegram from Maine, which he
> read to the audience amid a perfect tempest of applause. It
> contained the following words:] "We have triumphed by an
> immense majority, something we have not achieved since
> 1868." [The speaker resumed.] And this despatch is signed by
> the man who clutched the throats of the Democrats and held
> them until they grew black in the face, James G. Blaine. ***

Now, gentlemen, to pass from the financial part of this, and I will say
one word before I do it. The Republican party intends to pay its debts
in coin on the 1st of January, 1879. Paper money means probably the
payment of the Confederate debt; a metallic currency, the discharge of
honest obligations. We have touched hard-pan prices in this country, and
we want to do a hard-pan business with hard money.

We now come to the protection of our citizens. A government that cannot
protect its citizens, at home and abroad, ought to be swept from the map
of the world. The Democrats tell you that they will protect any citizen
if he is only away from home, but if he is in Louisiana or any other
State in the Union, the Government is powerless to protect him. I say
a government has a right to protect every citizen at home as well as
abroad, and the Government has the right to take its soldiers across
the State line, to take its soldiers into any State, for the purpose of
protecting even one man. That is my doctrine with regard to the power of
the Government. But here comes a Democrat to-day and tells me, (and
it is the old doctrine of secession in disguise), that the State of
Louisiana must protect its own citizens, and that if it does not, the
General Government has nothing to do unless the Governor of that State
asks assistance, no matter whether anarchy prevails or not. That is
infamous. The United States has the right to draft you and me into the
army and compel us to serve there, if its powers are being usurped. It
is the duty of this Government to see to it that every citizen has
all his rights in every State in this Union, and to protect him in the
enjoyment of those rights, peaceably if it can, forcibly if it must.

Democrats tell us that they treat the colored man very well. I have
frequently read stories relating how two white men were passing along
the road when suddenly they were set upon by ten or twelve negroes, who
sought their lives; but in the fight which ensued, the ten or twelve
negroes were killed, and not a white man hurt. I tell you it is
infamous, and the Democratic press of the North laughs at it, and Mr.
Samuel J. Tilden does not care. He knows that many of the Southern
States are to be carried by assassination and murder, and he knows that
if he is elected it will be by assassination and murder. It is infamous
beyond the expression of language. Now, I ask you which party will be
the most likely to preserve the liberty of the negro—the party who
fought for slavery, or the men who gave them freedom? These are the
two great questions—the payment of the debt, and the protection of our
citizens. My friends, we have to pay the debt, as I told you, but it is
of greater importance to make sacred American citizenship.

Now, these two parties have a couple of candidates. The Democratic
party has put forward Mr. Samuel J. Tilden. Mr. Tilden is a Democrat who
belongs to the Democratic party of the city of New York; the worst party
ever organized in any civilized country. I wish you could see it. The
pugilists, the prizefighters, the plug-uglies, the fellows that run with
the "masheen;" nearly every nose is mashed, about half the ears have
been chawed off; and of whatever complexion they are, their eyes are
nearly always black. They have fists like tea-kettles and heads like
bullets. I wish you could see them. I have been in New York every few
weeks for fifteen years; and whenever I am here I see the old banner of
Tammany Hall, "Tammany Hall and Reform;" "John Morrissey and Reform;"
"John Kelley and Reform;" "William M. Tweed and Reform;" and the
other day I saw the same old flag; "Samuel J. Tilden and Reform."
The Democratic party of the city of New York never had but two
objects—grand and petit larceny. Tammany Hall bears the same relation
to the penitentiary that the Sunday school does to the church.

I have heard that the Democratic party got control of the city when it
did not owe a dollar, and have stolen and stolen until it owes a hundred
and sixty millions, and I understand that every election they have had
was a fraud, every one. I understand that they stole everything they
could lay their hands on; and what hands! Grasped and grasped and
clutched, until they stole all it was possible for the people to pay,
and now they are all yelling for "Honesty and Reform."

I understand that Samuel J. Tilden was a pupil in that school, and that
now he is the head teacher. I understand that when the war commenced
he said he would never aid in the prosecution of that old outrage. I
understand that he said in 1860 and in 1861 that the Southern States
could snap the tie of confederation as a nation would break a treaty,
and that they could repel coercion as a nation would repel invasion. I
understand that during the entire war he was opposed to its prosecution,
and that he was opposed to the Proclamation of Emancipation, and
demanded that the document be taken back. I understand that he regretted
to see the chains fall from the limbs of the colored man. I understand
that he regretted when the Constitution of the United States was
elevated and purified, pure as the driven snow. I understand that he
regretted when the stain was wiped from our flag and we stood before the
world the only pure Republic that ever existed. This is enough for me
to say about him, and since the news from Maine you need not waste your
time in talking about him.

> [A voice: "How about free schools?"]

I want every schoolhouse to be a temple of science in which shall be
taught the laws of nature, in which the children shall be taught actual
facts, and I do not want that schoolhouse touched, or that institution
of science touched, by any superstition whatever. Leave religion with
the church, with the family, and more than all, leave religion with each
individual heart and man.

Let every man be his own bishop, let every man be his own pope, let
every man do his own thinking, let every man have a brain of his own.
Let every man have a heart and conscience of his own.

We are growing better, and truer, and grander. And let me say, Mr.
Democrat, we are keeping the country for your children. We are keeping
education for your children. We are keeping the old flag floating for
your children; and let me say, as a prediction, there is only air enough
on this continent to float that one flag.

> Note.—This address was not revised by the author for
> publication.
---
# Decoration Day Address
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1888_
> * Empty sleeves worn by veterans with scanty locks and
> grizzled mustaches graced the Metropolitan Opera House last
> night. On the breasts of their faded uniforms glittered the
> badges of the legions in which they had fought and suffered,
> and beside them sat the wives and daughters, whose hearts
> had ached at home while they served their country at the
> front.

> Every seat in the great Opera House was filled, and hundreds
> stood, glad to And any place where they could see and hear.
> And the gathering and the proceedings were worthy of the
> occasion.

> Mr. Depew upon taking the chair said that he had the chief
> treat of the evening to present to the audience, and that
> was Robert G. Ingersoll, the greatest living orator, and one
> of the great controversialists of the age.

> Then came the orator of the occasion Col. Ingersoll, whose
> speech is printed herewith.

> Enthusiastic cheers greeted all his points, and his audience
> simply went wild at the end. It was a grand oration, and it
> was listened to by enthusiastic and appreciative hearers,
> upon whom not a single word was lost, and in whose hearts
> every word awoke a responsive echo.

> Nor did the enthusiasm which Col. Ingersoll created end
> until the very last, when the whole assemblage arose and
> sang "America" in a way which will never be forgotten by any
> one present. It was a great ending of a great evening.—The
> New York Times, May 31st, 1888.

New York City.

1888.

THIS is a sacred day—a day for gratitude and love.

To-day we commemorate more than independence, more than the birth of
a nation, more than the fruits of the Revolution, more than physical
progress, more than the accumulation of wealth, more than national
prestige and power.

We commemorate the great and blessed victory over ourselves—the triumph
of civilization, the reformation of a people, the establishment of a
government consecrated to the preservation of liberty and the equal
rights of man.

Nations can win success, can be rich and powerful, can cover the earth
with their armies, the seas with their fleets, and yet be selfish, small
and mean. Physical progress means opportunity for doing good. It means
responsibility. Wealth is the end of the despicable, victory the purpose
of brutality.

But there is something nobler than all these—something that rises above
wealth and power—something above lands and palaces—something above
raiment and gold—it is the love of right, the cultivation of the moral
nature, the desire to do justice, the inextinguishable love of human
liberty.

Nothing can be nobler than a nation governed by conscience, nothing more
infamous than power without pity, wealth without honor and without the
sense of justice.

Only by the soldiers of the right can the laurel be won or worn.

On this day we honor the heroes who fought to make our Nation just and
free—who broke the shackles of the slave, who freed the masters of the
South and their allies of the North. We honor chivalric men who made
America the hope and beacon of the human race—the foremost Nation of
the world.

These heroes established the first republic, and demonstrated that
a government in which the legally expressed will of the people is
sovereign and supreme is the safest, strongest, securest, noblest and
the best.

They demonstrated the human right of the people, and of all the people,
to make and execute the laws—that authority does not come from the
clouds, or from ancestry, or from the crowned and titled, or from
constitutions and compacts, laws and customs—not from the admissions of
the great, or the concessions of the powerful and victorious—not from
graves, or consecrated dust—not from treaties made between successful
robbers—not from the decisions of corrupt and menial courts—not from
the dead, but from the living—not from the past but from the present,
from the people of to-day—from the brain, from the heart and from the
conscience of those who live and love and labor.

The history of this world for the most part is the history of conflict
and war, of invasion, of conquest, of victorious wrong, of the many
enslaved by the few.

Millions have fought for kings, for the destruction and enslavement of
their fellow-men. Millions have battled for empire, and great armies
have been inspired by the hope of pillage; but for the first time in the
history of this world millions of men battled for the right, fought to
free not themselves, but others, not for prejudice, but for principle,
not for conquest, but for conscience.

The men whom we honor were the liberators of a Nation, of a whole
country, North and South—of two races. They freed the body and the
brain, gave liberty to master and to slave. They opened all the highways
of thought, and gave to fifty millions of people the inestimable legacy
of free speech.

They established the free exchange of thought. They gave to the air a
flag without a stain, and they gave to their country a Constitution
that honest men can reverently obey. They destroyed the hateful, the
egotistic and provincial—they established a Nation, a national spirit,
a national pride and a patriotism as broad as the great Republic.

They did away with that ignorant and cruel prejudice that human rights
depend on race or color, and that the superior race has the right
to oppress the inferior. They established the sublime truth that the
superior are the just, the kind, the generous, and merciful—that the
really superior are the protectors, the defenders, and the saviors of
the oppressed, of the fallen, the unfortunate, the weak and helpless.
They established that greatest of all truths that nothing is nobler than
to labor and suffer for others.

If we wish to know the extent of our debt to these heroes, these
soldiers of the right, we must know what we were and what we are. A few
years ago we talked about liberty, about the freedom of the world, and
while so talking we enslaved our fellow-men. We were the stealers
of babes and the whippers of women. We were in partnership with
bloodhounds. We lived on unpaid labor. We held manhood in contempt.
Honest toil was disgraceful—sympathy was a crime—pity was
unconstitutional—humanity contrary to law, and charity was treason. Men
were imprisoned for pointing out in heaven's dome the Northern Star—for
giving food to the hungry, water to the parched lips of thirst, shelter
to the hunted, succor to the oppressed. In those days criminals and
courts, pirates and pulpits were in partnership—liberty was only a
word standing for the equal rights of robbers.

For many years we insisted that our fathers had founded a free
Government, that they were the lovers of liberty, believers in equal
rights. We were mistaken. The colonists did not believe in the freedom
of to-day. Their laws were filled with intolerance, with slavery and
the infamous spirit of caste. They persecuted and enslaved. Most of them
were narrow, ignorant and cruel. For the most part, their laws were more
brutal than those of the nations from which they came. They branded the
forehead of intelligence, bored with hot irons the tongue of truth. They
persecuted the good and enslaved the helpless. They were believers in
pillories and whipping-posts for honest, thoughtful men.

When their independence was secured they adopted a Constitution that
legalized slavery, and they passed laws making it the duty of free men
to prevent others from becoming free. They followed the example of kings
and nobles. They knew that monarchs had been interested in the slave
trade, and that the first English commander of a slave-ship divided his
profits with a queen.

They forgot all the splendid things they had said—the great principles
they had so proudly and eloquently announced. The sublime truths faded
from their hearts. The spirit of trade, the greed for office, took
possession of their souls. The lessons of history were forgotten. The
voices coming from all the wrecks of kingdoms, empires and republics on
the shores of the great river were unheeded and unheard.

If the foundation is not justice, the dome cannot be high enough, or
splendid enough, to save the temple.

But above everything in the minds of our fathers was the desire for
union—to create a Nation, to become a Power.

Our fathers compromised.

A compromise is a bargain in which each party defrauds the other, and
himself.

The compromise our fathers made was the coffin of honor and the cradle
of war.

A brazen falsehood and a timid truth are the parents of compromise.

But some—the greatest and the best—believed in liberty for all. They
repeated the splendid sayings of the Roman: "By the law of nature all
men are free;"—of the French King: "Men are born free and equal;"—of
the sublime Zeno: "All men are by nature equal, and virtue alone
establishes a difference between them."

In the year preceding the Declaration of Independence, a society for the
abolition of slavery was formed in Pennsylvania and its first President
was one of the wisest and greatest of men—Benjamin Franklin. A society
of the same character was established in New York in 1785; its first
President was John Jay—the second, Alexander Hamilton.

But in a few years these great men were forgotten. Parties rivaled each
other in the defence of wrong. Politicians cared only for place and
power. In the clamor of the heartless, the voice of the generous was
lost. Slavery became supreme. It dominated legislatures, courts and
parties; it rewarded the faithless and little; it degraded the honest
and great.

And yet, through all these hateful years, thousands and thousands of
noble men and women denounced the degradation and the crime. Most of
their names are unknown. They have given a glory to obscurity. They have
filled oblivion with honor.

In the presence of death it has been the custom to speak of the
worthlessness, and the vanity, of life. I prefer to speak of its value,
of its importance, of its nobility and glory.

Life is not merely a floating shadow, a momentary spark, a dream that
vanishes. Nothing can be grander than a life filled with great and noble
thoughts—with brave and honest deeds. Such a life sheds light, and the
seeds of truth sown by great and loyal men bear fruit through all the
years to be. To have lived and labored and died for the right—nothing
can be sublimer.

History is but the merest outline of the exceptional—of a few great
crimes, calamities, wars, mistakes and dramatic virtues. A few mountain
peaks are touched, while all the valleys of human life, where countless
victories are won, where labor wrought with love—are left in the
eternal shadow.

But these peaks are not the foundation of nations. The forgotten words,
the unrecorded deeds, the unknown sacrifices, the heroism, the industry,
the patience, the love and labor of the nameless good and great have for
the most part founded, guided and defended States. The world has
been civilized by the unregarded poor, by the untitled nobles, by the
uncrowned kings who sleep in unknown graves mingled with the common
dust.

They have thought and wrought, have borne the burdens of the world. The
pain and labor have been theirs—the glory has been given to the few.

The conflict came. The South unsheathed the sword. Then rose the
embattled North, and these men who sleep to-night beneath the flowers of
half the world, gave all for us.

They gave us a Nation—a republic without a slave—a republic that is
sovereign, and to whose will every citizen and every State must bow.
They gave us a Constitution for all—one that can be read without shame
and defended without dishonor. They freed the brain, the lips and hands
of men.

All that could be done by force was done. All that could be accomplished
by the adoption of constitutions was done. The rest is left to
education—the innumerable influences of civilization—to the
development of the intellect, to the cultivation of the heart and the
imagination.

The past is now a hideous dream.

The present is filled with pride, with gratitude, and hope.

Liberty is the condition of real progress. The free man works for wife
and child—the slave toils from fear. Liberty gives leisure and leisure
refines, beautifies and ennobles. Slavery gives idleness and idleness
degrades, deforms and brutalizes.

Liberty and slavery—the right and wrong—the joy and grief—the day and
night—the glory and the gloom of all the years.

Liberty is the word that all the good have spoken.

It is the hope of every loving heart—the spark and flame in every noble
breast—the gem in every splendid soul—the many-colored dream in every
honest brain.

This word has filled the dungeon with its holy light,—has put the halo
round the martyr's head,—has raised the convict far above the king,
and clad even the scaffold with a glory that dimmed and darkened every
throne.

To the wise man, to the wise nation, the mistakes of the past are the
torches of the present. The war is over. The institution that caused it
has perished. The prejudices that fanned the flames are only ashes now.
We are one people. We will stand or fall together. At last, with clear
eyes we see that the triumph of right was a triumph for all. Together we
reap the fruits of the great victory. We are all conquerors. Around the
graves of the heroes—North and South, white and colored—together
we stand and with uncovered heads reverently thank the saviors of our
native land.

We are now far enough away from the conflict—from its hatreds, its
passions, its follies and its glories, to fairly and philosophically
examine the causes and in some measure at least to appreciate the
results.

States and nations, like individuals, do as they must. Back of
revolution, of rebellion, of slavery and freedom, are the efficient
causes. Knowing this, we occupy that serene height from which it is
possible to calmly pronounce a judgment upon the past.

We know now that the seeds of our war were sown hundreds and thousands
of years ago—sown by the vicious and the just, by prince and peasant,
by king and slave, by all the virtues and by all the vices, by all the
victories and all the defeats, by all the labor and the love, the loss
and gain, by all the evil and the good, and by all the heroes of the
world.

Of the great conflict we remember only its glory and its lessons. We
remember only the heroes who made the Republic the first of nations, and
who laid the foundation for the freedom of mankind.

This will be known as the century of freedom. Slowly the hosts of
darkness have been driven back.

In 1808 England and the United States united for the suppression of the
slave-trade. The Netherlands joined in this holy work in 1818. France
lent her aid in 1819 and Spain in 1820. In the same year the United
States declared the traffic to be piracy, and in 1825 the same law was
enacted by Great Britain. In 1826 Brazil agreed to suppress the traffic
in human flesh. In 1833 England abolished slavery in the West Indies,
and in 1843 in her East Indian possessions, giving liberty to more than
twelve millions of slaves. In 1846 Sweden abolished slavery, and in
1848 it was abolished in the colonies of Denmark and France. In 1861
Alexander II., Czar of all the Russias, emancipated the serfs, and on
the first day of January, 1863, the shackles fell from millions of
the citizens of this Republic. This was accomplished by the heroes
we remember to-day—this, in accordance with the Proclamation of
Emancipation signed by Lincoln,—greatest of our mighty dead—Lincoln
the gentle and the just—and whose name will be known and honored to
"the last syllable of recorded time." And this year, 1888, has been made
blessed and memorable forever—in the vast empire of Brazil there stands
no slave.

Let us hope that when the next century looks from the sacred portals of
the East, its light will only fall upon the faces of the free.

> * By request, Col. Ingersoll closed this address with his
> "Vision of War,"  to which he added "A Vision of the
> Future." This accounts for its repetition in this volume.

The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great
struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation—the
music of boisterous drums—the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see
thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see
the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those
assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers.
We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the
great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are
walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they
adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as
they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing
babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some
are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their
hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and
kisses—divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with
wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to
drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the
wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms—standing in the
sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves—she answers by
holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags,
keeping time to the grand, wild music of war—marching-down the streets
of the great cities—through the towns and across the prairies—down to
the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right.

We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory
fields—in all the hospitals of pain—on all the weary marches. We stand
guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with
them in ravines running with blood—in the furrows of old fields. We are
with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst,
the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them
pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and
in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of
steel.

We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech
can never tell what they endured.

We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden
in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old
man bowed with the last grief.

The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings
governed by the lash—we see them bound hand and foot—we hear the
strokes of cruel whips—we see the hounds tracking women through
tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty
unspeakable! Outrage infinite!

Four million bodies in chains—four million souls in fetters. All the
sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath
the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful
banner of the free.

The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting
shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes died. We look. Instead of
slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches
the auction block, the slave pen, the whipping post, and we see homes
and firesides and school-houses and books, and where all was want and
crime and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty—they died for us. They
are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag
they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the
tearful willows, and the embracing vines.

They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine
or of storm, each in the windowless Palace of Rest. Earth may run red
with other wars—they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar
of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for
soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living; tears for the dead.

A vision of the future rises:

I see our country filled with happy homes, with firesides of
content,—the foremost land of all the earth.

I see a world where thrones have crumbled and where kings are dust. The
aristocracy of idleness has perished from the earth.

I see a world without a slave. Man at last is free. Nature's forces have
by Science been enslaved. Lightning and light, wind and wave, frost
and flame, and all the secret, subtle powers of earth and air are the
tireless toilers for the human race.

I see a world at peace, adorned with every form of art, with music's
myriad voices thrilled, while lips are rich with words of love and
truth; a world in which no exile sighs, no prisoner mourns; a world on
which the gibbet's shadow does not fall; a world where labor reaps its
full reward, where work and worth go hand in hand, where the poor girl
trying to win bread with the needle—the needle that has been called
"the asp for the breast of the poor,"—is not driven to the desperate
choice of crime or death, of suicide or shame.

I see a world without the beggar's outstretched palm, the miser's
heartless, stony stare, the piteous wail of want, the livid lips of
lies, the cruel eyes of scorn.

I see a race without disease of flesh or brain,—shapely and fair,—the
married harmony of form and function,—and, as I look, life lengthens,
joy deepens, love canopies the earth; and over all, in the great dome,
shines the eternal star of human hope.
---
# Decoration Day Oration
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1882_
> * At the Memorial Celebration of the Grand Army of the
> Republic last evening the Academy of Music was filled to
> overflowing, within a few minutes after the opening of the
> doors.

> Gen. Hancock was the first arrival of importance. The
> Governor's Island band accepted this as a signal for the
> overture. The Academy was tastefully decorated. The three
> balconies were covered, the first with blue cloth, the
> second with white and national bunting, studded with the
> insignia of the original thirteen States, and the family
> circle with red. Over the centre of the stage the national
> flag and device hung suspended, and was held In its place by
> flying streamers extending to the boxes. The latter were
> draped with flags, relieved by antique armor and weapons—
> shields, casques and battle axes and crossed swords and
> pikes.

> At 8.05 the curtain slowly rose, and discovered to the view
> of the audience, a second audience reaching back to the
> farthest depths of the scenes. These were the fortunate
> holders of stage tickets, and comprised a great number of
> distinguished men.

> Among them were noticed Gen. Horace Porter, Gen. Lloyd
> Aspinwall, Gen. Daniel Butterfield, Gen. D. D. Wylie, Gen.
> Charles Roome, Gen. W. Palmer, Gen. John Cochrane, Gen. H.
> G. Tremaine, the Hon. Edward Pierrepont, Dep't. Commander
> James M. Fraser, the Hon. Carl Schurz, August Belmont, Henry
> Clews, Dr. Lewis A. Sayre, Charles Scribner, Jesse Seligman,
> William Dowa, Henry Bergh and George William Curtis. Gen.
> Bamum came upon the stage followed by President Arthur,
> Gen's. Grant and Hancock, Secretaries Folger and Brewster,
> ex-Senator Roscoe Conkling, Mayor Grace and the Rev. J. P.
> Newman. Gen. Hancock's brilliant uniform made him a very
> conspicuous figure, and he served as a foil to the plain
> evening dress of Gen. Grant, who was separated from him by
> the portly form of the President.

> Gen. James McQuade, the President of the day, rose and
> uncovering a flag which draped a sort of patriotic altar in
> front of him, announced that It was the genuine flag upon
> which was written the famous order, "If any man pull down
> the American flag, shoot him on the spot.' * This was the
> signal for round after round of applause, while Gen. McQuade
> waved this precious relic of the past. The time had now come
> for the introduction of the orator of the evening, Col.
> Robert G. Ingersoll. Col. Ingersoll stepped across the stage
> to the reading desk, and was received with an ovation of
> cheering and waving of handkerchiefs.

> After the enthusiasm had somewhat abated, a gentleman in one
> of the boxes shouted: "Three-cheers for Ingersoll."
> These were given with a will, the excitement quieted down
> and the orator spoke as follows '.—The New York Times. May
> 31st, 1883.

New York City.

1882.

THIS day is sacred to our heroes dead. Upon their tombs we have lovingly
laid the wealth of Spring.

This is a day for memory and tears. A mighty Nation bends above its
honored graves, and pays to noble dust the tribute of its love.

Gratitude is the fairest flower that sheds its perfume in the heart.

To-day we tell the history of our country's life—recount the lofty
deeds of vanished years—the toil and suffering, the defeats and
victories of heroic men,—of men who made our Nation great and free.

We see the first ships whose prows were gilded by the western sun. We
feel the thrill of discovery when the New World was found. We see the
oppressed, the serf, the peasant and the slave, men whose flesh had
known the chill of chains—the adventurous, the proud, the brave,
sailing an unknown sea, seeking homes in unknown lands. We see the
settlements, the little clearings, the blockhouse and the fort, the rude
and lonely huts. Brave men, true women, builders of homes, fellers of
forests, founders of States.

Separated from the Old World,—away from the heartless distinctions
of caste,—away from sceptres and titles and crowns, they governed
themselves. They defended their homes; they earned their bread. Each
citizen had a voice, and the little villages became republics. Slowly
the savage was driven back. The days and nights were filled with fear,
and the slow years with massacre and war, and cabins' earthen floors
were wet with blood of mothers and their babes.

But the savages of the New World were kinder than the kings and nobles
of the Old; and so the human tide kept coming, and the places of the
dead were filled. Amid common dangers and common hopes, the prejudiced
and feuds of Europe faded slowly from their hearts. From every land,
of every speech, driven by want and lured by hope, exiles and emigrants
sought the mysterious Continent of the West.

Year after year the colonists fought and toiled and suffered and
increased. They began to talk about liberty—to reason of the rights of
man. They * t asked no help from distant kings, and they began to doubt
the use of paying tribute to the useless. They lost respect for dukes
and lords, and held in high esteem all honest men. There was the dawn
of a new day. They began to dream of independence. They found that
they could make and execute the laws. They had tried the experiment of
self-government. They had succeeded. The Old World wished to dominate
the New. In the care and keeping of the colonists was the destiny of
this Continent—of half the world.

On this day the story of the great struggle between colonists and kings
should be told. We should tell our children of the contest—first
for justice, then for freedom. We should tell them the history of
the Declaration of Independence—the chart and compass of all human
rights:—All men are equal, and have the right to life, to liberty and
joy.

This Declaration uncrowned kings, and wrested from the hands of titled
tyranny the sceptre of usurped and arbitrary power. It superseded royal
grants, and repealed the cruel statutes of a thousand years. It gave the
peasant a career; it knighted all the sons of toil; it opened all the
paths to fame, and put the star of hope above the cradle of the poor
man's babe.

England was then the mightiest of nations—mistress of every sea—and
yet our fathers, poor and few, defied her power.

To-day we remember the defeats, the victories, the disasters, the weary
marches, the poverty, the hunger, the sufferings, the agonies, and above
all, the glories of the Revolution. We remember all—from Lexington to
Valley Forge, and from that midnight of despair to Yorktown's cloudless
day. We remember the soldiers and thinkers—the heroes of the sword and
pen. They had the brain and heart, the wisdom and courage to utter
and defend these words: "Governments derive their just powers from the
consent of the governed." In defence of this sublime and self-evident
truth the war was waged and won.

To-day we remember all the heroes, all the generous and chivalric men
who came from other lands to make ours free. Of the many thousands who
shared the gloom and glory of the seven sacred years, not one remains.
The last has mingled with the earth, and nearly all are sleeping now
in unmarked graves, and some beneath the leaning, crumbling stones from
which their names have been effaced by Time's irreverent and relentless
hands. But the Nation they founded remains. The United States are still
free and independent. The "government derives its just power from
the consent of the governed," and fifty millions of free people remember
with gratitude the heroes of the Revolution.

Let us be truthful; let us be kind. When peace came, when the
independence of a new Nation was acknowledged, the great truth for
which our fathers fought was half denied, and the Constitution was
inconsistent with the Declaration. The war was waged for liberty, and
yet the victors forged new fetters for their fellow-men. The chains our
fathers broke were put by them upon the limbs of others. "Freedom for
All" was the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night, through seven
years of want and war. In peace the cloud was forgotten and the pillar
blazed unseen.

Let us be truthful; all our fathers were not true to themselves. In
war they had been generous, noble and self-sacrificing; with peace came
selfishness and greed. They were not great enough to appreciate the
grandeur of the principles for which they fought. They ceased to regard
the great truths as having universal application. "Liberty for
All" included only themselves. They qualified the Declaration. They
interpolated the word "white." They obliterated the word "All."

Let us be kind. We will remember the age in which they lived. We will
compare them with the citizens of other nations. They made merchandise
of men. They legalized a crime. They sowed the seeds of war. But they
founded this Nation.

Let us gratefully remember.

Let us gratefully forget.

To-day we remember the heroes of the second war with England, in which
our fathers fought for the freedom of the seas—for the rights of the
American sailor. We remember with pride the splendid victories of Erie
and Champlain and the wondrous achievements upon the sea—achievements
that covered our navy with a glory that neither the victories nor
defeats of the future can dim. We remember the heroic services and
sufferings of those who fought the merciless savage of the frontier.
We see the midnight massacre, and hear the war-cries of the allies of
England. We see the flames climb around the happy homes, and in the
charred and blackened ruins the mutilated bodies of wives and children.
Peace came at last, crowned with the victory of New Orleans—a victory
that "did redeem all sorrows" and all defeats.

The Revolution gave our fathers a free land—the War of 1812 a free sea.

To-day we remember the gallant men who bore our flag in triumph from the
Rio Grande to the heights of Chapultepec.

Leaving out of question the justice of our cause—the necessity for
war—we are yet compelled to applaud the marvelous courage of our
troops. A handful of men, brave, impetuous, determined, irresistible,
conquered a nation. Our history has no record of more daring deeds.

Again peace came, and the Nation hoped and thought that strife was at
an end. We had grown too powerful to be attacked. Our resources were
boundless, and the future seemed secure. The hardy pioneers moved to the
great West. Beneath their ringing strokes the forests disappeared, and
on the prairies waved the billowed seas of wheat and corn. The great
plains were crossed, the mountains were conquered, and the foot of
victorious adventure pressed the shore of the Pacific. In the great
North all the streams went singing to the sea, turning wheels and
spindles, and casting shuttles back and forth. Inventions were springing
like magic from a thousand brains. From Labor's holy altars rose and
leaped the smoke and flame, and from the countless forges ran the chant
of rhythmic stroke.

But in the South, the negro toiled unpaid, and mothers wept while babes
were sold, and at the auction-block husbands and wives speechlessly
looked the last good-bye. Fugitives, lighted by the Northern Star,
sought liberty on English soil, and were, by Northern men, thrust back
to whip and chain. The great statesmen, the successful politicians,
announced that law had compromised with crime, that justice had been
bribed, and that time had barred appeal. A race was left without a
right, without a hope. The future had no dawn, no star—nothing but
ignorance and fear, nothing but work and want. This, was the conclusion
of the statesmen, the philosophy of the politicians—of constitutional
expounders:—this was decided by courts and ratified by the Nation.

We had been successful in three wars. We had wrested thirteen colonies
from Great Britain. We had conquered our place upon the high seas. We
had added more than two millions of square miles to the national domain.
We had increased in population from three to thirty-one millions. We
were in the midst of plenty. We were rich and free. Ours appeared to
be the most prosperous of Nations. But it was only appearance. The
statesmen and the politicians were deceived. Real victories can be won
only for the Right. The triumph of Justice is the only Peace. Such is
the nature of things. He who enslaves another cannot be free. He who
attacks the right, assaults himself. The mistake our fathers made had
not been corrected. The foundations of the Republic were insecure. The
great dome of the temple was clad in the light of prosperity, but
the corner-stones were crumbling. Four millions of human beings were
enslaved. Party cries had been mistaken for principles—partisanship
for patriotism—success for justice.

But Pity pointed to the scarred and bleeding backs of slaves; Mercy
heard the sobs of mothers reft of babes, and Justice held aloft the
scales, in which one drop of blood shed by a master's lash, outweighed a
Nation's gold. There were a few men, a few women, who had the courage to
attack this monstrous crime. They found it entrenched in constitutions,
statutes, and decisions—barricaded and bastioned by every department
and by every party. Politicians were its servants, statesmen its
attorneys, judges its menials, presidents its puppets, and upon its
cruel altar had been sacrificed our country's honor. It was the crime of
the Nation—of the whole country—North and South responsible alike.

To-day we reverently thank the abolitionists. Earth has no grander
men—no nobler women. They were the real philanthropists, the true
patriots. When the will defies fear, when the heart applauds the
brain, when duty throws the gauntlet down to fate, when honor scorns to
compromise with death,—this is heroism. The abolitionists were heroes.
He loves his country best who strives to make it best. The bravest men
are those who have the greatest fear of doing wrong. Mere politicians
wish the country to do something for them. True patriots desire to do
something for their country. Courage without conscience is a wild beast.
Patriotism without principle is the prejudice of birth, the animal
attachment to place. These men, these women, had courage and conscience,
patriotism and principle, heart and brain.

The South relied upon the bond,—upon a barbarous clause that stained,
disfigured and defiled the Federal pact, and made the monstrous claim
that slavery was the Nation's ward. The spot of shame grew red in
Northern cheeks, and Northern men declared that slavery had poisoned,
cursed and blighted soul and soil enough, and that the Territories must
be free. The radicals of the South cried: "No Union without Slavery!"
The radicals of the North replied: "No Union without Liberty!" The
Northern radicals were right. Upon the great issue of free homes for
free men, a President was elected by the free States. The South appealed
to the sword, and raised the standard of revolt. For the first time in
history the oppressors rebelled.

But let us to-day be great enough to forget individuals,—great enough
to know that slavery was treason, that slavery was rebellion, that
slavery fired upon our flag and sought to wreck and strand the mighty
ship that bears the hope and fortune of this world. The first shot
liberated the North. Constitution, statutes and decisions, compromises,
platforms, and resolutions made, passed, and ratified in the interest of
slavery became mere legal lies, base and baseless. Parchment and paper
could no longer stop or stay the onward march of man. The North was
free. Millions instantly resolved that the Nation should not die—that
Freedom should not perish, and that Slavery should not live.

Millions of our brothers, our sons, our fathers, our husbands, answered
to the Nation's call.

The great armies have desolated the earth. The greatest soldiers have
been ambition's dupes. They waged war for the sake of place and pillage,
pomp and power,—for the ignorant applause of vulgar millions,—for the
flattery of parasites, and the adulation of sycophants and slaves.

Let us proudly remember that in our time the greatest, the grandest, the
noblest army of the world fought, not to enslave, but to free; not to
destroy, but to save; not for conquest, but for conscience; not only for
us, but for every land and every race.

With courage, with enthusiasm, with a devotion' never excelled, with an
exaltation and purity of purpose never equaled, this grand army fought
the battles of the Republic. For the preservation of this Nation, for
the destruction of slavery, these soldiers, these sailors, on land and
sea, disheartened by no defeat, discouraged by no obstacle, appalled by
no danger, neither paused nor swerved until a stainless flag, without
a rival, floated over all our wide domain, and until every human being
beneath its folds was absolutely free.

The great victory for human rights—the greatest of all the years—had
been won; won by the Union men of the North, by the Union men of the
South, and by those who had been slaves. Liberty was national, Slavery
was dead.

The flag for which the heroes fought, for which they died, is the symbol
of all we are, of all we hope to be.

It is the emblem of equal rights.

It means free hands, free lips, self-government and the sovereignty of
the individual.

It means that this continent has been dedicated to freedom.

It means universal education,—light for every mind, knowledge for every
child.

It means that the schoolhouse is the fortress of Liberty.

It means that "Governments derive their just powers from the consent of
the governed;" that each man is accountable to and for the Government;
that responsibility goes hand in hand with liberty.

It means that it is the duty of every citizen to bear his share of the
public burden,—to take part in the affairs of his town, his county, his
State and his country.

It means that the ballot-box is the Ark of the Covenant; that the source
of authority must not be poisoned.

It means the perpetual right of peaceful revolution. It means that every
citizen of the Republic—native or naturalized—must be protected; at
home, in every State,—abroad, in every land, on every sea.

It means that all distinctions based on birth or blood, have perished
from our laws; that our Government shall stand between labor and
capital, between the weak and the strong, between the individual and the
corporation, between want and wealth, and give the guarantee of simple
justice to each and all.

It means that there shall be a legal remedy for every wrong.

It means national hospitality,—that we must welcome to our shores the
exiles of the world, and that we may not drive them back. Some may
be deformed by labor, dwarfed by hunger, broken in spirit, victims of
tyranny and caste,—in whose sad faces may be read the touching record
of a weary life; and yet their children, born of liberty and love, will
be symmetrical and fair, intelligent and free.

That flag is the emblem of a supreme will—of a Nation's power. Beneath
its folds the weakest must be protected and the strongest must obey. It
shields and canopies alike the loftiest mansion and the rudest hut.
That flag was given to the air in the Revolution's darkest days. It
represents the sufferings of the past, the glories yet to be; and like
the bow of heaven, it is the child of storm and sun.

This day is sacred to the great heroic host who kept this flag above
our heads,—sacred to the living and the dead—sacred to the scarred and
maimed,—sacred to the wives who gave their husbands, to the mothers who
gave their sons.

Here in this peaceful land of ours,—here where the sun shines, where
flowers grow, where children play, millions of armed men battled for the
right and breasted on a thousand fields the iron storms of war.

These brave, these incomparable men, founded the first Republic. They
fulfilled the prophecies; they brought to pass the dreams; they realized
the hopes, that all the great and good and wise and just have made and
had since man was man.

But what of those who fell? There is no language to express the debt we
owe, the love we bear, to all the dead who died for us. Words are but
barren sounds. We can but stand beside their graves and in the hush and
silence feel what speech has never told.

They fought, they died; and for the first time since man has kept a
record of events, the heavens bent above and domed a land without a
serf, a servant or a slave.
---
# Eight to Seven Address
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1877_
(On the Electoral Commission.)

> * The reputation of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll had taken
> possession of the Boston mind to such an extent that his
> expected address was spoken of as "The Lecture." People
> talked about going to it, as If on that night all other
> places were to be closed, and the whole population of the
> City turned into Tremont Temple. Long before the appointed
> hour a rare audience, for even lecture loving Boston, had
> assembled. Col. Ingersoll stepped upon the platform preceded
> by Governor Rice, and followed by William Lloyd Garrison,
> James T. Fields and others. After the presentation of two
> large and exquisite bouquets Governor Rice introduced
> Colonel Ingersoll, and the audience, the most acute and
> determined looking I ever saw In Boston, poured out their
> welcome! It seemed as if all the cheers that had been
> suppressed between the first of November and the decision of
> the Electoral Commission, found vent at that moment and the
> vigorous clapping was renewed and prolonged until it became
> an unmistakable salute to the recent brilliant campaigning
> of the great Western orator. It is hardly possible to speak
> in too high terms of the lecture which, under the title of
> "8 to 7," contained a witty, philosophical and intensely
> patriotic review of the political contest preceding and
> following the recent election, with wise and timely
> suggestions for preventing similar perils in the future.—
> Boston, October 22nd,1877.

1877.

I HAVE sometimes wondered whether our country was to be forever governed
by parties full of hatred, full of malice, full of slander. I have
sometimes wondered whether or not in the future there would not be
discovered such a science as the science of government. I do not know
what you think, but what little I do know, and what little experience
has been mine, is, I must admit, against it. We have passed through the
most remarkable campaign of our history—a campaign remarkable in every
respect.

It was bitter, passionate, relentless and desperate, and I admit, for
one, that I added to its bitterness and relentlessness. I told, and
frankly told, my real, honest opinion of the Democratic party of the
North. I told, and cheerfully told, my opinion of the Democratic party
of the South. And I have nothing to take back. But, to show you that my
heart is not altogether wicked; I am willing to forgive and do forgive
with all my heart, every person and every party that I ever said
anything against. I believe that the campaign of 1876 was the
turning-point, the midnight in the history of the American Republic.

I believe, and firmly believe, that if the Democratic party had swept
into power, it would have been the end of progress, and the end of what
I consider human liberty, beneath our flag. I felt so, and I went into
the campaign simply because the rights of American citizens in at least
sixteen States of the Union were trampled under foot. I did what little
I could. I am glad I did it. We had, as I say, a wonderful campaign, and
each party said and did about all that could be said and done. Everybody
attended to politics. Business was suspended. Everything was given
over to processions and torches, and flags and transparencies; and
resolutions and conventions and speeches and songs. Old arguments were
revamped. Old stories were pressed into service. The old story of
the Rebellion was told again and again. The memories of the war were
revived. The North was arrayed against the South as though upon the
field of battle. Party cries were heard on every hand. Each party leaped
like a tiger upon the reputation of the other, and tore with tooth and
claw, with might and main, to the very end of the campaign.

I felt that it was necessary to arouse the North. I felt that it was
necessary to tell again the story of the Rebellion, from Bull Run to
Appomattox. I felt that it was necessary to describe what the Southern
people were doing with Union men, and with colored men; and I felt it
necessary so to describe it that the people of the North could hear the
whips, and could hear the drops of blood as they fell upon the withered
leaves. I did all I could to arouse the people of the North. I did all I
could to prevent the Democratic party from getting into power. The first
morning after the election, the Democracy had a banquet of joy, but
all through the feast they saw sitting at the head of the table the
dim outline of the skeleton of defeat. And, when the tide turned,
Republicans rejoiced with a face ready at any moment to express the
profoundest grief. Then came despatches and rumors, and estimated
majorities, and vague talk about Returning Boards, and intimidating
voters, and stuffed ballot boxes, and fraudulent returns, and bribed
clerks, and injunctions, and contempts of courts, and telegrams in
cipher, and outrages, and octoroon balls in which reverend Senators
were whirled in love's voluptuous waltz. Everybody discussed the
qualifications of Electors and the value of Governors' certificates, and
how to get behind returns, and how to buy an Elector, and who had the
right to count; and persons expecting offices of trust, honor and profit
began to threaten war and extermination, calls were made for a hundred
thousand men, and there were no end of meetings, and resolutions and
denunciations, and the downfall of the country was prophesied; and yet,
notwithstanding all this, the name of the person who really was elected
remained unknown. The last scene of this strange, eventful history, so
far as the election by the people was concerned, was Cronin. I see him
now as he leaves the land "where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound
save his own dashings." Cronin, the last surviving veteran of the grand
army of "honesty and reform." Cronin, a quorum of one. Cronin, who
elected the two others by a plurality of his own vote.

I see him now, armed with Hoadley's opinion and Grover's certificate,
trudging wearily and drearily over the wide and wasted saleratus deserts
of the West, with a little card marked "S. J. T. i5 G. P."

Then came the great question of who shall count the electoral vote. The
Vice-President being a Republican, it was generally contended, at least
by me, that he had a right to count that vote. My doctrine was, if the
Vice-President would count the vote right, he had the right to count it.

The Vice-President not being a Democrat, the members of that party
claimed that the House could prevent the Vice-President from counting
it, and this was simply because the House was not Republican. Nearly all
decided according to their politics. The Constitution is a little blind
on this point, and where anything is blind I always see it my way.
It was about this time that some of the Democrats began to talk about
bringing one hundred thousand unarmed men to Washington to superintend
the count. Others, however, got up a scheme to create, a court in the
United States where politics should have no earthly influence. Nothing
could be easier, they thought, after we had gone through such a hot and
exciting campaign, than to pick out men who have no prejudices whatever
on the subject. Finally a bill was passed creating a tribunal to count
the vote, if any, and hear testimony, if any, and declare what man had
been elected President, if any. This tribunal consisted of fifteen men,
ten being chosen on account of their politics—five from the Senate
and five from the House,—and they chose four judges from purely
geographical considerations. I was there, and I know exactly how it was.
Those four men were picked with a map of the United States in front of
the pickers. The Democrats chose Justice Field, not because he was a
Democrat, but because he lived on the Pacific slope. They chose Justice
Clifford, not because he was a Democrat, but because he lived on the
Eastern slope; that was fair. Thereupon the Republicans chose Justice
Strong, not because he was a Republican, but because he lived on the
Eastern slope. You can see the point. The Republicans chose Justice
Miller, not because he was a Republican, but because he represented the
great West. They then allowed these four to select a fifth man.

Well, it was impossible to select the fifth man from geographical
considerations, you can see that yourselves. There was nothing left to
choose between, you know, as far as geography was concerned. They then
agreed that they would not take a Justice from any State in which the
candidate for President lived. They left out Justice Hunt, from New
York, and Justice Swayne, from Ohio. They knew of course that that would
not influence them, but they did that simply—well, they did not want
them there; that was all, and it would be unhandy to pick one man out of
four. So they left Swayne and Hunt out. And then they would pick one
man as between Justice Bradley and Justice Davis. Just at that time the
people of the State of Illinois happened to be out of a Senator, and
Judge Davis was there and expressed a willingness to go to the Senate.
And the people of the State of Illinois elected him, and therefore
there was nobody to choose from except Justice Bradley, and he was a
Republican.

Now, you know this runs in families. His record was good—by marriage.
He married a daughter of Chief Justice Hornblower, of New Jersey. Now,
Hornblower was what you might call a partisan. Do you know they went to
him—it was in the old times, and he was a kind of Whig,—they went to
him with a petition, in the State of New Jersey, a petition addressed to
the Legislature for the abolition of capital punishment, and Hornblower
said, "I'll be damned if I sign it while there is a Democrat in the
State of New Jersey."

As a matter of fact, however, I believe that Justice Bradley and all the
other Justices, and all other persons on that tribunal decided as they
honestly thought was right.

Judge Davis is as broad mentally as he is physically; he has an
immensity of common sense, and as much judgment as any one man ever
needs to use, and, in my judgment, he would have come to the same
conclusion as Judge Bradley, precisely. These men were appointed—it
was a Democratic scheme, and I am glad they got it up—and during that
entire investigation, so much were the members of that party controlled
by old associations and habits, and by partisan feeling that there was
not a solitary one of the seven Democrats that ever once voted on the
Republican side. And, as a necessity, the Republicans had to stand
together. And so, notwithstanding the seven Democrats voted constantly
together, the eight Republicans kept having a majority of one, until the
last disputed State was given against the great party of "honesty and
reform." And, finally, when they found they were defeated, they made
up their minds to prevent the counting of the vote. They made up their
minds to wear out the session and prevent the election of a President.
Just at that point, for a wonder, (nothing ever astonished me more), the
members from the South said: "We do not want any more war; we have had
war enough and we say that a President shall be peacefully elected, and
that he shall be peacefully inaugurated!" As soon as I heard that I felt
under a little obligation to the Democracy of the South, and when they
stood in the gap and prevented the Democracy of the North from plunging
this Government into the hell of civil war, I felt like taking them by
the hand and saying, "We have beaten the enemy once, let us keep on. Let
us join hands." I felt like saying to the Democracy of the South, "You
never will have a day's prosperity in the South until you join the
great, free, progressive party of the North—never!" And they never
will.

Now, I say, I felt as though I were under a certain obligation to these
people. They prevented this thing, and they made it possible for the
Vice-President to declare Rutherford B. Hayes President of the United
States. Now, right here, I want you to observe that this shows the real
defects in our system of government. In the first place, our Government
is being governed by fraud. If the very fountain of power is poisoned by
fraud, then the whole Government is impure. We must find out some way
to prevent fraudulent voting in the United States or our Government is
a failure. Great cities were the mothers of election frauds. They
inaugurated violence and intimidation. They produced the repeaters
and the false boxes. They invented fan-tail tickets and pasters, and
gradually these delightful and patriotic arts and practices have spread
over almost the entire country.

Unless something is done to preserve the purity of the ballot-box our
form of government must cease. The fountain of power is poisoned.
The sovereignty of the people is stolen and destroyed. The Government
becomes organized fraud, and all respect will soon be lost for the
laws and decisions of the courts. The legislators are elected in many
instances by fraud. The judges are in many instances chosen by fraud.
Every department of the Government becomes tainted and corrupt. It is
no longer a Republic, unless something can be devised to ascertain with
certainty the really honest will of the sovereign people.

For the accomplishment of this object the good and patriotic men of all
parties should most heartily unite. To cast an illegal vote should
be considered by all as a crime. We must if possible get rid of the
mob—the vagrants, the vagabonds who have no home and who take no
interest in the cities where they vote. We must get rid of the rich
mob too; and by the rich mob I mean the men who buy up these vagabonds.
Various States have passed laws for the registration of voters; but they
all leave wide open all the doors of fraud. Men are allowed to vote if
they have been for one year in the State, and thirty or sixty days in
the ward or precinct; and when they have failed to have their names
registered before the day of election, they can avoid the effect of
this neglect by making a few affidavits, certified to by reputable
householders. Of course all necessary affidavits are made, with hundreds
and thousands to spare. My idea is that the period of registration, in
the first place, is too short, and, in the second place, no way
should be given by which they can vote unless they have been properly
registered, affidavit or no affidavit. Every man, when he goes into a
ward or precinct, should be registered. It should be his duty to see
that he is registered. Officers should be kept for that purpose, and he
should never be allowed to cast a vote until he has been registered
at least one year. Sixty days, say, or thirty days—sixty would be
better—sixty days before the election the registry lists should be
corrected, and every citizen should have the right to enter a complaint
or objection as against any name found upon that list. Thirty days,
or twenty days before the election, that list should be published
and should be exposed in several public places in each ward and each
precinct, and upon the day of election no man should be allowed to
vote whose name was not upon the registry list. Our wards and precincts
should be made smaller, so that people can vote without violence,
without wasting an entire day, so that the honest business man that
wishes to cast his ballot for the Government of his choice can walk
to the polls like a gentleman and deposit his vote and go about his
affairs. Allow me to say that unless some such plan is adopted in
the United States, there never will be another fair election in this
country. During the last campaign all the arts and artifices of the
city, all the arts and artifices of the lowest wards were spread over
this entire country, and unless something is done to preserve the purity
of the ballot-box, and guard the sovereign will of the people, we will
cease to be a Republican Government.

Another thing—and I cannot say it too often—fraud at the ballot-box
undermines all respect in the minds of the people for the Government.
When they are satisfied that the election is a fraud they despise the
officers elected. When they are satisfied it is a fraud, they despise
the law made by the legislators. When they are satisfied it is a fraud,
they hold in utter contempt the decisions of our highest and most august
tribunals.

Another trouble in this country is that our terms of office are too
short. Our elections are too frequent. They interfere with the business
of our country. When elections are so frequent, men make a business
of politics. If they fail to get one office they immediately run for
another, and they keep running until the people elect them for the
simple purpose of getting rid of the annoyance. Lengthen the terms,
purify the ballot, and the present scramble for office will become
contests for principles. A man who cannot get a living—unless he
has been disabled in the service of his country or from some other
cause—without holding office, is not fit for an office.

A professional office-seeker is one of the meanest, and lowest, and
basest of human beings—a little higher than the lower animals and a
little lower than man. He has no earthly or heavenly independence; not a
particle; not a particle. A successful office-seeker is like the center
of the earth; he weighs nothing himself, and draws all things towards
the office he wants. He has not even a temper. You cannot insult him.
Shut the door in his face, and, so far as he is concerned, it is left
wide open, and you are standing on the threshold with a smile, extending
the hand of welcome. He crawls and cringes and flatters and lies and
swaggers and brags and tells of the influence he has in the ward he
lives in. We cannot too often repeat that splendid saying, "The office
should seek the man, not man the office." If you will lengthen the
term of office it will be so long between meals that he will have to do
something else or starve. Adopt the system of registration, as I have
suggested; have small and convenient election districts, so that, as I
said before, the honest, law-abiding, and peaceable citizen can attend
the polls; so that he will not be compelled to risk his life to deposit
his ballot that will be stolen or thrown out, or forced to keep the
company of ballots caused by fraudulent violence. Lengthen the term of
office, drive the professional hunter and seeker of office from the
field, and you will go far toward strengthening and vivifying and
preserving the fabric of the Constitution. That is the kind of civil
service reform I am in favor of, and as I am on that subject, I will say
a word about it. There is but one vital question—but one question of
real importance—in fact I might say in the whole world, and that is
the great question of Civil Service Reform. There may be some others
indirectly affecting the human race, and in which some people take a
languid kind of interest, but the only question worth discussing and
comprehending in all its phases is the one I have mentioned. This great
question is in its infancy still. The doctrine as yet has been applied
only to politics.*

> * Colonel Ingersoll then read the following letter, of which
> he was the author.

My Dear Sir:—In the olden times, during the purer days of the Republic,
the motto was, "To the victors belong the spoils." The great object of
civil service reform is to reverse this motto. Our people are thoroughly
disgusted with machine politics, and demand politics without any
machine.

In every precinct and ward there are persons going about lauding one
party and crying down the other. They make it their business to attend
to the affairs of the Nation. They call conventions, pass resolutions;
they put notices in papers of the times and places of meetings; they
select candidates for office, and then insist upon having them elected;
they distribute papers and political documents; they crowd the mails
with newspapers, platforms, resolutions, facts and figures, and with
everything calculated to help their party and hurt the other. In short,
they are the disturbers of the public peace.

They keep the community in a perpetual excitement. In the last campaign,
wherever they were was turmoil. They fired cannon, carried flags,
torches and transparencies; they subsidized brass bands, and shouted and
hurrahed as though the world had gone insane. They were induced to do
these things by the hope of success and office. Take away this hope and
there will be peace once more. This thing is unendurable. The staid,
the quiet and respectable people, the moderate and conservative men who
always have an idea of joining the other side just to show their candor,
are heartily tired of the entire performance. These gentlemen demand
a rest. They are not adventurers; they have incomes; they belong to
families; they have monograms and liveries. They have succeeded, and
they want quiet. Growth makes a noise; development, as they call it,
is nothing but disturbance. We want stability, we want political
petrifaction, and we therefore demand that these meetings shall be
dismissed, that these processions shall halt, that these flags shall be
furled. But these things never will be stopped until we stop paying men
with office for making these disturbances. You know that it has been
the habit for men elected to bestow political favors upon the men
who elected them. This is a crying shame. It is a kind of bribery and
corruption. Men should not work with the expectation of reward and
success. The frightful consequences of rewarding one's friends cannot be
contemplated by a true patriot without a shudder. Exactly the opposite
course is demanded by the great principle of civil service reform. There
is no patriotism in working for place, for power and success. The true
lover of his country is stimulated to action by the hope of defeat,
and the prospect of office for his opponent. To such an extent has the
pernicious system of rewarding friends for political services gone in
this country, that until very lately it was difficult for a member of
the defeated party to obtain a respectable office.

The result of all this is, that the country is divided, that these
divisions are kept alive by these speakers, writers and convention
callers. The great mission of civil service reform is not to do
away with parties, but with conflicting opinion, by taking from all
politicians the hope of reward. There is no other hope for peace. What
do the people know about the wants of the nation? There are in every
community a few quiet and respectable men, who know all about the wants
of the people—gentlemen who have retired from business, who take no
part in discussion and who are therefore free from prejudice. Let these
men attend to our politics. They will not call conventions, except
in the parlors of hotels. They will not put out our eyes with flaring
torches. They will not deafen us with speeches. They will carry on a
campaign without producing opposition. They will have elections but no
contests. All the offices will be given to the defeated party. This of
itself will insure tranquillity at the polls. No one will be deprived of
the privilege of casting a ballot. When campaigns are conducted in this
manner a gentleman can engage in politics with a feeling that he is
protected by the great principle of civil service reform. But just so
long as men persist in rewarding their friends, as they call them, just
so long will our country be cursed with political parties. Nothing can
be better calculated to preserve the peace than the great principle of
rewarding those who have confidence enough in our institutions to keep
silent while peace will sit with folded wings upon the moss-covered
political stump of a ruder age. I am satisfied that to civil service
reform the Republican party is indebted for the last great victory. Upon
this question the enthusiasm of the people was simply unbounded. In
the harvest field, the shop, the counting-room, in the church, in the
saloon, in, the palace and in the hut, nothing was heard and nothing
discussed except the great principle of civil service reform.

Among the most touching incidents of the campaign was to see a few
old soldiers, sacred with scars, sit down, and while battles and
hair-breadth escapes, and prisons of want, were utterly forgotten,
discuss with tremulous lips and tearful eyes the great question of civil
service reform.

During the great political contest I addressed several quite large
and intelligent audiences, and no one who did not has or can have the
slightest idea of the hold that civil service reform had upon the
very souls of our people. Upon all other subjects the indifference was
marked. I dwelt upon the glittering achievements of my party, but they
were indifferent. I pictured outrages perpetrated upon our citizens, but
they did not care. All this went idly by, but when I touched upon
civil service reform, old men, gray-haired and strong, broke down
utterly—tears fell like rain. The faces of women grew ashen with the
intensity of anguish, and even little children sobbed as though their
hearts would break. To one who has witnessed these affecting scenes,
civil service reform is almost a sacred thing. Even the speeches
delivered upon this subject in German affected to tears thousands of
persons wholly unacquainted with that language. In some instances those
who did not understand a word were affected even more than those who
did. Surely there must be something in the subject itself, apart from
the words used to explain it, that can under such circumstances lead
captive the hearts of men. During the entire campaign the cry of civil
service reform was heard from one end of our land to the other. The
sailor nailed those words to the mast. The miner repeated them between
the strokes of the pick. Mothers explained them to their children.
Emigrants painted them upon their wagons. They were mingled with the
reaper's song and the shout of the pioneer. Adopt this great principle
and we can have quiet and lady-like campaigns, a few articles in monthly
magazines, a leader or two in the "Nation," in the pictorial papers
wood-cuts of the residences of the respective candidates and now and
then a letter from an old Whig would constitute all the aggressive
agencies of the contest. I am satisfied that this great principle
secured us our victories in Florida and Louisiana, and its effect on
the High Joint Commission was greater than is generally supposed. It was
this that finally decided the action of the returning boards.

Cronin is the only man upon whom this great principle was an utter
failure. Let it be understood that friends are not to be rewarded.
Let it be settled that political services are a barrier to political
preferment, and my word for it, machine politics will never be heard of
again.

Yours truly,——

I do not believe in carrying civil service reform to the extent that
you will not allow an officer to resign. I do not believe that that
principle should be insisted upon to that degree that there would only
be two ways left to get out of office—death or suicide. I believe,
other things being equal, any party having any office within its gift
will give that office to the man that really believes in the principles
of that party, and who has worked to give those principles ultimate
victory. That is human nature. The man that plows, the man that sows,
and the man that cultivates, ought to be the man that reaps. But we have
in this country a multitude of little places, a multitude of clerkships
in Washington; and the question is whether on the incoming of a new
administration, these men shall all be turned out. In the first place,
they are on starvation salaries, just barely enough to keep soul and
body together, and respectability on the outside; and if there is a
young man in this audience, I beg of him:

Never accept a clerkship from this Government. Do not live on a little
salary; do not let your mind be narrowed; do not sell all the splendid
possibilities of the future; do not learn to cringe and fawn and crawl.

I would rather have forty acres of land, with a log cabin on it and the
woman I love in the cabin—with a little grassy winding path leading
down to the spring where the water gurgles from the lips of earth
whispering day and night to the white pebbles a perpetual poem—with
holly-hocks growing at the corner of the house, and morning-glories
blooming over the low latched door—with lattice work over the window
so that the sunlight would fall checkered on the dimpled babe in
the cradle, and birds—like songs with wings hovering in the summer
air—than be the clerk of any government on earth.

Now, I say, let us lengthen the term of office—I do not care much how
long—send a man to Congress at least for five years. And it would be a
great blessing if there were not half as many of them sent.

We have too many legislators and too much legislation; too little about
important matters, and too much about unimportant matters. Lengthen the
term of office so that the man can turn his attention to something else
when he gets in besides looking after his re-election. There is another
defect we must remedy in our Constitution, in my judgment, and that is
as to the mode of electing a President. I believe it of the greatest
importance that the Executive should be entirely independent of the
legislative and judicial departments of the country. I do not believe
that Congress should have the right to create a vacancy which it can
fill. I do not believe that the Senate of the United States, or the
lower house of Congress, by a simple objection, should have the right to
deprive any State of its electoral vote. Our Constitution now provides
that the electors chosen in each State shall meet in their respective
States upon a certain day and there cast their votes for President and
Vice-President of the United States. They shall properly certify to the
votes which are cast, and shall transmit lists of them, together with
the proper certificates, to the Vice-President of the United States.
And it is then declared that upon a certain day in the presence of both
houses of Congress, the Vice-President shall open the certificates and
the votes shall then be counted. It does not exactly say who shall count
these votes. It does not in so many words say the Vice-President shall
do it, or may do it, or that both houses of Congress shall do it, or may
do it, or that either house can prevent a count of the votes. It leaves
us in the dark, and, to a certain degree, in blindness. I believe there
is a way, and a very easy way, out of the entire trouble, and it is
this: I do not care whether the electors first meet in their respective
States or not, but I want the Constitution so amended that the electors
of all the States shall meet on a certain day in the city of Washington,
and count the votes themselves; to allow that body to be the judge of
who are electors, to allow it to choose a chairman, and to allow
the person so chosen to declare who is the President, and who is the
Vice-President of the United States. The Executive is then entirely
free and independent of the legislative department of Government. The
Executive is then entirely free from the judicial department, and I tell
you, it is a public calamity to have the ermine of the Supreme Court
of the United States touched or stained by a political suspicion. In
my judgment, this country can never stand such a strain again as it has
now.

Now, my friends, all these questions are upon us and they have to be
settled. We cannot go on as we have been going. We cannot afford to live
as we have lived—one section running against the other. We cannot go
along that way. It must be settled, either peaceably or there must again
be a resort to the boisterous sword of civil war.

The people of the South must stop trampling on the rights of the colored
men. It must not be a crime in any State of this Union to be a lover of
this country. I have seen it stated in several papers lately that it is
the duty of each State to protect its own citizens. Well, I know that.
Suppose that the State does not do it; what then I say? Well, then, say
these people, the Governor of the State has the right to call on the
General Government for assistance. But suppose the Governor will not
call for assistance, what then? Then, they tell us, the Legislature can
do so by a joint resolution. But suppose the Legislature will not do it,
what then? Then, say these people, it is a defect in the Constitution.
In my judgment, that is the absurdest kind of secession. If the State of
Illinois must protect me, if I have no right to call for the protection
of the General Government, all I have to say is that my allegiance must
belong to the Government that protects me. If Illinois protects me, and
the General Government has not the power, then my first allegiance is
due to Illinois; and should Illinois unsheathe the sword of civil war,
I must stand by my State, if that doctrine is true. I say, my first
allegiance is due to the General Government, and not to the State of
Illinois, and if the State of Illinois goes out of the Union, I swear to
you that I will not. What does the General Government propose to give
me in exchange for my allegiance? The General Government has a right to
take my property. The General Government has a right to take my body
in its necessary defence. What does that Government propose to give in
exchange for that right? Protection, or else our Government is a fraud.
Who has a right to call for the protection of the United States? I say,
the citizen who needs it. Can our Government obtain information only
through the official sources? Must our Government wait until the
Government asks the proofs, while the State tramples upon the rights of
the citizens? Must it wait until the Legislature calls for assistance
to help it stop robbing and plundering citizens of the United States? Is
that the doctrine and the idea of the Northern Democratic party? It is
not mine. A Government that will not protect its citizens is a
disgrace to humanity. A Government that waits until a Governor calls—a
Government that cannot hear the cry of the meanest citizen under its
flag when his rights are being trampled upon, even by citizens of a
Southern State—has no right to exist.

It is the duty of the American citizen to see to it that every State
has a Government, not only republican in form, but it is the duty of the
United States to see to it that life, liberty and property are protected
in each State. If they are not protected, it is the duty of the United
States to protect them, if it takes all her military force both upon
land and upon the sea. The people whose Government cannot always hear
the faintest wail of the meanest man beneath its flag have no right to
call themselves a nation. The flag that will not protect its protectors
and defend its defenders is a rag that is not worth the air in which it
waves.

How are we going to do it? Do it by kindness if you can; by conciliation
if you can, but the Government is bound to try every way until it
succeeds. Now, Rutherford B. Hayes was elected President. The Democracy
will say, of course, that he never was elected, but that does not make
any difference. He is President to-day, and all these things are about
him to be settled.

What shall we do? What can we do? There are two Governors in South
Carolina and two Legislatures and not one cent of taxes has been
collected by either. A dual government would seem to be the most
economical in the world. Now, the question for us to decide, the
question to be decided by this administration is, how are we to
ascertain which is the legal Government of the State, and what
department of the Government has a right to ascertain that fact? Must it
be left to Congress? Has the Senate alone the right to determine it?
Can it be left in any way to the Supreme Court, or shall the Executive
decide it himself? I do not say that the Executive has the power to
decide that question for himself. I do not say he has not, but I do not
say he has. The question, so far as Louisiana and South Carolina are
concerned—that question is now in the Senate of the United States.
Governor Kellogg is asking for admission as a Senator from the State
of Louisiana, and the question is to be decided by the Senate first,
whether he is entitled to his seat, and that question of course, rests
upon the one fact—was the Legislature that elected him the legal
Legislature of the State of Louisiana? It seems to me that when that
question is pending in the Senate of the United States the President has
not the right, or at least it would be improper for him to decide it on
his own motion, and say this or that Government is the real and legal
Government of the State of Louisiana. But some mode must be adopted,
some way must be discovered to settle this question, and to settle it
peacefully. We are an enlightened people. Force is the last thing that
civilized men should resort to. As long as courts can be created, as
long as courts of arbitration can be selected, as long as we can reason
and think, and urge all the considerations of humanity upon each other,
there should be no appeal to arms in the United States upon any question
whatever. What should the President do? He could only spare twenty-five
hundred men from the Indian war—that is the same army that has so
long been trampling on the rights of the South, the same army that
the Democratic Congress wished to reduce, and that army of twenty-five
hundred men is all he has to spare to protect American citizens in the
Southern States. Is there any sentiment in the North that would uphold
the Executive in calling for volunteers? Is there any sentiment here
that would respond to a call for twenty, fifty, or a hundred thousand
men? Is there any Congress to pass the necessary act to pay them if
there was?

And so the President of the United States appreciated the situation, and
the people of the South came to him and said, "We have had war enough,
we have had trouble enough, our country languishes, we have no trade,
our pockets are empty, something must be done for us, we are utterly and
perfectly disgusted with the leadership of the Democratic party of the
North. Now, will you let us be your friends?" And he had the sense to
say, "Yes." The President took the right hand of the North, and put it
into the right hand of the South and said "Let us be friends. We parted
at the cannon's mouth; we were divided by the edge of the glittering
sword; we must become acquainted again. We are equals. We are all
fellow-citizens. In a Government of the people, by the people and for
the people, there shall not be an outcast class, whether white or
black. To this feast, every child of the Republic shall be invited and
welcomed." It was a grand thing grandly done. If the President succeeds
in his policy, it will be an immense compliment to his brain. If he
fails, it will be an equal compliment to his heart. He has opened the
door; he has advanced; he has extended his hand, he has broken the
silence of hatred with the words of welcome. Actuated by this broad and
catholic spirit he has selected his constitutional advisors, and
allow me to say right here, the President has the right to select his
constitutional advisors to suit himself, and the idea of men endeavoring
to force themselves or others into the Cabinet of the President,
against, as it were, his will, why I would as soon think of circulating
a petition to compel some woman to marry me.

He has gathered around him the men he considers the wisest and the best,
and I say, let us give them a fair chance. I say, let us be honest with
the President of the United States and his Cabinet, and give his policy
a fair and honest chance. In order to show his good faith with the
South he chose as a member of his Cabinet an ex-rebel from Tennessee.
I confess, when I heard of it I did not like it. It did not seem to
be exactly what I had been making all this fuss about. But I thought I
would be honest about it, and I went and called on Mr. Key, and really
he begins already to look a good deal like a Republican. A real honest
looking man. And then I said to myself that he had not done much more
harm than as though he had been a Democrat at the North during those
four years, and had cursed and swore instead of fought about it. And so
I told him "I am glad you are appointed."

And I am. Give him a chance, and so far as the whole Cabinet is
concerned—I have not the time to go over them one by one now, it is
perfectly satisfactory to me. The President made up his mind that to
appoint that man would be to say to the South: "I do not look upon you
as pariahs in this Government. I look upon you as fellow-citizens; I
want you to wipe forever the color line, or the Union line, from the
records of this Government on account of what has been done heretofore."
What are you now? is the only question that should be asked. It was
a strange thing for the President to appoint that man. It was an
experiment. It is an experiment. It has not yet been decided, but I
believe it will simply be a proof of the President's wisdom. I can stand
that experiment taken in connection with the appointment of Frederick
Douglass as Marshal of the District of Columbia. I was glad to see
that man's appointment. He is a good, patient, stern man. He has been
fighting for the liberty of his race, and at the same time for our
liberty. This man has done something for the freedom of my race as well
as his own. This is no time for war. War settles nothing except the mere
question of strength. That is all war ever did settle. You cannot shoot
ideas into a man with a musket, or with cannon into one of those old
Bourbon Democrats of the North. You cannot let prejudices out of a man
with a sword.

This is the time for reason, for discussion, for compromise. This is the
time to repair, to rebuild, to preserve. War destroys. Peace creates.
War is decay and death. Peace is growth and life,—sunlight and air. War
kills men. Peace maintains them. Artillery does not reason; it asserts.
A bayonet has point enough, but no logic. When the sword is drawn,
reason remains in the scabbard. It is not enough to win upon the field
of battle, you must be victor within the realm of thought. There must be
peace between the North and South some time; not a conquered peace, but
a peace that conquers. The question is, can you and I forget the past?
Can we forget everything except the heroic sacrifices of the men who
saved this Government? Can we say to the South, "Let us be brothers"?
Can we? I am willing to do it because, in the first place, it is right,
and in the second place, it will pay if it can be carried out. We have
fought and hated long enough. Our country is prostrate. Labor is in
rags. Energy has empty hands. Industry has empty pockets. The wheels of
the factory are still. In the safe of prudence money lies idle, locked
by the key of fear. Confidence is what we need—confidence in each
other; confidence in our institutions; confidence in our form of
government; in the great future; confidence in law, confidence in
liberty, confidence in progress, and in the grand destiny of the Great
Republic. Now, do not imagine that I think this policy will please
every body. Of course there are men South and North who can never be
conciliated. They are the Implacables in the South—the Bourbons in the
North.

Nothing will ever satisfy them. The Implacables want to own negroes
and whip them; the Bourbons never will be satisfied until they can help
catch one. The Implacables with violent hands drive emigration from
their shores. They are poisoning the springs and sources of prosperity.
They dine on hatred and sup on regret. They mourn over the lost cause
and partake of the communion of revenge. They strike down the liberties
of their fellow-citizens and refuse to enjoy their own. They remember
nothing but wrongs, and they forget nothing but benefits. Their bosoms
are filled with the serpents of hate. No one can compromise with them.
Nothing can change them. They must be left to the softening influence
of time and death. The Bourbons are the allies of the Implacables. A
Bourbon in the majority is an Implacable in the minority. An Implacable
in the minority is a Bourbon. We do not appeal to, but from these men.
But there are in the South thousands of men who have accepted in good
faith the results of the war; men who love and wish to preserve this
nation, men tired of strife—men longing for a real Union based upon
mutual respect and confidence. These men are willing that the colored
man shall be free—willing that he shall vote, and vote for the
Government of his choice—willing that his children shall be
educated—willing that he shall have all the rights of an American
citizen. These men are tired of the Implacables and disgusted with the
Bourbons. These men wish to unite with the patriotic men of the North in
the great work of reestablishing a government of law. For my part, call
me of what party you please, I am willing to join hands with these men,
without regard to race, color or previous condition.

With a knowledge of our wants—with a clear perception of our
difficulties, Rutherford B. Hayes became President.

Nations have been saved by the grandeur of one man. Above all things a
President should be a patriot. Party at best is only a means—the good
of the country, the happiness of the people, the only end.

Now, I appeal to you Democrats here—not a great many, I suppose—do
not oppose this policy because you think it is going to increase the
Republican strength. If it strengthens the Government, no matter whether
it is Republican or Democratic, it is for the common good.

And you Republicans, you who have had all these feelings of patriotism
and glory, I ask you to wait and let this experiment be tried. Do not
prophesy failure for it and then work to fulfill the prophecy. Give the
President a chance. I tell you to-night that he is as good a Republican
as there is in the United States; and I tell you that if this policy is
not responded to by the South, Rutherford B. Hayes will change it,
just as soon and as often as is necessary to accomplish the end. The
President has offered the Southern people the olive branch of peace,
and so far as I am concerned, I implore both the Southern people and
the Northern people to accept it. I extend to you each and all the olive
branch of peace. Fellow-citizens of the South, I beseech you to take it.
By the memory of those who died for naught; by the charred remains of
your remembered homes; by the ashes of your statesman dead; for the sake
of your sons and your daughters and their fair children yet to be,
I implore you to take it with loving and with loyal hands. It will
cultivate your wasted fields. It will rebuild your towns and cities. It
will fill your coffers with gold. It will educate your children. It
will swell the sails of your commerce. It will cause the roses of joy
to clamber and climb over the broken cannon of war. It will flood the
cabins of the freedman with light, and clothe the weak in more than coat
of mail, and wrap the poor and lowly in "measureless content." Take it.
The North will forgive if the South will forget. Take it! The negro
will wipe from the tablet of memory the strokes and scars of two hundred
years, and blur with happy tears the record of his wrongs. Take it! It
will unite our nation. It will make us brothers once again. Take it! And
justice will sit in your courts under the outspread wings of Peace. Take
it! And the brain and lips of the future will be free. Take it! It will
bud and blossom in your hands and fill your land with fragrance and with
joy.
---
# Hard Times and the Way Out
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1878_
> * Boston, October 20, 1878.

LADIES and Gentlemen:—The lovers of the human race, the
philanthropists, the dreamers of grand dreams, all predicted and all
believed that when man should have the right to govern himself, when
every human being should be equal before the law, pauperism, crime, and
want would exist only in the history of the past. They accounted
for misery in their time by the rapacity of kings and the cruelty of
priests. Here, in the United States, man at last is free. Here, man
makes the laws, and all have an equal voice. The rich cannot oppress the
poor, because the poor are in a majority. The laboring men, those who
in some way work for their living, can elect every Congressman and every
judge; they can make and interpret the laws, and if labor is oppressed
in the United States by capital, labor has simply itself to blame.
The cry is now raised that capital in some mysterious way oppresses
industry; that the capitalist is the enemy of the man who labors. What
is a capitalist? Every man who has good health; every man with good
sense; every one who has had his dinner, and has enough left for supper,
is, to that extent, a capitalist. Every man with a good character, who
has the credit to borrow a dollar or to buy a meal, is a capitalist; and
nine out of ten of the great capitalists in the United States are simply
successful workingmen. There is no conflict, and can be no conflict, in
the United States between capital and labor; and the men who endeavor
to excite the envy of the unfortunate and the malice of the poor are the
enemies of law and order.

As a rule, wealth is the result of industry, economy, attention
to business; and as a rule, poverty is the result of idleness,
extravagance, and inattention to business, though to these rules there
are thousands of exceptions. The man who has wasted his time, who has
thrown away his opportunities, is apt to envy the man who has not. For
instance, there are six shoemakers working in one shop. One of them
attends to his business. You can hear the music of his hammer late and
early. He is in love with some girl on the next street. He has made up
his mind to be a man; to succeed; to make somebody else happy; to have
a home; and while he is working, in his imagination he can see his own
fireside, with the firelight falling upon the faces of wife and child.
The other five gentlemen work as little as they can, spend Sunday in
dissipation, have the headache Monday, and, as a result, never advance.
The industrious one, the one in love, gains the confidence of his
employer, and in a little while he cuts out work for the others. The
first thing you know he has a shop of his own, the next a store; because
the man of reputation, the man of character, the man of known integrity,
can buy all he wishes in the United States upon a credit. The next thing
you know he is married, and he has built him a house, and he is happy,
and his dream has been realized. After awhile the same five shoemakers,
having pursued the old course, stand on the corner some Sunday when he
rides by. He has a carriage, his wife sits by his side, her face covered
with smiles, and they have two children, their eyes beaming with joy,
and the blue ribbons are fluttering in the wind. And thereupon, these
five shoemakers adjourn to some neighboring saloon and pass a resolution
that there is an irrepressible conflict between capital and labor.

There is, in fact, no such conflict, and the laboring men of the United
States have the power to protect themselves. In the ballot-box the
vote of Lazarus is on an equality with the vote of Dives; the vote of
a wandering pauper counts the same as that of a millionaire. In a land
where the poor, where the laboring men have the right and have the power
to make the laws, and do, in fact, make the laws, certainly there should
be no complaint. In our country the people hold the power, and if any
corporation in any State is devouring the substance of the people,
every State has retained the power of eminent domain, under which it
can confiscate the property and franchise of any corporation by
simply paying to that corporation what such property is worth. And yet
thousands of people are talking as though the rich combined for the
express purpose of destroying the poor, are talking as though there
existed a widespread conspiracy against industry, against honest toil;
and thousands and thousands of speeches have been made and numberless
articles have been written to fill the breasts of the unfortunate with
hatred.

We have passed through a period of wonderful and unprecedented
inflation. For years we enjoyed the luxury of going into debt, the
felicity of living upon credit. We have in the United States about
eighty thousand miles of railway, more than enough to make a treble
track around the globe. Most of these miles were built in a period of
twenty-five years, and at a cost of at least five thousand millions
of dollars. Think of the ore that had to be dug, of the iron that was
melted; think of the thousands employed in cutting bridge timber and
ties, and giving to the wintry air the music of the axe; think of the
thousands and thousands employed in making cars, in making locomotives,
those horses of progress with nerves of steel and breath of flame; think
of the thousands and thousands of workers in brass and steel and iron;
think of the numberless industries that thrived in the construction
of eighty thousand miles of railway, of the streams bridged, of the
mountains tunneled, of the plains crossed; and think of the towns and
cities that sprang up, as if by magic, along these highways of iron.

During the same time we had a war in which we expended thousands of
millions of dollars, not to create, not to construct, but to destroy.
All this money was spent in the work of demolition, and every shot and
every shell and every musket and every cannon was used to destroy. All
the time of every soldier was lost. An amount of property inconceivable
was destroyed, and some of the best and bravest were sacrificed. During
these years the productive power of the North was strained to the
utmost; every wheel was in motion; there was employment for every kind
and description of labor, and for every mechanic. There was a constantly
rising market—speculation was rife, and it seemed almost impossible
to lose. As a consequence, the men who had been toiling upon the farm
became tired. It was too slow a way to get rich. They heard of their
neighbor, of their brother, who had gone to the city and had suddenly
become a millionaire. They became tired with the slow methods of
agriculture. The young men of intelligence, of vim, of nerve became
disgusted with the farms. On every hand fortunes were being made. A
wave of wealth swept over the United States; huts became houses; houses
became palaces with carpeted floors and pictured walls; tatters became
garments; rags became robes; and for the first time in the history of
the world, the poor tasted of the luxuries of wealth. We wondered how
our fathers could have endured their poor and barren lives.

Every business was pressed to the snow line. Old life insurance
associations had been successful; new ones sprang up on every hand.
The agents filled every town. These agents were given a portion of the
premium. You could hardly go out of your house without being told of the
uncertainty of life and the certainty of death. You were shown pictures
of life insurance agents emptying vast bags of gold at the feet of a
disconsolate widow. You saw in imagination your own fatherless children
wiping away the tears of grief and smiling with joy.

These agents insured everybody and everything. They would have insured a
hospital or consumption in its last hemorrhage.

Fire insurance was managed in precisely the same way. The agents
received a part of the premium, and they insured anything and
everything, no matter what its danger might be. They would have insured
powder in perdition, or icebergs under the torrid zone with the same
alacrity. And then there were accident companies, and you could not
go to the station to buy your ticket without being shown a picture of
disaster. You would see there four horses running away with a stage, and
old ladies and children being thrown out; you would see a steamer being
blown up on the Mississippi, legs one way and arms the other, heads
one side and hats the other; locomotives going through bridges, good
Samaritans carrying off the wounded on stretchers.

The merchants, too, were not satisfied to do business in the old way. It
was too slow; they could not wait for customers. They filled the country
with drummers, and these drummers convinced all the country merchants
that they needed about twice as many goods as they could possibly sell,
and they took their notes on sixty and ninety days, and renewed them
whenever desired, provided the parties renewing the notes would take
more goods. And these country merchants pressed the goods upon their
customers in the same manner. Everybody was selling, everybody was
buying, and nearly all was done upon a credit. No one believed the day
of settlement ever would or ever could come. Towns must continue to
grow, and in the imagination of speculators there were hundreds of
cities numbering their millions of inhabitants. Land, miles and miles
from the city, was laid out in blocks and squares and parks; land that
will not be occupied for residences probably for hundreds of years to
come, and these lots were sold, not by the acre, not by the square
mile, but by so much per foot. They were sold on credit, with a partial
payment down and the balance secured by a mortgage.

These values, of course, existed simply in the imagination; and a deed
of trust upon a cloud or a mortgage upon a last year's fog would have
been just as valuable. Everybody advertised, and those who were not
selling goods and real estate were in the medicine line, and every rock
beneath our flag was covered with advice to the unfortunate; and I have
often thought that if some sincere Christian had made a pilgrimage
to Sinai and climbed its venerable crags, and in a moment of devotion
dropped upon his knees and raised his eyes toward heaven, the first
thing that would have met his astonished gaze would in all probability
have been:

> "St. 1860 X Plantation Bitters."

Suddenly there came a crash. Jay Cooke failed, and I have heard
thousands of men account for the subsequent hard times from the fact
that Cooke did fail. As well might you account for the smallpox by
saying that the first pustule was the cause of the disease. The failure
of Jay Cooke & Co. was simply a symptom of a disease universal.

No language can describe the agonies that have been endured since 1873.
No language can tell the sufferings of the men that have wandered over
the dreary and desolate desert of bankruptcy. Thousands and thousands
supposed that they had enough, enough for their declining years,
enough for wife and children, and suddenly found themselves paupers and
vagrants.

During all these years the bankruptcy law was in force, and whoever
failed to keep his promise had simply to take the benefit of this law.
As a consequence, there could be no real, solid foundation for business.
Property commenced to decline; that is to say, it commenced to resume;
that is to say, it began to be rated at its real instead of at its
speculative value.

Land is worth what it will produce, and no more. It may have speculative
value, and, if the prophecy is fulfilled, the man who buys it may become
rich, and if the prophecy is not fulfilled, then the land is simply
worth what it will produce. Lots worth from five to ten thousand dollars
apiece suddenly vanished into farms worth twenty-five dollars per acre.
These lots resumed. The farms that before that time had been considered
worth one hundred dollars per acre, and are now worth twenty or thirty,
have simply resumed. Magnificent residences supposed to be worth one
hundred thousand dollars, that can now be purchased for twenty-five
thousand, they have simply resumed. The property in the United States
has not fallen in value, but its real value has been ascertained. The
land will produce as much as it ever would, and is as valuable to-day
as it ever was; and every improvement, every invention that adds to the
productiveness of the soil or to the facilities for getting that product
to market, adds to the wealth of the nation.

As a matter of fact, the property kept pace with what we were pleased to
call our money. As the money depreciated, property appreciated; as the
money appreciated, property depreciated. The moment property began to
fall speculation ceased. There is but little speculation upon a falling
market. The stocks and bonds, based simply upon ideas, became worthless,
the collaterals became dust and ashes.

At the close of the war, when the Government ceased to be such a vast
purchaser and consumer, many of the factories had to stop. When the
crash came the men stopped digging ore; they stopped felling the forest;
the fires died out in the furnaces; the men who had stood in the glare
of the forge were in the gloom of want. There was no employment for
them. The employer could not sell his product; business stood still,
and then came what we call the hard times. Our wealth was a delusion and
illusion, and we simply came back to reality. Too many men were doing
nothing, too many men were traders, brokers, speculators. There were not
enough producers of the things needed; there were too many producers of
the things no one wished. There needed to be a re-distribution of men.

Many remedies have been proposed, and chief among these is the remedy
of fiat money. Probably no subject in the world is less generally
understood than that of money. So many false definitions have been
given, so many strange, conflicting theories have been advanced, that
it is not at all surprising that men have come to imagine that money
is something that can be created by law. The definitions given by the
hard-money men themselves have been used as arguments by those who
believe in the power of Congress to create wealth. We are told that gold
is an instrumentality or a device to facilitate exchanges. We are told
that gold is a measure of value. Let us examine these definitions.

"_Gold is an instrumentality or device to facilitate exchanges._"

That sounds well, but I do not believe it. Gold and silver
are commodities. They are the products of labor. They are not
instrumentalities; they are not devices to facilitate exchanges; they
are the things exchanged for something else; and other things are
exchanged for them. The only device about it to facilitate exchanges is
the coining of these metals. Whenever the Government or any government
certifies that in a certain piece of gold or silver there are a certain
number of grains of a certain fineness, then he who gives it knows that
he is not giving too much, and he who receives, that he is receiving
enough, so that I will change the definition to this:

The _coining_ of the precious metals is a device to facilitate
exchanges.

The precious metals themselves are property; they are merchandise; they
are commodities, and whenever one commodity is exchanged for another it
is barter, and gold is the last refinement of barter.

The second definition is:

"_Gold is the measure of value_."

We are told by those who believe in fiat money that gold is a measure of
value just the same as a half bushel or a yardstick.

I deny that gold is a measure of value. The yardstick is not a measure
of value; it is simply a measure of quantity. It measures cloth worth
fifty dollars a yard precisely as it does calico worth four cents. It
is, therefore, not a measure of value, but of quantities. The same with
the half bushel. The half bushel measures wheat precisely the same,
whether that wheat is worth three dollars or one dollar. It simply
measures quantity; not quality, or value. The yardstick, the half
bushel, and the coining of money are all devices to facilitate
exchanges. The yardstick assures the man who sells that he has not sold
too much; it assures the man who buys that he has received enough; and
in that way it facilitates exchanges. The coining of money facilitates
exchange, for the reason that were it not coined, each man who did any
business would have to carry a pair of scales and be a chemist.

It matters not whether the yardstick or half bushel are of gold, silver,
or wood, for the reason that the yardstick and half bushel are not the
things bought. We buy not them, but the things they measure.

If gold and silver are not the measure of value, what is? I
answer—intelligent labor. Gold gets its value from labor. Of course, I
cannot account for the fact that mankind have a certain fancy for gold
or for diamonds, neither can I account for the fact that we like certain
things better than others to eat. These are simply facts in nature, and
they are facts, whether they can be explained or not. The dollar in gold
represents, on the average, the labor that it took to dig and mint it,
together with all the time of the men who looked for it without finding
it. That dollar in gold, on the average, will buy the product of the
same amount of labor in any other direction.

Nothing ever has been money, from the most barbarous to the most
civilized times, unless it was a product of nature, and a something to
which the people among whom it passed as money attached a certain value,
a value not dependent upon law, not dependent upon "fiat" in any degree.

Nothing has ever been considered money that man could produce.

A bank bill is not money, neither is a check nor a draft. These are all
devices simply to facilitate business, but in or of themselves they have
no value.

We are told, however, that the Government can create money. This I deny.
The Government produces nothing; it raises no wheat, no corn; it digs no
gold, no silver. It is not a producer, it is a consumer.

The Government cannot by law create wealth. And right here I wish to
ask one question, and I would like to have it answered some time. If
the Government can make money, if it can create money, if by putting
its sovereignty upon a piece of paper it can create absolute money, why
should the Government collect taxes? We have in every district
assessors and collectors; we have at every port customhouses, and we are
collecting taxes day and night for the support of this Government. Now,
if the Government can make money itself, why should it collect taxes
from the poor? Here is a man cultivating a farm—he is working among the
stones and roots, and digging day and night; why should the Government
go to that man and make him pay twenty or thirty or forty dollars taxes
when the Government, according to the theory of these gentlemen, could
make a thousand-dollar fiat bill quicker than that man could wink? Why
impose upon industry in that manner? Why should the sun borrow a candle?

And if the Government can create money, how much should it create, and
if it should create it who will get it? Money has a great liking for
money. A single dollar in the pocket of a poor man is lonesome; it never
is satisfied until it has found its companions. Money gravitates towards
money, and issue as much as you may, as much as you will, the time will
come when that money will be in the hands of the industrious, in the
hands of the economical, in the hands of the shrewd, in the hands of the
cunning; in other words, in the hands of the successful.

The other day I had a conversation with one of the principal gentlemen
upon that side, and I told him, "Whenever you can successfully palm off
on a man a bill of fare for a dinner, I shall believe in your doctrine;
and when I can satisfy the pangs of hunger by reading a cook-book, I
shall join your party." Only that is money which stands for labor. Only
that is money which will buy, on the average, in all other directions
the result of the same labor expended in its production. As a matter
of fact, there is money enough in the country to transact the business.
Never before in the history of our Government was money so cheap; that
is to say, was interest so low; never. There is plenty of money, and we
could borrow all we wished had we the collaterals. We could borrow
all we wish if there was some business in which we could embark that
promised a sure and reasonable return. If we should come to a man who
kept a ferry, and find his boat on a sandbar and the river dry, what
would he think of us should we tell him he had not enough boat? He would
probably reply that he had plenty of boat, but not enough water. We have
plenty of money, but not enough business. The reason we have not enough
business is, we have not enough confidence, and the reason we have not
confidence is because the market is slowly falling, and the reason it is
slowly falling is that things have not yet quite resumed; that we have
not quite touched the absolute bedrock of valuation. Another reason is
because those that left the cultivation of the soil have not yet all
returned, and they are living, some upon their wits, some upon their
relatives, some upon charity, and some upon crime.

The next question is: Suppose the Government should issue a thousand
millions of fiat money, how would it regulate the value thereof? Every
creditor could be forced to take it, but nobody else. If a man was in
debt one dollar for a bushel of wheat, he could compel the creditor to
take the fiat money; but if he wished to buy the wheat, then the owner
could say, "I will take one dollar in gold or fifty dollars in fiat
money, or I will not sell it for fiat money at any price." What will
Congress do then? In order to make this fiat money good it will have to
fix the price of every conceivable commodity; the price of painting
a picture, of trying a lawsuit, of chiseling a statue, the price of a
day's work; in short, the price of every conceivable thing. This even
will not be sufficient. It will be necessary, then, to provide by
law that the prices fixed shall be received, and that no man shall be
allowed to give more for anything than the price fixed by Congress.
Now, I do not believe that any Congress has sufficient wisdom to tell
beforehand what will be the relative value of all the products of labor.

When the volume of currency is inflated it is at the expense of the
creditor class; when it is contracted it is contracted at the expense
of the debtor class. In other words, inflation means going into debt;
contraction means the payment of the debt.

A gold dollar is a dollar's worth of gold.

A real paper dollar is a dollar's worth of paper.

Another remedy has been suggested by the same persons who advocate fiat
money. With a consistency perfectly charming, they say it would have
been much better had we allowed the Treasury notes to fade out. Why
allow fiat money to fade out when a simple act of Congress can make it
as good as gold? When greenbacks fade out the loss falls upon the chance
holder, upon the poor, the industrious, and the unfortunate. The rich,
the cunning, the well-informed manage to get rid of what they happen to
hold. When, however, the bills are redeemed, they are paid by the
wealth and property of the whole country. To allow them to fade out
is universal robbery; to pay them is universal justice. The greenback
should not be allowed to fade away in the pocket of the soldier or in
the hands of his widow and children. It is said that; the Continental
money faded away. It was and is a disgrace to our forefathers. When the
greenback fades away there will fade with it honor from the American
heart, brain from the American head, and our flag from the air of
heaven.

A great cry has been raised against the holders of bonds. They have been
denounced by every epithet that malignity can coin. During the war our
bonds were offered for sale and they brought all that they then appeared
to be worth. They had to be sold or the Rebellion would have been a
success. To the bond we are indebted as much as to the greenback. The
fact is, however, we are indebted to neither; we are indebted to the
soldiers. But every man who took a greenback at less than gold committed
the same crime, and no other, as he who bought the bonds at less than
par in gold. These bonds have changed hands thousands of times. They
have been paid for in gold again and again. They have been bought at
prices far above par; they have been laid away by loving husbands
for wives, by toiling fathers for children; and the man who seeks to
repudiate them now, or to pay them in fiat rags, is unspeakably cruel
and dishonest. If the Government has made a bad bargain it must live up
to it. If it has made a foolish promise the only way is to fulfill it.

A dishonest government can exist only among dishonest people.

When our money is below par we feel below par.

We cannot bring prosperity by cheapening money; we cannot increase
our wealth by adding to the volume of a depreciated currency. If the
prosperity of a country depends upon the volume of its currency, and if
anything is money that people can be made to think is money, then the
successful counterfeiter is a public benefactor. The counterfeiter
increases the volume of currency; he stimulates business, and the money
issued by him will not be hoarded and taken from the channels of trade.

During the war, during the inflation—that is to say, during the years
that we were going into debt—fortunes were made so easily that people
left the farms, crowded to the towns and cities. Thousands became
speculators, traders, and merchants; thousands embarked in every
possible and conceivable scheme. They produced nothing; they simply
preyed upon labor and dealt with imaginary values. These men must
go back; they must become producers, and every producer is a paying
consumer. Thousands and thousands of them are unable to go back. To a
man who begs of you a breakfast you cannot say, "Why don't you get
a farm?" You might as well say, "Why don't you start a line of
steamships?" To him both are impossibilities. They must be helped.

We should all remember that society must support all of its members, all
of its robbers, thieves, and paupers. Every vagabond and vagrant has
to be fed and clothed, and society must support in some way all of its
members. It can support them in jails, in asylums, in hospitals, in
penitentiaries; but it is a very costly way. We have to employ judges
to try them, juries to sit upon their cases, sheriffs, marshals, and
constables to arrest them, policemen to watch them, and it may be,
at last, a standing army to put them down. It would be far cheaper,
probably, to support them all at some first-class hotel. We must either
support them or help them support themselves. They let us go upon the
one hand simply to take us by the other, and we can take care of them as
paupers and criminals, or, by wise statesmanship, help them to be honest
and useful men. Of all the criminals transported by England to Australia
and Tasmania, the records show that a very large per cent.—something
over ninety—became useful and decent people. In Australia they found
homes; hope again spread its wings in their breasts. They had different
ambitions; they were removed from vile and vicious associations. They
had new surroundings; and, as a rule, man does not morally improve
without a corresponding improvement in his physical condition.
One biscuit, with plenty of butter, is worth all the tracts ever
distributed.

Thousands must be taken from the crowded streets and stifling dens, away
from the influences of filth and want, to the fields and forests of the
West and South. They must be helped to help themselves.

While the Government cannot create gold and silver, while it cannot
by its fiat make money, it can furnish facilities for the creation
of wealth. It can aid in the distribution of products, and in the
distribution of men; it can aid in the opening of new territories;
it can aid great and vast enterprises that cannot be accomplished by
individual effort. The Government should see to it that every facility
is offered to honorable adventure, enterprise and industry. Our ships
ought to be upon every sea; our flag ought to be flying in every port.
Our rivers and harbors ought to be improved. The usefulness of the
Mississippi should be increased, its banks strengthened, and its channel
deepened. At no distant day it will bear the commerce of a hundred
millions of people. That grand river is the great guaranty of
territorial integrity; it is the protest of nature against disunion, and
from its source to the sea it will forever flow beneath one flag.

The Northern Pacific Railway should be pushed to completion. In this
way labor would be immediately given to many thousands of men. Along
the line of that thoroughfare would spring up towns and cities; new
communities with new surroundings; and where now is the wilderness there
would be thousands and thousands of happy homes.

The Texas Pacific should also be completed. A vast agricultural and
mineral region would be opened to the enterprise and adventure of the
American people. Probably Arizona holds within the miserly clutches of
her rocks greater wealth than any other State or territory of the world.
The construction of that road would put life and activity into a hundred
industries. It would give employment to many thousands of people, and
homes at last to many millions. It would cause the building of thousands
of miles of branches to open, not only new territory, but to connect
with roads already built. It would double the products of gold and
silver, open new fields to trade, create new industries, and make it
possible for us to supply eight millions of people in the Republic of
Mexico with our products. The construction of this great highway will
enable the Government to dispense with from ten to fifteen regiments of
infantry and cavalry now stationed along the border. People enough will
settle along this line to protect themselves. It will permanently settle
the Indian question, saving the people millions each year. It will
effectually destroy the present monopoly, and in this way greatly
increase production and consumption. It will double our trade with
China and Japan, and with the Pacific States as well. It will settle
the Southern question by filling the Southern States with immigrants,
diversifying the industries of that section, changing and rebuilding the
commercial and social fabric; it will do away with the conservatism of
regret and the prejudice born of isolation. It will transmute to wealth
the unemployed muscle of the country. It will rescue California from
the control of a single corporation, from the government of an oligarchy
united, watchful, despotic, and vindictive. It will liberate the
farmers, the merchants, and even the politicians of the Pacific coast.
Besides, it must not be forgotten so to frame the laws and charters that
Congress shall forever have the control of fares and freights. In this
way the public will be perfectly protected and the Government perfectly
secured.

Look at the map, and you will see the immense advantages its
construction will give to the entire country, not only to the South, but
to the East and West as well. It is one hundred and fifty miles nearer
from Chicago to San Diego than to San Francisco. You will see that the
whole of Texas, a State containing two hundred and ten thousand square
miles; a State four times as large as Illinois, five times as large
as New York, capable of supporting a population of twenty millions of
people, is put in direct and immediate communication with the whole
country. Territory to the extent of nearly a million square miles
will be given to agriculture, trade, commerce, and mining, by the
construction of this line.

Let this road be built, and we shall feel again the enthusiasm born
of enterprise. In the vast stagnation there will be at last a current.
Something besides waiting is necessary to secure, or to even hasten, the
return of prosperity. Secure the completion of this line and extend the
time for building the Northern Pacific, and confidence and employment
will return together.

More men must cultivate the soil. In the older States lands are too
high. It requires too much capital to commence. There are so many
failures in business; so many merchants, traders, and manufacturers have
been wrecked and stranded upon the barren shores of bankruptcy, that
the people are beginning to prefer the small but certain profits of
agriculture to the false and splendid promises of speculation. We must
open new territories; we must give the mechanics now out of employment
an opportunity to cultivate the soil—not as day-laborers but as owners;
not as tenants, but as farmers. Something must be done to develop the
resources of this country. With the best lands of the world; with a
population intellectual, energetic, and ingenious far beyond the average
of mankind; with the richest mines of the globe; with plenty of capital;
with a surplus of labor; with thousands of arms folded in enforced
idleness; with billions of gold asking to be dug; with millions of acres
waiting for the plow, thousands upon thousands are in absolute want.

New avenues must be opened. All our territory must be given to
immigration. Greater facilities must be offered. Obstacles that cannot
be overcome by individual enterprise must be conquered by the Government
for the good of all. Every man out of employment is impoverishing the
country. Labor transmutes muscle into wealth. Idleness is a rust that
devours even gold. For five years we have been wasting the labor of
millions—wasting it for lack of something to do. Prosperity has been
changed to want and discontent. On every hand the poor are asking for
work. That is a wretched government where the honest and industrious
beg, unsuccessfully, for the right to toil; where those who are willing,
anxious, and able to work, cannot get bread. If everything is to be left
to the blind and heartless working of the laws of supply and demand, why
have governments? If the nation leaves the poor to starve, and the weak
and unfortunate to perish, it is hard to see for what purpose the nation
should be preserved. If our statesmen are not wise enough to foster
great enterprises, and to adopt a policy that will give us prosperity,
it may be that the laboring classes, driven to frenzy by hunger, the
bitterness of which will be increased by seeing others in the midst of
plenty, will seek a remedy in destruction.

The transcontinental commerce of this country should not be in the
clutch and grasp of one corporation. All sections of the Union should,
as far as possible, be benefited. Cheap rates will come, and can be
maintained only by competition. We should cultivate commercial relations
with China and Japan. Six hundred millions of people are slowly awaking
from a lethargy of six thousand years. In a little while they will have
the wants of civilized men, and America will furnish a large proportion
of the articles demanded by these people. In a few years there will be
as many ships upon the Pacific as upon the Atlantic. In a few years our
trade with China will be far greater than with Europe. In a few years
we will sustain the same relation to the far East that Europe once
sustained to us. America for centuries to come will supply six hundred
millions of people with the luxuries of life. A country that expects to
control the trade of other countries must develop its own resources to
the utmost. We have pursued a small, a mean, and a penurious course.
Demagogues have ridden into office and power upon the cry of economy,
by opposing every measure looking to the improvement of the country, by
endeavoring to see how cheaply nothing could be done. A government, like
an individual, should live up to its privileges; it should husband its
resources, simply that it may use them. A nation that expects to control
the commerce of half a world must have its money equal with gold and
silver. It must have the money of the world.

Whenever the laboring men are out of employment they begin to hate the
rich. They feel that the dwellers in palaces, the riders in carriages,
the wearers of broadcloth, silk, and velvet have in some way been
robbing them. As a matter of fact, the palace builders are the friends
of labor. The best form of charity is extravagance. When you give a man
money, when you toss him a dollar, although you get nothing, the man
loses his manhood. To help others help themselves is the only real
charity. There is no use in boosting a man who is not climbing. Whenever
I see a splendid home, a palace, a magnificent block, I think of the
thousands who were fed—of the women and children clothed, of the
firesides made happy.

A rich man living up to his privileges, having the best house, the
best furniture, the best horses, the finest grounds, the most beautiful
flowers, the best clothes, the best food, the best pictures, and all the
books that he can afford, is a perpetual blessing.

The prodigality of the rich is the providence of the poor.

The extravagance of wealth makes it possible for the poor to save.

The rich man who lives according to his means, who is extravagant in the
best and highest sense, is not the enemy of labor. The miser, who lives
in a hovel, wears rags, and hoards his gold, is a perpetual curse. He is
like one who dams a river at its source.

The moment hard times come the cry of economy is raised. The press, the
platform, and the pulpit unite in recommending economy to the rich. In
consequence of this cry, the man of wealth discharges servants, sells
horses, allows his carriage to become a hen-roost, and after taking
employment and food from as many as he can, congratulates himself that
he has done his part toward restoring prosperity to the country.

In that country where the poor are extravagant and the rich economical
will be found pauperism and crime; but where the poor are economical and
the rich are extravagant, that country is filled with prosperity.

The man who wants others to work to such an extent that their lives are
burdens, is utterly heartless. The toil of the world should continually
decrease. Of what use are your inventions if no burdens are lifted from
industry—if no additional comforts find their way to the home of labor;
why should labor fill the world with wealth and live in want?

Every labor-saving machine should help the whole world. Every one should
tend to shorten the hours of labor.

Reasonable labor is a source of joy. To work for wife and child, to toil
for those you love, is happiness; provided you can make them happy. But
to work like a slave, to see your wife and children in rags, to sit at
a table where food is coarse and scarce, to rise at four in the morning,
to work all day and throw your tired bones upon a miserable bed at
night, to live without leisure, without rest, without making those you
love comfortable and happy—this is not living—it is dying—a slow,
lingering crucifixion.

The hours of labor should be shortened. With the vast and wonderful
improvements of the nineteenth century there should be not only the
necessaries of life for those who toil, but comforts and luxuries as
well.

What is a reasonable price for labor? I answer: Such a price as will
enable the man to live; to have the comforts of life; to lay by a little
something for his declining years, so that he can have his own home, his
own fireside; so that he can preserve the feelings of a man.

Every man ought to be willing to pay for what he gets. He ought to
desire to give full value received. The man who wants two dollars' worth
of work for one is not an honest man.

I sympathize with every honest effort made by the children of labor
to improve their condition. That is a poorly governed country in which
those who do the most have the least. There is something wrong when men
are obliged to beg for leave to toil. We are not yet a civilized people;
when we are, pauperism and crime will vanish from our land.

There is one thing, however, of which I am glad and proud, and that is,
that society is not, in our country, petrified; that the poor are not
always poor.

The children of the poor of this generation may, and probably will, be
the rich of the next. The sons of the rich of this generation may be the
poor of the next; so that after all, the rich fear and the poor hope.

I sympathize with the wanderers, with the vagrants out of employment;
with the sad and weary men who are seeking for work. When I see one of
these men, poor and friendless—no matter how bad he is—I think that
somebody loved him once; that he was once held in the arms of a mother;
that he slept beneath her loving eyes, and wakened in the light of her
smile. I see him in the cradle, listening to lullabies sung soft and
low, and his little face is dimpled as though touched by the rosy
fingers of Joy.

And then I think of the strange and winding paths, the weary roads he
has traveled from that mother's arms to vagrancy and want.

There should be labor and food for all. We invent; we take advantage of
the forces of nature; we enslave the winds and waves; we put shackles
upon the unseen powers and chain the energy that wheels the world. These
slaves should release from bondage all the children of men.

By invention, by labor—that is to say, by working and thinking—we
shall compel prosperity to dwell with us.

Do not imagine that wealth can be created by law; do not for a moment
believe that paper can be changed to gold by the fiat of Congress.

Do not preach the heresy that you can keep a promise by making another
in its place that is never to be kept. Do not teach the poor that the
rich have conspired to trample them into the dust.

Tell the workingmen that they are in the majority; that they can make
and execute the laws.

Tell them that since 1873 the employers have suffered about as much as
the employed.

Tell them that the people who have the power to make the laws should
never resort to violence. Tell them never to envy the successful. Tell
the rich to be extravagant and the poor to be economical.

Tell every man to use his best efforts to get him a home. Without a
home, without some one to love, life and country are meaningless words.
Upon the face of the patriot must have fallen the firelight of home.

Tell the people that they must have honest money, so that when a man has
a little laid by for wife and child, it will comfort him even in death;
so that he will feel that he leaves something for bread, something that,
in some faint degree, will take his place; that he has left the coined
toil of his hands to work for the loved when he is dust.

Tell your representatives in Congress to improve our rivers and harbors;
to release our transcontinental commerce from the grasp of monopoly;
to open all our territories, and to build up our trade with the whole
world.

Tell them not to issue a dollar of fiat paper, but to redeem every
promise the nation has made.

If fiat money is ever issued it will be worthless, for the folly that
would issue has not the honor to pay when the experiment fails.

Tell them to put their trust in work. Debts can be created by law, but
they must be paid by labor.

Tell them that "fiat money" is madness and repudiation is death.
---
# Indianapolis Speech (1876)
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1876_
> * Col. Ingersoll was introduced by Gen'l Noyes, who said: "I
> have now the exquisite pleasure of introducing to you that
> dashing cavalry officer, that thunderbolt of war, that
> silver tongued orator, Col. Robert G. Ingersoll of Illinois."
> The Journal, Indianapolis, Indiana. September 2lst, 1876.

## Hayes Campaign

1876

Delivered to the Veteran Soldiers of the Rebellion.

LADIES and Gentlemen, Fellow Citizens and Citizen Soldiers:—I am
opposed to the Democratic party, and I will tell you why. Every State
that seceded from the United States was a Democratic State. Every
ordinance of secession that was drawn was drawn by a Democrat. Every man
that endeavored to tear the old flag from the heaven that it enriches
was a Democrat. Every man that tried to destroy this nation was a
Democrat. Every enemy this great Republic has had for twenty years has
been a Democrat. Every man that shot Union soldiers was a Democrat.
Every man that denied to the Union prisoners even the worm-eaten crust
of famine, and when some poor, emaciated Union patriot, driven to
insanity by famine, saw in an insane dream the face of his mother, and
she beckoned him and he followed, hoping to press her lips once again
against his fevered face, and when he stepped one step beyond the dead
line the wretch that put the bullet through his loving, throbbing heart
was and is a Democrat.

Every man that loved slavery better than liberty was a Democrat. The
man that assassinated Abraham Lincoln was a Democrat. Every man that
sympathized with the assassin—every man glad that the noblest President
ever elected was assassinated, was a Democrat. Every man that wanted the
privilege of whipping another man to make him work for him for nothing
and pay him with lashes on his naked back, was a Democrat. Every man
that raised bloodhounds to pursue human beings was a Democrat. Every man
that clutched from shrieking, shuddering, crouching mothers, babes from
their breasts, and sold them into slavery, was a Democrat. Every man
that impaired the credit of the United States, every man that swore we
would never pay the bonds, every man that swore we would never
redeem the greenbacks, every maligner of his country's credit, every
calumniator of his country's honor, was a Democrat. Every man that
resisted the draft, every man that hid in the bushes and shot at Union
men simply because they were endeavoring to enforce the laws of their
country, was a Democrat. Every man that wept over the corpse of slavery
was a Democrat. Every man that cursed Abraham Lincoln because he
issued the Proclamation of Emancipation—the grandest paper since the
Declaration of Independence—every one of them was a Democrat. Every man
that denounced the soldiers that bared their breasts to the storms of
shot and shell for the honor of America and for the sacred rights of
man; was a Democrat. Every man that wanted an uprising in the North,
that wanted to release the rebel prisoners that they might burn down
the homes of Union soldiers above the heads of their wives and children,
while the brave husbands, the heroic fathers, were in the front fighting
for the honor of the old flag, every one of them was a Democrat. I am
not through yet. Every man that believed this glorious nation of ours
is a confederacy, every man that believed the old banner carried by our
fathers over the fields of the Revolution; the old flag carried by our
fathers over the fields of 1812; the glorious old banner carried by our
brothers over the plains of Mexico; the sacred banner carried by
our brothers over the cruel fields of the South, simply stood for a
contract, simply stood for an agreement, was a Democrat. Every man who
believed that any State could go out of the Union at its pleasure, every
man that believed the grand fabric of the American Government could
be made to crumble instantly into dust at the touch of treason, was a
Democrat. Every man that helped to burn orphan asylums in New York, was
a Democrat; every man that tried to fire the city of New York, although
he knew that thousands would perish, and knew that the great serpent of
flame leaping from buildings would clutch children from their mothers'
arms—every wretch that did it was a Democrat. Recollect it! Every man
that tried to spread smallpox and yellow fever in the North, as the
instrumentalities of civilized war, was a Democrat. Soldiers, every scar
you have on your heroic bodies was given you by a Democrat. Every scar,
every arm that is lacking, every limb that is gone, is a souvenir of a
Democrat. I want you to recollect it. Every man that was the enemy of
human liberty in this country was a Democrat. Every man that wanted
the fruit of all the heroism of all the ages to turn to ashes upon the
lips—every one was a Democrat.

I am a Republican. I will tell you why: This is the only free Government
in the world. The Republican party made it so. The Republican party took
the chains from four millions of people. The Republican party, with the
wand of progress, touched the auction-block and it became a schoolhouse.
The Republican party put down the Rebellion, saved the nation, kept the
old banner afloat in the air, and declared that slavery of every kind
should be extirpated from the face of this continent. What more? I am a
Republican because it is the only free party that ever existed. It is a
party that has a platform as broad as humanity, a platform as broad as
the human race, a party that says you shall have all the fruit of the
labor of your hands, a party that says you may think for yourself, a
party that says, no chains for the hands, no fetters for the soul.*

> * At this point the rain began to descend, and it looked as
> if a heavy shower was impending. Several umbrellas were put
> up. Gov. Noyes—"God bless you! What is rain to soldiers"
> Voice—"Go ahead; we don't mind the rain." It was proposed
> to adjourn the meeting to Masonic Hall, but the motion was
> voted down by an overwhelming majority, and Mr. Ingersoll
> proceeded.

I am a Republican because the Republican party says this country is a
Nation, and not a confederacy. I am here in Indiana to speak, and I
have as good a right to speak here as though I had been born on this
stand—not because the State flag of Indiana waves over me—I would
not know it if I should see it. You have the same right to speak in
Illinois, not because the State flag of Illinois waves over you, but
because that banner, rendered sacred by the blood of all the heroes,
waves over you and me. I am in favor of this being a Nation. Think of a
man gratifying his entire ambition in the State of Rhode Island. We want
this to be a Nation, and you cannot have a great, grand, splendid people
without a great, grand, splendid country. The great plains, the sublime
mountains, the great rushing, roaring rivers, shores lashed by two
oceans, and the grand anthem of Niagara, mingle and enter, into the
character of every American citizen, and make him or tend to make him a
great and grand character. I am for the Republican party because it says
the Government has as much right, as much power, to protect its citizens
at home as abroad. The Republican party does not say that you have to go
away from home to get the protection of the Government. The Democratic
party says the Government cannot march its troops into the South to
protect the rights of the citizens. It is a lie. The Government claims
the right, and it is conceded that the Government has the right, to go
to your house, while you are sitting by your fireside with your wife and
children about you, and the old lady knitting, and the cat playing with
the yarn, and everybody happy and serene—the Government claims the
right to go to your fireside and take you by force and put you into the
army; take you down to the valley of the shadow of hell, put you by the
ruddy, roaring guns, and make you fight for your flag. Now, that being
so, when the war is over and your country is victorious, and you go back
to your home, and a lot of Democrats want to trample upon your rights, I
want to know if the Government that took you from your fireside and made
you fight for it, I want to know if it is not bound to fight for you.
The flag that will not protect its protectors is a dirty rag that
contaminates the air in which it waves. The government that will not
defend its defenders is a disgrace to the nations of the world. I am
a Republican because the Republican party says, "We will protect the
rights of American citizens at home, and if necessary we will march
an army into any State to protect the rights of the humblest American
citizen in that State." I am a Republican because that party allows
me to be free—allows me to do my own thinking in my own way. I am a
Republican because it is a party grand enough and splendid enough and
sublime enough to invite every human being in favor of liberty and
progress to fight shoulder to shoulder for the advancement of mankind.
It invites the Methodist, it invites the Catholic, it invites the
Presbyterian and every kind of sectarian; it invites the Freethinker;
it invites the infidel, provided he is in favor of giving to every other
human being every chance and every right that he claims for himself.
I am a Republican, I tell you. There is room in the Republican air
for every wing; there is room on the Republican sea for every sail.
Republicanism says to every man: "Let your soul be like an eagle; fly
out in the great dome of thought, and question the stars for yourself."
But the Democratic party says; "Be blind owls, sit on the dry limb of a
dead tree, and hoot only when that party says hoot."

In the Republican party there are no followers. We are all leaders.
There is not a party chain. There is not a party lash. Any man that does
not love this country, any man that does not love liberty, any man that
is not in favor of human progress, that is not in favor of giving
to others all he claims for himself; we do not ask him to vote the
Republican ticket. You can vote it if you please, and if there is any
Democrat within hearing who expects to die before another election,
we are willing that he should vote one Republican ticket, simply as a
consolation upon his death-bed. What more? I am a Republican because
that party believes in free labor. It believes that free labor will give
us wealth. It believes in free thought, because it believes that free
thought will give us truth. You do not know what a grand party you
belong to. I never want any holier or grander title of nobility than
that I belong to the Republican party, and have fought for the liberty
of man. The Republican party, I say, believes in free labor. The
Republican party also believes in slavery. What kind of slavery? In
enslaving the forces of nature.

We believe that free labor, that free thought, have enslaved the
forces of nature, and made them work for man. We make old attraction of
gravitation work for us; we make the lightning do our errands; we make
steam hammer and fashion what we need. The forces of nature are the
slaves of the Republican party. They have no backs to be whipped,
they have no hearts to be torn—no hearts to be broken; they cannot be
separated from their wives; they cannot be dragged from the bosoms of
their husbands; they work night and day and they never tire. You cannot
whip them, you cannot starve them, and a Democrat even can be trusted
with one of them. I tell you I am a Republican. I believe, as I told
you, that free labor will give us these slaves. Free labor will produce
all these things, and everything you have to-day has been produced by
free labor, nothing by slave labor.

Slavery never invented but one machine, and that was a threshing machine
in the shape of a whip. Free labor has invented all the machines. We
want to come down to the philosophy of these things. The problem of free
labor, when a man works for the wife he loves, when he works for the
little children he adores—the problem is to do the most work in the
shortest space of time. The problem of slavery is to do the least work
in the longest space of time. That is the difference. Free labor, love,
affection—they have invented everything of use in this world. I am a
Republican.

I tell you, my friends, this world is getting better every day, and the
Democratic party is getting smaller every day. See the advancement we
have made in a few years, see what we have done. We have covered this
nation with wealth, with glory and with liberty. This is the first free
Government in the world. The Republican party is the first party that
was not founded on some compromise with the devil. It is the first party
of pure, square, honest principle; the first one. And we have the first
free country that ever existed.

And right here I want to thank every soldier that fought to make it
free, every one living and dead. I thank you again and again and again.
You made the first free Government in the world, and we must not forget
the dead heroes. If they were here they would vote the Republican
ticket, every one of them. I tell you we must not forget them.

* The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great
struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation—the
music of boisterous drums—the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see
thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see
the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those
assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers.
We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the
great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are
walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they
adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as
they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing
babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some
are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their
hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and
kisses—divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with
wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to
drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the
wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms—standing in the
sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves—she answers by
holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags,
keeping time to the grand, wild music of war—marching down the streets
of the great cities—through the towns and across the prairies—down to
the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right.

We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory
fields—in all the hospitals of pain—on all the weary marches. We stand
guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with
them in ravines running with blood—in the furrows of old fields. We are
with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst,
the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them
pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and
in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of
steel.

We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech
can never tell what they endured.

We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden
in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old
man bowed with the last grief.

The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings
governed by the lash—we see them bound hand and foot—we hear the
strokes of cruel whips—we see the hounds tracking women through
tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty
unspeakable! Outrage infinite!

Four million bodies in chains—four million souls in fetters. All the
sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath
the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful
banner of the free.

The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting
shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes died. We look. Instead of
slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches
the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes
and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and
crime and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty—they died for us. They
are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag
they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks,
the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They, sleep beneath the
shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in
the windowless Palace of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars—they
are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they
found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living
and dead: cheers for the living; tears for the dead.

> * This poetic flight of oratory has since become universally
> known as "A. Vision of War."

Now, my friends, I have given you a few reasons why I am a Republican. I
have given you a few reasons why I am not a Democrat. Let me say another
thing. The Democratic party opposed every forward movement of the
army of the Republic, every one. Do not be fooled. Imagine the meanest
resolution that you can think of—that is the resolution the Democratic
party passed. Imagine the meanest thing you can think of—that is what
they did; and I want you to recollect that the Democratic party did
these devilish things when the fate of this nation was trembling in the
balance of war. I want you to recollect another thing; when they tell
you about hard times, that the Democratic party made the hard times;
that every dollar we owe to-day was made by the Southern and Northern
Democracy.

When we commenced to put down the Rebellion we had to borrow money, and
the Democratic party went into the markets of the world and impaired the
credit of the United States. They slandered, they lied, they maligned
the credit of the United States, and to such an extent did they do this,
that at one time during the war paper was only worth about thirty-four
cents on the dollar. Gold went up to $2.90. What did that mean? It meant
that greenbacks were worth thirty-four cents on the dollar. What became
of the other sixty-six cents? They were lied out of the greenback,
they were slandered out of the greenback, they were maligned out of the
greenback, they were calumniated out of the greenback, by the Democratic
party of the North. Two-thirds of the debt, two-thirds of the burden
now upon the shoulders of American industry, were placed there by the
slanders of the Democratic party of the North, and the other third by
the Democratic party of the South. And when you pay your taxes keep an
account and charge two-thirds to the Northern Democracy and one-third to
the Southern Democracy, and whenever you have to earn the money to pay
the taxes, when you have to blister your hands to earn that money, pull
off the blisters, and under each one, as the foundation, you will find a
Democratic lie.

Recollect that the Democratic party did all the things of which I have
told you, when the fate of our nation was submitted to the arbitrament
of the sword. Recollect that the Democratic party did these things when
your brothers, your fathers, and your chivalric sons were fighting,
bleeding, suffering, and dying upon the battle-fields of the South; when
shot and shell were crashing through their sacred flesh. Recollect that
this Democratic party was false to the Union when your husbands, your
fathers, and your brothers, and your chivalric sons were lying in the
hospitals of pain, dreaming broken dreams of home, and seeing fever
pictures of the ones they loved; recollect that the Democratic party was
false to the nation when your husbands, your fathers, and your brothers
were lying alone upon the field of battle at night, the life-blood
slowly oozing from the mangled and pallid lips of death; recollect that
the Democratic party was false to your country when your husbands, your
brothers, your fathers, and your sons were lying in the prison pens of
the South, with no covering but the clouds, with no bed but the frozen
earth, with no food except such as worms had re-p fused to eat, and with
no friends except Insanity and Death. Recollect it, and spurn that party
forever.

I have sometimes wished that there were words of pure hatred out of
which I might construct sentences like snakes; out of which I might
construct sentences that had fanged mouths, and that had forked tongues;
out of which I might construct sentences that would writhe and hiss;
and then I could give my opinion of the Northern allies of the Southern
rebels during the great struggle for the preservation of the country.

There are three questions now submitted to the American people. The
first is, Shall the people that saved this country rule it? Shall the
men who saved the old flag hold it? Shall the men who saved the ship
of State sail it, or shall the rebels walk her quarter-deck, give the
orders and sink it? That is the question. Shall a solid South, a united
South, united by assassination and murder, a South solidified by the
shot-gun; shall a united South, with the aid of a divided North, shall
they control this great and splendid country? We are right back where we
were in 1861. This is simply a prolongation of the war. This is the war
of the idea, the other was the war of the musket. The other was the war
of cannon, this is the war of thought; and we have to beat them in
this war of thought, recollect that. The question is, Shall the men who
endeavored to destroy this country rule it? Shall the men that said,
This is not a Nation, have charge of the Nation?

The next question is, Shall we pay our debts? We had to borrow some
money to pay for shot and shell to shoot Democrats with. We found that
we could get along with a few less Democrats, but not with any less
country, and so we borrowed the money, and the question now is, will we
pay it? And which party is the more apt to pay it, the Republican party
that made the debt—the party that swore it was constitutional, or the
party that said it was unconstitutional?

Every time a Democrat sees a greenback, it says to him, "I vanquished
you." Every time a Republican sees a greenback, it says, "You and I put
down the Rebellion and saved the country."

Now, my friends, you have heard a great deal about finance. Nearly
everybody that talks about it gets as dry—as dry as if they had been in
the final home of the Democratic party for forty years.

I will now give you my ideas about finance. In the first place
the Government does not support the people, the people support the
Government.

The Government is a perpetual pauper. It passes round the hat, and
solicits contributions; but then you must remember that the Government
has a musket behind the hat. The Government produces nothing. It does
not plow the land, it does not sow corn, it does not grow trees. The
Government is a perpetual consumer. We support the Government. Now, the
idea that the Government can make money for you and me to live on—why,
it is the same as though my hired man should issue certificates of my
indebtedness to him for me to live on.

Some people tell me that the Government can impress its sovereignty on
a piece of paper, and that is money. Well, if it is, what's the use of
wasting it making one dollar bills? It takes no more ink and no more
paper—why not make one thousand dollar bills? Why not make a hundred
million dollar bills and all be billionaires?

If the Government can make money, what on earth does it collect taxes
from you and me for? Why does it not make what money it wants, take
the taxes out, and give the balance to us? Mr. Greenbacker, suppose the
Government issued a billion dollars to-morrow, how would you get any
of it? [A voice, "Steal it."] I was not speaking to the Democrats. You
would not get any of it unless you had something to exchange for it. The
Government would not go around and give you your aver-: age. You have to
have some corn, or wheat, or pork to give for it.

How do you get your money? By work. Where from? You have to dig it out
of the ground. That is where it comes from. Men have always had a kind
of hope that something could be made out of nothing. The old alchemists
sought, with dim eyes, for something that could change the baser metals
to gold. With tottering steps, they searched for the spring of Eternal
Youth. Holding in trembling hands retort and crucible, they dreamed of
the Elixir of Life. The baser metals are not gold. No human ear has ever
heard the silver gurgle of the spring of Immortal Youth. The wrinkles
upon the brow of Age are still waiting for the Elixir of Life.

Inspired by the same idea, mechanics have endeavored, by curious
combinations of levers and inclined planes, of wheels and cranks and
shifting weights, to produce perpetual motion; but the wheels and levers
wait for force. And, in the financial world, there are thousands now
trying to find some way for promises to take the place of performance;
for some way to make the word dollar as good as the dollar itself; for
some way to make the promise to pay a dollar take the dollar's place.
This financial alchemy, this pecuniary perpetual motion, this fountain
of eternal wealth, are the same old failures with new names. Something
cannot be made out of nothing. Nothing is a poor capital to, carry on
business with, and makes a very unsatisfactory balance at your bankers.

Let me tell you another thing. The Democrats seem to think that you can
fail to keep a promise so long that it is as good as though you had kept
it. They say you can stamp the sovereignty of the Government upon paper.

I saw not long ago a piece of gold bearing the stamp of the Roman
Empire. That Empire is dust, and over it has been thrown the mantle of
oblivion, but that piece of gold is as good as though Julius Cæsar were
still riding at the head of the Roman Legions.

Was it his sovereignty that made it valuable? Suppose he had put it upon
a piece of paper—it would have been of no more value than a Democratic
promise.

Another thing, my friends: this debt will be paid; you need not worry
about that. The Democrats ought to pay it. They lost the suit, and they
ought to pay the costs. But we in our patriotism are willing to pay our
share.

Every man that has a bond, every man that has a greenback dollar has
a mortgage upon the best continent of land on earth. Every one has a
mortgage on the honor of the Republican party, and it is on record.
Every spear of grass; every bearded head of golden wheat that grows upon
this continent is a guarantee that the debt will be paid; every field of
bannered corn in the great, glorious West is a guarantee that the debt
will be paid; every particle of coal laid away by that old miser the
sun, millions-of years ago, is a guarantee that every dollar will be
paid; all the iron ore, all the gold and silver under the snow-capped
Sierra Nevadas, waiting for the miners pick to give back the flash of
the sun, every ounce is a guarantee that this debt will be paid; and all
the cattle on the prairies, pastures and plains which adorn our broad
land are guarantees that this debt will be paid; every pine standing
in the sombre forests of the North, waiting for the woodman's axe, is a
guarantee that this debt will be paid; every locomotive with its muscles
of iron and breath of flame, and all the boys and girls bending over
their books at school, every dimpled babe in the cradle, every honest
man, every noble woman, and every man that votes the Republican ticket
is a guarantee that the debt will be paid—these, all these, each and
all, are the guarantees that every promise of the United States will be
sacredly fulfilled.

What is the next question? The next question is, will we protect the
Union men in the South? I tell you the white Union men have suffered
enough. It is a crime in the Southern States to be a Republican. It is
a crime in every Southern State to love this country, to believe in the
sacred rights of men.

The colored people have suffered enough. For more than two hundred years
they have suffered the fabled torments of the damned; for more than two
hundred years they worked and toiled without reward, bending, in the
burning sun, their bleeding backs; for more than two hundred years,
babes were torn from the breasts of mothers, wives from husbands, and
every human tie broken by the cruel hand of greed; for more than two
hundred years they were pursued by hounds, beaten with clubs, burned
with fire, bound with chains; two hundred years of toil, of agony, of
tears; two hundred years of hope deferred; two hundred years of
gloom and shadow and darkness and blackness; two hundred years of
supplication, of entreaty; two hundred years of infinite outrage,
without a moment of revenge.

The colored people have suffered enough. They were and are our friends.
They are the friends of this country, and, cost what it may, they must
be protected.

There was not during the whole Rebellion a single negro that was not our
friend. We are willing to be reconciled to our Southern brethren when
they will treat our friends as men. When they will be just to the
friends of this country; when they are in favor of allowing every
American citizen to have his rights—then we are their friends. We are
willing to trust them with the Nation when they are the friends of the
Nation. We are willing to trust them with liberty when they believe in
liberty. We are willing to trust them with the black man when they cease
riding in the darkness of night, (those masked wretches,) to the hut of
the freedman, and notwithstanding the prayers and supplications of his
family, shoot him down; when they cease to consider the massacre of
Hamburg as a Democratic triumph, then, I say, we will be their friends,
and not before.

Now, my friends, thousands of the Southern people and thousands of the
Northern Democrats are afraid that the negroes are going to pass them in
the race of life. And, Mr. Democrat, he will do it unless you attend
to your business. The simple fact that you are white cannot save you
always. You have to be industrious, honest, to cultivate a sense of
justice. If you do not the colored race will pass you, as sure as you
live. I am for giving every man a chance. Anybody that can pass me is
welcome.

I believe, my friends, that the intellectual domain of the future, as
the land used to be in the State of Illinois, is open to pre-emption.
The fellow that gets a fact first, that is his; that gets an idea
first, that is his. Every round in the ladder of fame, from the one that
touches the ground to the last one that leans against the shining summit
of human ambition, belongs to the foot that gets upon it first.

Mr. Democrat, (I point down because they are nearly all on the first
round of the ladder) if you can not climb, stand one side and let the
deserving negro pass.

I must tell you one thing. I have told it so much, and you have all
heard it fifty times, but I am going to tell it again because I like it.
Suppose there was a great horse race here to-day, free to every horse
in the world, and to all the mules, and all the scrubs* and all the
donkeys.

At the tap of the drum they come to the line, and the judges say "it is
a go." Let me ask you, what does the blooded horse, rushing ahead, with
nostrils distended, drinking in the breath of his own swiftness, with
his mane flying like a banner of victory, with his veins standing out
all over him, as if a network of life had been cast upon him—with his
thin neck, his high withers, his tremulous flanks—what does he care how
many mules and donkeys run on that track? But the Democratic scrub,
with his chuckle-head and lop-ears, with his tail full of cockle-burrs,
jumping high and short, and digging in the ground when he feels the
breath of the coming mule on his cockle-burr tail, he is the chap that
jumps the track and says, "I am down on mule equality."

I stood, a little while ago, in the city of Paris, where stood the
Bastile, where now stands the Column of July, surmounted by a figure of
liberty. In its right hand is a broken chain, in its left hand a
banner; upon its glorious forehead the glittering and shining star of
progress—and as I looked upon it I said: "Such is the Republican party
of my country."

The other day going along the road I came to a place where the road had
been changed, but the guide-board did not know it. It had stood there
for twenty years pointing deliberately and solemnly in the direction of
a desolate field; nobody ever went that way, but the guide-board thought
the next man would. Thousands passed, but nobody heeded the hand on the
guide-post, and through sunshine and storm it pointed diligently into
the old field and swore to it the road went that way; and I said to
myself: "Such is the Democratic party of the United States."

The other day I came to a river where there had been a mill; a part
of it was there still. An old sign said: "Cash for wheat." The old
water-wheel was broken; it had been warped by the sun, cracked and split
by many winds and storms. There had not been a grain of wheat ground
there for twenty years.

The door was gone, nobody had built a new dam, the mill was not worth a
dam; and I said to myself: "Such is the Democratic party."

I saw a little while ago a place on the road where there had once been
an hotel. But the hotel and barn had burned down and there was nothing
standing but two desolate chimneys, up the flues of which the fires of
hospitality had not roared for thirty years. The fence was gone, and the
post-holes even were obliterated, but in the road there was an old sign
upon which were these words: "Entertainment for man and beast." The old
sign swung and creaked in the winter wind, the snow fell upon it, the
sleet clung to it, and in the summer the birds sang and twittered and
made love upon it. Nobody ever stopped there, but the sign swore to it,
the sign certified to it! "Entertainment for man and beast," and I said
to myself: "Such is the Democratic party of the United States," and
I further said, "one chimney ought to be called Tilden and the other
Hendricks."

Now, my friends, I want you to vote the Republican ticket. I want you
to swear you will not vote for a man who opposed putting down the
Rebellion. I want you to swear that you will not vote for a man opposed
to the Proclamation of Emancipation. I want you to swear that you will
not vote for a man opposed to the utter abolition of slavery.

I want you to swear that you will not vote for a man who called the
soldiers in the field, Lincoln hirelings. I want you to swear that you
will not vote for a man who denounced Lincoln as a tyrant. I want you
to swear that you will not vote for any enemy of human progress. Go and
talk to every Democrat that you can see; get him by the coatcollar,
talk to him, and hold him like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, with your
glittering eye; hold him, tell him all the mean things his party ever
did; tell him kindly; tell him in a Christian spirit, as I do, but tell
him. Recollect, there never was a more important election than the
one you are going to hold in Indiana. I tell you we must stand by the
country. It is a glorious country. It permits you and me to be free.
It is the only country in the world where labor is respected. Let us
support it. It is the only country in the world where the useful man is
the only aristocrat. The man that works for a dollar a day, goes home
at night to his little ones, takes his little boy on his knee, and he
thinks that boy can achieve anything that the sons of the wealthy man
can achieve. The free schools are open to him; he may be the richest,
the greatest, and the grandest, and that thought sweetens every drop
of sweat that rolls down the honest face of toil. Vote to save that
country.

My friends, this country is getting better every day. Samuel J. Tilden
says we are a nation of thieves and rascals. If that is so he ought to
be the President. But I denounce him as a calumniator of my country;
a maligner of this nation. It is not so. This country is covered with
asylums for the aged, the helpless, the insane, the orphans and wounded
soldiers. Thieves and rascals do not build such things. In the cities
of the Atlantic coast this summer, they built floating hospitals, great
ships, and took the little children from the sub-cellars and narrow,
dirty streets of New York City, where the Democratic party is the
strongest—took these poor waifs and put them in these great hospitals
out at sea, and let the breezes of ocean kiss the roses of health back
to their pallid cheeks. Rascals and thieves do not so. When Chicago
burned, railroads were blocked with the charity of the American people.
Thieves and rascals do not so.

I am a Republican. The world is getting better. Husbands are treating
their wives better than they used to; wives are treating their husbands
better. Children are better treated than they used to be; the old whips
and clubs are out of the schools, and they are governing children by
love and by sense. The world is getting better; it is getting better in
Maine, in Vermont. It is getting better in every State of the North, and
I tell you we are going to elect Hayes and Wheeler and the world will
then be better still. I have a dream that this world is growing better
and better every day and every year; that there is more charity, more
justice, more love every day. I have a dream that prisons will not
always curse the land; that the shadow of the gallows will not always
fall upon the earth; that the withered hand of want will not always
be stretched out for charity; that finally wisdom will sit in the
legislatures, justice in the courts, charity will occupy all the
pulpits, and that finally the world will be governed by justice and
charity, and by the splendid light of liberty. That is my dream, and
if it does not come true, it shall not be my fault. I am going to do my
level best to give others the same chance I ask for myself. Free thought
will give us truth; Free labor will give us wealth.
---
# Ratification Speech
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1888_
> * Delivered at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, June
> 29,1688.

Harrison and Morton.

1888.

FELLOW-CITIZENS, Ladies and Gentlemen—The speaker who is perfectly
candid, who tells his honest thought, not only honors himself, but
compliments his audience. It is only to the candid that man can afford
to absolutely open his heart. Most people, whenever a man is nominated
for the presidency, claim that they were for him from the very start—as
a rule, claim that they discovered him. They are so anxious to be with
the procession, so afraid of being left, that they insist that they got
exactly the man they wanted.

I will be frank enough with you to say that the convention did not
nominate my choice. I was for the nomination of General Gresham,
believing that, all things considered, he was the best and most
available man—a just judge, a soldier, a statesman. But there is
something in the American blood that bows to the will of the majority.
There is that splendid fealty and loyalty to the great principle upon
which our Government rests; so that when the convention reached its
conclusion, every Republican was for the nominee. There were good men
from which to select this ticket. I made my selection, and did the best
I could to induce the convention to make the same. Some people think,
or say they think, that I made a mistake in telling the name of the man
whom I was for. But I always know whom I am for, I always know what I am
for, and I know the reasons why I am for the thing or for the man.

And it never once occurred to me that we could get a man nominated, or
elected, and keep his name a secret. When I am for a man I like to stand
by him, even while others leave, no matter if at last I stand alone. I
believe in doing things above board, in the light, in the wide air.
No snake ever yet had a skin brilliant enough, no snake ever crawled
through the grass secretly enough, silently or cunningly enough, to
excite my admiration. My admiration is for the eagle, the monarch of the
empyrean, who, poised on outstretched pinions, challenges the gaze of
all the world. Take your position in the sunlight; tell your neighbors
and your friends what you are for, and give your reasons for your
position; and if that is a mistake, I expect to live making only
mistakes. I do not like the secret way, but the plain, open way; and I
was for one man, not because I had anything against the others, who were
all noble, splendid men, worthy to be Presidents of the United States.

Now, then, leaving that subject, two parties again confront each other.
With parties as with persons goes what we call character. They have
built up in the nation in which they live reputation, and the reputation
of a party should be taken into consideration as well as the reputation
of a man. What is this party? What has it done? What has it endeavored
to do? What are the ideas in its brain? What are the hopes, the emotions
and the loves in its heart? Does it wish to make the world grander and
better and freer? Has it a high ideal? Does it believe in sunrise, or
does it keep its back to the sacred east of eternal progress? These
are the questions that every American should ask. Every man should
take pride in this great Nation—America, with a star of glory in her
forehead!—and every man should say, "I hope when I lie down in death I
shall leave a greater and grander country than when I was born."

This is the country of humanity. This is the Government of the poor.
This is where man has an even chance with his fellow-man. In this
country the poorest man holds in his hand at the day of election the
same unit, the same amount, of political power as the owner of a hundred
millions. That is the glory of the United States.

A few days ago our party met in convention. Now, let us see who we are.
Let us see what the Republican party is. Let us see what is the spirit
that animates this great and splendid organization.

And I want you to think one moment, just one moment: What was this
country when the first Republican President was elected? Under the
law then, every Northern man was a bloodhound, pledged to catch human
beings, who, led by the light of the Northern Star, were escaping
to free soil. Remember that. And remember, too, that when our first
President was elected we found a treasury empty, the United States
without credit, the great Republic unable to borrow money from day to
day to pay its current expenses. Remember that. Think of the glory and
grandeur of the Republican party that took the country with an empty
exchequer, and then think of what the Democratic party says to-day of
the pain and anguish it has suffered administering the Government with a
surplus!

We must remember what the Republican party has done—what it has
accomplished for nationality, for liberty, for education and for the
civilization of our race. We must remember its courage in war, its
honesty in peace. Civil war tests to a certain degree the strength, the
stability and the patriotism of a country. After the war comes a greater
strain. It is a great thing to die for a cause, but it is a greater
thing to live for it. We must remember that the Republican party not
only put down a rebellion, not only created a debt of thousands and
thousands of millions, but that it had the industry and the intelligence
to pay that debt, and to give to the United States the best financial
standing of any nation.

When this great party came together in Chicago what was the first thing
the convention did? What was the first idea in its mind? It was to honor
the memory of the greatest and grandest men the Republic has produced.
The first name that trembled upon the lips of the convention was that of
Abraham Lincoln—Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest and grandest men
who ever lived, and, in my judgment, the greatest man that ever sat
in the presidential chair. And why the greatest? Because the kindest,
because he had more mercy and love in his heart than were in the heart
of any other President. And so the convention paid its tribute to the
great soldier, to the man who led, in company with others, the great
army of freedom to victory, until the old flag floated over every inch
of American soil and every foot of that territory was dedicated to the
eternal freedom of mankind.

And what next did this convention do? The next thing was to send
fraternal greetings to the Americans of Brazil. Why? Because Brazil
had freed every slave, and because that act left the New World, this
hemisphere, without a slave—left two continents dedicated to the
freedom of man—so that with that act of Brazil the New World,
discovered only a few years ago, takes the lead in the great march of
human progress and liberty. That is the second thing the convention did.
Only a little while ago the minister to this country from Brazil, acting
under instructions from his government, notified the President of the
United States that this sublime act had been accomplished—notified
him that from the bodies of millions of men the chains of slavery had
fallen—an act great enough to make the dull sky of half the world glow
as though another morning had risen upon another day.

And what did our President say? Was he filled with enthusiasm? Did his
heart beat quicker? Did the blood rush to his cheek? He simply said,
as it is reported, "that he hoped time would justify the wisdom of the
measure." It is precisely the same as though a man should quit a life of
crime, as though some gentleman in the burglar business should finally
announce to his friends: "I have made up my mind never to break into
another house," and the friend should reply: "I hope that time will
justify the propriety of that resolution."

That was the first thing, with regard to the condition of the world,
that came into the mind of the Republican convention. And why was that?
Because the Republican party has fought for liberty from the day of its
birth to the present moment.

And what was the next? The next resolution passed by the convention was,
"that we earnestly hope, we shall soon congratulate our fellow-citizens
of Irish birth upon the peaceful recovery of home rule in Ireland."

Wherever a human being wears a chain, there you will find the sympathy
of the Republican party. Wherever one languishes in a dungeon for having
raised the standard of revolt in favor of human freedom, there you will
find the sympathy of the Republican party. I believe in liberty for
Ireland, not because it is Ireland, but because they are human beings,
and I am for liberty, not as a prejudice, but as a principle.

The man rightfully in jail who wants to get out is a believer in liberty
as a prejudice; but when a man out of jail sees a man wrongfully in jail
and is willing to risk his life to give liberty to the man who ought to
have it, that is being in favor of liberty as a principle. So I am in
favor of liberty everywhere, all over the world, and wherever one man
tries to govern another simply because he has been born a lord or a duke
or a king, or wherever one governs another simply by brute force, I say
that that is oppression, and it is the business of Americans to do all
they can to give liberty to the oppressed everywhere.

Ireland should govern herself. Those who till the soil should own the
soil, or have an opportunity at least of becoming the owners. A few
landlords should not live in extravagance and luxury while those
who toil live on the leavings, on parings, on crumbs and crusts. The
treatment of Ireland by England has been one continuous crime. There is
no meaner page in history.

What is the next thing in this platform? And if there is anything in it
that anybody can object to, we will find it out to-night. The next thing
is the supremacy of the Nation.-Why, even the Democrats now believe in
that, and in their own platform are willing to commence that word with
a capital N. They tell us that they are in favor of an indissoluble
Union—just as I presume they always have been. But they now believe in
a Union. So does the Republican party. What else? The Republican party
believes, not in State Sovereignty, but in the preservation of all the
rights reserved to the States by the Constitution.

Let me show you the difference: For instance, you make a contract with
your neighbor who lives next door—equal partners—and at the bottom of
the contract you put the following addition: "If there is any dispute
as to the meaning of this contract, my neighbor shall settle it, and any
settlement he shall make shall be final." Is there any use of talking
about being equal partners any longer? Any use of your talking about
being a sovereign partner? So, the Constitution of the United States
says: "If any question arises between any State and the Federal
Government it shall be decided by a Federal Court." That is the end of
what they call State Sovereignty.

Think of a sovereign State that can make no treaty, that cannot levy
war, that cannot coin money. But we believe in maintaining the rights
of the States absolutely in their integrity, because we believe in local
self-government. We deny, however, that a State has any right to deprive
a citizen of his vote. We deny that the State has any right to violate
the Federal law, and we go further and we say that it is the duty of the
General Government to see to it that every citizen in every State shall
have the right to exercise all of his privileges as a citizen of the
United States—"the right of every lawful citizen," says our platform,
"native or foreign, white or black, to cast a free ballot."

Let me say one word about that.

The ballot is the king, the emperor, the ruler of America; it is the
only rightful sovereign of the Republic; and whoever refuses to count
an honest vote, or whoever casts a dishonest vote, is a traitor to the
great principle upon which our Government is founded. The man poisons,
or endeavors to poison, the springs of authority, the fountains of
justice, of rightful dominion and power; and until every citizen can
cast his vote everywhere in this land and have that vote counted, we are
not a republican people, we are not a civilized nation. The Republican
party will not have finished its mission until this country is
civilized. That is its business. It was born of a protest against
barbarism.

The Republican party was the organized conscience of the United States.
It had the courage to stand by what it believed to be right. There is
something better even than success in this world; or in other words,
there is only one kind of success, and that is to be for the right. Then
whatever happens, you have succeeded.

Now, comes the next question. The Republican party not only wants to
protect every citizen in his liberty, in his right to vote, but it wants
to have that vote counted. And what else?

The next thing in this platform is protection for American labor.

I am going to tell you in a very brief way why I am in favor of
protection. First, I want this Republic substantially independent of
the rest of the world. You must remember that while people are
civilized—some of them—so that when they have a quarrel they leave it
to the courts to decide, nations still occupy the position of savages
toward each other. There is no national court to decide a question,
consequently the question is decided by the nations themselves, and you
know what selfishness and greed and power and the ideas of false glory
will do and have done. So that this Nation is not safe one moment from
war. I want the Republic so that it can live although at war with all
the world.

We have every kind of climate that is worth having. Our country embraces
the marriage of the pine and palm; we have all there is of worth; it
is the finest soil in the world and the most ingenious people that ever
contrived to make the forces of nature do their work. I want this Nation
substantially independent, so that if every port were blockaded we would
be covered with prosperity as with a mantle. Then, too, the Nation that
cannot take care of itself in war is always at a disadvantage in peace.
That is one reason. Let me give you the next.

The next reason is that whoever raises raw material and sells it will be
eternally poor. There is no State in this Union where the farmer raises
wheat and sells it, that the farmer is not poor. Why? He only makes one
profit, and, as a rule, that is a loss. The farmer that raises corn does
better, because he can sell, not corn, but pork and beef and horses. In
other words, he can make the second or third profit, and those farmers
get rich. There is a vast difference between the labor necessary to
raise raw material and the labor necessary to make the fabrics used
by civilized men. Remember that; and if you are confined simply to raw
material your labor will be unskilled; unskilled labor will be cheap,
the raw material will be cheap, and the result is that your country will
grow poorer and poorer, while the country that buys your raw material,
makes it into fabrics and sells it back to you, will grow intelligent
and rich. I want you to remember this, because it lies at the foundation
of this whole subject. Most people who talk on this point bring forward
column after column of figures, and a man to understand it would have to
be a walking table of logarithms. I do not care to discuss it that
way. I want to get at the foundation principles, so that you can give a
reason, as well as myself, why you are in favor of protection.

Let us take another step. We will take a locomotive—a wonderful
thing—that horse of progress, with its flesh of iron and steel and
breath of flame—a wonderful thing. Let us see how it is made. Did you
ever think of the deft and cunning hands, of the wonderfully accurate
brains, that can make a thing like that? Did you ever think about it?
How much do you suppose the raw material lying in the earth was worth
that was changed into that locomotive? A locomotive that is worth, we
will say, twelve thousand dollars; how much was the raw material worth
lying in the earth, deposited there millions of years ago? Not as much
as one dollar. Let us, just for the sake of argument, say five dollars.
What, then, has labor added to the twelve thousand dollar locomotive?
Eleven thousand nine hundred and ninety-five dollars. Now, why? Because,
just to the extent that thought is mingled with labor, wages increase;
just to the extent you mix mind with muscle, you give value to labor;
just to the extent that the labor is skilled, deft, apt, just to that
extent or in that proportion, is the product valuable. Think about it.
Raw material! There is a piece of canvas five feet one way, three the
other. Raw material would be to get a man to whitewash it; that is raw
material. Let a man of genius paint a picture upon it; let him put in
that picture the emotions of his heart, the landscapes that have made
poetry in his brain, the recollection of the ones he loves, the prattle
of children, a mother's tear, the sunshine of her smile, and all the
sweet and sacred memories of his life, and it is worth five thousand
dollars—ten thousand dollars.

Noise is raw material, but the great opera of "Tristan and Isolde" is
the result of skilled labor. There is the same difference between simple
brute strength and skilled labor that there is between noise and the
symphonies of Beethoven. I want you to get this in your minds.

Now, then, whoever sells raw material gives away the great profit. You
raise cotton and sell it; and just as long as the South does it and does
nothing more the South will be poor, the South will be ignorant, and it
will be solidly Democratic.

Now, do not imagine that I am saying anything against the Democratic
party. I believe the Democratic party is doing the best it can under the
circumstances. You know my philosophy makes me very charitable. You find
out all about a man, all about his ancestors, and you can account for
his vote always. Why? Because there are causes and effects in nature.
There are sometimes antecedents and subsequents that have no relation
to each other, but at the same time, all through the web and woof of
events, you find these causes and effects, and if you only look far
enough, you will know why a man does as he does.

I have nothing to say against the Democratic party. I want to talk
against ideas, not against people. I do not care anything about their
candidates, whether they are good, bad or indifferent. What, gentlemen,
are your ideas? What do you propose to do? What is your policy? That
is what I want to know, and I am willing to meet them upon the field of
intellectual combat. They are in possession; they are in the rifle pits
of office; we are in the open field, but we will plant our standard, the
flag that we love, without a stain, and under that banner, upon which
so many dying men have looked in the last hour when they thought of
home and country—under that flag we will carry the Democratic
fortifications.

Another thing; we want to get at this business so that we will
understand what we are doing. I do not believe in protecting American
industry for the sake of the capitalist, or for the sake of any class,
but for the sake of the whole Nation. And if I did not believe that it
was for the best interests of the whole Nation I should be opposed to
it.

Let us take this next step. Everybody, of course, cannot be a farmer.
Everybody cannot be a mechanic. All the people in the world cannot go at
one business. We must have a diversity of industry. I say, the greater
that diversity, the greater the development of brain in the country. We
then have what you might call a mental exchange; men are then pursuing
every possible direction in which the mind can go, and the brain is
being developed upon all sides; whereas, if you all simply cultivated
the soil, you would finally become stupid. If you all did only one
business you would become ignorant; but by pursuing all possible
avocations that call for taste, genius, calculation, discovery,
ingenuity, invention—by having all these industries open to the
American people, we will be able to raise great men and great women; and
I am for protection, because it will enable us to raise greater men and
greater women. Not only because it will make more money in less time,
but because I would rather have greater folks and less money.

One man of genius makes a continent sublime. Take all the men of wealth
from Scotland—who would know it? Wipe their names from the pages of
history, and who would miss them? Nobody. Blot out one name, Robert
Burns, and how dim and dark would be the star of Scotland. The great
thing is to raise great folks. That is what we want to do, and we want
to diversify all the industries and protect them all. How much? Simply
enough to prevent the foreign article from destroying the domestic. But
they say, then the manufacturers will form a trust and put the prices
up. If we depend upon the foreign manufacturers will they not form
trusts? We can depend on competition. What do the Democrats want to do?
They want to do away with the tariff, so as to do away with the surplus.
They want to put down the tariff to do away with the surplus. If you put
down the tariff a small per cent, so that the foreign article comes to
America, instead of decreasing, you will increase the surplus. Where you
get a dollar now, you will get five then. If you want to stop getting
anything from imports, you want to put the tariff higher, my friend.

Let every Democrat understand this, and let him also understand that I
feel and know that he has the same interest in this great country that I
have, and let me be frank enough and candid enough and honest enough
to say that I believe the Democratic party advocates the policy it does
because it believes it will be the best for the country. But we differ
upon a question of policy, and the only way to argue it is to keep cool.
If a man simply shouts for his side, or gets mad, he is a long way from
any intellectual improvement.

If I am wrong in this, I want to be set right. If it is not to the
interest of America that the shuttle shall keep flying, that wheels
shall keep turning, that cloth shall be woven, that the forges shall
flame and that the smoke shall rise from the numberless chimneys—if
that is not to the interest of America, I want to know it. But I believe
that upon the great cloud of smoke rising from the chimneys of the
manufactories of this country, every man who will think can see the bow
of national promise.

"Oh, but," they say, "you put the prices so high." Let me give you two
or three facts: Only a few years ago I know that we paid one hundred and
twenty-five dollars a ton for Bessemer steel. At that time the tariff
was twenty-eight dollars a ton, I believe. I am not much on figures. I
generally let them add it up, and I pay it and go on about my business.
With the tariff at twenty-eight dollars a ton, that being a sufficient
protection against Great Britain, the ingenuity of America went to work.
Capital had the courage to try the experiment, and the result was that,
instead of buying thousands and thousands and thousands and tens of
thousands and hundreds of thousands and millions of tons of steel from
Great Britain, we made it here in our own country, and it went down as
low as thirty dollars a ton. Under this "rascally protection" it went
down to one-fourth of what free trade England was selling it to us for.

And so I might go on all night with a thousand other articles; all I
want to show you is that we want these industries here, and we want
them protected just as long as they need protection. We want to rock the
cradle just as long as there is a child in it. When the child gets to
be seven or eight feet high, and wears number twelve boots, we will say:
"Now you will have to shift for yourself." What we want is not simply
for the capitalist, not simply for the workingmen, but for the whole
country.

If there is any object worthy the attention of this or any other
government, it is the condition of the workingmen. What do they do? They
do all that is done. They are the Atlases upon whose mighty shoulders
rests the fabric of American civilization. The men of leisure are simply
the vines that run round this great sturdy oak of labor. If there is
anything noble enough, and splendid enough to claim the attention of a
nation, it is this question, and I hope the time will come when labor
will receive far more than it does to-day. I want you all to think of
it—how little, after all, the laboring man, even in America, receives.

[A voice: "Under protection."]

Yes, sir, even under protection. Take away that protection, and he is
instantly on a level with the European serf. And let me ask that good,
honest gentleman one question. If the laborer is better off in other
countries, why does not the American laborer emigrate to Europe?

There is no place in the wide world where, in my judgment, labor reaps
its true reward. There never has been. But I hope the time will come
when the American laborer will not only make a living for himself, for
his wife and children, but lay aside something to keep the roof above
his head when the winter of age may come. My sympathies are all with
them, and I would rather see thousands of... '' palaces of millionaires
unroofed than to see desolation in the cabins of the poor. I know that
this world has been made beautiful by those who have labored and those
who have suffered. I know that we owe to them the conveniences of life,
and I have more conveniences, I live a more luxurious life, than any
monarch ever lived one hundred years ago. I have more conveniences than
any emperor could have purchased with the revenue of his empire one
hundred years ago. It is worth something to live in this age of the
world.

And what has made us such a great and splendid and progressive and
sensible people?

[A voice: "Free thought."]

Free thought, of course. Back of every invention is free thought. Why
does a man invent? Slavery never invents; freedom invents. A slave
working for his master tries to do the least work in the longest space
of time, but a free man, working for wife and children, tries to do the
most work in the shortest possible time. He is in love with what he is
doing, consequently his head and his hands go in partnership; muscle and
brain unite, and the result is that the head invents something to help
the hands, and out of the brain leaps an invention that makes a slave
of the forces of nature—those forces that have no backs to be whipped,
those forces that shed no tears, those forces that are destined to work
forever for the happiness of the human race.

Consequently I am for the protection of American labor, American genius,
American thought. I do not want to put our workingmen on a level with
the citizens of despotisms. Why do not the Democrats and others want the
Chinese to come here? Are they in favor of being protected? Why is it
that the Democrats and others object to penitentiary labor? I will tell
you. They say that a man in the penitentiary can produce cheaper. He has
no family to support, he has no children to look after; and they say, it
is hardly fair to make the father of a family and an honest man compete
with a criminal within the walls of a penitentiary. So they ask to be
protected.

What is the difference whether a man is in the penitentiary, or whether
he is in the despotism of some European state? "Ah, but," they say, "you
let the laborer of Europe come here himself." Yes, and I am in favor of
it always. Why? This world belongs to the human race. And when they come
here, in a little while they have our wants, and if they do not their
children do, and you will find the second generation of Irishmen or
Germans or of any other nationality just as patriotic as the tenth
generation from the first immigrant. I want them to come. Then they get
our habits.

Who wants free trade? Only those who want us for their customers, who
would like to sell us everything that we use—England, Germany, all
those countries. And why? Because one American will buy more than one
thousand, yes, five thousand Asiatics. America consumes more to-day
than China and India, more than ten billion would of semi-civilized and
barbarous peoples. What do they buy—what does England sell? A little
powder, a little whiskey, cheap calico, some blankets—a few things of
that kind. What does the American purchase? Everything that civilized
man uses or that civilized man can want.

England wants this market. Give her free trade, and she will become the
most powerful, the richest nation that ever had her territories marked
upon the map of the world. And what do we become? Nobodies. Poor.
Invention will be lost, our minds will grow clumsy, the wondrous,
deft hand of the mechanic paralyzed—a great raw material producing
country—ignorant, poor, barbaric. I want the cotton that is raised in
this country to be spun here, to be woven into cloth. I want everything
that we use to be made by Americans. We can make the cloth, we can raise
the food to feed and to clothe this Nation, and the Nation is now only
in its infancy.

Somehow people do not understand this. They really think we are getting
filled up. Look at the map of this country. See the valley of the
Mississippi. Put your hand on it. Trace the rivers coming from the Rocky
Mountains and the Alleghanies, and sweeping down to the Gulf, and know
that in the valley of the Mississippi, with its wondrous tributaries,
there can live and there can be civilized and educated five hundred
millions of human beings.

Let us have some sense. I want to show you how far this goes beyond the
intellectual horizon of some people who hold office. For instance: We
have a tariff on lead, and by virtue of that tariff on lead nearly every
silver mine is worked in this country. Take the tariff from lead and
there would remain in the clutch of the rocks, of the quartz misers,
for all time, millions and millions of silver; but when that is put with
lead, and lead runs with silver, they can make enough on lead and silver
to pay for the mining, and the result is that millions and millions are
added every year to the wealth of the United States.

Let me tell you another thing: There is not a State in the Union but
has something it wants protected. And Louisiana—a Democratic State,
and will be just as long as Democrats count the votes—Louisiana has the
impudence to talk about free trade and yet it wants its sugar protected.
Kentucky says free trade, except hemp; and if anything needs protection
it is hemp. Missouri says hemp and lead. Colorado, lead and wool; and so
you can make the tour of the States and every one is for free trade with
an exception—that exception being to the advantage of that State, and
when you put the exceptions together you have protected the industries
of all the States.

Now, if the Democratic party is in favor of anything, it is in favor of
free trade. If President Clevelands message means anything it means free
trade. And why? Because it says to every man that gets protection: If
you will look about you, you will find that you pay for something
else that is protected more than you receive in benefits for what is
protected of yours; consequently the logic of that is free trade. They
believe in it I have no doubt. When the whole world is civilized, when
men are everywhere free, when they all have something like the same
tastes and ambitions, when they love their families and their children,
when they want the same kind of food and roofs above them—if that day
shall ever come—the world can afford to have its trade free, but do not
put the labor of America on a par with the labor of the Old World.

Now, about taxes—internal revenue. That was resorted to in time of war.
The Democratic party made it necessary. We had to tax everything to beat
back the Democratic hosts, North and South. Now, understand me. I know
that thousands and hundreds of thousands of individual Democrats were
for this country, and were as pure patriots as ever marched beneath the
flag. I know that—hundreds of thousands of them. I am speaking of the
party organization that staid at home and passed resolutions that every
time the Union forces won a victory the Constitution had been violated.
I understand that. Those taxes were put on in time of war, because it
was necessary. Direct taxation is always odious. A government dislikes,
to be represented among all the people by a tax gatherer, by an official
who visits homes carrying consternation and grief wherever he goes.
Everybody, from the most ancient times of which I have ever read, until
the present moment, dislikes a tax gatherer. I have never yet seen in
any cemetery a monument with this inscription: "Sacred to the memory of
the man who loved to pay his taxes." It is far better if we can collect
the needed revenue of this Government indirectly. But, they say, you
must not take the taxes off tobacco; you must not take the taxes off
alcohol or spirits or whiskey. Why? Because it is immoral to take off
the taxes. Do you believe that there was, on the average, any more
drunkenness in this country before the tax was put on than there is now?
I do not. I believe there is as much liquor drank to-day, per capita,
as there ever was in the United States. I will not blame the Democratic
party. I do not care what they drink. What they think is what I have to
do with. I will be plain with them, because I know lots of fellows
in the Democratic party, and that is the only bad thing about
them—splendid fellows. And I know a good many Republicans, and I am
willing to take my oath that that is the only good thing about them. So,
let us all be fair.

I want the taxes taken from tobacco and whiskey; and why? Because it is
a war measure that should not be carried on in peace; and in the second
place, I do not want that system inaugurated in this country, unless
there is an absolute necessity for it, and the moment the necessity is
gone, stop it.

The moral side of this question? Only a couple of years ago, I think
it was, the Prohibitionists said that they wanted this tax taken from
alcohol. Why? Because as long as the Government licensed, as long as the
Government taxed and received sixty millions of dollars in revenue, just
so long the Government would make this business respectable, just so
long the Government would be in partnership with this liquor crime. That
is what they said then. Now we say take the tax off, and they say it is
immoral. Now, I have a little philosophy about this. I may be entirely
wrong, but I am going to give it to you. You never can make great men
and great women, by keeping them out of the way of temptation. You have
to educate them to withstand temptation. It is all nonsense to tie a
man's hands behind him and then praise him for not picking pockets. I
believe that temperance walks hand in hand with liberty. Just as life
becomes valuable, people take care of it. Just as life is great, and
splendid and noble, as long as the future is a kind of gallery filled
with the ideal, just so long will we take care of ourselves and avoid
dissipation of every kind. Do you know, I believe, as much as I believe
that I am living, that if the Mississippi itself were pure whiskey and
its banks loaf sugar, and all the flats covered with mint, and all
the bushes grew teaspoons and tumblers, there would not be any more
drunkenness than there is now!

As long as you say to your neighbor "you must not" there is something in
that neighbor that says, "Well I will determine that for myself, and you
just say that again and I will take a drink if it kills me." There is no
moral question involved in it, except this: Let the burden of government
rest as lightly as possible upon the shoulders of the people, and let it
cause as little irritation as possible. Give liberty to the people. I
am willing that the women who wear silks, satins and diamonds; that the
gentlemen who smoke Havana cigars and drink champagne and Chateau Yquem;
I am perfectly willing that they shall pay my taxes and support this
Government, and I am willing that the man who does not do that, but is
willing to take the domestic article, should go tax free.

Temperance walks hand in hand with liberty. You recollect that little
old story about a couple of men who were having a discussion on
this prohibition question, and the man on the other side said to the
Prohibitionist: "How would you like to live in a community where
every body attended to his own business, where every body went to bed
regularly at night, got up regularly in the morning; where every man,
woman and child was usefully employed during the day; no backbiting,
no drinking of whiskey, no cigars, and where they all attended divine
services on Sunday, and where no profane language was used?" "Why," said
he, "such a place would be a paradise, or heaven; but there is no such
place." "Oh," said the other man, "every well regulated penitentiary is
that way." So much for the moral side of the question.

Another point that the Republican party calls the attention of the
country to is the use that has been made of the public land. Oh, say the
Democratic party, see what States, what empires have been given away
by the Republican party—and see what the Republican party did with it.
Road after road built to the great Pacific. Our country unified—the two
oceans, for all practical purposes, washing one shore. That is what
it did, and what else? It has given homes to millions of people in a
civilized land, where they can get all the conveniences of civilization.
And what else? Fifty million acres have been taken back by the
Government. How was this done? It was by virtue of the provisions put in
the original grants by the Republican party.

There is another thing to which the Republican party has called the
attention of the country, and that is the admission of new States where
there are people enough to form a State. Now, with a solid South, with
the assistance of a few Democrats from the North, comes a State, North
Dakota, with plenty of population, a magnificent State, filled with
intelligence and prosperity. It knocks at the door for admission, and
what is the question asked by this administration? Not "Have you the
land, have you the wealth, have you the men and women?" but "Are you
Democratic or Republican?" And being intelligent people, they answer:
"We are Republicans." And the solid South, assisted by the Democrats
of the North, says to that people: "The door is shut; we will not have
you." Why? "Because you would add two to the Republican majority in
the Senate." Is that the spirit in which a nation like this should be
governed? When a State asks for admission, no matter what the politics
of its people may be, I say, admit that State; put a star on the flag
that will glitter for her.

The next thing the Republican party says is, gold and silver shall both
be money. You cannot make every thing payable in gold—that would
be unfair to the poor man. You shall not make every thing payable in
silver—that would be unfair to the capitalist; but it shall be payable
in gold and silver. And why ought we to be in favor of silver? Because
we are the greatest silver producing nation in the world; and the value
of a thing, other things being equal, depends on its uses, and being
used as money adds to the value of silver. And why should we depreciate
one of our own products by saying that we will not take it as money? I
believe in bimetalism, gold and silver, and you cannot have too much
of either or both. No nation ever died of a surplus, and in all the
national cemeteries of the earth you will find no monument erected to a
nation that died from having too much silver. Give me all the silver I
want and I am happy.

The Republican party has always been sound on finance. It always knew
you could not pay a promise with a promise. The Republican party always
had sense enough to know that money could not be created by word
of mouth, that you could not make it by a statute, or by passing
resolutions in a convention. It always knew that you had to dig it out
of the ground by good, honest work. The Republican party always knew
that money is a commodity, exchangeable for all other commodities, but a
commodity just as much as wheat or corn, and you can no more make money
by law than you can make wheat or corn by law. You can by law, make a
promise that will to a certain extent take the place of money until the
promise is paid. It seems to me that any man who can even understand the
meaning of the word democratic can understand that theory of money.

Another thing right in this platform. Free schools for the education of
all the children in the land. The Republican party believes in looking
out for the children. It knows that the a, b, c's are the breastworks of
human liberty. They know that every schoolhouse is an arsenal, a fort,
where missiles are made to hurl against the ignorance and prejudice of
mankind; so they are for the free school.

And what else? They are for reducing the postage one-half. Why? Simply
for the diffusion of intelligence. What effect will that have? It will
make us more and more one people. The oftener we communicate with each
other the more homogeneous we become. The more we study the same books
and read the same papers the more we swap ideas, the more we become true
Americans, with the same spirit in favor of liberty, progress and the
happiness of the human race.

What next? The Republican party says, let us build ships for
America—for American sailors. Let our fleets cover the seas, and let
our men-of-war protect the commerce of the Republic—not that we can
wrong some weak nation, but so that we can keep the world from doing
wrong to us. This is all. I have infinite contempt for civilized people
who have guns carrying balls weighing several hundred pounds, who go and
fight poor, naked savages that can only throw boomerangs and stones.

I hold such a nation in infinite contempt.

What else is in this platform? You have no idea of the number of things
in it till you look them over. It wants to cultivate friendly feelings
with all the governments in North, Central and South America, so that
the great continents can be one—instigated, moved, pervaded, inspired
by the same great thoughts. In other words, we want to civilize this
continent and the continent of South America. And what else? This great
platform is in favor of paying—not giving, but paying—pensions to
every man who suffered in the great war. What would we have said at the
time? What, if the North could have spoken, would it have said to the
heroes of Gettysburg on the third day? "Stand firm! We will empty the
treasures of the Nation at your feet." They had the courage and the
heroism to keep the hosts of rebellion back without that promise, and is
there an American to-day that can find it in his heart to begrudge
one solitary dollar that has found its way into the pocket of a maimed
soldier, or into the hands of his widow or his orphan?

What would we have offered to the sailors under Farragut on condition
that they would pass Forts St. Phillip and Jackson? What would we have
offered to the soldiers under Grant in the Wilderness? What to the
followers of Sherman and Sheridan? Do you know, I can hardly conceive of
a spirit contemptible enough—and I am not now alluding to the President
of the United States—I can hardly conceive of a spirit contemptible
enough to really desire to keep a maimed soldier from the bounty of this
Nation. It would be a disgrace and a dishonor if we allowed them to
die in poorhouses, to drop by life's highway and to see their children
mourning over their poor bodies, glorious with scars, maimed into
immortality. I may do a great many bad things before I die, but I give
you my word that so long as I live I will never vote for any President
that vetoed a pension bill unless upon its face it was clear that the
man was not a wounded soldier.

What next in this platform? For the protection of American homes. I am
a believer in the home. I have said, and I say again—the hearthstone is
the foundation of the great temple; the fireside is the altar where the
true American worships. I believe that the home, the family, is the unit
of good government, and I want to see the aegis of the great Republic
over millions of happy homes.

That is all there is in this world worth living for. Honor, place, fame,
glory, riches—they are ashes, smoke, dust, disappointment, unless there
is somebody in the world you love, somebody who loves you; unless there
is some place that you can call home, some place where you can feel the
arms of children around your neck, some place that is made absolutely
sacred by the love of others.

So I am for this platform. I am for the election of Harrison and Morton,
and although I did nothing toward having that ticket nominated, because,
I tell you, I was for Gresham, yet I will do as much toward electing the
candidates, within my power, as any man who did vote on the winning
side.

We have a good ticket, a noble, gallant soldier at the head; that is
enough for me. He is in favor of liberty and progress. And you have
for Vice-President a man that you all know better than I do, but a good,
square, intelligent, generous man. That is enough for me. And these
men are standing on the best platform that was ever adopted by the
Republican party—a platform that stands for education, liberty, the
free ballot, American industry; for the American policy that has made us
the richest and greatest Nation of the globe.
---
# Reunion Address
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1887_
> * The Elmwood Reunion, participated in by six regiments,
> came to a glorious close last evening. There were thousands
> of people present. The city was gayly decorated with flags
> and hunting, while pictures and busts of Col. Ingersoll were
> in every show window. From early in the morning until noon,
> delegations kept coming in, A special train arrived from
> Peoria at 10.50 o'clock, bearing a large delegation of old
> soldiers together with Col. Ingersoll and his daughter Maud.
> He was met by the reception committee, and marched up the
> street escorted by an army of veterans. When he arrived on
> the west side of the public square, the lines were opened,
> and he marched between, in review of his old friends and
> comrades. The parade started as soon as it could be formed,
> after the arrival of the special train.

> Col. Ingersoll was greeted by a salute of thirteen guns from
> Peoria's historic cannon, as he was escorted to the grand
> stand by Spencer's band and the Peoria Veterans.

> The reviewing stand was on the west side of the park. Here
> the parade was seen by Col. Ingersoll and the other
> distinguished guests, among whom were Congressmen Graff and
> Prince, Mayor Day, Judges N. E. Worthington and I. C.
> Pinkney, and the Hon. Clark E. Carr, who also made a speech
> saying that the people cannot estimate the majesty of the
> eloquence of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, keeping alive the
> flame of patriotism from 1860 to the present time. .

> The parade was an imposing one, there were fully two
> thousand five hundred old veterans in line who passed In
> review before Col. Ingersoll, each one doffing his hat as he
> marched by. The most pleasing feature of the exercises of
> the day was the representation of the Living Flag by one
> hundred and fifty little girls of Elmwood, at ten o' clock
> under the direction of Col. Lem. H. Wiley, of Peoria. The
> flag was presented on a large Inclined amphitheatre at the
> left of the grand stand, and was the finest thing ever
> witnessed lu this part of the country.

> Following the presentation of the Living Flag, Chairman
> Brown called the Reunion to order, and Col. Lem. H. Wiley,
> National Bugler gave the assembly call.

> Following the assembly call a male chorus rendered a song,
> "Ring O Bells." The song was composed for the occasion by
> Mr. E. R. Brown and was as follows:

> "Welcome now that leader fearless,
> Free of thought and grand of brain,
> King of hearts and speaker peerless,
> Hail our Ingersoll again." ***

> Then Chairman, E. R. Brown, took charge of the meeting and
> introduced Col. Ingersoll as the greatest of living orators,
> referring to the time that the Colonel declared, a quarter
> of a century ago, in Rouse's Hall, Peoria, that from that
> time forth there would be one free man in Illinois, and
> expressing Indebtedness to him for what had been done since
> for the freedom and happiness of mankind, by his mighty
> brain, his great spirit and his gentle heart.

> He then spoke of Col. Ingersoll's residence in Peoria
> county, paying an eloquent tribute to him, and concluded by
> leading the distinguished gentleman to the front of the
> stand. The appearance of Col. Ingersoll was a signal for a
> mighty shout, which was heartily joined in by everybody
> present, even the little girls composing the living flag,
> cheering and waving their banners.

> It was fully ten minutes before the cheering had subsided,
> and when Col. Ingersoll commenced to speak it was renewed
> and he was forced to wait for several minutes more. When
> quiet was restored, he opened his address, and for an hour
> and a half he held the vast audience spell-bound with his
> eloquence and wit.

> After Col. Ingersoll's speech the veterans crowded around
> the stand to meet and grasp the hand of their comrade, and
> the boys of the Eleventh Illinois Cavalry, his old regiment,
> were especially profuse in their congratulations and thanks
> for the splendid address he had delivered. His speeeh was
> off-hand, only occasional reference being made to his short
> notes. The Colonel then left the Park amid the yells of
> delight of the old soldiers, every man of whom endeavored to
> grasp his hand.

> In the afternoon the veterans assembled in Liberty Hall by
> themselves, the room being filled. Col. Ingersoll appeared
> and was greeted with such cheers as he had not received
> during the entire day. He then said good-bye to his old
> comrades.—Chicago Inter-ocean and Peoria papers, Sept. 6th,
> 1896.

Elmwood, Ills.

1895.

LADIES and Gentlemen, Fellow-citizens, Old Friends and Comrades:

It gives me the greatest pleasure to meet again those with whom I became
acquainted in the morning of my life. It is now afternoon. The sun of
life is slowly sinking in the west, and, as the evening comes, nothing
can be more delightful than to see again the faces that I knew in youth.

When first I knew you the hair was brown; it is now white. The lines
were not quite so deep, and the eyes were not quite so dim. Mingled with
this pleasure is sadness,—sadness for those who have passed away—for
the dead.

And yet I am not sure that we ought to mourn for the dead. I do not know
which is better—life or death. It may be that death is the greatest
gift that ever came from nature's open hands. We do not know.

There is one thing of which I am certain, and that is, that if we could
live forever here, we would care nothing for each other. The fact
that we must die, the fact that the feast must end, brings our souls
together, and treads the weeds from out the paths between our hearts.

And so it may be, after all, that love is a little flower that grows
on the crumbling edge of the grave. So it may be, that were it not
for death there would be no love, and without love all life would be a
curse.

I say it gives me great pleasure to meet you once again; great pleasure
to congratulate you on your good fortune—the good fortune of being a
citizen of the first and grandest republic ever established upon the
face of the earth.

That is a royal fortune. To be an heir of all the great and brave men
of this land, of all the good, loving and patient women; to be in
possession of the blessings that they have given, should make every
healthy citizen of the United States feel like a millionaire.

This, to-day, is the most prosperous country on the globe; and it is
something to be a citizen of this country.

It is well, too, whenever we meet, to draw attention to what has been
done by our ancestors. It is well to think of them and to thank them for
all their work, for all their courage, for all their toil.

Three hundred years ago our country was a vast wilderness, inhabited by
a few savages. Three hundred years ago—how short a time; hardly a tick
of the great clock of eternity—three hundred years; not a second in the
life even of this planet—three hundred years ago, a wilderness; three
hundred years ago, inhabited by a few savages; three hundred years ago
a few men in the Old World, dissatisfied, brave and adventurous, trusted
their lives to the sea and came to this land.

In 1776 there were only three millions of people all told. These men
settled on the shores of the sea. These men, by experience, learned to
govern themselves. These men, by experience, found that a man should
be respected in the proportion that he was useful. They found, by
experience, that titles were of no importance; that the real thing was
the man, and that the real things in the man were heart and brain. They
found, by experience, how to govern themselves, because there was nobody
else here when they came. The gentlemen who had been in the habit of
governing their fellow-men staid at home, and the men who had been in
the habit of being governed came here, and, consequently, they had to
govern themselves.

And finally, educated by experience, by the rivers and forests, by the
grandeur and splendor of nature, they began to think that this continent
should not belong to any other; that it was great enough to count one,
and that they had the intelligence and manhood to lay the foundations of
a nation.

It would be impossible to pay too great and splendid a tribute to the
great and magnificent souls of that day. They saw the future. They saw
this country as it is now, and they endeavored to lay the foundation
deep; they endeavored to reach the bed-rock of human rights, the
bed-rock of justice. And thereupon they declared that all men were born
equal; that all the children of nature had at birth the same rights, and
that all men had the right to pursue the only good,—happiness.

And what did they say? They said that men should govern men; that the
power to govern should come from the consent of the governed, not
from the clouds, not from some winged phantom of the air, not from the
aristocracy of ether. They said that this power should come from
men; that the men living in this world should govern it, and that the
gentlemen who were dead should keep still.

They took another step, and said that church and state should forever be
divorced. That is no harm to real religion. It never was, because real
religion means the doing of justice; real religion means the giving to
others every right you claim for yourself; real religion consists in
duties of man to man, in feeding the hungry, in clothing the naked, in
defending the innocent, and in saying what you believe to be true.

Our fathers had enough sense to say that, and a man to do that in 1776
had to be a pretty big fellow. It is not so much to say it now, because
they set the example; and, upon these principles of which I have spoken,
they fought the war of the Revolution.

At no time, probably, were the majority of our forefathers in favor
of independence, but enough of them were on the right side, and they
finally won a victory. And after the victory, those that had not been
even in favor of independence became, under the majority rule, more
powerful than the heroes of the Revolution.

Then it was that our fathers made a mistake. We have got to praise them
for what they did that was good, and we will mention what they did that
was wrong.

They forgot the principles for which they fought. They forgot the
sacredness of human liberty, and, in the name of freedom, they made a
mistake and put chains on the limbs of others.

That was their error; that was the poison that entered the American
blood; that was the corrupting influence that demoralized presidents
and priests; that was the influence that corrupted the United States of
America.

That mistake, of course, had to be paid for, as all mistakes in nature
have to be paid for. And not only do you pay for your mistake itself,
but you pay at least ten per cent, compound interest. Whenever you do
wrong, and nobody finds it out, do not imagine you have gotten over it;
you have not. Nature knows it.

The consequences of every bad act are the invisible police that no
prayers can soften, and no gold can bribe.

Recollect that. Recollect, that for every bad act, there will be laid
upon your shoulder the arresting hand of the consequences; and it is
precisely the same with a nation as it is with an individual. You have
got to pay for all of your mistakes, and you have got to pay to the
uttermost farthing. That is the only forgiveness known in nature. Nature
never settles unless she can give a receipt in full.

I know a great many men differ with me, and have all sorts of bankruptcy
systems, but Nature is not built that way.

Finally, slavery took possession of the Government. Every man who wanted
an office had to be willing to step between a fugitive slave and his
liberty.

Slavery corrupted the courts, and made judges decide that the child born
in the State of Pennsylvania, whose mother had been a slave, could not
be free.

That was as infamous a decision as was ever rendered, and yet the
people, in the name of the law, did this thing, and the Supreme Court of
the United States did not know right from wrong.

These dignified gentlemen thought that labor could be paid by lashes on
the back—which was a kind of legal tender—and finally an effort was
made to subject the new territory—the Nation—to the institution of
slavery.

Then we had a war with Mexico, in which we got a good deal of glory and
one million square miles of land, but little honor. I will admit that we
got but little honor out of that war. That territory they wanted to give
to the slaveholder.

In 1803 we purchased from Napoleon the Great, one million square miles
of land, and then, in 1821, we bought Florida from Spain. So that, when
the war came, we had about three million square miles of new land. The
object was to subject all this territory to slavery.

The idea was to go on and sell the babes from their mothers until time
should be no more. The idea was to go on with the branding-iron and the
whip. The idea was to make it a crime to teach men, human beings,
to read and write; to make every Northern man believe that he was a
bulldog, a bloodhound to track down men and women, who, with the light
of the North Star in their eyes, were seeking the free soil of Great
Britain.

Yes, in these times we had lots of mean folks. Let us remember that.

And all at once, under the forms of law, under the forms of our
Government, the greatest man under the flag was elected President. That
man was Abraham Lincoln. And then it was that those gentlemen of the
South said: "We will not be governed by the majority; we will be a law
unto ourselves."

And let me tell you here to-day—I am somewhat older than I used to be;
I have a little philosophy now that I had not at the nine o'clock in the
morning portion of my life—and I do not blame anybody. I do not blame
the South; I do not blame the Confederate soldier.

She—the South—was the fruit of conditions. She was born to
circumstances stronger than herself; and do you know, according to my
philosophy, (which is not quite orthodox), every man and woman in the
whole world are what conditions have made them.

So let us have some sense. The South said, "We will not submit; this is
not a nation, but a partnership of States." I am willing to go so far as
to admit that the South expressed the original idea of the Government.

But now the question was, to whom did the newly acquired property
belong? New States had been carved out of that territory; the soil of
these States had been purchased with the money of the Republic, and had
the South the right to take these States out of the Republic? That was
the question.

The great West had another interest, and that was that no enemy, no
other nation, should control the mouth of the Mississippi. I regard
the Mississippi River as Nature's protest against secession. The old
Mississippi River says, and swears to it, that this country shall be
one, now and forever.

What was to be done? The South said, "We will never remain," and the
North said, "You shall not go." It was a little slow about saying it,
it is true. Some of the best Republicans in the North said, "Let it go."
But the second, sober thought of the great North said, "No, this is our
country and we are going to keep it on the map of the world."

And some who had been Democrats wheeled into line, and hundreds and
thousands said, "This is our country," and finally, when the Government
called for volunteers, hundreds and thousands came forward to offer
their services. Nothing more sublime was ever seen in the history of
this world.

I congratulate you to-day that you live in a country that furnished the
greatest army that ever fought for human liberty in any country round
the world. I want you to know that. I want you to know that the North,
East and West furnished the greatest army that ever fought for human
liberty. I want you to know that Gen. Grant commanded more men, men
fighting for the right, not for conquest, than any other general who
ever marshaled the hosts of war.

Let us remember that, and let us be proud of it. The millions who poured
from the North for the defence of the flag—the story of their heroism
has been told to you again and again. I have told it myself many times.
It is known to every intelligent man and woman in the world. Everybody
knows how much we suffered. Everybody knows how we poured out money like
water; how we spent it like leaves of the forest. Everybody knows how
the brave blood was shed. Everybody knows the story of the great, the
heroic struggle, and everybody knows that at last victory came to our
side, and how the last sword of the Rebellion was handed to Gen. Grant.
There is no need to tell that story again.

But the question now, as we look back, is, was this country worth
saving? Was the blood shed in vain? Were the lives given for naught?
That is the question.

This country, according to my idea, is the one success of the world. Men
here have more to eat, more to wear, better houses, and, on the average,
a better education than those of any other nation now living, or any
that has passed away.

Was the country worth saving?

See what we have done in this country since 1860. We were not much of a
people then, to be honor bright about it. We were carrying, in the great
race of national life, the weight of slavery, and it poisoned us; it
paralyzed our best energies; it took from our politics the best minds;
it kept from the bench the greatest brains.

But what have we done since 1860, since we really became a free people,
since we came to our senses, since we have been willing to allow a man
to express his honest thoughts on every subject?

Do you know how much good we did? The war brought men together from
every part of the country and gave them an opportunity to compare their
foolishness. It gave them an opportunity to throw away their prejudices,
to find that a man who differed with them on every subject might be the
very best of fellows. That is what the war did. We have been broadening
ever since.

I sometimes have thought it did men good to make the trip to California
in 1849. As they went over the plains they dropped their prejudices on
the way. I think they did, and that's what killed the grass.

But to come back to my question, what have we done since 1860?

From 1860 to 1880, in spite of the waste of war, in spite of all the
property destroyed by flame, in spite of all the waste, our profits were
one billion three hundred and seventy-four million dollars. Think of it!
From 1860 to 1880! That is a vast sum.

From 1880 to 1890 our profits were two billion one hundred and
thirty-nine million dollars.

Men may talk against wealth as much as they please; they may talk about
money being the root of all evil, but there is little real happiness in
this world without some of it. It is very handy when staying at home
and it is almost indispensable when you travel abroad. Money is a good
thing. It makes others happy; it makes those happy whom you love, and
if a man can get a little together, when the night of death drops the
curtain upon him, he is satisfied that he has left a little to keep the
wolf from the door of those who, in life, were dear to him. Yes, money
is a good thing, especially since special providence has gone out of
business.

I can see to-day something beyond the wildest dream of any patriot who
lived fifty years ago. The United States to-day is the richest nation
on the face of the earth. The old nations of the world, Egypt, India,
Greece, Rome, every one of them, when compared with this great Republic,
must be regarded as paupers.

How much do you suppose this Nation is worth to-day? I am talking about
land and cattle, products, manufactured articles and railways. Over
seventy thousand million dollars. Just think of it.

Take a thousand dollars and then take nine hundred and ninety-nine
thousand; so you will have one thousand piles of one thousand each. That
makes only a million, and yet the United States today is worth seventy
thousand millions. This is thirty-five percent, more than Great Britain
is worth.

We are a great Nation. We have got the land. This land was being made
for many millions of years. Its soil was being made by the great lakes
and rivers, and being brought down from the mountains for countless
ages.

This continent was standing like a vast pan of milk, with the cream
rising for millions of years, and we were the chaps that got there when
the skimming commenced.

We are rich, and we ought to be rich. It is our own fault if we are not.
In every department of human endeavor, along every path and highway,
the progress of the Republic has been marvelous, beyond the power of
language to express.

Let me show you: In 1860 the horse-power of all the engines, the
locomotives and the steamboats that traversed the lakes and rivers—the
entire power—was three million five hundred thousand. In 1890 the
horse-power of engines and locomotives and steamboats was over seventeen
million.

Think of that and what it means! Think of the forces at work for the
benefit of the United States, the machines doing the work of thousands
and millions of men!

And remember that every engine that puffs is puffing for you; every road
that runs is running for you. I want you to know that the average man
and woman in the United States to-day has more of the conveniences of
life than kings and queens had one hundred years ago.

Yes, we are getting along.

In 1860 we used one billion eight hundred million dollars' worth
of products, of things manufactured and grown, and we sent to other
countries two hundred and fifty million dollars' worth.

In 1893 we used three billion eighty-nine million dollars' worth, and
we sent to other countries six hundred and fifty-four million dollars'
worth.

You see, these vast sums are almost inconceivable. There is not a
man to-day with brains large enough to understand these figures; to
understand how many cars this money put upon the tracks, how much coal
was devoured by the locomotives, how many men plowed and worked in the
fields, how many sails were given to the wind, how many ships crossed
the sea.

I tell you, there is no man able to think of the ships that were built,
the cars that were made, the mines that were opened, the trees that were
felled—no man has imagination enough to grasp the meaning of it all. No
man has any conception of the sea till he crosses it. I knew nothing of
how broad this country is until I went over it in a slow train.

Since 1860 the productive power of the United States has more than
trebled.

I like to talk about these things, because they mean good houses,
carpets on the floors, pictures on the walls, some books on the shelves.
They mean children going to school with their stomachs full of good
food, prosperous men and proud mothers.

All my life I have taken a much deeper interest in what men produce than
in what nature does. I would rather see the prairies, with the oats and
the wheat and the waving corn, and the schoolhouse, and hear the thrush
sing amid the happy homes of prosperous men and women—I would rather
see these things than any range of mountains in the world. Take it as
you will, a mountain is of no great value.

In 1860 our land was worth four billion five hundred million dollars; in
1890 it was worth fourteen billion dollars.

In 1860 all the railroads in the United States were worth four hundred
million dollars, now they are worth a little less than ten thousand
million dollars.

I want you to understand what these figures mean.

For thirty years we spent, on an average, one million dollars a day in
building railroads.—I want you to think what that means. All that money
had to be dug out of the ground. It had to be made by raising something
or manufacturing something. We did not get it by writing essays on
finance, or discussing the silver question. It had to be made with the
ax, the plow, the reaper, the mower; in every form of industry; all to
produce these splendid results.

We have railroads enough now to make seven tracks around the great
globe, and enough left for side tracks. That is what we have done here,
in what the European nations are pleased to call "the new world."

I am telling you these things because you may not know them, and I did
not know them myself until a few days ago. I am anxious to give away
information, for it is only by giving it away that you can keep it. When
you have told it, you remember it. It is with information as it is
with liberty, the only way to be dead sure of it is to give it to other
people.

In 1860 the houses in the United States, the cabins on the frontier, the
buildings in the cities, were worth six thousand million dollars. Now
they are worth over twenty-two thousand million dollars. To talk about
figures like these is enough to make a man dizzy.

In 1860 our animals of all kinds, including the Illinois deer—commonly
called swine—the oxen and horses, and all others, were worth about one
thousand million dollars; now they are worth about four thousand million
dollars.

Are we not getting rich? Our national debt today is nothing. It is like
a man who owes a cent and has a dollar.

Since 1860 we have been industrious. We have created two million five
hundred thousand new farms. Since 1860 we have done a good deal of
plowing; there have been a good many tired legs. I have been that way
myself. Since 1860 we have put in cultivation two hundred million acres
of land. Illinois, the best State in the Union, has thirty-five million
acres of land, and yet, since 1860, we have put in cultivation enough
land to make six States of the size of Illinois. That will give you some
idea of the quantity of work we have done. I will admit I have not done
much of it myself, but I am proud of it.

In 1860 we had four million five hundred and sixty-five thousand farmers
in this country, whose land and implements were worth over sixteen
thousand million dollars. The farmers of this country, on an average,
are worth five thousand dollars, and the peasants of the Old World, who
cultivate the soil, are not worth, on an average, ten dollars beyond the
wants of the moment. The farmers of our country produce, on an average,
about one million four hundred thousand dollars' worth of stuff a day.

What else? Have we in other directions kept pace with our physical
development? Have we developed the mind? Have we endeavored to develop
the brain? Have we endeavored to civilize the heart? I think we have.

We spend more for schools per head than any nation in the world. And the
common school is the breath of life.

Great Britain spends one dollar and thirty cents per head on the common
schools; France spends eighty cents; Austria, thirty cents; Germany,
fifty cents; Italy, twenty-five cents, and the United States over two
dollars and fifty cents.

I tell you the schoolhouse is the fortress of liberty. Every schoolhouse
is an arsenal, filled with weapons and ammunition to destroy the
monsters of ignorance and fear.

As I have said ten thousand times, the school-house is my cathedral. The
teacher is my preacher.

Eighty-seven per cent, of all the people of the United States, over ten
years of age, can read and write. There is no parallel for this in the
history of the wide world.

Over forty-two millions of educated citizens, to whom are opened all the
treasures of literature!

Forty-two millions of people, able to read and write! I say, there is
no parallel for this. The nations of antiquity were very ignorant when
compared with this great Republic of ours. There is no other nation in
the world that can show a record like ours. We ought to be proud of
it. We ought to build more schools, and build them better. Our teachers
ought to be paid more, and everything ought to be taught in the public
school that is worth knowing.

I believe that the children of the Republic, no matter whether their
fathers are rich or poor, ought to be allowed to drink at the fountain
of education, and it does not cost more to teach everything in the free
schools than it does teaching reading and writing and ciphering.

Have we kept up in other ways? The post office tells a wonderful story.
In Switzerland, going through the post office in each year, are letters,
etc., in the proportion of seventy-four to each inhabitant. In England
the number is sixty; in Germany, fifty-three; in France, thirty-nine; in
Austria, twenty-four; in Italy, sixteen, and in the United States, our
own home, one hundred and ten. Think of it. In Italy only twenty-five
cents paid per head for the support of the public schools and only
sixteen letters. And this is the place where God's agent lives. I would
rather have one good schoolmaster than two such agents.

There is another thing. A great deal has been said, from time to time,
about the workingman. I have as much sympathy with the workingman as
anybody on the earth—who does not work. There has always been a desire
in this world to let somebody else do the work, nearly everybody having
the modesty to stand back whenever there is anything to be done. In
savage countries they make the women do the work, so that the weak
people have always the bulk of the burdens. In civilized communities
the poor are the ones, of course, that work, and probably they are never
fully paid. It is pretty hard for a manufacturer to tell how much he
can pay until he sells the stuff which he manufactures. Every man who
manufactures is not rich. I know plenty of poor corporations; I know
tramp railroads that have not a dollar. And you will find some of them
as anarchistic as you will find their men. What a man can pay, depends
upon how much he can get for what he has produced. What the farmer can
pay his help depends upon the price he receives for his stock, his corn
and his wheat.

But wages in this country are getting better day by day. We are getting
a little nearer to being civilized day by day, and when I want to make
up my mind on a subject I try to get a broad view of it, and not decide
it on one case.

In 1860 the average wages of the workingman were, per year, two hundred
and eighty-nine dollars. In 1890 the average was four hundred and
eighty-five. Thus the average has almost doubled in thirty years. The
necessaries of life are far cheaper than they were in 1860. Now, to my
mind, that is a hopeful sign. And when I am asked how can the dispute
between employer and employee be settled, I answer, it will be settled
when both parties become civilized.

It takes a long time to educate a man up to the point where he does not
want something for nothing. Yet, when a man is civilized, he does not.

He wants for a thing just what it is worth; he wants to give labor its
legitimate reward, and when he has something to sell he never wants more
than it is worth. I do not claim to be civilized myself; but all these
questions between capital and labor will be settled by civilization.

We are to-day accumulating wealth at the rate of more than seven million
dollars a day. Is not this perfectly splendid?

And in the midst of prosperity let us never forget the men who helped
to save our country, the men whose heroism gave us the prosperity we now
enjoy.

We have one-seventh of the good land of this world. You see there is a
great deal of poor land in the world. I know the first time I went to
California, I went to the Sink of the Humboldt, and what a forsaken look
it had. There was nothing there but mines of brimstone. On the train,
going over, there was a fellow who got into a dispute with a minister
about the first chapter of Genesis. And when they got along to the Sink
of the Humboldt the fellow says to the minister:

"Do you tell me that God made the world in six days, and then rested on
the seventh?"

He said, "I do."

"Well," said the fellow, "don't you think he could have put in another
day here to devilish good advantage?"

But, as I have said, we have got about one-seventh of the good land of
the world. I often hear people say that we have too many folks here;
that we ought to stop immigration; that we have no more room. The people
who say this know nothing of their country. They are ignorant of their
native land. I tell you that the valley of the Mississippi and the
valleys of its tributaries can support a population of five hundred
millions of men, women, and children. Don't talk of our being
overpopulated; we have only just started.

Here, in this land of ours, five hundred million men and women and
children can be supported and educated without trouble. We can afford to
double two or three times more. But what have we got to do? We have got
to educate them when they come. That is to say, we have got to educate
their children, and in a few generations we will have them splendid
American citizens, proud of the Republic.

We have no more patriotic men under the flag than the men who came from
other lands, the hundreds and thousands of those who fought to preserve
this country. And I think just as much of them as I would if they had
been born on American soil. What matters it where a man was born? It is
what is inside of him you have to look at—what kind of a heart he has,
and what kind of a head. I do not care where he was born; I simply ask,
Is he a man? Is he willing to give to others what he claims for himself?
That is the supreme test.

Now, I have got a hobby. I do not suppose any of you have heard of it.
I think the greatest thing for a country is for all of its citizens to
have a home. I think it is around the fireside of home that the virtues
grow, including patriotism. We want homes.

Until a few years ago it was the custom to put men in prison for debt.
The authorities threw a man into jail when he owed something which he
could not pay, and by throwing him into jail they deprived him of an
opportunity to earn what would pay it. After a little time they got
sense enough to know that they could not collect a debt in this way,
and that it was better to give him his freedom and allow him to earn
something, if he could. Therefore, imprisonment for debt was done away
with.

At another time, when a man owed anything, if he was a carpenter, a
blacksmith or a shoemaker, and not able to pay it, they took his tools,
on a writ of sale and execution, and thus incapacitated him so that he
could do nothing. Finally they got sense enough to abolish that law,
to leave the mechanic his tools and the farmer his plows, horses and
wagons, and after this, debts were paid better than ever they were
before.

Then we thought of protecting the home-builder, and we said: "We will
have a homestead exemption. We will put a roof over wife and child,
which shall be exempt from execution and sale," and so we preserved
hundreds of thousands and millions of homes, while debts were paid just
as well as ever they were paid before.

Now, I want to take a step further. I want, the rich people of this
country to support it. I want the people who are well off to pay the
taxes. I want the law to exempt a homestead of a certain value, say from
two thousand dollars to two thousand five hundred, and to exempt it, not
only from sale on judgment and execution, but to exempt it from taxes of
all sorts and kinds. I want to keep the roof over the heads of children
when the man himself is gone. I want that homestead to belong not only
to the man, but to wife and children. I would like to live to see a roof
over the heads of all the families of the Republic. I tell you, it does
a man good to have a home. You are in partnership with nature when you
plant a hill of corn. When you set out a tree you have a new interest in
this world. When you own a little tract of land you feel as if you and
the earth were partners. All these things dignify human nature.

Bad as I am, I have another hobby. There are thousands and thousands of
criminals in our country. I told you a little while ago I did not blame
the South, because of the conditions which prevailed in the South. The
people of the South did as they must. I am the same about the criminal.
He does as he must.

If you want to stop crime you must treat it properly. The conditions of
society must not be such as to produce criminals.

When a man steals and is sent to the penitentiary he ought to be sent
there to be reformed and not to be brutalized; to be made a better man,
not to be robbed.

I am in favor, when you put a man in the penitentiary, of making him
work, and I am in favor of paying him what his work is worth, so that
in five years, when he leaves the prison cell, he will have from two
hundred dollars to three hundred dollars as a breastwork between him and
temptation, and something for a foundation upon which to build a nobler
life.

Now he is turned out and before long he is driven back. Nobody will
employ him, nobody will take him, and, the night following the day of
his release he is without a roof over his head and goes back to his old
ways. I would allow him to change his name, to go to another State with
a few hundred dollars in his pocket and begin the world again.

We must recollect that it is the misfortune of a man to become a
criminal.

I have hobbies and plenty of them.

I want to see five hundred millions of people living here in peace. If
we want them to live in peace, we must develop the brain, civilize the
heart, and above all things, must not forget education. Nothing should
be taught in the school that somebody does not know.

When I look about me to-day, when I think of the advance of my country,
then I think of the work that has been done.

Think of the millions who crossed the mysterious sea, of the thousands
and thousands of ships with their brave prows towards the West.

Think of the little settlements on the shores of the ocean, on the banks
of rivers, on the edges of forests.

Think of the countless conflicts with savages—of the midnight
attacks—of the cabin floors wet with the blood of dead fathers, mothers
and babes.

Think of the winters of want, of the days of toil, of the nights of
fear, of the hunger and hope.

Think of the courage, the sufferings and hardships.

Think of the homesickness, the disease and death.

Think of the labor; of the millions and millions of trees that were
felled, while the aisles of the great forests were filled with the
echoes of the ax; of the many millions of miles of furrows turned by the
plow; of the millions of miles of fences built; of the countless logs
changed to lumber by the saw—of the millions of huts, cabins and
houses.

Think of the work. Listen, and you will hear the hum of wheels, the
wheels with which our mothers spun the flax and wool. Listen, and you
will hear the looms and flying shuttles with which they wove the cloth.

Think of the thousands still pressing toward the West, of the roads they
made, of the bridges they built; of the homes, where the sunlight fell,
where the bees hummed, the birds sang and the children laughed; of the
little towns with mill and shop, with inn and schoolhouse; of the old
stages, of the crack of the whips and the drivers' horns; of the canals
they dug.

Think of the many thousands still pressing toward the West, passing over
the Alleghanies to the shores of the Ohio and the great lakes—still
onward to the Mississippi—the Missouri.

See the endless processions of covered wagons drawn by horses, by
oxen,—men and boys and girls on foot, mothers and babes inside. See the
glimmering camp fires at night; see the thousands up with the sun and
away, leaving the perfume of coffee on the morning air, and sometimes
leaving the new-made grave of wife or child. Listen, and you will hear
the cry of "Gold!" and you will see many thousands crossing the great
plains, climbing the mountains and pressing on to the Pacific.

Think of the toil, the courage it has taken to possess this land!

Think of the ore that was dug, the furnaces that lit the nights with
flame; of the factories and mills by the rushing streams.

Think of the inventions that went hand in hand with the work; of the
flails that were changed to threshers; of the sickles that became
cradles, and the cradles that were changed to reapers and headers—of
the wooden plows that became iron and steel; of the spinning wheel that
became the jennie, and the old looms transformed to machines that almost
think—of the steamboats that traversed the rivers, making the towns
that were far apart neighbors and friends; of the stages that became
cars, of the horses changed to locomotives with breath of flame, and the
roads of dust and mud to highways of steel, of the rivers spanned and
the mountains tunneled.

Think of the inventions, the improvements that changed the hut to the
cabin, the cabin to the house, the house to the palace, the earthen
floors and bare walls to carpets and pictures—that changed famine to
feast—toil to happy labor and poverty to wealth.

Think of the cost.

Think of the separation of families—of boys and girls leaving the old
home—taking with them the blessings and kisses of fathers and mothers.
Think of the homesickness, of the tears shed by the mothers left by the
daughters gone. Think of the millions of brave men deformed by labor now
sleeping in their honored graves.

Think of all that has been wrought, endured and accomplished for our
good, and let us remember with gratitude, with love and tears the brave
men, the patient loving women who subdued this land for us.

Then think of the heroes who served this country; who gave us this
glorious present and hope of a still more glorious future; think of the
men who really made us free, who secured the blessings of liberty, not
only to us, but to billions yet unborn.

This country will be covered with happy homes and free men and free
women.

To-day we remember the heroic dead, those whose blood reddens the paths
and highways of honor; those who died upon the field, in the charge,
in prison-pens, or in famine's clutch; those who gave their lives that
liberty should not perish from the earth. And to-day we remember the
great leaders who have passed to the realm of silence, to the land of
shadow. Thomas, the rock of Chickamauga, self-poised, firm, brave,
faithful; Sherman, the reckless, the daring, the prudent and the
victorious; Sheridan, a soldier fit to have stood by Julius Cæsar and
to have uttered the words of command; and Grant, the silent, the
invincible, the unconquered; and rising above them all, Lincoln, the
wise, the patient, the merciful, the grandest figure in the Western
world. We remember them all today and hundreds of thousands who are
not mentioned, but who are equally worthy, hundreds of thousands of
privates, deserving of equal honor with the plumed leaders of the host.

And what shall I say to you, survivors of the death-filled days? To you,
my comrades, to you whom I have known in the great days, in the time
when the heart beat fast and the blood flowed strong; in the days of
high hope—what shall I say? All I can say is that my heart goes out to
you, one and all. To you who bared your bosoms to the storms of war; to
you who left loved ones to die, if need be, for the sacred cause. May
you live long in the land you helped to save; may the winter of your
age be as green as spring, as full of blossoms as summer, as generous as
autumn, and may you, surrounded by plenty, with your wives at your sides
and your grandchildren on your knees, live long. And when at last the
fires of life burn low; when you enter the deepening dusk of the last
of many, many happy days; when your brave hearts beat weak and slow,
may the memory of your splendid deeds; deeds that freed your fellow-men;
deeds that kept your country on the map of the world; deeds that kept
the flag of the Republic in the air—may the memory of these deeds fill
your souls with peace and perfect joy. Let it console you to know that
you are not to be forgotten. Centuries hence your story will be told in
art and song, and upon your honored graves flowers will be lovingly laid
by millions' of men and women now unborn.

Again expressing the joy that I feel in having met you, and again saying
farewell to one and all, and wishing you all the blessings of life, I
bid you goodbye.*

> * At the last reunion of the Eleventh Illinois Cavalry, the
> Colonel's old regiment, and the soldiers of Peoria county,
> which Mr. Ingersoll attended, a little incident happened
> which let us into the inner circle of his life. The meeting
> was held at Elmwood. While the soldier were passing in
> review the citizens and young people filled all the seats in
> the park and crowded around the speaker's stand, so as to
> occupy all available space. When the soldiers had finished
> their parade and returned to the park, they found it
> impossible to get near the speaker. Of course we were all
> disappointed, but were forced to stand on the outskirts of
> the vast throng.

> As soon as he ceased speaking, Mr. Ingersoll said to a
> soldier that he would like to meet his comrades in the hall
> at a certain hour in the afternoon. The word spread quickly,
> and at the appointed hour the hall was crowded with
> soldiers. The guard stationed at tue door was ordered to let
> none but soldiers pass into the hall. Some of the comrades,
> however, brought their wives. The guards, true to their
> orders, refused to let the ladies pass. Just as Mr.
> Ingersoll was ready to speak, word came to him that some of
> the comrades' wives were outside and wanted permission to
> pass the guard. The hall was full, but Mr. Ingersoll
> requested all comrades whose wives were within reach to go
> and get them. When his order had been complied with even
> standing room was at a premium. When Mr. Ingersoll arose to
> speak to that great assemblage of white-haired veterans and
> their aged companions his voice was unusually tender, and the
> wave of emotion that passed through the hall cannot be told
> in words. Tears and cheers blended as Mr. Ingersoll arose
> and began his speech with the statement that all present
> were nearing the setting sun of life, and in all probability
> that was the last opportunity many of them would have of
> taking each other by the hand.

> In this half-hour impromptu speech the great-hearted man,
> Robert G. Ingersoll, was seen at his best. It was not a
> clash of opinions over party or creed, but it was a meeting
> of hearts and communion together In the holy of holies of
> human life. The address was a series of word-pictures that
> still hang on the walls of memory. The speaker, in his most
> sympathetic mood, drew a picture of the service of the G. A.
> R., of the women of the republic, and then paid a beautiful
> tribute to home and invoked the kindest and greatest
> influence to guard his comrades and their companions during
> the remainder of life's journey.

> We got very close to the man that day, where we could see
> the heart of Mr. Ingersoll. I have often wished that a
> reporter could have been present to preserve the address.
> Imagine four beautiful word-paintings entitled, "The Service
> of the G. A. R.," "The Influence of Noble Womanhood," "The
> Sacredness of Home," and "The Pilgrimage of Life." Imagine
> these word-paintings as drawn by Mr. Ingersoll under the
> most favorable circumstances, and you have an idea of that
> address. Mr. Ingersoll the Agnostic is a very different man
> from Mr. Ingersoll the man and patriot. I cannot share the
> doubts of this Agnostic. I cannot help admiring the man and
> patriot.—The Rev. Frank McAlpine, Peoria Star, August 1,
> 1895.
---
# Speech at Cincinnati
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1876_
> * The nomination of Blaine was the passionately dramatic
> scene of the day. Robert G. Ingersoll had been fixed upon to
> present Blaine's name to the Convention, and, as the result
> proved, a more effective champion could not have been
> selected in the whole party conclave.

> As the clerk, running down the list, reached Maine, an
> extraordinary event happened. The applause and cheers which
> had heretofore broken out in desultory patches of the
> galleries and platform, broke in a simultaneous, thunderous
> outburst from every part of the house.

> Ingersoll moved out from the obscure corner and advanced to
> the central stage. As he walked forward the thundering
> cheers, sustained and swelling, never ceased. As he reached
> the platform they took on an increased volume of sound, and
> for ten minutes the surging fury of acclamation, the wild
> waving of fans, hats, and handkerchiefs transformed the
> scene from one of deliberation to that of a bedlam of
> rapturous delirium. Ingersoll waited with unimpaired
> serenity, until he should get a chance to be heard. * * *
> And then began an appeal, impassioned, artful, brilliant,
> and persuasive. * * *

> Possessed of a fine figure, a face of winning, cordial
> frankness, Ingersoll had half won his audience before he
> spoke a word. It is the attestation of every man that heard
> him, that so brilliant a master stroke was never uttered
> before a political Convention. Its effect was indescribable.
> The coolest-headed in the hall were stirred to the wildest
> expression. The adversaries of Blaine, as well as his
> friends, listened with unswerving, absorbed attention.
> Curtis sat spell-bound, his eyes and mouth wide open, his
> figure moving in unison to the tremendous periods that fell
> in a measured, exquisitely graduated flow from the
> Illinoisan's smiling lips. The matchless method and manner
> of the man can never be imagined from the report in type. To
> realize the prodigious force, the inexpressible power, the
> irrestrainable fervor of the audience requires actual sight.

> Words can do but meagre justice to the wizard power of this
> extraordinary man. He swayed and moved and impelled and
> restrained and worked in all ways with the mass before him
> as if he possessed some key to the innermost mechanism that
> moves the human heart, and when he finished, his fine, frank
> face as calm as when he began, the overwrought thousands
> sank back in an exhaustion of unspeakable wonder and
> delight.—Chicago Times, June 16, 1876.
---
# Speech at Indianapolis (1868)
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1868_
> * Hon. Robert G. Ingersoll, Attorney-General of Illinois,
> spoke at the Rink last night to a large and appreciative
> audience among whom were many ladies. The distinguished
> speaker was escorted to the Rink by the battalion of the
> Fighting Boys in Blue. Col. Ingersoll spoke at a great
> disadvantage in having so large a hall to fill, but he has a
> splendid voice and so overcame the difficulty. The audience
> liberally applauded the numerous passages of eloquence and
> humor in Col. Ingersoll's speeeh, and listened with the best
> attention to his powerful argument, nor could they have done
> otherwise, for the speaker has a national reputation and did
> himself full justice last night—The Journal, Indianapolis,
> Indiana, September 23, 1868.

## Grant Campaign

THE Democratic party, so-called, have several charges which they make
against the Republican party. They give us a variety of reasons why the
Republican party should no longer be entrusted with the control of this
country. Among other reasons they say that the Republican party
during the war was guilty of arresting citizens without due process of
law—that we arrested Democrats and put them in jail without indictment,
in Lincoln bastiles, without making an affidavit before a Justice
of the Peace—that on some occasions we suspended the writ of _habeas
corpus_, that we put some Democrats in jail without their being
indicted. I am sorry we did not put more. I admit we arrested some
of them without an affidavit filed before a Justice of the Peace. I
sincerely regret that we did not arrest more. I admit that for a few
hours on one or two occasions we interfered with the freedom of the
press; I sincerely regret that the Government allowed a sheet to exist
that did not talk on the side of this Government.

I admit that we did all these things.

It is only proper and fair that we should answer these charges.
Unless the Republican party can show that they did these things
either according to the strict letter of law, according to the highest
precedent, or from the necessity of the case, then we must admit that
our party did wrong. You know as well as I that every Democratic
orator talks about the fathers, about Washington and Jackson, Madison,
Jefferson, and many others; they tell us about the good old times when
politicians were pure, when you could get justice in the courts, when
Congress was honest, when the political parties differed, and differed
kindly and honestly; and they are shedding crocodile tears day after
day—praying that the good old honest times might return again. They
tell you that the members of this radical party are nothing like the men
of the Revolution. Let us see.

I lay this down as a proposition, that we had a right to do anything to
preserve this Government that our fathers had a right to do to found
it. If they had a right to put Tories in jail, to suspend the writ of
_habeas corpus_, and on some occasions _corpus_, in order to found this
Government, we had a right to put rebels and Democrats in jail and to
suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ in order to preserve the Government
they thus formed. If they had a right to interfere with the freedom of
the press in order that liberty might be planted upon this soil, we had
a right to do the same thing to prevent the tree from being destroyed.
In a word, we had a right to do anything to preserve this Government
which they had a right to do to found it.

Did our fathers arrest Tories without writs, without indictments—did
they interfere with the personal rights of Tories in the name of
liberty—did they have Washington bastiles, did they have Jefferson
jails—did they have dungeons in the time of the Revolution in which
they put men that dared talk against this country and the liberties of
the colonies? I propose to show that they did—that where we imprisoned
one they imprisoned a hundred—that where we interfered with personal
liberty once they did it a hundred times—that they carried on a war
that _was_ a war—that they knew that when an appeal was made to
force that was the end of law—that they did not attempt to gain their
liberties through a Justice of the Peace or through a Grand Jury; that
they appealed to force and the God of battles, and that any man who
sought their protection and at the same time was against them and their
cause they took by the nape of the neck and put in jail, where he ought
to have been.

The old Continental Congress in 1774 and 1776 had made up their minds
that we ought to have something like liberty in these colonies, and the
first step they took toward securing that end was to provide for the
selection of a committee in every county and township, with a view to
examining and finding out how the people stood touching the liberty of
the colonies, and if they found a man that was not in favor of it, the
people would not have anything to do with him politically, religiously,
or socially. That was the first step they took, and a very sensible step
it was.

What was the next step? They found that these men were so lost to every
principle of honor that they did not hurt them any by disgracing them.

So they passed the following resolution which explains itself:

_Resolved_. That it be recommended to the several provincial assemblies
or conventions or councils, or committees of safety, to arrest and
secure every person in their respective colonies whose going at
large, may, in their opinion, endanger the safety of the colony or the
liberties of America.—Journal of Congress, vol. 1, page 149.

What was the Committee of Safety? Was it a Justice of the Peace? No. Was
it a Grand Jury? No. It was simply a committee of five or seven persons,
more or less, appointed to watch over the town or county and see that
these Tories were attending to their business and not interfering with
the rights of the colonies. Whom were they to thus arrest and secure?
Every man that had committed murder—that had taken up arms against
America, or voted the Democratic or Tory ticket? No. "Every person whose
going at large might in their opinion, endanger the safety of the
colony or the liberties of America." It was not necessary that they
had committed any overt act, but if in the opinion of this council of
safety, it was dangerous to let them run at large they were locked up.
Suppose that we had done that during the last war? You would have had to
build several new jails in this county. What a howl would have gone up
all over this State if we had attempted such a thing as that, and yet we
had a perfect right to do anything to preserve our liberties, which our
fathers had a right to do to obtain them.

What more did they do? In 1777 the same Congress that signed the
immortal Declaration of Independence (and I think they knew as much
about liberty and the rights of men as any Democrat in Marion county)
adopted another resolution:

_Resolved_. That it be recommended to the Executive powers of the
several States, forthwith to apprehend and secure all persons who have
in their general conduct and conversation evinced a disposition inimical
to the cause of America, and that the persons so seized be confined in
such places and treated in such manner as shall be consistent with their
several characters and security of their persons.—-Journal of Congress,
vol. 2, p. 246.

If they had talked as the Democrats talked during the late war—if
they had called the soldiers, "Washington hirelings," and if when they
allowed a few negroes to help them fight, had branded the struggle for
liberty as an abolition war, they would be "apprehended and confined
in such places and treated in such manner as was consistent with their
characters and security of their persons," and yet all they did was to
show a disposition inimical to the independence of America. If we had
pursued a policy like that during the late war, nine out of ten of the
members of the Democratic party would have been in jail—there would
not have been jails and prisons enough on the face of the whole earth to
hold them. .

Now, when a Democrat talks to you about Lincoln bastiles, just quote
this to him:

_Whereas_, The States of Pennsylvania and Delaware are threatened with
an immediate invasion from a powerful army, who have already landed at
the head of Chesapeake Bay; and whereas, The principles of sound
policy and self-preservation require that persons who may be reasonably
suspected of aiding or abetting the cause of the enemy may be prevented
from pursuing measures injurious to the general weal,

_Resolved_, That the executive authorities of the States of Pennsylvania
and Delaware be requested to cause all persons within their respective
States, notoriously disaffected, to be apprehended, disarmed and secured
until such time as the respective States think they may be released
without injury to the common cause.—-Journal of Congress, vol. 2, p.
240.

That is what they did with them. When there was an invasion threatened
the good State of Indiana, if we had said we will imprison all men who
by their conduct and conversation show that they are inimical to our
cause, we would have been obliged to import jails and corral Democrats
as we did mules in the army. Our fathers knew that the flag was never
intended to protect any man who wanted to assail it.

What more did they do? There was a man by the name of David Franks, who
wrote a letter and wanted to send it to England. In that letter he gave
it as his opinion that the colonies were becoming disheartened and sick
of the war. The heroic and chivalric fathers of the Revolution violated
the mails, took the aforesaid letter and then they took the aforesaid
David Franks by the collar and put him in jail. Then they passed
a resolution in Congress that inasmuch as the said letter showed a
disposition inimical to the liberties of the United States, Major
General Arnold be requested to cause the said David Franks to be
forthwith arrested, put in jail and confined till the further order of
Congress. (Jour. Cong., vol. 3, p. 96 and 97.)

How many Democrats wrote letters during the war declaring that the North
never could conquer the South? How many wrote letters to the soldiers in
the army telling them to shed no more fraternal blood in that suicidal
and unchristian war? It would have taken all the provost marshals in the
United States to arrest the Democrats in Indiana who were guilty of that
offence. And yet they are talking about our fathers being such good men,
while they are cursing us fordoing precisely what they did, only to a
less extent than they did.

We are still on the track of the old Continental Congress. I want you to
understand the spirit that animated those men. They passed a resolution
which is particularly applicable to the Democrats during the war:

With respect to all such unworthy Americans as, regardless of their duty
to their Creator, their country, and their posterity, have taken part
with our oppressors, and, influenced by the hope or possession of
ignominious rewards, strive to recommend themselves to the bounty of
the administration by misrepresenting and traducing the conduct and
principles of the friends of American liberty, and opposing every
measure formed for its preservation and security,

_Resolved_, That it be recommended to the different assemblies,
conventions and committees or councils of safety in the United Colonies,
by the most speedy and effectual measures, to frustrate the mischievous
machinations and restrain the wicked practices of these men. And it is
the opinion of this Congress that they ought to be disarmed and the
more dangerous among them either kept in safe custody or bound with
sufficient sureties for their good behavior.

And in order that the said assemblies, conventions, committees or
councils of safety may be enabled with greater ease and facility to
carry this resolution into execution,

_Resolved_, That they be authorized to call to their aid whatever
Continental troops stationed in or near their respective colonies
that may be conveniently spared from their more immediate duties, and
commanding officers of such troops are hereby directed to afford the
said assemblies, conventions, committees or councils of safety, all such
assistance in executing this resolution as they may require, and which,
consistent with the good of the service, may be supplied—Journal of
Congress, vol. i, p. 22,

Do you hear that, Democrat? The old Continental Congress said to these
committees and councils of safety: "Whenever you want to arrest any
of these scoundrels, call on the Continental troops." And General
Washington, the commander-in-chief of the army, and the officers under
him, were directed to aid in the enforcement of all the measures adopted
with reference to disaffected and dangerous persons. And what had these
persons done? Simply shown by their conversation, and letters directed
to their friends, that they were opposed to the cause of American
liberty. They did not even spare the Governors of States. They were not
appalled by any official position that a Tory might hold. They simply
said, "If you are not in favor of American liberty, we will put you
'where the dogs won't bite you.'" One of these men was Governor Eden of
Maryland. Congress passed a resolution requesting the Council of Safety
of Maryland to seize and secure his person and papers, and send such of
them as related to the American dispute to Congress without delay. At
the same time the person and papers of another man, one Alexander Ross,
were seized in the same manner. Ross was put in jail, and his papers
transmitted to Congress.

There was a fellow by the name of Parke and another by the name of
Morton, who presumed to undertake a journey from Philadelphia to New
York without getting a pass. Congress ordered them to be arrested and
imprisoned until further orders. They did not wait to have an affidavit
filed before a Justice of the Peace. They took them by force and put
them in jail, and that was the end of it. So much for the policy of the
fathers, in regard to arbitrary arrests.

During the war there was a great deal said about our occasionally
interfering with the elections. Let us see how the fathers stood upon
that question.

They held a convention in the State of New York in Revolutionary times,
and there were some gentlemen in Queens County that were playing the
role of Kentucky—they were going to be neutral—they refused to vote to
send deputies to the convention—they stood upon their dignity just as
Kentucky stood upon hers—a small place to stand on, the Lord knows.
What did our fathers do with them? They denounced them as unworthy to be
American citizens and hardly fit to live. Here is a resolution adopted
by the Continental Congress on the 3d of January, 1776:

_Resolved_, That all such persons in Queens County aforesaid as voted
against sending deputies to the present Convention of New York, and
named in a list of delinquents in Queens County, published by the
Convention of New York, be put out of the protection of the United
Colonies, and that all trade and intercourse with them cease; that none
of the inhabitants of that county be permitted to travel or abide in any
part of these United Colonies out of their said colony without a
certificate from the Convention or Committee of Safety of the Colony of
New York, setting forth that such inhabitant is a friend of the American
cause, and not of the number of those who voted against sending deputies
to the said Convention, and that such of the inhabitants as shall be
found out of the said county without such certificate, be apprehended
and imprisoned three months.

_Resolved_, That no attorney or lawyer ought to commence, prosecute or
defend any action at law of any kind, for any of the said inhabitants of
Queens County, who voted against sending deputies to the Convention
as aforesaid, and such attorney or lawyer as shall countenance this
revolution, are enemies to the American cause, and shall be treated
accordingly.

What had they done? Simply voted against sending delegates to the
convention, and yet the fathers not only put them out of the protection
of law, but prohibited any lawyer from appearing in their behalf in a
court. Democrats, don't you wish we had treated you that way during the
war?

What more did they do? They ordered a company of troops from
Connecticut, and two or three companies from New Jersey, to go into the
State of New York, and take away from every person who had voted against
sending deputies to the convention, all his arms, and if anybody refused
to give up his arms, they put him in jail. Don't you wish you had lived
then, my friend Democrat? Don't you wish you had prosecuted the war as
our fathers prosecuted the Revolution?

I now want to show you how far they went in this direction. A man by the
name of Sutton, who lived on Long Island, had been going around giving
his constitutional opinions upon the war. They had him arrested, and
went on to resolve that he should be taken from Philadelphia, pay the
cost of transportation himself, be put in jail there, and while in jail
should board himself. Wouldn't a Democrat have had a hard scramble for
victuals if we had carried out that idea? Just see what outrageous and
terrible things the fathers did. And why did they do it? Because they
saw that in order to establish the liberties of America it was necessary
they should take the Tory by the throat just as it was necessary for us
to take rebels by the throat during the late war.

They had paper money in those days—shin-plasters—and some of the
Democrats of those times had legal doubts about this paper currency. One
of these Democrats, Thomas Harriott, was called before a Committee of
Safety of New York, and there convicted of having refused to receive in
payment the Continental bills. The committee of New York conceiving that
he was a dangerous person, informed the Provincial Congress of the facts
in the case, and inquired whether Congress thought he ought to go at
large. Upon receipt of this information by Congress an order for the
imprisonment of the offender was passed, as follows:

_Resolved_, That the General Committee of the city of New York be
requested and authorized, and are hereby requested and authorized to
direct that Thomas Harriott be committed to close jail in this city,
there to remain until further orders of this Congress.—Amer. Archives,
4th series, vol. 6, P. i, 344.

And yet all that he had done was to refuse to take Continental money.
He had simply given his opinion on the legal tender law, just as the
Democrats of Indiana did in regard to greenbacks, and as a few circuit
judges decided when they declared the Legal Tender Act unconstitutional.
It would have been perfectly proper and right that they, every man of
them, should be, like Thomas Harriott, "committed to close jail, there
to remain until further orders."

Did our forefathers ever interfere with religion? Yes, they did with
a preacher by the name of Daniels, because he would not pray for the
American cause. He thought he could coax the Lord to beat us. They said
to him, "You pray on our side, sir." He would not do it, and so they put
him in jail and gave him work enough to pray himself out, and it took
him some time to do it. They interfered with a _lack_ of religion. They
believed that a Tory or traitor in the pulpit was no better than anybody
else. That is the way I have sometimes felt during the war. I have
thought that I would like to see some of those white cravatted gentlemen
"snaked" right out of the pulpits where they had dared to utter their
treason, and set to playing checkers through a grated window.

It is not possible that our fathers ever interfered with the writ of
_habeas corpus_, is it? Yes sir. Our fathers advocated the doctrine
that the good of the people is the supreme law of the land. They also
advocated the doctrine that in the midst of armies law falls to the
ground; the doctrine that when a country is in war it is to be governed
by the laws of war. They thought that laws were made for the protection
of good citizens, for the punishment of citizens that were bad, when
they were not too bad or too numerous; then they threw the law-book down
while they took the cannon and whipped the badness out of them; that is
the next step, when the stones you throw, and kind words, and grass have
failed. They said, why did we not appeal to law? We did; but it did no
good. A large portion of the people were up in arms in defiance of law,
and there was only one way to put them down, and that was by force of
arms; and whenever an appeal is made to force, that force is governed by
the law of war.

The fathers suspended the writ in the case of a man who had committed
an offence in the State of New York. They sent him to the State of
Connecticut to be confined, just as men were sent from Indiana to Fort
Lafayette. The attorneys came before the convention of New York to hear
the matter inquired into, but the committee of the convention to whom
the matter was referred refused to inquire into the original cause of
commitment—a direct denial of the authority of the writ. The writ of
_habeas corpus_ merely brings the body before the judge that he may
inquire why he is imprisoned. They refused to make any such inquiry.
Their action was endorsed by the convention and the gentleman was sent
to Connecticut and put in jail. They not only did these things in one
instance, but in a thousand. They took men from Maryland and put them in
prison in Pennsylvania, and they took men from Pennsylvania and confined
them in Maryland, Whenever they thought the Tories were so thick at
one point that the rascals might possibly be released, they took them
somewhere else.

They did not interfere with the freedom of the press, did they? Yes,
sir. They found a gentleman who was speaking and writing against the
liberties of the colonies, and they just took his paper away from him,
and gave it to a man who ran it in the interest of the colonies, using
the Tory's type and press. [A voice—That was right.] Right! of course
it was right. What right has a newspaper in Indiana to talk against the
cause for which your son is laying down his life on the field of battle?
What right has any man to make it take thousands of men more to crush a
rebellion? What right has any man protected by the American flag to do
all in his power to put it in the hands of the enemies of his country?
The same right that any man has to be a rascal, a thief and traitor—no
other right under heaven. Our fathers had sense enough to see that, and
they said, "One gentleman in the rear printing against our noble cause,
will cost us hundreds of noble lives at the front." Why have you a right
to take a rebel's horse? Because it helps you and weakens the enemy.
That is by the law of war. That is the principle upon which they seized
the Tory printing press. They had the right to do it. And if I had had
the power in this country, no man should have said a word, or written a
line, or printed anything against the cause for which the heroic men of
the North sacrificed their lives. I would have enriched the soil of this
country with him before he should have done it. A man by the name of
James Rivington undertook to publish a paper against the country. They
would not speak to him; they denounced him, seized his press, and made
him ask forgiveness and promise to print no more such stuff before they
would let him have his sheet again. No person but a rebel ever thought
that was wrong. There is no common sense in going to the field to fight
and leaving a man at home to undo all that you accomplish.

Our fathers did not like these Tories, and when the war was over they
confiscated their estates—took their land and gave it over to good
Union men.

How did they do it? Did they issue summons, and have a trial? No, sir.
They did it by wholesale—they did it by resolution, and the estates of
hundreds of men were taken from them without their having a day in court
or any notice or trial whatever. They said to the Tories: "You cast
your fortunes with the other side, let them pay you. The flag you fought
against protects the land you owned and it will prevent you from having
it." Nor is that all. They ran thousands of them out of the country away
up into Nova Scotia, and the old blue-nosed Tories are there yet.

In his letter to Governor Cooke of Rhode Island, Washington enumerates
an act of that colony, declaring that "none should speak, write, or act
against the proceedings of Congress or their Acts of Assembly, under
penalty of being disarmed and disqualified from holding any office,
and being further punished by imprisonment," as one that met his
approbation, and which should exist in other colonies. There is the
doctrine for you Democrats. So I could go on by the hour or by the
day. I could show you how they made domiciliary visits, interfered
with travel, imprisoned without any sort of writ or affidavit—in other
words, did whatever they thought was necessary to whip the enemy and
establish their independence.

What next do they charge against us? That we freed negroes. So we did.
That we allowed those negroes to fight in the army. Yes, we did,
That we allowed them to vote. We did that too. That we have made them
citizens. Yes, we have, and what are you Democrats going to do about it?

Now, what did our fathers do? Did they free any of the negroes? Yes,
sir. Did they allow any of them to fight in the army? Yes, sir. Did they
permit any of them to vote? Yes, sir. Did they make them citizens? Yes,
sir. Let us see whether they did or not.

Before we had the present Constitution we had what were called Articles
of Confederation. The fourth of those articles provided that every
free inhabitant of the colony should be a citizen. It did not make any
difference whether he was white or black; and negroes voted by the side
of Washington and Jefferson. Just here the question arises, if negroes
were good enough in 1787 and 1790 to vote by the side of such men,
whether rebels and their sympathizers are good enough now to vote
alongside of the negro.

Did they let any of these negroes fight? In 1750, when Massachusetts had
slaves, there appeared in the Boston Gazette the following notice:

"Ran away from his master, Wm. Brown, of Framingham, on the 30th
September last, a mulatto fellow, about 27 years of age, named Crispus,
about 6 feet high, short curly hair, had on a light colored bear-skin
coat, brown jacket, new buckskin breeches, blue yarn stockings and check
woolen shirt," etc.

This "mulatto fellow" did not come back, and so they advertised the next
week and the week following, but still the toes of the blue yarn socks
pointed the other way. That was in 1750. 1760 came and 1770, and the
people of this continent began to talk about having their liberties. And
while wise and thoughtful men were talking about it, making petitions
for popular rights and laying them at the foot of the throne, the King's
troops were in Boston. One day they marched down King street, on their
way to arrest some citizen. The soldiery were attacked by a mob, and at
its head was a "mulatto fellow" who shouted "here they are," and it was
observed that this "mulatto fellow" was about six feet high—that his
knees were nearer together than common, and that he was about 47 years
of age. The soldiers fired upon the mob and he fell, shot through
with five balls—the first man that led a charge against British
aggression—the first martyr whose blood was shed for American liberty
upon this soil. They took up that poor corpse, and as it lay in Faneuil
Hall it did more honor to the place than did Daniel Webster defending
the Fugitive Slave Law.

They allowed him to fight. Would our fathers have been brutal enough,
if he had not been killed, to put him back into slavery? No! They would
have said that a man who fights for liberty should enjoy it. If a man
fights for that flag it shall protect him. Perish forever from the
heavens the flag that will not defend its defenders, be they white or
black.

Thus our fathers felt. They raised negro troops by the company and the
regiment, and gave his liberty to every man that fought for liberty. Not
only that, but they allowed them to vote. They voted in the Carolinas,
in Tennessee, in New York, in all the New England States. Our fathers
had too much decency to act upon the Democratic doctrine.

In the war of 1812, negroes fought at Lake Erie and at New Orleans, and
then the fathers, as in the Revolution, were too magnanimous to turn
them back into slavery. You need not get mad, my Democratic friends,
because you hate Ben. Butler. Let me read you an abolition document.

You will all say it is right; you cannot say anything else when you hear
it. Butler, you know, was down in New Orleans, and he made some of those
rebels dance a tune that they did not know, and he made them keep pretty
good time too:

_To the Free Colored Inhabitants of Louisiana:_

Through a mistaken policy you have heretofore been deprived of a
participation in the glorious struggle for national rights in which our
country is engaged. This shall no longer exist. As sons of freedom
you are now called upon to defend our most inestimable blessing. As
Americans, your country looks with confidence to her adopted children
for a valorous support as a faithful return for the advantages enjoyed
under her mild and equitable government. As fathers, husbands and
brothers you are summoned to rally around the standard of the eagle—to
defend all which is dear in existence. Your country, although calling
for your exertions, does not wish you to engage in her cause without
amply remunerating you for the services rendered. Your intelligent minds
can not be led away by false representations. Your love of honor would
cause you to despise a man who should attempt to deceive you. In the
sincerity of a soldier and the language of truth I address you. To every
noble-hearted, generous free man of color volunteering to serve during
the present contest and no longer, there will be paid the same bounty in
money and lands now received by the white soldiers of the United
States, viz: $124 in money and one hundred and sixty acres of land. The
noncommissioned officers and privates will also be entitled to the
same monthly pay and daily rations and clothing furnished any American
soldier.

On enrolling yourselves in companies, the Major General commanding will
select officers for your government from your white fellow-citizens.
Your non-commissioned officers will be appointed from among yourselves.
Due regard will be paid to their feelings as freemen and soldiers.
You will not by being associated with white men in the same corps,
be exposed to improper companions or unjust sarcasm. As a distinct
battalion or regiment pursuing the path of glory, you will undivided
receive the applause and gratitude of your countrymen.

To assure you of the sincerity of my intentions and my anxiety to engage
your valuable services to our country, I have communicated my wishes
to the Governor of Louisiana, who is fully informed as to the manner of
enrollment, and give you every necessary information on the subject of
this address.

This is a terrible document to a Democrat. Let us look back over it a
little. "Through a mistaken policy." We had not sense enough to let the
negroes fight during the first part of the war. "As sons of freedom" we
had got sense by this time. "Americans." Oh! shocking! Think of calling
negroes Americans. "Your country!" Is that not enough to make a Democrat
sick? "As fathers, husbands, brothers." Negro brothers. That is too
bad. "Your intelligent minds." Now, just think of a negro having an
intelligent mind. "Are not to be led away by false representations."
Then precious few of them will vote the Democratic ticket. "Your sense
of honor will lead you to despise the man who should attempt to deceive
you." Then how they will hate the Democratic party. Then he goes on to
say that the same bounty, money and land that the white soldiers receive
will be paid to these negroes. Not only that, but they are to have the
same pay, clothing and rations. Only think of a negro having as much
land, as much to eat and as many clothes to wear as a white man. Is
not this a vile abolition document? And yet there is not a Democrat in
Indiana that dare open his mouth against it, full of negro equality as
it is. Now, let us see when and by whom this proclamation was issued.
You will find that it is dated, "Headquarters 7th Military District,
Mobile, September 21st, 1814," and signed "Andrew Jackson, Major General
Commanding."

Oh, you Jackson Democrats. You gentlemen that are descended from
Washington and Jackson—great heavens, what a descent! Do you think.
Jackson was a Democrat? He generally passed for a good Democrat; yet
he issued that abominable abolition proclamation and put negroes on an
equality with white men. That is not the worst of it, either; for after
he got these negroes into the army he made a speech to them, and what
did he say in that speech? Here it is in full:

_To the Men of Color:_

Soldiers—From the shores of Mobile I called you to arms. I invited
you to share in the perils and to divide the glory with your white
countrymen. I expected much from you, for I was not uninformed of those
qualities which must render you so formidable to an invading foe. I knew
that you could endure hunger, thirst, and all the hardships of war. I
knew that you loved the land of your nativity, and that like ourselves
you had to defend all that is most dear to man. But you surpass
my hopes. I have found in you united to these qualities that noble
enthusiasm which impels to great deeds. Soldiers, the President of the
United States shall be informed of your conduct on the present occasion
and the voice of the representatives of the American nation shall
applaud your valor as your General now praises your ardor. The enemy
is near. His sails cover the lakes. But the brave are united, and if he
finds' us contending among ourselves, it will be only for the prize of
valor, its noblest reward.

There is negro equality for you. There is the first man since the heroes
of the Revolution died that issued a proclamation and put negroes on an
equality with white men, and he was as good a Democrat as ever lived in
Indiana. I could go on and show where they voted, and who allowed them
to vote, but I have said enough on that question, and also upon the
question of their fighting in the army, and of their being citizens, and
have established, I think conclusively, this:

_First_. That our fathers, in order to found this Government, arrested
men without warrant, indictment or affidavit by the hundred and by the
thousand; that we, in order to preserve the Government that they thus
founded, arrested a few people without warrant.

_Second_. That our fathers, for the purpose of founding the Government,
suspended the writ of _habeas corpus_; that we, for the purpose of
preserving the same Government, did the same thing.

_Third_. That they, for the purpose of inaugurating this Government,
interfered with the liberty of the press; that we, on one or two
occasions, for the purpose of preserving the Government, interfered with
the liberty of the press.

_Fourth_. That our fathers allowed negroes to fight in order that they
might secure the liberties of America; that we, in order to preserve
those liberties, allow negroes to fight.

_Fifth_. That our fathers, out of gratitude to the negroes in the
Revolutionary war, allowed them to vote; that we have done the same.
That they made them citizens, and we have followed their example.

As far as I have gone, I have shown that the fathers of the Revolution
and the War of 1812 set us the example for everything we have done.
Now, Mr. Democrat, if you want to curse us, curse them too. Either quit
yawping about the fathers, or quit yawping about us.

Now, then, was there any necessity, during this war, to follow the
example of our fathers? The question was put to us in 1861: "Shall
the majority rule?" and also the balance of that question: "Shall the
minority submit?" The minority said they would not. Upon the right of
the majority to rule rests the entire structure of our Government. Had
we, in 1861, given up that principle, the foundations of our Government
would have been totally destroyed. In fact there would have been no
Government, even in the North. It is no use to say the majority shall
rule if the minority consents. Therefore, if, when a man has been
duly elected President, anybody undertakes to prevent him from being
President, it is your duty to protect him and enforce submission to the
will of the majority. In 1861 we had presented to us the alternative,
either to let the great principle that lies at the foundation of our
Government go by the board, or to appeal to arms, and to the God of
battles, and fight it through.

The Southern people said they were going out of the Union; we implored
them to stay, by the common memories of the Revolution, by an apparent
common destiny; by the love of man, but they refused to listen to
us—rushed past us, and appealed to the arbitrament of the sword; and
now I, for one, say by the decision of the sword let them abide.

Now, I want to show how mean the American people were in 1861. The vile
and abominable institution of slavery had so corrupted us that we did
not know right from wrong. It crept into the pulpit until the sermon
became the echo of the bloodhound's bark. It crept upon the bench,
and the judge could not tell whether the corn belonged to the man that
raised it, or to the fellow that did not, but he rather thought it
belonged to the latter. We had lost our sense of justice. Even the
people of Indiana were so far gone as to agree to carry out the Fugitive
Slave Law. Was it not low-lived and contemptible? We agreed that if we
found a woman ninety-nine one hundredths white, who, inspired by the
love of liberty, had run away from her masters, and had got within
one step of free soil, we would clutch her and bring her back to the
dominion of the Democrat, the bloodhound and the lash. We were just mean
enough to do it. We used to read that some hundreds of years ago a lot
of soldiers would march into a man's house, take him out, tie him to a
stake driven into the earth, pile fagots around him, and let the
thirsty flames consume him, and all because they differed from him about
religion. We said it was horrible; it made our blood run cold to think
of it; yet at the same time many a magnificent steamboat floated down
the Mississippi with wives and husbands, fragments of families torn
asunder, doomed to a life of toil, requited only by lashes upon the
naked back, and branding irons upon the quivering flesh, and we thought
little of it. When we set out to put down the Rebellion the Democratic
party started up all at once and said, "You are not going to interfere
with slavery, are you?" Now, it is remarkable that whenever we were
going to do a good thing, we had to let on that we were going to do a
mean one. If we had said at the outset, "We will break the shackles from
four millions of slaves" we never would have succeeded. We had to come
at it by degrees. The Democrats scented it out. They had a scent keener
than a bloodhound when anything was going to be done to affect slavery.
"Put down rebellion," they said, "but don't hurt slavery." We said, "We
will not; we will restore the Union as it was and the Constitution as it
is." We were in good faith about it. We had no better sense then than
to think that it was worth fighting for, to preserve the cause of
quarrel—the bone of contention—so as to have war all the time. Every
blow we struck for slavery was a blow against us. The Rebellion was
simply slavery with a mask on. We never whipped anybody but once so long
as we stood upon that doctrine; that was at Donelson; and the victory
there was not owing to the policy, but to the splendid genius of the
next President of the United States. After a while it got into our
heads that slavery was the cause of the trouble, and we began to edge up
slowly toward slavery. When Mr. Lincoln said he would destroy slavery
if absolutely necessary for the suppression of the Rebellion, people
thought that was the most radical thing that ever was uttered. But the
time came when it was necessary to free the slaves, and to put muskets
into their hands. The Democratic party opposed us with all their might
until the draft came, and they wanted negroes for substitutes; and I
never heard a Democrat object to arming the negroes after that.

> [The speaker from this point presented the history of the
> Republican policy of reconstruction, and touched lightly on
> the subject of the national debt. He glanced at the
> finances, reviewing in the most scathing manner the history
> and character of Seymour, paid a most eloquent tribute to
> the character and public services of General Grant, and
> closed with the following words: ]

The hero of the Rebellion, who accomplished at Shiloh what Napoleon
endeavored at Waterloo; who captured Vicksburg by a series of victories
unsurpassed, taking the keystone from the rebel arch; who achieved at
Missionary Ridge a success as grand as it was unexpected to the country;
who, having been summoned from the death-bed of rebellion in the West,
marched like an athlete from the Potomac to the James, the grandest
march in the history of the world. This was all done without the least
flourish upon his part. No talk about destiny—without faith in a
star—with the simple remark that he would "fight it out on that line,"
without a boast, modest to bashfulness, yet brave to audacity, simple as
duty, firm as war, direct as truth—this hero, with so much common
sense that he is the most uncommon man of his time, will be, in spite of
Executive snares and Cabinet entanglements, of competent false witnesses
of the Democratic party, the next President of the United States. He
will be trusted with the Government his genius saved.
---
# Suffrage Address
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1880_
> * This address was delivered at a Suffrage Meeting in
> Washington, D. C., January 24,1880

1880.

LADIES and Gentlemen: I believe the people to be the only rightful
source of political power, and that any community, no matter where, in
which any citizen is not allowed to have his voice in the making of
the laws he must obey, that community is a tyranny. It is a matter of
astonishment to me that a meeting like this is necessary in the Capital
of the United States. If the citizens of the District of Columbia are
not permitted to vote, if they are not allowed to govern themselves,
and if there is no sound reason why they are not allowed to govern
themselves, then the American idea of government is a failure. I do not
believe that only the rich should vote, or that only the whites should
vote, or that only the blacks should vote. I do not believe that
right depends upon wealth, upon education, or upon color. It depends
absolutely upon humanity. I have the right to vote because I am a man,
because I am an American citizen, and that right I should and am willing
to share equally with every human being. There has been a great deal
said in this country of late in regard to giving the right of suffrage
to women. So far as I am concerned I am willing that every woman in the
nation who desires that privilege and honor shall vote. If any woman
wants to vote I am too much of a gentleman to say she shall not. She
gets her right, if she has it, from precisely the same source that I get
mine, and there are many questions upon which I would deem it desirable
that women should vote, especially upon the question of peace or war.
If a woman has a child to be offered upon the altar of that Moloch, a
husband liable to be drafted, and who loves a heart that can be entered
by the iron arrow of death, she surely has as much right to vote for
peace as some thrice-besotted sot who reels to the ballot-box and
deposits a vote for war. I believe, and always have, that there is
only one objection to a woman voting, and that is, the men are not
sufficiently civilized for her to associate with them, and for several
years I have been doing what little I can to civilize them. The only
question before this meeting, as I understand it, is, Shall the people
of this District manage their own affairs—whether they shall vote their
own taxes and select their own officers who are to execute the laws they
make? and for one, I say there is no human being with ingenuity enough
to frame an argument against this question. It is all very well to say
that Congress will do this, but Congress has a great deal to do
besides. There is enough before that body coming from all the States and
Territories of the Union, and the numberless questions arising in the
conduct of the General Government. I am opposed to a government where
the few govern the many. I am opposed to a government that depends upon
suppers, and upon flattery; upon crooking the hinges of the knee; upon
favors, upon subterfuges. We want to be manly men in this District. We
must direct and control our own affairs, and if we are not capable of
doing it, there is no part of the Union where they are capable. It is
said there is a vast amount of ignorance here. That is true; but that
is also true of every section of the United States. There is too much
ignorance and there will continue to be until the people become great
enough, generous enough, and splendid enough to see that no child shall
grow up in their midst without a good, common-school education. The
people of this District are capable of managing their educational
affairs if they are allowed to do so. The fact is, a man now living in
the District lives under a perpetual flag of truce. He is nobody. He
counts for nothing. He is not noticed except as a suppliant. Nothing as
a citizen. That day should pass away. It will be a perpetual education
for this people to govern themselves, and until they do they cannot
be manly men. They say, though, that there is a vast rabble here. Very
well. Make your election laws so as to exclude the vast rabble. Let it
be understood that no man shall vote who has not lived here at least one
year.

Let your registration laws prohibit any man from voting unless he has
been registered at least six months. We do not want to be governed by
people who have no abode here—who are political Bedouins of the desert.
We want to be governed by people who live with us—who live somewhere
among us, and whom somebody knows, and if a law is properly framed there
will be no trouble about self-government in the District of Columbia.
Let the experiment be tried here of a perfect, complete and honest
registration; let every man, no matter who he is or where he comes from,
vote only by strict compliance with a good registry law. We can have a
fair election, and wherever there is a fair election there will be
good government. Our Government depends for its stability upon honest
elections. The great principle underlying our system of government is
that the people have the virtue and the patriotism to govern themselves.
That is the foundation stone, the corner and the base of our edifice,
and upon it our Government is on trial to-day. And until a man is
considered infamous who casts an illegal vote, our Government will not
be safe. Whoever casts an illegal vote knowingly is a traitor to the
principle upon which our Government is founded. And whoever deprives a
citizen of his right to vote is also a traitor to our Government. When
these things are understood; when the finger of public scorn shall be
pointed at every man who votes illegally, or unlawfully prevents an
honest vote, then you will have a splendid Government. It is humiliating
for one hundred and seventy-five thousand people to depend simply upon
the right of petition. The few will disregard the petition of the many.

I have not one word to say against the officers of the District. Not a
word. But let them do as well as they can; that is no justification. It
is no justification of a monarchy that the king is a good man; it is no
justification of a tyranny that the despot does justice. There may come
another who will do injustice; and a free people like ours should not be
satisfied to be governed by strangers. They would better have bad men
of their own choosing than to have good men forced upon them. You
have property here, and you have a right to protect it, and a right to
improve it. You have life and liberty and the right to protect it. You
have a right to say what money shall be assessed and collected and paid
for that protection. You have laws and you have a right to have them
executed by officers of your own selection, and by nobody else. In my
judgment, all that is necessary to have these things done is to have the
subject properly laid before Congress, and let that body thoroughly
and perfectly understand the situation. There is no member there,
who rightly understanding our wishes, will dare continue this
disfranchisement of the people. We have the same right to vote that
their constituents have, precisely—no more and no less.

This District ought to have one representative in Congress, a
representative with a right to speak—not a tongueless dummy. The idea
of electing a delegate who has simply the privilege of standing around!
We ought to have a representative who has not only the right to
talk, but who will talk. This District has the right to a vote in the
committees of Congress, and not simply the privilege of receiving a
little advice. And more than that, this District ought to have at least
one electoral vote in a selection of a President of the United States.
A smaller population than yours is represented not only in Congress, but
in the Electoral College. If it is necessary to amend the Constitution
to secure these rights let us try and have it amended; and when
that question is put to the people of the whole country they will be
precisely as willing that the people of the District of Columbia shall
have an equal voice as that they themselves should have a voice.

Let us stop at no half-way ground, but claim, and keep claiming all
our rights until somebody says we shall have them. And let me tell you
another thing: Once have the right of self-government recognized here,
have a delegate in Congress, and an electoral vote for President,
and thousands will be willing to come here and become citizens of
the District. As it is, the moment a man settles here his American
citizenship falls from him like dead leaves from a tree. From that
moment he is nobody. Every American citizen wants a little political
power—wants to cast his vote for the rulers of the nation. He wants to
have something to say about the laws he has to obey, and they are not
willing to come here and disfranchise themselves. The moment it is known
that a man is from the District he has no influence, and no one cares
what his political opinions may be. Now, let us have it so that we can
vote and be on an equality with the rest of the voters of the United
States. This Government was founded upon the idea that the only
source of power is the people. Let us show at the Capital that we have
confidence in that principle; that every man should have a vote and
voice in the South, in the North, everywhere, no matter how low his
condition, no matter that he was a slave, no matter what his color is,
or whether he can read or write, he is clothed with the right to
name those who make the laws he is to obey. While the lowest and most
degraded in every State in this Union have that right, the best and most
intelligent in the District have not that right. It will not do. There
is no sense in it—there is no justice in it—nothing American in it.
If this were the case in some of the capitals of Europe we would not be
surprised; but here in the United States, where we have so much to say
about the right of self-government, that two hundred thousand people
should not have the right to say who shall make, and who shall execute
the laws is at least an anomaly and a contradiction of our theory of
government, and for one, I propose to do what little I can to correct
it. It has been said that you had once here the right of self-government.
If I understand it, the right you had was to elect somebody to some
office, and all the other officers were appointed. You had no control
over your Legislature; you had very little control over your other
officers, and the people of the District were held responsible for what
was actually done by the appointing power. We want no appointing power.
If it is necessary to have a police magistrate, I say the people are
competent to elect that magistrate; and if he is not a good man they
are qualified to select another in his place. You ought to elect your
judges. I do not want the office of the Judiciary so far from the people
that it may feel entirely independent. I want every officer in this
District held-accountable to the people, and, unless he discharges his
duties faithfully, the people will put him out, and select another in
his stead.

I want it understood that no American citizen can be forced to pay
a dollar in a State or in the district where he lives who is not
represented, and where he has not the right to vote. It is all tyranny,
and all infamous. The people of the United States wonder to-day that you
have submitted to this outrage as long as you have.

Neither do I believe that only the rich should have the right to vote;
that only they should govern; or that only the educated should govern.
I have noticed among educated men many who did not know enough to
govern themselves. I have known many wealthy men who did not believe
in liberty, in giving the people the same rights they claimed for
themselves. I believe in that government where the ballot of Lazarus
counts as much as the vote of Dives. Let the rich, let the educated,
govern the people by moral suasion and by example and by kindness, and
not by brute force. And in a community like this, where the avenues to
distinction are open alike to all, there will be many more reasons for
acting like men. When you can hold any position, when every citizen can
have conferred upon him honor and responsibility, there is some stimulus
to be a man. But in a community where but the few are clothed with power
by appointment, no incentive exists among the people. If the avenues to
distinction and honor are open to all, such a government is beneficial
on every hand, and the poorest man in the community may say to himself,
"If I pursue the right course the very highest place is open to me." And
the poorest man, with his little tow-headed boy on his knee, can say,
"John, all the avenues are open to you; although I am poor, you may be
rich, and while I am obscure, you may become distinguished."

That idea sweetens every hour of toil and renders holy every drop of
sweat that rolls down the face of labor. I hate tyranny in every form.
I despise it, and I execrate a tyrant wherever he may be, and in every
country where the people are struggling for the right of self-government
I sympathize with them in their struggle. Wherever the sword of
rebellion is drawn in favor of human rights I am a rebel. I sympathize
with all the people in Europe who are endeavoring to push kings from
thrones and struggling for the right to govern themselves. America ought
to send greeting to every part of the world where such a struggle is
pending, and we of the District of Columbia ought to be able to join
in the greeting, but we never shall be until we have the right of
self-government ourselves. No man who is a good citizen can have any
objection to self-government here. No man can be opposed to it who
believes that our people have enough wisdom, enough virtue, enough
patriotism to govern themselves. The man who doubts the right of the
people to govern themselves casts a little doubt upon the question,
simply because he is not man enough himself to believe in liberty. I
would trust the poor of this country with our liberties as soon as I
would the rich. I will trust the huts and hovels, just as soon as I will
the mansions and palaces. I will trust those who work by the day in the
street as soon as I will the bankers of the United States. I will trust
the ignorant—even the ignorant. Why? Because they want education, and
no people in this country are so anxious to have their children educated
as those who are not educated themselves. I will trust the ignorant with
the liberties of this country quicker than I would some of the educated
who doubt the principles upon which our Government is founded. But
let the intelligent do what they can to instruct the ignorant. Let the
wealthy do what they can to give the blessings of liberty to the poor,
and then this Government will remain forever. The time is passing away
when any man of genius can be respected who will not use that genius
in elevating his fellow-man. The time is passing away when men, however
wealthy, can be respected unless they use their millions for the
elevation of mankind. The time is coming when no man will be called an
honest man who is not willing to give to every other man, be he white or
black, every right that he asks for himself.

For my part, I am willing to live under a government where all govern,
and am not willing to live under any other. I am willing to live where
I am on an equality with other men, where they have precisely my rights,
and no more; and I despise any government that is not based upon this
principle of human equality. Now, let us go just for that one
thing, that we have the same right as any other people in the
United States—that is, to govern this District ourselves. Let us be
represented in the lawmaking power, and let us advocate a change in the
fundamental law so that the people of this District shall be entitled
to one vote as to who shall be President of the United States. And when
that is done and our people are clothed with the panoply of citizenship,
you will find this District growing not to two hundred thousand, but
in a little while one million of people will live here. Now, for one, I
have not the slightest feeling against members of Congress for what
has been done. I believe when this matter is laid before them fully and
properly you will find few men in that august body who will vote against
the proposition. They have had trouble enough. They do not understand
our affairs. They never did, never will, never can. No one who does not
live here will. The public interests are so many and so conflicting, and
touch the sides of so many, that the people must attend to this matter
themselves. They know when they want a market, a judge, or a collector
of taxes, and nobody else does and nobody else has a right to.

And instead of going up to Congress and standing around some
committee-room with a long petition in your hands, begging somebody to
wait just one moment, it will be far better that you should go to the
polls and elect your representative, who can attend to your interests in
Congress. But above all things, I want to warn you, charge you, beseech
you, that in any legislation upon this subject you must secure a
registration law that will prevent the casting of an illegal vote.
Do this before it is known whether the District is Republican or
Democratic. I do not care. No matter how much of a Republican I am,
absolutely, I would rather be governed by Democrats who live here than
by Republicans who do not. And now, while it is not known whether this
is a Democratic or Republican community, let us get up a registration
that no one can violate; because the moment you have an election, and
it is ascertained to be either Democratic or Republican, the victorious
party may be opposed to any registration or any legislation that will
put in jeopardy their power. I have lived long enough to be satisfied
that any State in this Union, no matter whether Democratic or
Republican, will be safe as long as the people have the right to vote,
and to see that the ballots will be counted. This country is now upon
trial. In nearly every State in this Union there is liable to happen
just the same thing that only the other day happened in Maine.

In every State there can be two legislatures, one in the State-house and
the other on the fence. Let us in this District so guard the right
to vote and the counting of the ballots, that we shall know after the
election who has been elected and know with certainty the men who have
been elected by the legal voters of the District.

It becomes us all, whether Republicans or Democrats, to unite in
securing such a law. Let us act together, Democrats and Republicans,
black and white, rich and poor, educated and ignorant—let us all unite
upon the principle that we have the right to govern ourselves. Then
it will make no difference whether the District of Columbia shall be
Democratic or Republican, provided it is the will of a legal majority of
her people.

Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you.
---
# The Chicago and New York Gold Speech
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1896_
> * "This world will see but one Ingersoll."

> Such was the terse, laconic, yet potent utterance that came
> spontaneously from a celebrated statesman whose head is now
> pillowed in the dust of death, as he stood in the lobby of
> the old Burnet House in Cincinnati after the famous
> Republican Convention in that city in 1876, at which Colonel
> Robert G. Ingersoll made that powerful speech nominating
> Blaine for the Presidency, one which is read and reread to-
> day, and will be read in the future, as an example of the
> highest art of the platform.

> That same sentiment in thought, emotion or vocal expression
> emanated from upward of twenty thousand citizens last night
> who heard the eloquent and magic Ingersoll in the great
> tent stretched near the corner of Sacramento avenue and Lake
> street as he expounded the living gospel of true
> Republicanism.

> The old warhorse, silvered by long years of faithful service
> to his country, aroused the same all-pervading enthusiasm as
> he did in the campaigns of Grant and Hayes and Garfield.

> He has lost not one whit, not one iota of his striking
> physical presence, his profound reasoning, his convincing
> logic, his rollicking wit, grandiloquence—in fine, all the
> graces of the orator of old, reenforced by increased
> patriotism and the ardor of the call to battle for his
> country, are still his in the fullest measure.

> Ingersoll in his powerful speech at Cincinnati, spoke in
> behalf of a friend; last night he plead for his country. In
> 1876 he eulogized a man; last night, twenty years afterward,
> he upheld the principles of democratic government. Such was
> the difference in his theme; the logic, the eloquence of his
> utterances was the more profound In the same ratio.

> He came to the ground floor of human existence and talked as
> man to man. His patriotism, be it religion, sentiment, or
> that lofty spirit inseparable from man's soul, is his life.
> Last night he sought to inspire those who heard him with the
> same loyalty, and he succeeded.

> Those passionate outbursts of eloquence, the wit that fairly
> scintillated, the logic as Inexorable as heaven's decrees,
> his rich rhetoric and immutable facts driven straight to his
> hearers with the strength of bullets, aroused applause that
> came as spontaneous as sunlight.

> Now eliciting laughter, now silence, now cheers, the great
> orator, with the singular charm of presence, manner and
> voice, swayed his immense audience at his own volition.
> Packed with potency was every sentence, each word a living
> thing, and with them he flayed financial heresy, laid bare
> the dire results of free trade, and exposed the dangers of
> Populism.

> It was an immense audience that greeted him. The huge tent
> was packed from center-pole to circumference, and thousands
> went away because they could not gain entrance. The houses
> in the vicinity were beautifully illuminated decorated.

> The Chairman, Wm. P. McCabe, in a brief but forcible speech,
> presented Colonel Ingersoll to the vast audience. As the old
> veteran of rebellion days arose from his seat, one
> prolonged, tremendous cheer broke forth from the twenty
> thousand throats. And it was fully fifteen minutes before
> the great orator could begin to deliver his address.

> In his introductory speech Mr. McCabe said:

> "Friends and Fellow-Citizens: I have no set speech to make
> to-night. My duty Is to introduce to you one whose big heart
> and big brain is filled with love and patriotic care for the
> things that concern the country he fought for and loved so
> well. I now have the honor of introducing to you Hon. Robert
> G. Ingersoll."—The Intrr-Ocean, Chicago, 111., October 9th,
> 1895.

1896.

LADIES and Gentlemen: This is our country.

The legally expressed will of the majority is the supreme law of the
land. We are responsible for what our Government does. We cannot excuse
ourselves because of the act of some king, or the opinions of nobles. We
are the kings. We are the nobles. We are the aristocracy of America, and
when our Government does right we are honored, and when our Government
does wrong the brand of shame is on the American brow.

Again we are on the field of battle, where thought contends with
thought, the field of battle where facts are bullets and arguments are
swords.

To-day there is in the United States a vast congress consisting of the
people, and in that congress every man has a voice, and it is the duty
of every man to inquire into all questions presented, to the end that he
may vote as a man and as a patriot should.

No American should be dominated by prejudice. No man standing under our
flag should follow after the fife and drum of a party. He should say to
himself: "I am a free man, and I will discharge the obligations of an
American citizen with all the intelligence I possess."

I love this country because the people are free; and if they are not
free it is their own fault.

To-night I am not going to appeal to your prejudices, if you have any.
I am going to talk to the sense that you have. I am going to address
myself to your brain and to your heart. I want nothing of you except
that you will preserve the institutions of the Republic; that you will
maintain her honor unstained. That is all I ask.

I admit that all the parties who disagree with me are honest. Large
masses of mankind are always honest, the leader not always, but the mass
of people do what they believe to be right. Consequently there is no
argument in abuse, nothing calculated to convince in calumny. To be
kind, to be candid, is far nobler, far better, and far more American. We
live in a Democracy, and we admit that every other human being has the
same right to think, the same right to express his thought, the same
right to vote that we have, and I want every one who hears me to vote
in exact accord with his sense, to cast his vote in accordance with
his conscience. I want every one to do the best he can for the great
Republic, and no matter how he votes, if he is honest, I shall find no
fault.

But the great thing is to understand what you are going to do; the great
thing is to use the little sense that we have. In most of us the capital
is small, and it ought to be turned often. We ought to pay attention, we
ought to listen to what is said and then think, think for ourselves.

Several questions have been presented to the American people for their
solution, and I propose to speak a little about those questions, and I
do not want you to pretend to agree with me. I want no applause unless
you honestly believe I am right.

Three great questions are presented: First, as to money; second, as
to the tariff, and third, whether this Government has the right of
self-defence. Whether this is a Government of law, or whether there
shall be an appeal from the Supreme Court to a mob. These are the three
questions to be answered next Tuesday by the American people.

First, let us take up this money question. Thousands and thousands of
speeches have been made on the subject. Pamphlets thick as the leaves
of autumn have been scattered from one end of the Republic to the other,
all about money, as if it were an exceedingly metaphysical question, as
though there were something magical about it.

What is money? Money is a product of nature. Money is a part of nature.
Money is something that man cannot create. All the legislatures and
congresses of the world cannot by any possibility create one dollar, any
more than they could suspend the attraction of gravitation or hurl a
new constellation into the concave sky. Money is not made. It has to be
found. It is dug from the crevices of rocks, washed from the sands of
streams, from the gravel of ancient valleys; but it is not made. It
cannot be created. Money is something that does not have to be redeemed.
Money is the redeemer. And yet we have a man running for the presidency
on three platforms with two Vice-Presidents, who says that money is the
creature of law. It may be that law sometimes is the creature of money,
but money was never the creature of law.

A nation can no more create money by law than it can create corn and
wheat and barley by law, and the promise to pay money is no nearer money
than a warehouse receipt is grain, or a bill of fare is a dinner. If you
can make money by law, why should any nation be poor?

The supply of law is practically unlimited. Suppose one hundred people
should settle on an island, form a government, elect a legislature. They
would have the power to make law, and if law can make money, if money
is the creature of law, why should not these one hundred people on the
island be as wealthy as Great Britain? What is to hinder? And yet we are
told that money is the creature of law. In the financial world that
is as absurd as perpetual motion in mechanics; it is as absurd as the
fountain of eternal youth, the philosopher's stone, or the transmutation
of metals.

What is a dollar? People imagine that a piece of paper with pictures on
it, with signatures, is money. The greenback is not money—never was;
never will be. It is a promise to pay money; not money. The note of the
nation is no nearer money than the note of an individual. A bank note is
not money. It is a promise to pay money; that is all.

Well, what is a dollar? In the civilized world it is twenty-three grains
and twenty-two one hundredths of pure gold. That is a dollar. Well,
cannot we make dollars out of silver? Yes, I admit it, but in order to
make a silver dollar you have got to put a dollars worth of silver in
the silver dollar, and you have to put as much silver in it as you can
buy for twenty-three grains and twenty-two one-hundredths' of a grain
of pure gold. It takes a dollar's worth of silver to make a dollar.
It takes a dollar's worth of paper to make a paper dollar. It takes a
dollar's worth of iron to make an iron dollar; and there is no way of
making a dollar without the value.

And let me tell you another thing. You do not add to the value of gold
by coining it any more than you add to the value of wheat by measuring
it; any more than you add to the value of coal by weighing it. Why do
you coin gold? Because every man cannot take a chemist's outfit with
him. He cannot carry a crucible and retort, scales and acids, and so
the Government coins it, simply to certify how much gold there is in the
piece.

Ah, but, says this same gentleman, what gives our money—our silver—its
value? It is because it is a legal tender, he says. Nonsense; nonsense.
Gold was not given value by being made a legal tender, but being
valuable it was made a legal tender. And gold gets no value to-day from
being a legal tender. I not only say that, but I will prove it; and I
will not only prove it, but I will demonstrate it. Take a twenty dollar
gold piece, hammer it out of shape, mar the Goddess of Liberty, pound
out the United States of America and batter the eagle, and after you get
it pounded how much is it worth?

It is worth exactly twenty dollars. Is it a legal tender? No. Has its
value been changed? No. Take a silver dollar. It is a legal tender; now
pound it into a cube, and how much is it worth? A little less than fifty
cents. What gives it the value of a dollar? The fact that it is a legal
tender? No; but the promise of the Government to keep it on an equality
with gold. I will not only say this, but I will demonstrate it. I do not
ask you to take my word; just use the sense you have.

The Mexican silver dollar has a little more silver in it than one of our
dollars, and the Mexican silver dollar is a legal tender in Mexico. If
there is any magic about legal tender it ought to work as well in Mexico
as in the United States. I take an American silver dollar and I go
to Mexico. I buy a dinner for a dollar and I give to the Mexican the
American dollar and he gives me a Mexican dollar in change. Yet both of
the dollars are legal tender. Why is it that the Mexican dollar is worth
only fifty cents? Because the Mexican Government has not agreed to keep
it equal with gold; that is all, that is all.

We want the money of the civilized world, and I will tell you now that
in the procession of nations every silver nation lags behind—every one.
There is not a silver nation on the globe where decent wages are paid
for human labor—not one. The American laborer gets ten times as much
here in gold as a laborer gets in China in silver, twenty times as much
as a laborer does in India, four times as much as a laborer gets in
Russia; and yet we are told that the man who will "follow England" with
the gold standard lacks patriotism and manhood. What then shall we
say of the man that follows China, that follows India in the silver
standard?

Does that require patriotism?

It certainly requires self-denial.

And yet these gentlemen say that our money is too good. They might as
well say the air is too pure; they might as well say the soil is too
rich. How can money be too good? Mr. Bryan says that it is so good,
people hoard it; and let me tell him they always will. Mr. Bryan wants
money so poor that everybody will be anxious to spend it. He wants money
so poor that the rich will not have it. Then he thinks the poor can get
it. We are willing to toil for good money. Good money means the comforts
and luxuries of life. Real money is always good. Paper promises and
silver substitutes may be poor; words and pictures may be cheap and may
fade to worthlessness—but gold shines on.

In Chicago, many years ago, there was an old colored man at the Grand
Pacific. I met him one morning, and he looked very sad, and I said to
him, "Uncle, what is the matter?" "Well," he said, "my wife ran away
last night. Pretty good looking woman; a good deal younger than I am;
but she has run off." And he says: "Colonel, I want to give you my idea
about marriage. If a man wants to marry a woman and have a good time,
and be satisfied and secure in his mind, he wants to marry some woman
that no other man on God's earth would have."

That is the kind of money these gentlemen want in the United States.
Cheap money. Do you know that the words cheap money are a contradiction
in terms? Cheap money is always discounted when people find out that it
is cheap. We want good money, and I do not care how much we get. But we
want good money. Men are willing to toil for good money; willing to
work in the mines; willing to work in the heat and glare of the furnace;
willing to go to the top of the mast on the wild sea; willing to work
in tenements; women are willing to sew with their eyes filled with tears
for the sake of good money. And if anything is to be paid in good money,
labor is that thing. If any man is entitled to pure gold, it is the man
who labors. Let the big fellows take cheap money. Let the men living
next the soil be paid in gold. But I want the money of this country as
good as that of any other country.

When our money is below par we feel below par. I want our money, no
matter how it is payable, to have the gold behind it. That is the money
I want in the United States.

I want to teach the people of the world that a Democracy is honest. I
want to teach the people of the world that America is not only capable
of self-government, but that it has the self-denial, the courage, the
honor, to pay its debts to the last farthing.

Mr. Bryan tells the farmers who are in debt that they want cheap money.
What for? To pay their debts. And he thinks that is a compliment to the
tillers of the soil. The statement is an insult to the farmers, and the
farmers of Maine and Vermont have answered him.

And if the farmers of those States with their soil can be honest, I
think a farmer in Illinois has no excuse for being a rascal. I regard
the farmers as honest men, and when the sun shines and the rains fall
and the frosts wait, they will pay their debts. They are good men, and I
want to tell you to-night that all the stories that have been told about
farmers being Populists are not true.

You will find the Populists in the towns, in the great cities, in
the villages. All the failures, no matter for what reason, are on the
Populist's side. They want to get rich by law. They are tired of work.

And yet Mr. Bryan says vote for cheap money so that you can pay your
debts in fifty cent dollars. Will an honest man do it?

Suppose a man has borrowed a thousand bushels of wheat of his neighbor,
of sixty pounds to the bushel, and then Congress should pass a law
making thirty pounds of wheat a bushel. Would that farmer pay his debt
with five hundred bushels and consider himself an honest man?

Mr. Bryan says, "Vote for cheap money to pay your debts," and thereupon
the creditor says, "What is to become of me?" Mr. Bryan says, "We will
make it one dollar and twenty-nine cents an ounce, and make it of the
ratio of sixteen to one, make it as good as gold." And thereupon the
poor debtor says, "How is that going to help me?" And in nearly all the
speeches that this man has made he has taken the two positions, first,
that we want cheap money to pay debts, and second, that the money would
be just as good as gold for creditors.

Now, the question is: Can Congress make fifty cents' worth of silver
worth one dollar? That is the question, and if Congress can, then I
oppose the scheme on account of its extravagance. What is the use of
wasting all that silver? Think about it. If Congress can make fifty
cents' worth of silver worth a dollar by law, why can it not make one
cent's worth of silver worth a dollar by law. Let us save the silver and
use it for forks and spoons. The supply even of silver is limited—the
supply of law is inexhaustible. Do not waste silver, use more law. You
cannot fix values by law any more than you can make cooler summers by
shortening thermometers.

There is another trouble. If Congress, by the free coinage of silver,
can double its value, why should we allow an Englishman with a million
dollars' worth of silver bullion at the market price, to bring it to
America, have it coined free of charge, and make it exactly double the
value? Why should we put a million dollars in his pocket? That is too
generous. Why not buy the silver from him in the open market and let the
Government make the million dollars? Nothing is more absurd; nothing is
more idiotic. I admit that Mr. Bryan is honest. I admit it. If he were
not honest his intellectual pride would not allow him to make these
statements.

Well, another thing says our friend, "Gold has been cornered"; and
thousands of people believe it.

You have no idea of the credulity of some folks. I say that it has not
been cornered, and I will not only prove it, I will demonstrate it.
Whenever the Stock Exchange or some of the members have a corner on
stocks, that stock goes up, and if it does not, that corner bursts.
Whenever gentlemen in Chicago get up a corner on wheat in the Produce
Exchange, wheat goes up or the corner bursts. And yet they tell me there
has been a corner in gold for all these years, yet since 1873 to the
present time the rate of interest has steadily gone down.

If there had been a corner the rate of interest would have steadily
advanced. There is a demonstration. But let me ask, for my own
information, if they corner gold what will prevent their cornering
silver? Or are you going to have it so poor that it will not be worth
cornering?

Then they say another thing, and that is that the demonetization of
silver is responsible for all the hardships we have endured, for all the
bankruptcy, for all the panics. That is not true, and I will not only
prove it, but I will demonstrate it. The poison of demonetization
entered the American veins, as they tell us, in 1873, and has been busy
in its hellish work from that time to this; and yet, nineteen years
after we were vaccinated, 1892, was the most prosperous year ever known
by this Republic. All the wheels turning, all the furnaces aflame,
work at good wages, everybody prosperous. How, Mr. Bryanite, how do you
account for that? Just be honest a minute and think about it.

Then there is another thing. In 1816 Great Britain demonetized silver,
and that wretched old government has had nothing but gold from that day
to this as a standard. And to show you the frightful results of that
demonetization, that government does not own now above one-third of
the globe, and all the winds are busy floating her flags. There is a
demonstration.

Mr. Bryan tells us that free coinage will bring silver 16 to 1. What is
the use of stopping there? Why not make it 1 to 1? Why not make it equal
with gold and be done with it? And why should it stop at exactly one
dollar and twenty-nine cents? I do not know. I am not well acquainted
with all the facts that enter into the question of value, but why should
it stop at exactly one dollar and twenty-nine cents? I do not know. And
I guess if he were cross-examined along toward the close of the trial he
would admit that he did not know.

And yet this statesman calls this silver the money of our fathers. Well,
let us see. Our fathers did some good things. In 1792 they made gold and
silver the standards, and at a ratio of 15 to 1. But where you have two
metals and endeavor to make a double standard it is very hard to keep
them even. They vary, and, as old Dogberry says, "An two men ride of a
horse, one must ride behind." They made the ratio 15 to 1, and who did
it? Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton. Jefferson, the greatest
man, with one exception, that ever sat in the presidential chair. With
one exception. [A voice: "Who was that?"] Abraham Lincoln. Alexander
Hamilton, with more executive ability than any other man that ever
stood under the flag. And how did they fix the ratio? They found the
commercial value in the market; that is how they did it. And they went
on and issued American dollars 15 to 1; and in 1806, when Jefferson was
President, the coinage was stopped. Why? There was too much silver in
the dollars, and people instead of passing them around put them aside
and sold them to the silversmiths.

Then in 1834 the ratios changed; not quite sixteen to one. That was
based again on the commercial value, and instead of sixteen to one they
went into the thousands in decimals. It was not quite sixteen to one.
They wanted to fix it absolutely on the commercial value. Then a few
more dollars were coined; and our fathers coined of these sacred dollars
up to 1873, eight millions, and seven millions had been melted.

In 1853 the gold standard was in fact adopted, and, as I have told you,
from 1792 to 1873 only eight millions of silver had been coined.

What have the "enemies of silver" done since that time? Under the act
of 1878 we have coined over four hundred and thirty millions of these
blessed dollars. We bought four million ounces of silver in the open
market every month, and in spite of the vast purchases silver continued
to go down. We are coining about two millions a month now, and silver is
still going down. Even the expectation of the election of Bryan cannot
add the tenth of one per cent, to the value of silver bullion. It is
going down day by day.

But what I want to say to-night is, if you want silver money, measure it
by the gold standard.

I wish every one here would read the speech of Senator Sherman,
delivered at Columbus a little while ago, in which he gives the history
of American coinage, and every man who will read it will find
that silver was not demonetized in 1873. You will find that it was
demonetized in 1853, and if he will read back he will find that the
apostles of silver now were in favor of the gold standard in 1873.
Senator Jones of Nevada in 1873 voted for the law of 1873. He said from
his seat in the Senate, that God had made gold the standard. He said
that gold was the mother of civilization. Whether he has heard from God
since or not I do not know. But now he is on the other side. Senator
Stewart of Nevada was there at the time; he voted for the act of 1873,
and said that gold was the only standard. He has changed his mind. So
they have said of me that I used to talk another way, and they have
published little portions of speeches, without publishing all that was
said. I want to tell you to-night that I have never changed on the money
question.

On many subjects I have changed. I am very glad to feel that I have
grown a little in the last forty or fifty years. And a man should allow
himself to grow, to bud and blossom and bear new fruit, and not be
satisfied with the rotten apples under the tree.

But on the money question I have not changed. Sixteen years ago in this
city at Cooper Union, in 1880, in discussing this precise question, I
said that I wanted gold and silver and paper; that I wanted the paper
issued by the General Government, and back of every paper dollar I
wanted a gold dollar or a silver dollar worth a dollar in gold. I said
then, "I want that silver dollar worth a dollar in gold if you have
to make it four feet in diameter." I said then, "I want our paper so
perfectly secure that when the savage in Central Africa looks upon a
Government bill of the United States his eyes will gleam as though he
looked at shining gold." I said then, "I want every paper dollar of the
Union to be able to hold up its hand and swear, 'I know that my Redeemer
liveth.'" I said then, "The Republic cannot afford to debase money;
cannot afford to be a clipper of coin; an honest nation, honest
money; for nations as well as individuals, honesty is the best policy
everywhere and forever." I have not changed on that subject. As I told
a gentleman the other day, "I am more for silver than you are because I
want twice as much of it in a dollar as you do."

Ah, but they say, "free coinage would bring prosperity." I do not
believe it, and I will tell you why. Elect Bryan, come to the silver
standard, and what would happen? We have in the United States about six
hundred million dollars in gold. Every dollar would instantly go out
of circulation. Why? No man will use the best money when he can use
cheaper. Remember that. No carpenter will use mahogany when his contract
allows pine. Gold will go out of circulation, and what next would
happen? All the greenbacks would fall to fifty cents on the dollar. The
only reason they are worth a dollar now is because the Government has
agreed to pay them in gold. When you come to a silver basis they fall to
fifty cents. What next? All the national bank notes would be cut square
in two. Why? Because they are secured by United States bonds, and when
we come to a silver basis, United States bonds would be paid in silver,
fifty cents on the dollar. And what else would happen? What else? These
sacred silver dollars would instantly become fifty cent pieces, because
they would no longer be redeemable in gold; because the Government would
no longer be under obligation to keep them on a parity with gold. And
how much currency and specie would that leave for us in the United
States? In value three hundred and fifty million dollars. That is five
dollars per capita. We have twenty dollars per capita now, and yet
they want to go to five dollars for the purpose of producing prosperous
times!

What else would happen? Every human being living on an income would lose
just one-half. Every soldiers' pension would be cut in two. Every human
being who has a credit in the savings bank would lose just one-half.
All the life insurance companies would pay just one-half. All the fire
insurance companies would pay just one-half, and leave you the ashes for
the balance. That is what they call prosperity.

And what else? The Republic would be dishonored. The believers in
monarchy—in the divine right of kings—the aristocracies of the Old
World—would say, "Democracy is a failure, freedom is a fraud, and
liberty is a liar;" and we would be compelled to admit the truth. No;
we want good, honest money. We want money that will be good when we are
dead. We want money that will keep the wolf from the door, no matter
what Congress does. We want money that no law can create; that is what
we want. There was a time when Rome was mistress of the world, and there
was a time when the arch of the empire fell, and the empire was buried
in the dust of oblivion; and before those days the Roman people coined
gold, and one of those coins is as good to-night as when Julius Cæsar
rode at the head of his legions. That is the money we want. We want
money that is honest.

But Mr. Bryan hates the bondholders. Who are the bondholders? Let us be
honest; let us have some sense. When this Government was in the flame
of civil war it was compelled to sell bonds, and everybody who bought a
bond bought it because he believed the great Republic would triumph at
last. Every man who bought a bond was our friend, and every bond that
he purchased added to the chances of our success. They were our friends,
and I respect them all. Most of them are dead, and the bonds they bought
have been sold and resold maybe hundreds of times, and the men who have
them now paid a hundred and twenty in gold, and why should they not be
paid in gold? Can any human being think of any reason? And yet Mr. Bryan
says that the debt is so great that it cannot be paid in gold. How much
is the Republic worth? Let me tell you? This Republic to-day—its
lands in cultivation, its houses, railways, canals, and money—is worth
seventy thousand million dollars. And what do we owe? One billion five
hundred million dollars, and what is the condition of the country? It is
the condition of a man who has seventy dollars and owes one dollar and
a half. This is the richest country on the globe. Have we any excuse for
being thieves? Have we any excuse for failing to pay the debt? No, sir;
no, sir. Mr. Bryan hates the bondholders of the railways. Why? I do not
know. What did those wretches do? They furnished the money to build the
one hundred and eighty thousand miles of railway in the United States;
that is what they did.

They paid the money that threw up the road-bed, that shoveled the
gravel; they paid the men that turned the ore into steel and put it in
form for use; they paid the men that cut down the trees and made the
ties, that manufactured the locomotives and the cars. That is what they
did. No wonder that a presidential failure hates them.

So this man hates bankers. Now, what is a banker? Here is a little town
of five thousand people, and some of them have a little money. They do
not want to keep it in the house because some Bryan man might find it; I
mean if it were silver. So one citizen buys a safe and rents a room
and tells all the people, "You deposit the overplus with me to hold it
subject to your order upon your orders signed as checks;" and so they
do, and in a little while he finds that he has on hand continually about
one hundred thousand dollars more than is called for, and thereupon he
loans it to the fellow who started the livery stable and to the chap
that opened the grocery and to the fellow with the store, and he makes
this idle money work for the good and prosperity of that town. And that
is all he does. And these bankers now, if Mr. Bryan becomes President,
can pay the depositors in fifty cent dollars; and yet they are such
rascally wretches that they say, "We prefer to pay back gold." You can
see how mean they are.

Mr. Bryan hates the rich. Would he like to be rich? He hates the
bondholders. Would he like to have a million? He hates the successful
man. Does he want to be a failure? If he does, let him wait until
the third day of November. We want honest money because we are honest
people; and there never was any real prosperity for a nation or an
individual without honesty, without integrity, and it is our duty to
preserve the reputation of the great Republic.

Better be an honest bankrupt than a rich thief. Poverty can hold in its
hand the jewel, honor—a jewel that outshines all other gems. A thousand
times better be poor and noble than rich and fraudulent.

Then there is another question—the question of the tariff. I admit that
there are a great many arguments in favor of free trade, but I assert
that all the facts are the other way. I want American people as far as
possible to manufacture everything that Americans use.

The more industries we have the more we will develop the American brain,
and the best crop you can raise in every country is a crop of good men
and good women—of intelligent people. And another thing, I want to keep
this market for ourselves. A nation that sells raw material will grow
ignorant and poor; a nation that manufactures will grow intelligent and
rich. It only takes muscle to dig ore. It takes mind to manufacture
a locomotive, and only that labor is profitable that is mixed with
thought. Muscle must be in partnership with brain. I am in favor of
keeping this market for ourselves, and yet some people say: "Give us the
market of the world." Well, why don't you take it? There is no export
duty on anything. You can get things out of this country cheaper than
from any other country in the world. Iron is as cheap here in the
ground, so are coal and stone, as any place on earth. The timber is as
cheap in the forest. Why don't you make things and sell them in Central
Africa, in China and Japan? Why don't you do it? I will tell you why.
It is because labor is too high; that is all. Almost the entire value is
labor. You make a ton of steel rails worth twenty-five dollars; the ore
in the ground is worth only a few cents, the coal in the earth only a
few cents, the lime in the cliff only a few cents—altogether not
one dollar and fifty cents; but the ton is worth twenty-five dollars;
twenty-three dollars and fifty cents labor! That is the trouble. The
steamship is worth five hundred thousand dollars, but the raw material
is not worth ten thousand dollars. The rest is labor. Why is labor
higher here than in Europe? Protection. And why do these gentlemen ask
for the trade of the world? Why do they ask for free trade? Because
they want cheaper labor. That is all; cheaper labor. The markets of
the world! We want our own markets. I would rather have the market
of Illinois than all of China with her four hundred millions. I would
rather have the market of one good county in New York than all of
Mexico. What do they want in Mexico? A little red calico, a few
sombreros and some spurs. They make their own liquor and they live on
red pepper and beans. What do you want of their markets? We want to keep
our own. In other words, we want to pursue the policy that has given us
prosperity in the past. We tried a little bit of free trade in 1892 when
we were all prosperous. I said then: "If Grover Cleveland is elected it
will cost the people five hundred million dollars." I am no prophet, nor
the son of a prophet, nor a profitable son, but I placed the figure too
low. His election has cost a thousand million dollars. There is an old
song, "You Put the Wrong Man off at Buffalo;" we took the wrong man on
at Buffalo. We tried just a little of it, not much. We tried the
Wilson bill—a bill, according to Mr. Cleveland, born of perfidy and
dishonor—a bill that he was not quite foolish enough to sign and
not brave enough to veto. We tried it and we are tired of it, and if
experience is a teacher the American people know a little more than they
did. We want to do our own work, and we want to mingle our thought with
our labor. We are the most inventive of all the peoples. We sustain the
same relation to invention that the ancient Greeks did to sculpture. We
want to develop the brain; we want to cultivate the imagination, and we
want to cover our land with happy homes. A thing is worth sometimes the
thought that is in it, sometimes the genius. Here is a man buys a little
piece of linen for twenty-five cents, he buys a few paints for fifteen
cents, and a few brushes, and he paints a picture; just a little one; a
picture, maybe, of a cottage with a dear old woman, white hair,
serene forehead and satisfied eyes; at the corner a few hollyhocks in
bloom—may be a tree in blossom, and as you listen you seem to hear the
songs of birds—the hum of bees, and your childhood all comes back to
you as you look. You feel the dewy grass beneath your bare feet once
again, and you go back in your mind until the dear old woman on the
porch is once more young and fair. There is a soul there. Genius has
done its work. And the little picture is worth five, ten, may be fifty
thousand dollars. All the result of labor and genius.

And another thing we want is to produce great men and great women here
in our own country; then again we want business. Talk about charity,
talk about the few dollars that fall unconsciously from the hand of
wealth, talk about your poorhouses and your sewing societies and your
poor little efforts in the missionary line in the worst part of your
town! Ah, there is no charity like business. Business gives work to
labor's countless hands; business wipes the tears from the eyes of
widows and orphans; business dimples with joy the cheek of sorrow;
business puts a roof above the heads of the homeless; business covers
the land with happy homes.

We do not want any populistic philanthropy. We want no fiat philosophy.
We want no silver swindles. We want business. Wind and wave are our
servants; let them work. Steam and electricity are our slaves; let them
toil. Let all the wheels whirl; let all the shuttles fly. Fill the air
with the echoes of hammer and saw. Fill the furnace with flame; the
moulds with liquid iron. Let them glow.

Build homes and palaces of trade. Plow the fields, reap the waving
grain. Create all things that man can use. Business will feed the
hungry, clothe the naked, educate the ignorant, enrich the world with
art—fill the air with song. Give us Protection and Prosperity. Do not
cheat us with free trade dreams. Do not deceive us with debased coin.
Give us good money—the life blood of business—and let it flow through
the veins and arteries of commerce.

And let me tell you to-night the smoke arising from the factories' great
plants forms the only cloud on which has ever been seen the glittering
bow of American promise. We want work, and I tell you to-night that my
sympathies are with the men who work, with the women who weep. I
know that labor is the Atlas on whose shoulders rests the great
superstructure of civilization and the great dome of science adorned
with all there is of art. Labor is the great oak, labor is the great
column, and labor, with its deft and cunning hands, has created the
countless things of art and beauty. I want to see labor paid. I want to
see capital civilized until it will be willing to give labor its share,
and I want labor intelligent enough to settle all these questions in the
high court of reason. And let me tell the workingman to-night: You will
never help your self by destroying your employer. You have work to sell.
Somebody has to buy it, if it is bought, and somebody has to buy it that
has the money. Who is going to manufacture something that will not sell.
Nobody is going into the manufacturing business through philanthropy,
and unless your employer makes a profit, the mill will be shut down and
you will be out of work. The interest of the employer and the employed
should be one. Whenever the employers of the continent are successful,
then the workingman is better paid, and you know it. I have some hope in
the future for the workingman. I know what it is to work. I do not think
my natural disposition runs in that direction, but I know what it is
to work, and I have worked with all my might at one dollar and a half a
week. I did the work of a man for fifty cents a day, and I was not sorry
for it. In the horizon of my future burned and gleamed the perpetual
star of hope. I said to myself: I live in a free country, and I have
a chance; I live in a free country, and I have as much liberty as any
other man beneath the flag, and I have enjoyed it.

Something has been done for labor. Only a few years ago a man worked
fifteen or sixteen hours a day, but the hours have been reduced to at
least ten and are on the way to still further reduction. And while the
hours have been decreased the wages have as certainly been increased. In
forty years—in less—the wages of American workingmen have doubled. A
little while ago you received an average of two hundred and eighty-five
dollars a year; now you receive an average of more than four hundred and
ninety dollars; there is the difference. So it seems to me that the star
of hope is still in the sky for every workingman. Then there is another
thing: every workingman in this country can take his little boy on his
knee and say, "John, all the avenues to distinction, wealth, and glory
are open to you. There is the free school; take your chances with the
rest." And it seems to me that that thought ought to sweeten every drop
of sweat that trickles down the honest brow of toil.

So let us have protection! How much? Enough, so that our income at least
will equal our outgo. That is a good way to keep house. I am tired of
depression and deficit. I do not like to see a President pawning bonds
to raise money to pay his own salary. I do not like to see the great
Republic at the mercy of anybody, so let us stand by protection.

There is another trouble. The gentleman now running for the
presidency—a tireless talker—oh, if he had a brain equal to his vocal
chords, what a man! And yet when I read his speeches it seems to me
as though he stood on his head and thought with his feet. This man is
endeavoring to excite class against class, to excite the poor against
the rich. Let me tell you something. We have no classes in the United
States. There are no permanent classes here. The millionaire may be a
mendicant, the mendicant may be a millionaire. The man now working for
the millionaire may employ that millionaire's sons to work for him.
There is a chance for us all. Sometimes a numskull is born in the
mansion, and a genius rises from the gutter. Old Mother Nature has a
queer way of taking care of her children. You cannot tell. You cannot
tell. Here we have a free open field of competition, and if a man passes
me in the race I say: "Good luck. Get ahead of me if you can, you are
welcome."

And why should I hate the rich? Why should I make my heart a den of
writhing, hissing snakes of envy? Get rich. I do not care. I am glad I
live in a country where somebody can get rich. It is a spur in the flank
of ambition. Let them get rich. I have known good men that were
quite rich, and I have known some mean men who were in straitened
circumstances. So I have known as good men as ever breathed the air, who
were poor. We must respect the man; what is inside, not what is outside.

That is why I like this country. That is why I do not want it
dishonored. I want no class feeling. The citizens of America should be
friends. Where capital is just and labor intelligent, happiness dwells.
Fortunate that country where the rich are extravagant and the poor
economical. Miserable that country where the rich are economical and the
poor are extravagant. A rich spendthrift is a blessing. A rich miser is
a curse. Extravagance is a splendid form of charity. Let the rich spend,
let them build, let them give work to their fellow-men, and I will find
no fault with their wealth, provided they obtained it honestly.

There was an old fellow by the name of Socrates. He happened to be
civilized, living in a barbarous time, and he was tried for his life.
And in his speech in which he defended himself is a paragraph that ought
to remain in the memory of the human race forever.

He said to those judges, "During my life I have not sought ambition,
wealth. I have not sought to adorn my body, but I have endeavored to
adorn my soul with the jewels of patience and justice, and above all,
with the love of liberty." Such a man rises above all wealth.

Why should we envy the rich? Why envy a man who has no earthly needs?
Why envy a man that carries a hundred canes? Why envy a man who has that
which he cannot use? I know a great many rich men and I have read about
a great many others, and I do not envy them. They are no happier than
I am. You see, after all, few rich men own their property. The property
owns them. It gets them up early in the morning. It will not let them
sleep; it makes them suspect their friends. Sometimes they think their
children would like to attend a first-class funeral. Why should we
envy the rich? They have fear; we have hope. They are on the top of the
ladder; we are close to the ground. They are afraid of falling, and we
hope to rise.

Why should we envy the rich? They never drank any colder water than I
have. They never ate any lighter biscuits or any better corn bread. They
never drank any better Illinois wine, or felt better after drinking it,
than I have; than you have. They never saw any more glorious sunsets
with the great palaces of amethyst and gold, and they never saw the
heavens thicker with constellations; they never read better poetry. They
know no more about the ecstasies of love than we do. They never got any
more pleasure out of courting than I did. Why should we envy the rich?
I know as much about the ecstasies of love of wife and child and friends
as they. They never had any better weather in June than I have, or you
have. They can buy splendid pictures. I can look at them. And who owns
a great picture or a great statue? The man who bought it? Possibly, and
possibly not. The man who really owns it, is the man who understands
it, that appreciates it, the man into whose heart its beauty and genius
come, the man who is ennobled and refined and glorified by it.

They have never heard any better music than I have.

When the great notes, winged like eagles, soar to the great dome of
sound, I have felt just as good as though I had a hundred million
dollars.

Do not try to divide this country into classes. The rich man that
endeavors to help his fellow-man deserves the honor and respect of the
great Republic. I have nothing against the man that got rich in the
free and open field of competition. Where they combine to rob their
fellow-men, then I want the laws enforced. That is all. Let them play
fair and they are welcome to all they get.

And why should we hate the successful? Why? We cannot all be first. The
race is a vast procession; a great many hundred millions are back of the
center, and in front there is only one human being; that is all. Shall
we wait for the other fellows to catch up? Shall the procession stop?
I say, help the fallen, assist the weak, help the poor, bind up the
wounds, but do not stop the procession.

Why should we envy the successful? Why should we hate them? And why
should we array class against class? It is all wrong. For instance, here
is a young man, and he is industrious. He is in love with a girl around
the corner. She is in his brain all day—in his heart all night, and
while he is working he is thinking. He gets a little ahead, they get
married. He is an honest man, he gets credit, and the first thing you
know he has a good business of his own and he gets rich; educates his
children, and his old age is filled with content and love. Good! His
companions bask in the sunshine of idleness. They have wasted their
time, wasted their wages in dissipation, and when the winter of life
comes, when the snow falls on the barren fields of the wasted days, then
shivering with cold, pinched with hunger, they curse the man who has
succeeded. Thereupon they all vote for Bryan.

Then there is another question, and that is whether the Government has
a right to protect itself? And that is whether the employees of railways
shall have a right to stop the trains, a right to prevent interstate
commerce, a right to burn bridges and shoot engineers? Has the United
States the right to protect commerce between the States? I say, yes.

It is the duty of the President to lay the mailed hand of the Republic
upon the mob. We want no mobs in this country. This is a Government of
the people and by the people, a Government of law, and these laws
should be interpreted by the courts in judicial calm. We have a supreme
tribunal. Undoubtedly it has made some bad decisions, but it has made
a vast number of good ones. The judges do the best they can. Of course
they are not like Mr. Bryan, infallible. But they are doing the best
they can, and when they make a decision that is wrong it will be
attacked by reason, it will be attacked by argument, and in time it will
be reversed, but I do not believe in attacking it with a torch or by a
mob. I hate the mob spirit. Civilized men obey the law. Civilized men
believe in order. Civilized men believe that a man that makes property
by industry and economy has the right to keep it. Civilized men believe
that that man has the right to use it as he desires, and they will judge
of his character by the manner in which he uses it. If he endeavors to
assist his fellow-man he will have the respect and admiration of his
fellow-men. But we want a Government of law. We do not want labor
questions settled by violence and blood.

I want to civilize the capitalist so that he will be willing to give
what labor is worth. I want to educate the workingman so that he will be
willing to receive what labor is worth. I want to civilize them both to
that degree that they can settle all their disputes in the high court of
reason.

But when you tell me that they can stop the commerce of the Nation, then
you preach the gospel of the bludgeon, the gospel of torch and bomb. I
do not believe in that religion. I believe in a religion of kindness,
reason and law. The law is the supreme will of the supreme people, and
we must obey it or we go back to savagery and black night. I stand
by the courts. I stand by the President who endeavors to preserve the
peace. I am against mobs; I am against lynchings, and I believe it is
the duty of the Federal Government to protect all of its citizens at
home and abroad; and I want a Government powerful enough to say to the
Governor of any State where they are murdering American citizens without
process of law—I want the Federal Government to say to the Governor of
that State: "Stop; stop shedding the blood of American citizens. And if
you cannot stop it, we can." I believe in a Government that will protect
the lowest, the poorest and weakest as promptly as the mightiest and
strongest. That is my Government. This old doctrine of State Sovereignty
perished in the flame of civil war, and I tell you to-night that that
infamous lie was surrendered to Grant with Lee's sword at Appomattox.

I believe in a strong Government, not in a Government that can make
money, but in a strong Government.

Oh, I forgot to ask the question, "If the Government can make money why
should it collect taxes?"

Let us be honest. Here is a poor man with a little yoke of cattle,
cultivating forty acres of stony ground, working like a slave in the
heat of summer, in the cold blasts of winter, and the Government makes
him pay ten dollars taxes, when, according to these gentlemen, it could
issue a one hundred thousand dollar bill in a second. Issue the bill and
give the fellow with the cattle a rest. Is it possible for the mind to
conceive anything more absurd than that the Government can create money?

Now, the next question is, or the next thing is, you have to choose
between men. Shall Mr. Bryan be the next President or shall McKinley
occupy that chair? Who is Mr. Bryan? He is not a tried man. If he had
the capacity to reason, if he had logic, if he could spread the wings of
imagination, if there were in his heart the divine flower called pity,
he might be an orator, but lacking all these, he is as he is.

When Major McKinley was fighting under the flag, Bryan was in his
mother's arms, and judging from his speeches he ought to be there still.
What is he? He is a Populist. He voted for General Weaver.

Only a little while ago he denied being a Democrat. His mind is filled
with vagaries. A fiat money man. His brain is an insane asylum without a
keeper.

Imagine that man President. Whom would he call about him? Upon whom
would he rely? Probably for Secretary of State he would choose Ignatius
Donnelly of Minnesota; for Secretary of the Interior, Henry George; for
Secretary of War, Tillman with his pitchforks; for Postmaster-General,
Peffer of Kansas. Once somebody said: "If you believe in fiat money,
why don't you believe in fiat hay, and you can make enough hay out of
Peffer's whiskers to feed all the cattle in the country." For Secretary
of the Treasury, Coin Harvey. For Secretary of the Navy, Coxey, and then
he could keep off the grass. And then would come the millennium. The
great cryptogram and the Bacon cipher; the single tax, State saloons,
fiat money, free silver, destruction of banks and credit, bondholders
and creditors mobbed, courts closed, debts repudiated and the rest of
the folks made rich by law.

And suppose Bryan should die, and then think, think of Thomas Watson
sitting in the chair of Abraham Lincoln. That is enough to give a
patriot political nightmare.

If McKinley dies there is an honest capable man to take his place. A man
who believes in business, in prosperity. A man who knows what money is.
A man who would never permit the laying of a land warrant on a cloud. A
man of good sense, a man of level head. A man that loves his country, a
man that will protect its honor.

And is McKinley a tried man? Honest, candid, level-headed, putting on
no airs, saying not what he thinks somebody else thinks, but what he
thinks, and saying it in his own honest, forcible way. He has made
hundreds of speeches during this campaign, not to people whom he ran
after, but to people who came to see him. Not from the tail end of cars,
but from the doorstep of his home, and every speech has been calculated
to make votes. Every speech has increased the respect of the American
people for him, every one. He has never slopped over. Four years ago
I read a speech made by him at Cleveland, on the tariff. I tell you
to-night that he is the best posted man on the tariff under the flag.
I tell you that he knows the road to prosperity. I read that speech. It
had foundation, proportion, dome, and he handled his facts as skillfully
as Caesar marshaled his hosts on the fields of war, and ever since
I read it I have had profound respect for the intelligence and
statesmanship of William McKinley.

He will call about him the best, the wisest, and the most patriotic
men, and his cabinet will respect the highest and loftiest interests and
aspirations of the American people.

Then you have to make another choice. You have to choose between
parties, between the new Democratic and the old Republican. And I want
to tell you the new Democratic is worse than the old, and that is a
good deal for me to say. In 1861 hundreds and hundreds of thousands of
Democrats thought more of country than of party. Hundreds and hundreds
of thousands shouldered their muskets, rushed to the rescue of the
Republic, and sustained the administration of Abraham Lincoln. With
their help the Rebellion was crushed, and now hundreds and hundreds of
thousands of Democrats will hold country above party and will join
with the Republicans in saving the honor, the reputation, of the United
States; and I want to say to all the National Democrats who feel that
they cannot vote for Bryan, I want to say to you, vote for McKinley.
This is no war for blank cartridges. Your gun makes as much noise, but
it does not do as much execution.

If you vote for Palmer it is not to elect him, it is simply to defeat
Bryan, and the sure way to defeat Bryan is to vote for McKinley. You
have to choose between parties. The new Democratic party, with its
allies, the Populists and Socialists and Free Silverites, represents the
follies, the mistakes, and the absurdities of a thousand years. They are
in favor of everything that cannot be done. Whatever is, is wrong. They
think creditors are swindlers, and debtors who refuse to pay their debts
are honest men. Good money is bad and poor money is good. A promise is
better than a performance. They desire to abolish facts, punish success,
and reward failure. They are worse than the old. And yet I want to be
honest. I am like the old Dutchman who made a speech in Arkansas. He
said: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I must tell you the truth. There are
good and bad in all parties except the Democratic party, and in the
Democratic party there are bad and worse." The new Democratic party, a
party that believes in repudiation, a party that would put the stain of
dishonesty on every American brow and that would make this Government
subject to the mob.

You have to make your choice. I have made mine. I go with the party that
is traveling my way.

I do not pretend to belong to anything or that anything belongs to me.
When a party goes my way I go with that party and I stick to it as long
as it is traveling my road. And let me tell you something. The
history of the Republican party is the glory of the United States. The
Republican party has the enthusiasm of youth and the wisdom of old age.
The Republican party has the genius of administration. The Republican
party knows the wants of the people. The Republican party kept this
country on the map of the world and kept our flag in the air. The
Republican party made our country free, and that one fact fills all the
heavens with light. The Republican party is the pioneer of progress; the
grandest organization that has ever existed among men. The Republican
party is the conscience of the nineteenth century. I am proud to belong
to it. Vote the Republican ticket and you will be happy here, and if
there is another life you will be happy there.

I had an old friend down in Woodford County, Charley Mulidore. He won
a coffin on Lincoln's election. He took it home and every birthday he
called in his friends. They had a little game of "sixty-six" on the
coffin lid. When the game was over they opened the coffin and took out
the things to eat and drink and had a festival, and the minister in
the little town, hearing of it, was scandalized, and he went to Charley
Mulidore and he said: "Mr. Mulidore, how can you make light of such
awful things?" "What things?" "Why," he said, "Mr. Mulidore, what did
you do with that coffin? In a little while you die, and then you come
to the day of judgment." "Well, Mr. Preacher, when I come to that day of
judgment they will say, 'What is your name?' I will tell them, 'Charley
Mulidore.' And they will say, 'Mr. Mulidore, are you a Christian?' 'No,
sir, I was a Republican, and the coffin I got out of this morning I won
on Abraham Lincoln's election.' And then they will say, 'Walk in, Mr.
Mulidore, walk in, walk in; here is your halo and there is your harp.'"

If you want to live in good company vote the Republican ticket. Vote
for Black for Governor of the State of New York—a man in favor of
protection and honest money; a man that believes in the preservation of
the honor of the Nation. Vote for members of Congress that are true to
the great principles of the Republican party. Vote for every Republican
candidate from the lowest to the highest. This is a year when we mean
business. Vote, as I tell you, the Republican ticket if you want good
company.

If you want to do some good to your fellow-men, if you want to say when
you die—when the curtain falls—when the music of the orchestra grows
dim—when the lights fade; if you want to live so at that time you can
say "the world is better because I lived," vote the Republican ticket
in 1896. Vote with the party of Lincoln—greatest of our mighty dead;
Lincoln the Merciful. Vote with the party of Grant, the greatest soldier
of his century; a man worthy to have been matched against Cæsar for the
mastery of the world; as great a general as ever planted on the field
of war the torn and tattered flag of victory. Vote with the party of
Sherman and Sheridan and Thomas. But the time would fail me to repeat
even the names of the philosophers, the philanthropists, the thinkers,
the orators, the statesmen, and the soldiers who made the Republican
party glorious forever.

We love our country; dear to us for its reputation throughout the world.
We love our country for her credit in all the marts of the world. We
love our country, because under her flag we are free. It is our duty
to hand down the American institutions to our children unstained,
unimpaired. It is our duty to preserve them for ourselves, for our
children, and for their fair children yet to be.

This is the last speech that I shall make in this campaign, and to-night
there comes upon me the spirit of prophecy. On November 4th you will
find that by the largest majorities in our history, William McKinley has
been elected President of the United States.*

> * The final rally of the McKinley League for the present
> campaign, was held last night in Carnegie Music Hall, ana
> the orator chosen to present the doctrines of the
> Republican party was Robert G. Ingersoll. The meeting will
> remain notable for the high character of the audience. The
> great hall was filled to its utmost capacity. It was crowded
> from the rear of the stage to the last row of seats in the
> deep gallery.

> The boxes were occupied by brilliantly attired women, and
> hundreds of other women vied with the sterner sex In the
> applause that greeted the numerous telling points of the
> speaker. The audience was a very fashionable and exclusive
> one, for admission was only to be had by ticket, and tickets
> were hard to get.

> On the stage a great company of men and women were gathered,
> and over them waved rich masses of color, the American
> colors, of course, predominating in the display Flags hung
> from all the gallery rails, and the whole scheme of
> decoration was consistent and beautiful. At 8.80 o'clock Mr.
> John E. Milholland appeared upon the stage followed by Col.
> Ingersoll.

> Without any delay Mr. Milholland was presented as the
> chairman of the meeting. He spoke briefly of the purpose of
> the party and then said; "There is no Intelligent audience
> under the flag or in any civilized country to whom it would
> be necessary for me to introduce Robert G. Ingersoll." And
> the cheers with which the audience greeted the orator proved
> the truth of his words.

> Col. Ingersoll rose impressively and advanced to the front
> of the stage, from which the speaker's desk had been removed
> in order to allow him full opportunity to indulge in his
> habit of walking to and fro as he talked. He was greeted
> with tremendous applause; the men cheered him and the women
> waved their handkerchiefs and fans for several minutes.

> He was able to secure instant command of his audience, and
> while the applause was wildest, he waved his hand, and the
> gesture was followed by a silence that was oppressive. Still
> the speaker waited. He did not intend to waste any of his
> ammunition. Then, convinced that every eye was centred upon
> him, he spoke, declaring "This is our country." The assembly
> was his from that instant. He followed it up with a summary
> of the issues of the campaign. They were "money, the tariff,
> and whether this Government has the right of self-defence."
> As he said later on in his address, the Colonel has changed
> in a good many things, but he has not changed his politics,
> and he has not altered one whit in his masterful command of
> forceful sayings.—New York Tribune, October 80th, 1896.

> Note:—This was Col. Ingersoll's last political address.
---
# The Plumed Knight
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1876_
MASSACHUSETTS may be satisfied with the loyalty of Benjamin H. Bristow;
so am I; but if any man nominated by this convention can not carry the
State of Massachusetts, I am not satisfied with the loyalty of that
State. If the nominee of this convention cannot carry the grand old
Commonwealth of Massachusetts by seventy-five thousand majority, I would
advise them to sell out Faneuil Hall as a Democratic headquarters. I
would advise them to take from Bunker Hill that old monument of glory.

The Republicans of the United States demand as their leader in the great
contest of 1876 a man of intelligence, a man of integrity, a man of
well-known and approved political opinions. They demand a statesman;
they demand a reformer after as well as before the election. They demand
a politician in the highest, broadest and best sense—a man of superb
moral courage. They demand a man acquainted with public affairs—with
the wants of the people; with not only the requirements of the hour,
but with the demands of the future. They demand a man broad enough to
comprehend the relations of this Government to the other nations of
the earth. They demand a man well versed in the powers, duties and
prerogatives of each and every department of this Government. They
demand a man who will sacredly preserve the financial honor of the
United States; one who knows enough to know that the national debt must
be paid through the prosperity of this people; one who knows enough to
know that all the financial theories in the world cannot redeem a single
dollar; one who knows enough to know that all the money must be made,
not by law, but by labor; one who knows enough to know that the people
of the United States have the industry to make the money, and the honor
to pay it over just as fast as they make it.

The Republicans of the United States demand a man who knows that
prosperity and resumption, when they come, must come together; that
when they come, they will come hand in hand through the golden harvest
fields; hand in hand by the whirling spindles and the turning wheels;
hand in hand past the open furnace doors; hand in hand by the flaming
forges; hand in hand by the chimneys filled with eager fire, greeted and
grasped by the countless sons of toil.

This money has to be dug out of the earth. You cannot make it by passing
resolutions in a political convention.

The Republicans of the United States want a man who knows that this
Government should protect every citizen, at home and abroad; who knows
that any government that will not defend its defenders, and protect its
protectors, is a disgrace to the map of the world. They demand a man who
believes in the eternal separation and divorcement of church and school.
They demand a man whose political reputation is spotless as a star;
but they do not demand that their candidate shall have a certificate of
moral character signed by a Confederate congress. The man who has, in
full, heaped and rounded measure, all these splendid qualifications, is
the present grand and gallant leader of the Republican party—James G.
Blaine.

Our country, crowned with the vast and marvelous achievements of its
first century, asks for a man worthy of the past, and prophetic of her
future; asks for a man who has the audacity of genius; asks for a man
who is the grandest combination of heart, conscience and brain beneath
her flag—such a man is James G. Blaine.

For the Republican host, led by this intrepid man, there can be no
defeat.

This is a grand year—a year filled with recollections of the
Revolution; filled with proud and tender memories of the past; with
the sacred legends of liberty—a year in which the sons of freedom will
drink from the fountains of enthusiasm; a year in which the people call
for the man who has preserved in Congress what our soldiers won upon
the field; a year in which they call for the man who has torn from the
throat of treason the tongue of slander—for the man who has snatched
the mask of Democracy from the hideous face of rebellion; for the man
who, like an intellectual athlete, has stood in the arena of debate and
challenged all comers, and who is still a total stranger to defeat.

Like an armed warrior, like a plumed knight, James G. Blaine marched
down the halls of the American Congress and threw his shining lance full
and fair against the brazen foreheads of the defamers of his country
and the maligners of his honor. For the Republican party to desert this
gallant leader now, is as though an army should desert their general
upon the field of battle.

James G. Blaine is now and has been for years the bearer of the sacred
standard of the Republican party. I call it sacred, because no human
being can stand beneath its folds without becoming and without remaining
free.

Gentlemen of the convention, in the name of the great Republic, the
only republic that ever existed upon this earth; in the name of all her
defenders and of all her supporters; in the name of all her soldiers
living; in the name of all her soldiers dead upon the field of battle,
and in the name of those who perished in the skeleton clutch of famine
at Andersonville and Libby, whose sufferings he so vividly remembers,
Illinois—Illinois nominates for the next President of this country,
that prince of parliamentarians—that leader of leaders—James G.
Blaine.
---
# Wall Street Speech
_Dresden Edition, Volume 9, 1880_
> * A political demonstration was made in Wall Street
> yesterday afternoon that stands without a rival among the
> many out-door meetings in that place, which for years have
> been memorable features of Presidential campaigns.

> Bankers and brokers, members of the Produce Exchange, and
> dry goods merchants assembled at their respective rendezvous
> and marched in Imposing processions to the open space in
> front of the Sub-Treasury building, from the steps of which
> Col. Ingersoll delivered an address. Written words are
> entirely inadequate to describe this demonstration of Wall
> Street business men. It never was equaled in point of
> numbers, respectability or enthusiasm, even during the
> excitement caused by the outbreak of the Rebellion.
> Throughout the day the business houses, banking offices and
> public buildings down town were gay with flags and bunting.
> Business was practically suspended all day, and the
> principal topic of conversation on the Exchanges and m
> offices and stores was the coming meeting. Long before the
> hour set, well-dressed people began to gather near the Sub-
> Treasury Building and by two o'clock Wall Street, from Broad
> and Nassau half way down to William, was passable only with
> difficulty. While the crowd was fast gathering on every
> hand, Graiulla's band, stationed upon the corner buttress
> near the Sub-Treasury, struck up a patriotic air, and in a
> few minutes the throngs had swelled to such proportions that
> the police had all they could do to maintain a thoroughfare.
> A few minutes more ana the distant strains of another band
> attracted all eyes toward Broadway, where the head of the
> procession was seen turning into Wall Street. Ten abreast
> and every man a gentleman, they marched by. At this time
> Wall street from half way to William Street to half way to
> Broadway, Nassau Street half way to Pine, and Broad Street
> as far as the eye could reach, were densely packed with
> people from side to side. Everything else, except the
> telegraph-poles and the tops of the lamp-posts, was hidden
> from view. Every window, roof, stoop, and projecting point
> was covered. The Produce Exchange men finding Broad Street
> impassable made a detour to the east and marched up Wall
> Street, filling that thoroughfare to William. It was a
> tremendous crowd In point of numbers, and its composition
> was entirely of gentlemen—men with refined, intelligent
> faces—bankers, brokers, merchants of all kinds—real
> business men. Thousands of millions of dollars were
> represented in It. On the left of the Sub-Treasury steps a
> platform had been erected, with a sounding board covering
> the rear and top. A national flag floated from its roof, and
> its railing was draped with other flags. After the arrival
> of the several organizations the banners they bore were hung
> at the sides by way of further ornamentation. Mr. Jackson S.
> Schultz then introduced Col. Ingersoll, the speaker of the
> day. The cheering was terrific for several minutes. Raising
> his hand for silence, Col. Ingersoll then delivered his
> address.—New York Times, October 29th, 1880.

## N.y. City

(Garfield Campaign.)

1880.

FELLOW-CITIZENS of the Great City of New York: This is the grandest
audience I ever saw. This audience certifies that General James A.
Garfield is to be the next President of the United States. This audience
certifies that a Republican is to be the next mayor of the city of
New York. This audience certifies that the business men of New York
understand their interests, and that the business men of New York are
not going to let this country be controlled by the rebel South and the
rebel North. In 1860 the Democratic party appealed to force; now it
appeals to fraud. In 1860 the Democratic party appealed to the sword;
now it appeals to the pen. It was treason then, it is forgery now. The
Democratic party cannot be trusted with the property or with the honor
of the people of the United States.

The city of New York owes a great debt to the country. Every man that
has cleared a farm has helped to build New York; every man that helped
to build a railway helped to build up the palaces of this city. Where
I am now speaking are the termini of all the railways in the United
States. They all come here. New York has been built up by the labor of
the country, and New York owes it to the country to protect the best
interests of the country.

The farmers of Illinois depend upon the merchants, the brokers and the
bankers, upon the gentlemen of New York, to beat the rabble of New York.
You owe to yourselves; you owe to the great Re public; and this city
that does the business of a hemisphere—this city that will in ten years
be the financial centre of this world—owes it to itself, to be true to
the great principles that have allowed it to exist and flourish.

The Republicans of New York ought to say that this shall forever be a
free country. The Republicans of New York ought to say that free speech
shall forever be held sacred in the United States. The Republicans of
New York ought to see that the party that defended the Nation shall
still remain in power. The Republicans of New York should see that
the flag is safely held by the hands that defended it in war. The
Republicans of New York know that the prosperity of the country depends
upon good government, and they also know that good government
means protection to the people—rich and poor, black and white. The
Republicans of New York know that a black friend is better than a white
enemy. They know that a negro while fighting for the Government, is
better than any white man who will fight against it.

The Republicans of New York know that the colored party in the South
which allows every man to vote as he pleases, is better than any white
man who is opposed to allowing a negro to cast his honest vote. A black
man in favor of liberty is better than a white man in favor of slavery.
The Republicans of New York must be true to their friends. This
Government means to protect all its citizens, at home and abroad, or it
becomes a byword in the mouths of the nations of the world.

Now, what do we want to do? We are going to have an election next
Tuesday, and every Republican knows why he is going to vote the
Republican ticket; while every Democrat votes his without knowing why.
A Republican is a Republican because he loves something; a Democrat is a
Democrat because he hates something. A Republican believes in progress;
a Democrat in retrogression. A Democrat is a "has been." He is a "used
to be." The Republican party lives on hope; the Democratic on memory.
The Democrat keeps his back to the sun and imagines himself a great man
because he casts a great shadow. Now, there are certain things we want
to preserve—that the business men of New York want to preserve—and,
in the first place, we want an honest ballot. And where the Democratic
party has power there never has been an honest ballot. You take the
worst ward in this city, and there is where you will find the greatest
Democratic majority. You know it, and so do I.

There is not a university in the North, East or West that has not in it
a Republican majority. There is not a penitentiary in the United States
that has not in it a Democratic majority—and they know it. Two
years ago, about two hundred and eighty-three convicts were in
the penitentiary of Maine. Out of that whole number there was one
Republican, and only one. [A voice—"Who was the man?"] Well, I do
not know, but he broke out. He said that he did not mind being in the
penitentiary, but the company was a little more than he could stand.

You cannot rely upon that party for an honest ballot. Every law that
has been passed in this country in the last twenty years, to throw
a safeguard around the ballot-box, has been passed by the Republican
party. Every law that has been defeated has been defeated by the
Democratic party. And you know it. Unless we have an honest ballot the
days of the Republic are numbered; and the only way to get an honest
ballot is to beat the Democratic party forever. And that is what we are
going to do. That party can never carry its record; that party is loaded
down with the infamies of twenty years; yes, that party is loaded down
with the infamies of fifty years. It will never elect a President in
this world. I give notice to the Democratic party to-day that it will
have to change its name before the people of the United States will
change the administration. You will have to change your natures; you
will have to change your personnel, and you will have to get enough
Republicans to join you and tell you how to run a campaign. If you want
an honest ballot—and every honest man does—then you will vote to keep
the Republican party in power. What else do you want? You want honest
money, and I say to the merchants and to the bankers and to the brokers,
the only party that will give you honest money is the party that resumed
specie payments. The only party that will give you honest money is the
party that said a greenback is a broken promise until it is redeemed
with gold. You can only trust the party that has been honest in
disaster. From 1863 to 1879—sixteen long years—the Republican party
was the party of honor and principle, and the Republican party saved the
honor of the United States. And you know it.

During that time the Democratic party did what it could to destroy our
credit at home and abroad.

We are not only in favor of free speech, and an honest ballot and honest
money, but we are for law and order. What part of this country believes
in free speech—the South or the North? The South would never give free
speech to the country; there was no free speech in the city of New York
until the Republican party came into power. The Democratic party has
not intelligence enough to know that free speech is the germ of this
Republic. The Democratic party cares little for free speech because it
has no argument to make—no reasons to offer. Its entire argument is
summed up and ended in three words—"Hurrah for Hancock!" The Republican
party believes in free speech because it has something to say; because
it believes in argument; because it believes in moral suasion; because
it believes in education. Any man that does not believe in free speech
is a barbarian. Any State that does not support it is not a civilized
State.

I have a right to express my opinion, in common with every other human
being, and I am willing to give to every other human being the right
that I claim for myself. Republicanism means justice in politics.
Republicanism means progress in civilization. Republicanism means that
every man shall be an educated patriot and a gentleman. I want to say to
you to-day that it is an honor to belong to the Republican party. It
is an honor to have belonged to it for twenty years; it is an honor to
belong to the party that elected Abraham Lincoln President. And let
me say to you that Lincoln was the greatest, the best, the purest, the
kindest man that has ever sat in the presidential chair. It is an honor
to belong to the Republican party that gave four millions of men the
rights of freemen; it is an honor to belong to the party that broke the
shackles from four millions of men, women and children. It is an honor
to belong to the party that declared that bloodhounds were not the
missionaries of civilization. It is an honor to belong to the party that
said it was a crime to steal a babe from its mother's breast. It is an
honor to belong to the party that swore that this is a Nation forever,
one and indivisible. It is an honor to belong to the party that elected
U. S. Grant President of the United States. It is an honor to belong to
the party that issued thousands and thousands of millions of dollars
in promises—that issued promises until they became as thick as the
withered leaves of winter; an honor to belong to the party that issued
them to put down a rebellion; an honor to belong to the party that put
it down; an honor to belong to the party that had the moral courage
and honesty to make every one of the promises made in war, as good
as shining, glittering gold in peace. And I tell you that if there is
another life, and if there is a day of judgment, all you need say upon
that solemn occasion is, "I was in life and in my death a good square
Republican."

I hate the doctrine of State Sovereignty because it fostered State
pride; because it fostered the idea that it is more to be a citizen of a
State than a citizen of this glorious country. I love the whole country.
I like New York because it is a part of the country, and I like the
country because it has New York in it. I am not standing here to-day
because the flag of New York floats over my head, but because that flag
for which more heroic blood has been shed than for any other flag that
is kissed by the air of heaven, waves forever over my head. That is the
reason I am here.

The doctrine of State Sovereignty was appealed to in defence of the
slave-trade; the next time in defence of the slave trade as between the
States; the next time in defence of the Fugitive Slave Law; and if
there is a Democrat in favor of the Fugitive Slave Law he should be
ashamed—if not of himself—of the ignorance of the time in which he
lived.

That Fugitive Slave Law was a compromise so that we might be friends of
the South. They said in 1850-52: "If you catch the slave we will be your
friend;" and they tell us now: "If you let us trample upon the rights of
the black man in the South, we will be your friend." I do not want their
friendship upon such terms. I am a friend of my friend, and an enemy
of my enemy. That is my doctrine. We might as well be honest about
it. Under that doctrine of State Rights, such men as I see before
me—bankers, brokers, merchants, gentlemen—were expected to turn
themselves into hounds and chase a poor fugitive that had been lured by
the love of liberty and guided by the glittering North Star.

The Democratic party wanted you to keep your trade with the South, no
matter to what depths of degradation you had to sink, and the Democratic
party to-day says if you want to sell your goods to the Southern people,
you must throw your honor and manhood into the streets. The patronage of
the splendid North is enough to support the city of New York.

There is another thing: Why is this city filled with palaces, covered
with wealth? Because American labor has been protected. I am in favor
of protection to American labor, everywhere. I am in favor of protecting
American brain and muscle; I am in favor of giving scope to American
ingenuity and American skill. We want a market at home, and the only
way to have it is to have mechanics at home; and the only way to have
mechanics is to have protection; and the only way to have protection is
to vote the Republican ticket. You, business men of New York, know that
General Garfield understands the best interests not only of New York,
but of the entire country. And you want to stand by the men who will
stand by you. What does a simple soldier know about the wants of the
city of New York? What does he know about the wants of this great and
splendid country? If he does not know more about it than he knows about
the tariff he does not know much. I do not like to hit the dead. My
hatred stops with the grave, and I tell you we are going to bury the
Democratic party next Tuesday. The pulse is feeble now, and if that
party proposes to take advantage of the last hour, it is time it should
go into the repenting business. Nothing pleases me better than to see
the condition of that party to-day. What do the Democrats know on the
subject of the tariff? They are frightened; they are rattled.

They swear their plank and platform meant nothing. They say in effect:
"When we put that in we lied; and now having made that confession we
hope you will have perfect confidence in us from this out." Hancock says
that the object of the party is to get the tariff out of politics. That
is the reason, I suppose, why they put that plank in the platform. I
presume he regards the tariff as a little local issue, but I tell you
to-day that the great question of protecting American labor never will
be taken out of politics. As long as men work, as long as the laboring
man has a wife and family to support, just so long will he vote for the
man that will protect his wages.

And you can no more take it out of politics than you can take the
question of Government out of politics. I do not want any question
taken out of politics. I want the people to settle these questions for
themselves, and the people of this country are capable of doing it. If
you do not believe it, read the returns from Ohio and Indiana. There
are other persons who would take the question of office out of politics.
Well, when we get the tariff and office both out of politics, then, I
presume, we will see two parties on the same side. It will not do.

David A. Wells has come to the rescue of the Democratic party on the
tariff, and shed a few pathetic tears over scrap iron. But it will not
do. You cannot run this country on scraps.

We believe in the tariff because it gives skilled labor good pay.
We believe in the tariff because it allows the laboring man to have
something to eat. We believe in the tariff because it keeps the hands
of the producer close to the mouth of the devourer. We believe in the
tariff because it developed American brain; because it builds up our
towns and cities; because it makes Americans self-supporting; because it
makes us an independent Nation. And we believe in the tariff because the
Democratic party does not.

That plank in the Democratic party was intended for a dagger to
assassinate the prosperity of the North. The Northern people have become
aroused and that is the plank that is broken in the Democratic platform;
and that plank was wide enough when it broke to let even Hancock
through.

Gentlemen, they are gone. They are gone—honor bright. Look at the
desperate means that have been resorted to by the Democratic party,
driven to the madness of desperation. Not satisfied with having worn the
tongue of slander to the very tonsils, not satisfied with attacking the
private reputation of a splendid man, not satisfied with that, they
have appealed to a crime; a deliberate and infamous forgery has been
committed. That forgery has been upheld by some of the leaders of
the Democratic party; that forgery has been defended by men calling
themselves respectable. Leaders of the Democratic party have stood by
and said that they were acquainted with the handwriting of James A.
Garfield; and that the handwriting in the forged letter was his, when
they knew that it was absolutely unlike his. They knew it, and no man
has certified that that was the writing of James A. Garfield who did not
know that in his throat of throats he told a falsehood.

Every honest man in the city of New York ought to leave such a party
if he belongs to it. Every honest man ought to refuse to belong to the
party that did such an infamous crime.

Senator Barnum, chairman of the Democratic Committee, has lost control.
He is gone, and I will tell you what he puts me in mind of. There was an
old fellow used to come into town every Saturday and get drunk. He had a
little yoke of oxen, and the boys out of pity used to throw him into the
wagon and start the oxen for home. Just before he got home they had
to go down a long hill, and the oxen, when they got to the brow of it,
commenced to run. Now and then the wagon struck a stone and gave the old
fellow an awful jolt, and that would wake him up. After he had looked
up and had one glance at the cattle he would fall helplessly back to
the bottom, and always say, "Gee a little, if anything." And that is the
only order Barnum has been able to give for the last two weeks—"Gee a
little, if anything." I tell you now that forgery makes doubly sure the
election of James A. Garfield. The people of the North believe in honest
dealing; the people of the North believe in free speech and an honest
ballot. The people of the North believe that this is a Nation; the
people of the North hate treason; the people of the North hate forgery;
the people of the North hate slander. The people of the North have made
up their minds to give to General Garfield a vindication of which any
American may be forever proud.

James A. Garfield is to-day a poor man, and you know that there is not
money enough in this magnificent street to buy the honor and manhood of
James A. Garfield. Money cannot make such a man, and I will swear to you
that money cannot buy him. James A. Garfield to-day wears the glorious
robe of honest poverty. He is a poor man; I like to say it here in Wall
Street; I like to say it surrounded by the millions of America; I like
to say it in the midst of banks and bonds and stocks; I love to say it
where gold is piled—that although a poor man, he is rich in honor; in
integrity he is wealthy, and in brain he is a millionaire. I know him,
and I like him. So do you all, gentlemen. Garfield was a poor boy, he
is a certificate of the splendid form of our Government. Most of these
magnificent buildings have been built by poor boys; most of the success
of New York began almost in poverty. You know it. The kings of this
street were once poor, and they may be poor again; and if they are fools
enough to vote for Hancock they ought to be. Garfield is a certificate
of the splendor of our Government, that says to every poor boy, "All the
avenues of honor are open to you." I know him, and I like him. He is a
scholar; he is a statesman; he is a soldier; he is a patriot; and above
all, he is a magnificent man; and if every man in New York knew him as
well as I do, Garfield would not lose a hundred votes in this city.

Compare him with Hancock, and then compare General Arthur with William
H. English. If there ever was a pure Republican in this world, General
Arthur is one.

You know in Wall Street, there are some men always prophesying disaster,
there are some men always selling "short." That is what the Democratic
party is doing to-day. You know as well as I do that if the Democratic
party succeeds, every kind of property in the United States will
depreciate. You know it. There is not a man on the street, who if he
knew Hancock was to be elected would not sell the stocks and bonds of
every railroad in the United States "short." I dare any broker here to
deny it. There is not a man in Wall or Broad Street, or in New York,
but what knows the election of Hancock will depreciate every share
of railroad stock, every railroad bond, every Government bond, in the
United States of America. And if you know that, I say it is a crime to
vote for Hancock and English.

I belong to the party that is prosperous when the country is prosperous.
I belong to the party that believes in good crops; that is glad when a
fellow finds a gold mine; that rejoices when there are forty bushels of
wheat to the acre; that laughs when every railroad declares dividends,
that claps both its hands when every investment pays; when the rain
falls for the farmer, when the dew lies lovingly on the grass. I belong
to the party that is happy when the people are happy; when the laboring
man gets three dollars a day; when he has roast beef on his table; when
he has a carpet on the floor; when he has a picture of Garfield on the
wall. I belong to the party that is happy when everybody smiles, when
we have plenty of money, good horses, good carriages; when our wives
are happy and our children feel glad. I belong to the party whose banner
floats side by side with the great flag of the country; that does not
grow fat on defeat.

The Democratic party is a party of famine; it is a good friend of an
early frost, it believes in the Colorado beetle and the weevil. When the
crops are bad the Democratic mouth opens from ear to ear with smiles of
joy; it is in partnership with bad luck; a friend of empty pockets; rags
help it. I am on the other side. The Democratic party is the party of
darkness. I believe in the party of sunshine; and in the party that even
in darkness believes that the stars are shining and waiting for us.

Now, gentlemen, I have endeavored to give you a few reasons for voting
the Republican ticket; and I have given enough to satisfy any reasonable
man. And you know it. Do not go with the Democratic party, young man.
You have a character to make.

You cannot make it, as the Democratic party does, by passing a
resolution.

If your father voted the Democratic ticket, that is disgrace enough for
one family. Tell the old man you can stand it no longer. Tell the old
gentleman that you have made up your mind to stand with the party of
human progress; and if he asks you why you cannot vote the Democratic
ticket you tell him: "Every man that tried to destroy the Government,
every man that shot at the holy flag in heaven, every man that starved
our soldiers, every keeper of Libby, Andersonville and Salisbury, every
man that wanted to burn the negro, every one that wanted to scatter
yellow fever in the North, every man that opposed human liberty, that
regarded the auction-block as an altar and the howling of the bloodhound
as the music of the Union, every man who wept over the corpse of
slavery, that thought lashes on the naked back were a legal tender for
labor performed, every one willing to rob a mother of her child—every
solitary one was a Democrat."

Tell him you cannot stand that party. Tell him you have to go with the
Republican party, and if he asks you why, tell him it destroyed slavery,
it preserved the Union, it paid the national debt; it made our credit as
good as that of any nation on the earth.

Tell him it makes every dollar in a four per cent, bond worth a
dollar and ten cents; that it satisfies the demands of the highest
civilization. Tell the old man that the Republican party preserved the
honor of the Nation; that it believes in education; that it looks upon
the schoolhouse as a cathedral. Tell him that the Republican party
believes in absolute intellectual liberty; in absolute religious
freedom; in human rights, and that human rights rise above States.
Tell him that the Republican party believes in humanity, justice, human
equality, and that the Republican party believes this is a Nation and
will be forever and ever; that an honest ballot is the breath of the
Republic's life; that honest money is the blood of the Republic;
and that nationality is the great throbbing beat of the heart of the
Republic. Tell him that. And tell him that you are going to stand by
the flag that the patriots of the North carried upon the battle-field of
death. Tell him you are going to be true to the martyred dead; that you
are going to vote exactly as Lincoln would have voted were he living.
Tell him that if every traitor dead were living now, there would issue
from his lips of dust, "Hurrah for Hancock!" that could every patriot
rise, he would cry for Garfield and liberty; for union and for human
progress everywhere. Tell him that the South seeks to secure by the
ballot what it lost by the bayonet; to whip by the ballot those who
fought it in the field. But we saved the country; and we have the heart
and brains to take care of it. I will tell you what we are going to do.
We are going to treat them in the South just as well as we treat the
people in the North. Victors cannot afford to have malice. The North is
too magnanimous to have hatred. We will treat the South precisely as we
treat the North. There are thousands of good people there. Let us give
them money to improve their rivers and harbors; I want to see the sails
of their commerce filled with the breezes of prosperity; their fences
rebuilt; their houses painted. I want to see their towns prosperous; I
want to see schoolhouses in every town; I want to see books in the hands
of every child, and papers and magazines in every house; I want to see
all the rays of light, of civilization of the nineteenth century, enter
every home of the South; and in a little while you will see that country
full of good Republicans. We can afford to be kind; we cannot afford to
be unkind.

I will shake hands cordially with every believer in human liberty; I
will shake hands with every believer in Nationality; I will shake hands
with every man who is the friend of the human race. That is my doctrine.
I believe in the great Republic; in this magnificent country of ours.
I believe in the great people of the United States. I believe in the
muscle and brain of America, in the prairies and forests. I believe in
New York. I believe in the brains of your city. I believe that you
know enough to vote the Republican ticket. I believe that you are grand
enough to stand by the country that has stood by you. But whatever
you do, I never shall cease to thank you for the great honor you have
conferred upon me this day.

> Note.—This being a newspaper report it is necessarily
> incomplete.
---
# Address to the Jury in the Davis Will Case
_Dresden Edition, Volume 10, 1883_
> * The matchless eloquence of Ingersoll! Where will one look
> for the like of it? What other man living has the faculty of
> blending wit and humor, pathos and fact and logic with such
> exquisite grace, or with such impressive force? Senator
> Sanders this morning begged the jury to beware of the
> oratory of Ingersoll as it transcended that of Greece.
> Sanders was not far amiss. In fierce and terrible invective
> Ingersoll is not to be compared to Demosthenes. But in no
> other respect is Demosthenes his superior. To a modern
> audience, at least, Demosthenes on the Crown would seem a
> pretty poor sort of affair by the side of Ingersoll on the
> Davis will. It was a great effort, and its chief greatness
> lay in its extreme simplicity.

> Ingersoll stepped up to the jurors as near as he could get
> and kept slowly walking up and down before them. At times he
> would single out a single juryman, stop in front of him,
> gaze steadily into his face and direct his remarks for a
> minute or two to that one man alone. Again he would turn and
> address himself to Senator Sanders, Judge Dixon or somebody
> else of those interested in establishing the will as
> genuine, At times the gravity of the jury and the audience
> was so completely upset that Judge McHatton had to rap for
> order, but presently the Colonel would change his mood and
> the audience would be hushed into deepest silence. If the
> jury could have retired immediately upon the conclusion of
> Ingersoll's argument, there is little doubt as to what the
> verdict would have been.

> If Ingersoll himself is not absolutely convinced that the
> will is a forgery, he certainly had the art of making people
> believe that he was so convinced. He said he hoped he might
> never win a case that he ought not to win as a matter of
> right and justice. The idea which he sought to convey and
> which he did convey was that he believed he was right, no
> matter whether he could make others believe as he did or
> not. In that lies Ingersoll's power.

> Whether by accident or design the will got torn this
> morning. A piece in the form of a triangle was torn from one
> end. Ingersoll made quite a point this afternoon by passing
> the pieces around among the jury, and asking each man of
> them to note that the ink at the torn edges had not sunk
> into, the paper. In doing this he adopted a conversational
> tone and kept pressing the point until the juror he was
> working upon nodded his head in approval.

> Both Judge Dixon and Senator Sanders interrupted Ingersoll
> early in his speech to take exception to certain of his
> remarks, but the Colonel's dangerous repartee and delicate
> art in twisting anything they might say to his own advantage
> soon put a stop to the interruptions and the speaker had
> full sway during the rest of the time at his disposal. The
> crowd—it was as big as circumstances would permit, every
> available inch of space in the room and in the court house
> corridors being occupied—enjoyed Ingersoll' a speech
> immensely, and only respect for the proprieties of the place
> prevented frequent bursts of applause as an accompaniment to
> the frequent bursts of eloquence.—Anaconda Standard, Butte,
> Montana, Sept. 5,1891.

MAY it please the Court and gentlemen of the jury, waiving
congratulations, reminiscences and animadversions, I will proceed to the
business in hand. There are two principal and important questions to be
decided by you: First, is the will sought to be probated, the will of
Andrew J. Davis? Is it genuine? Is it honest?

And second, did Andrew J. Davis make a will after 1866 revoking all
former wills, or were the provisions such that they were inconsistent
with the provisions of the will of 1866?

These are the questions, and as we examine them, other questions arise
that have to be answered. The first question then is: Who wrote the will
of 1866? Whose work is it? When, where and by whom was it done? And I
don't want you, gentlemen, to pay any attention to what I say unless
it appeals to your reason and to your good sense. Don't be afraid of
me because I am a sinner.* I admit that I am. I am not like the other
gentleman who thanked God "that he was not as other men."

> * Col. Ingersoll when speaking of himself as a sinner in
> this address is referring to the remarks made by Senator
> Sanders, who in the preceding address said:

> "In an old book occur the words, 'My son if sinners entice
> thee consent thou not.' I will not apply this to you,
> gentlemen of the jury. But I have a right to demand of you
> that you hold your minds and hearts free from all influences
> calculated to swerve you until you have heard the last words
> in this case." The Senator enjoined them not to be beguiled
> by the eloquence of a man who was famed for his eloquence
> over two continents and in the islands of the sea; a man
> whose eloquence fittingly transcended that of Greece in the
> time of Alexander.

I have the faults and frailties common to the human race, but in spite
of being a sinner I strive to be at least a good-natured one, and I am
such a sinner that if there is any good in any other world I am willing
to share it with all the children of men. To that extent at least I am
a sinner; and I hope, gentlemen, that you will not be prejudiced
against me on that account, or decide for the proponent simply upon the
perfections of Senator Sanders. Now, I say, the question is: Who wrote
this will? The testimony offered by the proponent is that it was written
by Job Davis. We have heard a great deal, gentlemen, of the difference
between fact and opinion. There is a difference between fact and
opinion, but sometimes when we have to establish a fact by persons,
we are hardly as certain that the fact ever existed as we are of the
opinion, and although one swears that he saw a thing or heard a thing
we all know that the accuracy of that statement must be decided by
something besides his word.

There is this beautiful peculiarity in nature—a lie never fits a
fact, never. You only fit a lie with another lie, made for the express
purpose, because you can change a lie but you can't change a fact, and
after a while the time comes when the last lie you tell has to be fitted
to a fact, and right there is a bad joint; consequently you must test
the statements of people who say they saw, not by what they say but by
other facts, by the surroundings, by what are called probabilities; by
the naturalness of the statement. If we only had to hear what witnesses
say, jurymen would need nothing but ears. Their brains could be
dispensed with; but after you hear what they say you call a council in
your brain and make up your mind whether the statement, in view of all
the circumstances, is true or false.

Did Job Davis write the will? I would be willing to risk this entire
case on that one proposition. Did Job Davis write this will? And I
propose to demonstrate to you by the evidence on both sides that Job
Davis did not write that will. Why do I say so?

First: The evidence of all the parties is that Job Davis wrote a very
good hand; that his letters were even. He wrote a good hand; a kind of
schoolmaster, copy-book hand. Is this will written in that kind of hand?
I ask Judge Woolworth to tell you whether that is written in a clerkly
hand; whether it was written by a man who wrote an even hand; whether
it was written by a man who closed his "a's" and "o's"; whether it was
written by one who made his "h's" and "b's" different. Job Davis was a
good scholar.

No good penman ever wrote the body of that will. If there were nothing
else I would be satisfied, and, in my judgment, you would be, that it is
not the writing of Job Davis.

It is the writing; of a poor penman; it is the writing of a careless
penman, who, for that time, endeavored to write a little smaller than
usual, and why? When people forge a will they write the names first on
the blank paper. They will not write the body of the will and then forge
the name to it, because if they are not successful in the forgery of
the name they would have to write the whole business over again; so the
first thing they would do would be to write the name and the next thing
that they would do would be to write the will so as to bring it within
the space that was left, and here they wrote it a little shorter even
than was necessary and quit there [indicating on the will] and made
these six or seven marks and then turned over, and on the other side
they were a little crowded before they got to the name of A. J. Davis.

Now, the next question is, was Job Davis a good speller? Let us be
honest about it. How delighted they would have been to show that he was
an ignorant booby. But their witnesses and our witnesses both swear that
he was the best speller in the neighborhood; and when they brought men
from other communities to a spelling match, after all had fallen on
the field, after the floor was covered with dead and wounded, Job Davis
stood proudly up, not having missed a word. He was the best speller
in that county, and not only so, but at sixteen years of age he wasn't
simply studying arithmetic, he was in algebra; and not only so, after
he had finished what you may call this common school education in
Salt Creek township, he went to the Normal school of Iowa and prepared
himself to be a teacher, and came back and taught a school.

Now, did Job Davis write this will? Senator Sanders says there are three
or four misspelled words in this document, while the fact is there are
twenty words in the document that are clearly and absolutely misspelled.
And what kind of words are misspelled? Some of the easiest and most
common in the English language. Will you say upon your oaths that
Job Davis, having the reputation of the champion speller of the
neighborhood—will you, upon your oaths, say that when he wrote this
will (probably the only document of any importance, if he did write it,
that he ever wrote) he spelled shall "shal" every time it occurs in the
will? Will you say that this champion speller spelled the word whether
with two "r's," and made it "wherther," making two mistakes, first as to
the word itself, and second, as to the spelling? Will you say that
this champion speller could not spell the word dispose, but wrote it
"depose"? And will you say the ordinary word give was spelled by this
educated young man "guive"? And it seems that Colonel Sanders has
ransacked the misspelled world to find somebody idiotic enough to twist
a "u" in the word give, and even in the Century dictionary—I suppose
they call it the Century dictionary because they looked a hundred years
to find that peculiarity of spelling—even there, although give is
spelled four ways, besides the right way, no "u" is there. And will you
say that Job Davis did not know the word administrators?

Now, let us be honest about this matter—let us be fair. It is not
a personal quarrel between lawyers. I never quarrel with anybody; my
philosophy being that everybody does as he must, and if he is in bad
luck and does wrong, why, let us pity him, and if we happen to have good
luck, and take the path where roses bloom, why, let us be joyful. That
is my doctrine; no need of fighting about these little things. They are
all over in a little while anyway. Do you believe that Job Davis spelled
sheet—a sheet of paper—"sheat"? That is the way he spells it in this
document. Now, let us be honor bright with each other, and do not let
the lawyers on the other side treat you as if you were twelve imbeciles.
You would better be misled by a sensible sinner than by the most pious
absurdities that ever floated out from the lips of man. Let us have some
good, hard sense, as we would in ordinary business life. Do you believe
that Job Davis, the educated young man, the school teacher, the one who
attended the Normal school would put periods in the middle of sentences
and none at the end? That he would put a period on one side of an "n"
and then fearing the "n" might get away, put one on the other; and then
when he got the sentence done, be out of periods, so that he could not
put one there, and put so many periods in the writing that it looked as
if it had broken out with some kind of punctuation measles?

Job Davis, an educated man! And you are going to tell this jury that
that man wrote that will! I think your cheeks will get a little red
while you are doing it. This man, when he comes to this little word "is"
in the middle of a sentence, his desire for equality is so great that
he wishes to put that word on a level with others, and starts it with a
capital, so that it will not be ashamed to appear with longer words.

And yet the will was written by Job Davis, and Sconce saw him write it,
and Mrs. Downey saw him write it. If there were one million Sconces, and
a million Mrs. Downeys, and they held their hands up high and swore that
they did, I know that they did not, unless all the witnesses who have
testified to the education of Job Davis have testified lies. There is
where I told you a little while ago that when a lie comes in contact
with a fact it will not fit. These other people in Salt Creek township
that have come here and sworn to that, did not know whether it was
spelled right or wrong. They did not take that into consideration.

It seems to me utterly, absolutely, infinitely impossible that this will
was written by a good speller. I know it was not. So do you. There is
not a man on the jury that does not know it was not written by a good
speller—not a man. And you cannot, upon your oaths, say that you
believe two things—first, that Job Davis was a good speller, and,
secondly, that he wrote this will. Utterly impossible. There is another
word here, "wordly"—"all my wordly goods." "Worldly" it ought to be;
but this Job Davis, this scholar, did not know that there was such
a word as worldly, he left out the "l" and called it wordly, "all
my wordly goods," and they want you to find on your oath that it was
written by a good speller. There are twenty words misspelled in this
short will, and the most common words, some of them, in the English
language. Now, I say that these twenty misspelled words are twenty
witnesses—twenty witnesses that tell the truth without being on their
oath, and that you cannot mix by cross-examination. Twenty witnesses!
Every misspelled word holds up its maimed and mutilated hand and swears
that Job Davis did not write that will—every one. Suppose witnesses had
sworn that Judge Woolworth wrote this will. How many Salt Creekers do
you think it would take to convince you that he was around spelling
sheet "sheat"?

Mr. Woolworth. I have done worse than that a great many times.

Mr. Ingersoll. You have acted worse than that, but you have never
spelled worse than that.

Now, this Job Davis died in 1868. Nobody has seen him write for
twenty-three years, but everybody, their witnesses and ours, positively
swears that he was a good speller. Now, comes another question: Who
wrote this will? Colonel Sanders tells us that it is immaterial whether
Job Davis wrote it or not. To me that is a very strange remark. If Job
Davis did not write it, Mr. Sconce has sworn falsely. If Job Davis did
not write it, then there was no will on the 20th of July, 1866, and all
the Glasgows and Quigleys and Downeys and the rest are mistaken—not one
word of truth in their testimony unless Job Davis wrote that will.

And yet a learned counsel, who says that his object is to assist you in
finding a correct verdict, says it don't make any difference whether Job
Davis wrote the will or not. I don't think it will in this case.

Who wrote the will? I am going to tell you, and I am going to
demonstrate it, so that you need not think anything about it—so that
you will know it; that is to say, it will be a moral certainty.

Who wrote this will? I will tell you who, and I have not the slightest
hesitation in saying it. James R. Eddy wrote this will. And why do I say
it? Many witnesses have sworn that they were well acquainted with Mr.
Eddy's handwriting—many. Several of the witnesses here had the writing
of Eddy with them. That writing was handed to the counsel on the other
side, so that they might frame questions for cross-examination. Those
witnesses founded their answers as to peculiarities upon the writings
given to the other side, and not on the writing in this will—just on
the writings of letters and documents they had in their possession, and
that we handed to the opposite counsel. Now, what do they say? Every
witness who has testified on that subject said that Eddy had this
peculiarity: First, that whenever a word ended with the letter "d," he
made that "d" separate from the rest of the word.

And, gentlemen, there are twenty-eight words in this short will ending
with the letter "d"; clearly, unequivocally, in twenty-seven of the
words ending in "d," the "d" is separate from the rest of the word.

I do not include the twenty-eighth, because there is a little doubt
about it. The testimony is unvarying, except the writing that Eddy has
done since he has been found out to be the forger of that will. Nobody
has sworn that he had a letter from him in which that is not the fact,
unless that letter was written since the institution of this suit.
Twenty-seven of these words end with "d" and the "d" is made separate
from the rest of the word. Will Judge Woolworth please tell the jury
whether any witness testified that Job Davis made these separate
from the rest of the word? Poor Job, dead, and his tombstone is being
ornamented with "guive," and he is now made to appear as an ignorant
nobody.

Twenty-eight words ending with "d." Now, if that were all, I would say
that might be an accident—a coincidence, and that we could not build
upon that as a rock. I would say we must go further, we must find
whether any more peculiarities exist in Eddy's writing that also exist
in this will. We must be honest with him. Now, let us see. He always had
the peculiarity of terminating that "d" abruptly, down just above the
line, or at the line, lifting his pen suddenly, making no mark to the
right. Every one of the "d's" in the will is made exactly that way.
Corroboration number two. These twenty-seven witnesses, the "d's," swear
that Eddy is their father, that they are the children of his hand, that
he made them.

Another peculiarity: They say that Eddy always made a double "l" in a
peculiar manner. The last "l" came down to the line of the up stroke,
and that "l" as a rule stopped there. It did not go on to the right—a
peculiarity. Now, let us see. In this will there are nine words that end
with a double "l" (and I want you to look at that when you go out); each
one is made exactly the same way—each one. Nine more witnesses that
take the stand and swear to the authorship of this will.

Has anybody shown that that was Job Davis's habit? Poor, dead dust
cannot swear; nobody has said that. Another peculiarity is that Eddy
made a "p" without making any loop to the right in the middle of it. Now
and then he makes one with a loop, but his habit is to make one without.
Moses Downey swore that Job Davis made a "p" with three loops, a loop at
the top, a loop at the bottom and a loop in the middle. That is exactly
what he swore, and he was the one who taught Job to write; and he said
he made his letters carefully, he closed his "a's" at the top, he made
his "o's" round, he made his "h's" after the orthodox pattern, he was
all right on the "b's"—your witness.

Now, gentlemen, you remember how that "p" looks, without any loop; and
there are twenty-one "p's" that have no loop to the right—twenty-one in
this will. Twenty-one more witnesses, and every one of them is worth a
hundred Sconces, with his sheep and hogs floating in the air. Twenty-one
witnesses that swear to the paternity of this will. Moses Downey, your
own witness, swears that Job made a "p" with three loops. There is not a
"p" in the will with three loops, and there are twenty-one without any,
and the evidence of all the witnesses on our side was that it was his
habit to make "p's" without any loop, and they were given the papers
that they might cross-examine every one.

Now, do you see, we are getting along on the edge of demonstration.

These things cannot conspire and happen. They may in Omaha, but they
can't in Butte, or even in Salt Creek township. Nature is substantially
the same everywhere and I believe her laws are substantially the same
everywhere, from a grain of sand to the blazing Arcturus; everywhere the
probabilities are the same. Let us take another step.

It is also sworn by intelligent men who have the writing of Eddy in
their possession, (writing shown to the other side) that it was his
habit to use "a's," "o's" and "u's" indiscriminately. For instance,
"thut" that, you all remember in the will. When you go out you will
see it. He often uses an "o" where an "a" should be, an "a" where a "u"
should be, a "u" where an "a" or "o" should be; in other words, he uses
them interchangeably or indiscriminately. How many cases of that occur
in this will? Twenty-two—twenty-two instances in this will in which one
of these vowels is used where another ought to have been used.

Twenty-two more witnesses that James R. Eddy wrote this will. Twenty-two
more. They have taken the stand; they won't have to be sworn, because
they can't lie. It would be splendid if all witnesses were under that
disability—that they had to tell the truth. That cannot be answered by
logwood ink. Eddy made "p's" just the same, whether he used logwood or
nigrosin, and he used his "a's" and "o's" and "u's" indiscriminately, no
matter whether he was writing in ink, red, blue, brown, iron, Carter's,
Arnold's, Stafford's, or anybody else's. Another witness testified that
he used "r" where he ought to use "s," and that he used "s" where he
ought to use "r," or that he made his "r's" and "s's" the same. Many
instances of that kind occur in this will, and every "r" says to Eddy,
"you are the man"—every one. Every "s" swears that your will is a poor,
ignorant, impudent forgery.

That is what it is—the most ignorant forgery ever presented in a court
of justice since the art of writing was invented. It comes in covered
with the ear marks of fraud. And yet I am told that it requires audacity
to say that it is a forgery. What on earth does it require to say that
it is genuine? Audacity, in comparison with what is essential to say
that it is genuine, is rank meekness and cowardice. Words lose their
meaning. All swear that Eddy scattered his periods with a liberal hand,
like a farmer sowing his grain. Now, we will take the twenty-third
line of the will. "To their use (period) and (period) benefit (another
period) forever (another period)"; twenty-fifth line: "Davis (period)
and (another period) Job (another period) Davis (another period) of
(another period) Davis (another period) County (another period)." What
a spendthrift of punctuation this man was! And yet he was well educated,
studying algebra, going to the Normal school in Iowa, champion speller
of the neighborhood. Every period certifies and swears that Job Davis
did not write that will. He had studied grammar. Punctuation is a
part of grammar and no one but the most arrant, blundering, stumbling
ignoramus, would think of putting six or eight periods along in a
sentence, and then leaving the end of that sentence naked without
anything. Another peculiarity is, Mr. Eddy uses "b" and "h"
interchangeably. He makes a "b" exactly like an "h," makes an "h" exactly
like a "b." You can see that all through the will. There are several
instances of it, and each one says that Job Davis did not write it.
Downey says he did not write that way, and each one says that Mr. Eddy
did write it, and nobody else.

I am not through yet. The testimony is that Eddy was a poor speller.

Now, the learned counsel, Mr. Dixon, says that in this case we must
be governed by the probable, by the natural, by the reasonable—three
splendid words, and they should be in the mind of every juror when
examining this testimony. Is it natural, is it probable, is it
reasonable? We have shown that Eddy was the poorest speller in the
business. Whenever they went to a spelling match, at the first fire he
dropped; never outlived, I think, the first volley. And one man by the
name of Sharp distinctly recollects that they gave out a sentence to be
spelled: "Give alms to the poor," and Eddy had to spell the first word,
give; and he lugged in his "u" with both ears—"guive," and he dropped
dead the first fire. The man remembers it because it is such a curious
spelling of give; and if I had heard anybody spell it with a "u" when I
was six years old it would linger in my memory still.

Now, let us take Judge Dixon's test. It is a good one, well stated, and
it is for you to decide whether the misspelled words were misspelled by
a good speller or a poor speller. If you say Job Davis wrote it, then
you are unnatural, unreasonable and improbable.

Isn't it altogether more natural, more reasonable, more probable, to say
that a bad speller misspelled the words than that a good speller did?

Let us stick to his standard, and see if Eddy spelled give "guive"—and,
gentlemen, you cannot find in all the writing of James R. Eddy, written
before he was charged with this forgery, where the word give appears,
that it is not written with a "u"—I defy you to find a line in the
world where "given" is "guivin." Now, let us go another step. Everybody
admits that he was a poor speller, and is it not more reasonable to say
that he wrote the will on the spelling, than that the champion speller
did? We have some more evidence on Mr. Eddy as good as anything I have
stated.

Now, do not be misled because I am a sinner. Let us stick to the
facts. William H. Davis testified to the spelling of Eddy, and while he
testified, held in his hand a will that he had seen James R. Eddy write.
In this will there were twenty words misspelled; shall, "shal" and
in the James Davis will, shall "shal." Good! Whether, in our will
"wherther"; in the other will, "wherther"—just the same; sheet of
paper, "sheat" in our will; "sheat" in the other will; in our will
"guive," in that "guive." Did Job Davis rise from the dead and write
another will? Was one copied from the other, and the copy so slavish
that it was misspelled exactly the same? You cannot say it was entirely
copied, for now and then a word, by accident, is right.

Judge Dixon tells you that Eddy did not disguise his spelling. Good
Lord! How could he disguise his spelling? He spelled as he thought was
right. No man of his education would think of disguising his spelling.
He knows how to spell give; he believes it is with a "u" still There is
a prejudice against "u" since he was charged with forgery, and so he
has dropped it; but he thinks it is right, nevertheless. Now, isn't
it perfectly wonderful, is it not a miracle, that James R. Eddy made
exactly the same mistakes in spelling and writing one will that Job
Davis did in writing another?

Isn't it wonderful beyond the circumference of belief, that a good
speller and bad speller happened to misspell the same words? It won't
do. There is something rotten about this will, and the rotten thing
about it is that James R. Eddy wrote it, and he wrote it about March,
1890. That is when he wrote it, and he let the proponent in this case
have it. We will get to that shortly. So, gentlemen, I tell you that
every misspelled word is a witness in our favor. There is something
more. Eddy uses the character "&" in writing, instead of writing "and."
The will is full of them; and it is stated that sometimes when he
endeavors to write out the word "and" he only gets "an," and that
peculiarity is in this will. "An" for "and"; that you will find in the
seventeenth line in the last word of the line. Colonel Jacques swore
that one of Eddy's misspelled words was the word "judgment"; that he put
in a superfluous "e," and in this case here is "judgement"—"shall give
the annuity that in the judgement of the executors shall be final;"
there is the superfluous "e"—judgement. Now, there is another. Their
witnesses swore that as a rule he turns the bottom of his "y's" and
"g's" to the left. Now, you will find the same peculiarity in this will,
and the amusing peculiarity that he turns the "g's" a little more than
he does the "y's." I don't want these things answered by an essay on
immutable justice. I want them to say how this is. Another thing, how he
makes a "t," with a little pot hook at the top, and that hook has caught
Mr. Eddy. You will find them made in the will, exactly, where the "t"
commences a word—where it is what we call the initial letter. And what
else? When he makes a small "e" commencing a word, he always makes
it like a capital "E," only smaller. That is the testimony, and that
happens in this will and it happens in the papers and letters.

Now, I say, that all these peculiarities taken together, the same words
misspelled, the same letters used interchangeably, the same mistakes in
punctuation, the same mistakes in the words themselves—all these things
amount to an absolute demonstration. So, I told you, he uses the capital
"I" with the word "is" and that he does twice in this will.

Here are hundreds, almost, of witnesses that take the stand and swear
that Eddy is the author of that will. He wrote it—every word of it. He
negotiated with John A. Davis for it, and I will come to that after a
little. And how do they support this will that has in it the internal
evidence that it was written by James R. Eddy? Why do I say it is
impossible that he should have written it, and the will should be
genuine? Because at the date of that will, or the date it purports to
bear, Eddy was only eight years old. And we don't know the real date,
gentlemen, of that will yet. My opinion is that it was dated by mistake,
so that it came on a date that Davis was not there, or came on a day
that was Sunday, and then they folded up that will, and scratched it
and rubbed it until the date is absolutely illegible, and nobody can say
whether it is June, July, or January. There was a purpose. The day may
have been Sunday, or they may have afterward ascertained that he was
not there. It is a suspicious circumstance that the day is left loose
so they can have a month to play on, maybe more. Now, they say, can you
impeach Sconce?

Every misspelled word in the will impeaches Sconce, ever; period
impeaches Sconce, every "a" that is used as "o" impeaches him, and "o"
as "u"; every "b" that is made like an "h" impeaches him, every "h" that
is made like a "b" impeaches him.

In other words, every peculiarity of James R. Eddy that appears in that
will impeaches J. C. Sconce, Sr.—Captain Sconce. There is a thing about
this will which, to my mind, is a demonstration. It may be that it is
because I am a sinner, but I find, and so do you find it in the second
initial of Sconce, in the letter "C." There are two punctures, and you
will find that exactly where the punctures are there is a little spatter
in the ink—a disturbance of the line, in the capital first; in the
small "c" there is another puncture and another disturbance of the line.
Professor Elwell says that these holes were made afterwards. Let's see.
There is a hole, and there is a splatter and a change of the line. There
is another hole and there is another change. There is another hole and
there is another change. What is natural? What is reasonable? What is
probable? It is that the hole being there, interrupted the pen, and
accounts for the diversion of the line, and for the spatter. That is
natural, isn't it? but they take the unnatural side. They say that these
holes were made after the writing. Would it not be a miracle that just
three holes should happen to strike just the three places where there
had been a division of the line and a little spatter of the ink? Take up
your table of logarithms and figure away until you are blind, and such
an accident could not happen in as many thousand, billion, trillion,
quintillion years as you can express by figures.

Three holes by accident hitting just the three places where the pen was
impeded and where the spatters were. Never such a thing in the world.
It might happen once. Nobody could make me believe that it happened
twice—that is, a hole might happen to get where the pen was interrupted
once; as to the second hole, I would bet all I have on earth, as to
the third hole, I know it did not. I just know it did not. And yet Mr.
Elwell says that these holes were made afterwards, and he goes still
further, and says that there is not any trouble in the line. If anybody
will look at it, even with the natural eye, they can see that there is;
and, in a kind of diversion, they called Professor Hagan, when he called
attention to it, Professor Pin-holes and pin-hole expert. He might have
replied that that was a pin-head objection.

Professor Elwell accounts for all the dirt on this will by perspiration,
all on one side and made by the thumb, and although there were four
fingers under it at the same time, the fingers were so contrary they
wouldn't perspire. This left the thumb to do all the sweating. I need
not call him a professor of perspiration, for that throws no light
on the subject; but I say to you, gentlemen, that those marks, those
punctures, were in that paper when Sconce wrote his name. Sconce says
they were not—he remembered. He has got a magnificent memory. I say
that even that shows that he is not telling the facts.

Now, what else? We went around among the neighbors. He was charged with
passing counterfeit money, with stealing sheep, with stealing hogs, with
stealing cattle and with stealing harness.

Mr. Woolworth. It was not proved that this man was accused of
counterfeiting, of passing counterfeit money.

Mr. Ingersoll. I tell you how I prove it. A man by the name of Lanman
was on the stand. He swore he was acquainted with Sconce's reputation.
Colonel Sanders asked him who he had ever heard say anything about it.
He said Lewis Miller and Abraham Miller and a man by the name of Hopkins
and several others. What did they say? I asked them afterwards, and
among other things I recollect he was charged with passing counterfeit
money, stealing hogs, stealing sheep, stealing harness, killing another
man's heifer in the woods. I don't think I am mistaken, but if I am I
will take counterfeit money back. I won't try to pass counterfeit money
myself, although a sinner.

Mr. Woolworth. (Interrupting): He was not charged with killing a heifer.

Mr. Ingersoll. No, no; the heifer was there. I have a very good memory;
I suppose it comes from the habit of taking no notes. Lanman was the
man, and while we are on Sconce there is a thing almost too good to be
passed.

Mr. Jackson was on the stand, Senator Sanders asked him, "Whoever told
you anything against him?" "Well," Jackson answered, "I asked Hopkins—"
"Who else?" "Well," he said, "I had a private conversation, I don't like
to tell." "You have got to tell." Mr. Jackson said to the Court: "Must I
tell; it was a private conversation." "You must tell." "Well," he said,
"it was with Mr. Carruthers, one of the counsel for proponent;" and
he said that what Mr. Carruthers said had more influence upon him than
anything else, because Carruthers was in a position to know.

Mr. Sanders. (Interrupting). Were those his exact words?

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes, that he was an attorney. I tell you that was a
death-blow; that came like thunder out of a clear sky, when you haven't
seen a cloud for a month.

Besides that he was impeached in open court. What else? The witnesses
that came to the rescue of Sconce; how did they rescue him? They lived
down there and never heard anything against him. All these rumors, thick
in the air, the bleating of sheep following him wherever lie went; the
low of cattle and yet these people never heard it. Tried for stealing
harness, they never heard of it They were not acquainted with him. They
said that they had some personal dealings with him and he was all right
and one man endeavored to draw a distinction between truth and honesty.
A man could be a very truthful man and a very dishonest man. Just think
of that distinction, a man of truth but dishonest. That won't do. Even
Senator Sanders said: "Some accusations, probably a dozen," to use his
excellent language—what memories we have! Let me read the exact words:
"Some accusations; probably a dozen or more, of stealing sheep and hogs
_lit on_ Sconce."

Mr. Sanders: I didn't say that.

Mr. Ingersoll. I don't insist; but those are the exact words I
remember. And don't you remember that he went into a kind of homily on
neighborhood gossip, that hardly anybody escaped? I believe a good many
of this jury have escaped and a good many in this audience have escaped.
You can pick out a great many men that a dozen accusations of stealing
hogs and sheep and heifers have not lit on.

Then, there is another thing about Sconce that I don't like, gentlemen.
Sconce, in giving the history of the affair in Arkansas, was asked if he
didn't say, "Did I say that Davis' name was on it when I signed it?" and
right there he skulked and stated under oath that when he said that he
alluded to the photograph. Could he by any possibility have alluded to
the photograph when he said: "Did I say that Davis's name was on it when
I signed it?" Did he ever sign the photograph? No; he never signed the
photograph. Davis never signed the photograph, and if he ever said those
words he said them with reference to the original will, and he knows it.
And yet, in your presence, under oath, he pretended that when he made
that remark he alluded to the photograph. I wish somebody would reply
to that and tell us whether, as a matter of fact, he alluded to the
photograph.

Now, Mr. Sconce, as you know, has the most peculiar memory in the world.
He remembers things that had nothing whatever to do with the subject,
photographed in all details, everywhere; and yet, gentlemen, your
knowledge of human nature is sufficient to tell you that that kind of
memory is not the possession of any human being.

Thousands of people imagine that detail in memory is evidence of truth.
I don't think it; if there is something in the details that is striking,
then there is; but naturalness, and, above all, probability, is the test
of truth. Probability is the torch that every juryman should hold, and
by the light of that torch he should march to his verdict. Probability!
Now, let us take that for a text. Probability is the test of truth. Let
us follow the natural, let us follow the reasonable.

At the time they say this will was made, Andrew J. Davis had removed
from Iowa years before; had settled, I believe, in Gallatin county.
His interests in Iowa were nothing compared with his interests in this
Territory at that time. From the time he left Iowa he began to make
money; I mean money of some account. He began to amass wealth. He was, I
think, a sagacious man.

Judge Dixon says that he was a man of great business sagacity. I am
thankful for that admission. In a little while he became worth several
hundreds of thousands of dollars. Afterwards he acquired millions. Now,
during all that time, from the 20th of July, 1866, up to the day of
his death, he never inquired after the James Davis will. It is a little
curious he never wrote a letter to James Davis and said, "Where is the
will, have you got it?" Not once. They have not shown a letter of that
kind, not a word. Threw it in the waste-basket of forgetfulness and
turned his face to Montana. Years rolled by, he never wrote about it,
never inquired after it.

They have brought no witnesses to show that A. J. Davis ever spoke of
the will; not a word. Gentlemen, let us be controlled by the natural, by
the reasonable, by the probable.

In 1868 one of the executors died—Job Davis. I think Colonel Sanders
said that if a man of Judge Davis's intelligence, knowing what a
difficult thing a will is to write, should have allowed Mr. Knight, a
Kentucky lawyer, to draw his will, who had not had much practice, why,
he is astonished at that, and in the next breath tells you that Andrew
J. Davis employed a twenty-two year old boy who could not spell "give"
to draw up his will in 1866. Isn't it wonderful what strange things
people can swallow and then find fault with others! Now, remember:

In 1868 Job Davis died; then there was only one executor to that will.
A. J. Davis went on piling up his money, thousands on thousands. Greed
grew with age, as it generally does. Gold is spurned by the young and
loved by the old. There is something magnificent after all about the
extravagance of youth, and there is something pitiful about the greed
of old age. But he kept getting money, more and more, and in '85 he had
sold the Lexington mine. He was then a millionaire. In '85, I think.
They say he sold that mine in '81, maybe he was then a millionaire.
There was the will of '66 down in Salt Creek township, used as a model
for other wills, for the purpose of teaching the neighbors spelling
and elocution, to say nothing of punctuation. They got up little will
soirees down there—will parties—and all the neighbors came in and Mrs.
Downey read it aloud and wept when she thought it was the writing of
her brother Job. That accounts for the tear drops, I suppose; the round
spots on the will. 1885; Andrew J. Davis worth millions. Then what
happened? Then James Davis, the other executor, died. Then there was a
will floating around down in Salt Creek township, sometimes in a trunk,
sometimes in a box, other times in an old envelope, other times in a
wrapper, and when I think of the shadowy adventures of that document it
makes me lonesome. James is dead, poor Job nothing but dust; a will down
there with no executors at all; and A. J. Davis did not know in whose
possession it was, and never wrote to find out. Let us be governed
by the natural, gentlemen, by the probable. Never found out, never
inquired, and after James Davis died he lived four years more. I think
James Davis died on the 5th of December, 1885, then he lived a little
more than three years after he knew that both executors were dead and
did not know whether the will existed or not. Judge Dixon tells
us perhaps if he had made a will before he died it would have been
different from this. I think perhaps it would. What makes him think
that it would have been different? If that will existed in Salt Creek
township he knew it, and he knew it in 1885, 6, 7, 8, 9, and when death
touched with his icy finger his heart he knew it then, and if he made
that will in '66, it was his will when he died unless it had been
revoked. He knew what he was doing.

I tell you there was no will down in Salt Creek township at all; there
wasn't any here. There have been a good many since. Now, where is the
evidence that he ever thought of this will, that he ever spoke of it?

What else? He appointed three executors of his will, that is, in '66,
if he made it, and in that he provided that a like maintenance should be
given to Thomas Jefferson, Pet Davis and Miss Bergett, all three of Van
Buren County, State of Iowa. What else did he say? That the executors
should have the right of fixing that amount, and whatever amount in
their judgment should be fixed should be final. What is the legal effect
of that? The legal effect of that is that the estate could not have
passed to John A. Davis until the last who had a life interest was dead.
The proceeds could have been taken, every cent of them, from that estate
and given to the three persons for life maintenance, and the youngest of
those persons was four years old. John A. Davis would have had to wait
seventeen years. And do you think that A. J. Davis ever made a will like
that, putting it into the power of two executors to divert the entire
income to certain persons and that there could be no division until they
were all dead.

Now, another improbability. Recollect, all the time, that we are to be
governed by reason and naturalness. Now, then, it was claimed that Judge
Davis held certain relations with a certain Miss Caroline Bergett. It
was claimed that a daughter known as Pet Davis was his. It was also
claimed that a boy, Thomas Jefferson Davis, was his son. Nobody tells
the truth in this will although it has been alluded to and argued as
well, I think, as could be. There is this trouble in the will that
though the boy Jeff was never in Van Buren County until he was twelve
years old—was never there until six years after the will was dated, yet
his supposed father describes him as of Van Buren County.

Next, Miss Caroline Bergett had married a man by the name of W. V. Smith
in 1853, and in 1858, W. V. Smith took his wife and children and moved
to Texas—eight years before this will was made, and yet A. J. Davis
forgot her name, forgot her residence, forgot the residence of the boy
that was imputed to him; that of itself is enough to show that he was
not present when the will was made. If there is anything on earth that
he would remember this is it, and you know it. Although Mrs. Downey
could not remember when she was married or when her first child was
born, she does remember the time it took her to dust the room where
there was a clothes-press, a table and three or four chairs. She
recollects that.

Another improbability:

John A. Davis, the proponent, had charge of the Davis farm down in Iowa
and stayed there for six years after this alleged will was made, and
although he was acquainted with the Quigleys, the Henshaws, the Sconces,
and all the aristocracy of the neighborhood, he says he never heard of
the existence of this will which so many people of that section talked
about. What a place for keeping secrets!

Senator Sanders says that the reason Judge Davis made his will in Salt
Creek township was because in that township they knew about this woman
or these women and these children, and he didn't want to go into any
other community and make his will.

Any need of publishing his will? Any need of reading any more than the
attesting clause to the attesting witnesses? Any need to divulge a line?
None. Ah, but Senator Sanders said that he wanted to keep the secret.
That is the reason he left the will upon that table and rode away in a
debonnair kind of style on his roan horse with the bobtail, leaving a
congregation of Salt Creek loafers to read his will. He wanted to keep
it secret; hoped that it would never get out. Imagine the scene, Job
Davis writing the will; Mrs. Downey with a duster tucked under her arm
like the soubrette in a theatre. Well, when he was writing the will she
was looking over his shoulder and read the will as fast as he wrote it.
That makes me think of the fellow who was writing a letter and there
was a man looking over his shoulder, so he said: "I would write more
but there is a dirty dog looking over my shoulder," and the fellow said:
"You are a liar."

Everybody read it. Mrs. Downey read it; she read it as Job wrote it;
then he read it aloud; and then he went and got Sconce and read it
again; then in comes Glasgow and he read it. I think Mrs. Downey must
have read this will ten or twelve times.

Mr. Myers. She said twenty-five.

Mr. Ingersoll. Oh, yes; twenty-five, because it was in Job's
handwriting; and whenever the twilight crept around the farm bringing a
little sadness, a little pathetic feeling, she would light a candle and
hunt the will, and read it just to think about Job. She would see the
words "guive" and "wherther" and all that brought back Job, and she used
to wonder "wherther" he was in Paradise or not.

Now, John A. lived down there and knew all these people and never heard
of that will.

What do you think of that? Why is it that John never got any information
from Sconce? Sconce, who saw the will written and who was one of the
attesting witnesses. Why didn't he hear of it from old Downey? Why
didn't he hear of it from the Quigleys or the Dotsons? Why didn't he
hear of it in Salt Creek township, when it was seen and read and read
and read again until I think many of them knew it by heart? And yet
the only person really interested was walking around unconscious of his
great good fortune, and nobody ever told him. There is another thing:
For four months after Andrew J. Davis died nobody told John about the
will. Nearly four months passed away; I think he died on the 11th of
March, 1890, and this will came to John on the first day of July. All
the neighbors knew it. Just as soon as A. J. died, they all said: "John
is coming right into the fortune now" only nobody told John; and the
first man we find with the will is James R. Eddy, and the next man we
find with the will is John A. Davis, the proponent. When John A. Davis
saw this will, leaving him four or five million dollars, it did not take
much to convince him that the signature was genuine. Human nature is
made that way. If it was leaving four or five millions to either of us,
including the sinner who addresses you, the probability is that I would
say, "Well, that looks pretty genuine—pretty genuine." And then if
I could get a few other fellows to swear that it was, I would feel
certain, and say, "That is my money."

Now, another improbability. All the evidence shows that Judge Davis was
a business-like, quiet, methodical, careful, suspicious man, secretive,
keeping his business to himself, keeper of his own counsels; and when he
did make a will it was sealed; it was given to one of his friends to
put away, and to keep. It did not become the common property of the
neighborhood. He did not mount his roan horse and ask the people of the
community to look at it. He was a methodical, business-like man, and I
suppose many of you, gentlemen of the jury, knew him; and I shall rely
somewhat on your knowledge of A. J. Davis, for you to say whether he
made this will, whether in 1866 he left his old father naked to the
world; whether he cared nothing for brothers and sisters; whether he
cared nothing for the children of the sister that raised him. I leave it
for you to say. You probably know something about this matter. Andrew J.
Davis, when he was a child, when all the children were gathered around
the same knee, the children that had been nourished at the same tender
and holy breast, he would not have done this then. If some good fortune
came to one, it was divided.

How beautiful the generosity, the hospitality of childhood! But as they
grow old there comes the love of gold, and the love of gold seems to
have the same effect upon the heart that it does upon the country where
it is found. All the roses fade, the beautiful green trees lose their
leaves, and there is nothing in the heart but sage brush. And so it is
with the land that holds within the miserly grip of rocks what we call
the precious metals.

The next question in the case is the Knight will. Was any such will
made? And I say here to-day, knowing what I am saying, I never saw upon
the witness stand a man who appeared to be more candid, more anxious and
desirous of telling the exact truth than E. W. Knight, and from what I
have heard there is not a man in Montana with a better reputation. He
has no interest in this business, not one penny; and it was months and
months after the death of Judge Davis that we knew such a will ever
existed—that is, on our side. Either Mr. Knight was telling what he
believed to be true, or he was perjuring himself. No ifs and ands about
it. He is a man of intelligence and knows what he is saying. He swears
that A. J. Davis made a will.

And what else does he swear to? That there was also the draft of a will,
which gave away the mine or provided for its working, and then at the
end of that draft, provided that the rest of the property should be
divided in accordance with the statute. Thereupon Mr. Knight told him:
"Your heirs would interfere by injunction, and you had better bequeath
your whole property and fix the amount to be expended in the development
of the mine." Thereupon he made another will, and that will was signed.

Now, Mr. Knight knows whether it was signed or not. The will was signed
or Mr Knight committed perjury knowingly, willfully and corruptly. What
does he say? That it was signed. What else? That it was attested. Then
these gentlemen came forward with Mr. Talbot, who says that Knight said
that when Davis came to the bank to get the will he thought he was going
to execute it. That is, the idea being, it was not signed.

What was it attested for if it was not signed? That is absurd to the
verge of idiocy. But they say that Mr. Knight is not corroborated. Let
us see. He says that Andrew J. Davis made a will. Mr. Keith swears that
A. J. Davis made a will. Knight says that Davis went out and brought
Keith in, and Keith swears that he lived next door and A. J. Davis
did come in there and get him and he knows the time on account of the
sickness of his child. Corroboration number two. Knight swears that
Davis then went for another man. Keith says that he did go and get
Caleb Irvine. Corroboration number three. Knight said one of the men who
signed the will was in his working clothes. Corroboration number four.
Knight swears that Davis read the attesting clause. Keith swears the
same. Keith swears that Davis signed it, that he signed it, and then
Irvine signed it. What more? He swears that Knight wrote it, and he
was writing it when he went in. And yet they have—and I will use an
expression of one of the learned counsel—the audacity to say that Mr.
Knight has not been corroborated.

And they would have you believe that Knight took that will over to
Helena and put it in the safe when it was not signed by A. J. Davis,
and they would make you think besides that, that it was attested by two
witnesses, and that two witnesses had to say that they saw A. J. Davis
sign it, that he signed it in their presence, and that they attested his
signature in his presence and in the presence of each other. They proved
a little too much, gentlemen. They proved that by Talbot. They proved
that by Andrew J. Davis, Jr., who expects to fall heir to all that is
taken, and they proved it also by John A. Davis, the proponent.

Recess.

May it please the Court and gentlemen: When we adjourned I was talking
about the testimony of Mr. Knight, and the making of the Knight will.
The evidence is, the way that will came to be made, or what started
it, is, as follows: A. J. Davis borrowed of the First National Bank of
Helena forty thousand dollars to put in the mines, and Governor Hauser
remarked when he got the money: "Another old man going to fool with
mines until he gets broke." And that it seems piqued A. J. Davis,
touched his vanity a little, and then he said: "That mine shall be
developed whether I live or die. I am satisfied that it is a good mine,
and I am going to make a will and I am going to provide in that will for
the mine being developed." And thereupon he talked with Mr. Knight. And
finally Knight drew up a draft of a will, according to his testimony,
providing for the working of that mine. And what did he say when he
got through with it? "Now as to the balance of the property, let it be
divided according to law. That makes a good will." That is what he said.
Then Mr. Knight said to him: "If you make the will that way it may be
that the heirs will come in and enjoin the working of the mine on the
ground that it is a waste of money. You had better make a full will and
dispose of all your property as you may desire, and fix the amount to be
used in the devolopment of that mine."

Now, this is either true or false. It is true if Mr. Knight can be
believed; and he can be believed if any gentleman can be trusted.

What more? Knight says that A. J. Davis made the memoranda from which to
draw that will, had his manager come, and in that will it told how the
shafts should be run, how much work should be done, and charged his
trustees to do development work up to a certain amount.

Is that all born of the fancy of this gentleman? And can you believe
that a man like Mr. Knight, who has run the largest bank in Montana for
twenty-five years—can you believe that such a man, who is not in any
necessity, who is not in need of money, comes here and swears to what he
knows to be a lie, and makes this all out of his own head, carves it out
of his imagination?

The second will was made, the second will was signed, the second will
was attested, the second will was given Mr. Knight to keep. They say it
was not signed, and yet Mr. Knight swears he told one man about it. He
told Mr. Kleinschmidt, so that if anything happened to him, Knight, he
would know that Knight had in that vault the will of Andrew J. Davis. Do
you think he would have done that if the will had not been signed, if it
were worth only waste paper? And yet they are driven to that absurdity
for the purpose of attacking the evidence of this man. It will not do.

Judge Knowles said that in a conversation at Garrison, he said that in
the will the mine was left to Erwin Davis, and the reason given for it
was that Erwin Davis was a business man. Now, the only way that can be
explained, is one of two ways. One is that Judge Knowles has gotten two
matters mixed; the other is that he is absolutely mistaken.

Judge Knowles, the President of the First National Bank of Butte—Judge
Knowles, who has been the attorney of Andrew J. Davis, Jr.—Judge
Knowles had this conversation, or some conversation, with Knight; and
why would Knight have taken pains to tell him a deliberate falsehood?

There is something more. After all this occurred, Andrew J. Davis, Jr.
went to Mr. Knight and asked him to write out what he remembered about
that will, and Knight dictated it on the spot and sent it to him.

Where is that letter? Here it is. I want to read that letter to this
jury. That was a letter written long ago. A letter written before this
will was filed in this court. A letter written before Mr. Knight knew
that A. J. Davis, Jr. had any will. A letter written before Knight
imagined there could ever be a lawsuit on the subject. Andrew J. Davis
Jr. went to him and asked him to write out what he knew about that will,
and he turned, according to his own testimony, and dictated it, and sent
it to him, like a frank, candid, honest man; and before I get through
I will read that letter, and when it is read I want you to see how
it harmonizes absolutely and perfectly with his testimony here on the
stand.

I will draw another distinction. Mr. Knight gave two depositions in this
case. These depositions have not been suppressed like the deposition
taken of Sconce. Not suppressed. Why? Because we are willing that the
jury should read the two depositions and hear his testimony besides, and
there is not the slightest contradiction in the depositions themselves,
or between the depositions or either one of them and his evidence
that he gave here—except two that they claim; and think what immense
contradictions they are.

In one deposition he says that A. J. Davis left some bequests to some
aunts. Mr. Knight swears on the stand that he never said aunts, he said
sisters, but if he did say aunts he meant sisters, because he
never heard of his having any aunts, and yet that is held up as a
contradiction, and to such an extent that you are to throw away the
testimony of this man.

Now, here is the letter. This will was filed July 24, 1890, and when he
wrote this letter he did not know that A. J. Davis Jr. knew of a will,
or that John A. Davis knew of a will. And this is what he writes:

Helena, Montana, July 22, 1890.

I beg to say that some time in 1877 or 1878, I made a draft of a will
for your uncle Andrew J. Davis, which he duly executed, and left the
same on file with me, as a special deposit for two or three years, when
the same was canceled and destroyed; when I was led to believe and to
conclude that he had made and executed a will to supersede and take the
place of that.

That explains Talbot's testimony. Instead of saying to Talbot that A. J.
Davis came there, as he thought, to execute the will, and destroyed that
will, it not being signed, what he said was that he destroyed the will,
but from the way he acted he thought he was going to make another, that
he was going to execute a will; and this is exactly what Mr. Talbot
said. To execute a will, and it took a re-direct examination to swap the
"a" for "the."

I cannot satisfactorily recall the considerations and provisions of said
will drawn by me, but the main burden and desire was that the work on
the mine known as the Lexington, should be continued to a certain amount
of development, and that the mill should be carried on under a certain
management, and after providing for the payment of his just debts, he
made certain bequests naming certain nephews and nieces, running from
ten thousand to fifteen thousand dollars each, and you are especially
named for the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars, and if the estate
exceeded in value the net sum of five hundred thousand dollars, then
those bequests were to be increased; and if in excess of one million
dollars, the further increase was named and specified.

That is the letter he wrote before he ever knew there would be this
suit; before he knew of the existence of this will.

A certain boy named Jefferson—claimed to be his son—was given the
sum of twenty thousand dollars to be paid to him in yearly sums of five
thousand dollars for four years, and the same provision as to a certain
girl, claimed to be his child.

Is that not exactly what he swore to on this stand?

Certain executors named E. W. Knight, S. T. Hauser, and W. W. Dixon,
each to receive the sum of ten thousand dollars for services.

Yours truly,

## E. W. Knight

Now, gentlemen, they were informed of the existence of that will and of
its destruction, and were so informed before John A. Davis filed this
will. And when we pleaded this will, John A. Davis pleaded that it had
been republished, and yet no evidence was given in of any republication.
They knew that under the statute of Montana, when a man makes will
number one, and afterwards makes will number two, and afterwards
destroys will number two, that will number one is not revived; that the
making of the second will kills the first, and the destruction of the
second kills that, and leaves the man intestate and without any will.
Now, there is the letter of Mr. Knight—full, free, frank, candid,
honorable, like the man himself. He says there that he does not remember
all the provisions, but he does remember that he provided for some
nephews and nieces, and provided for Andrew J. Davis, Jr., twenty-five
thousand dollars, for one Jefferson twenty thousand, for the girl about
the same, and that he provided also for the executors of the will, and
appointed Knight, Hauser, and Dixon as his executors. That is exactly
what he says here.

Now, was that will made? Have they impeached Mr. Keith? I tell them now
that they cannot impeach him. He has sworn to the making of that will,
apart and separate from Mr. Knight. Oh, they say, why didn't they bring
Knight in, and prove by him that he then recollected Mr. Keith? What
has that to do with it? Mr. Keith recollected Mr. Knight, swore that he
wrote the will, and that he was writing it when he came in, and swore
that he attested it, that Davis signed it, and Irvine also signed it.
What more do we want on that will? I say, gentlemen, that the will of
1880 ends this case. There is not ingenuity enough in the world to get
around it, and there was and never will be enough brains crammed into
one head to dodge it. That will was made, and every man on the jury
knows it. That will was executed by Andrew J. Davis, every man of you
knows it, and the will was afterwards destroyed.

Now, the question is, did that second will revoke the first will? Had it
a revoking clause in it? E. W. Knight swears it had, and he swears that
he copied it from a will made by an uncle of his named John Knight, and
he had that will in his possession here and in that will there are two
revocation clauses, and Knight swears that he copied those clauses, and
right here it may be well enough to make another remark. When he read
the will to A. J. Davis, and the passage "hereby revoking all wills,"
Davis said: "There is no need of putting that in. I never made any other
will. This is the first." Knight said to him, "Well, that is the way,
that is the form, and I think it is safer to have it that way." And
Davis said: "All right; let it go."

How do you fix that? There is no way out of it, that the will was made
in 1880, revoking all former wills. What else? The conditions of the
will of 1880, with regard to working the mine, with regard to bequests
to nephews, with regard to bequests to others, with regard to the twenty
thousand dollars given to Jeff Davis, and the twenty thousand dollars
given to the girl; these provisions are absolutely inconsistent with
the provisions of this will of 1866. So on both grounds the will of 1880
destroys, cancels, and forever renders null and void the will of 1866,
even if it had been the genuine will of A. J. Davis, and the Court will
instruct you to that effect.

And after Mr. Keith had testified, the proponents in this case
subpoenaed Mr. Knight, and if they thought that Knight would swear that
Keith was not the man, why did they not put him on the stand? They ran
no risk. He is an honest man. He would tell the truth. I never had the
slightest fear in bringing an honest man on the stand. Never. I want
facts, and I hope as long as I live that I shall never win a case that
I ought not to win on the facts. No man should wish or endeavor to win a
case that he knows is wrong.

I say there is not a man on this jury but believes in his heart and
soul this minute that this will was made. You have to throw aside the
testimony of a perfectly good man, and no matter whether what he said
about Erwin Davis to Judge Knowles was true or not—and I must say that
I never saw a witness on the stand in my life more eager to tell his
story than Judge Knowles was. Never. He was bound to get it in or die.
He answered questions over objections before the Court was allowed to
pass upon the objections. Why? Because he is the President of the First
National Bank. Now, without saying that he was dishonest about it, I say
he was mistaken. Knight never said one word of that kind to him.

It was impossible that he could have said it. So is Mr. Talbot mistaken.
So is Andrew J. Davis, Jr. mistaken, and so is John A. Davis mistaken.
Think of the idiotic idea that a will, not signed, was given to Knight
to keep, attested by two witnesses, and not signed by the testator.
Idiotic! Now, as I understand it, gentlemen, you will have to find that
that will was made.

Now, what is the next great question in this case, and the question that
will be argued at some length, probably, by the other side? And why?
Because it is the first and only point, so far as facts are concerned,
that they have won in this case. Just one. And what is that? Our experts
said that they thought that the ink was nigrosin ink, and the fact that
they wanted a test proves that they were sincere. Their witnesses said
they did not think it was nigrosin ink. Mr. Hodges said it had too much
lustre, but that there was only one way in which it could be absolutely
determined and that was by a chemical test. But, say these gentlemen, or
rather said Judge Dixon, "the moment that ink turned red the whole case
of the contestants was wrecked." Let us see.

If there had been no logwood ink in existence—not a particle—after the
20th day of July, 1866; if, on the night of the 20th of July, 1866, all
the logwood ink on earth had been destroyed and then this ink had turned
out to be logwood, why, of course, it would have been a demonstration
that this paper was written as far back as the 20th of July, 1866. If
it had turned out that it was written in nigrosin ink and that that had
only been invented in 1878, it would have been a demonstration that the
will was a forgery. But you must recollect the fact that it is written
in logwood ink is not only consistent with its genuineness, but
consistent with its being a forgery. Why? There was logwood ink in
existence in 1890, plenty of it, and if Mr. Eddy wrote this will in
1890, he could have written it in logwood ink; and the fact that it is
written in logwood ink does not show that it was written in 1866. Why?
Because there was logwood ink in existence every year since 1866, till
now.

Suppose I said that the paper was only ten years old and it turned out
that it was forty, is that a demonstration in favor of the other side?
If it turned out to be ten, it is a demonstration on our side.

But if it turned out to be forty, is not that consistent with the
genuineness of the instrument, and also with the spuriousness of the
same instrument? You can see that. Nobody's smart enough to fool you
on that. Nobody. Take the whole question of ink out and the question is
still whether Eddy wrote it or not. Take the ink all out and it is still
the question whether Job Davis wrote it or not. Absolutely, and all the
test proved was, that our experts—some of them—were mistaken about
its being nigrosin ink. Mr. Tolman stated that it was impossible to tell
without a chemical test; that it looked like nigrosin ink and from the
manner in which it seemed to run he thought it was nigrosin ink, but
that it was impossible to tell without a test. Mr. Hodges, their expert,
said it looked to him like logwood ink; that it had too much lustre for
nigrosin, but he added that it was impossible to tell without a chemical
test. That is what he said. Mr. Ames said the same thing, and I appeal
to you, gentlemen, if Mr. Ames did not have the appearance of an
honest, of a candid, and of a fair man. Professor Hagan said that it was
nigrosin ink, but he admitted that the only way to know was to test
it. And what else? Their own expert, Mr. Hodges, said that logwood ink
penetrates the paper. If this ink has been on here twenty-five years it
penetrates the paper.

Sometimes an accident happens in our favor; a piece of that will was
torn off this morning. You see the edge there torn off slanting. You
see that "o-f"; how much that ink has sunk into that paper. Not the
millionth part of a hair. It lies dead upon the top. Just see how the
ink went in there—not a particle. It lies right on top. I would call
that "float." There is the other edge. There is where the ink stops. It
has not entered a particle. And when you go to your room I want you to
look at it. That ink has not penetrated a particle. And let us see what
this witness Hodges says: "Logwood ink penetrates the paper."

There it is, "to determine the nature of the ink, use hydrochloric
acid." What else?

"I think this will was written with Reimal's ink, and that was made in
Germany in the neighborhood of 1840. Reimal's ink penetrates the paper."
And then they say that we endeavored to draw a distinction between
modern and ancient. This is what Mr. Hodges says about it.

On the addition of hydrochloric acid to logwood ink it will turn to a
bright red. The old-fashioned ink was manufactured by mixing a decoction
of logwood with chromide of potash and formed a blue black solution.
Logwood inks as made to-day differ from those, in that the modern
logwood inks contain another sort of chrome than chromide of potash;
they contain chromium in the form of an acetate or a chlorine.

Hodges was the man that talked about ancient and modern logwood inks;
and he, before the test was made, said that the old logwood ink would
turn a bright red, modern logwood not so bright. And after the evidence
was all in, Professor Elwell came smilingly to the post and said, "they
have got it exactly wrong end to; the older the duller and the newer the
brighter." And after a moment said, "This was kind of dull." Before the
test was made, Mr. Tolman swore, "I agree with Professor Hodges that if
it is an old logwood ink it will turn a bright, scarlet red. In the
case of modern logwood inks I don't agree with him, but to that extent I
think his tests are good," and he drew that distinction before the test
was made.

Gentlemen, you saw this will. I want to call your attention to it again.
You see that "J" in Sconce's name, that is pretty red. Not so awfully
scarlet, though, that it would affect a turkey gobbler. You see it in
"Job"; you see it in "James Davis," but there it is brown, and not red,
and not scarlet, and no flame in it, and Professor Hodges himself said
that although both were logwood inks, he would not swear that Job Davis
and James Davis were written with the same ink. Do you see the red in
that "Job"?

Now find the red on that "s" of "James." He said he would not swear that
they were written in the same ink, but both in logwood ink, that is to
say, they might have been different inks. While I would not swear that
they were the same inks, I would swear that both inks contained logwood.
And that is all he swore to, and I must say that I believe he was a
perfectly honest, fair gentleman.

Now, all that the ink test proves on earth is that it is logwood instead
of nigrosin, and that does not prove that Eddy did not write the will,
because there was plenty of logwood ink when he did write it. That is
the kind of ink he used. And it has no more bearing—the fact that it
turned out to be logwood—to show that it is a genuine will than though
it had turned out to be iron ink. Suppose the experts had been wrong
on both sides, and it had turned out to be iron ink, what would have
happened then? Is it a genuine will? Nothing can be more absurd than to
argue that that test settled the genuineness of this will.

Hodges says another thing; that perhaps the pen went to the bottom of
the ink bottle and got a little of the settlings of the ink on it, when
he wrote "James Davis," and consequently that has a different color.
Well, if the pen had gotten some of this sediment on it, the more
sediment the more logwood, and the more logwood the brighter the color.
Instead of that, it is dull.

There is another trouble: With regard to the experts, while undoubtedly
there are some men who do not swear to the exact truth, whether paid
or not, undoubtedly some men swear truthfully who are paid. I do not
believe that you doubt the testimony of Hodges simply because you
paid him so much a day. I don't. And certainly we have found no men
philanthropic enough to go around the country swearing for nothing. I
judge of the man's oath, not by what he is paid, but by the manner in
which he gives his testimony—by the reason there is behind it. That is
the way I judge and yet Senator Sanders judges otherwise, as he told you
in a burst of Montana zeal. * * *

I like Montana, too, and I believe the Montana people are big enough and
broad enough not to have prejudice against a man because he comes from
another State. Every State in this Union is represented in Montana,
and the people who left the old settled States and came out to the new
Territories, dropped their prejudices on the way—and sometimes I have
thought that that is what killed the grass. I like a good, brave, free,
candid, chivalric people. I don't care where you come from—I don't care
where you were born. We are all men, and we all have our rights; and
as long as the old flag floats over me, I have just as many rights in
Montana as I have in New York. And when you come to New York I will see
that you have as many rights, if you are in my neighborhood, as you have
in Montana. That is the kind of nationality I believe in. I hate this
little, provincial prejudice; and yet Senator Sanders invoked that
prejudice. That insults you. We did not insult you when we asked you
when you went on the jury, if you cared whether the money stayed in
Butte or not, or whether you were interested or not, or related or not.
Those were the questions asked every juror, and we relied absolutely
on your answers when you said that you were unprejudiced, and that you
would give us a fair trial; and we believe you will.

Now, then, with regard to these experts, you have got to judge each one
by his testimony; and it is foolish it seems to me, to call them vipers
and pirates, as Senator Sanders did. A very strong expression—"vipers,
pirates" living off, he said, the substance of others; and yet he had an
expert on the stand, Mr. Dickinson; he had another, Mr. Elwell; he had
another, Mr. Hodges; and after that he rises up before this jury and
calls them "three vipers" and "three pirates." I never will do that, If
I ask a man to swear for me, and he does the best he can, I will leave
the "pirate" out.

I will drop the "viper," and I will stand by him, if I think he is
telling the truth; and if he is not I won't say much about him; I don't
want to hurt his feelings. But I want to call your attention again to
the fact that every expert on our side swore, knowing that they had
three experts on the other side, and that if we made a mistake they
could catch us in it; and we did make a mistake in that ink; and the
test showed that we made a mistake, and that is all the test did show;
but it did not show that the will is genuine any more than if it had
turned out to be carbon ink; then both sides would have been mistaken.
And yet after all it did turn out to be modern logwood ink, and it
did turn out not to be Reimal's logwood ink, made of the chromate of
potassium; did turn out not to be that, and I say on this will that
there is an absolute, decided and distinct difference between the color
on the name Job Davis and the name James Davis. And right here, I might
as well say that that man Jackson, who came here from Butler, Mo.—and
when I said Butler was a pretty tough place, rose up in his wrath and
said it was as good as New York any day—that man says that when he saw
the will he does not remember of seeing the names of James Davis and
Sconce in it, but he did remember of seeing the name of Job Davis.
I don't think he saw any of it. Now, there is another question
here—because I have said enough about ink, at least enough to give you
an inkling of my views.

There is another question. Why didn't John A. Davis take the stand? That
is a serious question. John A. Davis had sworn, on the 13th of March,
1890, that his brother died without a will. John A. Davis, on the 24th
day of July, 1890, filed a will in which he was the legatee. That will
came into his possession under suspicious circumstances. What would a
perfectly frank and candid man have done? What would you have done? You
would not have allowed yourself to remain under suspicion one moment.
You would have said, "I got that will so and so." You would have let
in the light, "I obtained it in such a place, it is an honest, genuine
will, and here it is, and here are the witnesses to that will." But
instead of that, John A. Davis never opened his mouth, except to file a
petition swearing that it came into his possession on the first day of
July. He knew that he was suspected, didn't he? He knew that the men in
whose veins his blood flowed believed that the will was a forgery—knew
that good men and women believed that he was a robber, and that he was
endeavoring to steal their portion. He knew that, and any man that loves
his own reputation and any man that ever felt the glow of honor in
his heart one moment, would not have been willing to rest under such a
suspicion or under such an imputation. He would have said: "Here is its
history, here is where I got it, it is not a forged will. It is genuine.
Here are the witnesses that know all about it. Here is how I came into
possession of it."

No, sir. Not a word. Speechless—tongueless. And he comes into this
court and comes on to this stand to be a witness, and is asked about a
conversation he had with Burchett, and then we asked him, "How did you
come into the possession of that will?" All his lawyers leaped between
him and the answer to that question. They objected. If he came by that
will honestly he would have said, "I am going to tell the whole story."
He wants you to believe that he came by it honestly, doesn't he? He
wants you to believe it. He not only wants you to believe it, gentlemen,
but he asks twelve men—you—to swear that he came by it honestly,
doesn't he? If you give your verdict that that is a genuine will, then
you give your oath that John A. Davis came by it honestly; and he wants
you twelve men to swear it. And yet he dare not swear it himself. He
wants you to do his swearing. He is afraid to stand in your presence and
tell the history of that will. He is afraid to tell the name of the man
from whom he received it. He is afraid to tell how much he gave for
it; afraid to tell how much he promised. He is afraid to tell how they
obtained witnesses to substantiate it in the way they have. Well, now,
ought not you to let him tell his own story, ought not you, gentlemen,
to be clever enough to let him do his own swearing?

Now, I will ask you again if he came by that will honestly, fairly,
above board, would he not be glad to tell you the story? Would he not
be glad to make it plain to you? If that was a perfectly honest will and
came to him through perfectly pure channels, would he not want you to
know it? Would he not want every man and woman in this city to know it?
Would he not want all his neighbors to know it? And yet, he is willing,
when this case is being tried, and when he is on the stand, and asked
how he got the will—he is willing to close his mouth—willing to admit
that he is afraid to tell; and I tell you to-day, gentlemen, that the
silence of John A. Davis is a confession of guilt, and he knows it, and
his attorneys know it. A client afraid to swear that he did not forge a
will, or have it forged, and then want to hire a man to defend him
and call him honest! Well, he would have to hire him; he would not get
anybody for nothing. And yet he is asking you to do it. If John A. Davis
came properly by it, let him say so under oath. Don't you swear to it
for him, not one of you.

Now, there is another question. Why did not James R. Eddy take the
stand? We charged him with forging the will. We made an affidavit
setting forth that he did forge the will, and in this very court Mr.
Dixon arose and said he was glad that the charge had been fixed, and the
man had been designated. Judge Dixon said here, before this jury, when
this case was opened, "the man who was charged with forging this will
will be here. He will stand before this jury face to face; and he will
explain his connections with the will to your satisfaction." That is
what Judge Dixon said. Where is your witness? Where is James R. Eddy?
Why did you not bring him forward? I know he is here now—delighted with
the notoriety that this charge of forgery gives him—with a moral nature
that is an abyss of shallowness,—delighted to be charged with it, and
he will probably be my friend as long as he lives, because I have added
to his notoriety by saying he is a forger. Why did they not bring him
on the stand? Mr. Dixon gives one reason. Because the jury would not
believe him. And that is the man who is first found in possession of
this will. That is the man in whose hands it is, and it is from that man
that John A. Davis received it. And the reason that he is not put on
the stand is that it is the deliberate opinion of the learned counsel in
this case that no jury would believe him.

How does that work with you? James R. Eddy here—his deposition
here—and they could not read his deposition because he was here—and
they had him here and kept him here, so that we could not read his
deposition. They were bound that he should not go on the stand. Why?
Because the moment he got there he could be asked, Where did you find
the will? Who was present when you found it? When did you first tell
anybody about it? When did you first show it to John A. Davis? How much
did he agree to give you for it? What witnesses have you talked to in
this case? What witnesses have you written to in this case? What work
have you done in this case? What affidavits have you made in this case?
And what have you done with the other three wills that you have in this
case?

Such questions might be asked him, and they were afraid to put him on
the stand. Every letter that he had written would have been identified
by him if he had been put on the stand. Maybe he would have been
compelled to write in the presence of the jury, to see whether he would
spell words correctly.

They knew that the moment he went on the stand their case was as dead as
Julius Caesar. They knew it and kept him off.

Now, there is only one way for them to win this case. And that is to
keep out the evidence. Only one way to win the case—suppress John A.
Davis. Keep your mouth closed or defeat will leap out of it. Eddy, keep
still. Don't let anything be seen that will throw any light upon this. I
ask you, gentlemen of the jury, to take cognizance of what has been done
in this case. Who is it that has tried to get the light? Who is it that
has tried to get the evidence? Who is it that has objected? Who is it
that wants you to try this case in the dark? Who is it that wants you to
guess on your oaths? The failure of Eddy to testify is a confession of
guilt. They dare not put him on the stand—dare not.

Now, gentlemen, there is a little more evidence in this case to which
I am going to call your attention. Something has been said about
a conversation in March, 1891. Sconce had his deposition taken in
Bloomfield, Iowa. That deposition has been suppressed. John A. Davis was
there at the time it was taken. John A. Davis and Sconce went into the
passage leading up to the office of Carruthers. Mr. Burchett, sheriff
of the county, a man having no possible earthly or heavenly interest in
this business, happened to stop at the corner to read his paper—looked
at it as he opened it—and he then and there heard John A. Davis say,
"Stick to that story and I will see that you get all the money you have
been promised," and thereupon Sconce replied, "All right I'll do it."
Sconce denies it, and that denial is not worth the breath that he wasted
in forming the denial. John A. Davis denies it. Of course he denies it.
But he dare not tell where he got that will. He dare not do it. He wants
you to do that for him. He wants you to lift him out of the gutter and
wash the mud off him. He is afraid to do it himself.

I want to call your attention to that conversation, and that of itself
is enough to impeach Sconce. That is enough of itself to show that John
A. Davis was entering into a conspiracy or rather had entered into one
with Mr. Sconce. Now, gentlemen, there is another thing, and we must
not forget it. Curious people down in Salt Creek township, on the other
side; of course there are plenty of good men there or the township could
not exist, and we had a good many of them here—good, straight, honest,
intelligent looking men. But the other side had some—all in the
family—all of them.

Swaim, he was not in the family, but he is a clerk in Trimble's bank,
where Wallace is the cashier, where they suppress depositions; say they
are not finished when they are signed by the person who swears to them.

John C. Sconce, the only living witness, whose "ancient but ignoble
blood has crept through rascals ever since the flood," cousin to James
Davis, cousin to Job Davis, cousin to Mrs. Downey, cousin to Eddy,
cousin to Dr. Downey by marriage, brother to T. J. Sconce, Jr.,
brother-in-law to Abe Wilkinson, cousin to Tom Glasgow and Sam, cousin
to Moses Davis, cousin to Alex. Davis, uncle to Henshaw's daughter,
and father-in-law of George Quigley. Every one of them united. Blood is
thicker than water. Eddy stuck to his family.

James R. Eddy—cousin to Sconce, son of Mrs. Downey, (Mrs. Downey, the
duster lady, who remembers that Davis asked her to remain, but didn't
ask her advice, didn't have her sign the will, didn't give her any
bequest, but there she was with her duster), grandson of James Davis,
nephew of Job Davis, and related by blood or marriage to both the
Glasgows, Moses and Alexander Davis, to T. J. Scotice and J. C. Sconce,
Jr., Abe Wilkinson, George Quigley, S M. Henshaw, (the celebrated
lawyer). J. L. Hughes, and Eli Dye, brother-in-law to C. O. Hughes,
and foster brother to John Lisle, and Mrs. A. S. Bishop. And it is just
lovely about John Lisle.

John Lisle is one of the fellows that saw this will. "How did you come
to see it, John?" "James Davis," he says, "was my guardian and he had
to give a bond, and so one day when James Davis was away from home, I
thought I would go and see the bond."

Of course he thought James Davis kept the bond that he gave to somebody
else—to the county judge; but Mr. Lisle pretends that he thought
the bond would be in the possession of the man who gave it. And so
he sneaked in to look among the papers. Now, do you believe such a
story—that he thought that man had the bond? Didn't he know that the
bond was given to somebody else? Foolish! Bishop swears the same thing;
James Davis was guardian for his wife, and he was looking to see if
James had the bond; and another fellow by the name of Sconce, was
looking for a note, and when he opened this double sheet of paper folded
four times and happened to see Sconce's name he said: "Here it is—a
promissory note."

Mary Ann Davis—that is to say, Mrs. Eddy, that is to say, Mrs. Downey,
is the mother of J. R. Eddy, daughter of James Davis, sister to Job,
second cousin to Sconce, wife of Downey, and related by blood or
marriage to Tom and Sam Glasgow, Moses and Alexander Davis, Abe
Wilkinson, S. M. Henshaw, J. C. Sconce, Jr., T. J. Sconce, George
Quigley and C. O. Hughes. All right in there, woven together.

E. H. Downey—son-in-law of James Davis, brother-in-law of Job, husband
of Mary Ann Davis-Eddy-Downey, and step-father of Mr. Eddy.

J. C. Sconce. Jr.—cousin to Eddy, nephew of J. C. Sconce, Sr., cousin
to Mrs. Downey, cousin of E. H. Downey, son-in-law of Henshaw, cousin to
George Quigley, related to Tom and Sam Glasgow, Abe Wilkinson and Moses
and Alex. Davis.

George Quigley—son-in-law of Sconce.

Sam Glasgow—cousin of Sconce, son-in-law of Dye, brother to Tom
Glasgow, brother-in-law to Moses and Alex. Davis, cousin to Abe
Wilkinson, and related by marriage to J. R. Eddy. Here they are, same
blood. All have the same kind of memory; runs in the blood.

Henshaw—father-in-law to J. C. Sconce, Jr. Lisle—adopted son of James
Davis, and his ward, and foster brother to Eddy. A. S. Bishop—married
to Allie Lisle, ward of James Davis, foster sister of James R. Eddy.

T. J. Sconce—Eddy's cousin, J. R. Sconce's brother, brother-in-law and
cousin to the Glasgows, cousin to Alex, and Moses Davis, brother-in-law
to Abe Wilkinson and uncle to J. C. Sconce, Jr.

Moses Davis—cousin of Sconce, brother-in-law to the Glasgows, cousin
to Abe Wilkinson, brother of Alex. Davis, and related to Eddy and Arthur
Quigley.

Alexander Davis—cousin to Sconce, brother of Moses Davis,
brother-in-law to the Glasgows, cousin to Wilkinson and related by
marriage to Arthur Quigley.

Abe Wilkinson—brother-in-law to Sconce, cousin to Alex, and Moses
Davis, and cousin to the Glasgows.

Tom Glasgow—cousin to Sconce, and Abe Wilkinson, and a brother-in-law
of Moses Davis, and a brother to Sam Glasgow, and related by marriage to
Eddy.

Arthur Quigley—brother-in-law to Alex. Davis, and brother to George
Quigley, who is a son-in-law of Sconce. John L. Hughes—his nephew
married Eddy's wife's sister. Eli Dye—father-in-law of Sam Glasgow.

There they are, all of them related except Swaim and Duckworth and
Taylor; and Duckworth, he is in the tie business along with Eddy.
There is the family tree. All growing on the same tree, and there is a
wonderful likeness in the fruit. Why, that Glasgow has as good a memory
as Sconce. He remembers that this is the same will he saw—paper like
that, and he swears—I think it is Sam Glasgow—that he did not read the
contents or see a signature. And yet he comes here, twenty-five years
afterwards, and swears it is the same paper. And then the paper was
clean and now it is covered with all kinds and sorts of stains.

Now, gentlemen, take the signature of A. J. Davis, and I want you all to
look at it. I say it is made of pieces. I say it is a patchwork. It is a
dead signature. It has no personality—no vitality in it, and I want you
to look at it, and look at it carefully. I say it is made of pieces.
Of course every counterfeit that is worth anything, looks like the
original, and the nearer it looks like the original the better the
counterfeit. All the witnesses on the side of the proponent who have
sworn that it is his signature, also swear that he wrote a rapid, firm
hand—nervous, bold, free, and that he scarcely ever took his pen from
the paper from the time he commenced his name until he finished; and I
want you to look at that name. I will risk your sense; I will risk your
judgment—honest, fair and free—whether that is a made signature, or
whether it is the honest signature of any human being.

And now, gentlemen, one word more. I contend, first, that the evidence
shows beyond all doubt that Job Davis did not write this will. Second,
that it is shown beyond all doubt, that James R. Eddy did write this
will, and that that evidence amounts to a demonstration. I claim that
the will of 1880 was made precisely as E. W. Knight and Mr. Keith swear;
that that will was utterly inconsistent with the will of 1866, even if
that had been genuine; that it revokes that will, that its provisions
were inconsistent, and that afterwards that will was destroyed, and that
there is not one particle of evidence beneath the canopy of heaven to
show that it was not made and to show that it was not destroyed.

And the Court will instruct you that the will of 1866, even if genuine,
is not revived.

This is the end of the case. So I claim that the probabilities, the
reason, the naturalness, are all on the side of the contestants in this
case—all. And I tell you, that if the evidence can be depended on at
all, A. J. Davis went to his grave with the idea that the law made a
will good enough for him. Do you believe, if he were here, if he had a
voice, that he would take this property and give it to John A. Davis;
that he would leave out the children of the very woman who raised him;
that he would leave out his other sisters, that he would leave out the
children of his sisters and brothers? Do you believe it? I know that not
one man on that jury believes it.

This case is in your hands. That property is in your hands. All the
millions, however many there may be, are in your hands; they are to be
disposed of by you under instructions from the Court as to the law.
You are to do it. And, do you know, there is no prouder position in the
world, there is no more splendid thing, than to be in a place where you
can do justice. Above everybody and above everything should be the idea
of justice; and whenever a man happens to sit on a jury in a case like
this, or in any other important case, he ought to congratulate himself
that he has the opportunity of showing, first, that he is a man, and
second, of doing what in his judgment ought to be done, and there will
never be a prouder recollection come to you hereafter than that you did
your honest duty in this case. Say to this proponent: "If you wanted to
show us that you got this will honestly, why didn't you swear it; if
you wanted us to believe it was a genuine will, why didn't you have the
nerve to take your oath that it is a genuine will?"

Now, you have the opportunity, gentlemen, of doing what is right. Your
prejudice has been appealed to, but I say that you have the manhood,
that you have the intelligence, and that you have the honesty to do
exactly what you believe to be right; and whether you agree with me or
not, I shall not call in question your integrity or your manhood. I am
generous enough to allow for differences of opinion. But when you come
to make up your verdict, I implore you to demand of yourselves the
reasons; to be guided by what is natural; to be guided by what
is reasonable. I want you to find that this will was found in the
possession of Eddy in April or March, next in the hands of John A.
Davis; and that John A. Davis dare not tell how he came in possession
of it. John A. Davis, on the edge of the grave—for this world but a few
days, and according to the law without that will he could have had an
income of over fifty thousand a year. He was not satisfied with that.
He wanted to take from his own brothers and sisters, wanted to leave his
own blood in beggary.

He never saw the time in his life that he could earn five thousand a
year—never. And he was not satisfied with fifty thousand—he wanted
four and a half millions for himself. .

Gentlemen, I want you to do justice between all these heirs. I want you
to show to the United States that you have the manhood, that you are
free from prejudice, that you are influenced only by the facts, only by
the evidence, and that being so influenced, you give a perfectly fair
verdict—a verdict that you will be proud of as long as you live. How
would you feel, to find a verdict here that this is a good will, and
afterwards have it turn out to be what it is—an impudent, ignorant
forgery?

Now, all I ask of you is to take this evidence into consideration. Don't
be misled even by a Christian, or by a sinner, for that matter. Let us
be absolutely honest with each other. We have been together for several
weeks. We have gotten tolerably well acquainted. I have tried to treat
everybody fairly and kindly, and I have tried to do so in this address.

I have had hard work to keep within certain limits. There would words
get into my mouth and insist on coming out, but I said: "go away; go
away." I don't want to hurt people's feelings if I can help it. I don't
want anyone unnecessarily humiliated, but I say whatever stands
between you and justice must give way; and if you have to walk over
reputations—and if they become pavement you cannot help it. You must
do exactly what is right, and let those who have done wrong bear the
consequences.

Now, gentlemen, I have confidence in you. I have confidence in this
verdict. I think I know what it will be. It will be that the will is
spurious, and that the will of 1880 revoked it, whether spurious or not.
That is my judgment, and I don't think there is any man in the world
smart enough or ingenious enough to get any other verdict from you as
long as John A. Davis was afraid to swear that it was an honest will;
as long as James R. Eddy, the forger, dare not take the stand; and they
will never get a verdict in this world without taking the stand, and if
they do take it, that is the end. There is where they are.

Now, all I ask in the world, as I said, is a fair, honest, impartial
verdict at your hands. That I expect. More than that I do not ask.
And now, gentlemen, I may never see you again after this trial is
over—separated we may be forever—but I want to thank you from the
bottom of my heart for the attention you have paid to the evidence in
this case and for the patient hearing you have given me.

Note: The Jury disagreed and the case was compromised.
---
# Address to the Jury in the Munn Trial
_Dresden Edition, Volume 10, 1876_
> * The United States vs. Daniel W. Munn, Deputy Supervisor of
> Internal Revenue, who was indicted under Section 5440 of the
> Revised Statutes of the United States.

> There was an unusual rush to obtain admission to the United
> States District Courtroom yesterday to listen to the closing
> arguments of counsel in the Munn whiskey conspiracy trial
> which has attracted so much attention during the past ten
> days. The stalwart deputy who guards the entrance to this
> judicial precinct was compelled to employ his entire
> strength and power of persuasion to keep the eager, anxious
> crowd from trespassing on the convenience and dignity of the
> court. About ten o'clock the Court took the bench, and Col.
> Ingersoll walked into the room, took off a broad-brimmed
> felt hat, which gives the barrister, while he has it on,
> somewhat the appearance of a full-grown, well-developed
> Quaker in good standing in the society to which he belongs.
> When he has the hat removed, however, the counsellor's
> appearance undergoes a marked change. He then looks like the
> crop-haired follower of the house of Montague in the
> Shakespearean play. He sat down on a crazy old chair which
> threatened every moment to break down beneath his weight,
> and listened to the remarks of Judge Doolittle for the
> remainder of the morning, until it came his time to talk.
> Colonel Ingersoll never troubles himself to take notes of
> anything. What he cannot recollect he does not have any use
> for.

> Judge Doolittle occupied the morning session until the time
> for adjournment at one o'clock, with a review of the case on
> the side of the defence. He was followed by Mr. Ingersoll in
> the afternoon.

> At two o' clock the court-room was more crowded than before,
> and at that hour Mr. Ingersoll appeared in the forum and
> delivered his speech in behalf of the defendant.—The Times,
> Chicago, Ills., May 23, 1876.

IF the Court please and the gentlemen of the jury: Out of an abundance
of caution and, as it were, an extravagance of prudence, I propose to
make a few remarks to you in this case. The evidence has been gone over
by my associates, and arguments have been submitted to you which, in
my judgment, are perfectly convincing as far as the innocence of this
defendant is concerned. I am aware, however, that there is a prejudice
against a case of this character. I am aware that there is a prejudice
against any man engaged in the manufacture of alcohol. I know there is
a prejudice against a case of this kind; and there is a very good reason
for it. I believe to a certain degree with the district attorney in this
case, who has said that every man who makes whiskey is demoralized. I
believe, gentlemen, to a certain degree, it demoralizes those who make
it, those who sell it, and those who drink it. I believe from the time
it issues from the coiled and poisonous worm of the distillery, until it
empties into the hell of crime, dishonor, and death, that it demoralizes
everybody that touches it. I do not believe anybody can contemplate the
subject without becoming prejudiced against this liquid crime. All we
have to do, gentlemen, is to think of the wrecks upon either bank of the
stream of death—of the suicides, of the insanity, of the poverty, of
the ignorance, of the distress, of the little children tugging at the
faded dresses of weeping and despairing wives, asking for bread; of the
men of genius it has wrecked; the millions struggling with imaginary
serpents produced by this devilish thing. And when you think of the
jails, of the almshouses, of the asylums, of the prisons, of the
scaffolds upon either bank—I do not wonder that every thoughtful man is
prejudiced against the damned stuff called alcohol. And I know that we,
to a certain degree, have to fight that prejudice in this case; and so I
say, for this reason among others, I deem it proper that I should submit
to you, gentlemen, the ideas that occur to my mind upon this subject.

It may be proper for me to say here that I thank you, one and all, for
the patience you have shown during this trial. You have patiently heard
this testimony; you have patiently given your attention, I believe, to
every word that has fallen from the lips of these witnesses, and for one
I am grateful to you for it.

Now, gentlemen, understanding that there is this prejudice, knowing at
the time the case commenced that it existed, I asked each one of you
if there was any prejudice in your minds which in your judgment would
prevent your giving a fair and candid verdict in this case, and you all,
honestly, I know, replied that there was not. The district attorney,
Judge Bangs, stated to you in the opening of this case, for the purpose
of preparing your minds for the examination of this testimony, that you
must, first of all, divest your minds of sympathy. I do not say that,
gentlemen, neither would I say it were I the attorney of the Government
of the United States, but I do say this: Divest yourselves of prejudice
if you have it, but do not, gentlemen, divest yourselves of sympathy.
What is the great distinguishing characteristic of man? What is it that
distinguishes you and me from the lower animals—from the beasts? More,
I say, than anything else, human sympathy—human sympathy. Were it not
for sympathy, gentlemen, the idea of justice never would have entered
the human brain. This thing called sympathy is the mother of justice,
and although justice has been painted blind, never has she been
represented as heartless until so represented by the district attorney
in this case. I tell you there is no more sacred, no more holy, and
no purer thing than what you and I call sympathy; and the man who is
unsympathetic is not a man. Gentlemen, the white breast of the lily is
filthy as compared to the human heart perfumed with love and sympathy. I
do not want you to divest yourselves of sympathy, neither do I want
you to try the case entirely upon sympathy, but I want you sympathetic
enough to put yourselves honestly in the place of this defendant. Now,
gentlemen, as a matter of fact, this case resolves itself into simply
one point; all the rest is nothing; all the rest is the merest fog that
can be brushed from the mind with a wave of the hand, and it is all
resolved down to simply one point, and that is: Is Jacob Rehin worthy of
credit? Has Jacob Rehm told against this defendant a true story?

Now, that is all there is in this case. The other points that they
raise, and which I shall allude to before I get through, are valuable
only as they cast a certain amount of suspicion upon the defendant, but
the real point is, and the attorneys for the Government know it, Is Mr.
Jacob Rehm's story worthy of credit? Did he tell the truth? Judge Bangs
felt that was the only question, and for that reason, in advance, he
defended the reputation of Jacob Rehm for truth and veracity; and he
made to the jury this remarkable statement: "The reputation of Jacob
Rehm for truth and veracity is good. It spreads all over the city of
Chicago like sunlight." That was the statement made by the district
attorney of the United States. I do not believe that he would swear to
that part of his speech. It was an insult to every person on this jury.
It was an insult to this court; it was an insult to the intelligence of
every bystander, that the reputation of Jacob Rehm spread like sunlight
all over the city of Chicago! My God! what kind of sunlight do you mean?
Think of it!

Now, then, gentlemen, he knew it was necessary to defend the character
of Mr. Rehm; he knew it was necessary to defend that statement. He knew
that the testimony of Mr. Rehm was the only nail upon which the jury
could possibly hang a verdict of guilty in this case.

And now I propose to examine a little the testimony of Mr. Jacob Rehm. I
believe it was stated by Judge Bangs that one of the best tests of truth
was that a lie was at war with all the facts in the universe, and that
every fact standing, as it were, on guard, was a member of the police of
the universe to arrest all lies.

Let me state another truth. Every fact in the universe will fit every
other fact in the universe. A lie never did, never will, fit anything
but another lie made to fit it. Never, never! A lie is unnatural. A lie,
in the nature of things, is a monstrosity. A lie is no part of the great
circle, including the universe within its grasp, and consequently, as I
said before, will fit nothing except another lie. Now, then, to examine
the testimony of a witness, you examine into its naturalness, into its
probability, because you expect another man to act something as you
would under the same circumstances. We have no other way to judge other
people except by our own experience and an authenticated record of the
experience of others, consequently, when a man is telling a story, you
have to apply to it the test of your own experience, and as I say the
recorded tests of other honest men.

Now, let us suppose just for a moment that the testimony of Mr.
Jacob Rehm is true. Let us suppose it. It has been stated to you, and
admirably stated, by Judge Doolittle,—admirably stated,—that it was
the height of absurdity to suppose that a man would do as he did for
nothing. But let me put it in another light somewhat. According to
the testimony of Mr. Jacob Rehm, he first tried to stop this stealing.
Nobody offered him any money to stop it, but he simply went to the
collector, Irwin, and said they were stealing, and that it must be
stopped; and thereupon Collector Irwin changed the gaugers for the
purpose of stopping the stealing. A few days thereafter, somebody came
to him and wanted the stealing to commence, and he told them they would
have to pay for it, and the amount they would have to pay for it, and
he then went to Collector Irwin, whom he supposed at that time to be
a perfectly honest and upright man, and told him, in short, that they
wanted to steal, and would give five hundred dollars a month. Irwin
said, "Go ahead."

He admits that they did steal. He admits that they made a bargain with
him. He admits that that happened, and he assigned all these gaugers and
store-keepers. He admits that he did that for two years. He admits that
he received at least one hundred and twenty thousand dollars of this
money. He admits that in order to carry out this scheme he knew that
every distiller would have to sign a lie every time he made a report to
the Government. He admits that he knew every gauger would have to swear
to a lie at the end of every month in his report of the transactions of
each day. He admits that every store-keeper would be guilty of perjury
every time he made a report. He admits that he knew that the thing that
he was committing for two years was a daily penitentiary offence. He
admits that he put himself in the power of all these gaugers and all
these store-keepers, and all these distillers and rectifiers,—put it
in their power to have him arrested for a penitentiary offence at any
moment during the whole two years, and yet he tells you that he did this
absolutely for nothing! He tells you every cent he received he divided
and paid over; that he never kept a solitary dollar, except it may be
for a box of cigars. I want the attorney for the Government to tell this
jury that he believes that story. And if he does tell you so, gentlemen,
I will give you notice now that you need not believe any other word Mr.
Ayer says—if he says he believes that.

Now, then, what more? He knew that all these men were committing these
penitentiary offences, and that he was putting himself in the power of
all these men; and what was his motive? What, gentlemen, was his object?

It is impossible for me to imagine. If he got no money, if he made
nothing out of this transaction, it is impossible for me to imagine
why he embarked in such a course of crime. Why then did he say to
you, gentlemen, that he paid all this money over? It was to build up a
reputation with you. It was to make you think that whereas he paid this
all over, that whereas he did all this business simply to accommodate
his friends, that he was worthy of credit in his statement of this case.
He told you that he did not keep a dollar simply to make a reputation
with you. What did he want a reputation with you for? So that he would
be believed. And what did he want to be believed for? So that he could
send Munn to the penitentiary and, as the price of Munn's incarceration,
get his own liberty. That is the reason he swore it, and there is no
other reason in the world. Is it probable a man would commit all these
crimes for nothing? Is it possible that he would hire and bribe other
men to commit these crimes for nothing? I ask you; I ask your common
sense; I appeal to your brains: Is it probable that he would do all that
absolutely for nothing? Is it probable he would lay himself liable to
the penitentiary every hour in the day for two years for nothing? There
is and can be but one answer to such a question as that. Why, gentlemen,
if his statement is true that he did all this for nothing, he is the
most disinterested villain, the most self-sacrificing and self-denying
thief of which the history of the world gives any record. Is it
possible?

Is it possible, I say, that a man would make himself the sewer of all
the official rot in this city, in which was deposited the excrement of
frauds? Is it possible he would turn himself into a scavenger cart into
which should be thrown all the moral offal of the city of Chicago for
nothing? Whoever answers that question in the affirmative is, in my
judgment, an idiot. Nobody can. Nobody has a mind so constructed that it
can lodge an affirmative answer to that question within its brain.

What next? He tells you that Munn was in this plot; and that he, Mr.
Rehm, at the same time was selling protection to these distillers. No
distillers—and you know it—would have given him ten dollars a barrel
unless they expected protection. He then was engaged in the sale of
protection, was he not? Did you ever know of a vender crying down his
own wares? Did you ever hear of a merchant crying down the quality
of the cloth he wished to sell? Did you ever hear of a grocery man
endeavoring to cry down that which he wished you to buy?

Jacob Rehm was selling protection at ten dollars a barrel, and sometimes
asking twelve dollars and fifty cents. Was it not natural for him to
endeavor to convince distillers that he had plenty of protection to
sell? Was it not natural for him to make the distillers believe, "If
you will give me ten dollars a barrel you will have perfect protection"?
Would it be natural for him to say, "I will protect you for ten dollars
a barrel, and yet I have none of the officers in my pay"? They would
say, "What kind of protection have you got, sir?" Would it not be
natural for him to make out his protection as good as he possibly could?
Would it not be natural for him to tell you, "I have got all these
officers on my side, from the lowest gauger to the gentleman
who presides over the internal revenue department at the city of
Washington"? The more protection he had the more money he could get,
and consequently it would not be natural for him to cry down his own
protection.

If Mr. Munn was in it, and if Mr. Munn at that time was the superior
officer of the collector, and this man had protection to sell, would he
not have said that Munn was also in the ring? When he was trying to sell
protection to George Burrows at ten dollars a barrel, George Burrows
asked him if Munn was in the ring and he said he was not. If Mr. Munn
had been why didn't he say that Munn was? For the reason that that would
make his protection appear to be of a better quality, and he could have
sold it at a better price. But he said "no," and that they did not
need him, because they could manage him, and fool him through this man
Bridges, and you will recollect that Bridges was appointed directly by
the Government and not by Munn; and Bridges reported directly to the
Government and not to Munn. He had nothing to do with him one way or the
other, except that they were both in the Revenue Department.

Now, I say if it is possible that a man can cry down his own wares
that he wishes to sell, then you may say that the statement of Rehm is
natural.

Now, gentlemen, why should he inform Burrows that Munn was about to make
a visit here? In order that Burrows might have an opportunity to
have his house put in order. Why should he have sent notices to other
distillers that Munn was coming? Why should he tell them to put their
houses in order? So as to be ready for a visit from Mr. Munn. It may be
that the counsel for the Government will say, "This shows the infinite
fidelity of this infinite rascal."

Now, I will come to this part of my argument again, but the next thing
I will speak of is his story, where he says that he actually paid the
money to Munn himself, and if there is anything left of that after I get
through with it you are at perfect liberty to find the defendant guilty.
You must recollect that he had a bargain. Now, according to his story,
he paid this money to Bridges. You must recollect, according to his
story, that Munn at that time was one of the conspirators, had been
receiving money—a half of thirty-five thousand dollars or forty-five
thousand dollars having gone into his pocket. Recollect that. He goes
over one day to the rectifying-house of Roelle & Junker, and there are
some barrels found, the stamps of which had not been scratched. Mr. Munn
was assured by Roelle that there was no fraud. Roelle still swears that
there was no fraud. He was afterward assured by Junker that there was no
fraud. Junker still swears that there was no fraud.

Now, what does Rehm come in to swear? Rehm says that Bridges came to him
and told him that Munn was going to make trouble—going to make trouble
about these barrels that had the stamps on that were not scratched off.
Why did not Rehm say to him, "How is he going to make a fuss? He has got
twenty thousand dollars of money already. He is in the conspiracy. He is
a nice man to make a fuss! What is he going to make a fuss about?" Would
it not have been just as likely that Bridges should have made a fuss as
that Munn should have made it? Bridges, according to the testimony
of your immaculate witness, was in this no more than Munn—not
one particle. And why was Munn going to make trouble? Mr. Rehm has
endeavored to answer that question. Mr. Rehm then goes to Munn, sent
there by Bridges—it would be very hard to find out why he did not give
the money to Bridges,—but he went to Munn and says: "You are going to
make some trouble about what you found at Roelle & Junker's?" "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," he says, "the men at work there—the persons employed
there—will make a fuss about it, but they will see it and say that it
is overlooked."

Now, that is the reason that Rehm puts in the mouth of the defendant.
Afterward he goes himself to Junker and advises him to give him five
hundred dollars, and Junker proposes one thousand dollars, and gives
him one thousand dollars, and then he sends for Munn and he comes to his
office, and he hands him one thousand dollars.

Now, gentlemen, the reason Munn gave was that the men there would notice
it and make a disturbance about it.

Well, then, why not pay the men? What is the use of paying Munn? If this
was done to prevent the men working at the rectifying-house from making
trouble, why not pay the men? Why not pay the men who were going to make
the trouble? Why give an extra thousand dollars to a conspirator to whom
you had already given twenty thousand dollars, and who, at that time,
according to the testimony of Rehm, was officially rotten? Why not
give the money to men who were going to make the trouble? And the next
question is this—and if you will recollect the testimony of Roelle, he
swears that when the defendant came to the rectifying-house, he (Roelle)
was alone. He swears that he was alone. He swears that all the rest had
gone to dinner, and according to Roelle's testimony there was nobody
there but himself. Where were the men that were going to make this
disturbance? Where were the men that were going to notice this
oversight? Where were the men that were going to stir up difficulties
at Washington or any other place? According to the testimony of Roelle
those people were at dinner, and where, gentlemen, is the philosophy of
that lie which they have told? Where is it? Why should he have paid Munn
money? Why didn't he pay it to Bridges? If it was for the purpose of
stopping the men from making trouble, why not pay it to the men they
wished to stop? I ask the gentlemen to answer that question. I ask the
gentlemen to tell us what men were in danger of making this trouble? Was
it the gauger who received six hundred dollars a month for being a liar
and a thief? Was it the book-keeper who, every report that he made,
swore to a lie? Was there any danger of these liars and of these thieves
making a fuss on their own account? Was there any danger of that gauger
stopping his own pay? Was there any danger of that book-keeper trying to
throw himself out of employment? Was there any danger of any thief or
of any conspirator saying anything calculated to bring this rascality
to the surface? If a bribed gauger would not tell it; if a bribed
book-keeper would not tell it, I ask the Attorney-General for the
Government, would Munn tell it, who had received, according to your
evidence, over twenty thousand dollars of fraudulent money? Was there
any danger of Munn turning state's evidence against himself? Was there
not just as much danger of Bridges making a fuss as Munn? Was there not,
according to their testimony, the same danger of Rehm himself going
to Washington as there would be of a bribed gauger, and of a lying
book-keeper? Gentlemen, your story won't hang together. There is no
philosophy in it, and it will not fit anything except another lie made
on purpose to fit it; and it has got to be made by a better mechanic
than Jacob Rehm.

Now, then, gentlemen, what more? The district attorney told you, and
I was astonished when he told it—I was astonished—he said that the
testimony of Jacob Rehm was not impeached; that, on the contrary, it was
sustained by these other witnesses. Had he made such a statement under
oath I am afraid an indictment for perjury would lie. He said that the
testimony had been sustained rather than impeached. How sustained?

"Mr. Rehm, did you ever give Mr. Burroughs notice that Mr. Munn was
coming in order that he might put his house in order?"

Mr. Rehm says, "No."

We then asked Mr. Burroughs, "Did Mr. Rehm ever give you such notice?"
and he corroborates Mr. Rehm by saying "Yes," if that is what you call
corroboration.

"Did you tell Mr. Hesing that Munn was not in it?" "I did not." "Mr.
Hesing, did Mr. Rehm tell you that Munn was not in it." "He did."

That is another instance of the attorney's idea of corroboration.

"Did you tell Hesing that Hoyt was innocent?" "I did not." "Mr. Hesing,
did Mr. Rehm tell you that Hoyt was innocent?" "He did."

Another corroboration.

"Did you tell him that Munn never was in it—that Munn was innocent?"
"No."

We then asked him,

"Did he tell you that?" "He did."

We say to Burroughs,

"In 1874, in 1873, in 1872, did Rehm tell you that Munn was not in it?"
"He did."

That is another idea I suppose of corroboration.

Q. Mr. Rehm, how much money did the house of Dickenson &c Leach give
you? A. Twenty-five thousand dollars.

Q. Will you swear they did not give you thirty? A. I will.

Mr. Leach on the stand:

Q. How much money did your house give Rehm? A. Between forty thousand
and fifty thousand dollars.

Another instance of corroboration.

We then called Mr. Burroughs upon the stand. He belonged to the same
house:

Q. How much money did you give Jacob Rehm? A. Fifty-two thousand
dollars.

Another instance of corroboration.

Q. Mr. Rehm, did Mr. Abel ever give you any money? A. Yes, sir.

Q. How many times? A. Once.

Q. How much? A. Five hundred dollars.

Q. Will you swear it was not a thousand? A. Yes.

Mr. Abel take the stand.

Q. Did you ever pay Jacob Rehm any money? A. Yes.

Q. How often? A. Once.

Q. How much? A. Two thousand dollars.

And that is another instance of the corroboration of Jacob Rehm. And
when a man is thus corroborated, gentlemen, his reputation for truth and
veracity "spreads like sunlight all over the city of Chicago." There was
not a circumstance, there was not a statement made by Mr. Rehm except it
was made in the presence of Bridges, who is in Canada; of Irwin, who is
in his grave, or in the presence of the defendant, who stands here with
his mouth closed—not one solitary circumstance, with those exceptions,
that has not been contradicted. Can you believe this man? Can you
believe this man who has been contradicted by every one brought upon the
stand? Can you take his word after he has sworn as he has? I tell you,
gentlemen, you cannot do it, and as Judge Doolittle told you, if there
is an infamous crime in the world, it is the crime of perjury. All the
sneaking instincts; all the groveling, crawling instincts unite and
blend in this one crime called perjury. It clothes itself, gentlemen, in
the shining vestments of an oath in order that it may tell a lie.

Perjury poisons the wells of truth, the sources of justice. Perjury
leaps from the hedges of circumstance, from the walls of fact, to
assassinate justice and innocence. Perjury is the basest and meanest and
most cowardly of crimes. What can it do? Perjury can change the common
air that we breathe into the axe of an executioner. Perjury out of this
air can forge manacles for free hands. Perjury out of a single word
can make a hangman's rope and noose. Perjury out of a word can build a
scaffold upon which the great and noble must suffer. It was told during
the Middle Ages and in the time of the Inquisition, that the inquisitors
had a statue of the Virgin Mary, and when a man was brave enough to
think his own thoughts he was brought before this tribunal and before
this beautiful statue, robed in gorgeous robes and decked with jewels,
and as a punishment he was made to embrace it. The inquisitor touched a
hidden spring; the arms of the statue clutched the victim and drew him
to a breast filled with daggers. Such, gentlemen, is perjury, and if you
take into consideration the evidence of this witness when you retire to
the jury-room, you, in my judgment, will commit an outrage. Every man
here should spurn that man from the threshold of his conscience as he
would a rabid cur from the threshold of his house.

Is there any safety in the world if you take the testimony of these men,
especially when character avails nothing? Is there any safety in human
society if you will take the testimony of a perjured man? Is there any
safety in living among mankind if this is the law,—if the statement
of a confessed conspirator makes the character of a great and good man
worthless? For one I had rather flee to the woods and live with wild
beasts and savage nature.

Gentlemen, I know that you will pay no attention to that kind of
testimony. I know it. I know that you cannot do it. And why? You know
that that man is swearing a lie for the purpose of protection. You know
that that man is swearing a lie under the smile of the Government of the
United States. You know it. You know he expects a benefit from it. You
know it. When the other witnesses, Burroughs and Hesing, that swear
here—understand that they are swearing beneath a frown. Understand that
they know that no mercy will be extended to them by the attorneys that
they have offended. Understand that, and when you understand that a man
is swearing to protect himself, and when he is a man that will swear to
a lie for money, of course he will swear to a lie to keep himself out of
the penitentiary, or to shorten his time—I say, when you know a man is
placed in that condition, you have no right to give the least weight to
his testimony, not one particle.

What more, gentlemen. Why, they have another witness, and he has
sworn nothing. He has sworn nothing that has anything to do with this
conspiracy one way or the other. Nothing! The only evidence against the
defendant, I tell you, is the evidence of Mr. Jacob Rehm.

The defendant, gentlemen, was an officer of the revenue for several
years. When he came to Chicago, in 1871, the district attorney said the
distillers were here in full blast making illicit whiskey. If he had
read the evidence he knew better; if he had not, he had no business
to make any statement about it. In 1871, when the defendant came here,
according to the testimony of all these men, the distilleries were
running straight, and the rascality did not commence until the fall of
1872, when Jacob Rehm sold protection to these distillers. The defendant
had been here a year before any frauds were committed. He was then
supervisor of internal revenue up to May, 1875. During that time he did
many official acts; during that time he wrote hundreds and thousands of
letters; during that time he made hundreds and hundreds of visits to
all these establishments. They have searched the records; they have had
every nook and cranny looked at by a hired detective, and all that they
can possibly bring forward is the beggarly account presented in this
case: First, that there were four or five barrels of rum without the ten
cent stamps, and that, you know, is a thing that ought to send a man to
the penitentiary; next, twenty-five barrels of which the stamps had not
been scratched, but about which there was no fraud. Ought a man to be
sent to the penitentiary because he does not seize a house when there
has been a technical violation without any fraud? A supervisor that will
do it ought to be kicked out of office; he ought to be kicked out of the
society of honest and decent men, and if this defendant was satisfied
from the story of Roelle and Junker that there had been no fraud
committed by leaving the stamps on the twenty-five barrels unscratched,
and had seized that house, that would have been an act of meanness, an
act of oppression, which I do not believe even a Government attorney
would uphold unless he was hired in the case. Now, what next did he do?
The next thing he did he went to Golsen & Eastman. Gentlemen, I do not
care to speak much of Golsen. If there ever was a man utterly devoid of
such a thing as principle, if there ever was a man that would read the
statute against stealing, and stand in perfect amazement that anybody
ever thought of making such a statute, it certainly must be Golsen. You
heard him, and he is the man that said he told lies in business; he
is the man that said he did not think it was wrong to swear lies in
business, and his business now is to keep out of the penitentiary; that
is his principal business, that is one of the gentlemen they have hired,
that is one of the gentlemen they have brought forward here to offend
the nostrils of decent men. Now, then, he went to Golsen & Eastman.
Judge Bangs told you in his speech that Golsen then and there explained
his infamy to Munn.

If there is anything which makes my blood boil it is to have the
evidence misstated for the purpose of putting a man in the penitentiary.
I never will make a misstatement to add to my reputation.

I recollect that evidence so perfectly. I recollected it so clearly
that it shocked me when he stated that the man Golsen explained all his
rascality and villainy to Munn. Why, I never heard of such evidence.
What was it? It was said by Mr. Ayer in the opening that in the presence
of Munn, Golsen said to Bridges, "It is not now all right," or something
like that, "but I can make it right," or that he said in the presence
of Munn, to Bridges, something that should have put Munn on his guard.
I heard that, and I heard Golsen, when he came on the stand, say that he
said that to Bridges, and you will bear me out when I say that I asked
him in his cross-examination, "Did Munn hear it? Did you say it thinking
that Munn did hear it?" and he did not pretend any such thing. He did
not pretend it, and I tell you I was hurt, I was touched, I admit it,
when Judge Bangs made the statement. I have an interest in this case. I
am not only an attorney in this case, but, gentlemen, I am proud to
say I am the defendant's friend. I am more than his attorney; I am his
friend, and when an attorney makes a statement like that I must say
it shocks me. Golsen did not swear that he explained his villainy to
Munn—not a word of that kind or character. On the contrary he simply
said he told this to Bridges, not to Munn, and that Munn did not hear
it.

What more? Col. Eastman was there at the same time.

Col. Eastman says he did everything he could to impress upon Mr. Munn
that it was an honest transaction. What more? Then he went through the
rectifying-house like an honest man. How did he act? Like an honest man.
Did he act like somebody trying to cover up a fraud? No, he acted like
an honest man, and I tell you up to that time Mr. Eastman had borne
a good reputation—a good character in the state of Illinois. Munn
believed what he said. He believed there had been an accident. Munn
believed they made the charge in the books not for the purpose of
covering up a fraud, but for the purpose of making the books agree with
the facts. So much for that.

I do not recollect any others. I do not recollect any others that amount
to anything—that can throw the slightest suspicion on this defendant.
If he were upon trial now for failing to make a report; if he were on
trial now for malfeasance or non-feasance or negligence as an officer,
it would be proper to bring all these things before this jury, but that
is not the case. He is here for entering into a conspiracy to defraud
the Government, and these things that they have shown outside,—and it
is perfectly amazing to me they have not shown more,—it is perfectly
amazing to me that a man could be in that position the years he was
without making more mistakes—I say, all they prove in the world is
(give them their very worst construction), that he was guilty of some
negligence as an officer, but they do not attempt to prove that he was
in a conspiracy with Mr. Jacob Rehm to steal.

The next point, gentlemen, to which I wish to call your attention is the
testimony of Mr. Rehm before the grand jury. You recollect when we put
on Mr. Ward to show what Rehm testified to before the grand jury, that
Mr. Ayer suggested that we had better have the notes. I saw then that
he was extremely anxious for Schlichter to get on the stand. Then we
introduced Mr. Oleson, and he still spoke about having the notes. I
understood that it was a part of his case to have Schlichter brought on
the stand in some way. Now, then, it does not make any difference to
me whether Schlichter swore to the truth or not. Not a particle, not
a particle, but I think he did. But if he did swear a lie, and he will
swear a lie every chance he gets, in the course of time he will get such
a character and such a reputation that a district attorney of the United
States will stand up and say: "Schlichter's reputation is good; it
spreads like sunlight all over the city of Chicago." Now, then, you have
been told by Judge Doolittle all the men who swore that he did swear
before the grand jury, that he did not know of any crookedness. You have
heard the testimony of men who swear that he did swear before the grand
jury that he knew of no fraud. If he did so swear he perjured himself
or he has perjured himself now. But what more? Whether he swore that or
not, he swore this according to their own statements:

Q. At the time you burned your books had you any knowledge that they
contained any evidence of fraud against the Government? A. No, sir.

Now, he knew the distillers used a certain amount of malt to make a
certain amount of high-wines, and he knew the more malt they used the
more high-wines they would have to account for, and if they bought twice
as much malt as was necessary to make the whiskey upon which they paid
the tax, he knew that that was evidence that they had been running
without paying the tax. If it takes a certain amount of malt for a
gallon of high-wines, and his books would show they had used twice as
much malt as they had paid taxes, according to gallons, then he did
know that his books did contain evidence showing that they had committed
fraud. And when he said his books did not, he told what he knew was a
deliberate lie. What more does he say? He says these books were burned
up about the first of May just to get them out of the way,—for no
earthly object except simply to get them out of the way,—and he swears
that he sold to nearly all these distillers malt, and he knew that the
amount of malt sold to each of these distilleries would determine the
amount of whiskey they had made, that is, not into a barrel or into a
gallon, but approximately, and he knew the more malt they used the more
tax they would have to show that they had paid. And he knew that his
books would be evidence against every distiller in the city. He knew
that, and yet he swears here, squarely and fairly, that at the time he
burned his books he did not know that they were of any value as evidence
against these distillers.

Now, gentlemen, I want to call your attention to another thing. When
I asked him, when he was called here on the stand, if he was not asked
about crookedness, whether he was not asked about fraud, at first he
stumbled into telling the truth, as far as that was concerned, as far as
being asked was concerned, and then told a lie as to how he answered it.
Now, let me read it to you; you may have forgotten it. There is nothing
like having these things printed:

Q. Were you sworn before that grand jury by anybody? A. Yes, sir.

Q. Were you asked any question about this whiskey business? A. Yes, sir.

Q. Were you asked by one of the grand jurors whether you knew of any
illicit whiskey being made in this city by any of those distilleries? A.
No, sir.

Q. I ask you in regard to your answer to that, if you did not say you
did not? A. I did not.

Q. What did you say? A. The question was not asked in that way.

Q. Well, wait until I ask you, and then you can tell. Were you not asked
if you knew of any crookedness about whiskey, and didn't you reply "No"?
A. No; I answered "Yes."

There is his testimony. He was afraid then that he was caught, and he
was going to swear deliberately that he swore before the grand jury,
that he did know of crookedness. Then he changed his idea, and says
afterward that it is about the one hundred and fifty barrels. He says
now, "Put your question." Then I put this question—"Put your question."
[Question repeated.] "A. The question was not put to me in that way."

Now, he gets out of it and says it was the one hundred and fifty barrels
he talked about; but I asked him then if he was not asked if he did not
know about any crookedness here and how he answered it, and he says that
he answered it "Yes." That is, before he found out that it was necessary
to change his answer or to change his mind upon that question. That is
what he says. And it is utterly impossible, gentlemen, to get out of
the fact that he did, before that grand jury, swear that he knew of no
crookedness. You can not get out upon Mr. Roelle's testimony. You can
not get out upon the idea that Schlichter put it in. Schlichter did not
put it into the memory of the old man Samson. Schlichter did not
write it in the memory of Mr. Hoag. Schlichter did not write it in the
consciousness of Mr. Oleson. Schlichter did not write it in short-hand
in the head of J. D. Ward. Schlichter, I tell you, by his short-hand
necromancy, has not changed six or seven men into liars whether he put
that in the second line from the top or not. He cannot do that with his
short-hand, gentlemen. He could not make old Mr. Samson come here and
say, "I asked that question myself; I thought that when he was there he
was the head centre of all the rascality. And so just before he went
out I put one of those general, pinching questions as to whether he knew
anything. It was a kind of conscience scraper." The old man put that
question just as these witnesses were going out: "Do you know anything
about any fraud? Do you know anything about any crookedness?" It was
a kind of a last question that would cover the case, and the old man
recollects that he put it to Jacob Rehm and he recollects why he put it
to him, because he believed at that time that he was the head centre of
the villainy. Mr. Hoag says the same thing. Mr. Hoag says that he
looked upon him as the great rascal in the business; and he recollects
distinctly that he asked him that question; and he recollects as
distinctly how he answered it. J. D. Ward was the attorney of the United
States, and he swears to it that he recollects it perfectly. Oleson
was an attorney of the United States. He says that he recollects it
perfectly. And yet is this all to be accounted for, gentlemen, by saying
that Mr. Schlichter inserted it in his notes and that all these other
gentlemen are mistaken? The fact is, gentlemen, that Mr. Rehm, when he
was there, had not made up his mind to vomit; he had not yet made up his
mind that he could make a bargain with the United States to get out
of punishment. He did not know at that time that he need not go to
the penitentiary if he would furnish a substitute. He did not know,
gentlemen, at that time that he could have any understanding with
anybody; if he would bring better blood than his they would deal lightly
with him. He did not know at that time that two owls could be traded
off for an eagle. He did not know at that time that two snakes could be
traded off for a decent man. As soon as he found that out, then, instead
of saying that he did not know anything about any crookedness; instead
of saying that he did not know anything about any fraud, he said,
gentlemen, "I know all about it. I know all of them; every one of them."

Now, gentlemen, I want you to put against that man's testimony the lies
he swore to himself. I want you to put against that man's testimony the
improbability that he would commit numberless crimes for nothing. I want
you to put against that man's testimony the testimony of every one who
has contradicted and disputed him. I want you to put against that man's
testimony the idea and the fact that he warned these other men against
the approach of Munn. I want you to put against that man's testimony all
the circumstances of the lies he has sworn; and I want you, in addition
to that, to put against that man's testimony the evidence of this
defendant.

You have been told by the district attorney—and if I have said anything
too strong in the warmth of this discussion I beg his pardon. I have
known Judge Bangs a long time, I have been his friend, I respect him;
but I must say I felt a little outraged at what he said, because he said
he had sympathy with this defendant. He got up here and said that the
defendant bore a most excellent reputation. He got up and said that he
sympathized with him, and all at once I saw his sympathy was a cloak
under which he concealed a dagger to stab him. Now, then, he says
good character is nothing. Good character is nothing! Good character,
gentlemen, is not made in a day. It is the work of a life. The walls of
that grand edifice called a good character have to be worked at during
life. All the good deeds, all the good words, everything right and true
and honest that he does, goes into this edifice, and it is domed and
pinnacled with lofty aspirations and grand ambitions. It is not made in
a day, neither can it be crumbled into blackened dust by a word from the
putrid mouth of a perjurer. Let these snakes writhe and hiss about it.
Let the bats fly in at its windows if they can. They cannot destroy it;
but above them all rises the grand dome of a good character, not with
the bats and snakes, but up, gentlemen, with eagles in the sunlight.
They cannot prevail against a good character. Is it worth anything? If
ever I am indicted for any offence and stand before a jury, I hope that
I shall be able to prove as unsullied a reputation as Daniel W. Munn
has proved. And when I read those letters, not only saying that his
character was good, but adding "above reproach," it thrilled me and I
thought to myself then, "if ever you get in trouble will anybody certify
as splendidly and as grandly to your reputation?" There is not a man of
this jury that can prove a better reputation. There is not a judge on
the bench in the United States that can prove a better reputation. There
never was and there never will be an attorney at this bar that can prove
a better reputation. There is not one in this audience that can prove a
better reputation. And yet we are told that that splendid fabric
called a good character cannot stand for a moment against a word from a
gratuitous villain—not one moment.

Such, gentlemen, is not the law of this country. Such, gentlemen, never
will be the law of this land or of any other. I deny it, and I hurl it
back with scorn. A good character will stand against the testimony of
all the thieves on earth. A good character, like a Gibraltar, will stand
against the testimony of all the rascals in the universe, no matter how
they assail it. It will stand, and it will stand firmer and grander the
more it is assaulted. What is the use of doing honestly? What is the use
of working and toiling? What is the use of taking care of your wife
and your children? Where is the use, I say, of being honest in your
business? What is the use of always paying your debts as you agree? What
is the use of living for others? Character is made of duty and love and
sympathy, and, above all, of living and working for others. What is
the use of being true to principle? What is the use of taking a sublime
stand in favor of the right with the world against you? What is the
use of being true to yourself? What is the use, I say, if all this
character, if all this noble action, if all this efflorescence of soul
can be blasted and blown from the world simply by a word from the
mouth of a confessed felon? And yet we are assured here in this august
tribunal, in a Federal court of the United States, where the defendant
stands under the protection of the the Constitution of his country, that
his character is absolutely worthless.

They say, "Why don't you bring somebody to impeach Mr. Jacob Rehm?" Why?
because he has impeached himself.

To impeach a man is the last method. If he tells an improbable story,
that impeaches him. If he tells an unnatural story, that impeaches him.
If you prove he has sworn a different way, that impeaches him. If you
show he has stated a different way, that impeaches him. What is the use
of impeaching him any more? That would be a waste of time.

Now, gentlemen, I say to you, and I say to you once for all, I want you
to get out of your minds and out of your hearts any prejudice against
this man on account of these times. I understand now that in every man's
pathway hiss and writhe the serpents of suspicion. I understand now that
every man in high place can be pointed at with the dirty finger of a
scurvy rascal. I understand that. I understand that no matter how high
his position is, that any man, no matter how low, how leprous he may be,
what a cancerous heart he may have, he can point his finger at the man
high up on the ladder of fame, and the man has to come down and explain
to the wretched villain. I understand that; but these prejudices I want
out of your mind. I want you to try this case according to the evidence
and nothing else. I want you to say whether you believe the testimony
of these conspirators and scoundrels. I want you to say whether you are
going to take the testimony of that man, and if you bring in a verdict
of guilty I want you to be able to defend yourselves when you go to the
defendant and tell him: "We found you guilty upon a man's testimony who
admitted that he was a thief: who admitted that he was a perjurer; who
admitted that he hired others to swear lies, and who committed crimes
without number year after year." I want you to say whether that is an
excuse to give to him. Is it an excuse to give to his pallid, invalid
wife? Is it an excuse to give to his father eighty years old, trembling
upon the verge of the grave: "I sent your son to the penitentiary upon
the evidence of a convicted thief"? I say is it an excuse to give to his
weeping wife? Is it an excuse to give to his child: "I sent your father
to the penitentiary upon the evidence of Jacob Rehm"? There is not one
of you can go to the child, or to the sick wife, or to the old man, or
to the defendant himself, and without the blush of shame say: "I sent
you to the penitentiary upon the evidence of Jacob Rehm." You cannot do
it. It is not in human nature to do it.

Now, gentlemen, there is one other thing I want to say. Suspicion is not
evidence. Suspicious circumstances are not evidence. All the suspicion
in the world, all the suspicious circumstances in the world, amount not
to evidence. I want to say one more thing. They say that the testimony
of a thief ought to be corroborated. By whom? another thief? No. Because
that other thief wants corroboration, and that other thief would want
corroboration, and so on until thieves ran out, which I think would be
a long time in this particular community at this particular time.
Understand that whatever one thief swears, that it is not corroborated
because another thief swears to the same thing, and upon the point upon
which Judge Doolittle dwelt so splendidly he must be corroborated upon
the exact point. For instance, Mr. Munn went to his house, Mr. Munn
went to his office, and another man says, I saw him there. That is not
corroboration. He must be corroborated in the fact that he gave him the
money, not that Munn went to his house—not that he had an opportunity
to give him the money—not that he was there, but he must be
corroborated as to the exact, identical point that makes the guilt.

Now, gentlemen, I am going to leave this case with you. I feel a
great interest in it. The defendant feels an infinite interest in it,
infinite, I tell you. It is all he has on earth, all he has is with you.
You are going to take his hopes; you are going to take his aspirations;
you are going to take his ambition; you are going to take his family;
you are going to take his child; you are going to take everything he
has in this world into your power. It is a fearful thing to take this
responsibility. I know it. But you are going to take it—his future,
everything he has dreamed and hoped for, everything that he has expected
to attain—his character, everything he has that is dear to him, and you
are going to say "Not guilty," or you are going to cover him with the
mantle of infamy and shame forever; you are going to disgrace his blood;
you are going to bring those that love him down with sorrow to their
graves; you are either going to do that or you are going to say, "We
will not believe the testimony of self-convicted robbers and thieves."
And, gentlemen, I ask you, I implore you, I beseech you, more than that,
I demand of you that you find in this case a verdict of "Not guilty."
Put yourself in his place. Do you want to be convicted on that kind
of testimony? Do you want to go to the penitentiary with that kind
of witnesses against you? Do you want to be locked up on that kind of
testimony? Do you want to be separated from your wife or your child on
that kind of evidence? Do you want to be rendered infamous during your
life upon the testimony of such men as Golsen and Conklin and Rehm?
Do you? Do you? Do you? Does any man in the world imagine that twelve
honest men can be found that can rob another of his citizenship, of his
honor, of his character, of his home, and of his entire fortune, simply
upon the testimony of such scoundrels? No, gentlemen. For myself, for
this defendant, I have no fear. All I ask is that you will give to
this evidence the weight that it deserves. All I ask of the prosecuting
attorney in this case is that he do his duty. All I ask of him is to
state just as nearly as he can, as I have no doubt he will, the evidence
in the case. All I ask of him is that he give to all these circumstances
their due weight, and no more. I ask him to fight for justice and not
for his reputation. I ask him to fight for the honor of the Government.
I ask him to fight for the complete doing of justice, if he can, but I
hope he will leave out of the case all idea that he must win a case
or that I must lose a case. We are contending for too great a stake.
Personally, I care nothing about it, whether I make or lose what you
please to call reputation in this affair. I care everything for my
client. I care everything for his honor, and more than that, gentlemen,
I love the United States of America. I love this Government, I love this
form of government, and I do not want to see the sources of government
poisoned. I do not want to see a state of things in the United States of
America whereby a man can be consigned to a dungeon upon the testimony
of a robber and thief, simply upon a political issue, simply by the
testimony of some man who wishes to purchase immunity at the price of
another's liberty and honor.

One more point, and I have done. I had forgotten it, or I should have
mentioned it before. They have appealed to you all along to say that the
fact that high-wines were so cheap during all this time put Mr. Munn upon
his information, so to speak, that there were frauds. Let me take those
books and let us see. On the 6th day of June, 1874, the tax on spirits
was seventy cents, and the price was ninety-four cents. That made them
get twenty-four cents a gallon for the whiskey. Understand, the tax was
seventy, the price was ninety-four. That made them get twenty-four cents
for the whiskey. Now, then, on the 10th of June it was ninety-six and a
half cents. That made twenty-six and a half for the whiskey. On the 10th
of June, 1874, twenty-six and a half they got for the whiskey. February
11, 1874, ninety-six cents, which made twenty-six cents; and so it went
on in that way, until what? Until the tax was raised from seventy cents
to ninety cents, and what is it now? The tax on whiskey, gentlemen, is
ninety cents, and the price on the 10th day of May, 1876, is one dollar
and seven cents; so that the price of whiskey now is only seventeen
cents above the tax, and at the time that Mr. Munn ought to have known
that everybody was a thief and rascal, the price was twenty-six cents
above the tax, ten cents more than now. From these figures, gentlemen,
you will see it, and how high did it go? The day Mr. Munn was turned out
of office—gentlemen, on the tenth day of May, 1875,—the tax then being
ninety cents, whiskey was worth one dollar and fifteen cents. The day he
was turned out. It was nine cents more than it is today. You are welcome
to all you can make out of that argument. It was worth nine cents more a
gallon above the tax the day he was turned out than it is to-day, and
if Mr. Munn was bound to take judicial notice that there was nothing but
frauds in the district, and every distillery was running crooked, I
say that the officers of the Government are bound to take that notice
to-day, and you must recollect, gentlemen, that it was admitted in
this case that there were frauds all over the country, that there were
distilleries running in St. Louis, in San Francisco, in Milwaukee, in
Peoria or Pekin, in Peoria, I believe, in my town, not a sound has been
heard, and not a solitary man, I believe, charged with fraud—in St.
Louis, in Louisville, in Cincinnati, in all these towns. Now, where was
the whiskey being made that was crooked? Nobody could tell. If there
was a vast amount being made in Cincinnati it would lessen the price in
Chicago, no matter whether the Chicago distillers were running honestly
or not. If there was a vast amount being made in St. Louis it would
lessen the price, no matter whether the other distilleries were running
honestly or not, consequently it was impossible for the supervisor to
tell it.

There is another thing I forgot. During all the time Jacob Rehm was
doing this gratuitous rascality he was one of the bondsmen on the
official bond of Hoyt. He was not only helping Hoyt steal and giving him
all the money, but he was making himself responsible for the money he
stole, and he did not charge any commission on it. He did not charge
for any shrinkage or shortage or anything in the world, but made himself
liable for the uttermost farthing. He was on the bond of Collector
Irwin, called the stamp bond, and so do not forget that he did not only
not take any money, but he went on the acknowledgments of the thieves
that stole it. He not only did not take any himself, but he made himself
liable as a bondsman for what he gave to them. Do not forget these
things.

Now, gentlemen, I believe I have said about all I wish to say to you;
the rest is for you. You must take the case, and, as I said, you do not
want to go off on any prejudice against the kind or the character of
the case. You do not want to go off on the idea that the air is full of
rascality because some of us are to be tried next. We don't know. Let us
try this case fairly and squarely on the evidence, and the next time I
meet you, gentlemen, every one of you will be glad that you found this
defendant not guilty, as you cannot avoid doing.

[The Jury rendered a verdict of "Not Guilty."]
---
# Argument Before the Vice-Chancellor in the Russell Case
_Dresden Edition, Volume 10, 1899_
> * Russell vs. Russell, before Martin P. Grey. V. C., Camden,
> N. J., June 21, 1899. This was Colonel Ingersoll's last
> appearance in public. The report of this argument has been
> made from the stenographer's notes and therefore of
> necessity incomplete. It was delivered without notes and the
> proofs were not seen or corrected by the author. No
> decision in this case has as yet been rendered, August 1,
> 1900

IF your Honor please: I agree with Mr. Pancoast at least in one remark
that he made—I think about the only one—that John Russell is dead. I
think there is no controversy about that. But as to the other remarks
made and the positions taken by him, I fail to agree.

In the first place, for several hundred years the courts of England,
and for more than a hundred years the courts of this country, have
very jealously guarded the right of dower; and wherever a woman has by
antenuptial agreement given up her right of dower, all the courts
have decided—and I know of no exception, and Mr. Pancoast has brought
forward none—that at the time she made the contract waiving her dower
she must have been in the possession of all of the facts, so that she
could act with absolutely full knowledge. And where a man seeks to make
an agreement by virtue of which the wife, or the supposed wife, shall
waive her dower, decision after decision says that he must tell the
truth, and the whole truth, and that it is just as fraudulent to
suppress a fact as to manufacture one. He must tell the absolute truth.
The relation of the parties is such, and the dower right is such, that
the courts will not take the right away from the woman unless she gives
it freely, and, at the time she gives it, knows all the facts bearing
upon the question as to whether she should or should not release or
waive her dower.

Now, on that same line the courts have taken another step. They do not
put upon the wife the burden of showing that the husband was guilty of
fraud directly; they simply put the burden upon the wife of showing what
his property was and what the consideration was in the agreement;
and then the court steps forward and says that if the amount is
disproportionate when you take into consideration his wealth, then the
burden is immediately shifted, and the person seeking something under
his will, or seeking his property, must show that when the woman signed
the antenuptial agreement she had been put in possession of all the
facts; that she then knew, and knew from him, what he was worth; and
that if she did not and the amount in the agreement is disproportionate
to his estate, the agreement is null and void. Then gentlemen who
represented the heirs of the testator, or the legatees, said: "Well, it
was generally known that he was a rich man; that was his reputation
in the neighborhood; and she, if she had taken any pains or acted with
reasonable discretion, could have ascertained the fact."

The Court then took another step in advance and said that it was not
her duty; she was not bound to inquire as to his wealth; and yet Mr.
Pancoast talks as though the maxim of caveat emptor applies in this
business—as though it had been a bargain between two sharpers, she
making what she could out of his admiration, and he cheapening her to
the extent of his power, driving the best possible bargain, saying
that she should have looked out for her rights; that she should have
investigated and found out about his property; that she should have
called in a detective to ascertain what it was, and that the courtship
should have been carried on in that commercial spirit.

But the law says: No; she is not obliged to ask a question. She is
not obliged to take into consideration any thing that is said in the
neighborhood. She relies upon one source for her information, and that
is the man whom she is going to marry. And the law says he shall meet
her with perfect candor, and there shall pass from his lips nothing but
words of truth; and then if, being in full possession of all the truth,
she makes the contract, that contract shall stand; otherwise, that it
shall not.

There is no use of my quoting these decisions—there is no decision any
other way.

The first question that arises is as to the condition of this
contract under evidence—this antenuptial contract. Is the amount
disproportionate to his estate?

If we are to try this case relying on the notions of Mr. Russell, and
say that his opinion shall govern, why, it may be said that Russell
imagined that he was generous. That would be astonishing, but hardly as
astonishing as the fact that Mr. Pancoast thinks he is generous.

Mr. Pancoast: You don't know me very well.

Mr. Ingersoll: I don't think you would do so badly as that. It may be
that Russell imagined that one thousand dollars in stock of some bank
was a liberal provision in his will. I don't know whether he did, and I
do not care whether he did or not. The question is not for Mr. Russell;
it is not a question for Mr. Pancoast, and it is not a question for
myself; it is for your Honor to decide. Is the amount mentioned in this
antenuptial contract, taken together, if you please, with the fifteen
hundred dollars in the will—is the amount made by the addition of the
two amounts—disproportionate to this estate?

There is a case here from Illinois, Achilles vs. Achilles (which ought
to be a strong case), in which I believe the man was worth seventeen or
eighteen thousand dollars; and my recollection is that he provided
an annuity of three hundred dollars for his wife, with rent free of a
house; also rent free of a vacant lot for a garden. That is what he gave
her—what would be about four hundred dollars or five hundred dollars
a year; and he had eighteen thousand dollars. The Supreme Court of
Illinois thought that amount so disproportionate to the value of the
estate that the provision was set aside.

Now, in this case, five thousand dollars or six thousand dollars—we
will say five thousand anyhow—is the amount; and there is an estate
worth a quarter of a million or, to come even within their own
testimony, worth two hundred thousand dollars.

The first question for your Honor to decide is whether that amount is so
disproportionate to his estate that—unless the other side show that she
was put in possession of all the facts—it must be set aside.

The defendants in this case have not endeavored to show that Mr. Russell
ever informed the complainant what he was worth. The only evidence we
have on that point is what he said with regard to his poverty—not one
word about how much he had, and as to his poverty, only indirectly. And
here is the way the old man's mind worked: They were first engaged to be
married. Mr. Pancoast believes, or at least he has expressed himself as
though he thought, that a man of seventy-five could not be in love (I
do not know what his experience is, but I hope no fate like that will
overtake me), and that a woman of fifty could not feel the tender flame.
I do not know enough about biology to state with accuracy how that is,
but I heard a story once about a colored woman having lived to be one
hundred and twenty-five, and a man interested in the question that
Mr. Pancoast has raised asked this aged lady how old a woman had to be
before she ceased to have thoughts about love?

And the old woman said: "I don't know, honey; you will have to ask
somebody older than I is." And I guess that is about the experience of
the race.

Mr. Russell said to this woman: "I want to make a contract with you,
and I will give you fifteen thousand dollars." She said that was
satisfactory, and Russell—having a little Semitic blood in his veins,
I guess—said to himself, "I must have offered too much, she accepted
so readily." So the next time he saw her he said, "I do not think I can
make it more than ten thousand dollars." "Well," she said, "all right;
ten thousand dollars will do." In the meantime he was getting a little
older, and the last time he came he said he could not make it more than
five thousand dollars, because his estate was so entangled that he did
not know that he would be able to pay it—that it would be a pretty
difficult job to pay that amount within six months. Well, she accepted,
and in order that she should accept it, he said that, in addition, he
would provide well for her in his will—that he would make a liberal
provision. There is the contract. No evidence in the world that he told
her what he was worth; the only evidence is that he pleaded poverty.

And right at this point, I say that all the decisions I know of declare
the contract void unless the defence, on their part, show that she was
put in full possession of all the facts; and that the defence in this
case did not do.

Now, so far as this contract is concerned, on the evidence it is void,
and void notwithstanding the fact that the trustees paid her five
hundred dollars; and Mr. Pancoast, according to my recollection, is
mistaken when he says that she demanded the balance. He offered her the
balance, and she stated that she had been informed that she had some
rights against the estate, and therefore refused to receive it. That is
the fact about it. He sent her five hundred dollars, and wanted to send
her the balance, but she would not have it. Then he asked her to
take it, and showed her a receipt to be signed, in which she waived
everything, and she refused to sign it.

Under those circumstances I do not think it is possible for your Honor
to say that she has been estopped.

The next point raised by Mr. Pancoast is that the oral agreement to
provide well for her in the will is void under the statute of frauds.

Well, I am free to say that I do not know how it is in New Jersey, but
in every other State in which I am acquainted with the law, the statute
of frauds, to be operative, must always be pleaded. I do not know how
it is here. That statute has not been pleaded in this case, and I never
heard of it until the argument to-day. If it is to be pleaded before
it can be invoked, it is too late to cite it now. But let us go on the
supposition that he is right, that the antenuptial contract is void,
and that the other contract to provide for her in the will is also
void. Then where does that leave us? That leaves us exactly as though no
contract had been made. That leaves us without any antenuptial contract,
without any agreement to provide liberally for her in the will. Then
what is our condition? Then the wife is entitled to her dower in the
real estate; that follows as a necessity. She loses her interest in
the personalty, because that is given away by the will, but if the
antenuptial contract and parole agreement are both dead—one because
disproportionate to the estate and because of the fraud of Russell, and
the other on account of the statute of frauds, then she is left with her
dower in the real estate. It is impossible, it seems to me, to arrive at
any other conclusion. It certainly would be inequitable to say that she
had been estopped on account of what was done with the five thousand
dollars in the hands of the trustees.

There is another view of it. There has been, if the contracts are good,
a partial performance; and that of itself would take it out of the
statute of frauds.

Then the question is, if it is out of the statute of frauds, and if
it is out because the contract has been partially performed, the next
question, and, it seems to me, the only question that arises, is, has a
court of equity the right to determine what the words "You shall be well
provided for," "I will provide for you liberally in my will," or "I will
make a liberal provision for you in my will"—what those words mean?

According to the idea of counsel on the other side, the Court is bound
to decide according to the meaning that was in the mind of Mr. Russell.
But there comes in here another principle. The only way we can find the
meaning in his mind is by finding the words that he used; and we are not
to import his meanness into the words, if he had meanness; neither would
we import his generosity, if he had generosity. We would give to those
words their natural meaning, apart from the thought of the one who used
them, and apart from the thought of the one who heard them, because the
words are known, their meaning is known and can be ascertained by the
Court.

Now, the word "reasonable" is about as hard a word to define as a court
was ever called upon to define, and yet courts of law and courts of
equity, in hundreds and thousands of instances, have passed upon the
meaning of the word "reasonable," and have not only passed upon its
meaning, but have given it from time to time definitions.

A man must give reasonable care to the property of another given into
his keeping. Well, what is reasonable care? Is it reasonable for him to
take such care of it as he does of his own? Not if he is unreasonably
careless of his own. And the law takes another step, and says you must
take such care of it as is reasonable, as a reasonable man would,
and the courts then go on to define what a reasonable man under the
circumstances would do. Now, there is no word in the language that
courts have been called upon to define that is vaguer—where the line
between dawn and dusk, between light and dawn, has to be drawn with
greater care or greater intelligence—than that word "reasonable."
The word "appropriate" has been decided again and again. The word
"necessary," the word "convenient," the word "suitable"—"suitable
to his or her condition in life"—"suitable to the condition of the
party"—all these words have been given judicial meaning hundreds and
thousands of times.

And now we come to the word "liberal," is that a hard word to define?

Everybody in the world has his notion of what liberal means. Given the
circumstances and the actions of the man, and everyone you meet is
ready to decide whether he is liberal or illiberal. A man loses his
pocketbook; five thousand dollars in it; a boy finds it, returns it to
him, and he gives the boy five cents. There is not a man in the
world, no matter whether he is a judge or not, who would say that was
liberal—nobody. If there was only a dollar in the pocketbook and he
gave him half of it, you would say that was liberal. You would have
to take the circumstances into consideration. You also take into
consideration the circumstances of the man who found it. If he is a
poor man you can not be liberal unless you give him more than you would
give the man who did not need it.

What is a liberal provision for a wife that has no means of making her
own living? If the man is able, nothing less than a sufficient sum to
take care of her. Suppose Mr. Vanderbilt, who is worth two or three
hundred millions—I do not know what he is worth, and I do not care, but
I suppose he is worth a hundred millions—should agree to make a liberal
provision for his wife, and make it so that he gets away from the
statute of frauds, and thereupon leaves her twenty-five hundred dollars.
Nobody would say that was liberal. Why? Because that word is capable of
a clear and reasonably exact definition. To be liberal, he would have to
leave her enough to live in the same style that she has been living in
with him, and enough to keep her during her life. Anything less than
that would be illiberal, mean, contemptible.

So I might go through all the actions of men in regard to contracts,
payments, divisions. We all know what liberal means, and it always
means a little more than the law could compel you to do. If a man hires
another and says, "I will give you five dollars a day," and the other
works twenty days, and he gives him one hundred dollars; nobody says he
is liberal, and nobody says he is mean. But when the man goes further
and says, "You have worked well; I am very much pleased with what
you have done; there is fifty dollars (or twenty-five dollars) as a
present," everybody says, "Why, that is liberal, that is generous." But
no man ever yet got the reputation of being generous by doing exactly
what he was bound to do. He may have the reputation of being just,
honest, of keeping his contracts, of being a good, fair, square man,
but he never got the reputation of being generous, and he never got the
reputation of being liberal, by simply doing what the law compelled
him to do, or what his contract compelled him to do, or what he did in
consideration of that for which he had received value.

In this case Russell said, "I will make a liberal provision for you in
my will." If he had made no will the law would have given her one-third
of his personal property. That would not have been liberal. That would
simply have been the law. That is the law, and that is what the law has
said is just. Whether the law is right or not, I do not know, but that
is what the law says. That is just, and no man can be liberal unless he
goes just a little beyond justness—just a little.

So when he says, "I will provide for you liberally in my will," in order
to comply with that agreement he has got to go somewhat beyond the
law, and the law says one-third; it is impossible for him to be liberal
without going a little beyond one-third, and then he is only liberal to
the extent that he does go beyond what the law fixes.

Now, it seems to me that there is no escape from that. Neither does it
seem to me that there is the slightest difficulty in your Honor fixing
what is liberal—no more difficulty than you would have in saying what
is right; and we have hundreds of cases where a man has said, "If
you will do so and so I will do what is right," and it has been
enforced—has been enforced thousands and thousands of times. "I will do
what is right," "I will do what is just," "I will do what is liberal,"
"I will do what is necessary and proper"—all these words have been
judicially determined and their meaning fixed by hundreds and thousands
of decisions. I do not see the slightest trouble in that.

So, in this case, looking at the parole contract as bad—and it is
bad—the woman is at the very least entitled to her dower; and the only
way that she can be robbed of it is by holding that a contract is good
which was made by her without any knowledge of the value of the property
that he held. But every decision says that makes the contract void, and
that she is not bound to make examination herself; he is bound to give
her that information. The law says that when two hearts come together in
that way, and there is supposed to be affection, they must be candid. He
must conceal nothing. His hands must be open; not only must what he says
be the truth, but he must tell it all, and she cannot be bound by any
contract that she does not make in the full blaze of all the facts. She
must have them all, and if he keeps back any, if he makes himself poorer
than he is, he destroys the contract. If he tries to take advantage of
her the law says he only takes advantage of himself. The Court is her
attorney; the Court appears for her for the preservation of her dower
right; and the Court will not allow a man to take advantage of any
misstatement, of any suppression, of any fraud, no matter whether active
fraud, or a fraud that rests in non-action. The Court is her attorney
and says the contract is bad, and if you try to deceive her you deceive
yourself; and if you fail to put her in possession of all the facts the
consideration of the contract fails and it is dead and done.

If these decisions have any meaning, that is the law, and if there is
a decision on the other side, I should like to hear it. I haven't found
one, not one; and in all the cases where applications have been made
to set aside an antenuptial contract, I have not found one where the
disproportion was as great as it appears in this case. The difference is
between six thousand five hundred dollars and an estate of a quarter
of a million. I have not found one that had anywhere near that
disproportion, and yet case after case is set aside on the disproportion
of about four hundred dollars or five hundred dollars a year and the
fortune of eighteen thousand dollars—one where it is thirty thousand
and she gets about five hundred dollars. I do not know of a solitary
case where the deception was as great as in this. I do not say that
he intentionally deceived, because I do not know, and, as Mr. Pancoast
remarked, he is dead. We simply go on the facts that are shown.

Now, as to the value of the property, I do not think there is any real
dispute about that. Mr. Russell is one of the executors, and when he
went over the real estate here on the stand he had in his hand a list of
all that real estate, with the values put upon it by our two witnesses;
and he was asked the value, and he looked at the parcel, and he looked
at the amount, and I tried it here myself, just to see if I could guess
what his answer would be. I deducted in my own mind fifty per cent,
sometimes, sometimes thirty per cent., sometimes forty per cent., and
I hit it within five dollars in fifteen cases, just guessing by myself
what he would say, because I knew that he was going by the figures
without the slightest reference, in many cases, to what the property was
worth. He estimated one parcel at two thousand two hundred dollars;
I think it was worth about five thousand dollars. He fixed another at
three thousand two hundred and fifty dollars; I think it is worth about
five thousand dollars. He fixed a third at four hundred dollars; I think
it is worth about six hundred dollars. When he was asked about those
same parcels, without the figures he sometimes went beyond the price
that our experts had fixed; sometimes he doubled his own price, and
sometimes he fell below his price. I think in one or two instances he
even fell below; but that at the time he had in his mind, any knowledge
apart from the figures that had been made by the experts, I do not
believe.

The Vice Chancellor: Is it of any significance? If your argument is
right the disproportion is so great that it makes no difference.

Mr. Ingersoll: Perhaps not. Then his co-executor was not called at all.
So I take it that we can safely say that the property was worth in all
two hundred thousand dollars, taking it according to their own estimate.
The estimate of the man who fixed it on account of the inheritance tax,
I do not think is of any weight. He did not go over it all and did not
see it. I say the disproportion is so great—they having failed to show
that the knowledge was in her possession, put there by him—that the
contract must be set aside. That we insist upon.

One of two things has to be done, it seems to me: Both those contracts
set aside and her dower in the real estate given to her, or both
contracts allowed to stand and the court to fix what is a liberal
provision in the will—and in that, for one, I see no difficulty.
"Liberal" is a word as easily understood at least as the word
"reasonable"—certainly as the word "necessary," certainly as the word
"convenient," certainly as the word "suitable," and in fact I might say
as almost any other word except some scientific term that limits its own
definition.

Now, we have already said that a liberal provision could not be less
than the law gives us. In that view of the case, she should have, in
lieu of her dower, the five thousand dollars, and, on account of
the will she should have at least whatever one-third of the personal
property is worth.

It seems to me that one of those two courses must be pursued. Here is an
old man who wants to get a woman some twenty-five years younger than
he is. Just think how Mr. Pancoast's blood would throb at a woman
twenty-five years younger than he. Think what visions would haunt his
brain. Think of the Cupids that, with outstretched wings, would follow
in the darkness of the night as he contemplated his happiness. Here was
a man of that age who wanted this woman, and taking into consideration
his ideas of money—a man that considered a thousand dollars a liberal
provision; one worth two hundred and thirty thousand dollars or
two hundred and forty thousand dollars, offering her five thousand
dollars—he wanted her badly. You can hardly think of a more wonderful
thought visiting his brain than that of giving all that money for a
woman nearly twenty-five years younger than himself.

I want to be kind to Mr. Russell; I want to say that he was honestly in
love with this woman. I want to be respectful to her by saying that
the affection was reciprocated, and that on her part it was absolutely
honest. But I do say that Mr. Russell withheld from her the information
as to his property. Mr. Russell endeavored to drive the best bargain
he could, and I say that by keeping back the facts that he was bound to
make known to her, he defeated himself—that while he did deceive her,
he destroyed his contract.

Now, by no way of reasoning I can think of can you arrive at any
different conclusion. All matters of this kind, of course, should be
dealt with from a high standard, the highest standard we have, the very
highest. The affection that man has for woman is, in my judgment, the
holiest and the most beautiful thing in nature; the affection that woman
has for man—that affection, that something that we call love—has done
all there is of value in the world. It has civilized mankind; made all
the poems, painted all the pictures, and composed all the music. Take it
from the world and we shall be simply wild beasts—far worse than wild
beasts, for they have affection for each other and for their young.

So I say this should be treated from the highest possible standpoint,
and treating it in that way your Honor must say that a woman must
act with a full knowledge of every fact that had any bearing upon the
question to be decided by her; and if she was not put in possession of
all of these facts, by the man who said he loved her, then the contract
is void.

On the other hand, if the contract is held valid, and with it the
agreement to provide liberally for her in his will, then I say that
there can be no liberality that does not go beyond the law. In the
one case she is entitled to five thousand dollars and one-third of the
personalty, and in the other case she is entitled to her dower.
---
# Closing Address — First Star Route Trial
_Dresden Edition, Volume 10, 1882_
> * The most characteristic feature of the Star-route trial,
> which has been the central point of interest in our city for
> the past three months, was the marvelously powerful speech
> of Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll before the jury and the judge
> last week.

> People who knew this gifted gentleman only superficially,
> had supposed that he was merely superficial as a lawyer.
> While acknowledging his remarkable ability as an orator and
> his vast accomplishments as a speaker, they doubted the
> depth of his power. They heard him, and the doubt ceased. It
> can be said of Ingersoll, as was written of Castelar, that
> his eloquent utterances are as the finely-fashioned
> ornamental designs upon the Damascus blade—the blade cuts
> as keenly and the embellishments beautify without retarding
> its power.

> The following is Colonel Ingersoll's speech. Its swift
> incisiveness, keen and comprehensive logic and apt
> deductions from proper premises are only equaled by the
> grand manner of its delivery, and under the circumstances
> incidental to the case and the routes to be traversed, by
> its expedition of action and brevity.—Washington, D. C.,
> The Capital, Sept. 16th, 1882.

MAY it please the Court and gentlemen of the jury: Let us understand
each other at the very threshold. For one I am as much opposed to
official dishonesty as any man in this world. The taxes in this country
are paid by labor and by industry, and they should be collected and
disbursed by integrity. The man that is untrue to his official oath,
the man that is untrue to the position the people have honored him with,
ought to be punished. I have not one word to say in defence of any man
who I believe has robbed the Treasury of the United States. I want it
understood in the first place that we are not defending; that we are
not excusing; that we are not endeavoring to palliate in the slightest
degree dishonesty in any Government official. I will go still further:
I will not defend any citizen who has committed what I believe to be a
fraud upon the Treasury of this Government. Let us understand each other
at the commencement.

You have been told that we are a demoralized people; that the tide of
dishonesty is rising ready to sweep from one shore of our country to the
other. You have been appealed to to find innocent men guilty in order
that that tide may be successfully resisted. You have been told—and I
have heard the story a thousand times—that this country was demoralized
by what the gentlemen are pleased to call the war, and that owing to the
demoralization of the war it is necessary to make an example of somebody
that the country may take finally the road to honesty. We were in a
war lasting four years, but I take this occasion to deny that that war
demoralized the people of the United States. Whoever fights for the
right, or whoever fights for what he believes to be right, does not
demoralize himself. He ennobles himself. The war through which we passed
did not demoralize the people. It was not a demoralization; it was
a reformation. It was a period of moral enthusiasm, during which the
people of the United States became a thousand times grander and nobler
than they had ever been before. The effect of that war has been good,
and only good. We were not demoralized by it. When we broke the shackles
from four millions of men, women and children it did not demoralize us.
When we changed the hut of the slave into the castle of the freeman it
did not demoralize us. When we put the protecting arm of the law
about that hut and the flag of this nation above it, it was not very
demoralizing. When we stopped stealing babes the country did not
suddenly become corrupted. That war was the noblest affirmation of
humanity in the history of this world. We are a greater people, we are a
grander people, than we were before that war. That war repealed statutes
that had been made by robbery and theft. It made this country the home
of man. We were not demoralized.

There is another thing you have been told in order that you might find
somebody guilty. You have been told that our country is distinguished
among the nations of the world only for corruption. That is what you
have been told. I care not who said it first. It makes no difference to
me that it was quoted from a Republican Senator. I deny it. This country
is not distinguished for corruption. No true patriot believes it. This
country is distinguished for something else. The credit of the United
States is perfect. Its bonds are the highest in the world. Its promise
is absolute pure gold. Is that the result of being distinguished for
corruption? I have heard that nonsense, that intellectual rot all
my life, that the people used to be honest, but at present they are
exceedingly bad. It is the capital stock of every prosecuting lawyer;
but in it there is not one word of truth. Is this country distinguished
only for its corruption throughout Europe? No. It is respected by every
prince and by every king; it is loved by every peasant. Is it because we
have such a reputation for corruption that a million people from foreign
lands sought homes under our flag last year? Is corruption all we are
distinguished for? Is it because we are a nation of rascals that the
word America sheds light in every hut and in every tenement in Europe?
Is it because we are distinguished for corruption that that one word,
America, is the dawn of a career to every poor man in the Old World? I
always supposed that we were distinguished for free schools, for free
speech, for just laws; not for corruption. A country covered with
schoolhouses, where the children of the poor are put upon an exact
equality with those of the rich, is not distinguished for corruption.
And yet in the name of this universal corruption you are appealed to to
become also corrupt. This nation is substantially a hundred years old,
and to-day the assessed property of the United States is valued at
$50,000,000,000. Is that the result of corruption, or is it the
result of labor, of integrity and of virtue? I deny that my country is
distinguished for corruption. I assert that it rises above the other
nations distinguished for humanity as high as Chimborazo above the
plains. Never will I put a stain upon the forehead of my country in
order that I may win some case, and in order that I may consign some
honest man to the penitentiary. I stand here to deny that this is a
corrupt country. Let me say that the only tribute that I ever heard paid
to corruption was indirectly paid by Mr. Merrick himself. He told you
that official corruption destroyed the French Empire, and upon the ruins
of that empire arose the French Republic. He makes official corruption
the father of French liberty. If it works that way I hope they will
have it in every monarchy on the globe. Napoleon stole something besides
money; he stole liberty, and the French people finally got to that
condition of mind where they preferred to be trampled on by Germany
rather than to have their liberty devoured by Napoleon. From that
splendid sentiment sprang the French Republic. This country is the land
not of slavery, but of liberty, not of unpaid toil, but of successful
industry. There is not a poor man to-day in all Europe or a poor boy who
does not think about America. I recollect one time in Ireland that I
met with a little fellow about ten years old with a couple of rags for
pantaloons and a string for a suspender. I said, "My little man, what
are you going to do when you grow up?" "_Going to America_." It is the
dream of every peasant in Germany. He will go to America; not because
it is the land of corruption, but because it is the land of plenty, the
land of free schools, the land where humanity is respected.

There is another thing about this country. We have a king here, and that
king is the law. That king is the legally expressed will of a majority,
and that law is your sovereign and mine. You have no right to violate
one law to carry out another. We all stand equal before that law, and
the law must be upheld as an entirety, and in no other way. If in this
case you believe these defendants beyond a doubt to be guilty, it
is your duty to find them so, and you must find them so in order to
preserve your own respect. I do not agree with this prosecution in the
idea that the perpetuity of the Republic depends upon this verdict.
Decide as badly as you please, as horribly as you can, the Republic
will stand. The Republic will stand in spite of this verdict, and the
Republic will stand until people lose confidence in verdicts—until they
lose confidence in legal redress. When the time comes that we have no
confidence in courts and no confidence in juries, then the great temple
will lean to its fall, and not until then. As long as we can get redress
in the courts, as long as the laws shall be honestly administered,
as long as honesty and intelligence sit upon the bench, as long as
intelligence sits in the chairs of jurors, this country will stand, the
law will be enforced and the law will be respected. But so far as my
clients are concerned, everything they have, everything they love,
everything for which they hope, home, friends, wife, children, and that
priceless something called reputation, without which a man is simply
living clay, everything they have is at stake, and everything depends
upon your verdict. I want you to understand that everything depends
upon your decision, and yet my clients with their world at stake, home,
everything, _everything_, ask only at your hands the mercy of an honest
verdict according to the evidence and according to the law. That is all
we ask, and that we expect. By an honest verdict I mean a verdict in
accordance with the testimony and in accordance with the law, a verdict
that is a true and honest transcript of each juror's mind, a verdict
that is the honest result of this evidence. Whoever takes into
consideration the desire, or the supposed desire, of the outside public
is bribed. Whoever finds a verdict to please power, whoever violates
his conscience that he may be in accord, or in supposed accord, with
an administration or with the Government, is bribed. Whoever finds a
verdict that he may increase his own reputation is bribed. Whoever finds
a verdict for fear he will lose his reputation is bribed. Whoever bends
to the public judgment, whoever bows before the public press, is bribed.

Fear, prejudice, malice, and the love of approbation bribe a thousand
men where gold bribes one. An honest verdict is the result not of fear,
but of courage; not of prejudice, but of candor; not of malice, but of
kindness. Above all, it is the result of a love of justice. Allow me to
say right here that I believe every solitary man on this jury wishes to
give a verdict exactly in accordance with this testimony and exactly in
accordance with the law. Every man on this jury wishes to preserve his
own manhood. Every man on this jury wishes to give an honest verdict.
There are no words sufficiently base to describe a man who will
knowingly give a dishonest verdict. I believe every man upon this jury
to be absolutely honest in this case. The mind of every juror, like
the needle to the pole, should be governed simply by the evidence. That
needle is not disturbed by wind or wave, and the mind of the honest
juror never should be disturbed by clamor, nor by prejudice, nor by
suspicion. Your minds should not be affected by the fume, by the froth,
by the fiction, or by the fury of this prosecution. You should pay
attention simply to the evidence, and to use the language of one of my
clients, you should be governed by the frozen facts. That is all you
have any right to think of and all you have any right to examine.

Having now said thus much about the duties of jurors, let me say one
word about the duties of lawyers. I believe it is the duty of a lawyer,
no matter whether prosecuting or defending, to make the testimony as
clear as he can. If there is anything contradictory it is his business
if he possibly can to make it clear. If there is any question of law
about which there is a doubt, it is his right and it is his duty to
give to the court the result of his study and of his thoughts, for the
purpose of enlightening the court upon that particular branch of law.
No matter if he may believe the court understands it, if there is the
slightest fear that the court does not or has forgotten it, it is his
duty to bring the attention of the court to that law. It is not his duty
to abuse anybody. It is not my duty to abuse anybody. There is no logic
in abuse; not the slightest; and when a lawyer, under the pretext of
explaining the evidence to the jury, calls a defendant a thief and a
robber, he steps beyond the line of duty and, in my judgment, beyond the
line of his privilege. What light does that throw upon the case? In his
effort to explain the law to the court what cloud does it remove from
the intellectual horizon of his honor for the attorney to call the
defendant a robber, a thief, or a pickpocket? I shall in this case give
you what I believe to be the facts. I shall call your attention to the
testimony. I shall endeavor to throw what light I am capable of throwing
upon this entire question. I shall not deal in personalities. They are
beneath me. I shall not deal in epithets. Nobody worth convincing can be
convinced in that way. Now, let us see what the law is, and let us see
what our facts are. In the beginning of this dusty branch I shall ask
the pardon of every juror in advance for going over these facts once
again. You see they strike every man in a peculiar way. No two minds are
exactly alike. No pair of eyes distinguish exactly the same object
or the same peculiarities of the objects. This is an indictment under
section 5440 of the Revised Statutes, and there must not only be a
conspiracy to defraud, but there must be an overt act done in pursuance
of that conspiracy for the purpose of effecting the object of it. Now,
then, how must these overt acts be stated in this indictment? Is the
overt act a part of the crime, and must it, be described with the same
particularity that you describe the offence? Which of the overt acts set
out in this indictment is the overt act depended upon, together with
the act of conspiring, to make this offence? I hold, may it please your
Honor, that every overt act set out in the indictment must be proved
exactly as it is alleged, no matter whether the description was
necessary to be put in the indictment or not. No matter how foolish, how
unnecessary the description, it must be substantiated, and it must be
proven precisely as it is charged. No matter whether the particular
thing described is of importance or not, no matter how infinitely
unnecessary it was to speak of it, still, if it is a matter of
description, it must be proven precisely as it is charged. Upon that
subject I wish to call the attention of the Court to some authorities,
and it will take me but a few moments. I will call the attention of the
Court first to the case of the State against Noble, 15 Maine, 476. Here
a man was indicted for fraudulently and willfully taking from the river
and converting to his own use certain logs. These logs were described as
marked "W" with a cross, and "H" with another cross, and with a girdle.
Now, it seems that a part of this mark was not found, according to the
testimony upon the logs taken:

"The description of these logs in the indictment is the only way the
logs could be distinguished and could not be rejected as surplusage. It
has been settled that if a man be indicted for stealing a black horse,
and the evidence be that he stole a white one, he cannot be convicted.
The description of a log by the mark is more essential than that of
a horse by its color. If it was not necessary to describe the log so
particularly by the mark, yet so having stated it, there can be no
conviction without proof of it."

Now, the court, in deciding this, says:

"It may be regarded as a general rule, both in criminal prosecutions
and in civil actions, that an unnecessary averment may be rejected where
enough remains to show that an offence has been committed, or that a
cause of action exists. In Ricketts vs. Solway, 2 Barn., & Aid., 360,
Abbott, C. J., says: 'There is one exception, however, to this rule,
which is, where the allegation contains matter of description. Then, if
the proof given be different from the statement, the variance is fatal.'
As an illustration of this exception, Starkie puts the case of a man
charged with stealing a black horse. The allegation of color is
unnecessary, yet as it is descriptive of that, which is the
subject-matter of the charge, it cannot be rejected as surplusage, and
the man convicted of stealing a white horse. The color is not essential
to the offence of larceny, but it is made material to fix the identity
of that, which the accused is charged with stealing."

3 Stark., 1531. "In the case before us the subject-matter is a pine
log marked in a particular manner described. The marks determine the
identity, and are, therefore, matter purely of description. It would not
be easy to adduce a stronger case of this character. It' might have been
sufficient to have stated that the defendant took a log merely, in the
words of the statute. But under the charge of taking a pine log we are
quite clear that the defendant could not be convicted of taking an oak
or a birch log. The offence would be the same; but the charge to which
the party was called to answer, and which it was incumbent on him to
meet, is for taking a log of an entirely different description. The kind
of timber and the artificial marks by which it was distinguished are
descriptive parts of the subject-matter of the charge which cannot be
disregarded, although they may have been unnecessarily introduced. The
log proved to have been taken was a different one from that charged in
the indictment; and the defendant could be legally called upon to answer
only for taking the log there described. In our judgment, therefore,
the jury were erroneously instructed that the marks might be rejected as
surplusage; and the exceptions are accordingly sustained."

I also cite the case of the State against Clark, 3 Foster, New
Hampshire, 429:

"Indictment for fraudulently altering the assignment of a mortgage. The
indictment set forth the mortgage, and also the assignment, as it was
alleged to have been originally made from Miles Burnham to Noah Clark,
the respondent; and alleged that the assignment was signed, sealed,
delivered, witnessed by two witnesses, and duly and legally recorded at
length, in the registry of deeds of Rockingham county, on the 18th of
September, 1844. It then alleged that this assignment was fraudulently
altered on the 28th of June, 1844, by inserting the letter 'S' in two
places, between the words 'Noah' and 'Clark,' so that the assignment
originally made to Noah Clark, after the alteration appeared as if it
were made to Noah S. Clark.

"On trial the records of deeds were produced, and there was found a
record of the assignment purporting to be made to Noah S. Clark, the
record bearing date September 18, 1844, but there was no record of any
assignment to Noah Clark. The respondent's counsel objected that this
evidence did not support the allegations of the indictment. The forgery
was alleged to have been committed on the 28th of June, 1844, and the
court admitted evidence that Miles Burnham, who executed the assignment,
being applied to about the 30th of July, 1846, for a loan of money upon
a mortgage of the same property, declined to make the loan unless he was
satisfied there was no mortgage of conveyance of the land by Noah
Clark, and the person who drew the assignment searched the records with
Burnham, and found no such deed on record. This evidence was objected
to, but was understood to be introductory to other material and
pertinent evidence, and was therefore admitted; but no such other
evidence, to which it was introductory, was offered.

"The jury found a verdict of guilty, which the defendant moved to set
aside."

Upon that the court says:

"We are not able to look upon this statement that the deed was duly
recorded as well as witnessed and acknowledged according to the statute,
in any other light than as part of the description of the deed and
conveyance which the defendant was charged with altering. We are,
therefore, of opinion that the evidence upon this point did not sustain
the indictment."

Now, if the statement that the mortgage was recorded was such a material
part of the description that a failure to prove the record as charged
was fatal, so, I say, in these overt acts, if they charge that a thing
was done or a paper filed on a certain day and it turns out not to
be so, that is a fatal variance, and under that description in the
indictment the charge cannot be substantiated. I refer to the case
against Northumberland, 46 New Hampshire, 158, and also to the King
against Wennard, 6 Carrington & Paine, 586.

Clark vs. Commonwealth, 16 B., Monroe, 213:

"The doctrine seems to have been well settled in England and this
country, that in criminal cases, although words merely formal in
their character may be treated as surplusage and rejected as such, a
descriptive averment in an indictment must be proved as laid, and
no allegation, whether it be necessary or unnecessary, more or less
particular, which is descriptive of the identity of what is legally
essential to the charge in the indictment, can be rejected as
surplusage."

And in this case I cite Dorsett's case, 5th Roger's Record, 77:

"On an indictment for coining there was an alleged possession of a die
made of iron and steel, when, in fact, it was made of zinc and antimony.
The variance was deemed fatal."

And yet it was not necessary to state of what the die was made. If the
indictment had simply said he had in his possession this die, it would
have been enough, but the pleader went on and described it, saying it
was made of iron and steel. It turned out upon the trial that it was
made of zinc and antimony, and the variance was held to be fatal. So I
cite the court to Wharton's American Crim. Law, 3rd edition, page 291,
and to Roscoe on Criminal Evidence, 151. Now I cite the case of the
United States against Foye, 1st Curtis's Circuit Court Reports, 368,
and I do not think it will be easy to find a case going any further than
this. It goes to the end of the road:

"A letter containing money deposited in the mail for the purpose of
ascertaining whether its contents were stolen on a particular route and
actually sent on a post-route, is a letter intended to be sent by post
within the meaning of the post-office act."

This I understand was a decoy letter.

"The description of the termini between which the letter was intended to
be sent by post cannot be rejected as surplusage, but must be proved as
laid."

Upon that the court says:

"But a far more difficult question arises under the other part of
the objection. The indictment alleges, not only that this letter was
intended to be conveyed by post, but describes where it was to be
conveyed; it fixes the termini as Georgetown and Ipswich. The allegation
is, in substance, that the letter was intended to be conveyed by post
from Georgetown to Ipswich. The question is, whether the words from
Georgetown to Ipswich can be treated as surplusage. It was necessary to
allege that the letter was intended to be conveyed by post. The
words from Georgetown to Ipswich are descriptive of this intent. They
describe, more particularly, that intent which it was necessary to
allege. In United States vs. Howard, 3 Sumner, 15, Mr. Justice Story
lays down the following rule, which we consider to be correct: 'No
allegation, whether it be necessary or unnecessary, whether it be more
or less particular, which is descriptive of the identity of that which
is legally essential to the charge in the indictment, can ever be
rejected as surplusage.' Apply that rule to this case. It is legally
essential to the charge to allege some intent to have the letter
conveyed somewhere by post. Suppose the indictment had alleged an intent
to have it conveyed between two places where no post-office existed, and
over a post-route where no postroad was established by law. Inasmuch
as the court must take notice of the laws establishing post-offices
and post-roads, the indictment would then have been bad; because
this necessary allegation would, on its face, have been false. Words,
therefore, which describe the termini and the route, and thus show what
in particular was intended, do identify the intent, and show it to be
such an intent as was capable, in point of law, of existing.

"And we are obliged to conclude that they cannot be treated as
surplusage, and must be proved, substantially, as laid. We are of
opinion, therefore, that there was a variance between the indictment and
the proof; and that, for this cause, a new trial should be granted."

So I refer to the State vs. Langley, 34th New Hampshire, 530.

The Court. I think, Colonel Ingersoll, there is no doubt about this
doctrine.

Mr. Ingersoll. I do not want any doubt about it.

The Court. There cannot be.

Mr. Ingersoll. Well, I will just read this because I do not want any
doubt about it in anybody's mind.

The Court. I have no doubt about it.

Mr. Ingersoll. Very well:

"If a recovery is to be had, it must be _secundum allegata et probata_;
and the rule is one of entire inflexibility in respect to all such
descriptive averments of material matters. The cases upon this point,
many of which are collected in the case of State vs. Copp, 15 N. H.,
2F5, are quite uniform."

Now, if the Court please, I not only read this with regard to the
overt acts, but with regard to the description of the crime itself—the
conspiracy. I will then refer to State against Copp, 15th New Hampshire.
I will also refer to the case of Rex against Whelpley, 4th Carrington &
Payne, 132; to 3d Starkie on Evidence, sections 1542 to 1544, inclusive;
also to the United States against Denee and others, 3d Wood, page 48,
and a case under this exact section, 5440:

"It seems clear that the statute upon which this indictment is based
is not intended to relieve the pleader from any supposed necessity
of setting out the means agreed upon to carry out the conspiracy by
requiring him to aver some overt act done in pursuance of the conspiracy
and make such act a necessary ingredient of the offence." The court
then refers to the Commonwealth against Shed, 7th Cushing, 514, and
continues—in that case it was different:

"That difficulty does not exist here, for the overt act is part of the
offence, and must be proved as laid in the indictment."

So I find that the court passed upon this very question, and I wish to
call the attention of the Court again to one line on page 961 of the
record in this case:

"But in all cases the principle is simply this: That where the act which
was done in pursuance of the conspiracy is described in the indictment
it must be described with accuracy and completeness, and if there is a
variance in the proof it is fatal to the prosecution."

When I come to that part as to the necessity of describing offences
then I will cite the Court to some other authorities in connection with
these.

Now, then, we have got it established, gentlemen of the jury. There is
no longer any doubt about that law, and the Court will so instruct you,
that wherever they set out in the indictment that we did a certain thing
in pursuance of the conspiracy, they must prove that thing precisely as
charged, no matter whether the description was necessary or unnecessary.
They must prove precisely as they state. They wrote the indictment, and
they wrote it knowing they must prove it, and if they wrote it badly it
is not the business of this jury to help them out of that dilemma.

Now, as I say, we come to the dust and ashes of this case, the overt
acts, and I take up these routes precisely in the order in which they
were proved by the prosecution. First. I take up route 34149. Now, let
us see where we are. The first charge is that we filed false and altered
petitions by Peck, Miner, Vaile, and Rerdell. When did we file them?
The indictment charges that we filed them on the 10th day of July, 1879.
When did the evidence show they were filed? On the 3d day of
April, 1878. That is a fatal variance, and that is the end eternal,
everlasting, of that overt act. Without taking into consideration the
fact that every petition was true and genuine, the petitions were not
sent by the persons as charged. It was presented by Senator Saunders,
and that is the absolute end of that overt act, and you have no right to
take it into consideration any more than if nothing had been said upon
the subject.

Second. That on the 10th of July a false oath was placed upon the
records. Now, that is an overt act, and you know as well as I do that
the description of that must be perfect. If they say it is of one date
and the evidence shows that it is of another, it is of no use. It is
gone. They say, then, that a false oath was filed. When? On the 10th
day of July. Suppose the oath to have been false. When was it filed?
The evidence says April 3, 1879. That is the end of the false oath,
no matter whether that oath is good or bad. No matter whether they
committed perjury or wrote it with perfect and absolute honesty, it is
utterly and entirely worthless as an overt act.

Third. An order for expedition July 10, 1879, alleged to have been made
by Brady. As a matter of fact the order was signed by French. There is a
misdescription. No matter if Brady told him to sign it, it was not as a
matter of fact signed by Brady—it was signed by French. They described
it as an order signed by Brady. It is an order signed by French, and
the misdescription of variance is absolutely fatal, and you have no more
right to consider it than you have the decree of some empire long since
vanished from the earth. Now, this is all the evidence on this route.
That is all of it with the exception of who received the money, and I
will come to that after awhile. That is route 34149.

According to their statement in the indictment, holding them by that,
there is not the slightest testimony. We can consider that route out.
We have only eighteen now to look after. That is the end of that. It
has not a solitary prop; upon the roof of that route not a shingle is
left—not one.

Let us take the next route, 38135. What do we do in that according
to the indictment? And now, gentlemen, recollect, they wrote this
indictment. You would think we did, but we didn't. They wrote it,
and they are bound by it. But if I had been employed on behalf of the
defendants to write it I should have written it just in that way.

First. Sending and filing a false oath. When did we send it; when did we
file it? On the 26th day of June. That is what the indictment says. What
does the evidence say? April 18, 1879. Now, that is the end of that.
It was a true oath, but that does not make any difference. That oath is
gone. That has been sworn out of the case, and dated out of the case.
What is the next?

Second. Filing false petitions. When did we file them? The 26th day of
June, 1879. The last petition was filed the 8th of May, 1879, and it
does not make one particle of difference whether these dates were before
or after the conspiracy as set forth, but as a matter of fact, every one
of the petitions was true. That charge is gone, A fatal variance. What
is the next fraudulent order? That of June 20. There was never
the slightest evidence introduced to show that it was a fraudulent
order—not the slightest. And what is the next charge? Fraudulently
filing a subcontract. And right here I stop to ask the Court, of course
not expecting an answer now, but in the charge to the jury, is it
possible to defraud the Government of the United States by filing a
subcontract?

Now, gentlemen, I want you to think of it. How would you go to work
to defraud the Government by filing a subcontract? If the subcontract
provides for a greater amount of pay than the Government is giving the
original contractor, the Government will not pay it; it will only pay up
to the amount that it agreed to pay the contractor. It is like A giving
an order on B to pay C what A owes B. He need not pay him any more. That
is all. And if the ingenuity of malice can think of a way by which the
Government could be defrauded by the filing of a subcontract I will
abandon the case. It is an impossible, absurd charge, something that
never happened and never will happen. Well, that is the end of this
route with one exception. This is the Agate route. This is the route
where thirty dollars it is claimed has been taken from the Government.
It is that route. You remember the productiveness of that post-office.
They established an office and nobody found it out except the fellow
that was postmaster, and in his lonely grandeur I think he remained
about eighteen months and never sold a stamp. That is all that is left
in that route, that order putting Agate upon the route and taking it
off, and then giving one month's extra pay. That is all—another child
washed—38135—that is all there is to that route; no evidence except
epithets, no testimony except abuse. If anything is left under that it
is simply "robber, thief, pickpocket." That is all.

Now we come to another route, and I again beg pardon for calling
attention to these little things. The Government has forced us to do
it. It is like a lawsuit among neighbors. Each is so anxious to beat the
other they begin to charge for things that they never dreamed of at the
time they were delivered. They will charge for neighborly acts, time
lost in attending the funeral of members of each other's family before
they get through the lawsuit. So the Government started out in this
case, and not finding a great point had to put in little ones, and we
have to answer the kind of points they make.

41119. Overt acts. First. Filing a false oath. When did we file it? The
25th day of June, the indictment says. Who filed it? Peck and Miner.
Well, when was it filed or when was it transmitted? According to their
story, June 23, 1879. This oath is marked 8 C, and an effort was made
to prove by a man by the name of Blois that it was a forgery. That
was objected to, first, that it was not charged to be forged in the
indictment; and second, that a notary public had already sworn that
it was genuine, and that he could not be impeached in that way, and
thereupon that oath was withdrawn, and you will never hear of it any
more. I do not know whether it is true or not. That is found on record,
page 1469. Now, recollect that oath was withdrawn. That is the end of
it.

Second. Filing false petitions. When were they filed? July 8, 1879, and
it turned out that that charge was true, with two exceptions: First,
that they were not filed at that time; and, second, that all the
petitions were true. That is the only harm about that charge.

Third. A fraudulent order made by Brady, July 8th. Now let us see what
the fraud consists in. The fraud is claimed to be in expediting to
thirty-three hours when the petition only called for forty-eight. You
remember the charge expediting to thirty-three hours, when the petition
only called for forty-eight. Now, let us see. It is claimed that to
grant more than the petitions ask is a crime; certainly it must be
admitted that to grant less is equally a crime. The only evidence now
of fraud in this is that he was asked to expedite the forty-eight
hours, but he expedited to thirty-three. That is to say, he violated the
petitions, and if that is good doctrine, then the petitions must settle
whether expedition is to be granted or not. If that is good doctrine
there is no appeal from the petition. I do not believe that doctrine,
gentlemen. I believe it is the business of the Post-Office Department
to grant all the facilities to the people of the United States that the
people need. He must get his information from the people, and from the
representatives of the people; and while he is not bound to give
all they ask, if he does give what the people want, and what their
representatives indorse, you cannot twist or torture it into a crime.
That is what I insist. Now, the only charge is here, and while they ask
for forty-eight hours he gave thirty-three. That is the only crime. Did
he pay too much for it? There is no evidence of it. Before I get through
I will show you that there is no evidence that he ever paid a dollar too
much for any service whatever.

Now, then, if the doctrine contended for by the Government is correct,
then a petition is the standard of duty and the warrant of action, and
if they gain upon this route they lose upon every other route. Let us
examine. There are three charges. First, false petitions. They were all
true. Second, false oaths. They offered to prove it, and then withdrew
it. Third, that while the petitions called for forty-eight hours he
granted thirty-three, and before you can find that that was fraudulent
you must understand the precise connections that this mail made with all
others, and it was incumbent upon them to prove, not an inference, but a
fact, that there was not only reason, but reason in money—sound reason
for expediting it instead of forty-eight to thirty-three. That is the
end of that route. There is not a jury on earth, let it be summoned by
prejudice and presided over by ignorance, that would find a verdict of
guilty upon the testimony in that route. It is impossible. Another child
gone.

44155. Let us see what we get there, and I have not got to my client
yet. First, filing false petitions, by Peck, Miner, Vaile and Rerdell.
When? On the 27th of June, 1879. Were they false? Let us see. Mr. Bliss,
speaking of these petitions contained in a jacket held in his hand,
dated the 29th of June, 1879, record, page 687, said: "We do not attack
the genuineness of these petitions." That is the end of that. So much
for that.

Second. A fraudulent order increasing service, and yet all the petitions
are admitted to be genuine, and the order was in accordance with the
petitions on the route. Before the order was fraudulent because it was
not in accordance with the petitions, and in this route it is a fraud
because it is in accordance with the petitions. Now, just take it.
Here is the route. Every petition is genuine, the oath is true, not
a petition attacked, the order in accordance therewith, and the only
evidence that the order is a fraud is that it was in accordance with
genuine petitions recommended by the people and by the representatives
of the people. That is all.

Let me tell you another thing. Expedition had been granted on the route
long before, and this was simply an increase of trips, and no charge was
made that the order granting the expedition ever was a fraud.

Third. Another fraudulent order by Brady, of April 17, 1880, and it
turns out that this order was in fact made by French. That was the only
evidence that it was fraudulent, but the mere fact that French made it
takes it out of this case, and you have no more right to consider
it than you would an order made in the Treasury Department. The only
objection to this order now is what? That it was in violation of the
petitions. How? That it took off one or two of the trips. That was the
fraud of the order of April 17, 1880. The fraud consisted in taking off
two or three trips that had been put on.

Now, let us see. The next fraudulent order was July 16, 1880. What was
that for? For putting the service back precisely as it was. Now, I want
you, gentlemen, to understand that, every one of you. Here is a charge
in the indictment of a fraudulent order that took off, say, two trips
from the service. That is a fraud they say. Then the next order put
those two trips back, and that they say is another fraud. It would have
been very hard to have made an order in that case to have satisfied the
Government; it was an order to decrease it; it was an order to put it
back where it was; that is, it was a fraud, consequently it was a fraud
to do anything about it. That is all there is in that case.

Let us boil it down. False petitions. That is the charge. The evidence
is that the petitions are all true. A false oath is the charge. The
evidence is that the oath is true. A fraudulent order decreasing the
service, another fraudulent order increasing the service, that is,
leaving it just where he found it. In other words, according to this
indictment, Brady committed a fraud in reducing the trips, and another
fraud by putting the trips back. I think it was only one trip that he
reduced. Now, that is all there is in that case. People may talk about
it one day or one year. That is all there is, and that is nothing.

38145. Fraudulently filing what? A subcontract with J. L. Sanderson. I
say you cannot fraudulently file a subcontract against the Government.
It is an impossibility. Besides all that, Mr. Sanderson filed his own
subcontract. There is no evidence that anybody else did file it or
present it for filing. It was not our contract; it was Sanderson's
subcontract. How comes that in his indictment? Let me tell you. In the
first indictment they had Sanderson; and when they copied that first
indictment, with certain variations to make this, they forgot this
part and put in the fraudulent filing of Sanderson's contract. It never
should have been in this case. It has not the slightest relationship.
The real charge of fraud in this route is that a retrospective order was
made, and this order bore date February 26, 1881, and was retrospective
in this: that it was to take effect from the 15th of January, 1881; but
understand me, this was Sanderson's route. He received that money, and
it has nothing to do with us. Still I will answer it. That retrospective
order gave pay from the 15th of January, 1881. Now, it seems that before
the order of February 26, an order had been made by telegraph, dated
15th of January, 1881, to Sanderson, and this telegraphic order was for
daily service on eighty-nine miles. The jacket order of February 26,
1881, was for daily service on the whole route from January 15, 1881.
If that order had been carried out he would have received pay for
daily service on the whole route, instead of for daily service on the
eighty-nine miles to which he was entitled. It turned out that the order
of February 26, 1881, was signed by Postmaster-General Maynard. The only
possible charge is that Sanderson received pay for a daily service on
the whole route from January 15, 1881, to February 26, 1881, instead of
eighty-nine miles. But we find in the table of payments introduced by
the Government, that for that quarter a deduction was made of three
thousand four hundred and twenty-two dollars and nineteen cents, showing
that the department could only have paid for the daily service on the
eighty-nine miles, and that is exactly what the daily service would come
to on the balance of the route. That ends that route. We had nothing to
do with it anyway. It was Sanderson. He filed his own contract, he
got his own orders, he collected his own money and settled with the
department. We have nothing to do with it and we will bid it farewell.

The next is No. 38156. First, filing false oath June 12, 1879. The oath
was filed May 6, 1879.. That is the end of that. I do not care whether
it is true or false, that is, so far as this verdict is concerned. I
care whether it is true or false, so far as my clients are concerned,
but so far as this verdict is concerned, it makes no difference. There
is a fatal variance. Second, it is alleged that Brady made a fraudulent
order June 12, 1879. The order of June 12, 1879, was made by French.
There is another fatal variance. You have no right to take it into
consideration. French is not one of the parties here. Third, sending a
subcontract of Dorsey and filing it. As I told you before, you cannot by
any possibility thus defraud the Government; not even if you set up
nights to think about it. There is no proof that the subcontract was a
fraud. Let us have some sense. It is an absolute impossibility to commit
this offence, and therefore we will talk no more about it. Fourth, the
fraudulent order of Brady increasing the distance four miles. This was
done on the 20th of December, 1880. That is the only real charge in this
route. I turn to the record and find from the evidence, on page 943,
that the distance was from five to six miles, according to the
Government's own proof. Beside all that, the order of which they
complain is not in the record. It was never proved by the Government and
never offered by the Government, so far as I can find. That is the end
of that route. The only charge in it is that they increased the distance
four miles, and the evidence of the Government is that it was from five
to six.

The next is 46132. Overt acts: Filing a false oath by everybody June 24,
1879. The evidence shows it was filed April 11, 1879. That is the end
of that. No matter whether it is true or false, it is gone. Second, the
fraudulent filing of a subcontract. Well, I have shown you that that
cannot be fraudulent. The subcontract of Vaile shows that Vaile was
to receive one hundred per cent. It was executed April 1, 1878, in
consequence, as my friend General Henkle explained, of a conspiracy made
on the 23d of May following. The service commenced July 1, 1878. There
could have been no fraud in it. It was filed as a matter of fact May 24,
1879, and not June 4. Even if it had been a fraud, which is an
impossibility, the description is wrong and the variance is fatal. There
is no evidence that any order was fraudulent. Every one in this case is
supported by petitions, and every petition is admitted to be honest, or
proved to be honest and genuine. There is no proof at all, and not the
slightest attempt on the part of the Government to prove that there was
any fraud on this route. So much for that.

No. 46247. Let us see just where we are. First, filing false and forged
petitions. When? July 26, 1879. By whom? By Peck, Dorsey, and Rerdell.
Now, after they had solemnly written that in the indictment, and after
it had been solemnly found to be a fact by the grand jury, the attorneys
for the Government come into court and admit during the trial that all
the petitions upon this route were genuine; every one. It was admitted,
I say, that every petition was genuine. Read from page 1008 of the
record and there you will find what the Court said about these very
petitions:

"I shall take the responsibility of dispensing with the reading of
petitions when there is no point made with regard to them."

The petitions were so good, they were so honest, they were so genuine,
they were so sensible, that the curiosity of the Court was aroused
to find what on earth they were being read for on the part of the
prosecution. You remember it. Every one genuine, honor bright, from the
first line to the last. In reply to the Court at that time Mr. Bliss
said:

"There is no point made as to the increase of trips. These—" Meaning
the petitions—"relate to the increase of trips. There is no point made
there."

It is thus admitted that every petition was genuine. Second, a
fraudulent order increasing one trip. This order was never proved by the
Government. It was not even offered by the Government, so that the
route stands in this way: First, a charge of false petitions; second,
an admission that the petitions were all genuine; third, a charge that
a fraudulent order was made; fourth, no proof that the order was made.
That is all there is to that. And that is the end of it.

No. 38134. First, sending false and fraudulent petitions, and filing
the same. When? July 8,1879. On page 1031 of the record I find the
following:

"Mr. Bliss. The petitions under your Honor's ruling I am not going to
offer."

Why? Because they were all genuine. The court had mildly suggested
the impropriety of the Government proving its case by reading honest
petitions. Consequently, when it came to this, the next route, he said:

"The petitions under your Honor's ruling I am not going to offer."

Why? Because they are all honest, and under a charge in the indictment
that they are all fraudulent he did not see the propriety of reading
them. That is what he meant. This remark was made because the Government
admitted these petitions to be honest. When were these petitions filed?
The indictment says July 8. The evidence says May 6. So that if every
petition had been a forgery you could not take them into consideration
on this route. It is charged that Miner & Co. signed and placed in
Brady's office a false oath on July 8. On record, page 1032, it appears
that it was filed May 8, 1879, and not as described in the indictment.
The pleader has the privilege of describing it right or describing it
wrong. If he describes it right it can go in evidence. If he describes
it wrong it cannot go in evidence, and they have no right to complain if
you throw out evidence that they make it impossible for you to receive.
It has been charged with regard to this affidavit that Dorsey was not at
that time contractor, and therefore had no right to make the affidavit.
The affidavit was made April 21, 1879, and the regulation that such
affidavits must be made by the contractors was made July 1, 1879. That
is a sufficient answer. The next charge is a fraudulent order made by
Brady, July 8. The petitions were all admitted to be genuine. There was
no evidence that the order was not asked for by the petitions. There
was no evidence that the order in and of itself was fraudulent; not the
slightest. There is nothing like taking these things up as we go and
seeing what the Government has established. I know that you want to know
exactly what has been done in this case and you want to find a verdict
in accordance with the evidence.

Route 38140. Overt acts: First, making, sending, and filing false
petitions. When were they made and sent? The 23d day of May, 1879. There
were some petitions filed May 10, 1879, and there was a letter of the
same date. They are misdescribed. They are all genuine but they are out
of the case as far as this is concerned. I will tell you after awhile
where they are applicable in this case. A letter of Belford, of April
29, 1879, and a letter of Senator Chaffee, of April 24, 1879, we have,
while the indictment charges that they were all filed May 23, 1879.
There is an absolute and a fatal variance. All these petitions, however,
are admitted to be genuine and honest. See record, pages 1001-1003. The
charge in the indictment is that they were forged, false, and altered.
The admission in open court, by the representatives of the Government,
is, that they were genuine and honest. There is the difference between
an indictment and testimony. There is the difference between public
rumor and fact. There is the difference between the press and the
evidence. The next is that a false oath was filed by John W. Dorsey on
the 23d of May, 1879. When was that oath filed? April 30, 1879. A fatal
variance. Yet the man who wrote the indictment had the affidavit before
him. Why did he not put in the true date? I will tell you after awhile.
Did he know it was not true when he put it in the indictment? He did,
undoubtedly.

Third. Fraudulent order of May 23; reducing the time from nineteen and
three-quarter hours to twelve hours. As a matter of fact, no order was
made on the 23d of May upon this route. It is charged in the indictment
that it was made on the 23d of May. The evidence shows that it was on
the 9th of May. There is a fatal variance, and that order cannot be
considered by this jury as to this branch of the case. Here is an order
of which they complain. They charge that it was made on the 23d day of
May, the same day the conspiracy was entered into. As a matter of fact,
it was made on the 9th of May. On this description it goes out, and it
goes out on a still higher principle: That an order could not have been
made on the 9th of May in pursuance of a conspiracy made on the 23d of
that month. But I am speaking now simply as to the description of this
offence.

Fourth. A subcontract was fraudulently filed. I have shown you it is
impossible to fraudulently file a contract; utterly impossible. All the
agreements imaginable between the contractor and subcontractor cannot
even tend to defraud the Government of a solitary dollar. I make a
bid and the contract is awarded to me at so much. The mail has to be
carried. The Government pays, say five thousand dollars a year, it
makes no difference to the Government who carries the mail under that
contract, so long as it is carried. It is utterly impossible to defraud
the Government by contracting with A, B, C, or D. That is the end of
that route. The order itself is misdescribed, and that is all there is
in it. When the order is gone everything is gone.

No. 38113. Overt acts: Fraudulently filing a subcontract. We do not need
to talk about that any more. Second, Brady fraudulently made an order
for increase of trips. The evidence is that an increase was asked for by
a great many officers, a great many representatives, and by hundreds
of citizens, and that the increase was insisted upon not only by the
officers who were upon the ground, but by General Sherman himself. I do
not know how it is with you, but with me General Sherman's opinion
would have great weight. He is a man capable of controlling hundreds of
thousands of men in the field—a man with the genius, with the
talent, with the courage, and with the intrepidity to win the greatest
victories, and to carry on the greatest possible military operations.
I would have nearly as much confidence in his opinion as I would in the
guess of this prosecution. In my judgment, I would think as much of his
opinion given freely as I would of the opinion of a lawyer who was paid
for giving it. General Sherman has been spoken of slightingly in
this case; but he will be remembered a long time after this case is
forgotten, after all engaged in it are forgotten, and even after this
indictment shall have passed from the memory of man.

No. 38152. Overt acts: Fraudulent orders of August 3, 1880,
discontinuing the service and allowing a month's extra pay for the
service discontinued. That is all. May it please your Honor, in this
route the only point is, had the Postmaster General the right to
discontinue the service? And if he did discontinue it, was he under any
obligation to allow a month's extra pay? It is the only question. I call
your Honor's attention to the case of the United States against Reeside,
8 Wallace, 38; Fullenwider against the United States, 9 Court of Claims,
403; and Garfielde against the United States, 3 Otto, 242. In those
cases it is decided not only that the Postmaster-General has the right
to allow this month's extra pay, but he must do it. That is in full
settlement of all the damages that the contractor may have sustained.
The Court can see the very foundation of that law. For illustration, I
bid upon a route of one thousand miles. I am supposed to get ready to
carry the mail. Five hundred miles are taken from that route. The law
steps in and says that for that damage I shall have one month's extra
pay on the portion of the route discontinued. It makes no difference
whether I have made any preparation or not. The law gives me that and no
more. If I should go into the Supreme Court and say that my preparations
had cost me fifty thousand dollars, and the month's extra pay was
only five thousand dollars, I have no redress for the other forty-five
thousand dollars. That is all that is charged in this instance. And
if the Second Assistant Postmaster-General or any one else had done
differently he would have acted contrary to law. He is indicted for
doing in this case exactly what is in accordance with the law. Let us
get to the next route. That is all there is in this.

No. 38015. Overt acts: Sending a false oath. When? May 21. The evidence
shows that on May 14 it was sent, on May 15 it was filed. A fatal
variance, no matter whether it is true or false. That oath is gone. That
is the end of it.

What else? They did not show that the oath was false. First, it is
misdescribed in the indictment as to the date it is filed; second, the
evidence shows that it is honest and genuine, which is also fatal. That
is the end of this route, as far as the indictment is concerned. Second,
that Dorsey made and Rerdell filed false petitions. There is no proof
that any of the petitions were false, no proof that any were forged, and
no proof that John W. Dorsey or M. C. Rerdell had anything to do with
that route one way or the other. All the petitions on record, page
1160, are admitted to be genuine except one. One petition asking for a
ten-hour schedule was attacked and only one. But this petition was filed
May 14, 1879, and that is out so far as the indictment is concerned.

The Court. What is the date of the indictment?

Mr. Ingersoll. The 23d day of May. The indictment says that this was
filed July 10, 1879; the evidence says May 14, 1879. A fatal variance.
It is not the same one they were talking about. They did not find the
petition they described. It is their misfortune. Now, here is only one
petition attacked. Who attacked it? Mr. Shaw. See page 1159. They were
going to show that that was a forgery, and they were going to show it by
Shaw. That was the only one they attacked. What does Shaw say?

"I signed a petition for increase of service and expedition upon
that route, but I did not read the petition. If I had, I should have
discovered a ten-hour schedule."

He would not have discovered it if it had not been there, would he? That
shows it was there.

"I would not have recommended a ten-hour schedule on a seventy-mile
route."

He was the man that was going to prove that ten hours was not there. But
it shows that he was not able to do it, because he first swore that he
never read it, and second, that he would not have signed it if he had.
Good by, Mr. Shaw. That is all there is as to that matter. The Court
will understand I am going now upon what is in the indictment, and not
what has been thrown in from the outside.

The Court. I understand that.

Mr. Ingersoll. I am going according to the strict letter of this
indictment. I am holding these gentlemen to the law. That is what the
law is for. You cannot come into this court and throw seven or eight
cords of paper at a man and say, "You are guilty." They have managed
this case after that fashion, but I propose to bring them back to the
law.

Route 35051. First. Signing, sending and filing false petitions. When?
August 2, 1879. There is no evidence of any petitions being filed on
that day—none whatever. The only thing near it is a letter of Frederick
Billings, on record, page 1217. This letter was dated July 31, 1879.
Under the charge of signing, sending and filing false petitions, the
only evidence is that a man by the name of Billings wrote a letter, and
there is not the slightest testimony to show that a solitary word in
that letter was false—not one. Nothing to connect it with Mr. Billings;
no evidence that he ever spoke to him on the subject; no evidence that
Billings knew who was carrying the mail; no evidence that he ever knew
or did a thing except to write that letter, and he was interested, I
believe, in the Northern Pacific railroad. Now, that is everything there
is there; that is all there is in that case. Nobody has tried to show
that the letter of Billings was not true.

What else? A fraudulent order of August, 1879. Who made it? The
indictment says Brady made it. The evidence says it was signed by
French, and it was in accordance with Billings' letter. Is there any
fraud now in that route? Let us be honest. False petitions: Not one
filed. False oath: Not one attacked. Simply a letter that we did not
write, and that there is no evidence that we ever asked to have written.
That is the end of that. But they cannot even get the letter in,
gentlemen. They did not describe it right.

The next route is 40104. Overfacts: First. Fraudulently filing a
subcontract. That you cannot do. When did we file it? July. 23, 1879,
the indictment says. What does the evidence say? May 8, 1879. First,
we could not commit the offence; secondly, you could not prove it under
this description.

Second. Filing a false oath. When did we file it? July 23. That is what
the indictment says. What does the evidence say? November 26, 1878.
A fatal variance. See record, page 1305. That is the end of that. The
indictment is for something. You have got to follow it, and it certainly
is not as hard work to write an offence against a man as it is to prove
it. If they cannot write an offence, you certainly ought not to find the
man guilty. Besides all that, that oath was not even impeached, it was
not ever attacked. There was not a word said upon the subject except in
the indictment. It was charged to be false, and not one word of evidence
was offered to this jury to show that it was false.

Third. An alleged fraudulent order of increase by Brady, July 23, 1879.
Brady never signed any such order. It was signed by French. That is the
end of it, no matter whether it was good or bad, honest or dishonest.
That is the end of it, and yet there is not a particle of evidence to
show that it was dishonest, but you must hold them to their own case as
they have written it, and not as they wish it was now.

Fourth. A fraudulent order of April 10, 1880, allowing one month's
extra pay on the service reduced. This order was not even proved by the
Government. As a matter of fact, it was not offered by the Government;
and if it had been offered, and if it had been proved, it would have
only established the fact that Mr. Brady acted in accordance with law.

Now, we come to some more. 44160. First, filing false petitions. When
did we file them? July 16, 1880. The proof is that they were filed long
before that time The proof is that Peck, Dorsey and Rerdell had nothing
to do with this route after the 1st of April, 1879, and the petition
claimed to be signed by Utah people and claimed to be fraudulent in the
petition marked 19 Q. It was filed on the 7th day of May, 1879.

That is a fatal variance. This indictment charges it was filed July 16,
1880. The petition cannot be considered.

There is another petition marked 20 Q, claimed to have been written by
Miner, upon which the name of Hall is said to have been forged. It has
no file mark whatever, and consequently cannot be the petition referred
to in the indictment. That was filed. That, however, has been explained
by General Henkle fully. This petition was identified by McBean, and was
signed by him, and he recognized the signatures of many of the citizens
of Canyon City. Mr. Merrick admitted that the petition, 19 Q, was
never acted upon. As a matter of fact, orders had been made before the
petition was received, which shows conclusively that they were not acted
upon. The petition marked 20 Q, to which Hall's name was, as is claimed,
forged, was never filed, and was consequently never acted upon. This
charge stands as follows: Two petitions, one being filed May 17, 1879—a
fatal variance—and the other not filed—another fatal variance. These
petitions are both described as having been filed July 16, 1880. The
variance is absolutely fatal, and these petitions cannot be considered.
Besides, the order was made before the petition 19 Q was filed.

Second. The fraudulent order by Brady for increase of trips, July 16,
1880. The only objection to this route is that the expedition was
made before service was put on. This was in the power of the
Postmaster-General. It has been done many times, and is still being done
by the Postoffice Department, and the fact that it was done in this case
does not even tend to show that any fraud was committed or intended.
That is all there is in that case. The petitions were never acted
upon. One was never filed, and the other is not described, or rather is
misdescribed.

Route 48150. Overt Acts: A fraudulent order by Brady reducing service to
three trips a week, and allowing a month's pay on service dispensed with
July 26, 1880. This point, gentlemen, I have already argued.

Whenever the Post-Office Department dispenses with any service it is
bound to give one month's extra pay any time after the contract has been
made and any time after the bid has been accepted. It is bound to give
the month's extra pay on the service dispensed with, and this question,
as you heard me say a little while ago, has been decided by the Supreme
Court in Garfield's case. This route was operated by Sanderson. He was
the subcontractor, and, according to the subcontract filed and presented
here in evidence, he received every cent of the pay. We could have had
no interest in perpetrating any fraud upon that route. Why? Because
another man, J. L. Sanderson, received every dollar, and we not one
cent.

Another fraudulent order of increase, August 24, from Powderhorn to
Barnum, seven miles. No fraud was shown, but the order in fact, was
made for the benefit of Sanderson and not for the benefit of any of the
defendants in this case. In other words, it was made for the benefit
of the people, it was made because they wished to reach another
post-office.

Another charge is that the subcontract made by Sanderson was filed
September 18, 1878. Recollect the charge is about filing this
subcontract. The fact is it was filed in 1878 to take effect from July
1, 1878. See record, page 1406. On this very route the subcontract took
effect the 1st of July, 1878, with Sanderson, and from that moment until
now he has received every dollar. This route, as a matter of fact, is
out of the scheme. Sanderson carried the mail from the 1st of July,
1878, until the end of that contract, the last day of June, 1882. So
much for that route. It is gone. Nobody can get it back, either, in this
scheme.

Route 40113. Overt Acts: Filing of a false oath. When? June 3, 1879.
When was it filed? May 7, 1879. That oath is gone. Was it false? They
did not attack it. They never impeached it. Good.

Second. False petitions filed. When? June 3, 1879. All the petitions
were filed prior to May 10, 1879. They are gone. One was filed May 23,
but none was filed as alleged on June 3. They are gone. A magnificently
written instrument. A fatal variance as to every petition. And yet not a
solitary petition was attacked. Every petition was genuine and honest.

Third. A fraudulent order by Brady for increase and expedition. This
order was asked for by the petitions. No fraud was established. See
record, page 1503 on this route; also page 2159.

Fourth. They also charge that Brady made a fraudulent order on the 4th
of January, 1881. But the Government never proved that order, never
offered any order of that date. That is the end of that order.

Fifth. A fraudulent order of February 11, 1881. This was not offered by
the Government, and no evidence was offered as to the existence of the
order, neither the jacket, nor the order, nor the petitions, so far as
I can find. That is the end of that. Every overt act so far, except
some of the orders, wrong. The overt acts charged were filing fraudulent
petitions. When? May 23, 1879. These are the petitions said to have been
gotten up by Wilcox. Mr. Wilcox was a Government witness and he swore
that every petition was honest, that every name was genuine, and that in
order to get the names he did not circulate a falsehood, he circulated
only the truth. To use his own language, "I did only straightforward,
honest work." That is all there is on that.

44140 is the number of this route, and this evidence is on record, page
1568, and in regard to getting up these petitions you will recollect the
language used by the Court. His Honor said in effect clearly, "Every man
carrying the mail has the right to take care of his business. He has the
right to get up petitions. He has the right to call the attention of the
people to what he supposes to be their needs in that regard. He has
the right to do it; and the fact that he does it is not the slightest
evidence that he has conspired with any human being." Deny me the
right to attend to my own affairs? If I have taken the route from
the Government, and contract to carry the mail, tell me that I cannot
suggest to my fellow-citizens that they ought to have a daily mail
instead of a weekly? Tell me that I have not the right to talk it on the
corners, in every postoffice for which I start, and that if I do I am
liable to be pursued and convicted of an infamous offence? Every man has
the right to attend to his own affairs, and he has the right to get all
the people he can to help him. He has no right to go around lying about
it, but he has the right to call their attention to the facts the same
as you would have the right to get a road by your house; just exactly
the same as you would have the right to get a school-house built in
your district, no matter if you were to have the contract for making the
brick. You have a right to say what you please in favor of education,
no matter if you are an architect and expect to be employed to build the
schoolhouse, and any other doctrine is infinitely absurd.

There is another charge: That a false oath was filed on the 24th of May.
The affidavit was made by Mr. Peck, and I believe it has been admitted
that Mr. Peck never did anything wrong. Then there is alleged to be a
fraudulent order for increase, signed June 26, and they never introduced
the slightest evidence tending to show that there was fraud in the
order. It was made in accordance with the petitions. It was made in
accordance with what we believed to be the policy of the Post-Office
Department. And allow me to say to your Honor that I think that the
general policy of the Post-Office Department, as disclosed in the
documents that have been presented in the reports made to Congress that
have become a part of this case, I think even from that evidence I have
the right to draw an inference as to what the policy of the department
was.

The Court. I have no doubt in the world as to the views of the
Post-Office Department in regard to that subject. The Court refused to
receive evidence on that subject in defence, for the simple reason that
the Court was of opinion that no Second Assistant Postmaster-General
had the authority to establish any policy for this Government or for any
branch of this Government. The policy of the Government is to be found
in its laws, and the Court was unwilling to allow a Second Assistant
Postmaster-General to set up his policy in his defence against a charge
in this court. He had no right to have a policy.

Mr. Ingersoll. We never set up the policy of the Second Assistant. We
never asked to be allowed to prove the policy of the Second Assistant.
We never imagined it, nor dreamed of it, nor heard of it until this
moment. What we wanted to show was the policy, not of the Second
Assistant, but of the Postmaster-General. But I am not speaking now upon
that branch.

The Court. The Postmaster-General by law is the head of the department
of course. But several assistants were given him by law, and he had the
authority to apportion out the business of the department amongst those
several assistants. The particular business of the department pertaining
to the increase of service and expedition of routes belonged under this
apportionment to the Second Assistant Postmaster-General. His acts,
therefore, are to be looked to.

Mr. Ingersoll. I do not claim, if the Court please, that his policy had
anything to do with it. I simply claim that from the orders that have
been introduced, not of the Second Assistant, from the books that have
been introduced, showing the views of the Postmaster-General, not of
the Second Assistant. I also admit that if the Postmaster-General had
ordered by direct order the Second Assistant Postmaster-General to
expedite every one of these routes, even then there could have been such
a thing as a conspiracy to expedite them too greatly, and to receive
money from every man for whom they were expedited. I understand that.
But in the absence of any proof that it is so, all I have ever insisted
was that the general policy of the head of the department might be
followed by any subordinate officer without laying himself open to the
charge that he had been purchased. That is all.

Now, gentlemen, all these things had been asked. They had been earnestly
solicited by hundreds of Congressmen, by Senators, by Judges, by
Governors, by Cabinet officers and by hundreds and hundreds of citizens.

Now, let me recapitulate all the overt acts—and I have gone over
them all now excepting one, and I will come to that presently. In the
indictment there are twelve charges as to filing false petitions.
There are ten charges as to false oaths. There are seven charges as to
fraudulently filing subcontracts; and the evidence is that the ten oaths
are substantially true; that it is impossible to fraudulently file
a subcontract; and as to the petitions, that every one is absolutely
genuine and honest with the exception of three. They prove that the
words "schedule, thirteen hours," were inserted; that is, they tried to
prove that by Mr. Blois, who is an expert on handwriting, as has been
demonstrated to you. One with thirteen hours inserted in it, and the
very next paragraph in that same petition begs for faster time. I have
not the slightest idea that that ever was inserted by anybody. I believe
it was in there when it was signed. And why? There would have teen,
there could have been, there can be, no earthly reason for inserting
those words. You cannot imagine a reason for it.

Now, that is thirteen hours. Then there is another one they say had some
names of persons living in Utah, and we say that that is not described
properly; not only that, but that it was never acted upon, and in my
judgment that whole thing is a mistake and not a crime, because there
were plenty of petitions without that. There was no need of it. All the
other petitions have either been proved, or have been admitted to be
absolutely genuine.

Now, I have gone over every overt act except payments, and when it was
said here in court, or when the objection was made to these being proved
as overt acts, the Court will remember that again and again and again,
the prosecution denied that they were offered as overt acts.

The Court. I never understood them as being offered as overt acts.

Mr. Ingersoll. At that time the Court made just the remark that your
Honor has made now. He said: "But what are the payments?" Now, I will
take up the payments, and we will see whether there are any overt acts
in the payments, gentlemen.

Now, let me call your attention to that magnificent rule that has been
laid down by the Court. When you describe an offence you are held by
the description. When it is said that I made a false claim against
the Government in a conspiracy case, for instance, that I conspired to
defraud the Government, that I presented a false claim, it may be that
the laxity or lenity of pleading might go the extent of saying that
the pleader need not state the amount of that false claim, but if the
pleader does state the amount of that false claim he is bound by that
statement. Now, that is my doctrine.

The Court. What I understood in regard to the evidence of the payments
is this: The charge was a conspiracy to defraud and the averment was
that the fraud had been completed, and this evidence of payments was to
show that the fraud had been carried out.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is all. Now, let us see if this can be tortured into
an overt act. I now come to the presentation of false claims charged
to have been presented and collected by these defendants. It is a short
business. On the route from Kearney to Kent the charge is that Peck
and Vaile presented false claims on the third quarter of 1879 for five
hundred and fifty dollars and seventy-two cents. The entire pay for that
quarter, three trips and expedition, was seven hundred and ninety-five
dollars and seventy-eight cents. And there is no charge that the
increase of trips was fraudulent. Only the expedition was attacked. The
three trips, according to the old schedule price, came to seven hundred
and thirty-five dollars and eighty-one cents, all of which was honestly
carried, honestly earned. Now, deducting from the pay seven hundred and
ninety-five dollars and seventy-eight cents, the amount of the three
trips on the old schedule honestly performed, seven hundred and
thirty-five dollars and eighteen cents, if the expedition was
fraudulent, we have a fraudulent claim of sixty dollars and sixteen
cents. And yet the Government charges that we made a claim of five
hundred and fifty dollars and seventy-two cents. Not one cent is allowed
for carrying the two additional trips without expedition.

There is another trouble about this. It is charged that Peck and Vaile
presented this claim for their benefit. The record, page 386, shows that
Peck did not present this claim; that it was presented by H. M. Vaile;
that H. M. Vaile received the warrant for the full amount; that he
held a subcontract at that time for every dollar. This is another fatal
variance, and the evidence of Vaile is that every dollar belonged to
him; that not a dollar of that money was ever paid to any other one of
the defendants; that he paid all the expenses; that he paid the debts,
and that there never went a solitary cent to any Government official. So
much for that payment.

The next charge is that on route 41119, from Toquerville to Adairville,
Peck presented a false claim for the third quarter of 1879 for two
thousand four hundred and sixty dollars and fourteen cents. The pay for
that quarter was three thousand six hundred and twenty-eight dollars
and fourteen cents for seven trips and expedition. The pay for the three
trips on the old schedule was eight hundred and seventy-six dollars,
a difference of two thousand seven hundred and fifty-two dollars and
fourteen cents. And yet the Government charges that the false claim
presented was two thousand four hundred and sixty dollars and fourteen
cents. If they give the figures they must give them correctly. If I am
charged with presenting a claim against the Government for two thousand
four hundred and sixty dollars, that is not substantiated by showing
that I presented a claim for two thousand seven hundred dollars. If you
give the figures you must stand by the figures, and you are bound by
them. You cannot charge one thing and prove something else. This is a
fatal variance.

In addition to this fact, we find the deductions for failures in that
very quarter amounted to five hundred and forty dollars and forty-two
cents, and this deducted from the other amount leaves two thousand, two
hundred and eleven dollars and seventy-two cents. So that in both
cases the variance is absolutely fatal. I am showing you these things,
gentlemen, so that you may see that there is in this case no evidence to
fit the charges in this indictment.

44140, Eugene City to Bridge Creek. It is charged that Peck and Dorsey
presented a false account for the third quarter of 1879 for four
thousand seven hundred and eighty-three dollars and ninety-nine cents.
The pay for three trips with expedition was four thousand, six hundred
and eighty-nine dollars and twenty-two cents; the pay for one trip on
the old schedule was six hundred and seventeen dollars, a difference
of four thousand and seventy-two dollars and twenty-two cents. The
Government says the difference was four thousand seven hundred and
eighty-three dollars and ninety-nine cents, an absolutely fatal
variance.

Now, as a matter of fact, there were deductions in that quarter of one
thousand nine hundred and thirty-two dollars and eighty-three cents,
and this is deducted from the entire pay, leaving only as a claim three
thousand seven hundred and sixty-six dollars and thirty-nine cents.
And yet the Government charges that we presented a false claim for four
thousand seven hundred and eighty-three dollars and forty-nine cents. It
will not do. It is a fatal variance. But when we take into consideration
that there is no claim that the increase of trips was fraudulent,
only the expedition, and that by the old schedule one trip came to six
hundred and seventeen dollars, that three trips came to one thousand
eight hundred and fifty-one dollars, and that added to deductions
would make three thousand seven hundred and seventy-three dollars and
eighty-three cents, to be deducted from four thousand six hundred and
eighty-nine dollars and twenty-two cents, it would leave as a fraudulent
claim, even if their claim was true, nine hundred and fifteen dollars
and thirty-nine cents.

Now, the next is 44155, The Dalles to Baker City. The false claim was
eight thousand eight hundred and ninety-six dollars, by Peck. The pay
per quarter was sixteen thousand six hundred and sixty-six dollars and
nine cents. The pay for three trips and expedition was seven thousand
seven hundred and seventy dollars—a difference of eight thousand
eight hundred and ninety-six dollars and nine cents. But there were
deductions, ninety-nine dollars and thirty-four cents, leaving eight
thousand seven hundred and ninety-six dollars and seventy-five cents.
But by making this claim the Government concedes that the expedition was
legal, and another trouble is that the payment on this route was made
to Vaile, not to Peck or Miner. It was made to Vaile, who was the
subcontractor for the full amount, and this is another fatal variance.

Now, route 46132, Julian to Colton. The charge is that Peck and Vaile
presented a fraudulent claim for the third quarter of 1879, for one
thousand six hundred and fifty seven dollars and seventy-one cents.
The pay for three trips and expedition is one thousand nine hundred and
fifty-four dollars and seventy-one cents. For three trips on the old
schedule it was eight hundred and ninety-one dollars, a difference of
one thousand and sixty-three dollars and seventy-three cents. A fatal
variance. Besides it was not Peck and Vaile. Vaile was the subcontractor
at full rates on this route. He presented the claim. He received
the entire pay. Another variance. Route 44160, Canyon City to Camp
McDermitt. The charge is that Peck and Vaile presented a false account
for the fourth quarter of 1879, for eleven thousand eight hundred and
nineteen dollars and sixty-six cents. It is charged in the indictment
that this was paid in pursuance of the order set out in the indictment,
and we find on page sixty-four that the order was dated July 16, 1880.
That was the order. No such payment was made in pursuance of that order
for the reason that an order was made nearly a year afterwards, and
the order of July 16, 1880, as set out in the indictment, was not
retrospective, a fatal mistake in their indictment. As a matter of fact,
the pay for the fourth quarter of 1879 was five thousand three hundred
and seventy-five dollars. There were deductions to the amount of three
hundred and fifty-two dollars and seventy-two cents and the balance was
five thousand and twenty-two dollars and twenty-eight cents, instead of
eleven thousand eight hundred and nineteen dollars and sixty-six cents.
And this was paid to Vaile, who was a subcontractor at full rates, and
the variance in the case is absurd and fatal.

Route 46247, Redding to Alturas. The charge is that Peck and Dorsey
filed a fraudulent account for the third quarter of 1879 for seven
thousand four hundred and eighty-five dollars and six cents. This was in
pursuance of the order set out in the indictment, and the only order set
out in the indictment is dated February 11, 1881. That is another fatal
variance.

The next route is 35051, Bismarck to Miles City. The charge is that
Miner and Vaile presented a false account for the fourth quarter of
1879, for fourteen thousand one hundred. The pay for the quarter for six
trips was seventeen thousand five hundred dollars. For three trips
under the old order the pay was eight thousand seven hundred and fifty
dollars, leaving eight thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars as the
outside sum that could have been fraudulent, and yet the Government
charges fourteen thousand one hundred dollars, an absolutely fatal
variance. Besides that, there were deductions in that very quarter of
four thousand five hundred and three dollars. This amount deducted from
eight thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars leaves four thousand two
hundred and fifty-six dollars and eleven cents as the greatest amount
that could by any possibility have been fraudulent.

Three routes are lumped together next in the indictment, 38134, 38135,
38140, 38134, Pueblo to Rosita; 38135, Pueblo to Greenhorn; and 38,140,
Trinidad to Madison.

The charge here is on page eighty-one of the indictment that Miner
presented a fraudulent account for the fourth quarter of 1879 on routes
amounting to two thousand seven hundred and seventy-six dollars and
forty-seven cents.

The greatest possible difference that could be made on route 38135 is
seven hundred and sixty-seven dollars and twenty cents. The greatest
difference that could be made on route 38134 is one thousand nine
hundred and forty dollars.

The greatest difference that could be made on route 38140 is six hundred
and eighty-nine dollars and fifty-one cents. These three differences
added together do not make what is charged in the indictment, three
thousand seven hundred and seventy-six dollars and forty-seven cents,
but as a matter of fact they amount to three thousand three hundred and
ninety-six dollars and seventy-one cents. This cannot be the fraudulent
claim described in the indictment.

But I find that on the first route there was a reduction of twelve
dollars and sixty cents, on the second route of one hundred and
fifty-four dollars and thirty-eight cents, and on the third of
thirty-eight dollars and two cents, and these deductions added together
make two hundred and five dollars and ninety cents, and deducted from
the three thousand three hundred and ninety-six dollars and seventy-one
cents leaves three thousand one hundred and ninety dollars and
eighty-one cents. And yet the Government charges that the fraudulent
claim was two thousand seven hundred and seventy-six dollars and
forty-seven cents. It is impossible that the amount of the claim said
to be fraudulent by the Government can be correct; but, as a matter of
fact, according to the evidence, there was no fraud upon any claim in
that route.

The next is route 38150, Saguache to Lake City. The charge is that Miner
presented a false account for two thousand two hundred and two dollars
and seventy-seven cents, and that he did this in pursuance of the order
set out in the indictment, and the only order set out is dated August
24, 1880. That is an absolutely fatal variance. As a matter of fact,
Sanderson was a subcontractor on this route from July 1, 1878, at
full rates, and he carried the mail from July 1, 1878. The route was
expedited on his oath and for his benefit. No point was made during
the trial that the oath was not true. And the pay was calculated upon
Sanderson's oath, and the money paid to him. The only claim is that
there was an error in the order of four thousand five hundred and
sixty-eight dollars per year, and it is admitted that the mistake was
afterwards corrected and the money refunded. You remember it, gentlemen.
Mr. Turner, in making up the account showing how much the expedition
would come to—and you understand the way in which they make up that
expedition—made a mistake and added to the expedition and the then
schedule the amount of the then schedule, four thousand and odd dollars.
He made the mistake and it was honestly made. No man would dishonestly
do it because it was so easy of detection, and that was his only fault,
gentlemen. The only crime he ever committed in this case was to make
that mistake. That mistake was afterwards discovered, and the money was
paid back by Mr. Sanderson; and, yet, that man has been indicted, has
been taken from his home charged with a crime. He has been pursued as
though he were a wild beast. He made one mistake. They could not prove
the slightest thing against him. There was no evidence touching him.
There was only one way for them, and that was to dismiss him with an
insult. You remember the case. Not one thing against that man—not one
single thing. He stands as clear of any charge in this indictment as any
one upon this jury. He is an honest man. It is admitted now there was no
conspiracy on this route either. It is Sanderson's route, not ours. Not
only that, but the Government says that it was not one of the routes
with which Vaile had anything to do, or in which Vaile had any possible
interest. The failure here is fatal to the indictment, and I shall
endeavor to show that it is fatal to the entire case.

The next route is 35105, Vermillion to Sioux Falls. It is charged that
Vaile and Dorsey presented a false account for the third quarter of
1879, for eight hundred and eighty-one dollars and fourteen cents.
The pay for six trips and expedition was one thousand and eighty-five
dollars and fifty-eight cents. The pay for two trips on the old schedule
was two hundred and four dollars and forty-four cents, showing a balance
for once, as stated in the indictment—it being the only time—of eight
hundred and eighty-one dollars and fourteen cents.

Parties are entitled to pay for the extra trips, and the number of
men and horses has nothing to do with the value of an extra trip.
You understand that. If I agree to carry the mail once a week for five
thousand dollars a quarter, and you wanted me to carry it twice a week,
then I get ten thousand dollars a quarter, no matter if I do it with the
same horses and the same men. That is not the Government's business.
You all understand that, do you not? Every time you increase a trip you
increase the pay to the exact extent of that trip, no matter whether it
takes more horses or not. If I agree to carry the mail once a month for
five thousand dollars a year, and you want me to carry it once a week
I am entitled to twenty thousand dollars, no matter if I do it with
all the same men and same horses. It is nobody's business. But, if the
Government wants the mail carried faster, then I am entitled to pay
according to the men and animals required at a more rapid rate. You all
understand that. But as a matter of fact, upon this route, Vaile was
the subcontractor at full rates, was so recognized by the Government and
received every dollar himself, and, consequently, the charge that it
was paid to John W. Dorsey is not true, and is a fatal variance. The
Government proved it was paid to Vaile.

Next we have two routes, 38145, Ojo Caliente to Parrot City, and
38156, Silverton to Parrot City. These routes are put together in the
indictment. It is charged that a false account was presented of six
thousand and four dollars and seventeen cents, and that this was done in
pursuance of an order set out in the indictment. The order set out is on
page forty-seven. It is in relation to route 38145. The order was made
not in relation to the other route. No order as to the other route was
made. This was made February 26, 1881, consequently the claim presented
for the third quarter of 1879 could not by any possibility have been in
pursuance of that order. That order was made in 1881. The payment for
the third quarter of 1879 could not by any possibility have been made in
pursuance of that order. The evidence shows that it was paid before, and
consequently there is a fatal variance.

Routes 40104, Mineral Park to Pioche, and 40113, Wilcox to Clifton—two
routes put together. The charge is a fraudulent presentation for the
third quarter of 1879, of seven thousand and sixty-four dollars and
seventy-two cents. The pay on the first route was ten thousand five
hundred and three dollars and sixty-two cents, on the second route
three thousand five hundred and twenty-eight dollars. No proof has been
offered that the expedition was fraudulent. Not a witness was called on
route 40113. Not a solitary petition was objected to, the truth of no
oath was called in question, the honesty of no order was attacked, and
how can you say that the claim was fraudulent? No order attacked, no
oath questioned, no petition impeached. The only evidence upon these two
routes was something read in regard to productiveness and the size of
the mail, and that is all.

Route 38113, Rawlins to White River. The charge is that John W. Dorsey
and Rerdell presented a false account for the third quarter of 1879 for
two thousand nine hundred and seventy-five dollars. The order set out
in the indictment was made March 8, 1881, consequently the variance is
absolutely fatal, and there is no allegation in the indictment that the
expedition was fraudulent.

Now I have gone through every route with the payments. As to the general
allegation of the amount of money fraudulently claimed and received, the
allegation in the indictment is that J. W. Dorsey received, by virtue of
these fraudulent orders, made in pursuance of the conspiracy, brought
to perfection by these overt acts, for the year ending the 30th day
of June, 1880, one hundred and twenty-four thousand five hundred and
ninety-one dollars. Good. The evidence shows that there was paid on
the seven Dorsey routes in all sixty-two thousand eight hundred and
thirty-one dollars and forty-six cents. That is fatal as to that.

But we will go further. One of these routes was turned over to Vaile by
Dorsey, route 35015, and the amount paid to Vaile was two thousand eight
hundred and thirty-seven dollars and sixteen cents. So that the amount
paid on the Dorsey routes, instead of being one hundred and twenty-four
thousand five hundred and ninety-one dollars, was in truth and in fact
fifty-eight thousand nine hundred and ninety-four dollars and thirty
cents.

Now, the charge is that this was all received by John W. Dorsey, whereas
the evidence shows that John W. Dorsey received three warrants, two for
eighty-seven dollars each, both of which were recouped, and one warrant
for three hundred and ninety-two dollars, and that is every cent he
ever received, according to the evidence in this case. There is what
you might call a discrepancy. The indictment says he got one hundred and
twenty-four thousand five hundred and ninety-one dollars. The evidence
shows that he got three hundred and ninety-two dollars and not another
copper. I shall insist that that is a variance. If it is not a variance,
I will take my oath it is a difference.

The second claim is that John R. Miner received upon the routes awarded
to him, and claimed to be his in the indictment, ninety-three thousand
and sixty-seven dollars for the fiscal year ending June 30, 1880. The
evidence is that as a matter of fact on all these routes the money was
paid to assignees and subcontractors, and that John R. Miner as a fact,
received not one cent from the Government.

The third charge is that Peck received for the same fiscal year one
hundred and eight-seven thousand four hundred and thirty-eight
dollars. The evidence shows that he received nothing. There is another
difference. Thus it will be seen that every link in the chain in this
indictment is either a mistake or a falsehood. Every other one is a
mistake and then every other one is a falsehood, and this indictment was
made by adding mistakes to falsehoods, and what the indictment weaves
the evidence reveals.

Now, why were these dates put in this indictment, gentlemen? We have now
gone over every overt act charged in this indictment. The result is that
not one of the charges set forth has really been sustained. Hereafter I
will notice some things that have been proved outside of the indictment.
Nearly every petition and letter is admitted to have been honest
and genuine. Those that have been attacked were misdescribed in the
indictment and the evidence has shown that they were substantially true.
There is a fatal variance between the allegation and the proof so far
as these charges in the indictment are concerned, and they are left
absolutely without a prop. The dates attached to the overt acts are
false. There is only one of the routes in which the petitions are
properly described, and that is route 44140, where the petitions are
alleged to have been and were filed on the 23d of May, and every one was
proved to have been genuine and honest. The dates in the indictment were
false. Now, why? Let me tell you, gentlemen. They had to deceive the
grand jury. It would not do to tell the grand jury these men conspired
on the 23d of May, and in pursuance to that conspiracy filed some
affidavits on the third day preceding. They had first to deceive the
grand jury and put in false dates for the filing of petitions, for the
filing of subcontracts and for the drawing of money. What else did they
want these false dates for? To deceive the Circuit Court, or rather
the Supreme Court—to deceive his Honor, because if the date of these
petitions, the date of these oaths, had been set forth in the indictment
it would have been bad. The Court would have instantly said, you cannot
prove a conspiracy on the 23d of May by showing acts in April previous.
So these false dates were put in, in the first place, to fool the grand
jury, and in the next place to keep this Court in the dark. It was
necessary to have a good charge on paper, and why? Did they expect to
win this case on that indictment? No; but they could keep it in court
long enough to allow them to attack and malign the character of these
defendants; they could keep it in court long enough to vent their
venom and spleen upon good and honest men, and justify in part the
commencement of this prosecution.

This forenoon I tried to strip the green leaves off the tree of this
indictment. Now I propose to attack the principal limbs and trunk. What
is the scheme of this indictment? I insist that the law is precisely the
same as to the scheme of the conspiracy in its description that it is
as to the description of an overt act. Now, what is the scheme of this
indictment? That is to say, the scheme of this conspiracy? We want to
know what we are doing. It is the great bulwark of human liberty that
the charge against a man must be in writing, and must be truthfully
described.

First. For the defendants, with the exception of the officers Brady
and Turner, to write, and procure the writing of, fraudulent letters,
communications, and applications. Now, let us be honest. Is there the
slightest evidence that a fraudulent letter was ever written? Is there
the slightest evidence that a fraudulent communication was ever sent to
the department? Not the slightest evidence.

Second. To attach to said petitions and applications forged names. Is
there any evidence of that except in one case, and the evidence in that
case is that the order was made before the petition was received and
that the petition was never acted upon. More than that, is there any
evidence as to who forged any names to any petitions? Not the slightest.
Which of these defendants are you going to find guilty upon that
petition when there is not the slightest evidence as to who wrote it?
What next? To have these petitions signed by fictitious names or with
the names of persons not residing upon the routes. Is there any evidence
of that kind? Is there any evidence that the signatures of real persons
were attached, and the real persons did not live upon the routes? I
leave it to you, gentlemen.

Fourth. To make and procure false oaths, declarations, and statements.
Those I shall examine.

Fifth. For William H. Turner falsely to indorse on the back of these
jackets false brief statements of the contents of genuine petitions. You
know what has become of that charge, gentlemen.

This indictment against Turner has been changed into a certificate of
good moral character. That is the end of the indictment, so far as he is
concerned, and I am glad of it. He is a man who fought to keep the
flag of my country in the air, and who lay upon the field of Gettysburg
sixteen days with the lead of the enemy in his body, and I am glad to
have the evidence show that he was not only a patriot, but an honest man
with a spotless reputation. I do not think that, in order to be a great
man, you have got to be as cold as an icicle. I do not think that if you
wish to be like God (if there is one) it is necessary to be heartless.
That is not my judgment. When I find that a man is honest I am glad of
it. When I find that a patriot has been sustained my heart throbs in
unison with his. What is the next? That Brady, for the benefit, gain,
and profit of all the defendants—and I emphasize the word all because
upon that I am going to cite to the court a little law—made fraudulent
orders; that is, for the benefit of Turner, Brady, and everybody else.
Eighth. That he caused these fraudulent orders to be certified to the
Auditor of the Treasury for the Post-Office Department. Ninth. That
Brady refused to enter fines against these contractors when they failed
to perform their service; that he fraudulently refused to impose these
fines. What is the evidence? The evidence is that the whole amount of
fines imposed by Brady was one hundred and twenty-six thousand eight
hundred and sixty-five dollars and eighty cents. That evidence is
given in support of the charge that he refused to impose them, yet the
imposition amounts to one hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars.
How much of that vast sum did he relieve the contractors from upon the
evidence? Twenty-three thousand dollars, leaving standing of fines
that were paid, one hundred and three thousand six hundred and seventy
dollars and twelve cents. That evidence is offered to show that he
conspired not to impose the fines. One hundred and twenty-six thousand
dollars imposed in fines, and only twenty-three thousand dollars
remitted. Yet the charge was, and an argument has been made upon it
before this jury, that the contractors agreed that he was to have fifty
per cent, of all fines that he took off. Think of a man making that
contract with aman having power to impose the fines. "Now, all you will
take off I will give you fifty per cent. of." There is an old story that
a friend of a man who was bitten by a dog said to him, "If you will take
some bread and sop it in the blood and give it to the dog it will cure
the bite." "Yes," he says; "but, my God, suppose the other dogs should
hear of it?" Think of putting yourself in the power of a man who has
the right to fine you. And yet that is a part of the logic of this
prosecution. The next charge is of fraudulently cutting off service and
then fraudulently starting it and allowing a month's extra pay. That
happened, I believe, in two cases—thirty dollars in one case and
something more in the other.

The Court. Thirty-nine dollars.

Mr. Ingersoll. Then the case is nine dollars better than I thought.
Twelfth. By the defendants fraudulently filing, subcontracts. That I
have already shown is an impossible offence. All these things were done
for the purpose of deceiving the Postmaster-General. Now, the Court
has already intimated that we have no right to say that the
Postmaster-General would be a good witness to show whether he was
deceived or not, and that it may be that his eyes were sealed so tightly
that he has not got them open yet. But whether they can prove it by him
or by somebody else they have got to prove it in order to make out this
case.

That is the scheme of this indictment. It makes no difference whether
the Postmaster-General has found out that he was deceived or not. The
jury have got to find it out before they find a verdict against the
defendants. It is possible that the Postmaster-General thinks he was not
deceived or that he was; I do not know what his opinion is and do not
care. They have got to prove it by somebody. I do not say they can prove
it by him. I do not know. This is the scheme, and what I insist is that
this scheme must be substantiated and must be proved precisely as it has
been laid without the variation of a hair. You must prove it as you
have charged it, and you must charge it as you prove it. It is simply a
double statement. I wish to submit some authorities to the Court upon
this question: Must the exact scheme be proved? First, I will refer the
court to the tenth edition of Starkie, page 627. * * *

"It is a most general rule that no allegation which is descriptive of
the identity of that which is legally essential to the claim or charge
can ever be rejected. * * * As an absolute and natural identity of
the claim or charge alleged with that proved consists in the agreement
between them in all particulars, so their legal identity consists in
their agreement in all the particulars legally essential to support the
charge or claim, and the identity of those particulars depends wholly
upon the proof of the allegation and circumstances by which they are
ascertained, limited and described."

No matter whether the description was necessary or unnecessary:

"To reject any allegation descriptive of that which is essential to a
charge or a claim would obviously tend to mislead the adversary. * * *
It seems, indeed, to be a universal rule that a plaintiff or prosecutor
shall in no case be allowed to transgress those limits which in point
of description, limitation, and extent he has prescribed for himself; he
selects his own terms in order to express the nature and extent of his
charge or claim, he cannot therefore justly complain that he is limited
by them. * * * As no allegation therefore which is descriptive of any
fact or matter which is legally essential to the claim or charge can
be rejected altogether, inasmuch as the variance destroys the legal
identity of the claim or charge alleged with that which is proved, upon
the same principle no allegation can be proved partially in respect to
the extent or magnitude where the precise extent or magnitude is in its
nature descriptive of the charge or claim."

Nothing can be plainer than that. I refer also to Starkie on Evidence,
7th American edition, vol. 1, page 442. There he says:

"In the next place it is clear that no averment of any matter essential
to the claim or charge can ever be rejected, and this position extends
to all allegations which operate by way of description or limitation of
that which is material."

I also cite Russell on Crimes, 9th American edition, vol. 3, page 305,
and Roscoe's Criminal Evidence, 7th edition, page 86.

I now call the attention of the Court to the case of Rex vs. Pollman and
others, 2 Campbell, 239. I may say before reading this decision that,
in my judgment, so far as the scheme of this indictment is concerned, it
should end this case:

"This was an indictment against the defendants which charged that they
unlawfully and corruptly did meet, combine, conspire, consult, consent
and agree among themselves and together, with divers other evil-disposed
persons, to the jurors unknown, unlawfully and corruptly to procure,
obtain, receive, have and take, namely, to the use of them, the said F.
P., J. K. and S. H., and of certain other persons to the jurors likewise
unknown, large sums of money, namely, the sum of two thousand pounds,
as a compensation and reward for an appointment to be made by the lord's
commissioners of the treasury of our lord the king of some person to a
certain office, touching and concerning His Majesty's customs, to wit,
the office of a coast waiter in the port of London, through the corrupt
means and procurement of them, the said F. P., J. K. and S. H., and of
certain other persons to the jurors unknown, the said office then and
there being an office of public trust, touching the landing and shipping
coastwise of divers goods liable to certain duties of custom."

The indictment went on and stated various overt acts in furtherance of
the conspiracy.

"There were several other counts which all laid the conspiracy in the
same way."

Now I come to the part of the case which, in my judgment, affects this:

"It appears that the defendants Pollman, Keylock and Harvey had entered
into a negotiation with one Hesse to procure him the office mentioned in
the indictment for the sum of two thousand pounds, which they had
agreed to share among themselves in certain stipulated proportions; but
although this money was lodged at the banking house of Steyks, Snaith &
Co, in which the defendant Watson was a partner, and he knew it was to
be paid to Pollman and Keylock upon Hesse's appointment, there was no
evidence to show that he knew that Sarah Harvey was to have a part of
it, or that she was at all implicated in the transaction."

He was a co-conspirator, and he knew that the money was to be deposited
at this place.

He knew that, but he did not know that Sarah Harvey was to have a part
of it.

"Lord Ellenborough threw out a doubt whether as to Watson the indictment
was supported by the evidence."

The evidence being that Watson did not know that it was to be divided in
the precise way stated in the indictment. Manifestly, they need not have
stated in the indictment how it was to be divided; but having stated it,
the question is: Are they bound by the statement? Let us see:

"The attorney-general contended that the words in italics coming under
a _videlicet_ might be entirely rejected. The sense would be complete
without them. The indictment would then run that the defendants
conspired together to obtain a large sum of money as a consideration
and reward for appointment to be made by the lord's commissioners of the
treasury. This was the corpus delicti. The use to which the money might
be applied was wholly immaterial. The offence of conspiring together
would be complete however the money might be disposed of."

True.

"There was no occasion to state this, and the averment might be treated
as surplusage. Suppose the manner in which the money was to be disposed
of had been unknown. Would it have been impossible to convict those
engaged in the conspiracy? But, without rejecting the words, the
variance was immaterial. The charge in the indictment had been
substantially made out as laid.

"Dallas and Walton, of counsel for Watson, denied that the words could
be rejected, though laid under a videlicet, as they were material, and
they were not repugnant to anything that went before. The application
of the money might be of the very essence of the offence. Suppose it had
been obtained for the use of the lords of the treasury, who would make
the appointment: would not this be a much greater crime than if the
money had been obtained for the benefit of a public charity?"

I think that reasoning is bad. I think the crime is exactly the same.

"But if the words were rejected then the variance was more palpable. In
that case, there being no mention of any persons to whose use the money
was obtained, the necessary presumption was that it was obtained to the
use of the defendants themselves."

That is good sense.

"The evidence shows, however, that Watson was to have no part of it,
and that he was utterly ignorant of the manner in which it was to be
distributed.

"Lord Ellenborough. There can be no doubt that the indictment might have
been so drawn as to include Watson in the conspiracy. Even if the manner
the money to be applied was unknown, this might have been stated on the
face of the indictment, and then no evidence of its application would
have been required. The question is, whether the conspiracy as actually
laid be proved by the evidence?"

That is the question: Have they made out a case according to the
scheme of the indictment? Has the conspiracy as laid been proved by the
evidence?

"I think that as to Watson it is not. He is charged with conspiring to
procure this appointment through the medium of Mrs. Harvey, of whose
existence for aught that appears he was utterly ignorant. When a
conspiracy is charged it must be charged truly."

He did not know that Mrs. Harvey was to have a portion of the money, and
yet she was a member of the conspiracy. The evidence showed that she was
to have a portion of it, and Lord Ellenborough says that they did not
prove the charge as laid, and that it cannot include Watson.

"Garrow submitted that it was unnecessary to prove that each of the
defendants knew how the money was to be disposed of, and that it was
enough to show that the destination of the money was as stated in the
indictment. A fact of which all those engaged in the conspiracy must be
taken to be cognizant. Watson by engaging with the other conspirators
to gain the same end, had adopted the means by which the end was to be
accomplished."

That is what the attorney for the Government says. Lord Ellenborough
replies:

"You must prove that all the defendants were cognizant of the object of
the conspiracy and the mode stated in the indictment by which it was
to be carried into effect. A contrary doctrine would be extremely
dangerous. The defendant Watson must be acquitted."

Now let us apply that case to this. In the first place, they must not
only prove this indictment according to the scheme, but they must prove
that every defendant understood that scheme, knew the scheme, how it was
to be accomplished and what was done with the money.

The Court. In that case Watson was acquitted. What was done with the
others?

Mr. Ingersoll. They, of course, were found guilty, because they were
guilty, as the indictment charged. They knew the exact scheme set forth
in the indictment. They were guilty exactly as the indictment said. They
divided the money exactly as the indictment charged they divided
the money, and they were cognizant of every fact set forth in the
indictment. But Watson, although a co-conspirator, did not know what was
to be done with the money, and consequently was to be discharged. Why?
Because they did not prove the conspiracy as to him as charged. They
need not have set forth in the indictment what was to be done with the
money, but they did set it forth, and then they had to prove it. They
need not have said that every man knew what was done with the money,
but they did say that every man knew, and they failed to prove it, and
when they failed to prove it as to Watson he was discharged.

Now, gentlemen of the jury, what I insist upon and what I shall ask the
Court to instruct you is that the Government, no matter how guilty the
defendant may be, no matter if he has robbed this Government of hundreds
of millions, is to be tried by this indictment, is to be guilty of this
charge as written in this indictment and nowhere else; and he has got
to understand it. They say he understood it, and they have got to prove
that he understood it.

Now, upon that same subject they say that the money was to be divided
between all these parties—between Rerdell, Turner and everybody. I
think it was Mr. Bliss who said there was no evidence that Rerdell ever
had any of the money. Certainly they do not think that Turner obtained
any of the money. Is there any evidence of it? Not the slightest. Is
there evidence that there ever was any division, any evidence that
there was ever any money divided upon a solitary route mentioned in this
indictment? Not one particle. If you say there is evidence, when was the
division made?

The Court. The question is not what was done. The question is with what
view the conspiracy was entered into.

Mr. Ingersoll. Certainly.

The Court. 'The object of the conspiracy may have failed, and this money
might not have been divided as they intended, but still the conspiracy
would be here.

Mr. Ingersoll. Good, perfectly. But if they set forth in this indictment
that the money was divided, that statement is not worth a last year's
dead leaf unless they prove it. That is all I insist upon. You cannot
find anybody guilty of charges in an indictment unless you prove them.
Unless you prove them they amount to no more than charges written in
water, than characters engraved on fog or written on clouds. You have
got to prove them.

Now, upon this same point I say that if the scheme has not been
established by the evidence, the case fails, no matter what the proof.
The offence must not only be proved as charged, but it must be charged
as proved, doubling the statement for the sake of doubling the idea of
accuracy. That is in Archibald's Criminal Pleadings, American edition,
page 36. The same thing is held in First Chitty's Criminal Law, 213. I
also refer to the case of King against Walker, 3d Campbell, 264; King
vs. Robinson, 1st Hope's Nisi Prius Reports, 595. I have the books here,
but I will not take up the time of this Court in reading them.

Now, if I am right, that is the language of that indictment. The overt
acts with the leaves are gone; the scheme with the branch and trunk are
gone. They prove no such scheme, they prove no such division.

I will now proceed to examine the alleged evidence against my
clients, Stephen W. and John W. Dorsey, and I want to say right in the
commencement that suspicion is not evidence. You charge that a couple of
persons conspired. That they met about nine o'clock on the shadowy side
of the street.

_A suspicious circumstance_. Why did they not get _under the lamp?_ They
were seen together once more, and the moment a man came up they walked
off. Guilty. They ran. And out of these idiotic suspicions that never
would have entered the mind, except for the reason that the persons were
charged, hundreds of people begin to say, "There is something in it.
They met four or five times. One of them wrote a letter to the other,
and so help me God it was not dated." Another suspicious circumstance.
"There was a heading on the paper. It was not the number of his
office." So they work it up, and ignorance begins to stare, and wonder
to open its mouth, and finally prejudice finds a verdict.

Suspicion, gentlemen, is not evidence. You want to go at this with this
idea. Whatever a man does, the presumption is it is an honest act until
the contrary is shown. These men wrote letters. They had a right to do
it. They met. They had a right to meet. They entered into contracts.
They had a right to do it, no matter whether they were dated or not
dated. One of the greatest judges of England said if you let out of
the greatest man's brains all the suspicions, all the rumors, all the
mistakes, and all the nonsense, the amount of pure knowledge left would
be extremely small. If you take out of this case all the suspicions,
all the guesses, all the rumors, all the epithets, all the arrogant
declarations, the amount of real evidence would be surprisingly small.

Now, I want to try this case that way. I do not want to try it by
prejudice. Prejudice is born of ignorance and malice. One of the
greatest men of this country said prejudice is the spider of the mind.
It weaves its web over every window and over every crevice where light
can enter, and then disputes the existence of the light that it has
excluded. That is prejudice. Prejudice will give the lie to all the
other senses. It will swear the northern star out of the sky of truth.
You must avoid it. It is the womb of injustice, and a man who cannot
rise above prejudice is not a civilized man; he is simply a barbarian.
I do not want this case tried on prejudice. Prejudice will shut its eyes
against the light. I want you to try it without that.

And right here, although it is a subject about which most courts are a
little tender, the question arises as to the jury being judges of the
law and fact. One of the attorneys for the Government, Mr. Merrick, told
us that at one time he insisted that the jury was the judge of the law,
and made this remarkable declaration:

"But even at the time I spoke the words to the jury I did not believe
them to be indicative of safe and true principles of law."

Was he candid then? Is he candid now? I do not know. But his doctrine
appears to be this: "When I am afraid of the court I insist on the jury
judging the law. When I am afraid of the jury I turn the law over to the
court. But in this case, having confidence in both judge and jury, it is
wholly immaterial to me how the question is decided."

Now, if it please the Court, I believe the law to be simply this: I
believe the jury to be absolute judges of the facts, and yet if on the
facts they find a man guilty whom the court thinks is not guilty, the
court will grant a new trial. The court has the power to set aside a
verdict because the jury find contrary to the evidence. The court cannot
do it, however, when the jury finds a verdict of not guilty. I do not
believe that the jury have a right to disregard the law from the court
unless a juryman upon his oath can say that he believes, he knows, or
is satisfied that is not the law; and he must be honest in that, and he
must not be acting upon caprice. He must be absolutely honest. He must
be in that condition of mind that to follow the law pointed out by the
court would trample upon his conscience, and that he has not the right
to do. That is all the distance I go.

The history of the world will show that some of the grandest advances
made in law have been made by juries who would not allow their
consciences to be trampled into the earth by tyrannical judges. I am not
saying that for this case.

I am simply saying that as a fact. There was a time in this country when
they used to try a man who helped another to gain his liberty, and
there was now and then a man on the jury who had sense enough, and heart
enough, and conscience enough to say, "I will die before I carry out
that kind of law." They did not carry it out either, and finally the law
became so contemptible, so execrable, that everybody despised it. All
I ask this jury to do is just to be governed by the evidence and by the
law as the Court will give it to them, honestly and fairly.

Now, I am coming to the evidence against John W. Dorsey. I am traveling
through this case now we have started it. As you have heard very little
about it, gentlemen, and there is nothing in the world like speaking on
a fresh subject. I feel-an interest in John W. Dorsey. He is my client.
I believe him to be an absolutely honest man. He is willing to take the
effect of all his acts. He is no sneak, no skulk. He will take it as it
is. Let us see what he has done.

The first witness is Mr. Boone. Mr. Boone swears that John W. Dorsey was
one of the original partners. Well, that is so. It is claimed that the
conspiracy was entered into before there was any bidding. Well, Boone
does not uphold that view. Now, if Boone and Miner and John W. Dorsey
and Peck had an arrangement with Brady whereby they were to bid and then
have expedition and increase, I want to ask you why did Boone write
to all the postmasters to find out about the roads and the cost of
provender, and the kind of weather they had in the winter in order to
ascertain what bid to make? If he had had an arrangement with the Second
Assistant Postmaster-General to expedite the route he would have simply
made up his mind to bid lower than anybody else, and he would not have
cared a cent what kind of roads they had there, or what kind of weather
they had in the winter, or how much horse provender cost, and yet he
sent out thousands of circulars to find out these facts. For what? To
make bids. What for? According to the Government these were routes on
which they had already conspired for expedition and increase without the
slightest reference to the horses and men, and of course, if that theory
is true, Boone is one of the conspirators. But I will come to that
hereafter.

More routes, according to Boone's testimony, were awarded than they
anticipated. They got, I think, one hundred and twenty-six. They had no
money to stock the routes. They got more than they expected. Well, that
was not a crime. Boone left in August, 1878, and Mr. Merrick takes the
ground that Boone had done the work, manipulated all the machinery, and
yet could not be trusted with the secret. Boone had gathered all the
information, he had done the entire business, and yet the secret up to
that time had been successfully kept from him. Do you believe that?

Now, Vaile came, and another partnership was formed, and the second
partnership remained in force, I think, till the 1st of April, 1879, or
the last day of March, and then the routes were divided. Now, then,
John W. Dorsey is charged with conspiracy as to these routes, and these
routes were afterwards assigned to S. W. Dorsey to secure advances and
indorsements that were made.

Now, of the routes mentioned in the indictment, John W. Dorsey was
interested in seven at the time of the division. From Vermillion to
Sioux Falls, from White River to Rawlins, from Garland to Parrott City,
from Ouray to Los Pinos, from Silverton to Parrott City, from Mineral
Park to Pioche, and from Tres Alamos to Clifton. How much money did
he get on all these routes? I have already shown you. He received
two warrants for eighty-seven dollars and they recouped them both. He
received another warrant for three hundred and ninety-two dollars and
succeeded in keeping it. That is all the money he got in these seven
routes. Now, the testimony of Mr. Vaile shows, if it shows anything,
that after April, 1879, he took those routes and kept them and never
paid a dollar to any official in the world, and he also swears that no
matter how much he got, it made no difference as to the routes that had
been given to John W. Dorsey and Peck. It could not in any way affect
their amount, and that no person in the world except themselves had any
interest in them.

Now, it is charged that false affidavits were made by John W. Dorsey,
and that the making of these false affidavits was the result of
conspiracy. Let us see. It has been shown by the evidence, and I have
already shown it, and conclusively shown it, that the affidavit was
substantially correct, so far as the proportion was concerned.

Now, let me explain what I mean by proportion. For instance, I am
getting five thousand dollars a year on a route, and it takes five men
and ten horses. That is an aggregate of fifteen. Now, suppose I simply
expedite it a certain number of miles an hour, and say it will take
fifteen men and thirty horses. That makes an aggregate of forty-five,
does it not? Then the Government gives me three times as much for the
expedited service as for the then service. Now, suppose I am getting a
thousand dollars, and it only takes one man and one horse, and I make an
affidavit that it takes one hundred men and one hundred horses, and if
it is expedited it will take two hundred men and two hundred horses, how
much more do I get? I get just double, and the result of the affidavit
is exactly the same as though I said the one man and one horse that it
then took, and it would require two men and two horses. If you keep
the proportion you cannot by any possibility commit a fraud against the
Government. Now we understand that. Now let us see. When you make an
affidavit, what do you do? When you make an affidavit of how many horses
it will take, you take into consideration the length of the term, three
or four years. You take into consideration the life of a horse. You
take into consideration the roads and the weather. You take into
consideration every risk, and find it is only a matter of judgment, only
a matter of opinion, and the fact that men differ as to their judgment
upon those points accounts for the fact that they make different
affidavits. If everybody made the same calculation as to food, as to
weather, as to roads, as to disease, everybody would make substantially
the same bid, but on the same route they differ thousands of dollars a
year, because they differ in judgment as to the number of horses it will
require and as to the number of men.

And then there is another thing. Some men will make a horse do twice as
much as others. Some men are hard and fierce and merciless. Some men
are like they ask you to be in this case—icicles. Some men resemble
the gods so far that they will make a horse do five times the work they
should, and other men are merciful to the dumb beast. So they differ
in judgment. One man says he can go twenty-five miles every day, and
another man says he can only go fifteen. One man says stations ought to
be built twenty-five miles apart; another says they should be built
ten miles apart. They differ, and for that reason, gentlemen, the bids
differ, and for that reason the affidavits differ.

I shall not speak of all these affidavits, but I shall speak of the ones
that have been attacked. Mr. Merrick called Mr Dorsey a perjurer because
he made two affidavits on route 38145. Now, no such charge is made
in the indictment, but I will answer it. Now, then, as to the two
indictments—The Court. Two affidavits.

Mr. Ingersoll. Two affidavits. Well, there ought to have been two
indictments to cover both cases. Now, this is on route 38145, Garland
to Parrott City. Now, there were two affidavits made on 38145, as is
set forth in the evidence, but it is not in the indictment. The first
affidavit was sworn to March 11, 1879, in Vermont, and filed April 16,
1879. Neither could come in under this conspiracy anyway. The second was
made in Washington, April 26, 1879, and filed the same day, which is a
suspicious circumstance. The letter dated April 23, 1879, according to
the prosecution, purports to transmit an affidavit made on the 26.
There is no evidence that the affidavit dated the 26 was inclosed in
the letter dated the 23. The affidavit set forth the number of men and
animals required to run the route on a schedule of fifty hours, three
trips a week. There is no evidence as to the character of the paper
transmitted, if any was transmitted, nor in fact, is there any evidence
that any paper was transmitted with that letter.

Now, on page 804 of the record, Mr. Bliss submitted two papers to Mr.
McSweeney, a witness, saying, "I show you two papers pinned together."
Who pinned them? I do not know. "One dated April 26, 1879, and the
other dated April 24, 1879." The paper dated April 26 is indorsed in
the handwriting of William H. Turner. The indorsement on the paper dated
April 24 is in the handwriting of Byron C. Coon. This fact shows that
the papers that were read by Mr. Bliss as one paper and marked 17
E, were treated by the department as two separate papers received on
separate dates, and so marked and so filed, and they were marked at the
time they were identified as numbers 17 and 18. Now, the only question
is whether the last affidavit was made for the purpose of committing a
fraud upon the Government and whether the change in the figures in
the last affidavit were intended to or could in any way defraud the
Government of the United States.

Now, let us see what it is. Mr. Merrick charges that the second oath was
willful perjury. In order to show that this was an honest transaction,
and that Mr. Dorsey should be praised instead of blamed, I will call
your intention now to the exact state of facts. Now, if I do not make
out from this that it was a praiseworthy action instead of perjury, a
good, honest action, I will abandon the case. In the first affidavit
Dorsey swore that it would require three men and seven animals as the
schedule then was, and that for the proposed schedule it would take
eleven men and twenty-six animals. Now, three men and seven animals make
ten, and eleven men and twenty-six animals make thirty-seven. So that by
the first affidavit he swore that it would take three and seven-tenths
more animals to carry the mail on the expedited schedule than on the
schedule as it then was, did he not? Three men and seven animals as
against eleven men and twenty-six animals it would take three and
seven-tenths more animals, consequently you would get for that three and
seven-tenths more pay. Now, let us understand that. That is an increase
in the ratio of ten to thirty-seven, and if his pay had been calculated
on that first affidavit it would have been thirteen thousand four
hundred and thirty-three dollars and four cents. But it was not
calculated on that. He made another affidavit. Now, the second affidavit
said that it would take twenty men and animals instead of ten, as it
then was, and for the expedition fifty-four men and animals. Now, the
ratio between twenty and fifty-four was two and seven-tenths instead of
three and seven-tenths, so that under that second affidavit, which they
say was willful and corrupt perjury, he would only get eight thousand
four hundred and fifty-seven dollars, and the change of that affidavit,
if the amount had been calculated on the first instead of the second,
would have cost him for the three years yet remaining of his term
fourteen thousand nine hundred and twenty-five dollars and sixty cents,
and that change saved, exactly as if they had made the calculation on
the other affidavit, about fifteen thousand dollars, and yet they tell
me that that was willful and corrupt perjury. There has nothing been
shown in the case more perfectly honorable. Nothing shown calculated
to put John W. Dorsey in a fairer, in a grander light, than this very
affidavit that is charged to have been willful perjury. Do you see?
He made the first affidavit, and in it he made a mistake against the
Government of fourteen thousand nine hundred and twenty-five dollars,
and, then, like an honest man, he corrected it, and for that honest
correction he is held up as a perjured scoundrel. It will not do, my
friends.

But, as a matter of fact, not one of these affidavits is set out in the
indictment, not one charged in the indictment. They are wandering tramps
that were picked up as they went along with this case, and have no
business here.

In route 38152 he made no affidavit. In route 38113 there is no charge
in the indictment that he made any affidavit. In the route 38156
the affidavit was not false. It was charged and was not successfully
impeached. In route 40104 the affidavit was never disputed and it was
never attacked. In route 40113 the affidavit was not attacked, not a
solitary witness was examined. In route 35105 no affidavit was made by
Dorsey. In route 38134 there are two more affidavits.

Now let us see. Here is some more fraud. Put it down, 38134—two
affidavits—a great fraud. The first affidavit said three men and twelve
animals. That made fifteen; that for the expedition it would take seven
men and thirty-eight animals. That made forty-five. In other words the
proportion was fifteen to forty-five, just three times as much. Three
times fifteen make forty-five. Then he made a second affidavit, filed
with a purpose to defraud the Government. Let us see. In the second
affidavit he said that it took two men and six animals. That makes
eight. That on the expedition it would take six men and eighteen
animals. That makes twenty-four. The proportion was eight to
twenty-four. Three times eight make twenty-four; and three times fifteen
make forty-five. So that the amount was raised exactly the same to
a cent, under the second affidavit that it was under the first, and
consequently could not have been made for the purpose of defrauding
anybody. Impossible. The proportion of course is the material thing in
every affidavit, and it is only by that proportion that you can tell
whether they are trying to defraud this Government or not. Suppose that
second affidavit had changed the proportion so that he was not to get
just the amount of money, then you might say it was a fraud. But it did
not change the proportion.

On route 38156 another affidavit is filed and not successfully
impeached. I went over that. I have got through with that. That is all
there is to it. That is all, that is everything—everything—everything.
There is no evidence tending to show that John W. Dorsey ever spoke
to Thomas J. Brady. There is no evidence to show that he ever saw him.
There is no evidence to show that he was ever seen in his company; no
evidence to show that he ever saw Turner; that he ever heard of Turner;
that he ever spoke to Turner; that he ever received a letter from
Turner; that he ever wrote anything to him; no evidence as a matter of
fact that he ever exchanged a word with these men; no evidence that he
ever saw Harvey M. Vaile; that he ever spoke to him. Certainly there is
no evidence that he ever conspired with him. No evidence that he ever
made an agreement with Thomas J. Brady or with Mr. Turner or with any
officer—no agreement of any sort, kind, character, or description at
any place, upon any subject, or for any purpose, not the slightest;
no evidence that he conspired with anybody; no evidence that he ever
received from the United States a solitary dollar, with the exception of
three hundred and ninety-two dollars—not the slightest.

There is no evidence that he ever wrote a false communication to the
department—nothing of it. There is no evidence that he ever wrote a
petition; no evidence that he ever forged one; no evidence that he ever
signed anybody's name to one; no evidence that he did anything of the
kind or that he ever changed one; no evidence that he ever put a man's
name to it that did not live on the route; no evidence that he ever
put in a fictitious name; no evidence that he helped to deceive the
Postmaster-General—not the slightest. If there is I want somebody just
to put their finger upon the evidence. There is no evidence that he ever
made false statements at any time. There is no evidence that he ever
paid, as I say, a dollar to any official, and no evidence that he ever
promised to pay it. All the evidence is that he got three hundred and
ninety-two dollars. He made the affidavits in accordance with what
he believed to be the truth. The evidence shows that when he made the
affidavits on those routes he had no personal interest, that he received
not a dollar for making them. He made them because he supposed the
contractor or subcontractor had to make them. He made them because he
believed them to be true. He was guided by the little experience he had
himself and by the statements made to him by others; and in all this
evidence there is not a word, not a line, not a letter tending to
show he did a dishonest act, and the jury will bear me out that in
the affidavits attacked he was substantially right, while in the first
instance he was too high; in others he was too low. But there is no
evidence that he deliberately swore to what he believed to be untrue.
The proportion sworn to by him has always been substantially correct.
In other words, gentlemen, the testimony shows that John W. Dorsey is an
honest man, and there is no jury, there never was, there never will be,
that will find a man like that guilty upon evidence like this. It never
happened; it never will happen.

Now, I come to my other client, Stephen W. Dorsey, and I feel an
interest in him. He is my friend. I like him. He is a good man. He has
good sense. He is not simply a politician, he is a statesman; and I want
you to understand that he never did an act in this case that he did not
thoroughly understand as well as any lawyer in this prosecution ever
will understand; or as well as any lawyer of the defence ever will
understand. He knew exactly his liabilities. He knew exactly his
responsibility. He knew exactly what he did and he knew he did only what
was right. In the opening of this case Mr. McSweeney made a statement.
He told you the exact connection of Dorsey with this matter. He not
only told you that, but he told you that Dorsey had lost money on these
routes, and that he had never been repaid the money he had advanced, and
in that connection he said that he had turned the routes over to James
W. Bosler, and the department knew of James W. Bosler because they
introduced testimony here that the warrants were paid to James W.
Bosler. Mr. McSweeney stated that Bosler controlled the business, and
now we are asked by the prosecution, "Why did you not bring James W.
Bosler on the stand and show that you had lost money?" I return the
compliment and say to them, why did you not bring James W. Bosler on the
stand and show that it was not true that we had lost money, as he kept
the books? I ask them that. Why did they not bring James W. Bosler?

Mr. Merrick. If your Honor please, there is no evidence whatever as to
whether S. W. Dorsey lost money on those routes, and the statement of
counsel made in the opening, I respectfully submit, cannot be used as
evidence by the counsel in the case.

The Court. Of course it is impossible for me to say after so long a time
spent in receiving evidence what evidence has been given on a disputed
question. I cannot say from recollection what evidence has been given
on this subject, but I understand the remarks now made are not made upon
evidence in the case, but in reply to remarks made in the opening in the
case.

Mr. Ingersoll. Partially so.

Mr. Merrick. The opening by their counsel.

The Court. By their counsel.

Mr. Merrick. By their counsel, Mr. McSweeney.

Mr. Ingersoll. Let me just state it, and the Court will understand it
perfectly. Mr. McSweeney, in his opening, said that these routes had
been turned over to James W. Bosler; that he received the money and paid
it out, and that S. W. Dorsey on these very routes had not made money,
but lost money. Very well. But that statement was simply a statement. It
was never proved afterwards. The Government said to us, "Why did you not
bring James W. Bosler to prove that?"

The Court. Where did they say that?

Mr. Ingersoll. They said it in their speeches. Mr. Merrick said it.

Mr. Merrick. Not to prove as to the money.

Mr. Ingersoll. Ay, "Why did you not bring James W. Bosler?"

Mr. Merrick. Yes, but not as to proof of money; but as to other
questions in reference to the distribution of routes and the loaning of
money by Dorsey, and by Bosler to Dorsey, and Dorsey's transfer of
the routes to Bosler as security for the loan as appeared in Vaile's
testimony.

The Court. I shall not interfere.

Mr. Merrick. I shall not attempt to arrest the course of counsel
unless there is ground for it, and I ask the Court that, there being
no evidence of this fact, that the counsel shall not—Mr. Ingersoll.
[Interposing.] I am going to show there is some evidence.

The Court. I understand it is a remark in reply to an observation of
your own.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is principally it. Now, they introduced the
warrants that had been drawn by the contractors and subcontractors from
the Post-Office Department; they proved that these warrants had been
paid to James W. Bosler, and that one after the other, hundreds had been
assigned to James W. Bosler. Now, then, I say, they say to us, "Why do
you not bring in James W. Bosler and prove your innocence?" I say why
did you not bring in James W. Bosler and prove our guilt? We opened the
door. We told you the name of the witness. We told you that he had taken
the routes; that he kept the books; that he disbursed the money, and
that we had lost money. Instead of robbing the Government the Government
has robbed us; and they say, "Why did you not bring Bosler?" and I say
to them, why did you not bring him? They know him, and they know he is a
reputable man.

Now, there is another point. I ask you all to remember what was said in
the opening, and I understand that a defence is bound by its opening,
bound by what it says to the jury. The question is, Has any fact been
substantiated in this case that contradicts a statement made in the
opening?

The Court. The defence has no right to avail itself of—Mr. Ingersoll.
[Interposing.] Of what it says.

The Court. Of what it says in its opening unless it is followed by
evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. Certainly not, but it has a right to show that no
evidence has been introduced by the Government that touches that opening
statement. It has the right to do that, surely.

Now, then, Mr. Boone was the witness for the Government—a smart man.
He swore who were interested in the bidding. He told and he positively
swore that Dorsey was not interested in these routes. He gave the names
of the persons interested, and he swore positively that he was not.
Dorsey then, I say, had not the slightest interest. He loaned money,
he went security, he assisted in getting sureties on bonds, and you
recollect the trouble that they have made about some bonds. Has there
any evidence been introduced to show that there was a bad bond? Has any
evidence been introduced to show that the name of an insolvent man was
put upon any bond as security? Has there been any evidence to show
that any action was ever commenced on any of these bonds; any evidence
tending to show that every bond was not absolutely good? As a matter
of fact, the Government waived all of that. In offering the contract on
route 35015, Mr. Merrick made this remark:

"It is offered for the purpose of showing the contract made. The
contract itself is not an overt act. That is all right. There is nothing
criminal about that."

Good!

Nothing criminal about any contract, gentlemen. You will all admit they
had to make the bids, and if they were the lowest bidders it was the
duty of the Government to accept the bids and afterwards to make the
contracts in accordance with them. There was nothing wrong in that. That
is Dorsey's first step. His first step really was an act of kindness.
What was the second step? He was unable to advance any more money. Mr.
Peck, Mr. Miner, Mr. Dorsey, and Mr. Boone were unable to advance
the money, so Mr. Boone went out and Mr. Vaile came in, and the new
partnership agreed to refund this money that had been advanced; that
is, the money advanced by the other parties. What one gets another to
advance is really advanced by him as long as he is liable for it. Mr.
Vaile, a man of large experience and means, was taken in Boone's place.
Is there anything suspicious up to this time? That is the only test of
this whole question. Is it natural? If it is natural there is no chance
for suspicion. After Mr. Vaile came in, a written contract was made
on August 16, 1878. There is no conspiracy up to that time. Not the
slightest evidence of it; no arrangement with any officers up to that
time. Now, under the August contract, Mr. Vaile took the entire business
in charge, and he ran it, as I understand, until the first day of April,
1879. No officer had any interest in it then. There was no conspiracy
then. Vaile received all the money and paid it out. Here we stand on the
first day of April, 1879. Now, what is the history up to this time? That
John W. Dorsey, Peck, Miner, and Boone were bidders; that certain routes
had been awarded, they had not the money to stock the routes, and that
S. W. Dorsey advanced some money and went security; that afterwards
Boone went out and Vaile came in, and the contract was made by virtue
of which Vaile became the treasurer and knew everybody, and ran the
business to the first day of April, 1879. He swears positively that he
made no arrangement and that he paid no money. It is also in evidence
that in December, 1878, Stephen W. Dorsey and Vaile met for the first
time, and met in the German-American Bank for the purpose of settling
the claim upon which Dorsey was security, and replacing the notes upon
which Dorsey was, by notes of Vaile, Miner & Co. Afterwards these notes
were paid by Vaile and the security of Dorsey released. Now, in April,
1879, a division is made. The contract of August, 1878, was done away
with and a division 'of the routes was made, seventy per cent, being
taken by Vaile and Miner and thirty per cent, by John W. Dorsey and
Peck. In April, 1879, the parties divided instead of coming together.
They do not conspire. They separate. They do not unite. They go asunder.
From that moment they agree to have nothing in common. Each man takes
his own, and each man attends to his own and does not help anybody else
except when they insist that a contractor or subcontractor shall make
the affidavit. They made affidavits on the routes on which they were
contractors. That is all there is to it up to that time. Then these
routes were assigned to Dorsey for the purpose of securing him.

Now, I go to the overt acts charged against Stephen W. Dorsey. Do
you know I am delighted to get right to that page of my notes. I am
delighted that I now have the opportunity to answer and to answer
forever all the infamous things that have been charged against this man.
Here we are, before this jury, a jury of his fellow-citizens, a jury
that has the courage to do right. I have finally the chance of telling
here before men who know whether I am speaking the truth or not, what
has been charged against Stephen W. Dorsey and what has been proved
against him. Let us examine the overt acts charged. On route 38135 it
is charged that Miner, Rerdell and S. W. Dorsey transmitted a false
affidavit. The evidence is that the affidavit was made by Miner, not
by Dorsey, transmitted by Miner, not by Dorsey, and that it was not
transmitted as charged in the indictment, but transmitted on the 18th
day of April, 1879. There is no evidence that Dorsey even heard of that
affidavit, that he ever made it, that he ever transmitted it, that
he ever saw it, that he ever knew of its existence. That is the first
charge. There is not one particle of evidence to show that he ever knew
there was such a paper. Upon that written lie, upon that mistake
these infamous charges affecting the character of this man have been
circulated over the United States.

What is the next? That he with others filed false petitions. I am
telling you now all the charges; every one of them. What is the
evidence? Oh, it is splendid to get to the facts. The evidence is that
every petition is shown to have been genuine. There is no evidence that
he ever filed one or sent one, or asked to have one sent on that route;
and every petition is genuine and no charge made except as to one. In
one they said the words "quicker time" were inserted; but the very next
paragraph asked for quicker time, and nobody pretended that had been
inserted. Besides that, it was charged in the indictment to have been
filed on the 26th day of June. As a matter of fact, it was filed on the
8th day of May. It was never filed by Stephen W. Dorsey; it was never
gotten up by Stephen W. Dorsey. There is no evidence that he ever knew
of it or heard of it. Third, that he fraudulently filed a subcontract.
Two mistakes and an impossible offence. That ends that route. That is
everything on earth in it. I defy any man to make anything more out of
it than I have. I have told every word.

The next route is No. 41119. It is charged that Stephen W. Dorsey with
others transmitted a false oath. The evidence is that the oath was made
by Peck, and it was transmitted by Peck and not by Stephen W. Dorsey.
What else? That it is true. There are three mistakes in that charge.
They say Dorsey made it. Peck made it They say Dorsey transmitted it.
Peck transmitted it. They say it was false. The evidence shows it true.
Thai is all there is to that route. It is the only charge on that route.
No petitions were claimed to be false.

Now we come to route 38145. Let us see if we can do any better on
that. The first charge is, that Stephen W. Dorsey fraudulently filed a
subcontract. The subcontract was made with Sanderson, Sanderson got his
own contract filed. This charge was copied from the old indictment. It
is a mistake and that is all there is to it. These are the charges that
have carried sorrow to many hearts. These are the charges that have
darkened homes. These are the charges that have filled nights with grief
and horror; every one of them a lie.

The next route is 38156. The first charge is that he transmitted a
false oath. The oath was made by John W. Dorsey, and is true. The second
charge is of fraudulently filing a subcontract, an impossible offence.
That is everything on that route. Absolutely untrue.

Now we come to the next, No. 46217. The charge is filing base petitions.
The evidence is that every petition was genuine. Every one. Mr. Bliss
said—"We make no point about increase of trips on this route."

Every petition was for increase of trips. You will see that on record,
page 1008. That is the only charge on that route, gentlemen. Utterly
false!

Come now to route 38140. Charge: Filing false and forged petitions.
Evidence: All the petitions genuine. Second charge: Transmitting a false
oath and making it. Evidence: Oath made by John W. Dorsey, and true.
That is all there is to that route. If they can rake up any more I want
to see it. I have been through this record.

Route 38113. Charge: Fraudulently filing a subcontract. That is all. You
cannot fraudulently file a subcontract.

Route 40113. Charge: Filing false and forged petitions. Evidence:
Every petition admitted by the Government to be genuine. Good. Second:
transmitting a false oath. Evidence: Oath made by John W. Dorsey, and
the Government introduced no witness to show that it was false. See how
these charges fall. See how they bite the ground. That is all.

I have told you every one in this indictment; every one. You will hardly
believe it. Now let me give you the recapitulation. S. W. Dorsey is
charged on eight routes with having transmitted four false oaths.

The evidence is he never made one nor transmitted one, and that the
four oaths were all true. On five routes he is charged with having filed
false petitions. The evidence is that all the petitions were genuine.
None of the petitions charged in the indictment to have been transmitted
by him were transmitted by him. He is charged with filing fraudulent
subcontracts, and the evidence is that the subcontracts were genuine,
and besides that, as I have said a dozen times, it is utterly impossible
to fraudulently file a subcontract. Not a single, solitary charge in
this indictment against Stephen W. Dorsey has been substantiated. Not
one. He has been called a robber, he has been called a thief, but the
evidence shows he is an honest man. Not one single thing alleged in
that indictment has been substantiated against him, and I defy any human
being to point to the evidence that does it. Now think of it. All this
charge has been made against that man upon that evidence; no other
evidence; not another line so far as the indictment is concerned.
What is outside of the indictment? That he wrote two letters, taking
possession of routes that had been turned over to him as security, which
he had a right to do. What else? That he got up some petitions, or had
them gotten up, in the State of Oregon. The man who got them up was
brought here as a witness. I believe his name was Wilcox. He swore that
everything he did was honest, and that every name to every petition was
genuine. Now let us see. Another point has been made upon S. W. Dorsey.
I want to read it to you. This is from the argument of Mr. Merrick:

"Peck, John W. Dorsey and Miner, or some other one of Stephen W.
Dorsey's friends. Who was making up this conspiracy? Who was gathering
around him arms and hands to reach into the public Treasury for his
benefit, while his own were apparently unoccupied with pelf? S. W.
Dorsey. 'My brother and brother-in-law will go in, and Miner, or if not
Miner, then one of my other friends.'"

This is quoted.

"One-of S. W. Dorsey's other facile friends. That was in 1877,
gentlemen, the morning of this day of fraud and criminality. In that
room where Boone and S. W. Dorsey sat arose the sun, and there was
marked his course. There was fashioned the duration and the business of
that criminal day."

Now, let us see what the evidence is. The object of that speech is to
convince you that Dorsey said to Boone. "I will either put in Miner or
one of my friends." Do you know that there is not money enough in the
Treasury of the United States, there is not gold and silver enough in
the veins of this earth to tempt me to misstate evidence when a man is
on trial for his liberty or his life. Let us see what the evidence is:

"Q. Who else besides his brother-in-law and brother?—A. I could not say
positively whether Mr. Miner's name was mentioned. He either mentioned
his name or a friend of his from Sandusky, Ohio."

Now, I submit to you, gentlemen, what does that mean? Mr. Boone, in
effect, says, "He told me either it was Miner or a friend of his from
Sandusky. That is, he either described Miner by his name or he described
him as a friend of his from Sandusky." Then there was objection made,
and after that comes another question:

"Q. Was anything said of Mr. Miner's coming to Washington?—A. I could
not say whether his name was mentioned or a friend of his; a personal
friend."

What does that mean? Boone cannot remember Whether he called him Miner
or called him a friend of his from Sandusky. What else?

"A. There was to be nobody that I understood outside of the parties I
spoke of.

"Q. You and John W. Dorsey and Peck?—A. And Mr. Miner."

"Q. Or one of his friends?—A. Or Mr. Dorsey's friend. The arrangement
made was not made until they came here. It was only to prepare the
necessary blanks and papers pending their coming because the time was
getting short, and it was necessary to get the information to bid upon.
Nothing was said about any interest at all until after they came here,
and then there was a partnership entered into."

Now, I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, what is the meaning of that
testimony. The meaning is simply this: Boone could not remember whether
he mentioned Miner's name or called him a friend of his from Sandusky,
yet the object has been to make you believe that the testimony was
that S. W. Dorsey said, "I will either have Miner or I will get another
friend of mine." Dorsey had no interest in it, not the interest of one
cent, not the interest of one dollar, directly, indirectly, or any other
way. He had no interest in having a friend of his. All that Mr. Boone
said is that Mr. Dorsey either called this man Miner or described him as
a friend from Sandusky, Ohio. The evidence is that Mr. Miner did come,
and the evidence is that the arrangement was made. What else is there
outside in this case against Stephen W. Dorsey? I ask you to put your
hand upon it. I ask anybody to point it out. What other suspicious
circumstance is there? I want you to understand that all the suspicious
circumstances in the world are good for nothing. All the evidence on
earth tending to show a thing does not show it. Anything that only tends
that way never gets there; never.

You cannot infer a conspiracy. Unless you have the facts proved, you
cannot infer the fact and then infer the conspiracy. There has not
been—I want to say it again—there has not been a solitary fraudulent
act proven against Stephen W. Dorsey. They have not done it and they
cannot do it. All I ask of you, gentlemen, is to find a verdict in
accordance with this testimony.

May it please the Court, it appears from the evidence in this case, I
think the evidence of Mr. James, that Stephen W. Dorsey at one time,
about sixteen or seventeen months ago, made a statement in writing of
his connection with all these routes. That statement he gave to the
Attorney-General and the Postmaster-General. There is no evidence of
what was in that statement. The only evidence is that such a statement
was made, embracing his connection with these routes.

The Court. You offered to prove that.

Mr. Ingersoll. Oh, no. The reason it was established was I wanted to
show whether that statement was made before or after Mr. Rerdell made a
statement. The fact simply appears that he made a statement.

The Court. You offered to prove the fact.

Mr. Ingersoll. I do not remember offering to prove it. I proved it.

The Court. If it was not proven—Mr. Ingersoll. [Interposing.] I did
prove it as a fact.

The Court. That he made a statement.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes, sir. Right here it is [taking up the record].

The Court. Oh, well, you cannot base any remarks upon that.

Mr. Ingersoll. Let me read what the evidence says:

"Q. Was this statement of Rerdell's made to you after you had received
the statements of S. W. Dorsey as to his connection with all these
entire routes or with this entire business?

"The Witness. To what statement do you refer?

"Mr. Ingersoll. To the statement that was made in writing and given to
you and the attorney-general by ex-Senator S. W. Dorsey?

"A. It must have been after that.

"Q. You mean Rerdell's statement was after that?—A. Yes, sir.

"Q. Did you ever see that statement made by Senator Dorsey?—A. It was
referred to the attorney-general.

"Q. Did you ever see it?—A. Certainly.

"Q. Do you know where it now is?—A. I do not."

I am not going to say a word about what was in that statement, but the
Court will see that that has a direct bearing upon their action with
regard to Rerdell's statement whether it was made before or after, which
I will endeavor to show, and the only point that I wanted to make upon
that statement now, was that the Government has not endeavored to prove
that anything in that statement was inconsistent with the evidence in
this case. I am not going to say what the statement was; simply that he
made a statement, and it follows as naturally as night follows morning,
and morning follows night, that if that statement had been incorrect it
would have been brought forward. That is all.

The Court. For anything the Court knows it might have been a confession.
We do not know anything about it.

Mr. Ingersoll. If it had been a confession it would have been here. That
is the point I make. If there had been in that anything inconsistent
with the testimony it would have been here.

The Court. Probably it would.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes, sir; that is my point.

The Court. When a man is charged with crime no man has a right to say
that because he did not deny it that is evidence of his guilt.

Mr. Ingersoll. No, sir; and no man has a right to say that because he
did deny it is evidence of his innocence.

The Court. It is not evidence either way.

Mr. Ingersoll. It is not evidence either way, and if I am charged with
a crime and I make a written statement to the Government of my entire
connection with that thing, and they go on and examine it for one year
and finally finish the trial without showing that that statement was
incorrect, it is a moral demonstration that my statement agreed with the
testimony.

The Court. On the principle, I suppose, of an account rendered and no
objection made?

Mr. Ingersoll. Good. That is a good idea.

The Court. I do not see anything in that.

Mr. Ingersoll. I see a great deal in it, and it is a question whether
the jury can see anything in it.

The Court. It is a question whether the Court too——

Mr. Ingersoll. [Interposing.] Very well.

The Court. [Continuing.] Whether the Court is going to allow an argument
to be based upon a mere vacuum—wind, nothing.

Mr. Ingersoll. That would seem to be stealing the foundation of this
case. [Laughter, and cries of "Silence" from the bailiffs.] We will
consider the argument made to the Court, and not to the jury.

The next question, then, is what is the _corpus delicti_; that is, in
a case of conspiracy? I do not believe the combination to be the corpus
delicti—the mere association. It may be the corpus, but it is not the
delicti, and under the law there must not only be a conspiracy, as I
understand it, but also an overt act done by one of the conspirators to
accomplish the object of the conspiracy. So that the conspiracy with the
fraudulent purpose and the overt act constitute the corpus delicti. Now,
I read from Best on Presumptions, page 279:

"The corpus delicti, the body of an offence, is the fact of its actually
having been committed."

The dead body in a murder case is not the corpus delicti. It is the
corpse and nothing more. It must be followed by evidence that murder was
committed.

"The corpus delicti is the body, substance or foundation of the
offence. It is the substantial and fundamental fact of its having been
committed."

1 Haggard, 105, opinion by Lord Stowell.

I now refer you to Peoples vs. Powell, 63, N. Y., page 92. It seems
that the defendants in this case were commissioners of charities of the
county of Kings, and they were indicted for conspiring together to buy
supplies contrary to law and without duly advertising. Their defence
was that they were not aware that such a law existed; that they were
ignorant of the law. The court below thought that made no difference.
The court above said before they could be guilty of this crime there
must be the intention to commit the crime, and this language is used:

"The agreement must have been entered into with an evil purpose,
as distinguished from a purpose simply to do the act prohibited in
ignorance of the prohibition. This is implied in the meaning of the word
conspiracy. Mere concert is not conspiracy."

So combination is not conspiracy; partnership is not conspiracy; neither
is it the corpus delicti of conspiracy. There must be the evil intent;
there must be the wicked conspiracy not only, but there must be one at
least overt act done in pursuance of it before the corpus delicti can be
established.

"The actual criminal intention belongs to the definition of the offence
and must be shown to justify a conviction for conspiracy. The offence
originally consisted in a combination to convict an innocent person by
perversion of the law. It has since been greatly extended, but I am of
opinion that proof that the defendants agreed to do an act prohibited
by statute, followed by overt acts in furtherance of the agreed purpose,
did not conclusively establish that they were guilty of the crime of
conspiracy."

It would be hard to find a stronger case, in my judgment, than that.
Although they agreed to violate a statute—they agreed to buy supplies
without complying with the statute by advertising—they claimed they
were in ignorance of it, and the question was whether they were guilty
of conspiracy, having no intent to do an illegal act, and the court of
appeals decided that that verdict could not stand.

The Court. Because the court below had instructed the jury that whether
what they did was done in ignorance or with knowledge it made no
difference.

Mr. Ingersoll. Certainly; it made no difference. Everybody is supposed
to know the law.

Now, the next point is, and great weight has been put upon it,
gentlemen, that concurrence of action establishes conspiracy; that if
one does a part and another another part and finally the culmination
comes, that is absolute evidence, or in other words, an inference.
Admitting, now, that they were perfectly honest, if any of these parties
made a bid, that bid had to be accepted by the Government. They had to
act together. The department and the man had to act together to have the
bid accepted. The department and the man had to act together to make the
contract. The department and the man had to act together to get the pay,
and no matter how perfectly honest the transaction was they had to act
together from the first step to the payment of the last dollar.

Now, in a business where they do have to act together, where one
necessarily does one thing, and the other necessarily does another, the
fact that that happens does not even tend to prove that there is any
fraud. Upon this concurrence of action I refer to the case of Metcalfe
against O'Connor and wife, in Little's Select Cases, 497. One of the
men confessed that a large party went to the house where there was a
disturbance and where they tried to take by force a boy from the custody
of a man and woman. Now, the fact that these men did go the house, the
fact that they were there at the time this happened, and the fact that
one of the conspirators or one of the trespassers had confessed that he
went there and that the other went with him for that purpose, the
court decides that you cannot infer the purpose of these men from the
statement of the other; neither can you infer it from the fact that
they were there. You must find out for what purpose they were there
by ascertaining what they did and when they were there, and that
concurrence in actions shows nothing.

The Court. Did you not say that the decision there was that the
conspiracy might be inferred from the combination to do the act?

Mr. Ingersoll. I will just read it and then there will be no guessing
about it:

"This is a writ of error prosecuted by the defendants to a judgment
for the plaintiffs in an action of trespass for an assault and battery
alleged to have been committed upon the plaintiff Ann, the wife of the
other plaintiff.

"We are of the opinion that the circuit court erred in refusing to
instruct the jury, at the instance of the defendants, to find for all
of them, except the defendant Metcalfe. He is the only one of the
defendants proven to have touched the defendant Ann, and against the
other defendants there is no evidence conducing in the slightest degree
to prove them guilty of committing any assault or battery upon her, or
of any intention to do so.

"It is true that it was proved that the other defendants confessed that
they were at the house of Connor when the assault and battery charged
is alleged to have been committed, and it was also proved that Metcalfe
confessed that he and the other defendants had gone there for the
purpose of taking from Connor by force an idiot boy whom he had in his
custody. But the circumstances of the other defendants being at Connor's
house, there is no evidence they were there for any unlawful purpose;
nor can it of itself be sufficient to render them responsible for
any act done by Metcalfe in which they did not participate; and the
confessions of Metcalfe are certainly not legitimate evidence against
the others to prove the unlawful purpose with which they went to
Connor's, and thereby to charge them with the consequences of his act."

Now, to all appearances, they went there together; to all appearances,
they went there for the one purpose, and Metcalfe, the man who really
did the mischief, confessed that they all went there for the one
purpose, but the court held that that was not sufficient.

"Where several agree or conspire to commit a trespass, or for any other
unlawful purpose, they will, no doubt, all be liable for the act of
any one of them done in execution of the unlawful purpose; and when
the agreement or conspiracy is first proved by other evidence, the
confession of one of them will be admissible evidence against the
others. But it is well settled that the confessions of one person cannot
be admitted against the others to prove that they had conspired with him
for an unlawful purpose."

Now, the next evidence that I wish to allude to, gentlemen, is the
evidence of Mr. Walsh, and I will only say a few words, because it has
been examined and it has been ground to powder. Everything in this world
is true in proportion that it agrees with human experience; and you can
safely say that everything is false or the probability is that it is
false in proportion that it is not in accordance with human experience.
Other things being equal, we act substantially alike.

Now, when anything really happens everything else that ever happened
will fit it. You take a spar crystal, I do not care how far north you
get it, and another spar crystal, no matter how far south you get it,
and put them together and they will exactly fit each other—exactly. The
slope is precisely the same. And it is so with facts. Every fact in this
world will fit every other fact—just exactly. Not a hair's difference.
But a lie will not fit anything but another lie made for the
purpose—never. It never did. And finally, there has to come a place
where this lie, or the lie made for the sake of it, has to join some
truth, and there is a bad joint always. And that is the only way to
examine testimony. Is it natural? Does it accord with what we know? Does
it accord with our experience?

Now, take the testimony of Mr. Walsh, and I find some improbabilities in
it. Just let me read you a few:

1. Bankers and brokers do not, as a rule, loan money without taking at
least a note. That is my experience. And the poorer this broker is,
the less money he has, the more security he wants. He not only wants an
indorser but he would like to have a mortgage on your life, liberty, and
pursuit of happiness. That is the first improbability.

2. Bankers and brokers do not, as a rule, take notes that bear no
interest, or in which the interest is not stated. People who live
on interest find it always to their interest to have the interest
mentioned—always. I never got a cent of a banker that I did not pay
interest, and generally in advance.

3. Bankers and brokers do not, as a rule, take notes payable on demand,
because such notes are not negotiable.

4. It is hardly probable that when a banker and broker holds the note
of another for twelve thousand dollars—the note being unpaid—he would
loan thirteen thousand five hundred dollars more, taking another note on
demand in which the rate of interest was not stated.

5. It is still more improbable that the same banker and broker, with
a note for twelve thousand dollars and one for thirteen thousand five
hundred dollars, being unpaid, would loan five thousand four hundred
dollars more without taking any note or asking any security.

6. When such banker and broker called upon his debtor for a settlement,
and exhibited the two notes, and thereupon his debtor took the two notes
and put them in his pocket, it is highly improbable that the banker and
broker would submit to such treatment.

7. It is improbable that such banker and broker would afterwards
commence suit to recover the money, without mentioning to his attorney,
in fact, that the notes had been taken away from him.

8. It is also improbable that the banker and broker would commence
another suit for the same subject-matter and still keep the fact
that the notes had been taken from him by violence, a secret from his
attorney.

9. If Mr. Brady took the notes by force, it is improbable that he
would immediately put himself in the power of the man he had robbed, by
stating to him that he, Brady, was in the habit of taking bribes.

10. It is impossible that Mr. Brady could, in fact, have done this,
which amounted to saying this: "I have taken twenty-five thousand five
hundred dollars from you; of course, you are my enemy; of course, you
will endeavor to be revenged, and I now point out the way in which you
can have your revenge. I am Second Assistant Postmaster-General; I award
contracts, increases, and expedition, and upon these I receive twenty
per cent, as a bribe. I am a bribe-taker; I am a thief; make the most
of it. I give you these tacts in order that I may put a weapon in your
hands with which you can obtain your revenge."

There are also other improbabilities connected with this testimony.

If Mr. Brady was receiving twenty per cent, of all increases and
expeditions, amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars per annum, it
is not easy to see why he would be borrowing money from Mr. Walsh.

Now, if that story is true, boil it down and it is this, because if he
got this twenty per cent, from everybody he had oceans of money—boil it
all down and it is this: A rich man borrows without necessity and a poor
banker loans without security. These twin improbabilities would breed
suspicion in credulity itself. No man ever believed that story, no
man ever will. There is something wrong about it somewhere, unnatural,
improbable, and it is for you to say, gentlemen, whether it is true
or not, not for me. What is the effect of that testimony? So far as my
clients are concerned it is admitted, I believe, by the prosecution—it
was so stated, I believe, by his Honor from the bench—that it could
not by any possibility affect any defendant except Mr. Brady, and the
question now is, can it even affect him? I call the attention of the
Court to 40th N. Y., page 228. I give the page from which I read:

"To make such admissions or declarations competent evidence, it must
stand as a fact in the cause, admitted or proved, that the assignor or
assignees were in a conspiracy to defraud the creditors. If that fact
exist, then the acts and declarations of either, made in execution of
the common purpose, and in aid of its fulfillment, are competent against
either of them. The principle of its admissibility assumes that fact."

That the conspiracy has been established.

"In case of conspiracy, where the combination is proved, the acts and
declarations of the conspirators are not received as evidence of that
fact, but to show what was done, the means employed, the particular
design in respect to the parties to be affected or wronged, and
generally those details which, assuming the combination and the illegal
purpose, unfold its extent, scope, and influence either upon the public
or the individuals who suffer from the wrong, or show the execution of
the illegal design. But when the issue is simply and only, was there
a conspiracy to defraud, these declarations do not become evidence to
establish it."

"So far then, as the admission of the evidence in this case, of
declarations, subsequent to the assignment, is sought to be sustained as
evidence of the common fraud, on the ground of conspiracy, the argument
wholly fails. A conspiracy cannot be proved against three by evidence
that one admitted it, nor against assignees by proof that the assignor
admitted it; it is a fact that must be proved by evidence, the
competency of which does not depend upon an assumption that it exists."

So to the same point is the case of Cowles against Coe, 21st
Connecticut, 220. I will read that portion of the syllabus that conveys
the idea:

"To prove the alleged conspiracy between the defendant and G., the
plaintiff offered the deposition of R., stating declarations made by G.
to R., while G. was engaged in purchasing goods of him, on credit, and
relative to G.'s responsibility and means of obtaining money through the
defendant's aid; these declarations were objected to, not on the ground
that the conspiracy had not been sufficiently proved, but because the
defendant was not present when they were made; it was held that they
were admissible, within the rule regarding declarations made by a
conspirator in furtherance of the common object."

Now, let us see what the court says about it:

"The remaining question is, whether the declarations of Gale to Edmund
Curtiss and William Ives were properly received. These declarations were
not offered as in any way tending to prove the combination claimed. The
motion shows that they were offered and received after the plaintiff's
evidence on that subject had been introduced. Had they been admitted for
that purpose, or if, under the circumstances, they could have had any
influence with the jury on that point, we should feel bound to advise a
new trial on this account."

All that I have said in respect to Walsh applies to what is known
or what is called the confession of Rerdell. It was admitted by the
prosecution that not one word said by him could bind any other defendant
in the case. But, gentlemen, is there enough even to bind him? Did
he confess that he was guilty of the conspiracy set forth in this
indictment? And I want to make one other point. In this case there
must be not only a conspiracy, but an overt act, and no man can confess
himself into it without confessing that he was a conspirator, and
that he knew that an overt act was to be done; because it takes that
conspiracy and the overt act to 'make the offence. What overt act did
Rerdell confess that he was guilty of—what overt act charged in this
indictment? One. Filing a subcontract; and by no earthly method, by no
earthly reasoning can you come to the conclusion that that could carry
it into conspiracy. He must have confessed that he was guilty according
to the scheme, according to the indictment set forth, and in no other
way. That indictment says that the money was to be divided, that it
was for the mutual benefit of certain persons. Unless that has been
substantiated this case falls. According to the case of the King against
Pomall the scheme of the indictment must be established, otherwise the
case goes. In that case they charged it was one way, and they proved it
was that way, and one of the defendants did not understand it that way
and he was acquitted. Now, suppose they had not proved the scheme as
they charged it, then all would have been acquitted, and unless the jury
believe beyond a reasonable doubt, from the evidence that the scheme
set forth in the indictment here was the scheme, then they must find
everybody not guilty. There is no other way.

What is the next argument? The next argument is extravagance. What
is extravagance? If I pay more for a thing than it is worth that is
extravagance. If I buy a thing that I do not want, that is extravagance,
and if I do this knowing it to be wrong, if I do this understanding that
I am to have a part of the price, that is bribery, that is corruption,
that is rascality. Nobody disputes that. How do you know that a thing
is extravagant unless you know the price of it? For instance, an army
officer is charged with extravagance in buying corn upon the plains at
five dollars a bushel. How do you prove it is extravagance? You must
prove that he could have obtained it for less or that there was a
cheaper substitute that he should have obtained. How are you going to
prove that too much was paid for carrying the mail upon these routes?
Only by showing that it could have been carried for less. What witness
was before this jury fixing the price? How are we to establish the fact
that it was extravagance? We must show that it could have been obtained
for less money. What witness came here and swore that he would carry it
for less? And would it be fair to have the entire case decided upon one
route when it is in evidence that my clients had thirty per cent, of one
hundred and twenty-six routes? Would it be fair to decide the question
whether they had made or lost money on one route? Your experience tells
you that upon one route they might make a large sum of money and upon
several other routes lose largely. A man who has bid for one hundred
routes takes into view the average and says "upon some I shall lose
and upon others I shall make." How are you to find that this was
extravagance unless you know what it could have been done for? They may
say that they subcontracted some of the routes for much less. Yes; but
what did they do with the rest of them? I might take a contract to build
a dozen houses in this city, and on the first house make ten thousand
dollars clear, and on the balance I might lose twenty-five thousand
dollars. You have a right to take these things and to average them. When
a man takes a contract he takes into consideration the chances that he
must run in that new and wild country. It takes work to carry this mail.
You ought to be there sometimes in the winter when the wind comes down
with an unbroken sweep of three or four thousand miles, and then tell me
what you think it is worth to carry the mail. All these things must be
taken into consideration. Another thing: You must remember that every
one of these routes was established by Congress. Congress first said,
"Here shall be a route; here the mail shall be carried." It was the
business then, I believe, of the First Assistant Postmaster-General to
name the offices, and the Second Assistant to put on the service. Take
that into consideration. Every one of these routes was established by
Congress. Take another thing into consideration: That the increase of
service and expedition was asked for, petitioned for, begged for, and
urged by the members of both houses of Congress, and according to that
book, which I believe is in evidence, a majority of both houses
of Congress asked, recommended, and urged increase of service and
expedition upon some of the nineteen routes in this indictment.

The Court. What evidence do you refer to?

Mr. Ingersoll. I refer to the Star Route investigation in Congress.

The Court. That record is not in evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. I thought that was in evidence.

The Court. No, sir.

Mr. Ingersoll. It was used as if it was in evidence. I saw people
reading from it, and supposed it was in evidence.

The Court. It is not in evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. Well, we will leave that out. Now, upon these nineteen
routes—this is in evidence—increase and expedition of service were
recommended by such Senators as Booth, Farley, Slater, Grover, Chaffee,
Chilcott, Saunders, and by the present Secretary of the Interior, Henry
M. Teller, and by such members of Congress as Whiteaker, Page, Luttrell,
Pacheco, Berry, Belford, Bingham, chairman of the postoffice committee,
by Stevens of Arizona, a delegate, and by Maginnis of Montana, and
Kidder of Dakota, by Generals Sherman, Terry, Miles, Hatch and Wilcox
In addition to these, recommendations were made and read by judges of
courts, by district attorneys, by governors of Territories, by governors
of States, and by members of State Legislatures, by colonels, by majors,
by captains, and by hundreds and hundreds of good, reputable, honest
citizens. They were the ones to decide as a matter of fact whether this
increase was or was not necessary.

I believe in carrying the mails. I believe in the diffusion of
intelligence. I believe the men in Colorado or Wyoming, or any other
Territory, that are engaged in digging gold or silver from the earth, or
any other pursuits, have just as much right, in the language of Henry
M. Teller, to their mail as any gentleman has to his in the city of New
York. We are a nation that believes in intelligence.

We believe in daily mail. That is about the only blessing we get from
the General Government, excepting the privilege of paying taxes. Free
mail, substantially free, is a blessing.

Now, there is another argument which has been used: Productiveness; but
that has been so perfectly answered that I allude to it only for one
purpose. How would the attorneys for the Government in this case like to
have their fees settled upon that basis? Productiveness. Is it possible
that this Government cannot afford to carry the mail? Is it possible
that the pioneer can get beyond the Government? Is is possible that we
are not willing to carry letters and papers to the men that make new
Territories and new States and put new stars upon our flag? I have heard
all I wish on the subject of productiveness.

Now, gentlemen, that is all the evidence there is in this case, that I
have heard. What kind of evidence must we have in a conspiracy case? You
have been told during this trial that it is very hard to get evidence in
a conspiracy case, and therefore you must be economical enough to put up
with a little. They tell you that this is a very peculiar offence,
and people are very secret about it. Well, they are secret about most
offences. Very few people steal in public. Very few commit offences who
expect to be discovered. I know of no difference between this offence
and any other. You have got to prove it. No matter how hard it is
to prove you must prove it. It is harder to convict a man without
testimony, or should be, than to produce testimony to prove it if he is
guilty. All these crimes, of course, are committed in secret. That is
always the way. But you must prove them. There is no pretence here that
there is any direct evidence, any evidence of a meeting, any evidence of
agreement, any evidence of an understanding. It is all circumstantial. I
lay down these two propositions:

"The hypothesis of guilt must flow naturally from the facts proved, and
be consistent, not with some of the facts, not with a majority of the
facts, but with every fact."

Let me read that again:

"_The hypothesis of guilt must flow naturally from the facts proved,
and must be consistent with them; not some of them, not the majority of
them, but all of them_."

The second proposition is:

"The evidence must be such as to exclude every single reasonable
hypothesis except that of the guilt of the defendant. In other words,
all the facts proved must be consistent with and point to the guilt of
the defendants not only, but every fact must be inconsistent with their
innocence."

That is the law, and has been since man spoke Anglo-Saxon. Let me read
you that last proposition again. I like to read it:

"The evidence must be such as to exclude every reasonable hypothesis
except that of the guilt of the defendants. In other words, all the
facts proved must be consistent with and point to the guilt of the
defendants not only, but they must be inconsistent, and every fact must
be inconsistent with their innocence."

Now, just apply that law to the case of John W. Dorsey. Apply that law
to the case of Stephen W. Dorsey. Let me read further. I read now from 1
Bishop's Criminal Procedure, paragraph 1077.

"It matters not how clearly the circumstances point to guilt, still, if
they are reasonably explainable on a theory which excludes guilt, they
cannot satisfy the jury beyond reasonable doubt that the defendants are
guilty, and hence they will be insufficient."

Just apply that to the case of Stephen W. Dorsey and John W. Dorsey.
I would be willing that this jury should render a verdict with that
changed. Change it. You are to find guilty if you have the slightest
doubt of innocence. Even under that rule you could not find a verdict of
guilty against John W. or Stephen W. Dorsey. If the rule were that you
are to find guilty if you have a doubt as to innocence you could not
do it; how much less when the rule is that you must have no doubt as to
their guilt. The proposition is preposterous and I will not insult your
intelligence by arguing it any further.

Now, then, there is another thing I want to keep before you. When a man
has a little suspicion in his mind he tortures everything; he tortures
the most innocent actions into the evidence of crime. Suspicion is a
kind of intellectual dye that colors every thought that comes in contact
with it. I remember I once had a conversation with Surgeon-General
Hammond, in which he went on to state that he thought many people were
confined in asylums, charged with insanity, who were perfectly sane. I
asked him how he accounted for it. Said he, "Physicians are sent for
to examine the man, and they are told before they get to him that he
is crazy; therefore, the moment they look upon him they are hunting for
insane acts and not sane acts; they are looking not to see how naturally
he acts, but how unnaturally he acts." They are poisoned with the
suspicion that he is insane, and if he coughs twice, or if he gets up
and walks about uneasily—his mind is a little unsettled; something
wrong! If he suddenly gets angry—sure thing! When a man believes
himself to be or knows himself to be sane, and is charged with insanity,
the very warmth, the very heat of his denial will convince thousands of
people that he is insane. He suddenly finds himself insecure, and the
very insecurity that he feels makes him act strangely. He finds in a
moment that explanation only complicates. He finds that his denial is
worthless; that his friends are suspicious, and that under pretence of
his own good he is to be seized and incarcerated. Many a man as sane
as you or I has under such circumstances gone to madness. It is a hard
thing to explain. The more you talk about it the more outsiders having
a suspicion are convinced that you are insane. It is much the same way
when a man is charged with crime. It is heralded through all the papers,
"this man is a robber and a thief." Why do they put it in the papers?
Put anything good in a paper about Mr. Smith, and Mr. Smith is the only
man who will buy it. Put in something bad about Mr. Smith and they will
have to run the press nights to supply his neighbors with copies. The
bad sells. The good does not. Then you must remember another thing: That
these papers are large; some of them several hundred columns, for all I
know—sixty or a hundred. Just imagine the pains it would take and
the money it would cost to get facts enough to fill a paper like that.
Economy will not permit of it. They publish what they imagine they can
sell. As a rule, people would rather heaf-something bad than something
good. It is a splendid certificate to our race that rascality is still
considered news. If they only put in honest actions as news it would be
a certificate that honesty was rare; but as long as they publish the bad
as news it is a certificate that the majority of mankind is still good.

Now, to be charged with a crime and to be suddenly deserted by your
friends, and to know that you are absolutely innocent, is almost enough
to drive the sanest man mad. I want you to think what these defendants
have suffered in these long months. If the men who started this
prosecution, if the men who originally poisoned the press of the
country, feel that they have been rewarded simply because innocent
men have suffered agony, let them so feel. I do not envy them their
feelings.

There is another thing, gentlemen: The prosecution have endeavored to
terrorize this jury. The effort has been deliberately made to terrorize
you and every one of you. It was plainly intimated by Mr. Ker that this
jury had been touched, and that if you failed to convict, you would be
suspected of having been bribed. That was an effort to terrorize
you, and the foundation of that argument was a belief in your moral
cowardice. No man would have made it to you unless he believed at heart
you were cowards. What does that argument mean? I cannot say whether you
will be suspected or not; but, in my opinion, a juror in the discharge
of his duty has no right to think of any consequence personal to
himself. That is the beauty of doing right. You need not think of
anything else. The future will take care of itself. I do not agree with
the suggestion that it is better that you should be applauded for a
crime than blamed for a virtue. Suppose you should gain the applause of
the whole United States by giving a false verdict; how would the echo
of that applause strike your heart? I do not believe that it is wiser
to preserve the appearance of being honest than to be honest with the
appearance against you. I would rather be absolutely honest, and have
everybody in the world think I was dishonest, than to be dishonest and
have the whole world believe in my honesty. You see you have got to stay
with yourself all the time. You have to be your own company, and to be
compelled to know that your company is dishonest, that your company is
infamous, is not pleasant. I would rather know I was honest and have
the whole world put upon the forehead of my reputation the brand of
rascality.

You were also told that the people generally have anticipated your
verdict.

That is simply an effort to terrorize you, so that you will say, "If the
people think that way, of course we must think that way. No matter about
the evidence. No matter if we have sworn to do justice. We will all try
and be popular." You were told in effect that the people were expecting
a conviction, and the only inference is that you ought not to disappoint
the public, and that it is your duty to piece and patch the testimony
and violate your oath, rather than to disappoint the general
expectation. Mr. Merrick told you you were trying these defendants,
but that the people of the whole country were trying you. What was the
object of that statement? Simply to terrorize this jury. What was the
basis of that statement? Why, that not one of you have got the pluck to
do right. It was not a compliment, gentlemen. It was intended for one,
no doubt, but when you see where it was born, it becomes an insult. I
do not believe you are going to care what the people say, or whether the
people expect a verdict of guilty, or not. You have been told that they
do. I might with equal propriety tell you that they do not. I might with
equal propriety say there is not a man in this court-house who expects a
verdict of guilty. With equal propriety I might say, and will say, that
there is not a man on this jury who expects there will be a verdict of
guilty. But what has that to do with us?

Try this case according to the evidence; and if you know that every man,
woman, and child in the United States want an acquittal, and you are
satisfied of the guilt of the defendants, it is your duty to find them
guilty.

If I were on the jury I would, in the language of the greatest man that
ever trod this earth—

  Strip myself to death, as to a bed
  That longing have been sick for, before I would give a false verdict.

Again, Mr. Merrick said, after having stated in effect that a majority
of the people were convinced of the guilt of the defendants, that the
majority of the men of the United States do not often think wrong. What
was the object? To terrorize you. That is all. This verdict is to be
carried by universal suffrage; you are to let the men who are not on
oath decide for the men who are; to let the men who have not heard the
testimony give the verdict of the men who have heard the testimony. What
else? Again the same gentleman said:

"There is to be a verdict, a verdict of the people for or against us."
What is the object? To frighten you. Let the people have their verdict;
you must have yours. If your verdict is founded on the evidence it will
be upheld by every honest man in the world who knows the evidence. You
need certainly to place very little value upon the opinion of those who
do not know the evidence. Mr. Merrick also suggested—I will hardly put
it that way—he was brave enough to hope that you have not been bribed.
Brave enough to hope that! All this, gentlemen, is done simply for the
purpose of terrorizing you. I tell you to find a verdict according to
the evidence, no matter whom it hits, no matter whom it destroys, no
matter whom it kills. Save your own consciences alive. Your verdict
must rest on the evidence that has been introduced, and all else must
be thrown aside, disregarded, like forgotten dreams. All that you have
read, all the press has printed, must find no lodgment in your brains.
You must regard them no more than you would the noises of animals made
in sleep. You must stand by the testimony. You must stand by the law
that the Court gives you. That is all we ask. These articles in the
newspapers were not printed in the hope that justice might be done. They
were printed in the hope that you may be influenced to disregard the
evidence, in the hope that finally slander might be justified by your
verdict. Gentlemen, you ought to remember that in this case you are
absolutely supreme. You have nothing to do with the supposed desires
of any men, or the supposed desires of any department, or the supposed
desires of any Government, or the supposed desires of any President, or
the supposed desires of the public. You have nothing to do with those
things. You have to do only with the evidence. Here all power is
powerless except your own. Position is naught. If the defendants are
guilty, and the evidence convinces you that they are, your verdict
must be in accordance with the evidence. You have no right to take into
consideration the consequences. When you are asked to find a verdict
contrary to the evidence, when you are asked to piece out the testimony
with your suspicions, then you are bound to take into consideration all
the consequences. When appeals are made to your prejudice and to your
fears, then the consequences should rise like mountains before you. Then
you should think of the lives you are asked to wreck, of the homes your
verdict would darken, of the hearts it would desolate, of the cheeks it
would wet with tears, and of the reputations it would blast and blacken,
of the wives it would worse than widow, and of the children it would
more than orphan. When you are asked to find a false verdict think of
these consesequences. When you are asked to please the public think
of these consequences. When you are asked to please the press think
of these consequences. When you are asked to act from fear, hatred,
prejudice, malice, or cowardice think then of these consequences. But
whenever you do right, consequences are nothing to you, because you are
not responsible for them. Whoever does right clothes himself in a suit
of armor that the arrows of consequences can never penetrate. When you
do wrong you are responsible for all the consequences, to the last sigh
and the last tear. If you do right nature is responsible. If you do
wrong you are responsible.

You were told, too, by Mr. Merrick that you should have no sympathy;
that you should be like icicles; that you should be godlike. A cool
conception of deity! In that connection this heartless language, as it
appears to me, was used:

"Man when he undertakes to judge his brother-man undertakes to perform
the highest duty given to humanity."

Good!

He should perform that duty without fear, without prejudice, without
hatred, and without malice. He should perform that duty honestly,
grandly, nobly.

I read on:

"Inclosed within the jury-box or on the bench he is separated from the
great mass of mankind—"

Then you should not pay any attention to the opinion of the public. If
you are separated you should not be dominated by the press. If you are
separated you should not be disturbed by the desires of anybody. But he
continues:

> "and sentiments of brotherhood die away."

About that time you would be nice men:

"Standing above humanity and nearest God he looks down upon his fellow,
and judges them without any reference to the sorrow his judgment may
bring."

That is not my doctrine. The higher you get in the scale of being,
the grander, the nobler, and the tenderer you will become. Kindness is
always an evidence of greatness. Malice is the property of small souls.
Whoever allows the feeling of brotherhood to die in his heart becomes a
wild beast. You know it and so do I:

> "Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
> The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
> Become them with one-half so good a grace as mercy does."

And yet the only mercy we ask in this case, gentlemen, is the mercy of
an honest verdict. That is all.

I appeal to you for my clients, because the evidence shows that they are
honest men. I appeal to you for my client, Stephen W. Dorsey, because
the evidence shows that he is a man, a man with an intellectual horizon
and a mental sky, a man of genius, generous, and honest. And yet this
prosecution, this Government, these attorneys representing the majesty
of the Republic, representing the only real Republic that ever existed,
have asked you, gentlemen of the jury, not only to violate the law of
the land, they have asked you to violate the law of nature. They have
maligned mercy. They have laughed at mercy. They have trampled upon the
holiest human ties, and they have even made light of the fact that a
wife in this trial has sat by her husband's side. Think of it.

There is a painting in the Louvre, a painting of desolation, of despair
and love. It represents the night of the crucifixion. The world is
represented in shadow. The stars are dead, and yet in the darkness is
seen a kneeling form. It is Mary Magdalene with loving lips and hands
pressed against the bleeding feet of Christ. The skies were never dark
enough nor starless enough; the storm was never fierce enough nor wild
enough, the quick bolts of heaven were never lurid enough, and arrows
of slander never flew thick enough to drive a noble woman from her
husband's side. And so it is in all of human speech, the _holiest word
is wife_.

And now, gentlemen, I have examined this testimony, I have examined
every charge in the indictment against my clients not only, but every
charge made outside of the indictment. I have shown you that the
indictment is one thing and the evidence another. I have shown you that
not one single charge has been substantiated against John W. Dorsey.
I have demonstrated to you that not one solitary charge has been
established against Stephen W. Dorsey—not one. I believe that I have
shown to you that there is no foundation for a verdict of guilty against
any defendant in this case.

I have spoken now, gentlemen, the last words that will be spoken in
public for my clients, the last words that will be spoken in public
for any of these defendants, the last words that will be heard in
their favor until I hear from the lips of this foreman two eloquent
words—_Not Guilty_. And now thanking the Court for many acts of
personal kindness, and you, gentlemen of the jury, for your almost
infinite patience, I leave my clients with all they have and with all
they love and with all who love them in your hands.
---
# Closing Address — Second Star Route Trial
_Dresden Edition, Volume 10, 1883_
MAY it please the Court and gentlemen of the jury: Perhaps some of you,
may be all of you, will remember that I made one of the opening speeches
of this case, and that in that opening speech I endeavored to give you
the scheme or plan of the indictment. I told you, I believe, at that
time, that all these defendants were indicted for having conspired
together to defraud the United States. In that indictment they were kind
enough to tell us how we agreed to accomplish that object; that we went
into partnership with the Second Assistant Postmaster-General, he being
one of these defendants, and that we then and there agreed to get up
false petitions, to have them signed by persons who were not interested
in the mail service, to sign fictitious names to these petitions, those
names representing no actual, real, living persons; that we also agreed
to have false and fraudulent letters written to the department urging
this service; that in addition to all that we were to make and file
false and fraudulent affidavits, in which we were to swear falsely as to
the number of men and horses to be employed, and the number of men
and horses then necessary; that in addition to that we were to file
fraudulent subcontracts; that the Second Assistant Postmaster-General
was to make false and corrupt orders, and that all these things were to
be done to deceive, mislead, and blindfold the Postmaster-General. They
also set out that these orders so corruptly made were to be corruptly
certified to the Auditor of the Treasury for the Post-Office Department
in order that we might draw our pay. That is what is known as the
general scheme or plan of this indictment. You have heard the testimony,
and remember some of it. Of course you do not remember it all. Probably
no man ever lived who could do such a thing. You have heard the
testimony discussed, I believe, for about twenty days, so that I take it
for granted you know something about it, or at least have an idea that
you do. The story that we told you in the first place, and that we now
tell you, is about this:

In 1877 Mr. Peck, Mr. Miner, and John W. Dorsey made up their minds to
make bids and to go into the mail business. I want you to remember that
there is not one word in this indictment about any false bid ever having
been made. Remember that. There is nothing in this indictment about
a false bond having been given; not a thing. There is nothing in this
indictment charging that any of the original contracts were false. I
want you to remember that. There is no evidence that any person signing
any one of those contracts as security was not perfectly solvent. There
is no evidence, not one syllable, that any proposal was fraudulent,
or that any bid was fraudulent. How is it possible for a bid to be
fraudulent? I will tell you. If you make a bid, and make a contract or
enter into an agreement at the same time with some of the Post-Office
officials so that your bid will be accepted when it is not the lowest,
there is a fraud, and there is a fraudulent bid. There is one other
way, and that is to put in a bid to carry the mail at so many thousand
dollars, and then have below that straw bidders, men not responsible,
and when the time comes to accept the bid of those gentlemen they refuse
to carry it out, and then the law is that it shall be given to the next
highest, and he refuses, and the next, and he refuses, and the next
highest, and he refuses, and so on until it comes to the highest bidder.
There are such combinations and have been, I have no doubt, for many
years in the Post-Office Department. That is called straw bidding, and
it is fraudulent bidding. There is no such charge as that in this case.
Every bid that was made was made in good faith, and every bid that was
accepted was followed by a good and sufficient contract entered into by
the party making the bid, and so that is the end of that.

Now, in 1877, I say these men entered into an agreement among themselves
that they would bid on certain routes, and Mr. Peck, or Mr. Miner,
or John W. Dorsey—they may have it as they choose—somebody, wrote a
letter to Stephen W. Dorsey and in that letter told what they were going
to do and requested him to get some man to obtain information in regard
to these routes. You know that testimony. Stephen W. Dorsey was then in
the United States Senate. He sent for Mr. Boone and he showed him that
letter. In consequence of that Mr. Boone sent out his circulars to the
postmasters all over the country, or all over the portion as to which
they were to bid, and asked them about the roads, about the price of
oats and corn, about the price of labor, and about the winters; in other
words, all the questions necessary for an intelligent man, after having
received intelligent answers, to make up his mind as to the amount for
which he could carry that mail. Mr. Boone, you remember, says that
he was to have at that time a certain share. There is a conflict of
testimony there. Mr. Dorsey says that he told Boone that when John W.
Dorsey came here they could arrange that, and he had no doubt that they
would be willing to give him a share; but that he did not give it to
him. The circulars were sent out and the information in some instances,
and I do not know but all, came back. Then they agreed upon the amounts
they were to bid. I believe Mr. Miner came here in December, and John W.
Dorsey, I think, in January, and in February the bids were made. All the
amounts were put in the bidding-book issued by the Government, by Mr.
Miner and Mr. Boone; all with two exceptions, and those amounts had been
placed there by them, but under the advice of Stephen W. Dorsey those
amounts were lowered. I remember one was upon the Tongue River route,
the other route I have forgotten. Mr. Miner, Mr. Peck, and John W.
Dorsey were together. Afterwards a partnership was formed between John
W. Dorsey and A. E. Boone. Stephen W. Dorsey advanced some money. There
is nothing criminal about that. It is often foolish to advance money,
but it is not a crime. It is often foolish to indorse for another,
and many a man has been convinced of that, but it is not a crime. He
advanced until, I believe, he was responsible for some fourteen or
fifteen thousand dollars, and thereupon he declined to advance any more.
He saw Mr. Miner in Saint Louis, and said to Mr. Miner, "This is the
last I am going to advance." I think he gave him some notes that he
hypothecated or discounted at the German-American National Bank. He
wanted security, and thereupon they gave him Post-Office drafts for the
purpose of securing his debt. He would advance no more money and went
away to New Mexico. Mr. Miner had a power of attorney from John W.
Dorsey who was absent, and a power of attorney from John M. Peck who was
absent. I believe on the 7th of August, or about that time, Mr. Boone
went out. Why? They had not the money at the time to put on the service.
Why? A great many more bids had been accepted than they had anticipated,
and instead of getting twenty or thirty routes they got, I believe, one
hundred and thirty-four routes. The consequence was they did not have
the money to stock the routes. There was another difficulty.

There was an investigation by Congress, and that delayed them a month
or two, and the consequence was that when the 1st of July came, the day
upon which the service should have been put on, it was not only not put
on, but they had not the means to do it. Then what happened? Then it was
that Mr. Miner took in Mr. Vaile, and an agreement was made which bears
date the 16th day of August, 1878. It was not finally signed by all the
parties, I believe, until some time in September or October. Under that
contract, which you have all heard read, Mr. Vaile was given an interest
in this business. More than that; subcontracts were given to Mr. Vaile,
and under the subcontract law which was passed on the 17th day of May,
1878, I believe, Vaile could file his subcontract in the Post-Office
Department, and that rendered all Post-Office drafts or orders that had
been given absolutely worthless. That was done. The subcontracts were
given to Vaile under the powers of attorney that Miner held from Peck
and John W. Dorsey, and of course he could act for himself. That was
the situation. Stephen W. Dorsey was not here. When he returned he found
that everything had been disposed of except his liability, and that he
would have to pay the notes. His security was gone, and the subcontracts
were filed. At that time he and Mr. Vaile had a quarrel. That is our
story. In the meantime John W. Dorsey was on the Tongue River route. I
believe he visited Washington in November and left word that he would
like to sell out all his interests in these routes, and I believe fixed
the price. Some time in November or December Mr. Vaile made up his mind
to take the routes, and afterwards changed his mind. Stephen W. Dorsey
was then in the Senate. On the 4th of March, 1879, his term expired. I
believe on that very day, or about that day, he wrote a letter to Brady
calling his attention to these subcontracts that had been filed for the
protection of Vaile and denouncing them. That was the first thing he
did. Then a few days afterwards the parties met. In a little while
afterwards they made a division of this entire business. You know how
the division was made. Stephen W. Dorsey fell heir to about thirty of
these routes, I think. In addition he had to pay ten thousand dollars to
his brother and ten thousand dollars to Peck. Mr. Vaile, I think, took
forty per cent, and Mr. Miner thirty per cent. Mr. Vaile and Mr. Miner
went into partnership and Stephen W. Dorsey took his routes, and that
ended it. Mr. Peck was out and John W. Dorsey was out. That is our
story. When they divided those routes, in order to vest the property
of those routes in the persons to whom they fell, it was necessary
to execute subcontracts and give PostOffice drafts and things of that
character. All those necessary papers they then and there agreed to
make. Up to this point there is not one act established by the evidence
not entirely consistent with perfect innocence; not an act. That is our
story. After these routes fell to us we did what we had the right to do
and what we could to make the routes of value. As business men we had
the right to do it, and we did only what we had the right to do.

The next question that arises, and which of course is at the very
threshold of this case, is, did these parties conspire? That is the
great question. In my judgment you should settle that the first thing
when you go to the jury-room. After having heard the case as it will be
presented by the Government, and after having heard the charge of the
Court, the first thing for you to decide is, was there a conspiracy?
How is a conspiracy proved? Precisely as everything else is proved. You
prove that men conspire precisely as you prove them guilty of larceny or
murder or any other crime or misdemeanor. It has been suggested to you
that as conspiracy is very hard to prove you should not require much
evidence; that you should take into consideration the hardships of the
Government in proving a crime which in its nature is secret. Nearly all
crimes are secret. Very few men steal publicly, with a band of music
and with a torch in each hand. They generally need their hands for other
purposes, if they are in that business. All crime loves darkness. We all
know that. One of the troubles about proving that a man has committed
a crime is that he tries to keep it as secret as possible. He does not
carry a placard on his breast or on his back stating what he is about to
do. The consequence is that it is nearly always difficult to prove
men guilty as stated in the indictment. But that does not relieve the
prosecution. That burden is taken by the Government, and they must
prove men guilty of conspiracy precisely as they prove anything else. Is
circumstantial evidence sufficient? Certainly, certainly. Circumstantial
evidence will prove anything, provided the circumstances are right,
and provided further that all the circumstances are right. A chain of
circumstances is no stronger than the weakest circumstance, as a chain
of iron is no stronger than the weakest link. Where you establish or
attempt to establish a fact by circumstances, each circumstance must be
proved not only beyond a reasonable doubt, but each circumstance must
be wholly inconsistent with the innocence of the defendants. Now, let me
call your attention to what I claim to be the law upon the subject, and
I will call the attention of the Court to it at the same time. I will
take this as a kind of test:

The hypothesis of guilt must flow naturally from the facts proved
and must be consistent with them; not with some of them, not with the
majority of them, but with all of them.

In other words if they establish one hundred circumstances and
ninety-nine point to guilt and one circumstance thoroughly established
is inconsistent with guilt or perfectly consistent with innocence, that
is the end of the case.

It is as if you were building an arch. Every stone that you put into the
arch must fit with every other and must make that segment of the
circle. If one stone does not fit, the arch is not complete. So with
circumstantial evidence. Every circumstance must fit every other. Every
solitary circumstance must be of the exact shape to fit its neighbor,
and when they are all together the arch must be absolutely complete.
Otherwise you must find the defendants not guilty. The next sentence is:

The evidence must be such as to exclude every reasonable hypothesis
except that of guilt. In other words, all the facts proved must be
consistent with and point to the guilt of the defendants not only, but
they must be inconsistent, and every fact proved must be inconsistent,
with their innocence.

Now, what does that mean? It means that every fact that is absolutely
established in this case, must point to the guilt of the defendants. It
means that if there is one established fact that is inconsistent with
their guilt, that fact becomes instantly an impenetrable shield that no
honest verdict can pierce. That is what it means. That being so—and the
Court in my judgment will instruct you that that is the law—let us talk
a little about what has been established.

In the first place, nearly all that has been established, or I will not
say established, but nearly all that has been said, for the purpose of
showing that our motives were corrupt, and that we actually conspired,
rests upon evidence of what we call conversations. Some witness had a
conversation with somebody, three years ago, four years ago, or five
years ago. The unsafest and the most unsatisfactory evidence in this
world is evidence of conversation. Words leave no trace. They leave no
scar in the air, no footsteps. Memory writes upon the secret tablet
of the brain words that no human eye can see. No man can look into the
brain of another and tell whether he is giving a true transcript of
what is there. It is absolutely impossible for you to tell whether it is
memory or imagination. No one can do it. Another thing: Probably there
is not a man in the world whose memory makes an absolutely perfect
record. The moment it is written it begins to fade, and as the days pass
it grows dim, and as the years go by, no matter how deeply it may have
been engraven, it is covered by the moss of forgetfulness. And yet you
are asked to take from men their liberty, to take from citizens their
reputation, to tear down roof-trees, on testimony about conversation
that happened years and years ago, as to which the party testifying
had not the slightest interest. As a rule, memory is the child of
attention—memory is the child of interest. Take the avaricious man. He
sets down a debt in his brain, and he graves it as deep as graving upon
stone. A man must have interest. His attention must be aroused. Tell
me that a man can remember a conversation of four or five years ago in
which he had no interest. We have been in this trial I don't know how
many years. I have seen you, gentlemen, gradually growing gray. You
have, during this trial, heard argument after argument as to what some
witness said, as to some line embodied in this library. [Indicating
record.] You have heard the counsel for the prosecution say one thing,
the counsel for the defence another, and often his Honor, holding the
impartial scales of memory, differs from us both, and then we have
turned to the record and found that all were mistaken. That has happened
again and again, and yet when that witness was testifying every attorney
for the defence was watching him, and every attorney for the prosecution
was looking at him. How hard it would be for you, Mr. Juror, or for any
one of you to tell what a witness has said in this case. Yet men are
brought here who had a casual conversation with one of the defendants
five years ago about a matter in which no one of the witnesses
was interested to the extent of one cent, and pretend to give that
conversation entire. For ray part, were I upon the jury, I would pay no
more attention to such evidence than I would to the idle wind. Such men
are not giving a true transcript of their brains. It is the result
of imagination. They wish to say something. They recollect they had a
conversation upon a certain subject, and then they fill it out to suit
the prosecution.

Now, I am told another thing; that after getting through with
conversations they then gave us notice that we must produce our books,
our papers, our letters, our stubs, and our checks; that we must produce
everything in which we have any interest, and hand them all over to this
prosecution. They say they only want what pertains to the mail business,
but who is to judge of that? They want to look at them to see if they do
pertain to the mail business. They won't take our word. We must produce
them all. It may be that with such a net they might bring in something
that would be calculated to get somebody in trouble about something, no
matter whether this business or not. They might find out something that
would annoy somebody. They gave us a notice wide enough and broad enough
to cover everything we had or were likely to have. What did they want
with those things? May be one of their witnesses wanted to see them. May
be he wanted to stake out his testimony. May be he did not entirely
rely upon his memory and wanted to find whether he should swear as to
check-books or a check-book, and whether he should swear as to one stub
or as to many. May be he wanted to look them all over so that he could
fortify the story he was going to tell. We did not give them the books.
We would not do it. We took the consequences. But what did we offer?
That is the only way to find out our motive. I believe that on page 3776
there is something upon that subject. I will read what I said:

Now, gentlemen, with regard to the books. As there has been a good
deal said on that subject I make this proposition: Mr. Dorsey has
books extending over a period of twenty years, or somewhere in that
neighborhood. He has had accounts with a great many people on a great
many subjects. He does not wish to bring those books into court, or to
have those accounts gone over by this prosecution, not for reasons
in this case, but for reasons entirely outside of the case. If the
gentlemen on the other side will agree, or if the Court will appoint any
two men or any three men, we will present to those men all our books,
every one that we ever had in the world, and allow them to go over every
solitary item and report to this court every item pertaining to John W.
Dorsey & Co., Miner, Peck & Co., or Vaile, Miner & Co., with regard
to every dollar connected, directly or indirectly, with this entire
business from November or December, 1877, to the present moment, and
report to this Court exactly every item just as it is. I make that
proposition.

That proposition was refused. What else did I do? I offered to bring
into court every check, including the time they said we drew money to
pay Brady. I offered to bring in every check on every bank in which we
had one dollar deposited; every one. That was not admitted. And why?
Because the Court distinctly said that it rests upon the oath of the
defendant at last; he may have had money in banks that we know nothing
about. To which I replied at the time that if we stated here in open
court the name of every bank in which we did business, and there is any
other bank knowing that we did do business with it, we will hear from
it. So that we offered, gentlemen, in this case, every check on every
bank but one. I did not know at that time that we had ever had an
account with the German-American Savings Bank; I did not find that out
until afterwards. But you will remember that Mr. Merrick held in his
hand the account of Dorsey with that bank; and Mr. Keyser, who, I
believe, had charge of that bank, was here, and if there had been
anything upon those books, certainly the Government would have shown it.

More than that; that bank went into the hands of a receiver, I think,
eight months before any of these checks are said to have been given
for money which was afterwards given to Brady. Now, they insist, that
because we failed to bring the books into court, therefore the law
presumes that the absolute evidence of our guilt is in those books.
I believe they claim that as the law. If my memory serves me rightly,
Colonel Bliss so claimed in his speech. In other words, that when they
give us notice to produce a book, and we do not produce it, there is a
presumption against us. That is not the law, gentlemen. When they give
us notice to produce a book or letter and we do not produce it, what
can they do? They can prove the contents of the book or letter. In other
words, if we fail to produce what is called the best evidence, then the
Government can introduce secondary evidence. They can prove the contents
by the memory of some witness, by some copy, no matter how; and that is
the only possible consequence flowing from a refusal to produce the book
or letter.

And yet, in this case, gentlemen, Mr. Bliss wishes you to give a verdict
based upon two things: first, upon what we failed to prove; secondly, on
what the Court would not let them prove. He tells you that they offered
to prove so and so, but the Court would not let them; he wants you to
take that into consideration; and secondly, that there were certain
things that we did not prove; and that those two make up a case. That is
their idea. Now, let us see if I am right about the law.

The first case to which I will call the attention of the Court is a
very small one, but the principle is clear. It is the case of Lawson
and another, assignees of Shiffner, vs. Sherwood, and it is found in 2
English Common-Law Reports; 1 Starkie, 314.

The Court. Colonel Ingersoll, you cannot argue that question to the
jury; you cannot cite an authority and discuss it to the jury.

Mr. Ingersoll. Then I will discuss it with the Court; it is immaterial
to me which way I turn when I am talking. I insist that the jury must at
last decide the law in this case. I will read another case to the Court,
found in 9 Maryland, Spring Garden Mutual Insurance Company, vs. Evans.

The Court decides in this case that the only consequence of their
refusal to produce the papers, they not denying that they had them, was
to allow the opposite party to prove their contents. That is all; that
it could not be patched out with a presumption.

The Court. But if afterwards they should attempt to contradict the
secondary evidence the Court would not have allowed them to do it.

Mr. Ingersoll. It does not say so.

The Court. That is the law.

Mr. Ingersoll. Suppose, after the other side had proved the contents,
there was an offer of the actual original papers. I can find plenty of
authority that they must be received.

The Court. I have never seen such authority, but I have seen a great
many to the contrary.

Mr. Ingersoll. I have never seen an authority to the contrary that was
very well reasoned. But, then, I will not argue about that, for that is
not a point in this case.

The Court. If you have the papers, and have received notice to produce
them, you are bound to produce them. If you do not produce them
secondary evidence is admissible to prove their contents. But after the
secondary evidence has been received, the Court will not allow you then,
after having first failed to produce the papers upon notice, to resort
to the primary evidence which you ought to have produced upon the
notice, for the purpose of contradicting the secondary evidence that was
given.

Mr. Ingersoll. Now, let me give the Court a case in point: In this very
case that we are now trying, Mr. Rerdell in his statement to MacVeagh
said there was a check for seven thousand dollars; that the money
was drawn upon that check; that he and Dorsey went together to the
Post-Office Department and that Dorsey went into Brady's room; that that
money was drawn by Dorsey. That was his statement to MacVeagh and James.

The Court. It was not his statement here.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes, that was his statement here, as I will show
hereafter. But let me state my point. He was coming upon the stand.
The check, instead of being for seven thousand dollars, was for seven
thousand five hundred dollars; instead of being drawn to the order
of Dorsey or to bearer, it was drawn to the order of Rerdell himself;
instead of being drawn at the bank by Dorsey, it was drawn by Rerdell
in person and had his indorsement upon the back of it. We were asked to
produce that. I preferred not to do it until I heard the testimony of
Mr. Rerdell. Why? Because I wanted to put that little piece of dynamite
under his testimony and see where the fragments went, and I did. That is
my answer to that.

Now, I find another case in the first volume of Curtis's Circuit Court
Reports, where it is said, on page 402, that—By the common law a notice
to produce a paper—The Court. [Interposing.] Before we part from what
you were saying, I wish to say that I do not think that the other side
gave you notice to produce the checks; that is my memory.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes. Let me state my memory to the Court: I do not
remember exactly every one of these four thousand pages of testimony;
there are three or four that I may be a little dim about; but I do
remember that a notice was given to us to produce everything in the
universe, nearly, and that the Court held that the scope was a little
too broad. I have forgotten the page, but I will tell you where it
comes in: It was where Mr. Rerdell swore about the stub-book. I find
the notice, may it please your Honor, on page 2255, and it was dated the
13th of February. This is the notice, and it gave the same notice to all
the defendants:

You are hereby notified to produce forthwith in court, in the above
entitled cause, all letters and communications, including all telegrams,
of every kind and description, purporting to come from any one of said
defendants and addressed to you or delivered to you, and all memoranda
in which reference is made to any contract or contracts of any one of
said defendants with the United States or with the Postmaster-General
for carrying the mail under the letting of 1878 on any route in the
United States, or in any way referring to any contract or contracts
for so carrying the mail, in which J. W. Bosler or any one of said
defendants had any interest, or in any way referring to any act,
contract, or proceeding thereunder, or to any payment, draft, warrant,
check, or bill, or note, or to any possible loss or profit in connection
with such contract or contracts, or to the management or execution
thereof, or referring to any possible gain or profit to be derived
by any of said defendants from contracts for carrying the mail of
the United States, or to any payments under such contract, or to the
distribution of the proceeds made or to be made of said payment, or to
the management of any enterprise or enterprises in connection with the
transportation of the mail, or to gains, profits, or losses accruing or
likely to accrue from such enterprises, or to the financial means for
carrying on the same; and also to produce any and all books containing
any entry or entries in regard to any of the subjects, matters, checks,
drafts, or payments relating or having reference to the subjects, &c.,
hereinbefore referred to; and also any letter-book or letter-books
containing letter-press copies of letters referring to the said subject
or subjects.

I believe just about that time, or a little after, another notice was
given.

Mr. Merrick. If the counsel will allow me, my impression is that that
notice was deemed by the Court to be too broad.

The Court. It was.

Mr. Ingersoll. Then another notice was given that specified all these
things.

Curtis says in this case that—By the common law, a notice to produce a
paper, merely enables the party to give parol evidence of its
contents, if it be not produced. Its non-production has no other legal
consequence.

I find too, that in the Maryland case they make a reference to Cooper
vs. Gibson, 3 Camp., 303. I also have another case, to which I will call
the attention of the Court, United States vs. Chaffee, 18 Wallace, 516.
I have not the book here, but I can state what it is. My recollection
of the case is this: That an action was brought against some distillers;
that by law distillers have to keep certain books in which certain
entries by law have to be made. Notice was served upon the defendants to
produce those books. They refused so to do; and the question was whether
any presumption arose against the defendants on account of that refusal.

The Court. I agree with you entirely that far in your law, that the
mere fact of the failure to produce books or papers has no effect at
all against the party declining to produce them. But it is a different
question altogether, after secondary evidence has been given, in
consequence of such refusal, to supply the place of the primary
evidence. If the books and papers have an existence, and the party who
has received the notice has refused to produce them, and the other party
has given secondary evidence of the contents of such books and papers,
that secondary evidence will have to stand, under those circumstances,
as the proof in the case.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is not the point. Of course that will stand for what
it is worth. I was arguing this point: Can the jury hatch and putty and
plaster the secondary evidence with a presumption born of the failure to
produce the books and papers?

The Court. What I mean is just this: If you should fail to produce the
primary evidence, and then the secondary evidence of the contents is not
contradicted——

Mr. Ingersoll. [Interposing.] It may not be contradicted, because it
happens to be inherently improbable.

Mr. Merrick. The Government claims the law to be as your Honor has
intimated, and we have formulated it in one of our prayers. But that
abstract proposition is hardly applicable in the present case, for the
Government claims the application of another and plainer proposition:
That wherever a defendant himself takes the stand and has in his
possession a certain paper which, when called upon on cross-examination
to produce, he refuses, then a presumption unquestionably arises of such
potency that it is difficult to resist.

Mr. Ingersoll. There is no difference, so far as the law is concerned,
whether the defendant, as a defendant, fails to produce the books and
papers, or whether, in his capacity as a witness, he fails to produce
the books and papers. The law, it seems to me, is exactly the same.

Now, in this case of the United States vs. Chaffee et al. (18 Wall.,
544), Justice Field denounces that you should presume against the
party because he fails to produce books and papers known to be in his
possession. And why? I suppose a party can not be presumed out of his
liberty; he cannot be presumed into the penitentiary; and you cannot
make a prison out of a presumption any more than you can make a gibbet
out of a suspicion.

And again, the court instructed the jury that the law presumed that
the defendants kept the accounts usual and necessary for the correct
understanding of their large business and an accurate accounting between
the partners, and that the books were in existence and accessible to the
defendants unless the contrary were shown.

That same thing has been claimed here.

The Court. No.

Mr. Ingersoll. We have heard it very often that this was a large
business.

The Court. You have not heard anything of that kind from the Court.

Mr. Ingersoll. I am not saying that. I said "claimed"; if I had referred
to your Honor I should have said "decided." Here is another instruction
of the court:

If you believe the books were kept which contained the facts necessary
to show the real amount of whiskey in the hands of the defendants in
October, 1865, and the amount which they had sold during the next ten
months, or that the defendants, or either of them, could by their own
oath resolve all doubts on this point; if you believe this, then the
circumstances of this case seem to come fully within this most necessary
and beneficent rule.,

He applied the word "beneficent" to a rule that put a man in the
penitentiary on a presumption.

The Court. He was conservative.

Mr. Ingersoll. He ought to read some work on the use and abuse of words.
Now, Judge Field says further:

The purport of all this was to tell the jury that although the
defendants must be proved guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, yet if the
Government had made out a _prima facie_ case against them, not one
free from all doubt, but one which disclosed circumstances requiring
explanation, and the defendants did not explain, the perplexing question
of their guilt need not disturb the minds of the jurors.

That is this case exactly: that is the exact claim of Colonel Bliss in
this case. Gentlemen, you have only to take into consideration, he says,
what we offered to prove and what the Court would not allow us, and what
the defendants failed to prove. "Why didn't they call Bosler?"

Now, gentlemen, we claim the law to be this: That while notice is given
us to produce books and papers and we fail to do it, the only legal
consequence is that the Government may then prove the contents of such
books and papers, and that their proof of the contents must be passed
upon by you.

The next thing to which I call your attention is the crime laid at our
door, that we exercised the right of petition. It is regarded as a very
suspicious circumstance that petitions were circulated, signed, and sent
to the office of the Second Assistant Postmaster-General. Why did these
people petition? Let me tell you. If you will look in every contract
in this case you will find certain provisions relative to carrying the
mail. Among others you will find this: That no contractor has any right
to carry any newspaper or any letter faster than the schedule time; that
he has no right to carry any commercial news, or to carry any man who
has any commercial news about his person, faster than the schedule time.
No mail can be carried by anybody except the United States, and if a
community wants more mail it has no right to establish an express that
will carry the mail faster, because the United States has the monopoly.
Now, if you want more mail, what are you to do? You cannot start one
yourself; the Government will not allow it. What have you to do? You
have to petition the Government to carry the mail faster or to carry
it more frequently; and the reason you have to ask the Government to
do this is because the Government will not permit you to do it;
consequently you have only one resort. What is that? Petition. And in
this very case I believe his Honor used this language:

Every man carrying the mail has the right to take care of his business.
He has the right to get up petitions. He has the right to call the
attention of the people to what he supposes to be their needs in that
regard. He has the right to do it, and the fact that he does it is not
the slightest evidence that he has conspired with any human being.

Now, if the man carrying the mail has the right to call the attention of
the people to their needs, have not the people the right to do all
that themselves? If the man carrying the mail has the right to get up a
petition, surely the people have the right; and if the people have the
right, surely the man has that right. That is the only way we can find
out in this country what the people want—that is, to hear from them.
They have the right to tell what they want.

But these gentlemen say, "Anybody will sign a petition." Well, if that
is true, there is no great necessity for forging one. Very few people
will steal what they can get for the asking. If a bank or a man offers
you all the money you want, you would hardly go and forge a check to get
it. I will come to that in a few moments.

Now, gentlemen, according to this evidence, you have got to determine,
as I said in the outset, Was there a conspiracy? The second question you
have to determine is, When? In every crime in the world you have got to
prove the four W's—Who, When, What, Where? Who conspired? When? What
about? Where? Now I want to ask you a few questions, and I want you to
keep this evidence in mind. Was there a conspiracy when Dorsey received
the letter from Peck or Miner? Had the egg of this crime then been
laid? Had it been hatched at that time? Is there any evidence of it? The
object then was to make some bids. It is not necessary to conspire to
make bids. You cannot conspire to make fraudulent bids unless you enter
into an agreement that the lowest bid is not to be accepted, or agree
upon some machinery by which the lowest bid is not received, or put in a
bid with fraudulent and worthless security. Will the Government say that
there was a conspiracy at the time Peck or Miner wrote to S. W. Dorsey?
What evidence have you that there was? None. What evidence have you that
there was not? The evidence of Miner and the evidence of S. W. Dorsey.
What else? Boone had not been seen at that time. John W. Dorsey was not
here. Peck was not here. Peck or Miner had written the letter. Was there
any conspiracy then? Is there any evidence of it? Is there enough to
make a respectable suspicion even in the mind of jealousy? Does it
amount even to a "Trifle light as air."

Was it when Dorsey sent for Boone? Boone says no. He ought to know. S.
W. Dorsey says no. John W. Dorsey was not here. Miner had not arrived.
The only suspicious thing up to that point is that Dorsey lived "in
his house;" that he received this letter "in his house," and that Boone
visited him "in his house." That is all. Now, if there is a particle of
evidence, I want the attorney for the Government who closes this case
to point it out, and to be fair. Was it when Miner got here in December,
1877? Miner says no. Boone says no. Stephen W. Dorsey says no. John
W. Dorsey was not yet here. All the direct evidence says no. All the
indirect evidence says nothing. Now, let us keep our old text in view.
I want to ask you if there is a thing in all the evidence not consistent
with innocence? Was it not consistent with innocence that Peck and
Miner and John W. Dorsey should agree to bid? Was it not consistent with
innocence that John W. Dorsey met Peck at Oberlin, and that he met
Miner in Sandusky? Was not that consistent with innocence? Was it not
consistent with innocence for Peck to write S. W. Dorsey a letter? Was
it not consistent with innocence for Dorsey to open it and read it and
then send for Boone and give it to him? Boone in the meantime proceeded
to get information so that they could bid intelligently. Was
that consistent with innocence? Perfectly. More than that, it was
inconsistent with guilt. What next? May be this conspiracy was gotten
up about the 16th of January, when John W. Dorsey came here. Dorsey says
no; Boone says no; Miner says no; and S. W. Dorsey says no. That is the
direct evidence. Where is the indirect evidence? There is none. Ah,
but they say, don't you remember those Clendenning bonds? Yes. Is there
anything in the indictment about them? No. Was any contract granted upon
those bonds or proposals? No. Was the Government ever defrauded out of a
cent by them? No. Is there any charge in this case relative to them? No.
Everybody says no. John W. Dorsey entered into a partnership with A.
E. Boone after he came here. Is that consistent with innocence? Yes. No
doubt many of the jury have been in partnership with people. There is
nothing wrong about that. He also entered into partnership with Miner
and Peck. There were two firms, John W. Dorsey & Co., which meant A. E.
Boone and John W. Dorsey, and Miner, Peck & Co., which meant Miner, Peck
and John W. Dorsey. Is there anything criminal in that? No. They had a
right to bid. They had a right to form an association, a partnership.
There was nothing more suspicious in that than there would have been in
evidence of their eating and sleeping. Now, then, was this conspiracy
entered into on August 7, 1878, when Boone went out? Boone says no, and
with charming frankness he says if there had been a conspiracy he would
have staid. He said, "If I had even suspected one, I never would have
gone out. If I had dreamed that they had a good thing, I should have
staid in." He swears that at that time there was not any. Miner swears
to it and S. W. Dorsey swears to it. Everybody swears to it except the
counsel for the prosecution. Rerdell swears to it. That is the only
suspicious thing about it. Now, at that time, August 7, when Boone went
out, S. W. Dorsey was not here and John W. Dorsey was not here. Who was?
Miner. What was the trouble? Brady told him, "I want you to put on that
service. If you don't I will declare you a failing contractor." A little
while before that Miner had met Dorsey in Saint Louis, and Dorsey
had said, "This is the last money I will furnish. No matter whether
I conspired or not, I am through. This magnificent conspiracy,
silver-plated and gold-lined, I give up. There are millions in it, but
I want no more. I am through." So Mr. Miner, using his power of attorney
from John W. Dorsey and Peck, took in Mr. Vaile.

I believe that Mr. Rerdell swears that the reason they took in Vaile was
that they wanted a man close to Brady. According to the Government they
had already conspired with Brady. They could not get much closer than
that, could they? Miner was a co-conspirator, and yet they wanted
somebody to introduce him to Brady. John W. Dorsey and S. W. Dorsey were
in the same position. They were conspirators. The bargain was all made,
signed, sealed, and delivered, and yet they went around hunting somebody
that was close to Brady. Brady said, "I will declare you all failing
contractors. I can't help it, though I have conspired with you. I give
up all my millions. This service has got to be put on. The only way to
stop it is for you to seek for a man that is close to me. You are not
close enough." Now, absurdity may go further than that, but I doubt
it. You must recollect that that contract was signed as of the 16th of
August. You remember its terms. At that time not a cent had been paid
to S. W. Dorsey. His Post-Office drafts had been cut out by the
subcontracts. Afterwards he had a quarrel with Vaile. We will call it
December, 1878.

Was the conspiracy flagrant then? Let us have some good judgment about
this, gentlemen. You are to decide this question the same as you decide
others, except that you are to take into consideration the gravity of
the consequences flowing from the verdict. You must decide it with your
faculties all about you, with your intellectual eyes wide open, without
a bit of prejudice in your minds, and without a bit of fear. You must
decide it like men. You must judge men as you know them. Was there a
conspiracy between these defendants in December, 1878, when S. W. Dorsey
came back here and found out the security for his money was gone, and
when he had the quarrel with Mr Vaile? Is there the slightest scintilla
of testimony to show that Mr. Vaile came into this business through any
improper motive? I challenge the prosecution to point to one line of
testimony that any reasonable man can believe even tending to show that
Mr. Vaile was actuated by an improper motive. I defy them to show a line
tending to prove that John R. Miner was actuated by an improper motive
when he asked Vaile to assist him in this business. I defy them to show
that Brady was actuated by an improper motive when he told them, "You
must put on that service or I will declare you all failing contractors."
Was there a conspiracy then? I ask you, Mr. Foreman, and I ask each
of you, Was there a conspiracy at that time? Have the prosecution
introduced one particle of testimony to show that there was? In March
was there a conspiracy? Will you call dividing, a conspiracy? Will you
call going apart, coming together? If you will, then there must have
been a conspiracy in March. A conspiracy to do what? A conspiracy to
separate; a conspiracy to have nothing in common from that day forward.
Mr. Vaile entered into a conspiracy then that he would have no more
business relations with S. W. Dorsey. He swears that at that time
nothing on earth would have tempted him to go on. That is what they call
being in a conspiring frame of mind. Not another step would he go. In
March they separated, and each one went his way. It was finally fixed
up, and finally settled in May. John W. Dorsey was out with his ten
thousand dollars, and Peck was out with his ten thousand dollars. S.
W. Dorsey, for the first time became the owner of thirty routes, or
something more, and Miner and Vaile of the balance, I think about
ninety-six. According to that contract of August 16, John W. Dorsey only
had a third interest in the routes he had with Boone, and not another
cent. There was a division. If there was a conspiracy of such a
magnitude, why should Boone go out of it? Why should John W. Dorsey
sell out for ten thousand dollars? Why should John W. Dorsey offer Boone
one-third of it? Why was Mr. A. W. Moore offered one-quarter of it?—a
gentleman who could be employed for one hundred and fifty dollars a
month? I ask you these questions, gentlemen. I ask you to answer them
all in your own minds. Recollect, on the 16th of August there was
a conspiracy involving hundreds of thousands of dollars. In that
conspiracy was the Second Assistant Postmaster-General. They had the
Post-Office Department by the throat. They had the Postmaster-General
blindfolded. Yet Miner went to Vaile and said, "Now, just furnish a
little money to put on these routes and you may have forty percent, of
this conspiracy." He was giving him hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Is that the way people talk that conspire together? Would not Miner have
gone to Brady and said, "Look here, what is the use of acting like a
fool? What do you want me to give forty per cent, of this thing to Vaile
for? I had better give twenty per cent, more to you. That would allow me
to keep twenty per cent, more too, and then there will be one less to
keep the secret." He never thought of that.

I want you to think of these things, gentlemen, all of you, and see how
they will strike your mind. What did they want of Boone? S. W. Dorsey
they say was the prime mover. He hatched this conspiracy. Miner, his
own brother, Peck, and everybody else were simply his instruments, his
tools. What did he want Boone for? He had a magnificent conspiracy from
which millions were to come. He told Boone, "I will give you a third
of it." What for? He told Moore, "I will give you one-quarter."
Seven-twelfths gone already. T. J. B. thirty-three and one-third
per cent. That is about all. Then sixty-five per cent, more to the
subcontractors. I want you to think about these things, gentlemen. If
they had such a conspiracy what did they want of Mr. Moore?

Mr. Ingersoll. [Resuming.] Gentlemen, was it natural for S. W. Dorsey
to get the money back that he had advanced, or some security for it?
Was that natural? When a man seeks to have a debt secured is that a
suspicious circumstance? That is all he did. He was out several thousand
dollars. He wanted to secure that debt and he took another debt of
twenty thousand dollars upon him as a burden. If this had been a
conspiracy he could have furnished this money that he had to pay to
others to put the service on the route. I leave it to each one of you
if that action to secure that debt was not perfectly natural. I will ask
you another question. If he was the originator of the conspiracy would
he have taken thirty per cent, burdened with a debt of twenty thousand
dollars? The way to find out whether there is sense in anything or
not is to ask yourself questions. Put yourself in that place; you, the
master of the situation; you, the author of the entire scheme. Would
you take one-third of what you yourself had produced, and that third
burdened with twenty thousand dollars worth of debt, and then make your
debt out of the proceeds? I want every one of you to ask yourself the
question, because you have got to decide this case with your brains and
with your intelligence; not somebody else, but you, yourself. We want
your verdict; we want your individual opinion; not somebody else's.
There is the safety of the jury trial. We are to have the opinions of
twelve men, and those opinions agreeing. Where twelve honest men agree,
if they are also independent men, the rule is that the verdict is right.
The opinion of an honest man is always valuable, if he is only honest,
and if it is his opinion, it is valuable. It is valuable if he does not
go to some mental second-hand store and buy cheap opinions from somebody
else, or take cheap opinions. In this case I ask the individual opinion
of each one of you. I want each one of you to pass upon this evidence;
I want each one of you to say whether if Dorsey had been the author
and finisher of this conspiracy he would have taken thirty per cent.,
burdened with twenty thousand dollars of debt to others and fifteen
thousand dollars of debt to himself? If you can answer that question
in the affirmative you can do anything. After that nothing can be
impossible to you, except a reasonable verdict. You cannot answer it
that way. Why should he have cared so much about fifteen or sixteen
thousand dollars with a conspiracy worth hundreds of thousands of
dollars? Why run the risk of making the whole conspiracy public? Why
run the risk of his detection and its destruction? You cannot answer it.
Perhaps the prosecution can answer it. I hope they will try.

Mr. Ker, on page 4493, makes a very important admission.

After they (meaning the defendants) had these contracts, there was a
combination, an agreement between all these people, that they were to
do certain things in order to get at the public Treasury and get more
money.

What does that mean? That means that this conspiracy was entered into
after the defendants obtained the contracts, so that Mr. Ker fixes the
birth of this conspiracy after these contracts had been awarded to the
defendants. That being so, all the bids, proposals, Clendenning letter,
Haycock letter, proposals in blank, and bidders' names left out fade
away.

The Chico letter I will come to after awhile. I will not be as afraid of
it as were the counsel for the prosecution. I will not, like the Levite,
pass on by the other side of the Chico letter. I will not treat it as if
it were a leper, as if it had a contagious disease. When I get to it I
will speak about it. All these things, then, under that admission,
go for naught, and have nothing to do with the case, and consequently
nobody need argue with regard to them any more, although incidentally
I may allude to them again. There is no doubt, recollect, after
this admission. There is no clause in the indictment saying that we
endeavored to defraud this Government by bids, by proposals, by bonds,
or by contracts. Not a word. That is all out; in my judgment it never
should have been in the case at all. What is the next thing we did?
It is alleged that the moment Dorsey got these contracts he laid the
foundation to defraud the Government by a new form of subcontract. Let
me answer that fully, and let that put an end to it from this time
on. Until May 17, 1878, the Post-Office Department did not recognize
subcontractors. After these contracts came into the possession of
these defendants Congress passed a law recognizing subcontractors.
Consequently the contracts of the subcontractors that were to be
recognized by the Government had to be somewhere near the same form as
the contracts with the original contractors. The moment the contract
of the subcontractor was to be recognized by the Government then it was
necessary and proper to put a clause in that subcontract for expedition
and a clause in that subcontract for increase of service. Why? So that
the Government should know, if the route was expedited, what percentage
the subcontractor was entitled to. Instead of that clause in the
subcontract being evidence that Mr. Dorsey was endeavoring to swindle
the Government, the evidence is exactly the other way. It was put there
for the purpose of protecting the subcontractor, so that if expedition
was put upon the route the Government would know what per cent, of the
expedition to pay the subcontractor. If that clause had not been in that
subcontract the Government could not have told how much money to pay
the subcontractor, and as a consequence the subcontract would have been
worthless as security for the subcontractor. And yet a clause put in for
the protection of the subcontractor is referred to in your presence as
evidence that the man who suggested it was a thief and a robber. What
more? They say to these witnesses, "Did you ever see such a clause as
that in a subcontract before?" No. Why? The Government never recognized
a subcontractor before that time, and consequently there was no
necessity for such a clause. Think how they have endeavored to torture
every circumstance, no matter how honest, no matter how innocent, no
matter how sensible; how they have endeavored to twist it and turn
it against these defendants. Gentlemen, whenever you start out on the
ground that a man is guilty, everything looks like it. If you hate a
neighbor and anything happens to your lot you say he did it. If your
horse is poisoned he is the man who did it. If your fence is torn
down he is the fellow. You will go to work and get all the little
circumstances that have nothing to do with the matter braided and woven
into one string. Everything will be accounted for as coming from that
enemy, and as something he has done.

They say another thing: That we defrauded the Government by filing
subcontracts. You cannot do it. When this case is being closed I want
somebody to explain to the jury how it is possible for a man to defraud
this Government by filing a subcontract. I do not claim to have much
ingenuity. I claim that I have not enough to decide that question or
to answer it. I can lay down the proposition that it is an absolute,
infinite, eternal impossibility to fraudulently file a subcontract
as against the Government. It cannot he done. Oh, but they say, the
subcontractor did not take the oath. There is no law that he should take
an oath and there never was. There may be at some time, but there is
not now. The law that everybody engaged in carrying the mail and every
salaried officer of the department shall take an oath was passed before
the law of the 17th of May, 1879, allowing a subcontractor to file his
subcontract. Before that time the Government had nothing to do with
the subcontractor. If he actually carried the mail; if he actually took
possession of the mail, he had to take the oath of the carrier. But I
defy these gentlemen to find in the law any oath for a subcontractor.
There never was such an oath. If there is one, find it. The law that
every salaried officer and every carrier of the mail shall take the oath
was passed years and years and years before the law was passed
allowing subcontracts to be filed. What of it? Suppose a man who is a
subcontractor carries the mail and does not take any oath. That is as
good as to take the oath and not carry the mail. What possible evidence
is it of fraud? Suppose it should turn out that the carrier did not take
the oath, but carried the mail honestly. What of it? Is it any evidence
of fraud? If a man tells the truth without being sworn, is that evidence
that he is a dishonest man? If a man carries the mail properly and in
accordance with law without being sworn to do so, it seems to me that is
evidence that he is an honest fellow, and you don't need to swear
him. So when a subcontractor takes a subcontract and carries the mail
according to law it does not make any difference whether he swears to
do so or not. Is there any evidence in this case that the subcontractors
stole any letters on account of not having taken the oath? When they
answer, let them point to the law that the subcontractor is to take an
oath. There is no such law and never was.

Now, according to this admission of Mr. Ker, the conspiracy commenced
after they got the contract. Very well. I need not talk about anything
back of that. I do not know whether the admission is binding upon the
Government or not. I believe the Court holds that the Government is
not bound by the admission of any agent, and that the Government
only authorizes an agent to admit facts. May be he is mistaken. The
Government only authorizes an agent to admit the law. At any rate Mr.
Ker did the very best he knew how, and he says this conspiracy commenced
when they got the contracts, and so we need not go back of that unless
the Government is now willing to say that Mr. Ker has made a mistake.
I lay down the proposition, gentlemen, that you need not go back of the
division of these routes. Then you must go forward. What was done after
that? Recollect the exact position of Senator Dorsey and the exact
position of these other people.

The next claim is, although there was no conspiracy until after they
got the contracts, that Senator Dorsey was interested in these contracts
while he was a Senator of the United States. If they could establish
that fact it would not tend to establish a conspiracy. There is nothing
in this indictment about it. I admit that if he were a Senator, and at
the same time interested in mail contracts, he might be tried and
his robes of office stripped from him, and that he could be rendered
infamous. But that is not what he is being tried for. They say he was in
the Senate, and he was anxious to keep it secret. Mr. Ker says he was so
anxious to keep it secret that he sent all these communications out West
in Senate envelopes, so they would think a Senator had something to do
with it. Then it turned out that all the envelopes were in blank; just
plain white envelopes, with nothing on them, and away went that theory.
If he were in the Senate and engaged in these routes also, and wished
to keep it a profound secret, because if known it would blast his
reputation forever, do you think he would have had all these circulars
sent out in Senate envelopes and on Senate paper? If he did allow
that to be done, it is absolutely conclusive evidence that he was not
interested. Suppose I was trying to keep it an absolute, profound,
eternal, everlasting secret that I had anything to do with a certain
matter, would I write letters about it? Would I use paper that had my
name, the number of my office, and the character of my business printed
upon it? Would I? To ask that question is to answer it. Another thing:
They claim that he was in the Senate and infinitely anxious to keep it a
secret, and yet he found Mr. Moore, a perfect stranger, and said to him
in effect: "Yes, Mr. Moore; I don't know you, but I want you to know
me. I ama rascal. I am a member of the Senate, but I am engaged in mail
routes. I hope you will not tell anybody, because it would destroy me.
I have great confidence in you, because I don't know you." That is the
only way he could have had confidence in Moore. He would have to have it
the first time he saw him or it never would have come. To this perfect
stranger he said, "Here, I am in the Senate, but I am interested in
these routes. I am in a conspiracy. I want you to go out and attend to
this business. I want you to do all these things, and the reason I tell
you is because I am a Senator and I want it kept a profound secret. That
is the reason I tell you." That is what these gentlemen call probable.
That is their idea of reasonableness and of what is natural. That may be
true in a world where water always runs up hill. It can never be true in
this world. It is not in accordance with your experience. Not a man here
has any experience in accordance with that testimony or that doctrine;
not one. You never will have unless you become insane. If this trial
lasts much longer you may have that experience. It is a wonder to me it
has not happened already.

There is another queer circumstance connected with this case. While
Dorsey told it all to Moore he kept it a profound secret from Boone.
Boone, you know, was in at the first. Boone got up all this information.
Boone was interested in these bids, and yet he never told Boone. He had
known Boone, you see, for several weeks. He told Moore the first day,
the first minute. He wished to relieve his stuffed bosom of that secret.
Moore was the first empty thing he found, and he poured it into him.
It is astonishing to me that he succeeded in keeping that secret from
Boone, but he did. He even kept it from Rerdell.

Rerdell never heard of it—a gentleman who picks up every scrap, who
listens at the key-hole of an opportunity for the fragment of a sound.
He never heard it. John W. Dorsey did not even know anything about it.
Nobody but Moore. Now, I ask you, gentlemen, is there any sense in that
story? I ask you. I ask you, also, if the testimony of Stephen W.
Dorsey with regard to that transaction is not absolutely consistent
with itself? Did he not in every one of those transactions act like a
reasonable, sensible, good man? Oh, but they say it is not natural for
a man to help his brother; certainly it is not natural for a man to help
his brother-in-law, and nobody but a hardened scoundrel would help a
friend, and Dorsey is not that kind of a man. Occasionally in a case an
accident will happen, and from an unexpected quarter a side-light will
be thrown upon the character of a man, sometimes for good, and sometimes
for evil. Sometimes a little circumstance will come out that will cover
a man with infamy, something that nobody expected to prove, and that
leaps out of the dark. Then, again, sometimes by a similar accident a
man will be covered with glory. In this case there was a little fact
that came to the surface about Stephen W. Dorsey that made me proud that
I was defending him. Oh, he is not the man to help his brother; he is
not the man to help his brother-in-law; he is not the man to help a
friend; and yet, when Torrey was upon the stand, he was asked if he was
working for Dorsey, and he said no, and was asked if Dorsey paid him at
a certain time, or if he owed him, and he said no. He was asked why, and
he replied, "Because only a little while before, when I was not working
for him, and my boy was dead, he gave me a thousand dollars to put him
beneath the sod." That is the kind of a man Stephen W. Dorsey is. I
like such people. A man capable of doing that is capable of helping his
brother, of helping his brother-in-law, and of helping his friend. A man
capable of doing that is capable of any great and splendid action.
Is there any other man connected with this trial that ever did a more
generous, nay, a more loving and lovely thing? How such a man can excite
the hatred of the prosecution is more than I can understand.

Now, we have got to the division, and the question arises, was there
a division? Let us see. On page 5009 Mr. Bliss admits that Vaile,
immediately upon Dorsey's coming out of the Senate, came here for the
purpose of settling up this business; that he made up his mind to
have no more to do with Dorsey. Then Mr. Bliss makes this important
admission, and I do not want any attorney for the Government to deny it.

He admits that in May there was a final division, and that that division
was to take effect as from the 1st day of April, and that after
that each party took the routes allotted to him, and they became the
uncontrolled property of that person, no other person having the right
to interfere. There is your admission, just as broad as it can be made.
Mr. Bliss, after having made that admission, which virtually gives up
the Government's case, then threw a sheet-anchor to the windward and
said, "But when they divided they made a bargain with each other that
they would make the necessary papers." What for? To carry out the
division. That is all. Now, the only corner-stone for this conspiracy,
the only pebble left in the entire foundation is the agreement to make
the necessary papers after the division. That is all that is left. The
rest has been dissolved or dug up and carted away by this admission. Let
us see what that agreement was. Mr. Bliss turned to the evidence of John
W. Dorsey, on page 4105:

Q. At the time you sold out, was there any understanding about your
making papers?—A. That was a part of the agreement. I was to sign all
the necessary papers to carry on the business.

When he sold out he agreed to sign all the necessary papers. It is like
this: Mr. Bliss says on such a day, for instance, they divided. Suppose,
instead of being routes it was all land. They divided the land and then
they agreed to make the deeds. That was the conspiracy; not in the land;
not in the agreement about the land; not in the bargain, but in the
execution of the papers in consequence of the bargain. That was the
conspiracy. They agreed to make all the necessary papers. That was the
agreement. Then the Court asked John W. Dorsey a question.

Q. You agreed to sign what?—A. All the necessary papers to carry on the
business.

That is what he agreed to do. What else? What were those papers? First,
they were to sign all the subcontracts that were necessary, all the
Post-Office drafts necessary, and they were to sign letters like this:

The Post-Office Department, in regard to this route, will hereafter send
all communications to the undersigned.

In other words, the object was to let the person who fell heir to a
given route in the division control that route. That was all. The man
who was the contractor agreed that he would sign all the necessary
papers. For what purpose? To allow each man who got a route to be the
owner of it and control it and draw the money. That is all. And yet it
is considered rascality.

Let me call your attention to another piece of evidence on this subject.
On page 5016, Mr. Bliss is talking about all these papers and these
letters that were written and apparently signed by Peck, but really
signed by Miner, saying, "I want you to send all communications in
reference to such a route to post-office box No. so and so, John M.
Peck," sometimes with an M. under it and sometimes without. He did that
in consideration of the agreement at the time he got the routes that had
been originally allotted to Peck. Mr. Bliss brought here a vast number
of these papers, and then he continued, on page 5017:

All those, gentlemen, are orders, dated after the division, many of
them coming away down into 1881, and all of them relating to routes with
which Peck had no connection, because he severed his connection with all
the routes prior to the 1st of April, or as of the 1st of April, 1879.
John W. Dorsey tells you that he signed papers right along—Of course
he did. He agreed to—and I have here a series of them. Many of them are
orders not in blank. There are among the papers, orders signed in blank,
but these are dated, and they are witnessed not always by the same
person as indicating that they got together and signed a lot of orders
at the time of the division. There is every indication that the dates
are correct. The witnesses are different at different times.

The Court. These same orders would have been made if the division had
been perfectly honest.

That is what I say. That is what we all say, gentlemen.

If the transaction then had been perfectly honest the papers would have
been precisely as they are. From the papers being precisely as they
are, do they tend to show that the transaction was dishonest, when it is
admitted by everybody and decided by the Court, that if the transaction
had been perfectly honest the papers would have been just as they are?
Recollect my text. Every fact when you are proving a circumstantial case
has to point to the guilt of the defendants, and their guilt has to be
found from all the facts in the case beyond a reasonable doubt. If there
is one fact inconsistent with their guilt, the case is gone.

There is another little admission to which I call your attention.
Nothing delights me so much as to have the prosecution in a moment of
forgetfulness, or we will say on purpose, admit a fact. Mr. Bliss said,
on page 5018:

You will bear in mind that the division took place some eight months
previous to that.

That was January 1, 1880,

However that may be, these papers are all papers which on their faces
might be innocent and fair and proper. They are papers which, under
ordinary circumstances, might be executed to enable others than the
contractor to draw the pay and to be tiled with the department, though
it appears, I think, by the evidence in this case that no draft could be
filed except shortly prior to the quarter as to which it applied. As to
these papers all that we have to say is this: they are papers on
their face apparently innocent, papers calculated to go through in the
ordinary practice as though there was nothing wrong about them. At the
same time the evidence shows that they were papers executed by these
several parties at the time of or in pursuance of the agreement of the
division.

I do not want anything better. That settles the papers. They were made
at the time they agreed to make them. It was the only way in which they
could give the party who got the route absolute control of the route.

Now, gentlemen, apart from these papers, I believe they have three
witnesses, at least they are called witnesses, in this case. The first
witness that I will call your attention to, and who figures about as
early as anybody, is A. W. Moore. I want to ask you a few questions
about his testimony. I want you to understand exactly what he swears to
and the circumstances. Let us see.

He swears first that he had a conversation with Miner, in which he told
Miner that he would work for him for one hundred and fifty dollars a
month and expenses, with permission to put on some of his own service, I
think, in Oregon and California, and that Mr. Miner accepted his terms,
and employed him as the agent of Miner, Peck & Co. Recollect that,
Miner, Peck & Co. Second, that Miner told him to report at Dorsey's
house to get instructions. Miner at that time was staying at Dorsey's
house. I do not know whether it was to get instructions from Dorsey or
from the house, or from Miner. I take it, from Miner. No matter. Mr.
Moore then swears that he reported to Dorsey and Dorsey asked him his
opinion about the service. Moore had never been there and did not know
one of the routes, but Dorsey was anxious for his opinion. How did he
know any more about the service than Dorsey? There is no evidence that
Moore knew the price. There is no evidence that he knew the amount the
Government was to pay on a single route. He was a stranger. Then he had
another conversation with Dorsey in which Dorsey told him that they had
bid on the long routes with slow time, because that was the way to make
money. Not satisfied with that, Mr. Dorsey showed him the subcontracts
with the blanks and with the changes, and then he explained to him the
descending scale, and he explained to him the percentage of expedition.
He said Dorsey told him forty per cent, of the expedition. Boone swears
it was sixty-five per cent. There is a little difference; not much.
Moore swears that he himself was to have twenty-five per cent, of the
stealings. Let us see how that is. Boone swears that the subcontractor
was to have sixty-five per cent. Rerdell swears that Brady was to have
thirty-three and one-third per cent. That leaves one and two-third per
cent, for the contractor. Do you see? The subcontractor got sixty-five
dollars out of one hundred dollars, and then Brady got thirty-three
dollars and thirty-three and one-third cents. That makes ninety-eight
dollars and thirty-three and one-third cents, leaving the contractor one
dollar and sixty-six and two-third cents. That was all he got. Did you
ever know of anybody on earth doing business at a smaller per cent, and
paying for the trouble? Now, Mr. Moore comes in with his statement.
He says the subcontractor got forty per cent, and then he himself got
twenty-five per cent. That makes sixty-five. Then, according to Rerdell,
Brady was to have thirty-three and one-third per cent. That makes
ninety-eight and one-third. There is the most wonderful coincidence in
this whole trial. Rerdell and Boone and Moore agree exactly that the
contractor gave up ninety-eight and one-third per cent, to others and
took one and two-thirds himself. Did you ever know as much humanity in
a conspiracy as that? Did you ever know such a streak of benevolence
to strike anybody? It reminds me of a case of disinterested benevolence
that happened in Southern Illinois. A young man there went to a lawyer
and said to him, "I want to get a divorce, I was married at a time when
I was drunk, and when I sobered up I didn't like the marriage. I want a
divorce." The lawyer asked, "What do you want of a divorce?" "Well,"
he said, "do you know the widow Thompson?" "Yes." "She has been a widow
there for about forty years. Do you know her boy? He is the biggest
thief in this county. He went over the Ohio River the other day and
stole a set of harness and a mule." "What has that to do with this
divorce case?" "Well," he said, "I want to get a divorce and I want to
marry that widow." "What for?" "I want to get control of that boy and
see if I can't break him from stealing. I have got some humanity in me."
Here are S. W. Dorsey, his brother, his brother-in-law, Miner and Vaile
starting a charity conspiracy, and out of every hundred dollars that
they steal they offer ninety-eight dollars and thirty-three cents upon
the altar of disinterested friendship. You are asked to believe that.
You will not do it.

Mr. Moore also swears that he received some money by a check, but he
does not know whether the check was payable to him or payable to Miner,
and he got a power of attorney signed by Miner from John W. Dorsey and
John M. Peck, and then he started, S. W. Dorsey assuring him in the
meantime that he could tell the people out there that the service would
be increased and expedited in a few days. Mr. Moore is a peculiar man.
He says that that suited him exactly. He was willing to steal what
little he could; he was willing to steal for one hundred and fifty
dollars a month if he couldn't get any more, or he was willing to steal
for a part of the stealing. If he could not get that he would take an
ordinary salary. I should think he was a good man from what he says. You
heard him. They were wonderfully anxious to prove by Moore that Dorsey
was the head and front of this whole business. That was the object, and
so he swore as to the instructions. He said he was instructed to get up
petitions so that they could be torn off and the names pasted on other
petitions. He swore he carried out those instructions. He swore that
Major agreed to do it, and I think a man by the name of McBeau was going
to do it. Yet, gentlemen, there never was such a petition gotten up.
Major swore here that he never heard of it; that he never dreamed of it,
and never agreed to it; that it was a lie; that it was never suggested
to him. Moore went out West and came back as far as Denver, and at
Denver met John R. Miner, and then came here and saw Dorsey. What did he
do with Dorsey? He swears that he went to Stephen W. Dorsey and settled
with him, and that Dorsey settled in a very generous and magnanimous
way, and did not want to look at his account, and did not want to look
at the book; had no anxiety or curiosity about the items. He just said,
"How much is it?" It happened to be even dollars—two hundred and fifty
dollars. When a man goes out West and has hotel bills and all that sort
of thing, when he comes to render his expense account it is always even
dollars. Moore said two hundred and fifty dollars. Dorsey gave it to
him; never looked at the book at all. Moore swears that he made that
settlement with Stephen W. Dorsey on the 11th day of July, 1878. Dorsey
was then in the Senate.

Look at page 1417. You see that Moore had been smart; that is what
people call smart. You know it is never smart to tell a lie. Very few
men have the brains to tell a good lie. It is an awfully awkward thing
to deal with after you? have told it. You see it will not fit anything
else except another lie that you make, and you have to start a factory
in a short time to make lies enough to support that poor little bantling
that you left on the door-step of your honesty. A man that is going to
tell a lie should be ingenious and he should have an excellent memory.
That man swore that he settled with Dorsey to the 11th day of July, 1878;
swore it for the purpose of convincing you that Dorsey employed him;
that Dorsey gave him instructions; that Dorsey was the head and front of
the conspiracy. I then handed him a little paper, and asked him, "Do you
know anything about that? Did you ever sign that?" And here it is:

Not July 11. That is the day he got the money of Dorsey.

July 24, 1878.

Received of Miner, Peck & Co., one hundred and sixty-six dollars,
balance of salary and expenses in full to July 11, 1878.

## A. W. Moore

To when? To July 24? No, sir; he settled with Dorsey to July 11, 1878.
The gentlemen had forgotten that he gave that. If he had only had a
little more brains he would have avoided the two hundred and fifty
dollars, that even amount, and he would have said, "Dorsey did look
over my books, and we had a little dispute about some items, and we just
jumped at two hundred and fifty dollars." But he swears that was the
actual settlement, and then we bring in his receipt in writing,
dated the 24th of July, 1878, saying that he received one hundred and
sixty-six dollars that day, and that it was in full of his salary and
expenses, not up to that date, but up to the nth of July, 1878. If his
testimony is true, he stole that one hundred and sixty-six dollars. If
his testimony is true, he settled with Dorsey in full for two hundred
and fifty dollars, and then he was mean enough to go and get one hundred
and sixty-six dollars more for the same time. No, gentlemen, he was all
right enough about it then; he told the falsehood here.

Now, what does Dorsey swear? Dorsey swears that he received an order
from Miner to give this man two hundred and fifty dollars. Miner swears
that if Dorsey paid him anything it was on his, Miner's, request. That
is a v perfectly natural proceeding for Mr. Miner to request Dorsey to
pay this man two hundred and fifty dollars. The man came to Dorsey's
house. Dorsey gave him two hundred and fifty dollars upon Miner's order.
He was trusting John R. Miner for the money, and it was none of his
business whether Miner owed it or not, and consequently he did not
look at his book. Now, every fact is consistent with the truth of Mr.
Dorsey's testimony; the fact is consistent with the truth of Miner's
testimony; and the receipt of this man given to Miner on the 24th of
July, 1878, demonstrates that he did not tell the truth, under oath, in
this court before you.

That is the end of Mr. Moore; that is the end of him. You never need
bother about him again as long as you live.

Why, they say, "Why didn't you impeach him?" He impeached himself. "Why
didn't you call so-and-so?" Because we had that receipt; that is why.
No need of killing a man that is dead. You need not give poison to a
corpse. When a thing is buried, let it go. When a man commits suicide,
you need not murder him. When he destroys his own testimony, let it
alone; it will not hurt you.

I am not afraid of the testimony of Mr. Moore. If these gentlemen can
galvanize it into the appearance of life, I should be very happy to see
them do it. Everything that he swore upon this stand that in any way
touched the defendants is shown not to be true.

Why should Dorsey have told him in 1878 to get up fraudulent petitions?
Even Rerdell does not swear that in 1879 Dorsey instructed him to get
up fraudulent petitions, and certainly he would go to the limit of the
truth. After he made his story out of a piece of true cloth there would
be very few scraps left. He would certainly go clear to the line. And
yet, even he does not swear that when he went West to make contracts, to
get up petitions, he was instructed by Mr. Dorsey to get up a fraudulent
petition—not once. And yet Moore swears that in 1878, when Dorsey was
in the Senate, he told him to get up these fraudulent petitions. It will
not do.

Mr. Major swears that what he says about it is not true; Mr. McBean
swears that what he says about it is not true; and then we have Moore's
own receipt showing that it is not true.

On page 4757 Mr. Bliss says—Moore stands before you, therefore, so
far as all this testimony is concerned, wholly and absolutely
uncontradicted.

His testimony was that he was employed by Dorsey; his testimony was that
he was settled with by Dorsey, and the testimony of the receipt that he
signed is that he settled with Miner and not with Dorsey; the testimony
of Miner is that he was settled with by Miner, and not with by Dorsey;
the testimony of Dorsey is that he never had any conversation with him
in the world except at the time he paid him the two hundred and fifty
dollars. They say Rerdell was present at the conversation. Why did they
not prove it by Rerdell after Dorsey had sworn to the contrary? And
yet Mr. Bliss tells you that he is not contradicted—"utterly
uncontradicted."

Mr. Ker, it seems, has an opinion of this same witness, I believe. He
says, on page 4511:

He says he started out and went to work, as these records show, and made
the subcontracts according to his instructions, and got up the petitions
according to his instructions.

He swears he did not get up a petition at all, not one; he swears that
he had not time. And yet these gentlemen say that he got up petitions
according to his instructions, and he swears he did not. He swears he
told Major to, and that Major signified his willingness to do it. Major
swears that that is a falsehood. He swears the same with reference to
McBean, and McBean swears that it is a falsehood. Now Mr. Ker goes on:

He fixed them up and changed the language a little in some, and in some
he did not take the trouble to change, but he fixed them all so that
there was a space between the writing and the names, so that they could
be cut off and pasted on other papers.

He expressly denies that he ever fixed a petition in the world.

Mr. Ker. What page?

Mr. Ingersoll. You ask the page! Talk to the jury seven days! I say that
this man never fixed up a petition, and he never says that he fixed up
a petition. Where is the page on which he says it? He was willing to
do it, but he had not the time. I will show you that language. There is
what they say about this man. Then he says he got a note from Miner, and
went to Denver and met Miner. That is right. Then Miner offered him a
quarter interest in the routes in this vast conspiracy.

Let us find what Moore thinks of himself. We find that on page 1398. He
is a good man, worthy of this case, according to the eternal fitness of
things. I come to this quicker than I thought I would. It is page 1396:

Q. Did you get up any?—A. No, sir; I didn't have the time.

There it is. Now, of course, Mr. Ker forgot. I call your attention to
this to show how little weight such evidence is entitled to in reference
to a conversation five years ago, when Mr. Ker could not remember this
with the book before him.

Mr. Ker. I asked you for the page on which Mr. McBean's testimony
appears.

Mr. Ingersoll. Mr. Moore is the witness. Mr. Moore swears that he never
got up such a petition. Mr. Ker says he did. He and Mr. Ker will have to
settle their own difficulty.

On last Friday, in reply, I think, to a question of Mr. Ker, I stated
that I thought McBean swore that Mr. Moore did not make any arrangement
with him to get up false petitions. In that I was mistaken. Mr. Moore
swore that he made an arrangement with McBean to get up petitions. He
did not quite swear that McBean agreed to get up false and fraudulent
petitions. He just came to the edge of it and did not quite swear to it.
Afterwards McBean was recalled by the Government and the Government did
not ask McBean whether he had ever agreed to get up any petitions or
whether he had ever made any such arrangement with Moore. They did not
ask him and we did not ask him. I do not know why they did not ask him.
They probably know.

I also stated that Moore swore that he got his instructions about these
petitions from Dorsey. The evidence is that he got his instructions
not from Dorsey but from Miner; that Miner so instructed him, and that
thereupon he made the bargain to get up such petitions with a man by the
name of Major on the Redding and Alturas route. I make this correction
because I do not want you or any one else to think that I wish any
misstatement made in our favor. We do not need it and consequently there
is no need of making it. You will remember that after Moore swore that
he made a bargain with Major to get up false petitions, Major swore that
it was untrue. You will also remember that Judge Carpenter called
for the petitions that were gotten up upon the routes that Moore had
something to do with, and I think he showed you on one route eleven or
twelve petitions. Mr. Major swears that every petition was honest, that
the statements in each petition were true, and that the signatures were
genuine. All those petitions were shown to you. So that the result of
the Moore testimony is this: Moore swears that Miner told him to get
up such petitions. He then swears that he made that bargain with Major.
Major says it is not true. Moore almost swears that he made the same
bargain with McBean. McBean says nothing on the subject. Then we bring
here the petitions upon those very routes, and especially upon the
Redding and Alturas route, and we find no such petitions as are
described by Moore. That is enough in regard to Mr. Moore upon that one
point.

There is one little piece of testimony to which I failed to call your
attention on Friday, and to which I will call your attention now. Moore
was the friend of Boone. Boone recommended him to Miner. It was through
Boone that Moore was employed. Now, I ask you if it is not wonderful
that Moore never told Boone that there was a conspiracy on foot? Is it
not wonderful that Moore did not tell Boone, his friend, the man to whom
he was indebted for the employment, "There is a conspiracy in this case.
Senator Dorsey as good as told me so. I know all about it."

The fact is he never said one word, and the reason we know it, is that
Boone swears that when he went out on the 7th or 8th of August he never
even suspected it. I cannot, it seems to me, make this point too plain.
Boone had been known by Dorsey for a long time. They were very good
friends. Dorsey had enough confidence in him to select him as the man
to get the necessary information after he had been requested so to do
in the letter. Boone was the man who attended to this business more than
anybody else. Boone was interested with John W. Dorsey. Boone had every
reason to find out exactly what was happening. He was at Dorsey's house,
where Miner was. He talked with Miner day after day. He helped get
up the bids. He did a great deal of mechanical work. He had the
subcontracts printed. Yet during all that time Dorsey never let fall a
chance expression that gave Boone even the dimmest dawn of a hint that
there was a conspiracy. Nobody told Boone. Moore, his friend, never
spoke of it.

Now, there is one other point with regard to Mr. Moore. Mr. Moore
swears, on page 1371, that Miner offered him a fourth interest in these
routes. That was the conversation in which he said Mr. Miner told him
they were good affidavit men. According to Moore's testimony he then
knew there was a conspiracy, and he understood that he was part and
parcel of it. Let me ask you right here, is it probable that Moore
would have been offered a quarter interest at that time if a conspiracy
existed, and if they had their plans laid to make hundreds of thousands
of dollars, and if the profits had depended upon the affidavits alone?
I ask you, as sensible, reasonable men, if he would have been offered a
quarter interest under those circumstances? Now conies in what I believe
to be the falsehood. Mr. Moore says that the interest was offered to
him by Miner, but Miner said it would have to be ratified by Stephen
W. Dorsey. That is brought in for the purpose of having some evidence
against Dorsey. You must recollect, gentlemen, that this evidence was
all purchased. This evidence was all bargained for in the open shamble.
You must recollect that there are upon the records of this court some
seven or ten indictments against A. E. Boone. You must remember that
Moore was Boone's friend. You must remember that Moore was a part of the
consideration that Boone was giving to the Government for immunity.

Mr. Merrick. Is there any proof of that?

Mr. Ingersoll. I think there is. Mr. Moore swears as to the number of
indictments against Boone. He was his friend. The jury have a right to
infer what motive prompts a witness. Moore wished to swear enough, so
that Mr. Boone would not be troubled. In my judgment, Mr. Boone,
being under indictment, gave evidence in this case in order that
the Government would take its clutch from his throat. He swore under
pressure. That is the system, gentlemen, that is dangerous in any
country. Whenever a Government advertises for witnesses; whenever a
Government says to a guilty man, or to a man who is indicted, "All we
ask of you is to help us convict somebody else;" whenever they advertise
for a villain, they get him. That is the result of what they call the
informer system—an infamous system. A court of justice, where justice
is done between man and man, is the holiest place on earth. The informer
system turns it into a den, into a cavern, into a dungeon, where crawl
the slimy monsters of perjury and treachery. That is the informer
system. It makes a court a den of wild beasts. What else does it do?
Under its brood and hatch come spies; spies to watch witnesses, spies to
watch counsel, spies to follow jurymen, so that a juror cannot leave his
house without the shadow of the spy falling upon his door-step. That is
not the proper attitude of a Government. The business of a Government
is to protect its citizens, not to spread nets. The business of a
Government is to throw its shield of power in front of the rights of
every citizen. I hold in utter, infinite, and absolute contempt any
Government that calls for informers and spies. Every trial should be in
the free air. All the work should be done openly. These sinister motions
in the dark, the crawling of these abnormal and slimy things, I abhor.

Now, to come back to Moore. Upon my word I think he was trying to help
his friend. After Mr. Miner had offered him a quarter interest, then
he came back to Washington. He arrived here, according to his evidence,
about the 11th day of July, I think. He went immediately to see Stephen
W. Dorsey. Recollect that. That was the time Dorsey settled with him
without looking at his books. After he settled with him and gave him
two hundred and fifty dollars he asked him to telegraph to see if the
service had been put on The Dalles and Baker City route. He waited here
until he received an answer, and after that he talked with Dorsey not
only about that matter, but in that conversation Dorsey said, according
to Moore, that it took a good deal of money to keep up their influence
in the department. When I asked him when that conversation was, he
said two or three days after the first conversation. According to the
evidence in this case Stephen W. Dorsey left this city on the 12th of
July. This man Moore arrived on the nth, and he says two or three days
after his arrival Dorsey said it took money to keep up their influence
here. When he swears that Dorsey told him that, Dorsey was in the city
of Oberlin, Ohio. Recollect these things. Whoever tells stories of this
character should have a most excellent memory.

Now, there is another thing. When did Miner get back? He got back by the
24th of July, because on the 24th of July he settled with Moore, and I
believe then Moore went West again. Now, remember there was a contract
made, as Moore swears. He has not got it. Nobody sees it. He says there
was a contract made by which he had a fourth interest in something.
He got back here I believe some time in November, and on the 20th of
November he and Miner settled. I will now look on page 1430 for that
settlement. I want you to see how everything was situated at that time.

I find on page 1430 that Mr. Miner settled for everybody with Mr. A. W.
Moore. Remember the situation. Moore knew there was a conspiracy. All
the service was on. You see, this was November 20, 1880. Vaile was
in. They had a man who was close to Brady. Everything was running in
magnificent style. Mr. Moore understood that there was a conspiracy.
What more did he understand? That he had the claw of his avarice in the
flesh of a United States Senator and in the flesh of a Second Assistant
Postmaster-General. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were to be made.
He came back here and settled up and sold out his interest for how much?
Six hundred and eighty-two dollars. Do you believe that? Credulity would
not believe it. Nobody believes it, that is if the rest of the story is
true. Why did he settle with him for so little? He said Mr. Miner told
him he hadn't a dollar. He did not reply to him, "When this conspiracy
is completed you will have plenty. I can wait." No. Miner said he hadn't
anything and so Moore settled for six hundred and eighty-two dollars.
Then I asked him, "You had a contract with Dorsey, did you?" "Yes;
verbally." "Did you ever say anything to Dorsey about it?" "No." "Did
you ever claim anything from Dorsey?" "No." "Did you ever write to
him?" "No." "Did you ever say anything to anybody that you had any
claim against Dorsey?" "No." You saw Mr. Moore, gentlemen, here upon the
stand. Do you think he is the kind of man who would let such a chance
slip? It is for you to judge. In my judgment that is the eternal end of
Moore's testimony. We can call him buried. We can put the sod over his
grave. We can raise a stone to the memory of A. W. Moore. Let him rest
in peace, or to use the initials only, let him R. I. P. That is the end
of him. If the Government wishes to dig up the corpse hereafter let them
dig.

Mr. Ker. I would like—

Mr. Ingersoll. [Interposing.] I don't want to hear from you.

The Court. You do not know what he is going to say.

Mr. Ingersoll. He may be intending to make a motion that the jury be
instructed to find a verdict of not guilty.

Mr. Ker. As Mr. Merrick will have to answer, he simply wants to know the
page.

Mr. Ingersoll. If Mr. Merrick wants to know the page he shall have the
page, or anybody that wishes to answer. If counsel had simply asked me
for the page, without getting up in such a solemn manner, I would have
told him.

On page 1406, Mr. Moore says that he went to Dorsey and got the money,
and that then Dorsey requested him to telegraph to The Dalles, and that
he did not see Dorsey after he got the answer to his dispatch, I think,
for two or three days. He reached Washington, he says, about the 11th.
On page 1372, he speaks of telegraphing to The Dalles by instructions
from Dorsey.

Now, gentlemen, I am going to call your attention for a little while
to another witness, Mr. Rerdell. And in the commencement, I need not
refresh your minds with regard to the part he has played. I need not, in
the first instance, tell you about his affidavit of June, 1881, nor his
affidavit of July 13, 1882, nor his pencil memorandum, nor his Chico
letter, nor his offer to pack the jury on behalf of the Government, nor
the signals he had agreed upon, nor the reports he made from day to day,
nor the affidavit of September that he made for the Government, nor of
November nor of February. All these things you remember and remember
perfectly. I will speak of them as I reach them, but I want you to keep
in your minds who he is.

I need not call any names. Epithets would glance from his reputation
like bird-shot from the turret of a monitor. The worst thing I can say
about him is to call him Mr. Rerdell. All epithets become meaningless in
comparison. The worst thing I can say after that would have the taint of
flattery in it. You will remember when Enobarbus was speaking to
Agrippa about Caesar, he says, "Would you praise Caesar, say Caesar. Go
no further." And I can say, "If you wish to abuse this witness, say Mr.
Rerdell. Go no further." That is as far as I shall go.

You will remember that Mr. Rerdell was in the employ of Stephen W.
Dorsey, and had been for several years. He does not pretend that he was
ever badly used; he does not say before you that Mr. Dorsey ever did to
him an unkind act, ever said an unkind word. In all the record of the
years that he was with him he finds no page blotted with an unjust
act, not one. He has no complaint to make. Under those circumstances
he voluntarily goes to see a man by the name of Clayton, I think an
ex-Senator from Arkansas, known to him at that time to be an enemy of
Stephen W. Dorsey, an enemy of his employer, an enemy of his friend—his
friend, whose bread this witness had eaten for years, whose roof had
protected him, who had trusted and treated him like a human being. Yet
he goes to this man Clayton, and he says, in substance, "I want to
sell out my friend to the Government." He was not actuated exactly by
patriotism, although he says he was. The promptings of virtue may have
started him, but after he got started he said to himself, "I do not see
that it hurts virtue to be rewarded." So he said, "I want some pay for
this; I want a steamboat route reinstated; I want the Jennings claim
allowed. Of course I am disinterested in what I am doing, but I might
as well have something, if it is going." "What else do you want?" The
disinterested patriot suggested that he would like to have a clerkship
for his father-in-law. "Anything else?" If you will read his letter of
July 5, 1882, which I will read to you before I get through, you will
see that he says, "If I had remained with the Government I have every
reason to believe I would have had a good position by this time." So he
must have demanded a clerkship for himself—good, honest man. At that
time he did not know, but swore it afterwards and swore it here upon the
stand, that Dorsey had never done anything wrong; and yet he was willing
to sell him to the Government, believing that he had never done anything
wrong. So he went and saw the Postmaster-General. The Postmaster-General
did not appear to take any great interest in the matter. He turned him
over to the Attorney-General. He showed the Postmaster-General what he
had, and read him, I believe, or showed him some memoranda. Then he went
and saw the Attorney-General. The Postmaster-General did not seem to
give him encouragement. Then when he went to see MacVeagh he took with
him a letter-book—I do not know but more than one—but we will say a
letter-book. Now, what was in that letter-book? And, gentlemen, the
only way to find whether a man tells the truth is to take all the
circumstances into consideration. What did he want to do? What was his
object? And what were the means at his command? For instance, it is said
that a man left his house with the intention of murdering another, and
that he had on his table a loaded revolver, and also had on his table a
small walking-stick, and he took with him the walking-stick. You would
say he did not intend to commit the murder; that if he had so intended
he would have taken the deadly weapon. In other words, you must believe
that men, acting for the accomplishment of a certain object, use the
natural means within their power.

Now, what did he have in that letter-book? He swears now that in that
letter-book there was a copy of a letter from Stephen W. Dorsey to James
W. Bosler; that the original letter was written by Stephen W. Dorsey.
That press-copy, of course, would show that the original letter was in
the handwriting of S. W. Dorsey. What does he swear was in that letter?
He swears that Dorsey made a proposition to Bosler to go into the
business; told him the profits, and told him that he had to give
thirty-three and one-third per cent, to T. J. B.; that he had already
paid him, I think, twenty thousand dollars, and had more to pay him.
According to the testimony of Mr. Rerdell, that was in the letter-book
that he took to Mr. MacVeagh. Now, recollect that. Why did he not show
it? He had forgotten it. He showed him what he had. Recollect now, that
he had a tabular statement. I think the letter showed so much money to
T. J. B., and the tabular statement thirty-three and one-third per cent,
to T. J. B. He had that tabular statement, and that was in Dorsey's
handwriting. He says he had it. Well, after that, the Attorney-General
must have told him, "That is not enough; I want some more." "Well," he
says, "I can let you have some more." "What more can you let us have?"
Well, then he told him about the red books; I do not know that he said
they were red, but he told him about the books and that those books were
in New York, and he would go over there and get them; that he was
going to steal them; he says he went over to get them, and afterwards
admitted, I believe that lie was stealing them.

Now, we must remember the position Rerdell was in. He had been to
Clayton, to the Postmaster-General in company with Mr. Woodward, and to
the Attorney-General in company with Mr. Woodward, and yet there was
not enough. Well, it was all he had. What more could he do? He suddenly
found himself caught in his own trap. He had furnished enough to trouble
him, but not enough to convict Dorsey, and not enough to be promised
immunity. Now, what had he to do? He did exactly as he did with Mr.
Woodward in September, when he made that affidavit, and when Woodward
said it was not enough; he said, "Very well, I will make another," the
same as he did when he made the affidavit of seventy pages in November
and found it was a little weak. He made another, and he would have made
them right along. He had a factory running night and day. Now, he tells
you that while he was talking with MacVeagh, just towards the last of
the conversation, the idea flashed into his brain that he might save
Dorsey too. Don't you remember that testimony? And as quick as he
thought of that, he agreed to go to New York and steal the books. The
very last thing that MacVeagh said to him, according to MacVeagh's
testimony, and I believe according to his own, was to be sure and get
the books; that they were all important. So he went, as he claims. Now,
did it occur to him that he would save Dorsey in that way? Did he think
of saving Dorsey by going and getting these books? That was the last
thing, and he was going to get the books to be used as evidence against
Dorsey.

In a few days he says he started for New York, and the question arises,
why did Rerdell go to New York at all? Why did he want to see that the
books were in New York? Why did he pretend that he had any more evidence
unless he had it? You see you have got to get at the philosophy of
this man; you have got to find what actuated him; and although in many
respects he is abnormal, unnatural, monstrous, and morally deformed,
still it may be that we can find the philosophy upon which he acted. Why
did he say he was going to New York? Because the Attorney-General
told him—he must have told him—that the evidence he then had was not
sufficient. Rerdell could not break down right there and say, "That is
all I have got." That would give up the fight; that would tell him
that he had endeavored to sell out his friend and nobody would buy the
evidence; that would tell him that he had tried this and had failed;
that he had simply succeeded in showing his own treachery without
involving his friend. He could not stop there. You must recollect the
evidence he had, and the evidence he wanted.

Let us see what he had. Mr. Bliss says, "Why did he say the books were
in New York? Why did he not say they were in Washington?" That would
not have given him time, gentlemen. He would have been told, "Go and get
them." Then he could not have produced them. Consequently he put them in
the possession of somebody else, so that if he failed to get them, then
he could say that the other man destroyed them or had hid them; he could
have said, "I have done my best; they did exist, but they have been
destroyed, or they have been hidden, or they have been put out of the
way." He wanted time, and knowing that no such books existed, he could
not say, "I have them in Washington," because then he could give no
excuse for their non-production. He must state it in such a way that he
could reasonably fail; that is to say, that he could give a reason for
his failure. He could not say, "I have them in my house," because
he would have been told to go and get them. So he put them in the
possession of another man, so that, failing to get them, as fail he
must, he could give a reasonable excuse for the failure.

Why did he go to New York? I will tell you what my philosophy is: He
found that the Government did not wish to purchase the evidence that he
had. He found that, in the judgment of the expert of the Department of
Justice, it was not sufficient. The next thing was to retrace his steps.
He did not want to jump off of one boat into the sea and find no other
boat to rescue him. He said: "I have been too hasty; I will go to New
York." Why? To find out whether Dorsey had heard of this or not. That
is what he went there for. The inferior man always imagines that the
superior knows what he is doing, and knows what he has done. He found
that he was about to fail with the Government, and then the important
question to him was: Has Dorsey found this out? Can I go back to
Dorsey? Or must I go on and be cast away by him and be refused by the
Government?

Now let me call another thing to your minds. I will come to it again,
but it forces itself upon me at this place, and it seems to me it ought
to be absolutely conclusive.

He swears that on the day after he went to MacVeagh with that
letter-book, in looking it over he found the press-copy of the original
letter that Dorsey wrote to Bosler on the 13th of July, 1879. says that
the next day he found that copy in that copy-book. Why did he not steal
the book? Conscientious scruples, gentlemen! You see he was going to New
York to steal another. Why not steal one that he already had possession
of? And how much better that book would have been than the other that he
was going to get. This was a copy of a letter in Dorsey's handwriting,
in which he admitted that he had paid twenty thousand dollars to T. J.
B., and was going to pay him some more, while that book in New York was
not in Dorsey's handwriting—admitting, for the sake of the argument,
that there was a book—but was in the handwriting of Donnelly
or Rerdell. See? And right there he had the evidence, absolutely
conclusive, in the handwriting of S. W. Dorsey himself, and he did not
even keep it, he did not even steal it, but he gave it back and went
to New York to steal a book that Dorsey did not write. He threw away
primary evidence to get secondary evidence. He threw away that which
would have convicted Dorsey beyond a doubt, which would have made him
a welcome recruit to the Government. He threw that away and went to New
York to get another, a line of which Dorsey never wrote; and then he
would have to establish, after he got that book, that "William Smith"
stood for Thomas J. Brady; he would have to prove after they got
that book that "John Smith" or "Samuel Jones" stood for Turner. Now,
gentlemen, do you believe that that man, with his ideas of honor, with
the kind of a conscience he has in his bosom, with the copy of a letter
in Dorsey's handwriting in his possession admitting that Dorsey gave
twenty thousand dollars to T. J. B., would give that up and then go to
the city of New York to steal a book not in Dorsey's handwriting, and
that did not prove that Dorsey had ever paid a cent to Thomas J. Brady,
in which there was one charge to "William Smith," and that would have to
be eked out by the testimony of Rerdell himself, when he had right
there in his own grasp and clutch the press-copy of the original letter
written by Dorsey himself? Do you believe it? There is not a man on
that jury believes it; there is not a lawyer prosecuting this case who
believes it.

What else did he have? He had a letter that he himself, as he claims,
wrote to Bosler on the 22d of May, 1880, after he, Rerdell, had been
summoned to appear before a committee of Congress. He had, he says,
those three sheets.

What else did he have the morning after he was talking with MacVeagh? He
had the tabular statement in the handwriting of Stephen W. Dorsey, and
over the Brady column, "T. J. B., thirty-three and one-third per cent."

What more did that man have? He had the balance-sheets made out, as he
swears, by Donnelly, of those books. Were the balance-sheets just as
good as the books?

Now, just think what he had, according to his own testimony: A copy of
the original letter, written by Dorsey to Bosler, in which he admitted
his guilt; a copy of the tabular statement, written by Dorsey, in which
he put down thirty-three and one-third per cent, to T. J. B. What more?
Copy of the letter that he had written to Bosler on the 22d of May,
1880. He had all that, and he must have had this memorandum, though I
will show you that he had not, and I think I will show you when he made
it. And yet he was going to New York to get some more evidence. He
was going to steal another book in New York that would simply create a
suspicion, while he gave up a book that was absolute certainty. That is
the theory. But they say, "Oh, he did not do that quite." What did
he do? He went and had that copied. He swears that he had copied
that letter of May 13, 1879, that Dorsey wrote to Bosler, in which he
admitted that he gave twenty thousand dollars to Brady. Now, a copy
would not show in whose handwriting the press-copy was, would it? That
is a very important point. Who copied it? I think he said Miss Nettie
L. White copied it. We never hear of Miss Nettie L. White again, though.
These gentlemen admit that you are not to believe Mr. Rerdell on any
point that is not corroborated, and when he swears that Miss Nettie L.
White copied the letter you are not bound to believe there was such a
letter unless they bring Miss White or account for her absence. They
did not bring her. That is an extremely important point in their case,
infinitely more important than whether the red books ever existed. Did
Dorsey write a letter to Bosler in which he admitted his guilt? This man
says that he had complete and perfect evidence of it in his own hand;
that he gave that up; that he had that copied by Miss White. And they
did not bring Miss White. Certainly he had no scruples about tearing it
out. He says he tore out his letter to Bosler of the 22d of May, 1880.
He had no scruples about that. He did not refuse to keep the book
because it touched his honor, because in a day or two he was going to
steal another not half as good as that one, not one-tenth part as good.
Just think. He gave up evidence that was absolute and complete, and went
to steal evidence that was secondary and of the poorest character. You
do not believe it. He would have kept that book if he had kept any. If
he was going to steal any evidence, and had the best, he would have kept
it. The trouble was that there was no such letter in that book. There
was his letter of May 22, 1880; no doubt about that; and that man tore
it out, and then he made up one in his own mind, and had it of that
date; that is all.

So he went to New York, and he swears that he went right up to the
Albemarle Hotel; that it was early in the morning; that Dorsey was not
then up; and that he had a conversation with Dorsey, in which Dorsey
charged him with having had something to do with the Government, with
having gone over to the Government. Dorsey had heard that there was
something going on about that time, and I suppose he asked Mr. Rerdell
about it. Rerdell denied it; said there was no truth in it; that nothing
of the kind, character, or sort had ever happened.

Now let us just see whether I can demonstrate to you that Rerdell, in
the conversation he had with Dorsey at the Albemarle Hotel, denied that
he had gone over to the Government, or that he had done anything that
was not perfectly honest, straightforward, and upright. I refer to it
now, although I may come to it again.

And, gentlemen, I am sorry for you; I pity every one of you, that you
have to hear all that has to be said in this case. But you must put
yourselves, for the moment, in our places. You must remember that these
defendants have borne this agony, have been roofed and surrounded
with disorder for two years. You must remember that the agents of the
Government have pursued them, they have watched over them and spied them
night and day. You must remember that they have been slandered for
years in the public press, although the tone of the public press is now
changing, and changing in such a marked degree that one of the
attorneys here for the prosecution claimed that we had bought up the
correspondents. When you take into consideration what my clients have
suffered, the position they are now in, fighting this great and powerful
Government, I know you will excuse us for inflicting upon you every
thought and every argument that we think may be for our defence.

I am doing for my clients what I would do for you, or any of you, if you
were defendants, and I am doing for them what I would want them to do
for me were I a defendant and they my counsel.

Now I am going to demonstrate this. When Mr. Rerdell got to Jersey City
he telegraphed back, according to the evidence of Mr. Dorsey:

Up to this moment I have been faithful to every trust.

I believe Rerdell swears that he did not send that. He had a
memorandum-book which he took out of his pocket. I think a leaf was torn
from it, and he ran his pencil through this line on the page on which
he had taken a copy of this dispatch, "Up to this moment I have been
faithful to every trust," and says he did not send it. Why did he put
his pencil through that? Because that line would not agree with the
testimony he had given upon the stand. "Up to this moment I have been
faithful to every trust" was in that dispatch. I want to ask you if you
believe that Rerdell could have sent that dispatch to a man to whom he
had admitted that very morning that he had gone over to the Government?
Do you believe it? How perfectly natural it would have been for him to
send a dispatch from Jersey City that harmonized and accorded with his
denial of that morning.

Just look at that [handing the paper to the foreman of the jury.]
Just read it. I want the jury to look at it. He rubbed it out of his
memorandum-book. When? At the time? No, sir; when he found that he
wanted something to harmonize with his evidence here. Even he had not
the brazen effrontery to swear that he had told Dorsey that very morning
that he (Rerdell) had gone over to the Government, and then that very
afternoon to telegraph him—Up to this moment I have been faithful to
every trust.

Why, in comparison with that cheek brass is a liquid. What is the next
sentence?

The affidavit story is a lie.

Why did he leave that in? Because technically that was true. He had not
then made an affidavit, and there is nothing so pleases a man who has
made up his mind to tell a lie as to have mixed with the mortar of that
lie one hair of truth. It is delightful to smell the perfume of a fact
in the hell-broth of his perjury. Just look at that. These two things
show that he had not admitted to Dorsey that he had told the Government
anything against Dorsey. He wanted Dorsey to understand that he,
Rerdell, had not communicated with the Government. Now, if you admit his
evidence to be true, at the time he sent that dispatch he had the stolen
book under his arm, and you, gentlemen of the jury, are asked to believe
a man who would do that thing. I would not. I would not convict the
meanest, lowest wretch that ever crawled between heaven and earth upon
such testimony. Never. Neither can you do it. A verdict must rest upon
a fact. The fact must rest upon the testimony of a witness. That witness
must be, or seem to be, an honest man. And unless a verdict is based
upon the bed-rock of honesty, it is infinitely rotten, and the jury that
will give a verdict not based upon honesty is corrupt.

Mr Crane (foreman of the jury.) I notice that this dispatch seems to
have been written with different pencils at different times.

Mr Ingersoll—Up to this moment I have been faithful to every trust—Is
written very dimly.

The affidavit story is a lie, but confidence between us is gone—Is in
still a different hand.

I resign my position and will turn everything over to any one you
designate—Is still another hand. Three hands, three pencils, in the one
memorandum. These papers have been manufactured, and when the Government
said, "This is not enough," another paragraph has been added.

How hard it is to perpetrate a piece of rascality and do it well. There
are an infinite number of things in this universe, and everything that
is in it is related to everything else; and when you get a falsehood in
it that does not belong to the family, it has not the family likeness;
and when anybody sees it who is acquainted with the family, he says,
"That is an adopted young one."

Mr. Rerdell now says, I believe, that he did not send that line, "Up to
this moment," &c. Dorsey swears that he did. Rerdell then produces this
book and this paper which I have shown to you.

Now, let us follow Mr. Rerdell from the Albemarle Hotel.

I will show that he crosses himself on almost every fact that he
endeavors to swear to. He swears that he went to Dorsey's; that from
Dorsey's he went immediately to Tor-rey's office; that he then went and
got lunch and then went to Jersey City. He also swears that he got his
breakfast before he went to Dorsey's. In the next examination he swears
that he got his breakfast after he went to Dorsey's, and after he got
the book he went to Jersey City, first walking up and down Broadway for
about an hour. He had forgotten about the lunch. There is nothing in
it but a mass of contradiction. He swears that he went down to Torrey's
office. Why did he not make it earlier, as soon as he got off the boat?
Because he did not have any key to the office. It would not do to swear
that he broke into the office and that nobody ever heard of it, and so
he had to put the time after the office would naturally be open. Well,
now we have got him as far as the office. He swears that he went in
there and saw Mr. Torrey. After chatting a little with Torrey, and
telling him the object of his visit, Torrey took him into the next room
and took these books from a shelf or desk, or something of that kind,
and handed them both to him, and he looked them over at his leisure,
while Mr. Torrey went back to his business. He finally took the journal
and left the ledger. Why did he leave the ledger? I will tell you after
a while. Every lie, as well as every truth, has its philosophy. He took
the journal and came along out with it under his arm, not wrapped up,
not concealed. Then he had another chat with Torrey about the weather
or something, and then he went on. Why did he swear that he had a
conversation with Torrey in that office? I will tell you. When he was
giving that testimony, Torrey was in mid-ocean, between New York and
Liverpool. I guess Mr. Rerdell had heard that the man was away. He
thought he would be absolutely and perfectly safe, and so he said he
had a conversation with Torrey. The moment he repeated that conversation
with Torrey, I said, "Where is Torrey?" We telegraphed to New York and
we found that Torrey had left for the old country. We sent a cablegram
to Queenstown and we intercepted him. I think he staid a day in the old
country, and took the next ship and came back, arriving here in time
to swear that Rerdell never visited that office, that he never had that
conversation with him, and that he never got that book from that office;
more than that, that that book never was in that office. Who are you
going to believe, Torrey or Rerdell?

Another man was there on that very day, Mr. Mullins. He never had any
recollection of seeing Rerdell until he saw him here. All the books were
kept in the safe except the books that Torrey had in his desk. No
such books were in the safe and no such books were in Torrey's desk.
Gentlemen, no such books existed, and I will demonstrate it to you
before I get through. No doubt the man had some little expense-books of
his own. He has widened them, he has lengthened them, he has thickened
them, he has colored them. He has refreshed other people. When the
Government tells a man, "You have got an office, haven't you?" "Yes."
"Well, we want you to remember this." Then he is refreshed on the
subject. The words the Government speaks are rain and dew and sunlight
upon the dry grass of his memory and it springs up green. He says he has
been refreshed. Before I get through I will show you that these things
were proved only by gentlemen who had been refreshed.

Now, why did Rerdell say he took the journal and left the ledger? I will
tell you. There is more in the shirt theory than you would think. He had
a shirt in a paper, folded up just once over the bosom. Unexpectedly
lie met Mr. James on the train. He was very much surprised to meet him,
because James swears he was very much surprised to meet Rerdell. James
knew that he had gone over to New York to get those books, and he asked
him, "Did you get the books?" Rerdell had that beggarly little package.
He could not call that "books," because it was not large enough, and so
he had to say he had a book. That was the reason he said journal and not
ledger. He had too small a package for "books," and consequently he
told James he had the "book," and he is sticking to it; only one book.
Another reason: He said to James, and it was very smart of him, "I don't
want to show you what I have got in this package, because there is a
fellow looking," and so the shirt, in unconscious innocence, reposed
unseen. Who was the fellow who was looking? Chase Andrews. You recollect
him. He came into the depot at Jersey City at the time Rerdell was
writing this virtuous dispatch, this certificate of his honor and of
his faithfulness. He shook hands with Rerdell. Rerdell said he had a
carpet-sack, but it was not big enough to get one of these books in. He
wanted the jury to think it was a pretty big book. He hated to lose a
chance of adding to the size of the book, and so he swore that it was
too big to put in the carpet-sack. If he had only had sense enough to
put it in the carpet-sack, and let it alone, we never could have proven
anything about it by Chase Andrews. Andrews would not have sworn that he
looked through the carpet-sack. But Rerdell in his anxiety to have
that book a big book said he could not get it into the carpet-sack, and
consequently must have held it in his hand. Chase Andrews saw him in the
depot at Jersey City, and rode in the next seat in the Pullman car
from Jersey City to Washington, and Rerdell had no book. Who will you
believe, Chase Andrews or Mr. Rerdell?

Mr. Ingersoll. [Resuming.] May it please the Court and gentlemen of the
jury.

It is also claimed by the prosecution that on the evening of the day on
which Rerdell was in New York and sent the telegram from Jersey City.
Dorsey wrote a letter to Rerdell in which he begged him for the sake
of his family, for the sake of his children, and everything to go no
further. I believe it is claimed that after Mr. Rerdell got back here
to Washington he showed that letter to his brother. It struck me as
extremely wonderful that he did not show his brother the book; that was
such an important thing, it being the thing that he went after, being
something that was to decide his fate with the Government. There was
nothing about that. Let me say right here: Suppose his story is true
that he told Dorsey that he had been to the Government. Would Dorsey
write to that man a letter begging him for God's sake not to go further?
Would he not rather have sent some man to see him? He knew at that time
that he was utterly dishonest, having received that very afternoon,
according to Rerdell's testimony, a telegram from Rerdell, in which
Rerdell admitted that he had told a falsehood. Would he then have put
himself upon paper? Would he have put himself in the power of that same
man? I ask you, because you know there is about as much human nature in
one person as in another, on the average, and the only way you can
tell what another man will do is by thinking "What would I do under the
circumstances?"

I am going to demonstrate to you now with just one point that there were
no such books. When Rerdell came to make the affidavit of June 20, 1881,
Dorsey knew that Rerdell had talked with MacVeagh, James, and Clayton.
He also knew that Rerdell, according to his statement, had promised to
go to New York and get the red book. Rerdell swears in the affidavit of
June, 1881, that he promised MacVeagh to go to New York and get those
books. Dorsey knew at that time whether such books existed or not. If he
knew they did exist then he knew that Rerdell went after them. Why did
not Dorsey ask Rerdell at the time he made that affidavit, "Did you
get a book in New York?" Admitting, for the sake of the argument, that
Rerdell's story is true that the books were there and that Dorsey knew
it, would not Dorsey have asked him, when he was making the affidavit of
June 20, 1881, "Did you get a book in New York? What did you do with it,
if you did?" Rerdell swears that Dorsey did not mention that subject;
that it was not talked of between them. Why? Because both knew that no
such books existed. That is the reason he did not ask him if he got it.
He knew that he did not get it. Why? Because the book was not there to
be obtained. Can you explain that on any other hypothesis? Dorsey knew
at this time, according to the testimony of Rerdell, that Rerdell
was dishonest; knew that Rerdell had tried to sell him out to the
Government; knew that Rerdell had promised MacVeagh he would go to New
York and get those books; knew that Rerdell had been to New York; knew
that Rerdell had gotten back, and yet did not ask him, "Did you get a
book?" Would he not naturally have said, "I want that book that you got
in New York. I want it now." It also appears in evidence that on the
very day that Rerdell was in New York and says he was in Torrey's
office, Torrey in the afternoon went to the Albemarle Hotel to do some
writing for Mr. Dorsey. Is it conceivable that Torrey would not in that
conversation have told Dorsey, "Your clerk, Rerdell, came to the office
to-day and I gave him the mail book or one of those books"? Not a word.
That affidavit was made in June, 1881, and was the affidavit in which
Rerdell disclosed what he had done with the Government, and that he
had agreed to get that very book, and yet Dorsey did not take interest
enough in the matter to ask him if he got a book.

Mr. Merrick. Is there any evidence of the conversation between Torrey
and Dorsey?

Mr. Ingersoll. No. The evidence is that Torrey went there that evening.
You claim that that was the topic of conversation, and that Dorsey sent
dispatches to Rerdell that night and wrote a letter to Rerdell. So, I
say, under the circumstances, and with the excitement then prevailing,
it is inconceivable that Torrey should not have said, "Your man Rerdell
has been at my office to-day, and got one of the books."

I say it is inconceivable that he did not tell him, and therefore Dorsey
must have known it had it been a fact, and had it been a fact when
Rerdell made the affidavit of 1881, Dorsey would have said, "I want that
book. I want the book you stole from my office." He did not even mention
it. It was not the subject of conversation. Yet, in that same affidavit,
he said that he agreed to go and get it, and in that same affidavit he
said that no such book ever existed. He swore to that affidavit from
friendship. You see, gentlemen, about how much friendship that man is
capable of. He swore for friendship that no such book existed; he now
swears that it did. What is that for? You want to consider these things.
Nobody asked about that book. The matter drifted along. The summer wore
away. Autumn touched the woods with gold. Nobody ever mentioned the
book. Winter came. That book was in a little carpet-sack hanging in a
woodshed. A magnificent place to secrete property. The snows descended;
the winds howled around that woodshed. The carpet-sack hung there with
the book in it. Nobody touched it. I think the next year, may be that
summer, he wrote or telegraphed to Mrs. Cushman to get the book. It
suddenly occurred to him that a woodshed was not a safe place for it.
She got a book. She looked into it enough to find out it was about the
mail business. She put it away; finally that book was brought from its
hiding-place on the 13th of July, 1882, when Rerdell says he handed it
over to Dorsey, and there is not one syllable of evidence going to show
that it was ever spoken of from the time he visited New York until he
brought it to Dorsey, as he claimed, at Willard's Hotel. What made him
give it to him? Dorsey was mad. Dorsey threatened that he would have
Rerdell arrested for perjury, because Rerdell had sworn that he, Dorsey,
was innocent. That is enough to excite the wrath of an ordinary man.
Dorsey was then on trial. The first trial was then going on. We were
right in the midst of it. The year before that Rerdell had solemnly
taken his oath that Dorsey was an innocent man, and here Dorsey was in a
court insisting that he was innocent. Yet he threatened to have Rerdell
then and there punished for perjury because he had sworn that he was
innocent. That frightened Rerdell. I think it was calculated to frighten
any man.

Why did Dorsey allow Rerdell to keep that book? There is only one
possible explanation: The book never existed. That is all. Torrey would
have told about it if it had been taken from his office, because I
believe the evidence shows that that affidavit was shortly afterwards
published. Nobody seemed to have taken any interest in that book. All
interest faded away. Now, Mr. Rerdell made that affidavit on the 20th
of June, 1881. I believe, on page 2468, Rerdell swears that when he
made the affidavit of June 20, 1881, he had the copies of the original
journal and ledger at Dorsey's office. Afterwards he swears he had not.
He swears that he then gave them to Dorsey. Afterwards he says they were
sent to New York the year before. I will come to that after awhile. Now,
let us see what the position of affairs was on June 20, 1881. At this
time Rerdell had furnished the Government all the information he had,
except the book. Then they had said to him substantially, "The evidence
is insufficient. We want more." Rerdell agreed to furnish them the
books, and went to New York to get the books.

Now, he had Dorsey absolutely in his power, according to his account.
What did he do? He had, according to his testimony, the copy of the
letter Dorsey had written to Bosler on the 13th of May, 1879, the copy
having been made by Miss Nettie L. White. He had the tabular statement
in Dorsey's own handwriting, showing thirty-three and one-third per
cent, to T. J. B. He had the letter that he himself wrote to Bosler on
the 22d of May, 1880. He had the red book. According to his statement,
on that day he had Dorsey in his power. All he had to do was to take the
next step and secure absolute safety for himself and crush his employer.
What did he do? He then said, "I went to the Government and played the
detective." He retreated. He voluntarily put himself in a position a
thousand times as perilous as he had been in before. He put himself in a
place where he had to swear that what he told the Government was a lie,
and that he was simply endeavoring to find out the Government's case and
was acting as a detective. You must recollect that Rerdell is a man
who does nothing for money. He will make an affidavit for unadulterated
friendship. He will make it also from fright. He will make it also, he
says, in the interest of truth. At that time he made an affidavit, as he
says, for friendship, and it is for the jury to determine how much a man
like Rerdell—because you know what he is just as well as I do—would
do for friendship. You have seen him here day after day. You saw him
sitting right at the door when Mr. Ker and Mr. Bliss were demonstrating
to you that he was a guilty wretch, and you saw his face beaming with
pleasure. He was absolutely delighted. Yet when Mr. Wilson stood here
and endeavored to show that the man was not as bad as he said he was,
endeavored to show that his plea of guilty was absolutely false, he
slunk away, covered with the shame of innocence. He did not want to hear
that. He wanted it understood that he was guilty, and that it was the
proudest moment of his life. Now, it is for you to determine how much
such a man would do for friendship. It is for you to determine how you
can take advantage of his finer nature. He had Dorsey in his power,
according to his story, but instead of carrying out his original
design he turned against the Government. Why did he do that? Because of
patriotism? No. Why? He did it for his own benefit, gentlemen. He never
acted from any other motive. Why did he not stay with the Government?
Because they would not give him his price for his evidence. Why would
they not give him his price for his evidence? Because his evidence was
not worth it. If he had had the copy of the letter from Dorsey to Bosler
they would have given him his price. They would have followed him
all over the United States to have given him his price. There was the
absolute evidence against Dorsey. There was the evidence against the man
whom Mr. MacVeagh wished to drag down. Why did they not buy it? Because
the man did not have it. Why did he desert the Government? Because the
Government would not give him his price. Again I ask why would not the
Government give him his price? Because he had not the goods; he had not
the evidence. Then what did he do? He sneaked back and asked protection
of the man he had endeavored to betray. That is what he did. He again
asked Dorsey to stand by him. Dorsey did not need this man. This man
needed him, and he instantly deserted the Government and went back to
Dorsey. For the sake of saving Dorsey? No. For the purpose of saving
himself.

He had not the evidence. Yet, according to this testimony of his, he did
what I told you. What else did he have? He had the route-book. What was
the route-book, gentlemen? From the evidence it appears that this man
kept a route-book, and that in it he had the name of each route, the
number of the route, where it started from, and where it went to,
the name of the contractor, the amount per year, the name of the
subcontractor, the amount per year, and then a column showing whether
it had been increased, and, if so, how much, and whether it had been
expedited, and, if so, how much. He had that book. He says he was
subpoenaed to appear before the Congressional committee. What book would
that committee want? They would want the book that showed the original
contracts, the subcontracts, the description of the routes, how much the
Government paid to the contractor, and how much the contractor paid to
the subcontractor. That was the book they wanted, and that was the book
to hide if any hiding was to be done. That was the book to have copied.
That was the book in which figures should have been changed, if in any.
And yet he never said one word about that route-book. He had it in his
possession. Why should he not expect the committee of Congress to call
for that book? He did not tell you. He did not have that book copied,
and yet that was the book that had in it every particle of information
that the Congressional committee wanted. Not a word on that subject.

It appears, too, in the evidence, that Mr. Rerdell had in his possession
certain notes that passed between him and Mr. Steele about the red
books. Why were not those notes produced in evidence? Mr. Steele
was here on the subpoena of the Government. Why were not those notes
produced in evidence? Not a word about that. Is it possible that those
notes were about the route-book? Why were they not produced? Rerdell
went before that Congressional committee. He did not take any
route-book. What did he take? He said that he had these books made up to
take. Did they contain the accounts of the subcontractors? No. Donnelly
swears there were not more than twelve accounts in the book. What was
the use of taking that book, or those books, before the committee?
Another thing: He says that he went immediately and got those books
copied. Would he try to palm off the copies as originals? Would not the
committee ask him the very first thing, "In whose handwriting are these
books?" He could not say, "They are in mine," because then he would be
caught. He would have to say, "They are in Mr. Donnelly's handwriting."
The next question would be, "Where is Mr. Donnelly?" And the answer
would be, "Here in town." The committee would send for him and would
ask, "Mr. Donnelly, did you write in those books?" "Yes." "Did you make
the entries at the time they purport to have been made?" "No, sir; I
copied them from another set of books that Mr. Rerdell gave to me."
He would either say that or swear to a lie. Then they would say, "Mr.
Rerdell, we want the original books," and then he would be caught. You
cannot imagine a more shallow device. More than that, the books would
not have any information that the committee wanted, nothing about these
contracts, and nothing about the amount paid the subcontractors. If the
committee wanted anything they wanted to show that the Government
was paying a large price and the contractors were paying to the
subcontractors a small price. Rerdell says that when he was subpoenaed
to bring his books he never thought of the route-book. He thought of
the red books, and yet the route-book was the only book that had any
information that the committee wanted. How was he to palm that off? Is
it possible to think of a reason having in it less probability, less
weight, less human nature than the reason he gives for having those
books copied? There is another question. If Rerdell expected to palm
off the copies as the originals, why did he keep the originals? For
instance. I have a book here that I don't want Congress to see, and so I
have it copied.

I am going to swear that that copy is the original; otherwise the device
is good for nothing. Why keep the original and run the perpetual danger
of discovery? Why not burn the original? Why keep the evidence of my own
guilt, liable to be found at any moment by accident, by a servant, by
a stranger? That is not human nature, gentlemen. Then there is another
question: If he were going to have a book copied and then swear that the
copy was the original, he would have copied it himself. If a man intends
to swear to a lie the first thing he does is not to take somebody into
the secret. Why should he have put himself in the power of Donnelly? He
was the man to be the witness before the committee, and if his device
worked he intended to swear before the committee that the copies were
the originals; and yet, by going to Donnelly to have the work done, he
manufactured a witness that would always stand ready to prove that he,
Rerdell, had sworn to a falsehood. What men work in that way? When a man
makes up his mind to swear to a lie does he take pains to go to one of
his neighbors and say, "I am going to swear to a lie to-morrow and I
want to give you the evidence of it. I am going to swear that a copy
is an original. I want you to make the copy so that I can swear to it."
Would not the neighbor then say, "I will be a witness against you in
that case. You had better copy it yourself." Just see what he did. He
took pains to have a witness so that if he swore falsely he could be
contradicted and convicted. Why did he not copy the books himself? After
he got the originals copied why did he not burn up the originals so that
nobody could ever find them in his possession?

Let us take another step. Finally, he got before the committee. When he
got before the committee what did he swear? He swore that he kept some
expense-books showing how he stood with the contractors. I think that
was the truth. I think that is what he did keep. He did not tell the
committee about the route-book. Not a word. That was the only book that
he concealed in his testimony. He said he kept some expense-books and
those were all that he kept. He did not tell about the route-book. That
is the only book that he failed to mention. Consequently, it seems to
me, that was the only book he did not want to show. Why? Because he
thought at that time they were going to make a great outcry about
what was paid to the subcontractor and to the contractor and he had no
advices from anybody, except from whom? Except from Mr. Bosler. What did
Bosler tell him? Bosler told him, "I see no reason why you should not
exhibit your books and papers." Now, according to Rerdell's testimony,
on the 13th of May the year before, Dorsey had written a letter to
Bosler informing him that he had given twenty thousand dollars to T. J.
B. Bosler knew, if the testimony of Rerdell is true, that that letter
had been written, and Bosler had that information. He knew if the letter
had been copied, too, because every letter that one receives gives
evidence whether it has been copied or not. And yet, knowing of that
letter, he wrote to Rerdell or telegraphed him that he saw no reason
why he should not show all his books and papers. Nobody believes that.
Nobody ever will believe it! The earth may revolve in its orbit for
millions of years, and generations may come and go, countless as the
leaves of all the forests, and there never will be found a man of
average intelligence to believe that story. Just think of it. Bosler,
according to the testimony of Rerdell, had gone into partnership with
Dorsey knowing there was a conspiracy, knowing Dorsey was paying
to Brady thirty-three and one-third per cent, of the profits, and
thereupon the clerk who attended to the business writes or telegraphs to
him, and says he has been subpoenaed to appear before the Congressional
committee with the books and papers, and Mr. Bosler knowing of
the existence of the conspiracy, and knowing that Brady is getting
thirty-three and one-third per cent, writes or telegraphs back that he
sees no reason why all the books and papers should not be presented to
the committee. Gentlemen, that is impossible; it never happened and it
never will.

Ah, but they say these books did exist. Why? Because Mr. Donnelly copied
them. Let us see whether he did or not. There is nothing like examining
these questions. Mr. Rerdell says that in his interview with Brady,
Brady suggested to him that he had better have them copied. This, I
believe, was on the 21st of May, 1880. Now he swears that in accordance
with that view or suggestion that he received from Brady he had the
books copied by Donnelly. When did he have it done? He had it done after
the 21st day of May, 1880. On page 2638 Donnelly swears that he copied
these books in the latter part of April or the forepart of May. On page
2636, where he was asked if he had anything to do with copying a book of
accounts for Rerdell, he says that he had; and on being asked what kind
of books they were, says they were a small set of books. Donnelly swears
that they related to the mail business, and seemed to be the books of
a firm. At that time nobody was interested in the matter except S. W.
Dorsey. How did they appear to be the books of a firm? Donnelly swears,
on page 2640, "there were not more than a dozen accounts in the book."
Let us see if these were the mail books. He says there was an account
against S. W. Dorsey; that is one. An account against John W. Dorsey;
that is two. Against Donnelly himself; that is three. M. C. Rerdell;
that is four. Interest account; five. A mail account; six. An expense
account; seven. A profit and loss account, eight; and an account with
William Smith, nine. That is all he gives. But he says they were not
to exceed a dozen. On page 2644 Gibbs says there was an account against
Colonel Steele and Mrs. Steele. I take it they would be in one account.
That makes ten. Then there was an account against Jennings, making
eleven; and an account against Perkins, making twelve. Let us see if we
can go a little further. Mr. Rerdell swears to a cash account; that is
thirteen. Also an account against J. H. Mitchell; that is fourteen; and
one against Belford, making fifteen. You can deduct your Jones and your
Smith and have one more account in the book then than Donnelly swears
was in it. He swears they were not to exceed a dozen. That was the book
with all this mail business. We will follow it up a little. Rerdell says
he opened the books according to the memorandum, and swears consequently
that there was a cash account and an account with J. H. Mitchell. J. B.
Belford, I believe, he afterwards mentioned. Now, according to Gibb's
testimony there was an account with Perkins. Understand I say that the
only book he had, if he had any, was a private book in which he kept
his own expense accounts and his own matters, and it was not a book with
which Stephen W. Dorsey had any connection. I say that the William
Smith and Samuel Jones account he has added for the purpose of having
something to sell to the Government. That is my claim. I say they were
his private books. There was an account with Perkins. You have heard all
the testimony, gentlemen. You know all the contracts in this case. You
know all the subcontracts. There is not a single solitary account in
this book with any subcontractor mentioned in any of these subcontracts
except Perkins and possibly Jennings. Who was Perkins? Perkins was a
subcontractor on the route from Rawlins to White River. That is the
route that Rerdell had an interest in himself.

Rerdell made the subcontract with Perkins himself, and consequently he
had an account with Perkins in his own private book, and had not any
account with the rest of the subcontractors. We also find, according to
Gibbs, that there was an account against Jennings. Who was Jennings?

That brings us to the Jennings's claim. That is the claim that he told
Mr. Woodward about, when he wanted to sell out in the first place, and
that is the claim that he told Mac-Veagh and the Postmaster-General
about. Strangely enough and wonderfully enough we find that claim in
this very book. That shows whether this was a private book or whether it
was a book kept for the accounts of Dorsey.

Now, by looking at the Post-Office reports I find that nine hundred and
ninety-four dollars was paid to Rerdell for Jennings on the 14th day of
April, 1880, and the question I ask is did he keep two sets of books
at that time? He produced in court a book of his own, kept at that
time with the Jennings account in it. The book that was copied had the
Perkins account, and why? Because it was a special account in which
Rerdell was interested. They have failed to prove that there was in
that other book any account in which Dorsey was necessarily interested,
except the account kept with Rerdell showing Rerdell's transactions with
Dorsey.

We now come to the testimony of Mr. Gibbs. Mr. Gibbs says his wife
copied a journal between Christmas, 1879, and the 1st of March, 1880.
Rerdell says that she copied the journal and ledger both. The witness,
Gibbs, gives the color of the book. He says it was not red; it was
either brown or black. Mr. Gibbs remembers nothing about the Smith
account, whether it was large or whether it was small. He finally swears
that he does not really recollect anything about it, except that Rerdell
brought the book there and said he wanted to get a copy made to send
to Dorsey in New York, and that he returned the book and the copy to
Rerdell. He swears that he remembers as names in this book Smith, Jones,
and S. W. Dorsey, and M. C. Rerdell. Those were all he could think of.
He does not remember the name of John H. Mitchell. On page 2646, he says
he believes that Rerdell came to him and asked him during the trial
if he recollected the name of William Smith, and he swears that when
Rerdell asked him if he recollected the name of William Smith, he
distinctly told him that he did not. Then he asked him if he recollected
the name of Jones, and he swears that he told Rerdell when he asked him
that question that he did not. I read from page 2646:

I tried not to remember anything of this.

How can a man try not to remember? What mental muscle is it that he
contracts when he tries not to remember? That is a metaphysical question
that interested me greatly when the man was testifying, for he said he
tried not to remember. Why did he try not to remember?

I didn't want to be called into court if I could possibly help it, and
for quite a long time did not mention the fact that I knew anything
of the books. But when I was called into court, I thought of all the
circumstances connected with the time that I copied the books; and a
few days ago, or a week or so ago, in going home one night, and thinking
this thing over in my mind, and thinking of everything I could think of,
my mind reverted to a conversation I had had at the time, laughing and
looking over the books.

It was not only one book, then.

And I wrote a great many letters, and read a great many names—They must
have been in the letter-books—and was laughing about the peculiarity of
the names, and even made the remark, "There is even Smith and Jones in
it."

What a wonderful circumstance! In copying the books and making an index
of the three letter-books he found Smith and Jones. The difficulty would
have been not to find Smith or Jones.

That is the evidence of that man. When Rerdell first went to him, he
told Rerdell distinctly, "I remember no name of Smith; I remember no
name of Jones." And then he waited until Rerdell went on the stand and
swore that he copied those books, and that the names of Smith and Jones
were in them, and then his memory was refreshed, and he came here and
swore that the names of Smith and Jones were there. All of a sudden it
came to him, like a flash, and he subsequently had the conversation with
his wife. Gentlemen, you may believe it; I do not; not a word of it.
He is mistaken. He has mistaken imagination for memory; he has mistaken
what Mr. Rerdell told him now for something he thinks happened long ago.
He took the letter-books, too. May be there is where he found some of
his strange names.

Rerdell says, in swearing to the letter which he says was written by
Dorsey to Bosler on the 13th of May, 1879, that he (S. W. Dorsey) took
that book, all his own books that were not used for the mail business,
and boxed them up. When? In 1879. Mr. Kellogg swears that after they
were boxed up they were sent to New York. When? In 1879. And yet Rerdell
swears that between Christmas and New Year's, 1879, those books were at
the house of Mr. Gibbs to be indexed. It will not do. And Rerdell swears
that he had the letter-book containing the letter of May 13, here in
1881, when he went to MacVeagh, and yet, according to his own testimony,
that book was sent to New York in 1879. And he swears that the three
letter-books—and I will call your attention to them after a while—that
he had here, commenced on the 15th of May, and ended, I think, in April
or May, 1882. He swears that the letter written by Dorsey to Bosler
was written on the 13th of May, 1879, and then he swears that the first
letter in the three letter-books was dated the 15th of May, two days
afterward. So he had not the book here. I knew he did not have it,
because if he had had such a book with such a letter, he never would
have gone to New York to steal a book; he would have stolen that one.

Torrey took charge of the books January 27, 1880, and he kept them until
the 1st of May, 1880, in the Boreel Building, and then at that time
moved to 145 Broadway, and kept them there until the last of April,
1882.

Now, gentlemen, I will come to those red books again in a moment. Here
is a little piece of evidence about the books. You know it was the
hardest thing in the world to find out how many books this man had, how
many times they were copied, who copied them, and what he did with the
copies; and he got us all mixed up—counsel for the prosecution, the
Court, counsel for the defence—none of us could understand it. "How
many books did you have? What did you do with them?" "Well, I took
them to New York. No, I did not; I had some of them here." Finally
I manufactured out of my imagination a carpet-sack for him. I said,
"Didn't you take these books over to New York in a carpet-sack?" He said
"Yes," he did. He jumped at that carpet-sack like a trout at a fly. Let
me call your attention to some other evidence, on page 2637, near the
bottom. Donnelly is testifying:

Q. Was it an exact copy of the book?—A. It was not.

Q. In what did it differ from the book you were keeping?—There were
some items left out.

Q. What accounts did you leave out?—A. I left the William Smith account
out.

Q. What did you do with that amount in order to balance the books?

Now, I want you to pay particular attention to this answer.

A. My recollection is that I carried it to profit and loss.

Q. On the books or on the balance sheet?—A. On both.

Now, remember, these were the books made out to fool the committee. I
suppose there are some book-keepers on this jury. I suppose Mr. Greene
knows something about book-keeping, and Mr. Evans, and Mr. Crane, and
Mr. Gill. I do not know but you all do. And you know that when you carry
an amount to profit and loss you do not throw the name away; you keep
the name. If you have charged against Robert G. Ingersoll five thousand
dollars, which you never expect to get, and you want to charge it to
profit and loss, you make the charge and you put my name against that.
You put profit and loss against Robert G. Ingersoll's debt. Everybody
that ever kept a book knows that. If you carry an amount to profit and
loss you rewrite the name of the person who owes the debt. So that when
he says, "My recollection is that I carried it to profit and loss,"
there would be a name twice in the book instead of once. If it was
simply in the book once it would be, "William Smith, debtor, eighteen
thousand dollars." But if you carry that to profit and loss you must
credit profit and loss by this William Smith amount, and consequently
get the name in the book twice instead of once. And that is what they
call covering it up. They were so afraid that somebody would see an
account against William Smith in one part of the book that they opened
another account in the profit and loss business and put it in again.
That would be twice. Now, let us go on a little:

Q. Were there any other accounts transferred in the same way?—A. I
rather think there were, but I am not certain.

Q. Did you make the books balance on your copy?—A. Yes, sir.

Q. How long were you working on that copy?—A. I was working on it two
evenings and all of one night.

Now, recollect, in the copy that he made, he carried the account of
William Smith—and may be Jones, he does not remember—to profit and
loss.

Now, let us take the next step. Let us go to page 2269. This is as good
as a play. Donnelly swears that when he made the first copy he carried
the William Smith account and some other to profit and loss. Rerdell
swears that acting upon the hint of General Brady he got a man to
do—what? To make another copy and leave out the items that had
heretofore been charged to profit and loss. Donnelly swears that he
balanced the books, and he is the only man that ever did balance the
books, according to the testimony. After Rerdell had been subpoenaed to
appear before the Congressional committee, he got another man, whom he
swears he put to work on the books, designating the entries to be left
out by drawing a pencil mark through them; that he told him to make up
a new set of books, leaving out those entries, but to leave the books so
that they would balance, taking the entries that were stricken out, and
also the same amount that had been carried to profit and loss, and leave
them entirely out. Rerdell swears that prior to that time these accounts
had been carried to profit and loss, and that he struck out the credits
to Dorsey.

Then the evidence as it stands is this: Rerdell swears that Mrs. Gibbs
copied the journal and ledger. Gibbs does not swear it, but Rerdell
does. That made four books. Then he got Donnelly to make another set of
books with the William Smith and Dorsey accounts carried to profit and
loss.

That is six books. After he had been subpoenaed by the committee he got
another man to make a new set of books and leave out the William Smith
and Dorsey accounts and the profit and loss account, and that makes
eight books. And there we are, so far as that is concerned.

Now, gentlemen, I have come to one other view of this case. I hope
that you will not forget—because I do not want to speak of it all the
time—that this man Rerdell swears that he had the original letter-press
copy of that letter which he says Dorsey wrote to Bosler. Do not forget
that. He says he had that before he went to New York to steal the red
books; do not forget that. And that he gave that testimony away; do not
forget that. That he says he had it copied by Miss White, and they do
not introduce Miss White to show that she copied it; do not forget that.
Do not forget, too, that he had when he was there the tabular statement
in the handwriting of S. W. Dorsey.

Mr. Ingersoll. [Resuming.] Gentlemen, on page 2286 Mr. Rerdell gives
the contents of a letter which he says Dorsey wrote to him the night he,
Rerdell, left New York, and when he says he had the book with him. He
swears, you remember, that afterwards Dorsey tore the letter up. Let me
read you the letter as he says it was written:

The letter started out by stating that he did not believe the report
that had been brought to him in reference to myself, and that he also
believed the affidavit story to be a lie. He plead in the letter for the
sake of his wife and children and himself, and his social and business
relations, and the friendship that had long existed between us not to do
anything for his injury; for God's sake to reconsider everything that I
had done and take no steps further until he could see me. It was in that
strain, simply begging me not to do anything further until he could see
me.

Now, let us analyze that letter, keeping in our minds what Rerdell has
sworn. Rerdell has sworn that when he went to the Albermarle Hotel he
told Dorsey what he had done; that he had had the conversations with
MacVeagh and James. Let me call your attention to the dispatch from
Jersey City. First, Dorsey wrote to Rerdell that he did not believe the
report that had been brought to him; _that had been brought to him_. He
could not have used that word "brought" if Rerdell had been the bringer.
If Rerdell had made the report to him in person he could not have
written to Rerdell, "I do not believe the report that has been brought
to me." The use of the word "brought" shows that somebody else told him;
not the person to whom he wrote. "The report." What report? There is
only one answer. The report that Rerdell had been in consultation with
the Government. He writes to Rerdell, "I don't believe that report
that has been brought to me," and yet when he wrote it, if Rerdell's
testimony is true, he knew that Rerdell had given him that very report
and he knew that Rerdell would know that he, Rerdell, had told Dorsey
that very thing. Second, that he, Dorsey'', believed the affidavit story
to be a lie. There is again in this horizon of falsehood one little
cloud of truth. Rerdell had not made an affidavit. He had told James,
MacVeagh, Woodward, and Clayton what you know, but he had not made
any affidavit, and when he was charged, if he was, with having made an
affidavit, it delighted him to have one little speck of truth, just one
thing that he could honestly deny. That was the one thing. He had not
yet made an affidavit. Third, Dorsey plead with him in the letter for
the sake of his wife, his children, himself, his social and business
relations, and the friendship that had long existed between them, not to
do what? Not to do anything further. According to Rerdell, he told him
in the letter he did not believe he had done anything. Rerdell swears
that he wrote to him in the letter that he did not believe the report;
that is, that he had yet done anything, and then wound up the letter by
begging him, for God's sake, not to do anything _further_. How came he
to use the word "further"? "Don't take any further steps. I know that
you have not taken any step at all, but do not, I pray you, take any
further steps." That letter will not hang together. Dorsey swears he
never wrote it. Finally, the letter comes down to this: "I don't believe
the report. I do not believe you have done anything. But, for God's
sake, do not do anything more." It is like the old Scotch verdict when a
man was tried for larceny. The jury found him not guilty, but stated at
the end of the verdict, "We hope the defendant will never do so again."
The first part of this letter shows that Dorsey did not believe that he
had done anything. The last part of it shows that he did believe he had
done something and that he must not go further. No one can tell why
he introduced the word "further" into this letter upon any other
hypothesis. Now, I read to you, from page 2287, what Rerdell says
happened at the Albermarle Hotel:

He charged me with holding interviews with Mr. James, the
Postmaster-General, and the Attorney-General, and asked me what I meant
by it. I told him my action was in his behalf; that I had been keeping
up with the newspapers, and knowing the facts in regard to this mail
business, what I had done was done in his behalf.

That is, he did not deny that he had these conversations, did not deny
the report, did not deny that he had met the Attorney-General and the
Postmaster-General, but said:

My action was in your behalf.

And then, according to Rerdell, after that Dorsey wrote him a letter, in
which he said, "I do not believe the report," although Rerdell had made
the report to him himself. May be that is the reason he did not believe
it.

Now, let me read to you the conversation on his return from New York and
see how it agrees with the letter. It is on page 2288:

Mr. Dorsey immediately brought up the conversation that we had had over
in New York, and what I had done by going to Mr. Mac-Veagh, and asked me
if I intended to ruin him. I said no, I did not; it was not my intention
to ruin him; it was my intention to help him out of what I thought to be
a bad difficulty.

Q. What did he say?—A. He then asked me if I had done anything further
since I had left him.

Yet in the letter that he wrote him from the Albermarle Hotel he said
that he did not believe the report and did not believe that he had done
anything against him. The first thing he asked him when he got here was,
"Have you done anything further against me?"

I said no, I had not; I had not been near Mr. MacVeagh. He then says,
"Well, how shall we get out of this?" I says. "Mr. Dorsey, I will do
anything that I can except to commit perjury."

A very natural remark for Mr. Rerdell to make. He would do anything
but that. That testimony shows that Dorsey never wrote the letter which
Rerdell says he did write from New York. That testimony shows that they
did not have the conversation in New York that Rerdell says they had.
That testimony shows that they did have exactly the conversation which
Mr. Dorsey swears they had.

Now, I come, gentlemen, to the affidavit of June 20,1881. I would like
the letter of July 5, 1882, which is on page 3733.

You understand this affidavit was made in consequence of the
conversation, as he says, that he had with Dorsey after Dorsey came
back from New York, in which he said he would do anything except commit
perjury, and when Dorsey told him, "Damn it, what does that amount to
when a friend is involved? I would not hesitate a moment." Consequently
he swears that he made up his mind for the sake of friendship to swear
to a lie for Mr. Dorsey. That is what he says now. On the 5th of July,
1882, while we were in the midst of the other trial, and when Mr.
Rerdell, as he says, contemplated going over to the Government, and when
he would not put evidence in our hands against himself, he wrote this
letter:

July 5, 1882.

Senator: What I am going to say here may surprise you, while, judging
from certain circumstances that to me are easily to be seen, you may not
be taken by surprise.

To commence with this, it will be necessary to go back about a year
to the time when, looking forward to the inevitable result of the
star-route matters—I started to put myself in accord with the
Government. At that time I had no thought of being included in any
prosecution or indictment, supposing that as an agent I could not be
held criminally responsible. Had I for one moment thought it possible
nothing could have changed my mind, even anxious as I was to benefit
you. The consequence was, I listened to Bosler and did what I will
ever regret. First, because of the unenviable notoriety given me in
consequence of doing what he persuaded me to do.

Who persuaded him? Mr. Bosler. He writes that on the 5th of July, 1882,
when, as he said, he had made up his mind to go over to the Government,
and when he would not willingly put a club in our hands with which to
dash out his brains.

Second, because, let this case go as it may, I am still left under a
cloud—That is a pitiable statement. That man under a cloud!—both with
your friends and acquaintances, and the public generally.

Here comes, gentlemen, the blossom and flower of this paragraph:

And that, too, almost penniless.

Then the letter goes on:

These are stern facts, and cannot be ignored, while had I continued
acting with the Government my reputation would have been clear, and no
doubt been appointed to a good position.

The Government must have promised the gentleman an office when he went,
in June, 1881, to Woodward and to Clayton and to the Attorney-General
and to the Postmaster-General. According to this letter, among
other things he was to have an office, the steamboat route was to be
reinstated, the Jennings' claim was to be allowed, his father-in law was
to get a clerkship, and according to this letter he also was to have a
position. That is civil service reform! What does he say?

At least I have every reason to believe such would have been the result.

He would have had an office, he has every reason to believe. Why? They
must have promised it to him.

This now brings us to the present time. I have an opportunity to redeem
myself, and think it best to do so, as by so doing I can be entirely
relieved of the indictment.

The Government then must have promised him in 1882 that the indictment
should be dismissed as against him. Is it possible that he would tell a
lie, gentlemen? Is it possible the prosecution will say that he lied on
the 13th of July, 1882, but in 1883, having met with a change of heart,
he told the truth? No.

In taking this step let me say this: It is the result of much thought
and also of preparation.

I think so. The preparation of several papers.

I have realized the fact that all you and Bosler desired was to use me,
and when no longer needed I could go to the devil.

Well, I think that is where he has gone.

Therefore I have concluded to be used no longer, and propose to look out
for myself.

To-day I am putting things in order, so as to commence right tomorrow.
I regret this on your family's account, but I too have a family, and owe
it to them to put myself right.

You see, gentlemen, he wanted to leave an unspotted reputation to his
children.

I deem it as being due to you that I should give you notice of my
intention. Very truly,

## M. C. Rerdell

Now, gentlemen, he comes on the stand and swears that he made this
affidavit, not being overpersuaded by Bosler, but because Dorsey with
tears and groans besought him to make it. Yet on the 5th of July, 1882,
he says he made it because he was overpersuaded by Bosler, and he says,
too, "Had I remained with the Government my reputation would have
been clear, and I have every reason to believe I would have had a good
position." He says, "I have another opportunity to be entirely relieved
from the indictment." These gentlemen say he never was promised
immunity. That simply shows you cannot believe Mr. Rerdell when he is
not under oath, and what he has sworn to here shows you cannot believe
him when he is under oath.

Now I come to the affidavit. I will not spend a great deal of time upon
it. Mr. Rerdell, with extreme ease, without the slightest hesitation,
went through that entire affidavit, picking out with all the facility
imaginable, every paragraph written by Dorsey and every paragraph
written by himself. I was astonished at his exhibition of memory. I
finally asked to look at the copy of the paper he had, and when I got
that in my hand I found that every word that he swore was written by
Dorsey had been underscored with a blue pencil. That accounted for the
facility with which he testified. I found afterwards that that paper had
been given him by Mr. Woodward and that he had gone through and marked
such portions as Mr. Dorsey wrote, according to his testimony, or had
marked those that he wrote, leaving the others unmarked, so that at a
glance he could tell which way to swear. Before I get through with the
papers in this case there is another thing to which I want to call
your attention. All the papers as to which witnesses were called on the
subject of handwriting are marked. I will show you that every one has a
little secret mark upon it, so that the man who swore might know which
way to swear simply by looking at the signature and at no other part.
There has been a great deal of preparation in this case.

Now, Rerdell swears as to the parts of the affidavit that Dorsey wrote
and the parts that he wrote. His object in swearing was to entirely
relieve Messrs. James and MacVeagh from having made any bargain with
him to steal Mr. Dorsey's books, and to entirely relieve them from any
suspicion, as well as to relieve every other official of the Government
from any suspicion of having promised him any pay in any shape or manner
for the making of this affidavit. He swears in the first place, that
Dorsey wrote this:

My story captured them completely, and I took occasion to refer to the
steamboat route and the Jennings' claim. Mr. James remarked that he knew
all about the Jennings' matter, that Jennings had been badly treated,
and he ought to get the money, and should; that he would investigate
the steamboat route and see if anything could be done; that that was
the worst part, and his special agents had reported it; nevertheless he
would see if something could not be done.

On page 2506, in his cross-examination, Mr. Rerdell swears that the
words—Mr. James remarked—were not written by Dorsey, but were written
by himself. On the same page he swears that the words—That Jennings had
been badly treated—were not written by Mr. Dorsey, but were written by
himself.

On his examination-in-chief he swore that these words were written by
Dorsey.

On his examination-in-chief he swore that Dorsey wrote this:

And to further deceive them and learn their plans, carried the
letter-book containing—And then he wrote—the much-talked of Oregon
correspondence.

Afterward, when cross-examined, he swears, I think upon the same page,
2506, that he himself wrote the words:

Carried the letter-book containing.

That Dorsey did not write them. He also swears in his
examination-in-chief that Dorsey wrote these words:

Making only one mistake, or rather slip, by which Mr. MacVeagh could, as
a good lawyer, have detected me, and that was by stating that I had kept
a set of books.

On his examination-in-chief he swears that Mr. Dorsey wrote those words.
On cross-examination he admits that Dorsey did not write them and that
he wrote them.

On his examination-in-chief he swears that he wrote this himself:

He said, "Well, Mr. Rerdell, I am in a position where I cannot make
promises, but if you will place yourself in full accord with the
Government, you shall not lose by it, and I would advise you not to
receive any salary from Dorsey this month. It will be all right."

On cross-examination he takes it back, and swears, on page 2503, that
Dorsey wrote the words:

It will be all right.

He was afraid those words might be given too wide a significance and
might in some way touch the Attorney-General, and consequently he swore
that he swore wrong when he swore that he wrote them, and that as a
matter of fact Dorsey wrote them. Then, on his examination-in-chief with
the marked paper before him, and having plenty of time to manufacture
his testimony, he swore that he wrote the words:

He asked me—In his own handwriting, and that Dorsey wrote these
words—when I was going to New York to get those books. I replied,
"On Sunday night." He said, "Don't put it off too long, as they are
all-important."

On his examination-in-chief he swore that Dorsey wrote those words, and
on cross-examination he admitted that he wrote every one of those words
himself. When he was cross-examined he had not the paper before him.
His memory was not refreshed by the blue pencil mark. So on his
examination-in-chief he swore that he wrote these words:

As I was about leaving he—Meaning the Attorney-General—said, "Mr.
Rerdell, you have put yourself in full accord with us, and I have
this to say, you shall be well taken care of and your matters shall be
attended to."

On cross-examination, on page 2500, he swears that Dorsey wrote the
words:

Your matters shall be attended to.

But he still admitted that he, Rerdell, wrote the words and put them in
the mouth of the Attorney-General:

You shall be well taken care of.

He says in his letter of July 5, 1882:

If I had remained with the Government I have every reason to believe I
would have a good position.

What next? Mr. Rerdell, in his examination-in-chief, swears that he
himself wrote these words:

The next evening I called on Mr. Woodward to see if he had anything more
to say, and he told me a place had been found for my father-in-law, and
to give the application to Senator Clayton; to make the application
for the Interior Department, as it was best not to put him into the
Post-Office Department for fear of criticism; that the appointment
should be made at once. It was all arranged. The next day I saw Clayton,
who said the same thing.

On cross-examination, at page 2505, he swears that Dorsey wrote a part
of this; that Dorsey wrote the following words:

As it was best not to put him into the Post-Office Department for fear
of criticism.

When he testified on direct examination he had this marked paper before
him; in the absence of the paper, on the cross-examination, he takes his
solemn oath that he did not write it, but that Senator Dorsey did. What
confidence can you put in that kind of testimony? I would like to have
you, gentlemen, some time, or I would like to have anybody who has the
slightest interest in the thing, read this affidavit and see whether
it is the work of two or the work of one. You let two men write, one
writing one paragraph and the other another paragraph, and then you read
it; there is no man in the world accustomed to read books that cannot
instantly detect the difference in style, the different mode of
expression, the different use of language. Nobody can see any difference
in the writing; nobody can see the slightest difference in the mode of
expression; the sharpest verbal mechanic that ever lived cannot see a
joint between these paragraphs. They emanated from the same brain; they
were written by the same hand; and if any man, who has ever read one
book clear through, will read that, he will see that one person wrote
it all. But Mr. Bliss tells you that here is a passage that shows the
handiwork of S. W. Dorsey, because Dorsey was a politician:

He also said that you, Mr. President, had told Mr. Dorsey you could not
interfere in this investigation and prosecution; that if you did,
the public would say that the President and a Secretary, who shall
be nameless, but whose name I could guess, had taken the money of the
star-route ring while they were in Congress, or the Postmaster-General
and Attorney-General had taken it since, and therefore he (Dorsey) must
look to the courts for vindication.

That is the passage upon which Mr. Bliss relies, among others, to show
that this was formed in the brain of S. W. Dorsey; and yet Rerdell
swears that that passage he wrote himself. It will not do, gentlemen.

Now, in order that you may know just about how much force to give to
that, let me read you a little from page 2379; and I read this for the
purpose of letting you know the ideas that this man Rerdell entertains
of right and wrong.

I want you to get at the moral nature of this man; I want you to
thoroughly understand him. When you examine these affidavits, when you
think of his testimony, I want you to know exactly the kind of nature
he has, and I want you to remember that he came here upon this stand
and swore in this case that he did not consider that it was wrong to
interline petitions; that he did not think it was wrong to fill up
affidavits; and that is the reason he made the affidavit of July 13,
1882. Although he then knew that these things had been done, still he
did not regard them as wrong. You see it is worth something to get at a
man, to get at his philosophy of right and wrong; it is worth something
to know how he thinks; why he acts; and when you have found that out
about a man, then you know whether to believe him or not.

I believe the jury did look at this paper and saw all the parts that had
been marked by blue pencil, and those parts, I believe, he said Dorsey
wrote. That is the paper he had before him at the time he testified in
chief. But when he came to be cross-examined, not having the paper then
before his eyes, he swore in very many important things exactly
the other way. We were all astonished at the facility with which he
remembered, he pretending to know what parts he wrote and what parts
Mr. Dorsey wrote. I want you to understand this man, and before I get
through with him, you will. I want you to know him.

Now we come to an exceedingly important thing in this case, in the eyes
of the prosecution. It is the principal pillar supporting the testimony
of Mr. Rerdell. Without that pillar absolutely nothing is left,
everything falls into perjured ruin.

The first question that arises with regard to the pencil memorandum (31
X) is who wrote it, and in order to ascertain who wrote it we must
take into consideration all the facts and circumstances that have been
established in this case. It is already in evidence, as you remember it,
that Rerdell kept a route-book. You will also remember that Mr. Dorsey
had books of his own; that he had a bookkeeper of his own, Mr. Kellogg;
that Mr. Kellogg swears that he kept those books and that nobody else
ever made a scratch of the pen in them; that he kept them up till the
fall of 1879; they were then sent to New York; that Mr. Torrey took
possession of those books on the 27th of January, 1880, and kept them
continuously to the last of April, 1882, and that nobody else ever put a
mark in them. That is the evidence. The evidence also is that there was
in those books a complete mail account. The evidence is also that in
those books kept by Mr. Kellogg were the charges and credits growing out
of the purchase of John W. Dorsey's interest and Peck's interest in the
mail routes.

Mr. Merrick. Pardon me; point me to that evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. I will refer to it hereafter. I do not wonder, gentlemen,
that they dislike this pencil memorandum.

Mr. Merrick. No, sir; I only want to keep you within correct limits.

Mr. Ingersoll. I understand that. I do not blame anybody for disliking
that pencil memorandum.

Mr. Merrick. You can convict Rerdell as much as you like.

Mr. Ingersoll. When you come to show that he is guilty his countenance
will light up with the transfiguration of joy. There will be no more
delighted auditor than Mr. Rerdell when his crimes are painted blackest.
It shows you the moral nature of the man.

Now, as I say, the evidence is that there was a route-book kept; that
that route book contained all the information that Mr. Dorsey or any one
else would want about the routes themselves; consequently, that there
was no propriety in keeping any other set of books. Mr. Rerdell could
keep books for himself, but not for S. W. Dorsey. Dorsey had a set
of books, and had another book-keeper. Why should he have another set
opened by Rerdell? Rerdell kept a route-book that gave him all the
information that he could possibly desire.

Mr. Wilson. Rerdell did not handle the money.

Mr. Ingersoll. Of course not; there was no money at that time to handle;
they had not got as far as the handle.

Now, there is another little point: Why should Dorsey voluntarily put
himself in the power of Rerdell by saying, "I have paid money to Brady"?
What was the necessity of it? What was the sense of it? Rerdell was his
clerk. Why should he take pains to put himself, the employer, absolutely
in the power of his clerk? Why should he take pains to make himself the
slave of the man he was hiring by the month? Why did he wish not only to
make Mr. Rerdell acquainted with his crime, but to put in the hands of
Rerdell evidence written by himself? See, gentlemen, you have got to
look at everything from a natural standpoint. Of what use was it to Mr.
Dorsey to keep that account? Dorsey at that time had no partner. Dorsey
at that time did not have to respond to anybody. Of what use was it to
him to put down in a book, "I paid Brady eighteen thousand dollars"? Was
he afraid Brady would forget it? Was he afraid he would forget it?
Did he want his clerk to help him keep the secret, knowing that if the
secret got wings it would render him infamous? Let us have some sense.
The Government introduced it. They also introduced a witness to prove
that it was in Dorsey's writing. Rerdell swore that it was. Their next
witness, Boone, thought part of it might be and part might not be; it
did not look right to him; he rather intimated that Mr. Rerdell wrote
part of it. And right there the Government dropped. No expert was
brought. There were plenty of experts right over here at the Bureau of
Engraving and Printing, plenty of experts in Philadelphia and New York,
plenty of judges of handwriting. Right up here in Congress were twenty
or thirty Senators who sat for six years in the Senate with Stephen W.
Dorsey, served on the same committees with him and had seen him write
every day; clerks of those committees who had copied page after page of
his writing. Not one of them was called. The Government, with its almost
infinite power, with everything at its command, brought no expert.
That was the most important piece of paper in their case. And yet they
allowed their own witness to discredit it; their own witness swore, in
fact, that Rerdell had manufactured the incriminating part of it. And
yet they sent for no expert to swear to this writing. Don't you believe
that they talked with somebody? Has not each one of you in his mind a
reason why they did not bring the ones that they talked with? They left
it right there without another word. Now, why? Simply because they could
get no man to swear, except Rerdell, that this is in the handwriting of
S. W. Dorsey. That is the reason.

You know that Rerdell "kept this as a voucher." What for? Was any money
paid out on it? No. Was it a receipt for any money? No. But he "kept it
as a voucher." You see he was in a difficulty. How did he come to keep
it all this time? It would hardly do for him to say that he did not try
to keep it, that it had just been in the waste-basket of forgetfulness,
and had suddenly come to life by a conspiracy of chance and awkwardness.
It would not do for him to say that he made it. So that he had to say
that he kept it, and then he had to give a reason for keeping it.
What was the reason? He said he "kept it for a voucher." I suppose you
[addressing Mr. Greene., a juror] have kept books. Is that what you
would call a voucher? Yet that is the reason the poor man had to give.
I pitied the man when he got to the point. I am of such a nature that I
cannot entirely, absolutely, and perfectly hate anybody, and when I
see the worst man in trouble I do not enjoy it much; at least I am soon
satisfied, and would like to see him out of it. Here he was swearing
that he had this for a voucher.

Now, there are some little things about this to which I will call your
attention. Here is the name of J. H. Mitchell. An account was opened
with Mitchell, but he does not tell him to charge Mitchell with
anything; there is nothing opposite Mitchell's name. How would he open
an account with Mitchell without anything to be charged against him or
to be credited? He put in the index of the book, "J. H. Mitchell, page
21." You turn over to page 21, and you find Mitchell debtor to nothing,
creditor the same—silence. Not a cent opposite the name on either side.
Mitchell was not an employee. Mitchell was not a fellow that they were
to have an account with by the day. Then John Smith is rubbed out and
Samuel Jones written under it. Rerdell says he wrote Samuel Jones. I
say he did not. I want you to look at it after awhile and see whether he
wrote it or not.

Now, gentlemen, it so happened that when this pencil memorandum was
introduced it struck me that the M. C. R. looked a great deal like
Rerdell's handwriting, and you will remember that I suggested it
instantly, and said to the jury, "Look at the M. C. R." Now, gentlemen
of the jury, I want you to look at that M. C. R.; I want you to see how
the first line of the M. is brought around to the middle of the letter,
and then I want you to see exactly how the C. and the R. are made. Take
it, Mr. Foreman, and look at it carefully. And, in connection with
that pencil memorandum (31 X), I will ask the jury also to look at this
settlement with John W. Dorsey, made in 1879 (87 X), and compare the
initials M. C. R. where they occur on both papers. M. C. R. occurs
twice, I believe, on this (87 X.) Now look at the formation of the M. C.
R. on both papers, Mr. Lowery, and do a good job of looking, too.

Now, gentlemen, this is one of the most valuable pieces of paper I have
ever had in this case, and it is as good luck as ever happened. I want
you to look at the J. W. D. on that paper, and then compare it with the
J. W. D. on this paper; you cannot spend your time better.

I did not suppose I would ever find one paper that would have everything
on it. But, as if there had been a conspiracy as to this paper, there is
an S. W. D. on this paper which is substantially the same as the S. W.
D. on the other. The M. C. R., the S. W. D., and the J. W. D. on both
these papers are all substantially the same, and I think when the jury
have looked at it they will say they were written by the same hand.

Now, gentlemen, there was the testimony of Mr. Boone that he thinks
the upper portion of this pencil memorandum (31 X) was written by S. W.
Dorsey; that it looks like his handwriting down to and including "profit
and loss," I believe; I may be mistaken; it may be down to "cash;" and
then after "profit and loss" come the names of J. H. Mitchell and J. W.
D., exactly the same J. W. D. that appears on 87 X.

Now, what paper is that 87 X? That is an account of John W. Dorsey
against S. W. Dorsey in 1879. He had been out West to take care of some
of the routes, and when he came back he settled, and Mr. Rerdell wrote
up the account. That is 87 X, and I proved that it was made in 1879. I
believe the prosecution thought at first that it was 1878.

That paper shows that it was manufactured by the one who wrote this
paper, and by nobody else.

Now, as I said before, there is no account against J. H. Mitchell.
Opposite William Smith there are the figures eighteen thousand. And
Rerdell says that he wrote Samuel Jones himself at the suggestion of
Mr. Dorsey. Again I ask you, gentlemen, why would Mr. Dorsey give such
a paper to Rerdell? Why would he give him this false name? Why would
he put himself in his power? It is very natural that he should give the
amounts ten thousand five hundred dollars, ten thousand dollars for John
W. Dorsey and ten thousand dollars for Peck, because the evidence shows
that those transactions actually occurred. The evidence shows, not only
in one place but in many, that the ten thousand dollars was paid to John
W. Dorsey, the ten thousand dollars was paid to Peck, and that the ten
thousand five hundred dollars was advanced at that time by S. W. Dorsey.
Consequently that is natural; it is proper. But my opinion is that he
never wrote one word, one line of the pencil memorandum. It was all
made, every mark upon it, by Mr. Rerdell. He is the man that made it.
Did he have it when he went to MacVeagh? No. Did he have it when he went
to the Postmaster-General? No. Did he have it when he went to Woodward?
No. Did he have it when he made his affidavit in July, 1882? No; or he
would not have made it. Did he have it when he went to Mr. Woodward in
September? No; or else Mr. Woodward would have taken the stand and sworn
to it. Did he have it when he made his affidavit in November? I say no.
Who made it? Rerdell manufactured it for this purpose: That he might
have something to dispose of to this Government; that he might have
something to swap for immunity. He "kept it as a voucher."

Why did not these gentlemen bring Senator Mitchell to show that he
had some account with Senator Dorsey in May, 1879? Why did not the
Government bring Mr. Mitchell? They knew that their witness had to be
corroborated. They knew that the law distinctly says that such a witness
cannot be believed unless he is corroborated. They also know that the
law is that unless such a witness is wholly corroborated he cannot be
believed; that you are not allowed to pick the raisins of truth out of
the pudding of his perjury. You must believe him all or not at all. He
must be received entire by the jury, or with the foot of indignation he
must be kicked from the threshold of belief. They know it. Why did they
not bring Senator Mitchell to show that he had some account with S. W.
Dorsey in 1879? But we heard not a word from them.

What more? Rerdell says that was either in April, before he went
West, or in May, after his return; and at that time, according to his
testimony—that is, according to this memorandum—eighteen thousand
dollars had been paid to Mr. Brady for expedition. And then following,
in the month of June, before the quarter ended, eighteen thousand
dollars more. That makes thirty-six thousand dollars paid to Brady. What
else? Ten thousand dollars to John W. Dorsey; forty-six thousand dollars
that makes. Ten thousand dollars paid to Peck; fifty-six thousand
dollars that makes. He had also advanced himself ten thousand five
hundred dollars; that makes sixty-six thousand five hundred dollars
advanced, and not a dollar yet received from the Government. And that
by a man who gave away seventy per cent, of a magnificent conspiracy
because he had not the money to go on. All you have to do is to think
about this. Just think of the situation of the parties at the time. I
tell you I am going to stick to this subject until you understand it.

Mr. Gibbs swears that the name of Mitchell was not in the books when he
saw them, and yet those books were opened from this memorandum. Gibbs
is the man who has such a control over his mind that he can "try not to
remember." When I was a boy I used to hear a story of a man going around
saying that nobody could control his mind for a minute; that nobody
could think of one thing for a minute without thinking of something
else. But there was one fellow who said, "I can; I can think of a thing
a minute and not think of anything else." He was told, "If you do it, I
will give you my horse, and he is the best riding-horse in the country;
if you can say the first verse of 'Mary had a little lamb,' and not
think of anything else, I will give you my horse, and he is the best
riding-horse in the country." The fellow says, "How will you tell?" "Oh,
I will take your word for it." So the fellow shut up his eyes and said:

> Mary had a little lamb,
> Its fleece was white as snow,
> And everywhere that—

"I suppose you will throw in the saddle and bridle?"

Mr. Gibbs is the man who had such control of his mind, and he tells you
that the name of J. H. Mitchell was not in the book.

Mr. Donnelly says he does not remember any such name as J. H. Mitchell,
and yet he holds an office. He has the poorest memory for any one under
the present Administration, I ever saw. He does not remember the name of
J. H. Mitchell. Who does remember it? Mr. Rerdell. But Mr. Rerdell does
not say what he had charged to J. H. Mitchell; he does not say what was
in the book as against J. H. Mitchell; he fights clear of that charge.
And why? He was afraid that John H. Mitchell might testify. According,
I think, to Mr. Rerdell, there was a charge against Belford on
those books. I do not know why Belford's name did not appear on the
memorandum, but I will come to Belford afterwards.

Mr. Bliss. Mr. Ingersoll, Mr. Donnelly does not mention in any way and
is not asked on the subject of Mr. Mitchell.

Mr. Ingersoll. I think he is. I will find it after awhile if I can, and
if I cannot I will admit that you are right. I do not know where it is.
I do not wish to be interrupted.

Mr. Bliss. I claim the right.

Mr. Ingersoll. Well, go on; the poor man only had seven days in which to
make his speech.

Mr. Bliss. I have before me Mr. Donnelly's evidence, and he does not
mention the name of Mitchell in any manner, and is not asked about it,
so far as I can see. I think when the statement is persisted in there
should be some reference given to the page.

Mr. Ingersoll. It is on page 2637.

Mr. Davidge. And at page 2639, about two inches from the top.

Mr. Ingersoll.—It is sufficient for my purpose, which is this: That he
gave the names of all the accounts he could remember, and in that list
of names he did not give the name of J. H. Mitchell. So I think I can
fairly say to you that that man did not remember any account against J.
H. Mitchell. Mr. Gibbs was asked directly whether there was any account
against J. H. Mitchell, and he did not remember any such. Now, the only
person that swears to it at all is Mr. Rerdell. Then you come across
this contradiction: Why should the name of J. H. Mitchell be there with
nothing opposite to it? I do not know. The prosecution, of course, will
be able to find writing of S. W. Dorsey that will resemble some of the
writing on this pencil memorandum. There is no doubt about that. If
it was written by Rerdell in imitation of Dorsey's writing, it is not
surprising that writing really written by Dorsey can be found that looks
like it. Why? Because it was written in imitation of his writing, and
therefore you can find writing of Dorsey's that looks like it; otherwise
it would not be an imitation. The next question arises, Can you find
writing of Rerdell's that looks like it? Yes; 87 X. The M. C. R., the
S. W. D., and the J. W. D. are all exactly like it. Now, is it not
infinitely surprising that Dorsey should imitate Rerdell without
trying and without an object? Is it not perfectly wonderful that this
memorandum should be in imitation of Rerdell's writing, when it was
written by Dorsey? But if it was forged by Rerdell, it is not wonderful
that it looks like Dorsey's writing. If Dorsey wrote it without thinking
of Rerdell, I say the accident is infinitely wonderful that he imitated
Rerdell. Which is the more probable—that Dorsey imitated Rerdell
without design and without trying, or that Rerdell imitated Dorsey
with a design, and when trying to do so? That is the way to put this
argument, and I hope the gentlemen will answer it. The ingenuity that
would be displayed in the answer would a thousand times pay me for the
loss of the point. I want them to account for this, how Dorsey's natural
handwriting comes to look like Rerdell's, and how it is that this looks
precisely like Rerdell's in many instances. Why is it, gentlemen? I will
tell you. Mr. Rerdell had written the initials J. W. D., S. W. D., and
M. C. R. so often that when he came to put them upon this memorandum he
forgot to disguise his hand. That is the reason. You find on 87 X the J.
W. D. precisely as it is on the pencil memorandum. You find the M. C.
R. precisely as it is on the pencil memorandum. You see if you have done
the same thing many times with your hand, the hand gets a mind of its
own. It is in that way that you learn to play upon the piano. The hand
becomes educated and follows the keys through all the mazes of melody
without asking one question of the mind. You can write a name so often,
you can make initials so often, that when you come to write them, no
matter what your object is, the hand, educated with a mind of its own,
pursues the old accustomed motions and paths. That is the reason that
J. W. D. and S. W. D. and M. C. R. are exactly in the handwriting of
Rerdell in this pencil memorandum. According to that, Dorsey had paid
out in all, I think, about $65,000, or something like that There is no
truth in it, gentlemen.

Now, in order to prepare your mind for the next point I am going to
make, and in order that you may know something about this man Rerdell, I
will give you some further information about him. I do not think you are
sufficiently acquainted with his character, and any little points that
I have I want to give to you. I want to paint his portrait in every
lineament, every mark. I want to give you every hair in his head.
Remember that this witness is to be corroborated. He is to be propped
and indorsed. Everybody admits that he is the pewter of perjury and
has to be plated with the silver of respectability gotten from somebody
else. They all admit that. He is an empty bag. Somebody has to fill him
up before he can stand upright. They admit that. I want to call your
attention to a few things as to which he lacked corroboration.

On page 2215, Rerdell swears that Miner told him that the amounts in the
bids were filled in by S. W. Dorsey. On page 4177 Miner denies this, and
says that he filled in the bids with only two exceptions.

On page 2216 Rerdell swears that the mail matter for J. W. Dorsey, Peck,
and Miner was handed him by S. W. Dorsey, and that Dorsey said that
he was going to take the business out of Boone's hands. On page 3766,
Dorsey swears that he had no such conversation with Rerdell.

On page 2217, Rerdell swears that S. W. Dorsey applied to him to go
West. On page 3768 Dorsey swears that he did not employ him to go West.

On page 2218, Rerdell swears that he received instructions from S.
W. Dorsey as to what to do on the Bismarck route. On page 3769, S. W.
Dorsey swears that that is utterly untrue.

On page 2219, Rerdell says that he was instructed to establish a
_paper post-office_ sixty miles north of the route. What was that for?
According to his testimony there was a mistake in the advertisement, and
the route was too long, and this was a device to shorten it by adding
sixty miles to it to make a post-office thirty miles off the route, or
sixty altogether, so as to get pay for the increase of distance. If it
was to be a fraud, why put the post-office off the route? Why not have
it on the route? Where would the fraud be if they traveled the sixty
miles except in having a postoffice where none was needed? They
certainly would make nothing from the Government by traveling the sixty
miles. If they traveled the sixty miles they would be paid for that
sixty miles, but if they wanted pay for the sixty miles without
traveling that sixty miles, they would not have put the post-office so
far off the route. They would have put it on the route, or very near to
it, and pretended that it was off the route.

Gentlemen, it is infinitely absurd to suppose that Stephen W. Dorsey
would have instructed that man to go out in that country and get up a
false post-office. How long would a fraud like that last and live? How
long could the money be drawn for that service in that country? They say
no human being lived there. Who was to be postmaster? Who was to
make the reports? How long, in your judgment, would it be before
the department would find out that there was no such post-office, no
postmaster, and no mail? No one could think of a more shallow device
than that Stephen W. Dorsey, a man who is blest with as much brain as
any man it is my pleasure to know, would never dream of such an idiotic
device. And yet, that is the testimony of Mr. Rerdell.

It may be that Mr. Rerdell when he got out there thought he could start
a town and make money in some other way. But it will not do to say that
Stephen W. Dorsey told him to get up a false and fraudulent post-office
when Mr. Dorsey must have known that the mail could not have been
carried to it but a few days before it would have become known that
there was no such office. They would have to appoint a postmaster and
he would have to live there in his loneliness a hermit of the plain, and
would have to make a report like that from Agate that gave such delight
to Mr. Bliss to read. There was not a letter sent to that place; not
one, nor would there be. Mr. Dorsey knew if there was a postmaster
appointed he would have to report, and in three months from that time he
would have to report, first, that there was no post-office; second, that
there had never been any mail; and third, that he did not expect any.
You see it is utterly absurd to lay such a charge at the door of Stephen
W. Dorsey.

On page 3769 Dorsey swears that the statement is a falsehood—that he
never did any such thing. He also denies it on page 3924.

On page 2220 Rerdell swears that he gave Pennell a petition for a
post-office. On page 2156 Joseph Pennell swears that he never saw the
petition; and on page 2171 that he never signed it, and that none was
sent.

On page 2221 Rerdell swears that he was instructed by S. W. Dorsey
to build stations fifteen or sixteen miles apart, and use every third
station. On page 3769 S. W. Dorsey swears that no such instructions were
given. On page 4092 J. W. Dorsey swears that they started to build the
stations about thirty miles apart, and that after he saw General Miles
and was told by that officer that there would be, and must be a daily
mail, then he concluded to build stations between the stations that he
had built going over.

That is a sensible, straight story. When he went out they built the
stations some thirty-odd miles apart, and when he talked with General
Miles, General Miles told him that there must be a daily service, and
then he determined to build intermediate stations as he went back.
What was that testimony sworn to by Rerdell for? To make you believe,
gentlemen, that Stephen W. Dorsey when he sent Rerdell out knew that
there was to be expedition, and knew it because he was in conspiracy
with the Second Assistant Postmaster-General. The testimony of John W.
Dorsey lets the light in upon that story. The sun rises, and the mist
goes. What is his story? "I went there and built the stations about
thirty miles apart, and when I talked with General Miles he assured
me that there must be expedition and a daily mail, and then I built
stations at the intermediate points as we went back." That is the story.
It is consistent with itself.

Is it not wonderful that the Government did not also prove by Pennell
that Rerdell gave him instructions to build the ranches, and told him
that he had been so instructed by S. W. Dorsey?

On page 2233 Rerdell swears that Miner told him that Vaile was close to
Brady. On page 4177, Miner swears that it is not true; that he never
had any such conversation. Why did they want a man close to Brady? As I
explained to you before, gentlemen, they had already, according to their
testimony, as they claim, proved that Miner had conspired with Brady,
and yet he was going around trying to find a man close to Brady. Being
a co-conspirator was not close enough. So Mr. Rerdell is corroborated
there again by Mr. Miner who swears that what Rerdell swears is a lie.

On page 2224 Rerdell swears that in November, 1878, Miner asked him to
write certain words in a line on petition 40104. On page 4178, Miner
swears that he never asked him to interline any petition.

On page 2225 Rerdell swears he had a conversation with Vaile and
Miner on the 20th of December, 1878, at the National Hotel, about his
employment, and that he had a great many conversations there. On page
4020, Vaile swears that there never was any such conversation. On
page 4021, Vaile also swears that he has no recollection of such a
conversation then or at anytime. On page 4178, Miner swears that the
talk was between Rerdell and himself, and that Vaile was not there.

On page 2225 Rerdell swears that Vaile told him that the mail service
they had ought to reach six hundred thousand or seven hundred thousand
dollars. On page 4021, Vaile swears that he does not think he ever said
any such thing—does not think it was possible that he ever said any
such thing. On page 4179 Miner swears that Vaile never made any such
statement in his presence.

On page 2226 Rerdell swears that at the instance of Vaile and Miner he
went West, January 4, 1879, to put service on the Rawlins route. On 4022
Vaile swears that Rerdell did not go West at his instance; that Miner
gave him, Rerdell, a subcontract for the entire pay, for the whole term,
and that Rerdell undertook it on his own behalf. On 4179 Miner swears
that he made the arrangements with Rerdell himself.

On page 2227 Rerdell says that Vaile and Miner both told him that the
service would be increased right away, and to make subcontracts with
that in view. On page 4180 Miner swears that he gave him no such
directions, and that Rerdell did all he did on his own responsibility,
and that Vaile did not give him any such authority. It is for you to
say., gentlemen, which of these men you will believe.

On page 2228 Rerdell swears that in March, 1879, had a conversation with
Vaile about an affidavit, and received instructions from Vaile or Miner.
On page 4024 Vaile swears that he recollects no such conversation and
does not think he ever had it.

On page 2228 Rerdell swears that Vaile said in the presence of Miner
that he could get Brady to accept an affidavit from a subcontractor. On
page 4024 Vaile swears that he is very sure that he did not say so, and
that he never asked Brady any such question. On page 4182 Miner swears
that he never made any such statement in Vaile's presence.

On page 2228 Rerdell swears that a day or two after Vaile says he had
seen Brady, and that Brady had agreed to accept an affidavit from a
subcontractor. On page 4024 Vaile denies this.

On the same page, 2228, Rerdell swears that he was instructed by Vaile
and Miner to write to Perkins and get him to send his affidavit. On
page 4024 Vaile swears, "Never!"—that he did not know Perkins was a
subcontractor. On page 4182 Miner swears that he has no recollection of
it, and that he never instructed Rerdell to send any form of affidavit
to Mr. Perkins.

On page 2230 Rerdell swears that Miner wrote a form of affidavit. On
page 4182 Miner swears that he has no recollection of it, and that he
never instructed Rerdell to send any form to Perkins. As a matter of
fact the Perkins affidavit is in the handwriting of Rerdell. Yet he
tells you that Miner wrote the form. It will not do.

On page 2231 Rerdell swears that he filled in blanks under the direction
of S. W. Dorsey—that is, of the Perkins affidavit—and filed it under
the direction of S. W. Dorsey. On page 3793 Dorsey swears that he
never knew there was such an affidavit, and that he never gave such
instructions; and more than that, that he never at any time or place
gave Rerdell authority to change any affidavit or any petition that was
to be filed.

On page 2233 Rerdell swears he was instructed to make the subcontract
without any reference to expedition; and that he, Dorsey, would
guarantee the payments if they were not filed. On page 3771 S. IV.
Dorsey swears that he gave him no such instructions.

On page 2234 Rerdell swears that affidavits of Peck and Dorsey were
acknowledged in blank. On page 4189 Miner swears that so far as he
remembers they were filled in before they were signed.

Again, it may be proper for me to say here: Why did not the Government
call J. S. Taylor, the notary of New Mexico, to prove that the
affidavits were in blank when they were sworn to by John M. Peck? Why
did they not? The law presumes that every officer has done his duty,
and when we find at the foot of an affidavit the certificate of a notary
public the law presumes that the paper above it was in the precise
condition at the time the certificate was placed there in which it
is then. That is the presumption of law, and there is only one way to
overcome that presumption. You must prove to the contrary. One of the
easiest ways on earth to do that is to bring the officer. They did
not bring J. S. Taylor here from New Mexico, the man before whom Peck
acknowledged the affidavit in this case. It would have been easy to have
him come, and to have asked him whether Peck did not swear to all these
affidavits in blank. They did not call him. They had him here once and
that was enough. They did not call him this time. They did not call
Rufus Wainwright, of Middlebury, Vermont. He is the officer before
whom John W. Dorsey swore to these affidavits. The gentlemen of the
prosecution say the affidavits were in blank, and yet they dare not put
upon the stand the notary before whom they were sworn to. It was not
because they did not think of it. It was not because they had not
the money. The Government had money by the million and agents by the
thousand. You recollect how they tried to prove the destruction of those
dispatches in the Western Union office. You recollect how they brought
here the superintendent, how they brought here agent after agent, how
they brought here the man that went around and collected the dispatches,
and the man that drove the wagon, and the man that owned the wagon, and
the boys that received the dispatches on the street, and the man in the
cellar that received them after they got there, and the man that bought
them, and the book-keeper that made out the check to pay for them.
They brought the man that receipted for them at the railroad, and they
followed them from the railroad to Holyoke, Massachusetts, and brought
the superintendent of the factory and the books of the railroad to show
they had arrived. They followed those dispatches from paper to pulp
and yet it never occurred to them to send to Middlebury and get Rufus
Wainwright. They never thought to have J. S. Taylor subpoenaed from New
Mexico. They had all the conveniences of modern civilization at their
command and yet they never thought of getting Wainwright or Taylor.

On page 3771 S. W. Dorsey swears that he never instructed Rerdell to get
any affidavits in blank. On pages 4126, and 4107, J. W. Dorsey swears
that he made none in blank; that he has no recollection of any such
thing. On page 2240, Rerdell swears that he had a conversation with
S. W. Dorsey about getting blank affidavits. On page 3771 S. W. Dorsey
denies it. On page 2241 Rerdell swears that S. W. Dorsey instructed him
to make up the affidavit on route 41119 and gave him the per cent, of
the increase of pay. What does he say there? From one hundred and fifty
to two hundred per cent.

Mr. Merrick. That was afterwards corrected.

Mr. Ingersoll. I thank you for the suggestion. That happened on Friday.
We adjourned until the next Monday morning. He came in the next Monday
morning, and he said that he had made a mistake, and that it ought to
be from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty per cent. I
immediately went and got the affidavits on the Toquerville route,
because I said the percentage must be over two hundred per cent, in that
affidavit or he would not have changed. I found in the affidavit that
it was two hundred and fifty-five per cent., and I found that was why he
changed. I followed that out, and I found that was the same route upon
which Mr. Rerdell stole nearly five thousand dollars, according to the
testimony of S. W. Dorsey, and Rerdell did not deny it. So much for
Toquerville and Adairville. We will come to it again perhaps.

Let me give the pages where all these matters are found. On page 3772
Dorsey denies the conversation about the affidavits, and also on page
3773. Rerdell's, change of his evidence will be found on page 2277.

On page 2243 Rerdell swears that while he was in jail S. W. Dorsey had a
key to what he called his, Rerdell's, office. On page 3735 S. W. Dorsey
swears that he never had a key to Rerdell's office, and that he never
was in the office but twice, both times with Rerdell, and that he never
took a paper out of the office except what Rerdell gave him. It
will also be remembered that when Rerdell was asked in his
examination-in-chief whether anybody had a key to his office he replied
that S. W. Dorsey had a key to his office. He did not at that time state
that his wife had a key. Why? Because he wanted it understood that S. W.
Dorsey was the only person that had a key, and that S. W. Dorsey, while
Rerdell was in jail, went to that office and opened it and robbed it.
On cross-examination I made him swear that his wife had a key, and we
afterwards found that his wife went there. He knew she had a key.
Still, in his cross-examination, when asked who had a key, he said S. W.
Dorsey. What was that for, gentlemen?

So that you would Infer that S. W. Dorsey was the only person who had a
key, and that he went there and robbed that office, as I said before.
On pages 2634 and 2635 Mrs. Cushman swears that she went to Rerdell's
office with Mrs. Rerdell. When? About six o'clock in the morning. And
that they found the office open? No. They found the office locked, but
found papers in a confused condition, and took away some papers. They
were there about fifteen minutes. Recollect this was the third morning
that Rerdell was in jail. Rerdell went to jail Monday evening. That made
the visit of Mrs. Cushman and Mrs. Rerdell on Thursday morning, and they
went there at six o'clock. Keep that in mind. Rerdell got out of jail on
Friday. George A. Calvert, the janitor, visited every room frequently.
His testimony is on page 2672. He swears he found the door of Rerdell's
room unlocked. When? The day before Rerdell got out of jail. What time
of day? In the morning. What morning was that? Thursday morning. When
did Rerdell get out of jail? Friday morning. When did Mrs. Rerdell and
Mrs. Cushman visit the room? Thursday morning. What time in the morning?
Six o'clock. When did Calvert find the room open? That same morning.
The women swear that when they went there the room was locked. Now the
question arises, who opened it? The women. That is all there is to that.

Mrs. Rerdell, on page 2635, swears she got the key on the second day
after Rerdell's incarceration, in the evening. That would be Wednesday
evening. She used it the next morning, Thursday.

On page 2247 Rerdell swears that on the 20th of December, 1878, Vaile
promised him a good salary. On page 4021 Vaile swears that he has no
recollection of any such promise. That is what they call corroboration.
On page 2348 Rerdell swears that in May, 1879, S. W. Dorsey said, "You
know that John is a man of very little judgment. He does not know how to
talk to these contractors." On page 3773 S. W. Dorsey swears that there
never was any such conversation.

On page 2249 Rerdell swears, "As secretary and manager, I kept the books
for a short time." On page 3636 W. F. Kellogg swears that he, Kellogg
had entire charge of Dorsey's books from the summer of 1872 to the fall
of 1879, and that nobody else ever made a scratch of a pen in those
books. On page 2270 Rerdell swears that Dorsey and Bosler were having
a settlement in New York and sent for the books, and that he took the
original books over and left them there, and that he went over to New
York in June, 1881, and saw both books there and brought the journal
over and left the ledger. On page 3955 Dorsey swears that the first
settlement he had with Bosler was in December, 1879, or January, 1880.
Rerdell swears that the time he got the copy made of his journal by the
Gibbses, was between Christmas, 1879, and 1880. Dorsey swears there was
not another settlement until November, 1882. The first settlement
being in 1879, and Rerdell swearing that he took the books over for a
settlement, shows that he did not have them here in Washington to be
copied at the time he says and at the time other people swear that they
copied them.

On page 3788 S. W. Dorsey swears that he never sent for any transcript,
and that he, Dorsey, referred to the route-book, and that Rerdell never
sent any such book or books as he claimed. On page 2271 Rerdell swears
that he gave copies of the journal to Dorsey in June, 1881. That was
the time that he made the affidavit. His language by any natural
interpretation means that lie handed those copies over to Dorsey at
the time he made the affidavit on the 20th of June, 1881. On page 3988
Dorsey swears that he did not, and on page 3785 he again swears that he
never had them. On page 3784 he again swears that Rerdell never brought
any book to him except the route-book. On page 2271 Rerdell swears that
Dorsey, on the 13th of May, 1879, him to make up a statement of the
routes showing the profits, and that he thinks he gave it to Bosler. On
page 3875 Dorsey swears that he never made up any such statement by his
direction, and that he never gave Rerdell such an order. Why should he?
According to Rerdell's own statement, in which there is not a particle
of truth, Dorsey, on the 13th of May, 1879, that very day, had written a
letter to Bosler, in which he told him about the profits, about how much
it had cost him, and about how much it would cost him, and about how
much the profits would be, and how much he paid to Brady. After writing
such a letter to Bosler, containing all the facts, why would he want
Rerdell to make up a statement that was already in the letter itself?
Nobody can answer. There is not genius enough in this world to make the
answer.

On page 2272 Rerdell swears that he saw 7 B, which is a petition, in
1879, and that there were three words in his own handwriting that were
not there when he first saw it, the three words being "and faster time."
He also swears that he was instructed to put them in by S. W. Dorsey. I
now say that Mr. Rerdell never wrote those three words. On page 783 it
appears that 7 B was filed April 18, 1879. On page 3786 S. W. Dorsey
swears that Rerdell's statement is false. I will now turn to the
testimony of George Sears about the petition, 7 B, which Mr. Rerdell
swears was altered by interlineation or the addition of three words,
"and faster time." The page is 829.

Here comes a witness of the Government, apparently a good and honest
man, and he swears that the words "and faster time" were in that
petition when he signed it. I will take his word for it. I will take his
guess as against the other man's oath.

On page 2273 Rerdell swears that he altered 11 B and 12 B by
instructions of S. W. Dorsey. Now, gentlemen, Stephen W. Dorsey got such
a momentum of crime on him and got running at such a rate that he could
not stop, and whenever a petition came in he had it altered without
reading it. It did not make a bit of difference what the petition asked
for. He just said to his clerk, "Look and see if there is not any line
you can add something to. I want something put in it, and I want it put
in now." Mr. Rerdell says he did these things without any thought. He
just made the changes as he was told, without considering whether it was
right or wrong. He told you here on the stand that at one time he was
requested to get a petition, and he had a lot of names on hand, and so
he just wrote a petition and stuck the names to it. He could not even
remember the route it was on. It was a matter of so little importance
that he did not charge his memory with it. He was told to get a petition
in the regular way, and instead of doing that he said he took some names
that he had and just wrote a petition and stuck the names on, because
that was easier; and it was a matter of so little importance he really
did not remember. He was like the gentleman in Texas who was tried for
murder, but did not remember the name of the man he killed; he did not
charge his mind with it.

Now for 11 B:

Hon. D. M. Key, Postmaster-General:

We, the undersigned, citizens of the State of Colorado, residing near
and getting our mail at Muddy Creek post-office, on route 38135, from
Pueblo to Greenhorn, respectfully represent—I never noticed before that
the "p" is interlined in the word "represent." I have no doubt that was
done by order of Dorsey—that it is necessary that the service on said
route should be increased from two trips per week to six trips per week,
and a faster schedule. This section of the country is being rapidly
settled by people of intelelgence, and we ask the increased service for
the benefit of us who have already made our homes here, and also as an
inducement to others to settle. We also request that the schedule time
be reduced so as to run from Pueblo to Greenhorn in eight hours, so that
citizens along the route may get their mail at a seasonable hour.

I have read the petition as it was in the first place. The Government
tells you that after that petition came here, and after it had been
submitted to Stephen W. Dorsey, he told his clerk to add in the first
part of the words "on quicker time;" and yet if he had read the last
paragraph he would have seen quicker time was there called for. Rerdell
says Dorsey told him to insert the words "on quicker time," and when I
read this last paragraph to him he was stuck. Then what did he say? When
he got into that little corner and was looking for a mouse-hole, he said
he didn't read it and didn't know it was there. Do you believe that a
man like Stephen W. Dorsey would deliberately have a petition changed,
would deliberately forge a petition, without knowing what was in it and
without knowing whether the necessity existed for changing it or not?
That falsehood has not even a fig-leaf to cover its absurdity.

Here is 12 B. It would not have taken long to have read that. Rerdell
said Dorsey had him put in the words "and a faster schedule." I will
read the last paragraph to that:

We also respectfully request and urge that the running time be reduced
so as to run from Pueblo to Greenhorn in eight hours, so that citizens
along the line may get their mails in a seasonable hour.

He says Stephen W. Dorsey, a man of sense, got that petition, read it
all over, and then told this fellow to put in "and a faster schedule"
when right in the next paragraph it asked for eight hours. A man who
will swear that way had rather tell a lie on ninety days' credit than
tell the truth for cash. Just look at it. That is what they call a
corroboration. The more you look at this testimony the more absurdities
you find. Every truth has an infinite number of signs. Every truth
has to fit an infinite number of things. Infinite wisdom could not
manufacture a falsehood that would stand the test of investigation.

On page 2272 Rerdell says, speaking of the three petitions, 7 B, 11 B,
and 12 B, "We," meaning S. W. Dorsey and himself, "had examined these
petitions together, and he," meaning S. W. Dorsey, "told me to put in
the clause for expedition." Now, 7 B was filed April 18. That is the day
he left for the West, and 12 B were filed on the 8th of May. If they
had them all at one time together, and if he and Dorsey had talked about
them, why were they not filed at the same time? Why was one filed April
18th and the other two on the 8th of May? That testimony of Rerdell's
will not do.

On page 2279 Rerdell says that he found among Dorsey's papers the
tabular statement, about the middle of April, 1879. the first column
was the number of the route; in the second the termini; in the third the
pay; in the fourth the anticipated pay by percentages, and in the fifth
the percentage to T. J. B., thirty-three and one-third, with the figures
carried out at the end of the column. He tells you that he had that
tabular statement when he first went to MacVeagh. That tabular statement
was in the handwriting of S. W. Dorsey. Yet the Attorney-General was not
satisfied. He wanted that backed up by a book not in the handwriting of
S. W. Dorsey. That will not do. Rerdell also tells you that at the time
he went to the Attorney-General he not only had that tabular statement,
but he had a letter-press copy of the original letter that Dorsey wrote
to Bosler on the 13th day of May, 1879. He had that letter, the original
of which was in Dorsey's handwriting, in which he admitted he had paid
Brady twenty thousand dollars. He had the tabular statement in Dorsey's
own handwriting in which he was to pay thirty-three and one-third
per cent, to Brady. Yet the Attorney-General did not think there was
sufficient evidence, and said, "You had better go to New York and steal
a book that Dorsey never wrote a word in." Oh, no; that will not do.

On page 2280 Rerdell swears that he lost that memorandum. I guess
he did. On page 3785 S. W. Dorsey swears that he never made any such
memorandum. On page 2280 Rerdell swears that he employed Gibbs and wife
to make a true and correct copy of the books in March, 1880; that he was
directed by S. W. Dorsey to send him a true transcript of the books in
order to settle with Bosler, and that Gibbs and wife copied the journal
and ledger, and that he sent the copy to New York. On page 3788 Dorsey
swears that he never heard of the employment of Gibbs and wife, and
that he never received any such books or transcripts. On page 2644
Gibbs swears that his wife copied only the journal, not the ledger. Yet
Rerdell swears that he copied the journal and the ledger. On page 2644
Gibbs again swears that Rerdell brought him one book. What color was
it, red, brown, or black? Rerdell says he took him two red books. Gibbs
swears he got one brown book or one black book. That is what they call
corroboration. On page 2320 Rerdell swears with regard to the paper 2
A, that the words, "schedule thirteen hours" were written by Miner. If
those words, "schedule thirteen hours," were not written by Rerdell,
then—they were written by somebody else. [2 A handed to Mr. Ingersoll.]
I guess this is the petition that was fixed up. It looks as if it
had been to a hospital. Rerdell says Miner wrote the words "schedule
thirteen hours." Just look at that word "thirteen," gentlemen.

You have no idea how it affects your imagination and brain to be
indicted seven times. On page 2209 Boone swears with regard to this same
paper and the same words, that there is nothing in the handwriting to
indicate that it was written by Miner; that it is a back-hand; a changed
handwriting. On page 4186 Miner swears that it is absolutely not true;
that the words "schedule thirteen hours" are absolutely and positively
not in his handwriting, and further that he never filed the petition.
Gentlemen, evidence of handwriting is very unsatisfactory necessarily.
Men do not always write the same. The same man does not always write the
same hand. There is the difference of pen, the difference of ink, the
difference of paper, the difference of position, and the difference,
too, of the man's feelings. At one time he feels in splendid health and
at another time he may be tired and worn out. The paper may not be in
the same position. The slope of the desk may be different. Countless
reasons change the handwriting of a person, and when a man swears that
certain handwriting is or is not another's handwriting he must swear on
the general appearance; he must swear on the impression that it first
makes upon him.

I know Mr. Smith and I know Mr. Jones, but it may be that I could not
describe the differences in the faces of the two men so that a stranger
could afterwards tell them. Yet I know them. It is the effect of all the
features upon me. I cannot say it is because of the ear of one, or his
nose, or his mouth. I know the combination. I remember the grouping of
the features and the form, and that is all I remember. If I am shown a
paper and asked, "Is that Mr. Smith's handwriting?" I say it is, or I
say no. Why? Because it looks like it or it does not look like it. I
cannot recognize it because an "e" is made in a certain way or because a
"d" is turned in a certain way, because the next day he may turn it the
other way. You have got to go upon the general impression. On page 2336
Rerdell swears that the oath on route 38140, marked 5 E, was filled in
by S. W. Dorsey; that the word "twelve" was written by him, Rerdell,
after it was filed, and was written because Turner told him that the
schedule must be twelve hours; that Turner handed him the oath and he
thereupon changed the "fifteen" to "twelve." On page 3355 Turner swears
that he has no knowledge of any alteration in any affidavit. On page
3793 S. W. Dorsey swears that he did not know there was any such
affidavit; and he also frequently swears that he never asked Rerdell
to change any affidavit that had been filed, and that he never gave any
such orders. These gentlemen find one affidavit about which we did not
ask Mr. Dorsey particularly and they say, "You have not contradicted
that." When a man swears that he never gave an order about any
affidavit, that covers every affidavit.

On page 2337 Rerdell swears that the oath marked 20 F, on route 38145,
was filled in by him after it was signed, under the direction of S. W.
Dorsey. On page 3793 Dorsey denies giving any such directions.

On page 2338 Rerdell swears that blanks in the oath 22 F, the second
oath, were filled in by S. W. Dorsey, but will not say whether before or
after execution. On page 3771 Dorsey says he does not remember doing
any such thing; but certainly there is no evidence that Dorsey did this
after the affidavit had been made.

On page 2339 Rerdell swears that the words "ninety-six" in the petition
14 H, were written by Miner. Boone, on page 2709, declines to say that
Miner wrote them. On page 4273 Miner swears that the words are not in
his handwriting, that he never wrote them. On page 2298 Rerdell swears
that he signed a check "S. W. Dorsey by M. C. Rerdell," and that he had
that check at home. It may be that is one of the checks for June drawn
upon Middleton's bank that we could not find.

On page 2340 Rerdell says that the oath marked 8 I, on route 44140, was
filled in by him in Washington after it was signed and sworn to, under
the direction of S. W. Dorsey. On page 3792 S. W. Dorsey denies that he
gave any such directions.

On page 2342 Rerdell swears that S. W. Dorsey signed the name of J. M.
Peck to the warrant 55 G. I have forgotten the day that the draft was
given, but I think it was the 2d day of August. It was paid on August
25, 1880. All I have to say is that there was an abundance of time for
that draft to go to New Mexico and to be signed by John M. Peck; there
was thousands of time. It makes not the slightest difference who signed
the name of John M. Peck to that warrant. The question is, was that
money coming to John M. Peck? No. John M. Peck had sold out his
interest. He was not entitled to one dollar, and it made no difference
who signed his name to the check. Does it show that there was a
conspiracy if Dorsey signed his name after Peck had sold out his
interest in the routes? Any draft coming to him came to him simply as
the trustee and the draft was for the benefit of the person who bought
him out. Suppose Mr. Dorsey had signed his name. Would that prove that
there was any conspiracy? It would simply be in accordance with his
right as the matter then stood. He was entitled to that draft and Peck
was not entitled to that draft. Why? Because he had bought him out and
paid him ten thousand dollars for his interest. That was all. Yet they
would claim if that draft happened to be indorsed by Mr. Dorsey that it
would be evidence of a conspiracy entered into in the fall of 1879.

On pages 2348 and 2361 Rerdell says that figures were inserted in all
affidavits given him by S. W. Dorsey, except on route 41119, and that
Dorsey told him, Rerdell, to put them in the blanks. On page 3793 S. W.
Dorsey denies that.

On page 2223 Rerdell says that in August, 1878, he had a talk with
Miner, who said that they could do nothing while Boone was in the
combination; that Brady was hostile to Boone, and that Boone's place was
to be taken by Vaile; and that Miner asked his opinion about Vaile,
and asked what Rerdell thought about Dorsey's approving it, adding that
Vaile was very close to Brady. On page 4177 Miner swears that he has
no recollection of the conversation, and does not believe any such
conversation ever occurred.

Ah, but they say that when a paper was handed to Mr. Miner, an
affidavit, for instance, he could not give you the history of it; he
could not tell you where he was when he wrote it; he could not tell you
where he was when he filled it. I would not have believed his testimony
if he could. He had to take care of some ninety-six routes. Upon those
routes there were numberless papers, notices from the department,
notices of fines and deductions, of remissions, and everything of that
kind. On each route there were probably a hundred papers, and may be
more—petitions, affidavits, and papers of all descriptions. If a man
should stand up here five years afterwards and pretend that he knew the
history of each paper, I would know he had not the slightest regard for
truth.

Mr. Miner said when he was shown a paper, "I don't remember ever having
seen that paper before; I don't remember when it was written." That was
the truth. If he had wished to stain his heart with perjury he could
have said, "Yes, I remember it. I know absolutely the time I wrote it.
I know I sent it to New Mexico. I know it was filled up before it was
sworn to"; but he was honest enough and he was brave enough to face the
truth and say, "I don't remember," and I respected him for it when he
did it. Whenever you hear the truth, as a rule the first thought is,
"May be it won't do." But if it is the truth, the longer you think about
it the better it seems, while if it is a lie, the longer you think about
it the worse it gets. It would have been, apparently, to Mr. Miner's
interest to say, "I remember it perfectly," but the man had honor enough
to tell the truth. And when you come to investigate his evidence it
sounds much better than though he had pretended to remember time and
place.

I call your attention to page 2446; that is about the affidavit.

On page 2384 Rerdell speaks of the charges made to Samuel Jones and
James B. Belford for two thousand dollars. Then Mr. Bliss in his speech,
which I will come to after a while, says that Mr. Rerdell spoke about
a charge to J. B. B. He never did, never. He said James B. Belford. I
started the J. B. B. business. I was the first one who ever said it, and
Mr. Rerdell never swore J. B. B. Then they sent out to Denver to get a
fellow who had the same initials. I will come to this man after a while.

On pages 2429 and 2430 Rerdell swears that he had two balance-sheets
of the books, made by Donnelly; that he showed them to MacVeagh and
Woodward. How does it happen that Woodward was not sworn about it?
Nothing would have been of more importance, if they wished to prove
the existence of the two red books, than to prove by Woodward that Mr.
Rerdell, in June, 1881, showed him copies of those balance-sheets or the
balance-sheets themselves. They did not bring Mr. Woodward on the stand.
Why? Mr. Woodward, in my judgment, had he come upon the stand, would
have sworn to the truth. Rerdell says, "I do not know where they are."
Then he paused. Then I saw the working of his mind just as plainly as
though his skull had been opened. He got himself together and swore
that he gave them to Dorsey in July, 1882. He had to get them out of his
hands some way.

On page 3736 S. W. Dorsey swears that he, Rerdell, did not give him any
balance sheets.

On page 2434 Rerdell swears as to the papers he gave to Dorsey—the
original journal, and copy of the Oregon correspondence made by Miss
Nettie L. White. Miss White was not called. He gave these, he says, to
Dorsey, July 13, 1882. On page 2793 Dorsey swears that he did not give
them to him, nor did he give a paper of any kind.

On page 2461 Rerdell is asked if he did not admit to Judge

Carpenter, in January, 1882, that he had a memorandum written by
himself, which he showed to James and MacVeagh, and that he made it so
much like Dorsey's handwriting that he did not think anybody could tell
it. What was his answer? "I may have done so." Honest man!

On page 2462, in answer to the question, "Did you not tell Carpenter
that you brought no book from New York?" the honest man answered:

Very likely I said I brought no book over from New York.

On the same page, in answer to the question, "Did you not tell French
that you were trying to entrap James?" he admits that it is likely he
was.

On page 2463 he admits that he may have told French that he had learned
to imitate the handwriting of Dorsey so well that Dorsey himself could
not tell the imitation; and that he wrote that memorandum in pencil
because he could the more easily deceive. Honest man!

Mr. Bliss holds S. W. Dorsey up to scorn because he endeavored to turn
two men out of the Cabinet on the testimony of Rerdell; and yet he is
trying to put four men in the penitentiary on the same oath. Do you
not think that it is better to get a man out of the Cabinet than to put
another into the penitentiary? And do you not think it is better that a
man be put out of office than that he be put into the penitentiary, his
family destroyed, and his home left to ruin, upon the oath of a man who
swears that the oath was a lie? Dorsey was an awfully wicked man to try
to get Mr. MacVeagh out of office on Rerdell's testimony. But now
they turn around and want to put Mr. Vaile and Mr. Miner into the
penitentiary on the same testimony. The other testimony was the best,
because we did not promise him immunity. I will come to it after a
while.

On page 2465 Rerdell swears that he did not have any pencil memorandum
that he showed to MacVeagh, claiming that it was in the handwriting of
Dorsey, and was asked, "Did you not tell Bosler that you had?" What does
he say? "Possibly I did." "Did you not tell Bosler that you wrote it?"
"Possibly I did."

S. W. Dorsey swears on page 3810 that Rerdell told Bosler that it was in
the waste-basket, and Bosler took the pieces out and put them together.
Rerdell says he had written it, and in pencil, so that it would look
more like Dorsey's handwriting. Why did you not ask Bosler about it,
gentlemen, when you had him on the stand to prove your letter? Even Mr.
Bliss, in his speech, asked, "Why didn't they call Bosler?" Why didn't
you have the fairness to tell all the circumstances? I will tell them
all when I get to that part of it. Why did you not tell them that you
had looked all through Mr. Bosler's books?

On page 2466 Rerdell swears that he did not get that memorandum out of
the waste-basket, but got a note from Mac-Veagh, and that Dorsey was
present.

On page 3810 Dorsey swears that it was a pencil memorandum imitating his
(Dorsey's) hand closely.

On page 2466 Rerdell admits that he very likely told Bosler in June,
1881, that he had no book on the train and brought none from New York.
In answer to my question, he says, "Possibly I did," or "Probably I
did," tell Bosler. I cannot bring other witnesses to contradict him when
he admits that he did. That is enough for me.

On page 2467 he admits that he very likely told Judge Wilson about the
affidavit; that if he told him anything, he told him that no such book
existed, and that there was no necessity for any book except an expense
book.

On page 2469 Rerdell swears that he had a copy of the day-book and
ledger in June, 1881, in Dorsey's office; that Dorsey took them that
day, and that they had been there ever since they were made, to be
carried to Congress. Then he began to gather his ideas, and he says:

Hold on. I am mistaken. These books were all sent over to New York
before that, in the summer of 1880, when I carried the originals over
for the last settlement I was present at, between Dorsey and Bosler.

There was no settlement in 1880, the time he speaks of. Mr. Merrick then
says:

Q. There were two sets of those copies?

That would be four copies and two originals.

A. No, sir.

On page 3955, S. W. Dorsey swears that he had the first settlement
with Bosler in December, 1879, or January, 1880, and had no subsequent
adjustment until November or December, 1882; no settlement between those
dates. Yet Rerdell says that he took those books over in the summer of
1880 for a settlement, when there was no settlement, and at the same
time carried the originals. A moment before he had sworn that the
originals were there in the office in June, 1881.

On page 2470 Rerdell swears that he did not give the books to Dorsey in
1881.

On page 2447 he swears that he did not have the balance-sheet in New
York; that he had it in the office in June, 1881.

On page 2479, Rerdell, in speaking of the pencil memorandum, was
cornered, caught. He said, "I have kept it as a voucher." Then finally
he admits that it was not his property, but was the property of Dorsey;
and the last admission he made upon that subject was, "I stole it."
He says that while he was in jail somebody got into the office and
destroyed his papers. And yet, on page 2480, he tells that the first
time it ever occurred to him to use that pencil memorandum was after the
first trial was over. Can you believe that? He was trying to steal it on
the 13th of July, 1882; was trying to go over to the Government on
the 5th day of July, 1882, and did not think that he had that pencil
memorandum! Writing a letter on that day to Dorsey; giving him notice
that he was going to desert him; saying in that very letter that he had
been persuaded by Bosler to make the first affidavit; saying that he was
making preparations to go to the Government, was going to set himself
right, and yet did not remember the pencil memorandum! Why? Because he
manufactured it afterwards. He says that within a day or two after he
was out of jail he found this paper a second time. He found it before,
and laid it carefully away as a voucher. Then he lost sight of it. Then
he was trying to sell it to the Government, and he forgot it; trying to
blackmail Bosler and Dorsey, and forgot it. When he got out of jail he
found it. That will not do. How does he say it got to his house? His
wife carried it from the office while he was in jail. And yet he would
have us believe that Dorsey broke into that office and stole all the
papers. And yet he says that was in the office, and Dorsey did not take
it. It will not do. He manufactured that paper after that time.

On page 2481 Rerdell swears that he did not know that he had that paper
at that time, at the time he says his wife got the papers. I say he did
not; I say he made it afterwards.

On page 2490 Rerdell swears that he had those red books in the office
at 1121 I street; that he never made any effort to conceal them. And
yet Kellogg never saw one of those books; never saw Rerdell working upon
them, and never saw them in the office.

On page 2491 Rerdell swears that he thinks Kellogg did some work on
those red books; that Kellogg helped him (Rerdell) make the first
entries. On page 3636 Kellogg swears not only that he did not help him
to make those entries, but positively swears that he never even saw any
such books.

On page 3635 Kellogg swears positively that Rerdell did not keep
any books, but a private expense-book and a route-book; and that he
(Kellogg) never saw any other books; that he never saw a ledger or
journal in red leather, kept by Rerdell. He swears that he himself kept
the three books (the journal, ledger, and cash-book,) and that Rerdell
never made an entry in them.

On page 2512 Rerdell swears that he never imitated Dorsey's handwriting,
or tried to, in Kellogg's presence. On page 3636 Kellogg swears that he
saw him do it.

On the same page (2512) Rerdell swears that he never signed Dorsey's
name to show Kellogg that he could imitate it. On page 3636 Kellogg
swears that he did do it.

I have just given you a few, gentlemen, of the corroborations of
this man Rerdell. Recollect that you cannot believe him unless he is
corroborated. If you believe him at all you have got to believe all,
unless you believe he is mistaken. Where a man comes on the stand as an
informer—and I do not call him an informer—even in that capacity he
has to be taken altogether or not at all.

Now, with all these contradictions upon his head, I will now come to the
affidavit of July 13, 1882. You will remember that I read you the letter
of July 5, in which he says that Bosler got him to make the affidavit
of 1881. At page 2374 Rerdell gives an account of this affidavit. Dorsey
got him in Willard's Hotel, locked the door, and had him. Now, he said
to him, "Mr. Rerdell, I will tell you what I am going to do with you:
I am going to have you prosecuted for perjury." Let us imagine that
conversation. Rerdell replies, "What are you going to have me prosecuted
for?" "For making the affidavit of June, 1881." "Why," says Rerdell, "in
that affidavit I swore you were innocent." Says Dorsey, "Don't you know
you swore to a lie? Do you think I would stand a lie of that kind,
sir? Do you think I will allow any man willfully, maliciously, and with
malice aforethought, to swear that I am an innocent man? I will have you
arrested to-night, sir." "Well," says Rerdell, "my good God, ain't there
any way I can get out of this?" "Yes; make another affidavit just like
it. Now, sir, you have perjured yourself and I will arrest you for
perjury unless you do it again." "Well," says Rerdell, "when I get that
done you will have two cases against me." "I can't help it," Dorsey
says. "Is that the way you treat a friend? I swore to that lie from pure
friendship. Don't you remember you took me by both hands and begged me,
for God's sake, and for your wife's sake and your children's sake, to
make that affidavit? And now are you going to be such a perfect devil as
to have me arrested for perjury for making that same affidavit?" Dorsey
says, "Yes, sir; that is the kind of man I am." "Well, but," says
Rerdell, "don't you know the trial is going on now? They are trying to
prove, now, that you are guilty, and in that affidavit of mine I swore
you are innocent, and how are you going to prove a man guilty when
you swear that he is innocent?" Dorsey says, "That is my business, not
yours. I am going to have you arrested." "But," says Rerdell, "you had
better hold on, I tell you." "Why?" "I have got the red book that I got
in New York." Dorsey says, "I don't care." Rerdell says, "I have got
the pencil memorandum that you made for me to open the books upon, and
charge William Smith with eighteen thousand dollars. And you wrote John
Smith first, and I changed it to Sam Jones, don't you recollect, as
otherwise there would be two Smiths? And there is the account against J.
H. Mitchell, and J. W. D., and cash, and profit and loss." Dorsey
says, "I don't care about that. I am not going to allow a man to commit
perjury. I am going to have you arrested." Rerdell says, "You had better
not have me arrested." Dorsey says, "Why? What else have you got?" "I
have got a copy of the letter that you wrote to Bosler on the 13th of
May, 1879, which you say that you paid twenty thousand dollars to Thomas
J. Brady. That copy was made by Miss Nettie L. White." "Do you believe
I care anything about that? You have perjured yourself, and it is no
difference to me whether it was in my favor or not. Justice must be
done, and I am going to have you arrested." Rerdell says, "You had
better not. I have got a tabular statement in your handwriting, Dorsey,
where you had a column for the amount due and the amount received, and
another column for thirty-three and one-third per cent, given to Brady,
and then at the top, in your handwriting, 'T. J. B., thirty-three and
one-third.'" Dorsey says, "I don't care what you have got." Rerdell
says, "That ain't all I have got, Dorsey. I tore out of your copy-book a
copy of the letter I wrote to Bosler on the 21st or 22d of May, 1880, in
which I told him that I had gone to Brady, and that Brady said you were
a damn fool for keeping a set of books, and suggested to me to have some
copies made, and I had the copies made, and I can prove the copies by
Gibbs if he does not try not to remember that he made them. Now, go on
with your rat-killing; go on with your perjury suit." Dorsey had him
already locked up there, don't you see? But Dorsey was bent on having
that man arrested for perjury because he had sworn that he (Dorsey) was
innocent. Dorsey was implacable.

What else did he do? He put his hand in his pocket and said, "Do you see
those letters to that woman?" Then, sir, when he saw the handwriting he
was like that other gentlemen that saw the handwriting on the wall, and
he began to get weak in the knees, and says, "Dorsey, I hope you are not
going to have me arrested for perjury. I am willing to do it again right
now, on the same subject."

Now, it turns out that at that time Dorsey did not have those letters.
Dorsey swears that he never got those letters until after Rerdell was
put upon the stand. And after he swore that, the Government had the
woman to whom the letters were written subpoenaed. Why did they not
place her on the stand? That is for you to answer, gentlemen. That is
the affidavit of July 13. Recollect, there was a trial going on at that
time in which Dorsey was insisting that he was innocent, and although
Rerdell had sworn that he was, he was going to have him arrested right
off.

What else did he have against Dorsey at that time? Now, says Rerdell,
"Dorsey, don't you have me arrested for perjury. I have got a memorandum
of that mining stock that was to be given to McGrew and Tyner and Turner
and Lilley for corrupt purposes."

What else did he have? After he had agreed to make the affidavit, Dorsey
wrote out what he wanted him to swear to, in pencil, and gave it to
him. And when he got his liberty, when he walked out of that room a free
citizen, he had all the papers I have spoken of not only, but he had in
his possession a draft, in Dorsey's handwriting, of the affidavit Dorsey
wanted him to make. He made the first affidavit from friendship; the
second from fright. You know he never took a dollar for an affidavit.
He was not that kind of a man. You might get around him by talking
friendship or you might scare him, but you could not bribe him;
he wasn't that kind of a man. Armed with all these papers he was
frightened; so he made the affidavit of July 13—

Now, let us see. He admits that—I will not say every word, but the
principal things in the affidavit of June, 1881, are false. He swore to
them knowing them to be false. But he tried to get out by saying he did
not write them all. Writing is not the crime. The crime is swearing that
they are true when they are not true. It does not make any difference
who wrote it. For instance, you swear to an affidavit, and you
afterwards say, "I did not write it." "Did you know the contents?"
"Yes." "Did you swear to it?" "Yes." What difference does it make who
wrote it? And yet he endeavors to get behind that breastwork and say, "I
did not write all that affidavit; I only wrote part of it. What I wrote
was true, but what I swore to was not." That will not do.

So the affidavit of July, 1882, he now swears was a lie. But he gives a
reason for writing that, that you know is utterly, perfectly, completely
false. You know that Dorsey never threatened to have him arrested for
perjury because he had sworn in favor of Dorsey. You know it, and all
the eloquence and all the genius of the world could not convince you
that at that time Rerdell was afraid that Dorsey would have him arrested
for perjury. No, sir.

Now, let us take the next step. Mr. Rerdell testified, on page 2275,
that this letter (32 X) was received by him in due course of mail in
1878. Upon being asked whether he did not know that S. W. Dorsey was
here in Washington at that time, he replied that he knew he was not. I
will read it to you, gentlemen:

Chico Springs, P. O.

Mountain Spring Ranch, Colfax County, New Mexico,

"April 3, 1878.

"M. C. Rerdell, 1121 I Street:

"Dear Rerdell: I wish you would get fullest information in regard to all
the new post-office lettings and keep posted as to the schemes going
on in the department. There are certain routes we want advertised and
others we do not. I shall be in Washington as soon as the 12th unless
something unexpectedly happens,

"Faithfully,

"DORSEY."

Q. What Dorsey was that?—A. That is S. W. Dorsey's handwriting.

Q. And signature?—A. Yes, sir.

There is where he first speaks of it. At the time that letter was
introduced, or in a little time, gentlemen, they also introduced the
envelope. I do not know that I should have suspected the letter if they
had not introduced the envelope. Whenever there is an effort to make a
thing too certain I always suspect it. When that Morey letter was gotten
up, what made me suspect it was that they had the envelope, and I said
to myself, "Why did they want the envelope if it was clearly in the
handwriting of Garfield? What difference did it make whether it was sent
to Morey or to somebody else? What difference did it make when it came
from Washington?" The only question was, "Did Garfield write it?" And
upon that subject the envelope threw no light. When a man feels weak and
thinks that other people will know what he does not want them to know,
then it is that he wants to barricade and strengthen before the attack.
So they got up this envelope, and when I looked at that it did not
look to me as if that stamp had been through the mail. I noticed the
handwriting of "Chico Springs, N. M.," and then I noticed the 3 or the
B on the postage stamp, and then I knew that the man who wrote "Chico
Springs" never made the letter or figure on that stamp. It is utterly
impossible for the man who wrote that "Chico Springs" to make that mark
on the stamp. This stamp looked awfully clean, and I said, "Well, I
wouldn't wonder if that was an envelope used here in the city which has
been got through the mail in some way." They had it stamped on the back
and I said, "Perhaps that was written in 1879." No. You see, if it was
not written in 1879 it did not do any harm, because in 1879 Dorsey was
not a member of the Senate. Having gone out on the 4th of March, 1879,
that letter was dated in April, 1879, why then there was no harm in his
writing to Mr. Rerdell and telling him to look after the mail business.
But if it was written on the 3d of April, 1878, it went far to show that
Dorsey was personally interested at that time in mail routes. You will
notice the printed date, April 3, 1878. They introduced that letter.
I noticed that that envelope was a funny looking thing, and that the
writing on it did not correspond with the mark on the stamp. I noticed
also that upon the back they had the stamp. I do not know how they got
it. When the Post-Office Department has possession of a paper they can
put almost anything on it.

When I said to Mr. Rerdell on cross-examination, not knowing anything
about the letter, "Was that not written in 1879?" he said, '"No, sir."
Said I, "Don't you know, as a matter of fact, that Dorsey was not here
on the 3d of April, 1879?" He said, "As a matter of fact I know that
he was here on the 3d of April, 1879." "Don't you know, as a matter of
fact, that he was here on the 3d of April, 1878?" He says, "I know as a
matter of fact that he was not here on the 3d of April, 1878; he was at
Chico Springs." He knew as a matter of fact that he was here in 1879,
and he swore that so as to preclude the possibility of his having
written the letter in 1879. And he swore to the positive fact that he
was not here on the 3d of April, 1878, so as to show that he wrote him
that letter from Chico Springs. They wanted some letter from Dorsey in
1878, to show that he was personally interested in these routes while
in the Senate. They submitted that letter to Mr. Boone, who was their
witness. He looks at it and he tells you that Dorsey did not write that
letter. A clear forgery. Whom else do they bring now? They leave it
right there, and by that admit that Rerdell forged that letter. Mr.
Boone, their witness, swears it. Nobody swears to the contrary except
Rerdell. Boone threw the letter from him contemptuously, and said, "That
is not Dorsey's handwriting," and they dare not bring another
witness. The country is filled with experts, gentlemen, who know about
handwriting; the United States had plenty of men and plenty of money,
and they never brought a solitary man.

Now, gentlemen, do you want to know how this fellow got caught? I will
tell you. There is the letter, and they dare not put a man on the stand
to swear that it is in Dorsey's handwriting. Look it all over. But I
want to tell you how Rerdell got caught about Dorsey being present on
the 3d of April, 1878, and I might as well tell you how I found it out.
I do not want to pretend to be any more ingenious than I am. I found
it out because I made the same mistake myself. I stumbled on that same
root. I hit my toe of heedlessness on the same obstruction. I went up
to look at the Senate journal. I opened a book to see whether Dorsey was
here on the 3d of April, 1878. You see at the bottom there of the title
page, Mr. Foreman—Washington: Government Printing Office. 1877.

You know I was not looking for the book of 1877, so I shut that book up.
I then took the next book and opened it, and it said at just the same
place:

Washington: Government Printing Office. 1878.

I thought it was the book. So I looked over here, and I found that there
was no session of the Senate in April, and I said to myself, "Is that
possible that there was no session in April, 1878? Why, there must have
been." But the book said "no." I looked back here, and it still said
1878. Then I happened to look back to this book that said 1877, and
it said that the session commenced December 3d, 1877, and consequently
April 3d, would be found in the book marked 1877 on the title page. So I
turned right over here and looked up at the top and saw the date, April
3d, 1878. He was looking for the 1878 book, and that included April,
1879, and when he got to April, 1879, there was no session of the
Senate. So he came right in here and swore that Dorsey was not here in
1878, but that he was here in April, 1879. I looked in that book and
found that Mr. Dorsey, on the 3d of April, 1878, was appointed by the
Vice-President on a committee of conferees, on the part of the Senate,
together with Senators Windoin and Beck, and I saw exactly how Mr.
Rerdell made his mistake. He opened the book, and at the bottom-of the
title page it said 1877. That was not what he was looking for. He was
looking for 1878. And the book that said 1878 showed that in April the
Senate was not in session. The book that said 1877 showed that in April
the Senate was in session on April 3d, 1878. That man thought he was
backed by the records of the Senate, and thereupon he manufactured
that letter. And that is the letter sworn by Boone not to be in the
handwriting of S. W. Dorsey. Now, gentlemen, there is nothing in this
world that a man would be prevented from doing, for its baseness, who
would do that.

There is more evidence than this. I asked Mr. Rerdell, "When you got
that letter did you understand it?" He said, "No." "Did you do anything
on account of it?" "No." "Did you know what it meant?" "No." And yet
he has the temerity to swear that he received that on the 3d of April,
1878.

How did he come to spell the name Reddell? I will tell you. On page 2275
he had a letter to go by. That is the very page on which the Government
puts in that letter. This letter is a letter of introduction. When
Rerdell manufactured that letter he had this letter of introduction to
go by:

Hon. J. L. Routt, Denver:

My Dear Governor: I wish to introduce my friend, Mr. M. C. Reddell.

It was written Reddell in that letter, and when this man wanted to
manufacture one he had one in his possession that Dorsey wrote about
that time (April 14, 1879), and he noticed that in that he spelled the
name Reddell. So when he wanted to get up a fraud he spelled the name
Reddell. That is the way. There is no pretence that Dorsey wrote that
letter, and they dare not bring an expert or another man on earth
acquainted with the handwriting of Dorsey and submit it to him and
expect him to say that that is the handwriting of S. W. Dorsey. So much
for that.

Now, it is claimed that while Torrey was writing up Dorsey's books,
having in his possession the check stubs, he was uncertain as to whether
a charge was twenty-five dollars or twenty-five cents, and he thereupon
sent to Rerdell to ascertain the true state of the account, so that
he might open his books. Thereupon Rerdell made the calculation in the
evidence marked (94 X,) and Donnelly wrote under it that it was right.
Donnelly made that little certificate at the bottom. Here is
the important paper [submitting 94 X to the jury], another piece
manufactured out of whole cloth, not whole paper. Now, I ask a few
questions about this. In the first place, they knew that unless this was
corroborated it was good for nothing, and we find on it:

Lewis Johnson & Co., note due 28th October, three thousand dollars.

Was that note at Lewis Johnson & Co.'s? Why did they not bring some of
the officers of that bank, if there was such a note for three thousand
dollars there? But no one was brought. And yet they knew that everything
coming from Rerdell must be corroborated.

If Rerdell had come to Donnelly to find what the account was, how did
it happen to be in Rerdell's handwriting before it got to Donnelly?
Donnelly wrote this certificate at the bottom. Rerdell had written
all the facts before. If he went to Donnelly to get the facts, how did
Rerdell happen to write this before it got to Donnelly? It is like me
wanting to get some information from a man, and writing the information
before going to him.

Now, if Donnelly wrote that after Rerdell had written, where did Rerdell
get the information? If Donnelly had the books, Donnelly should have
given the information. If Rerdell had the books, why did he want to
go to Donnelly for information? And if Donnelly had the books, how did
Rerdell write the information before he went to Donnelly? Then if he
wanted that information for Torrey, why did he not send it to him? How
does it happen that Rerdell wrote out the information for Donnelly, then
got Donnelly to certify it, because Torrey had asked it? And then how
does it happen that Rerdell kept it? It seems to me that that ought
to have been sent to Torrey. Torrey wrote to Rerdell for information;
Rerdell wrote it all down, and then got Mr. Donnelly to say it was so.
If Donnelly had the books, Donnelly should have given the information.
If Rerdell had the books, he did not have to go to Donnelly for
information. That is another manufactured paper. As I say, how does it
happen to be in the possession of Rerdell? They claim that it was for
Torrey's benefit. I believe when Torrey was on the stand they asked him
if there was not some dispute about thirty-five cents. Now they bring
that here to show that there was a dispute about twenty-five cents. Was
there any reason for supposing that it was twenty-five cents? No,
except that it was in the dollar column, that is all. Of what use was
Donnelly's statement after Rerdell had made the calculation? Nobody on
earth can tell why that was given. Why did they not bring some of the
books or clerks from Lewis Johnson & Co.'s Bank to show that there was a
note there in October for three thousand dollars.

There is another little matter, a conversation between Rerdell and
Brady. Rerdell said he had a conversation with Brady in which he told
him about the Congressional committee; that he was summoned to bring his
books. Brady was astonished that Dorsey would be "Damn fool enough to
keep books," and suggested to have them copied. If this is true, Brady
at that time made a confident of Rerdell. If it is true, Brady at that
time admitted to Rerdell that he (Brady) was a conspirator; that he had
conspired with Dorsey. And yet Brady says that he never had but three or
four conversations, I believe, with this man, and Rerdell himself
admits that he never had but four or five, and when he is pinned down
on cross-examination he accounts for enough of these interviews, without
any interviews on the subject of the books, to exceed all that he ever
had. Do you believe that he ever had any such conversation? Do you
believe that Brady would make a confident of him? Do you believe that
Brady would substantially admit in his presence that he had been bribed
by Dorsey? I do not.

Now, in order that you may know what this man is, I want you to have an
idea of his character. So we will come to the next point. Mr. Rerdell
admits that he sat with the defendants during the early part of this
trial; that he was willing to make a bargain with the Government; that
he proposed to the Government that he would sit with his co-defendants,
and would challenge from the jury the friends of the defendants. Did
any man wearing the human form ever propose a more corrupt and infamous
bargain? That proposition ought to have been written on the tanned hide
of a Tewksbury pauper. He went to the Government and deliberately said,
"Gentlemen, I am willing to make a bargain with you. I am willing to
sit with my co-defendants, pretending to be their friend, and while
so pretending I will challenge their friends from the jury. I will so
arrange it that their enemies may be upon the panel." "And why do you
say that, Mr. Rerdell?" "In order to show my good faith towards the
Government." He made the first affidavit for friendship, the second for
fear, and he made this proposition to show his good faith. There never
was a meaner proposition made by a human being, under the circumstances,
than that. He proposed to do it. Mr. Blackmar says that the proposition
was rejected; but that does not affect Mr. Rerdell. He was willing to
carry it out.

What more does he swear? He swears that he tried to carry it out. In
other words, that although it had been rejected, that made no difference
to him. Mr. Blackmar says they would not do it. Rerdell swears that he
tried to: went right along and did his level best; and if the Court had
allowed him four challenges he would have challenged four friends of the
defendants from the jury.

What more does he admit? That when the Court decided that all of us
together only had four, he endeavored to challenge one. Why? Because he
believed he was a friend of the defendants; because he believed he would
be against the prosecution; and he wanted to get the friends of the
defendants away. Why? To the end that the defendants might be tried by
an enemy. That is what he was trying to accomplish.

Let us take another step. That proposition reveals the entire man; that
takes his hide off; that takes his flesh all off; that leaves his heart
bare, naked; you can see what he is made of, and it shows the workings
of his spirit, the motions of his mind; and you see in there a den of
vipers; you see entangled, knotted adders. And yet that man is put upon
the stand stamped by the seal of the Department of Justice, and that
department says to twelve men, "Here is a gentleman that you can
believe; that gentleman proposes to sell out his co-defendants to us,
but we would not buy; he is an honorable kind of gentleman, but we would
not buy."

Mr. Merrick. It should be interpolated there—if you will pardon me a
moment—that the Government refused to accept Rerdell until he himself
had pleaded guilty.

Mr. Ingersoll. I understand that. I say now, Mr. Merrick, that I
would not for anything in the world, on a subject of that kind, go the
millionth part of an inch beyond the testimony. Although you and I have
not been very cordial friends during this trial, and neither have I and
Mr. Bliss, yet if I know myself I would not for anything in this world
put a stain upon your reputation, or upon the reputation of either of
you, by misstating a word of this testimony. I would not do it. I am
incapable of it. I admit that the evidence is that the proposition was
rejected, but I also insist that the Government knew the proposition had
been made, otherwise it could not have been rejected. And so I say that
after this man had made that proposition, infamous enough to put a blush
upon the cheek of total depravity, the Government put that witness upon
the stand, sealed with the seal of the Department of Justice.

Now, we will go another step. He sat with us from day to day, gentlemen,
as you know, went in and out with us, as one of the co-defendants. In
the meantime—and there is a laughable side even to this infamy—he
borrowed money from Vaile. He went to him as a co-defendant, as a
friend, and said, "I want a hundred and forty dollars; I want to buy
bread and meat to give me strength to swear you into the penitentiary."
And Vaile gave him the money. Would you believe a man like that? You
cannot think of a man low enough, you cannot think of a defendant vile
enough to be convicted on such testimony.

Now, we will go another step. He wanted to make that bargain with Mr.
Blackmar. Mr. Blackmar swears that he told Mr. Merrick of it, and that
Mr. Merrick rejected it; would have nothing to do with it.

At that time Mr. Woodward had two affidavits of Rerdell in his
possession—an affidavit of Rerdell, made in September, supplemented by
another affidavit, I believe, of November, that he made in the city
of Hartford, covering seventy pages. When Mr. Woodward saw Mr. Rerdell
sitting with the defendants, pretending to go with them, he (Woodward)
had those two affidavits of Rerdell in his pocket. Did the prosecution
know that Rerdell had made the two affidavits? I do not say they did,
gentlemen. I only go right to the line of the evidence; there I stop.

Another thing: Mr. Blackmar swears that they had a signal to look at the
clock, and that night Rerdell would meet him at six or seven o'clock, I
have forgotten the hour; but Mr. Blackmar could not sit in his room all
the time waiting for him, and so he gave him a certain signal, so that
he would know he was to wait that night. Then what happened? Then Mr.
Rerdell came to Mr. Blackmar and gave to him written reports. Of what? I
do not know. He sat with the defendants; he gave to Mr. Blackmar written
reports. What were they? I do not know. What did Mr. Blackmar do with
them? He handed them to Colonel Bliss. What did he do with them? I do
not know. Did he read them? I do not know. Did he know that they were in
the handwriting of Mr. Rerdell? I do not know. That is for you.

Still another point:

Mr. Bliss, after this jury had been impaneled, stood before them while
Rerdell was sitting with us as a defendant, and said:

The ranks of the defendants are closed up, and he—Rerdell—stands
before you now as one of the defendants, whose testimony—Meaning the
confessions made to MacVeagh and to Postmaster-General James—will be
accepted by the Court and by you, &c.

The question arises, Did Mr. Bliss know at that time that Mr. Woodward
had in his pockets two affidavits made by Rerdell, one made in September
and the other in November? Did he know at that time that Rerdell had
given his papers over to Mr. Woodward? Did he know at that time that he
had offered to challenge the friends of the defendants from the panel?
And so knowing, did he give us to understand that Rerdell had passed
from the influence of the Government and was now acting as one of the
co-defendants? Is it possible that Mr. Bliss would furnish Rerdell with
a mask behind which he could gather information from the defendants and
sell it to the Government for immunity? Is it possible? Those were the
circumstances. I do not say that he knew. I do not know.

Gentlemen, I do not believe that it is the duty of a Government to
prosecute its citizens. I do not believe that it is the duty of a
Government to spread a net for one of the people whom it should protect.
I do not believe in the spy and informer system. I believe that every
Government should exist for the purpose of doing justice as between
man and man. The mission of a Government is to protect and preserve its
citizens from violence and fraud. The real object of a Government is to
enforce honest contracts, to protect the weak from the strong; not to
combine against the one, not to offer rewards for treachery, not to show
cold avarice in order that some citizen may have his liberty sworn
away. The objects of a good Government are the sublimest of which the
imagination can conceive. The means employed should be as pure as the
ends are noble and sacred. The Government should represent the opinions,
desires, and ideals of its greatest, its best, and its noblest citizens.
Every act of the Government should be a flower springing from the
very heart of honor. A Government should be incapable of deceit. The
Department of Justice should blow from the scales even the dust of
prejudice. Representing a supreme power, it should have the serenity and
frankness of omnipotence. Subterfuge is a confession of weakness. Behind
every pretence lurks cowardice. Our Government should be the incarnation
of candor, of courage, and of conscience. That is my idea of a great and
noble Government.

The next point to which I call your attention is the withdrawal of the
plea of not guilty by Mr. Rerdell. You probably remember the occurrence.
I will read to you what he said upon that occasion. I find it on page
2202:

After mature reflection and a full consideration of the whole subject,
I have determined to abandon any further defence of myself in this case,
and put myself at the mercy of the Court and the Government; and if
desired to do so by the counsel for the Government, to testify to all
my knowledge of any facts with reference to any of the defendants either
against or for them, myself included. Therefore, I now in person ask
leave to withdraw my plea of not guilty, heretofore interposed, and
enter my plea of guilty, and in so doing put myself upon the mercy of
the Court I feel this to be a duty I owe to myself, my family, and
to truth. I have arrived at this fixed determination upon my own
reflections and responsibilities, and without any previous consultation
with my counsel, who, I believe, would not have advised me to this
course, and whom I now relieve from all and any responsibility for the
course I have adopted.

Now, gentlemen, is it not wonderful that if Mr. Rerdell was about to
tell the truth as a witness in this case, he could not even withdraw
his plea of not guilty without misstating the facts? Is it not wonderful
that he felt called upon at that time to tell several falsehoods? He
says that he took this step upon his own responsibility. He says that he
did it without the advice of his counsel. He tells you that he believes
if he had asked his counsel, his counsel would have been opposed to
it. He says he is willing to be a witness for the Government if the
Government desires it, leaving you to infer that at that time no
arrangement had been made for him to be a witness; that it was all in
the regions of uncertainty; that he had withdrawn into the recesses of
his own mind, and consulting with himself and nobody else had made
up his mind to throw himself upon the mercy of the Government and the
Court, and took that step without even allowing his counsel to know what
he was about to do.

But he speaks further on the subject. I read from page 2523. I was then
examining him:

Q. How did you come to do it?—A. I finally made up my mind to what I
would do. I talked it over the evening before with my counsel.

He so states under oath; and yet when he stood up before this Court and
withdrew his plea of not guilty, he said he acted without the knowledge
of his counsel—I read this to show you that the statement he made to
the Court at the time he withdrew his plea was absolutely false. What
next? I will go on a little further. The same man Rerdell, after he had
made up his mind to go over to the Government; after he had made up his
mind to swear away, if it was within his power, the liberty of S. W.
Dorsey, admits, on page 2525, that he endeavored to get five thousand
dollars from Mr. Dorsey.

On page 2589 Mr. Rerdell swears positively that he did not know that he
was to be used as a witness for the Government until he was called in
court to take the stand. Let us look at the evidence of Mr. Bliss on
page 2590. I will read you what he said:

Mr. Bliss. Your Honor, we propose to show, in substance, that this
witness, for reasons with which we have nothing to do, connected with
his own views of his own safety, from an early period was desirous of
being accepted by the Government as a witness; that the counsel in the
case refused to communicate with him or to have anything to do with
him until, in the presence of his own counsel, he was brought to Mr.
Merrick's office, and there the whole thing was explained; and that
then for the first time the Government accepted his willingness to be
a witness; and they did it under circumstances which held out to him
no inducement and which involved no training or anything of the kind by
anybody representing the prosecution.

Now, let us go to the next step. I want to be perfectly fair. On page
2591 Mr. Merrick asked Mr. Rerdell this question:

Q. When did you first learn that you would be put upon the stand after
pleading guilty?—A. It was the day before my plea was made in court.

Yet when he rose to withdraw the plea he expressed his willingness to
go upon the stand for the Government, leaving you to infer that no
arrangement had been made, and he afterwards finally swore that he did
not know that he was to be called until he was called.

These things, gentlemen, you must remember.

On page 2515 Rerdell swears that on the Sunday after he got out of jail
he proposed to Mr. Lilley to have Lilley act for him, and authorized
Lilley to say to the Government that if the Government would accept him
he would go on the stand and rebut Vaile. He told him that he had in
his possession a letter or two of Mr. Vaile's. Rerdell tells you that he
made this proposition on the 16th or 17th of September, 1882, which was
after he made the affidavit of June, 1881. On the same page he said it
was just after Vaile went off the stand. That is my recollection. In
the last trial Vaile testified on the 4th of August, 1882. So about
that time Rerdell, according to his testimony, went to Lilley and made
a proposition to sell out then. When he made the affidavit of July 13,
1882, the trial was then in progress. The very next month, August, while
the trial was still going on, that same man, having made the affidavit
of July 13, 1882, went to his attorney, Mr. Lilley, and authorized him
to say to the Government that Mr. Rerdell would take the stand to swear
against Mr. Vaile. Remember another thing, gentlemen. The only thing he
offered to do then to insure his own safety was to swear against Vaile.
He did not offer to swear against Dorsey. He did not authorize Mr.
Lilley to tell the Government about the pencil memorandum and the
tabular statement and his letter to Bosler and Doisey's letter to Bosler
and the Chico letter. Not a word. He simply went and wanted to sell
some letters he had that had been written by Vaile. Why did he make that
offer? Because that was all he had.

On page 2517 he says that nothing was said about pardon, but he says
that Lilley told him that he thought he could get him off. What does
that mean? That means pardon. On page 2518 he swears that he saw
Woodward in November in Hartford, and Woodward and he wrote out the
statement, covering, I believe, about seventy pages of legal cap. Then
Mr. Rerdell, on page 2519, swears that he never made an affidavit after
that. Then he admits, on the same page, that the day before he came
into court he met Mr. Woodward and made another affidavit. That was
supplementary to the first. In the meantime he found some new papers. So
we find, according to his testimony, these affidavits:

On page 2521 we find that he made an affidavit in June, 1881. Remember,
gentlemen, that he swore to that affidavit three or four times.

He made another affidavit in July, 1882, and another in September and
November of the same year, and another in February, 1883. And yet he
swears that he was not to have immunity.

Now, gentlemen, one point more about his plea of guilty. After having
withdrawn his plea of not guilty, after rising in court and solemnly
saying that he was guilty, and that he was guilty as charged in the
indictment, which says that Rerdell conspired with Brady and Vaile and
Miner and John W. Dorsey and S. W. Dorsey and Turner, that they all
conspired, and that all the false affidavits and false petitions and
false everything else mentioned in the indictment were made for the
common benefit of all, then on page 2570 he solemnly swears that he
never entered into any conspiracy or agreement with the defendants
mentioned in the indictment or any of them for the purpose of defrauding
the Government. When I asked him, With whom did you conspire, when did
you conspire, and what was the conspiracy? he could not tell; and yet he
had stood up in court and admitted that he was guilty, and then on oath
denied it. Did he not swear himself that after the division was made in
the routes Stephen W. Dorsey had not the interest of a cent in any route
that went to Vaile or Miner? Did he not also swear that Vaile and Miner
had not the interest of one cent in any route that went to Stephen W.
Dorsey? Did he not swear that they were not mutually interested, and yet
did he not stand up in court, and by a plea of guilty say that they were
not only mutually interested, but he was one of the interested parties
himself? It seems impossible for that man to tell the truth on any
subject whatever. On page 2571 he swears he never made any agreement
with Vaile to defraud the United States. He stood up in court and
admitted, that he had. He swore that he never made any agreement with
John W. Dorsey. He admitted that he had. He swore that he never made any
agreement with S. W. Dorsey, and yet stood up in court and admitted that
he had.

Now let us see whether he expected immunity. He swears that he was
taken to Mr. Merrick's office by Mr. Woodward and his counsel. What Mr.
Merrick told him we find on page 2590:

Q. And did I not say that, under the circumstances, the Government would
have nothing to do with you unless you pleaded guilty?—A. You did.

Q. And that if you pleaded guilty you had nothing to trust to but the
mercy of the Government and the Court?—A. That is what you did, sir,
exactly.

Now, on page 2523:

Q. Was it not arranged that Mr. Woodward was to come to your house
and then take you to one of the attorneys for the prosecution, for the
purpose of arranging the terms and conditions upon which you were to
take the stand?—A. It was not.

In another place he swears that it was, and that the arrangement was
carried out.

The next point I wish to make, if the Court please, is that whenever
what is called an accomplice or an informer turns what is called State's
evidence, and whenever he is permitted by the court to be sworn as a
witness in a case, there is then upon the part of the Government an
implied promise that if he tells the truth he shall not be punished.
I read from the Whiskey cases, 9 Otto, page 595. Mr. Justice Clifford
delivers the opinion of the court.

Courts of justice everywhere agree that the established usage is that an
accomplice duly admitted as a witness in a criminal prosecution against
his associates in guilt, if he testifies fully and fairly, will not
be prosecuted for the same offence, and some of the decided cases and
standard text-writers give very satisfactory explanations of the origin
and scope of the usage in its ordinary application in actual practice.

The Court. What point are you now making to the Court?

Mr. Ingersoll. I am making this point: It appears from the evidence that
Mr. Wilshire, the attorney of Mr. Rerdell told him at the time he was
making up his mind whether he would go to the Government or not, about
the whiskey cases.

I make the point that when an accomplice turns State's evidence the
State cannot prosecute him after that if he testifies fully and fairly;
that the usage is immemorial, and that there is not an exception in
the records of all the cases in the books; consequently that when Mr.
Merrick told him, "You must look simply to the Government and to the
Court and you will have just exactly what the law gives you and no
more," his remarks meant that the law gave him perfect immunity,
provided he went upon the stand and swore truthfully.

The Court. You have demonstrated, as far as you have been able to, that
he has not sworn truthfully.

Mr. Ingersoll. He has not; he has not; and if the Government will act
fairly with him he will get no immunity.

When he went to the Government he understood the law to be that if he
swore fully and fairly, or if he swore in such a way that they could not
prove that he did not swear fully and fairly, he was to have immunity.
He understood that the more he swore against the defendants the better
was his chance for immunity. He knew that the Government would never
complain of any lie he swore against the defendants.

Now, the next question is what is the law of accomplices, of informers?
There was a remark made by Mr. Bliss in his speech, that they had plenty
of evidence in this case without the testimony of Mr. Walsh or Mr. Moore
or Mr. Rerdell; plenty of evidence without the testimony of Mr. Rerdell.
If that had been so then the Government had no right to put Mr. Rerdell
on the stand. There is but one excuse for using the testimony of a man
who pleads guilty, and that is that without his testimony a conviction
cannot, in all probability, be obtained. And upon that point I refer to
10 Pickering, 478, and to 9 Cowen, 711; and not only upon that point,
but upon the point I made at first, that whenever you put such a man
upon the stand that of itself amounts to a promise of absolute immunity:

The object of admitting the evidence of accomplices is in order to
effect the discovery and punishment of crimes which cannot be proved
against the offenders without the aid of an accomplice's testimony. In
order to prevent this entire failure of justice recourse is had to the
evidence of accomplices.—I Phillips on Evidence, 107.

If, therefore, there be sufficient evidence to convict without his
testimony, the court will refuse to admit him as a witness.—Roscoe's
Criminal Evidence, 127.

Neither do I believe that Mr. Rerdell had a right to go upon the stand
until his case was finally disposed of. Precisely the same language is
used by Wharton on Criminal Evidence, 439:

An accomplice is used by the Government because his evidence is
necessary to a conviction.

That is the opinion of Mr. Justice MacLean, in 4 MacLean's Circuit Court
Reports, 103.

Mr. Merrick. If not improper I may remark that all those cases refer to
a condition of things prior to the trial in which the party appears as
the witness.

Mr. Ingersoll. The usual question is—and the court determines that
question—whether a man shall be a witness or not.

The Court. How can the court determine that without passing upon the
evidence in the case? That is not the duty of the court; it belongs to
the jury.

Mr. Ingersoll. The prosecuting attorney has to pass upon that himself
when he makes up his mind to put him upon the stand; and he only has the
right to do that when he believes that no conviction can be had without
that testimony.

The Court. Then it belongs to the prosecuting attorney.

Mr. Ingersoll. I go further than that, and say that the prosecuting
attorney cannot do that without consultation with the court, and without
saying to the court that he believes no conviction can be had without
that testimony.

Mr. Merrick. May I be allowed to suggest a point which probably you
would like to comment upon—that all these cases refer to accomplices
prior to the trial. My own opinion in reference to the case was that I
would not put Rerdell upon the stand until he had pleaded guilty.

The Court. I do not see the ground for the distinction between the
cases. Undoubtedly, when an accomplice goes over to the Government
and offers his testimony, he does it always in the hope of pardon or
immunity from prosecution.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is all I want at present. I want it understood, if
the Court please, that I shall argue to the jury that at the time he
made up his mind to go to the Government, he understood that that meant
immunity.

The Court. Oh, well, of course it did.

Mr. Ingersoll. The next point is that the Court has to take all his
story or none; and I read from the second volume of Starkie on Evidence,
side-page 24:

In judging of the credit due to the testimony of an accomplice, it seems
to be a necessary principle that his testimony must be wholly received
as that of a credible witness or wholly rejected. His evidence on points
where he is confirmed by unimpeachable evidence is useless. The question
is whether he is to be believed upon points where he received no
confirmation. And of this the jury are to form their opinion from
the nature of the testimony, his manner of delivering it, and the
confirmation which it receives derived from other evidence which is
unsuspected. If his character be established as a witness of truth, he
is credible in matters where he is not corroborated. If, on the other
hand, nothwithstanding the corroboration upon particular points, doubts
and suspicions still remain as to his credit, his whole testimony
becomes useless.

That is the point I want to make. If they are only to take his evidence
where it is corroborated, they might as well have had the corroboration
in the first place without him.

Now, gentlemen, the evidence, in my judgment, shows, and shows beyond
a doubt—and I believe it is now admitted—that at the time Mr. Rerdell
made up his mind to go to the Government he expected that he was to have
absolute immunity. You must judge of his evidence in the light of that
fact, in the light of that knowledge, in the light of what had been told
him by his counsel. Now, it is for you to say. You know something of
this man. You have seen him from day to day. You saw his manner upon the
stand. Why, they tell you that at one time he was overcome with emotion,
and that that is evidence that he was telling the truth. It may be that
there is left in that man some little spark of goodness still. When he
was swearing, or endeavoring to swear, away the liberty of the man who
had been his friend, may be at that time the memory of the past did
for a moment rush upon him. He may have remembered the thousand acts of
kindness; he may have remembered the years of liberality; he may have
remembered the days that he had spent beneath that hospitable roof; he
may have remembered the wife and children; he may have remembered all
these things, and for just that moment he may have realized what a
wretch he was. In no other way can you account for his having emotion.

But I am about through with that gentleman. I shall not take up your
time in the remainder of my speech by commenting upon Mr. Rerdell. Let
us finish his testimony now; let us put him out of sight; let us put him
in his coffin, close the lid, nail it down:

First nail—affidavit of June 20, 1881; drive it in.

Second nail—the letter of July 5, 1882, when he says that affidavit of
1881 was made by the persuasion of Bosler; drive it in.

Third nail—affidavit of July 13, 1882, where he swears that they were
all perfectly innocent.

Fourth nail—the pencil memorandum; drive that in.

Fifth nail—the tabular statement that gave thirty-three and one-third
per cent, to Brady; drive it in.

Sixth nail—his pretended letter to Bosler telling about the advice of
Brady; drive that in.

Seventh nail—the letter he pretends that Dorsey, on the 13th of May,
1879, wrote to Bosler, the copies being made by Miss White; drive that
in.

Wind his corpse up in the balance-sheets from the red books made by
Donnelly.

Then you want a plate for his coffin. Let us paste right on there the
Chico letter, April 3, 1878.

Now, we want grave-stones. Let us take the red books, put one at his
head and one at his feet.

And let his epitaph, written upon the red book placed at his head,
be—Up to this moment I have been faithful to every trust.

My prayer to Gabriel is, "When you pass over that grave don't blow."
Let him sleep. There are, there never were, there never will be twelve
honest men who will deprive any citizen of his liberty upon the evidence
of a man like Mr. Rerdell. It never happened; it never will.

And now, gentlemen, it becomes my duty to answer a few points made by
the gentlemen who have addressed you on behalf of the Government. The
first gentleman who addressed you was Mr. Ker, and he had something to
say—considerable to say—about what are known as the Clendenning bonds.

They claim, gentlemen, first, that an immense fraud was in view when
these proposals—I think they are proposals—with accompanying bonds and
oaths of sureties were sent to Mr. Clendenning. I wish to give you, in
the first place, my explanation of this paper. See if I understand it.
If you sent this paper to that officer or to that gentleman as a form to
guide him in making up the bonds, you would only fill up that portion of
the bond in giving him a sample which you wanted him to fill up, and you
would fill it up in order to show him exactly how he was to fill it up;
and you would leave out that part which was already filled up in the
bond. That is exactly what was done in this case. There was not one of
those bonds that had an oath of the surety or the names of the sureties,
because they were unknown. The names were unknown, and the amounts that
the postmaster would certify to, and so all that was left in blank in
the bond sent. But this being only a sample, it was sent to him so that
he might know how to fill up the bonds that were sent. Consequently that
portion which was absolutely blank in the bond sent would be filled up
as a guide to him, and that portion which was filled up in the bonds
sent would be left blank in the guide, because he had nothing to do with
that part. Now, that is all there is to it.

What was left out, as they claim? Why they claim that the name of the
bidder was left out and the amount of the bid. It makes no difference.
That is not the slightest evidence of fraud, is it?

What was the next thing? They were never used, never. No bond included
in that bundle was ever accepted by the Government. No bonds were ever
made, no contract ever based upon them, not a solitary cent taken from
the Government by those papers. Why, then, this secrecy? Because when a
man is in this business he does not want anybody else to know that he is
bidding, in the first place; and, in the second place, he does not want
anybody to know the amount of the bid. If the amount of the bid is put
in, then the persons going security will know it, and they may tell. The
postmaster who approves the security will know it, and he may tell. The
object of the secrecy is not to defraud the Government, but to prevent
other people finding the amount of the bid and then underbidding. That
is the object, and it is the only object. And yet this little, poor,
dried-up bond, soaked in the water of suspicion, swells almost to
bursting in the minds of the counsel for the prosecution. There is
nothing of it. It was never worthy of mention, in the first place. You
will never think of it when you retire. It will never enter your minds;
but if it does, remember that the object of the secrecy was simply as
a precaution against other bidders, and had nothing whatever to do with
the Government.

There is one other point. I believe Mr. Dorsey did say, in his
examination-in-chief, that he did not talk to anybody about it, and it
afterwards occurred that he did go and ask Mr. Edmunds whether what
he had asked Clendenning to do was illegal or improper. To that
contradiction you are welcome.

Mr. Ker gives the date of Boone's circular to postmasters asking for
information, and says it was dated December 1, 1879. Thereupon Mr.
Merrick corrects him, and says it was in 1878. The Court does the
same. As a matter of fact, these circulars were dated December, 1877.
Gentlemen, I just simply speak of this to show how easy it is for
people to be mistaken. Those circulars were gotten up for the purpose
of getting information before bidding. All the bids were put in in
February, 1878. The circulars were sent out, I believe, in November
and December, 1877. And yet upon that one point Mr. Ker is mistaken two
years.

On page 4512 Mr. Ker states that Miner, in April, 1878, said to Moore
that it all depended upon affidavits of the contractors, and that "they
were all good affidavit men." The object of this, if it had an object,
was to show that this conspiracy was entered into with Moore, and that
S. W. Dorsey was a part of it in April, 1878. The evidence of Moore is
that the conversation took place, not in April, but in July, 1878, at
the city of Denver. And yet Mr. Ker tells you that it was in April.
1878. It is not, perhaps, a very material point, but it simply serves
to show you the manner in which this evidence is repeated to you by the
counsel for the prosecution.

At page 4537 Mr. Ker says that before J. W. Dorsey went West he made an
arrangement with his brother to sell out his interest for ten thousand
dollars; that he did this before he started West; that he did it before
there was any service put on; and that these contracts were taken at
such low figures; yet John W. Dorsey had raised his interest up to ten
thousand dollars. Mr. Ker tells you that the evidence shows that before
any service was put on and before John W. Dorsey went West he tried to
sell out his interest for ten thousand dollars. Now, what was the object
in making this statement, unless it was pure forgetfulness? Why it was
to connect Vaile with this business some time in April, 1878.

On pages 4100 and 4102 J. W. Dorsey swears that he was here in
Washington in November, 1878; before that time he had gone to the Tongue
River route; he had come back from Bismarck; and it was then, not in
April; it was then, not before he went West; it was then, not before any
service was put on, that he talked with Vaile about selling out to
him for ten thousand dollars; and it was in November that he left the
instructions for his brother to sell to Vaile. It was not in April; it
was not before he went West; it was not before any service was put on.

At page 4540 Mr. Ker states that—Dorsey held thirty-three routes, and
there was not one of them, I suppose, that was not expedited to the
fullest extent.

What evidence is there of that? Is there any evidence that any route of
Dorsey's was expedited not mentioned in this indictment?

Did not Mr. Ker know whether the routes had been expedited or not? Did
not I offer in this court to prove what was done with every solitary
route we had? I say to the gentleman that the other routes were not
expedited. I say to the gentleman that only two other routes were,
and we were not interested in them. And I say also that they know the
record, and they knew the record when this statement was made; but they
may have forgotten it. But is it fair, gentlemen, for a prosecuting
officer to state to you that he supposed all the routes of Dorsey were
expedited? One of those in the indictment was not expedited; and not a
route outside of the indictment belonging to Dorsey, in which he had an
interest, was expedited. So much for that statement.

At page 4546 you are told by Mr. Ker that—Nobody ever heard of
expedition on a route before.

We proved what form of contracts had been in the PostOffice Department
for twenty years, and proved that in every one of them there was a
clause for expedition. So much for that evidence, gentlemen.

At page 4546 Mr. Ker tells us that J. W. Dorsey testified—That the
routes were taken so low as to cut out other people, but that they knew
they were to be expedited, and they knew they were to be increased.

J. W. Dorsey testified upon that subject, and his testimony will be
found at page 4085:

Q. Did you have an arrangement by which you should bid an extremely
small amount on the routes, with the further understanding that the
service was to be increased and expedited?—A. No, sir; I never thought
of such a thing.

And in his entire testimony in chief and cross, I believe there is not
another question on that subject.

On page 4549, referring to the letter of John M. Peck, which was in fact
written by Miner, Mr. Ker says:

Cedarville ought to have had as many mails as the other points between,
according to the order, but they were going to supply it only once a
week. .

As a matter of fact, gentlemen, this letter was written on the 22d
of October, 1878, and at the time the letter was written the mail,
according to the contract, was carried only once a week on that route,
and consequently Cedarville would have had exactly the same mail as any
other point; that is to say, once a week.

Page 556 of the record shows that three trips a week were put upon this
route to Loup City with a schedule of thirteen hours, but not until the
10th of July, 1879, nine months after this letter was written.

On page 4609 Mr. Ker, in commenting upon an affidavit on the Toquerville
and Adairville route, reads from the evidence of John W. Dorsey, citing
page 3945, and ends at this question and answer:

Q. It was done so entirely, was it not?—A. It ought to have been so.

Now, let me read you the balance:

Q. Was it not so done?—A. No, sir.

Q It was not?—A. No, sir.

Q For whose benefit was it done?.—A. He—Meaning Rerdell—stole five
thousand dollars on that route, or very nearly that—four thousand nine
hundred dollars on that very route.

Q. When did he steal that five thousand dollars?—A. About a year ago or
a year and a half; I do not remember the time.

Q. From whom?—A. From Mr. Bosler and myself.

Q. At what time?—A. I should think in February, 1882.

The question now arises, did Mr. Rerdell take this money as charged?
Read now from the record, at pages 734 and 735, and you will find in the
last line of the tabular statement introduced in this case that on this
very route four thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven dollars and
eighty-three cents was paid to M. C. Rerdell as subcontractor on that
route. We also find that it was paid on the 4th of February, 1882. This
is the money that Dorsey swears Rerdell stole, and that gentleman never
took the stand to deny it.

At page 4616, Mr. Ker, after going over all the evidence with regard to
the affidavits as to the impossibility of the number of men and horses
doing the service rendered necessary by the affidavit, comes to the
following conclusion: That under the oath the proportion was, as nine to
twenty-three; that under the oath of Johnson the real proportion should
have been, and was, eight to twenty-two.

In other words, the real proportion, according to Mr. Ker's own
statement, would have taken more money from the Treasury than the wrong
proportion made under the fraudulent affidavit, and that was nine to
twenty-three. Nine into twenty-three goes twice and five-ninths; that
is, two hundred and fifty-five per cent, and a fraction. That is the
fraudulent proportion. Mr. Ker says that the real proportion was not
as nine into twenty-three, but as eight to twenty two. Eight into
twenty-two goes twice and six-eighths; that is to say, two and
three-quarters; that is to say, two hundred and seventy-five per cent.
The fraudulent proportion, according to his claim, only gave us two
hundred and fifty-five per cent. The real proportion, which Mr. Ker
admits was right, according to the evidence of Johnson, would have given
us two hundred and seventy-five per cent. In other words, we got twenty
per cent, less under the fraud than we would under the evidence of
Johnson that Mr. Ker admits to be correct. Finding that it is twenty per
cent, less under the fraudulent affidavit than under Johnson's estimate,
he shouts fraud.

On page 4617 Mr. Ker tells us that Sanderson "had no more to do with the
route than you or I had." On page 731 I find that Mr. Sanderson drew all
the money on the route from Saguache to Lake City, I believe, with one
exception—the third quarter of one year—1878, it may be. He drew every
dollar upon that route, anyhow, up to February 17, 1882, except for one
quarter. And yet Mr. Ker stood up before you and said that Sanderson
"had no more to do with the route than you or I had."

Let us see if we have any more evidence. I find on page 3271 a
subcontract executed on route 38150, from Saguache to Lake City, by
Miner, Peck & Company to Sanderson for the whole time until June 30,
1882. I find that subcontract is signed by John R. Miner and J. L.
Sanderson. This contract was to be from the 1st of July, 1878, and was
made the 15th of May, 1878, and here it is in evidence. The evidence is
that the contract was made between Miner, Peck & Company and Sanderson;
the evidence also is that Sanderson drew the pay. And yet Mr. Ker stands
up before you and says that Sanderson "had no more to do with the route
than you or I had."

The subcontract, gentlemen, states that Sanderson is to have the entire
pay, and it was before the contract term began. So much for that.

Mr. Ker. When was it filed?

Mr. Wilson. That does not make any difference.

Mr. Ingersoll. "When was it filed?" There was a trial in my town of a
suit against the city, I believe, for allowing a culvert to get filled
up and flood a man's cellar. They brought in evidence to prove, don't
you see, that the culvert was not filled up, and one witness swore that
the day before the rain he saw a dog go through there. One of the jurors
got up and said that he would like to ask a question; he said, "What was
the color of that dog?"

On page 4631 Mr. Ker states that during the investigation by
Congress—Contractors got out printed letters and sent them to every
subcontractor upon every star route in the country, asking them to write
to their members of Congress urging their members of Congress to vote
for this appropriation.

On page 1346 is Rerdell's letter upon this very route, in which not one
word is said about the contractor doing anything one way or the other.
There is no evidence that any other letter was written on that route.
I call your attention to it to show how the prosecution strained every
possible point, and how they endeavored to patch and piece and putty
and veneer this evidence. Mr. Miner wrote a letter (page 669). I do not
remember any other evidence upon this subject. And certainly it would be
impossible to write a milder letter than Mr. Miner wrote. He did not
ask the people to get up petitions against reduction, or ask for more
service. Here is what he says, and I will read you Mr. Miner's letter:

It will be well for the people of your section to send to the member
of Congress from your district such petitions as will express their
opinions on the subject of this reduction.

Truly, yours,

JNO. R. MINER, Ag't.

Could you write a milder letter than that, to save your life, and refer
to the subject? Could you write a fairer letter than that, to save your
life?

He does not say, "Get up petitions against it." He does not say, "Send
those petitions to your member of Congress and tell him to do what he
can to prevent it." Not one word of that kind.

Yet that is considered as evidence of fraud; that is considered as
evidence of conspiracy.

The next point made is that Mr. Ker states, at page 4632, that
Brady endeavored to bribe the members of Congress into making this
appropriation by doubling every star route in the Southern and Middle
States, and did so during the Congressional investigation. What are
the facts? The deficiency bill passed April 7, 1880.. That appropriated
money only for the purpose of carrying the mails up to June 30, 1880.
The regular appropriation bill was passed at the same session, and
appropriated money to carry the mails from the 1st of July, 1880. Now
let us see if Brady doubled the trips in these Southern and Middle
States during that investigation. On page 3393 Brady says:

Practically on July 1, 1880, we doubled up the entire service for all
the Southern and Middle States.

This was after the deficiency bill had passed; it was after the money
appropriated by that bill had been expended; and it was paid for out of
the regular appropriation for the Post-Office Department.

Yet that was a bribe. It just shows that Congress by the regular
appropriation indorsed the policy of Mr. Key to have a daily mail to
every place where there was a county-seat.

At page 4652, on the route from Mineral Park to Pioche, there were
two petitions, marked 17 K and 18 K. It is somewhat singular that the
Government brought no persons whose names are on these petitions to show
that they had not authorized their names to be signed thereto, but they
brought persons to show that the signatures were not genuine.

On page 1621 the witness Wright swears that the names are the same on
both petitions. He is then asked if he knows the signatures of any
other people, and he says "Yes." He then says that the signature of John
Deland is not genuine. He swears that he knows nearly every one of the
people. He is then asked whether these signatures are in the handwriting
of the people, and he replies that he thinks not. Then he is asked as to
the signature of Cornell, and he says; That is not in his handwriting.

Here is his cross-examination, gentlemen: * * *

I asked him, "Do you know these people;" made him swear that he knew Mr.
Street; that he knew the signatures of many; that he knew these people.
I proved where they were living; that they are living in the country
now, good, respectable, honest people. And yet the Government did not
bring one man whose name had been written here to prove that he had not
authorized it. Why? Because they could not. They knew by the testimony
here that the petitions were absolutely and perfectly honest. And it is
in that way that they seek to deprive men of their liberty. They did
not call a man whose name appeared on those petitions to say that his
signature was not genuine or not authorized. I proved that many of them
are still living and first-rate men.

Now, gentlemen, you remember besides that, that Mr. H. S. Stevens, the
delegate from that Territory, recommended the same thing asked for by
those petitions (pages 1635, 1636), where it was admitted by counsel for
the Government that the letters of Stevens were genuine. It is upon that
same route that General Fremont also wrote a letter (page 1636). And I
will show you that the names are exactly or substantially the same on 18
K as those found at pages 1638 and 1639.

Mr. Ker and Mr. Bliss both endeavored to show that there were no
petitions on this route, and that it was simply done on a letter. If you
will look at page 1603 you will find the evidence of Mr. Krider, who was
postmaster at Mineral Park, in which he says there were petitions.

In order to show that there was a conspiracy between these parties, or
between Dorsey and Vaile, or Dorsey, Rerdell, and Vaile, Mr. Ker called
the attention of the jury to two letters, one written by Rerdell to the
Sixth Auditor, and one written by Vaile. Here is a letter dated the 21st
of August, 1880. It is introduced, of course, to show that there was a
conspiracy at that time between Mr. Vaile and Mr. Dorsey. It was written
by Mr. Rerdell to the Sixth Auditor:

To the Sixth Auditor:

Sir: H. M. Vaile was subcontractor on route 40104 during the first
quarter of 1879. In the first settlement for that quarter Vaile was paid
for certain expedited service—it was subsequently discovered that the
expedition thus paid for was never performed—the department therefore,
and very properly, too, charged back to the route the amount thus paid
for expedition never performed, viz, some two thousand eight hundred
dollars.

Meanwhile Vaile, who alone was in fault, had ceased to have any
connection with the route—the charging back, therefore, fell on the
wrong man, the man who was in no way responsible for the non-performance
of the expedition, except so far as he stood between the department and
the subcontractor.

It is true that this payment was made by the regular contractor to
the subcontractor, but it is equally true that it was, in a measure,
a compulsory payment. By the rules of the Post-Office Department it
is made obligatory on the regular contractor to pay the subcontractor
before the department will settle with him—it is not, therefore,
a payment as between two individuals. The receipt is on the form
prescribed by the Post-Office Department, and is witnessed by (the
then) Postmaster Edmunds, as the rules prescribe. It is on file in the
Post-Office Department, and I maintain that our covenants were fulfilled
when we put the receipt on file. If Vaile had performed the service as
he agreed he would do, and for doing which he received this money,
we should have been reimbursed by a certificate of service from the
contract office. Now, will you permit Vaile to take advantage of his own
wrong, and thus enable him to defraud another man out of his money?

I refrain from discussing the question as to what would be the duty
of the department if Vaile, who had received the money wrongfully, had
ceased to have any connection with the department, because it is
not pertinent to this issue; if it were, I could cite you to many
authorities and precedents to the effect that even then it would be your
duty to refund the money to me. But this is not necessary, because Vaile
is still doing business with the department.

He is subcontractor on route 44156 for the full contract pay, which is
twenty-two thousand dollars per annum, hence the department will have
no difficulty in reimbursing itself for what was, in simple truth, an
overpayment.

I think you will agree with me when I ask that this money be refunded to
the subcontractor on route 40104 and charged to route 44156, because it
is simply correcting an error. You have the same authority to charge
it to one as you have to charge it to the other, and you have already
charged it to me.

The law-merchant would experience no difficulty in adjusting a matter
of this sort. The merchant who would refuse to correct an error of this
character would be justly called a lame duck, and would be scouted from
"'Change" Vaile was erroneously paid for the performance of a service
which he never did perform. Therefore I ask that he be compelled to
render unto Caesar the things that he ceasers.

Respectfully,

## M. C. Rerdell

Acting for himself and for the regular contractor on route 40104.

That is to show also, gentlemen, that there was a conspiracy between
Vaile and Rerdell. Now, Mr. Vaile wrote a letter also to the same man. I
will read it:

Washington, D. C., July 9, 1880.

Hon. J. McGrew:

Sir: In reply to yours of July 8th, relating to the Jennings case,
I would state that I did not receive the money in manner and form as
stated by one M. C. Rerdell, nor was the draft of J. W. Dorsey, on
said route 40104, for the quarter named, to get an advance of money for
myself or for my own use.

At the time I receipted for my pay as subcontractor on said route I did
not, in fact, receive any money, but did so receipt that J. W. Dorsey
might negotiate his draft on said route, and for no other purpose.

Although I was subcontractor of record on said route at the time named,
I was not a subcontractor in my own behalf, but as trustee for J. W.
Dorsey, S. W. Dorsey, Isaac Jennings, and others, to collect said money
and pay it over as said parties should direct. I further state that all
money that ever came into my hands from said route I did pay over to the
parties named as trustee, as by them directed.

Acting as trustee of said Jennings, and believing that he had performed
the mail service on said route as by him agreed, and in accordance with
the laws and regulations of the Post-Office Department, I did pay said
Jennings, on the 1st day of April, 1879, the sum of $1,257.73, a sum of
money he was entitled to provided he had carried the mail three days per
week on the schedule required, which I fully believed at that time he
had done, and for a long time after.

I further state that I am informed that said Jennings is not
responsible; that it would be utterly impossible for me to receive back
the $2,800, or any part thereof; that in fact this sum of money sought
to be collected of me, if collected for said Jennings's benefit, or
go into his hands in addition to the sum he now has unlawfully, doubly
remunerating him for his neglect of duty.

I further state that all the money collected on said route not paid to
said Jennings was paid to liquidate the debts of J. W. Dorsey, S.
W. Dorsey, and others previously contracted, and not one dollar ever
remained in my hands.

I further state I believe both J. W. Dorsey and S. W. Dorsey are
irresponsible, and it would be impossible for me to collect any part of
said money from them. As above stated, said money came into my hand only
as their agent or trustee, and at once paid out as they directed; that
my subcontract was put on file simply to enable J W. Dorsey to negotiate
his draft on said route, when in fact said Jennings was the real
subcontractor. Said Jennings agreed to perform the service on said route
strictly in accordance with the laws and regulations of the department,
for the annual sum of $12,600.00, the duplicate of which contract was
delivered over to S. W. Dorsey by myself, and which I believe is now in
the hands of M. C. Rerdell, and which, or a copy thereof, I demand shall
be filed with you in this case, that you may see what said Jennings
agreed to do.

This is certainly a strange claim. Jennings agreed to perform mail
service on said route. I believed he had done it, and paid him
accordingly. It turns out long after he did not properly perform the
service, but was attempting a swindle, and a deduction is ordered for
not performing the service properly. Then this man, the guilty party,
having got money from me, as trustee, wrongfully, as well as from the
Government, and asks that the Auditor compel me to pay him the sum
of $2,800.00, when, as I am informed, he is seeking to get this same
deduction remitted.

Surely if he succeeded in all this he will make a good thing out of his
rascality and I a good victim without remedy. I state again I did
not hypothecate said draft for myself, did not receive one cent as
subcontractor, but became the payee of said draft that said J. W.
Dorsey might negotiate it, and I to dispose of the proceeds as he should
direct, all of which I did. Therefore I request you not to compel me to
pay the sum of money asked, but if I am liable at all let the parties
seek their redress at law, where all the facts can be obtained and
justice rendered me. And it is also well known that I am a man of means,
and any judgment rendered against me could and would be collected,
dollar for dollar.

I am, very respectfully,

## H. M. Vaile

That was introduced to show that at the time Vaile was in a conspiracy
with S. W. Dorsey. Why did they introduce it? Simply for one line in it
in which he says he was acting as the trustee of S. W. Dorsey. He was.
How? Dorsey had advanced money. The routes were liable, and the persons
who held the routes had agreed to refund it. The subcontracts were made
to Vaile, and Vaile agreed out of the proceeds of the route to pay the
debt to S. W, Dorsey. To that extent he was the trustee of S. W. Dorsey.
Dorsey swears it. Vaile admits it, and we all claim it to be true. And
yet they introduced that letter simply because that line was there. Now,
gentlemen, I have read both of those letters, and I want you to remember
them if you can, and tell me whether at that time Vaile and Dorsey
were in a conspiracy together to defraud this Government. And yet the
Government introduced this letter just to prove that one thing, and no
more.

On the Julian and Colton route there is this peculiarity: The Government
failed to prove the number of men and horses necessary on the original
schedule for three-times-a-week service, and consequently we are left
without any standard by which to judge; without any standard by which to
measure.

On page 4685 Mr. Ker calls attention to the fact that the proposal
marked 6 P, originally contained an offer to carry the mail at
thirty-six hours for seven thousand seven hundred and twenty-two
dollars additional, but he states that the thirty-six was rubbed out and
twenty-six was put in its place.

That is, they offered to carry it in thirty-six hours for seven thousand
and odd dollars, and then afterwards fraudulently, of course, rubbed out
the thirty-six and inserted twenty-six. But they did not change the
sum for which they offered to carry it. They offered to carry it
in thirty-six hours for seven thousand seven hundred and twenty-two
dollars, and afterwards they rubbed out the thirty-six and put in
twenty-six, and then offered to carry it in twenty-six hours for seven
thousand seven hundred and twenty-two dollars. The question arises, how
did that hurt the Government? The question arises, was that a fraud? If
it had been originally twenty-six hours and they had rubbed out those
figures and put in thirty-six hours, then you might say the intention
was to defraud the Government. But the proposition had to be accepted
after that was done, and consequently in no event could the Government
be defrauded by the change of the proposal before the Government
accepted the proposal. I might say to a man, "I will let you have
a house and lot for ten thousand dollars." He does not accept the
proposal. Have I not the right on the next day to charge him twelve
thousand dollars for it? Is that a fraud? If I tell him, "You may have
it for ten thousand dollars," and he accepts, then, as an honorable
man, I cannot change the proposal. But if I tell him he may have it for
twelve thousand dollars and then afterwards tell him he may have it
for ten thousand dollars, Mr. Ker calls that a fraud of two thousand
dollars. If one of the jury should give me a contract to deliver one
hundred horses for ten thousand dollars, and I should scratch out the
one hundred and put in seventy-five, certainly you would not consider
yourself defrauded. Or if I agreed to carry the mail in thirty hours for
the Government for seven thousand seven hundred and twenty-two dollars,
and then afterwards changed and said I would carry it in ten hours less
time for the same price, can that be tortured into a fraud—unless I
might be indicted for defrauding myself?

On page 4569 Mr. Ker says that Mr. Farrish, who was the subcontractor
says:

I always carried the mail in from six to ten hours before expedition.
I carried the mail from Greenhorn to Pueblo. I did not stop at Saint
Charles.

On page 835 Mr. Farrish says he carried the mail for three months in
1881. That is the only time Farrish carried the mail. This route was
expedited on the 26th day of June, 1879, and yet Mr. Ker says that
Farrish carried the mail before it was expedited and carried it in from
six to ten hours. Mr. Farrish did not carry the mail until about two
years after it had been expedited.

On page 4768 Mr. Ker, speaking of the two affidavits on the route from
Pueblo to Rosita, laughs at the idea that the proportion was the same in
both.

Now, what is the proportion in both? One affidavit says that on the then
schedule it would take eight men and horses; that is, the horses and men
added together make eight, and that on the proposed schedule it would
take twenty-four. Then they would be entitled to just three times the
money they were receiving on the original schedule, because three times
eight are twenty-four. Let me explain here what I mean by proportion.
If I am carrying the mail with, say, four horses and two men, making
a total of six, and if then that service is increased so that it
takes twelve men and horses, I get twice the original pay; if it
takes eighteen men and horses, I get three times the original pay.
You understand that there is always a relation between the pay and the
number of men and horses used. If I am using one man and one horse and
am getting a thousand dollars for the service, and if it is expedited
so that I have to use two men and two horses, I would get two thousand
dollars. In the first affidavit they had eight men and horses. If
they put up the service to what they were going to, it would take
twenty-four. Three times eight are twenty-four. Then they would get
three times the original amount of money. In the second affidavit he
swears that it takes fifteen men and animals on the present schedule,
and on the proposed schedule it would take forty-five men and animals.
Three times fifteen are forty-five. Three times eight are twenty-four.
You see that on both affidavits you get the same amount of money to a
cent, because the proportion is absolutely and exactly the same. Yet Mr.
Ker laughs at the idea of the proportion being the same. It took eight
men and horses in the first affidavit on the present schedule, and
twenty-four on the proposed schedule. There the contractor would be
entitled to three times the original sum. In the next affidavit it took
fifteen men and horses on the original schedule and forty-five men and
horses on the proposed schedule. Again, he would be entitled to three
times the original sum.

On page 4579 Mr. Ker says the oath was put in for three trips. By
looking at page 867 we find that it was for seven trips and not three.
There is nothing like accuracy.

On page 4580 Ker says that Brady had on the jacket before him the
evidence that Hansom was a subcontractor at three thousand one hundred
dollars a year, and the contract gave the contractor a clear profit of
five thousand and forty-eight dollars. The fact is, that Brady's
order was made on July 8, 1879. That order is on page 866. Hansom's
subcontract was filed October 22, 1879, about three month's after
Brady's order was made. And yet Mr. Ker tells you that on that jacket
when Brady made the order he had notice of Hansom's subcontract. Unless
he had the gift of seeing into the future he knew nothing about it. He
would have had to see into the future three months in order to have had
it before him at that time.

On page 4703 Mr. Ker says that the letter of J. W. Dorsey, written April
26, 1879, referred to the Perkin's affidavit as not putting the number
of men and animals high enough. Let us see. Another case of arithmetic.
The letter refers to Dorsey's statement transmitted with the letter. It
could not be the way stated by Mr. Ker for the following reasons: The
affidavit of Perkins said three men and six animals one trip a week on
the then time. That makes nine. On one trip a week with the reduction to
eighty-four hours, eight men and twenty-four animals would be required.
That makes thirty-two. The proportion then gives three and five-ninths
or three hundred and fifty-five per cent, increase of pay. That is the
affidavit, he says, that Dorsey wrote out and said was not high enough,
and then fixed up one that was. The affidavit that John W. Dorsey sent
in the letter says that it will require for three trips a week on the
then time four men and twelve animals, making sixteen; on the proposed
schedule for the same number of trips eleven men and thirty-two animals,
making forty-three. As sixteen is to forty-three—that is, two hundred
and sixty-nine per cent, increase of pay. Now, that letter, he says,
claims that the Perkins affidavit did not put it high enough. I say that
he did not refer to the Perkins affidavit. He could not say that did not
put it high enough, because that put it at three hundred and fifty-five
per cent., and the affidavit he inclosed in the letter, put it at two
hundred and sixty-nine per cent.—nearly one hundred per cent. less.
According to Mr. Ker he was complaining that that affidavit was too low,
and so he inclosed one, one hundred per cent, lower. That will not
do. Besides all that the affidavit of John W. Dorsey is for forty-five
hours, while the first affidavit, I believe, is for eighty-four hours.
John W. Dorsey offers to carry it in forty-five hours for two hundred
and sixty-nine per cent., and the other affidavit on the basis of
eighty-five hours calls for three hundred and fifty-five per cent. Do
you not see, gentlemen, it is utterly impossible to believe that?

On page 4738 Mr. Ker again falls into mathematics. He says that Mr.
Brady allowed on the Bismarck route for three hundred men and three
hundred horses.

I tell you this prosecution ought to go into the stock business. One
hundred and fifty men and one hundred and fifty horses were called for
by the affidavit. Now, Mr. Ker says when Brady doubled the trips he
doubled the horses, and when he doubled the trips he doubled the men.
That would make three hundred men and three hundred horses. If he
had doubled the trips again he would have had six hundred men and six
hundred horses, enough cavalry to have protected that entire frontier.
Yet after all the Bismarck and Tongue River business, Mr. Vaile comes in
and swears, on page 4062, that the loss on that route to Vaile and Miner
was at least fifty thousand dollars; and Mr. Miner swears that the loss
on the route was between forty and fifty thousand dollars. Vaile says
if he had known at that time of the clause in the contract by which he
could have gotten out of it he would have abandoned the route, but that
he had not read a contract for ten or twelve years. Now, as a matter
of fact, gentlemen, and it seems to me the prosecution ought to be
perfectly fair, Brady allowed only forty per cent, of the affidavit made
in regard to the one hundred and fifty men and the one hundred and fifty
horses, and yet according to Mr. Ker he allowed for three hundred men
and three hundred horses; instead of allowing for forty per cent, of one
hundred and fifty men and one hundred and fifty horses, he allowed for
one hundred per cent. more. That would have run the pay up, I should
think, to about a million dollars. Mr. Ker also says that Mr. Vaile
swears that he induced Brady to give an extension to August 15th, and
thereupon Mr. Ker makes the remarkable statement that Vaile did not do
it; that Boone did it; I am very thankful for the admission. From that
it appears that Boone was more potent with Brady than Vaile was.

If he was, why did they have to get somebody close to Brady? Afterwards
we are told by Mr. Ker that Mr. Boone was kicked out to make a place for
Vaile, so as to get a man close to Brady.

Mr. Ker. Will you tell me what page it was I spoke about Boone?

Mr. Ingersoll. It was Mr. Bliss. It is Mr. Bliss's turn to explain
now. The notes that I have were handed to me by another, and I supposed
referred to Mr. Ker. Mr. Bliss said:

This, I think, can leave no doubt in the minds of any one that the
extension was obtained by Mr. Boone.

Mr. Bliss says that on page 4899, and so I will relieve Mr. Ker of that
charge.

Mr. Ker. I am glad to be relieved of something.

Mr. Ingersoll. I do not want to do any injustice to Mr. Ker; between Mr.
Bliss and Mr. Ker I am perfectly impartial.

Mr. Ker attacks the affidavit made by Vaile on the Vermillion and Sioux
Falls route. Let us get at the facts. The route was let as fifty miles
long. That is the distance that was given in the advertisement by the
Government. They wanted expedition on that route. The Government asked
for it. Mr. Vaile asked if he could make the affidavit, and he made it,
supposing the route was fifty miles long. He never had been over it. It
turned out that it was about seventy-three miles long, and consequently
the affidavit provided for too fast time. The affidavit called for ten
hours. That made over seven miles an hour; or, including the stoppages,
I presume about ten miles an hour. The difficulty arose out of the
mistake in the distance. Vaile so swears, on page 4030. He also swears
that he went to the department and there saw Mr. Brewer, who was in
charge of that bureau, or at least of that business, and it was Brewer
who suggested to him to make the affidavit. Mr. Vaile did not ask for
any expedition on that route. Mr. Brewer spoke to him about it. Mr.
Vaile swears that Brewer spoke to him first. Mr. Vaile swears that he
made the affidavit at the instigation of Mr. Brewer. Mr. Bliss says
Brewer is an honest man, and calls him honest Brewer. Why did he not
call honest Brewer to the stand and let him deny that he asked Mr. Vaile
to make that affidavit?

The Court. Yes.

Mr. Ingersoll. [Resuming]. If the Court please, and gentlemen of the
jury, on page 4645 there is the letter from Miner to Carey.

John Carey, Esq.,

Fort McDermitt, Nev.

Dear Sir: One S. H. Abbott, who was postmaster at Alvord, I find, by
accident, is writing to the department that you do not pay your bills,
and that there is no need of anything more than a weekly mail.

I wish you would see this man at once and satisfy him; pay him whatever
is reasonable and report to R. C. Williamson, at The Dalles.

I suppose that is what he is after. He knows nothing of the through
mail, and probably a weekly is all he needs; but more likely he wants
some money. He complained once before to the department that he had to
make a special trip to Camp McDermitt to make his returns, and I sent
him thirty dollars, and it was all right. Now, I suppose, he wants a
little more money. Yours, &c.,

## John R. Miner

That letter was introduced to show that there was a conspiracy between
Miner and Brady; and yet when that man complained that the service was
not put on at the time it should have been, and that he was postmaster,
was forced to carry his returns to the nearest post-office, and
consequently spent about thirty dollars, Miner sent him the money.
Why? Because he and Brady were not confederates; because they were not
conspirators. For that reason he sent the man thirty dollars. The letter
says, "The man that was postmaster." When this letter was written Mr.
Abbott was not postmaster; he had ceased to be postmaster. Yet they
have endeavored to impress upon you the idea that when this letter
was written to Abbott he was then postmaster. He had written a letter,
stating that a weekly mail was all that was wanted, and that Mr. Carey
did not pay his bills. Mr. Miner wrote to Carey on that account, "The
man is trying to make trouble. He tried to make trouble once before, and
we sent him thirty dollars. He is not postmaster now. He has no official
position. Go and see him. Give him what is reasonable, and tell him to
mind his own business." Why? If he had been in a conspiracy with Brady
he would not care what Mr. Abbott wrote to the department. If he was
absolutely certain there he would not care anything about it. But having
no arrangement with the Second Assistant, having no arrangement of the
kind set forth in the indictment, he did not want Mr. Abbott to write
letters; he did not want Mr. Abbott to make trouble. That letter,
instead of showing that there was a conspiracy, shows absolutely that
there was not, and the letter was not written to him while he was an
official. The man was not then postmaster. He simply had been.

The next point made by Mr. Ker is a very powerful point, that Mr. Vaile
came from Independence, where the James boys came from, and where they
steal horses. Suppose I should say that Mr. Ker comes from Philadelphia,
the town that Mr. Phipps lives in, the man who stole the roof off of the
poorhouse. Would there be any argument in that?

Mr. Ker says that J. W. Dorsey wrote in his letter that the profits
would be one hundred thousand dollars a year. That was a mistake. I turn
to the letter and I find that it says one hundred thousand dollars in
the life of the contract, and not one hundred thousand dollars a year.

Mr. Bliss. Your Honor, I claim the right to call attention to the
fact that Mr. Ker read the letter in full referring to the one hundred
thousand dollars clear of expenses. He read it and then followed it
by the statement of one hundred thousand dollars a year, which was
obviously a mistake.

Mr. Ingersoll. That only makes it worse. After he had read the letter
to the jury, and while the echoes of the letter were still in the
court-room, he then said one hundred thousand dollars a year, while
the letter said one hundred thousand dollars within the life of the
contract. Upon such statements, gentlemen, they expect to strip a
citizen of his liberty. [To counsel for the Government.] You will have
some work to do in a little while. It may be that Mr. Ker forgets these
things. I do not say how it happened.

Mr. Ker also tells you that Miner wanted to cut out S. W. Dorsey and
J. W. Dorsey and Mr. Peck. Was that because he was a co-conspirator? He
also tells you that Miner deserted his friend S. W. Dorsey. Was he at
that time a conspirator? Mr. Ker tells you that S. W. Dorsey wanted to
gratify his spite against Vaile and that the first thing he did after he
got out of the Senate was to write that letter to the Second Assistant
Postmaster-General against the subcontracts. Does that show they were
co-conspirators? Did he want to gratify his spite because he had made a
bargain with them by which they were to realize hundreds of thousands of
dollars?

Mr. Ker also says that Miner's letter to Tuttle shows the conspiracy.

It is perfectly wonderful, gentlemen, how suspicion changes and poisons
everything.

Let me read you the letter from which Mr. Ker draws the inference that
there was a conspiracy. It is on page 885:

Washington, D. C., August 19, 1878. Frank A. Tuttle, Box 44, Pueblo,
Colo.,

Dear Sir: Yours 14th received. We accept your proposition, provided (so
that there shall be no conflict) that a friend of ours, who has recently
gone to Colorado, has not made different arrangements before we can get
him word.

The petition for expedition should be separate from the petition for
increase of number of trips. We make no boast of being solid with
anybody, but can get what is reasonable. Yours, truly,

## Miner, Peck & Co

You are told that is evidence of a conspiracy. Suppose the letter had
been this way: "We boast of being solid. We can get anything, whether
reasonable or not." That probably would have been evidence of perfect
innocence. He writes a letter and says:

We make no boast of being solid with anybody, but can get what is
reasonable.

They say that is evidence of conspiracy. Suppose he had written the
opposite, "We do boast of being solid and we can get anything, whether
it is reasonable or not." According to their logic that would have been
evidence of absolute innocence. Whenever you are suspicious you extract
poison from the fairest and sweetest flowers. Prejudice and suspicion
turn every fact against a defendant.

On page 4557 Mr. Ker tells us that Vaile never saw Peck, and yet had the
impudence to write that his subcontract was signed by Peck in person.
The subcontract is in evidence here. Nobody pretends that it was
not signed by Peck, and yet that is brought forward as a suspicious
circumstance against Mr. Vaile, because there is no evidence that Mr.
Vaile ever saw Mr. Peck. Is there anything in a point like that? "My
contract was signed by Mr. Peck in person." He does not mean by that
that he saw him sign it. The evidence here is that it was signed by
Peck, and yet the fact that he says Peck did sign it, and the fact that
he had never seen Peck, Mr. Ker endeavors to torture so that you will
think he wrote what he knew to be untrue.

On page 3251 Mr. Ker says that Miner does not deny writing the letter
marked 63 E. This letter was dated the 10th day of May, 1879, and was on
one of the Dorsey routes.

Miner swears that he never signed a paper, never touched pen to paper on
any of the Dorsey routes after the 5th day of May, 1879.

Now, gentlemen, after having made all these statements to you, and I
have only taken up a few of them, these misstatements, these mistakes,
Mr. Ker winds up by telling you it is the safer plan to find a verdict
of guilty, because if you find them guilty wrongfully the Court will
upset your verdict.

Gentlemen, you have sworn to try this case according to the law and the
evidence. You are the supreme arbiters of this case. It is for you to
decide upon this evidence, and for you alone. Yet you are told by Mr.
Ker to shirk that responsibility. You are told by him to violate your
oaths and find against these defendants, for the sake of certainty,
and then turn them over to the mercy of the Court. That is not the law.
These defendants are being tried before you. They have the right to your
honest judgment. If you have any doubt as to their guilt you must find
them not guilty or violate your oaths. You are told it is the safer way
to find them guilty and then let them appeal to the Court for mercy!
That doctrine is monstrous. It is deformed. Such a verdict would be the
spawn of prejudice, and cowardice, and perjury. You cannot give such a
verdict and retain your self-respect. You cannot give such a verdict
and retain your manhood! If you have any doubt as to the guilt of these
defendants you must say they are not guilty. You have no right to turn
them over to the Court, no matter whether the Court is merciful or
unmerciful. You must pass upon their guilt, and you must do it honestly.

I never heard so preposterous, so cruel a sentiment uttered in a court
of justice. It amounts to this, gentlemen: If you have any doubt of
guilt resolve the doubt against the defendant. If the evidence is not
quite sufficient, find against the defendants and turn them over to the
mercy of the Court. Why should we have a jury at all? Why should you sit
here at all? Why should you hear this evidence, if after all you are to
shirk the responsibility and turn the defendants over to the Court? You
never will do it, gentlemen.

Now, gentlemen, I wish to call your attention to a few points made by
Colonel Bliss. You must remember that Colonel Bliss has been very highly
complimented by his associates as a kind of peripatetic index of this
case, an encyclopedia of all the papers; that he never makes a mistake;
that he recollects amounts with absolute certainty, and that he is
infallible. Keeping all these things in your mind, I wish to call your
attention to some statements that he has made. First of all, I will
refer to a little of his philosophy, or law, and that is, that in
every affidavit you should state not the number necessary on the then
schedule, but the actual number, and that there could be no doubt about
the number of men and horses used at the time when an affidavit was
made, and that consequently anybody making an affidavit should put in
the number then actually used.

Let us see how that will work. He says the oaths are false because they
do not state the actual number of men and horses employed in carrying
the mail at the time they were made. He says that the person making the
affidavit swore to the number actually employed, and that where that
number was not employed that fact of itself shows the affidavits to
be false. I say that is not the law. The law calls for the number
necessary, not the number actually employed. Let me show how easy it
would be to cheat the Government on the principle laid down by the
gentleman. I will show you how infinitely silly that is. Let me
illustrate. Here is a route one hundred and fifty miles long, once a
week. You know it is possible for one man and one horse for a little
while to carry that mail and to go one hundred and fifty miles one way
and one hundred and fifty miles the other, making three hundred miles in
a week. You can take a magnificent horse and a good, stout, tough man,
and you can do it.

The Court. Or a boy.

Mr. Ingersoll. Or a stout, tough boy.

The Court. A boy would be best.

Mr. Ingersoll. You do not need any boy. Just one man and one horse will
answer. The man can ride the horse one hundred and fifty miles in three
days, and then ride one hundred and fifty miles back in the next three
days. All you have to swear to, according to Mr. Bliss, is the number
actually used, and so you would come in and swear to two on this route.
Now, when you are making an affidavit as to the number to be used on
a schedule to be made, you cannot swear to the number actually in
use, because they are not then in use. You have to swear to the number
necessary. You have to swear to the number required.

Now, see. On a mail route one hundred and fifty miles long I would only
want a good smart horse, and one good active man or boy. I would not
need to carry it more than one week, because I could make the affidavit
for that week, and then the question would be how many men and horses
would be required for a daily mail on the same route. I would put in a
reasonable number, and the difference between the number then actually
used and the reasonable number to use would be the standard by which to
fix my pay.

If you take the man and horse actually used, and then take the number
that would reasonably be used, you would make a difference of a thousand
per cent. And yet that is the doctrine laid down here to guide us as to
these affidavits.

Let me tell you what the law is. It does not make any difference what
you are really using at the time. You must swear to the number that
would be reasonably necessary to carry the mail on the then schedule.
You must swear to the number that would be reasonably necessary to carry
the mail on the proposed schedule. In the first place, if you put a
great deal of work on a man and horse, you must put the same proportion
on man and horse in the second schedule. If you are easy on man and
horse in the first schedule, you must be easy on man and horse in the
second. The only object, gentlemen, is to keep the proportion, because
you are to be paid according to the number of men and horses used.

Now, they say it would be necessary to go out there in order to tell how
many men and horses would be necessary, and that the men who made these
affidavits had never been on the routes. There was no need of being
on the routes. I could give you the number required on any route two
hundred or five hundred miles long. I could give you the number of men
and horses reasonably required to carry the mail once, twice, three
times, or seven times a week; and I could give you the number reasonably
required to carry it at the rate of three miles an hour or five miles an
hour or six miles an hour without going there. I need not go there for
the purpose of the affidavit. I can take it for granted that the road
is good and level, and I can keep exactly the same proportion and nobody
can be defrauded. If you take the rule of Colonel Bliss it would be
the easiest thing on earth to defraud the Government. That would be by
taking the actual number in use and then taking the number necessary.

Oil page 4761 Mr. Bliss makes the point that according to law the Second
Assistant Postmaster-General was not bound to allow according to the
affidavits. He is right as to that. That is what Mr. Bliss says, and
that is what John W. Dorsey swore he thought, and that is what Mr.
Thomas J. Brady swore he did. He did not take the affidavit as a
finality. Mr. Thomas J. Brady said that he took it for granted that the
man, when he made the affidavit, thought it was true, and that the
man, when he made the affidavit, swore to the best of his knowledge and
belief. But Thomas J. Brady never swore that he considered himself bound
by the affidavit. On the contrary, he swore that he had a standard in
his own mind, and that expedition was to cost thirty dollars a mile,
or something of that kind. He went by that standard, and he gauged the
affidavits by it.

On page 4762 Mr. Bliss says that Brady admitted that he made no inquiry
as to the truth of affidavits, and that he accepted them as absolutely
conclusive. On page 3434 Mr. Brady swears:

I accepted their statement as conclusive so far as they knew.

Brady also swears that he had his standard in his own mind, as I said
before, and that he had an opinion of his own, and that by that standard
and opinion he was governed.

On page 4765 Mr. Bliss charges that Brady took the oath of Perkins on
route 38113 as the basis for the expedition. Mr. Turner's calculation on
file shows that that affidavit was not the basis of the calculation.

Mr. Bliss. Your Honor, allow me to say that subsequently I stated to
the Court and to the jury distinctly that while the indorsement on
the jacket recited the Perkins affidavit as being the one used, or
the affidavit of the subcontractor, and while Mr. Brady transmitted to
Congress that Perkins affidavit as the one upon which he acted, I still
believed that the calculation showed that he used the other affidavit.

Mr. Wilson. He never made that statement until he made it during the
progress of my argument when I was discussing that very point.

Mr. Bliss. You are mistaken.

Mr. Merrick. He made it while I was here and I was not here during Mr.
Wilson's argument.

Mr. Ingersoll. If he has taken it back three times, that is enough.
On page 4766 Mr. Bliss charges Brady with having two affidavits on the
Pueblo and Greenhorn route, from John W. Dorsey, on the same day.

Mr. Bliss. Mr. Henkle called my attention to the fact that it was not
the Greenhorn route, but the Pueblo and Rosita route, and I corrected
it.

Mr. Ingersoll. Good enough. I did not know about his taking it back. I
was not here at the time. The fact was, however, that only one affidavit
was ever filed, and that was an affidavit, not by J. W. Dorsey, but by
John R. Miner.

Mr. Bliss. There were two on the Pueblo and Rosita route by John W.
Dorsey.

Mr. Ingersoll. We will come to them. You will get tired of them before
we get through with them.

On page 4767 Mr. Bliss refers to two affidavits. The first affidavit,
the one not used, calls for three men and seven animals on the then
schedule. That makes ten. On the proposed schedule of eighty hours it
called for nine men and twenty-seven animals. That makes thirty-six. The
proportion then in this affidavit is 3.6, that is, the pay would be 3.6
times the original pay. In the second affidavit five men and fifteen
animals, twenty in all, are called for on the then schedule, and on the
proposed schedule twelve men and forty-two animals. The proportion there
is 2.7. So that the affidavits, leaving out the fractions, which are
substantially the same, stand in this way: By the first the contract
price would have been multiplied by three and the contractor would have
had three times the original pay, and by the second he would have had
twice the original pay. Substituting an affidavit at only double the
pay is called a fraud, because they withdrew an affidavit for treble the
pay. That is what Mr. Bliss calls a fraud. He says still that it is a
fraud.

Now, then, there were two affidavits, and these two affidavits,
gentlemen, Mr. Bliss well knew were filed on different schedules. The
first affidavit was filed on a proposed schedule of eighty hours. The
second affidavit was filed on a proposed schedule of fifty hours. The
affidavit agreeing to carry the mail in fifty hours offered to do it
at double the pay. The affidavit on eighty hours wanted three times
the pay, or substantially that. One was 3.7 and the other was 2.6. Just
think of trying to make that a fraud on the Government. Suppose they had
filed a third affidavit and offered to carry it for nothing. That would
have been carrying a fraud to the extreme.

Mr. Bliss. Your Honor, with reference to that, I said, expressly
referring to these two affidavits: It is not a question of proportion.
The question is whether the mere existence of those double affidavits
did not give Brady conclusive notice that the man who could make those
affidavits was not a reliable man, because no matter what the time was
to which it was to be increased, he stated the number necessary on the
then schedule, as so and so in one affidavit and in the other he stated
the number differently. I referred to it solely in that connection, as
the language shows on the page referred to.

Mr. Ingersoll. For instance, a man writes, "You owe me five hundred
dollars according to my books," and writes the next day, "I have made a
mistake. You don't owe me anything." Mr. Bliss insists that the second
letter would show that the man was not to be relied upon. That is his
idea of honesty. If in the first letter he had written that I did
not owe him anything, and in the second letter I did, that might be
suspicious. But when in the first he writes that I owe him and in the
second that I do not, there can be no suspicion as to his honesty. In
the first affidavit this man stated so much, and in the second affidavit
he put it one-third less. That simply shows the man was paying attention
to it and wanted to make an honest offer. And yet everything in this
case is poisoned with prejudice and suspicion.

Another point: Mr. Bliss, on page 4770, says that on the Pueblo and
Rosita route the number of trips was seven and that there was no
increase. Upon that statement he bases an argument of fraud. The
argument is that there was no increase of trips. Now, on page 866, the
order shows that in the first place there was one trip a week and there
were six trips added. That makes seven. The original pay was three
hundred and eighty-eight dollars. Six trips were added, and the value
of the six trips, which gave two thousand three hundred and twenty-eight
dollars of additional pay. Yet Mr. Bliss tells you that there was no
increase of trips. As a matter of fact, six trips were added, and that
was all that could be added.

Mr. Bliss. Were they added coincidently with the affidavit for
expedition?

Mr. Ingersoll. You say they were not added; I say they were.

Mr. Bliss. No, sir; I said at the time of the expedition there was no
increase of trips and the affidavit was based upon the seven trips.

Mr. Ingersoll. I say that at that time there was an increase.

Mr. Bliss. Your Honor, the point is this: I think I am right in saying
that the increase of trips took place after the expedition. That is
my recollection about it. I have not referred to the record. I think
Colonel Ingersoll will find that is so.

Mr. Ingersoll. We will see whether you are right. At the time the
affidavit was made there were just three trips, and afterward there were
four trips added. Let us get it exactly right. I read from page 866:

Date, July 8, 1879. State, Colorado.

Number of route, 38134.

Termini of route, Pueblo and Rosita.

Length of route, fifty miles.

Number of trips per week, one.

Mr. Bliss. I see you are right. The trips were increased.

Mr. Ingersoll. When anybody gives it up I will stop. That is fair and
that is honorable.

Now, the next point. On page 4771 Mr. Bliss says that the oath on the
Toquerville and Adairville route was made for seven trips, although the
order only gave them six trips, of course the inference being that they
got as much pay for six trips as they were entitled to for seven trips.
On page 3290 the original order was for one trip. Two trips were added.
Look on page 949 and you will find that more trips were added. The
second order increased four trips, and that made seven in all; and yet
Mr. Bliss makes the statement that there were only six. That is another
mistake.

Another point. On page 4772 Mr. Bliss states that Mr. Rerdell spoke in
his testimony about J. B. B. I have referred to that. I have referred
before to the claim that Rerdell was sustained by the testimony of Mr.
Bissell. As a matter of fact, I do not remember that Mr. Rerdell ever
said one word in his testimony as to charging anything to J. B. B.

Ninth point. At page 4778 Mr. Bliss states that Dorsey admitted in his
letter to Anthony Joseph that the average rate for mail service on star
routes was only five dollars a mile. Mr. Dorsey says in his letter no
such thing. He says the "average cost of horseback service"; he does
not use the language employed by Mr. Bliss, "The average rate for mail
service on star routes," but he says, "The average cost of horseback
service." That is a small point, but it shows how anxious the gentlemen
are to get the thing fully as big as it is.

Tenth point. At page 4783 Mr. Bliss says that Brady cut off forty-nine
thousand dollars of increase on the Mineral Park and Pioche route on the
22d of January, 1879, because the mail bills showed so little business.
That is another mistake. The order cutting off the forty-nine thousand
dollars was made on the 22d of January, 1880, not 1879. I mention this
simply for the sake of accuracy.

Eleventh point. At page 4785 Mr. Bliss says that the mail bills on the
Silverton and Parrott City route showed that Brady ran the service up
from seven hundred and forty-five dollars to fourteen thousand nine
hundred dollars, and that the fourteen thousand nine hundred dollars
was afterwards increased to thirty-one thousand three hundred and
forty-three dollars and seventy-six cents. The record shows nothing
of the kind (see pages 1894-5). The original pay was one thousand four
hundred and eighty-eight dollars (page 1854). The pay under the order
of June 12, 1879, was six thousand five hundred and twelve dollars and
twenty-eight cents (page 1855). No other increase was ever made. On
page 1855 is the increase and expedition, being in all fourteen thousand
eight hundred and eight dollars and sixty three cents. The original pay
was one thousand four hundred and eighty-eight dollars. A little change
was made in the route that brought it up to one thousand seven hundred
and three dollars and sixty-five cents. That, together with the
expedition, makes a total of sixteen thousand five hundred and twelve
dollars and twenty-eight cents. And yet Mr. Bliss told you that it
was thirty-one thousand three hundred and forty-three dollars and
seventy-six cents. So that this encyclopaedia of the papers made a
mistake, in one year, of fourteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-one
dollars and forty-eight cents. For the whole contract time it would be
a mistake of forty-five thousand dollars. And yet, strange as it may
appear, that mistake was made against the defendants. Well, let us go
on.

Twelfth point. On page 4800, bottom line, Mr. Bliss says:

They got so much in the way of offering petitions that Mr. Rerdell being
told by Stephen W. Dorsey, upon this route from Pueblo to Greenhorn,
to go to work and alter the petitions, inserted the words "and faster
time."

As to this petition, 7 B, in which are the words "and faster time,"
George Sears swears, at pages 829 and 830, that it is in the same
condition now as when it was signed by him, he thinks. Thereupon Mr.
Bliss told you that he was mistaken in the paper. You must recollect
these things.

Mr. Bliss. Are there not two petitions there altered?

Mr. Ingersoll. That is on another route. There were 7 B, 11 B, and 12
B. 7 B was the written paper, and you introduced 11 B and 12 B. One said
"quicker time," and one said "on faster schedule," and yet in the very
next paragraph they asked to have it run in eight hours. Mr. Rerdell
had to admit that he put in the words without knowing what the petition
called for, and that Dorsey instructed him to put them in.

Mr. Bliss. Your Honor, in the very same paragraph, the very line, where
I said "faster schedule," I called attention to the fact that the words
were unnecessary.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is not the only point. The point is, who wrote
"faster time"?

Mr. Bliss. That is not what I said. You have not given the whole
sentence.

Mr. Ingersoll. You cannot expect me to read your whole seven days'
speech. That would be too much. This is what you said:

They got so much in the way of altering petitions that Mr. Rerdell being
told by Stephen W. Dorsey, upon this route from Pueblo to Greenhorn,
to go to work and alter the petitions, inserted the words "and faster
time."

That is it exactly.

Mr. Bliss. Then follows this:

He inserted "and faster schedule," "on quicker time," though there was
not any necessity for doing that, because if they had gone further down,
after some argument in the petition, to the request for expedition, they
would have seen that there was no necessity for that little forgery up
there.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is a magnificent admission. "There was no necessity
for" putting that in. I am glad he admits that. He would ask you to
believe that S. W. Dorsey, a man of intelligence and brains, would ask
to have a petition forged, altered, interlined, without knowing what was
in that petition. It will not do, gentlemen.

Thirteenth point. At page 4810, Mr. Bliss says that McBean told Moore,
in reference to route No. 44140, Eugene City to Bridge Creek, "that he
could carry all the mail in his pocket."

Now, as a matter of fact, Mr. McBean does not state any conversation
with Moore covering this route. That was another mistake. No matter.

Fourteenth point. At page 4814, Mr. Bliss, in speaking of the Ojo
Caliente route, says the service in fact never was performed in fifty
hours; that the evidence of that is conclusive. Now, let us see. Here is
a jacket on page 3008, and that jacket shows that out of seventy-eight
half trips, expedition was lost on twenty-three and made on fifty-five.
Yet Mr. Bliss tells you it never was made. The jacket on page 3040 shows
that expedition was lost on twelve half trips and made on sixty-six. And
yet Mr. Bliss says it was never made. The jacket on page 3056 shows that
at the time they were carrying seven trips a week, nineteen expeditions
were lost out of one hundred and ninety-two half trips. And yet Mr.
Bliss says the fifty-hour schedule never was made. Another mistake.

Mr. Bliss. That is long after the time I was referring to. As to the
other point, I simply repeat it.

Mr. Ingersoll. It will not help it to repeat it. For every expedition
lost on this route or any other the Government did not pay. When the
expedition was lost, the pay was deducted; when the expedition was made
the pay was given, and not otherwise. You see, gentlemen, how they have
endeavored to get the facts before you; what a struggle it has been over
all these obstacles—lack of memory, the immensity of this record—how
they have climbed the Himalayas of difficulty; how they have gone over
the Andes and Rocky Mountains of trouble to get at the facts!

Fifteenth point. On page 4820 Mr. Bliss states that there could not have
been legally allowed, on the evidence on The Dalles route, on expedition
over $4,144. As a matter of fact, the evidence does not cover the whole
route as to the number of men and horses used. The Government never
proved the number of men and horses necessary to carry the mail over
the whole route, but only a part. Mr. Ker admits that the evidence is
defective in that regard. When you have no standard, gentlemen, you
cannot measure.

Sixteenth point. On page 4820 Mr. Bliss, in speaking of the route from
Eugene City to Bridge Creek, says that, taking the undisputed facts as
they were, before and after the expedition, Brady could not legally have
allowed more than $2,991.23. The evidence is (page 1343) that Wyckoff
was the subcontractor from July, 1878, to 1880. Powers first carried the
mail in 1880. The route was increased and expedited in June, 1879. Mr.
Powers never carried it from the expedition. Mr. Wyckoff was the only
man who did that, and Mr. Wyckoff was not called. Consequently there was
no evidence as to the number of men and horses used on either schedule.
That left the gentleman without a standard and without a measure.

Seventeenth point. On page 4820 Mr. Bliss says that on the Silverton
and Parrott City route the oath was made for seven trips a week on
the present schedule, when it ought to have been two trips on the old
schedule and seven trips for the new schedule. As there is no evidence
as to the number of men and horses used on the old schedule, of course
there is no evidence in this record to impeach that oath; you cannot
find it.

Eighteenth point. On page 4822 Mr. Bliss states that after the passage
of the act of April 7, 1880, there were two increases upon the White
River route. The fact is there was just one after the passage of that
law. Of course a little mistake like that does not make much difference
in a case of this magnitude.

Nineteenth point. On page 4824 Mr. Bliss states that Raton was put on
the Trinidad route April 24, 1879 (Page 1031 ). The office was embraced
on the routes July 1, 1878. The first order in reference to it was made
June 6, 1878. It was put on the route from July 1, 1878, increasing the
distance twenty-three miles. Yet Mr. Bliss tells you that it was put on
the route April 24, 1879.

Mr. Bliss. Is not that the date of the order?

Mr. Ingersoll. It may have been the date of your order.

Mr. Bliss. Is not that the date of the order in the case?

Mr. Ingersoll. I do not know anything about that. I give you the exact
facts.

Twentieth point. On page 4825, Mr. Bliss, in speaking of the Ojo
Caliente route, charges that by the order increasing the trips on this
route in February, 1881, there was paid from the Treasury illegally two
thousand and eleven dollars and forty-six cents. As a matter of fact
had we been paid for that entire quarter it would have amounted to seven
thousand one hundred and thirty-nine dollars and forty-one cents. The
pay was not adjusted until April 22< 1881 (page 731). The amount that
was then paid was not seven thousand one hundred and thirty-nine
dollars and forty-one cents, but it was three thousand seven hundred
and twenty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents. It was not for the entire
quarter, but simply for the actual service rendered. The quarterly pay
for the preceding quarter, before the expedition, was three thousand
three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and twenty-six cents; showing that
we received only for that quarter an excess, on account of expedition,
of three hundred and sixty-eight dollars and ninety-six cents. But
he told you that we got illegally two thousand and eleven dollars and
forty-six cents. That is a small matter.

Twenty-first point. On page 4897, Mr. Bliss says in effect that Dorsey
undertook to state that he kept no books; that he was doing a business
amounting, I think he says, to six million dollars a year, and yet he
kept no books. On the contrary, Dorsey swore that he did keep books; on
the contrary, he swore that Kellogg was his book-keeper. Kellogg swore
that he did keep the books. Torrey swore that he was his book-keeper,
and kept the books. And yet Mr. Bliss stood up before this jury and said
to you that Mr. Dorsey wanted you to believe, or stated that he kept
no hooks of that immense business. It will not do. No books but the red
books, I suppose, were kept.

Twenty-second point. At page 4883, Mr. Bliss says that in regard to one
of Vaile and Miner's routes (Canyon City to Fort McDermitt) there were
large profits, amounting to twenty thousand dollars a year. Then he says
eighty thousand dollars during the four years. And yet Mr. Bliss knew at
that time that that expedition lasted only eleven months. Trying to fool
the jury about sixty-two thousand dollars.

Twenty-third point. On page 4815 Mr. Bliss states that the fines on the
Bismarck and Tongue River route, during Brady's administration, were
only thirteen thousand dollars. If you will look at page 727 of this
record, where the table is put in evidence as to the fines, you will
find that he deducted from the pay twenty-nine thousand two hundred and
twenty-four dollars. Mr. Bliss made a mistake of sixteen thousand two
hundred and twenty-four dollars. But in a case like this that is not
important. Gentlemen, you know you cannot always be accurate.

Mr. Bliss is an accurate man, as a rule. He has been called the index of
this business for the Government. Twenty-fourth point. On page 4987 Mr.
Bliss says:

The one fact of the evidence of the payment of money by Dorsey to Brady
remains the same whether the books were put out of the way by Dorsey or
by Rerdell. That is the great central point, so far as the books were
concerned; and as to that the testimony is absolutely uncontradicted.

Mr. Brady swears that Dorsey never gave him a dollar. Dorsey swears that
he never had a money transaction with Brady amounting to one cent. Mr.
Rerdell does not pretend to swear that he knows of Mr. Dorsey having
paid a dollar to Mr. Brady. He does not pretend to swear that he knows
of any one of these defendants having paid one dollar to Mr. Brady. And
yet Mr. Bliss will tell you that the fact that Dorsey paid Brady money
is uncontradicted.

Mr. Bliss. I did not intend that, Colonel Ingersoll. I do not think it
is capable of that interpretation.

Mr. Ingersoll. What did you mean?

Mr. Bliss. As to the statement being in the books it is uncontradicted.

Mr. Ingersoll. Let me see. He now turns and says he did not mean the
money, he meant the books. The evidence is overwhelming on our side that
the books did not exist. When you deny the existence of the book I take
it you deny the existence of any item in it. It is a question whether
any such books ever existed, gentlemen. Rerdell swore in the
affidavit of June 20, 1881, and he swore to that affidavit three times
hand-running, that no such books existed. He swore substantially the
same thing on the 13th of July, 1882. He told Mr. French that no such
books ever existed. He told Judge Carpenter that no such books ever
existed. He stated to Bosler that no such books ever existed. And
now this gentleman says the evidence is uncontradicted that Brady was
charged in those books. That is a good deal worse than the other. Let us
go on.

Twenty-fifth point. At page 4962 Mr Bliss says that Mr. Dorsey,
according to his own statement—Had brought Rerdell up and led him to
infamy.

Did Dorsey make any such statement? Did Mr. Dorsey, gentlemen, in
your presence, swear that he had brought Rerdell up? Did he, in your
presence, swear that he had led him to infamy? Did he, in your presence,
swear that he had done anything of the kind? I have got the exact words.

Who, according to his own statement, he, Dorsey, had brought up, had
led to infamy, and who, according to his own statement, had stated that
MacVeagh had told a lie.

A curious use of the English language. I believe it is in that
connection, though, that he speaks about Mr. Dorsey having the impudence
to go to the President of the United States. That is not a very impudent
proceeding. In this country a President is not so far above the citizen.
In this country we have not gotten to the sublimity of snobbery that a
citizen cannot give his opinion to the President; especially a citizen
who did all he could to make him President; especially a citizen in
whom he had confidence. Not much impudence in that. I do not think that
during the campaign General Garfield would have regarded it impudent on
the part of Mr. Dorsey to speak to him. I do not believe in a man, the
moment he is elected President, feeding upon meat that makes him so
great that the man who helped put him there cannot approach him, and
every man who voted for him helped to put him there. I am a believer in
the doctrine that the President is a servant of the people. I have not
yet reached that other refinement of snobbery.

Mr. Bliss. In point of fact, Colonel Ingersoll, I made no such
statement. Now let me read the passage on the very page you refer to.

Patched up the affidavit of Mr. Rerdell, addressed it to the President,
admittedly went to the President with it, and then had the impudence to
come here and malign the character of General Garfield by saying that
upon that affidavit of an accused man, instead of seeking a trial, he
would have removed two members of his Cabinet.

I meant nothing about the impudence of going to the President.

Mr. Ingersoll. He had the impudence then to come here and malign
Garfield by saying that upon that statement he would have turned out two
members of his Cabinet. That is Mr. Bliss's idea of impudence; and yet,
upon the testimony of the same man, he wants to put five men in the
penitentiary.

Mr. Bliss. Not upon the sole testimony, I suppose.

Mr. Ingersoll. Not upon the soulless testimony. Now, I think that Mr.
Dorsey had a right to go and see Mr. Garfield. I think he had a right
to take that affidavit with him. General Garfield was told what this man
had said concerning Mr. Dorsey. He had the right to take that
affidavit of that man with him so that General Garfield, or the then
Attorney-General rather, might know how much confidence to put in the
statement of that man. He had a right to do that. If he found in this
way that his Attorney-General and his Postmaster-General were seeking
to have a man convicted by means not entirely honorable, then it was
not only his privilege, but it was his duty to discharge them from his
Cabinet. But I am not saying anything in regard to them now, because
they are not here to defend themselves.

Mr. Bliss. I want to correct myself. Further down on that page I see I
did refer to the impudence of this man going to Garfield.

Mr. Ingersoll. Well, as Mr. Bliss has been fair enough to state it, I
will not follow up my advantage. On another page Mr. Bliss says that
the idea that Mr. Vaile did what he did for Miner out of any sympathy is
"too thin." Mr. Bliss cannot believe that Vaile became Miner's friend
so suddenly, but he thinks it highly probable that they conspired
instantly. That is his view of human nature. Friendship is of slow
growth; conspiracy is a hot-house plant. Gentlemen, is that your view of
human nature, that a man cannot become the friend of another suddenly?
Whenever he does become his friend the friendship has to be formed
suddenly, does it not? There is a first time to everything. A moment
before it did not exist; a moment afterwards it is dead very suddenly.

There was a boy came to town one morning and met an old friend. The old
friend asked the boy, "How is your father?" He says, "Pretty well, for
him." "How is your mother?" "Pretty well, for her." "Well, how is your
grandmother?" "She is dead." "Well," says the old man, "she must have
died suddenly." "Well," said the boy, "pretty sudden, for her."

Whenever one man becomes the friend of another's, a moment before that he
was not, and a moment after he was. It must be sudden. But I imagine that
there was a friendship sprang up between Vaile and Miner, and I will
tell you why. They have been partners ever since. You, gentlemen,
have had the same experience a thousand times. It is not necessary to
conspire with a man in order to like him. Neither is it necessary to
like him to conspire with him. Men have conspired without friendship a
thousand times more, probably, than they have formed friendships without
conspiracy.

Mr. Bliss says that because Miner failed to produce the power of
attorney that Moore swore was given to him when he went West, the jury
have a right to infer that instructions to get up false petitions were
in writing and were included in that power of attorney. Mr. Moore did
not swear to the contents of that power of attorney. Do you think that
it is within the realm of probability that a man ever gave a power of
attorney to another and inserted in it: "You are hereby authorized
to get up false petitions; you are further authorized to have them so
written that you can tear them off and paste others on?

"N. B. You will make such contracts with all contractors.

"P. S. Don't tell anybody."

There was another witness in this case, Mr. Grimes (page 808). Not
the one that wore the coat—All buttoned down before—but Mr. Grimes,
postmaster at Kearney. He came all the way here to swear that he stopped
using mail bills on the route from Kearney to Kent because he was
so ordered by a letter from the Post-Office Department. Then it was
discovered that he did not have the letter with him; he went home to get
the letter, but he never came back any more.

We introduced Spangler (page 341) from the inspection division of the
Post-Office Department; I think he was in charge of that division. He
swore, as a matter of fact, that there never were any mail bills on that
route at all.

Mr. Carpenter. He was in charge of the mail bills on that route.

Mr. Ingersoll. The mail bills on that particular route. That man Grimes
was brought clear here to prove that he stopped using mail bills, and
then we proved that there never were any mail bills used on that route
for him to stop using. I do not suppose that that man was dishonest.
These people just got around him and talked to him until he "remembered
it." They just planted the seed in his mind, and then came the dew
and the rain and the lightning until it began to sprout and in time
blossomed and bore fruit—mail bills. When we come to find out that
there never were any mail bills used, away went Mr. Grimes.

On page 4969 Mr. Bliss says:

They have not, up to this moment, dared to state under oath, I think,
that those books are not in their possession.

On page 3784 Dorsey swears that he never received any such books. Never
saw any such books. He swore again and again that he never heard of any
such books.

Mr. Bliss. I stated distinctly that the defendants had not stated that
in the form required to excuse them from the production. I stated that
distinctly.

Mr. Ingersoll. All right; away goes that.

On page 4983 Mr. Bliss says:

Is it not an absurdity to suppose that Dorsey would leave Rerdell in
charge of his business from July, 1879, to August, 1880, and then on
from that time until the close of the contract term in August, 1882;
leave all the business in that way, and then through Bosler settle the
accounts with Mr. Rerdell and have no knowledge in any way, not only
of the entries contained in the books which Rerdell kept, but have no
knowledge that he kept any books whatever? Is it not absurd to suppose
any such thing? These ten routes represented an income of two hundred
and fifty-odd thousand dollars a year, or a total business, including
income and outgo, of five hundred thousand dollars a year, for three
years, going no further than that. These ten routes alone represented
transactions amounting to half a million dollars a year. There were one
hundred and thirty routes and Mr. Dorsey took one-third in value if
not in number. If the value was the same, Mr. Dorsey took not less than
forty routes. As ten routes involved a business of one million five
hundred thousand dollars in that period, the forty routes involved in
that proportion transactions amounting to six million dollars.

You made a calculation on the supposition that all the routes were
expedited the same as those in the indictment, and when you made that
calculation you knew they were not expedited.

Mr. Bliss. I object, your Honor, to his making any such statement as
that. In the first place, it is not evidence; and in the second place,
which is of more importance, it is not true. I did not know any such
thing, and I do not know any such thing.

Mr. Ingersoll. Do you say now that the other routes of his, to the
number you talked of, were expedited?

Mr. Bliss. I am not on the stand to be cross-examined now. But I do say
to your Honor that there is no evidence of that in this case. And then
I go beyond that, and say that I did not know those things then and I do
not know them now.

Mr. Ingersoll. Very well; he made the argument on the supposition that
all the routes were expedited. I say that not one of them was expedited
in which Mr. Dorsey had an interest.

Mr. Bliss. There is no evidence on that subject.

Mr. Ingersoll. Is there any evidence of what you say?

Mr. Bliss. I put a supposititious case; you have stated a fact.

Mr. Ingersoll. I will put another supposititious case, and mine is that
the other routes were not expedited.

The Court. That is the right way to meet it. Counsel ought not to turn
to counsel on the other side and make an appeal to his knowledge in
regard to matters not in evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. I know, but he said he did not know it. Then I asked him,
as a matter of fact, if he did not know—

The Court. [Interposing.] He stated his supposition, and you met that
supposition—

Mr. Ingersoll. [Interposing.] I am always glad to get information.
Now, then, I will go to another point, and that is the $7,500 check. Mr.
Bliss speaks of that check at page 4997, and he says:

There is a question raised as to whether it was drawn in Mr. Rerdell's
presence.

I do not think there was. How could such a question be raised,
gentlemen? The check was made payable to M. C. Rerdell, or his order. On
the back of the check is Mr. Rerdell's name, put there by himself. He is
the only indorser. And yet Mr. Bliss tells you that there is a question
raised as to whether the money was drawn in Mr. Rerdell's presence or
not. The check shows, and the evidence is absolutely perfect, that the
money was paid to Rerdell in person. The question is this: Whether it
was drawn in Mr. Rerdell's presence. If it was paid to him in person,
I imagine that he was in that neighborhood at that time. The check was
written by him, everything except the signature of Dorsey. It was drawn
to Mr. Rerdell, or order, and indorsed by Rerdell himself. There was no
other indorser. So that it is absolutely certain that he drew the money
in question. And yet Mr. Bliss says the question is whether it was drawn
in Rerdell's presence or not.

Mr. Bliss continues and states that the money went to S. W. Dorsey. Did
it? Mr. Dorsey, on page 3965, states the circumstances. He was packing
to go away. He had not the time to go to the bank himself. He had
the check written payable to Mr. Rerdell, or order, and he signed it.
Rerdell went to the bank, got the money, brought it back and put it in
his carpet-sack. That is the testimony.

Now, Mr. Bliss says:

No evidence was given as to what Stephen W. Dorsey was wanting just at
that time with seven thousand five hundred dollars in bills.

According to Mr. Rerdell, he wanted that money to give to Mr. Brady.
That is what Mr. Rerdell intended to swear. But when he found that that
check was made payable to him, and indorsed by him, then they had to
take another tack. They dare not say then, "That is the check." They
dare not say then, "That is the money." Rerdell had forgotten at the
time he swore that that check was payable to his order. When he told his
seven thousand dollar story to MacVeagh he forgot about that check.
When he told it to the Postmaster-General, if he did—I have forgotten
whether he did or not—he forgot about that.

Now, gentlemen, I will call your attention to the part to which I really
wish to direct your attention. It is an admission by the Government, an
admission by Colonel Bliss; it is in these words, on page 4997, speaking
of this very thing:

However that may be, they themselves put in a check here for seven
thousand five hundred dollars, drawn about the time Mr. Rerdell spoke
of, the money upon which admittedly went to Stephen W. Dorsey, though
there is a question raised as to whether it was drawn in Mr. Rerdell's
presence or whether it was not drawn by him. But the money went to
Stephen W. Dorsey, and there was a promise made to show you what was
done with that seven thousand five hundred dollars. But, like many
another promise in this case, it remains unfulfilled to-day. No evidence
was given as to what Stephen W. Dorsey was wanting just at that time
with seven thousand five hundred dollars in bills.

Mr. Dorsey offered to tell you what he did with it, and you said you
did not want it; you did not want to know when he was on the stand. He
offered to tell you what he did with the money, and you would not take
his statement. Hear what he says:

Mr. Dorsey was not taking seven thousand five hundred dollars in bills
to the West.

How do you know? Who ever told Mr. Bliss that he was not taking seven
thousand five hundred dollars to the West? He must have got that from
Mr. Rerdell. May be that is the reason they would not allow Dorsey to
tell, because before that time they had been informed that he would
swear that he took the seven thousand five hundred dollars to the West.
How else did Mr. Bliss find this out?

It is not in the evidence, not a line. Somebody must have told him.
Who could have told him? Nobody, I think, except Mr. Rerdell. Is it
possible, then, that Mr. Bliss was afraid that Mr. Dorsey would swear
that he took it West? And was he afraid also that you would believe it?
I do not know. He did not want him to state. Now here is what I want to
call your attention to:

After all the talk about that evidence, all the talk about the seven
thousand dollars, all the talk about the seven thousand five hundred
dollar check, Mr. Bliss at least, admits to this jury:

Of course all that transaction might have occurred precisely as Mr.
Rerdell testified, and there might have involved no corruption on Mr.
Brady's part.

If, then, it may have occurred exactly as Rerdell swore, and involved no
corruption, certainly it might have occurred as Mr. S. W. Dorsey swore
and involved no corruption. I will go on now with a little more from Mr.
Bliss:

The drawing of the money and going to Mr. Brady's room might have been a
mere accident, as a call there to attend to some other business.

Of course, that is reasonable. I might go the bank and draw five
thousand dollars, and then I might stop in the Treasury Department, but
that is no evidence that I am bribing the Secretary of the Treasury. I
might step over to see the President; that would be no reason to believe
that I bribed the Executive.

Of course that is not conclusive. It is only a little straw in this
case, as showing a transaction of that kind involved in connection with
all the evidence you have in this case—A little straw evidence of Mr.
Brady's acts, and particularly as at the time when that occurs evidence
in connection with the large increases which Mr. Brady was then
ordering; evidence in connection with the books, and the evidence
they bear; evidence in connection with the declarations of Brady to
Walsh—evidence all consistent.

And then he adds this piece of gratuitous information:

Mr. Dorsey was not taking seven thousand five hundred dollars in bills
to the West.

How does he know? How did he find that out? And has it come to, this?
Has all the testimony upon that point—has the confession of Rerdell
to MacVeagh and James shrunk to this little measure—that it is "only
a straw"? Has it shrunk to this measure that Mr. Bliss admits that the
whole thing might have been exactly as Rerdell swears, and yet have been
perfectly innocent? Has it shrunk to this little measure? The Government
would not tell us—I presume the Government will not tell us, what check
it was, the proceeds of which were taken by Mr. Dorsey to Mr. Brady.
Neither will they say whether that sum was made up in one check or by
adding together a number of checks; and, if so, what number?

At page 295 Mr. Bliss told you, in his opening speech, that Rerdell had
on one occasion gone with Mr. Stephen W. Dorsey to the bank, and that
seven thousand dollars had been drawn; that he had gone with Dorsey
to the door of the Post-Office Department, or to Brady's room, at the
time—he would not undertake to say which—Mr. Dorsey stating to him
that he intended to pay that money to Mr. Brady, and that he (Mr.
Dorsey) then went in. But when they come to put this man on the stand
he will not swear that Dorsey ever told him that he intended to pay the
money to Brady. Probably that part of the statement, that Dorsey told
him that he was going to pay that money to Brady, can be found in the
affidavit made before Mr. Woodward, in September, and repeated in the
affidavit made at Hartford in November. But it is not in evidence here.

Now, we brought all the checks that we had given on Middleton's bank,
with the exception of two, I believe, that amounted to some hundred and
odd dollars. We gave the Government counsel notice that there were two
others.

Among those checks was this one for seven thousand five hundred dollars.
There were many others. I asked the gentlemen to pick out their check;
they would not do it. I asked the gentlemen to pick out the checks;
they did not do it. And now if we had failed to produce checks that were
important in this case, the Government could have produced the books and
clerks of Middleton & Company, and shown exactly the checks we drew upon
that bank that month. They did not do it. As a matter of fact, I offered
all the checks on all the banks I could think of that we had any
business with in any way, except one, and that turned out to be the
German-American Savings Bank, and it turned out that that went into
bankruptcy eight months before this business; so there is no trouble
about that. Why did they not pick out the checks upon which they claimed
that the money was drawn that was paid to Brady?

Mr. Rerdell, on page 2254, in speaking of the money, swore that money
was charged to Brady on the stub. He says that Dorsey told him, "You
will find the amount on the stub of the check-book." The jury will
notice that he speaks of the "amount," the "stub," and the "book," all
in the singular. That was followed, I believe, by about six pages of
discussion, and everybody who took part in that discussion, the Court
included, spoke of the sum of money as an "amount," upon a "stub," in a
"checkbook."

I call attention to 2254-'55-'56-'57-'58-'59. On all those pages it
is spoken of as a stub of a check-book, or amount on a stub in a
check-book. After the discussion was closed, then the witness began
to talk about "books," "checks," "stubs," and "amounts." Why did he do
that?

His object was to get the evidence broad enough—checks and check-books
enough—to fit their notice, to the end that they might get possession
of all the check-books, and of all the amounts on all the stubs.

What more? The discussion convinced Mr. Rerdell that it would be far
safer to say "stubs" than "stub"; that it would be far better to say
"check-books" than "checkbook," and far better to say "amounts" than
"amount"; because he would have a better chance in adding these up so as
to make six thousand five hundred dollars, or seven thousand dollars, or
six thousand dollars, than to be brought down to one check, one amount,
and one stub-book. So he went off into the region of safety, into the
domain of the plural.

Now, the last point—at least for this evening—so far as Mr. Bliss is
concerned, I believe, is about the red books. Mr. Bliss tells you that
Mrs. Cushman was telegraphed to from the far West. There was a little
anxiety, I believe, on the part of Rerdell about the book, and he
telegraphed her. She found it there in the wood-shed, you know, hanging
up, I think, in the old family carpet-sack—I have forgotten where she
found it—and she put it away. Now, there is a question I want to ask
here, and I know that Mr. Merrick when he closes will answer it to his
entire satisfaction; I do not know whether he will to yours or to mine:
How does it happen that Mrs. Rerdell never saw that red book? How
does it happen that Mrs. Rerdell, when she was put on the stand, never
mentioned that red book? How does it happen that she never heard of it
when her husband went to New York to get it; when everything he had in
the world, according to his idea, was depending upon it; when it was his
sheet-anchor; when it was the corner-stone of his safety? And yet
his wife never heard of it, never saw it, did not know it was in the
wood-shed, slept in that house night after night and did not even dream
that her husband's safety depended on any book in a carpet-sack hanging
in the wood-shed. She never said a word about it on the stand, not a
word. Gentlemen, nobody can answer that question except by admitting
that the book was not there and did not exist.

But perhaps I have said enough about the speeches of Mr. Ker and Mr.
Bliss. Of course, their business is to do what they can to convict. I do
not know that I ought to take up much more time with them. I feel a good
deal as that man did in Pennsylvania who was offered one-quarter of a
field of wheat if he would harvest it. He went out and looked at it.
"Well," he says, "I don't believe I will do it." The owner says, "Why?"
"Well," he says, "there is a good deal of straw, and I don't think there
is wheat enough to make a quarter."

So now, gentlemen, if the Court will permit, I would like to adjourn
till to-morrow morning.

Now, gentlemen, the next witness to whose testimony I will invite your
attention is Mr. Boone. Mr. Boone was relied upon by the Government
to show that this conspiracy was born in the brain of Mr. Dorsey; that
these other men were simply tools and instrumentalities directed by him;
that he was the man who devised this scheme to defraud the Government,
and that it was Dorsey who suggested the fraudulent subcontracts. They
brought Mr. Boone upon the stand for that purpose, and I do not think
it is improper for me to say that Mr. Boone was swearing under great
pressure. It is disclosed by his own testimony that he had eleven
hundred routes, and that he had been declared a failing contractor
by the department; and it also appeared in evidence that he had been
indicted some seven or eight times. Gentlemen, that man was swearing
under great pressure. I told you once before that the hand of the
Government had him clutched by the throat, and the Government relied
upon his testimony to show how this conspiracy originated. Now I propose
to call your attention to the evidence of Mr. Boone upon this subject.

On page 1352 Mr. Boone swears substantially that on his first meeting
with Stephen W. Dorsey—that is, after they met at the house—he said
to Dorsey that he (Boone) would be satisfied with a one-third interest.
Now, the testimony of Boone is that Mr. Dorsey then and there agreed
that he might have the one-third interest.

Mr. Dorsey says it is not that way; that he told him that when the
others came they would probably give him that interest, or something to
that effect.

Mr. Boone further swears that when J. W. Dorsey did come there was a
contract—or articles of agreement you may call them—handed to him by
J. R. Miner, purporting to be articles of partnership between John W.
Dorsey and himself, and that he signed these articles; that that, I
believe, was on the 15th of January, 1878, and that it was by virtue of
that agreement that he had one-third. It was not by virtue of any talk
he had with S. W. Dorsey that he got an interest, and you will see how
perfectly that harmonizes with the statement of Stephen W. Dorsey.

Mr. Dorsey's statement is: "I cannot make the bargain with you, but when
John W. Dorsey comes I think he will, or they will." It turned out that
when John W. Dorsey did come in January he did enter into articles of
partnership with A. E. Boone, and did give him the one-third interest.
So the fact stands out that he got the one-third interest from John W.
Dorsey and not from Stephen W. Dorsey. If the paper had been written and
signed by Stephen W. Dorsey that would uphold the testimony of Boone.
If Boone had said, "I made the bargain with Stephen W. Dorsey," and the
articles of co-partnership were signed by him, I submit that that would
have been a perfect corroboration of Boone. Stephen W. Dorsey swears
that the bargain was made with John W. Dorsey, and you find that the
agreement was signed by John W. Dorsey, and not by Stephen W. Dorsey. I
submit, therefore, that that is a perfect corroboration of the testimony
of Stephen W. Dorsey.

At page 1544 Mr. Boone says that, as a matter of fact, all contractors
endeavored to keep what they were doing secret from all other
contractors. Think of the talk we have heard about secrecy. If the
bidders upon any of these routes did not want the whole world to know
the amount they had bid, that secrecy was tortured into evidence of a
criminal conspiracy. If John W. Dorsey did not want the world to know
what he was doing, if Mr. Boone wanted to keep a secret, these gentlemen
say it is because they were engaged in a conspiracy to defraud the
Government, and crime loves the darkness. What does Mr. Boone say? As a
matter of fact, that all contractors endeavored to keep what they were
doing secret from all other contractors where they feared rivalry. Of
course that is human nature.

Mr. Boone further says that he never knew of one contractor admitting
even that he was going to bid. He always pretended, don't you see, that
he was not going to bid. He wanted to throw the other contractors off
their guard. He did not want them to imagine that he was figuring upon
that same route, because if they thought he was, they might put in a
much lower bid. He wanted them to feel secure, so that they would put in
a good high bid, and then if he put in a tolerably low bid he would get
the route. That is simply human nature.

Boone further says that always when a letting came on he had his bids
in; that contractors keep their bids secret from rival contractors, not
for the purpose of defrauding the Government, but for the purpose of
taking care of their business. Now, gentlemen, when men make these
proposals and keep their business secret—as it turns out that in these
cases they were keeping their business secret—the fact that they are so
doing is not evidence going to show that they are keeping that business
secret because they have conspired. Have you not the right to draw the
inference, and is it not the law that you must draw the inference, that
they kept their business secret for the same reason that all honest men
keep their business secret?

At page 1545, Mr. Boone, swearing again about his talk with Mr.
Dorsey that night after the arrangement was concluded, says that
he—Dorsey—told me to be careful of Elkins, because Elkins was
representing Roots & Kerens, large contractors, * * * the largest in the
department, at that time, in the Southwest.

And yet that evidence has been alluded to as having in it the touch and
taint of crime, because S. W. Dorsey said to Boone to say nothing to
Elkins. Who was Elkins? He, at that time, as appears from the evidence,
was the attorney of Roots & Kerens; and who were they? Among the
largest, if not the largest contractors in the department; that is, the
largest in the Southwest.

Mr. Boone stated that the letter of Peck to S. W. Dorsey requested
him to get some man who knew the business to look after the bids or
proposals. Now, I want to ask you, gentlemen, and I want you to answer
it like sensible men, if Stephen W. Dorsey got up a conspiracy himself,
why was it that Peck wrote to him asking him to get some competent man
to collect the information about the bids—that is, about the country,
about the routes, about the cost of living, about wages, the condition
of the roads, and the topography of the country?

If it was hatched in the brain of Stephen W. Dorsey, how is it possible,
gentlemen, that a letter was written to him by Peck asking him to get a
competent man to gather that information? Mr. Boone swears that he had
such a letter. Mr. Boone swears that Dorsey showed the letter to him.
Mr. Boone swears that, in consequence of that letter, he went to work
to gather this information. Did Mr. Dorsey do anything about gathering
information? Nothing. Did he give any advice? None. Did he ask any
questions? Not one. Did he interfere with Mr. Boone in the business?
Never.

You know that was a very suspicious circumstance. I believe there was
a direction given that letters be sent to James H. Kepuer. That was
another suspicious circumstance. Mr. Boone swears that he was also in
the mail business; that he did not want the letters to go some place;
that he had to give at the department an address; that thereupon he
chose the name of James H. Kepner, his step-son, so that all the mail
in regard to this particular business would go in one box, and not be
mingled with the mail in reference to his individual business or the
business represented by the firm to which he belonged. What more does
he swear? That neither Dorsey nor any one of these defendants ever
suggested that name, or ever suggested that any such change be made;
that it was made only as a matter of convenience; that it was not
intended to and could not in any way defraud the Government.

Now, Mr. Boone has cleared up a little of this. He has cleared up the
letter; he has cleared up the charge of secrecy; he has cleared up the
charge that we had the letters addressed to James H. Kepner & Co.; he
has shown that everything done so far was perfectly natural, perfectly
innocent, and in accordance with the habits of men engaged in that
business.

Now I come to the next thing (page 1550). The next great circumstance in
this case, the great suspicious circumstance, was that the amount of the
bid was left blank in the proposals. The moment they saw those blanks
in the bids they knew then that the Government was to be defrauded, and
they brought Mr. Boone here for the purpose of showing that that was
done to lay the foundation for a fraud. What does Boone swear? He swears
that he always left that part of the proposal blank; always had done so;
had been engaged in the mail business for years, and never filled that
blank up in his life, in which the amount of the bid should be inserted.
It was not left blank to defraud the Government, but to prevent the
postmasters and sureties, or any other persons, finding out the amount
of the bid. Away goes that suspicious circumstance.

After the bids had been properly executed and came back into the hands
of the contractors, from the time the figures were put into those
routes, what does he say they did?

We slept with them until we could get them to the department.

He says they never allowed anybody to see them after the amount of the
bid had been inserted; that they would not allow anybody to see
the amount of the bids; that it was left out, however, only for
self-protection, and for no other reason. That is the Government's own
witness. He is the man they brought to show that this blank in the bid
was a suspicious circumstance. He is the man they brought here to show
that because Stephen W. Dorsey had told him to say nothing to Elkins,
that injunction of secrecy was evidence of a conspiracy.

At page 1552, Mr. Boone, in speaking of these same things, says that
however they were made, whether the name of the bidder or the route was
put in, or whatever he did—that is, Boone—he did not do it for the
purpose of defrauding the Government. They say to him, "Don't you know
that you left out not only the amount of the bid, but the name of the
bidder?" He says, "Whatever I did, whether I left out the amount of
the bid or the name of the bidder, I did not do it for the purpose of
defrauding the Government; I had no such idea, no idea of defrauding the
Government by leaving any blank or any blanks." He did the work. Stephen
W. Dorsey left no blank; A. E. Boone left every blank; and yet they
brought him forward to prove that that was the result of a conspiracy;
and after he comes upon the stand he swears, "I left those blanks
myself; I always left them in proposals exactly in that way; and whether
I left out the amount of the bid or the name of the bidder, I did not
do it to defraud the Government; I did it simply to protect myself, as I
had the right to do." So much for that. That is gone.

So, speaking of these other proposals (the Clendenning proposals) what
does Mr. Boone say—the witness for the Government, the very man who got
up those proposals, the man who wrote them, the man who wrapped them up,
and sealed them? What does he say? "Those proposals were not gotten up
for the purpose of defrauding the Government; I did not send them to
Clendenning for that purpose." That is the end of that. No conspiracy
there.

The object, don't you see, gentlemen, was to show by Boone that he
acted under the direction of Dorsey; that Dorsey was responsible for
everything that Boone did; and that although Boone was guilty of no
crime in leaving the bid blank, still if he did it by authority of
Dorsey, Dorsey had an ulterior motive of which Boone was ignorant. Let
us see.

At page 1554, Mr. Boone swears that Dorsey never told him at any time or
any place that he wanted any blanks left. And yet they were endeavoring
by that witness to saddle that upon S. W. Dorsey. But that witness
swears that Dorsey never even told him that he wanted any blanks left in
any paper, proposal, bid, or bond. He says that Dorsey never at any time
or place told him (Boone) that he (Dorsey) wanted any blanks left, or
any proposals of any particular form printed, to the end that a fraud
might be perpetrated upon the Government—not a word.

And, gentlemen, I am now in that space of time where they say this
conspiracy was born. At page 1567, before Miner got here, Mr. Boone
swears that Dorsey told him that he would advance money for the other
defendants, and Mr. Boone swears that after he got here he never asked
Dorsey for a dollar except through Miner; that Dorsey never gave a
dollar except through Miner.

What more? This is the witness that is going to establish the guilt of
Stephen W. Dorsey. Stephen W. Dorsey never told Boone at any time that
he had any interest whatever in those mail routes. Boone never heard of
it. Dorsey never told him to print a proposal with a blank; never told
him to leave a blank after it was printed; never told him to do anything
for the purpose of defrauding the Government in any way at any
time. This is extremely good reading, gentlemen, when you take into
consideration that this is the witness of the Government, their main
prop until the paragon of virtue made his appearance upon the stand.

Page 1558. Another great point: That in preparing the subcontracts,
Dorsey having it in his mind to conspire against the Government, or
really having conspired, according to their story, wanted a provision in
a subcontract for increase and expedition.

Why, it strikes me, gentlemen, that that is evidence of honesty rather
than dishonesty. If these subcontracts were to hold good during the
contract term, and if in the contract given to the contractor by the
Government there was a clause for increase and expedition, why should
not the subcontract provide for the same contingencies that the contract
provided for with the Government? That looks honest, doesn't it?

It was advertising the subcontractor that the moment he signed his
subcontract the trips were liable to be increased and the time was
liable to be shortened, and that if the time was shortened or the trips
increased the pay was to be correspondingly increased. But I will go on
with the testimony.

Page 1558: In preparing the subcontract Mr. Dorsey instructed Boone to
provide for an expedition clause. That was a suspicious circumstance.
What for? To conform to the expedition clause in the contract with the
Government. If making it like the Government contract is evidence of
conspiracy, the fact that the Government contracts have that clause is
evidence that the Government conspired with somebody. It is just as
good one way as the other. The Government made a contract with the
contractor, the contractor made one with the subcontractor, and
the contractor so far forgot his duties, so far forgot his moral
obligations, that he made it just the same as his contract with the
Government. Gentlemen, is there any depth of depravity below that?
Absolutely copying the contract that the Government was going to make
with him, and treating the subcontractor, so far as the contract was
concerned, as the Government had treated him, he (Boone) prepared a
clause which he thought filled the bill, and which he still thinks, I
believe, would have been better to use than the other. When he showed
that to Stephen W. Dorsey, Dorsey suggested another form. It was the
same thing exactly, but in different words. There was the testimony I
have read to you, and now here is what Mr. Bliss states about it at page
4865:

But Stephen W. Dorsey, away back there, knew sufficient about expedition
to appreciate the importance of keeping for the contractors thirty-five
per cent, and giving to the men who were performing the service only
sixty-five per cent.

Why not? Is that a crime? Suppose I agreed to carry the mail four years
for $10,000 a year and I subcontract with another man. Have I not the
right to get it carried as cheaply as I can? I just ask you that as
a business proposition. Or has every mail to treat this Government as
though it was in its dotage? Must you do business with the Government as
though you were contracting with an infant or an idiot? Must you look
at both sides of the contract? That is the question. The Government, for
instance, advertises for so much granite, and I put in a bid which is
accepted; at the same time I know that I could furnish that granite for
twenty-five per cent. less. Is it my duty under such circumstances to go
and notify the Government that I have cheated it, and that I would like
to have it put the contract down? There may be heights of morality that
would see the propriety of such action, but it is not for every-day wear
and tear. Very few people have it; it scarcely ever comes into play in
trading horses. Must we treat the Government as though it were imbecile?
I say it was a simple business transaction. The Government advertises
for proposals to carry the mail; I make my bid for $10,000, and we will
say that my bid is accepted. Now, I admit that I could carry it for
$5,000 and make money.

Am I criminal if I go on and perform the contract as I agreed and
draw the money? Or suppose the people along the route do not want it
expedited and increased, and so I talk to them about it; I go to Mr.
Brown and say, "Mr. Brown, you are living in this smart, thriving town,
and you need a daily mail." I go to the next village and I say, "Why,
gentlemen, you will never have a town here until you have a daily mail;
I am the fellow now carrying the mail." And I keep talking about it,
you know, and finally get a fellow to get up a petition, or I write one
myself, and send it around, and say to them, "Gentlemen, what you want
is more mail, faster mail; the mail is the pioneer of civilization,
gentlemen; have a daily mail, and along the line at once towns and
villages and cities will spring up, and all the hillsides will be
covered with farms, and school-houses will be here, and wealth will be
universal." Any crime about that. Every railroad has been built just
that way. Every park has been laid out in every city by just such means.
Nearly every street that has been improved has been improved in that
way, by men who had some interest in the property, by men who were to
be benefited by it themselves, and who ought to be benefited. Should the
men that get the public attention in that direction be benefited, or
the men who do nothing? I say that the men who give attention to the
business have a right to be benefited by it. And yet here is the crime,
gentlemen. And then we only gave these fellows sixty-five per cent, and
took thirty-five ourselves, because we were bound to the Government
to fulfill the contract, as was explained to you so admirably, so
perfectly, by Judge Wilson. The contract was to run for four years, and
I believe in a certain contingency for six months thereafter. We had
to carry out the contract, whether the subcontractor carried out his
contract with us or not.

Now, this is what Mr. Bliss says:

So, after a large mass of subcontracts had been struck from the press,
which gave to the subcontractors all the increase—There never was a
subcontract that gave to the subcontractors all the increase; there is
no evidence that there ever was such a subcontract, he—That is, Stephen
W. Dorsey—directed them to be put back on the press.

I should think he would. If he found any subcontracts were printed that
gave to the subcontractor all the increase, I do not wonder that he had
them destroyed.

Here you get, we will say, a contract for ten thousand dollars for one
trip, with the agreement that if there are two trips the compensation
shall be twenty thousand dollars. Thereupon you make a contract with a
subcontractor, and you agree in that subcontract that he shall have all
the increase. Of course, you want that made over again; of course, you
would not make that kind of a subcontract.

He directed them to be put back on the press, and this provision giving
the subcontractor his money struck out and this other clause put in.

Gentlemen, that is an entire and absolute mistake. There is no such
evidence, there never was in this case, and I take it there never will
be. The evidence was—and you remember it; and you remember it; and
you remember it; and you [addressing different jurors]—that Stephen
W. Dorsey allowed to the subcontractor sixty-five per cent, of the
expedition, and that same subcontractor provided what he should have for
one trip, and what he should have for two trips; that is to say, what
he should have for increase; and it provided at the same time for
sixty-five per cent, on expedition. Mr. Boone swears it; others swear
it. Not only that, but it is printed in the record again and again and
again. Why did Stephen W. Dorsey do that? I can tell you why: He did
not. Why did Stephen W. Dorsey do that, if it was not because his
fertile imagination had already conceived the plan of defrauding the
United States, and he was making an arrangement by which that fraud
could be consummated? How would that help him consummate a fraud?
Suppose he struck out all the per cent, to the subcontractors; suppose
he had not had any subcontract printed; suppose the subcontract
was printed, and printed on purpose to deceive and defraud the
subcontractors; how does that show that he was trying to defraud the
United States? Why, if it proves anything it proves the other, that he
had not entered into a conspiracy by which he could get the money from
the United States, but had endeavored to get it from the subcontractors.
If it proves anything it proves that. But the reason it does not prove
anything is because the statement is not correct.

Now, just see how a conspiracy can be built of that material. A man that
can do that can make a cover for Barnum's Circus with one postage-stamp;
he can make a suit of clothes out of a rabbit-skin; he can make a grain
of mustard seed cover the whole air without growing.

That is given as an evidence that Dorsey had conspired. There is not
a thing on the earth that he could have done that would not prove
conspiracy just as well as that—just exactly—no other act. Humph! That
is the way they build a conspiracy.

Why not take another step? Why not have a little bit of ordinary good
hard sense? On the 17th day of May, I believe, 1878, the act was passed
allowing the subcontractor to put his subcontract on file. Now, that
contract ought to provide for all the contingencies of the service, so
that if the trips were increased the Government would know how much to
pay that subcontractor; so that if the time was expedited the Government
would know how much to pay the subcontractor. The subcontract ought to
have been made in that way, and it would be perfectly proper to make it
in that way.

I once went to see a friend of mine who had the erysipelas and who was a
little crazy. I sat down by his bedside, and he said, "Ingersoll, I have
made a discovery; I just tell you I am going to be a millionaire." Said
I, "What is it?" He says, "I have found out that if four persons take
hold of hands after they have had a hole made in the ground and put a
piece of stove-pipe in it, and then run around it as hard as they can
from left to right, a ball of butter will come out of the pipe." Now,
I think that is about as reasonable as the way conspiracies are made,
according to Mr. Bliss.

Now, we come to Mr. Boone (page 1560). He says that the action he had
taken was upon his own responsibility, and that at no time had any
papers been gotten up with any view of defrauding the Government. That
was good.

I am like the Democrat who said, after hearing the returns from Berks
County, "That sounds good." Then, here is a question asked him:

Q. I understood you to say that the contract was made between you and
somebody, fixing your interest in all this business?—A. Yes, sir.

Q. Do you recollect about the date of that?—A. I think it is on the day
John W. Dorsey got here in Washington.

On page 1561 he swears that at the time Boone made that contract with
John W. Dorsey he and Dorsey had not conspired to defraud the Government
in any way, nor did they ever do so after that contract was made. When
was that contract made? It was made on the 15th day of January, 1878.
Who made it? John W. Dorsey of the one part, and Albert E. Boone of the
other. And they tell exactly what that contract was for. Here is the
contract, on page 1561, and this shows that the statement of Stephen W.
Dorsey, that the matter was deferred until John W Dorsey should come, is
absolutely correct:

That the parties to this agreement shall share in all the profits,
gains, and losses as follows: John W. Dorsey shall have two-thirds and
Albert E. Boone, share one-third.

Now, gentlemen, there was the original partnership agreement. Let us see
if that was ever dissolved.

The next contract was made on the 12th of September, 1878.

Now, therefore, in consideration of one dollar in hand paid, the receipt
whereof is hereby acknowledged, I hereby, sell, assign, and transfer
to Albert E. Boone all my said two-thirds interest in the routes in the
name of said Boone in the States of Texas, Louisiana Arkansas, Kansas,
and Nebraska, and in the name of said Dorsey in the States of Texas,
Louisiana, and Arkansas.

The reason he did that was because Mr. Miner had made a contract with
Boone to that effect; and probably I had better read that now so that
you will have it exactly and know what we are doing. I read from page
1569;

Washington, D. C, August 7, 1878.

Whereas A. E. Boone has this day, for the purpose of saving a failure
in the routes in the name of John R. Miner, John M. Peck, and John
W. Dorsey—"For the purpose of saving a failure," recollect. Although
Stephen W. Dorsey, according to the prosecution, was a conspirator, and
although John W. Dorsey was another, and Peck was another, yet on the
7th day of August, 1878, "for the purpose of saving a failure," they
made this: assigned to John R. Miner his one-third interest in the
routes in their names, now, therefore, I, John R. Miner, agree that John
W. Dorsey shall assign his interest in routes in the name of A. E. Boone
in Kansas and Nebraska, Texas and Louisiana, and Arkansas; in the name
of John W. Dorsey, in Texas, Louisiana, and Kansas. The latter clause
not guaranteed.

## John R. Miner

Now, he said to Mr. Boone, "I have got to have another man come in; we
haven't got the money to run these routes; I have got to get somebody
with us; if you will go out, I will agree that John W. Dorsey will
assign to you his two-thirds interest in all the routes in Kansas,
Nebraska, Texas, Louisiana, and Arkansas. I will agree that John W.
Dorsey, although he has a two-thirds interest in all these routes, shall
assign them to you, A. E. Boone, and they shall thereupon become your
property." That agreement was made on the 7th of August, 1878; and then,
as I read you before, on the 12th day of September, Miner made that
promise good, and John W. Dorsey did assign to Boone his two-thirds
interest in all the routes that Miner said he would. Then Boone was out
of it. He had no more to do with Miner, Peck & Co., and no more to do
with John W. Dorsey; he went his road and they went theirs. He went out
in consideration that John W. Dorsey would give him (Boone) two-thirds
of all the routes that he before that time had one-third in. Then Miner
took in Mr. Vaile, because he had the money to go on with the business.

Page 1562, still talking about Mr. Boone. There is another very
suspicious circumstance that was brought up by the prosecution. These
bids were put in in different names, and that was looked at as a very
suspicious circumstance. What does Boone say about that? He says
that the object in bidding in separate names was not to defraud the
Government, but was to have the service divided up and not to bid
against each other. That was reasonable. The arrangement was simply
to keep from injuring themselves; it was not made to defraud the
Government, but it was made so that they might not by accident injure
each other. It was a common thing for members of a firm to bid in that
way, and it is a common thing for persons to organize themselves for the
purpose of bidding and running contracts, and when they thus bid they
always bid in their individual names. The fact that we bid in our
individual names was taken as a circumstance going to show that we had
conspired to defraud the Government, and a witness they bring forward to
prove that fact swears that it has been the custom for all firms to bid
in their individual names. Away goes that suspicion. The coat-tail of
that point horizontalizes in the dim distance.

Page 1563. The point was made, gentlemen, that we bid on long routes
with slow time, knowing—understand, knowing—that the service would be
increased and that the time would be shortened. The only word I object
to there is the word "knowing." That we bid on long routes with slow
time thinking that the service would be increased and the time shortened
was undoubtedly true. That we bid expecting that the service might be
increased and the time shortened is undoubtedly true. That when we
bid we took into consideration the probability of the service being
increased and the time shortened is undoubtedly true. The only
difference is the difference between thinking and knowing; between
taking into account probabilities and making the bid because we had
made a bargain with the Second Assistant Postmaster-General. That is the
difference. Let us see what Boone says about it. I read from page 1563:

On all service of three times a week and under there is a chance for
improvement in getting it up to six or seven times a week.

Everybody who has ordinary common sense knows that! If I bid on service
for once a week there is a great deal better chance for getting an
increase of trips than if there were seven when I started. Everybody
knows that. There is about six times as good a chance.

All contractors consider that—That chance—in their bids, and bid
lower on one, two, and three times a week service than on a daily
service—Why?—because the chances are the route will be increased.

Boone swears on the same page that he always did that himself; that
he always had done it. Yet that is lugged in here as evidence of a
conspiracy.

There is a great deal better chance for expedition when a route is let
at two or three miles an hour, than when it is let at six or seven.

Of course there is. The slower it is let the better chance of getting it
expedited. The faster it is let the less chance of getting it expedited.
There is no need of bringing a man here to show that. You know that. If
you thought there was more money in expedition and increase than on the
original schedule, you would, as I insist, bid on such routes as the
advertisement showed the time was to be slow and the service infrequent
upon. Now, gentlemen, to take advantage of such a perfectly apparent
thing as that will not do. You have heard a good deal about star routes,
gentlemen. Every one of you by this time ought to make a pretty good
guess.

Postmaster-General; every one of you. If you do not know all about this
subject, you never will.

The Foreman (Mr. Crane). We ought to be good lawyers, too.

Mr. Ingersoll. You also ought to be good lawyers, at least on this
subject! I do not know that you have all the testimony in your minds, as
there have been so many misstatements made, but if you ever are to
know anything on this subject you know something now; and if you, Mr.
Foreman, or you Mr Renshaw, were to-morrow to go to work to bid on some
star routes you would bid on the longest routes, on the slowest time,
and with the most infrequent trips. You would do that. Then would you
say, "That is evidence that we have conspired"? Has a man got to be so
stupid that he will not take advantage of a perfectly plain thing in
order to escape the charge of conspiracy? If you were to put your money
in land in the Western country you would not go where the country was
settled up, and give one hundred dollars an acre for land. You would go
where you could get laud for two, or three, or four, or five dollars
an acre, and say, "There is a chance for land to rise." That is not
conspiracy. So if you were going to bid on mail service you would bid
where the time is slow, or the route long, and the service once a week.
Then you would say that the country might grow, that railroads might be
built and that they might get the service up to seven trips a week; and
that instead of going on two miles an hour may be they would want to
make it seven miles an hour. That is the service to make money on. Is
it a crime to make money? Is it a crime to make a good bargain with the
Government? I suppose these gentlemen of the prosecution made the best
bargain they could with the Government themselves. Is it a crime? I
say no. Is a man to be regarded as a conspirator because some outsider
thinks he got too good a bargain? That will not do. Boone says he always
did that. Of course he did. He says another thing. These gentlemen say
that we did not go above three trips, and that is another evidence of
fraud. They say we did not bid on any route with more than three trips
a week. Mr. Boone tells you, on page 1565, that the department never
advertised for four trips a week. That is the reason I think they did
not bid on any of these. He also swears that they never advertised for
five trips. That is a good reason for our not taking any routes with
five trips, is it not? There were not any advertised. The Government did
not offer to let us have any. That is a good reason for not taking any
of them. The Government had not any of that kind. After you get beyond
three trips Boone swears that the next number is six or seven; never
four, never five. Don't you see? And yet it is a very suspicious
circumstance that we did not bid on any four-trip routes, or any
five-trip routes; that we stopped at three. Why did we stop at three?
Because if we had not stopped at three we would have had to go to six.
Why did we not go to six? Because at six trips a week we would have
been obliged to put up too much money, and to put up too many certified
checks. It required too many men to go on the bonds. That is the reason.
Gentlemen, if there had been a conspiracy it would have been just about
as well for us to bid on six or seven trips to get the expedition of
time. If there had been a conspiracy to make money, and it had been
understood by the Second Assistant Postmaster-General, he could have
just as well given us routes with seven trips a week, and put the
service up to seven, eight, nine, or ten miles an hour, and he could
have done that in the thickly-populated parts of the country; if it had
been the result of a conspiracy.

Let me read more from what Mr. Boone says on page 1565:

The proposals that I destroyed were upon routes of at least six times
per week.

How did he come to destroy them? Another suspicious circumstance against
Dorsey! Boone said when he went into the business he just took the
bidding-book and commenced at A, and was going right straight through to
X, Y, and Z, and make a bid, I believe, on every route that was in the
book. I think that is his testimony. Boone says:

I was going on without instructions. I was going on without authority
from anybody, working on the bids.

He thinks it was the same day that Miner got here, or the day
afterwards, and he—I suppose meaning Dorsey—came up to the room and
saw what the witness was doing. He was making up bids for every route
in the advertisement, going right along with big and little, when Dorsey
said there was a mistake. No proposals were to be made for over three
times a week or for routes under fifty miles. When Miner came into the
room witness asked what was the reason of that. I say upon this point
that Stephen W. Dorsey never said a word about it, and that Boone is
mistaken. But he says he asked Miner the reason. What did Miner say?
Did he say to him, "It is because we have got a conspiracy? We have
got it fixed with the Second Assistant Postmaster-General"? No. He said
this, he said for fear of failure in getting bonds; that they could not
get the bonds for all the service and could not get certified checks for
all the service. Boone was going clear through the book from preface to
finis. They could not get bonds for all the service and could not get
certified checks for all the service. You remember that for all the
service over five thousand dollars they had to put up five per cent., I
think, in certified checks. Now, there was an immense volume, of three
or four thousand routes and he was going to put in a bid on every one
of them. That is what Boone was going to do. He did not understand the
conspiracy at that time. Miner explained to him, "We cannot get the
certified checks. We cannot get the bondsmen." He did not tell him,
"Good Lord, my friend, you don't understand the terms of the conspiracy.
We are taking no such service as that. We are taking none over three
times a week, because, don't you see, we want the chance for increase.
We want the lowest. If we can find any service where the horses agree to
stand still, that is the service to take. You must look over the terms
of the conspiracy and have some sense about it."

Boone says he was starting in, taking the advertisements, going right
through the territory, all over that country, and bidding on every
route, not missing one. He never saw Stephen W. Dorsey do any work
on the bids. The proposals sent down to the postmasters in Arkansas,
including those to Clendenning, he (Boone) fixed himself and sealed
them. Gentlemen, there is no evidence that Mr. Dorsey, as I understand
it, ever saw one of those papers, but simply the form that was written
out by Boone that was sent to Clendenning with instructions what to do
with the proposals. That I understand to be the evidence. They proved by
Boone that Dorsey never saw them; never wrote them; never ordered them
to be written; never ordered a blank to be left unfilled. And
yet, gentlemen, he was the man whom they say had brooded over this
conspiracy; the man that gave to it life and form. He is the man that
used Boone and John W. Dorsey and Peck and Miner as instrumentalities
and tools.

What more? Did Boone take those bonds up to Dorsey and show them to him?
He says that he did not open them; that he did not show them to Dorsey.
That is what Mr. Boone swears. Surely Mr. Boone is an honorable man,
stamped with the seal of the Department of Justice. He did not even show
them to Dorsey. Dorsey never saw anything except the form after Boone
had made it out. I showed you that form on yesterday, I think, marked 16
X. That is the only thing that Dorsey saw. He did not know what blanks
were left in the bonds, or whether any were left. He never gave any
orders about them, and never saw them. Yet the prosecution want you to
hold him responsible as a conspirator for those bonds.

What more, gentlemen? Those bonds were never used. Nobody was ever
defrauded. Not a proposal was put in the Post-Office Department. They
never came to life. Dead! No contract, says Mr. Boone, was ever awarded
on those proposals, even the proposals sent back, unless it was a
contract to him, Boone. That is what he swears. And yet Dorsey is to be
held responsible.

Let us hurry along, gentlemen. See how Dorsey came to do this. How did
that arch-conspirator, as they claim him to be, happen to write that
letter to Clendenning? On page 1567 Boone says that he suggested to
Dorsey that he had better send a note with the proposals to Clendenning.
Boone suggested it. He was not a conspirator, but he suggested it.
Dorsey was the conspirator, but never dreamed of it. How fortunate for a
conspirator to have an innocent man think of the means of carrying out
a conspiracy; never thinking of crime, but having it all suggested by
perfect innocence and then crime taking advantage of it. That is the
position! He suggested that Dorsey would better send a note with the
proposals to Clendenning. I will read from page 1568:

Q. Was there not danger that he would be declared a failing contractor?
Was it at that time the practice of the department if a man, for
instance, had fifty contracts and failed on one to declare him a failing
contractor on all?—A. No, sir; but they would declare him a failing
contractor on that one route and suspend his pay until he paid up the
loss to the Government—just my case now, exactly.

Q. That was one of the reasons that you had. Now, you were informed at
that time that they had not the money to carry this on.

When, as a matter of fact, did you go out of the concern?—A. The 8th
day of August, 1878.

Q. Was S. W. Dorsey then in Washington?—A. No, sir; he was not. He had
been gone ten or twelve days.

Now, then, we come to August 7, 1878, the time that Mr. Boone went out.
He did it for the purpose of saving a failure on the routes in the names
of Miner, Peck, Dorsey, and himself. That is what he went out for, and
that is his only reason. On page 1570 Mr. Boone swears that so far as he
knows neither John W. Dorsey, John R. Miner, John M. Peck, nor
Stephen W. Dorsey had any arrangement with the Second Assistant
Postmaster-General to increase the service; none whatever.

Boone went out on the 7th day of August, 1878. S. W. Dorsey was in New
Mexico. He did not return here until about the time Congress assembled
in December. Boone swears that he then learned from S. W. Dorsey that
he, Dorsey, did not know that Boone was out of the concern; did not
know that he had left on the 7th day of August, 1878. Now, gentlemen, if
Stephen W. Dorsey was the main conspirator, if he was doing this entire
business, is it possible that A. E. Boone went out on the 7th day of
August, that John W. Dorsey assigned his interest in all the routes
mentioned in the agreement, and John R. Miner took in Vaile, and the
service was put on those routes by the money furnished by Vaile, that
all that was done and yet Stephen W. Dorsey never heard of it and did
not even know that Boone was out, did not even know that Vaile was in?
Besides that, gentlemen, as I told you, Dorsey was not here. He was in
New Mexico. He was in utter ignorance of this entire business, and yet
they claim that he was the directing spirit.

Mr. Boone further testifies, on page 1571, that Brady showed him a
telegram from the postmistress at The Dalles, saying that the service
was down. When I read that I thought may be that was where Moore got his
hint to swear that he telegraphed to find out what was done with that
service. Boone further swears that Brady said that it must be put on;
that he said it could not be put on at the contract price, and that
Brady told him, "I advise you to telegraph and put it on at any price,"
and that unless all the service was on by the 15th day of August he
would declare the contractor a failing contractor on every route the
service was down upon. That is what Brady told him. Stephen W. Dorsey
was not here. According to the testimony of Moore he knew when he went
away that the service in Oregon was not put on, but he abandoned it, and
paid no attention to it. He happened to meet Miner at Saint Louis, and
told him, I believe, "There are my notes for eight thousand five hundred
dollars. That is all I will do. I am through! I have already advanced
thirteen or fourteen thousand dollars. I will not advance another
dollar." Why did not Miner tell him, "If you are not going on with this
conspiracy I am going home"? Why didn't Miner tell him then, "What did
you get up a conspiracy like this for, just to abandon it"? Why did
not Miner say to him, "This is your child. I became a criminal at your
suggestion. I entered into this conspiracy because you urged me to, and
now after we have got the routes, you are going to abandon it"? Why did
he not say to him, "Dorsey, if you are not going on with this conspiracy
I am going back to Sandusky"? Did Dorsey at Saint Louis treat it as his
bantling? or did he say to Miner, "This is all I will do"? Did he mean
for himself? No. "All I will do for you."

Certainly he would not have made the threat to Miner that he would not
do anything more for himself. He then said to Miner, "I am through!"
Miner knew at that time that Stephen W. Dorsey had not the interest of
one solitary dollar except the money he had advanced. Stephen W. Dorsey,
according to the testimony of this prosecution, knew when he left this
city that the routes were not in operation in Eastern Oregon. He went
away knowing that J. W. Dorsey and John R. Miner and John M. Peck were
in danger of being declared failing contractors. Yet he never even
called on Brady to see about it. He never asked to have the time
extended a minute. He never took the least interest in the business. He
started for New Mexico, and went by way of Oberlin, Ohio. He happened
to meet Miner in Saint Louis, and for Miner's sake, for Peck's sake, for
John W. Dorsey's sake, and not for his own sake, he gave them some notes
to the extent of eight thousand five hundred dollars that they could
have discounted, and said to Miner then and there. "That is the last
dollar. That is the last cent." What more did he do? He abandoned the
whole business. He went to New Mexico. He never wrote about it; he never
spoke about it; he never received a dispatch concerning it until the
following December, when he came back to Washington, and then for the
first time found that Boone had gone out and that Vaile had come in.
What more? Although he was interested to the extent of thirteen or
fourteen thousand dollars, he did not know until he came back in
December that his security had been rendered worthless. He found that
out then for the first time. That is a fine model of a conspirator.
Reading again from Boone's testimony, on page 1371:

Fully a month and a half of the time had been taken up by the
Congressional investigation, and we—That is to say, Miner, Peck, Boone,
and the rest—did not know what to do with the service. We dared not to
move. We expected that the contracts would be taken from us.

Do you tell me that under such circumstances, if Stephen W. Dorsey had
conceived this thing, he would have gone off and left it? Do you tell
me, with the entire business trembling in the balance, without the money
to put the service on, at the mercy of Thomas J. Brady, that if Stephen
W. Dorsey had gotten up that conspiracy, and also put in thirteen or
fourteen thousand dollars, he would have gone away and left it, and told
Miner and the others, "I will have no more to do with it," and leave it
so effectually and so perfectly that he did not even know that Boone
had gone out and Vaile had come in until the following December, when he
came here to take his seat in the Senate?

On page 1580, again quoting from Mr. Boone:

The fact—Here is something that rises like the Rock of Gibraltar. It
is one of those indications of truth that rascality never had ingenuity
enough to invent:

The fact that Dorsey refused to advance any more money on account of
this business was taken into consideration by me when I made up my mind
to go out.

Do you want any better testimony than that, that Dorsey did refuse to
advance any more money?

Don't you see how everything fits together when you get at the facts?
How naturally they all blend and harmonize when you get at the facts.
Now, here is some more from Mr. Boone:

If I had not gone out the service would have undoubtedly failed, unless
they got the money to put it on. When Mr. Dorsey declined to furnish any
more money or to indorse any more notes, there was nothing else to do
but for me to go out and let somebody else come in who had the money.

That is a witness for the Government, and yet at the time that happened
they say there was a great conspiracy; that the Second Assistant
Postmaster-General was in it; that a Senator of the United States was
in it; and that these other men were simply tools. It will not do,
gentlemen. If that had been the case Stephen W. Dorsey would have
remained here. He would have gone to Mr. Brady and said, "I must have
time," and Mr. Brady would have given him all the time he desired,
because, according to this prosecution, it was their partnership
business. Brady had ten times as great an interest as Stephen W. Dorsey.
According to the testimony of Mr. Rerdell, Brady had an interest of
thirty-three and one-third per cent., and according to the testimony of
Rerdell and Boone, Dorsey only had an interest of seven-eighths of one
per cent.

That means, as I understand it, according to their testimony,
thirty-three and one-third per cent, of the gross expedition; not
profits, but of the gross expedition. That is what they swear. When
he gave on a route an expedition of, say, six thousand dollars,
two thousand dollars would go to Brady each year. In other words,
thirty-three and one-third per cent, of the money paid for expedition
went to Brady.

Mr. Walsh testified and gave the exact figures, and called the amount,
if the Court will recollect, sixty thousand dollars, and twenty per
cent, he said of that is twelve thousand dollars. That had to run, he
says, for three years, and that made thirty-six thousand dollars. That
is the testimony in this case, gentlemen. If you should have a row of
men as long as the row of kings that Banquo saw, stretching out "to
the crack of doom," and they should swear to it, I should still die an
unbeliever; but that is their testimony. Dorsey ran away and left his
conspiracy and Brady would not attend to his own business. Now, I read
again from Boone:

With regard to the preparation of circulars, the sending of them to
postmasters, the printing of proposals, the printing of bonds and
subcontracts, there was nothing done differently from what I had always
done before.

Recollect that. He is a Government witness. Dorsey in a conspiracy got
Boone to help him, and in helping him Boone did nothing different from
what he had always done before. There is not much left of this case,
gentlemen, but I will keep going on just the same. Mr. Boone swears that
he followed the regular custom and practice of doing business.

Then, there is another suspicious circumstance. At the bottom of the
contracts published by the Government, for the purpose of informing
contractors as to how the bonds or contracts are to be signed,
and exactly what is to be done by each person, there are a lot of
instructions.

Mr. Carpenter. On the proposals.

Mr. Ingersoll. On the proposals. When they got up the proposals of their
own, they, understanding the business, left off all those directions
that the Government put upon its forms. Why? Those directions were put
there for the benefit of men who did not understand the business. These
men did understand the business, and consequently it was nonsense for
them if they had to have the printing done, to put on the bottom of
the contracts two or three paragraphs of directions to themselves. They
understood exactly how to do it without the directions.

Who left them off? Stephen W. Dorsey? No. John W. Dorsey? No. He had
nothing to do with it. Miner? No. He had nothing to do with it. Who left
them off? Boone says he did. Was he instructed to do it? No. Did it take
a conspiracy to leave them off? No. He left them off for two reasons,
and good ones, too. One was to save the expense of printing. That was
a good reason. There was no conspiracy needed for that. The other was,
that knowing how to perfect the proposals, and understanding all
those instructions, there was no need of having them printed for their
benefit.

Next, on page 1582. What instructions as a matter of fact did Mr. Boone
receive from Mr. Dorsey, if he received any? The question arises, upon
what subject? In reference to what particular point? Boone says on this
page that he received no instructions from Dorsey in reference to the
business except in regard to the subcontract blanks.

That is the one subject on which he received any instructions from S. W.
Dorsey. I have shown you that those instructions were in the interests
of honesty and fair dealing. Those were the only instructions he
received. On every other subject there is not a word. Why? Here Boone
gives the reason. "I did not require any." Why? Because he understood
the business himself. What else? "I was to go ahead and do whatever was
necessary to be done." He did it without consulting anybody. He did it
in his own way. He did it as he thought best for all concerned. Now,
gentlemen, there will be an effort made to convince you that Stephen W.
Dorsey did everything during all that period. If you are told that, when
you are told it remember what I tell you now: that Mr. Boone swears that
he did it himself; that he attended to the entire business, and that he
was instructed by Dorsey in no particular except as to that one blank,
and that I have clearly demonstrated was in the interests of honesty
and in the interests of the subcontractor, so that the subcontract might
agree with or be similar to the contract made with the Government. That
is all.

Now we come to another point. You must recollect that Mr. Boone got out
the circulars. Mr. Boone sent to all the postmasters to know about the
roads and the price of grain and the price of labor, about the snow in
winter and the rain in the spring. He got all that up. He went through
the bidding-book originally and made the bids. He it was who prepared
most of these proposals. He did all the work until Miner came. S.
W. Dorsey did not do any of it. Boone never saw him working upon or
touching the proposals. What S. W. Dorsey did he did at Boone's request.
What he did he did at Miner's request. What he did he did simply because
he was a friend. Boone attended to it all. Now, what does Boone say
on page 1584? He swears that so far as he knew there never was any
conspiracy on the part of these defendants with him, with each other,
or anybody else, in reference to these routes, or any route bid for and
awarded to them during that time. There was no conspiracy to defraud the
Government in any way. That is what the Government witness swears to—a
man brought here to stain the reputation of Stephen W. Dorsey. That
is what a Government witness swears; swearing, too, under pressure;
swearing, too, under circumstances where the Post-Office Department
could strip him of everything he had on earth; swearing under
circumstances where if he did not please the Government they could
pursue him as they have pursued us. Perhaps I had better read what he
says. I read from page 1583 of my examination:

Now, then, so far as you know, Mr. Boone, was there any conspiracy on
the part of any of these defendants with you, or with anybody else, to
your knowledge, in respect of these routes mentioned in the indictment
or of any routes bid for and awarded to them during that time—any
conspiracy to defraud the Government in any way?

And he answered:

No, sir.

That was a Government witness, acquainted with all the transactions
during that time. He was swearing under the shadow of power, with the
sword hanging over his head, and yet he swears he never knew or heard of
any such thing.

Let us go on. On page 1589 he swears that Mr. Dorsey told him to fix the
blanks and make them up and to write what he wanted done in Arkansas,
and that while he, Boone, was engaged in so doing he said to Dorsey,
"Had you not better write a note so that I can attach it to the
blanks?" And Dorsey did so. Dorsey told him to fill up what he wanted in
Arkansas, and what was necessary to be executed there, and he did so.

Boone indicated exactly what he wanted put in. I showed you the
Clendenning bonds yesterday and showed you just what Boone did. He
filled up the blanks that he wanted to have filled down there.
Of course, the blanks that were already filled in he did not want
interfered with. That is what he says. There is another part of his
testimony. I want to call the attention of the gentlemen to it. "I hand
you," said they, "32 X." Mr. Bliss did the handing. What was that? That
was the Chico letter. What did they want to introduce that for? To show
that S. W. Dorsey was interested personally in these routes in 1878.
That was a magnificent piece of testimony for them to show that Dorsey
in 1878 was writing to Rerdell to watch the advertisement of these
routes. So they introduced that letter. Mr. Boone looked at it. He was
a Government witness. The noose was around his neck and the other end
of the rope was in the hands of Mr. Bliss. What did Mr. Boone say? "Mr.
Dorsey never wrote that letter." Then said Mr. Bliss to him, "That is
not Mr. Dorsey's writing?" And Mr. Boone said "No, sir." And at the same
time threw the forged scrap away contemptuously. What else? On April 3,
1878, Mr. Dorsey was here.

Mr. Merrick. Was Mr Dorsey here at that time?

Witness. He was here, sir; and I was in communication with him on that
very day.

That is the evidence of a Government witness; a man who was depended
upon to show that not only my client, but that Mr. Miner entered into a
conspiracy in the fall of 1877 to defraud this Government. I want you
to remember one thing which I was about to forget. Mr. Ker, I believe,
spoke six or seven days and I do not remember of his having mentioned
the Chico letter. He acted as if it had a contagious disease. He was
followed by Mr. Bliss in another week, but he did not mention the Chico
letter; at least I have never happened to read it in his speech. Both
of them are as dumb as oysters after a clap of thunder. Not a word. They
did not, either of them, have the courage to refer to it. They did
not have the nerve to ask you to believe it. I tell you one thing,
gentlemen, I would either admit that it was a forgery, or I would swear
that it was genuine. I would do something with it. I would not allow
that paper, blown by the wind, to scare me from the highway of the
argument! I would do one thing or the other. I would either admit that
Mr. Rerdell forged it, or I would insist that it was the handwriting of
Stephen W. Dorsey. Why was it left where it was, gentlemen? They could
not get anybody to swear that it was Dorsey's handwriting. That is all.

Now we will take the next step. They had so much confidence in that
witness that they concluded they would prove the pencil memorandum
by him. They had such a clutch on him. So they stuck that up to
him. Recollecting the position he was in, recollecting the danger,
recollecting all that might probably follow speaking the truth, here is
what he says:

Everything above "profit and loss" in that memorandum favors the
handwriting of S. W. Dorsey.

What else?

And everything below favors the handwriting of M. C. Rerdell.

Fit conclusion for a Government witness, brought here to show that
Stephen W. Dorsey was the arch-conspirator. And they ended the witness;
dismissed him from the stand, after he had shown that Dorsey did not
conspire; after he had shown that he himself fixed the subcontracts,
with the exception of only one; after he had shown that he himself
filled out the blanks to send to Clendenning; after he had shown that he
did everything without being advised by S. W. Dorsey, and then he swore
that their principal witness was a forger. Then they dismissed him.
That was the end of the Government witness who was to brand the word
"conspirator" upon the forehead of Stephen W. Dorsey's reputation. But
instead of putting "conspirator" there, he put the word "forger" upon
the principal witness for the Government. Magnificent exchange! Now,
gentlemen, you know as well as I do that Mr. Boone knew all that was
happening during that entire time. You know as well as I do that he did
not swear anything for the defence that he could help swearing.

What else? Mr. Bliss, on page 303, says that:

Parties conspiring make an informal verbal agreement.

When did we make that agreement? When does the testimony show that we
made an informal verbal agreement? Who were present at the time? Where
were we? Do you recollect the number of the house? Do you recollect the
day of the month? Has any one of you ever had in his mind which side of
the street that was on? What town was it in? Could you locate it if you
had a good map? I do not care whether it is informal or formal. Did
we make one? In order to make a verbal agreement you have to use some
words. Is there any evidence as to the words we used? Not a word that I
have heard, not a word.

What else? He says that this is necessarily secret and intended to be
secret. The first thing done was that Dorsey told it to Moore. Then,
for fear it would get out, J. W. Dorsey told it to Pennell and to thirty
fellows around the camp-fire out in Dakota. And there was a suspicion in
Brady's mind that somebody might hear of it, and so he told Rerdell. He
says, "Get the books copied; this is a secret thing." Then Dorsey wrote
it to Bosler, and he was so awfully afraid that it would get out that
he kept a copy of the letter. You see, Mr. Bliss says the object was
to keep it secret. Then Miner and Vaile told it to Rerdell for fear
he would not believe it when Brady told him. They were bound the thing
should not get out. Yes, sir. And then Rerdell, just bursting with the
importance of keeping that secret, told it to Perkins and Taylor; went
away out there for that purpose. And then Moore, he gave it away to
Major and McBean for the purpose of keeping it secret. Then Miner told
Moore. From whom did they keep it secret? Nobody in God's world but
Boone. He is the only fellow that nobody told. Boone went through it
all, saw all the plan and heard all the whispering, and he is the only
man in the country, I think, that did not suspect it. And on the 7th day
of August he left the concern because there was not a conspiracy, and
admits to you that if he had had even a suspicion of it he would have
staid—staid or died.

Now, was there ever a conspiracy published so widely, that one end of
the country kept so secret from the other? Was there ever a conspiracy
like that, the news of which ran through the West like wild-fire, while
the fellows at the East never heard of it? Everybody knew it out on the
plains. All you had to do was to subpoena a fellow that wanted to come
to Washington, and he would remember it. And yet that is the evidence
that the prosecution desires you to believe. I do not believe it. I do
not think I ever shall. But then they promised so much at the beginning,
and they have done so little in many respects.

Something had to be said, and so Mr. Bliss, on page 265, in a little
burst of confidence to the jury, says:

At least one United States Senator was the paid agent of these
defendants.

Who was the Senator?

Mr. Bliss. Did I say that, sir?

Mr. Ingersoll. Look at page 265 and see whether you did.

Mr. Bliss. Read all that I said there.

Mr. Ingersoll. I will do that.

But we shall show to you that at least one United States Senator, urging
such increase, was the paid agent of these defendants.

Mr. Bliss. I then went on and said we should show it if you put him on
the stand.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes, if we furnished you the evidence.

Mr. Bliss. No, sir; that is not what I said.

Mr. Ingersoll. Why didn't you produce the Senator?

Mr. Bliss. Why didn't you put him on the stand?

Mr. Ingersoll. How did I know what Senator you meant?

Mr. Bliss. Did you have two?

Mr. Ingersoll. No, sir; and we did not have the one. If you could have
proved it, it was your duty, as the attorney of the United States, to do
it, and if you did not do it, you did not do your duty in this case.

Mr. Bliss. Whose name is expressed in the memorandum?

Mr. Ingersoll. Why did you not say that to the jury? You dared not do
it. That is like what was said here the other day before this jury, and
taken out of the record. We will come to it. These are the gentlemen who
did not wish to stain the names of citizens. These are the gentlemen who
did not wish to bring anybody into this case that had not been indicted.
And yet Mr. Bliss, in his opening, said that he would show you at least
one Senator who was the paid agent of these defendants; and now, having
failed to do it, he stands here before you and asks whose name was on
the pencil memorandum, meaning that J. H. Mitchell was the paid agent of
these defendants.

Ah, gentlemen, I would not, for the sake of convicting any man on this
earth, stain the reputation of another in a place and in a way where
that other could not defend himself. I would not do it. I do not think
there is any crime beyond that. It is as bad to stab the reputation as
it is to stab the flesh; it is as bad to kill the honor of the man as to
put a dagger into his heart.

There are so many things in these papers that I would never get through,
if I commented upon them all, if I talked forty years. I now refer to
page 4509. I have to change from one of these lawyers to the other. Now,
on this subject of subcontracts, showing how we are endeavoring to cheat
and defraud the Government, Mr. Ker says, at page 4509:

Acting upon Stephen W. Dorsey's advice he put in this clause giving
the subcontractors sixty-five per cent, of the increase. I want you
to remember the sixty-five per cent., because I will show you some
subcontracts with that amount in, but I do not want you to think for one
moment that the subcontractors ever got a dollar out of it.

Gentlemen, the evidence is that the subcontractors were paid the amount
mentioned in their subcontracts. I believe all of them are on file in
this case, and on all that were filed in the department the money was
paid directly to the subcontractor. And yet Mr. Ker tells you that he
does not want you to think for a moment that the subcontractors ever
got one dollar out of it. Is it possible, gentlemen, that there is any
necessity for resorting to such statements? Can you conceive of any
reason for doing it, except that they are actually mistaken, except
for the fact that they know they have not the evidence to convict these
defendants?

We are not begging of you. We are not upon our knees before you. But we
do want to be tried according to the evidence and according to the law.
We do not want your mind, nor yours, nor yours [addressing different
jurors] poisoned with a misstatement. We want to be tried, and we want
the verdict rendered by you when every fact is as luminous in your mind
as the sun at mid-day. We want every fact to stand out like stars in a
perfect night, without a cloud of doubt between you and the fact. That
is the kind of a verdict we want. We want a verdict that comes from
a clear head and a brave heart. We do not want a verdict simply from
sympathy. We want a verdict according to the evidence and according to
the law. And when the verdict is given we want every one of you to say,
"That is my verdict; I found it upon the evidence and upon the law;
dig beneath it and you will not find used as the corner-stone a
misstatement, or a mistake, or a falsehood; it stands upon the rock of
fact, upon the foundation of absolute truth."

Do you know that if I were prosecuting a man, trying to take from
him his liberty, trying to take from him his home, trying to rob his
fireside and make it desolate, and if I should succeed and afterwards
know that I had made a misstatement of the evidence to the jury, I could
not sleep until I had done what was in my power to release that man; and
after he was released, or even if he were not released, I would go to
him when he was wearing the prison garb, and I would get down on
my knees and beg him to forgive me. I would rather be sent to the
penitentiary myself, I would rather wear the stripes of eternal
degradation, than to send another man there by a misstatement or a
mistake that I had made. That is my feeling. I may be wrong.

It may be that I am guilty, according to Colonel Bliss, of sneering at
everything that people hold sacred. But I do not sneer at justice. I
believe that over all, justice sits the eternal queen, holding in her
hand the scales in which are weighed the deeds of men. I believe that
it is my duty to make the world a little better, because I have lived in
it. I believe in helping my fellow-men. I do no not sneer at charity; I
do not sneer at justice, and I do not sneer at liberty. And why did he
make that remark to you, gentlemen? Is it possible that for a moment
he dreamed that he might prejudice your minds against the case of my
client, because, I, his attorney, am not what is called a believer?
Is it possible that he has so mean an opinion of a Christian that a
Christian would violate his oath when upon the jury, simply to get
even with a lawyer who happened to be an infidel? Is that his idea of
Christianity? It is not mine; it is not mine. I stand before you to-day,
gentlemen, as a man having the rights you have, and no more; and I
am willing to work and toil and suffer to give you every right that
I enjoy. And I know that not one of you will allow himself to be
prejudiced against my client because you and I happen to disagree upon
subjects about which none of us know anything for certain. I do not
believe you will. And yet, that remark was made, gentlemen—I will not
say that it was made, but may be it was—hoping that it would lodge the
seed of prejudice in your minds, hoping that it might bring to life that
little adder of hatred that sleeps unknown to us in nearly all of our
bosoms. I have too much confidence in you, too much confidence in human
nature to believe that can affect my client.

Now, gentlemen, there is no pretence, there is no evidence that every
subcontractor did not get the per cent, mentioned in his subcontract,
except one, and that was Mr. French, on the route from Kearney to Kent;
and the evidence there is that Miner settled with him, I believe, and
gave him a certain amount of money in lieu of expedition. That is the
solitary exception.

Now, gentlemen, I come to a most interesting part of this discussion,
and I hope we will live through it. In the first place, what is a
conspiracy? Well, in this case, they must establish that it was an
agreement entered into between the persons mentioned in this indictment,
or two of them, to defraud the Government. How? By the means pointed
out and described in the indictment. While it may not be absolutely
necessary to describe the means, I hold that if they do describe them,
tell how the conspiracy was to be accomplished, they are bound by their
description; they must prove such a conspiracy as they describe. If
a man is indicted for stealing a horse and the color of the horse
is given, it will not do to prove a horse of another color. If they
describe the offence they are bound by the description.

Now, this is a conspiracy entered into, as they claim, by the persons
mentioned in the indictment, to do a certain thing. What is the object
of the conspiracy? To defraud the Government. And, gentlemen, I believe
the Court will instruct you that the conspiring is the crime. The object
of the conspiracy is to defraud the United States. What are the means?
According to this indictment false petitions, false oaths, false
letters, false orders. What I insist on is that the means cannot take
the place of the object; that the means cannot take the place of the
conspiracy described. When you describe a conspiracy by certain means
to defraud the Government, and set out the means so that the Second
Assistant Postmaster-General is a necessity, then you cannot turn and
shift your ground, and say that it was not the conspiracy set out in
the indictment, but that it was a conspiracy to do some of the things
recited as means in the indictment; you cannot say that it was not a
conspiracy entered into with the Second Assistant Postmaster-General,
but was a conspiracy entered into with some others to make a false
petition or a false affidavit. The ostrich of this prosecution will not
be allowed to hide its head under the leaf of an affidavit. They
must prove, in my judgment, the conspiracy that they describe in the
indictment, and none other.

Now, what else? You must be prepared, gentlemen, when you make up a
verdict, if you say that there was a conspiracy, to say when it was
entered into and who entered into it. And I suppose when you retire, the
first question for you to decide will be: Was there a conspiracy? Has
any conspiracy been established beyond a reasonable doubt? If you say
yes, then the next question for you to decide is, who conspired? Who
were the members of that conspiracy?

After you do that there is one other thing you have to do: You have
to find that one of the conspirators, for the purpose of carrying the
conspiracy into effect, did something; that is called an overt act.
You have to find, that at least one of them did something to effect the
object of that conspiracy. You must remember, gentlemen, that the overt
act must come after the conspiracy. In other words, you cannot commit an
overt act and make a conspiracy to fit it; you must have the conspiracy
first, and then do an overt act for the purpose of accomplishing the
object of that conspiracy. The conspiracy must come first, and the overt
act afterwards. You all understand that now.

Now, this indictment is so framed that the earliest time within the life
of the statute of limitations for an overt act is the 23d day of May,
1879. Why? The indictment charges that as the day, the conspiracy was
entered into. Any overt act in consequence of that conspiracy must have
been done after the 23d of May, 1879. Now, get that in your heads, level
and square. The conspiracy, according to this, is not back of the 23d
of May, 1879, and any overt act done, in order to be considered an overt
act, must be done after the date of that conspiracy. If they prove
any act done before that time, it shows that it was not an overt act
belonging to the conspiracy mentioned in the indictment. If it is an
overt act at all, it is an overt act of another conspiracy entered into
before the date mentioned in this indictment, and consequently will
not do for an overt act in this case. Now, I want you all to understand
that.

I forget how many overt acts are charged in this indictment; some sixty
or seventy, I think. And understand me, now, gentlemen, no matter what
date they fix to an overt act in the indictment, no matter whether there
is any date to it or not in the indictment, if it turns out to have been
done before the time fixed for the conspiracy it is dead as an
overt act: it is good for nothing. The overt act is the fruit of the
conspiracy; the conspiracy is not the result of the overt act. Now let
me make a statement to you, so that you will understand it.

Every petition, every letter, every affidavit, upon which orders for
expedition were based, was filed before the 23d of May, 1879, except on
two routes—Toquerville to Adair-ville and Eugene City to Bridge Creek.
If that is true, then not a solitary petition filed in this case can
be considered as an overt act; and a conspiracy without an overt act is
nothing; it simply exists in the imagination; it is an agreement made
of words and air, and never was vitalized with an act done by one of the
conspirators for the purpose of giving it effect. Recollect that every
petition, every affidavit, every letter filed, was filed before the 23d
day of May, with the two exceptions I have mentioned. That is the date
when the conspiracy came into being. And consequently an overt act must
be after that time.

Now,'when they came to write this indictment, why did they not tell the
truth in it? I do not mean that in an offensive sense, because a man has
the right to write in that indictment what he wants to. That is a matter
of pleading. But why did they not tell the facts? Why did they put in
the indictment that a certain petition was filed on the 26th day of
June, when they had the petition before them and knew that it was filed
in April, 1879? Why did they put in that indictment that a certain
affidavit was filed on the 26th or 27th of May, I think it was, when
they knew that it was filed in April or March? Why? Because if they had
put that in the indictment the indictment would have been quashed, so
far as their overt acts were concerned. The Court would have said, "I
cannot allow you to put on paper that a man entered into a conspiracy on
the 23d of May, and then did an act to carry that conspiracy into effect
in April before that time. I cannot allow you to do that, because that
is infinitely absurd, and pleadings have to be reasonable on their
face." But you see they stated that this was done after the conspiracy.
They had to do it or they would be gone. I believe there is no dispute
about this law that if they describe the overt act—and they must
describe it, because it is a part of the offence—that is, the offence
is not complete without it—they must prove it exactly as they describe
it.

If they describe it with infinite minuteness, they must prove it with
infinite minuteness. If they set out that an affidavit was written on
bark, they must produce a bark affidavit. If they were foolish enough to
say it was written in red ink they must produce it in red ink. If they
allege that an oath was sworn to twice before two notaries public they
must produce an oath sworn to twice. They are bound to prove exactly
what they charge, and if they were too particular about it that is their
fault, not ours.

I say that all these, with the exception of the two routes I have named,
were filed too early to play any important part in this case. Now, I
will come to those routes. Remember, that every overt act must be after
the conspiracy. There are two exceptions, and those two exceptions
include petitions and affidavits. And there is a splendid kind
of justice in the way this thing is coming out, so far as that is
concerned.

The petitions filed on the Toquerville route and on Bridge Creek route,
I believe, are genuine; I believe the Government admits that they are
honest; and they were not attacked except upon one point, and that was
that a daily mail did not mean seven times a week. The point made by the
Government was that a daily mail meant six trips a week—that is, where
you have them every day. We took the ground that daily mail meant a mail
every day, and that in the Western country, as here, they have seven
days in a week.

We contended that you cannot have a daily mail without having seven
trips a week. I think that was the only point made against these
petitions—that they were for a daily mail, and that somebody put in a
figure 7.

No petition for increase of service alone was ever attacked by the
Government in this case, except 25 L, on The Dalles route, and 20 H and
29 H, on the Canyon City route. 25 L was filed April 23, 1879. That was
one month before the conspiracy had life. Consequently that is mustered
out of this case as an overt act.

23 L was filed June 27, 1879, and is in time, provided it had been
a dishonest petition. And it is the only petition filed on the date
alleged in the indictment, and it was not attacked. It was signed by the
business men of Baker City, and is set out, I believe, on page 1617.

20 H was filed May 7th. That is not in time. That is gone.

29 H has no file mark, and never was proved. So that goes.

All the allegations as to false petitions for increase of service—and
by that I mean additional trips—are shown to have been genuine, honest,
true petitions.

There are but two affidavits, one correctly described. Both were made
by Peck. Mr. Bliss admits that Peck had nothing to do with any of these
routes after April 1, 1879, and both of them were made by Peck, and were
sworn to before that date.

The affidavit on the Toquerville route was filed by M. C. Rerdell, who
swears that he was not in any conspiracy to defraud the United States;
that he was not in a conspiracy with Vaile and Miner and John W. Dorsey,
nor with anybody else. It was filed by the subcontractor of record, M.
C. Rerdell, and it is the same route on which Mr. Rerdell, by virtue
of his subcontract, appropriated about five thousand dollars of money
belonging to other people.

The other exception is on the Bridge Creek route, and, strange as it may
appear, that was also filed by Mr. Rerdell.

And, strange as it may appear, it has not been successfully impeached
as to the men and horses necessary under the existing and proposed
schedule. The overt act is not proved, because the oath is not proved
to be false, and because Peck and Rerdell, according to Mr. Bliss's
admission and according to Rerdell's oath, were not in the conspiracy,
and the overt act has to be done by one of the conspirators, of course.

The Court. I understood—I do not know whether I have been under a
delusion all this time or not—that the indictment charged that these
affidavits and false petitions were the means by which the conspiracy
was to be carried into execution; that they were not the overt acts. If
they had been set out as overt acts in the indictment, the Court would
have seen that they antedated the time, and if an objection had been
made to them the Court would not have received them as overt acts.
The reason why they have been admitted and regarded as in the case all
along, to my mind, was that they were acts tending to prove, so far as
they tended to prove anything, the nature of the combination between
these parties anterior to the 23d of May.

Mr. Ingersoll. Before the conspiracy.

The Court. Before the conspiracy. So that whatever character belonged
to that association anterior to that time, if it was continued on after
that time, carried out with overt acts done subsequently to that
time, they were properly received as evidence going to establish the
conspiracy—not as overt acts, but as means to show the character of the
combination amongst the parties anterior to that date.

Mr. Ingersoll. That saves me a great deal of argument. Now, I
understand, gentlemen, that the Court will instruct you that you cannot
take any petition, any letter, any oath, any paper of any kind that was
filed or written or used prior to the 23d of May, 1879, as an overt act;
that all that that evidence is for is to show you the relation sustained
by the parties before that time.

The Court. Yes; you are right.

Mr. Ingersoll. Now, that saves a great deal of trouble.

There are on the Toquerville and Adairville route, and on the Eugene
City and Bridge Creek route, petitions filed after the 23d of May, 1879,
set out in indictment as overt acts. I shall insist, if the Court
will allow me, that if there is no evidence that those petitions were
dishonest, no evidence going to show that they were not genuine, those
petitions cannot be used as overt acts for the reason that they are
charged in the indictment as false and fraudulent petitions. So,
gentlemen, I take that ground, that as to the petitions filed after the
23d day of May on the only two routes left for these gentlemen to
find overt acts upon (Eugene City to Bridge Creek, and Toquerville to
Adairville), if those petitions have not been proved to be false they
cannot be regarded as overt acts for the reason that they were described
in the indictment itself as false and fraudulent petitions. It is
perfectly clear, is it not?

What else have we left? A couple of affidavits. Who made them? Mr. Peck.
When? Before the 1st day of April, 1879, and Mr. Bliss admits that from
that time on he never had anything to do with this business. Mr. Rerdell
filed them, and Mr. Rerdell swears that he was never in any conspiracy;
and Mr. Bliss admits that Peck, after the 1st of April, had nothing to
do with this business. That substantially knocks the bottom out of that
dish.

Now, they attacked the affidavit on the Bridge Creek route, but they did
not succeed in showing that it was not an honest affidavit.

Now, gentlemen, after what the Court has decided I want to call your
attention to another thing.

Do not forget what the Court has decided—that all these things are not
overt acts, but that they simply show the relations of the parties.

Now, if you go and find Vaile and Miner getting up petitions on their
routes, and you also find Dorsey getting up petitions on his routes,
then they claim that that is the result of an agreement between them.
That is not the law. Neither is there in that the scintilla of common
sense. If I find you plowing in your field and your neighbor plowing
in his field, I have no right to draw the conclusion that you have
conspired to plow or to help each other. But if I find your neighbor and
you plowing in your field, and I afterwards find you and your neighbor
plowing in his field, I have the right to conclude that you have swapped
work and that you have something in common. If I find you plowing in
your field and your neighbor walking behind you sowing grain or dropping
corn, and then I find you in the fall shucking out the corn together,
and I find your neighbor taking half of it to his barn and you taking
half of it to your barn, I make up my mind that you have had some
dealings on the corn question.

Now, we find that on May 5, 1879, these parties absolutely divided,
and after that, when Vaile and Miner got up a petition on their route,
Dorsey did not help them; and when Dorsey got up one on his, Vaile and
Miner did not help him. That shows what the relations of the parties
were. Does that show that they were then in a conspiracy? Does it show
that they had any conspiracy before that time? They had separated their
interest; they had ceased to act together; one did nothing for the
other. If there had been a conspiracy before that time that conspiracy
died on the 5th of May, 1879; and if it did, then there is no
possibility of any conviction in this case, no matter what the evidence
is—not the slightest.

Now, I want you to understand that ground exactly. I am not begging
the question. I am not afraid to meet every point, every paper, every
scratch, in this case. But I want you to understand it. All those things
were allowed for the purpose of showing the relations of the parties,
the relations that the defendants sustained to each other; and the
evidence is that they sustained no relations to each other after 1879;
that each went his own road to attend to his own business in his own
way. That is the evidence.

Now comes the next point. What are the overt acts in the indictment?
Really they are the orders made by Mr. Brady, unless you take this poor
little affidavit made by Peck and filed by Rerdell.

Then comes the next point. You cannot treat anything as an overt act
unless it was made by one of the conspirators. Is there any evidence in
this case that Mr. Brady ever conspired with anybody? Not the slightest.
And unless he conspired with us, any other made by him cannot be regarded
as an overt act in this case. I think everybody will admit that. Unless
Brady conspired with us, and we with him, any order of his cannot be
regarded as an overt act.

I ask you, gentlemen, what evidence is there in this case that Mr. Brady
ever conspired with any of these defendants? I will answer that question
before I get through, and I think I will answer it to your entire
satisfaction.

I will go a step further in this case, and I may go a little further
than the Court will go. I say that when they state in that indictment
that an order is made for the benefit of Miner, Vaile, and Dorsey,
and the evidence is that it was made for the benefit only of Vaile and
Miner, that is a fatal variance, and it cannot be treated as an overt
act for any conspiracy. And when the indictment charges that an order
was made for the benefit of S. W. Dorsey, and Vaile, and Miner, and it
turns out that it was made for the sole benefit of S. W. Dorsey, I claim
that that is a fatal variance.

Gentlemen, I was going through all these overt acts and all these
terrible false claims. But the decision of the Court has utterly and
entirely relieved me from that duty. So I will turn my attention to
another person.

The next defendant to whom I may call your attention is Mr. John W.
Dorsey. It is claimed that John W. Dorsey was one of the original
conspirators; that he helped to hatch and plot this terrible design.
Let us see what interest John W. Dorsey had. You have heard me read the
agreement he made, have you not, with Miner? Now, let me read to you
the agreement that he made on the 16th day of August, 1878. Now, we will
find out what interest John W. Dorsey had in all this conspiracy. On the
16th of August, 1878, there was no reason for telling any lie about
it. They could not get on the routes in August, 1878; they had not the
money, and so they took in Vaile. At that time, gentlemen, there was no
reason for their writing anything in this paper that was not true, not
the slightest. And I take it for granted that most people tell the truth
when there is no possible object in telling anything else, if their
memory is good:

4th. The profits accruing from the business shall be divided as follows:
From routes in Indian Territory, Kansas, Nebraska, and Dakota, to H. M.
Vaile, one-third.

To John R. Miner, one-sixth; to John M. Peck, one-sixth; and to John W.
Dorsey, one-third.

From routes in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah,
Idaho, Washington, Oregon, Nevada, and California, to H. M. Vaile,
one-third; to John R. Miner, one-third; to John M. Peck, one-third.
[Page 4014.]

And to John W. Dorsey nothing. The entire interest of John W. Dorsey in
the whole business was one-third of the profits on routes in the Indian
Territory, Kansas, Nebraska, and Dakota. This was signed by H. M. Vaile,
John R. Miner, John M. Peck, and John W. Dorsey, and I believe these are
all admitted to be the genuine signatures of the parties.

The only routes mentioned in this indictment in which John W. Dorsey on
the 16th day of August, 1878, had any interest whatever were: Kearney to
Kent in Nebraska, Vermillion to Sioux Falls in Dakota, and Bismarck
to Tongue River in Dakota. Remember that, gentlemen. That is very
important. The evidence is that he sold out his interest in the
following December, made a bargain for ten thousand dollars, and the
evidence is that he received the money, and the evidence is that after
that he never had any interest in the profits, no matter how much was
made. And yet these gentlemen say that he was part and parcel of a
conspiracy formed on the 23d of May, 1879. Long before that time he had
sold out every dollar's interest he had, and had no more interest in it
than though he had never existed. He got his ten thousand dollars; that
was all. Now let us see what he did when the routes were divided.

Mr. Merrick. When did you say he sold out and got the money?

Mr. Ingersoll. The bargain was made in December, and his brother wrote
to him at first that Vaile would not give it to him, and then that he
would. Don't you recollect the two letters you asked Dorsey so much
about?

It had been agreed to once, and then after S. W. Dorsey came out of the
Senate John W. Dorsey was paid ten thousand dollars, and Miner swears
that the division was absolute, perfect, and complete; and that nothing
was signed by one for the other after the 5th of May, 1879.

Mr. Bliss. Miner does not say when. He swore that he, signed no papers
after the 5th of May, 1879.

Mr. Ingersoll. He says that he signed no papers for the other side, and
that the other side signed none for Vaile and Miner.

Mr. Davidge. You are talking of two different things.

Mr. Ingersoll. I will show you after awhile that you are wrong, as I
always do. I never made a mistake on you yet.

The only routes mentioned in this indictment in which John W. Dorsey
on the 16th day of August, 1878, had any interest whatever were from
Kearney to Kent, in Nebraska; Vermillion to Sioux Falls, in Dakota; and
Bismarck to Tongue River, in Dakota. And I will say right here that
if at any time I do injustice to Mr. Bliss or anybody else, if it is
pointed out I will take it back cheerfully, and if it is not pointed
out, and they show that I did it, I will get up and admit it and say
that I was mistaken.

Mr. Bliss. You will have a great deal to admit.

Mr. Ingersoll. Very well, I will do it, for I have the courage of
conviction, and I have the courage to say that I am mistaken when I am.

Now, the evidence is that John W. Dorsey sold out his interest for ten
thousand dollars, and that he received the money, and that after that he
had no interest in the profits when the three routes were divided, and
the only three were the ones I have mentioned.

On the first route, from Vermillion to Sioux Falls, John W. Dorsey was
the subcontractor and he gave Mr. Vaile the entire pay for all increases
and all expeditions. John W. Dorsey had the right to subcontract, and
Mr. Vaile had the right to make the contract. The statement on page 726
shows simply that John W. Dorsey never drew a dollar upon that route.
That is one route fairly and squarely disposed of. Understand, I cast
no imputation upon Mr. Vaile for having the contract and for getting the
money. When I come to it I will show you that he had a right to.

The next route is from Kearney to Kent. John W. Dorsey had an interest
in that route, according to the agreement of August 16th, of one-third.
You will see from page 726 of the record that the first quarter John M.
Peck got the money, two hundred and forty-five dollars and six cents.
John W. Dorsey was entitled to one-third of that, if it was profit.
The next quarter was paid on the 22d of January, 1879—that is, for
the fourth quarter of 1878, and that was paid to H. M. Vaile. And never
another solitary cent was paid to anybody in such a way that John W.
Dorsey was entitled to any part or portion of it. That gets that route
out of trouble, so far as John W. Dorsey was concerned, no matter what
the increase may have been after that, no matter what the expedition
was, no matter whether French carried it for nothing, no matter what
happened to Cedarville or that city of Fitzalon; it was no interest to
John W. Dorsey, no matter whether the road ran direct from Fitzalon to
Cedarville or not. He was entitled to one-third of the profits on one
payment to Peck, and that payment was two hundred and forty-five dollars
and six cents; whether he ever got it I do not know.

Let us see how he came out on the next route, from Bismarck to Tongue
River. He went out there to build stations. I will come to that in a
little while. Now, I call attention to page 727. The third quarter from
July 1 to September 30, 1878, was paid November 8, 1878, to H. M.
Vaile. Never a solitary dollar on the route was paid to John W. Dorsey,
according to this record, if you can rely on these books.

That is the state of the case on these three routes. And yet it is
solemnly averred in the indictment that all the orders on these routes
were made for the joint benefit of John W. Dorsey and others. Now,
before another payment was made the division of the routes had been
completed, and John W. Dorsey sold out his interest in these routes and
all others for ten thousand dollars. So that he never received a
dollar upon the Bismarck route and the Vermillion route except as it is
included in the gross sum of ten thousand dollars which he received for
his entire interest, and that entire interest is described perfectly in
the contract of August 16, 1878. Now, it John W. Dorsey had no interest
in any route except as stated in the contract, of course nothing was
done upon any other route for his benefit; nothing was done in which he,
by any possibility, had the slightest pecuniary interest. How were the
petitions filed for his benefit? How were the affidavits made for his
benefit? How were the orders made for his benefit? He had no interest;
he had parted with it, and had nothing more to do with it than the
attorneys for the prosecution in this case.

It is claimed by Mr. Bliss that when John W. Dorsey sold out he agreed
to make the necessary papers for the routes, and he tried to impress
upon your minds the idea that the bargain was that John W. Dorsey knew
that for ten thousand dollars he had to commit perjury and forgery and
several other cheerful crimes, from time to time, as he might be called
upon by the gentlemen who had been his co-conspirators.

J. W. Dorsey frankly and cheerfully swore that he agreed to make the
necessary papers. He did not swear that he agreed to commit any frauds,
perjuries, or forgeries. Nothing of the kind. He agreed to execute, of
course, the necessary legal papers—the papers that, as contractor, were
necessary for him to make to vest title of the route in the person to
whom he had sold—just the necessary papers that would allow the man who
had paid him for the route to draw the money from the Government if he
performed the service.

Now, what were the papers? I say right here, gentlemen, that under the
law as it was then, under the law as it is now, it is impossible for
a contractor to assign his contract so as to be relieved from
responsibility to the Government; the Government will not permit it. The
Government will permit him to make a subcontract, and that is what John
W. Dorsey did; that is one of the things he agreed to do. In order to
make that subcontract absolutely certain; in order to put it beyond his
power to do anything with it, that subcontract was made for the entire
pay, for the entire increase and expedition. And what more? In order
to make that absolutely perfect, so they would not have a loop-hole
anywhere, he signed blank drafts upon the Post-Office Department for the
entire pay of every quarter during the contract term. And then, if they
were fined—and nobody knew how much they would be fined—they had the
right to fill up that order for the amount due them from the Post-Office
Department after deducting fines.

He sold out in March, 1879. The regulation or order making it necessary
for the contractor to make an oath as to additional stock and men was
not in existence, was not a binding law or regulation, until the 1st
day of July, 1879. When he sold out in March, unless he were gifted
with prophecy, he would not know what the regulation of the 1st of July
following would be.

Now, there were two affidavits made by John W. Dorsey on route 38134,
Pueblo to Rosita. Around those affidavits Mr. Bliss hovered and Mr.
Ker remained. John W. Dorsey testifies that he received one of those
affidavits in the morning and swore to it, and that it was filled up
when he swore to it. Mr. Bliss and Mr. Ker, I believe, both say that it
was not filled up.

Mr. Bliss. Where does Mr. Dorsey say that it was filled up when he swore
to it?

Mr. Ingersoll. I have not the page here, but I will give it to you. He
swore that a dozen times, that he never swore to any blank affidavits.

Mr. Bliss. I undertake to say that it cannot be found in his evidence.

The Court. He testified that he received them both by mail, and that the
second one was contained in a letter which said that there was an error
in the first, and the second was sent for the purpose of correcting that
error.

Mr. Ingersoll. There could not have been any error in the first unless
it had been filled up. You cannot make an error in blank. On page 4838,
Mr. Rerdell swore that he left this city on the 17th or 18th of
April for the West, and then he adds, "I think on the 18th." Then the
Government brought the hotel-keepers from Sydney, Nebraska, and from
Denver, and from some other place, nearly as many witnesses as you
had about the paper pulp. And they proved that Rerdell was beyond the
Missouri River on the 21 st of April.

Now see what Mr. Bliss says on page 4914:

And yet, gentlemen, it is beyond dispute that as early as the 15th of
April, 1879, Mr. Rerdell had left this city and gone West.

Why did he have it stated on the 15th, gentlemen? I will tell you. Oh,
I tell you the human mind is a queer thing when it gets to working. John
W. Dorsey was in Middlebury, Vermont; if a letter had been sent from
here on the 15th, it certainly would have got up there before the
21st. So they wanted Rerdell out of this town as early as possible, so
that it would make it highly improbable that it would take a letter from
that time to the 21st to get to Middlebury. Now, the evidence is that he
left here, he thinks, on the 18th. When did the letter get up there? I
think the 20th or 21st.

Mr. Davidge. There was a Sunday intervened.

Mr. Ingersoll. They say, gentlemen, that there is no evidence that the
blanks were filled, and yet John W. Dorsey swears that he received a
letter stating that the first affidavit was erroneous, and the second
one was sent to him to correct it. How would you correct one affidavit
in blank by another affidavit in blank? How did he ever get those
affidavits? I will tell you. We will have that little matter settled.
Here is what Rerdell swears on page 2232:

Q. When did you return from that visit?—A. I returned about the 5th of
May.

Q. State whether or not after you returned, you found blank affidavits
among the papers connected with the business?—A. Yes, sir.

Q. How many did you find?—A. Well, there were several blank affidavits
of John W. Dorsey's and several of John M. Peck's. I don't know how many
there were.

Q. Were they blank affidavits?—A. Well, sir, they were blank affidavits
similar to that one I sent, leaving out the number of men and animals in
each case.

Q. Did they purport to have been sworn to?—A. Yes, sir.

Q. Were those affidavits among the papers when you left here to go
West?—A. Some of them were. I think those of Peck's were here, probably
four or five, or half a dozen, and I had made out, before I left here,
a lot of them and sent them to John W. Dorsey. In the mean time, when I
returned here, John W. Dorsey was here.

Mr. Rerdell swears that just before he went away he sent the affidavits
to John W. Dorsey, and the only question between them is, were they in
blank, or were they filled. John W. Dorsey swears that they were filled,
because when he received the second he received a letter stating that
there was an error in the first, and that error had been corrected in
the second. The last nail in the coffin of that doctrine.

Mr. Ingersoll. [Resuming.] May it please the Court and gentlemen of
the jury, before finishing what I am about to say in regard to the
two affidavits of John W. Dorsey I will now call your attention to a
statement made by Mr. Bliss, on page 304, in his opening speech to you:

Mr. Dorsey, while Senator, was, I think, chairman of the Committee on
Post-Offices, and chairman of the subcommittee in charge of all the
appropriations. That brought him, of course, directly in connection with
the Post-Office Department and its officials, and gave him, as we all
understand, necessarily, from the nature of the case, the possession of
some exceptional power over officials of the department—greater power
than a Senator would have when occupying som'-other position.

That statement was made to you, gentlemen, for the purpose of making you
believe that while Senator Dorsey was a member of the Senate he was also
chairman of the PostOffice Committee, and of the subcommittee having
power over the appropriations, and that he not only took advantage of
being a Senator, but by virtue of being chairman of that committee had
exceptional power over the officials of the Post-Office Department.
He was trying to convince you that, finding himself chairman of that
committee, finding himself with this power, he thereupon entered into a
conspiracy.

What evidence did the Government offer upon that point? Nothing. Did
Mr. Bliss at that time suppose that Mr. Dorsey was chairman of that
committee? The records were all here. The Government had plenty of
agents to ascertain what the fact was; and yet, without knowing the
facts, Mr. Bliss stated to this jury that he believed that; that Dorsey
was chairman of the Post-Office Committee and of the sub-committee;
wanting to poison your minds with the idea that Mr. Dorsey had taken
advantage of having held that position. Now, the only evidence upon
that point I find on page 3992, and that is the evidence of Mr. Dorsey
himself. He is asked, Were you a member of the Post-Office Committee in
1877? No. In 1878? No. Or chairman of the subcommittee? Here is what he
says, that he had not been on that Post-Office Committee "for nearly
two years" prior to July 1, 1878. And yet an attorney representing the
United States, representing the greatness and honor, the grandeur and
the glory of fifty millions of people, for the purpose of poisoning your
minds, there made that statement without knowing anything about it or
without caring anything about it. I thought I would clear that point up
the first thing this morning.

Now we will go on with the affidavits. You know these terrible
affidavits that were sworn to in Vermont. It was stated that the first
affidavit was wrong and that the second affidavit was substituted for
the first. Now, if the second affidavit took more money out of the
Treasury than the first affidavit you might say that there was a
sinister motive, a dishonest motive in withdrawing the first and
substituting the second, unless it appeared clearly that the second was
true. But suppose it turns out that the substitution did not take an
extra dollar from the United States? Then what motive do you say they
had in doing it? Was it a motive to steal something, or was it a motive
simply to be correct? What other motive could there have been?

Now, let us see. The first affidavit said three men and twelve animals;
for the expedition, seven men and thirty-eight animals; and the
proportion was exactly three hundred per cent—that is, three times as
much. Now, then, they put in another affidavit. The second affidavit
says two men and six animals. That makes eight. And on the expedited
schedule six men and eighteen animals, which makes twenty-four; and
three times eight are twenty-four; exactly the same. Three times fifteen
are forty-five, and three times eight are twenty-four, and the amount of
money drawn under the second affidavit is precisely the same that would
have been drawn under the first affidavit.

Now, do you pretend to tell me that they took the trouble to withdraw
the first affidavit and put in the second affidavit because they were
trying to defraud somebody? On the contrary, they took that trouble
because there was a mistake made in the first affidavit and they wanted
to correct it, not for the purpose of getting more money, but for the
purpose of getting a correct affidavit.

Mr. Crane (foreman of the jury). Was not that first affidavit
interlined?

Mr. Ingersoll. No, sir.

If there had been any fraud about it, would they not have withdrawn the
paper? They had a right to withdraw it. Yet they left the paper there;
they left it there as a witness. Why? Because it did not prove anything
against them; it only proved they desired to be correct.

My recollection is there were erasures in both affidavits. Let us
find them. Before I get through I will endeavor to show you that
every erasure and interlineation is an evidence of honesty instead
of dishonesty. What are the numbers of these affidavits? [Examining the
papers.] They are number 4 C and 5 C. Route 38134. I will read them.

Hon. Thomas J. Brady,

Second Assistant Postmaster-General:

Sir: The number of men and animals necessary to carry the mail on route
38134 on the present schedule is three men and twelve animals. The
number necessary on a schedule of ten hours, seven times a week, is
seven men and thirty-eight animals.

Respectfully,

## John W. Dorsey

Subcontractor.

There does not appear to be any erasure or interlineation or anything
else in that affidavit. Now, here is the other one:

Hon. Thomas J. Brady,

Second Assistant Postmaster-General:

Sir: The number of men and animals necessary to carry the mails on route
38134 on the present schedule, seven times a week, is two men and six
animals. The number necessary on the schedule of ten hours, seven times
a week, is six men and eighteen animals.

Respectfully,

## John W. Dorsey

Subcontractor.

That is the second affidavit. The first was withdrawn. That is, they
had permission to withdraw it, and in the second affidavit is the
interlineation "seven times a week," isn't it? That is simply an
interlineation, because there had been an omission to state the service
that was then being performed or that was to be performed.

Mr. Crane (foreman of the jury). That has puzzled me a good deal, to
understand the motive of those two affidavits.

Mr. Ingersoll. There certainly could not be any motive for putting in
seven or three times a week, for this is simply to make it agree with
the truth. If I give a note to a man for five hundred dollars and should
happen to write in the word "hundred" and not the word "five," and then
should take it back and write in the word "five" above it, that is not a
sign of fraud.

Will somebody give me number 18 K; I just happened to see something
there which may be worth something, or may not.

Now, gentlemen, here is a petition marked 2 A, that Rerdell swears that
the words "schedule thirteen hours" were written in by Miner. In one of
these papers I happened to see the word "schedule." Just notice the word
"schedule" on this paper [exhibiting to the jury,] and then have the
kindness to look at the word "schedule" in this other one [exhibiting
to the jury,] and see whether you think one man wrote them both. Rerdell
says he wrote the word "schedule" in that one [indicating,] and that
Miner wrote the word "schedule" in this other one [indicating.]

Now, gentlemen, there is another charge against John W. Dorsey, on
route 38145, and upon that route he made two affidavits. In the first
affidavit he swore it would require three men and seven animals on the
schedule as it then was, and that makes ten; that with the proposed
schedule it would take eleven men and twenty-six animals, making
thirty-seven. Now, if it took ten on the schedule as it then was,
and thirty-seven on the proposed schedule, then the Government, which
accepted that affidavit, would have to pay him three times and
seven-tenths as much, which is the relation between ten and
thirty-seven. The proportion then is three and seven-tenths. On the
first affidavit his pay would have been twelve thousand nine hundred and
thirty-five dollars and fifty-two cents a year.

Now I come to the second affidavit, which said that for the schedule
as it then stood ijt would take twenty men and animals. On the proposed
schedule he said it would take twelve men and forty-two animals, making
fifty-four. Now, the ratio of the second affidavit was as twenty is
to fifty-four. The ratio in the first affidavit was as ten is to
thirty-seven, so that under the second affidavit, which they say was
willful and corrupt perjury, he got eight thousand four hundred and
fifty-seven dollars a year instead of twelve thousand nine hundred and
thirty-five dollars and fifty-two cents. There were three years for the
contract to run, and a little over. Under the first affidavit he would
have received thirteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-two dollars and
seventy-five cents during the contract term more than he took under the
second. An affidavit was put in there that he thought was erroneous. He
withdrew that affidavit and put in a second one. If he had allowed the
first to remain and they had calculated the amount on the first he would
have received thirteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-two dollars and
seventy-five cents more than he did under the second affidavit. But he
withdrew the first and put in the second, and took from the Treasury
thirteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-two dollars and seventy-five
cents less, and they charge that as a fraud, as an evidence of
conspiracy and perjury. Now, that is all there is against John W.
Dorsey.

On page 4090 John W. Dorsey swears that General Miles wanted to know how
far apart he (Dorsey) was building the stations on the Tongue River and
Bismarck route. Let us turn to page 4090. You know they were trying to
prove that when John W. Dorsey went out there and built the ranches
that he was going to build them about fifteen or seventeen miles apart,
because it was claimed that they knew there was to be increase and
expedition. You remember that. Now, when John W. Dorsey came upon the
stand he swore that when they went out there they started to build
those stations, I believe, somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty or
thirty-five miles apart, as they could get water. Then he swore that
when he went himself over, I think, to Miles City, where General Miles
was, that General Miles asked him how far he was building his stations
apart. John W. Dorsey told him. Then General Miles gave him his advice.
Now, I want to read this to you. I asked him this question:

Q. When you got to Fort Keogh did you go to see General Miles?—A. Yes,
sir.

Q. Did you have any conversation with him in regard to this route, with
regard to the needs of the country for mail service; and, if so, what
was it? A. I told him all about the business generally. He seemed to
understand it pretty well. He wanted to know how far apart we were
building stations. I told him. He wanted to know how often the mails
would run, and I told him it would be weekly service, I thought. "We
have been pent up here two or three years," he says, "with mails from
eighteen to twenty days apart, reaching us by the way of Ogden and
Bozeman." And he says, "We can get it in seven or eight days over this
line." And now I would like to say that he did not say that he knew
there would be an increase, but he said he should like to have it
increased to three trips a week, or daily, and fifty hours' time. I told
him there was no use to try to get it at all; that it could not be done
at present; that nobody knew the distance through that country; that we
expected to have it measured; that it was claimed by everybody that it
was a good deal more than two hundred and fifty and probably over three
hundred miles, and nobody would undertake to carry it. Said I, "If
you extend it the contractor can throw up his contract and you will be
without any mail." He said, "We are going to ask for what we want, but
we will take what they will give us."

"Your stations are too far apart; you can't run any fast time with your
stations so far apart; you want more stations, and nearer together." The
result was that when I went back I met Mr. Pennell, who had built the
stations thirty to thirty-five miles apart, and going back we put in
intermediate stations. We only carried out lumber enough from Bismarck
to build eight or nine stations, for the windows, &c.; we did not think
of building any more at that time. Mr. Pennell says the order was to
build the stations seventeen to twenty miles apart in going out. That
is no such thing. There was not a station built going out closer than
thirty to thirty-five miles.

Q. What, if anything, did General Miles say that convinced you that you
ought to build stations nearer together?

Then he testifies that on account of what he said he did this, and that
he had no instructions from Washington.

That is the testimony. Mr. Bliss endeavored to frighten the witness by
stating in his presence that he (Bliss) did not believe General Miles
would swear to any such thing, judging, of course, from the conversation
that he (Mr. Bliss) had had with General Miles. Notwithstanding that
threat, John W. Dorsey, confident that he was telling the truth, knowing
that he was telling the truth, told his story, and the Government never
brought General Miles to contradict him.

Now, the next thing about John W. Dorsey is the conversation that he had
with some men in July or August out on the road, that I have spoken to
you about before. Nothing could be more perfectly improbable. It may be
that he did tell some man that he was a brother of Senator Dorsey, and,
perhaps, he did say that if he got into a tight place or hard up for
money he could borrow money from his brother. I do not know what he may
have said on that subject. But, gentlemen, there is not a man on this
jury, not one of you, who has the slightest suspicion that John W.
Dorsey at that time told those men substantially that his brother was in
a conspiracy with the Second Assistant Postmaster-General, and that
he, John W. Dorsey, was also a conspirator. There is not one of you who
believes that, not one, and you never will. Why not? Because it is
so utterly and infinitely unreasonable and absurd. Now, that is the
evidence against John W. Dorsey. My attention is called to one other
point in his case, and so I will call your attention to it.

Mr. Bliss, gentlemen, on page 243, in speaking of the two affidavits on
the Pueblo and Rosita route, says:

We find this extraordinary condition of things. On route 38134, from
Pueblo to Rosita, which, I think, is the same route upon which the
obliging Mr. John W. Dorsey, as I have just stated to you, was allowed
to make the affidavit instead of Mr. Miner.

Now, he goes on to describe these two affidavits, and then he says:

Those two affidavits were before Mr. Brady, made by John W. Dorsey on
the same day, and yet Mr. Brady chose to pick out one or the other of
them and say, "I believe that as the absolutely conclusive statement of
the number of men and animals that are now in use upon that route,
and upon that affidavit I will make my order taking from the Treasury
thousands of dollars of money." You will see that the first affidavit
made the number two men and six animals, making eight as the number of
stock and carriers then in use; but the other one called for three
men and twelve animals, making fifteen as the number then in use, and,
therefore, according as he accepted one or the other, by the rule of
three, to which I called your attention just now, there would be twice
the amount of money allowed from the Treasury under the one affidavit
that there would be under the other.

Just think of that, gentlemen. The number of men and animals then in use
has nothing to do with the number of men and animals stated in the other
affidavit; those amounts bear no relation to each other. The number of
men and animals in use in the first affidavit, and the number that would
be necessary on the next schedule, do bear a relation to each other. The
number of men and animals on the second affidavit on the then schedule
bears relation to the proposed number on the proposed schedule, and
not to the number on the other affidavit. And yet Mr. Bliss stood right
before you, with those two affidavits that would take the same amount
of money out of the Treasury, to a fraction, precisely the same—not the
difference of the billionth part of a farthing—and stated to you that
one would take twice as much money from the Treasury as the other. You
will think that he is as defective in mathematics as in law. I say to
you now that the amount that would be taken out of the Treasury on those
two affidavits is precisely the same.

I did not think that anybody could excel Mr. Ker in mathematics, but Mr.
Bliss bears off the palm. He bean, off the palm even in misstatement,
and bears off the palm in mistake. The two affidavits would call for the
same amount of money precisely, and yet Mr. Bliss stands up before you
and says there is twice as much on one as the other. Now, what is that
for? That is to prejudice you: that is all.

Gentlemen, you saw John W. Dorsey; you heard his testimony; you know
whether he is a man to be believed. It is for you to judge whether he is
honest or dishonest, and I leave his testimony with you. It was direct;
it was to the point; and his manner on the stand was absolutely and
perfectly honest.

Now, there is another point made. You know you have to think of these
things as you can, and step on them and then go on. Another point is
made, and it was urged by Mr. Bliss day after day. And what is that?
That Mr. Brady took the affidavits of all these men as absolutely true;
that he allowed them to fix the limit of the money they would take out
of the Treasury; that he allowed interested men to make the affidavits,
and then he took the affidavits as absolutely true; that he allowed the
contractors themselves to fix the sum they would seize. Now let us see
what that is. Mr. Brady swears that he regarded the affidavit as the
honest opinion of the man who made it, but not as necessarily true;
that he had a standard of his own. Your views upon all such
questions, gentlemen, will depend upon which side of human nature you
stand—whether you are a believer in total depravity, or whether you
think there is a little virtue left in human nature. If you stand on
the side of suspicion, if you allow the snake of prejudice to forever
whisper in your ear, why, your idea will be that every man is a rascal;
and whenever he does a decent action you will say, "This action is a
little velvet in the paw for the purpose of covering the claw of some
devilment that he has in store." If you judge from that side you can
torture any act, no matter what it is, into evidence of guilt. But you
may judge from the other side and say that men, as a rule, are decent;
that they would rather do a kind act than a mean thing; that they would
rather tell the truth than tell a lie. I tell you to-day that there is
an immensity of good in human nature. There are hundreds and thousands
and millions of men to-day who are honest, who would not for anything
stain the whiteness of their souls with a lie. They are laboring-men, it
may be, working by the day for a dollar or a dollar and a half, and only
taking enough of it to keep life and strength in their bodies and giving
the rest to wife and child. And there are battles as grand as were ever
won by a celebrated general, and just as bravely fought, with poverty
day after day; and the man who fights the battles gains the victory and
goes down to the grave with his manhood untarnished. You know it, and so
do I. And yet you are all the time told to suspect everything, no matter
what it is. There is a flower there; ah, but there is a snake under it!
Always making that remark; accounting for every decent looking action by
a base motive. That is not my view of human nature.

Now, Mr. Brady says that he had a standard of his own; that he let these
men make their statements, and he took their statements as being what
they believed to be the truth. And why not? Suppose I say to a man,
"What will you take for that horse?" And the man says, "That horse is
worth a hundred dollars." Suppose he goes and swears to it; that would
not make any difference in the price I would give for the horse, not a
bit. You see I am not buying an affidavit, I am buying a horse. So, when
Brady says to the contractor, "What will you carry the mail at six miles
an hour for?" and the man says "Twenty-five thousand dollars," and he
swears to it, Brady is not buying the affidavit; it is the service. If
he does not believe the service is worth that much, he says, "I can't do
it," and that is all. But they say "No; that is not what Brady did."

Now, as a matter of fact, there are nineteen routes in this indictment,
and I believe eighteen of them were expedited. I have made a calculation
for the purpose of showing that the amount to be paid was a matter of
bargain; that it was a matter talked over between the parties; that
it was the result of agreement, and that Mr. Brady did not take the
affidavit as the actual amount, and that they were not bound to take the
amount that he actually said. Now, I have deducted what was allowed
from what could have been allowed on the affidavits, and I find that
the price did not depend upon the affidavits. I find that there was
a difference between the amount called for by the affidavits and the
amount granted of over three hundred thousand dollars. And yet these
gentlemen say to you that Brady allowed the men who made the affidavits
absolutely to fix the amount. Gentlemen, that will not do. It was
a matter of agreement, a matter of bargain, the same as any other
agreement or any other bargain.

Now, gentlemen, suppose they had had a conspiracy and said, "We want to
get all the money we can out of the Treasury." They would have agreed
upon a per cent.; they would have had all those affidavits showing
substantially the same per cent., wouldn't they? Because they would have
wanted harmony in it. They would have said, "It won't do for you to make
an affidavit on that route with one thousand two hundred per cent., on
this route with five hundred, on that route with two hundred and twenty
per cent., and on the other route with three hundred and forty per cent.
That won't do; that is nonsense; we are in a conspiracy and we want all
these things to agree and harmonize." And the result would have
been that they would have had about the same per cent, in all those
affidavits. And yet those affidavits vary in per cent, all the way from
two hundred and twenty to one thousand two hundred. They say, "Result of
conspiracy." I do not look at it in that way.

It is also claimed that the persons who sold out—that is to say, John
M. Peck and John W. Dorsey—agreed to make the necessary papers that the
other parties required. That being so, why should not affidavits have
been made in blank? Now, I ask you if the other parties were willing to
swear to anything that these men would write, why were they made that
way? Why not avoid the suspicious circumstance of blanks and put the
amount in at first, knowing that the men would not hesitate to swear? Of
what use was it, gentlemen, to have an affidavit suspiciously made, to
have blanks suspiciously left, when the men were willing to swear to
any numbers they would put in? Why did not the parties who made the
affidavits write in the amounts? Does not that very fact, that blanks
were left, show that they were to take the judgment of the men who were
to do the swearing? Why would they leave blanks? Why did they not fill
them up at the time and have them sworn to?

Why were they not continuously written? That is another point, if this
was a conspiracy. Guilt is always conscious that it is guilty. Guilt is
always suspecting detection. Guilt is infinitely suspicious. Guilt would
make all the papers as nearly right as possible. Guilt would look out
for erasures. Guilt would abhor blots. Guilt would have avoided
having blanks filled in with different colored inks. Guilt would
want everything fitting everything else, nothing to excite suspicion.
Innocence is negligent. The man with honest intentions is the one that
does not care. But the guilty man does not travel in the snow. He wants
no tracks left.

Now, another thing: The fact that no effort was made to have the
affidavits in the same handwriting, no effort to have the blanks
apparently filled at the same time, that they were interlined, that
there were erasures—all those things tend to show that the parties
were honest in what they did. It was just as easy to have one without an
erasure as with it; ii was just as easy to have one continuously written
as to have the blanks filled up; just as easy to have one without any
interlineations as with it. And yet these parties, knowing that they
were conspirators (according to these gentlemen), Mr. Brady occupying
a high and responsible position, were so careless of their reputations,
that they did not even endeavor to make the papers passable upon their
face.

Another thing: These very routes were investigated by Congress in
1878—this very business. If the parties at that time had been conscious
of guilt, why were any suspicious papers left on file? Why were not
others substituted that had no suspicious interlineations, no suspicious
erasures, no suspicious blanks that had been filed? Why were these very
affidavits at that time reported to Congress?

The first investigation was in 1878, and on account of that
investigation the contractors for about a month and a half were left.
Then there was another investigation in 1880.

Mr. Merrick. Is there any evidence that they were all reported to
Congress?

Mr. Ingersoll. I think so; I think that is here in the record. I
understand the evidence to be that it was all reported to Congress.

Mr. Merrick. The investigation of 1880 was general, and not as to these
particular routes.

Mr. Ingersoll. In 1878 there was a special investigation growing out
of these Clendenning bonds and out of the Peck bids, and out of the
connection that they said Stephen W. Dorsey had with this business. That
is what it grew out of. Now, in the light of that investigation, let us
take it for granted for one moment that according to their statement the
parties had conspired. If anything on earth would make them afraid about
papers I think it would have been that investigation; and yet no effort
was made to conceal one, not the slightest.

Then we will go another step. General Brady was Second Assistant
Postmaster-General. All these papers were absolutely in his power. He
could have called for them at any time. Every suspicious paper could
have been destroyed or an unsuspicious one substituted for it.

Now, I want to know if it is conceivable that General Brady, under these
charges, when the new administration came in, under the threat of the
Government, would voluntarily leave those papers upon the files if they
had been dishonest and he knew it?

Take another step. So far as we have learned from the prosecution I
believe there is one paper claimed by them to have been lost. They do
claim that there was a second affidavit on the Bismarck and Tongue River
route. One is gone and one remains. Which remains? The affidavit for
one hundred and fifty men and one hundred and fifty horses. It seems to
me absolutely capable of demonstration that we did not take the one that
is gone. Had we been going to take anything we would have taken the one
for one hundred and fifty men and one hundred and fifty horses, and
left the other. But the other, about which nobody ever did complain, was
taken, and the one upon which they build their great argument of fraud
upon that route was left. And then it turned out that General Brady only
allowed forty per cent, of that affidavit.

Now, this prosecution was not begun in a moment. It was talked about for
weeks and months, I might almost say for years. Talk, talk, talk in
the papers everywhere. These men were not suddenly charged with this
offence. They understood it; they knew it. I think I have been engaged
in this suit, or suits growing out of this business, for two years. It
was a matter of slow growth. Mr. Brady retired, I believe, some time in
April, 1881, knowing at that time that these charges had been made and
that the charges were being pressed. Mr. Dorsey knew it at the same
time. All these defendants knew it. Now they say that at that time we
were in conspiracy with Mr. Brady, and they say that at that time we
were in conspiracy with Mr. Turner. We had the papers in our power.

Now, if Mr. Dorsey was wicked enough to conspire, if Mr. Brady was
villainous enough to conspire, I ask you whether they would have left
behind the evidence of their conspiracy? Why were the papers left?
Because General Brady never dreamed that one of them was dishonest.

Why did not Vaile and Miner, John W. Dorsey and Peck and Stephen W.
Dorsey ask for the papers? Because they believed every one to be honest,
and they had no use for them. They were willing that the Government
should make out of them what it could. I ask again, is it conceivable
that John R. Miner, if he knew there was on the files of the department
a petition that he had changed, that he had erased, that he had
interlined or forged, is it conceivable, if he had been wicked enough
to enter into the conspiracy, that he would have been foolish enough to
leave the paper there? Would he not have gone to Brady and said to him,
"I conspired; you know it; I changed the petition, and I want it; I
erased a word in a petition, I want it; I signed a name to a petition, I
want it"? And Brady would have said, "Yes, and you ought to have called
for it long ago; you can have it." If S. W. Dorsey had interlined an
affidavit or had filled a blank, if S. W. Dorsey had made an erasure
or an interlineation, he, of course, must have known it, and if he
conspired with Brady he must have known it, and he must have gone to
General Brady and said, "I want that affidavit on such a route; we can
write another, and I want that; I want that petition;" and it would have
been given. You cannot conceive of such infinite stupidity as to say
that those people knew that those papers were dishonest, and that they
still left them on file as weapons for their enemies. You cannot do it.

So much, gentlemen, for the affidavits, and so much for the papers.

Now, there is another question, and I have no doubt that you have asked
it yourselves. It has been asked a great many times by the prosecution.
That question is this: Why did Dorsey retain Rerdell in his employ after
the 20th of June, 1881? These gentleman tell you that it is evidence of
guilt that he did it. I will tell you why he did it. At that time the
public mind was almost infinitely excited on this question. At that time
the public was ready to believe anything. It had its mouth wide open,
like a young robin, ready for worms or shingle-nails—it made no
difference—anything that dropped in. Every newspaper was charging that
these defendants were guilty, that Stephen W. Dorsey was a conspirator,
that millions had been taken from the Treasury, and there were nearly as
many mistakes in the press then as in the speech of Mr. Bliss now. But
I can excuse that, because it was before the evidence. Now, what was Mr.
Dorsey to do in the then state of the public mind? That man, no matter
how bad he was, how base he was, had the power to have him indicted.
That man could have gone before the grand jury and had Mr. Dorsey or any
other public man indicted in the then state of excitement and feeling of
the public. What was the result of his going even to James and MacVeagh?
I believe Mr. Turner says that on account of the statement of this man
Rerdell, he (Turner) was turned out of his office. That is the effect.
What became of McGrew? What became of Lilley? What became of Lake? What
became of twenty or thirty other officials upon whose reputation this
man had breathed the poison of slander? Stephen W. Dorsey at that time
knew that that man in the then state of public excitement was powerful
for mischief. That man made the affidavit of June, 1881, at the request
of James W. Bosler, as he himself says, and swore that he went to the
Government simply to find out the Government's secrets; swore that he
was still upon the side of Stephen W. Dorsey; took back what he had
said, and swore that it was a lie. The question then was what to do with
him? Stephen W. Dorsey made up his mind not to do anything more, just to
let him alone, just let him stay as he was. That was the wise course.
It was the course that any wise man, in my judgment, would have pursued
under the circumstances. What else could he do? Let him alone. Let him
alone. He did not at that time expect that he would ever be indicted. He
shrank from an indictment, as every sensitive man does, because when you
have indicted a man you have put a stain upon him that even the verdict
of not guilty does not altogether remove. He did not want that stain.
He was a man of power; he was a man of position, a man of social and
political standing, a man wielding as much influence as any other one
man in the United States. He did not wish to be indicted. He did not
wish his reputation to be soiled and stained. And so he allowed that man
to stay where he was. He may have made a mistake, but whether mistake or
not, that is what he did.

There is another question. Why did we fail to produce our books and
papers? I will tell you. The notice to produce them was given to us
on the 13th day of February. We had noticed curious motions. Two days
afterwards, Mr. Rerdell went on the stand. What did they want the books
and papers for? For Mr. Rerdell to look at. Why did he want to look at
the books and papers? To stake out his testimony. He hated to depend
upon his memory. We took the responsibility of letting the witness
swear to the contents of the books and papers, and let them call that
secondary evidence. We took that responsibility rather than to furnish
the books and papers to be looked at by that man in order that he might
make no mistakes in his testimony. What happened afterwards justified
our course. If we had shown to him the books and papers, and checks,
and stubs, do you think he would have made any mistake about that seven
thousand five hundred dollar check? Would he have said that he went
with Dorsey, and that Dorsey drew the money, and that he looked over
his shoulder, and that then he and Dorsey walked down to the Post-Office
Department, if he had known that that check was drawn to his order? If
he had known before he swore, that he indorsed that check, he would have
said he went down and got the money himself; he would not have said that
Dorsey did. He would have made no mistakes there. He would not have
been driven into the corner of saying "stub" or "stubs," "checkbook"
or "check-books," "amount" or "amounts." No, sir. And that one thing
justified absolutely the wisdom of our course.

Then the Court decided that, having failed to produce our books on
notice and allowed the other side to introduce secondary evidence of
their contents, we would not be allowed then to produce them. I insisted
that we had the right then to produce them, and the Court decided that
we had not. We took the responsibility of refusing, and we took that
responsibility because we made up our minds that we would not allow
that man to look over the books, checks, and stubs for the purpose of
manufacturing his testimony.

The Court. Where did you offer to produce the books?

Mr. Merrick. Where did you offer the production of the books? That is
just what I was about to ask.

Mr. Carpenter. The Court said we could not.

Mr. Merrick. Where did you make the offer?

The Court. I want to know.

Mr. Carpenter. Mr. Ingersoll did not say he made the offer.

Mr. Merrick. I think he did.

The Court. I think he did.

Mr. Carpenter. Just read it, Mr. Stenographer. He says nothing of the
kind.

The Stenographer, (reading)

I insisted that we had the right then to produce them, and the Court
decided that we had not.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is exactly what I say.

The Court. The Court did not give any intimation at that time, but
after that point in the trial had passed, several days, several weeks,
I think, the attention of the Court was called to this question, and the
Court remarked, in the course of the opinion, that it understood the
law to be that after a party, upon whom notice had been given to produce
books, had failed to produce the books, and the other side had given
secondary evidence, then the Court would not allow the party having the
books to produce them for the purpose of contradicting the secondary
evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. That is all I claim.

The Court. But there was no such offer made, so far as I recollect.

Mr. Ingersoll. Why should we make the offer after your Honor had decided
that we could not do it?

Mr. Merrick. I will answer the question. Because whether it would have
been accepted or not was a question for the counsel for the Government
when the offer was made. And again, the learned counsel will recollect
that after the notice was given, when S. W. Dorsey was on the stand on
cross-examination, I demanded those books and those stubs, and he asked
leave to consult his counsel. The Court denied that request, and then
there was a peremptory refusal to produce any book or any paper.

The Court. Oh, yes. Mr. Ingersoll and Mr. Davidge repeatedly announced
to the Court that they were not going to produce books to assist the
prosecution.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes; I said that twenty times, and the Court, as I
understood it, held that after we had refused to produce the books and
driven the other party to secondary evidence, we could not then produce
the books.

The Court. You made no offer to produce the books.

Mr. Ingersoll. I resisted the opinion of the Court and made the best
argument I could, but the Court said that was not the law.

The Court. The remark of the Court arose upon an argument on the part of
Mr. Ingersoll, and if I am not mistaken, upon the effect of the refusal
to produce the books and papers, Mr. Ingersoll contending that there was
no presumption against his client on account of the refusal to produce
the books and papers, and that the jury ought to be instructed that the
only effect of refusing to produce the books and papers was to leave the
case upon the secondary evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. I am not referring to that discussion, nor to that
decision of your Honor; I am referring to the decision you made during
the trial.

The Court. That was the only occasion since this trial began, in
which the Court referred to that rule of law which denied the right
to introduce primary evidence for the purpose of contradicting the
secondary evidence, after the primary evidence had been withheld in the
first instance.

Mr. Ingersoll. Of course, I am not absolutely certain, I never am; but
I will endeavor to find in the record exactly what you said on that
subject.

And now, in order that we may be perfectly correct, and in order to
show, too, how easy it is to be mistaken, Mr. Merrick just said upon
that very subject of the books and papers, that while Mr. Dorsey was
upon the stand, he asked leave to consult his counsel. If Mr. Merrick
will read the testimony he will find that Mr. Dorsey made that remark
when he was asked about the affidavit of June 20, 1881.

Mr. Merrick. You are right.

Mr. Ingersoll. That just shows how easy it is to make a mistake when it
comes to a matter of recollection.

Mr. Merrick. I think it was upon a question of the insertion of the
change in the character of the affidavit—its being addressed to the
President; and when I asked him if he had not made that change he asked
leave to consult his counsel. For the moment I thought it was upon the
books. But the substance still remains, that, on the question of the
books, I asked him on his cross-examination—and the counsel will state
his recollection to be the same—about the stubs and the books, and
called upon him to produce them, and the counsel replied, "We will not."

Mr. Ingersoll. I presume I did. I made that reply a good many times.

Mr. Merrick. Will the counsel be frank enough to state when that
decision was made?

Mr. Ingersoll. Which decision?

Mr. Merrick. When he was on the stand on cross-examination.

Mr. Ingersoll. And I said we would not produce them?

Mr. Merrick. After the testimony in chief and Rerdell was gone.

Mr. Ingersoll. Then I said we would not produce them. And now I will say
that the decision of the Court was made before that time that we could
not produce them, and if I do not show it then I will publicly take it
back.

The Court. I do not think you can show it.

Mr. Ingersoll. If I do not, then I will beg your Honor's pardon, and if
I do—if I do—Now, I think what happened afterwards in this case with
that very witness justifies the course that we pursued. He also stated
at the time that we had, I believe, some twenty thousand pages of
letters on all possible subjects to a great number of people. We
knew that there was a spirit abroad—and some of it in a part of the
prosecution—to find something against somebody else somewhere. We made
up our minds that our private books and correspondence never should be
ransacked by this Department of Justice. We took the consequences, and
we are willing to take them. We say that the inference from our refusal
is an inference of fact, and must be decided by the jury, and is not an
inference of law.

We have been asked a good many times why we did not put James W. Bosler
on the stand. The prosecution subpoenaed Mr. Bosler. They appeared
to have an affection for him. They subpoenaed him, and he came here.
Afterwards they issued an attachment for him. They had him, arrested at
midnight and brought here. He gave some testimony, and you will find it
on page 2611.

Mr. Merrick. I do not know that there was an attachment.

Mr. Ingersoll. You know you have a right to prove things by
circumstances. Now, it is said that he put the marshal out of the house;
I think that is evidence tending to show that an attachment was issued.

Mr. Ker. And kept him out with a club.

The Court. I understood also that Mr. Dorsey kicked somebody else out of
his house about the same time.

Mr. Ingersoll. Oh, yes; it has been a very lively term of court.

There were two very important things that they were to prove by Mr.
Bosler, and they were patting him on the back here for weeks. Friendship
sprang up between them. It was a very young plant at first, but the
Bosler ivy grew upon the oak of the prosecution. I saw him sitting here,
everything delightful. The prosecution, I hoped, began to flatter itself
that Mr. Bosler was on their side; I hoped that was so. Finally they put
Mr. Bosler on the stand. What did they want to prove by him? That Dorsey
wrote a letter to him on the 13th of May, 1879, telling how much money
he had given to Brady; that is one thing they wanted to prove by him.
The second thing was that Rerdell had written a letter to Bosler,
I believe, on the 20th of May or 22d of May, 1880, stating that he
(Rerdell) had been subpoenaed to go before the Congressional committee
and take his books and papers; that he got very much frightened; that
he had taken the advice of Brady and got a very valuable suggestion from
Brady, which he was going to follow. They wanted to prove that by Mr.
Bosler.

Rerdell had already sworn that Dorsey sent a letter to Bosler on the
13th of May, 1879. Rerdell had sworn to the contents of that letter;
that the contents were that he had paid Brady so much money, &c., which
you remember, and then that he, in 1880, had written a letter to Mr.
Bosler, and I believe he pretended to have a copy of it. Now, here comes
Bosler's testimony, on page 2611.

Q. Have you made a search among your papers to find a letter alleged to
have been written to you by Stephen W. Dorsey, and dated on or about the
13th of May, 1879?—Yes, sir.

That is the letter that Rerdell swore about.

Q. Have you searched?—A. I have.

Q. Did you find it?-A. No, sir.

Q. Have you made search for a letter purporting to have been written by
him to you, and dated on or about the 22d of May, 1880?—A. Yes, sir.

Q. Did you find that letter?—A. I did not.

The Court: Was there ever such a letter?

Bosler replied: "There never was such a letter received by me."

There is the testimony of Mr. Bosler, and on that testimony the two
letters of May 13, 1879, and May 22, 1880, turn to dust and ashes.

Now, they say, "Why didn't you put Bosler on?" Not much necessity of
Mr. Bosler after that. And besides, gentlemen, I believe I will take you
into my confidence just a little bit. The evidence of Rerdell as to
the affidavit of June 20, 1881, and the affidavit of July 13, 1882 (an
affidavit in which he swore that there was nothing against Mr. Bosler,
an affidavit that was made apparently for the benefit of Bosler),
all that evidence, the evidence of Mr. Stephen W. Dorsey upon those
questions, advertised the prosecution that Mr. Bosler knew of many
circumstances; that he was present a portion of the time, and I did not
know but finally the prosecution would get so much confidence in Mr.
Bosler that they would call him. I was hoping they would. They did not.
It did not work quite as I expected. That is all there is about that.

Now, there is one further point to which I wish to call your attention.
I want you to remember that a partnership is not a conspiracy, although
all the facts about a partnership are consistent with the idea of a
conspiracy up to a certain point; and all the facts about a conspiracy
are consistent with a partnership up to a certain point. The fact that
men act together does not show that they have conspired; does not show
that they have a wicked design. The fact that they are engaged in the
same business does not show that they have a wicked design or that they
are there by conspiracy. In other words, I want your minds so that you
will distinguish between a fact that may be innocent, and generally
is innocent, and a fact that must be evidence of guilt. I want you to
distinguish between the facts common to all partnerships, common to all
agreements, and those facts that necessarily imply a criminal intent. If
you wil do that gentlemen, you will have but little trouble.

[At this point a volume of the report of the trial was handed up to the
Court by Mr. Ingersoll with a reference to a certain page].

The Court. Without looking at the book I take risk of saying that
the Court never announced its opinion on that question until the case
referred to a few moments ago.

Mr. Ingersoll. I just gave my memory on the subject. It does not make
any great difference in this case, of course.

Mr. Carpenter. This is during the cross-examination of Rerdell.

The Court. Yes, the Court did state on that occasion:

That is not the point here. If they are allowed to go on and
cross-examine this way without the production of the books, they cannot
contradict the witness afterwards by producing the books.

I had forgotten that I had announced it twice.

Mr. Ingersoll. If the Court please, I did not want to bring this up,
because I knew you had, and so I thought I would slip you the book and
let you off easy.

The Court. I do not think it weakens the position at all that the same
announcement has been made twice instead of once.

Mr. Carpenter. We thought it made it stronger.

The Court. Still, the books were not produced.

Mr. Ingersoll. Now, if the Court please, I am not arguing—

The Court. [Interposing.] I will leave you to the jury.

Mr. Ingersoll. Your Honor knows that I have always shown great modesty
about trying to do anything against any decision.

The Court. I do not dispute that.

Mr. Ingersoll. Now, the next question, gentlemen, is what is meant by
corroboration? If you tell a man that he is not a great painter, he does
not get angry. He says he does not pretend to paint, or is not a great
sculptor. But if you tell him he has no logic, he loses his temper.
Yet logic is perhaps the rarest quality of the human mind. There are
thousands of painters and sculptors where there is one logician. A man
swears, for instance, that he went down to a man's house in the morning
at six o'clock, and that Mr. Thomas was standing just in front of the
house, and when he went in the dog tried to bite him, and that after he
got in he had such and such conversation. Now, there are thousands of
people who have brains of that quality that they think the fact that
he did go there at six o'clock in the morning, and did see Mr. Thomas
standing out in front of the house, and especially the fact that the dog
did try to bite him, is a corroboration of the conversation that took
place in the house. There are just such people. In this case, for
instance, in Mr. Brady's matter, they say that the fact of Walsh being
in his house is important. Suppose that he was, what of it? Is that
corroboration? Corroboration must be on the very point in dispute. It
must be the very hinge of the question. Then it is corroboration, if the
question is what did the man say. It is not corroboration to prove that
the man was there unless the man swears that he was not there. Then the
inference is drawn that if he would lie about being there he might lie
about what he said.

Now, understand me. They will say, for instance, "Here is an affidavit,
and these blanks have been filled up. Rerdell says they were filled up,
and he says they were filled up after they were sworn to." Now, the fact
that the affidavit is there and that the blanks are filled up is not
corroboration, because the point to be corroborated is that it was done
after it was sworn to. And so the existence of the affidavit, while it
is necessary, is no corroboration; the filling up of the blank is no
corroboration; its being on file is no corroboration. Why? The point to
be corroborated is not that the blanks were filled, but that they were
filled after the paper had been sworn to! That is the point. And when
they begin to talk to you about corroboration I want you to have it
in your minds all the time that to be corroborated about an immaterial
matter is nothing; it has nothing to do with the question; but there
must be corroboration on the very heart of the point at issue!

There is another thing, gentlemen. It does not make any difference what
I say about this man, or that man, or the other man, unless there is
reason in what I say. If I tell you that the evidence of a witness is
not worthy of belief, I must tell you why. I must give you the reason.
If I simply say the witness is a perjurer, that shows that I either
underrate your sense, or have none of my own, because that is not
calculated to convince any human mind one way or the other. You are not
to take my statement; you are to take the evidence, and such reasons as
I give, and only such as appeal to your good sense. If I say, "You must
not believe that man," I must give you the reason why. If the reason I
give is a good one, you will act upon it. If it is a bad one I cannot
make it better by piling epithet upon epithet. There is no logic in
abuse; there is no argument in an epithet.

And there is another thing. An attorney has a certain privilege; he is
protected by the court. He is given almost absolute liberty of speech,
and it is a privilege that he never should abuse. He should remember
if he attacks a defendant, that the defendant cannot open his mouth. He
should remember that it does not take as much courage to attack, as
it does not to attack. He should remember, too, that by the use of
epithets, by abuse, that he is appealing to the lowest and basest part
of every juror's head and heart. It is on a low level. It is a fight
with the club of a barbarian instead of with an intellectual cimeter.
There is no logic in abuse. There is no argument in epithet. Remember
that. The weight and worth of an argument is the effect it has upon an
unprejudiced mind, and that is all it is worth. Therefore I do not want
you, gentlemen, to be carried away by any assault that may be made—I
do not say that any will be made—but any that may be made, that is not
absolutely justified by the evidence.

There has been one little thing said during this trial; that is, about
the testimony of defendants. I believe Mr. Bliss takes the ground that
you cannot believe a defendant; that defendants cannot be believed
unless they are corroborated. Mr. Bliss has the kindness to put the
defendants in this case on an equality with his witness Rerdell.
Gentlemen, you cannot believe any witness unless his evidence is
reasonable. Every witness has to be corroborated by the naturalness of
his story. Every witness is to be corroborated by his manner upon the
stand and by the thousand little indications that catch the eye of
a juror or of a judge or of an attorney. Congress has passed a law
allowing defendants to swear when they are put upon trial. Will you tell
me that that law is a net, a snare, and a delusion, and the moment a
defendant takes the stand the prosecution is to say, "Of course he will
lie"? Why do they say that? Because he is a defendant, and you cannot
believe a word that he says; he is swearing in his own behalf. There is
that same low, slimy view of human nature again, that a defendant who
swears in his own behalf must swear falsely. I do not take that view.
The defendant has the same right upon the stand that anybody else has,
and if his character is not good his character can be attacked; it
can be impeached by the prosecution precisely as you would impeach the
reputation of any other witness. If he tells a story which is reasonable
you will believe it, and you will believe it notwithstanding he is a
defendant and notwithstanding he has an interest in the verdict. In old
times they would not allow a man to swear at all if he had the interest
of a cent in any civil suit. They would not allow him to testify when he
was on trial for his own liberty and his own life. That was barbarism.
The enemy—the man who hated him—he could tell his story, but the man
attacked, the man defending his own liberty and his own life, his mouth
was closed and sealed. We have gotten over that barbarism in nearly all
the States of this Union, and now we say, "Let every man tell his story;
don't allow any avenue to truth to be closed; let us hear all sides, and
whatever is reasonable take as the truth, and what is unreasonable throw
away." And, gentlemen, let me say here that it is not your business to
go to work picking a witness's testimony all apart and saying, "Well, I
guess there is a little scrap now that there is some truth in," or "here
is a line, and I guess that is so, but the next eleven lines I do not
believe; the next sentence, I think, will do." That is not the way to
do. If a witness is of that character you must throw his entire evidence
to the winds, for it is tainted and the fountains of justice should not
be tainted with such evidence, and a verdict should not be touched
and corrupted with such testimony. You will take the evidence of these
defendants as you would take that of any other man, and it is for you to
say whether that evidence is true. It is for you to say that.

If corroboration was so necessary why were not their witnesses
corroborated? Why didn't they call Mr. Bosler to corroborate their
witness?

Now, one of the defendants in this case is Mr. John R. Miner, and I want
you to think of the terrible things they have against him. One of the
charges made against him is that he wrote a petition and wrote in six
names attached to it. His explanation is, that if he did anything of
that kind it was because he received a petition which was so worn that
it could not be presented, and he copied it, and that the six names were
found on that petition. There was no other way on earth for him to get
those names, and we find them on the same route in, I believe, seven
other petitions which were filed; we find that those very names are
on the other petitions, and I think Mr. Hall's name—the one the most
trouble was made about—was on three or four petitions of the other
kind.

Mr. Carpenter. He admitted that he wrote them.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes; Hall admitted that he wrote them. But I believe this
petition was never filed in the department.

I think Mr. Woodward said he found it among the papers at some other
place.

There is a petition called the Utah petition that has some names in
Utah. I think Mr. Woodward swore that he tound it in room No. 22 or 23.

Mr. Merrick. In the case itself, in the department.

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes; but it has no file mark. Mr. Woodward says he does
not now remember how it got in there. As I was about to remark, there
was a petition called the Utah petition with some names of persons
living off the route, I believe—two or three sheets. The petition
itself was genuine, and was indorsed, I believe, by Senators Slater and
Grover and by Congressman Whiteaker. Now, then, how did these names come
in there? The petition is ample without those names; large enough.
I will tell you what I think. I think that it is a part of another
petition, and that it was the result of an accident. I think it was done
in the Post-Office Department, not intentionally, but as an accident.
The evidence is that they kept three routes in one pigeonhole, and that
the papers sometimes got mixed; that is Mr. Brewer's testimony. A very
strange thing happened to that petition. While it was before this jury
it came apart again. And if some clerk not absolutely familiar with the
papers had taken it up, he would have been just as liable to put it
on the wrong petition as on the right one. My plan is to account for a
thing in some way consistent with evidence, if I naturally can. I do
not go out of my way hunting for evidence of crime. And when there was
a petition, large enough, with a plenty of genuine names on it, I cannot
imagine anybody would go and get names from any other petition and paste
them on to that. But being in this same country, and the testimony being
that they had three of these routes in one pigeon-hole, my idea is that
the papers got mixed and mingled sometimes, and I say the probability
is that it was an accident. That is the best way to account for it. If
Miner had known that that petition was there that he had made, would he
have allowed it to stay there? Why would he want to do such a thing
if he was in a conspiracy with Brady? Why would he have to resort to
perjury and interlineation in order to get Brady to make orders that he,
Brady, had conspired to make? Absurdity cannot go beyond that. Here
is the doctrine: "I have conspired with the Second Assistant
Postmaster-General. He will do anything for me that I want. Now, I will
go and forge some petitions." That seems to me perfectly idiotic. This
petition was indorsed by Senators Grover and Slater and Congressman
Whiteaker.

Then, there is another petition; that one I showed you this morning,
with the words "schedule thirteen hours," and the evidence was (that
is, if you call what Rerdell stated evidence) that Miner wrote the words
"schedule thirteen hours." I have shown you, this morning, those words,
and without any other particle of argument I want to leave it to you who
wrote those words—whether Rerdell wrote them or Miner.

Then, there is another wonderful thing about that petition. It is not on
any of the routes in this indictment, and has no business here—I mean
the Ehrenberg petition. The one I spoke of was the Kearney and Kent.

The next petition is the Ehrenberg and Mineral Park. They say that there
has been some word erased and another written in. Nobody pretends that
it is not a genuine petition. Nobody pretends that it was not signed by
every one of the persons by whom it purports to be signed. Then, another
peculiarity; it is not on any route in this indictment, and has no more
to do with this case than the last leaf of the Mormon Bible; not the
least.

Let us see if they have any more of these terrible things. Here is
petition 2 A, on the Kearney and Kent route. That is the petition that
has the words "schedule thirteen hours."

That is the one indorsed by Senator Saunders. Petition 18 K, on the
route from Ehrenberg to Mineral Park, is not a route in this case. It
turned out that the names on it are genuine, and the genuineness of the
petition has not been challenged. The only point made is that the word
"Ehrenberg" has been written by somebody else. There is no evidence
to show that the petition was not properly signed; that the persons on
there did not sign their names or authorize somebody else to do it. The
probability is there may have been some mistake in the name, or it
may have been misspelled. There was some mistake made, and the word
"Ehrenberg" was written in. On page 4186 Mr. Miner swears positively
that in regard to the petition 2 A he never wrote the words "schedule
thirteen hours."

Then, there is another petition, I think it is on page 1247, the Camp
McDermitt petition. There are the words "ninety-six hours." And they get
that down there to a fine point. Mr. Boone swore that he did not know
who wrote the word "ninety," but that Miner wrote the word "six.." Well,
that is too fine a point, gentlemen, to put on handwriting. It seems
there is an interlineation there of the words "ninety-six," and they say
they do not know who wrote the word "ninety" and that Miner wrote the
word "six." But Miner swears that he did not write it at all.

Now, then, you take away the evidence of Mr. Rerdell as to Miner, and
what is left? The evidence left is that of A. W. Moore. And what is
that? It is that Miner instructed him to get up false petitions. This
was the first time he ever went out. But Moore swore that he made
arrangements to do what Miner instructed him to do; that he made such
arrangements with Major; but Major swears he did not. Moore swore that
he made some arrangement with McBean, and the Government did not ask
McBean whether he did or not, but I will show that he did not. The
testimony shows that on the first trip, at the time he saw Major, he
did not see McBean. Now, just see. He swore, in the first place, that he
made that arrangement with Major and McBean. I find afterwards that his
evidence shows that he did not see McBean on the first trip, but he did
see him on the second.

On page 1408 we find that when Moore went West the second time—when he
left here and had made a bargain with Dorsey for one-quarter interest in
his route, and Miner told him to go West and let Dorsey's routes go to
the devil, and he said he would, and never notified Dorsey that he
was going to do it—that man comes here now and swears that he made a
contract with Dorsey for one-quarter interest, and then started West and
made a contract with Miner, letting Dorsey's routes go. He did not have
the decency to even notify Dorsey that he was going to do so. That
is the man. On the first trip he did not agree with anybody about
petitions. Now, understand my point, because it kills Mr. Moore again.
We have to keep killing these people—keep killing them. It is something
like the boy who was found pounding a woodchuck. He was pounding him
away in the road with all his might, and a man came along and said to
him, "What are you pounding that woodchuck for?" He said, "Oh, I am just
pounding him." "But," the man said, "he is dead." "Yes, I know it," said
the boy, "but I am pounding him to show him that there is punishment
after death."

Now, on page 1408, we find that this man Moore went to the West a second
time. I have shown you that the first time, he swears that he did not
see McBean at all. He saw Major and made the arrangement with him, he
says. Major swears that he did not. They do not put McBean on the stand.
Now, he goes a second time.

On the second trip, he says he had nothing to do with the petition
business at all, and did not explain the petition business to anybody
because he had not the time, and on the first trip did not see McBean
at all. And yet he swears that he made an arrangement with McBean about
these very petitions. The proof that he did not see Mc-Bean on his first
trip is found on page 1398.

There is one other point about which we have heard an immensity of talk
and upon which a great deal of air has been wasted, and that is, that
there was a bargain that Brady was to have fifty per cent, of all the
fines that he remitted. In other words, that he made a bargain with
his co-conspirators that if he fined them a thousand dollars and then
remitted it, that he was to have five hundred dollars or one-half of
that fine. That is a nice bargain; for me to put myself in the power of
a man and say, "Now, you fine me what you want to, and then if you will
take it off, I will give you half of it." It seems to me that that would
be quite an inducement for him to fine me. Yet, here is a man who makes
a bargain that Brady may impose a fine upon them and that he may have
half of it back—that is, upon their doctrine, although they have never
proved it, but they state it just the same as though they had. But here
are the facts. Here are the fines and deductions on twelve routes.
The fines amount to eighty-nine thousand six hundred and thirty-eight
dollars and twenty-two cents and the remissions amount to seven thousand
four hundred and twenty-eight dollars and fifty-four cents; that is
all. And yet they pretend that we had a bargain. Now, come to the mail
routes, and we find that the fines amounted to sixty-one thousand two
hundred and thirty-two dollars and twenty cents and all that they could
get their co-conspirators to take off of that (although according to
the doctrine of the prosecution they were to have fifty per cent.) was
thirteen thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars and sixteen cents.
That was all they could get off. There are the figures. There has been
talk enough on that subject, but all the air that wraps the earth could
not answer those facts. Words enough to wear out all human lips could
not change those facts. Fines eighty-nine thousand dollars, remissions
seven thousand dollars; fines sixty-one thousand dollars, remissions
thirteen thousand dollars. And yet they pretend that he had a bargain
by which he had fifty per cent, of all he remitted. I need not make any
more argument on that point.

There have been one or two things in this trial that I have regretted,
and one I find in Mr. Ker's speech. And I find frequent reference to it
in other places, and that is the blindness of S. W. Dorsey. Affidavits
were made by Drs. Marmion, Bliss, and Sowers that Mr. Dorsey had lost
at least eleven-twelfths of his vision. And yet it has been constantly
thrown out to you that it was a ruse, a device, and I believe Mr. Ker
said in his speech that Mr. Dorsey saw a paper in Mr. Merrick's hand,
Mr. Merrick, I believe, holding a balance-sheet from the German-American
Savings Bank—a paper several feet wide or long—and because Mr. Dorsey
said to him, "I believe you have it in your hand," why they said this
man is pretending to be blind. His testimony was that he had been in a
dark room for three months; that his eyes had not been visited by one
ray of light for three months, and that for six months he had not read
a solitary word. And yet the prosecution sneeringly pretended that there
was nothing the matter with his eyes. They subpoenaed Dr. Marmion, but
they dare not put him on the stand. They threw out hints and innuendoes
that these doctors had sworn falsely, but they dare not put it to the
test. It seems that nothing in the world can satisfy them about Stephen
W. Dorsey except to see him convicted, except to have them put their
feet upon his neck. Gentlemen, you never will enjoy that pleasure. You
never will while the world swings in its orbit find twelve honest men
to convict Stephen W. Dorsey—never. This Government may put forth its
utmost power; it may spend every dollar in its Treasury; it may hire all
the ingenuity and brain of the country, and it can never find twelve men
who will put Stephen W. Dorsey in the penitentiary—never, and you might
as well give it up one time as another. Try it year after year; poison
the mind of the entire public with the newspapers; get all the informers
you can; bring all the witnesses you can find; put all of those whom you
call accomplices on the stand, and I give you notice that it never can
be done, and I want you to know it. Spend your millions, and you will
end where you start. As long as the average man runs there will always
be one or two honest men in a dozen; so you cannot convict one of these
defendants. Go on, but it will never be accomplished.

There is one other thing which perhaps may be worth noticing. I believe
that they proved by Mr. Dorsey that he wrote an account of his relation
to this business, and published it in the _New York Herald_. The only
point with which Mr. Merrick quarreled in that entire paper was the
statement that Peck was a large contractor, and when Dorsey was put on
the stand he explained that while Peck had not many routes in his own
name, that he was the partner of a man named Chidester. That is the only
thing of which he complained, and yet that communication pretended to
tell the relation that Dorsey sustained to this entire business, and
if that had not accorded precisely with Dorsey's testimony on the stand
every word of it would have been read to you again and again. And Mr.
Ker says that letter was written for the purpose of poisoning public
opinion. Was the letter of the Attorney-General of the United States,
written just before this trial began, written to bias public opinion
also?

Mr. Merrick. Is there any evidence of that letter in this trial? If not
I object to any reference to it.

The Court, You cannot refer to that, because it is not in the case.

Mr. Ingersoll. I take it back. Was Dickson indicted to bias public
opinion?

Mr. Merrick. I object to that also. He was indicted by the grand jury on
competent testimony.

The Court. There is no evidence in this case that he was indicted.

Mr. Ingersoll. I will take it back then. I would ask the Court, however,
after the attorney for the Government has said that Dorsey wrote that
letter to bias public opinion, if I have not the right to say that he
wrote that letter because letters had been written by others.

Mr. Merrick. Not unless those letters are in proof.

The Court. The fact that he wrote the letter is in evidence in the case.
That of course makes it the proper subject of comment on either side.
Anything else not in evidence is not a subject of controversy.

Mr. Ingersoll. I will take it for granted, however, that the jury
understand what is going on in this case.

Mr. Merrick. Yes, they understand the evidence.

Mr. Ingersoll. I understand that the jury, as members of this community,
as citizens of the United States, have at least a vague idea of what the
Department of Justice has done.

It is also claimed, and has been claimed, and I have answered it again
and again and again, that S. W. Dorsey is the chief conspirator. Why? Is
it possible that it is because he was the chief man politically? Is it
possible that any politician was envious of his place and power? Is it
possible that any politician was envious of the influence he had with
President Garfield? Is it possible that he had interfered with the
career of some piece of mediocrity? Why is it that he is made the chief
figure? These are questions that are asked and questions that you can
answer. How does it happen that his name never figures in any division?
That his name never figures in any paper made in regard to this
business? How does it happen that when he was contending with the
German-American National Bank that he must be paid, how is it that it
never occurred to Miner or Vaile to tell him, "Why, this is a conspiracy
of your own hatching. You advanced this money to give life to your own
bantling, and you have got to wait until the conspiracy bears fruit, and
if you are not willing to wait you can do the next worse thing, have it
made public"? If at that time, when he was opposing and fighting Vaile
because he had cut out his security, Vaile had known that Dorsey was in
the conspiracy, one word from him and Stephen W. Dorsey's mouth would
have remained shut forever. But it did not occur to Miner, it did not
occur to Vaile. That won't do. Why didn't Vaile say to him, "Mr. Dorsey,
you are making a great deal of fuss about a few thousand dollars. You
are in the Senate; you are interested in these routes, and I want to
hear no more from you"? Why didn't he say it? Because it was not true;
that is why.

Now, gentlemen, if what the prosecution claims is true, not only Stephen
W. Dorsey, not only Thomas J. Brady, not only John R. Miner, not only H.
M. Vaile, and John W. Dorsey are guilty of conspiracy, but hundreds and
hundreds of other people. Do you believe it is possible that all the
persons who petitioned for an increase of service, who petitioned for
expedition—do you believe they were in a conspiracy? Do you believe
they were dishonest men, and do you believe they asked for what they
did not want? Do you believe that these defendants had at their beck and
call the representatives of the entire great Northwest? Do you believe
that members of Congress of the Lower House and of the Senate were
their agents and tools? Was Senator Hill a conspirator? Was the present
Secretary of the Interior a conspirator? Were Senator Grover and Senator
Slater also conspirators? Were generals, judges, district attorneys,
members of State and Territorial Legislatures—were they all
conspirators? Did they indorse false petitions for the purpose of
putting money in the pockets of these defendants? Let us be honest.
Do you believe that General Miles was a conspirator, or that General
Sherman, whose title is next to that of the President, and whose name
is one synonymous of victory, entered into a conspiracy? Do you believe
that he knows as much about the mail business as Colonel Bliss? Do you
believe that he knows as much about the wants of the great Northwest as
the gentlemen who are prosecuting this case? Was he a conspirator with
their Representative in Congress from Oregon? Was Horace F. Page a
conspirator? These are questions, gentlemen, that you must answer.
Were all these men, these officers of the Army, State officers, Federal
officers, and men of national reputation—were they all engaged in
a conspiracy; were they endeavoring to assist these defendants in
plundering the Treasury of these United States? These are questions for
you to ask and questions for you to answer. Is it not wonderful that
such a conspiracy should have existed in all the Western States at one
time?

Gentlemen, is it wonderful that all the people of the West want mails?
Do you not know, and do I not know, that the mail is the substantial
benefit we get from the General Government? Don't you know that the mail
is the pioneer of civilization? Do you not know that there ought to be a
mail wherever the flag floats? Do you not know that the only way to keep
a great country like this together, a vast territory of three million
square miles—three million five hundred thousand square miles—is by
the free distribution of the mail? If you are going to keep the people
who populate that territory together, if you are going to keep them of
one heart and one mind, if you are going to make them keep step to
this Union and to the progress of this nation, you must have frequent
intercourse with them all. The telegraph must reach to the remotest
hamlet; the little electric spark, freighted with intelligence and
patriotism, must visit every home; and the newspaper and the letter,
bearing words of love from home and news from abroad, must visit every
house, so that every man, whether digging in the mine or working on the
farm, may feel the throb and thrill of the great world, and be a citizen
of a mighty nation instead of an ignorant provincial.

I am in favor of frequent mails everywhere, all over the plains, all
through the mountains, everywhere, wherever the flag flies, I want the
man who sits under it to feel that the Government has not forgotten him;
that is what I want. I take pride in this country. I am one of the men
who believe that there is only air enough in this entire continent to
float one flag. I am one of the men who believe that it is the destiny
of the United States to control every inch of soil from the Arctic
to the Antarctic, and that when a nation loses its ambition to grow,
increase, and expand it begins to die. And what right has a man who
is carrying the mail to interfere with the policy of the Post-Office
Department? These are large questions, gentlemen of the jury, and I want
you to deal with them in a large and splendid American spirit. I want
you to feel that we are citizens of the greatest Government on this
globe. I want you to feel that here, to every man, no matter from what
clime he may come, no matter of what people, no matter of what religion,
the soil will give emolument, the sun will give its light and heat, the
Government will give its protection. I like to feel that way about
the Government. And yet, because the department adopted a splendid and
generous policy, it is tortured into evidence of conspiracy.

Now let me speak just a moment about these people—the defendants in
this case. First, there is Stephen W. Dorsey. I take a great interest in
this case; I admit it. I would rather lose my right hand than have you
convict Stephen W. Dorsey. I admit it. I admit that if he were convicted
I would lose confidence in trial by jury; I would believe that there
were no twelve men in the world that had the honor and the manhood to
stand by what they believed to be the evidence and the law. I would feel
as though trial by jury was a failure. I admit I have that interest in
it—all that anybody can have in any case. You can only convict that
man by the testimony of A. W. Moore and M. C. Rerdell. That testimony
withdrawn from the record and there is not one word against him. I want
you to know and I want you to remember what kind of a man he is. You
have seen him; you know him; and you know something of him. It is for
you to decide whether you will take the testimony of Rerdell as against
that man. It is for you to decide whether you will take the testimony of
A. W. Moore as against that man. These men who are prosecuting him seem
to forget who he is and what he has been. Yet men disgrace the position
that Stephen W. Dorsey helped to give them, by attacking him.

John W. Dorsey can be convicted by the testimony of nobody. There is no
testimony against him, except that of one man. He is an honest man. He
told exactly what he did, and he told it like an honest man. He told
why he did not put his money in the bank at Middlebury, Vermont, because
they thought that he owed a debt which he did not think he owed. He need
not have told it, but he is an honest man, and that is the reason he
told it. The prosecution does not appreciate that kind of man, that is,
they say they do not.

The only witnesses against Miner are Rerdell and Moore, and they being
dead, that is the end of it.

What evidence is there against Harvey M. Vaile? One witness, Mr.
Rerdell. What did Harvey M. Vaile do? At the solicitation of Mr. Miner
he advanced money to prevent his having a failing contract. What else
did he do? He wrote a letter saying that he was trustee for S. W.
Dorsey, and he was, because the concern owed S. W. Dorsey a few thousand
dollars, and agreed out of the profits to repay Stephen W. Dorsey. That
is all. That is all. You have seen Mr. Vaile here from day to day. You
know that he is a man of mind. I think he is an honest man. I think he
testified to the exact truth. He did what any other man had the right to
do, he helped a man, not entirely from charity, but believing after all
that it might be a good investment, as you have done if you have
ever had the opportunity. And there is not the slightest scintilla of
evidence against him, not the slightest. I believe every word that he
testified, and so do you.

And then they come to Thomas J. Brady, and they tell you that that man
is to be convicted upon the testimony of whom? Mr. Walsh. And who else?
Mr. Rerdell. You have some idea of human nature. You have a little and I
have a little. Here is Mr. Walsh, an athlete; a man who, had he lived in
Rome in ancient times, might have been a gladiator. He loans Mr. Brady
twenty-five thousand or thirty thousand dollars. For some of this money
he has notes, for other portions he has not. He sends word to Brady that
he would like to fix the interest. He goes there and Brady takes these
notes and puts them in his pocket and they part as philosophers. If we
believe that, we must believe it as idiots. You do not believe it. You
do not believe any man ever allowed another to take twenty-five thousand
dollars in notes belonging to him and put them in his pocket and walk
off, he taking off his hat at the door and you bowing and wishing him
a happy voyage. My mind is so constructed that I cannot believe that; I
cannot help it. I imagine your minds are built a little after the same
model. I do not believe the story; you do not.

Who is the next witness against Mr. Brady? Mr. Rerdell.

It is sufficient for me to speak the name. I need argue no further. That
is enough. You saw Mr. Brady on the stand and you heard him give his
testimony. No man could listen to it without knowing it to be true. I
say now to each one of you that when you heard it you believed it, and
every one of you believed it was the truth. Take from this record the
testimony of Rerdell, Walsh, and Moore, and what is left? Some papers,
petitions, orders, affidavits, all made, signed and filed in the
cloudless light of day. That is all that is left. Where is your
conspiracy? Faded into thin air, nothing left.

I presume it will be said by the prosecution that I spent about three
days on Mr. Rerdell. I admit it. Why? Because I regarded Rerdell as your
case. Because I made up my mind that when I killed Rerdell the case
had breathed its last. That is the reason. And had it been necessary to
spend a few weeks more I should have done so. But it is not necessary.
Probably I wasted a great deal of time upon the subject, but if he is
not dead I do not want it in the power of any human being to say that it
was my fault. I went at him with intent to kill, and I kept at him after
I knew that he was dead. I admit it.

Now, gentlemen, let us see what I have proved. Let us see what up to
this time I have substantiated in my judgment.

First, I think I have shown that John W. Dorsey, John M. Peck, and John
R. Miner agreed in 1877, to go into the mail business. That Peck wrote
a letter to Stephen W. Dorsey, who was then a United States Senator,
asking him to get some competent man to get reliable information as to
the cost of service on routes in the Western States and Territories then
advertised by the General Government. That S. W. Dorsey gave that
letter to A. E. Boone. That he told him to say nothing about it to other
contractors. That Boone sent out circulars for the purpose of getting
the requisite information; that is, the cost of corn and oats and the
wages of men.

That John R. Miner came to Washington on the 1st of December, 1877. That
he went to the house of Stephen W. Dorsey, as had been the custom for
several years. That he occupied a room in that house, and that he and
Mr. Boone went on with the business of making proposals and getting up
forms of contracts.

That John W. Dorsey came here in the early part of January, 1878. That
after his arrival the partnership was formed between him and A. E.
Boone, and that the partnership was dated the 15th day of January, 1878.

That S. W. Dorsey, at the request of his brother and brother-in-law,
advanced the amount of money necessary to pay incidental expenses. That
he gave his advice whenever it was asked. That he assisted the parties
all that he conveniently could.

That the last bids or proposals were put in by these parties on the 2d
of February, 1878. That the awards were made on the 15th day of March of
the same year. That Miner, Peck, Dorsey, and Boone received about
five times as many awards as they had anticipated. Thereupon another
partnership was formed with the style of Miner, Peck & Co., and that
the partners in this firm were John R. Miner, John M. Peck, and John W.
Dorsey. That thereupon John W. Dorsey and John R. Miner went West for
the purpose of subcontracting the routes. That John R. Miner on his
return from the West met Stephen W. Dorsey at Saint Louis about the 16th
of July, 1878. That Stephen W. Dorsey up to that time had advanced eight
thousand or nine thousand dollars. That he then gave to Mr. Miner notes
amounting to about eight thousand five hundred dollars to be by him
discounted at the German-American National Bank of Washington. That
Stephen W. Dorsey then told Miner that he would advance no more and
would indorse no more. That Stephen W. Dorsey went from Saint Louis to
New Mexico; that John R. Miner came to the city of Washington, arriving
here about the 20th of July. That John R. Miner then found that
service in eastern Oregon was not in operation, although it had been
subcontracted; but he then applied to Thomas J. Brady for an extension
of time. That Brady refused to give it. That Miner, Peck & Co. had not
the money to stock the routes not then in operation, and that Stephen
W. Dorsey had refused to advance further means. That John W. Dorsey
was then in the West and that John M. Peck was then in New Mexico. That
thereupon Mr. Miner applied to Harvey M. Vaile, and that Mr. Vaile went
to Mr. Brady and asked whether an extension of time could be given,
provided he undertook to put the service on those routes. That Brady
then gave him until the 16th day of August, 1878. That thereupon Miner,
under the authority of powers of attorney from John M. Peck and John W.
Dorsey, agreed upon the terms on which H. M. Vaile should advance the
money necessary to put the service in operation.

That the contract bears date the 16th day of August, 1878, and was duly
executed by all the parties on the last of September or first of October
of that year.

That the service was not in operation by the 16th of August, and that
in August, Brady telegraphed to H. M. Vaile to know what routes he was
going to put service on.

That thereupon Vaile replied that he would see that all the service
of Miner, Peck, and Dorsey was put in operation. That through the
assistance of Mr. Vaile the service was put in operation.

That before that time Stephen W. Dorsey had been secured by Miner, Peck,
and John W. Dorsey executing PostOffice drafts upon the routes that had
been awarded to them.

That on the 17th day of May, 1878, an act was passed by the Congress of
the United States allowing subcontractors to place their subcontracts on
file.

That after Vaile came in and agreed to furnish the money necessary to
put the service in operation, John R. Miner having powers of attorney
from Peck and John W. Dorsey, executed to H. M. Vaile subcontracts for
the purpose of securing him for the money he had advanced.

That H. M. Vaile put these subcontracts on file, thus cutting out and
rendering worthless as security the PostOffice drafts that had been
given to S. W. Dorsey for the purpose of securing him.

That John W. Dorsey returned from the Bismarck and Tongue River route in
November, 1878, and that he then offered to sell out his entire interest
in the business to Vaile for ten thousand dollars, and left instructions
authorizing his brother, S. W. Dorsey, to make such sale for such
amount. That John W. Dorsey then returned to the Tongue River route.

That Stephen W. Dorsey returned to Washington in December, 1878, and for
the first time found that the subcontracts had been given to Vaile. That
he and Mr. Vaile had a quarrel with the German-American National Bank on
that question.

That afterwards Dorsey was to give ten thousand dollars to John W.
Dorsey, and ten thousand dollars to John M. Peck. That he then concluded
not to do so.

That on the 4th day of March, when S. W. Dorsey's Senatorial term
expired, he immediately wrote a letter to Brady insisting that the
subcontracts that had been filed by Vaile were in fraud of his rights.
That thereupon the parties in interest came together. That S. W. Dorsey
acting for Peck, his brother, and himself agreed with Vaile and Miner to
a division of the routes.

That S. W. Dorsey paid Peck ten thousand dollars for his interest,
paid John W. Dorsey ten thousand dollars for his interest, and took
substantially thirty per cent, of the routes and paid himself the money
that was owing to him by Miner, Peck & Co.

That the parties at the time executed to each other subcontracts and
such other papers as were necessary to vest, as far as they then under
the law could vest, the routes so divided in the parties to whom they
fell.

That on the 5th of May, 1879, the division was completed, and that from
that time forward Vaile and Miner had no interest in the routes that
fell to Stephen W. Dorsey, and that from that time forward Stephen W.
Dorsey had no interest in the routes that fell to Vaile and Miner, and
that John W. Dorsey and John M. Peck had no interest in any route from
that date forward until the present moment. That S. W. Dorsey took
entire and absolute control of his routes, and that Miner and Vaile took
entire control of their routes. That from that time until the present
neither party interfered with the routes of the other.

That Vaile and Miner made no paper of any sort, character, or kind for
Stephen W. Dorsey after the 5th of May, 1879, and that neither John W.
Dorsey, nor John M. Peck, made any papers of any kind, sort or character
for Miner or Vaile after that date, no matter what date papers bear that
were made before that time. That S. W. Dorsey made no papers for Miner
or Vaile after that date. And that Miner and Vaile made no papers for S.
W. Dorsey after that date, May 5, 1879. That all the papers bearing date
after the 5th of May, were in fact signed by the parties at or before
that time. That they were so signed for the purpose of making the
division complete.

That Vaile and Miner on their routes got up petitions that they had a
right to do. That S. W. Dorsey upon his routes got up petitions, as he
had a right to do.

That the routes were increased and expedited by the Second Assistant
Postmaster-General in accordance with the policy of the department and
in accordance with the petitions filed and the affidavits made, as he
had a right to do.

That it was not for the contractors to settle the policy of the
Post-Office Department.

That the evidence of A. W. Moore is unworthy of belief, and that his
statement that he settled with S. W. Dorsey is demonstrated to be false
by the receipts that he afterwards gave in final settlement to John R.
Miner, as admitted by himself. That his testimony as to the existence of
a conspiracy is rendered worthless and absurd by the fact that he sold
out not only his interest, but his services up to that time, for six
hundred and eighty-two dollars. That his conversations with Miner
could not have taken place. That he never made or offered to make such
contracts with Major as he pretended he was instructed to make, and as
he swore that he did make. That his conversation with S. W. Dorsey never
occurred.

That the testimony of Rerdell is utterly and infinitely unworthy of
credit. That he is not only contradicted by all the evidence, but by
himself, and how can you corroborate a man who tells no truth? There
must be something to be corroborated.

That the red books never existed.

That the pencil memorandum was forged by himself.

That the Chico letter was written by him.

And that the letter from Dorsey to Bosler, said to have been dated May
13, 1879, was born of the imagination of Mr. Rerdell.

That Rerdell's letter to Bosler of the 22d of May, 1880, was never sent,
was never received, and was never written until after this man made
up his mind to become a witness for the Government. That Bosler never
received that letter, or the letter pretended to have been written by
Dorsey on the 13th of May, 1879.

That the tabular statement in which thirty-three and one-third per cent,
was allowed to Brady never existed. That Rerdell did not visit Dorsey's
office in New York in June, 1881, and that he had no conversation
with Torrey. That Rerdell was not there. That he did not have the
conversation detailed by him with Dorsey at the Albermarle Hotel. That
Dorsey did not write the letter of the 13th of June, 1881.

That Rerdell swore in June, 1881, that Dorsey was entirely innocent.
That he swore to three affidavits of the same kind. That he again swore
to the same thing on the 13th of July, 1882. That he admitted by his
letter of July 5, 1882, that S. W. Dorsey did not even ask him to make
the affidavit of June, 1881, but that he was persuaded to do it by James
W. Bosler. That he was not locked up at Willard's Hotel. That he was
not threatened with a prosecution for perjury. That he was not shown the
letters he had written to a woman. That the whole story with regard to
the making of that affidavit was utterly and unqualifiedly false. That
he never had the conversation with Thomas J. Brady that he claimed. That
Brady never suggested to to him to have any books copied. That there
were no books of Dorsey's that needed to be copied. That he did not see
S. W. Dorsey draw any money at Middleton's bank at the time he states.
That he, Rerdell, drew the money himself. And that his entire testimony
is absurd, contradictory, and utterly unworthy of credit.

Let me say another thing to you, gentlemen, right here. It would be
better a thousand times that all the defendants tried in the next
hundred years should escape punishment than that one man should be
convicted upon the evidence of a man like this—a man who offered to the
Government to make a bargain while the trial was in progress, that he
would challenge from the jury all the friends of the defendants, and
help the Government to get the enemies of the defendants upon the jury.
You never can afford to take the evidence of such a man. It turns a
court-house into a den of wild beasts. You cannot do it.

I have shown that the story of Walsh is improbable, and that all that
Boone swears against these defendants cannot be believed. That Walsh
never loaned the money to Brady that he claimed, and that Brady never
took from him the notes as he says. That Brady never made in his
presence the admissions that he swears to. Think of it; Brady robbing
Walsh, and at the same time saying to Walsh, "I am a thief and public
robber."

I have shown to you, gentlemen, it seems to me, that no reasonable human
being, taking all this evidence into consideration, can base upon it a
verdict of guilty. It cannot be done.

Now, gentlemen, the responsibility is upon you, and what is that
responsibility? You are to decide a question involving all that these
defendants are. You are to decide a question involving all that these
defendants hope to be. Their fate is in your hands. Everything they
love, everything they hold dear, is in your power. With this fearful
responsibility upon you, you have no right to listen to the whispers of
suspicion. You have no right to be guided or influenced by prejudice.
You have no right to act from fear. You must act with absolute and
perfect honesty. You must beware of prejudice. You must beware of taking
anything into consideration except the sworn testimony in this case. You
must not be controlled by the last word instead of by the last argument!
You must not be controlled by the last epithet instead of by the last
fact. You must give to every argument, whether made by defendant or
prosecution, its full and honest weight. You must put the evidence in
the scales of your judgment, and your manhood must stand at the scales,
and then you must have the courage to tell which side goes down and
which side rises.

That is all we ask. We ask the mercy of an honest verdict, and of your
honest opinion. We ask the mercy of a verdict born of your courage, a
verdict born of your sense of justice, a verdict born of your manhood,
remembering that you are the peers of any in the world. And it is for
you to say, gentlemen, whether these defendants are worthy to live among
their fellow-citizens; whether they shall be taken from the sunshine and
from the free air, and whether they are worthy to be men among men.

It is for you to say whether they are to be taken from their homes,
from their pursuits, from their wives, from their children. That
responsibility rests upon you.

It is for you to say whether they shall be clothed in dishonor, whether
they shall be clad in shame, whether their day of life shall set without
a star in all the future's sky; that is for you.

It is for you to say whether Stephen W. Dorsey, John W. Dorsey, John R.
Miner, Thomas J. Brady, and H. M. Vaile shall be branded as criminals.

It is for you to say, after they have suffered what they have, after
they have been pursued by this Government as no defendants were ever
pursued before, whether they shall be branded as criminals.

It is for you to say whether their homes shall be blasted and blackened
by the lightning of a false verdict.

It is for you to say whether there shall be left to these defendants
and to those they love, a future of agony, of grief and tears. Nothing
beneath the stars of heaven is so profoundly sad as the wreck of a human
being. Nothing is so profoundly mournful as a home that has been covered
with shame—a wife that is worse than widowed—children worse than
orphaned. Nothing in this world is so infinitely sad as a verdict that
will cast a stain upon children yet unborn.

It is for you to say, gentlemen, whether there shall be such a verdict,
or whether there shall be a verdict in accordance with the evidence and
in accordance with law.

And let me say right here that I believe the attorneys for the
prosecution, eager as they are in the chase, excited with the hunt,
after the sober second thought, would be a thousand times better pleased
with a verdict of not guilty. Of course they want victory. They want
to put in their cap the little feather of success, and they want you to
give in the scales of your judgment greater weight to that feather than
to the homes and wives and children of these defendants. Do not do it.
Do not do it.

I want a verdict in accordance with the evidence. I want a verdict in
accordance with the law. I want a verdict that will relieve my clients
from the agony of two years. I want a verdict that will drive the
darkness from the heart of the wife. I want a verdict that will take the
cloud of agony from the roof and the home. I want a verdict that will
fill the coming days and nights with joy. I want a verdict that, like
a splendid flower, will fill the future of their lives with a sense of
thankfulness and gratitude to you, gentlemen, one and all.

The Court. Let me inquire of the counsel for the defence if there are to
be any other arguments upon their side?

Mr. Henkle. May it please your Honor, inasmuch as I alone represent
two of the defendants, it is perhaps due to this jury and to myself to
explain why I do not propose to argue the case. I had prepared myself,
with a good deal of labor and painstaking, to submit an argument to the
jury.

But after the exhaustive and able argument of my Brother Wilson, I and
my colleagues were of the opinion that there was room but for one
more argument on the part of the defence, and with entire unanimity we
selected our colleague, Brother Ingersoll, to make that argument. And
how grandly he has justified the choice, the jury, your Honor, and the
spectators will determine.

I saw some time ago a little paragraph in a paper in this city, which
represents the interest of the Government, in which it was said that the
defendants' counsel were afraid to argue this case because they would
come in collision with each other; that each would try to throw the
conspiracy at the door of the others and exonerate himself, and that
therefore they were afraid to argue the case. I want to say to your
Honor that so far from being afraid to argue the case, I should have
been very happy to pursue the argument, so far as I am concerned. But
out of tender consideration to the jury, who have been kept for six
long months from their business and their interests, which I know
are suffering, we have unanimously concluded that we would close the
argument with that which your Honor has just heard. And I simply want
to say further, that I not only do not antagonize with anything that has
been said by my Brother Wilson, or by my eloquent friend who has just
concluded, but I indorse most fully and cordially every word that has
been uttered. And so far as my clients are concerned, gentlemen of the
jury, the case is with you.

Mr. Davidge. May it please your Honor, perhaps I ought to add a single
word. It was understood among counsel when Colonel Ingersoll, as stated
by General Henkle, was unanimously selected to represent the defendants,
that both Colonel Ingersoll and myself should have the privilege
of addressing the jury if, in the judgment of either, it should be
necessary. I have felt such a deep interest in the present case that I
have almost hoped he might leave unoccupied some portion of the field of
argument. I have listened to every word that has fallen from his lips.
He has filled the whole area of the case with such matchless ability and
eloquence that I have no ground upon which I could stand in making any
further argument. He has so fully uncovered the origin of this so-called
prosecution, its methods, and the character and weight of the evidence
upon which a conviction is sought, that I can add nothing whatever to
what he has said. I need not add that every syllable he has uttered
receives my grateful indorsement, as well as that of all the defendants
and their counsel in this case.*

> * Twelve jury men decided this morning that the Government
> had not legally established a case of conspiracy against the
> Star Route defendants. This verdict of absolute acquittal
> coming so unexpectedly has created a very marked sensation.
> The announcement in the court room of the verdict was
> followed by an uproarious scene of applause, tears,
> hysterics and cheers. Every one expected the jury to
> disagree. Judge Wylie himself, a week or ten days ago,
> called up the counsel for the prosecution and said to them,
> "I do not think you are going to get a verdict out of that
> jury. I have watched it carefully, and I am certain that
> four of the best men on it are in doubt." Last night an
> employee of the Department of Justice reported that the jury
> stood eleven to one for acquittal. This came from one of the
> bailiffs, who claimed to have overheard a vote.

> At any rate the prosecution had intended, if a disagreement
> was reported, to ask to have the jury dismissed, on the
> ground of the condition of Juror Vernon. Had this been
> attempted, Dr. Sowers, who attended Vernon yesterday would
> have testified that Vernon was all right mentally, after he
> had braced him up with two drinks of brandy.

> The court room was crowded when the jurors took their
> places. Every one of the defendants was there. Dorsey sat by
> his wife, flushed and expectant. Upon the left of Mrs.
> Dorsey was her sister Mrs. Peck. Brady was just back of his
> special counsel. Judge Wilson, looking as hard and grim as
> ever. All of the counsel for the Star Route defendants were
> in their seats. Colonel Ingersoll's face showed great self-
> control, although he was evidently laboring under strong
> nervous excitement. He was flanked by his entire family.

> Mr. Farrell, Mr. Baker (Colonel Ingersoll's secretary), and
> the white-haired and white-bearded Mr. Bush, the hard
> working associate of Colonel Ingersoll, were also present.

> When the jurors took their places in the court room
> precisely at ten o'clock, Judge Wylie looked at them, and
> said In his slow hesitating way: "Gentlemen, I have sent
> for you to learn—ahem—to learn if you have agreed—ahem—
> upon a verdict." Mr. Crane the foreman said: "We have
> agreed."

> Judge Wylie gave a start of surprise and looked towards the
> seats for the counsel of the Government. Not one of them was
> present. This looked very ominous for the Government's case,
> and indicated besides that the bailiffs must have betrayed
> the secrets of the jury room to the prosecution, as neither
> Bliss nor Merrick came to the court room at all. Mr. Ker,
> one of the counsel for the prosecution, came in and stood In
> the door as the Judge said to the Clerk, "Receive this
> verdict." There was the usual silence as every one turned
> toward the foreman. Mr. Crane said very deliberately. "We
> find the defendants not guilty."

> Then there followed a scene of great confusion and uproar,
> which the Judge could not restrain. Indeed he did not try.
> The triumph of such an unexpected success after two years of
> fighting in the face of the entire power of the Government,
> made the humblest person connected in the most remote degree
> with the defence crazy with joy. When Colonel Ingersoll came
> out of the Court House a crowd gathered in front of him, and
> then one stout-lunged, broad shouldered man cried out "Three
> cheers for Colonel Ingersoll." There was a wild scene of
> tiger-like cheering from the excited crowd. This
> demonstration was a personal compliment to the Colonel, for
> when the defendants passed out there was not the slightest
> sign of approval or disapproval beyond the congratulations
> of personal friends. Colonel Ingersoll stood on the broad
> steps of the Court House and smiled with the benevolent air
> of a popular orator in front of a congenial crowd, and
> laughed outright when some over-euthusiastic admirer called,
> "Speech, speech."

> The morning was clear and bright. Colonel Ingersoll watched
> the crowd a moment, himself a picture of radiant good
> nature, as he stood with his white straw hut encircled with
> a blue band, pushed back from his face. His short thin black
> coat was partially buttoned over a white duck waistcoat. He
> rested his hands in the pockets of his gray trousers. The
> request for "Speech, speech" so amused him that he chuckled
> over It all the way to his open carriage, which came up a
> moment after. He was driven through Pennsylvania Avenue with
> his family. People called out to him from the sidewalk, and
> he was obliged to lift his hat so much that he finally sat
> bareheaded, like a conquering hero, waving his hands to the
> right and to the left. His house was thronged all day. Mrs.
> Blaine and her daughter Margaret were among the first who
> called. There was a profession of people all day long who
> had no sympathy at all with the defendants, and who were
> perfectly indifferent whether they went to the penitentiary
> or not, but who were most heartily glad that their friend
> Colonel Ingersoll had accomplished such a great personal
> victory.

> Now that the case is over, it is time to tell some facts
> about the prosecution which have been withheld until the
> case was closed. In the first place, the management of the
> prosecution has been equally scandalous with the crimes
> charged against the defendants. The District Attorney here
> has always been allowed a five dollar fee for the
> prosecution of cases. Attorney-Generals who preceded Mr.
> Brewster ruled that this should be the official fee of
> special counsel. This was made up by allowing the payment of
> lump sums as retainers. When Bliss and Merrick were put upon
> the extravagant pay of one hundred and fifty dollars per day
> it was inevitable that they would prolong the case to the
> uttermost. Bliss has, on top of all this pay, put in an
> extraordinary list of personal expenses, which have been
> allowed up to a very recent date. The amount of extra matter
> run into this case only to prolong it has resulted in so
> confusing the case as to materially aid the defence.

> Then the reporting of the case has been turned into a huge
> job. The stenographers will clear between thirty and forty
> thousand dollars on their work.

> The other day I estimated from official sources, the cost of
> the Star Route trials at one million dollars. It will go
> above that. It will foot up near one million two hundred
> thousand dollars. This evening Col. Ingersoll was serenaded.

> There was a large gathering of friends of the Star Route
> defendants at Colonel Ingersoll's house to-night. Indoors
> the acquitted men, their counsel, and a large number of
> their more intimate friends, many of them women, met to
> exchange mutual congratulations. And in the street a crowd
> had gathered, partly out of curiosity—and partly to express
> their sympathy with the defendants. They cheered Ingersoll
> and the other counsel as well as the defendants and the
> jury, and called for speeches. Colonel Ingersoll and Judges
> Wilson and Carpenter spoke briefly.

> Col. Ingersoll's speech was short and vigorous. He hailed
> the verdict of the jury as a victory for truth and justice,
> and as a notice to the administration that it could not
> terrorize a jury by indicting jurymen, and a warning to the
> President that he could not force a verdict by turning
> honest servants out of office.

> The Sun, New York, June 15,1883.
---
# Opening Address — Second Star Route Trial
_Dresden Edition, Volume 10, 1882_
Washington, D. C., Dec. 21, 1882.

MAY it please the Court and gentlemen of the jury: We consider that the
right to be tried by jury is the right preservative of all other rights.
The right to be tried by our peers, by men taken from the body of the
county, by men whose minds have not been saturated with prejudice, by
men who have no hatred, no malice to gratify, no revenge to wreak, no
debts to pay, we consider an inestimable right, regarding the jury as
the bulwark of civil liberty. Take that right from the defendants in any
case and they are left at the mercy of power, at the mercy of
prejudice. The experience of thousands of years, the experience of the
English-speaking people, of the Anglo-Saxon people, the only people now
upon the globe with a genius for law, is that the jury is a breastwork
behind which an honest man is safe from the attack of an entire nation.
We esteem it, I say, a privilege, a great and invaluable right, that we
have you twelve men to stand between us and the prejudice of the hour.
We believe that you will hear this case without passion, without hatred,
and that you will decide it absolutely in accordance with the law and
with the evidence. This is the tribunal absolutely supreme. In a case
of this character, gentlemen, you are the judges of what is the law; you
are the judges of what are the facts; you are the absolute judges of the
worth of testimony; and you have not only the right, but it is your duty
to utterly disregard the testimony of any man that you do not believe
to be true. You, I say, are the exclusive judges, and for that reason we
ask, we beg you, to hear all this testimony, to pay heed to every word,
and then decide, not as somebody else desires, but as your judgment
dictates, and as your conscience demands. Here before this jury all
letters of Attorneys-General, all desires of Presidents, all popular
clamor, all prejudice, no matter from what source, is turned simply to
dust and ashes, and you are to regard them all simply as though they
never had been.

There is one other thing. Some people are naturally suspicious. It is an
infinitely mean trait in human nature. Suspicion is only another form
of cowardice. The man who suspects constantly suspects because he is
afraid. Whenever you find a man with a free, frank, generous, brave
nature, you will find that man without suspicion. Suspicion is the soil
in which prejudice grows, and prejudice is the upas tree in whose shade
reason fails and justice dies. And allow me to say that no amount of
suspicion amounts to evidence. No case is to be tried upon suspicion.
No case is to be tried upon suspicious facts. No case is to be tried on
scraps, and patches, and shreds, and ravelings. There must be evidence;
there must be absolute, solid testimony. A case is tried according to
the rocks of fact and not according to the clouds and fogs of suspicion.
No juror has a right to make a decision until he feels his feet firmly
fixed upon the bed-rock of truth.

So I say, gentlemen, that we are glad of the opportunity to make a
statement of this case to you, and to tell you exactly the manner in
which my clients became interested in what is known as the star-route
service. You have to be guided in this case by the indictment. That is
the star and compass of this trial. You cannot go outside of it. The
evidence must be confined to the charges contained in that instrument.
If you find us guilty of a conspiracy, it must be such a conspiracy as
is set forth in that indictment. That indictment is the charter of your
authority, and you have no right to find us guilty of anything in the
world except that which is therein charged.

Now, let me give you an exceedingly brief statement of what we are
here for. It is charged in that indictment that all these defendants,
including one who has been discharged by a jury, who has been found not
guilty, Mr. Turner, including another who is dead, Mr. Peck, conspired
together for the purpose of defrauding the United States, and we are
met at the threshold with the statement that conspiracy is very hard to
prove. It is like any other offence, gentlemen. They say conspirators
generally meet in secret. My reply to that is that people generally
steal in secret, and the fact that they stole in secret was never deemed
an excuse for not proving the offence before they were found guilty. You
can see that this is precisely like any other offence in the world. Men
when they commit crimes endeavor to get away from the public eye. They
are in love with darkness. They do not carry torches in front of them.
And it is so in every crime. But whether conspiracy is difficult to
prove or not, it must be established before you can find the defendants
guilty. That is a difficulty that the Government must overcome by
testimony. The jury must not endeavor to overcome it by a verdict. And
I say here to-day that the same rule of evidence applies to this case as
to any other, and you must be satisfied by the testimony the Government
will offer that these men conspired together; that they entered into
an arrangement wherein the part of each was marked out, and that that
arrangement was contrary to law; and that the object of that arrangement
was to defraud the Government of the United States.

This indictment is kind enough to tell us the means that were employed
to carry out that conspiracy. How did they find these means, gentlemen?
They must have had some evidence on which they relied. If they had
evidence enough to convince them, they must introduce that evidence
here, and if that evidence establishes beyond a reasonable doubt that
these men conspired, then you will find them guilty; otherwise not. The
difficulty of establishing it is something with which you have nothing
to do. How did they conspire? What were the means they had agreed
to use? Let us see. Thomas J. Brady was the Second Assistant
Postmaster-General. The Postmaster-General was not included in the
scheme, consequently they must deceive him. The Sixth Auditor was not
included in this conspiracy, and as by virtue of his office it was his
duty to go over all of these accounts and pass upon the legality of each
item, it was necessary to deceive him. According to the indictment Mr.
Turner was a clerk in the department, and his part of the rascality was,
on the jackets inclosing petitions, to make false statements in regard
to the contents of the petitions inclosed. The object of that being that
when the Second Assistant Postmaster-General, Mr. Brady, exhibited these
jackets to the Postmaster-General, it being considered that he would
not have time to read the petition, he would be misled by the false
statements on the cover touching the contents.

The next step was for the contractors to get up false petitions; that
is, petitions to be signed by persons who did not live along the route
upon which the mail was to be carried. These petitions also to be
forged; that is to say, the names of persons put there by another, or
the names of fictitious persons written, when in fact no such persons
existed.

The next thing to do was to write false and fraudulent letters; to
induce others to write such letters; the next thing, to make false
affidavits; and the next thing, to make false orders—those to be
made by Mr. Brady—and these false orders were to have, as a false
foundation, false petitions, false letters, false communications, false
affidavits, and fraudulently written representations.

That is the indictment. That is the scheme said to have been entered
into by my clients with all of these defendants, and the object being to
defraud the Government of the United States. Now, in order to establish
that scheme, it would be necessary for the Government to prove it. Not
to assert it. Neither have you the right to infer it. No man can
be inferred out of his liberty. No man can be inferred into the
penitentiary. That is not the way to deprive a man of his reputation and
of liberty—by inference. They must prove it. They must prove that the
petitions were false. They must prove that the letters were fraudulent.
They must prove that the orders rested upon those false and fraudulent
petitions, letters, and affidavits; and they must prove that Mr. Brady
knew them to be false.

It is also stated in this indictment that service was to be paid for
when it was not performed; that service was discontinued and a month's
extra pay allowed; that fines were imposed and afterwards set aside
because the contractors agreed to pay fifty per cent, of such fines to
General Brady. I will speak of them when I come to them.

Now, there is a clear statement. What part, then, did my clients play in
this scheme? I will tell you. It is charged in the indictment that John
M. Peck was in this scheme, and, although he is dead, whatever he did,
I imagine, can be established by the Government. A man can be found
guilty, I understand, of having entered into a conspiracy with another,
although the other be dead, and the living man can be convicted.

Now, it is stated in the outset that my clients never had been engaged
in carrying the mail and that is regarded as an exceedingly suspicious
circumstance. A man has got to commence some time, if he ever goes into
the business, and if this doctrine be true, the first bid that a man
ever makes is evidence that he has entered into a conspiracy. Suppose,
on the other hand, my clients have long been engaged in this business.
What would the Government counsel then have said? They would have said,
gentlemen, that they had been engaged for years in the business. They
knew all the tricks that were played, and consequently they were the
very persons to form a conspiracy. And that is the wonderful thing about
suspicion. It changes every fact. It colors every word it reads and
every paper at which it looks; and no matter what are the facts, the
moment they are regarded with a suspicious mind they prove what the man
suspects.

So, then, the first charge is that we had never been in the business,
and consequently our going into the business must have been the result
of a conspiracy. Gentlemen, if the doctrine be laid down that it is
dangerous for a man to make a bid the result of that doctrine will be
to double the expenses of the Government in carrying the mails. All that
will be necessary, then, is for the old bidders to combine. They will
know that there is no danger of any new men interfering with them,
because the new men will be immediately indicted for conspiracy and
the old men will have the field to themselves. You can see that this
is infinitely absurd. There is only one step beyond such absurdity, and
that is annihilation. No man can possess his faculties and get beyond
that absurdity, if it is evidence of conspiracy, because it is the first
thing.

As a matter of fact, however, John M. Peck had been engaged in the
mail business. He was engaged in the business before 1874. He had been
interested with others before that time. He was interested in several
important routes from 1874 to 1878. It was in the fall of 1877 that he
made arrangements to bid at the next letting. He was a business man.
He was not an adventurer. He was secretary at that time of the Arkansas
Central Railroad. He had been, I believe, for two sessions a member
of the Ar-kansas Legislature. He was in good standing, solvent, and
regarded as an honest man. In 1874 he was interested in the bids and,
as I said, was engaged in carrying the mails at the time these contracts
were entered into. He became acquainted with John W. Dorsey, I believe,
in 1874. When he made up his mind to put in more bids for the letting of
1878 he went after John W. Dorsey, and they met together in the city
of New York, I believe, in the month of September, and agreed that they
would put in some bids for the letting of 1878. Peck was acquainted with
John R. Miner and had been acquainted with him for a considerable time.
Mr. Miner wanted to go into some other business than that in which he
was then engaged, and those three men made up their minds to bid. Was
there anything criminal in that? Nothing. Any men anywhere have the
right to combine; the right to form a partnership; the right to come
together for the purpose of making proposals for carrying the United
States mails. Of course you will all admit that. Now, that is what they
did. There was nothing criminal, nothing secret, nothing underhanded.
Everything was above board, open, and in the daylight. There is no
conspiracy yet, and we will show that.

John M. Peck had been troubled with a lung disease. He had gotten much
better in September, and thought that he was almost well. Later in the
fall he took a severe cold and got much worse, and from that difficulty,
I believe, he never wholly recovered. He went, however, to Colorado and
New Mexico, and finally died.

Now, let us see about John W. Dorsey. I believe that great pains
have been taken to say that he was a tinsmith, which is a suspicious
circumstance. Why? Is there any law against a tinsmith bidding to carry
the mails? Is there any such provision in the statute? And yet that
has been lugged forward as one of the evidences of a conspiracy in this
case, and it has been lugged forward in a way to cast some disgrace upon
this man—simply because he was a tinsmith. Well, do you know I have
as much respect for a good tinsmith as for a good anything. What is
the difference? Sometimes I have thought I had more respect for a good
tinsmith than a poor professional man—sometimes. In this country of all
others labor is held to be absolutely honorable, and I think a thousand
times more of a man who works in the street and takes care of his wife
and children than I do of somebody else who dresses well and lives on
the labor of others, and then is impudent enough to endeavor to disgrace
the source of his own bread. I think the man who eats the bread of
idleness is under a certain obligation to speak well of labor. And yet
we have the spectacle in this very court of the Attorney General of the
United States endeavoring to cast a little stain upon this man. As a
matter of fact, and I am almost sorry to say it, John W. Dorsey is not
a tinsmith. I am almost sorry to make the admission. He happened to be
a merchant, which is no more honorable but somewhat easier. He dealt in
stoves and tinware. That, gentlemen, is his crime, and upon that rests
the terrible suspicion that he is a conspirator. And I want to say more,
that his reputation for honesty, his reputation for fair dealing, is as
good as that of any other man in the State in which he resides. He made
up his mind to cast his fortunes with John M. Peck and with John R.
Miner and make some bids for carrying the mails of the United States.
That is all there is about it.

There is, however, another suspicious circumstance, and that is that
John W. Dorsey was the brother of Stephen W. Dorsey, and Stephen W.
Dorsey at that time was a Senator of the United States. That is another
suspicious circumstance. Whenever you find a man with a Senator for a
brother, put him down as a conspirator. Another suspicious circumstance,
John M. Peck was the brother-in law of S. W. Dorsey, absolutely married
a sister of Mrs. Dorsey, and that was the beginning of this hellish
conspiracy. It was suspicious. He intended to rob the Government when he
was courting that girl.

Now, we come to another man, Mr. John R. Miner, and the suspicious thing
about Miner is that he lives in Sandusky. But that of itself would be
nothing. Dorsey lived there once, too. Now, do you not see how they
moved to that town with the diabolical purpose of swindling this great
Government? Miner was not in very good health—do you not see—pretended
to be sick so that he could leave Sandusky; and in some way Miner and
Dorsey were excellent friends—another suspicious circumstance; and
for several years whenever John R. Miner visited Washington he laid
the foundations of this conspiracy by always stopping at the house of
Senator Dorsey—another suspicious thing. And do you not recollect the
delight, the abandon with which Mr. Bliss emphasized the word house,
when he said that they met at Dorsey's house? I had a great notion to
get up and plead guilty on that emphasis.. Miner came here. He and Peck
were acquainted; and wherever you find four men acquainted, gentlemen,
look out, there is trouble. When Miner came here he went directly to the
house of Senator Dorsey. I admit it with all the damning consequences
that flow from that admission. He did not even go to a hotel. He went
directly to Dorsey's house. I want that in all your minds, because
the prosecution regards that as one of the foundation facts in this
conspiracy, and while admitting it, do you not see how much I save them
in the way of evidence.

And there is another damning fact connected with this case. Dorsey in
the top of his house had set apart one room for an office. It was up
two or three pair of stairs. I think he established his office there to
shield himself a little from the people who usually call on a Senator in
the city of Washington. But he found that he put himself to more trouble
than he did them, so he moved his office to the lower part of the
building, and when John Miner got to that house he occupied a room right
next to that office upstairs, and sometimes he went in there and wrote.
Now, you see, gentlemen, how that conspiracy was planted; how the
branches sprang out of the windows of that room and covered all the
territory of the United States. I might as well admit that frightful
fact. I do not know that they know that, but I might as well admit it,
because we want the worst to come first. Before Miner came here he wrote
a letter. There is another place to put a pin of suspicion. He wrote a
letter to S. W. Dorsey; that is, it was Miner or Peck, I have forgotten
which, and may be that very forgetfulness of mine is another evidence of
conspiracy. A letter was written either by Miner or Peck to Stephen
W. Dorsey, saying that they were going to bid; that Peck was not well
enough to be here at that particular time, and would he be kind enough
to hand that letter to some man in whom he had confidence and let that
man get such information as he could with regard to the routes upon
which they expected to bid—all these Western star routes.

Now, what did S. W. Dorsey do? There was a man in town by the name of
Boone. He sent for Mr. Boone, and I believe that Mr. Boone went to Mr.
Dorsey's house, and that Dorsey handed him that letter in his house.
And what was the object of the letter? For Boone to get information
regarding these routes. Well, now, what did Boone do? Boone made up a
circular which he sent to all the postmasters, or most of them, through
Oregon, Washington Territory, Colorado, New Mexico, Nevada, California,
Kansas, Nebraska; that is to say, the Western States and Territories;
and in this circular a certain number of questions were propounded to
each postmaster. First, the distance from that post-office to the next,
and from the next to the next, and so through the route. Second, the
condition of the roads, whether hilly or level. Third, about the snows
in winter and the floods in spring. Fourth, the cost of hay and corn and
oats. Fifth, the wages that would have to be paid to the man or men; and
it may be some other questions in addition. Now, these circulars were
sent by Boone to all the postmasters in consequence of a letter that he
received in Dorsey's house. What for? So that by the time that Miner and
Peck and John W. Dorsey came they could sit down and bid intelligently
upon these routes; so that they would have some information that would
guide them; in other words, that they would not be compelled to bid at
random.

Now, we will show, gentlemen, that that was done, and if at that time
there had been a conspiracy, certainly such information was of no
particular value. Now, that is what Mr. Boone did, and I believe that is
about all he did at that time. There is no conspiracy yet, no fraud
yet. It is utterly impossible to defraud the Government by getting
information from postmasters as to the condition of the roads, and as to
the distance from one post-office to another. There is no fraud yet, no
conspiracy up to this point. In a little while Mr. Miner and Mr. John W.
Dorsey appeared. Ah, but they say Stephen W. Dorsey was at that time
a Senator of the United States Yes, he was, and I believe he remained
Senator until the 4th of March, 1879. When his brother came we will show
to you that Stephen W. Dorsey said to his brother, "I would rather
you would not bid; I would much rather that you would keep out of this
business, because I am a Senator and somebody may find fault. Somebody
may suspect, and consequently I would much rather you would get out of
the business." John W. Dorsey did not agree with him. He said he did not
see how that could interfere with him, and that he believed he could
do well in that business, and the consequence was he went on. There is
nothing suspicious so far as I can see in that. That is what we will
show.

This man being a member of the United States Senate did what he did out
of pure friendship; did what he did for his brother, what he did for Mr.
Peck, and what he did for Mr.

Miner from pure friendship. I know it is very difficult for some people
to imagine that any man does anything for friendship. They put behind
every decent action the crawling snake of a mean and selfish motive. My
opinion of human nature is somewhat different. I have known thousands
and thousands of men capable of disinterested actions, thousands of men
that would help a brother, a brother-in-law, or a friend, and help
them to the extent of their fortune. I have known such men and I never
supposed such acts could be tortured into evidence of meanness.

The first charge against Stephen W. Dorsey is that he sent some bonds
and proposals for bids to a postmaster by the name of Clendenning, in
the State of Arkansas. The trouble with these bonds, as I understand it,
was that the amount of the bid was not put in the blank in the printed
proposal. It is claimed by the prosecution that according to the law the
postmaster has no right to certify to the solvency of the security until
that blank is filled. I want to explain this so that you will understand
it. I think I have one of the bonds and proposals here. I would like to
have the Court see exactly the scope of it. [Exhibiting blank form of
proposal and bond.] The proposal is that the undersigned,———— whose
post-office address is————, of the county of————, and State
of————, proposes to carry the mails of the United States from July
1, such a date, to June 30 of such a date, being four years,
between such and such a place, under the advertisement of the
Postmaster-General, for the sum of————dollars per annum. Now, if I
understand the matter of the Clendenning bonds, they were filled up
with the exception of the blank in which the amount of the bid was to be
written. That is the charge, as I understand it. Whenever a man makes
a proposal to carry the mail for four years on a certain route, that
proposal must be accompanied with a bond in a certain amount, and
certain men must sign that bond as sureties, and then a certain
postmaster must certify to the solvency of the sureties, the sureties
having made oath as to the value of their property. Now, understand that
perfectly. It is not the bond that a man gives after his bid has been
accepted. It is a bond that he gives to show that his bid is in good
faith. That bond is conditioned that if the contract is awarded to him
he will give another and sufficient bond not only, but I believe it is
also conditioned that he will carry the mail. The charge is—and let us
get at it just exactly—that some bonds were sent to a man by the name
of Clendenning, who was a postmaster, and this blank was not filled.
Let me tell you why. It was the custom—and I want your Honor to
understand that perfectly, because so much was made of it before in
talk—to leave that blank unfilled. It is the blank for the amount of
the bid. In the advertisement of the Government the penalty of the bond
is stated, so that the amount of the bid has nothing to do with the
penalty in the bond. Understand me now. If the bond was for ten thousand
dollars, it was because that amount had been put in the advertisement
by the Government. It did not depend upon the amount of the bid. It had
nothing to do with it. The amount of the bid threw no light upon the
amount of the bond. The penalty of the bond was fixed by the Government
before the bid was made and inserted in the advertisement published
by the Government. Why then did they not wish to fill up this blank?
This blank, gentlemen, told the amount of the bid. Where there are many
bidders, and an important route, if you let the postmaster who has to
certify to the sureties know the amount of the bid he might sell you. He
could go and tell somebody else "I have certified to all the sureties
on this route, and the lowest bid up to this time is fifteen thousand
dollars," and the person whom he told might go and bid fourteen thousand
nine, hundred and ninety-nine dollars and take the route. Ah, but they
say the postmaster is not allowed to tell the amount of the bid. No.
What was the penalty if he did? He would lose his office. Now, here is
a postmaster holding an office worth, perhaps, a hundred dollars a
century, or, perhaps, fifty dollars a year, and by selling information
as to one bid he might make ten thousand dollars. I do not know what he
could have made. Certainly the bidders did not feel like trusting the
secret of their bids to the postmaster who certified to the sureties. As
a consequence the bond was filled up with the penalty according to the
advertisement, but the blank in which the amount of the bid was to be
written was not filled, because they wanted the postmaster's mind left
a blank upon that subject. In other words, that blank was left unfilled,
not to defraud the Government, but to prevent other people from
defrauding the bidder. That is all there is about it. That is everything
about the Cleudenning bonds. But it may be well enough to state,
gentlemen, that those Clendenning bonds were never used on a solitary
route in this indictment, and I believe never anywhere; that no contract
was ever awarded upon any one of those proposals. The only rascality
in the transaction, gentlemen, was the failure to fill a blank; and the
reason they failed to fill that blank was because they did not want
the postmaster to know the amount of the bid. Let us come right down to
practical matters and things. For instance, suppose one of this jury
is in the stone-cutting business, and the Government should issue an
advertisement calling for proposals to furnish dressed granite, and
specify that every man who bid must file a bond in a penalty of five
thousand dollars to carry out his contract, and that that bond must
be approved by the postmaster here. Suppose it was a contract of great
proportions. Would the man who bid be willing that the amount of the bid
should be inserted in the blank to be passed upon by the postmaster? No.
Why? He would not want the postmaster to know it. Who else would he not
want to know it? He would not want his sureties to know it. A man might
be standing by while the bond was being approved and read the amount of
the bid. The bidder would be afraid somebody would get at those figures
and go and underbid him. Every man of common, ordinary sense knows that.
If you made a bid you would not let your sureties know the amount and
you would not give the amount to the keeping of a postmaster, neither
would you leave it to chance or accident. You would say, "I will leave
the amount a blank. I will keep it in my mind, and when the paper comes
into my hands for the last time I will write, it in there and fold it
and seal it and give it to the Government." That is what every sensible
and prudent man would do, and what has been done for years. And yet that
act is brought forward as something to stain the reputation of an
honest man; something to strike down as with a sword the character of an
ex-Senator. They even say he wrote upon paper that had the mark of the
United States Senate Chamber upon it. That is only another evidence that
there was nothing wrong in it. It was stated, too, in the opening of
this case, that an affidavit was made upon paper that bore the mark of
the National Hotel of this city. Think of such a damning circumstance as
that! Well, gentlemen, so much for the Clendenning bonds. We will
prove that the blank was left unfilled on purpose, not to defraud the
Government, but to prevent other people from defrauding us. Let me say
in that connection that there was an investigation in 1878 upon this
very question. The Clendenning bonds were brought up. Testimony was
heard, and we will be able to show you the facts that I have stated.
Then, if I am right, gentlemen, there is nothing in it; and when the
opening statement was made the Government knew, just as well as I know,
that there was nothing in it; at least they ought to have known it.
Probably it is not proper for me to say they knew it, because men get so
prejudiced, so warped, so twisted that it is hard to tell what they know
or what they do not know. But that has nothing to do with this case and,
in my judgment, will never be admitted by the Court. If it is admitted
by the Court we will establish exactly what I have told you. So much for
the Clendenning bonds. Do not forget that the penalty of the bond was
put in by the Government.

Do not forget that the amount of the bid was left blank simply to
protect ourselves. Do not forget another thing: That leaving that blank
unfilled could not by any possible peradventure injure the Government.
The bond was just as good with that proposal unfilled at the time the
sureties signed it as though it had been filled. It had to be filled
before it was finally given to the Government or else there would be no
bid. If there was no bid, then no obligation rested upon the sureties.
Certainly they could not be harmed, and if there was no bid certainly
the Government could not be harmed; unless the bid should have happened
to be lower than any received; and yet out of that nothing, out of that
one bramble, a forest of rascality has been manufactured. Gentlemen,
that is the result of suspicion when it is hoed by malice and watered by
hatred.

The next suspicious circumstance, gentlemen, is that we bid. That is a
suspicious circumstance. Miner bid, Peck bid, and John W. Dorsey bid.
And the suspicious circumstance is that they did not bid against
each other. Why should they? I was at an auction the other day and
unconsciously bid against myself, but I did not think it any evidence
of rascality on my part; I thought it tended to show that I was not
attending strictly to business, and yet it is brought forward as
a suspicious circumstance that these gentlemen did not bid against
themselves. Another suspicious circumstance is that they bid in their
individual names. That is the way all the bidding is done, I believe.
I believe every bond has to be signed by the individuals and not by
any partnership. That I believe to be one of the regulations of the
department. Well, there is no rascality yet, as far as I can see. Now,
when the contract is accepted—I will come to the bidding question
again—the contractor has to give a bond. One of those bonds will be put
in evidence in this case. You will see what the contractor is bound to
do. Then it can be subcontracted. You will find that the contract given
by the subcontractor to the department is not a hundredth part as severe
as the bond the contractor gives to the Government. In the contract that
we give to the Government certain things are provided. You will find
that a copy of it will be intro duced. The contractor is left to
the mercy of discretion-I believe that is the word—of the
Postmaster-General You will find that if he fails to carry the mail one
trip, no matter by what he may be prevented, by flood or storm or fire,
he is not to be paid for it. Although he is there ready with his men
and horses, if he is prevented by the elements he has no pay. If the
Postmaster-General thinks he ought to have carried it when he did not,
he can take from his pay three times the value of the trip. He can take
from him one quarter's pay. He reserves in his own breast the power
to declare that contract null and void, because in his judgment the
contractor has not done his duty. Everything is left to him. The man who
signs that contract gives a mortgage on his life, liberty, and pursuit
of happiness. He has no redress. I simply call your attention to this
to show you the obligation that a contractor takes upon himself. We will
show you that he is under obligation to discharge any carrier that the
Government does not like; that he has no right to carry any package or
any letter that can go by mail; that he is to forfeit a trip when it is
not run, or not to exceed three times the pay of a trip; that he is to
forfeit one-quarter of a trip if the running time is so far behind that
he fails to make connection with the next mail; that if he violates any
of these provisions he forfeits a penalty equal to a quarter's pay, or
if he violates any other provision touching the carriage of the mail and
the time and manner thereof, without a satisfactory explanation in
due time to the Postmaster-General, he can visit a penalty in his
discretion, and the forfeitures may be increased in the penalty to a
higher amount, in the discretion of the Postmaster-General, according to
the nature or frequency of the failure and the importance of the mail.
Provided that, except as specified, and except as provided by law, no
penalty shall exceed three times the pay of a trip in each case.

It is also agreed by the said contractor and his sureties that the
Postmaster-General may annul the contract for repeated failures; for
violating the postal laws; for disobeying the instructions of the
Post-Office Department; for refusing to discharge a carrier when
required by the department; for transmitting commercial intelligence or
matter which should go by mail; for transporting persons so engaged as
aforesaid; whenever the contractor shall become a postmaster, &c.

It is further stipulated and agreed that such annulment shall not impair
the right to claim damages from said contractor and his sureties under
this contract; but such damages may, for the purpose of set-off or
counter-claim in the settlement of any claim of said contractor or his
sureties against the United States, whether arising under this contract
or otherwise, be assessed and liquidated by the Auditor of the Treasury
for the Post-Office Department.

And it is further stipulated and agreed by the said contractor and
his sureties that the contract may, in the discretion of the
Postmaster-General, be continued in force beyond its express terms for a
period not exceeding six months. You will see, gentlemen, how perfectly,
how absolutely, the contractor is in the power of the department. The
Government enforces its contracts. No matter how many years may elapse
they are still after the sureties and are still after the principal.
Nothing relieves a man but, death. Only a little while ago a case was
decided in the Supreme Court of which I will speak to you. An importer
of sugar gave the importers' bond to pay the duty upon that sugar. By
the custom of trade, sugar is sold in bond.

The importer sold to a third person and the third person went to get the
sugar. By law he could only take it after paying the tax; and yet one of
the officers of the Government, contrary to law, allowed him to take the
sugar without paying the tax. The Supreme Court has just held that the
original importer and his sureties are liable to pay that tax—the man
who took the sugar out having become bankrupt—although the sugar was
given to the second party simply by a violation of law, and that law
was violated by one of the officers of the custom-house without the
knowledge or consent of the original importer. I tell you, gentlemen,
whenever a man gives a bond to this Government the Government stays with
him. The Government does not die; the Government does not get tired; the
Government does not get weary. The Government can afford to wait, and
the poor man with the bond hanging over him cannot go into business,
cannot get credit, but just lingers out a life of expectation, of hope,
and of disappointment. I trust none of you will ever sign a bond to the
Government. There is another thing, gentlemen. If you bid on a hundred
routes and they are given to you and you put the service on ninety-nine
of the routes and carry it in accordance with the contract, and yet fail
on the hundredth route, the Postmaster-General has a right to declare
you a failing contractor. A failing contractor on the hundredth route?
Yes. On any more? Yes; on every one. And whoever is declared a failing
contractor on one route is by virtue of that declaration a failing
contractor on all. They are all taken from him. So that when a man bids
for more than one route, for instance, a hundred or a thousand, and gets
them and carries them all absolutely according to his contract but one,
he can be declared a failing contractor on all. What does that mean?
It means not simply ruin to him, but ruin to every one of his sureties,
unless they are in a condition to go on and carry the mail. I want
you to understand something of the obligation of a contractor with the
Government of the United States.

Now, I come to the bidding. These bids were made with a full
understanding of the obligation of a bidder. Messrs. Miner, Peck, and
John W. Dorsey bid, I believe, on about twelve hundred routes. You see
you are in great luck in bidding if you get one route in fifty that you
bid upon. In the first place, there are about ten thousand star routes.
I do not know that it is too much to say that the number of bids runs up
into the hundreds of thousands; somewhere in that neighborhood. Hundreds
of men often bid on one route. Consequently, nobody who bids expects to
get more than a few of the routes for which they bid. Now, is there the
slightest evidence in the statement of the Government as to the frauds
in this bidding? Let me tell you how some frauds have been committed.
Suppose, for instance, this was a fraudulent business, and Miner, Peck,
and Dorsey were bidding. Let me explain it to you. I want you to know
it. All there is in this case is simply to have you understand it. That
is all there is. And if you do not agree with me when we get through the
case I shall simply think that you have not comprehended it. Say that
four men bid on the same route, one man four thousand dol-ars, another
man three thousand dollars, another man two thousand dollars, and
another man one thousand dollars.

Now, the man who bids one thousand dollars is of no account, has not
a dollar in the world, and so when the bid is given to him he does not
want it. He is what they call a straw man. The law provides then that
the next man may have it. The law does not provide that he must take
it. He may have it if he wants to, but you cannot force him to take it,
because he is not the lowest bidder. He is the two thousand dollar man.
He is another straw gentleman. He does not want it. Then the Government
offers it to the next man at three thousand dollars. He is another
chap made of hay. He says he doesn't want it. Understand the Government
cannot force these straw and hay men to take it. Then they go to the
fourth fellow, who bid four thousand dollars. It is a good thing at four
thousand, and he says, "Yes; I will take it." That is what they call
fraudulent bidding. If you had found Dorsey and Miner and Peck bidding
on the same route and one of them failing and another one taking it, you
would not only have suspected fraud, but you would have known it.
Now, if it is a badge of fraud for them to bid upon the same route and
apparently against each other, I will ask you if it is not a badge of
fair dealing that they were not found bidding against each other. They
bid on about twelve hundred routes, and much to their astonishment they
got one hundred and thirty-four contracts.

You have heard here a great deal of talk about the number of men and
horses. We will show you all about it. Men differ upon this subject. If
men did not differ upon it at all these bids would be alike. Instead of
being a dozen bids, all different, and differing sometimes as much as
ten, twenty, thirty, forty, or a hundred dollars or more, they would bid
the same. If they all agreed on the number of horses and men it would
take, and about what it would cost, they would bid about alike, wouldn't
they? But when they are bidding they honestly differ. One man says it
would take twenty horses, and another says "no, it will take forty."
Do you not know that the number of horses depends a great deal upon
the kind of man who makes the estimate. Here is a man who is hard and
brutal, and he says a horse can do so much work. He says it is cheaper
to buy him and wear him out than it is to feed him decently. You have
known men who were perfectly willing to make fortunes out of a horse's
agony, and out of animal pain. There are hundreds of them in the world.
Now, take it on horse railroads, and with freighters, and teamsters.
Whenever you find a mean, infamous man, if he cannot whip his wife,
he will take his spite out on his horse. If a man is a good, broad,
generous, free fellow he will say, "I don't want to work that horse to
death; I think it will take four horses. I am going to keep my horses
fat, and I am going to treat them as a gentleman should." Another man,
a wretch, will come up and swear it would not take more than fifteen
horses. When his horses are through the service you will simply see a
pile of bones wrapped in a lamentable hide. You understand that.

Well, these men made twelve hundred bids and got one hundred and
thirty-four contracts. Ah, but they say, here is another badge of fraud,
another badge. Ah, they bid on small routes, on cheap routes, on routes
where the mail was carried infrequently and on slow time. If it is a
badge of fraud to bid on such routes the Government can never let out
any more. Most of these routes were cheap routes. Now, I owe it to you
to give you the reason for this. We will prove in the first place that
these men were not rich men. If they had been very rich they probably
would not have gone into the business at all. They would have gone into
that perfectly respectable business of buying Government bonds. They
would have bought Government bonds and made other fellows pay the
interest, and twice a year they would have formed a partnership with
a pair of shears, and thus in the sweat of their faces they would
clip their coupons. They bid on poor routes. Why? They were poor,
comparatively speaking.

They had not the money to stock the expensive routes where four horse
coaches were run. They preferred to take the cheaper lines. Why? Because
they could stock them. They would have been able to have stocked the
routes if they had only obtained the number they expected. But as I
told you, they got many more routes than they expected. Was that for the
benefit of the Government? How did these men come to bid so cheaply on
some of these routes? I will tell you. Because they had the information,
because they had received the facts from all the postmasters on the
routes, and consequently they made a good close calculation, and the
result was that their bids were below others, and the fact that their
bids were accepted saved the Government hundreds of thousands of
dollars. When they found themselves with all these contracts, the first
hard work they did was to give away all they could. That was the first
hard work. They had contracts, not for sale, but just to give, and they
succeeded in giving away several of them. I believe they sold two of
these children of conspiracy for the enormous sum of one hundred dollars
each. That was the highest sale they made at that time. Afterwards
another route was sold which I will explain when I come to it. Now there
is no rascality yet. No fraud yet. No conspiracy yet. Well, they then
went to work to get their bonds. But first let me say that there was
another reason for bidding on cheap routes. Whenever the bid is above
five thousand dollars, then the man who bids must, at the time he bids,
put up a check for five per cent, of the amount.

A check certified by a national bank. For instance, if it all comes to a
hundred thousand dollars he has got to put in a certified check for five
thousand dollars. Even in the little bids we made we had to deposit with
the Government some twenty-six or twenty-eight thousand dollars, and I
do not know but more, in cash, or what is the same as cash, for the bank
certifies that the money is there. That is another reason they bid on
smaller routes. What is the next? The Government asks such frightful
bonds, such terrible amounts, that a man must be almost a millionaire,
or else there must be a confidence in him that is universal, before he
can give these bonds.

There was one route at this very bidding where they had to give bonds
for six hundred and forty thousand dollars, and the sureties upon these
bonds under oath had to testify that they had real estate to the value
of six hundred and forty thousand dollars, exclusive of all debts, dues,
and demands. So there was another reason for bidding upon small routes.
Where the amount was under five thousand dollars no certified check had
to be deposited, and the smaller the route of course the smaller the
bond.

Now, I have endeavored to show you the reasons that we bid upon these
routes instead of upon the larger ones. The reasons as stated by the
Government are that we took these routes where the service was once a
week, so that we could have the service increased; that we took those
routes where the time was long so that we could have it shortened, that
is to say, expedited. But I tell you that when a perfectly good reason
lies at the very threshold of the question you have no right to go
further. The reasons I have given to you it seems to me are perfect and
you need no more.

Now, then, we got, I say, about one hundred and thirty-four routes. Of
these, one hundred and fifteen are without complaint. There is not a
word about the other one hundred and fifteen. Recollect it. We got one
hundred and thirty-four routes. In this indictment are nineteen; one
hundred and fifteen appear to be perfectly satisfactory to this great
Government. There is not a word as to those routes, not one word, I say,
as to one hundred and fifteen routes, and they want you to believe
that these defendants deliberately selected nineteen routes out of one
hundred and thirty-four about which to make a conspiracy, and that
they left one hundred and fifteen to go honestly along, but picked out
nineteen for the purpose of defrauding the Government.

Now, then, when these gentlemen found themselves with these routes, the
next thing was to put the stock and the carriers upon them. As I told
you, a good many more had been awarded to them than they anticipated.
They had not the money. So, in putting the stock upon several of the
routes, they found it necessary to borrow some money, and here comes
another suspicious circumstance. Mr. Miner borrowed some money of
Stephen W. Dorsey, and everybody is astonished that any man would be
mean enough to loan money to another; that any man could so far forget
the dignity of the office that he held as to help a friend. Their idea
of a Senator is of such a lofty and dignified character that he ceases
to take interest in anything except national affairs; that after he has
been sworn in he forgets all the relationships and friendships of
the world, and the idea of asking him to loan money seems, to the
prosecution, to be the height of unconstitutionality. But as a matter
of fact he did loan some money, and we will show you how that loan was
treated, showing you that at that time he had not the slightest interest
in it. He loaned some money, and kept loaning money until, I believe,
he had given them about sixteen thousand dollars to get these routes on.
Then he, being on his way to New Mexico, met in the city of Saint Louis
John R. Miner, who at that time was coming back, I think, from Montana
or Dakota, where he had been putting stock on a route. Miner saw Dorsey
in Saint Louis, and said to him, "We have got to have a little more
money, and I want you to indorse my note or to loan me your note and
I can get it discounted in the German-American Bank in Washington."
Finally, Dorsey said to him, "You have already obtained from me about
sixteen thousand dollars: I will give you the note you ask, or indorse
your note upon one condition, and that is that you shall give me
orders"—what are called Post-Office drafts—"not only for the amount of
this note, but for the amount of the sixteen thousand dollars." We shall
insist, gentlemen, that that evidence shows exactly our position, and
that you are entitled not only to draw from it, but that you must
draw from it the inference, the fact, that we had no interest in those
routes. Finally that was agreed to.

Now, understand it, at that time a contractor with the Government who
had agreed to carry the mail for a certain time could give what are
called post-office drafts or orders—you know, orders on his quarterly
pay—and they would be taken to the proper officer in the Post-Office
Department and they would be accepted, not for the full amount,
understand, but for any amount that might be due that contractor.
For instance, he might fail to carry the mail, he might be fined, and
consequently the amount of that draft might not be there, so that the
only thing the Post-Office Department agreed to do was to pay upon that
order or draft anything that was due to the contractor. That was done at
that time, and why? Because there was no way other than that to secure
these advances. So he gave these drafts. He came on to Washington.
The note was put into the German-American Bank. The orders on the
Post-Office Department were filed with it, and the money advanced by
the bank and charged to Stephen W. Dorsey. That made, then, at that time
about twenty-five thousand dollars that Dorsey had advanced. That being
done he went on about his business.

Now, I will show you what happened after that. I think the note in the
German-American Bank was nine thousand dollars or ten thousand dollars,
I have forgotten which. Dorsey then went on to New Mexico from Saint
Louis, and remained there, I believe, until December, 1878. Now, I want
you to understand this, because here turns a very important question,
and a very important point. Now, you recollect the information about
these bids was collected in the autumn and winter of 1877. The last
bid was to be put in, I think, February 28, 1878. Now, this was in the
August of that year, 1878. Still being pressed for money, Miner, Peck,
and J. W. Dorsey were in danger of being declared failing contractors.
Now, recollect it. We will show that at that time Brady, who, according
to the Government, was a co-conspirator, threatened to declare Dorsey,
Peck, and Miner failing contractors, and if he had declared them failing
contractors even on one route that was the end of all. At that time
Miner and John W. Dorsey sought out Mr. Harvey M. Vaile, and let me say
that is the first appearance of Mr. Vaile in these contracts. He knew
nothing about the bidding, was not in Dorsey's house, knew nothing about
the letting. That is his first appearance in these contracts, August,
1878. Now let us see what he did. He was a man of means. He had some
money; had been, I believe, for a long time engaged in carrying the
mails; understood the business. They will tell you that is a suspicious
circumstance as to him, and that the fact that that was John Dorsey's
first experience is a suspicious circumstance as to him. Really to avoid
suspicion you would have to have a man that had been in it a long time
but never had anything to do with it. They got him, and offered what? To
give him a third interest in this entire business. I think that was
it. They were to give him a third interest in this entire business,
a business that had been born of conspiracy, a business that had as a
silent partner the man who fixed the amount of money to be paid. Think
of that. According to the statement of the Government, here was a
conspiracy full-fledged, perfect in its every part, flanked by the
Second Assistant Postmaster-General, buttressed by all the clerks they
desired, and yet that conspiracy got so hard up that in August, 1878,
nine or ten months after its creation, it was willing to give a third to
anybody who would advance a little money to carry the thing on.

So Mr. Vaile came in. Now, then, they had to secure Vaile against any
loss, and it seems that on July 1, I believe, of that year, the law
allowed the subcontract to be filed. It was a little while before that
that a law had been passed for the protection of subcontractors. That
was all explained to you yesterday. You know it is something like
a mechanic's lien; that if the subcontractor would only file his
subcontract in the Post-Office Department and let that department know
the terms of it they would not pay the original contractor until this
subcontractor was paid. Now, that law had gone into effect a little
while before August, 1878, and the effect of that law, if anybody filed
a subcontract on these routes, was to cut out all those post-office
orders that Miner had given to secure Dorsey. You understand me now, do
you not? It was when he met him in Saint Louis that it was agreed
that these post-office orders were to be given and filed with the
German-American Bank in this city. Now, then, the law passed for
the protection of subcontractors, and subsequently the filing of
subcontracts on those very routes, would render those post-office orders
absolutely worthless. Very well. When they made the contract with
Mr. Vaile they agreed to file the subcontracts with the department
to protect Vaile and that rendered S. W. Dorsey's security absolutely
nothing. That cut out all other claims, drafts, and everything else, and
at that time Mr. Miner was fully authorized by power of attorney from J.
W. Dorsey and from John M. Peck, who was at that time in New Mexico, to
make this transfer to Vaile.

Now, see where we are on August 16, 1878. On Dorsey's return in
December, 1878—he had not been here from that time, and do you not see
he had nothing to do with it—he found that these subcontracts had
been filed. He found that the note in the German-American Bank had been
protested, and he found that his collateral security was not worth a
dollar, that it was all gone. Thereupon he demanded a settlement. The
matter drifted along for a little while, and a settlement was made with
the bank; and Mr. Vaile, holding the subcontract, undertook to pay that
Dorsey note, and he did pay it. He took it up, and gave, I believe, his
own instead, and that was finally paid. But the money due Dorsey, the
sixteen thousand dollars that at that time amounted to something more
by virtue of interest, was not provided for. The money that had been
expended by John W. Dorsey was not provided for. The money expended
by Peck was not provided for. Now, I want you to see exactly how that
matter stood at that time. We have got it up to that time and here
it stands, and the chief conspirator out sixteen thousand dollars and
without any interest in one of the routes. There is where he was at
that time, and that is what we will show. The brother of the chief
conspirator ten thousand dollars out, and not the interest of one cent
in any route. The brother-in-law of the conspirator about ten thousand
dollars out, and not a cent in. That was the condition of this
conspiracy at this time, and when Vaile took these routes Brady
telegraphed him and asked him, "What routes of Miner, Dorsey, and
Peck, are you going to put the stock on? This thing can be continued no
longer. The stock must go on." We will show it. Now, having got to that
point, we will take another step. There is nothing like understanding
things as we go along.

Now, from the time Mr. Vaile took the route, to the settlement in 1879,
to which I will call your attention in a little while, Mr. Vaile had the
absolute control. Neither Peck nor S. W. Dorsey had the slightest thing
to do with one of those routes until the final settlement, and I say to
these gentlemen of the prosecution now, that in that time they can find
no line, no word from Stephen W. Dorsey upon the subject. They cannot
find that he wrote a word to any official, that he sent a petition to
anybody, that he wrote a letter to any human being upon the subject,
or that he took any more interest in it than in the ashes of Sodom and
Gomorrah. It went right along.

Now, then, up to this time, Stephen W. Dorsey had made nothing. He was
only out about sixteen thousand dollars or eighteen thousand dollars.
John W. Dorsey was in the same healthy financial condition. John M. Peck
had reaped the same rich harvest of ten thousand dollars lost, and
all the things had been turned over to Mr. Vaile; John W. Dorsey put
out—left out—with nothing to show. That is the first chapter in this
conspiracy. [Resuming.]

I believe when I stopped, the principal conspirators were substantially
"broke." The head and front was out sixteen or eighteen thousand
dollars, and the other two ten thousand dollars each. Now, a contract
was made, and I propose to prove that contract in the course of this
trial. When that contract comes to be shown, it will be about this:
That, on the 16th day of August, 1878, H. M. Vaile, John R. Miner, John
M. Peck, and John W. Dorsey made an agreement That agreement made a
partnership, and we will show that a partnership was formed by and
between Miner, Vaile, Peck, and Dorsey on the 16th day of August, 1878.
We will show by the articles of that partnership that H. M. Vaile was
made treasurer, and that all the other partners agreed, by suitable
powers of attorney, to put the collection of all the money from the
Government absolutely in his hands. When he got the money he agreed,
first, to pay all the subcontractors; second, the expenses necessary
and incident to the proper conduct of the business; third, to divide the
profits remain-, ing among the parties as provided in that contract. The
profits were to be divided as follows: From routes in Indian Territory,
Kansas, Nebraska, and Dakota, to H. M. Vaile, one-third; to John R.
Miner, one-sixth; to John M. Peck, one-sixth; and to John W. Dorsey,
one-third. From routes in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico,
Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Washington Territory, Oregon, Nevada, and
California, to H. M. Vaile, one-third; to John R. Miner, one-third, and
to John M. Peck, one-third. Before any division of profits was to be
made, the sums which before that time had been advanced were to be
paid to the parties so advancing such sums; and if the profits were not
sufficient to repay the entire sums so advanced, they were to be paid
from time to time during the existence of the life of these contracts.
Now, you will find that such contract was made on the 16th day of
August, 1878, and that Mr. H. M. Vaile then took absolute and complete
control of every one of these routes, and the only thing they asked of
him was to repay the money that had been advanced, which, as you know,
and as I have told you, was the sixteen or eighteen thousand dollars
by S. W. Dorsey, the ten thousand dollars by Peck, and about the same
amount by John W. Dorsey. Now that is understood. At that time certain
papers were executed by all the parties. I told you that a law had been
passed by virtue of which a man could make a subcontract and have that
subcontract put on file, and thereupon he could be protected by the
Government. Now, when H. M. Vaile took these routes, and they were to
be managed by him, subcontracts were made by the other parties to Mr.
Vaile, and Mr. Vaile put those subcontracts on record. Now you can see
that they gave him the absolute and entire control of every route.
That was the condition. I have explained to you the the liability of
a contractor. He cannot put it off on a subcontractor. He is the
man primarily responsible to the Government during the life of that
contract, and for six months thereafter. Whenever a contract is awarded
to any person, he is regarded as the original contractor, and his
name is kept upon the books of the department during the life of that
contract. No matter how many subcontracts may be made, he is looked to
primarily if there is a failure of a a trip, or if there is a failure
of the service, and he is responsible for its complete performance. If
there comes some great storm and the road is obstructed by snow, or if
the bridges are all carried away by flood, and the subcontractor throws
down the contract, the original contractor must be ready to take it
up; and if he fail to do so, he can be fined three times what he has
received for each trip. There is one case in one of these nineteen
routes, gentlemen, where the fines exceeded the entire pay simply
because they did not carry the mail according to the contract. Now,
then, these parties finally made a settlement and they divided these
routes. They divided them. They ceased to have any interest in common.
Recollect, that was in April, 1879. I want you to know it because this
entire case depends on your knowing it. This entire case, gentlemen of
the jury, depends on your understanding it. In April, 1879, Mr. Vaile
having had possession of these routes for several months, a division was
made of them, and all interest in common was at that moment severed. At
this time, I say, these routes were divided, and all partnership and all
partnership interest was absolutely destroyed. I want to tell you why.
When Dorsey returned from New Mexico and found that his orders on the
Post-Office Department had been superseded by subcontracts and that his
collateral security was worthless he was indignant, and at that time
he and Mr. Vaile had a quarrel. He did not think he had been properly
treated, and for that reason the moment he got the note at the
German-American Bank provided for, the moment he induced Mr. Vaile
to assume the payment of that note, he gave evidence that he wanted a
settlement. Not that he wanted the routes divided at that time, because
he did not dream of such a thing. He wanted the settlement. He wanted
his money. The arrangement that had been made with Mr. Vaile was unknown
to Mr. Dorsey, who at that time was in New Mexico; and, as I told you
before, when he returned and found that the note that had been given to
the German-American National Bank was protested, and found, as I
told you twice, his collateral security was worthless, he wanted a
settlement. He wanted his money refunded to him. They said to him, "We
haven't the money. We have just got the stock really upon these routes.
We have just got under way, and we cannot pay out the money." "Very
well," said he, "what will you give me?" I want you all to see that this
was a simple, natural, ordinary proceeding. Said he, "I want my money."
Said Vaile to him, "We haven't the money, but I will tell you what we
will do. We will divide the routes with you." Now, recollect at that
time that they had a hundred and thirty-four routes, and had given some
of them away. At that time they agreed upon a division, and they agreed
how that division should be made. We will prove the agreement to you.
The agreement was that Mr. Vaile should choose first, taking the route
he wanted—he and Miner being together at that time—that Mr. Dorsey
should choose the next, and Mr. Miner should choose the third route;
and then that Mr. Vaile should choose the fourth, Stephen W. Dorsey the
fifth route, Mr. Miner the sixth route, Mr. Vaile the seventh route, and
so on. They finally concluded it would be fair for Mr. Vaile to take
the best route, Dorsey the next best, and Miner the next best, and then
again Vaile the best, Dorsey the next best, and Miner the next best,
and that that would be an average that would do justice to each. In
that way, gentlemen, they divided these routes. There was no conspiracy;
nothing secret. This division was made on the 6th day of April, 1879,
not only after Dorsey had gone out of the Senate, but after he had
advanced this money, after they had failed to repay him, after he had
failed to collect it, and when he finally had said, "I must have some
settlement that recognizes my claim." Gentlemen, I want you to know
that. In this case that fact will be one of the great central facts. On
the 6th day of April, 1879, these routes were absolutely divided, and
after that they had nothing in common. But you recollect that these
routes were divided by chance. Mr. Vaile chose the first route. He might
choose a route that had been bid off by Peck, or he might choose a route
that had been bid off by John W. Dorsey. Stephen W. Dorsey took the next
route, and that might have been a route that had originally been awarded
to his brother, or to Peck, or to Miner. You can see how that is. The
division was here complete. Mr. Miner did not have the routes he had bid
off and that had been given to him by the Government. Mr. Vaile came in,
and as Mr. Vaile was not an original bidder he took routes that had
been awarded to Miner and to Peck and to John W. Dorsey. By the division
Stephen W. Dorsey came into possession of routes that he never had bid
off, because he never bid for one. Consequently as he went along with
those routes, he needed and he had oftentimes the affidavit or the
certificate of the original contractor. That was a necessity. Otherwise
the division could not have been carried out. Anything that arises from
the necessity of the case does not tend to show any conspiracy or any
illegal partnership. I hope you understand perfectly that on the 6th day
of April, 1879, these routes were divided and Stephen W. Dorsey took his
share because they at that time owed him between sixteen and eighteen
thousand dollars.

What more did he do, gentlemen? He agreed at that time that he would
refund to John W. Dorsey all the money he had expended. That amount was
about ten thousand dollars. It was nine thousand and something. He also
agreed that he would refund to John M. Peck, who is now dead, the money
he had expended, which was between nine and ten thousand dollars. He
also agreed that he would take the routes for the money he had expended,
and that was between sixteen and eighteen thousand dollars. So, when
those routes were turned over to him they were taken in full of over
sixteen thousand dollars advanced by him, ten thousand dollars that he
was to give to his brother, and ten thousand dollars that he was to give
to John M. Peck—in the neighborhood of thirty-eight thousand dollars
in all. Speaking of the sum without interest it amounted to thirty-six
thousand dollars. Those routes were turned over to him. Gentlemen, it
was not done in secret. When that division was made, the law having
provided no way for A to assign a contract to B, that assignment had to
be accomplished by a subcontract, and consequently subcontracts had to
be given to Vaile, subcontracts to John R. Miner, and subcontracts to
S. W. Dorsey, and yet the original contractor was still held by the
Government. When the subcontract was made, it was for the entire amount
of the pay; not one dollar remained for the original contractor. Now,
I want to state to you what we are going to prove about that. After
the division was made, to show you the interest taken by the
arch-conspirator, we will prove these facts: That when the routes
awarded to him by chance, on the 6th day of April, 1879, had been
awarded, he left the city of Washington in a few days, and went to New
Mexico; that he returned here on the 15th or 16th of May; that he left
again on the 19th of May, and went to Arkansas; that from Arkansas he
went to New Mexico, and returned to Washington on the 21st day of June,
and that on the 27th of June he left for New Mexico. The next time he
visited Washington was in July of the following year, 1880. He remained
here one day, left and returned again to witness the inauguration of
General Garfield. From June 27, 1879, up to the present hour I challenge
these gentlemen to show that Stephen W. Dorsey ever wrote one line,
one word, one letter, to any officer of the Post-Office Department. I
challenge them to show that he ever took the slightest interest in any
star route, or said one word to any human being about that business,
except in explanation when attacked by the Government or in the
newspapers. Now, gentlemen, after the division of these routes what
did Stephen W. Dorsey do? This is a story, complicated, it may seem,
perfectly plain when you understand the surroundings. It is a story
necessary for you to know. After he got these routes what did he do? Did
he want them? Did he want to engage in carrying the mail of the United
States? Was that his business? At that time he had a ranch in New Mexico
where he was raising cattle. That was his business, and is up to to-day.
Did he want to stay here? Did he want to attend to these contracts? That
is for you to determine. Did he want to enter into some partnership by
which the Government was to be fleeced? That is for you to say. I tell
you he had another business. I tell you he had a ranch in New Mexico,
and we will prove it to you, and that ranch was of more importance to
him than all the star routes in the United States. We will show you
that at that time he could not have afforded to waste his time on these
routes; that the business he was then engaged in was too profitable
to waste any time in the mail business. Profitable as these gentlemen
appear to think it was, what did he do? Just as soon as he could make
the arrangement he went to a gentleman living in Pennsylvania by the
name of James W. Bosler. Who is Bosler? He is a man well acquainted with
the business of contracting with the Government. He has been in that
business for years and years. He is a man of ample fortune, excellent
reputation, considered by his friends and neighbors to be a gentleman
and an honest man. He went to him. That we will show you. He said to Mr.
Bosler, "I have advanced money by the indorsement of a note. I am in a
business that I do not understand. We have had to divide the routes in
order for me to have security for my debt. I want to turn these routes
over to you. I am not acquainted with the business of carrying the mail.
I know absolutely nothing about it. I want you to take it." How did he
turn it over? We will show. He said to Mr. Bosler, "You take all the
routes that have been given to me; every one. You run them and you pay
me back my money, and then we will divide the profit." Mr. Bosler
said he was not very well acquainted with post-office business, but
he understood how to transact any ordinary business, and he would take
them. That is all there is to it. He took the routes; every one. I
believe that he took absolute control within a few months of the 6th day
of April. I do not know but the warrants for the first quarter were
paid or came in some way to S. W. Dorsey. But for the second quarter Mr.
Bosler took them, and from that day to this Mr. Bosler has controlled
those routes. He has carried every mail or has contracted with the man
who did carry it. Every solitary thing that has been done from that day
to this has been done by him. Every dollar has been collected by Mr.
Bosler, and every dollar has been disbursed by Mr. Bosler. And before we
get through I am going to tell you how all the routes that were given to
Mr. S. W. Dorsey came out. Let me tell you how they came out. Mr.
Bosler has carried the mail, paid the expenses, kept the accounts, and,
gentlemen, I am going to tell you how much he made out of this vast
conspiracy that has convulsed that part of the moral world that has been
hired and paid to be convulsed. I am going to tell you exactly how we
came out on all this business. I will give you the product of all this
rascality, of all this conspiracy, of all the written and spoken lies; I
will tell you our joint profit on this entire business; a business that
promised to change the administration of this Government; a business
about which reputations have been lost, and no reputations will be
won; counting it all, every dollar, and taking into consideration the
midnight meetings, the whisperings in alleys, the strange grips and
signs that we have had to invent and practice, you will wonder at the
amount. I will give it to you all. Mr. Bosler has kept the books, has
expended every dollar, collected every warrant, and I say to you to-day
that the entire profit has been less than ten thousand dollars, not
enough to pay ten witnesses of the Government. Our profits have not been
one-fiftieth of the expense of the Government in this prosecution—not
one-fiftieth, and I say this, gentlemen, knowing what I am saying. It is
charged by the Government that these gentlemen were conspirators; that
they dragged the robes of office in the mire of rascality; that they
swore lies; that they made false petitions; that they forged the
names of citizens; that they did all this for the paltry profit of ten
thousand dollars. That is what we will show you. And the moment this
reform administration swept into power they cut down the service on
these routes. They not only did that, but they refused to pay the
month's extra pay, and they committed all this villainy in the name of
reform. And do you know some of the meanest things in this world have
been done in the name of reform? They used to say that patriotism was
the last refuge of a scoundrel. I think reform is. And whenever I hear
a small politician talking about reform, borrowing soap to wash his
official hands, with his mouth full and his memory glutted with the
rascality of somebody else I begin to suspect him; I begin to think that
that gentleman is preparing to steal something. So much, then, for the
conspiracy up to this point, up to the division of these routes in 1879.
Now recollect it.

Now, the next charge that is made against us, and it is a terrific
one, is that these defendants, my clients, have filled the Post-Office
Department with petitions—false petitions; forged petitions. I want
to tell you here to-day that these gentlemen will never present any
petitions upon any route upon which my clients are interested that they
will claim was forged—not one. Have we not the right, gentlemen, to
petition? Has not the humblest man in the United States a right to send
a petition to Congress? Has not the smallest man—I will go further—has
not the meanest man the right to petition Congress? Why, it is
considered one of our Constitutional rights not only, but a right back
of the Constitution, to make known your grievances to the governing
power. Every man always had a right to petition the king. There is
no government so absolutely devoid of the spirit of liberty that the
meanest subject in it has not the right to express his opinion to the
king—to the czar. Upon what meat do these officers feed that they are
grown so great that an ordinary citizen may not address a petition to
one of them? Now, I ask you, if you were living in Colorado and could
get a mail once a week, have you not the right to petition your member
of Congress to have it three times a week? Do you not know that
every member of Congress from every State, every delegate from every
Territory, is judged by his constitutents by the standard of what he
does. By what he does for whom? By what he does for them. They send a
man to Congress to help them, and they expect that man to get them a
mail just as often as any other member of Congress gets his people a
mail, do they not? And if he cannot do that they will leave that young
gentleman at home. They will find another man. It is the boast of a
member of Congress when he returns to his constitutents, "I have done
something for you. You only had a mail here once a week. I have got it
four times a week, gentlemen." "Here is a river that was navigable. I
have got a custom house." "Here is a great district in which the United
States holds a court and I have an appropriation for a court-house." Up
will go the caps; they will say, "He is the man we want to represent us
next session." But if he sneaks back and says, "Gentlemen, you do not
need a court-house, you have mails often enough," the reply of the
people is, "And you have been to Congress often enough." That is nature,
and no matter how highly we are civilized when you scratch through the
varnish you find a natural man.

Now, then, every member of Congress felt it was his duty, his privilege,
and his leverage, to have the mails established, and when the people
got up petitions he would indorse them. He would look at the petitions.
There was the principal man, you know, in his town. He would look down
a little farther. There was a fellow that had an idea of running against
him. He would look down a little farther, and there was the man who
presented his name at the last convention; there is the fellow who
subscribed three hundred dollars towards the expenses of the campaign.
That is enough. He turns it right over—"I most earnestly recommend that
this petition be granted. So and so, M. C." Then he would put it in his
coat-pocket, and he would march down to General Brady with a smile
on his face as broad as the horizon of his countenance. He would just
explain to the gentleman that there are miner's camps springing up all
over that country, towns growing in a night like mushrooms, Providence
just throwing prosperity away in that valley; that they have to have
a daily mail then and there, and he would show this petition. In three
weeks more there would come fifty others, and it would be granted. Why,
even the counsel for the prosecution would have done the same, strange
as it may appear. They would have done just the same—maybe worse, maybe
better. The Post-Office officials might have granted more to them.

Now, I have always had the idea that it was one of my rights to sign a
petition; that no man in this country could grow so great that I had not
the right just to hand the gentleman a paper with my opinion on it. Do
you know I do not think anybody can get so big that an American citizen
cannot send a letter to him if he pays the postage, and in that letter
he can give him his opinion. There is no fraud about that; not the
slightest. These men all out through the mountains, men that went out
there, you know, to hunt for silver and for gold, live in little camps
of not more than twenty or thirty, maybe, but they wanted to hear from
home just as bad as though there had been five hundred in that very
place. And a fellow that had dug in the ground about eleven feet and had
found some rock with a little stain on it and had had the stain assayed,
wanted to hear from home right off. He stayed there and dreamed about
fortune, palaces, pictures, carriages, statues, and the whole future
was simply an avenue of joy upon which he and his wife and the children
would ride up and down. He wanted to write a letter right off. He wanted
to tell the folks how he felt. Do you think that man would not sign a
petition for another mail? Do you think that fellow would vote to send a
stupid man to Congress who could not get another mail? He felt rich; he
was sleeping right over a hole that had millions in it, and he had
not much respect for a Government that could not afford to send a
millionaire a letter.

Now, Mr. Bliss tells you that we forged petitions, and in only a few
moments, as the Court will remember, he had the kindness to say that
anybody in the world would sign a petition for anything, and the
question arises if people are so glad to sign petitions why should we
forge their names. Do you not see that doctrine kind of swallows itself.
You certainly would not forge the name of a man to a note who was
hunting you up to sign it. And yet the doctrine of the Government is
that while the whole West rose en masse, each man with a pen in his hand
and inquiring for a petition, these defendants deliberately went to
work and forged it. It won't do, gentlemen. Oh, my Lord, what a thing a
little common sense is when you come to think about it, when you come to
place it before your mind.

Now, the next great trouble in this case, gentlemen, is that we bid on
routes that were not productive. When you remember that Congress made
all these routes—now Congress did it; we did not do it—you will
protect us. We did not make a solitary route upon which we bid, strange
as it may appear. Congress, with the map of the Territories and the
States of the Union before it, marked out all the routes. Congress
determined where these routes should run. And yet this case has been
tried as though in reality we were the parties who determined it.

Now, let me say something right here. It is for Congress to determine
first of all on what routes the mail shall be carried. I want you
to understand that, to get it into your heads, way in, that Congress
determined that question, and that there has to be a law passed that the
mail shall be carried from Toquerville to Adairville, from Rawlins to
White River. That law has to be passed first, and Congress has to say
that that route shall be established. Now, get that in your minds. I
give you my word we never established a mail on the earth. That was done
by Congress, and the moment Congress establishes a route it becomes the
duty of the Second Assistant Postmaster-General to put the service upon
that route, and the duty of the First Assistant Postmaster-General to
name the offices on that route. Is not that true? That is the doctrine.
Now, that had all been done before we entered into a conspiracy. These
routes had not only been established, but the Government had advertised
for service on these routes, and we bid. That was our crime.

These gentlemen said, I believe, at one time, that they were about to
lift a little of the curtain, to expose the action of Congress. You
see this suit has threatened the whole Government. If the Constitution
weathers this storm it will be in luck. They were going to raise the
curtain. They were going to be like children hanging around a circus
tent. One lifts it up and hallooes to another, "Come quick, I see a
horse's foot." They said that they were going to show the rascality
of Congress. They have never done it. I suppose the reason may be that
their pay depends upon an act of Congress, but they let that alone. Now,
they say that Congress committed a great mistake. Why, they say they
were routes that were not productive, and we knew it, and that when
the people asked for expedition and increase on a route that was not
productive we were guilty of fraud.

Now, gentlemen, let us see: There are not a great many productive
post-offices in the United States. They say that a post-office that is
not productive should be wiped out. Let me say to you, you cut off the
post-offices that are not productive and you will have thousands the
next day that are not productive. It is the unproductive offices that
make others productive. You cut off those that are not productive and
you will have double the number that are not productive. You cut off all
those that are unproductive and you will have nothing left but the
mail line. You might say that there is not a spring that flows into the
Mississippi that is navigable. Let us cut off the springs. Then what
becomes of the Mississippi? That is not navigable either. It is on
account of the streams not navigable, emptying into one, that the one
into which they empty, becomes navigable. And yet, these gentlemen say
in the interest of navigation, "Let us stop the springs because you
cannot run a boat up them." That is their doctrine. There is no sense in
that. You have got to treat this country as one country. You have got
to treat the post-offices business as a unit for an entire country. You
have got to say that wherever the flag floats the mail shall be
carried, wherever American citizens live they shall be visited with the
intelligence of the nineteenth century. That is what you have got to
say. You have got to get up on a good high plane, and you have got
to run a great Government like this that dominates the fortune of a
continent, and you have got to run it like great men. There has got to
be some genius in this thing and not little bits of suspicion.

Productiveness! Let us see. We are informed by Mr. Bliss, who is paid
for saying it, otherwise he would not, that the West is perfectly
willing to have mail facilities at the expense of the East. I do not
think the gentleman comprehends the West. There is nothing so laughable,
and sometimes there is nothing so contemptible, as the egotism of a
little fellow who lives in a big town. Some people really think that New
York supports this country, and probably it never entered the mind of
Mr. Bliss that this country supported New York. But it does. All the
clerks in that city do not make anything, they do not manufacture
anything, they do not add to the wealth of this world. I tell you,
the men who add to the wealth of this world are the men who dig in the
ground. The men who walk between the rows of corn, the men who delve in
the mines, the men who wrestle with the winds and waves of the wide sea,
the men on whose faces you find the glare of forges and furnaces, the
men who get something out of the ground, and the men who take something
rude and raw in nature and fashion it into form for the use and
convenience of men, are the men who add to the wealth of this world. All
the merchants in this world would not support this country. My Lord! you
could not get lawyers enough on a continent to run one town. And yet,
Mr. Bliss talks as though he thought that all the mutton and beef of the
United States were raised in Central Park, as though we got all our wool
from shearing lambs in Wall Street. It won't do, gentlemen. There is a
great deal produced in the Western country. I was out there a few years
ago, and found a little town like Minneapolis with fifteen thousand
people, and everybody dead-broke. I went there the other day and found
eighty thousand people, and visited one man who grinds five thousand
bushels of flour each day. I found there the Falls of Saint Anthony
doing work for a continent without having any back to ache, grinding
thirty thousand bushels of flour daily. Just think of the immense power
it is. Millions of feet of lumber in this very country, and Dakota, over
which some of these routes run, yielding a hundred million bushels of
wheat. Only a few years ago I was there and passed over an absolute
desert, a wilderness, and on this second visit found towns of five and
six and seven thousand inhabitants. There is not a man on this jury,
there is not a man in this house with imagination enough to prophesy the
growth of the great West, and before I get through I will show you that
we have helped to do something for that great country.

Productiveness! Let me tell you where that idea of productiveness was
hatched, where it was born, the egg out of which it came. It was by
the act of March 2, 1799, just after the Revolution, and just after
our forefathers had refused to pay their debts, just after they had
repudiated the debt of the Confederation, just after they had allowed
money to turn to ashes in the pockets of the hero of Yorktown, or had
allowed it to become worthless in the hand of the widow and the orphan.
In 1799, the time when economy trod upon the heels almost of larceny,
our Congress provided that the Postmaster-General should report to
Congress after the second year of its establishment every post-road
which should not have produced one-third the expense of carrying the
mail. Recollect it, and I want you to recollect in this connection
that we never established a post-route in the world. We will show
that, anyway, if we show nothing else. By the act of 1825 a route was
discontinued within three years that did not produce a fourth of the
expenses. Now, when those laws were in force the postage was collected
at the place of delivery.

But in old times, gentlemen, in Illinois, in 1843, it was considered a
misfortune to receive a letter. The neighbors sympathized with a man
who got a letter. He had to pay twenty-five cents for it. It took five
bushels of corn at that time, five bushels of oats, four bushels of
potatoes, ten dozen eggs to get one letter. I have myself seen a farmer
in a perturbed state of mind, going from neighbor to neighbor telling of
his distress because there was a letter in the post-office for him. In
1851 the postage was reduced to three cents when it was prepaid, and the
law provided that the diminution of income should not discontinue any
route, neither should it affect the establishment of new routes, and
for the first time in the history of our Government the idea of
productiveness was abandoned. It was not a question of whether we would
make money by it or not; the question was, did the people deserve a mail
and was it to the interest of the Government to carry that mail? I am a
believer in the diffusion of intelligence. I believe in frequent mails.
I believe in keeping every part of this vast Republic together by
a knowledge of the same ideas, by a knowledge of the same facts, by
becoming acquainted with the same thoughts. If there is anything that is
to perpetuate this Republic it is the distribution of intelligence from
one end to the other. Just as soon as you stop that we grow provincial;
we get little, mean, narrow prejudices; we begin to hate people because
we do not know them; we begin to ascribe all our faults to other folks.
I believe in the diffusion of intelligence everywhere. I want to give to
every man and to every woman the opportunity to know what is happening
in the world of thought.

I want to carry the mail to the hut as well as to the palace. I want
to carry the mail to the cabin of the white man or the colored man, no
matter whether in Georgia, Alabama, or in the Territories. I want to
carry him the mail and hand it to him as I hand it to a Vanderbilt or
to a Jay Gould. That is my doctrine. The law of 1851 did away with your
productiveness nonsense, and when the mails were first put upon
railways in the year 1838, the law made a limit, not on account of
productiveness, but a limit of cost, and said the mail should not cost
to exceed three hundred dollars a mile. Let me correct myself. In 1838 a
law was passed that the mails might be carried by railroad provided they
did not cost in excess of twenty-five per cent, over the cost of mail
coaches. In 1839 that law was repealed, and the law then provided that
the pay on railways should be limited to three hundred dollars a mile.
So you see how much productiveness has to do with this business. In
1861 Congress provided for an overland mail. Did they look out for
productiveness? The overland mail in 1861 was a little golden thread
by which the Pacific and the Atlantic could be united through the great
war. Just a mail, carrying now and then a letter in 1861, and they were
allowed, I think, twenty or thirty days to cross. Was productiveness
thought of? Congress provided that they might pay for that service eight
hundred thousand dollars a year. The mail did not exceed a thousand
pounds. Including everything. Some letters that were carried from this
side to the other cost the Government three hundred dollars apiece. What
was the object? It was simply that the hearts of the Atlantic and the
Pacific might feel each other's throb through the great war. That is
all. Suppose some poor misguided attorney had stood up at that time and
commenced talking about productiveness. In the presence of these great
national objects the cost fades, sinks. It is absolutely lost. Wherever
our flag flies I want to see the mail under it. After awhile we
established what is known as the free-delivery system. That was first
established on the idea of productiveness. Whenever you start a new
idea, as a rule, you have to appeal to all the meanness that is in
conservatism. Before you can induce conservatives to do a decent action
you have to prove to them that it will pay at least ten per cent. So
they started that way. They said, "We will only have this free delivery
system where it pays." We went on and found the system desirable, and
that many people wanted it, and that the revenues of the Post-Office
Department were so great that we could afford it, and we commenced
having it where it did not pay. Right here in the city of Washington,
right here in the capital of the great Republic, we have the free
delivery system. Is it productive? Last year we lost twenty-one thousand
dollars distributing letters to the attorneys for the prosecution
and others. And yet now this District has the impudence to talk about
productiveness. If anybody wants to find that fact it can be found on
pages 42 and 45 of the Postmaster-General's report. Productiveness! We
have now a railway service in the United States. I want to know if that
is calculated upon the basis of productiveness. A car starts from the
city of New York, and runs twelve hours ahead of the ordinary time
to the city of Chicago for the simple purpose of carrying the mail,
stopping only where the engine needs water, only when the monster whose
bones are steel and whose breath is flame, is tired. Do you suppose that
pays? You could scarcely put letters enough into the cars at three cents
apiece to pay for the trip. At last we regard this whole country as a
unit for this business. We say the American people are to be supplied.
We do not care whether they live in New York or in Durango; we do not
care whether they are among the steeples of the East or the crags of the
West; we do not care whether they live in the villages of New England or
whether they are staked out on the plains of New Mexico. For the purpose
of the distribution of intelligence this great country is one. Do you
see what a big idea that is? When it gets into the heads of some people
you have no idea how uncomfortable they feel. I have as much interest in
this country as anybody, just exactly, and I am willing to subscribe
my share to have this mail carried so that the man on the very western
extreme, on the hem of the national garment, may have just as much as
the man who lives here in the shadow of the Capitol. You see whenever
a man gets to the height where he does not want anything that he is not
willing to give somebody else, then he first begins to appreciate what a
gentleman is and what an American should be. Productiveness! I say that
all the State and Territorial lines have been brushed aside. We do not
carry the mail in a State because it pays. We carry it because there are
people there; because there are American citizens there; not because it
pays. The post-office is not a miser; it is a national benefactor.
There are only seventeen States in this Union where the income of the
Post-Office Department is equal to the outlay; only seventeen States in
this Union. There are twenty-one States in which the mail is carried
at a loss. There are ten Territories in which we receive substantially
nothing in return for carrying the mail, and there is one District,
the District of Columbia. I do not know how many miles square this
magnificent territory is; I guess about six. Thirty-six square miles.
How much is the loss in this District per annum? About one thousand
five hundred dollars a square mile. The annual loss right here in this
District is fifty-eight thousand dollars, and yet the citizens of
this town are rascally enough to receive the mail, according to the
prosecution. Why is it not stopped? Why is not the Postmaster-General
indicted for a conspiracy with some one? This little territory, six
miles square has a loss of fifty-eight thousand dollars.

If there was a corresponding loss in Kansas, Nebraska, California,
Dakota, and Idaho, it would take more than the national debt to run the
mail every year. And yet here in thirty-six square miles comes the wail
of non-productiveness. It is almost a joke. We are carrying the mail in
Kansas at a loss of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, and
yet Kansas has a hundred million bushels of wheat for sale. Good! I
am willing to send letters to such people. It is a vast and thriving
country. It contains men who have laid the foundation of future empires.
I want people big enough and broad enough and wide enough to understand
that the valley of the Mississippi will support five hundred millions of
people. Let us get some ideas, gentlemen. Let us get some sense. There
is nothing like it. We pay five hundred thousand dollars a year for the
privilege of carrying the mail in Nebraska. Do you know I am willing to
pay my share. Any man who will go out to Nebraska and just let the wind
blow on him deserves to have plenty of mail. You do not know here what
wind is. You have never felt anything but a zephyr. You have never felt
anything but an atmospheric caress. Go and try Nebraska. The wind there
will blow a hole out of the ground. Go out there and try one blizzard,
a fellow that robs the north pole and comes down on you, and you will
be willing to carry the mail to any man that will stay there and plow a
hundred and sixty acres of land. When I see a post-office clerk sitting
in a good warm room and making a fuss about a chap in Nebraska for not
carrying the mail against a blizzard, I have my sentiments. I know what
I think of the man. In the Territory of Utah we pay two hundred and
thirty thousand dollars a year for the privilege of carrying the mails,
and the males in that country are mostly polygamists. I want you to get
an idea of this country. In the State of California, that State of
gold, that State of wheat, the State that has added more to the
metallic wealth of this nation than all others combined, an empire
of magnificence, we pay five hundred thousand dollars a year for the
privilege of distributing the mail. I am glad of it. I want the pioneer
fostered. I want the pioneer to feel the throb of national generosity.
I want him to feel that this is his country. You see the post-office is
about the only blessing he has. Every other visitor that comes from the
General Government wants taxes. The Post-Office Department is the only
evidence we possess of national beneficence. It is the only thing that
comes from the General Government that has not a warrant, that does not
intend to arrest us. In Texas, which is an empire of two hundred and
seventy-three thousand square miles, a territory greater than the French
empire, which at one time conquered Europe, we pay four hundred and
fifty-nine thousand dollars for the privilege of distributing the
mail. I am glad of it. It will not be long before that State will have
millions of people and give us back millions of dollars each year, and
with that surplus we will carry the mail to other Territories. A man who
has not pretty big ideas has no business in this country; not a bit.
We pay one hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars for the sake
of carrying letters and papers around Arkansas; one hundred and
eighty-three thousand dollars for the privilege of wandering up and down
Alabama; one hundred and seven thousand dollars in Missouri; two hundred
and forty thousand dollars in Ohio; two hundred and eight thousand
dollars in Georgia; three hundred and twelve thousand dollars in old
Virginia. When I first went to Illinois the Government had to pay for
the privilege of carrying the mail in that State. Now Illinois turns
around and hands six hundred and sixty thousand dollars of profit to
the United States each year. She says, "You carry the mail to the other
fellows that cannot afford it just the same as you carried it for us.
You rocked our cradle, and we will pay for rocking somebody else's
cradle." That is sense. In other words, in seventeen States we have a
profit of seven million dollars. In twenty-one States, ten Territories,
and the District of Columbia we have a loss of five million dollars.
When we regard the country as a unit, then we make money out of the
whole business. That is good. We have in the United States about a
hundred and ten thousand miles of railroad now, and we pay about two
hundred dollars a mile for carrying the mail on those railroads. We have
two hundred and twenty-seven thousand miles of star routes, and we pay
on them between twenty and thirty dollars a mile. I want you to
think about it. In looking over the Post-master-General's report I
accidentally came across this fact. You know, gentlemen, the present
period is a paroxysmal period of reform. We are having what is known
as a virtuous spasm. We have that every little while. It is a kind
of fiscal mumps or whooping-cough. I find by this report that a mail
averaging twenty pounds carried in a baggage-car from Connellsville to
Uniontown, Pennsylvania, is paid for at the rate of forty-two dollars
and seventy-two cents a mile. Under General Brady the star routes cost
between twenty and thirty dollars a mile.

Now, gentlemen, I have told you our connection with the star-route
business. I have told it all to you freely, frankly, and fully. Some
charges have been made against us, and I want to speak to you about
them. You understand that it often takes quite awhile to explain a
charge that is made in only a few words. One man can say another did so
and so. It is only a lie, and yet it may take pages for the accused man
to make his explanation. The worst lie in the world is a lie which is
partly true. You understand that. When you explain a lie that has a
little circumstance going along with it, certifying to it, and attesting
to its truth, it takes you a great deal longer to explain it than it did
to tell it. The first great charge is that for us—and I limit myself to
my clients—orders were antedated. That is one great charge. Let me tell
you just how that was. Mr. Bliss calls attention to the fact that Mr.
Brady made orders relating back, and in one case he alleged that the
order was made, for the benefit of my clients, to take effect six weeks
prior to its being issued. I want to explain that. A railroad was being
constructed along the line of one of these routes. It may be well enough
for me to say that it was the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. The
points from which the mail was carried had to be changed as the road
progressed. As it grew Mr. Brady increased the service on the route to
seven times a week. He increased it from the end of the railroad, and
he made it seven times a week because the mail on the railroad was seven
times a week. We were to carry the mail from the end of the railroad,
wherever that end might be. He increased the service on this route from
the end of the railroad to the other terminal point; that is, he made it
a daily mail so as to connect with the daily trains on the railroad. At
the time the seven trips were to be put on, distance tables were sent
out to postmasters at the terminal points to get the distances. Let me
tell you what a distance table is. The names of the post-offices are on
a circular, and the Post-Office Department sends that circular to the
postmasters along the route and they are asked to return it with the
distance from each station to every other marked upon it. Now, until
that table is returned it is impossible for the Second Assistant
Postmaster-General to tell how far they carry the mail. This railroad
was progressing every month, and as the railroad advanced the distance
from the end of the railroad to the other terminal point decreased. Now,
the Postmaster-General or the Second Assistant cannot fix that pay until
he has a return of the distance table. But before he has that return he
can order the contractor to carry the mail, and after the distance table
is returned then he can make up the formal order and have that order
entered upon the records of the department. That is all he ever did. I
want you to understand that perfectly. It might be four weeks after the
contractor was ordered to carry the mail from the termination of the
railroad, or it might be five or six weeks before the distance tables
were returned and the distance calculated. But do you not see it made
no difference? There was first an order either by telegraph or a short
order, and after the distance tables were returned then the distance
was calculated, the amount of money calculated, and the regular order
written up and made of record, and a warrant drawn for payment. That is
all there is to it. And yet this is what Mr. Bliss calls defrauding
the Government. We are charged on that kind of evidence with having
defrauded the United States. We will show you that no order of that
kind was made except when the distance was unknown; and that when the
distance was ascertained, the formal order was made, another order
having been made before that time. Let me say right here that orders of
a similar nature have been made in the Post-Office Department since its
establishment. Since the construction of railways there has not a month
passed in that department—certainly not a year—when such orders
have not been made. And yet for the first time in the history of the
Government it is brought forward against us as an evidence of fraud. We
will show that the order was made exactly as I have stated.

The next badge of fraud that is charged is that after a route had been
awarded to us it was increased or expedited, or both, before the stock
was put on. Well, I will tell you just how that is, because you want to
know. This case, apparently complicated, is infinitely simple when it is
understood. There are in the United States, I believe, some ten thousand
of these star routes. They are all or nearly all in some way connected.
One depends upon another. It is a web woven over the entire West, and
how you run a mail here depends upon how one is run there, and the
effort is to have all these mails connect in a certain harmony so
that time will not be lost, and so that each letter will get to its
destination in the shortest possible time, and it requires not only a
great deal of experience, but it requires a great deal of ingenuity.
It requires a great deal of study and strict attention for a man so to
arrange the routes and the time in the United States that the letters
can be gotten to their destination in the shortest possible time. And
yet that is the object. You can see that. Now, you may be looking at the
route from A to B, and say that there is no sense in having it in that
time; but if you will look at the time of other routes, if you see with
what routes that connects you will say that it is sensible. Now, you go
on to another route, and, gentlemen, you see that every solitary route
is touched, is compromised, is affected by every other route. That is
what I want you to understand.

Now, then, Mr. Bliss says that it was a badge of fraud to increase the
time and the service on a route before the stock was put on. Now let
me show you. Here you have your scheme. Here is the route, we will say,
from A to E. You let that for a weekly route, once a week. How fast?
A hundred hours. When you get the other routes and look at this
business you see that that crosses several places where the mail is
lost. That is where a day is lost, and you see, if instead of that being
a hundred hours it were seventy-five hours the mail at many stations
would save one day or two days. Now, then, the law vests in you the
power before a solitary horse or carriage goes upon that route to say
to the man to whom the contract was awarded, "You must carry that in
seventy-five hours instead of one hundred hours, and you must carry it
four times a week instead of once a week." If you take that power from
the Postmaster-General and from the Second Assistant those offices
become useless. It is impossible for any human intellect to take into
consideration all the facts growing out of this service.

There is another thing, gentlemen, which you must remember, and that
is that these advertisements for this service are not made the day the
service is wanted. These advertisements are put out six months before
there is to be any such service.

It is sometimes a year before that service is wanted, and if you know
anything about the West you know that in one year the whole thing may
change. That where there was not a city there may be a city, and where
there was a city nothing but desolation. Now, then, the law very wisely
has vested the power in the Second Assistant and the Postmaster-General
to rectify all the mistakes made either by themselves or by time, and
to call for faster time or for slower, that is, for less frequent trips.
Now, then, you see that that is no badge of fraud, do you not? If,
before you put a man or a horse on that route, the Government finds it
wants twice as many trips there is no fraud in saying so, and if they
find they want to go in fifty hours instead of a hundred hours there
would be fraud in not saying so. That has been the practice since this
was a Government.

Now, what is the next? The next great charge against us, gentlemen, is
that when they agreed to carry a greater number of trips, or any swifter
time for money, Mr. Brady did not make us give an additional bond, and
Mr. Bliss talked about that I should think about a day. Nearly all the
time I heard him he was on that subject. "Why did they not when they
were to carry additional trips give a new bond?" Well, I will tell
you why: Because there is no law for it. There never was a law for
it—never. And Mr. Brady had no right to demand a bond unless the
statute provided for it. When I give a bond to carry the mail once a
week, and the Government finds that it wants it carried three times
a week, the Government cannot make me give an additional bond. Why?
Because the statute does not provide for it, and Mr. Brady had not the
power to enact new laws. That is all. Why, there never was such a bond
given, and any bond that is given under duress, by compulsion, not
having the foundation of a statute, is absolutely null and void.
Everybody knows it that knows anything. And yet the gentleman comes
before you and says it is a sign of fraud that we did not give an
additional bond. There never was such a bond given in the history of
this Government—never; and in all probability never will be unless
these gentlemen get into Congress. You know the law prescribes every
bond that the contractor must give, and it is bad enough without ever
being increased during the contract term.

So much now for that frightful badge of fraud. I want to make this
statement so you will understand it. They have the unfairness, they have
the lack of candor to tell you that it is one of the evidences that we
are scoundrels, that we failed to give an additional bond, and when
they made that statement they knew that by law we could not give an
additional bond, and they knew that if we had given an additional bond
it would not have been worth the paper upon which it was written. And
yet they lack candor to that degree that they come into this court
and tell you that that is one of the evidences that we have conspired
against the United States. It won't do.

What is the next badge of fraud? And I want to tell you this is a case
of badges, and patches, and ravelings, and remnants, and rags. It is a
kind of a mental garret, full of odd boots, and strange cats, thrown at
us, and altogether it is called a case of conspiracy. Another badge of
fraud is that whenever we carried the mail one trip a week, and it was
increased to two trips a week, Brady was such a villain that he gave us
double pay; and Mr. Bliss informed the jury that they knew just as well
as he did that it did not cost twice as much to give two trips a week as
it did to give one. Well, who said it did? And yet they say that is an
evidence of fraud. Well, let us see. There is nothing like finding the
evidence.

Now, when we come to this case we will introduce a bond that we gave
at that time, and when the jury read that bond they will find this, or
substantially this:

It is hereby agreed by the said contractor and his sureties that the
Postmaster-General may discontinue or extend this contract, change the
schedule, alter, increase, or extend the service, he allowing not to
exceed a pro rata increase of compensation for any additional service
thereby required, or for increased speed if the employment of additional
stock or carriers is rendered necessary, and in case of decrease,
curtailment, or discontinuance, as a full indemnity to said contractor,
one month's extra pay on the account of service dispensed with, and not
to exceed a pro rata compensation for the service retained: Provided,
however, That in case of increased expedition the contractor may, upon
timely notice, relinquish his contract.

Now, it is in that provided that if they call on him for double service
he is entitled to double pay. That is the law, and it has been the
practice, gentlemen, since we have had a Post-Office Department. And
why? Let me show you. Here is a man who carries a mail from A to Y.
There are supposed to be some commercial transactions between those two
places. It is supposed that now and then a human being goes from one of
those places to the other, and the man who carries the mail, as a rule
carries passengers and does the local business. Now, do you suppose that
he would agree with the Government that he would carry the mail once a
week for a thousand dollars a year, and that they might hire another man
to carry it once a week for a thousand dollars a year, and maybe
that other man take all his passengers and all his business. The
understanding is that when I bid a thousand dollars a year for once a
week, if you put it to three times a week I am to have three thousand
dollars; four times a week, four thousand dollars; seven times a week,
seven thousand dollars, and that has been the unbroken practice of this
Government from the establishment of the Post-Office Department until
to-day. You can see the absolute propriety of it, and you can see that
any man would be almost crazy to take a contract on any other terms, and
that contract is this: "I will carry for you so much a trip, and if you
want more trips you can have them at the same price as that fixed." That
is fair. That is what we did.

So much for that badge of fraud. What is the next one? It is that the
pay was increased twice as much by the increase, and, as I said, that is
the law.

Now let us see what is the next great badge of fraud. That we received
the pay when the mail was not carried. I deny it, and we will show in
this case, gentlemen, that we never received pay except when the mail
was carried. And how do I know? Because General Brady established a
system of way-bills, so that a way-bill would accompany every pouch in
which letters were, and they would put on that way-bill the time that it
got to the post-office, and when that way-bill got to the terminal point
it was sent here to Washington and filed away, and at the end of every
quarter a report was made, and if a mail was behind at any post-office
you would find it on that way-bill, and if they had not made the trip
then they were fined. That way-bill system was inaugurated by General
Brady, and under that way-bill system we carried the mail, and we could
not get pay unless we had carried the mail. I call them way-bills. They
are mail-bills that go with the pouch and give a history of each mail
that is carried. That is all.

Now another great badge of fraud. The first was that he was to impose no
fines when the mail was not carried. The next was that he was to impose
fines and then take the fines off for half—fifty per cent. Now, would
not that be an intelligent contract? I carry the mails. You are the
Second Assistant Postmaster-General. I agree with you that if you fine
me and then will take the fine off I will give you half of it. About
how long would it take you to break me up? And yet that is honestly and
solemnly put forward here as a fact in the case. They tell a story of
a man who was bitten by a dog. Another man said to him, "I'll tell you
what to do. You just sop some bread in that blood and give it to the
dog; it will cure you." "Oh, my God!" says he, "if the other dogs hear
of it they will eat me up." And here it is, without a smile, urged
before this jury that we made a bargain that a fellow might fine us
for the halves. Well, there may be twelve men in this world who believe
that. They are unfortunate.

The next charge is that a subcontract was made for less than the
original contract. Well, that is where most of the money in this world
is made. Thousands and millions of men have made fortunes by buying corn
at sixty cents a bushel to be delivered next February, and selling
the same corn for seventy cents. There is where fortunes live. The
difference between a contract and a subcontract is the territory of
profit in which every American loves to settle. You make a contract with
the Government to furnish, say, a thousand horses of a certain kind for
one hundred and fifty dollars apiece. You go and make a subcontract
with some one to furnish you those same horses for one hundred and
twenty-five dollars apiece. Is that a fraud? You have taken upon
yourself the responsibility and if your subcontractor fails you must
make it good. There is no harm in that.

Suppose I agree with you to-morrow that if you will furnish me one
thousand bushels of wheat on the first day of January, I will give
you one thousand five hundred dollars, and I find out that you made a
bargain with another fellow to do it for a thousand dollars. If I am an
honest man I suppose I will jump the contract, won't I? Not much. If I
am an honest man I will say, "Well, you made five hundred dollars; I am
glad of it; good for you." But the idea of the prosecution is that the
moment Brady saw a subcontract for less than the original contract
he should have had a moral spasm, and said, "I won't carry out the
contract; I will swindle you, I will rob you, and I will do it in the
name of virtue." And that is the meanest way a man ever did rob—in
the name of virtue, reform. So much for that. But if you ever make a
contract with this Government and can make a subcontract at the same
price you do it as quick as you can.

The next is, that whenever he discontinued a route or any part of a
route, rather, he gave us a month's extra pay; you heard that, did you
not? He was on that subject about a half a day. How did he come to do
that? I will tell you. There is nothing like looking:

And in case of decrease, curtailment, or discontinuance of service, as a
full indemnity to said contractor one month's extra pay on the amount of
service dispensed with.

That is first the law, secondly the contract, and thirdly it was made
in the interest of the United States. And why? Suppose the United States
made a contract with a man to carry a mail from New York to Liverpool,
and in consequence of that contract the man bought steamships to perform
the service, and then the United States made up its mind not to carry
the mail. That man might get damages to the amount of hundreds and
thousands of dollars. Therefore the United States endeavored to protect
itself and say the limit of damage shall be one month's pay, and that
has been the law for years, and that law has been passed upon by the
Supreme Court of the United States. It was passed upon in the case of
Garfielde against the United States, where he claimed greater damages
because he had all the steamships to carry the mail from San Francisco
to Portland, and the Supreme Court said it made no difference what
his expense had been. He was bound by the letter of the law and the
contract, and could have only one month's extra pay as his entire
damage.

Now, these gentlemen bring forward a law to protect the United States
Government, and they bring that forward as an evidence of conspiracy,
as evidence of a fraud. Nothing could be more unfair, nothing on earth
could show a greater want of character. Now, let us see what else.

The next great charge is false affidavits. They tell you that we made
lots of them; that we just had them for sale. False affidavits! And that
Mr. John W. Dorsey made two false affidavits in two cases. The evidence
will show that he did not. The evidence will show that he made only one
in each case, when we come to it. But I want to call your attention to
this fact, that in one case one affidavit was made where it said the
number of men and horses then necessary was eight, that on the expedited
schedule it would be twenty-four. Three times eight are twenty-four. The
second affidavit said the number of men and horses then was fifteen, and
the number on expedition and increase would be forty-five. Three times
fifteen are forty-five. So that the amount taken from the Government
would be exactly the same on both affidavits. You understand that. For
instance, if it took five horses and men to do the then business, and
would require fifteen to do the expedited and increased business, then
you would be entitled to three times the amount of pay. So in this case
one affidavit said it took eight and would take twenty-four, the other
affidavit said it took fifteen and would take forty-five. Three times
eight are twenty-four. Three times fifteen are forty-five. So that the
amount of money taken from the Government would be exactly the same
under each affidavit. Now, that is all there is of that.

In the next case, where he made two affidavits, I find that by the
second affidavit it took, I think, thirteen thousand dollars less
from the Government, and yet they call the second affidavit a piece
of perjury. And here is one thing that I want to impress upon all your
minds. Where you not only carry the mail but carry passengers, it is
an exceedingly difficult problem to say just how many horses and men it
requires to carry the mail, and then how many men and horses it
requires to carry the passengers. It is hard to make the divide you
understand—very hard. You can tell, for instance, the cost of mounting
a railroad for a hundred miles, but it is very difficult to tell the
cost of the bridges or what the spikes cost or what the deep cuts cost.
You can take the whole together and say it cost so much a year. So
in this case we can say it requires so many men and horses doing the
business that we are doing, but it is almost impossible for the brain
to separate exactly the passengers, the package business, from simply
carrying the mail. As I said before, men will differ in opinion. Some
men will say it will take ten horses, others twenty, others twenty-five,
and then the next question arises, and I want to call particular
attention to that question, and that is, whether the law means only the
horses absolutely carrying the mail; whether the law means by carriers
only the men who ride the horses or drive the wagons. Now, I will tell
you what I mean. I undertake to carry the mail, we will say from Omaha
to San Francisco. How many men will it take? Now, I will count all the
men who are driving the stages, all the men who are gathering forage,
all the men who are attending to that business in any way, and if on
the way I have blacksmiths' shops where my horses are shod I will count
those men. If I have men engaged in drawing wood a hundred miles, I
will count those men. In other words, I will count all the men I pay, no
matter whether they are keeping books in New York or carrying the mail
across the desert. I will count all the men I pay; so will you. What
horses will you count? All the horses engaged in the business; those
that are drawing corn for the others, as well as the rest, will you not?
There is an old fable that a trumpeter was captured in the war and he
said to his captor, "I am not a soldier, I never shot anybody." "Ah,"
they said, "but you incited others to shoot, and you are as much a
soldier as anybody; we want you."

Now, I say that we are entitled to count every man who carries the mail,
and every man necessary to perform that service. So do you. Now, there
we divide. The Government says we shall count simply the men carrying
the mail, nobody else, and we shall count simply the horses in actual
service. That is nonsense. For instance, you have got to have thirty
horses. They are going all the time. Do you depend on just that thirty?
No, sir. If one gets lame you cannot carry the mail. You have got to
have twenty or thirty horses in your corral, in the stables, so that
if one of the others gives out you will have enough. That is one great
question in this case, gentlemen. What I say to you now is that on every
one of these routes in which my clients are interested, or, I may say,
in which anybody is interested, the evidence will be that the affidavits
were substantially correct. In many cases there was a far greater
difference between the men and horses then used and the men and horses
that were afterwards necessary.

You must take another thing into consideration. In a country where there
are Indian depredations one man will not stay at a station by himself.
He wants somebody with him; he wants two or three with him, and the more
frightened he is the more men he will want. On that route from Bismarck
to Tongue River, as to which it was sworn it would take a hundred and
fifty men, the statement was made at a time when the men would not stay
separately; that they wanted five or six together at one station; that
they wanted men out on guard and watch. You will find before we get
through, gentlemen, that the affidavits do not overstate the number. You
will find in addition that these petitions were signed by the best
men; that that service was asked for by the best men, not simply in
the Territories, but by some of the best men in the United States; by
members of Congress, by Senators, by generals, by great and splendid
men, men of national reputation. So when we come to that we will show to
you that the affidavits made were substantially true. There is another
charge that has been made, and that is that the affidavits in Mr. Peck's
name were not made by him; that he never signed these affidavits.

Yet, gentlemen, we will prove to you as the Government once proved
by Mr. Taylor, a notary public in New Mexico, that Mr. Peck appeared
personally before him; that he was personally acquainted with Mr. Peck,
and that he signed and swore to those affidavits in his presence. That
we will substantiate in this trial as the Government substantiated it
in the other. These gentlemen, are among the charges that have been made
against us. I say to you to-day they will not be able to show that we
ever put upon the files of the Post-Office Department a solitary letter,
a solitary petition, a solitary communication that was not genuine and
true. Not one. They cannot do it. They never will do it. You will
be astonished when you hear these petitions to find the Government
admitting that they are true. If they do not read them we will read
them. That is all.

Now, I have stated to you a few of the charges made against my clients
up to this point. I want to keep it in your mind. I want each man on
this jury to understand exactly what I say. Let us go over this ground
a little. I want to be sure you remember it. In the first place, S. W.
Dorsey was not interested in these routes. All the bids were made by
John W. Dorsey, John M. Peck, John R. Miner, and a man by the name
of Boone. All the information was gathered by Mr. Boone by sending
circulars to every postmaster on the routes. Upon that information John
W. Dorsey, John M. Peck, and John R. Miner made their calculations and
made their bids, numbering in all about twelve hundred. Of that number
they had awarded to them a hundred and thirty-four contracts. Recollect
that. After those contracts were awarded to them they were without the
money to put the stock on all the routes, because more contracts were
awarded than they expected. Thereupon John R. Miner borrowed some money
from Stephen W. Dorsey and kept up that borrowing until the amount
reached some sixteen or eighteen thousand dollars. Don't forget it.
After it got to that point Mr. Dorsey started for New Mexico. At Saint
Louis he met John R. Miner, then coming from Montana, and John R. Miner
said to him, "We have got to have some more money of you;" and Dorsey
replied, "I have no more money to give you." Miner then said, "You give
your note or indorse mine for nine or ten thousand dollars." Dorsey
replied, "If you will give me post-office orders and drafts, not only to
secure the note I am about to indorse or make for you, but also to the
amount of the money I have advanced for you, I will give the note." That
was agreed upon. Thereupon he gave the note. It was discounted in the
German-American National Bank, and Mr. Miner deposited with the note the
orders on the Post-Office Department, not only to secure the note, but
the sixteen thousand dollars that Dorsey had before that time advanced.
Dorsey went on to New Mexico, and in May or July of that year another
law was passed, allowing a subcontractor to put his subcontract on file.
After he had advanced that money and indorsed or signed the note, they
made the contract with Mr. Vaile, turning these routes over to him and
giving him subcontracts on all these routes. When Stephen W. Dorsey came
back from New Mexico in December of that year he found that the note
at the German-American National Bank had been protested, and that his
collateral security was at that time worthless, because the subcontracts
had been filed and these subcontracts cut out the post-office orders or
drafts. Thereupon he wanted a settlement. Matters drifted along until
April, 1879, and a settlement was made. I have told you that from the
time the routes were given to Mr. Vaile until that time nobody had the
slightest thing to do with them except Mr. Vaile; that in April,
1879, the division was made; that Mr. Vaile paid the note at the
German-American National Bank; that the division was made, as I told
you, by Mr. Vaile drawing one route, Mr. Dorsey one, and Mr. Miner one,
and keeping that up until they were all drawn. I forgot to tell you
before that Mr. S. W. Dorsey had sixteen thousand dollars, to which, if
you add the interest, it would be about eighteen thousand dollars;
that John W. Dorsey had ten thousand dollars and John M. Peck had ten
thousand dollars, and when that division was made Stephen W. Dorsey
agreed to pay John W. Dorsey ten thousand dollars, and to pay John M.
Peck ten thousand dollars for his interest. Gentlemen, he did pay John
W. Dorsey ten thousand dollars, and he did pay the same amount to Peck,
and from that day to this John W. Dorsey has never had the interest of
one solitary cent in any one of these routes. He was simply paid back
the money that he expended. Not another cent. John M. Peck never made by
this business one solitary dollar. He simply received back the money he
had expended. After he had paid back that money to both of these men,
Stephen W. Dorsey took these routes with a debt to him of between
sixteen and eighteen thousand dollars. Now, as to Mr. Rerdell. They say
he was the private secretary of Stephen W. Dorsey. He never was; not for
a moment, not for a single moment He attended to some of this business.
I have no doubt that the Government imagine they can debauch somebody
in order to get information. I give them notice now—GO on. There is no
living man whose testimony we fear. There is no living lawyer who has
the genius to make perjury do us harm. I want you to understand it.
And I want them to understand that I know precisely what they are
endeavoring to do. There is only one way for them to surprise me, and
that is for them to do a kind thing.

Now, gentlemen, at that time—I want you to remember it; I do not
want you to forget it—when these routes came to Mr. Dorsey, he, not
understanding the business, turned it over to Mr. James W. Bosler.
Mr. Bosler, as I told you before, is a man of wealth. But, say these
gentlemen, "While these routes were in your possession, and while
Stephen W. Dorsey had an interest in them he asked men to sign petitions
in favor of an increase of trips and decrease of time." What if he did?
Suppose you have a house out here somewhere; you can petition to have a
street opened, even if you have the contract for paving the street.
You have a right to petition to have a schoolhouse located in your
neighborhood even if you have children. There is no harm about that. You
certainly can petition to have cows prevented from running at large even
if there is no fence around your yard. I think you could do so without
being indicted for conspiracy. I think a man might start a subscription
for a church, even if he owned a brick-yard and expected to sell bricks
to build it. Now, suppose I had a contract to carry the mail through the
State of California from one end to the other once a week, is there
any harm in my asking the people of that country to petition to have
it carried twice a week? Do you not remember what I told you? All the
members of Congress out there, when they go home want to say to the
people when they meet at the convention with all the delegates on hand.
"Why, gentlemen, you did not used to get the New York Herald or New York
Times, or The Sun, until it was two weeks old, and now it is only a
week old. Where you only had one mail I have given you three. I have got
fifty thousand dollars to improve your harbor, and one hundred thousand
dollars for a new custom-house. Look at me, gentlemen, I am a candidate
for re-election." That is natural. This Court will instruct you that any
man who is carrying a mail anywhere in the United States has the right
to use his influence in getting up petitions for the increase of that
service or the expedition of that time. They say Dorsey did this. What
of it? They say Dorsey tried to manufacture public opinion. That is what
these gentlemen of the prosecution have been doing for eighteen months,
and now they object to the manufacture of public opinion. Public opinion
is their stock in trade.

Leaving that charge, every man who has a contract for carrying the mail
has the right to call the attention of every editor in that country to
the fact that they need more mail service. He has the right to send his
agents there and if the people want to petition for more service, and
if Congress is willing to give them more service, no human being has a
right to complain in this manner and in a criminal court. If any offence
has been committed it is of a political nature. If a member of Congress
gets too much service his people can keep him at home. If he does too
much for his locality they need not elect him the next time. It is
a political offence for which there is a political punishment and a
political remedy. So much for the right of petition. I am perfectly
willing to tell all he did in regard to the increase of service and the
expedition.

While I am on that point I want you to distinctly understand what
increase is and what expedition is. Increase of service means more of
the same kind. Suppose I am to carry the mail from one place to another.
We will call it from Si-Wash to Oo-Ray. If I am to carry that mail once
a week for five hundred dollars and they want it twice a week, I
have one thousand dollars, but do not carry it any faster. That is an
increase. Suppose I am carrying it in say two hundred hours and they
want it carried in half that time. That is what they call expedition.
Now, the question is as to the difference in cost of carrying the mail
at six miles an hour, or at two and a half, or two, or one and a half.
If I carry it slowly, I can go at a reasonable rate in the day and can
lie by at night. I want you to understand distinctly the difference
between increase of service, which is more of the same kind, and
expedition, which means the same kind at a faster rate. Now, I can carry
the mail twenty miles and back in a day and do that a great deal
easier than if I were to make the distance in four or five hours. The
difference is just about the same with a locomotive as with a horse. If
a train runs twenty miles an hour and you want to increase its speed to
thirty, it will cost altogether more than twice as much as it does to
run it at twenty. If you want to increase it still further to forty or
sixty, it will cost at sixty more than three times as much as at twenty.
The cost increases in an increased proportion. I want you to understand
that. Now, we are charged with having done some frightful things on
several of these routes, and for three days and a half your ears were
filled with charges of the rascality we have perpetrated. We had some
ten or eleven routes, and we are charged with having defrauded the
Government on those particular routes. Let us see what my clients did.
Do not understand me as saying that because my clients have done nothing
the other defendants have. I do not take that position. I take the
position that according to the evidence in this case there is nothing
against any of these defendants. Leave out passion, prejudice,
falsehood, and hatred and there is absolutely nothing left. If you will
take from Mr. Bliss's speech all the mistakes he made in law and fact,
there will be nothing left to answer; not a word. But I think it due to
my client, gentlemen, my client who is not able to be in this court, my
client who sits at home wrapped in darkness, that I should answer every
allegation touching every route in which he was interested. I think it
due to him. [Resuming]

I will call your attention to a few of the routes, possibly to all, in
which my clients were interested. It will take but a short time. I want
you to know whether or not these routes were important, whether it was
proper to carry the mails as they were carried, whether it was proper
that they should be carried from once to seven times a week, and whether
it was proper that the speed should be expedited. Now, you may think
after hearing the evidence that there were some routes that never should
have been established; but that does not establish a conspiracy. That
simply establishes the fact that Congress created routes where they were
not absolutely necessary. You may come to the conclusion that General
Brady ordered more trips on some of these routes than he should have
ordered. That does not establish a conspiracy. The most that it could
establish would be extravagance, and extravagance is not a crime. If it
were, the penitentiaries of the day would not be large enough—or rather
would be large enough, and too large, to hold the honest men. You may
say after you have heard the evidence that the time was faster than it
need be; but you must take into consideration all the connecting routes,
and even if you should so feel, it is for you to say whether that
establishes any conspiracy. All these things must be taken into
consideration.

We will take first the route from Garland to Parrott City. ***

Now, I have gone over just a few of these charges. I have shown you that
they are false; that they are without the slightest shadow of foundation
in fact. Now, gentlemen, after you hear all this evidence, it is for
you to determine. It is for you to say whether these men entered into a
conspiracy to defraud this Government. It is for you to say whether our
testimony is to be believed, or whether you are to decide this case upon
the suspicions of the Government. It is for you to say whether you will
believe the contracts and the witnesses, or whether you will take the
prejudice of the public press; whether you will take the opinion of the
Attorney-General; whether you will take the letter of some counselor at
law, or whether you will be governed by the testimony in this case. It
is for you to say, gentlemen, whether a man shall be found guilty on
inference; whether a man shall be deprived of his liberty by prejudice.
It is for you to say whether reputation shall be destroyed by malice and
by ignorance. It is for you to say whether a man who fought to sustain
this Government shall not have the protection of the laws. It is for you
[indicating a juror] and it is for you [indicating another juror] and
you [indicating another juror] and you [indicating another juror] to
say whether a man who fought to take the chains off your body shall have
chains put upon his by your prejudice and by your ignorance. It is for
you to say whether you will be guided by law, by evidence, by justice,
and by reason, or whether you will be controlled by fear, by prejudice,
and by official power. That, gentlemen, is all I wish to say in this
opening.
---
# A Few Reasons for Doubting the Inspiration of the Bible
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1891_
> * Printed from manuscript notes found among Colonel
> Ingersoll's papers, evidently written in the early '80's.
> While much of the argument and criticism will be found
> embodied in his various lectures magazine articles and
> contributions to the press, it was thought too valuable in
> its present form to be left out of a complete edition of his
> works, on account of too much repetition. Undoubtedly it was
> the author's intention to go through the Bible in this same
> manner and to publish in book form. "A few Reasons for
> doubting the Inspiration of the Bible."

THE Old Testament must have been written nearly two thousand years
before the invention of printing. There were but few copies, and
these were in the keeping of those whose interest might have prompted
interpolations, and whose ignorance might have led to mistakes.

Second. The written Hebrew was composed entirely of consonants, without
any points or marks standing for vowels, so that anything like accuracy
was impossible. Anyone can test this for himself by writing an English
sentence, leaving out the vowels. It will take far more inspiration to
read than to write a book with consonants alone.

Third. The books composing the Old Testament were not divided into
chapters or verses, and no system of punctuation was known. Think of
this a moment and you will see how difficult it must be to read such a
book.

Fourth. There was not among the Jews any dictionary of their language,
and for this reason the accurate meaning of words could not be
preserved. Now the different meanings of words are preserved so that by
knowing the age in which a writer lived we can ascertain with reasonable
certainty his meaning.

Fifth. The Old Testament was printed for the first time in 1488. Until
this date it existed only in manuscript, and was constantly exposed to
erasures and additions.

Sixth. It is now admitted by the most learned in the Hebrew language
that in our present English version of the Old Testament there are
at least one hundred thousand errors. Of course the believers in
inspiration assert that these errors are not sufficient in number to
cast the least suspicion upon any passages upholding what are called the
"fundamentals."

Seventh. It is not certainly known who in fact wrote any of the books of
the Old Testament. For instance, it is now generally conceded that Moses
was not the author of the Pentateuch.

Eighth. Other books, not now in existence, are referred to in the Old
Testament as of equal authority, such as the books of Jasher, Nathan,
Ahijah, Iddo, Jehu, Sayings of the Seers.

Ninth. The Christians are not agreed among themselves as to what books
are inspired. The Catholics claim as inspired the books of Maccabees,
Tobit, Esdras, etc. Others doubt the inspiration of Esther,
Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Solomon.

Tenth. In the book of Esther and the Song of Solomon the name of God is
not mentioned, and no reference is made to any supreme being, nor to any
religious duty. These omissions would seem sufficient to cast a little
doubt upon these books.

Eleventh. Within the present century manuscript copies of the Old
Testament have been found throwing new light and changing in many
instances the present readings. In consequence a new version is now
being made by a theological syndicate composed of English and American
divines, and after this is published it may be that our present Bible
will fall into disrepute.

Twelfth. The fact that language is continually changing, that words are
constantly dying and others being born; that the same word has a variety
of meanings during its life, shows hew hard it is to preserve the
original ideas that might have been expressed in the Scriptures, for
thousands of years, without dictionaries, without the art of printing,
and without the light of contemporaneous literature.

Thirteenth. Whatever there was of the Old Testament seems to have been
lost from the time of Moses until the days of Josiah, and it is probable
that nothing like the Bible existed in any permanent form among the Jews
until a few hundred years before Christ. It is said that Ezra gave
the Pentateuch to the Jews, but whether he found or originated it is
unknown. So it is claimed that Nehemiah gathered up the manuscripts
about the kings and prophets, while the books of Job, Psalms, Proverbs,
Ruth, Ecclesiastes, and some others were either collected or written
long after. The Jews themselves did not agree as to what books were
really inspired.

Fourteenth. In the Old Testament we find several contradictory
laws about the same thing, and contradictory accounts of the same
occurrences. In the twentieth chapter of Exodus we find the first
account of the giving of the Ten Commandments. In the thirty-fourth
chapter another account is given. These two accounts could never have
been written by the same person. Read these two accounts and you will
be forced to admit that one of them cannot be true. So there are two
histories of the creation, of the flood, and of the manner in which Saul
became king.

Fifteenth. It is now generally admitted that Genesis must have been
written by two persons, and the parts written by each can be separated,
and when separated they are found to contradict each other in many
important particulars.

Sixteenth. It is also admitted that copyists made verbal changes not
only, but pieced out fragments; that the speeches of Elihu in the book
of Job were all interpolated, and that most of the prophecies were made
by persons whose names we have never known.

Seventeenth. The manuscripts of the Old Testament were not alike, and
the Greek version differed from the Hebrew, and there was no absolutely
received text of the Old Testament until after the commencement of the
Christian era. Marks and points to denote vowels were invented probably
about the seventh century after Christ. Whether these vowels were put in
the proper places or not is still an open question.

Eighteenth. The Alexandrian version, or what is known as the Septuagint,
translated by seventy learned Jews, assisted by "miraculous power,"
about two hundred years before Christ, could not have been, it is said,
translated from the Hebrew text that we now have. The differences can
only be accounted for by supposing that they had a different Hebrew
text. The early Christian Churches adopted the Septuagint, and were
satisfied for a time. But so many errors were found, and so many were
scanning every word in search of something to sustain their peculiar
views, that several new versions appeared, all different somewhat from
the Hebrew manuscripts, from the Septuagint, and from each other.
All these versions were in Greek. The first Latin Bible originated in
Africa, but no one has ever found out which Latin manuscript was the
original. Many were produced, and all differed from each other. These
Latin versions were compared with each other and with the Hebrew, and
a new Latin version was made in the fifth century, but the old Latin
versions held their own for about four hundred years, and no one yet
knows which were right. Besides these there were Egyptian, Ethiopie,
Armenian, and several others, all differing from each other as well as
from all others in the world.

It was not until the fourteenth century that the Bible was translated
into German, and not until the fifteenth that Bibles were printed in
the principal languages of Europe. Of these Bibles there were several
kinds—Luther's, the Dort, King James's, Genevan, French, besides the
Danish and Swedish. Most of these differed from each other, and gave
rise to infinite disputes and crimes without number. The earliest
fragment of the Bible in the "Saxon" language known to exist was written
sometime in the seventh century. The first Bible was printed in England
in 1538. In 1560 the first English Bible was printed that was divided
into verses. Under Henry VIII. the Bible was revised; again under Queen
Elizabeth, and once again under King James. This last was published in
1611, and is the one now in general use.

Nineteenth. No one in the world has learning enough, nor has he time
enough even if he had the learning, and could live a thousand years, to
find out what books really belong to and constitute the Old Testament,
the authors of these books, when they were written, and what they really
mean. And until a man has the learning and the time to do all this he
cannot certainly tell whether he believes the Bible or not.

Twentieth. If a revelation from God was actually necessary to the
happiness of man here and to his salvation hereafter, it is not easy to
see why such revelation was not given to all the nations of the
earth. Why were the millions of Asia, Egypt, and America left to the
insufficient light of nature. Why was not a written, or what is still
better, a printed revelation given to Adam and Eve in the Garden of
Eden? And why were the Jews themselves without a Bible until the days
of Ezra the scribe? Why was nature not so made that it would give light
enough? Why did God make men and leave them in darkness—a darkness that
he, knew would fill the world with want and crime, and crowd with damned
souls the dungeons of his hell? Were the Jews the only people who needed
a revelation? It may be said that God had no time to waste with other
nations, and gave the Bible to the Jews that other nations through them
might learn of his existence and his will. If he wished other nations
to be informed, and revealed himself to but one, why did he not choose
a people that mingled with others? Why did he give the message to those
who had no commerce, who were obscure and unknown, and who regarded
other nations with the hatred born of bigotry and weakness? What would
we now think of a God who made his will known to the South Sea
Islanders for the benefit of the civilized world? If it was of such vast
importance for man to know that there is a God, why did not God make
himself known? This fact could have been revealed by an infinite being
instantly to all, and there certainly was no necessity of telling it
alone to the Jews, and allowing millions for thousands of years to die
in utter ignorance.

Twenty-first. The Chinese, Japanese, Hindus, Tartars, Africans, Eskimo,
Persians, Turks, Kurds, Arabs, Polynesians, and many other peoples,
are substantially ignorant of the Bible. All the Bible societies of
the world have produced only about one hundred and twenty millions of
Bibles, and there are about fourteen hundred million people. There
are hundreds of languages and tongues in which no Bible has yet been
printed. Why did God allow, and why does he still allow, a vast majority
of his children to remain in ignorance of his will?

Twenty-second. If the Bible is the foundation of all civilization, of
all just ideas of right and wrong, of our duties to God and each other,
why did God not give to each nation at least one copy to start with? He
must have known that no nation could get along successfully without a
Bible, and he also knew that man could not make one for himself. Why,
then, were not the books furnished? He must have known that the light
of nature was not sufficient to reveal the scheme of the atonement, the
necessity of baptism, the immaculate conception, transubstantiation, the
arithmetic of the Trinity, or the resurrection of the dead.

Twenty-third. It is probably safe to say that not one-third of the
inhabitants of this world ever heard of the Bible, and not one-tenth
ever read it. It is also safe to say that no two persons who ever read
it agreed as to its meaning, and it is not likely that even one person
has ever understood it. Nothing is more needed at the present time than
an inspired translator. Then we shall need an inspired commentator,
and the translation and the commentary should be written in an inspired
universal language, incapable of change, and then the whole world should
be inspired to understand this language precisely the same. Until these
things are accomplished, all written revelations from God will fill the
world with contending sects, contradictory creeds and opinions.

Twenty-fourth. All persons who know anything of constitutions and laws
know how impossible it is to use words that will convey the same ideas
to all. The best statesmen, the profoundest lawyers, differ as widely
about the real meaning of treaties and statutes as do theologians about
the Bible. When the differences of lawyers are left to courts, and the
courts give written decisions, the lawyers will again differ as to the
real meaning of the opinions. Probably no two lawyers in the United
States understand our Constitution alike. To allow a few men to tell
what the Constitution means, and to hang for treason all who refuse to
accept the opinions of these few men, would accomplish in politics what
most churches have asked for in religion.

Twenty-fifth. Is it very wicked to deny that the universe was created
of nothing by an infinite being who existed from all eternity? The human
mind is such that it cannot possibly conceive of creation, neither can
it conceive of an infinite being who dwelt in infinite space an infinite
length of time.

Twenty-sixth. The idea that the universe was made in six days, and is
but about six thousand years old, is too absurd for serious refutation.
Neither will it do to say that the six days were six periods, because
this does away with the Sabbath, and is in direct violation of the text.

Twenty-seventh. Neither is it reasonable that this God made man out of
dust, and woman out of one of the ribs of the man; that this pair were
put in a garden; that they were deceived by a snake that had the power
of speech; that they were turned out of this garden to prevent them from
eating of the tree of life and becoming immortal; that God himself made
them clothes; that the sons of God intermarried with the daughters
of men; that to destroy all life upon the earth a flood was sent that
covered the highest mountains; that Noah and his sons built an ark and
saved some of all animals as well as themselves; that the people tried
to build a tower that would reach to heaven; that God confounded their
language, and in this way frustrated their design.

Twenty-eighth. It is hard to believe that God talked to Abraham as one
man talks to another; that he gave him land that he pointed out; that he
agreed to give him land that he never did; that he ordered him to murder
his own son; that angels were in the habit of walking about the earth
eating veal dressed with butter and milk, and making bargains about the
destruction of cities.

Twenty-ninth. Certainly a man ought not to be eternally damned for
entertaining an honest doubt about a woman having been turned into
a pillar of salt, about cities being destroyed by storms of fire and
brimstone, and about people once having lived for nearly a thousand
years.

Thirtieth. Neither is it probable that God really wrestled with Jacob
and put his thigh out of joint, and that for that reason the
Jews refused "to eat the sinew that shrank," as recounted in the
thirty-second chapter of Genesis; that God in the likeness of a flame
inhabited a bush; that he amused himself by changing the rod of Moses
into a serpent, and making his hand leprous as snow.

Thirty-first. One can scarcely be blamed for hesitating to believe that
God met Moses at a hotel and tried to kill him that afterward he made
this same Moses a god to Pharaoh, and gave him his brother Aaron for a
prophet;2 that he turned all the ponds and pools and streams and all the
rivers into blood,3 and all the water in vessels of wood and stone; that
the rivers thereupon brought forth frogs;4 that the frogs covered the
whole land of Egypt; that he changed dust into lice, so that all the
men, women, children, and animals were covered with them;6 that he sent
swarms of flies upon the Egyptians;8 that he destroyed the innocent
cattle with painful diseases; that he covered man and beast with blains
and boils;7 that he so covered the magicians of Egypt with boils that
they could not stand before Moses for the purpose of performing the
same feats, that he destroyed every beast and every man that was in
the fields, and every herb, and broke every tree with storm of hail and
fire;9 that he sent locusts that devoured every herb that escaped the
hail, and devoured every tree that grew;10 that he caused thick darkness
over the land and put lights in the houses of the Jews;11 that he
destroyed all of the firstborn of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh
upon the throne to the firstborn of the maidservant that sat behind the
mill,"12 together with the firstborn of all beasts, so that there was
not a house in which the dead were not."

> 1 Ex. iv, 24.    5 Ex. viii, 16, 17.  9 Ex. ix, 25.

> 2 Ex. vii. 1.    6 Ex. viii, 21.     10 Ex. x, 15.

> 3 Ex. viii, 19.  7 Ex. ix, 9.        11 Ex. x, 22, 23.

> 4 Ex. viii, 3.   8 Ex. ix, 11.       12 Ex. xi, 5.

> 13 Ex. xii, 29.

Thirty-second. It is very hard to believe that three millions of people
left a country and marched twenty or thirty miles all in one day. To
notify so many people would require a long time, and then the sick, the
halt, and the old would be apt to impede the march. It seems impossible
that such a vast number—six hundred thousand men, besides women and
children—could have been cared for, could have been fed and clothed,
and the sick nursed, especially when we take into consideration that
"they were thrust out of Egypt, and could not tarry, neither had they
prepared for themselves any victual." 1

Thirty-third. It seems cruel to punish a man forever for denying that
God went before the Jews by day "in a pillar of a cloud to lead' them
the way, and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light to go by
day and night," or for denying that Pharaoh pursued the Jews with six
hundred chosen chariots, and all the chariots of Egypt, and that the six
hundred thousand men of war of the Jews were sore afraid when they saw
the pursuing hosts. It does seems strange that after all the water in a
country had been turned to blood—after it had been overrun with frogs
and devoured with flies; after all the cattle had died with the murrain,
and the rest had been killed by the fire and hail and the remainder had
suffered with boils, and the firstborn of all that were left had died;
that after locusts had devoured every herb and eaten up every tree of
the field, and the firstborn had died, from the firstborn of the king
on the throne to the firstborn of the captive in the dungeon; that after
three millions of people had left, carrying with them the jewels of
silver and gold and the raiment of their oppressors, the Egyptians still
had enough soldiers and chariots and horses left to pursue and destroy
an army of six hundred thousand men, if God had not interfered.

> 1 Ex. xii, 37-39

Thirty-fourth. It certainly ought to satisfy God to torment a man for
four or five thousand years for insisting that it is but a small thing
for an infinite being to vanquish an Egyptian army; that it was rather a
small business to trouble people with frogs, flies, and vermin; that it
looked almost malicious to cover people with boils and afflict cattle
with disease; that a real good God would not torture innocent beasts
on account of something the owners had done; that it was absurd to do
miracles before a king to induce him to act in a certain way, and then
harden his heart so that he would refuse; and that to kill all the
firstborn of a nation was the act of a heartless fiend.

Thirty-fifth. Certainly one ought to be permitted to doubt that twelve
wells of water were sufficient for three millions of people, together
with their flocks and herds,1 and to inquire a little into the nature of
manna that was cooked by baking and seething and yet would melt in the
sun,2 and that would swell or shrink so as to make an exact omer, no
matter how much or how little there really was.3 Certainly it is not a
crime to say that water cannot be manufactured by striking a rock with a
stick, and that the fate of battle cannot be decided by lifting one hand
up or letting it fall.4 Must we admit that God really did come down upon
Mount Sinai in the sight of all the people; that he commanded that all
who should go up into the Mount or touch the border of it should be put
to death, and that even the beasts that came near it should be killed?5
Is it wrong to laugh at this? Is it sinful to say that God never spoke
from the top of a mountain covered with clouds these words to Moses, "Go
down, charge the people, lest they break through unto the Lord to gaze,
and many of them perish; and let the priests also, which come near to
the Lord, sanctify themselves, lest the Lord break forth upon them"?6

> 1 Ex. xv, 27.      3 Ex. xix. 12.       5 Ex. xix, 13, 13.

> 2 Ex. xvi, 23, 21  4 Ex. xvii, 11, 13.  6 Ex. xix, 21, 22

Can it be that an infinite intelligence takes delight in scaring
savages, and that he is happy only when somebody trembles? Is it
reasonable to suppose that God surrounded himself with thunderings and
lightnings and thick darkness to tell the priests that they should not
make altars of hewn stones, nor with stairs? And that this God at the
same time he gave the Ten Commandments ordered the Jews to break the
most of them? According to the Bible these infamous words came from the
mouth of God while he was wrapped and clothed in darkness and clouds
upon the Mount of Sinai:

If thou buy an Hebrew servant six years he shall serve: and in the
seventh he shall go out free for nothing. If he came in by himself he
shall go out by himself; if he were married, then his wife shall go out
with him. If his master have given him a wife, and she have borne him
sons or daughters, the wife and her children shall be her master's, and
he shall go out by himself. And if the servant shall plainly say, I love
my master, my wife, and my children; I will not go out free: then his
master shall bring him unto the judges; he shall also bring him to the
door or unto the doorpost; and his master shall bore his ear through
with an awl; and he shall serve him forever.2 And if a man smite his
servant, or his maid, with a rod, and he die under his hand, he shall be
surely punished. Notwithstanding, if he continue a day or two, he shall
not be punished; for he is his money.3

Do you really think that a man will be eternally damned for endeavoring
to wipe from the record of God those barbaric words?

Thirty-sixth. Is it because of total depravity that some people refuse
to believe that God went into partnership with insects and granted
letters of marque and reprisal to hornets;4 that he wasted forty
days and nights furnishing Moses with plans and specifications for a
tabernacle, an ark, a mercy seat and two cherubs of gold, a table,
four rings, some dishes and spoons, one candlestick, three bowls, seven
lamps, a pair of tongs, some snuff dishes (for all of which God had
patterns), ten curtains with fifty loops, a roof for the tabernacle of
rams' skins dyed red, a lot of boards, an altar with horns, ash pans,
basins, and flesh hooks, and fillets of silver and pins of brass; that
he told Moses to speak unto all the wise-hearted that he had filled with
wisdom, that they might make a suit of clothes for Aaron, and that
God actually gave directions that an ephod "shall have the two
shoulder-pieces thereof joined at the two edges thereof."

> 1 Ex. xix, 25, 26.  3 Ex. xxi, 20, 21

> 2 Ex. xxi, 2-6,     4 Ex, xxiii, 28

And gave all the orders concerning mitres, girdles, and onyx stones,
ouches, emeralds, breastplates, chains, rings, Urim and Thummim, and the
hole in the top of the ephod like the hole of a habergeon?1

Thirty-seventh. Is there a Christian missionary who could help laughing
if in any heathen country he had seen the following command of God
carried out? "And thou shalt take the other ram; and Aaron and his sons
shall put their hands upon the head of the ram. Then shalt thou kill the
ram and take of his blood and put it upon the tip of the right ear of
Aaron, and upon the tip of the right ear of his sons, and upon the thumb
of their right hand, and upon the great toe of their right foot."2 Does
one have to be born again to appreciate the beauty and solemnity of such
a performance? Is not the faith of the most zealous Christian somewhat
shaken while reading the recipes for cooking mutton, veal, beef, birds,
and unleavened dough, found in the cook book that God made for Aaron and
his sons?

Thirty-eighth. Is it to be wondered at that some people have doubted the
statement that God told Moses how to make some ointment, hair oil, and
perfume, and then made it a crime punishable with death to make any like
them? Think of a God killing a man for imitating his ointment!3 Think of
a God saying that he made heaven and earth in six days and rested on the
seventh day and was refreshed!4 Think of this God threatening to destroy
the Jews, and being turned from his purpose because Moses told him that
the Egyptians might mock him!5

    1 Ex. xxvii and xxviii.  3 Ex. xxx, 23.  5 Ex. xxxii, 11, 12

    2 Ex. xxix, 19, 20       4 Ex. xxxi, 17.

Thirty-ninth. What must we think of a man impudent enough to break in
pieces tables of stone upon which God had written with his finger? What
must we think of the goodness of a man that would issue the following
order: "Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, Put every man his sword by
his side, and go in and out from gate to gate throughout the camp, and
slay every man his brother, and every man his companion, and every man
his neighbor. Consecrate yourselves to-day to the Lord, even every
man upon his son, and upon his brother; that he may bestow upon you a
blessing this day"?1 Is it true that the God of the Bible demanded human
sacrifice? Did it please him for man to kill his neighbor, for brother
to murder his brother, and for the father to butcher his sou? If there
is a God let him cause it to be written in the book of his memory,
opposite my name, that I refuted this slander and denied this lie.

Fortieth. Can it be true that God was afraid to trust himself with the
Jews for fear he would consume them? Can it be that in order to keep
from devouring them he kept away and sent one of his angels in his
place?2 Can it be that this same God talked to Moses "face to face, as a
man speaketh unto his friend," when it is declared in the same chapter,
by God himself, "Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see
me, and live"?3

Forty-first. Why should a man, because he has done a bad action, go and
kill a sheep? How can man make friends with God by cutting the throats
of bullocks and goats? Why should God delight in the shedding of blood?
Why should he want his altar sprinkled with blood, and the horns of his
altar tipped with blood, and his priests covered with blood? Why should
burning flesh be a sweet savor in the nostrils of God? Why did he compel
his priests to be butchers, cutters and stabbers?

> 1 Ex. xxxii, 27-29.  2 Ex. xxxiii, 2, 3.

> 3 Ex. xxxiii, 11, 20.

Why should the same God kill a man for eating the fat of an ox, a sheep,
or a goat?

Forty-second. Could it be a consolation to a man when dying to think
that he had always believed that God told Aaron to take two goats and
draw cuts to see which goat should be killed and which should be a
scapegoat?1 And that upon the head of the scapegoat Aaron should lay
both his hands and confess over him all the iniquities of the children
of Israel, and all their transgressions, and put them all on the head
of the goat, and send him away by the hand of a fit man into the
wilderness; and that the goat should bear upon him all the iniquities
of the people into a land not inhabited?2 How could a goat carry away
a load of iniquities and transgressions? Why should he carry them to a
land uninhabited? Were these sins contagious? About how many sins
could an average goat carry? Could a man meet such a goat now without
laughing?

Forty-third. Why should God object to a man wearing a garment made of
woolen and linen? Why should he care whether a man rounded the corners
of his beard?3 Why should God prevent a man from offering the sacred
bread merely because he had a flat nose, or was lame, or had five
fingers on one hand, or had a broken foot, or was a dwarf? If he
objected to such people, why did he make them?4

Forty-fourth. Why should we believe that God insisted upon the sacrifice
of human beings? Is it a sin to deny this, and to deny the inspiration
of a book that teaches it? Read the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth
verses of the last chapter of Leviticus, a book in which there is more
folly and cruelty, more stupidity and tyranny, than in any other book in
this world except some others in the same Bible. Read the thirty-second
chapter of Exodus and you will see how by the most infamous of crimes
man becomes reconciled to this God.

> 1 Lev, xvi, 8.  2 Lev. xvi, 21, 22.  3 Lev. xix, 19, 27,

> 4 Lev. xxi, 18-20.

You will see that he demands of fathers the blood of their sons. Read
the twelfth and thirteenth verses of the third chapter of Numbers, "And
I, behold, I have taken the Levites from among the children of Israel,"
etc.

How, in the desert of Sinai, did the Jews obtain curtains of fine linen?
How did these absconding slaves make cherubs of gold? Where did they get
the skins of badgers, and how did they dye them red? How did they make
wreathed chains and spoons, basins and tongs? Where did they get the
blue cloth and their purple? Where did they get the sockets of brass?
How did they coin the shekel of the sanctuary? How did they overlay
boards with gold? Where did they get the numberless instruments and
tools necessary to accomplish all these things? Where did they get the
fine flour and the oil? Were all these found in the desert of Sinai?
Is it a sin to ask these questions? Are all these doubts born of a
malignant and depraved heart? Why should God in this desert prohibit
priests from drinking wine, and from eating moist grapes? How could
these priests get wine?

Do not these passages show that these laws were made long after the Jews
had left the desert, and that they were not given from Sinai? Can you
imagine a God silly enough to tell a horde of wandering savages upon a
desert that they must not eat any fruit of the trees they planted until
the fourth year?

Forty-fifth. Ought a man to be despised and persecuted for denying that
God ordered the priests to make women drink dirt and water to test their
virtue? 1 Or for denying that over the tabernacle there was a cloud
during the day and fire by night, and that the cloud lifted up when God
wished the Jews to travel, and that until it was lifted they remained in
their tents?2

> 1 Num. v, 12-31.  2 Num. ix, 16-18.

Can it be possible that the "ark of the covenant" traveled on its own
account, and that "when the ark set forward" the people followed, as is
related in the tenth chapter of the holy book of Numbers?

Forty-sixth. Was it reasonable for God to give the Jews manna, and
nothing else, year after year? He had infinite power, and could just as
easily have given them something good, in reasonable variety, as to
have fed them on manna until they loathed the sight of it, and longingly
remembered the fish, cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions, and garlic of
Egypt. And yet when the poor people complained of the diet and asked for
a little meat, this loving and merciful God became enraged, sent them
millions of quails in his wrath, and while they were eating, while the
flesh was yet between their teeth, before it was chewed, this amiable
God smote the people with a plague and killed all those that lusted
after meat. In a few days after, he made up his mind to kill the rest,
but was dissuaded when Moses told him that the Canaanites would laugh at
him.1 No wonder the poor Jews wished they were back in Egypt. No wonder
they had rather be the slaves of Pharaoh than the chosen people of God.
No wonder they preferred the wrath of Egypt to the love of heaven. In my
judgment, the Jews would have fared far better if Jehovah had let them
alone, or had he even taken the side of the Egyptians.

When the poor Jews were told by their spies that the Canaanites were
giants, they, seized with fear, said, "Let us go back to Egypt." For
this, their God doomed all except Joshua and Caleb to a wandering
death. Hear the words of this most merciful God: "But as for you, your
carcasses they shall fall in this wilderness, and your children shall
wander in the wilderness forty years and bear your sins until your
carcasses be wasted in the wilderness."2 And yet this same God promised
to give unto all these people a land flowing with milk and honey.

> 1 Num. xiv, 15, 16.  2 Num. xiv. 32-33.

Forty-seventh. "And while the children of Israel were in the wilderness
they found a man that gathered sticks upon the Sabbath day.

"And they that found him gathering sticks brought him unto Moses and
Aaron, and unto all the congregation.

"And they put him in ward, because it was not declared what should be
done to him.

"And the Lord said unto Moses, The man shall be surely put to death; all
the congregation shall stone him with stones without the camp.

"And all the congregation brought him without the camp, and stoned him
with stones, and he died." 1

When the last stone was thrown, and he that was a man was but a mangled,
bruised, and broken mass, this God turned, and, _touched with pity_,
said: "Speak unto the children of Israel, and bid them that they
make them fringes in the borders of their garments throughout their
generations, and that they put upon the fringe of the borders a riband
of blue."2

In the next chapter, this Jehovah, whose loving kindness is over all his
works, because Korah, Dathan, and Abiram objected to being starved to
death in the wilderness, made the earth open and swallow not only them,
but their wives and their little ones. Not yet satisfied, he sent a
plague and killed fourteen thousand seven hundred more. There never was
in the history of the world such a cruel, revengeful, bloody, jealous,
fickle, unreasonable, and fiendish ruler, emperor, or king as Jehovah.
No wonder the children of Israel cried out, "Behold we die, we perish,
we all perish."

Forty-eighth. I cannot believe that a dry stick budded, blossomed, and
bore almonds; that the ashes of a red heifer are a purification for
sin;3 that God gave the cities into the hands of the Jews because they
solemnly agreed to murder all the inhabitants; that God became enraged
and induced snakes to bite his chosen people; that God told Balaam to go
with the Princess of Moab, and then got angry because he did go; that an
animal ever saw an angel and conversed with a man.

> 1 Num. xv, 32-36.  2 Num. xv, 38,  3 Num. xix, 2-10.

I cannot believe that thrusting a spear through the body of a woman ever
stayed a plague;1 that any good man ever ordered his soldiers to slay
the men and keep the maidens alive for themselves; that God commanded
men not to show mercy to each other; that he induced men to obey his
commandments by promising them that he would assist them in murdering
the wives and children of their neighbors; or that he ever commanded a
man to kill his wife because she differed with him about religion;2 or
that God was mistaken about hares chewing the cud;3 or that he objected
to the people raising horses 4 or that God wanted a camp kept clean
because he walked through it at night;5 or that he commanded widows to
spit in the faces of their brothers-in-law;6 or that he ever threatened
to give anybody the itch;7 or that he ever secretly buried a man and
allowed the corpse to write an account of the funeral.

Forty-ninth. Does it necessarily follow that a man wishes to commit some
crime if he refuses to admit that the river Jordan cut itself in two
and allowed the lower end to run away? Or that seven priests could blow
seven ram's horns loud enough to throw down the walls of a city;8 or
that God, after Achan had confessed that he had secreted a garment and
a wedge of gold, became good natured as soon as Achan and his sons and
daughters had been stoned to death and their bodies burned?10 Is it not
a virtue to abhor such a God?

> 1 Num. XXV, 8.       4 Deut. xvii, 16.       7 Deut. xxviii, 27.

> 2 Deut. xiii, 6-10.  5 Deut. xxiii, 13, 14.  8 Josh, iii, 16.

> 3 Deut. xiv, 7.      6 Deut. xxv, 9.,        9 Josh. vi, 20.

> 10 Josh, vii, 24, 25.

Must we believe that God sanctioned and commanded all the cruelties
and horrors described in the Old Testament; that he waged the most
relentless and heartless wars; that he declared mercy a crime; that to
spare life was to excite his wrath; that he smiled when maidens were
violated, laughed when mothers were ripped open with a sword, and
shouted with joy when babes were butchered in their mothers' arms? Read
the infamous book of Joshua, and then worship the God who inspired it if
you can.

Fiftieth. Can any sane man believe that the sun stood still in the midst
of heaven and hasted not to go down about a whole day, and that the moon
stayed?1 That these miracles were performed in the interest of massacre
and bloodshed; that the Jews destroyed men, women, and children by the
million, and practiced every cruelty that the ingenuity of their God
could suggest? Is it possible that these things really happened? Is it
possible that God commanded them to be done? Again I ask you to read
the book of Joshua. After reading all its horrors you will feel a grim
satisfaction in the dying words of Joshua to the children of Israel:
"Know for a certainty that the Lord your God will no more drive out any
of these nations from before you; but they shall be snares and traps
unto you, and scourges in your sides, and thorns in your eyes, until ye
perish from off this good land."2

Think of a God who boasted that he gave the Jews a land for which they
did not labor, cities which they did not build, and allowed them to eat
of oliveyards and vineyards which they did not plant.3 Think of a God
who murders some of his children for the benefit of the rest, and then
kills the rest because they are not thankful enough. Think of a God who
had the power to stop the sun and moon, but could not defeat an army
that had iron chariots.4

> 1 Josh, x, 13.  2 Josh, xiii, 13.  3 Josh. xxiv, 13.

> 4 Judges i, 19.

Fifty-first. Can we blame the Hebrews for getting tired of their God?
Never was a people so murdered, starved, stoned, burned, deceived,
humiliated, robbed, and outraged. Never was there so little liberty
among men. Never did the meanest king so meddle, eavesdrop, spy out,
harass, torment, and persecute his people. Never was ruler so jealous,
unreasonable, contemptible, exacting, and ignorant as this God of the
Jews. Never was such ceremony, such mummery, such stuff about bullocks,
goats, doves, red heifers, lambs, and unleavened dough—never was such
directions about kidneys and blood, ashes and fat, about curtains,
tongs, fringes, ribands, and brass pins—never such details for killing
of animals and men and the sprinkling of blood and the cutting of
clothes. Never were such unjust laws, such punishments, such damned
ignorance and infamy! Fifty-second. Is it not wonderful that the creator
of all worlds, infinite in power and wisdom, could not hold his own
against the gods of wood and stone? Is it not strange that after he had
appeared to his chosen people, delivered them from slavery, fed them
by miracles, opened the sea for a path, led them by cloud and fire,
and overthrown their pursuers, they still preferred a calf of their
own making? Is it not beyond belief that this God, by statutes and
commandments, by punishments and penalties, by rewards and promises,
by wonders and plagues, by earthquakes and pestilence, could not in the
least civilize the Jews—could not get them beyond a point where they
deserved killing? What shall we think of a God who gave his entire time
for forty years to the work of converting three millions of people, and
succeeded in getting only two men, and not a single woman, decent enough
to enter the promised land? Was there ever in the history of man so
detestible an administration of public affairs? Is it possible that
God sold his children to the king of Mesopotamia; that he sold them to
Jabin, king of Canaan, to the Philistines, and to the children of Ammon?
Is it possible that an angel of the Lord devoured unleavened cakes and
broth with fire that came out of the end of a stick as he sat under an
oak-tree?1 Can it be true that God made known his will by making dew
fall on wool without wetting the ground around it?2 Do you really
believe that men who lap water like a dog make the best soldiers?3 Do
you think that a man could hold a lamp in his left hand, a trumpet in
his right hand, blow his trumpet, shout "the sword of the Lord and of
Gideon," and break pitchers at the same time? 4

Fifty-third. Read the story of Jephthah and his daughter, and then tell
me what you think of a father who would sacrifice his daughter to God,
and what you think of a God who would receive such a sacrifice. This one
story should be enough to make every tender and loving father hold this
book in utter abhorrence. Is it necessary, in order to be saved, that
one must believe that an angel of God appeared unto Manoah in the
absence of her husband; that this angel afterward went up in a flame of
fire; that as a result of this visit a child was born whose strength was
in his hair? a child that made beehives of lions, incendiaries of foxes,
and had a wife that wept seven days to get the answer to his riddle?
Will the wrath of God abide forever upon a man for doubting the story
that Samson killed a thousand men with a new jawbone? Is there enough
in the Bible to save a soul with this story left out? Is hell hungry for
those who deny that water gushed from a "hollow place" in a dry bone? Is
it evidence of a new heart to believe that one man turned over a house
so large that over three thousand people were on the roof? For my part,
I cannot believe these things, and if my salvation depends upon my
credulity I am as good as damned already. I cannot believe that the
Philistines took back the ark with a present of five gold mice, and that
thereupon God relented.5

> 1 Judges vi, 21.   2 Judges vi, 37.  3 Judges vii, 5.

> 4 Judges vii, 20.  5 I Sam. vi. 4.

I can not believe that God killed fifty thousand men for looking into a
box.1 It seems incredible, after all the Jews had done, after all their
wars and victories, even when Saul was king, that there was not among
them one smith who could make a sword or spear, and that they were
compelled to go to the Philistines to sharpen every plowshare, coulter,
and mattock.2 Can you believe that God said to Saul, "Now go and smite
Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not;
but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling"? Can you believe that
because Saul took the king alive after killing every other man, woman,
and child, the ogre called Jehovah was displeased and made up his mind
to hurl Saul from the throne and give his place to another?3 I cannot
believe that the Philistines all ran away because one of their number
was killed with a stone. I cannot justify the conduct of Abigail, the
wife of Nabal, who took presents to David. David hardly did right when
he said to this woman, "I have hearkened to thy voice, and have accepted
thy person." It could hardly have been chance that made Nabal so deathly
sick next morning and killed him in ten days. All this looks wrong,
especially as David married his widow before poor Nabal was fairly
cold.4

Fifty-fourth. Notwithstanding all I have heard of Katie King, I cannot
believe that a witch at Endor materialized the ghost of Samuel and
caused it to appear with a cloak on.5 I cannot believe that God
tempted David to take the census, and then gave him his choice of three
punishments: First, Seven years of famine; Second, Flying three months
before their enemies; Third, A pestilence of three days; that David
chose the pestilence, and that God destroyed seventy thousand men.6

> 1 I Sam. vi, 19.        3 I Sam. xv.   5 I Sam. xxviii.

> 2 I Sam. xiii, 19, 20.  4 I Sam. xxv.  6 2 Sam. xxiv.

Why should God kill the people for what David did? Is it a sin to be
counted? Can anything more brutally hellish be conceived? Why should man
waste prayers upon such a God?

Fifty-fifth. Must we admit that Elijah was fed by ravens; that they
brought him bread and flesh every morning and evening? Must we believe
that this same prophet could create meal and oil, and induce a departed
soul to come back and take up its residence once more in the body? That
he could get rain by praying for it; that he could cause fire to burn
up a sacrifice and altar, together with twelve barrels of water?1 Can we
believe that an angel of the Lord turned cook and prepared two suppers
in one night for Elijah, and that the prophet ate enough to last him
forty days and forty nights?* Is it true that when a captain with fifty
men went after Elijah, this prophet caused fire to come down from heaven
and consume them all? Should God allow such wretches to manage his fire?
Is it true that Elijah consumed another captain with fifty men in the
same way?3 Is it a fact that a river divided because the water was
struck with a cloak? Did a man actually go to heaven in a chariot
of fire drawn by horses of fire, or was he carried to Paradise by a
whirlwind? Must we believe, in order to be good and tender fathers and
mothers, that because some "little children" mocked at an old man with
a bald head, God—the same God who said, "Suffer little children to come
unto me"—sent two she-bears out of the wood and tare forty-two of these
babes? Think of the mothers that watched and waited for their children.
Think of the wailing when these mangled ones were found, when they
were brought back and pressed to the breasts of weeping women. What an
amiable gentleman Mr. Elisha must have been.4

Fifty-sixth. It is hard to believe that a prophet by lying on a dead
body could make it sneeze seven times.5

> 1 I Kings xviii.  3 2 Kings i.  5 2 Kings iv.

> 2 I Kings xix.    4 2 Kings ii.

It is hard to believe that being dipped seven times in the Jordan could
cure the leprosy.1 Would a merciful God curse children, and children's
children yet unborn, with leprosy for a father's fault?2 Is it possible
to make iron float in water?3 Is it reasonable to say that when a corpse
touched another corpse it came to life?4 Is it a sign that a man wants
to commit a crime because he refuses to believe that a king had a boil
and that God caused the sun to go backward in heaven so that the shadow
on a sun-dial went back ten degrees as a sign that the aforesaid would
get well?5 Is it true that this globe turned backward, that its motion
was reversed as a sign to a Jewish king? If it did not, this story is
false, and that part of the Bible is not true even if it is inspired.

Fifty-seventh. How did the Bible get lost?5 Where was the precious
Pentateuch from Moses to Josiah? How was it possible for the Jews to get
along without the directions as to fat and caul and kidney contained
in Leviticus? Without that sacred book in his possession a priest might
take up ashes and carry them out without changing his pantaloons. Such
mistakes kindled the wrath of God.

As soon as the Pentateuch was found Josiah began killing wizards and
such as had familiar spirits.

Fifty-eighth. I cannot believe that God talked to Solomon, that he
visited him in the night and asked him what he should give him; I cannot
believe that he told him, "I will give thee riches and wealth and honor,
such as none of the kings have had before thee, neither shall there any
after thee have the like."7 If Jehovah said this he was mistaken. It is
not true that Solomon had fourteen hundred chariots of war in a country
without roads. It is not true that he made gold and silver at Jerusalem
as plenteous as stones. There were several kings in his day, and
thousands since, that could have thrown away the value of Palestine
without missing the amount.

> 1 2 Kings v.      3 2 Kings, vi. 6.    5 2 Kings xx, 1-11.

> 2 2 Kings v. 27.  4 2 Kings xiii, 21.  6 2 Kings xxii, 8.

> 7 2 Chron. i, 7, 12.

The Holy Land was and is a wretched country. There are no monuments, no
ruins attesting former wealth and greatness. The Jews had no commerce,
knew nothing of other nations, had no luxuries, never produced a
painter, a sculptor, architect, scientist, or statesman until after the
destruction of Jerusalem. As long as Jehovah attended to their affairs
they had nothing but civil war, plague, pestilence, and famine. After he
abandoned, and the Christians ceased to persecute them, they became the
most prosperous of people. Since Jehovah, in anger and disgust, cast
them away they have produced painters, sculptors, scientists, statesmen,
composers, and philosophers.

Fifty-ninth. I cannot admit that Hiram, the King of Tyre, wrote a letter
to Solomon in which he admitted that the "God of Israel made heaven and
earth." 1 This King was not a Jew. It seems incredible that Solomon had
eighty thousand men hewing timber for the temple, with seventy thousand
bearers of burdens, and thirty-six hundred overseers.2

Sixtieth. I cannot believe that God shuts up heaven and prevents rain,
or that he sends locusts to devour a land, or pestilence to destroy the
people.3 I cannot believe that God told Solomon that his eyes and heart
should perpetually be in the house that Solomon had built.4

Sixty-first. I cannot believe that Solomon passed all the kings of the
earth in riches; that all the kings of the earth sought his presence
and brought presents of silver and gold, raiment, harness, spices, and
mules—a rate year by year.5 Is it possible that Shishak, a King of
Egypt, invaded Palestine with seventy thousand horsemen and twelve
hundred chariots of war?6

> 1 2 Chron. ii, 12.  3 2 Chron. vii, 13.  5 2 Chron. ix, 22-24.

> 2 2 Chron. ii, 18.  4 2 Chron. vii, 16.  6 2 Chron. xii, 2, 3.

I cannot believe that in a battle between Jeroboam and Abijah, the army
of Abijah actually slew in one day five hundred thousand chosen men.1
Does anyone believe that Zerah, the Ethiopian, invaded Palestine with a
million men?2 I cannot believe that Jehoshaphat had a standing army
of nine hundred and sixty thousand men.3 I cannot believe that God
advertised for a liar to act as his messenger.4 I cannot believe that
King Amaziah did right in the sight of the Lord, and that he broke in
pieces ten thousand men by casting them from a precipice.5 I cannot
think that God smote a king with leprosy because he tried to burn
incense.6 I cannot think that Pekah slew one hundred and twenty thousand
men in one day.7

> 1 2 Chron. xiii, 17. 3 2 Chron. xvii, 14-19.  5 2 Chron. xxv, 12.

> 2 2 Chron. xiv, 9.   4 2 Chron. xviii, 19-22. 6 2 Chron. xxvi, 19.

> 7 2 Chron. xxviii, 6.
---
# A Look Backward and a Prophecy
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1899_
> * Written for the Twenty-fifth Anniversary Number of  the
> New York Truth Seeker, September 3, 1898.

I CONGRATULATE _The Truth Seeker_ on its twenty-fifth birthday. It has
fought a good fight. It has always been at the front. It has carried the
flag, and its flag is a torch that sheds light.

Twenty-five years ago the people of this country, for the most part,
were quite orthodox. The great "fundamental" falsehoods of Christianity
were generally accepted. Those who were not Christians, as a rule,
admitted that they ought to be; that they ought to repent and join the
church, and this they generally intended to do.

The ministers had few doubts. The most of them had been educated not
to think, but to believe. Thought was regarded as dangerous, and the
clergy, as a rule, kept on the safe side. Investigation was discouraged.
It was declared that faith was the only road that led to eternal joy.

Most of the schools and colleges were under sectarian control, and the
presidents and professors were defenders of their creeds. The people
were crammed with miracles and stuffed with absurdities. They were
taught that the Bible was the "inspired" word of God, that it was
absolutely perfect, that the contradictions were only apparent, and
that it contained no mistakes in philosophy, none in science. The great
scheme of salvation was declared to be the result of infinite wisdom and
mercy. Heaven and hell were waiting for the human race. Only those could
be saved who had faith and who had been born twice.

Most of the ministers taught the geology of Moses, the astronomy of
Joshua, and the philosophy of Christ. They regarded scientists as
enemies, and their principal business was to defend miracles and deny
facts. They knew, however, that men were thinking, investigating in
every direction, and they feared the result. They became a little
malicious—somewhat hateful. With their congregations they relied
on sophistry, and they answered their enemies with epithets, with
misrepresentations and slanders; and yet their minds were filled with a
vague fear, with a sickening dread. Some of the people were reading and
some were thinking. Lyell had told them something about geology, and in
the light of facts they were reading Genesis again. The clergy called
Lyell an Infidel, a blasphemer, but the facts seemed to care nothing
for opprobrious names. Then the "called," the "set apart," the "Lord's
anointed" began changing the "inspired" word. They erased the word "day"
and inserted "period," and then triumphantly exclaimed: "The world was
created in six periods." This answer satisfied bigotry, hypocrisy, and
honest ignorance, but honest intelligence was not satisfied.

More and more was being found about the history of life, of living
things, the order in which the various forms had appeared and the
relations they had sustained to each other. Beneath the gaze of
the biologist the fossils were again clothed with flesh, submerged
continents and islands reappeared, the ancient forest grew once more,
the air was filled with unknown birds, the seas with armored monsters,
and the land with beasts of many forms that sought with tooth and claw
each other's flesh.

Haeckel and Huxley followed life through all its changing forms from
monad up to man. They found that men, women, and children had been on
this poor world for hundreds of thousands of years.

The clergy could not dodge these facts, this conclusion, by calling
"days" periods, because the Bible gives the age of Adam when he died,
the lives and ages to the flood, to Abraham, to David, and from David to
Christ, so that, according to the Bible, man at the birth of Christ had
been on this earth four thousand and four years and no more.

There was no way in which the sacred record could be changed, but of
course the dear ministers could not admit the conclusion arrived at by
Haeckel and Huxley. If they did they would have to give up original sin,
the scheme of the atonement, and the consolation of eternal fire.

They took the only course they could. They promptly and solemnly, with
upraised hands, denied the facts, denounced the biologists as irreverent
wretches, and defended the Book. With tears in their voices they talked
about "Mother's Bible," about the "faith of the fathers," about the
prayers that the children had said, and they also talked about the
wickedness of doubt. This satisfied bigotry, hypocrisy, and honest
ignorance, but honest intelligence was not satisfied.

The works of Humboldt had been translated, and were being read; the
intellectual horizon was enlarged, and the fact that the endless chain
of cause and effect had never been broken, that Nature had never been
interfered with, forced its way into many minds. This conception of
nature was beyond the clergy. They did not believe it; they could not
comprehend it. They did not answer Humboldt, but they attacked him with
great virulence. They measured his works by the Bible, because the Bible
was then the standard.

In examining a philosophy, a system, the ministers asked: "Does it agree
with the sacred book?" With the Bible they separated the gold from the
dross. Every science had to be tested by the Scriptures. Humboldt did
not agree with Moses. He differed from Joshua. He had his doubts about
the flood. That was enough.

Yet, after all, the ministers felt that they were standing on thin
ice, that they were surrounded by masked batteries, and that something
unfortunate was liable at any moment to happen. This increased their
efforts to avoid, to escape. The truth was that they feared the truth.
They were afraid of facts. They became exceedingly anxious for morality,
for the young, for the inexperienced. They were afraid to trust human
nature. They insisted that without the Bible the world would rush to
crime. They warned the thoughtless of the danger of thinking. They knew
that it would be impossible for civilization to exist without the Bible.
They knew this because their God had tried it. He gave no Bible to the
antediluvians, and they became so bad that he had to destroy them.
He gave the Jews only the Old Testament, and they were dispersed.
Irreverent people might say that Jehovah should have known this without
a trial, but after all that has nothing to do with theology.

Attention had been called to the fact that two accounts of creation are
in Genesis, and that they do not agree and cannot be harmonized, and
that, in addition to that, the divine historian had made a mistake as
to the order of creation; that according to one account Adam was made
before the animals, and Eve last of all, from Adam's rib; and by the
other account Adam and Eve were made after the animals, and both at the
same time. A good many people were surprised to find that the Creator
had written contradictory accounts of the creation, and had forgotten
the order in which he created.

Then there was another difficulty. Jehovah had declared that on Tuesday,
or during the second period, he had created the "firmament" to divide
the waters which were below the firmament from the waters above the
firmament. It was found that there is no firmament; that the moisture
in the air is the result of evaporation, and that there was nothing to
divide the waters above, from the waters below. So that, according to
the facts, Jehovah did nothing on the second day or period, because the
moisture above the earth is not prevented from falling by the firmament,
but because the mist is lighter than air.

The preachers, however, began to dodge, to evade, to talk about
"oriental imagery." They declared that Genesis was a "sublime poem,"
a divine "panorama of creation," an "inspired vision;" that it was
not intended to be exact in its details, but that it was true in a far
higher sense, in a poetical sense, in a spiritual sense, conveying a
truth much higher, much grander than simple, fact. The contradictions
were covered with the mantle of oriental imagery. This satisfied
bigotry, hypocrisy, and honest ignorance, but honest intelligence was
not satisfied.

People were reading Darwin. His works interested not only the
scientific, but the intelligent in all the walks of life. Darwin was the
keenest observer of all time, the greatest naturalist in all the world.
He was patient, modest, logical, candid, courageous, and absolutely
truthful. He told the actual facts. He colored nothing. He was anxious
only to ascertain the truth. He had no prejudices, no theories, no
creed. He was the apostle of the real.

The ministers greeted him with shouts of derision. From nearly all the
pulpits came the sounds of ignorant laughter, one of the saddest of all
sounds. The clergy in a vague kind of way believed the Bible account
of creation; they accepted the Miltonic view; they believed that all
animals, including man, had been made of clay, fashioned by Jehovah's
hands, and that he had breathed into all forms, not only the breath of
life, but instinct and reason. They were not in the habit of descending
to particulars; they did not describe Jehovah as kneading the clay or
modeling his forms like a sculptor, but what they did say included these
things.

The theory of Darwin contradicted all their ideas on the subject, vague
as they were. He showed that man had not appeared at first as man, that
he had not fallen from perfection, but had slowly risen through many
ages from lower forms. He took food, climate, and all conditions into
consideration, and accounted for difference of form, function, instinct,
and reason, by natural causes. He dispensed with the supernatural. He
did away with Jehovah the potter.

Of course the theologians denounced him as a blasphemer, as a dethroner
of God. They even went so far as to smile at his ignorance. They said:
"If the theory of Darwin is true the Bible is false, our God is a myth,
and our religion a fable."

In that they were right.

Against Darwin they rained texts of Scripture like shot and shell.
They believed that they were victorious and their congregations were
delighted. Poor little frightened professors in religious colleges sided
with the clergy. Hundreds of backboneless "scientists" ranged themselves
with the enemies of Darwin. It began to look as though the church was
victorious.

Slowly, steadily, the ideas of Darwin gained ground. He began to be
understood. Men of sense were reading what he said. Men of genius were
on his side. In a little while the really great in all departments of
human thought declared in his favor. The tide began to turn. The smile
on the face of the theologian became a frozen grin. The preachers began
to hedge, to dodge. They admitted that the Bible was not inspired for
the purpose of teaching science—only inspired about religion, about the
spiritual, about the divine. The fortifications of faith were crumbling,
the old guns had been spiked, and the armies of the "living God" were in
retreat.

Great questions were being discussed, and freely discussed. People
were not afraid to give their opinions, and they did give their honest
thoughts. Draper had shown in his "Intellectual Development of Europe"
that Catholicism had been the relentless enemy of progress, the bitter
foe of all that is really useful. The Protestants were delighted with
this book.

Buckle had shown in his "History of Civilization in England" that
Protestantism had also enslaved the mind, had also persecuted to the
extent of its power, and that Protestantism in its last analysis was
substantially the same as the creed of Rome.

This book satisfied the thoughtful.

Hegel in his first book had done a great work and it did great good in
spite of the fact that his second book was almost a surrender. Lecky in
his first volume of "The History of Rationalism" shed a flood of
light on the meanness, the cruelty, and the malevolence of "revealed
religion," and this did good in spite of the fact that he almost
apologizes in the second volume for what he had said in the first.

The Universalists had done good. They had civilized a great many
Christians. They declared that eternal punishment was infinite revenge,
and that the God of hell was an infinite savage.

Some of the Unitarians, following the example of Theodore Parker,
denounced Jehovah as a brutal, tribal God. All these forces worked
together for the development of the orthodox brain.

Herbert Spencer was being read and understood. The theories of this
great philosopher were being adopted. He overwhelmed the theologians
with facts, and from a great height he surveyed the world. Of course he
was attacked, but not answered.

Emerson had sowed the seeds of thought—of doubt—in many minds, and
from many directions the world was being flooded with intellectual
light. The clergy became apologetic; they spoke with less certainty;
with less emphasis, and lost a little confidence in the power of
assertion. They felt the necessity of doing something, and they began to
harmonize as best they could the old lies and the new truths. They tried
to get the wreck ashore, and many of them were willing to surrender if
they could keep their side-arms; that is to say, their salaries.

Conditions had been reversed. The Bible had ceased to be the standard.
Science was the supreme and final test.

There was no peace for the pulpit; no peace for the shepherds. Students
of the Bible in England and Germany had been examining the inspired
Scriptures. They had been trying to find when and by whom the books of
the Bible were written. They found that the Pentateuch was not written
by Moses; that the authors of Joshua, Judges, Ruth, Samuel, Kings,
Chronicles, Esther, and Job were not known; that the Psalms were
not written by David; that Solomon had nothing to do with Proverbs,
Ecclesiastes, or the Song; that Isaiah was the work of at least three
authors; that the prophecies of Daniel were written after the happening
of the events prophesied. They found many mistakes and contradictions,
and some of them went so far as to assert that the Hebrews had never
been slaves in Egypt; that the story of the plagues, the exodus, and the
pursuit was only a myth.

The New Testament fared no better than the Old. These critics found that
nearly all of the books of the New Testament had been written by unknown
men; that it was impossible to fix the time when they were written; that
many of the miracles were absurd and childish, and that in addition
to all of this, the gospels were found filled with mistakes, with
interpolations' and contradictions; that the writers of Matthew, Mark,
and Luke did not understand the Christian religion as it was understood
by the author of the gospel according to John.

Of course, the critics were denounced from most of the pulpits, and the
religious papers, edited generally by men who had failed as preachers,
were filled with bitter denials and vicious attacks. The religious
editors refused to be enlightened. They fought under the old flag. When
dogmas became too absurd to be preached, they were taught in the Sunday
schools; when worn out there, they were given to the missionaries;
but the dear old religious weeklies, the Banners, the Covenants, the
Evangelists, continued to feed their provincial subscribers with known
mistakes and refuted lies.

There is another fact that should be taken into consideration. All
religions are provincial. Mingled with them all and at the foundation of
all are the egotism of ignorance, of isolation, the pride of race, and
what is called patriotism. Every religion is a natural product—the
result of conditions. When one tribe became acquainted with another,
the ideas of both were somewhat modified. So when nations and races come
into contact a change in thought, in opinion, is a necessary result.

A few years ago nations were strangers, and consequently hated each
other's institutions and religions. Commerce has done a great work in
destroying provincialism. To trade commodities is to exchange ideas.
So the press, the steamships, the railways, cables, and telegraphs
have brought the nations together and enabled them to compare their
prejudices, their religions, laws and customs.

Recently many scholars have been studying the religions of the world
and have found them much the same. They have also found that there is
nothing original in Christianity; that the legends, miracles, Christs,
and conditions of salvation, the heavens, hells, angels, devils, and
gods were the common property of the ancient world. They found that
Christ was a new name for an old biography; that he was not a life, but
a legend; not a man, but a myth.

People began to suspect that our religion had not been supernaturally
revealed, while others, far older and substantially the same, had been
naturally produced. They found it difficult to account for the fact that
poor, ignorant savages had in the darkness of nature written so well
that Jehovah thousands of years afterwards copied it and adopted it as
his own. They thought it curious that God should be a plagiarist.

These scholars found that all the old religions had recognized the
existence of devils, of evil spirits, who sought in countless ways to
injure the children of men. In this respect they found that the sacred
books of other nations were just the same as our Bible, as our New
Testament.

Take the Devil from our religion and the entire fabric falls. No Devil,
no fall of man. No Devil, no atonement. No Devil, no hell.

The Devil is the keystone of the arch.

And yet for many years the belief in the existence of the Devil—of
evil spirits—has been fading from the minds of intelligent people. This
belief has now substantially vanished. The minister who now seriously
talks about a personal Devil is regarded with a kind of pitying
contempt.

The Devil has faded from his throne and the evil spirits have vanished
from the air.

The man who has really given up a belief in the existence of the Devil
cannot believe in the inspiration of the New Testament—in the divinity
of Christ. If Christ taught anything, if he believed in anything, he
taught a belief in the existence of the Devil..His principal business
was casting out devils. He himself was taken possession of by the Devil
and carried to the top of the temple.

Thousands and thousands of people have ceased to believe the account in
the New Testament regarding devils, and yet continue to believe in the
dogma of "inspiration" and the divinity of Christ.

In the brain of the average Christian, contradictions dwell in unity.

While a belief in the existence of the Devil has almost faded away, the
belief in the existence of a personal God has been somewhat weakened.
The old belief that back of nature, back of all substance and force, was
and is a personal God, an infinite intelligence who created and
governs the world, began to be questioned. The scientists had shown
the indestructibility of matter and force. Buechner's great work had
convinced most readers that matter and force could not have been
created. They also became satisfied that matter cannot exist apart from
force and that force cannot exist apart from matter.

They found, too, that thought is a form of force, and that consequently
intelligence could not have existed before matter, because without
matter, force in any form cannot and could not exist.

The creator of anything is utterly unthinkable.

A few years ago God was supposed to govern the world. He rewarded the
people with sunshine, with prosperity and health, or he punished with
drought and flood, with plague and storm. He not only attended to the
affairs of nations, but he watched the actions of individuals. He sank
ships, derailed trains, caused conflagrations, killed men and women with
his lightnings, destroyed some with earthquakes, and tore the homes and
bodies of thousands into fragments with his cyclones.

In spite of the church, in spite of the ministers, the people began to
lose confidence in Providence. The right did not seem always to triumph.
Virtue was not always rewarded and vice was not always punished. The
good failed; the vicious succeeded; the strong and cruel enslaved the
weak; toil was paid with the lash; babes were sold from the breasts of
mothers, and Providence seemed to be absolutely heartless.

In other words, people began to think that the God of the Christians and
the God of nature were about the same, and that neither appeared to take
any care of the human race.

The Deists of the last century scoffed at the Bible God. He was too
cruel, too savage. At the same time they praised the God of nature. They
laughed at the idea of inspiration and denied the supernatural origin of
the Scriptures.

Now, if the Bible is not inspired, then it is a natural production, and
nature, not God, should be held responsible for the Scriptures. Yet the
Deists denied that God was the author and at the same time asserted the
perfection of nature.

This shows that even in the minds of Deists contradictions dwell in
unity.

Against all these facts and forces, these theories and tendencies, the
clergy fought and prayed. It is not claimed that they were consciously
dishonest, but it is claimed that they were prejudiced—that they were
incapable of examining the other side—that they were utterly destitute
of the philosophic spirit. They were not searchers for the facts,
but defenders of the creeds, and undoubtedly they were the product of
conditions and surroundings, and acted as they must.

In spite of everything a few rays of light penetrated the orthodox mind.
Many ministers accepted some of the new facts, and began to mingle
with Christian mistakes a few scientific truths. In many instances they
excited the indignation of their congregations. Some were tried for
heresy and driven from their pulpits, and some organized new churches
and gathered about them a few people willing to listen to the sincere
thoughts of an honest man.

The great body of the church, however, held to the creed—not quite
believing it, but still insisting that it was true.

In private conversation they would apologize and admit that the old
ideas were outgrown, but in public they were as orthodox as ever. In
every church, however, there were many priests who accepted the new
gospel; that is to say, welcomed the truth.

To-day it may truthfully be said that the Bible in the old sense is
no longer regarded as the inspired word of God. Jehovah is no longer
accepted or believed in as the creator of the universe. His place
has been taken by the Unknown, the Unseen, the Invisible, the
Incomprehensible Something, the Cosmic Dust, the First Cause, the
Inconceivable, the Original Force, the Mystery. The God of the Bible,
the gentleman who walked in the cool of the evening, who talked face to
face with Moses, who revenged himself on unbelievers and who gave laws
written with his finger on tables of stone, has abdicated. He has become
a myth.

So, too, the New Testament has lost its authority. People reason about
it now as they do about other books, and even orthodox ministers
pick out the miracles that ought to be believed, and when anything is
attributed to Christ not in accordance with their views, they take the
liberty of explaining it away by saying "interpolation."

In other words, we have lived to see Science the standard instead of the
Bible. We have lived to see the Bible tested by Science, and, what is
more, we have lived to see reason the standard not only in religion,
but in all the domain of science. Now all civilized scientists appeal to
reason. They get their facts, and then reason from the foundation.
Now the theologian appeals to reason. Faith is no longer considered a
foundation. The theologian has found that he must build upon the truth
and that he must establish this truth by satisfying human reason.

This is where we are now.

What is to be the result? Is progress to stop? Are we to retrace our
steps? Are we going back to superstition? Are we going to take authority
for truth?

Let me prophesy.

In modern times we have slowly lost confidence in the supernatural
and have slowly gained confidence in the natural. We have slowly lost
confidence in gods and have slowly gained confidence in man. For
the cure of disease, for the stopping of plague, we depend on the
natural—on science. We have lost confidence in holy water and religious
processions. We have found that prayers are never answered.

In my judgment, all belief in the supernatural will be driven from the
human mind. All religions must pass away. The augurs, the soothsayers,
the seers, the preachers, the astrologers and alchemists will all lie
in the same cemetery and one epitaph will do for them all. In a little
while all will have had their day. They were naturally produced and
they will be naturally destroyed. Man at last will depend entirely upon
himself—on the development of the brain—to the end that he may take
advantage of the forces of nature—to the end that he may supply the
wants of his body and feed the hunger of his mind.

In my judgment, teachers will take the place of preachers and the
interpreters of nature will be the only priests.
---
# A Reply to Bishop Spalding
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
> * An unfinished reply to Bishop J. L. Spalding's article
> "God in the Constitution," which appeared in the Arena.
> Boston, Mass., April, 1890.

BISHOP SPALDING admits that "The introduction of the question of
religion would not only have brought discord into the Constitutional
convention, but would have also engendered strife throughout the land."
Undoubtedly this is true. I am compelled to admit this, for the reason
that in all times and in all lands the introduction of the question of
religion has brought discord and has engendered strife.

He also says: "In the presence of such danger, like wise men and
patriots, they avoided irritating subjects"—the irritating subject
being the question of religion. I admit that it always has been, and
promises always to be, an "irritating subject," because it is not a
subject decided by reason, but by ignorance, prejudice, arrogance
and superstition. Consequently he says: "It was prudence, then, not
skepticism, which induced them to leave the question of religion to the
several States." The Bishop admits that it was prudent for the founders
of this Government to leave the question of religion entirely to
the States. It was prudent because the question of religion is
irritating—because religious questions engender strife and hatred. Now,
if it was prudent for the framers of the Constitution to leave religion
out of the Constitution, and allow that question to be settled by the
several States themselves under that clause preventing the establishment
of religion or the free exercise thereof, why is it not wise still—why
is it not prudent now?

My article was written against the introduction of religion into the
Constitution of the United States. I am opposed to a recognition of God
and of Jesus Christ in that instrument; and the reason I am opposed to
it is, that: "The introduction of the question of religion would not
only bring discord, but would engender strife throughout the land." I am
opposed to it for the reason that religion is an "irritating subject,"
and also because if it was prudent when the Constitution was made, to
leave God out, it is prudent now to keep him out.

The Bishop is mistaken—as bishops usually are—when he says: "Had our
fathers been skeptics, or anti-theists, they would not have required
the President and Vice-President, the Senators and Representatives in
Congress, and all executive and judicial officers of the United States,
to call God to witness that they intended to perform their duties under
the Constitution like honest men and loyal citizens."

The framers of the Constitution did no such thing. They allowed every
officer, from the President down, either to swear or to affirm, and
those who affirmed did not call God to witness. In other words, our
Constitution allowed every officer to abolish the oath and to leave God
out of the question.

The Bishop informs us, however, that: "The causes which would have
made it unwise to introduce any phase of religious controversy into the
Constitutional convention have long since ceased to exist." Is there
as much division now in the religious world as then? Has the Catholic
Church thrown away the differences between it and the Protestants? Are
we any better friends to-day than we were in 1789? As a matter of fact,
is there not now a cause which did not to the same extent exist then?
Have we not in the United States, millions of people who believe in no
religion whatever, and who regard all creeds as the work of ignorance
and superstition?

The trouble about putting God in the Constitution in 1789 was, that they
could not agree on the God to go in; and the reason why our fathers
did not unite church and state was, that they could not agree on which
church was to be the bride. The Catholics of Maryland certainly would
not have permitted the nation to take the Puritan Church, neither would
the Presbyterians of Pennsylvania have agreed to this, nor would the
Episcopalians of New York, or of any Southern State. Each church said:
"Marry me, or die a bachelor."

The Bishop asks whether there are "still reasons why an express
recognition of God's sovereignty and providence should not form part of
the organic law of the land"? I ask, were there any reasons, in 1789,
why an express recognition of God's sovereignty and providence should
not form part of the organic law of the land? Did not the Bishop say,
only a few lines back of that, "that the introduction of the question
of religion into that body would have brought discord, and would
have engendered strife throughout the land." What is the "question of
religion" to which he referred? Certainly "the recognition of God's
sovereignty and providence," with the addition of describing the God
as the author of the supposed providence. Thomas Jefferson would have
insisted on having a God in the Constitution who was not the author of
the Old and New Testaments. Benjamin Franklin would have asked for the
same God; and on that question John Adams would have voted yes. Others
would have voted for a Catholic God—others for an Episcopalian, and so
on, until the representatives of the various creeds were exhausted.

I took the ground, and I still take the ground, that there is nothing
in the Constitution that cannot on occasion be enforced by the army and
navy—that is to say, that cannot be defended and enforced by the sword.
Suppose God is acknowledged in the Constitution, and somebody denies the
existence of this God—what are you to do with him? Every man elected to
office must swear or affirm that he will support the Constitution. Can
one who does not believe in this God, conscientiously take such oath, or
make such affirmation?

The effect, then, of such a clause in the Constitution would be to
drive from public life all except the believers in this God, and this
providence. The Government would be in fact a theocracy and would resort
for its preservation to one of the old forms of religious persecution.

I took the ground in my article, and still maintain it, that all
intelligent people know that no one knows whether there is a God or not.
This cannot be answered by saying, "that nearly all intelligent men in
every age, including our own, have believed in God and have held that
they had rational grounds for such faith." This is what is called a
departure in pleading—it is a shifting of the issue. I did not say that
intelligent people do not believe in the existence of God. What I did
say is, that intelligent people know that no one knows whether there is
a God or not.

It is not true that we know the conditions of thought. Neither is it
true that we know that these conditions are unconditioned. There is no
such thing as the unconditioned conditional. We might as well say that
the relative is unrelated—that the unrelated is the absolute—and
therefore that there is no difference between the absolute and the
relative.

The Bishop says we cannot know the relative without knowing the
absolute. The probability is that he means that we cannot know the
relative without admitting the existence of the absolute, and that we
cannot know the phenomenal without taking the noumenal for granted.
Still, we can neither know the absolute nor the noumenal for the reason
that our mind is limited to relations.
---
# A Wooden God
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1879_
To the Editor:

To-day Messrs. Wright, Dickey, O'Connor, and Murch, of the select
committee on the causes of the present depression of labor, presented
the majority special report upon Chinese immigration.

These gentlemen are in great fear for the future of our most holy and
perfectly authenticated religion, and have, like faithful watchmen,
from the walls and towers of Zion, hastened to give the alarm. They have
informed Congress that "Joss has his temple of worship in the Chinese
quarters, in San Francisco. Within the walls of a dilapidated structure
is exposed to the view of the faithful the god of the Chinaman, and here
are his altars of worship. Here he tears up his pieces of paper; here he
offers up his prayers; here he receives his religious consolations,
and here is his road to the celestial land;" that "Joss is located in a
long, narrow room in a building in a back alley, upon a kind of altar;"
that "he is a wooden image, looking as much like an alligator as like a
human being;" that the Chinese "think there is such a place as heaven;"
that "all classes of Chinamen worship idols;" that "the temple is open
every day at all hours;" that "the Chinese have no Sunday;" that this
heathen god has "huge jaws, a big red tongue, large white teeth, a
half-dozen arms, and big, fiery eyeballs. About him are placed offerings
of meat and other eatables—a sacrificial offering."

*A letter to the Chicago Times, written at Washington, D. C., March
27,1880.

No wonder that these members of the committee were shocked at such an
image of God, knowing as they did that the only true God was correctly
described by the inspired lunatic of Patmos in the following words:

"And there sat in the midst of the seven golden candlesticks one like
unto the Son of man, clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt
about the paps with a golden girdle. His head and his hairs were white
like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire; and
his feet like unto fine brass, as if they burned in a furnace; and his
voice as the sound of many waters. And he had in his right hand seven
stars: and out of his mouth went a sharp, two-edged sword: and his
countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength."

Certainly a large mouth filled with white teeth is preferable to one
used as the scabbard of a sharp, two-edged sword. Why should these
gentlemen object to a god with big, fiery eyeballs, when their own Deity
has eyes like a flame of fire?

Is it not a little late in the day to object to people because they
sacrifice meat and other eatables to their god? We all know that for
thousands of years the "real" God was exceedingly fond of roasted meat;
that he loved the savor of burning flesh, and delighted in the perfume
of fresh, warm blood.

The following account of the manner in which the "living God" desired
that his chosen people should sacrifice, tends to show the degradation
and religious blindness of the Chinese:

"Aaron therefore went unto the altar, and slew the calf of the sin
offering, which was for himself. And the sons of Aaron brought the blood
unto him: and he dipped his finger in the blood, and put it upon the
horns of the altar, and poured out the blood at the bottom of the altar:
But the fat, and the kidneys, and the caul above the liver of the sin
offering, he burnt upon the altar; as the Lord commanded Moses. And the
flesh and the hide he burnt with fire without the camp. And he slew the
burnt offering; and Aaron's sons presented unto him the blood, which
he sprinkled round about upon the altar. * * * And he brought the meat
offering, and took a handful thereof, and burnt it upon the altar. * * *
He slew also the bullock and the ram for a sacrifice of peace offering,
which was for the people: and Aaron's sons presented unto him the
blood, which he sprinkled upon the altar round about, and the fat of the
bullock and of the ram, the rump, and that which covereth the inwards
and the kidneys, and the caul above the liver, and they put the fat upon
the breasts, and he burnt the fat upon the altar. And the breast and the
right shoulder Aaron waved for a wave offering before the Lord, as Moses
commanded."

If the Chinese only did something like this, we would know that they
worshiped the "living" God. The idea that the supreme head of the
"American system of religion" can be placated with a little meat and
"ordinary eatables" is simply preposterous. He has always asked for
blood, and has always asserted that without the shedding of blood there
is no remission of sin.

The world is also informed by these gentlemen that "the idolatry of
the Chinese produces a demoralizing effect upon our American youth by
bringing sacred things into disrespect, and making religion a theme of
disgust and contempt."

In San Francisco there are some three hundred thousand people. Is it
possible that a few Chinese can bring our "holy religion" into disgust
and contempt? In that city there are fifty times as many churches as
joss-houses. Scores of sermons are uttered every week; religious books
and papers are plentiful as leaves in autumn, and somewhat dryer;
thousands of Bibles are within the reach of all. And there, too, is the
example of a Christian city.

Why should we send missionaries to China if we can not convert the
heathen when they come here? When missionaries go to a foreign land,
the poor, benighted people have to take their word for the blessings
showered upon a Christian people; but when the heathen come here they
can see for themselves. What was simply a story becomes a demonstrated
fact. They come in contact with people who love their enemies. They see
that in a Christian land men tell the truth; that they will not take
advantage of strangers; that they are just and patient, kind and tender;
that they never resort to force; that they have no prejudice on account
of color, race, or religion; that they look upon mankind as brethren;
that they speak of God as a universal Father, and are willing to work,
and even to suffer, for the good not only of their own countrymen, but
of the heathen as well. All this the Chinese see and know, and why
they still cling to the religion of their country is to me a matter of
amazement.

We all know that the disciples of Jesus do unto others as they would
that others should do unto them, and that those of Confucius do not unto
others anything that they would not that others should do unto them.
Surely, such peoples ought to live together in perfect peace.

Rising with the subject, growing heated with a kind of holy indignation,
these Christian representatives of a Christian people most solemnly
declare that:

"Anyone who is really endowed with a correct knowledge of our religious
system, which acknowledges the existence of a living God and an
accountability to him, and a future state of reward and punishment, who
feels that he has an apology for this abominable pagan worship is not a
fit person to be ranked as a good citizen of the American Union. It is
absurd to make any apology for its toleration. It must be abolished,
and the sooner the decree goes forth by the power of this Government the
better it will be for the interests of this land."

I take this, the earliest opportunity, to inform these gentlemen
composing a majority of the committee, that we have in the United States
no "religious system"; that this is a secular Government. That it has
no religious creed; that it does not believe or disbelieve in a future
state of reward and punishment; that it neither affirms nor denies
the existence of a "living God"; and that the only god, so far as this
Government is concerned, is the legally expressed will of a majority of
the people. Under our flag the Chinese have the same right to worship a
wooden god that you have to worship any other. The Constitution protects
equally the church of Jehovah and the house of Joss. Whatever their
relative positions may be in heaven, they stand upon a perfect equality
in the United States.

This Government is an Infidel Government. We have a Constitution with
man put in and God left out; and it is the glory of this country that we
have such a Constitution.

It may be surprising to you that I have an apology for pagan worship,
yet I have. And it is the same one that I have for the writers of this
report. I account for both by the word _superstition_. Why should
we object to their worshiping God as they please? If the worship is
improper, the protestation should come not from a committee of Congress,
but from God himself. If he is satisfied that is sufficient.

Our religion can only be brought into contempt by the actions of those
who profess to be governed by its teachings. This report will do more
in that direction than millions of Chinese could do by burning pieces of
paper before a wooden image. If you wish to impress the Chinese with the
value of your religion, of what you are pleased to call "The American
system," show them that Christians are better than heathens. Prove to
them that what you are pleased to call the "living God" teaches higher
and holier things, a grander and purer code of morals than can be found
upon pagan pages. Excel these wretches in industry, in honesty, in
reverence for parents, in cleanliness, in frugality; and above all by
advocating the absolute liberty of human thought.

Do not trample upon these people because they have a different
conception of things about which even this committee knows nothing.

Give them the same privilege you enjoy of making a God after their own
fashion. And let them describe him as they will. Would you be willing
to have them remain, if one of their race, thousands of years ago, had
pretended to have seen God, and had written of him as follows:

"There went up a smoke out of his nostrils, and fire out of his mouth
devoured: coals were kindled by it, * * * and he rode upon a cherub and
did fly."

Why should you object to these people on account of their religion? Your
objection has in it the spirit of hate and intolerance. Of that spirit
the Inquisition was born. That spirit lighted the fagot, made the
thumbscrew, put chains upon the limbs, and lashes upon the backs of men.
The same spirit bought and sold, captured and kidnapped human beings;
sold babes, and justified all the horrors of slavery.

Congress has nothing to do with the religion of the people. Its members
are not responsible to God for the opinions of their constituents, and
it may tend to the happiness of the constituents for me to state that
they are in no way responsible for the religion of the members.
Religion is an individual, not a national, matter. And where the nation
interferes with the right of conscience, the liberties of the people are
devoured by the monster superstition.

If you wish to drive out the Chinese, do not make a pretext of religion.
Do not pretend that you are trying to do God a favor. Injustice in his
name is doubly detestable. The assassin can not sanctify his dagger by
falling on his knees, and it does not help a falsehood if it be uttered
as a prayer. Religion, used to intensify the hatred of men toward men
under the pretence of pleasing God, has cursed this world.

A portion of this most remarkable report is intensely religious. There
is in it almost the odor of sanctity; and when reading it, one is
impressed with the living piety of its authors. But on the twenty-fifth
page there are a few passages that must pain the hearts of true
believers.

Leaving their religious views, the members immediately betake themselves
to philosophy and prediction. Listen:

"The Chinese race and the American citizen, whether native-born or one
who is eligible to our naturalization laws and becomes a citizen, are in
a state of antagonism. They cannot, or will not, ever meet upon common
ground, and occupy together the same social level. This is impossible.
The pagan and the Christian travel different paths. This one believes in
a living God; and that one in a type of monsters and the worship of wood
and stone. Thus in the religion of the two races of men they are as wide
apart as the poles of the two hemispheres. They cannot now and never
will approach the same religious altar. The Christian will not recede
to barbarism, nor will the Chinese advance to the enlightened belt
(whatever it is) of civilization. * * * He cannot be converted to those
modern ideas of religious worship which have been accepted by Europe and
which crown the American system."

Christians used to believe that through their religion all the nations
of the earth were finally to be blest. In accordance with that belief
missionaries have been sent to every land, and untold wealth has been
expended for what has been called the spread of the gospel.

I am almost sure that I have read somewhere that "Christ died for _all_
men," and that "God is no respecter of persons." It was once taught that
it was the duty of Christians to tell all people the "tidings of
great joy." I have never believed these things myself, but have always
contended that an honest merchant was the best missionary. Commerce
makes friends, religion makes enemies; the one enriches and the other
impoverishes; the one thrives best where the truth is told, the other
where falsehoods are believed. For myself, I have but little confidence
in any business or enterprise or investment that promises dividends only
after the death of the stockholders.

But I am astonished that four Christian statesmen, four members of
Congress, in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, who seriously
object to people on account of their religious convictions, should
still assert that the very religion in which they believe—and the
only religion established by the "living God," head of the American
system—is not adapted to the spiritual needs of one-third of the human
race. It is amazing that these four gentlemen have, in the defence
of the Christian religion, announced the discovery that it is wholly
inadequate for the civilization of mankind; that the light of the cross
can never penetrate the darkness of China; "that all the labors of
the missionary, the example of the good, the exalted character of our
civilization, make no impression upon the pagan life of the Chinese;"
and that even the report of this committee will not tend to elevate,
refine, and Christianize the yellow heathen of the Pacific coast. In the
name of religion these gentlemen have denied its power, and mocked at
the enthusiasm of its founder. Worse than this, they have predicted for
the Chinese a future of ignorance and idolatry in this world, and, if
the "American system" of religion is true, hell-fire in the next.

For the benefit of these four philosophers and prophets I will give a
few extracts from the writings of Confucius, that will, in my judgment,
compare favorably with the best passages of their report:

"My doctrine is that man must be true to the principles of his nature,
and the benevolent exercise of them toward others.

With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and with my bended arm for
a pillow, I still have joy.

Riches and honor acquired by injustice are to me but floating clouds.

The man who, in view of gain, thinks of righteousness; who, in view of
danger, forgets life, and who remembers an old agreement, however far
back it extends, such a man may be reckoned a complete man.

Recompense injury with justice, and kindness with kindness.

There is one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one's
life: Reciprocity is that word."

When the ancestors of the four Christian Congressmen were barbarians,
when they lived in caves, gnawed bones, and worshiped dried snakes, the
infamous Chinese were reading these sublime sentences of Confucius. When
the forefathers of these Christian statesmen were hunting toads to
get the jewels out of their heads, to be used as charms, the wretched
Chinese were calculating eclipses, and measuring the circumference
of the earth. When the progenitors of these representatives of the
"American system of religion" were burning women charged with nursing
devils, the people "incapable of being influenced by the exalted
character of our civilization," were building asylums for the insane.

Neither should it be forgotten that, for thousands of years, the Chinese
have honestly practiced the great principle known as Civil Service
Reform—a something that even the administration of Mr. Hayes has
reached only through the proxy of promise.

If we wish to prevent the immigration of the Chinese, let us reform our
treaties with the vast empire from whence they came. For thousands of
years the Chinese secluded themselves from the rest of the world. They
did not deem the Christian nations fit to associate with. We forced
ourselves upon them. We called, not with cards, but with cannon. The
English battered down the door in the names of opium and Christ. This
infamy was regarded as another triumph for the gospel. At last, in
self-defence, the Chinese allowed Christians to touch their shores.
Their wise men, their philosophers, protested, and prophesied that time
would show that Christians could not be trusted. This report proves that
the wise men were not only philosophers, but prophets.

Treat China as you would England. Keep a treaty while it is in force.
Change it if you will, according to the laws of nations, but on no
account excuse a breach of national faith by pretending that we are
dishonest for God's sake.
---
# A Word About Education
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1891_
THE end of life—the object of life—is happiness. Nothing can be better
than that—nothing higher. In order to be really happy, man must be in
harmony with his surroundings, with the conditions of well-being. In
order to know these surroundings, he must be educated, and education is
of value only as it contributes to the wellbeing of man, and only
that is education which increases the power of man to gratify his real
wants—wants of body and of mind.

The educated man knows the necessity of finding out the facts in nature,
the relations between himself and his fellow-men, between himself and
the world, to the end that he may take advantage of these facts and
relations for the benefit of himself and others. He knows that a man may
understand Latin and Greek, Hebrew and Sanscrit, and be as ignorant of
the great facts and forces in nature as a native of Central Africa.

The educated man knows something that he can use, not only for the
benefit of himself, but for the benefit of others. Every skilled
mechanic, every good farmer, every man who knows some of the real
facts in nature that touch him, is to that extent an educated man. The
skilled mechanic and the intelligent farmer may not be what we call
"scholars," and what we call scholars may not be educated men.

Man is in constant need. He must protect himself from cold and heat,
from sun and storm. He needs food and raiment for the body, and he needs
what we call art for the development and gratification of his brain.
Beginning with what are called the necessaries of life, he rises to
what are known as the luxuries, and the luxuries become necessaries, and
above luxuries he rises to the highest wants of the soul.

The man who is fitted to take care of himself, in the conditions he may
be placed, is, in a very important sense, an educated man. The savage
who understands the habits of animals, who is a good hunter and fisher,
is a man of education, taking into consideration his circumstances. The
graduate of a university who cannot take care of himself—no matter how
much he may have studied—is not an educated man.

In our time, an educated man, whether a mechanic, a farmer, or one who
follows a profession, should know something about what the world has
discovered. He should have an idea of the outlines of the sciences. He
should have read a little, at least, of the best that has been written.
He should know something of mechanics, a little about politics,
commerce, and metaphysics; and in addition to all this, he should know
how to make something. His hands should be educated, so that he can, if
necessary, supply his own wants by supplying the wants of others.

There are mental misers—men who gather learning all their lives and
keep it to themselves. They are worse than hoarders of gold, because
when they die their learning dies with them, while the metal miser is
compelled to leave his gold for others.

The first duty of man is to support himself—to see to it that he
does not become a burden. His next duty is to help others if he has a
surplus, and if he really believes they deserve to be helped.

It is not necessary to have what is called a university education in
order to be useful or to be happy, any more than it is necessary to be
rich, to be happy. Great wealth is a great burden, and to have more than
you can use, is to care for more than you want. The happiest are those
who are prosperous, and who by reasonable endeavor can supply their
reasonable wants and have a little surplus year by year for the winter
of their lives.

So, it is no use to learn thousands and thousands of useless facts, or
to fill the brain with unspoken tongues. This is burdening yourself with
more than you can use. The best way is to learn the useful.

We all know that men in moderate circumstances cau have just as
comfortable houses as the richest, just as comfortable clothing, just
as good food. They can see just as fine paintings, just as marvelous
statues, and they can hear just as good music. They can attend the same
theatres and the same operas. They can enjoy the same sunshine, and
above all, can love and be loved just as well as kings and millionaires.

So the conclusion of the whole matter is, that he is educated who knows
how to take care of himself; and that the happy man is the successful
man, and that it is only a burden to have more than you want, or to
learn those things that you cannot use.—The High School Register,
Omaha, Nebraska, January. 1891.
---
# A Young Man's Chances To-Day
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1896_
> * Col. Robert G. Ingersoll represents what is intellectually
> highest among the whole world's opponents of religion. He
> counts theology as the science of a superstition. He decries
> religion as it exists, and holds that the broadest thing a
> man, or all human nature, can do is to acknowledge ignorance
> when it cannot know. He accepts nothing on faith. He is the
> American who is forever asking, "Why?"—who demands a reason
> and material proof before believing.

> As Christianity's corner-stone is faith, he rejects
> Christianity, and argues that all men who are broad enough
> to know when to narrow their ideas down to fact or
> demonstrable theory must reject it. Believe as he does or
> not, all Americans must be interested in him. His mind is
> marvelous, his tongue is silvern, his logic is invincible—
> as logic.

> Col. Ingersoll is a shining example of the oft-quoted fact
> that, given mental ability, health and industry, a young man
> may make for himself whatever place in life he desires and
> is fitted to fill. His early advantages were limited, for
> his father, a Congregational minister whose field of labor
> often changed, was a man of far too small an income to send
> his sons to college. Whatever of mental training the young
> man had he was obliged to get by reason of his own exertion,
> and his splendid triumphs as an orator, and his solid
> achievements as a lawyer are all the result of his own
> efforts. The only help he had was that which is the common
> heritage of all American young men—the chance to fight even
> handed for success. It is not surprising, therefore, that
> Col. Ingersoll feels a deep interest in every bright young
> man of his acquaintance who is struggling manfully for the
> glittering prize so brilliantly won by the great Agnostic
> himself. He does not believe, however, that the young man
> who goes out mto the world nowadays to seek his fortune has
> so easy a battle to fight as had the young men of thirty
> years ago. In conversation with the writer Col. Ingersoll
> spoke earnestly upon this subject.

> Col. Ingersoll's views regarding the Bible and Christianity
> were not generally understood by the public for some time
> after he had become famous as an orator, although he  began
> to diverge from orthodoxy when quite young, and was as
> pronounced an Agnostic when he went into the army, as he is
> now.

> Col. Ingersoll is an inch less than six feet tall, and
> weighs ten more than two hundred pounds. He will be sixty-
> one next August, and his hair is snowy. His shoulders are
> broad and as straight as they were eighteen years ago when
> he electrified a people and place! his own name upon the
> list of a nation's greatest orators with his matchless
> "Plumed Knight" speech in nominating

> James G. Blaine for the presidency. His blue eyes look
> straight into yours when he speaks to you, and his sentences
> are punctuated by engaging little tricks of facial
> expression—now the brow is criss-crossed with the lines of
> a frown, sometimes quizzical and sometimes indignant—next,
> the smooth-shaven lips break into a curving smile, which may
> grow into a broad grin if the point just made were a
> humorous one, and this is quite likely to be followed by a
> look of sueh intense earnestness that you wonder if he will
> ever smile again. And all the time his eyes flash,
> illuminating, sometimes anticipatory, glances that add
> immensely to the clearness with which the thought he is
> expressing is set before you. He delights to tell a story,
> and he never tells any but good ones, but—and in this he is
> like Lincoln—he is apt to use his stories to drive some
> proposition home. This is almost invariably true, even when
> he sets out to spin a yarn for the story's simple sake. His
> mentality seems to be duplex, quadruplex, multiplex, if you
> please—and while his lips and tongue are effectively
> delivering the story, his wonderful brain is, seemingly,
> unconsciously applying the point of the story to the proving
> of a pet theory, and when the tale has been told the verbal
> application follows.

> His birthplace was Dresden, N. Y. His early boyhood was
> passed in New York State and his youth and young manhood in
> Illinois, Ohio and Wisconsin.

> His handgrasp is hearty and his manner and words are the
> very essence of straightforward directness. I called at his
> office once when the Colonel was closeted with a person who
> wished to retain him in a law case involving a good deal of
> money. After a bit I was told that I could see him, and as I
> entered he was saying: "The case can't be won, for you are
> in the wrong. I don't want it."

> "But," pleaded the would-be client, "It seems to me that a
> good deal can be done in such a case by the way it is
> handled before the jury, and I thought if you were to be the
> man I might get a verdict."

> "No, sir," was the reply, and the words fell like the lead
> of a plumb line; "I won't take it. Good morning, sir."

> It has been sometimes said, indulgently, of Col. Ingersoll
> that he is indolent, but no one can hold that view who is at
> all familiar with him or his work. As a matter of fact, his
> industry is phenomenal, though, indeed, it is not carried on
> after the fashion of less brainy men. When he has an
> important case ahead of him his devotion to the mastery of
> its details absorbs him at once and completely. It sometimes
> becomes necessary for him to take up a line of chemical
> inquiry entirely new to him; again, to elaborate
> genealogical researches are necessary; still again, it may
> be essential for him to thoroughly inform himself concerning
> hitherto uninvestigated local historical records. But
> whatever is needful to be studied he studies, and so
> thoroughly that his mind becomes saturated with the
> knowledge required. And once acquired no sort of information
> ever leaves him, for he has a memory quite as marvelous as
> any other of his altogether marvelous characteristics.

> It is the same when he has an address to prepare. Every
> authority that can be consulted upon the subject to be
> treated in the address, is consulted, and often the material
> that suggests some of the most telling points is one which
> no one but Ingersoll himself would think of referring to.
> Here again his wonderful memory stands him in good stead for
> he has packed away within the convolutions of his brain a
> lot of facts that bear upon almost every conceivable branch
> of human thought or investigation.

> His memory is quite as retentive of the features of a man he
> has seen as of other matters; it retains voices also, as a
> war time friend of his discovered last summer. It was a busy
> day with the Colonel, who had given instructions to his
> office boy that under no circumstances was he to be
> disturbed; so when his old friend called he was told that
> Col. Ingersoll could not see him "But," said the visitor: "I
> must see him. I haven't seen him for twenty years; I am
> going out of town this afternoon, and I wouldn't miss
> talking with him for a few minutes for a good deal of
> money."

> "Well," said the boy, "he wasn't to be disturbed by
> anybody."

> At this moment the door of the Colonel's private office
> opened, and the Colonel's portly form appeared upon the
> scene.

> "Why, Maj. Blank," he said, "come in. I did tell the boy I
> wouldn't see anybody, but you are more important than the
> biggest law case in the world."

> The Colonel's memory had retained the sound of the major's
> voice, and because of that, the latter was not obliged to
> leave New York without seeing and renewing his old
> acquaintance.

> Col. Ingersoll's retorts are as quick as a flash-light and
> as searching. One of them was so startling and so effective
> as to give a certain famous long drawn out railroad suit the
> nickname. "The Ananias and Sapphira ease." Ingersoll was
> speaking and had made certain statements highly damaging to
> the other side, in such a way as to thoroughly anger a
> member of the opposing counsel, who suddenly interrupted the
> speaker with the abrupt and sarcastic remark:

> "I suppose the Colonel, in the nature of things, never heard
> of the story of Ananias ana Sapphira."

> There were those present who expected to witness an angry
> outburst on the part of Ingersoll in response to this plain
> implication that his statement had not the quality of
> veracity, but they were disappointed. Ingersoll didn't even
> get angry. He turned slightly, fixed his limpid blue eyes
> upon the speaker, and looked cherubically. Then he gently
> drawled out.

> "Oh, yes, I have, yes, I have. And I've watched the
> gentleman who has just spoken all through this case with a
> curious Interest. I've been expecting every once in a while
> to see him drop dead, but he seems to be all right down to
> the present moment."

> Ingersoll never gets angry when he is interrupted, even if
> it is in the middle of an address or a lecture. A man
> interrupted him in Cincinnati once, cutting right into one
> of the lecturer's most resonant periods with a yell:

> "That's a lie. Bob lngersoll, and you know it."

> The audience was in an uproar in an instant, and cries of
> "Put him out!" "Throw him down stairs!" and the like were
> heard from all parts of the house. Ingersoll stopped talking
> for a moment, and held up his hands, smiling.

> "Don't hurt the man," he said. "He thinks he is right. But
> let me explain this thing for his especial benefit."

> Then he reasoned the matter out in language so simple and
> plain that no one of any intelligence whatever could fail to
> comprehend. The man was not ejected, but sat through the
> entire address, and at the close asked the privilege of
> begging the lecturer's pardon.

> Like most men of genius, Colonel lngersoll is a passionate
> lover of music, and the harmonies of Wagner seem to him to
> be the very acme of musical expression....

> Notwithstanding his thoroughly heretical beliefs or lack of
> beliefs, or, as he would say, because of them, Colonel
> lngersoll is a very tender-hearted man. No one has ever made
> so strong an argument against vivisection in the alleged
> interests of science as lngersoll did in a speech a few
> years ago. To the presentation of his views against the
> refinements of scientific cruelty he brought his most vivid
> imagination, his most careful thought and his most
> impassioned oratory.

> Colonel Ingersoll's popularity with those who know him is
> proverbial. The clerks in his offices not only admire him
> for his ability and his achievements, but they esteem him
> for his kindliness of heart and his invariable courtesy in
> his intercourse with them. His offices are located in one of
> the buildings devoted to corporations and professional men
> on the lower part of Nassau street and consist of three
> rooms. The one used by the head of the firm is farthest from
> the entrance. All are furnished in solid black walnut. In
> the Colonel's room there is a picture of his loved brother
> Ebon, and hanging below the frame thereof is the tin sign
> that the two brothers hung out for a shingle when they went
> into the law business in Peoria. There are also pictures of
> a judge or two. The desks in all the rooms are littered with
> papers. Books are piled to the ceiling. Everywhere there is
> an air of personal freedom. There is no servility either to
> clients or the head of the business, but there is everywhere
> an informal courtesy somewhat akin to that which is born of
> a fueling of great comradeship.

> Of the Colonel's ideal home life the world has often been
> told. He lives during the winter at his town house in Fifth
> Avenue; in the summer at Dobbs Ferry, a charming place a few
> miles up the Hudson from New York.—Boston Herald, July,
> 1894.

A FEW years ago there were many thousand miles of railroads to be built,
a great many towns and cities to be located, constructed and filled;
vast areas of uncultivated land were waiting for the plow, vast forests
the axe, and thousands of mines were longing to be opened. In those days
every young man of energy and industry had a future. The professions
were not overcrowded; there were more patients than doctors, more
litigants than lawyers, more buyers of goods than merchants. The young
man of that time who was raised on a farm got a little education, taught
school, read law or medicine—some of the weaker ones read theology—and
there seemed to be plenty of room, plenty of avenues to success and
distinction.

So, too, a few years ago a political life was considered honorable,
and so in politics there were many great careers. So, hundreds of towns
wanted newspapers, and in each of those towns there was an opening for
some energetic young man. At that time the plant cost but little; a few
dollars purchased the press—the young publisher could get the paper
stock on credit.

Now the railroads have all been built; the canals are finished; the
cities have been located; the outside property has been cut into lots,
and sold and mortgaged many times over. Now it requires great capital
to go into business. The individual is counting for less and less; the
corporation, the trust, for more and more. Now a great merchant employs
hundreds of clerks; a few years ago most of those now clerks would have
been merchants. And so it seems to be in nearly every department of
life. Of course, I do not know what inventions may leap from the brains
of the future; there may be millions and millions of fortunes yet to be
made in that direction, but of that I am not speaking.

So, I think that a few years ago the chances were far more numerous and
favorable to young men who wished to make a name for themselves, and to
succeed in some department of human energy than now.

In savage life a living is very easy to get. Most any savage can hunt
or fish; consequently there are few failures. But in civilized life
competition becomes stronger and sharper; consequently, the percentage
of failures increases, and this seems to be the law. The individual is
constantly counting for less. It may be that, on the average, people
live better than they did formerly, that they have more to eat, drink
and wear; but the individual horizon has lessened; it is not so wide and
cloudless as formerly. So I say that the chances for great fortunes, for
great success, are growing less and less.

I think a young man should do that which is easiest for him to do,
provided there is an opportunity; if there is none, then he should
take the next. The first object of every young man should be to be
self-supporting, no matter in what direction—be independent. He should
avoid being a clerk and he should avoid giving his future into the hands
of any one person. He should endeavor to get a business in which the
community will be his patron, and whether he is to be a lawyer, a doctor
or a day-laborer depends on how much he has mixed mind with muscle.

If a young man imagines that he has an aptitude for public
speaking—that is, if he has a great desire to make his ideas known to
the world—the probability is that the desire will choose the way, time
and place for him to make the effort.

If he really has something to say, there will be plenty to listen. If he
is so carried away with his subject, is so in earnest that he becomes an
instrumentality of his thought—so that he is forgotten by himself; so
that he cares neither for applause nor censure—simply caring to present
his thoughts in the highest and best and most comprehensive way, the
probability is that he will be an orator.

I think oratory is something that cannot be taught. Undoubtedly a man
can learn to be a fair talker. He can by practice learn to present his
ideas consecutively, clearly and in what you may call "form," but there
is as much difference between this and an oration as there is between a
skeleton and a living human being clad in sensitive, throbbing flesh.

There are millions of skeleton makers, millions of people who can
express what may be called "the bones" of a discourse, but not one in a
million who can clothe these bones.

You can no more teach a man to be an orator than you can teach him to be
an artist or a poet of the first class. When you teach him, there is the
same difference between the man who is taught, and the man who is what
he is by virtue of a natural aptitude, that there is between a pump
and a spring—between a canal and a river—between April rain and
water-works. It is a question of capacity and feeling—not of education.
There are some things that you can tell an orator not to do. For
instance, he should never drink water while talking, because the
interest is broken, and for the moment he loses control of his audience.
He should never look at his watch for the same reason. He should never
talk about himself. He should never deal in personalities. He should
never tell long stories, and if he tells any story he should never say
that it is a true story, and that he knew the parties. This makes it a
question of veracity instead of a question of art. He should never clog
his discourse with details. He should never dwell upon particulars—he
should touch universals, because the great truths are for all time.

If he wants to know something, if he wishes to feel something, let him
read Shakespeare. Let him listen to the music of Wagner, of Beethoven,
or Schubert. If he wishes to express himself in the highest and most
perfect form, let him become familiar with the great paintings of the
world—with the great statues—all these will lend grace, will give
movement and passion and rhythm to his words. A great orator puts into
his speech the perfume, the feelings, the intensity of all the great and
beautiful and marvelous things that he has seen and heard and felt. An
orator must be a poet, a metaphysician, a logician—and above all, must
have sympathy with all.
---
# Address on the Civil Rights Act
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1883_
ON the 22d of October, 1883, a vast number of citizens met at Lincoln
Hall, Washington, D. C., to give expression to their views concerning
the decision of the Supreme Court of the United States, in which it is
held that the Civil Rights Act is unconstitutional.

Col. Robert G. Ingersoll was one of the speakers.

The Hon. Frederick Douglass introduced him as follows:

> Abou Ben Adhem—(may his tribe increase!)
> Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
> And saw within the moonlight of his room,
> Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
> An angel writing in a book of gold:
> Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold;
> And to the presence in the room he said,
> "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
> And, with a look made all of sweet accord,
> Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
> "And is mine one?" asked Abou. "Nay, not so,"
> Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
> But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
> Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
> The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
> It came again, with a great wakening light,
> And showed the names whom love of God had blest;
> And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

I have the honor to introduce Robert G. Ingersoll.

## Mr. Ingersoll's Speech

Ladies and Gentlemen:

We have met for the purpose of saying a few words about the recent
decision of the Supreme Court, in which that tribunal has held the first
and second sections of the Civil Rights Act to be unconstitutional; and
so held in spite of the fact that for years the people of the North
and South have, with singular unanimity, supposed the Act to be
constitutional—supposed that it was upheld by the 13th and 14th
Amendments,—and so supposed because they knew with certainty the
intention of the framers of the amendments. They knew this intention,
because they knew what the enemies of the amendments and the enemies of
the Civil Rights Act claimed was the intention. And they also knew what
the friends of the amendments and the law admitted the intention to
be. The prejudices born of ignorance and of slavery had died or fallen
asleep, and even the enemies of the amendments and the law had accepted
the situation.

But I shall speak of the decision as I feel, and in the same manner as I
should speak even in the presence of the Court. You must remember that
I am not attacking persons, but opinions—not motives, but reasons—not
judges, but decisions.

The Supreme Court has decided:

1. That the first and second sections of the Civil Rights Act of March
1, 1875, are unconstitutional, as applied to the States—not being
authorized by the 13th and 14th Amendments.

2. That the 14th Amendment is prohibitory upon the States only, and the
legislation forbidden to be adopted by Congress for enforcing it, is
not "direct" legislation, but "corrective,"—such as may be necessary
or proper for counteracting and restraining the effect of laws or acts
passed or done by the several States.

3. That the 13th Amendment relates only to slavery and involuntary
servitude, which it abolishes.

4. That the 13th Amendment establishes universal freedom in the United
States.

5. That Congress may probably pass laws directly enforcing its
provisions.

6. That such legislative power in Congress extends only to the subject
of slavery, and its incidents.

7. That the denial of equal accommodations in inns, public conveyances
and places of public amusement, imposes no badge of slavery or
involuntary servitude upon the party, but at most infringes rights which
are protected from State aggression by the 14th Amendment.

8. The Court is uncertain whether the accommodations and privileges
sought to be protected by the first and second sections of the Civil
Rights Act are or are not rights constitutionally demandable,—and if
they are, in what form they are to be protected.

9. Neither does the Court decide whether the law, as it stands, is
operative in the Territories and the District of Columbia.

10. Neither does the Court decide whether Congress, under the commercial
power, may or may not pass a law securing to all persons equal
accommodations on lines of public conveyance between two or more States.

11. The Court also holds, in the present case, that until some State law
has been passed, or some State action through its officers or agents has
been taken adverse to the rights of citizens sought to be protected
by the 14th Amendment, no legislation of the United States under said
amendment, or any proceeding under such legislation, can be called into
activity, for the reason that the prohibitions of the amendment are
against State laws and acts done under State authority. The essence of
said decision being, that the managers and owners of inns, railways, and
all public conveyances, of theatres and all places of public amusement,
may discriminate on account of race, color, or previous condition of
servitude, and that the citizen so discriminated against, is without
redress.

This decision takes from seven millions of people the shield of the
Constitution. It leaves the best of the colored race at the mercy of
the meanest of the white. It feeds fat the ancient grudge that vicious
ignorance bears toward race and color. It will be approved and quoted
by hundreds of thousands of unjust men. The masked wretches who, in the
darkness of night, drag the poor negro from his cabin, and lacerate with
whip and thong his quivering flesh, will, with bloody hands, applaud
the Supreme Court. The men who, by mob violence, prevent the negro from
depositing his ballot—who with gun and revolver drive him from the
polls, and those who insult with vile and vulgar words the inoffensive
colored girl, will welcome this decision with hyena joy. The basest will
rejoice—the noblest will mourn.

But even in the presence of this decision, we must remember that it is
one of the necessities of government that there should be a court of
last resort; and while all courts will more or less fail to do justice,
still, the wit of man has, as yet, devised no better way. Even after
reading this decision, we must take it for granted that the judges
of the Supreme Court arrived at their conclusions honestly and in
accordance with the best light they had. While they had the right to
render the decision, every citizen has the right to give his opinion as
to whether that decision is good or bad. Knowing that they are liable
to be mistaken, and honestly mistaken, we should always be charitable
enough to admit that others may be mistaken; and we may also take
another step, and admit that we may be mistaken about their being
mistaken. We must remember, too, that we have to make judges out of men,
and that by being made judges their prejudices are not diminished and
their intelligence is not increased. No matter whether a man wears a
crown or a robe or a rag. Under the emblem of power and the emblem
of poverty, the man alike resides. The real thing is the man—the
distinction often exists only in the clothes. Take away the crown—there
is only a man. Remove the robe—there remains a man. Take away the rag,
and we find at least a man.

There was a time in this country when all bowed to a decision of the
Supreme Court. It was unquestioned. It was regarded as "a voice from
on high." The people heard and they obeyed. The Dred Scott decision
destroyed that illusion forever. From that day to this the people have
claimed the privilege of putting the decisions of the Supreme Court in
the crucible of reason. These decisions are no longer exempt from honest
criticism. While the decision remains, it is the law. No matter how
absurd, no matter how erroneous, no matter how contrary to reason and
justice, it remains the law. It must be overturned either by the Court
itself (and the Court has overturned hundreds of its own decisions), or
by legislative action, or by an amendment to the Constitution. We do not
appeal to armed revolution. Our Government is so framed that it provides
for what may be called perpetual peaceful revolution. For the redress
of any grievance, for the purpose of righting any wrong, there is the
perpetual remedy of an appeal to the people.

We must remember, too, that judges keep their backs to the dawn. They
find what has been, what is, but not what ought to be. They are tied and
shackled by precedent, fettered by old decisions, and by the desire to
be consistent, even in mistakes. They pass upon the acts and words of
others, and like other people, they are liable to make mistakes. In
the olden time we took what the doctors gave us, we believed what the
preachers said; and accepted, without question, the judgments of the
highest court. Now it is different. We ask the doctor what the medicine
is, and what effect he expects it to produce. We cross-examine the
minister, and we criticise the decision of the Chief-Justice. We do
this, because we have found that some doctors do not kill, that some
ministers are quite reasonable, and that some judges know something
about law. In this country, the people are the sovereigns. All
officers—including judges—are simply their servants, and the sovereign
has always the right to give his opinion as to the action of his agent.
The sovereignty of the people is the rock upon which rests the right of
speech and the freedom of the press.

Unfortunately for us, our fathers adopted the common law of England—a
law poisoned by kingly prerogative—by every form of oppression, by the
spirit of caste, and permeated, saturated, with the political heresy
that the people received their rights, privileges and immunities from
the crown. The thirteen original colonies received their laws, their
forms, their ideas of justice, from the old world. All the judicial,
legislative, and executive springs and sources had been touched and
tainted.

In the struggle with England, our fathers justified their rebellion
by declaring that Nature had clothed all men with the right to life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The moment success crowned their
efforts, they changed their noble declaration of equal rights for all,
and basely interpolated the word "white." They adopted a Constitution
that denied the Declaration of Independence—a Constitution that
recognized and upheld slavery, protected the slave-trade, legalized
piracy upon the high seas—that demoralized, degraded, and debauched
the nation, and that at last reddened with brave blood the fields of the
Republic.

Our fathers planted the seeds of injustice, and we gathered the harvest.
In the blood and flame of civil war, we retraced our fathers' steps. In
the stress of war, we implored the aid of Liberty, and asked once more
for the protection of Justice. We civilized the Constitution of our
fathers. We adopted three Amendments—the 13th, 14th and 15th—the
Trinity of Liberty.

Let us examine these amendments:

"Neither slavery, nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment
for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist
within the United States or any place subject to their jurisdiction.

"Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate
legislation."

Before the adoption of this amendment, the Constitution had always been
construed to be the perfect shield of slavery. In order that slavery
might be protected, the slave States were considered as sovereign.
Freedom was regarded as a local prejudice, slavery as the ward of the
Nation, the jewel of the Constitution. For three-quarters of a century,
the Supreme Court of the United States exhausted judicial ingenuity in
guarding, protecting and fostering that infamous institution. For the
purpose of preserving that infinite outrage, words and phrases were
warped, and stretched, and tortured, and thumbscrewed, and racked.
Slavery was the one sacred thing, and the Supreme Court was its
constitutional guardian.

To show the faithfulness of that tribunal, I call your attention to the
3d clause of the 2d section of the 4th article of the Constitution:

"No person held to service or labor in any State under the laws thereof,
escaping to another, shall, in consequence of any law or regulation
therein, be discharged from such service or labor, but shall be
delivered up on the claim of the party to whom such service or labor may
be due."

The framers of the Constitution were ashamed to use the word "slave,"
and thereupon they said "person." They were ashamed to use the word
"slavery," and they evaded it by saying, "held to service or labor."
They were ashamed to put in the word "master," so they called him "the
party to whom service or labor may be due."

How can a slave owe service? How can a slave owe labor? How could a
slave make a contract? How could the master have a legal claim against
a slave? And yet, the Supreme Court of the United States found no
difficulty in upholding the Fugitive Slave Law by virtue of that clause.
There were hundreds of decisions declaring that Congress had power to
pass laws to carry that clause into effect, and it was carried into
effect.

You will observe the wording of this clause:

"No person held to service or labor in any State under the laws thereof,
escaping into another, shall, in consequence of any law or regulation
therein, be discharged from such service or labor, but shall be
delivered up on the claim of the party to whom such service or labor may
be due."

To whom was this clause directed? To individuals or to States? It
expressly provides that the "person" held to service or labor shall not
be discharged from such service or labor in consequence of any law or
regulation in the "State" to which he has fled. Did that law apply to
States, or to individuals?

The Supreme Court held that it applied to individuals as well as to
States. Any "person," in any State, interfering with the master who
was endeavoring to steal the person he called his slave, was liable
to indictment, and hundreds and thousands were indicted, and hundreds
languished in prisons because they were noble enough to hold in infinite
contempt such infamous laws and such infamous decisions. The best men in
the United States—the noblest spirits under the flag—were imprisoned
because they were charitable, because they were just, because they
showed the hunted slave the path to freedom, and taught him where to
find amid the glittering host of heaven the blessed Northern Star.

Every fugitive slave carried that clause with him when he entered a free
State; carried it into every hiding place; and every Northern man was
bound, by virtue of that clause, to act as the spy and hound of slavery.
The Supreme Court, with infinite ease, made a club of that clause with
which to strike down the liberty of the fugitive and the manhood of the
North.

In the Dred Scott decision it was solemnly decided that a man of African
descent, whether a slave or not, was not, and could not be, a citizen
of a State or of the United States. The Supreme Court held on the even
tenor of its way, and in the Rebellion that tribunal was about the last
fort to surrender.

The moment the 13th Amendment was adopted, the slaves became freemen.
The distinction between "white" and "colored" vanished. The negroes
became as though they had never been slaves—as though they had always
been free—as though they had been white. They became citizens—they
became a part of "the people," and "the people" constituted the
State, and it was the State thus constituted that was entitled to the
constitutional guarantee of a republican government.

These freed men became citizens—became a part of the State in which
they lived.

The highest and noblest definition of a State, in our Reports, was given
by Justice Wilson, in the case of Chisholm, &c., vs. Georgia;

"By a State, I mean a complete body of free persons, united for their
common benefit, to enjoy peaceably what is their own, and to do justice
to others."

Chief Justice Chase declared that:

"The people, in whatever territory dwelling, whether temporarily or
permanently, or whether organized under regular government, or united by
less definite relations, constitute the State."

Now, if the people, the moment the 13th Amendment was adopted were
all free, and if these people constituted the State; if, under
the Constitution of the United States, every State is guaranteed a
republican government, then it is the duty of the General Government to
see to it that every State has such a government. If distinctions are
made between free men on account of race or color, the government is not
republican. The manner in which this guarantee of a republican form of
government is to be enforced or made good, must be left to the wisdom
and discretion of Congress.

The 13th Amendment not only destroyed, but it built. It destroyed the
slave-pen, and on its site erected the temple of Liberty. It did not
simply free slaves—it made citizens. It repealed every statute that
upheld slavery. It erased from every Report every decision against
freedom. It took the word "white" from every law, and blotted from the
Constitution all clauses acknowledging property in man.

If, then, all the people in each State, were, by virtue of the 13th
Amendment, free, what right had a majority to enslave a minority? What
right had a majority to make any distinctions between free men? What
right had a majority to take from a minority any privilege, or any
immunity, to which they were entitled as free men? What right had the
majority to make that unequal which the Constitution made equal?

Not satisfied with saying that slavery should not exist, we find in the
amendment the words "nor involuntary servitude." This was intended to
destroy every mark and badge of legal inferiority.

Justice Field upon this very question, says:

"It is, however, clear that the words 'involuntary servitude' include
something more than slavery, in the strict sense of the term. They
include also serfage, vassalage, villanage, peonage, and all other forms
of compulsory service for the mere benefit or pleasure of others. Nor
is this the full import of the term. The abolition of slavery and
involuntary servitude was intended to make every one born in this
country a free man, and as such to give him the right to pursue the
ordinary avocations of life without other restraint than such as affects
all others, and to enjoy equally with them the fruits of his labor.
A person allowed to pursue only one trade or calling, and only in one
locality of the country, would not be, in the strict sense of the term,
in a condition of slavery, but probably no one would deny that he would
be in a condition of servitude. He certainly would not possess the
liberties, or enjoy the privileges of a freeman."

Justice Field also quotes with approval the language of the counsel for
the plaintiffs in the case:

"Whenever a law of a State, or a law of the United States, makes a
discrimination between classes of persons which deprives the one class
of their freedom or their property, or which makes a caste of them, to
subserve the power, pride, avarice, vanity or vengeance of others—there
involuntary servitude exists within the meaning of the 13th Amendment."

To show that the framers of the 13th Amendment intended to blot out
every form of slavery and servitude, I call attention to the Civil
Rights Act, approved April 9, 1866, which provided, among other things,
that:

"All persons born in the United States, and not subject to any foreign
power—excluding Indians not taxed—are citizens of the United States;
and such citizens, of every race and color, without regard to any
previous condition of slavery or involuntary servitude, are entitled to
the full and equal benefit of all laws and proceedings for the security
of person and property enjoyed by white citizens, and shall be subject
to like punishments, pains and penalties—and to none other—any
law, statute, ordinance, regulation or custom to the contrary
notwithstanding; and they shall have the same rights in every State and
Territory of the United States as white persons."

The Supreme Court, in _The Slaughter-House Cases,_ (16 Wallace, 69) has
said that the word servitude has a larger meaning than the word slavery.
"The word 'servitude' implies subjection to the will of another contrary
to the common right." A man is in a state of involuntary servitude when
he is forced to do, or prevented from doing, a thing, not by the law of
the State, but by the simple will of another. He who enjoys less than
the common rights of a citizen, he who can be forced from the public
highway at the will of another, who can be denied entrance to the cars
of a common carrier, is in a state of servitude.

The 13th Amendment did away with slavery not only, and with involuntary
servitude, but with every badge and brand and stain and mark of slavery.
It abolished forever distinctions on account of race and color.

In the language of the Supreme Court:

"It was the obvious purpose of the 13th Amendment to forbid all shades
and conditions of African slavery."

And to that I add, it was the obvious purpose of that amendment to
forbid all shades and conditions of slavery, no matter of what sort or
kind—all marks of legal inferiority. Each citizen was to be absolutely
free. All his rights complete, whole, unmaimed and unabridged.

From the moment of the adoption of that amendment, the law became
color-blind. All distinctions on account of complexion vanished. It took
the whip from the hand of the white man, and put the nation's flag above
the negro's hut. It gave horizon, scope and dome to the lowest life. It
stretched a sky studded with stars of hope above the humblest head.

The Supreme Court has admitted, in the very case we are now discussing,
that:

"Under the 13th Amendment the legislation meaning the legislation of
Congress—so far as necessary or proper to eradicate all forms and
incidents of slavery and involuntary servitude, may be direct and
primary, operating upon the acts of individuals, whether sanctioned by
State legislation or not."

Here we have the authority for dealing with individuals.

The only question then remaining is, whether an individual, being the
keeper of a public inn, or the agent of a railway corporation,
created by a State, can be held responsible in a Federal Court for
discriminating against a citizen of the United States on account of
race, color, or previous condition of servitude. If such discrimination
is a badge of slavery, or places the party discriminated against in a
condition of involuntary servitude, then the Civil Rights Act may be
upheld by the 13th Amendment.

In The United Slates vs. Harris, 106 U. S., 640, the Supreme Court says:

"It is clear that the 13th Amendment, besides abolishing forever slavery
and involuntary servitude within the United States, gives power to
Congress to protect all citizens from being in any way subjected to
slavery or involuntary servitude, except for the punishment of crime,
and in the enjoyment of that freedom which it was the object of the
amendment to secure."

This declaration covers the entire case.

I agree with Justice Field:

"The 13th Amendment is not confined to African slavery. It is general
and universal in its application—prohibiting the slavery of white men
as well as black men, and not prohibiting mere slavery in the strict
sense of the term, but involuntary servitude in every form." 16 Wallace,
90.

The 13th Amendment declares that neither slavery nor involuntary
servitude shall exist. Who must see to it that this declaration is
carried out? There can be but one answer. It is the duty of Congress.

At last the question narrows itself to this: Is a citizen of the United
States, when denied admission to public inns, railway cars and
theatres, on account of his race or color, in a condition of involuntary
servitude? If he is, then he is under the immediate protection of the
General Government, by virtue of the 13th Amendment; and the Civil
Rights Act is clearly constitutional.

If excluded from one inn, he may be from all; if from one car, why not
from all? The man who depends for the preservation of his privileges
upon a conductor, instead of the Constitution, is in a condition of
involuntary servitude. He who depends for his rights—not upon the
laws of the land, but upon a landlord, is in a condition of involuntary
servitude.

The framers of the 13th Amendment knew that the negro would be
persecuted on account of his race and color—knew that many of the
States could not be trusted to protect the rights of the colored man;
and for that reason, the General Government was clothed with power to
protect the colored people from all forms of slavery and involuntary
servitude.

Of what use are the declarations in the Constitution that slavery and
involuntary servitude shall not exist, and that all persons born or
naturalized in the United States shall be citizens—not only of the
United States, but of the States in which they reside—if, behind
these declarations, there is no power to act—no duty for the General
Government to discharge?

Notwithstanding the 13th Amendment had been adopted—notwithstanding
slavery and involuntary servitude had been legally destroyed—it was
found that the negro was still the helpless victim of the white man.
Another amendment was needed; and all the Justices of the Supreme Court
have told us why the 14th Amendment was adopted.

Justice Miller, speaking for the entire court, tells us that:

"In the struggle of the civil war, slavery perished, and perished as a
necessity of the bitterness and force of the conflict."

That:

"When the armies of freedom found themselves on the soil of slavery,
they could do nothing else than free the victims whose enforced
servitude was the foundation of the war."

He also admits that:

"When hard pressed in the contest, the colored men (for they proved
themselves men in that terrible crisis) offered their services, and were
accepted, by thousands, to aid in suppressing the unlawful rebellion."

He also informs us that:

"Notwithstanding the fact that the Southern States had formerly
recognized the abolition of slavery, the condition of the slave, without
further protection of the Federal Government, was almost as bad as it
had been before."

And he declares that:

"The Southern States imposed upon the colored race onerous disabilities
and burdens—curtailed their rights in the pursuit of liberty and
property, to such an extent that their freedom was of little value,
while the colored people had lost the protection which they had received
from their former owners from motives of interest."

And that:

"The colored people in some States were forbidden to appear in the towns
in any other character than that of menial servants—that they were
required to reside on the soil without the right to purchase or
own it—that they were excluded from many occupations of gain and
profit—that they were not permitted to give testimony in the courts
where white men were on trial—and it was said that their lives were
at the mercy of bad men, either because laws for their protection were
insufficient, or were not enforced."

We are informed by the Supreme Court that, "under these circumstances,"
the proposition for the 14th Amendment was passed through Congress, and
that Congress declined to treat as restored to full participation in
the Government of the Union, the States which had been in insurrection,
until they ratified that article by a formal vote of their legislative
bodies.

Thus it will be seen that the rebel States were restored to the Union
by adopting the 14th Amendment. In order to become equal members of the
Federal Union, these States solemnly agreed to carry out the provisions
of that amendment.

The 14th Amendment provides that:

"All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to
the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States, and of the
State wherein they reside."

That is affirmative in its character. That affirmation imposes
the obligation upon the General Government to protect its citizens
everywhere. That affirmation clothes the Federal Government with power
to protect its citizens. Under that clause, the Federal arm can reach to
the boundary of the Republic, for the purpose of protecting the weakest
citizen from the tyranny of citizens or States. That clause is a
contract between the Government and every man—a contract wherein the
citizen promises allegiance, and the nation promises protection.

By this clause, the Federal Government adopted all the citizens of all
the States and Territories, including the District of Columbia, and
placed them under the shield of the Constitution—made each one a ward
of the Republic.

Under this contract, the Government is under direct obligation to the
citizen. The Government cannot shirk its responsibility by leaving
a citizen to be protected in his rights, as a citizen of the United
States, by a State. The obligation of protection is direct. The
obligation on the part of the citizen to the Government is direct. The
citizen cannot be untrue to the Government because his State is, The
action of the State under the 14th Amendment is no excuse for the
citizen. He must be true to the Government. In war, the Government has a
right to his service. In peace, he has the right to be protected.

If the citizen must depend upon the State, then he owes the first
allegiance to that government or power that is under obligation to
protect him. Then, if a State secedes from the Union, the citizen should
go with the State—should go with the power that protects.

That is not my doctrine. My doctrine is this: The first duty of the
General Government is to protect each citizen. The first duty of each
citizen is to be true—not to his State, but to the Republic.

This clause of the 14th Amendment made us all citizens of the United
States—all children of the Republic. Under this decision, the Republic
refuses to acknowledge her children. Under this decision of the Supreme
Court, they are left upon the doorsteps of the States. Citizens are
changed to foundlings.

If the 14th Amendment created citizens of the United States, the power
that created must define the rights of the citizens thus created, and
must provide a remedy where such rights are infringed. The Federal
Government speaks through its representatives—through Congress;
and Congress, by the Civil Rights Act, defined some of the rights,
privileges and immunities of a citizen of the United States—and
Congress provided a remedy when such rights and privileges were invaded,
and gave jurisdiction to the Federal courts.

No State, or the department of any State, can authoritatively define
the rights, privileges and immunities of a citizen of the United States.
These rights and immunities must be defined by the United States, and
when so defined, they cannot be abridged by State authority.

In the case of Bartemeyer vs. Iowa, 18 Wall., p. 140, Justice Field, in
a concurring opinion, speaking of the 14th Amendment, says:

"It grew out of the feeling that a nation which had been maintained by
such costly sacrifices was, after all, worthless, if a citizen could not
be protected in all his fundamental rights, everywhere—North and South,
East and West—throughout the limits of the Republic. The amendment
was not, as held in the opinion of the majority, primarily intended to
confer citizenship on the negro race. It had a much broader purpose.
It was intended to justify legislation extending the protection of the
National Government over the common rights of all citizens of the United
States, and thus obviate objection to the legislation adopted for the
protection of the emancipated race. It was intended to make it possible
for all persons—which necessarily included those of every race and
color—to live in peace and security wherever the jurisdiction of
the nation reached. It therefore recognized, if it did not create,
a national citizenship. This national citizenship is primary and not
secondary.".

I cannot refrain from calling attention to the splendor and nobility of
the truths expressed by Justice Field in this opinion.

So, Justice Field, in his dissenting opinion in what are known as _The
Slaughter-House Cases_, found in 16 Wallace, p. 95, still speaking of
the 14th Amendment, says:

"It recognizes in express terms—if it does not create—citizens of the
United States, and it makes their citizenship dependent upon the
place of their birth or the fact of their adoption, and not upon the
constitution or laws of any State, or the condition of their ancestry.

"A citizen of a State is now only a citizen of the United States residing
in that State. The fundamental rights, privileges and immunities which
belong to him as a free man and a free citizen of the United States, are
not dependent upon the citizenship of any State. * * *

"They do not derive their existence from its legislation, and cannot be
destroyed by its power."

What are "the fundamental rights, privileges and immunities" which
belong to a free man? Certainly the rights of all citizens of the United
States are equal. Their immunities and privileges must be the same.
He who makes a discrimination between citizens on account of color,
violates the Constitution of the United States.

Have all citizens the same right to travel on the highways of the
country? Have they all the same right to ride upon the railways created
by State authority? A railway is an improved highway. It was only by
holding that it was an improved highway that counties and States aided
in their construction. It has been decided, over and over again, that a
railway is an improved highway. A railway corporation is the creation
of a State—an agent of the State. It is under the control of the
State—and upon what principle can a citizen be prevented from using the
highways of a State on an equality with all other citizens?

These are all rights and immunities guaranteed by the Constitution of
the United States.

Now, the question is—and it is the only question—can these rights
and immunities, thus guaranteed and thus confirmed, be protected by the
General Government?

In the case of _The U. S. vs. Reese, et al._, 92 U. S., p. 207,
the Supreme Court decided, the opinion having been delivered by
Chief-Justice Waite, as follows:

"Rights and immunities created by, and dependent upon, the Constitution
of the United States can be protected by Congress. The form and the
manner of the protection may be such as Congress in the legitimate
exercise of its legislative discretion shall provide. This may be varied
to meet the necessities of the particular right to be protected."

This decision was acquiesced in by Justices Strong, Bradley, Swayne,
Davis, Miller and Field. Dissenting opinions were filed by Justices
Clifford and Hunt, but neither dissented from the proposition that:

"Rights and immunities created by or dependent upon the Constitution of
the United States can be protected by Congress," and that "the form and
manner of the protection may be such as Congress in the exercise of its
legitimate discretion shall provide."

So, in the same case, I find this language:

"It follows that the Amendment"—meaning the 15th—"has invested the
citizens of the United States with a new constitutional right, which
is within the protecting power of Congress. This, under the express
provisions of the second section of the Amendment, Congress may enforce
by appropriate legislation."

If the 15th Amendment invested the citizens of the United States with
a new constitutional right—that is, the right to vote—and if for that
reason that right is within the protecting power of Congress, then I
ask, if the 14th Amendment made certain persons citizens of the United
States, did such citizenship become a constitutional right? And is such
citizenship within the protecting power of Congress? Does citizenship
mean anything except certain "rights, privileges and immunities"?

Is it not an invasion of citizenship to invade the immunities or
privileges or rights belonging to a citizen? Are not, then, all the
immunities and privileges and rights under the protecting power of
Congress?

The 13th Amendment found the negro a slave, and made him a free man.
That gave to him a new constitutional right, and according to the
Supreme Court, that right is within the protecting power of Congress.

What rights are within the protecting power of Congress? All the rights
belonging to a free man.

The 14th Amendment made the negro a citizen. What then is under the
protecting power of Congress? All the rights, privileges and immunities
belonging to him as a citizen.

So, in the case of _Tennessee vs, Davis_, 100 U, S,, 263, the Supreme
Court, held that:

"The United States is a government whose authority extends over the
whole territory of the Union, acting upon all the States, and upon all
the people of all the States.

"No State can exclude the Federal Government from the exercise of any
authority conferred upon it by the Constitution, or withhold from it
for a moment the cognizance of any subject which the Constitution has
committed to it."

This opinion was given by Justice Strong, and acquiesced in by
Chief-Justice Waite, Justices Miller, Swayne, Bradley and Harlan.

So in the case of _Pensacola Tel. Co. vs. Western Union Tel. Co_., 96 U.
S., p. 10, the opinion having been delivered by Chief-Justice Waite, I
find this:

"The Government of the United States, within the scope of its power,
operates upon every foot of territory under its jurisdiction. It
legislates for the whole Nation, and is not embarrassed by State lines."

This was acquiesced in by Justices Clifford, Strong, Bradley, Swayne and
Miller.

So we are told by the entire Supreme Court in the case of _Tiernan vs.
Rynker_, 102 U. S., 126, that:

"When the subject to which the power applies is national in its
character, or of such a nature as to admit of uniformity of regulation,
the power is exclusive of State authority."

Surely the question of citizenship is "national in its character."
Surely the question as to what are the rights, privileges and immunities
of a citizen of the United States is "national in its character."

Unless the declarations and definitions, the patriotic paragraphs, and
the legal principles made, given, uttered and defined by the Supreme
Court are but a judicial jugglery of words, the Civil Rights Act is
upheld by the intent, spirit and language of the 14th Amendment.

It was found that the 13th Amendment did not protect the negro. Then the
14th was adopted. Still the colored citizen was trodden under foot. Then
the 15th was adopted. The 13th made him free, and, in my judgment, made
him a citizen, and clothed him with all the rights of a citizen. That
was denied, and then the 14th declared that he was a citizen. In my
judgment, that gave him the right to vote. But that was denied—then
the 15th was adopted, declaring that his right to vote should never be
denied.

The 13th Amendment made all free. It broke the chains, pulled up the
whipping-posts, overturned the auction-blocks, gave the colored mother
her child, put the shield of the Constitution over the cradle, destroyed
all forms of involuntary servitude, and in the azure heaven of our flag
it put the Northern Star.

The 14th Amendment made us all citizens. It is a contract between the
Republic and each individual—a contract by which the Nation agrees to
protect the citizen, and the citizen agrees to defend the Nation. This
amendment placed the crown of sovereignty on every brow.

The 15th Amendment secured the citizen in his right to vote, in his
right to make and execute the laws, and put these rights above the
power of any State. This amendment placed the ballot—the sceptre of
authority—in every sovereign hand.

We are told by the Supreme Court, in the case under discussion, that:

"We must not forget that the province and scope of the 13th and 14th
Amendments are different;" that the 13th Amendment "simply abolished
slavery," and that the 14th Amendment "prohibited the States from
abridging the privileges and immunities of citizens of the United
States; from depriving them of life, liberty or property, without due
process of law; and from denying to any the equal protection of the
laws."

We are told that:

"The amendments are different, and the powers of Congress under them are
different. What Congress has power to do under one it may not have power
to do under the other." That "under the 13th Amendment it has only to do
with slavery and its incidents;" but that "under the 14th Amendment
it has power to counteract and render nugatory all State laws or
proceedings which have the effect to abridge any of the privileges or
immunities of the citizens of the United States, or to deprive them of
life, liberty or property, without due process of law, or to deny to any
of them the equal protection of the laws."

Did not Congress have that power under the 13th Amendment? Could the
States, in spite of the 13th Amendment, deprive free men of life or
property without due process of law? Does the Supreme Court wish to be
understood, that until the 14th Amendment was adopted the States had
the right to rob and kill free men? Yet, in its effort to narrow and
belittle the 13th Amendment, it has been driven to this absurdity. Did
not Congress, under the 13th Amendment, have power to destroy slavery
and involuntary servitude? Did not Congress, under that amendment, have
the power to protect the lives, liberty and property of free men? And
did not Congress have the power "to render nugatory all State laws and
proceedings under which free men were to be deprived of life, liberty or
property, without due process of law"?

If Congress was not clothed with such power by the 13th Amendment, what
was the object of that amendment? Was that amendment a mere opinion, or
a prophecy, or the expression of a hope?

The 14th Amendment provides that:

"No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the
privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States. Nor shall
any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due
process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal
protection of its laws."

We are told by the Supreme Court that Congress has no right to enforce
the 14th Amendment by direct legislation, but that the legislation under
that amendment can only be of a "corrective" character—such as may
be necessary or proper for counteracting and redressing the effect
of unconstitutional laws passed by the States. In other words, that
Congress has no duty to perform, except to counteract the effect of
unconstitutional laws by corrective legislation.

The Supreme Court has also decided, in the present case, that Congress
has no right to legislate for the purpose of enforcing these clauses
until the States shall have taken action. What action can the State
take? If a State passes laws contrary to these provisions or clauses,
they are void. If a State passes laws in conformity to these
provisions, certainly Congress is not called on to legislate. Under
what circumstances, then, can Congress be called upon to act by way
of "corrective" legislation, as to these particular clauses? What can
Congress do? Suppose the State passes no law upon the subject, but
allows citizens of the State—managers of railways, and keepers of
public inns, to discriminate between their passengers and guests on
account of race or color—what then?

Again, what is the difference between a State that has no law on the
subject, and a State that has passed an unconstitutional law? In other
words, what is the difference between no law and a void law? If the
"corrective" legislation of Congress is not needed where the State has
passed an unconstitutional law, is it needed where the State has passed
no law? What is there in either case to correct? Surely it requires no
particular legislation on the part of Congress to kill a law that never
had life.

The States are prohibited by the Constitution from making any
regulations of foreign commerce. Consequently, all regulations made by
the States are null and void, no matter what the motive of the States
may have been, and it requires no law of Congress to annul such laws or
regulations. This was decided by the Supreme Court of the United States,
long ago, in what are known as _The License Cases_. The opinion may be
found in the 5th of Howard, 583.

"The nullity of any act inconsistent with the Constitution, is produced
by the declaration that the Constitution is supreme."

This was decided by the Supreme Court, the opinion having been delivered
by Chief Justice Marshall, in the case of _Gibbons vs. Ogden_, 9 Wheat,
210.

The same doctrine was held in the case of _Henderson et al., vs. Mayor
of New York, et al._, 92 U. S. 272—the opinion of the Court being
delivered by Justice Miller.

So it was held in the case of _The Board of Liquidation vs. McComb_—2
Otto, 541.

"That an unconstitutional law will be treated by the courts as null and
void"—citing _Osborn vs. The Bank of the United States_, 9 Wheaton,
859, and _Davis vs. Gray_, 16 Wallace, 220.

Now, if the legislation of Congress must be "corrective," then I ask,
corrective of what? Certainly not of unconstitutional and void laws.
That which is void, cannot be corrected. That which is unconstitutional
is not the subject of correction. Congress either has the right to
legislate directly, or not at all; because indirect or corrective
legislation can apply only, according to the Supreme Court, to
unconstitutional and void laws that have been passed by a Stale; and
as such laws cannot be "corrected," the doctrine of "corrective
legislation" dies an extremely natural death.

A State can do one of three things: 1. It can pass an unconstitutional
law; 2. It can pass a constitutional law; 3. It can fail to pass any
law. The unconstitutional law, being void, cannot be corrected. The
constitutional law does not need correction. And where no law has been
passed, correction is impossible.

The Supreme Court insists that Congress can not take action until the
State does. A State that fails to pass any law on the subject, has not
taken action. This leaves the person whose immunities and privileges
have been invaded, with no redress except such as he may find in the
State Courts in a suit at law; and if the State Court takes the
same view that is apparently taken by the Supreme Court in this
case,—namely, that it is a "social question," one not to be regulated
by law, and not covered in any way by the Constitution—then,
discrimination can be made against citizens by landlords and railway
conductors, and they are left absolutely without remedy.

The Supreme Court asks, in this decision,

"Can the act of a mere individual—the owner of the inn, or public
conveyance, or place of amusement, refusing the accommodation, be
justly regarded as imposing any badge of slavery or servitude upon
the applicant, or only as inflicting an ordinary civil injury properly
cognizable by the laws of the State, and presumably subject to redress
by those laws, until the contrary appears?"

How is "the contrary to appear"? Suppose a person denied equal
privileges upon the railway on account of race and color, brings suit
and is defeated? And suppose the highest tribunal of the State holds
that the question is of a "social" character—what then? If, to use the
language of the Supreme Court, it is "an ordinary civil injury,
imposing no badge of slavery or servitude," then, no Federal question is
involved.

Why did not the Supreme Court tell us what may be done when "the
contrary appears"? Nothing is clearer than the intention of the Supreme
Court in this case—and that is, to decide that denying to a man equal
accommodations at public inns on account of race or color, is not an
abridgment of a privilege or immunity of a citizen of the United States,
and that such person, so denied, is not in a condition of involuntary
servitude, or denied the equal protection of the laws. In other
words—that it is a "social question."

I have been told by one who heard the decision when it was read from the
bench, that the following phrase was in the opinion:

"_There are certain physiological differences of race that cannot be
ignored_."

That phrase is a lamp, in the light of which the whole decision should
be read.

Suppose that in one of the Southern States, the negroes being in a
decided majority and having entire control, had drawn the color line,
had insisted that:

"There were certain physiological differences between the races that
could not be ignored," and had refused to allow white people to enter
their hotels, to ride in the best cars, or to occupy the aristocratic
portion of a theatre; and suppose that a white man, thrust from the
hotels, denied the entrance to cars, had brought his suit in the Federal
Court. Does any one believe that the Supreme Court would have intimated
to that man that "there is only a social question involved,—a question
with which the Constitution and laws have nothing to do, and that he
must depend for his remedy upon the authors of the injury"? Would a
white man, under such circumstances, feel that he was in a condition of
involuntary servitude? Would he feel that he was treated like an
underling, like a menial, like a serf? Would he feel that he was under
the protection of the laws, shielded like other men by the Constitution?
Of course, the argument of color is just as strong on one side as on the
other. The white man says to the black, "You are not my equal because
you are black;" and the black man can with the same propriety, reply,
"You are not my equal because you are white." The difference is just as
great in the one case as in the other. The pretext that this question
involves, in the remotest degree, a social question, is cruel, shallow,
and absurd.

The Supreme Court, some time ago, held that the 4th Section of the Civil
Rights Act was constitutional. That section declares that:

"No citizen possessing all other qualifications which are or maybe
prescribed by law, shall be disqualified for service as grand or petit
juror in any court of the United States or of any State, on account of
color or previous condition of servitude."

It also provides that:

"If any officer or other person charged with any duty in the selection
or summoning of jurors, shall exclude, or fail to summon, any citizen
in the case aforesaid, he shall, on conviction, be guilty of misdemeanor
and be fined not more than five hundred dollars."

In the case known as _Ex-parte vs. Virginia_—found in 100 U. S. 339—it
was held that an indictment against a State officer, under this section,
for excluding persons of color from the jury, could be sustained. Now,
let it be remembered, there was no law of the State of Virginia, by
virtue of which a man was disqualified from sitting on the jury by
reason of race or color. The officer did exclude, and did fail to
summon, a citizen on account of race or color or previous condition of
servitude. And the Supreme Court held:

"That whether the Statute-book of the State actually laid down any
such rule of disqualification or not, the State, through its officer,
enforced such rule; and that it was against such State action, through
its officers and agents, that the last clause of the section was
directed."

The Court further held that:

"This aspect of the law was deemed sufficient to divest it of any
unconstitutional character."

In other words, the Supreme Court held that the officer was an agent
of the State, although acting contrary to the statute of the State; and
that, consequently, such officer, acting outside of law, was amenable
to the Civil Rights Act, under the 14th Amendment, that referred only
to States. The question arises: Is a State responsible for the action of
its agent when acting contrary to law? In other words: Is the principal
bound by the acts of his agent, that act not being within the scope of
his authority? Is a State liable—or is the Government liable—for the
act of any officer, that act not being authorized by law?

It has been decided a thousand times, that a State is not liable for
the torts and trespasses of its officers. How then can the agent, acting
outside of his authority, be prosecuted under a law deriving its entire
validity from a constitutional amendment applying only to States? Does
an officer, by acting contrary to State law, become so like a State that
the word State, used in the Constitution, includes him?

So it was held in the case of _Neal vs. Delaware_,—103 U. S.,
307,—that an officer acting contrary to the laws of the State—in
defiance of those laws—would be amenable to the Civil Rights Act,
passed under an amendment to the Constitution now held applicable only
to States.

It is admitted, and expressly decided in the case of _The U. S. vs.
Reese et al._, (already quoted) that when the wrongful refusal at an
election is because of race, color, or previous condition of servitude,
Congress can interfere and provide for the punishment of any individual
guilty of such refusal, no matter whether such individual acted under or
against the authority of the State.

With this statement I most heartily agree. I agree that:

"When the wrongful refusal is because of race, color, or previous
condition of servitude, Congress can interfere and provide for the
punishment of any individual guilty of such refusal."

That is the key that unlocks the whole question. Congress has
power—full, complete, and ample,—to protect all citizens from unjust
discrimination, and from being deprived of equal privileges on account
of race, color, or previous condition of servitude. And this language is
just as applicable to the 13th and 14th, as to the 15th Amendment. If
a citizen is denied the accommodations of a public inn, or a seat in
a railway car, on account of race or color, or deprived of liberty on
account of race or color, the Constitution has been violated, and the
citizen thus discriminated against or thus deprived of liberty, is
entitled to redress in a Federal Court.

It is held by the Supreme Court that the word "State" does not apply
to the "people" of the State—that it applies only to the agents of
the people of the State. And yet, the word "State," as used in the
Constitution, has been held to include not only the persons in
office, but the people who elected them—not only the agents, but the
principals. In the Constitution it is provided that "no State shall
coin money; and no State shall emit bills of credit." According to this
decision, any person in any State, unless prevented by State authority,
has the right to coin money and to emit bills of credit, and Congress
has no power to legislate upon the subject—provided he does not
counterfeit any of the coins or current money of the United States.
Congress would have to deal—not with the individuals, but with the
State; and unless the State had passed some act allowing persons to coin
money, or emit bills of credit, Congress could do nothing. Yet, long
ago, Congress passed a statute preventing any person in any State from
coining money. No matter if a citizen should coin it of pure gold, of
the requisite fineness and weight, and not in the likeness of United
States coins, he would be a criminal. We have a silver dollar, coined by
the Government, worth eighty-five cents; and yet, if any person, in any
State, should coin what he called a dollar, not like our money, but with
a dollar's worth of silver in it, he would be guilty of a crime.

It may be said that the Constitution provides that Congress shall have
power to coin money, and provide for the punishment of counterfeiting
the securities and current coin of the United States; in other words,
that the Constitution gives power to Congress to coin money and denies
it to the States, not only, but gives Congress the power to legislate
against counterfeiting. So, in the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments,
power is given to Congress, and power is denied to the States, not
only, but Congress is expressly authorized to enforce the amendments by
appropriate legislation. Certainly the power is as broad in the one case
as in the other; and in both cases, individuals can be reached as well
as States.

So the Constitution provides that:

"Congress shall have power to regulate commerce among the several
States."

Under this clause Congress deals directly with individuals. The States
are not engaged in commerce, but the people are; and Congress makes
rules and regulations for the government of the people so engaged.

The Constitution also provides that:

"Congress shall have power to regulate commerce with the Indian tribes."

It was held in the case of _The United States vs. Holliday_, 3 Wall.,
407, that:

"Commerce with the Indian tribes means commerce with the individuals
composing those tribes."

And under this clause it has been further decided that Congress has
the power to regulate commerce not only between white people and Indian
tribes, but between Indian tribes; and not only that, but between
individual Indians. _Worcester vs. The State, 6 Pet., 575; The United
States vs. 4.3 Gallons, 93 U. S., 188; The United States vs. Shawmux, 2
Saw., 304._

Now, if the word "tribe" includes individual Indians, may not the word
"State" include citizens?

In this decision it is admitted by the Supreme Court that where a
subject is submitted to the general legislative power of Congress, then
Congress has plenary powers of legislation over the whole subject. Let
us apply these words to the 13th Amendment. In this very decision I find
that the 13th Amendment:

"By its own unaided force and effect, abolished slavery and established
universal freedom."

The Court admits that:

"Legislation may be necessary and proper to meet all the various cases
and circumstances to be affected by it, and to prescribe proper modes of
redress for its violation in letter or spirit."

The Court further admits:

"And such legislation may be primary and direct in its character."

And then gives the reason:

"For the amendment is not a mere prohibition of State laws establishing
or upholding slavery, but an absolute declaration that slavery or
involuntary servitude shall not exist in any part of the United States."

I now ask, has that subject—that is to say, Liberty,—been submitted to
the general legislative power of Congress? The 13th Amendment provides
that Congress shall have power to enforce that amendment by appropriate
legislation.

In construing the 13th and 14th Amendments and the Civil Rights Act,
it seems to me that the Supreme Court has forgotten the principle of
construction that has been laid down so often by courts, and that is
this: that in construing statutes, courts may look to the history and
condition of the country as circumstances from which to gather the
intention of the Legislature. So it seems to me that the Court failed
to remember the rule laid down by Story in the case of _Prigg vs. The
Commonwealth of Pennsylvania,_ 16 Pet., 611, a rule laid down in the
interest of slavery—laid down for the purpose of depriving human beings
of their liberty:

"Perhaps the safest rule of interpretation, after all, will be found to
be to look to the nature and objects of the particular powers, duties
and rights with all the lights and aids of contemporary history, and to
give to the words of each just such operation and force consistent
with their legitimate meaning, as may fairly secure and attain the ends
proposed."

It must be admitted that certain rights were conferred by the 13th
Amendment. Surely certain rights were conferred by the 14th Amendment;
and these rights should be protected and upheld by the Federal
Government. And it was held in the case last cited, that:

"If by one mode of interpretation the right must become shadowy and
unsubstantial, and without any remedial power adequate to the end, and
by another mode it will attain its just end and secure its manifest
purpose—it would seem, upon principles of reasoning absolutely
irresistable, that the latter ought to prevail. No court of justice can
be authorized so as to construe any clauses of the Constitution as to
defeat its obvious ends, when another construction, equally accordant
with the words and sense thereof, will enforce and protect them."

In the present case, the Supreme Court holds, that Congress can not
legislate upon this subject until the State has passed some law contrary
to the Constitution.

I call attention in reply to this, to the case of _Hall vs. De Cuir,_
95 U. S., 486. The State of Louisiana, in 1869, acting in the spirit of
these amendments to the Constitution, passed a law requiring that all
persons engaged within that State in the business of common carriers of
passengers, should make no discrimination on account of race, color, or
previous condition of servitude. Under this law, Mrs. De Cuir, a colored
woman, took passage on a steamer, buying a ticket from New Orleans to
Hermitage—the entire trip being within the limits of the State. The
captain of the boat refused to give her equal accommodations with other
passengers—the refusal being on the ground of her color. She commenced
suit against the captain in the State Court of Louisiana, and recovered
judgment for one thousand dollars. The defendant appealed to the Supreme
Court of that State, and the judgment of the lower court was sustained.
Thereupon, the captain died, and the case was taken to the Supreme Court
of the United States by his administrator, on the ground that a Federal
question was involved.

You will see that this was a case where the State had acted, and had
acted exactly in accordance with the constitutional amendments, and had
by law provided that the privileges and immunities of the citizen of
the United States—residing in the State of Louisiana—should not be
abridged, and that no distinction should be made on account of race or
color. But in that case the Supreme Court of the United States solemnly
decided that the legislation of the State was void—that the State of
Louisiana had no right to interfere—no right, by law, to protect a
citizen of the United States from being discriminated against under such
circumstances.

You will remember that the plaintiff, Mrs. De Cuir, was to be carried
from New Orleans to Hermitage, and that both places were within the
State of Louisiana. Notwithstanding this, the Supreme Court held:

"That if the public good required such legislation, it must come from
Congress and not from the State."

What reason do you suppose was given? It was this: The Constitution
gives to Congress power to regulate commerce between the States; and
it appeared from the evidence given in that case, that the boat plied
between the ports of New Orleans and Vicksburg. Consequently, it was
engaged in interstate commerce. Therefore, it was under the protection
of Congress; and being under the protection of Congress, the State had
no authority to protect its citizens by a law in perfect harmony with
the Constitution of the United States, while such citizens were within
the limits of Louisiana. The Supreme Court scorns the protection of a
State!

In the case recently decided, and about which we are talking to-night,
the Supreme Court decides exactly the other way. It decides that if the
public good requires such legislation, it must come from the States, and
not from Congress; that Congress cannot act until the State has acted,
and until the State has acted wrong, and that Congress can then only act
for the purpose of "correcting" such State action. The decision in _Hall
vs. De Cuir_ was rendered in 1877. The Civil Rights Act was then in
force, and applied to all persons within the jurisdiction of the United
States, and provided expressly that:

"All persons within the jurisdiction of the United States shall
be entitled to the full and equal enjoyment of the accommodations,
privileges, and facilities of inns, public conveyances on land or water,
theatres, and other places of public amusement, without regard to race
or color."

And yet the Supreme Court said:

"No carrier of passengers can conduct his business with satisfaction to
himself, or comfort to those employing him, if on one side of a State
line his passengers, both white and colored, must be permitted to occupy
the same cabin, and on the other to be kept separate."

What right had the other State to pass a law that passengers should be
kept separate, on account of race or color? How could such a law have
been constitutional? The Civil Rights Act applied to all States, and
to both sides of the lines between all States, and produced absolute
uniformity—and did not put the captain to the trouble of dividing his
passengers. The Court further said:

"Uniformity in the regulations by which the carrier is to be governed
from one end to the other of his route, is a necessity in his business."

The uniformity had been guaranteed by the Civil Rights Act, and the
statute of the State of Louisiana was in exact conformity with the 14th
Amendment and the Civil Rights Act. The Court also said:

"And to secure uniformity, Congress, which is untrammeled by State
lines, has been invested with the exclusive power of determining what
such regulations shall be."

Yes. Congress has been invested with such power, and Congress has used
it in passing the Civil Rights Act—and yet, under these circumstances,
the Court proceeds to imagine the difficulty that a captain would have
in dividing his passengers as he crosses a State line, keeping them
apart until he reaches the line of another State, and then bringing
them together, and so going on through the process of dispersing and
huddling, to the end of his unfortunate route.

It is held by the Supreme Court, that uniformity of duties is essential
to the carrier, and so essential, that Congress has control of the whole
matter. If uniformity is so desirable for the carrier that Congress
takes control, then uniformity as to the rights of passengers is equally
desirable; and under the 13th and 14th Amendments, Congress has the
exclusive power to state what the rights, privileges and immunities of
passengers shall be. So that, in 1877, the Supreme Court decided that
the _States could not_ legislate; and in 1883, that _Congress could
not_, unless the State had. If Congress controls interstate commerce
upon the navigable waters, it also controls interstate commerce upon the
railways. And if Congress has exclusive jurisdiction in the one case, it
has in the other. And if it has exclusive jurisdiction, it does not
have to wait until States take action. If it does not have to wait until
States take action, then the Civil Rights Act, in so far as it refers
to the rights of passengers going from one State to another, must be
constitutional.

It must be remembered, in this discussion, that the 8th Section of the
Constitution conferred upon Congress the power:

"To make all laws that may be necessary and proper for carrying into
execution the powers vested by the Constitution in the Government of the
United States."

So the 2nd Section of the 13th Article provides:

"Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate
legislation."

The same language is used in the 14th and 15th Amendments.

"This clause does not limit—it enlarges—the powers vested in the
General Government. It is an additional power—not a restriction on
those already granted. It does not impair the right of the Legislature
to exercise its best judgment in the selection of measures to carry
into execution the constitutional powers of the Government. A sound
construction of the Constitution must allow to the National Legislature
that discretion with respect to the means by which the powers it confers
are to be carried into execution, which will enable that body to perform
the high duties assigned to it in the manner most beneficial to the
people. Let the end be legitimate—let it be within the scope of the
Constitution, and all means which are appropriate—which are plainly
adapted to that end—are constitutional."

This is the language of Chief Justice Marshall, in the case of
_M'Caulay, vs. The State_, 4 Wheaton, 316.

"Congress must possess the choice of means, and must be empowered to use
any means which are in fact conducive to the exercise of a power granted
by the Constitution." U. S. vs. Fisher, 2 Cranch, 358.

Again:

"The power of Congress to pass laws to enforce rights conferred by
the Constitution is not limited to the express powers of legislation
enumerated in the Constitution. The powers which are necessary and
proper as means to carry into effect rights expressly given and duties
expressly enjoined, are always implied. The end being given, the means
to accomplish it are given also." _Prigs vs. The Commonwealth_, 16
Peters, 539.

This decision was delivered by Justice Story, and is the same one
already referred to, in which liberty was taken from a human being by
judicial construction. It was held in that case that the 2nd Section
of the 4th Article of the Constitution, to which I have already called
attention, contained "a positive and unqualified recognition of
the right" of the owner in a slave, unaffected by any State law or
regulation. If this is so, then I assert that the 13th Amendment
"contains a positive and unqualified recognition of the right" of every
human being to liberty; that the 14th Amendment "contains a positive and
unqualified recognition of the right" to citizenship; and that the 15th
Amendment "contains a positive and unqualified recognition of the right"
to vote.

Justice Story held in that case that:

"Under and by virtue of that section of the Constitution the owner of a
slave was clothed with entire authority in every State in the nation to
seize and recapture his slave."

He also held that:

"In that sense, and to that extent, that clause of the Constitution
might properly be said to execute itself, and to require no aid from
legislation—State or National."

"But," says Justice Story:

"The clause of the Constitution does not stop there, but says that he,
the slave, shall be delivered up on claim of the party to whom such
service or labor may be due."

And he holds that:

"Under that clause of the section Congress became clothed with the
appropriate authority to legislate for its enforcement."

Now let us look at the 13th and 14th Amendments in the light of that
decision.

First. Liberty and citizenship were given the colored people by this
amendment. And Justice Story tells us that:

"The power of Congress to enforce rights conferred by the Constitution
is not limited to the express powers of legislation enumerated in the
Constitution, but the powers which are necessary to protect such rights
are always implied."

Language cannot be stronger; words cannot be clearer. But now this
decision has been reversed by the Supreme Court, and Congress is left
powerless to protect rights conferred by the Constitution. It has been
shorn of implied powers. It has duties to perform, and no power to act.
It has rights to protect, but cannot choose the means. It is entangled
in its own strength. It is a prisoner in the bastile of judicial
construction.

Let us go further. Justice Story tells us that:

"The words 'but shall be given up on the claim of the person to whom
such labor or service may be due,' clothes Congress with the appropriate
authority to legislate for its enforcement."

In the light of this remark, let us look at the 14th Amendment:

"All persons bom or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the
jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State
wherein they reside."

To which are added these words:

"No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the
privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall
any State deprive any person of life, liberty or property without due
process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal
protection of the laws."

Now, if the words: "But shall be delivered up on claim of the party to
whom such service or labor may be due," clothes Congress with power to
legislate upon the entire subject, then I ask if the words in the
14th Amendment declaring that "no law shall be made by any State, or
enforced, which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens
of the United States; and that no State shall deprive any person of
life, liberty or property without due process of law; nor deny to any
person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws," does
not clothe Congress with the power to legislate upon the entire subject?

In the two cases there is only this difference: The first decision was
made in the interest of human slavery—made to protect property in man;
and the second decision ought to have been made for exactly the opposite
purpose. Under the first decision, Congress had the right to select the
means—but now that is denied. And yet it was decided in _M'Cauley vs.
The State_, 4 Wheaton, 316, that:

"When the Government has a right to do an act, and has imposed on it the
duty of performing an act, then it must, according to the dictates of
reason, be allowed to select the means."

Again:

"The Government has the right to employ freely every means not
prohibited, for the fulfillment of its acknowledged duties."

_The Legal Tender Cases_—12 Wallace, 457.

It will thus be seen that Congress has the undoubted right to make all
laws necessary for the exercise of all the powers vested in it by the
Constitution. When the Constitution imposes a duty upon Congress, it
grants the necessary means. Congress certainly, then, has the right to
pass all necessary laws for the enforcement of the 13th, 14th and 15th
Amendments. Any legislation is "appropriate" that is calculated to
accomplish the end sought and that is not repugnant to the Constitution.
Within these limits Congress has the sovereign power of choice. No
better definition of "appropriate legislation" has been given than
that by the Supreme Court of California, in the case of The People vs.
Washington, 38 California, 658:

"Legislation which practically tends to facilitate the securing to
all, through the aid of the judicial and executive departments of the
Government, the full enjoyment of personal freedom, is appropriate."

The Supreme Court despairingly asks:

"If this legislation is appropriate for enforcing the prohibitions of
the Amendment, it is difficult to see where it is to stop. Why may not
Congress, with equal show of authority, enact a code of laws for
the enforcement and vindication of all rights of life, liberty and
property?"

My answer is: The legislation will stop when and where the
discriminations on account of race, color or previous condition of
servitude, stop. Whenever an immunity or privilege of a citizen of the
United States is trodden down by the State, or by an individual, under
the circumstances mentioned in the Civil Rights Act—that is to say,
on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude—then
the Federal Government must interfere. The Government must defend the
immunities and privileges of its citizens, not only from State invasion,
but from individual invaders, when that invasion is based upon the
distinction of race, color, or previous condition of servitude. The
Government has taken upon itself that duty. This duty can be discharged
by a law making a uniform rule, obligatory not only upon States, but
upon individuals. All this will stop when the discriminations stop.

After such examination of the authorities as I have been able to make, I
lay down the following propositions, namely:

1. The sovereignty of a State extends only to that which exists by its
own authority.

2. The powers of the General Government were not conferred by the people
of a single State; they were given by the people of the United States;
and the laws of the United States, in pursuance of the Constitution, are
supreme over the entire Republic.

3. The Constitution of the United States is the supreme law of each
State.

4. The United States is a Government whose authority extends over the
whole territory of the Union, acting upon all the States and upon all
the people of all the States.

5. No State can exclude the Federal Government from the exercise of any
authority conferred upon it by the Constitution, or withhold from it,
for a moment, the cognizance of any subject which that instrument has
committed to it.

6. It is the duty of Congress to enforce the Constitution, and it
has been clothed with power to make all laws necessary and proper for
carrying into execution all the powers vested by the Constitution in the
General Government.

7. It is the duty of the Government to protect every citizen of the
United States in all his rights, everywhere, without regard to race,
color, or previous condition of servitude; and this the Government has
the right to do by direct legislation.

8. Every citizen, when his privileges and immunities are invaded by the
legislature of a State, has the right of appeal from such. State to the
Supreme Court of the nation.

9. When a State fails to pass any law protecting a citizen from
discrimination on account of race or color, and fails, in fact, to
protect such citizen, then such citizen has the right to find redress in
the Federal Courts.

10. Whenever, in the Constitution, a State is prohibited from doing
anything that in the nature of the thing can be done by any citizen of
that State, then the word "State" embraces and includes all the people
of a State.

11. The 13th Amendment declares that neither slavery nor involuntary
servitude shall exist within the jurisdiction of the United States.

This is not a mere negation—it is a splendid affirmation. The duty is
imposed upon the General Government by that amendment to see to it that
neither slavery nor involuntary servitude shall exist.

It is a question absolutely within the power of the Federal Government,
and the Federal Government is clothed with power to make all necessary
laws to enforce that amendment against States and persons.

12. The 14th Amendment provides that all persons born or naturalized in
the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens
of the United States and of the States wherein they reside. This is also
an affirmation. It is not a prohibition. The moment that amendment was
adopted, it became the duty of the United States to protect the citizens
recognized or created by that amendment. We are no longer citizens
of the United States because we are citizens of a State, but we are
citizens of the United States because we have been born or have been
naturalized within the jurisdiction of the United States. It therefore
follows, that it is not only the right, but it is the duty, of Congress,
to pass all laws necessary for the protection of citizens of the United
States.

13. Congress can not shirk this responsibility by leaving citizens of
the United States to the care and keeping of the several States.

The recent decision of the Supreme Court cuts, as with a sword, the tie
that binds the citizen to the nation. Under the old Constitution, it was
not certainly known who were citizens of the United States. There were
citizens of the States, and such citizens looked to their several States
for protection. The Federal Government had no citizens. Patriotism did
not rest on mutual obligation. Under the 14th Amendment, we are all
citizens of a common country; and our first duty, our first obligation,
our highest allegiance, is not to the State in which we reside, but
to the Federal Government. The 14th Amendment tends to destroy State
prejudices and lays a foundation for national patriotism.

14. All statutes—all amendments to the Constitution—in derogation of
natural rights, should be strictly construed.

15. All statutes and amendments for the preservation of natural
rights should be liberally construed. Every court should, by strict
construction, narrow the scope of every law that infringes upon any
natural human right; and every court should, by construction, give the
broadest meaning to every statute or constitutional provision passed or
adopted for the preservation of freedom.

16. In construing the 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments, the Supreme Court
need not go back to decisions rendered in the days of slavery—when
every statute was construed in favor of the sovereignty of the State
and the rights of the master. These amendments utterly obliterated such
decisions. The Supreme Court should begin with the amendments. It need
not look behind them. They are a part of the fundamental organic law of
the nation. They were adopted to destroy the old statutes, to obliterate
the infamous clauses in the Constitution, and to lay a new foundation
for a new nation.

17. Congress has the power to eradicate all forms and incidents of
slavery and involuntary servitude, by direct and primary legislation
binding upon States and individuals alike. And when citizens are denied
the exercise of common rights and privileges—when they are refused
admittance to public inns and railway cars, on an equality with white
persons—and when such denial and refusal are based upon race and color,
such citizens are in a condition of involuntary servitude.

The Supreme Court has failed to take into consideration the intention of
the framers of these amendments. It has failed to comprehend the spirit
of the age. It has undervalued the accomplishment of the war. It has
not grasped in all their height and depth the great amendments to the
Constitution and the real object of government. To preserve liberty is
the only use for government. There is no other excuse for legislatures,
or presidents, or courts, for statutes or decisions. Liberty is not
simply a means—it is an end. Take from our history, our literature, our
laws, our hearts—that word, and we are naught but moulded clay. Liberty
is the one priceless jewel. It includes and holds and is the weal and
wealth of life. Liberty is the soil and light and rain—it is the plant
and bud and flower and fruit—and in that sacred word lie all the seeds
of progress, love and joy.

This decision, in my judgment, is not worthy of the Court by which
it was delivered. It has given new life to the serpent of State
Sovereignty. It has breathed upon the dying embers of ignorant hate. It
has furnished food and drink, breath and blood, to prejudices that
were perishing of famine, and in the old case of _Civilization vs.
Barbarism_, it has given the defendant a new trial.

From this decision, John M. Harlan had the breadth of brain, the
goodness of heart, and the loyalty to logic, to dissent. By the fortress
of Liberty, one sentinel remains at his post. For moral courage I have
supreme respect, and I admire that intellectual strength that breaks the
cords and chains of prejudice and damned custom as though they were but
threads woven in a spider's loom. This judge has associated his name
with freedom, and he will be remembered as long as men are free.

We are told by the Supreme Court that:

"Slavery cannot exist without law, any more than property and lands and
goods can exist without law."

I deny that property exists by virtue of law. I take exactly the
opposite ground. It was the fact that man had property in lands and
goods, that produced laws for the protection of such property. The
Supreme Court has mistaken an effect for a cause. Laws passed for the
protection of property, sprang from the possession and ownership of the
thing to be protected. When one man enslaves another, it is a violation
of all justice—a subversion of the foundation of all law. Statutes
passed for the purpose of enabling man to enslave his fellow-man,
resulted from a conspiracy entered into by the representatives of brute
force. Nothing can be more absurd than to call such a statute, born of
such a conspiracy a law. According to the idea of the Supreme Court, man
never had property until he had passed a law upon the subject. The first
man who gathered leaves upon which to sleep, did not own them, because
no law had been passed on the leaf subject. The first man who gathered
fruit—the first man who fashioned a club with which to defend himself
from wild beasts, according to the Supreme Court, had no property
in these things, because no laws had been passed, and no courts had
published their decisions.

So the defenders of monarchy have taken the ground that societies were
formed by contract—as though at one time men all lived apart, and came
together by agreement and formed a government. We might just as well
say that the trees got into groves by contract or conspiracy. Man is a
social being. By living together there grow out of the relation, certain
regulations, certain customs. These at last hardened into what we call
law—into what we call forms of government—and people who wish to
defend the idea that we got everything from the king, say that our
fathers made a contract. Nothing can be more absurd. Men did not agree
upon a form of government and then come together; but being together,
they made rules for the regulation of conduct. Men did not make some
laws and then get some property to fit the laws, but having property
they made laws for its protection.

It is hinted by the Supreme Court that this is in some way a question of
social equality. It is claimed that social equality cannot be enforced
by law. Nobody thinks it can. This is not a question of social equality,
but of equal rights. A colored citizen has the same right to ride upon
the cars—to be fed and lodged at public inns, and to visit theatres,
that I have. Social equality is not involved.

The Federal soldiers who escaped from Libby and Andersonville, and who
in swamps, in storm, and darkness, were rescued and fed by the slave,
had no scruples about eating with a negro. They were willing to sit
beneath the same tree and eat with him the food he brought. The white
soldier was then willing to find rest and slumber beneath the negro's
roof. Charity has no color. It is neither white nor black. Justice and
Patriotism are the same. Even the Confederate soldier was willing to
leave his wife and children under the protection of a man whom he was
fighting to enslave.

Danger does not draw these nice distinctions as to race or color. Hunger
is not proud. Famine is exceedingly democratic in the matter of food.
In the moment of peril, prejudices perish. The man fleeing for his life
does not have the same ideas about social questions, as he who sits
in the Capitol, wrapped in official robes. Position is apt to be
supercilious. Power is sometimes cruel. Prosperity is often heartless.

This cry about social equality is born of the spirit of caste—the most
fiendish of all things. It is worse than slavery. Slavery is at least
justified by avarice—by a desire to get something for nothing—by a
desire to live in idleness upon the labor of others—but the spirit of
caste is the offspring of natural cruelty and meanness.

Social relations depend upon almost an infinite number of influences
and considerations. We have our likes and dislikes. We choose our
companions. This is a natural right. You cannot force into my house
persons whom I do not want. But there is a difference between a public
house and a private house. The one is for the public. The private house
is for the family and those they may invite. The landlord invites the
entire public, and he must serve those who come if they are fit to be
received. A railway is public, not private. It derives its powers and
its rights from the State. It takes private land for public purposes.
It is incorporated for the good of the public, and the public must be
served. The railway, the hotel, and the theatre, have a right to make
a distinction between people of good and bad manners—between the clean
and the unclean. There are white people who have no right to be in
any place except a bath-tub, and there are colored people in the same
condition. An unclean white man should not be allowed to force himself
into a hotel, or into a railway car—neither should the unclean colored.
What I claim is, that in public places, no distinction should be made on
account of race or color. The bad black man should be treated like the
bad white man, and the good black man like the good white man. Social
equality is not contended for—neither between white and white, black
and black, nor between white and black.

In all social relations we should have the utmost liberty—but public
duties should be discharged and public rights should be recognized,
without the slightest discrimination on account of race or color.
Riding in the same cars, stopping at the same inns, sitting in the same
theatres, no more involve a social question, or social equality, than
speaking the same language, reading the same books, hearing the same
music, traveling on the same highway, eating the same food, breathing
the same air, warming by the same sun, shivering in the same cold,
defending the same flag, loving the same country, or living in the same
world.

And yet, thousands of people are in deadly fear about social equality.
They imagine that riding with colored people is dangerous—that the
chance acquaintance may lead to marriage. They wish to be protected from
such consequences by law. They dare not trust themselves. They appeal
to the Supreme Court for assistance, and wish to be barricaded by a
constitutional amendment. They are willing that colored women shall
prepare their food—that colored waiters shall bring it to them—willing
to ride in the same cars with the porters and to be shown to their
seats in theatres by colored ushers—willing to be nursed in sickness by
colored servants. They see nothing dangerous—nothing repugnant, in any
of these relations,—but the idea of riding in the same car, stopping at
the same hotel, fills them with fear—fear for the future of our race.
Such people can be described only in the language of Walt Whitman. "They
are the immutable, granitic pudding-heads of the world.".

Liberty is not a social question. Civil equality is not social equality.
We are equal only in rights. No two persons are of equal weight,
or height. There are no two leaves in all the forests of the earth
alike—no two blades of grass—no two grains of sand—no two hairs. No
two any-things in the physical world are precisely alike. Neither mental
nor physical equality can be created by law, but law recognizes the fact
that all men have been clothed with equal rights by Nature, the mother
of us all.

The man who hates the black man because he is black, has the same spirit
as he who hates the poor man because he is poor. It is the spirit
of caste. The proud useless despises the honest useful. The parasite
idleness scorns the great oak of labor on which it feeds, and that lifts
it to the light.

I am the inferior of any man whose rights I trample under foot. Men
are not superior by reason of the accidents of race or color. They are
superior who have the best heart—the best brain. Superiority is born of
honesty, of virtue, of charity, and above all, of the love of liberty.
The superior man is the providence of the inferior. He is eyes for
the blind, strength for the weak, and a shield for the defenceless. He
stands erect by bending above the fallen. He rises by lifting others.

In this country all rights must be preserved, all wrongs redressed,
through the ballot. The colored man has in his possession in his care, a
part of the sovereign power of the Republic. At the ballot-box he is
the equal of judges and senators, and presidents, and his vote, when
counted, is the equal of any other. He must use this sovereign power for
his own protection, and for the preservation of his children. The ballot
is his sword and shield. It is his political providence. It is the rock
on which he stands, the column against which he leans. He should vote
for no man who dees not believe in equal rights for all—in the same
privileges and immunities for all citizens, irrespective of race or
color.

He should not be misled by party cries, or by vague promises in
political platforms. He should vote for the men, for the party, that
will protect him; for congressmen who believe in liberty, for judges who
worship justice, whose brains are not tangled by technicalities, and whose
hearts are not petrified by precedents; and for presidents who will
protect the blackest citizen from the tyranny of the whitest State. As
you cannot trust the word of some white people, and as some black people
do not always tell the truth, you must compel all candidates to put
their principle' in black and white.

Of one thing you can rest assured: The best white people are your
friends. The humane, the civilized, the just, the most intelligent, the
grandest, are on your side. The sympathies of the noblest are with
you. Your enemies are also the enemies of liberty, of progress and of
justice. The white men who make the white race honorable believe in
equal rights for you. The noblest living are, the noblest dead were,
your friends. I ask you to stand with your friends.

Do not hold the Republican party responsible for this decision, unless
the Republican party endorses it. Had the question been submitted to
that party, it would have been decided exactly the other way—at least a
hundred to one. That party gave you the 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments.
They were given in good faith. These amendments put you on a
constitutional and political equality with white men. That they have
been narrowed in their application by the Supreme Court, is not the
fault of the Republican party. Let us wait and see what the Republican
party will do. That party has a strange history, and in that history is
a mingling of cowardice and courage. The army of progress always becomes
fearful after victory, and courageous after defeat. It has been the
custom for principle to apologize to prejudice. The Proclamation of
Emancipation gave liberty only to slaves beyond our lines—those beneath
our flag were left to wear their chains. We said to the Southern States:
"Lay down your arms, and you shall keep your slaves." We tried to buy
peace at the expense of the negro.

We offered to sacrifice the manhood of the North, and the natural rights
of the colored man, upon the altar of the Union. The rejection of that
offer saved us from infamy. At one time we refused to allow the loyal
black man to come within our lines. We would meet him at the outposts,
receive his information, and drive him back to chain and lash. The
Government publicly proclaimed that the war was waged to save the Union,
with slavery. We were afraid to claim that the negro was a man—afraid
to admit that he was property—and so we called him "contraband." We
hesitated to allow the negro to fight for his own freedom—hesitated
to let him wear the uniform of the nation while he battled for the
supremacy of its flag.

These are some of the inconsistencies of the past. In spite of them we
advanced. We were educated by events, and at last we clearly saw that
slavery was rebellion; that the "institution" had borne its natural
fruit—civil war; that the entire country was responsible for slavery,
and that slavery was responsible for rebellion. We declared that slavery
should be extirpated from the Republic. The great armies led by
the greatest commander of the modern world, shattered, crushed and
demolished the Rebellion. The North grew grand. The people became
sublime. The three sacred amendments were adopted. The Republic was
free.

Then came a period of hesitation, apology and fear. The colored citizen
was left to his fate. For years the Federal arm, palsied by policy,
was powerless to protect; and this period of fear, of hesitation, of
apology, of lack of confidence in the right, has borne its natural
fruit—this decision of the Supreme Court.

But it is not for me to give you advice. Your conduct has been above
all praise. You have been as patient as the earth beneath, as the
stars above. You have been law-abiding and industrious, You have not
offensively asserted your rights, or offensively borne your wrongs. You
have been modest and forgiving. You have returned good for evil. When I
remember that the ancestors of my race were in universities and colleges
and common schools while you and your fathers were on the auction-block,
in the slave-pen, or in the field beneath the cruel lash, in States
where reading and writing were crimes, I am astonished at the progress
you have made.

All that I—all that any reasonable man—can ask is, that you continue
doing as you have done. Above all things—educate your children—strive
to make yourselves independent—work for homes—work for yourselves—and
wherever it is possible become the masters of yourselves.

Nothing gives me more pleasure than to see your little children with
books under their arms, going and coming from school.

It is very easy to see why colored people should hate us, but why we
should hate them is beyond my comprehension. They never sold our wives.
They never robbed our cradles.. They never scarred our backs. They never
pursued us with bloodhounds. They never branded our flesh.

It has been said that it is hard to forgive a man to whom we have done
a great injury. I can conceive of no other reason why we should hate the
colored people. To us they are a standing reproach. Their history is our
shame. Their virtues seem to enrage some white people—their patience
to provoke, and their forgiveness to insult. Turn the tables—change
places—and with what fierceness, with what ferocity, with what insane
and passionate intensity we would hate them!

The colored people do not ask for revenge—they simply ask for
justice. They are willing to forget the past—willing to hide their
scars—anxious to bury the broken chains, and to forget the miseries and
hardships, the tears and agonies, of two hundred years.

The old issues are again upon us. Is this a Nation? Have all citizens of
the United States equal rights, without regard to race or color? Is
it the duty of the General Government to protect its citizens? Can the
Federal arm be palsied by the action or non-action of a State?

Another opportunity is given for the people of this country to take
sides. According to my belief, the supreme thing for every man to do is
to be absolutely true to himself. All consequences—whether rewards or
punishments, whether honor and power, or disgrace and poverty, are as
dreams undreamt. I have made my choice. I have taken my stand. Where my
brain and heart go, there I will publicly and openly walk. Doing this,
is my highest conception of duty. Being allowed to do this, is liberty.

If this is not now a free Government; if citizens cannot now be
protected, regardless of race or color; if the three sacred amendments
have been undermined by the Supreme Court—we must have another; and if
that fails, then another; and we must neither stop, nor pause, until
the Constitution shall become a perfect shield for every right, of every
human being, beneath our flag.
---
# An Essay on Christmas
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1892_
MY family and I regard Christmas as a holiday—that is to say, a day
of rest and pleasure—a day to get acquainted with each other, a day to
recall old memories, and for the cultivation of social amenities. The
festival now called Christmas is far older than Christianity. It was
known and celebrated for thousands of years before the establishment of
what is known as our religion. It is a relic of sun-worship. It is the
day on which the sun triumphs over the hosts of darkness, and thousands
of years before the New Testament was written, thousands of years before
the republic of Rome existed, before one stone of Athens was laid,
before the Pharaohs ruled in Egypt, before the religion of Brahma,
before Sanscrit was spoken, men and women crawled out of their caves,
pushed the matted hair from their eyes, and greeted the triumph of the
sun over the powers of the night.

There are many relics of this worship—among which is the shaving of the
priest's head, leaving the spot shaven surrounded by hair, in imitation
of the rays of the sun. There is still another relic—the ministers of
our day close their eyes in prayer. When men worshiped the sun—when
they looked at that luminary and implored its assistance—they shut
their eyes as a matter of necessity. Afterward the priests looking
at their idols glittering with gems, shut their eyes in flattery,
pretending that they could not bear the effulgence of the presence; and
to-day, thousands of years after the old ideas have passed away, the
modern parson, without knowing the origin of the custom, closes his eyes
when he prays.

There are many other relics and souvenirs of the dead worship of the
sun, and this festival was adopted by Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, and by
Christians. As a matter of fact, Christianity furnished new steam for an
old engine, infused a new spirit into an old religion, and, as a matter
of course, the old festival remained.

For all of our festivals you will find corresponding pagan festivals.
For instance, take the eucharist, the communion, where persons partake
of the body and blood of the Deity. This is an exceedingly old custom.
Among the ancients they ate cakes made of corn, in honor of Ceres and
they called these cakes the flesh of the goddess, and they drank wine in
honor of Bacchus, and called this the blood of their god. And so I could
go on giving the pagan origin of every Christian ceremony and custom.
The probability is that the worship of the sun was once substantially
universal, and consequently the festival of Christ was equally wide
spread.

As other religions have been produced, the old customs have been adopted
and continued, so that the result is, this festival of Christmas is
almost world-wide. It is popular because it is a holiday. Overworked
people are glad of days that bring rest and recreation and allow them to
meet their families and their friends. They are glad of days when they
give and receive gifts—evidences of friendship, of remembrance and
love. It is popular because it is really human, and because it is
interwoven with our customs, habits, literature, and thought.

For my part I am willing to have two or three a year—the more holidays
the better. Many people have an idea that I am opposed to Sunday. I am
perfectly willing to have two a week. All I insist on is that these days
shall be for the benefit of the people, and that they shall be kept not
in a way to make folks miserable or sad or hungry, but in a way to make
people happy, and to add a little to the joy of life. Of course, I am
in favor of everybody keeping holidays to suit himself, provided he does
not interfere with others, and I am perfectly willing that everybody
should go to church on that day, provided he is willing that I should go
somewhere else.—The Tribune, New York, December, 1889.

## Has Freethought a Constructive Side

THE object of the Freethinker is to ascertain the truth—the conditions
of well-being—to the end that this life will be made of value. This is
the affirmative, positive, and constructive side.

Without liberty there is no such thing as real happiness. There may be
the contentment of the slave—of one who is glad that he has passed the
day without a beating—one who is happy because he has had enough to
eat—but the highest possible idea of happiness is freedom.

All religious systems enslave the mind. Certain things are
demanded—certain things must be believed—certain things must
be done—and the man who becomes the subject or servant of this
superstition must give up all idea of individuality or hope of
intellectual growth and progress.

The religionist informs us that there is somewhere in the universe an
orthodox God, who is endeavoring to govern the world, and who for this
purpose resorts to famine and flood, to earthquake and pestilence—and
who, as a last resort, gets up a revival of religion. That is called
"affirmative and positive."

The man of sense knows that no such God exists, and thereupon he affirms
that the orthodox doctrine is infinitely absurd. This is called a
"negation." But to my mind it is an affirmation, and is a part of the
positive side of Freethought.

A man who compels this Deity to abdicate his throne renders a vast and
splendid service to the human race.

As long as men believe in tyranny in heaven they will practice tyranny
on earth. Most people are exceedingly imitative, and nothing is so
gratifying to the average orthodox man as to be like his God.

These same Christians tell us that nearly everybody is to be punished
forever, while a few fortunate Christians who were elected and selected
billions of ages before the world was created, are to be happy. This
they call the "tidings of great joy." The Freethinker denounces this
doctrine as infamous beyond the power of words to express. He says, and
says clearly, that a God who would create a human being, knowing that
that being was to be eternally miserable, must of necessity be an
infinite fiend.

The free man, into whose brain the serpent of superstition has not
crept, knows that the dogma of eternal pain is an infinite falsehood. He
also knows—if the dogma be true—that every decent human being should
hate, with every drop of his blood, the creator of the universe. He also
knows—if he knows anything—that no decent human being could be happy
in heaven with a majority of the human race in hell. He knows that
a mother could not enjoy the society of Christ with her children in
perdition; and if she could, he knows that such a mother is simply
a wild beast. The free man knows that the angelic hosts, under such
circumstances, could not enjoy themselves unless they had the hearts of
boa-constrictors.

It will thus be seen that there is an affirmative, a positive, a
constructive side to Freethought.

What is the positive side?

First: A denial of all orthodox falsehoods—an exposure of all
superstitions. This is simply clearing the ground, to the end that seeds
of value may be planted. It is necessary, first, to fell the trees, to
destroy the poisonous vines, to drive out the wild beasts. Then comes
another phase—another kind of work. The Freethinker knows that the
universe is natural—that there is no room, even in infinite space, for
the miraculous, for the impossible. The Freethinker knows, or feels that
he knows, that there is no sovereign of the universe, who, like some
petty king or tyrant, delights in showing his authority. He feels that
all in the universe are conditioned beings, and that only those are
happy who live in accordance with the conditions of happiness, and this
fact or truth or philosophy embraces all men and all gods—if there be
gods.

The positive side is this: That every good action has good
consequences—that it bears good fruit forever—and that every bad
action has evil consequences, and bears bad fruit. The Freethinker also
asserts that every man must bear the consequences of his actions—that
he must reap what he sows, and that he cannot be justified by the
goodness of another, or damned for the wickedness of another.

There is still another side, and that is this: The Freethinker knows
that all the priests and cardinals and popes know nothing of the
supernatural—they know nothing about gods or angels or heavens or
hells—nothing about inspired books or Holy Ghosts, or incarnations or
atonements. He knows that all this is superstition pure and simple.
He knows also that these people—from pope to priest, from bishop to
parson, do not the slightest good in this world—that they live upon the
labor of others—that they earn nothing themselves—that they contribute
nothing toward the happiness, or well-being, or the wealth of mankind.
He knows that they trade and traffic in ignorance and fear, that they
make merchandise of hope and grief—and he also knows that in every
religion the priest insists on five things—First: There is a God.
Second: He has made known his will. Third: He has selected me to explain
this message. Fourth: We will now take up a collection; and Fifth: Those
who fail to subscribe will certainly be damned.

The positive side of Freethought is to find out the truth—the facts of
nature—to the end that we may take advantage of those truths, of those
facts—for the purpose of feeding and clothing and educating mankind.

In the first place, we wish to find that which will lengthen human
life—that which will prevent or kill disease—that which will do away
with pain—that which will preserve or give us health.

We also want to go in partnership with these forces of nature, to the
end that we may be well fed and clothed—that we may have good houses
that protect us from heat and cold. And beyond this—beyond these simple
necessities—there are still wants and aspirations, and free-thought
will give us the highest possible in art—the most wonderful and
thrilling in music—the greatest paintings, the most marvelous
sculpture—in other words, free-thought will develop the brain to
its utmost capacity. Freethought is the mother of art and science, of
morality and happiness.

It is charged by the worshipers of the Jewish myth, that we destroy,
that we do not build.

What have we destroyed? We have destroyed the idea that a monster
created and governs this world—the declaration that a God of infinite
mercy and compassion upheld slavery and polygamy and commanded the
destruction of men, women, and babes. We have destroyed the idea that
this monster created a few of his children for eternal joy, and the vast
majority for everlasting pain. We have destroyed the infinite absurdity
that salvation depends upon belief, that investigation is dangerous, and
that the torch of reason lights only the way to hell. We have taken a
grinning devil from every grave, and the curse from death—and in the
place of these dogmas, of these infamies, we have put that which is
natural and that which commends itself to the heart and brain.

Instead of loving God, we love each other. Instead of the religion of
the sky—the religion of this world—the religion of the family—the
love of husband for wife, of wife for husband—the love of all for
children. So that now the real religion is: Let us live for each other;
let us live for this world, without regard for the past and without fear
for the future. Let us use our faculties and our powers for the benefit
of ourselves and others, knowing that if there be another world, the
same philosophy that gives us joy here will make us happy there.

Nothing can be more absurd than the idea that we can do something to
please or displease an infinite Being. If our thoughts and actions can
lessen or increase the happiness of God, then to that extent God is the
slave and victim of man.

The energies of the world have been wasted in the service of a
phantom—millions of priests have lived on the industry of others and no
effort has been spared to prevent the intellectual freedom of mankind.

We know, if we know anything, that supernatural religion has no
foundation except falsehood and mistake. To expose these falsehoods—to
correct these mistakes—to build the fabric of civilization on the
foundation of demonstrated truth—is the task of the Freethinker. To
destroy guide-boards that point in the wrong direction—to correct
charts that lure to reef and wreck—to drive the fiend of fear from the
mind—to protect the cradle from the serpent of superstition and dispel
the darkness of ignorance with the sun of science—is the task of the
Freethinker.

What constructive work has been done by the church? Christianity gave us
a flat world a few thousand years ago—a heaven above it where Jehovah
dwells and a hell below it where most people will dwell. Christianity
took the ground that a certain belief was necessary to salvation and
that this belief was far better and of more importance than the practice
of all the virtues. It became the enemy of investigation—the bitter and
relentless foe of reason and the liberty of thought. It committed every
crime and practiced every cruelty in the propagation of its creed. It
drew the sword against the freedom of the world. It established schools
and universities for the preservation of ignorance. It claimed to have
within its keeping the source and standard of all truth. If the church
had succeeded the sciences could not have existed.

Freethought has given us all we have of value. It has been the great
constructive force. It is the only discoverer, and every science is its
child.—The Truth Seeker, New York 1890.
---
# Art and Morality
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1888_
ART is the highest form of expression, and exists for the sake of
expression. Through art thoughts become visible. Back of forms are the
desire, the longing, the brooding creative instinct, the maternity of
mind and the passion that give pose and swell, outline and color.

Of course there is no such thing as absolute beauty or absolute
morality. We now clearly perceive that beauty and conduct are relative.
We have outgrown the provincialism that thought is back of substance,
as well as the old Platonic absurdity, that ideas existed before the
subjects of thought. So far, at least, as man is concerned, his thoughts
have been produced by his surroundings, by the action and interaction
of things upon his mind; and so far as man is concerned, things have
preceded thoughts. The impressions that these things make upon us
are what we know of them. The absolute is beyond the human mind. Our
knowledge is confined to the relations that exist between the totality
of things that we call the universe, and the effect upon ourselves.

Actions are deemed right or wrong, according to experience and the
conclusions of reason. Things are beautiful by the relation that certain
forms, colors, and modes of expression bear to us. At the foundation of
the beautiful will be found the fact of happiness, the gratification of
the senses, the delight of intellectual discovery and the surprise and
thrill of appreciation. That which we call the beautiful, wakens into
life through the association of ideas, of memories, of experiences, of
suggestions of pleasure past and the perception that the prophecies of
the ideal have been and will be fulfilled.

Art cultivates and kindles the imagination, and quickens the conscience.
It is by imagination that we put ourselves in the place of another. When
the wings of that faculty are folded, the master does not put himself in
the place of the slave; the tyrant is not locked in the dungeon, chained
with his victim. The inquisitor did not feel the flames that devoured
the martyr. The imaginative man, giving to the beggar, gives to himself.
Those who feel indignant at the perpetration of wrong, feel for the
instant that they are the victims; and when they attack the aggressor
they feel that they are defending themselves. Love and pity are the
children of the imagination.

Our fathers read with great approbation the mechanical sermons in rhyme
written by Milton, Young and Pollok. Those theological poets wrote
for the purpose of convincing their readers that the mind of man
is diseased, filled with infirmities, and that poetic poultices and
plasters tend to purify and strengthen the moral nature of the human
race. Nothing to the true artist, to the real genius, is so contemptible
as the "medicinal view."

Poems were written to prove that the practice of virtue was an
investment for another world, and that whoever followed the advice found
in those solemn, insincere and lugubrious rhymes, although he might
be exceedingly unhappy in this world, would with great certainty be
rewarded in the next. These writers assumed that there was a kind of
relation between rhyme and religion, between verse and virtue; and that
it was their duty to call the attention of the world to all the snares
and pitfalls of pleasure. They wrote with a purpose. They had a distinct
moral end in view. They had a plan. They were missionaries, and their
object was to show the world how wicked it was and how good they, the
writers, were. They could not conceive of a man being so happy that
everything in nature partook of his feeling; that all the birds were
singing for him, and singing by reason of his joy; that everything
sparkled and shone and moved in the glad rhythm of his heart. They could
not appreciate this feeling. They could not think of this joy guiding
the artist's hand, seeking expression in form and color. They did not
look upon poems, pictures, and statues as results, as children of the
brain fathered by sea and sky, by flower and star, by love and light.
They were not moved by gladness. They felt the responsibility of
perpetual duty. They had a desire to teach, to sermonize, to point
out and exaggerate the faults of others and to describe the virtues
practiced by themselves. Art became a colporteur, a distributer of
tracts, a mendicant missionary whose highest ambition was to suppress
all heathen joy.

Happy people were supposed to have forgotten, in a reckless moment, duty
and responsibility. True poetry would call them back to a realization of
their meanness and their misery. It was the skeleton at the feast, the
rattle of whose bones had a rhythmic sound. It was the forefinger of
warning and doom held up in the presence of a smile.

These moral poets taught the "unwelcome truths," and by the paths of
life put posts on which they painted hands pointing at graves. They
loved to see the pallor on the cheek of youth, while they talked, in
solemn tones, of age, decrepitude and lifeless clay.

Before the eyes of love they thrust, with eager hands, the skull of
death. They crushed the flowers beneath their feet and plaited crowns of
thorns for every brow.

According to these poets, happiness was inconsistent with virtue. The
sense of infinite obligation should be perpetually present. They assumed
an attitude of superiority. They denounced and calumniated the reader.
They enjoyed his confusion when charged with total depravity. They loved
to paint the sufferings of the lost, the worthlessness of human life,
the littleness of mankind, and the beauties of an unknown world. They
knew but little of the heart. They did not know that without passion
there is no virtue, and that the really passionate are the virtuous.

Art has nothing to do directly with morality or immorality. It is its
own excuse for being; it exists for itself.

The artist who endeavors to enforce a lesson, becomes a preacher; and
the artist who tries by hint and suggestion to enforce the immoral,
becomes a pander.

There is an infinite difference between the nude and the naked, between
the natural and the undressed. In the presence of the pure, unconscious
nude, nothing can be more contemptible than those forms in which are
the hints and suggestions of drapery, the pretence of exposure, and the
failure to conceal. The undressed is vulgar—the nude is pure.

The old Greek statues, frankly, proudly nude, whose free and perfect
limbs have never known the sacrilege of clothes, were and are as free
from taint, as pure, as stainless, as the image of the morning star
trembling in a drop of perfumed dew.

Morality is the harmony between act and circumstance. It is the melody
of conduct. A wonderful statue is the melody of proportion. A great
picture is the melody of form and color. A great statue does not suggest
labor; it seems to have been created as a joy. A great painting suggests
no weariness and no effort; the greater, the easier it seems. So a great
and splendid life seems to have been without effort. There is in it no
idea of obligation, no idea of responsibility or of duty. The idea of
duty changes to a kind of drudgery that which should be, in the perfect
man, a perfect pleasure.

The artist, working simply for the sake of enforcing a moral, becomes
a laborer. The freedom of genius is lost, and the artist is absorbed in
the citizen. The soul of the real artist should be moved by this melody
of proportion as the body is unconsciously swayed by the rhythm of a
symphony. No one can imagine that the great men who chiseled the statues
of antiquity intended to teach the youth of Greece to be obedient
to their parents. We cannot believe that Michael Angelo painted his
grotesque and somewhat vulgar "Day of Judgment" for the purpose of
reforming Italian thieves. The subject was in all probability selected
by his employeer, and the treatment was a question of art, without
the slightest reference to the moral effect, even upon priests. We are
perfectly certain that Corot painted those infinitely poetic
landscapes, those cottages, those sad poplars, those leafless vines on
weather-tinted walls, those quiet pools, those contented cattle, those
fields flecked with light, over which bend the skies, tender as the
breast of a mother, without once thinking of the ten commandments. There
is the same difference between moral art and the product of true genius,
that there is between prudery and virtue.

The novelists who endeavor to enforce what they are pleased to
call "moral truths," cease to be artists. They create two kinds of
characters—types and caricatures. The first never has lived, and the
second never will. The real artist produces neither. In his pages you
will find individuals, natural people, who have the contradictions and
inconsistencies inseparable from humanity. The great artists "hold the
mirror up to nature," and this mirror reflects with absolute accuracy.
The moral and the immoral writers—that is to say, those who have some
object besides that of art—use convex or concave mirrors, or those with
uneven surfaces, and the result is that the images are monstrous and
deformed. The little novelist and the little artist deal either in the
impossible or the exceptional. The men of genius touch the universal.
Their words and works throb in unison with the great ebb and flow of
things. They write and work for all races and for all time.

It has been the object of thousands of reformers to destroy
the passions, to do away with desires; and could this object be
accomplished, life would become a burden, with but one desire—that is
to say, the desire for extinction. Art in its highest forms increases
passion, gives tone and color and zest to life. But while it increases
passion, it refines. It extends the horizon. The bare necessities of
life constitute a prison, a dungeon. Under the influence of art the
walls expand, the roof rises, and it becomes a temple.

Art is not a sermon, and the artist is not a preacher. Art accomplishes
by indirection. The beautiful refines. The perfect in art suggests the
perfect in conduct. The harmony in music teaches, without intention, the
lesson of proportion in life. The bird in his song has no moral purpose,
and yet the influence is humanizing. The beautiful in nature acts
through appreciation and sympathy. It does not browbeat, neither does
it humiliate. It is beautiful without regard to you. Roses would be
unbearable if in their red and perfumed hearts were mottoes to the
effect that bears eat bad boys and that honesty is the best policy.

Art creates an atmosphere in which the proprieties, the amenities, and
the virtues unconsciously grow. The rain does not lecture the seed. The
light does not make rules for the vine and flower.

The heart is softened by the pathos of the perfect.

The world is a dictionary of the mind, and in this dictionary of things
genius discovers analogies, resemblances, and parallels amid opposites,
likeness in difference, and corroboration in contradiction. Language
is but a multitude of pictures. Nearly every word is a work of art, a
picture represented by a sound, and this sound represented by a mark,
and this mark gives not only the sound, but the picture of something in
the outward world and the picture of something within the mind, and with
these words which were once pictures, other pictures are made.

The greatest pictures and the greatest statues, the most wonderful and
marvelous groups, have been painted and chiseled with words. They are as
fresh to-day as when they fell from human lips. Penelope still ravels,
weaves, and waits; Ulysses' bow is bent, and through the level rings
the eager arrow flies. Cordelia's tears are falling now. The greatest
gallery of the world is found in Shakespeare's book. The pictures and
the marbles of the Vatican and Louvre are faded, crumbling things,
compared with his, in which perfect color gives to perfect form the glow
and movement of passion's highest life.

Everything except the truth wears, and needs to wear, a mask. Little
souls are ashamed of nature. Prudery pretends to have only those
passions that it cannot feel. Moral poetry is like a respectable canal
that never overflows its banks. It has weirs through which slowly
and without damage any excess of feeling is allowed to flow. It makes
excuses for nature, and regards love as an interesting convict. Moral
art paints or chisels feet, faces, and rags. It regards the body as
obscene. It hides with drapery that which it has not the genius purely
to portray. Mediocrity becomes moral from a necessity which it has
the impudence to call virtue. It pretends to regard ignorance as the
foundation of purity and insists that virtue seeks the companionship of
the blind.

Art creates, combines, and reveals. It is the highest manifestation of
thought, of passion, of love, of intuition. It is the highest form of
expression, of history and prophecy. It allows us to look at an unmasked
soul, to fathom the abysses of passion, to understand the heights and
depths of love.

Compared with what is in the mind of man, the outward world almost
ceases to excite our wonder. The impression produced by mountains, seas,
and stars is not so great, so thrilling, as the music of Wagner.
The constellations themselves grow small when we read "Troilus and
Cres-sida," "Hamlet," or "Lear." What are seas and stars in the presence
of a heroism that holds pain and death as naught? What are seas and
stars compared with human hearts? What is the quarry compared with the
statue?

Art civilizes because it enlightens, develops, strengthens, ennobles. It
deals with the beautiful, with the passionate, with the ideal. It is the
child of the heart. To be great, it must deal with the human. It must be
in accordance with the experience, with the hopes, with the fears, and
with the possibilities of man. No one cares to paint a palace, because
there is nothing in such a picture to touch the heart. It tells of
responsibility, of the prison, of the conventional. It suggests a
load—it tells of apprehension, of weariness and ennui. The picture of
a cottage, over which runs a vine, a little home thatched with content,
with its simple life, its natural sunshine and shadow, its trees bending
with fruit, its hollyhocks and pinks, its happy children, its hum of
bees, is a poem—a smile in the desert of this world.

The great lady, in velvet and jewels, makes but a poor picture. There is
not freedom enough in her life. She is constrained. She is too far away
from the simplicity of happiness. In her thought there is too much of
the mathematical. In all art you will find a touch of chaos, of liberty;
and there is in all artists a little of the vagabond—that is to say,
genius.

The nude in art has rendered holy the beauty of woman. Every Greek
statue pleads for mothers and sisters. From these marbles come strains
of music. They have filled the heart of man with tenderness and worship.
They have kindled reverence, admiration and love. The Venus de Milo,
that even mutilation cannot mar, tends only to the elevation of our
race. It is a miracle of majesty and beauty, the supreme idea of the
supreme woman. It is a melody in marble. All the lines meet in a kind
of voluptuous and glad content. The pose is rest itself. The eyes are
filled with thoughts of love. The breast seems dreaming of a child.

The prudent is not the poetic; it is the mathematical. Genius is the
spirit of abandon; it is joyous, irresponsible. It moves in the swell
and curve of billows; it is careless of conduct and consequence. For a
moment, the chain of cause and effect seems broken; the soul is free. It
gives an account not even to itself. Limitations are forgotten; nature
seems obedient to the will; the ideal alone exists; the universe is a
symphony.

Every brain is a gallery of art, and every soul is, to a greater or less
degree, an artist. The pictures and statues that now enrich and adorn
the walls and niches of the world, as well as those that illuminate
the pages of its literature, were taken originally from the private
galleries of the brain.

The soul—that is to say the artist—compares the pictures in its own
brain with the pictures that have been taken from the galleries of
others and made visible. This soul, this artist, selects that which is
nearest perfection in each, takes such parts as it deems perfect, puts
them together, forms new pictures, new statues, and in this way creates
the ideal.

To express desires, longings, ecstasies, prophecies and passions in form
and color; to put love, hope, heroism and triumph in marble; to paint
dreams and memories with words; to portray the purity of dawn, the
intensity and glory of noon, the tenderness of twilight, the splendor
and mystery of night, with sounds; to give the invisible to sight and
touch, and to enrich the common things of earth with gems and jewels of
the mind—this is Art.—North American Review, March, 1888.
---
# Crimes Against Criminals
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
> * "An Address delivered before the State Bar Association at
> Albany, N. Y., January 1, 1890."

IN this brief address, the object is to suggest—there being no time to
present arguments at length. The subject has been chosen for the reason
that it is one that should interest the legal profession, because that
profession to a certain extent controls and shapes the legislation of
our country and fixes definitely the scope and meaning of all laws.

Lawyers ought to be foremost in legislative and judicial reform, and
of all men they should understand the philosophy of mind, the causes of
human action, and the real science of government.

It has been said that the three pests of a community are: A priest
without charity; a doctor without knowledge, and, a lawyer without a
sense of justice.

I.

All nations seem to have had supreme confidence in the deterrent power
of threatened and inflicted pain. They have regarded punishment as the
shortest road to reformation. Imprisonment, torture, death, constituted
a trinity under whose protection society might feel secure.

In addition to these, nations have relied on confiscation and
degradation, on maimings, whippings, brandings, and exposures to public
ridicule and contempt. Connected with the court of justice was
the chamber of torture. The ingenuity of man was exhausted in the
construction of instruments that would surely reach the most sensitive
nerve. All this was done in the interest of civilization—for the
protection of virtue, and the well-being of states. Curiously it was
found that the penalty of death made little difference. Thieves and
highwaymen, heretics and blasphemers, went on their way. It was then
thought necessary to add to this penalty of death, and consequently, the
convicted were tortured in every conceivable way before execution. They
were broken on the wheel—their joints dislocated on the rack. They were
suspended by their legs and arms, while immense weights were placed upon
their breasts. Their flesh was burned and torn with hot irons. They
were roasted at slow fires. They were buried alive—given to wild
beasts—molten lead was poured in their ears—their eye-lids were cut
off and, the wretches placed with their faces toward the sun—others
were securely bound, so that they could move neither hand nor foot, and
over their stomachs were placed inverted bowls; under these bowls rats
were confined; on top of the bowls were heaped coals of fire, so that
the rats in their efforts to escape would gnaw into the bowels of the
victims. They were staked out on the sands of the sea, to be drowned
by the slowly rising tide—and every means by which human nature can be
overcome slowly, painfully and terribly, was conceived and carried into
execution. And yet the number of so-called criminals increased. Enough,
the fact is that, no matter how severe the punishments were, the crimes
increased.

For petty offences men were degraded—given to the mercy of the rabble.
Their ears were cut off, their nostrils slit, their foreheads branded.
They were tied to the tails of carts and flogged from one town to
another. And yet, in spite of all, the poor wretches obstinately refused
to become good and useful citizens.

Degradation has been thoroughly tried, with its maimings and brandings,
and the result was that those who inflicted the punishments became as
degraded as their victims.

Only a few years ago there were more than two hundred offences in Great
Britain punishable by death. The gallows-tree bore fruit through all the
year, and the hangman was the busiest official in the kingdom—but the
criminals increased.

Crimes were committed to punish crimes, and crimes were committed to
prevent crimes. The world has been filled with prisons and dungeons,
with chains and whips, with crosses and gibbets, with thumbscrews and
racks, with hangmen and headsmen—and yet these frightful means
and instrumentalities and crimes have accomplished little for the
preservation of property or life. It is safe to say that governments
have committed far more crimes than they have prevented.

Why is it that men will suffer and risk so much for the sake of
stealing? Why will they accept degradation and punishment and infamy as
their portion? Some will answer this question by an appeal to the dogma
of original sin; others by saying that millions of men and women are
under the control of fiends—that they are actually possessed by devils;
and others will declare that all these people act from choice—that
they are possessed of free wills, of intelligence—that they know and
appreciate consequences, and that, in spite of all, they deliberately
prefer a life of crime.

II.

Have we not advanced far enough intellectually to deny the existence of
chance? Are we not satisfied now that back of every act and thought and
dream and fancy is an efficient cause? Is anything, or can anything,
be produced that is not necessarily produced? Can the fatherless and
motherless exist? Is there not a connection between all events, and is
not every act related to all other acts? Is it not possible, is it not
probable, is it not true, that the actions of all men are determined by
countless causes over which they have no positive control?

Certain it is that men do not prefer unhappiness to joy.

It can hardly be said that man intends permanently to injure himself,
and that he does what he does in order that he may live a life of
misery. On the other hand, we must take it for granted that man
endeavors to better his own condition, and seeks, although by mistaken
ways, his own well-being. The poorest man would like to be rich—the
sick desire health—and no sane man wishes to win the contempt
and hatred of his fellow-men. Every human being prefers liberty to
imprisonment.

Are the brains of criminals exactly like the brains of honest men? Have
criminals the same ambitions, the same standards of happiness or of
well-being? If a difference exists in brain, will that in part account
for the difference in character? Is there anything in heredity? Are
vices as carefully transmitted by nature as virtues? Does each man in
some degree bear burdens imposed by ancestors? We know that diseases of
flesh and blood are transmitted—that the child is the heir of physical
deformity. Are diseases of the brain—are deformities of the soul, of
the mind, also transmitted?

We not only admit, but we assert, that in the physical world there are
causes and effects. We insist that there is and can be no effect
without an efficient cause. When anything happens in that world, we are
satisfied that it was naturally and necessarily produced. The causes may
be obscure, but we as implicitly believe in their existence as when we
know positively what they are. In the physical world we have taken the
ground that there is nothing miraculous—that everything is natural—and
if we cannot explain it, we account for our inability to explain, by
our own ignorance. Is it not possible, is it not probable, that what is
true in the physical world is equally true in the realm of mind—in that
strange world of passion and desire? Is it possible that thoughts or
desires or passions are the children of chance, born of nothing? Can we
conceive of nothing as a force, or as a cause? If, then, there is behind
every thought and desire and passion an efficient cause, we can, in part
at least, account for the actions of men.

A certain man under certain conditions acts in a certain way. There are
certain temptations that he, with his brain, with his experience,
with his intelligence, with his surroundings cannot withstand. He is
irresistibly led to do, or impelled to do, certain things; and there
are other things that he can not do. If we change the conditions of
this man, his actions will be changed. Develop his mind, give him new
subjects of thought, and you change the man; and the man being Changed,
it follows of necessity that his conduct will be different.

In civilized countries the struggle for existence is severe—the
competition far sharper than in savage lands. The consequence is that
there are many failures. These failures lack, it may be, opportunity or
brain or moral force or industry, or something without which, under
the circumstances, success is impossible. Certain lines of conduct are
called legal, and certain others criminal, and the men who fail in one
line may be driven to the other. How do we know that it is possible for
all people to be honest? Are we certain that all people can tell
the truth? Is it possible for all men to be generous or candid or
courageous?

I am perfectly satisfied that there are millions of people incapable of
committing certain crimes, and it may be true that there are millions
of others incapable of practicing certain virtues. We do not blame a man
because he is not a sculptor, a poet, a painter, or a statesman. We say
he has not the genius. Are we certain that it does not require genius
to be good? Where is the man with intelligence enough to take into
consideration the circumstances of each individual case? Who has the
mental balance with which to weigh the forces of heredity, of want, of
temptation,—and who can analyze with certainty the mysterious motions
of the brain? Where and what are the sources of vice and virtue? In what
obscure and shadowy recesses of the brain are passions born? And what is
it that for the moment destroys the sense of right and wrong?

Who knows to what extent reason becomes the prisoner of passion—of
some strange and wild desire, the seeds of which were sown, it may be,
thousands of years ago in the breast of some savage? To what extent do
antecedents and surroundings affect the moral sense?

Is it not possible that the tyranny of governments, the injustice
of nations, the fierceness of what is called the law, produce in the
individual a tendency in the same direction? Is it not true that the
citizen is apt to imitate his nation? Society degrades its enemies—the
individual seeks to degrade his. Society plunders its enemies, and now
and then the citizen has the desire to plunder his. Society kills its
enemies, and possibly sows in the heart of some citizen the seeds of
murder.

## Iii

Is it not true that the criminal is a natural product, and that society
unconsciously produces these children of vice? Can we not safely take
another step, and say that the criminal is a victim, as the diseased
and insane and deformed are victims? We do not think of punishing a man
because he is afflicted with disease—our desire is to find a cure. We
send him, not to the penitentiary, but to the hospital, to an asylum.
We do this because we recognize the fact that disease is naturally
produced—that it is inherited from parents, or the result of
unconscious negligence, or it may be of recklessness—but instead of
punishing, we pity. If there are diseases of the mind, of the brain, as
there are diseases of the body; and if these diseases of the mind, these
deformities of the brain, produce, and necessarily produce, what we
call vice, why should we punish the-criminal, and pity those who are
physically diseased?

Socrates, in some respects at least one of the wisest of men, said:
"It is strange that you should not be angry when you meet a man with an
ill-conditioned body, and yet be vexed when you encounter one with an
ill-conditioned soul."

We know that there are deformed bodies, and we are equally certain that
there are deformed minds.

Of course, society has the right to protect itself, no matter whether
the persons who attack its well-being are responsible or not, no matter
whether they are sick in mind, or deformed in brain. The right of
self-defence exists, not only in the individual, but in society. The
great question is, How shall this right of self-defence be exercised?
What spirit shall be in the nation, or in society—the spirit of
revenge, a desire to degrade and punish and destroy, or a spirit born of
the recognition of the fact that criminals are victims?

The world has thoroughly tried confiscation, degradation, imprisonment,
torture and death, and thus far the world has failed. In this connection
I call your attention to the following statistics gathered in our own
country:

In 1850, we had twenty-three millions of people, and between six and
seven thousand prisoners.

In 1860—thirty-one millions of people, and nineteen thousand prisoners.

In 1870—thirty-eight millions of people, and thirty-two thousand
prisoners.

In 1880—fifty millions of people, and fifty-eight thousand prisoners.

It may be curious to note the relation between insanity, pauperism and
crime:

In 1850, there were fifteen thousand insane; in 1860, twenty-four
thousand; in 1870, thirty-seven thousand; in 1880, ninety-one thousand.

In the light of these statistics, we are not succeeding in doing away
with crime. There were in 1880, fifty-eight thousand prisoners, and
in the same year fifty-seven thousand homeless children, and sixty-six
thousand paupers in almshouses.

Is it possible that we must go to the same causes for these effects?

IV.

There is no reformation in degradation. To mutilate a criminal is to say
to all the world that he is a criminal, and to render his reformation
substantially impossible. Whoever is degraded by society becomes its
enemy. The seeds of malice are sown in his heart, and to the day of his
death he will hate the hand that sowed the seeds.

There is also another side to this question. A punishment that degrades
the punished will degrade the man who inflicts the punishment, and will
degrade the government that procures the infliction. The whipping-post
pollutes, not only the whipped, but the whipper, and not only the
whipper, but the community at large. Wherever its shadow falls it
degrades.

If, then, there is no reforming power in degradation—no deterrent
power—for the reason that the degradation of the criminal degrades
the community, and in this way produces more criminals, then the next
question is, Whether there is any reforming power in torture? The
trouble with this is that it hardens and degrades to the last degree the
ministers of the law. Those who are not affected by the agonies of the
bad will in a little time care nothing for the sufferings of the good.
There seems to be a little of the wild beast in men—a something that
is fascinated by suffering, and that delights in inflicting pain. When
a government tortures, it is in the same state of mind that the criminal
was when he committed his crime. It requires as much malice in those
who execute the law, to torture a criminal, as it did in the criminal to
torture and kill his victim. The one was a crime by a person, the other
by a nation.

There is something in injustice, in cruelty, that tends to defeat
itself. There were never as many traitors in England as when the
traitor was drawn and quartered—when he was tortured in every possible
way—when his limbs, torn and bleeding, were given to the fury of
mobs or exhibited pierced by pikes or hung in chains. These frightful
punishments produced intense hatred of the government, and traitors
continued to increase until they became powerful enough to decide what
treason was and who the traitors were, and to inflict the same torments
on others.

Think for a moment of what man has suffered in the cause of crime. Think
of the millions that have been imprisoned, impoverished and degraded
because they were thieves and forgers, swindlers and cheats. Think for
a moment of what they have endured—of the difficulties under which they
have pursued their calling, and it will be exceedingly hard to believe
that they were sane and natural people possessed of good brains,
of minds well-poised, and that they did what they did from a choice
unaffected by heredity and the countless circumstances that tend to
determine the conduct of human beings.

The other day I was asked these questions: "Has there been as much
heroism displayed for the right as for the wrong? Has virtue had as many
martyrs as vice?"

For hundreds of years the world has endeavored to destroy the good by
force. The expression of honest thought was regarded as the greatest of
crimes. Dungeons were filled by the noblest and the best, and the
blood of the bravest was shed by the sword or consumed by flame. It was
impossible to destroy the longing in the heart of man for liberty and
truth. Is it not possible that brute force and cruelty and revenge,
imprisonment, torture and death are as impotent to do away with vice as
to destroy virtue?

In our country there has been for many years a growing feeling that
convicts should neither be degraded nor tortured. It was provided in the
Constitution of the United States that "cruel and unusual punishments
should not be inflicted." Benjamin Franklin took great interest in
the treatment of prisoners, being a thorough believer in the reforming
influence of justice, having no confidence whatever in punishment for
punishment's sake.

To me it has always been a mystery how the average man, knowing
something of the weakness of human nature, something of the temptations
to which he himself has been exposed—remembering the evil of his
life, the things he would have done had there been opportunity, had
he absolutely known that discovery would be impossible—should have
feelings of hatred toward the imprisoned.

Is it possible that the average man assaults the criminal in a spirit
of self-defence? Does he wish to convince his neighbors that the evil
thought and impulse were never in his mind? Are his words a shield that
he uses to protect himself from suspicion? For my part, I sympathize
sincerely with all failures, with the victims of society, with those who
have fallen, with the imprisoned, with the hopeless, with those who have
been stained by verdicts of guilty, and with those who, in the moment of
passion have destroyed, as with a blow, the future of their lives.

How perilous, after all, is the state of man. It is the work of a life
to build a great and splendid character. It is the work of a moment to
destroy it utterly, from turret to foundation stone. How cruel hypocrisy
is!

Is there any remedy? Can anything be done for the reformation of the
criminal?

He should be treated with kindness. Every right should be given him,
consistent with the safety of society. He should neither be degraded
nor robbed. The State should set the highest and noblest example. The
powerful should never be cruel, and in the breast of the supreme there
should be no desire for revenge.

A man in a moment of want steals the property of another, and he is
sent to the penitentiary—first, as it is claimed, for the purpose of
deterring others; and secondly, of reforming him. The circumstances of
each individual case are rarely inquired into. Investigation stops when
the simple fact of the larceny has been ascertained. No distinctions are
made except as between first and subsequent offences. Nothing is allowed
for surroundings.

All will admit that the industrious must be protected. In this world it
is necessary to work. Labor is the foundation of all prosperity. Larceny
is the enemy of industry. Society has the right to protect itself.
The question is, Has it the right to punish?—has it the right to
degrade?—or should it endeavor to reform the convict?

A man is taken to the penitentiary. He is clad in the garments of
a convict. He is degraded—he loses his name—he is designated by a
number. He is no longer treated as a human being—he becomes the slave
of the State. Nothing is done for his improvement—nothing for his
reformation. He is driven like a beast of burden; robbed of his labor;
leased, it may be, by the State to a contractor, who gets out of his
hands, out of his muscles, out of his poor brain, all the toil that he
can. He is not allowed to speak with a fellow-prisoner. At night he
is alone in his cell. The relations that should exist between men are
destroyed. He is a convict. He is no longer worthy to associate even
with his keepers. The jailer is immensely his superior, and the man who
turns the key upon him at night regards himself, in comparison, as a
model of honesty, of virtue and manhood. The convict is pavement on
which those who watch him walk. He remains for the time of his sentence,
and when that expires he goes forth a branded man. He is given money
enough to pay his fare back to the place from whence he came.

What is the condition of this man? Can he get employment? Not if he
honestly states who he is and where he has been. The first thing he does
is to deny his personality, to assume a name. He endeavors by telling
falsehoods to lay the foundation for future good conduct. The average
man does not wish to employ an ex-convict, because the average man has
no confidence in the reforming power of the penitentiary. He believes
that the convict who comes out is worse than the convict who went in.
He knows that in the penitentiary the heart of this man has been
hardened—that he has been subjected to the torture of perpetual
humiliation—that he has been treated like a ferocious beast; and so he
believes that this ex-convict has in his heart hatred for society, that
he feels he has been degraded and robbed. Under these circumstances,
what avenue is opened to the ex-convict? If he changes his name, there
will be some detective, some officer of the law, some meddlesome wretch,
who will betray his secret. He is then discharged. He seeks employment
again, and he must seek it by again telling what is not true. He is
again detected and again discharged. And finally he becomes convinced
that he cannot live as an honest man. He naturally drifts back into the
society of those who have had a like experience; and the result is
that in a little while he again stands in the dock, charged with the
commission of another crime. Again he is sent to the penitentiary—and
this is the end. He feels that his day is done, that the future has only
degradation for him.

The men in the penitentiaries do not work for themselves. Their labor
belongs to others. They have no interest in their toil—no reason for
doing the best they can—and the result is that the product of their
labor is poor. This product comes in competition with the work of
mechanics, honest men, who have families to support, and the cry is that
convict labor takes the bread from the mouths of virtuous people.

VI.

Why should the State take without compensation the labor of these men;
and why should they, after having been imprisoned for years, be turned
out without the means of support? Would it not be far better, far
more economical, to pay these men for their labor, to lay aside their
earnings from day to day, from month to month, and from year to year—to
put this money at interest, so that when the convict is released after
five years of imprisonment he will have several hundred dollars of his
own—not merely money enough to pay his way back to the place from which
he was sent, but enough to make it possible for him to commence business
on his own account, enough to keep the wolf of crime from the door of
his heart?

Suppose the convict comes out with five hundred dollars. This would be
to most of that class a fortune. It would form a breastwork, a fortress,
behind which the man could fight temptation. This would give him food
and raiment, enable him to go to some other State or country where he
could redeem himself. If this were done, thousands of convicts would
feel under immense obligation to the Government. They would think of the
penitentiary as the place in which they were saved—in which they were
redeemed—and they would feel that the verdict of guilty rescued them
from the abyss of crime. Under these circumstances, the law would appear
beneficent, and the heart of the poor convict, instead of being filled
with malice, would overflow with gratitude. He would see the propriety
of the course pursued by the Government. He would recognize and feel and
experience the benefits of this course, and the result would be good,
not only to him, but to the nation as well.

If the convict worked for himself, he would do the best he could, and
the wares produced in the penitentiaries would not cheapen the labor of
other men.

## Vii

There are, however, men who pursue crime as a vocation—as a
profession—men who have been convicted again and again, and who will
persist in using the liberty of intervals to prey upon the rights of
others. What shall be done with these men and women?

Put one thousand hardened thieves on an island—compel them to produce
what they eat and use—and I am almost certain that a large majority
would be opposed to theft. Those who worked would not permit those
who did not, to steal the result of their labor. In other words,
self-preservation would be the dominant idea, and these men would
instantly look upon the idlers as the enemies of their society.

Such a community would be self-supporting. Let women of the same class
be put by themselves. Keep the sexes absolutely apart. Those who are
beyond the power of reformation should not have the liberty to reproduce
themselves. Those who cannot be reached by kindness—by justice—those
who under no circumstances are willing to do their share, should be
separated. They should dwell apart, and dying, should leave no heirs.

What shall be done with the slayers of their fellow-men—with murderers?
Shall the nation take life?

It has been contended that the death penalty deters others—that it has
far more terror than imprisonment for life. What is the effect of the
example set by a nation? Is not the tendency to harden and degrade not
only those who inflict and those who witness, but the entire community
as well?

A few years ago a man was hanged in Alexandria, Virginia. One who
witnessed the execution, on that very day, murdered a peddler in the
Smithsonian grounds at Washington. He was tried and executed, and one
who witnessed his hanging went home, and on the same day murdered his
wife.

The tendency of the extreme penalty is to prevent conviction. In the
presence of death it is easy for a jury to find a doubt. Technicalities
become important, and absurdities, touched with mercy, have the
appearance for a moment of being natural and logical. Honest and
conscientious men dread a final and irrevocable step. If the penalty
were imprisonment for life, the jury would feel that if any mistake were
made it could be rectified; but where the penalty is death a mistake is
fatal. A conscientious man takes into consideration the defects of human
nature—the uncertainty of testimony, and the countless shadows that
dim and darken the understanding, and refuses to find a verdict that, if
wrong, cannot be righted.

The death penalty, inflicted by the Government, is a perpetual excuse
for mobs.

The greatest danger in a Republic is a mob, and as long as States
inflict the penalty of death, mobs will follow the example. If the State
does not consider life sacred, the mob, with ready rope, will strangle
the suspected. The mob will say: "The only difference is in the trial;
the State does the same—we know the man is guilty—why should time
be wasted in technicalities?" In other words, why may not the mob do
quickly that which the State does slowly?

Every execution tends to harden the public heart—tends to lessen
the sacredness of human life. In many States of this Union the mob is
supreme. For certain offences the mob is expected to lynch the supposed
criminal. It is the duty of every citizen—and as it seems to me
especially of every lawyer—to do what he can to destroy the mob spirit.
One would think that men would be afraid to commit any crime in a
community where the mob is in the ascendency, and yet, such are the
contradictions and subtleties of human nature, that it is exactly the
opposite. And there is another thing in this connection—the men who
constitute the mob are, as a rule, among the worst, the lowest, and the
most depraved.

A few years ago, in Illinois, a man escaped from jail, and, in escaping,
shot the sheriff. He was pursued, overtaken—lynched. The man who put
the rope around his neck was then out on bail, having been indicted for
an assault to murder. And after the poor wretch was dead, another man
climbed the tree from which he dangled and, in derision, put a cigar in
the mouth of the dead; and this man was on bail, having been indicted
for larceny.

Those who are the fiercest to destroy and hang their fellow-men for
having committed crimes, are, for the most part, at heart, criminals
themselves.

As long as nations meet on the fields of war—as long as they sustain
the relations of savages to each other—as long as they put the laurel
and the oak on the brows of those who kill—just so long will citizens
resort to violence, and the quarrels of individuals be settled by dagger
and revolver.

## Viii

If we are to change the conduct of men, we must change their conditions.
Extreme poverty and crime go hand in hand. Destitution multiplies
temptations and destroys the finer feelings. The bodies and souls of men
are apt to be clad in like garments. If the body is covered with rags,
the soul is generally in the same condition. Selfrespect is gone—the
man looks down—he has neither hope nor courage. He becomes sinister—he
envies the prosperous—hates the fortunate, and despises himself.

As long as children are raised in the tenement and gutter, the prisons
will be full. The gulf between the rich and poor will grow wider and
wider. One will depend on cunning, the other on force. It is a great
question whether those who live in luxury can afford to allow others to
exist in want. The value of property depends, not on the prosperity
of the few, but on the prosperity of a very large majority. Life and
property must be secure, or that subtle thing called "value" takes its
leave. The poverty of the many is a perpetual menace. If we expect a
prosperous and peaceful country, the citizens must have homes. The more
homes, the more patriots, the more virtue, and the more security for all
that gives worth to life.

We need not repeat the failures of the old world. To divide lands among
successful generals, or among favorites of the crown, to give vast
estates for services rendered in war, is no worse than to allow men of
great wealth to purchase and hold vast tracts of land. The result is
precisely the same—that is to say, a nation composed of a few landlords
and of many tenants—the tenants resorting from time to time to mob
violence, and the landlords depending upon a standing army. The property
of no man, however, should be taken for either private or public use
without just compensation and in accordance with law. There is in the
State what is known as the right of eminent domain. The State reserves
to itself the power to take the land of any private citizen for a public
use, paying to that private citizen a just compensation to be legally
ascertained. When a corporation wishes to build a railway, it exercises
this right of eminent domain, and where the owner of land refuses to
sell a right of way, or land for the establishment of stations or shops,
and the corporation proceeds to condemn the land to ascertain its value,
and when the amount thus ascertained is paid, the property vests in the
corporation. This power is exercised because in the estimation of the
people the construction of a railway is a public good.

I believe that this power should be exercised in another direction. It
would be well as it seems to me, for the Legislature to fix the amount
of land that a private citizen may own, that will not be subject to be
taken for the use of which I am about to speak. The amount to be thus
held will depend upon many local circumstances, to be decided by each
State for itself. Let me suppose that the amount of land that may be
held for a farmer for cultivation has been fixed at one hundred and
sixty acres—and suppose that A has several thousand acres. B wishes to
buy one hundred and sixty acres or less of this land, for the purpose
of making himself a home. A refuses to sell. Now, I believe that the law
should be so that B can invoke this right of eminent domain, and
file his petition, have the case brought before a jury, or before
commissioners, who shall hear the evidence and determine the value, and
on the payment of the amount the land shall belong to B.

I would extend the same law to lots and houses in cities and
villages—the object being to fill our country with the owners of homes,
so that every child shall have a fireside, every father and mother a
roof, provided they have the intelligence, the energy and the industry
to acquire the necessary means.

Tenements and flats and rented lands are, in my judgment, the enemies of
civilization. They make the rich richer, and the poor poorer. They put a
few in palaces, but they put many in prisons.

I would go a step further than this. I would exempt homes of a certain
value not only from levy and sale, but from every kind of taxation,
State and National—so that these poor people would feel that they were
in partnership with nature—that some of the land was absolutely theirs,
and that no one could drive them from their home—so that mothers could
feel secure. If the home increased in value, and exceeded the limit,
then taxes could be paid on the excess; and if the home were sold, I
would have the money realized exempt for a certain time in order that
the family should have the privilege of buying another home.

The home, after all, is the unit of civilization, of good government;
and to secure homes for a great majority of our citizens, would be to
lay the foundation of our Government deeper and broader and stronger
than that of any nation that has existed among men.

IX.

No one places a higher value upon the free school than I do; and no one
takes greater pride in the prosperity of our colleges and universities.
But at the same time, much that is called education simply unfits men
successfully to fight the battle of life. Thousands are to-day studying
things that will be of exceedingly little importance to them or to
others. Much valuable time is wasted in studying languages that long ago
were dead, and histories in which there is no truth.

There was an idea in the olden time—and it is not yet dead—that
whoever was educated ought not to work; that he should use his head
and not his hands. Graduates were ashamed to be found engaged in manual
labor, in ploughing fields, in sowing or in gathering grain. To this
manly kind of independence they preferred the garret and the precarious
existence of an unappreciated poet, borrowing their money from their
friends, and their ideas from the dead. The educated regarded the useful
as degrading—they were willing to stain their souls to keep their hands
white.

The object of all education should be to increase the use fulness of
man—usefulness to himself and others. Every human being should be
taught that his first duty is to take care of himself, and that to be
self-respecting he must be self-supporting. To live on the labor of
others, either by force which enslaves, or by cunning which robs, or by
borrowing or begging, is wholly dishonorable. Every man should be taught
some useful art. His hands should be educated as well as his head. He
should be taught to deal with things as they are—with life as it
is. This would give a feeling of independence, which is the firmest
foundation of honor, of character. Every man knowing that he is useful,
admires himself.

In all the schools children should be taught to work in wood and
iron, to understand the construction and use of machinery, to become
acquainted with the great forces that man is using to do his work. The
present system of education teaches names, not things. It is as though
we should spend years in learning the names of cards, without playing a
game.

In this way boys would learn their aptitudes—would ascertain what they
were fitted for—what they could do. It would not be a guess, or an
experiment, but a demonstration. Education should increase a boy's
chances for getting a living. The real good of it is to get food and
roof and raiment, opportunity to develop the mind and the body and live
a full and ample life.

The more real education, the less crime—and the more homes, the fewer
prisons.

X.

The fear of punishment may deter some, the fear of exposure others; but
there is no real reforming power in fear or punishment. Men cannot be
tortured into greatness, into goodness. All this, as I said before, has
been thoroughly tried. The idea that punishment was the only relief,
found its limit, its infinite, in the old doctrine of eternal pain; but
the believers in that dogma stated distinctly that the victims never
would be, and never could be, reformed.

As men become civilized they become capable of greater pain and of
greater joy. To the extent that the average man is capable of enjoying
or suffering, to that extent he has sympathy with others. The average
man, the more enlightened he becomes, the more apt he is to put himself
in the place of another. He thinks of his prisoner, of his employee, of
his tenant—and he even thinks beyond these; he thinks of the community
at large. As man becomes civilized he takes more and more into
consideration circumstances and conditions. He gradually loses faith in
the old ideas and theories that every man can do as he wills, and in the
place of the word "wills," he puts the word "must." The time comes
to the intelligent man when in the place of punishments he thinks of
consequences, results—that is to say, not something inflicted by some
other power, but something necessarily growing out of what is done. The
clearer men perceive the consequences of actions, the better they will
be. Behind consequences we place no personal will, and consequently do
not regard them as inflictions, or punishments. Consequences, no matter
how severe they may be, create in the mind no feeling of resentment, no
desire for revenge.' We do not feel bitterly toward the fire because it
burns, or the frost that freezes, or the flood that overwhelms, or the
sea that drowns—because we attribute to these things no motives, good
or bad. So, when through the development of the intellect man perceives
not only the nature, but the absolute certainty of consequences, he
refrains from certain actions, and this may be called reformation
through the intellect—and surely there is no better reformation than
this. Some may be, and probably millions have been, reformed, through
kindness, through gratitude—made better in the sunlight of charity.
In the atmosphere of kindness the seeds of virtue burst into bud
and flower. Cruelty, tyranny, brute force, do not and can not by any
possibility better the heart of man. He who is forced upon his knees has
the attitude, but never the feeling, of prayer.

I am satisfied that the discipline of the average prison hardens and
degrades. It is for the most part a perpetual exhibition of arbitrary
power. There is really no appeal. The cries of the convict are not heard
beyond the walls. The protests die in cells, and the poor prisoner feels
that the last tie between him and his fellow-men has been broken. He is
kept in ignorance of the outer world. The prison is a cemetery, and his
cell is a grave.

In many of the penitentiaries there are instruments of torture, and now
and then a convict is murdered. Inspections and investigations go
for naught, because the testimony of a convict goes for naught. He is
generally prevented by fear from telling his wrongs; but if he speaks,
he is not believed—he is regarded as less than a human being, and so
the imprisoned remain without remedy. When the visitors are gone, the
convict who has spoken is prevented from speaking again.

Every manly feeling, every effort toward real reformation, is trampled
under foot, so that when the convict's time is out there is little left
on which to build. He has been humiliated to the last degree, and his
spirit has so long been bent by authority and fear that even the desire
to stand erect has almost faded from the mind. The keepers feel that
they are safe, because no matter what they do, the convict when released
will not tell the story of his wrongs, for if he conceals his shame, he
must also hide their guilt.

Every penitentiary should be a real reformatory. That should be the
principal object for the establishment of the prison. The men in charge
should be of the kindest and noblest. They should be filled with divine
enthusiasm for humanity, and every means should be taken to convince
the prisoner that his good is sought—that nothing is done for
revenge—nothing for a display of power, and nothing for the
gratification of malice. He should feel that the warden is his unselfish
friend. When a convict is charged with a violation of the rules—with
insubordination, or with any offence, there should be an investigation
in due and proper form, giving the convict an opportunity to be heard.
He should not be for one moment the victim of irresponsible power. He
would then feel that he had some rights, and that some little of
the human remained in him still. They should be taught things of
value—instructed by competent men. Pains should be taken, not to
punish, not to degrade, but to benefit and ennoble.

We know, if we know anything, that men in the penitentiaries are not
altogether bad, and that many out are not altogether good; and we feel
that in the brain and heart of all, there are the seeds of good and bad.
We know, too, that the best are liable to fall, and it may be that the
worst, under certain conditions, may be capable of grand and heroic
deeds. Of one thing we may be assured—and that is, that criminals will
never be reformed by being robbed, humiliated and degraded.

Ignorance, filth, and poverty are the missionaries of crime. As long as
dishonorable success outranks honest effort—as long as society bows and
cringes before the great thieves, there will be little ones enough to
fill the jails.

XI.

All the penalties, all the punishments, are inflicted under a belief
that man can do right under all circumstances—that his conduct is
absolutely under his control, and that his will is a pilot that can,
in spite of winds and tides, reach any port desired. All this is, in my
judgment, a mistake. It is a denial of the integrity of nature. It is
based upon the supernatural and miraculous, and as long as this mistake
remains the corner-stone of criminal jurisprudence, reformation will be
impossible.

We must take into consideration the nature of man—the facts of
mind—the power of temptation—the limitations of the intellect—the
force of habit—the result of heredity—the power of passion—the
domination of want—the diseases of the brain—the tyranny of
appetite—the cruelty of conditions—the results of association—the
effects of poverty and wealth, of helplessness and power.

Until these subtle things are understood—until we know that man, in
spite of all, can certainly pursue the highway of the right, society
should not impoverish and degrade, should not chain and kill those who,
after all, may be the helpless victims of unknown causes that are deaf
and blind.

We know something of ourselves—of the average man—of his thoughts,
passions, fears and aspirations—something of his sorrows and his joys,
his weakness, his liability to fall—something of what he resists—the
struggles, the victories and the failures of his life. We know something
of the tides and currents of the mysterious sea—something of the
circuits of the wayward winds—but we do not know where the wild storms
are born that wreck and rend. Neither do we know in what strange realm
the mists and clouds are formed that darken all the heaven of the mind,
nor from whence comes the tempest of the brain in which the will to
do, sudden as the lightning's flash, seizes and holds the man until the
dreadful deed is done that leaves a curse upon the soul.

We do not know. Our ignorance should make us hesitate. Our weakness
should make us merciful.

I cannot more fittingly close this address than by quoting the prayer
of the Buddhist: "I pray thee to have pity on the vicious—thou hast
already had pity on the virtuous by making them so."
---
# Cruelty in the Elmira Reformatory
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1894_
IN my judgment, no human being was ever made better, nobler, by being
whipped or clubbed.

Mr. Brockway, according to his own testimony, is simply a savage. He
belongs to the Dark Ages—to the Inquisition, to the torture-chamber,
and he needs reforming more than any prisoner under his control. To
put any man within his power is in itself a crime. Mr. Brockway is a
believer in cruelty—an apostle of brutality. He beats and bruises flesh
to satisfy his conscience—his sense of duty. He wields the club himself
because he enjoys the agony he inflicts.

When a poor wretch, having reached the limit of endurance, submits or
becomes unconscious, he is regarded as reformed. During the remainder of
his term he trembles and obeys. But he is not reformed. In his heart is
the flame of hatred, the desire for revenge; and he returns to society
far worse than when he entered the prison.

Mr. Brockway should either be removed or locked up, and the Elmira
Reformatory should be superintended by some civilized man—some man with
brain enough to know, and heart enough to feel.

I do not believe that one brute, by whipping, beating and lacerating
the flesh of another, can reform him. The lash will neither develop the
brain nor cultivate the heart. There should be no bruising, no scarring
of the body in families, in schools, in reformatories, or prisons. A
civilized man does not believe in the methods of savagery. Brutality
has been tried for thousands of years and through all these years it has
been a failure.

Criminals have been flogged, mutilated and maimed, tortured in a
thousand ways, and the only effect was to demoralize, harden and
degrade society and increase the number of crimes. In the army and navy,
soldiers and sailors were flogged to death, and everywhere by church and
state the torture of the helpless was practiced and upheld.

Only a few years ago there were two hundred and twenty-three offences
punished with death in England. Those who wished to reform this savage
code were denounced as the enemies of morality and law. They were
regarded as weak and sentimental.

At last the English code was reformed through the efforts of men who
had brain and heart. But it is a significant fact that no bishop of
the Episcopal Church, sitting in the House of Lords, ever voted for the
repeal of one of those savage laws. Possibly this fact throws light
on the recent poetic and Christian declaration by Bishop Potter to the
effect that "there are certain criminals who can only be made to realize
through their hides the fact that the State has laws to which the
individual must be obedient."

This orthodox remark has the true apostolic ring, and is in perfect
accord with the history of the church. But it does not accord with the
intelligence and philanthropy of our time. Let us develop the brain by
education, the heart by kindness. Let us remember that criminals
are produced by conditions, and let us do what we can to change the
conditions and to reform the criminals.
---
# Crumbling Creeds
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1893_
THERE is a desire in each brain to harmonize the knowledge that it has.
If a man knows, or thinks he knows, a few facts, he will naturally use
those facts for the purpose of determining the accuracy of his opinions
on other subjects. This is simply an effort to establish or prove the
unknown by the known—a process that is constantly going on in the minds
of all intelligent people.

It is natural for a man not governed by fear, to use what he knows
in one department of human inquiry, in every other department that he
investigates. The average of intelligence has in the last few years
greatly increased. Man may have as much credulity as he ever had, on
some subjects, but certainly on the old subjects he has less. There
is not as great difference to-day between the members of the learned
professions and the common people. Man is governed less and less by
authority. He cares but little for the conclusions of the universities.
He does not feel bound by the actions of synods or ecumenical
councils—neither does he bow to the decisions of the highest tribunals,
unless the reasons given for the decision satisfy his intellect. One
reason for this is, that the so-called "learned" do not agree among
themselves—that the universities dispute each other—that the synod
attacks the ecumenical council—that the parson snaps his fingers at the
priest, and even the Protestant bishop holds the pope in contempt. If
the learned cau thus disagree, there is no reason why the common people
should hold to one opinion. They are at least called upon to decide as
between the universities or synods; and in order to decide, they must
examine both sides, and having examined both sides, they generally have
an opinion of their own.

There was a time when the average man knew nothing of medicine—he
simply opened his mouth and took the dose. If he died, it was simply a
dispensation of Providence—if he got well, it was a triumph of science.
Now this average man not only asks the doctor what is the matter with
him—not only asks what medicine will be good for him,—but insists
on knowing the philosophy of the cure—asks the doctor why he gives
it—what result he expects—and, as a rule, has a judgment of his own.

So in law. The average business man has an exceedingly good idea of the
law affecting his business. There is nothing now mysterious about what
goes on in courts or in the decisions of judges—they are published in
every direction, and all intelligent people who happen to read these
opinions have their ideas as to whether the opinions are right or wrong.
They are no longer the victims of doctors, or of lawyers, or of courts.

The same is true in the world of art and literature. The average man has
an opinion of his own. He is no longer a parrot repeating what somebody
else says. He not only has opinions, but he has the courage to express
them. In literature the old models fail to satisfy him. He has the
courage to say that Milton is tiresome—that Dante is prolix—that they
deal with subjects having no human interest. He laughs at Young's "Night
Thoughts" and Pollok's "Course of Time"—knowing that both are filled
with hypocrisies and absurdities. He no longer falls upon his knees
before the mechanical poetry of Mr. Pope. He chooses—and stands by his
own opinion. I do not mean that he is entirely independent, but that he
is going in that direction.

The same is true of pictures. He prefers the modern to the old masters.
He prefers Corot to Raphael. He gets more real pleasure from Millet and
Troyon than from all the pictures of all the saints and donkeys of the
Middle Ages.

In other words, the days of authority are passing away.

The same is true in music. The old no longer satisfies, and there is a
breadth, color, wealth, in the new that makes the old poor and barren in
comparison.

To a far greater extent this advance, this individual independence, is
seen in the religious world. The religion of our day—that is to say,
the creeds—at the time they were made, were in perfect harmony with the
knowledge, or rather with the ignorance, of man in all other departments
of human inquiry. All orthodox creeds agreed with the sciences of
their day—with the astronomy and geology and biology and political
conceptions of the Middle Ages. These creeds were declared to be the
absolute and eternal truth. They could not be changed without abandoning
the claim that made them authority. The priests, through a kind of
unconscious self-defence, clung to every word. They denied the truth of
all discovery. They measured every assertion in every other
department by their creeds. At last the facts against them became
so numerous—their congregations became so intelligent—that it
was necessary to give new meanings to the old words. The cruel was
softened—the absurd was partially explained, and they kept these old
words, although the original meanings had fallen out. They became empty
purses, but they retained them still.

Slowly but surely came the time when this course could not longer be
pursued. The words must be thrown away—the creeds must be changed—they
were no longer believed—only occasionally were they preached. The
ministers became a little ashamed—they began to apologize. Apology is
the prelude to retreat.

Of all the creeds, the Presbyterian, the old Congregational, were the
most explicit, and for that reason the most absurd. When these creeds
were written, those who wrote them had perfect confidence in their
truth. They did not shrink because of their cruelty. They cared nothing
for what others called absurdity. They failed not to declare what they
believed to be "the whole counsel of God."

At that time, cruel punishments were inflicted by all governments.
People were torn asunder, mutilated, burned. Every atrocity was
perpetrated in the name of justice, and the limit of pain was the limit
of endurance. These people imagined that God would do as they would do.
If they had had it in their power to keep the victim alive for years in
the flames, they would most cheerfully have supplied the fagots.
They believed that God could keep the victim alive forever, and that
therefore his punishment would be eternal. As man becomes civilized he
becomes merciful, and the time came when civilized Presbyterians and
Congregationalists read their own creeds with horror.

I am not saying that the Presbyterian creed is any worse than the
Catholic. It is only a little more specific. Neither am I saying that it
is more horrible than the Episcopal. It is not. All orthodox creeds are
alike infamous. All of them have good things, and all of them have bad
things. You will find in every creed the blossom of mercy and the oak of
justice, but under the one and around the other are coiled the serpents
of infinite cruelty.

The time came when orthodox Christians began dimly to perceive that
God ought at least to be as good as they were. They felt that they
were incapable of inflicting eternal pain, and they began to doubt the
propriety of saying that God would do that which a civilized Christian
would be incapable of.

We have improved in all directions for the same reasons. We have better
laws now because we have a better sense of justice. We are believing
more and more in the government of the people. Consequently we are
believing more and more in the education of the people, and from that
naturally results greater individuality and a greater desire to hear the
honest opinions of all.

The moment the expression of opinion is allowed in any department,
progress begins. We are using our knowledge in every direction. The
tendency is to test all opinions by the facts we know. All claims are
put in the crucible of investigation—the object being to separate the
true from the false. He who objects to having his opinions thus tested
is regarded as a bigot.

If the professors of all the sciences had claimed that the knowledge
they had was given by inspiration—that it was absolutely true, and that
there was no necessity of examining further, not only, but that it was
a kind of blasphemy to doubt—all the sciences would have remained
as stationary as religion has. Just to the extent that the Bible was
appealed to in matters of science, science was retarded; and just to
the extent that science has been appealed to in matters of religion,
religion has advanced—so that now the object of intelligent
religionists is to adopt a creed that will bear the test and criticism
of science.

Another thing may be alluded to in this connection. All the countries
of the world are now, and have been for years, open to us. The ideas
of other people—their theories, their religions—are now known; and we
have ascertained that the religions of all people have exactly the
same foundation as our own—that they all arose in the same way, were
substantiated in the same way, were maintained by the same means, having
precisely the same objects in view.

For many years, the learned of the religious world were examining the
religions of other countries, and in that work they established certain
rules of criticism—pursued certain lines of argument—by which they
overturned the claims of those religions to supernatural origin. After
this had been successfully done, others, using the same methods on our
religion, pursuing the same line of argument, succeeded in overturning
ours. We have found that all miracles rest on the same basis—that all
wonders were born of substantially the same ignorance and the same fear.

The intelligence of the world is far better distributed than ever
before. The historical outlines of all countries are well known.
The arguments for and against all systems of religion are generally
understood. The average of intelligence is far higher than ever before.
All discoveries become almost immediately the property of the whole
civilized world, and all thoughts are distributed by the telegraph and
press with such rapidity, that provincialism is almost unknown. The
egotism of ignorance and seclusion is passing away. The prejudice of
race and religion is growing feebler, and everywhere, to a greater
extent than ever before, the light is welcome.

These are a few of the reasons why creeds are crumbling, and why such a
change has taken place in the religious world.

Only a few years ago the pulpit was an intellectual power. The pews
listened with wonder, and accepted without question. There was something
sacred about the preacher. He was different from other mortals. He had
bread to eat which they knew not of. He was oracular, solemn, dignified,
stupid.

The pulpit has lost its position. It speaks no longer with authority.
The pews determine what shall be preached. They pay only for that which
they wish to buy—for that which they wish to hear. Of course in every
church there is an advance guard and a conservative party, and nearly
every minister is obliged to preach a little for both. He now and then
says a radical thing for one part of his congregation, and takes it
mostly back on the next Sabbath, for the sake of the others. Most of
them ride two horses, and their time is taken up in urging one forward
and in holding the other back.

The great reason why the orthodox creeds have become unpopular is, that
all teach the dogma of eternal pain.

In old times, when men were nearly wild beasts, it was natural enough
for them to suppose that God would do as they would do in his place, and
so they attributed to this God infinite cruelty, infinite revenge. This
revenge, this cruelty, wore the mask of justice. They took the ground
that God, having made man, had the right to do with him as he pleased.
At that time they were not civilized to the extent of seeing that a God
would not have the right to make a failure, and that a being of infinite
wisdom and power would be under obligation to do the right, and that
he would have no right to create any being whose life would not be a
blessing. The very fact that he made man, would put him under obligation
to see to it that life should not be a curse.

The doctrine of eternal punishment is in perfect harmony with the
savagery of the men who made the orthodox creeds. It is in harmony with
torture, with flaying alive and with burnings. The men who burned
their fellow-men for a moment, believed that God would burn his enemies
forever.

No civilized men ever believed in this dogma. The belief in eternal
punishment has driven millions from the church. It was easy enough for
people to imagine that the children of others had gone to hell; that
foreigners had been doomed to eternal pain; but when it was brought
home—when fathers and mothers bent above their dead who had died in
their sins—when wives shed their tears on the faces of husbands who had
been born but once—love suggested doubts and love fought the dogma of
eternal revenge.

This doctrine is as cruel as the hunger of hyenas, and is infamous
beyond the power of any language to express—yet a creed with this
doctrine has been called "the glad tidings of great joy"—a consolation
to the weeping world. It is a source of great pleasure to me to know
that all intelligent people are ashamed to admit that they believe
it—that no intelligent clergyman now preaches it, except with a preface
to the effect that it is probably untrue.

I have been blamed for taking this consolation from the world—for
putting out, or trying to put out, the fires of hell; and many orthodox
people have wondered how I could be so wicked as to deprive the world of
this hope.

The church clung to the doctrine because it seemed a necessary excuse
for the existence of the church. The ministers said: "No hell, no
atonement; no atonement, no fall of man; no fall of man, no inspired
book; no inspired book, no preachers; no preachers, no salary; no hell,
no missionaries; no sulphur, no salvation."

At last, the people are becoming enlightened enough to ask for a better
philosophy. The doctrine of hell is now only for the poor, the ragged,
the ignorant. Well-dressed people won't have it. Nobody goes to hell
in a carriage—they foot it. Hell is for strangers and tramps. No soul
leaves a brown-stone front for hell—they start from the tenements, from
jails and reformatories. In other words, hell is for the poor. It is
easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a poor man
to get into heaven, or for a rich man to get into hell. The ministers
stand by their supporters. Their salaries are paid by the well-to-do,
and they can hardly afford to send the subscribers to hell. Every creed
in which is the dogma of eternal pain is doomed. Every church teaching
the infinite lie must fall, and the sooner the better.—The Twentieth
Century, N, Y., April 21,1890.
---
# Eight Hours Must Come
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
I HARDLY know enough on the subject to give an opinion as to the
time when eight hours are to become a day's work, but I am perfectly
satisfied that eight hours will become a labor day.

The working people should be protected by law; if they are not, the
capitalists will require just as many hours as human nature can bear.
We have seen here in America street-car drivers working sixteen and
seventeen hours a day. It was necessary to have a strike in order to
get to fourteen, another strike to get to twelve, and nobody could blame
them for keeping on striking till they get to eight hours.

For a man to get up before daylight and work till after dark, life is
of no particular importance. He simply earns enough one day to prepare
himself to work another. His whole life is spent in want and toil, and
such a life is without value.

Of course, I cannot say that the present effort is going to succeed—all
I can say is that I hope it will. I cannot see how any man who does
nothing—who lives in idleness—can insist that others should work ten
or twelve hours a day. Neither can I see how a man who lives on the
luxuries of life can find it in his heart, or in his stomach, to say
that the poor ought to be satisfied with the crusts and crumbs they get.

I believe there is to be a revolution in the relations between labor
and capital. The laboring people a few generations ago were not very
intellectual. There were no schoolhouses, no teachers except the church,
and the church taught obedience and faith—told the poor people that
although they had a hard time here, working for nothing, they would be
paid in Paradise with a large interest. Now the working people are more
intelligent—they are better educated—they read and write. In order to
carry on the works of the present, many of them are machinists of the
highest order. They must be reasoners. Every kind of mechanism insists
upon logic. The working people are reasoners—their hands and heads are
in partnership. They know a great deal more than the capitalists. It
takes a thousand times the brain to make a locomotive that it does to
run a store or a bank. Think of the intelligence in a steamship and
in all the thousand machines and devices that are now working for the
world. These working people read. They meet together—they discuss. They
are becoming more and more independent in thought. They do not believe
all they hear. They may take their hats off their heads to the priests,
but they keep their brains in their heads for themselves.

The free school in this country has tended to put men on an equality,
and the mechanic understands his side of the case, and is able to
express his views. Under these circumstances there must be a revolution.
That is to say, the relations between capital and labor must be changed,
and the time must come when they who do the work—they who make the
money—will insist on having some of the profits.

I do not expect this remedy to come entirely from the Government, or
from Government interference. I think the Government can aid in passing
good and wholesome laws—laws fixing the length of a labor day; laws
preventing the employment of children; laws for the safety and security
of workingmen in mines and other dangerous places. But the laboring
people must rely upon themselves; on their intelligence, and especially
on their political power. They are in the majority in this country.
They can if they wish—if they will stand together—elect Congresses
and Senates, Presidents and Judges. They have it in their power to
administer the Government of the United States.

The laboring man, however, ought to remember that all who labor are
their brothers, and that all women who labor are their sisters, and
whenever one class of workingmen or working women is oppressed all other
laborers ought to stand by the oppressed class. Probably the worst paid
people in the world are the working-women. Think of the sewing women in
this city—and yet we call ourselves civilized! I would like to see all
working people unite for the purpose of demanding justice, not only for
men, but for women.

All my sympathies are on the side of those who toil—of those who
produce the real wealth of the world—of those who carry the burdens of
mankind.

Any man who wishes to force his brother to work—to toil—more than
eight hours a day is not a civilized man.

My hope for the workingman has its foundation in the fact that he is
growing more and more intelligent. I have also the same hope for the
capitalist. The time must come when the capitalist will clearly and
plainly see that his interests are identical with those of the laboring
man. He will finally become intelligent enough to know that his
prosperity depends on the prosperity of those who labor. When both
become intelligent the matter will be settled.

Neither labor nor capital should resort to force.—The Morning Journal,
April 27, 1890.
---
# Ernest Renan
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1892_
> "Blessed are those
> Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled
> That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
> To sound what stop she please."

ERNEST RENAN is dead. Another source of light; another force of
civilization; another charming personality; another brave soul, graceful
in thought, generous in deed; a sculptor in speech, a colorist in
words—clothing all in the poetry born of a delightful union of heart
and brain—has passed to the realm of rest.

Reared under the influences of Catholicism, educated for the priesthood,
yet by reason of his natural genius, he began to think. Forces that
utterly subjugate and enslave the mind of mediocrity sometimes rouse to
thought and action the superior soul.

Renan began to think—a dangerous thing for a Catholic to do. Thought
leads to doubt, doubt to investigation, investigation to truth—the
enemy of all superstition.

He lifted the Catholic extinguisher from the light and flame of reason.
He found that his mental vision was improved. He read the Scriptures
for himself, examined them as he did other books not claiming to be
inspired. He found the same mistakes, the same prejudices, the same
miraculous impossibilities in the book attributed to God that he found
in those known to have been written by men.

Into the path of reason, or rather into the highway, Renan was led by
Henriette, his sister, to whom he pays a tribute that has the perfume of
a perfect flower.

"I was," writes Renan, "brought up by women and priests, and therein
lies the whole explanation of my good qualities and of my defects."
In most that he wrote is the tenderness of woman, only now and then a
little touch of the priest showing itself, mostly in a reluctance to
spoil the ivy by tearing down some prison built by superstition.

In spite of the heartless "scheme" of things he still found it in his
heart to say, "When God shall be complete, He will be just," at the same
time saying that "nothing proves to us that there exists in the world
a central consciousness—a soul of the universe—and nothing proves the
contrary." So, whatever was the verdict of his brain, his heart asked
for immortality. He wanted his dream, and he was willing that others
should have theirs. Such is the wish and will of all great souls.

He knew the church thoroughly and anticipated what would finally
be written about him by churchmen: "Having some experience of
ecclesiastical writers I can sketch out in advance the way my biography
will be written in Spanish in some Catholic review, of Santa Fe, in the
year 2,000. Heavens! how black I shall be! I shall be so all the more,
because the church when she feels that she is lost will end with malice.
She will bite like a mad dog."

He anticipated such a biography because he had thought for himself, and
because he had expressed his thoughts—because he had declared that "our
universe, within the reach of our experience, is not governed by any
intelligent reason. God, as the common herd understand him, the living
God, the acting God—the God-Providence, does not show himself in the
universe"—because he attacked the mythical and the miraculous in the
life of Christ and sought to rescue from the calumnies of ignorance and
faith a serene and lofty soul.

The time has arrived when Jesus must become a myth or a man. The idea
that he was the infinite God must be abandoned by all who are not
religiously insane. Those who have given up the claim that he was God,
insist that he was divinely appointed and illuminated; that he was
a perfect man—the highest possible type of the human race and,
consequently, a perfect example for all the world.

As time goes on, as men get wider or grander or more complex ideas of
life, as the intellectual horizon broadens, the idea that Christ was
perfect may be modified.

The New Testament seems to describe several individuals under the same
name, or at least one individual who passed through several stages or
phases of religious development. Christ is described as a devout Jew,
as one who endeavored to comply in all respects with the old law. Many
sayings are attributed to him consistent with this idea. He certainly
was a Hebrew in belief and feeling when he said, "Swear not by Heaven,
because it is God's throne, nor by earth, for it is his footstool; nor
by Jerusalem, for it is his holy city." These reasons were in exact
accordance with the mythology of the Jews. God was regarded simply as
an enormous man, as one who walked in the garden in the cool of the
evening, as one who had met man face to face, who had conversed with
Moses for forty days upon Mount Sinai, as a great king, with a throne
in the heavens, using the earth to rest his feet upon, and regarding
Jerusalem as his holy city.

Then we find plenty of evidence that he wished to reform the religion
of the Jews; to fulfill the law, not to abrogate it Then there is still
another change: he has ceased his efforts to reform that religion and
has become a destroyer. He holds the Temple in contempt and repudiates
the idea that Jerusalem is the holy city. He concludes that it is
unnecessary to go to some mountain or some building to worship or to
find God, and insists that the heart is the true temple, that ceremonies
are useless, that all pomp and pride and show are needless, and that it
is enough to worship God under heaven's dome, in spirit and in truth.

It is impossible to harmonize these views unless we admit that Christ
was the subject of growth and change; that in consequence of growth and
change he modified his views; that, from wanting to preserve Judaism as
it was, he became convinced that it ought to be reformed. That he then
abandoned the idea of reformation, and made up his mind that the only
reformation of which the Jewish religion was capable was destruction. If
he was in fact a man, then the course he pursued was natural; but if he
was God, it is perfectly absurd. If we give to him perfect knowledge,
then it is impossible to account for change or growth. If, on the other
hand, the ground is taken that he was a perfect man, then, it might be
asked, Was he perfect when he wished to preserve, or when he wished to
reform, or when he resolved to destroy, the religion of the Jews? If
he is to be regarded as perfect, although not divine, when did he reach
perfection?

It is perfectly evident that Christ, or the character that bears that
name, imagined that the world was about to be destroyed, or at least
purified by fire, and that, on account of this curious belief, he became
the enemy of marriage, of all earthly ambition and of all enterprise.
With that view in his mind, he said to himself, "Why should we waste our
energies in producing food for destruction? Why should we endeavor to
beautify a world that is so soon to perish?" Filled with the thought of
coming change, he insisted that there was but one important thing, and
that was for each man to save his soul. He should care nothing for the
ties of kindred, nothing for wife or child or property, in the shadow of
the coming disaster. He should take care of himself. He endeavored, as
it is said, to induce men to desert all they had, to let the dead, bury
the dead, and follow him. He told his disciples, or those he wished to
make his disciples, according to the Testament, that it was their duty
to desert wife and child and property, and if they would so desert
kindred and wealth, he would reward them here and hereafter.

We know now—if we know anything—that Jesus was mistaken about the
coming of the end, and we know now that he was greatly controlled in
his ideas of life, by that mistake. Believing that the end was near,
he said, "Take no thought for the morrow, what ye shall eat or what ye
shall drink or wherewithal ye shall be clothed." It was in view of the
destruction of the world that he called the attention of his disciples
to the lily that toiled not and yet excelled Solomon in the glory of its
raiment. Having made this mistake, having acted upon it, certainly we
cannot now say that he was perfect in knowledge.

He is regarded by many millions as the impersonation of patience, of
forbearance, of meekness and mercy, and yet, according to the account,
he said many extremely bitter words, and threatened eternal pain.

We also know, if the account be true, that he claimed to have
supernatural power, to work miracles, to cure the blind and to raise the
dead, and we know that he did nothing of the kind. So if the writers of
the New Testament tell the truth as to what Christ claimed, it is absurd
to say that he was a perfect man. If honest, he was deceived, and those
who are deceived are not perfect.

There is nothing in the New Testament, so far as we know, that touches
on the duties of nation to nation, or of nation to its citizens; nothing
of human liberty; not one word about education; not the faintest hint
that there is such a thing as science; nothing calculated to stimulate
industry, commerce, or invention; not one word in favor of art, of music
or anything calculated to feed or clothe the body, nothing to develop
the brain of man.

When it is assumed that the life of Christ, as described in the New
Testament, is perfect, we at least take upon ourselves the burden of
deciding what perfection is. People who asserted that Christ was divine,
that he was actually God, reached the conclusion, without any laborious
course of reasoning, that all he said and did was absolute perfection.
They said this because they had first been convinced that he was divine.
The moment his divinity is given up and the assertion is made that he
was perfect, we are not permitted to reason in that way. They said he
was God, therefore perfect. Now, if it is admitted that he was human,
the conclusion that he was perfect does not follow. We then take the
burden upon ourselves of deciding what perfection is. To decide what is
perfect is beyond the powers of the human mind.

Renan, in spite of his education, regarded Christ as a man, and did the
best he could to account for the miracles that had been attributed
to him, for the legends that had gathered about his name, and the
impossibilities connected with his career, and also tried to account for
the origin or birth of these miracles, of these legends, of these myths,
including the resurrection and ascension. I am not satisfied with all
the conclusions he reached or with all the paths he traveled. The
refraction of light caused by passing through a woman's tears is hardly
a sufficient foundation for a belief in so miraculous a miracle as the
bodily ascension of Jesus Christ.

There is another thing attributed to Christ that seems to me conclusive
evidence against the claim of perfection. Christ is reported to have
said that all sins could be forgiven except the sin against the Holy
Ghost. This sin, however, is not defined. Although Christ died for the
whole world, that through him all might be saved, there is this one
terrible exception: There is no salvation for those who have sinned, or
who may hereafter sin, against the Holy Ghost. Thousands of persons are
now in asylums, having lost their reason because of their fear that they
had committed this unknown, this undefined, this unpardonable sin.

It is said that a Roman Emperor went through a form of publishing his
laws or proclamations, posting them so high on pillars that they could
not be read, and then took the lives of those who ignorantly violated
these unknown laws. He was regarded as a tyrant, as a murderer. And
yet, what shall we say of one who declared that the sin against the
Holy Ghost was the only one that could not be forgiven, and then left an
ignorant world to guess what that sin is? Undoubtedly this horror is an
interpolation.

There is something like it in the Old Testament. It is asserted by
Christians that the Ten Commandments are the foundation of all law and
of all civilization, and you will find lawyers insisting that the Mosaic
Code was the first information that man received on the subject of law;
that before that time the world was without any knowledge of justice or
mercy. If this be true the Jews had no divine laws, no real
instruction on any legal subject until the Ten Commandments were given.
Consequently, before that time there had been proclaimed or published
no law against the worship of other gods or of idols. Moses had been on
Mount Sinai talking with Jehovah. At the end of the dialogue he received
the Tables of Stone and started down the mountain for the purpose of
imparting this information to his followers. When he reached the camp
he heard music. He saw people dancing, and he found that in his absence
Aaron and the rest of the people had cast a molten calf which they were
then worshiping. This so enraged Moses that he broke the Tables of Stone
and made preparations for the punishment of the Jews. Remember that
they knew nothing about this law, and, according to the modern Christian
claims, could not have known that it was wrong to melt gold and silver
and mould it in the form of a calf. And yet Moses killed about thirty
thousand of these people for having violated a law of which they had
never heard; a law known only to one man and one God. Nothing could be
more unjust, more ferocious, than this; and yet it can hardly be said to
exceed in cruelty the announcement that a certain sin was unpardonable
and then fail to define the sin. Possibly, to inquire what the sin is,
is the sin.

Renan regards Jesus as a man, and his work gets its value from the
fact that it is written from a human standpoint. At the same time he,
consciously or unconsciously, or may be for the purpose of sprinkling
a little holy water on the heat of religious indignation, now and then
seems to speak of him as more than human, or as having accomplished
something that man could not.

He asserts that "the Gospels are in part legendary; that they contain
many things not true; that they are full of miracles and of the
supernatural." At the same time he insists that these legends, these
miracles, these supernatural things do not affect the truth of the
probable things contained in these writings. He sees, and sees clearly,
that there is no evidence that Matthew or Mark or Luke or John wrote the
books attributed to them; that, as a matter of fact, the mere title
of "according to Matthew," "according to Mark," shows that they were
written by others who claimed them to be in accordance with the stories
that had been told by Matthew or by Mark. So Renan takes the ground that
the Gospel of Luke is founded on anterior documents and "is the work of
a man who selected, pruned and combined, and that the same man wrote the
Acts of the Apostles and in the same way."

The gospels were certainly written long after the events described, and
Renan finds the reason for this in the fact that the Christians believed
that the world was about to end; that, consequently, there was no need
of composing books; it was only necessary for them to preserve in their
hearts during the little margin of time that remained a lively image of
Him whom they soon expected to meet in the clouds. For this reason
the gospels themselves had but little authority for 150 years, the
Christians relying on oral traditions. Renan shows that there was
not the slightest scruple about inserting additions in the gospels,
variously combining them, and in completing some by taking parts from
others; that the books passed from hand to hand, and that each one
transcribed in the margin of his copy the words and parables he had
found elsewhere which touched him; that it was not until human tradition
became weakened that the text bearing the names of the apostles became
authoritative.

Renan has criticised the gospels somewhat in the same spirit that he
would criticise a modern work. He saw clearly that the metaphysics
filling the discourses of John were deformities and distortions, full of
mysticism, having nothing to do really with the character of Jesus. He
shows too "that the simple idea of the Kingdom of God, at the time the
Gospel according to St. John was written, had faded away; that the
hope of the advent of Christ was growing dim, and that from belief the
disciples passed into discussion, from discussion to dogma, from dogma
to ceremony," and, finding that the new Heaven and the new Earth were
not coming as expected, they turned their attention to governing the old
Heaven and the old Earth. The disciples were willing to be humble for
a few days, with the expectation of wearing crowns forever. They were
satisfied with poverty, believing that the wealth of the world was to
be theirs. The coming of Christ, however, being for some unaccountable
reason delayed, poverty and humility grew irksome, and human nature
began to assert itself.

In the Gospel of John you will find the metaphysics of the church. There
you find the Second Birth. There you find the doctrine of the atonement
clearly set forth. There you find that God died for the whole world, and
that whosoever believeth not in him is to be damned. There is nothing of
the kind in Matthew. Matthew makes Christ say that, if you will forgive
others, God will forgive you. The Gospel "according to Mark" is the
same. So is the Gospel "according to Luke." There is nothing about
salvation through belief, nothing about the atonement. In Mark, in the
last chapter, the apostles are told to go into all the world and preach
the gospel, with the statement that whoever believed and was baptised
should be saved, and whoever failed to believe should be damned. But we
now know that that is an interpolation. Consequently, Matthew, Mark and
Luke never had the faintest conception of the "Christian religion." They
knew nothing of the atonement, nothing of salvation by faith—nothing.
So that if a man had read only Matthew, Mark and Luke, and had strictly
followed what he found, he would have found himself, after death, in
perdition.

Renan finds that certain portions of the Gospel "according to John" were
added later; that the entire twenty-first chapter is an interpolation;
also, that many places bear the traces of erasures and corrections. So
he says that it would be "impossible for any one to compose a life of
Jesus, with any meaning in it, from the discourses which John attributes
to him, and he holds that this Gospel of John is full of preaching,
Christ demonstrating himself; full of argumentation, full of stage
effect, devoid of simplicity, with long arguments after each miracle,
stiff and awkward discourses, the tone of which is often false and
unequal." He also insists that there are evidently "artificial portions,
variations like that of a musician improvising on a given theme."

In spite of all this, Renan, willing to soothe the prejudice of his
time, takes the ground that the four canonical gospels are authentic,
that they date from the first century, that the authors were, generally
speaking, those to whom they are attributed; but he insists that their
historic value is very diverse. This is a back-handed stroke. Admitting,
first, that they are authentic; second, that they were written about
the end of the first century; third, that they are not of equal value,
disposes, so far as he is concerned, of the dogma of inspiration.

One is at a loss to understand why four gospels should have been
written. As a matter of fact there can be only one true account of any
occurrence, or of any number of occurrences. Now, it must be taken for
granted, that an inspired account is true. Why then should there be four
inspired accounts? It may be answered that all were not to write
the entire story. To this the reply is that all attempted to cover
substantially the same ground.

Many years ago the early fathers thought it necessary to say why there
were four inspired books, and some of them said, because there were four
cardinal directions and the gospels fitted the north, south, east and
west. Others said that there were four principal winds—a gospel for
each wind. They might have added that some animals have four legs.

Renan admits that the narrative portions have not the same authority;
"that many legends proceeded from the zeal of the second Christian
generation; that the narrative of Luke is historically weak; that
sentences attributed to Jesus have been distorted and exaggerated;
that the book was written outside of Palestine and after the siege of
Jerusalem; that Luke endeavors to make the different narratives agree,
changing them for that purpose; that he softens the passages which had
become embarrassing; that he exaggerated the marvelous, omitted errors
in chronology; that he was a compiler, a man who had not been an
eye-witness himself, and who had not seen eye-witnesses, but who labors
at texts and wrests their sense to make them agree." This certainly is
very far from inspiration. So "Luke interprets the documents according
to his own idea; being a kind of anarchist, opposed to property, and
persuaded that the triumph of the poor was approaching; that he was
especially fond of the anecdotes showing the conversion of sinners, the
exaltation of the humble, and that he modified ancient traditions to
give them this meaning."

Renan reached the conclusion that the gospels are neither biographies
after the manner of Suetonius nor fictitious legends in the style of
Philostratus, but that they are legendary biographies like the legends
of the saints, the lives of Plotinus and Isidore, in which historical
truth and the desire to present models of virtue are combined in various
degrees; that they are "inexact" that they "contain numerous errors and
discordances." So he takes the ground that twenty or thirty years after
Christ, his reputation had greatly increased, that "legends had begun
to gather about Him like clouds," that "death added to His perfection,
freeing Him from all defects in the eyes of those who had loved Him,
that His followers wrested the prophecies so that they might fit Him.
They said, 'He is the Messiah.' The Messiah was to do certain things;
therefore Jesus did certain things. Then an account would be given of
the doing." All of which of course shows that there can be maintained no
theory of inspiration.

It is admitted that where individuals are witnesses of the same
transaction, and where they agree upon the vital points and disagree
upon details, the disagreement may be consistent with their honesty,
as tending to show that they have not agreed upon a story; but if
the witnesses are inspired of God then there is no reason for their
disagreeing on anything, and if they do disagree it is a demonstration
that they were not inspired, but it is not a demonstration that they
are not honest. While perfect agreement may be evidence of rehearsal,
a failure to perfectly agree is not a demonstration of the truth or
falsity of a story; but if the witnesses claim to be inspired, the
slightest disagreement is a demonstration that they were not inspired.

Renan reaches the conclusion, proving every step that he takes, that
the four principal documents—that is to say, the four gospels—are in
"flagrant contradiction one with another." He attacks, and with perfect
success, the miracles of the Scriptures, and upon this subject says:
"Observation, which has never once been falsified, teaches us that
miracles never happen, but in times and countries in which they are
believed and before persons disposed to believe them. No miracle ever
occurred in the presence of men capable of testing its miraculous
character." He further takes the ground that no contemporary miracle
will bear inquiry, and that consequently it is probable that the
miracles of antiquity which have been performed in popular gatherings
would be shown to be simple illusion, were it possible to criticise them
in detail. In the name of universal experience he banishes miracles
from history. These were brave things to do, things that will bear good
fruit. As long as men believe in miracles, past or present they remain
the prey of superstition. The Catholic is taught that miracles were
performed anciently not only, but that they are still being performed.
This is consistent inconsistency. Protestants teach a double doctrine:
That miracles used to be performed, that the laws of nature used to be
violated, but that no miracle is performed now. No Protestant will
admit that any miracle was performed by the Catholic Church. Otherwise,
Protestants could not be justified in leaving a church with whom the
God of miracles dwelt. So every Protestant has to adopt two kinds of
reasoning: that the laws of Nature used to be violated and that miracles
used to be performed, but that since the apostolic age Nature has had
her way and the Lord has allowed facts to exist and to hold the field.
A supernatural account, according to Renan, "always implies credulity or
imposture,"—probably both.

It does not seem possible to me that Christ claimed for himself what
the Testament claims for him. These claims were made by admirers, by
followers, by missionaries.

When the early Christians went to Rome they found plenty of demigods. It
was hard to set aside the religion of a demigod by telling the story of
a man from Nazareth. These missionaries, not to be outdone in ancestry,
insisted—and this was after the Gospel "according to St. John" had been
written—that Christ was the Son of God. Matthew believed that he was
the son of David, and the Messiah, and gave the genealogy of Joseph, his
father, to support that claim.

In the time of Christ no one imagined that he was of divine origin. This
was an after-growth. In order to place themselves on an equality with
Pagans they started the claim of divinity, and also took the second step
requisite in that country: First, a god for his father, and second, a
virgin for his mother. This was the Pagan combination of greatness, and
the Christians added to this that Christ was God.

It is hard to agree with the conclusion reached by Renan, that Christ
formed and intended to form a church. Such evidence, it seems to me,
is hard to find in the Testament. Christ seemed to satisfy himself,
according to the Testament, with a few statements, some of them
exceedingly wise and tender, some utterly impracticable and some
intolerant.

If we accept the conclusions reached by Renan we will throw away, the
legends without foundation; the miraculous legends; and everything
inconsistent with what we know of Nature. Very little will be left—a
few sayings to be found among those attributed to Confucius, to Buddha,
to Krishna, to Epictetus, to Zeno, and to many others. Some of these
sayings are full of wisdom, full of kindness, and others rush to such
extremes that they touch the borders of insanity. When struck on one
cheek to turn the other, is really joining a conspiracy to secure
the triumph of brutality. To agree not to resist evil is to become
an accomplice of all injustice. We must not take from industry, from
patriotism, from virtue, the right of self-defence.

Undoubtedly Renan gave an honest transcript of his mind, the road his
thought had followed, the reasons in their order that had occurred to
him, the criticisms born of thought, and the qualifications, softening
phrases, children of old sentiments and emotions that had not entirely
passed away. He started, one might say, from the altar and, during a
considerable part of the journey, carried the incense with him. The
farther he got away, the greater was his clearness of vision and the
more thoroughly he was convinced that Christ was merely a man, an
idealist. But, remembering the altar, he excused exaggeration in the
"inspired" books, not because it was from heaven, not because it was
in harmony with our ideas of veracity, but because the writers of the
gospel were imbued with the Oriental spirit of exaggeration, a spirit
perfectly understood by the people who first read the gospels, because
the readers knew the habits of the writers.

It had been contended for many years that no one could pass judgment
on the veracity of the Scriptures who did not understand Hebrew. This
position was perfectly absurd. No man needs to be a student of Hebrew
to know that the shadow on the dial did not go back several degrees to
convince a petty king that a boil was not to be fatal. Renan, however,
filled the requirement. He was an excellent Hebrew scholar. This was a
fortunate circumstance, because it answered a very old objection.

The founder of Christianity was, for his own sake, taken from the divine
pedestal and allowed to stand like other men on the earth, to be judged
by what he said and did, by his theories, by his philosophy, by his
spirit.

No matter whether Renan came to a correct conclusion or not, his work
did a vast deal of good. He convinced many that implicit reliance could
not be placed upon the gospels, that the gospels themselves are of
unequal worth; that they were deformed by ignorance and falsehood, or,
at least, by mistake; that if they wished to save the reputation of
Christ they must not rely wholly on the gospels, or on what is found
in the New Testament, but they must go farther and examine all legends
touching him. Not only so, but they must throw away the miraculous, the
impossible and the absurd.

He also has shown that the early followers of Christ endeavored to add
to the reputation of their Master by attributing to him the miraculous
and the foolish; that while these stories added to his reputation at
that time, since the world has advanced they must be cast aside or the
reputation of the Master must suffer.

It will not do now to say that Christ himself pretended to do miracles.
This would establish the fact at least that he was mistaken. But we are
compelled to say that his disciples insisted that he was a worker of
miracles. This shows, either that they were mistaken or untruthful.

We all know that a sleight-of-hand performer could gain a greater
reputation among savages than Darwin or Humboldt; and we know that the
world in the time of Christ was filled with barbarians, with people who
demanded the miraculous, who expected it; with people, in fact, who had
a stronger belief in the supernatural than in the natural; people who
never thought it worth while to record facts. The hero of such people,
the Christ of such people, with his miracles, cannot be the Christ of
the thoughtful and scientific.

Renan was a man of most excellent temper; candid; not striving for
victory, but for truth; conquering, as far as he could, the old
superstitions; not entirely free, it may be, but believing himself to be
so. He did great good. He has helped to destroy the fictions of faith.
He has helped to rescue man from the prison of superstition, and this is
the greatest benefit that man can bestow on man.

He did another great service, not only to Jews, but to Christendom,
by writing the history of "The People of Israel." Christians for many
centuries have persecuted the Jews. They have charged them with the
greatest conceivable crime—with having crucified an infinite God.
This absurdity has hardened the hearts of men and poisoned the minds of
children. The persecution of the Jews is the meanest, the most senseless
and cruel page in history. Every civilized Christian should feel on
his cheeks the red spots of shame as he reads the wretched and infamous
story.

The flame of this prejudice is fanned and fed in the Sunday schools
of our day, and the orthodox minister points proudly to the atrocities
perpetrated against the Jews by the barbarians of Russia as evidences of
the truth of the inspired Scriptures. In every wound God puts a tongue
to proclaim the truth of his book.

If the charge that the Jews killed God were true, it is hardly
reasonable to hold those who are now living responsible for what their
ancestors did nearly nineteen centuries ago.

But there is another point in connection with this matter: If Christ was
God, then the Jews could not have killed him without his consent; and,
according to the orthodox creed, if he had not been sacrificed, the
whole world would have suffered eternal pain. Nothing can exceed the
meanness of the prejudice of Christians against the Jewish people. They
should not be held responsible for their savage ancestors, or for their
belief that Jehovah was an intelligent and merciful God, superior to all
other gods. Even Christians do not wish to be held responsible for
the Inquisition, for the Torquemadas and the John Calvins, for the
witch-burners and the Quaker-whippers, for the slave-traders and
child-stealers, the most of whom were believers in our "glorious
gospel," and many of whom had been bom the second time.

Renan did much to civilize the Christians by telling the truth in a
charming and convincing way about the "People of Israel." Both sides are
greatly indebted to him: one he has ably defended, and the other greatly
enlightened.

Having done what good he could in giving what he believed was light to
his fellow-men, he had no fear of becoming a victim of God's wrath, and
so he laughingly said: "For my part I imagine that if the Eternal in his
severity were to send me to hell I should succeed in escaping from it.
I would send up to my Creator a supplication that would make him smile.
The course of reasoning by which I would prove to him that it was
through his fault that I was damned would be so subtle that he would
find some difficulty in replying. The fate which would suit me best is
Purgatory—a charming place, where many delightful romances begun on
earth must be continued."

Such cheerfulness, such good philosophy, with cap and bells, such banter
and blasphemy, such sound and solid sense drive to madness the priest
who thinks the curse of Rome can fright the world. How the snake of
superstition writhes when he finds that his fangs have lost their
poison.

He was one of the gentlest of men—one of the fairest in discussion,
dissenting from the views of others with modesty, presenting his own
with clearness and candor. His mental manners were excellent. He was
not positive as to the "unknowable." He said "Perhaps." He knew that
knowledge is good if it increases the happiness of man; and he felt that
superstition is the assassin of liberty and civilization. He lived a
life of cheerfulness, of industry, devoted to the welfare of mankind.

He was a seeker of happiness by the highway of the natural, a destroyer
of the dogmas of mental deformity, a worshiper of Liberty and the
Ideal. As he lived, he died—hopeful and serene—and now, standing in
imagination by his grave, we ask: Will the night be eternal? The brain
says, Perhaps; while the heart hopes for the Dawn.—North American
Review, November, 1892.

## Tolstoi and "the Kreutzer Sonata."

COUNT TOLSTOI is a man of genius. He is acquainted with Russian life
from the highest to the lowest—that is to say, from the worst to the
best. He knows the vices of the rich and the virtues of the poor. He is
a Christian, a real believer in the Old and New Testaments, an honest
follower of the Peasant of Palestine. He denounces luxury and ease, art
and music; he regards a flower with suspicion, believing that beneath
every blossom lies a coiled serpent. He agrees with Lazarus and
denounces Dives and the tax-gatherers. He is opposed, not only to
doctors of divinity, but of medicine.

From the Mount of Olives he surveys the world.

He is not a Christian like the Pope in the Vatican, or a cardinal in a
palace, or a bishop with revenues and retainers, or a millionaire who
hires preachers to point out the wickedness of the poor, or the director
of a museum who closes the doors on Sunday. He is a Christian something
like Christ.

To him this life is but a breathing-spell between the verdict and the
execution; the sciences are simply sowers of the seeds of pride, of
arrogance and vice. Shocked by the cruelties and unspeakable horrors of
war, he became a non-resistant and averred that he would not defend his
own body or that of his daughter from insult and outrage. In this he
followed the command of his Master: "Resist not evil." He passed,
not simply from war to peace, but from one extreme to the other, and
advocated a doctrine that would leave the basest of mankind the rulers
of the world. This was and is the error of a great and tender soul.

He did not accept all the teachings of Christ at once. His progress has
been, judging from his writings, somewhat gradual; but by accepting one
proposition he prepared himself for the acceptance of another. He is
not only a Christian, but has the courage of his convictions, and goes
without hesitation to the logical conclusion. He has another exceedingly
rare quality; he acts in accordance with his belief. His creed is
translated into deed. He opposes the doctors of divinity, because they
darken and deform the teachings of the Master. He denounces the doctors
of medicine, because he depends on Providence and the promises of Jesus
Christ. To him that which is called progress is, in fact, a profanation,
and property is a something that the organized few have stolen from the
unorganized many. He believes in universal labor, which is good, each
working for himself. He also believes that each should have only the
necessaries of life—which is bad. According to his idea, the world
ought to be filled with peasants. There should be only arts enough to
plough and sow and gather the harvest, to build huts, to weave coarse
cloth, to fashion clumsy and useful garments, and to cook the simplest
food. Men and women should not adorn their bodies. They should not make
themselves desirable or beautiful.

But even under such circumstances they might, like the Quakers, be proud
of humility and become arrogantly meek.

Tolstoi would change the entire order of human development. As a matter
of fact, the savage who adorns himself or herself with strings of
shells, or with feathers, has taken the first step towards civilization.
The tatooed is somewhat in advance of the unfrescoed. At the bottom of
all this is the love of approbation, of the admiration of their fellows,
and this feeling, this love, cannot be torn from the human heart.

In spite of ourselves we are attracted by what to us is beautiful,
because beauty is associated with pleasure, with enjoyment. The love of
the well-formed, of the beautiful, is prophetic of the perfection of the
human race. It is impossible to admire the deformed. They may be loved
for their goodness or genius, but never because of their deformity.
There is within us the love of proportion. There is a physical basis for
the appreciation of harmony, which is also a kind of proportion.

The love of the beautiful is shared with man by most animals. The wings
of the moth are painted by love, by desire. This is the foundation of
the bird's song. This love of approbation, this desire to please, to
be admired, to be loved, is in some way the cause of all heroic,
self-denying, and sublime actions.

Count Tolstoi, following parts of the New Testament, regards love
as essentially impure. He seems really to think that there is a love
superior to human love; that the love of man for woman, of woman for
man, is, after all, a kind of glittering degradation; that it is better
to love God than woman; better to love the invisible phantoms of the
skies than the children upon our knees—in other words, that it is far
better to love a heaven somewhere else than to make one here. He seems
to think that women adorn themselves simply for the purpose of getting
in their power the innocent and unsuspecting men. He forgets that
the best and purest of human beings are controlled, for the most part
unconsciously, by the hidden, subtle tendencies of nature. He seems to
forget the great fact of "natural selection," and that the choice of one
in preference to all others is the result of forces beyond the control
of the individual. To him there seems to be no purity in love, because
men are influenced by forms, by the beauty of women; and women, knowing
this fact, according to him, act, and consequently both are equally
guilty. He endeavors to show that love is a delusion; that at best it
can last but for a few days; that it must of necessity be succeeded by
indifference, then by disgust, lastly by hatred; that in every Garden of
Eden is a serpent of jealousy, and that the brightest days end with the
yawn of ennui.

Of course he is driven to the conclusion that life in this world is
without value, that the race can be perpetuated only by vice, and that
the practice of the highest virtue would leave the world without
the form of man. Strange as it may sound to some, this is the same
conclusion reached by his Divine Master: "They did eat, they drank, they
married, they were given in marriage, until the day that Noe entered
the ark and the flood came and destroyed them all." "Every one that hath
forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife,
or children, or lands, for my name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold,
and shall inherit everlasting life."

According to Christianity, as it really is and really was, the Christian
should have no home in this world—at least none until the earth has
been purified by fire. His affections should be given to God; not to
wife and children, not to friends or country. He is here but for a
time on a journey, waiting for the summons. This life is a kind of
dock running out into the sea of eternity, on which he waits for
transportation. Nothing here is of any importance; the joys of life are
frivolous and corrupting, and by losing these few gleams of happiness in
this world he will bask forever in the unclouded rays of infinite joy.
Why should a man risk an eternity of perfect happiness for the sake of
enjoying himself a few days with his wife and children? Why should he
become an eternal outcast for the sake of having a home and fireside
here?

The "Fathers" of the church had the same opinion of marriage. They
agreed with Saint Paul, and Tolstoi agrees with them. They had the same
contempt for wives and mothers, and uttered the same blasphemies against
that divine passion that has filled the world with art and song.

All this is to my mind a kind of insanity; nature soured or
withered—deformed so that celibacy is mistaken for virtue. The
imagination becomes polluted, and the poor wretch believes that he is
purer than his thoughts, holier than his desires, and that to outrage
nature is the highest form of religion. But nature imprisoned,
obstructed, tormented, always has sought for and has always found
revenge. Some of these victims, regarding the passions as low and
corrupting, feeling humiliated by hunger and thirst, sought through
maimings and mutilations the purification of the soul.

Count Tolstoi in "The Kreutzer Sonata," has drawn, with a free hand, one
of the vilest and basest of men for his hero. He is suspicious, jealous,
cruel, infamous. The wife is infinitely too good for such a wild
unreasoning beast, and yet the writer of this insane story seems to
justify the assassin. If this is a true picture of wedded life in
Russia, no wonder that Count Tolstoi looks forward with pleasure to the
extinction of the human race.

Of all passions that can take possession of the heart or brain jealousy
is the worst. For many generations the chemists sought for the secret by
which all metals could be changed to gold, and through which the basest
could become the best. Jealousy seeks exactly the opposite. It endeavors
to transmute the very gold of love into the dross of shame and crime.

The story of "The Kreutzer Sonata" seems to have been written for the
purpose of showing that woman is at fault; that she has no right to
be attractive, no right to be beautiful; and that she is morally
responsible for the contour of her throat, for the pose of her body, for
the symmetry of her limbs, for the red of her lips, and for the dimples
in her cheeks.

The opposite of this doctrine is nearer true. It would be far better to
hold people responsible for their ugliness than for their beauty. It may
be true that the soul, the mind, in some wondrous way fashions the body,
and that to that extent every individual is responsible for his looks.
It may be that the man or woman thinking high thoughts will give,
necessarily, a nobility to expression and a beauty to outline.

It is not true that the sins of man can be laid justly at the feet of
woman. Women are better than men; they have greater responsibilities;
they bear even the burdens of joy. This is the real reason why their
faults are considered greater.

Men and women desire each other, and this desire is a condition of
civilization, progress, and happiness, and of everything of real value.
But there is this profound difference in the sexes: in man this desire
is the foundation of love, while in woman love is the foundation of this
desire.

Tolstoi seems to be a stranger to the heart of woman.

Is it not wonderful that one who holds self-denial in such high esteem
should say, "That life is embittered by the fear of one's children, and
not only on account of their real or imaginary illnesses, but even by
their very presence"?

Has the father no real love for the children? Is he not paid a thousand
times through their caresses, their sympathy, their love? Is there no
joy in seeing their minds unfold, their affections develop? Of course,
love and anxiety go together. That which we love we wish to protect. The
perpetual fear of death gives love intensity and sacredness. Yet
Count Tolstoi gives us the feelings of a father incapable of natural
affection; of one who hates to have his children sick because the
orderly course of his wretched life is disturbed. So, too, we are told
that modern mothers think too much of their children, care too much for
their health, and refuse to be comforted when they die. Lest these words
may be thought libellous, the following extract is given;

"In old times women consoled themselves with the belief, The Lord hath
given, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
They consoled themselves with the thought that the soul of the departed
had returned to him who gave it; that it was better to die innocent
than to live in sin. If women nowadays had such a comfortable faith to
support them, they might take their misfortunes less hard."

The conclusion reached by the writer is that without faith in God,
woman's love grovels in the mire.

In this case the mire is made by the tears of mothers falling on the
clay that hides their babes.

The one thing constant, the one peak that rises above all clouds, the
one window in which the light forever burns, the one star that darkness
cannot quench, is woman's love.

This one fact justifies the existence and the perpetuation of the human
race. Again I say that women are better than men; their hearts are more
unreservedly given; in the web of their lives sorrow is inextricably
woven with the greatest joys; self-sacrifice is a part of their nature,
and at the behest of love and maternity they walk willingly and joyously
down to the very gates of death.

Is there nothing in this to excite the admiration, the adoration, of a
modern reformer? Are the monk and nun superior to the father and mother?

The author of "The Kreutzer Sonata" is unconsciously the enemy of
mankind. He is filled with what might be called a merciless pity, a
sympathy almost malicious. Had he lived a few centuries ago, he might
have founded a religion; but the most he can now do is, perhaps, to
create the necessity for another asylum.

Count Tolstoi objects to music—not the ordinary kind, but to great
music, the music that arouses the emotions, that apparently carries us
beyond the limitations of life, that for the moment seems to break the
great chain of cause and effect, and leaves the soul soaring and free.
"Emotion and duty," he declares, "do not go hand in hand." All art
touches and arouses the emotional nature. The painter, the poet, the
sculptor, the composer, the orator, appeal to the emotions, to the
passions, to the hopes and fears. The commonplace is transfigured;
the cold and angular facts of existence take form and color; the
blood quickens; the fancies spread their wings; the intellect grows
sympathetic; the river of life flows full and free; and man becomes
capable of the noblest deeds. Take emotion from the heart of man and
the idea of obligation would be lost; right and wrong would lose their
meaning, and the word "ought" would never again be spoken. We are
subject to conditions, liable to disease, pain, and death. We are
capable of ecstasy. Of these conditions, of these possibilities, the
emotions are born.

Only the conditionless can be the emotionless.

We are conditioned beings; and if the conditions are changed, the result
may be pain or death or greater joy. We can only live within certain
degrees of heat. If the weather were a few degrees hotter or a few
degrees colder, we could not exist. We need food and roof and raiment.
Life and happiness depend on these conditions. We do not certainly know
what is to happen, and consequently our hopes and fears are constantly
active—that is to say, we are emotional beings. The generalization of
Tolstoi, that emotion never goes hand in hand with duty, is almost the
opposite of the truth. The idea of duty could not exist without emotion.
Think of men and women without love, without desires, without passions?
Think of a world without art or music—a world without beauty, without
emotion.

And yet there are many writers busy pointing out the loathsomeness of
love and their own virtues. Only a little while ago an article appeared
in one of the magazines in which all women who did not dress according
to the provincial prudery of the writer were denounced as impure.
Millions of refined and virtuous wives and mothers were described as
dripping with pollution because they enjoyed dancing and were so well
formed that they were not obliged to cover their arms and throats to
avoid the pity of their associates. And yet the article itself is far
more indelicate than any dance or any dress, or even lack of dress. What
a curious opinion dried apples have of fruit upon the tree!

Count Tolstoi is also the enemy of wealth, of luxury. In this he follows
the New Testament. "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a
needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven." He gathers
his inspiration from the commandment, "Sell all that thou hast and give
to the poor."

Wealth is not a crime any more than health or bodily or intellectual
strength. The weak might denounce the strong, the sickly might envy the
healthy, just as the poor may denounce or envy the rich. A man is not
necessarily a criminal because he is wealthy. He is to be judged, not
by his wealth, but by the way he uses his wealth. The strong man can use
his strength, not only for the benefit of himself, but for the good of
others. So a man of intelligence can be a benefactor of the human race.
Intelligence is often used to entrap the simple and to prey upon the
unthinking, but we do not wish to do away with intelligence. So strength
is often used to tyrannize over the weak, and in the same way wealth may
be used to the injury of mankind. To sell all that you have and give to
the poor is not a panacea for poverty. The man of wealth should help
the poor man to help himself. Men cannot receive without giving some
consideration, and if they have not labor or property to give, they
give their manhood, their self-respect. Besides, if all should obey this
injunction, "Sell what thou hast and give to the poor," who would buy?
We know that thousands and millions of rich men lack generosity and have
but little feeling for their fellows. The fault is not in the money, not
in the wealth, but in the individuals. They would be just as bad were
they poor. The only difference is that they would have less power. The
good man should regard wealth as an instrumentality, as an opportunity,
and he should endeavor to benefit his fellow-men, not by making them the
recipients of his charity, but by assisting them to assist themselves.
The desire to clothe and feed, to educate and protect, wives and
children, is the principal reason for making money—one of the great
springs of industry, prudence, and economy.

Those who labor have a right to live. They have a right to what they
earn. He who works has a right to home and fireside and to the comforts
of life. Those who waste the spring, the summer, and the autumn of their
lives must bear the winter when it comes. Many of our institutions are
absurdly unjust. Giving the land to the few, making tenants of the many,
is the worst possible form of socialism—of paternal government. In
most of the nations of our day the idlers and non-producers are either
beggars or aristocrats, paupers or princes, and the great middle
laboring class support them both. Rags and robes have a liking for each
other. Beggars and kings are in accord; they are all parasites, living
on the same blood, stealing the same labor—one by beggary, the other by
force. And yet in all this there can be found no reason for denouncing
the man who has accumulated. One who wishes to tear down his bams and
build greater has laid aside something to keep the wolf of want from the
door of home when he is dead.

Even the beggars see the necessity of others working, and the nobility
see the same necessity with equal clearness. But it is hardly reasonable
to say that all should do the same kind of work, for the reason that all
have not the same aptitudes, the same talents. Some can plough,
others can paint; some can reap and mow, while others can invent the
instruments that save labor; some navigate the seas; some work in mines;
while others compose music that elevates and refines the heart of the
world.

But the worst thing in "The Kreutzer Sonata" is the declaration that a
husband can by force compel the wife to love and obey him. Love is not
the child of fear; it is not the result of force. No one can love on
compulsion. Even Jehovah found that it was impossible to compel the Jews
to love him. He issued his command to that effect, coupled with threats
of pain and death, but his chosen people failed to respond.

Love is the perfume of the heart; it is not subject to the will of
husbands or kings or God.

Count Tolstoi would establish slavery in every house; he would make
every husband a tyrant and every wife a trembling serf. No wonder that
he regards such marriage as a failure. He is in exact harmony with the
curse of Jehovah when he said unto the woman: "I will greatly multiply
thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth
children, and thy desire shall be unto thy husband, and he shall rule
over thee."

This is the destruction of the family, the pollution of home, the
crucifixion of love.

Those who are truly married are neither masters nor servants. The idea
of obedience is lost in the desire for the happiness of each. Love is
not a convict, to be detained with bolts and chains. Love is the highest
expression of liberty. Love neither commands nor obeys.

The curious thing is that the orthodox world insists that all men and
women should obey the injunctions of Christ; that they should take him
as the supreme example, and in all things follow his teachings. This is
preached from countless pulpits, and has been for many centuries. And
yet the man who does follow the Savior, who insists that he will not
resist evil, who sells what he has and gives to the poor, who deserts
his wife and children for the love of God, is regarded as insane.

Tolstoi, on most subjects, appears to be in accord with the founder of
Christianity, with the apostles, with the writers of the New Testament,
and with the Fathers of the church; and yet a Christian teacher of a
Sabbath school decides, in the capacity of Postmaster-General, that "The
Kreutzer Sonata" is unfit to be carried in the mails.

Although I disagree with nearly every sentence in this book, regard the
story as brutal and absurd, the view of life presented as cruel, vile,
and false, yet I recognize the right of Count Tolstoi to express his
opinions on all subjects, and the right of the men and women of America
to read for themselves.

As to the sincerity of the author, there is not the slightest doubt. He
is willing to give all that he has for the good of his fellow-men. He
is a soldier in what he believes to be a sacred cause, and he has the
courage of his convictions. He is endeavoring to organize society in
accordance with the most radical utterances that have been attributed
to Jesus Christ. The philosophy of Palestine is not adapted to an
industrial and commercial age. Christianity was born when the nation
that produced it was dying. It was a requiem—a declaration that life
was a failure, that the world was about to end, and that the hopes of
mankind should be lifted to another sphere. Tolstoi stands with his back
to the sunrise and looks mournfully upon the shadow. He has uttered many
tender, noble, and inspiring words. There are many passages in his works
that must have been written when his eyes were filled with tears. He has
fixed his gaze so intently on the miseries and agonies of life that he
has been driven to the conclusion that nothing could be better than the
effacement of the human race.

Some men, looking only at the faults and tyrannies of government, have
said: "Anarchy is better." Others, looking at the misfortunes, the
poverty, the crimes, of men, have, in a kind of pitying despair, reached
the conclusion that the best of all is death. These are the opinions of
those who have dwelt in gloom—of the self-imprisoned.

By comparing long periods of time, we see that, on the whole, the race
is advancing; that the world is growing steadily, and surely, better;
that each generation enjoys more and suffers less than its predecessor.
We find that our institutions have the faults of individuals. Nations
must be composed of men and women; and as they have their faults,
nations cannot be perfect. The institution of marriage is a failure to
the extent, and only to the extent, that the human race is a failure.
Undoubtedly it is the best and the most important institution that has
been established by the civilized world. If there is unhappiness in that
relation, if there is tyranny upon one side and misery upon the other,
it is not the fault of marriage. Take homes from the world and only wild
beasts are left.

We cannot cure the evils of our day and time by a return to savagery.
It is not necessary to become ignorant to increase our happiness. The
highway of civilization leads to the light. The time will come when the
human race will be truly enlightened, when labor will receive its due
reward, when the last institution begotten of ignorance and savagery
will disappear. The time will come when the whole world will say that
the love of man for woman, of woman for man, of mother for child, is the
highest, the noblest, the purest, of which the heart is capable.

Love, human love, love of men and women, love of mothers fathers, and
babes, is the perpetual and beneficent force. Not the love of phantoms,
the love that builds cathedrals and dungeons, that trembles and prays,
that kneels and curses; but the real love, the love that felled the
forests, navigated the seas, subdued the earth, explored continents,
built countless homes, and founded nations—the love that kindled the
creative flame and wrought the miracles of art, that gave us all there
is of music, from the cradle-song that gives to infancy its smiling
sleep to the great symphony that bears the soul away with wings of
fire—the real love, mother of every virtue and of every joy.—North
American Review, September, 1890.

THOMAS PAINE.
---
# Fool Friends
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1887_
NOTHING hurts a man, nothing hurts a party so terribly as fool friends.

A fool friend is the sewer of bad news, of slander and all base and
unpleasant things.

A fool friend always knows every mean thing that has been said against
you and against the party.

He always knows where your party is losing, and the other is making
large gains.

He always tells you of the good luck your enemy has had.

He implicitly believes every story against you, and kindly suspects your
defence.

A fool friend is always full of a kind of stupid candor.

He is so candid that he always believes the statement of an enemy.

He never suspects anything on your side.

Nothing pleases him like being shocked by horrible news concerning some
good man.

He never denies a lie unless it is in your favor.

He is always finding fault with his party, and is continually begging
pardon for not belonging to the other side.

He is frightfully anxious that all his candidates should stand well with
the opposition.

He is forever seeing the faults of his party and the virtues of the
other.

He generally shows his candor by scratching the ticket.

He always searches every nook and comer of his conscience to find a
reason for deserting a friend or a principle.

In the moment of victory he is magnanimously on your side.

In defeat he consoles you by repeating prophecies made after the event.

The fool friend regards your reputation as common prey for all the
vultures, hyenas and jackals.

He takes a sad pleasure in your misfortunes.

He forgets his principles to gratify your enemies.

He forgives your maligner, and slanders you with all his heart.

He is so friendly that you cannot kick him.

He generally talks for you but always bets the other way.
---
# God in the Constitution
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
"_All governments derive their just powers from the consent of the
governed_."

IN this country it is admitted that the power to govern resides in the
people themselves; that they are the only rightful source of authority.
For many centuries before the formation of our Government, before the
promulgation of the Declaration of Independence, the people had but
little voice in the affairs of nations. The source of authority was not
in this world; kings were not crowned by their subjects, and the sceptre
was not held by the consent of the governed. The king sat on his throne
by the will of God, and for that reason was not accountable to the
people for the exercise of his power. He commanded, and the people
obeyed. He was lord of their bodies, and his partner, the priest, was
lord of their souls. The government of earth was patterned after the
kingdom on high. God was a supreme autocrat in heaven, whose will was
law, and the king was a supreme autocrat on earth whose will was law.
The God in heaven had inferior beings to do his will, and the king on
earth had certain favorites and officers to do his. These officers were
accountable to him, and he was responsible to God.

The Feudal system was supposed to be in accordance with the divine
plan. The people were not governed by intelligence, but by threats and
promises, by rewards and punishments. No effort was made to enlighten
the common people; no one thought of educating a peasant—of developing
the mind of a laborer. The people were created to support thrones and
altars. Their destiny was to toil and obey—to work and want. They were
to be satisfied with huts and hovels, with ignorance and rags, and their
children must expect no more. In the presence of the king they fell upon
their knees, and before the priest they groveled in the very dust. The
poor peasant divided his earnings with the state, because he imagined it
protected his body; he divided his crust with the church, believing that
it protected his soul. He was the prey of Throne and Altar—one deformed
his body, the other his mind—and these two vultures fed upon his toil.
He was taught by the king to hate the people of other nations, and by
the priest to despise the believers in all other religions. He was made
the enemy of all people except his own. He had no sympathy with the
peasants of other lands, enslaved and plundered like himself., He was
kept in ignorance, because education is the enemy of superstition,
and because education is the foe of that egotism often mistaken for
patriotism.

The intelligent and good man holds in his affections the good and true
of every land—the boundaries of countries are not the limitations of
his sympathies. Caring nothing for race, or color, he loves those who
speak other languages and worship other gods. Between him and those who
suffer, there is no impassable gulf. He salutes the world, and extends
the hand of friendship to the human race. He does not bow before a
provincial and patriotic god—one who protects his tribe or nation, and
abhors the rest of mankind.

Through all the ages of superstition, each nation has insisted that it
was the peculiar care of the true God, and that it alone had the true
religion—that the gods of other nations were false and fraudulent, and
that other religions were wicked, ignorant and absurd. In this way the
seeds of hatred had been sown, and in this way have been kindled the
flames of war. Men have had no sympathy with those of a different
complexion, with those who knelt at other altars and expressed their
thoughts in other words—and even a difference in garments placed
them beyond the sympathy of others. Every peculiarity was the food of
prejudice and the excuse for hatred.

The boundaries of nations were at last crossed by commerce. People
became somewhat acquainted, and they found that the virtues and vices
were quite evenly distributed. At last, subjects became somewhat
acquainted with kings—peasants had the pleasure of gazing at princes,
and it was dimly perceived that the differences were mostly in rags and
names.

In 1776 our fathers endeavored to retire the gods from politics. They
declared that "all governments derive their just powers from the consent
of the governed." This was a contradiction of the then political ideas
of the world; it was, as many believed, an act of pure blasphemy—a
renunciation of the Deity. It was in fact a declaration of the
independence of the earth. It was a notice to all churches and priests
that thereafter mankind would govern and protect themselves. Politically
it tore down every altar and denied the authority of every "sacred
book," and appealed from the Providence of God to the Providence of Man.

Those who promulgated the Declaration adopted a Constitution for the
great Republic.

What was the office or purpose of that Constitution?

Admitting that all power came from the people, it was necessary, first,
that certain means be adopted for the purpose of ascertaining the will
of the people, and second, it was proper and convenient to designate
certain departments that should exercise certain powers of the
Government. There must be the legislative, the judicial and the
executive departments. Those who make laws should not execute them.
Those who execute laws should not have the power of absolutely
determining their meaning or their constitutionality. For these reasons,
among others, a Constitution was adopted.

This Constitution also contained a declaration of rights. It marked out
the limitations of discretion, so that in the excitement of passion, men
shall not go beyond the point designated in the calm moment of reason.

When man is unprejudiced, and his passions subject to reason, it is well
he should define the limits of power, so that the waves driven by the
storm of passion shall not overbear the shore.

A constitution is for the government of man in this world. It is the
chain the people put upon their servants, as well as upon themselves. It
defines the limit of power and the limit of obedience.

It follows, then, that nothing should be in a constitution that cannot
be enforced by the power of the state—that is, by the army and navy.
Behind every provision of the Constitution should stand the force of the
nation. Every sword, every bayonet, every cannon should be there.

Suppose, then, that we amend the Constitution and acknowledge the
existence and supremacy of God—what becomes of the supremacy of the
people, and how is this amendment to be enforced? A constitution does
not enforce itself. It must be carried out by appropriate legislation.
Will it be a crime to deny the existence of this constitutional God? Can
the offender be proceeded against in the criminal courts? Can his lips
be closed by the power of the state? Would not this be the inauguration
of religious persecution?

And if there is to be an acknowledgment of God in the Constitution, the
question naturally arises as to which God is to have this honor. Shall
we select the God of the Catholics—he who has established an infallible
church presided over by an infallible pope, and who is delighted with
certain ceremonies and placated by prayers uttered in exceedingly
common Latin? Is it the God of the Presbyterian with the Five Points
of Calvinism, who is ingenious enough to harmonize necessity and
responsibility, and who in some way justifies himself for damning most
of his own children? Is it the God of the Puritan, the enemy of joy—of
the Baptist, who is great enough to govern the universe, and small
enough to allow the destiny of a soul to depend on whether the body it
inhabited was immersed or sprinkled?

What God is it proposed to put in the Constitution? Is it the God of the
Old Testament, who was a believer in slavery and who justified polygamy?
If slavery was right then, it is right now; and if Jehovah was right
then, the Mormons are right now. Are we to have the God who issued a
commandment against all art—who was the enemy of investigation and of
free speech? Is it the God who commanded the husband to stone his wife
to death because she differed with him on the subject of religion? Are
we to have a God who will re-enact the Mosaic code and punish hundreds
of offences with death? What court, what tribunal of last resort, is
to define this God, and who is to make known his will? In his presence,
laws passed by men will be of no value. The decisions of courts will be
as nothing. But who is to make known the will of this supreme God? Will
there be a supreme tribunal composed of priests?

Of course all persons elected to office will either swear or affirm to
support the Constitution. Men who do not believe in this God, cannot
so swear or affirm. Such men will not be allowed to hold any office of
trust or honor. A God in the Constitution will not interfere with the
oaths or affirmations of hypocrites. Such a provision will only exclude
honest and conscientious unbelievers. Intelligent people know that 110
one knows whether there is a God or not. The existence of such a Being
is merely a matter of opinion. Men who believe in the liberty of man,
who are willing to die for the honor of their country, will be excluded
from taking any part in the administration of its affairs. Such a
provision would place the country under the feet of priests.

To recognize a Deity in the organic law of our country would be the
destruction of religious liberty. The God in the Constitution would have
to be protected. There would be laws against blasphemy, laws against the
publication of honest thoughts, laws against carrying books and papers
in the mails in which this constitutional God should be attacked.
Our land would be filled with theological spies, with religious
eavesdroppers, and all the snakes and reptiles of the lowest natures, in
this sunshine of religious authority, would uncoil and crawl.

It is proposed to acknowledge a God who is the lawful and rightful
Governor of nations; the one who ordained the powers that be. If
this God is really the Governor of nations, it is not necessary to
acknowledge him in the Constitution. This would not add to his power. If
he governs all nations now, he has always controlled the affairs of men.
Having this control, why did he not see to it that he was recognized in
the Constitution of the United States? If he had the supreme authority
and neglected to put himself in the Constitution, is not this, at least,
_prima facie_ evidence that he did not desire to be there?

For one, I am not in favor of the God who has "ordained the powers that
be." What have we to say of Russia—of Siberia? What can we say of the
persecuted and enslaved? What of the kings and nobles who live on the
stolen labor of others? What of the priest and cardinal and pope who
wrest, even from the hand of poverty, the single coin thrice earned?

Is it possible to flatter the Infinite with a constitutional amendment?
The Confederate States acknowledged God in their constitution, and yet
they were overwhelmed by a people in whose organic law no reference to
God is made. All the kings of the earth acknowledge the existence of
God, and God is their ally; and this belief in God is used as a means to
enslave and rob, to govern and degrade the people whom they call their
subjects.

The Government of the United States is secular. It derives its power
from the consent of man. It is a Government with which God has nothing
whatever to do—and all forms and customs, inconsistent with the
fundamental fact that the people are the source of authority, should be
abandoned. In this country there should be no oaths—no man should be
sworn to tell the truth, and in no court should there be any appeal
to any supreme being. A rascal by taking the oath appears to go in
partnership with God, and ignorant jurors credit the firm instead of the
man. A witness should tell his story, and if he speaks falsely should
be considered as guilty of perjury. Governors and Presidents should not
issue religious proclamations. They should not call upon the people to
thank God. It is no part of their official duty. It is outside of
and beyond the horizon of their authority. There is nothing in
the Constitution of the United States to justify this religious
impertinence.

For many years priests have attempted to give to our Government a
religious form. Zealots have succeeded in putting the legend upon our
money: "In God We Trust;" and we have chaplains in the army and navy,
and legislative proceedings are usually opened with prayer. All this is
contrary to the genius of the Republic, contrary to the Declaration
of Independence, and contrary really to the Constitution of the United
States. We have taken the ground that the people can govern themselves
without the assistance of any supernatural power. We have taken the
position that the people are the real and only rightful source of
authority. We have solemnly declared that the people must determine what
is politically right and what is wrong, and that their legally
expressed will is the supreme law. This leaves no room for national
superstition—no room for patriotic gods or supernatural beings—and
this does away with the necessity for political prayers.

The government of God has been tried. It was tried in Palestine several
thousand years ago, and the God of the Jews was a monster of cruelty and
ignorance, and the people governed by this God lost their nationality.
Theocracy was tried through the Middle Ages. God was the Governor—the
pope was his agent, and every priest and bishop and cardinal was armed
with credentials from the Most High—and the result was that the noblest
and best were in prisons, the greatest and grandest perished at the
stake. The result was that vices were crowned with honor, and virtues
whipped naked through the streets. The result was that hypocrisy swayed
the sceptre of authority, while honesty languished in the dungeons of
the Inquisition.

The government of God was tried in Geneva when John Calvin was his
representative; and under this government of God the flames climbed
around the limbs and blinded the eyes of Michael Servetus, because he
dared to express an honest thought. This government of God was tried
in Scotland, and the seeds of theological hatred were sown, that bore,
through hundreds of years, the fruit of massacre and assassination. This
government of God was established in New England, and the result was
that Quakers were hanged or burned—the laws of Moses re-enacted and the
"witch was not suffered to live." The result was that investigation was
a crime, and the expression of an honest thought a capital offence. This
government of God was established in Spain, and the Jews were expelled,
the Moors were driven out, Moriscoes were exterminated, and nothing
left but the ignorant and bankrupt worshipers of this monster. This
government of God was tried in the United States when slavery was
regarded as a divine institution, when men and women were regarded as
criminals because they sought for liberty by flight, and when others
were regarded as criminals because they gave them food and shelter. The
pulpit of that day defended the buying and selling of women and babes,
and the mouths of slave-traders were filled with passages of Scripture,
defending and upholding the traffic in human flesh.

We have entered upon a new epoch. This is the century of man. Every
effort to really better the condition of mankind has been opposed by the
worshipers of some God. The church in all ages and among all peoples
has been the consistent enemy of the human race. Everywhere and at all
times, it has opposed the liberty of thought and expression. It has been
the sworn enemy of investigation and of intellectual development. It has
denied the existence of facts, the tendency of which was to undermine
its power. It has always been carrying fagots to the feet of Philosophy.
It has erected the gallows for Genius. It has built the dungeon for
Thinkers. And to-day the orthodox church is as much opposed as it ever
was to the mental freedom of the human race.

Of course, there is a distinction made between churches and individual
members. There have been millions of Christians who have been believers
in liberty and in the freedom of expression—millions who have fought
for the rights of man—but churches as organizations, have been on
the other side. It is true that churches have fought churches—that
Protestants battled with the Catholics for what they were pleased to
call the freedom of conscience; and it is also true that the moment
these Protestants obtained the civil power, they denied this freedom of
conscience to others.

'Let me show you the difference between the theological and the secular
spirit. Nearly three hundred years ago, one of the noblest of the human
race, Giordano Bruno, was burned at Rome by the Catholic Church—that
is to say, by the "Triumphant Beast." This man had committed certain
crimes—he had publicly stated that there were other worlds than
this—other constellations than ours. He had ventured the supposition
that other planets might be peopled. More than this, and worse than
this, he had asserted the heliocentric theory—that the earth made its
annual journey about the sun. He had also given it as his opinion that
matter is eternal. For these crimes he was found unworthy to live, and
about his body were piled the fagots of the Catholic Church. This man,
this genius, this pioneer of the science of the nineteenth century,
perished as serenely as the sun sets. The Infidels of to-day find
excuses for his murderers. They take into consideration the ignorance
and brutality of the times. They remember that the world was governed by
a God who was then the source of all authority. This is the charity of
Infidelity,—of philosophy. But the church of to-day is so heartless, is
still so cold and cruel, that it can find no excuse for the murdered.

This is the difference between Theocracy and Democracy—between God and
man.

If God is allowed in the Constitution, man must abdicate. There is no
room for both. If the people of the great Republic become superstitious
enough and ignorant enough to put God in the Constitution of the United
States, the experiment of self-government will have failed, and the
great and splendid declaration that "all governments derive their just
powers from the consent of the governed" will have been denied, and in
its place will be found this: All power comes from God; priests are his
agents, and the people are their slaves.

Religion is an individual matter, and each soul should be left entirely
free to form its own opinions and to judge of its accountability to a
supposed supreme being. With religion, government has nothing whatever
to do. Government is founded upon force, and force should never
interfere with the religious opinions of men. Laws should define the
rights of men and their duties toward each other, and these laws should
be for the benefit of man in this world.

A nation can neither be Christian nor Infidel—a nation is incapable of
having opinions upon these subjects. If a nation is Christian, will all
the citizens go to heaven? If it is not, will they all be damned? Of
course it is admitted that the majority of citizens composing a nation
may believe or disbelieve, and they may call the nation what they
please. A nation is a corporation. To repeat a familiar saying, "it has
no soul." There can be no such thing as a Christian corporation. Several
Christians may form a corporation, but it can hardly be said that the
corporation thus formed was included in the atonement. For instance:
Seven Christians form a corporation—that is to say, there are seven
natural persons and one artificial—can it be said that there are eight
souls to be saved?

No human being has brain enough, or knowledge enough, or experience
enough, to say whether there is, or is not, a God. Into this darkness
Science has not yet carried its torch. No human being has gone beyond
the horizon of the natural. As to the existence of the supernatural, one
man knows precisely as much, and exactly as little as another. Upon
this question, chimpanzees and cardinals, apes and popes, are upon exact
equality. The smallest insect discernible only by the most powerful
microscope, is as familiar with this subject, as the greatest genius
that has been produced by the human race.

Governments and laws are for the preservation of rights and the
regulation of conduct. One man should not be allowed to interfere with
the liberty of another. In the metaphysical world there should be no
interference whatever, The same is true in the world of art. Laws cannot
regulate what is or is not music, what is or what is not beautiful—and
constitutions cannot definitely settle and determine the perfection of
statues, the value of paintings, or the glory and subtlety of thought.
In spite of laws and constitutions the brain will think. In every
direction consistent with the well-being and peace of society, there
should be freedom. No man should be compelled to adopt the theology
of another; neither should a minority, however small, be forced to
acquiesce in the opinions of a majority, however large.

If there be an infinite Being, he does not need our help—we need not
waste our energies in his defence. It is enough for us to give to every
other human being the liberty we claim for ourselves. There may or may
not be a Supreme Ruler of the universe—but we are certain that man
exists, and we believe that freedom is the condition of progress; that
it is the sunshine of the mental and moral world, and that without
it man will go back to the den of savagery, and will become the fit
associate of wild and ferocious beasts.

We have tried the government of priests, and we know that such
governments are without mercy. In the administration of theocracy, all
the instruments of torture have been invented. If any man wishes to
have God recognized in the Constitution of our country, let him read
the history of the Inquisition, and let him remember that hundreds of
millions of men, women and children have been sacrificed to placate the
wrath, or win the approbation of this God.

There has been in our country a divorce of church and state. This
follows as a natural sequence of the declaration that "governments
derive their just powers from the consent of the governed." The priest
was no longer a necessity. His presence was a contradiction of the
principle on which the Republic was founded. He represented, not the
authority of the people, but of some "Power from on High," and to
recognize this other Power was inconsistent with free government. The
founders of the Republic at that time parted company with the priests,
and said to them: "You may turn your attention to the other world—we
will attend to the affairs of this." Equal liberty was given to all. But
the ultra theologian is not satisfied with this—he wishes to destroy
the liberty of the people—he wishes a recognition of his God as the
source of authority, to the end that the church may become the supreme
power.

But the sun will not be turned backward. The people of the United States
are intelligent. They no longer believe implicitly in supernatural
religion. They are losing confidence in the miracles and marvels of the
Dark Ages. They know the value of the free school. They appreciate the
benefits of science. They are believers in education, in the free play
of thought, and there is a suspicion that the priest, the theologian,
is destined to take his place with the necromancer, the astrologer, the
worker of magic, and the professor of the black art.

We have already compared the benefits of theology and science. When the
theologian governed the world, it was covered with huts and hovels for
the many, palaces and cathedrals for the few. To nearly all the children
of men, reading and writing were unknown arts. The poor were clad in
rags and skins—they devoured crusts, and gnawed bones. The day of
Science dawned, and the luxuries of a century ago are the necessities
of to-day. Men in the middle ranks of life have more of the conveniences
and elegancies than the princes and kings of the theological times. But
above and over all this, is the development of mind. There is more of
value in the brain of an average man of to-day—of a master-mechanic, of
a chemist, of a naturalist, of an inventor, than there was in the brain
of the world four hundred years ago.

These blessings did not fall from the skies, These benefits did not
drop from the outstretched hands of priests. They were not found in
cathedrals or behind altars—neither were they searched for with holy
candles. They were not discovered by the closed eyes of prayer, nor did
they come in answer to superstitious supplication. They are the children
of freedom, the gifts of reason, observation and experience—and for
them all, man is indebted to man.

Let us hold fast to the sublime declaration of Lincoln. Let us insist
that this, the Republic, is "A government of the people, by the people,
and for the people."—The Arena, Boston, Mass., January, 1890.
---
# Governor Rollins' Fast-Day Proclamation
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1898_
THE Governor of New Hampshire, undoubtedly a good and sincere man,
issued a Fast-Day Proclamation to the people of his State, in which I
find the following paragraph:

"The decline of the Christian religion, particularly in our rural
communities, is a marked feature of the times, and steps should be taken
to remedy it. No matter what our belief may be in religious matters,
every good citizen knows that when the restraining influences of
religion are withdrawn from a community, its decay, moral, mental
and financial, is swift and sure. To me this is one of the strongest
evidences of the fundamental truth of Christianity. I suggest to-day,
as far as possible on Fast-Day, union meetings be held, made up of all
shades of belief, including all who are interested in the welfare of our
State, and that in your prayers and other devotions and in your mutual
councils you remember and consider the problem of the condition of
religion in the rural communities. There are towns where no church bell
sends forth its solemn call from January to January. There are villages
where children grow to manhood unchristened. There are communities where
the dead are laid away without the benison of the name of the Christ,
and where marriages are solemnized only by Justices of the Peace. This
is a matter worthy of your thoughtful consideration, citizens of New
Hampshire. It does not augur well for the future. You can afford to
devote one day in the year to your fellow-men, to work and thought and
prayer for your children and your children's children."

These words of the Governor have caused surprise, discussion and danger.
Many ministers have denied that Christianity is declining, and have
attacked the Governor with the malice of meekness and the savagery of
humility. The question is: Is Christianity declining?

In order to answer this question we must state what Christianity is.

Christians tell us that there are certain fundamental truths that must
be believed.

We must believe in God, the creator and governor of the universe; in
Jesus Christ, his only begotten son; in the Holy Ghost; in the atonement
made by Christ; in salvation by faith; in the second birth; in heaven
for believers, in hell for deniers and doubters, and in the
inspiration of the Old and New Testaments. They must also believe in a
prayer-hearing and prayer-answering God, in special providence, and
in addition to all this they must practice a few ceremonies. This, I
believe, is a fair skeleton of Christianity. Of course I cannot give
an exact definition. Christians do not and never have agreed among
themselves. They have been disputing and fighting for many centuries,
and to-day they are as far apart as ever.

A few years ago Christians believed the "fundamental truths" They had
no doubts. They knew that God existed; that he made the world. They
knew when he commenced to work at the earth and stars and knew when he
finished. They knew that he, like a potter, mixed and moulded clay into
the shape of a man and breathed into its nostrils the breath of life.
They knew that he took from this man a rib and framed the first woman.

It must be admitted that sensible Christians have outgrown this belief.
Jehovah the gardener, the potter, the tailor, has been dethroned. The
story of creation is believed only by the provincial, the stupid, the
truly orthodox. People who have read Darwin and Haeckel and had sense
enough to understand these great men, laugh at the legends of the Jews.

A few years ago most Christians believed that Christ was the son of God,
and not only the son of God, but God himself.

This belief is slowly fading from the minds of Christians, from the
minds of those who have minds.

Many Christians now say that Christ was simply a man—a perfect man.
Others say that he was divine, but not actually God—a union of God and
man. Some say that while Christ was not God, he was as nearly like God
as it is possible for man to be.

The old belief that he was actually God—that he sacrificed himself unto
himself—that he deserted himself; that he bore the burden of his
own wrath; that he made it possible to save a few of his children by
shedding his own blood; that he could not forgive the sins of men until
they murdered him—this frightful belief is slowly dying day by
day. Most ministers are ashamed to preach these cruel and idiotic
absurdities. The Christ of our time is not the Christ of the New
Testament—not the Christ of the Middle Ages; nor of Luther, Wesley or
the Puritan fathers.

The Christ who was God—who was his own son and his own father—who
was born of a virgin, cast out devils, rose from the dead, and ascended
bodily to heaven—is not the Christ of to-day.

The Holy Ghost has never been accurately defined or described. He has
always been a winged influence—a divine aroma; a disembodied essence;
a spiritual climate; an enthusiastic flame; a something sensitive and
unforgiving; the real father of Jesus Christ.

A few years ago the clergy had a great deal to say about the Holy Ghost,
but now the average minister, while he alludes to this shadowy deity
to round out a prayer, seems ta have but little confidence in him. This
deity is and always has been extremely vague. He has been represented
in the form of a dove; but this form is not associated with much
intelligence.

Formerly it was believed that all men were by nature wicked, and that it
would be perfectly just for God to damn the entire human race. In fact,
it was thought that God, feeling that he had to damn all his children,
invented a scheme by which some could be saved and at the same time
justice could be satisfied. God knew that without the shedding of blood
there could be no remission of sin. For many centuries he was satisfied
with the blood of oxen, lambs and doves. But the sins continued to
increase. A greater sacrifice was necessary. So God concluded to make
the greatest possible sacrifice—to shed his own blood, that is to say,
to have it shed by his chosen people. This was the atonement—the scheme
of salvation—a scheme that satisfied justice and partially defeated the
Devil.

No intelligent Christians believe in this atonement. It is utterly
unphilosophic. The idea that man made salvation possible by murdering
God is infinitely absurd. This makes salvation the blossom of a
crime—the blessed fruit of murder. According to this the joys of heaven
are born of the agonies of innocence. If the Jews had been civilized—if
they had believed in freedom of conscience and had listened kindly and
calmly to the teachings of Christ, the whole world, including Christ's
mother, would have gone to hell.

Our fathers had two absurdities. They balanced each other. They said
that God could justly damn his children for the sin of Adam, and that he
could justly save his children on account of the sufferings and virtues
of Christ; that is to say, on account of his own sufferings and virtues.

This view of the atonement has mostly been abandoned. It is now
preached, not that Christ bought souls with his blood, but that he has
ennobled souls by his example. The supernatural part of the atonement
has, by the more intelligent, been thrown away. So the idea of imputed
sin—of vicarious vice—has been by many abandoned.

Salvation by faith is growing weak. People are beginning to see that
character is more important than belief; that virtue is above all
creeds. Civilized people no longer believe in a God who will damn an
honest, generous man. They see that it is not honest to offer a reward
for belief. The promise of reward is not evidence. It is an attempt to
bribe.

If God wishes his children to believe, he should furnish evidence.
He should not endeavor to make promises and threats take the place
of facts. To offer a reward for credulity is dishonest and
immoral—infamous.

To say that good people who never heard of Christ ought to be damned for
not believing on him is a mixture of idiocy and savagery.

People are beginning to perceive that happiness is a result, not a
reward; that happiness must be earned; that it is not alms. It is also
becoming apparent that sins cannot be forgiven; that no power can step
between actions and consequences; that men must "reap what they sow;"
that a man who has lived a cruel life cannot, by repenting between the
last dose of medicine and the last breath, be washed in the blood of the
Lamb, and become an angel—an angel entitled to an eternity of joy.

All this is absurd, but you may say that it is not cruel. But to say
that a man who has lived a useful life; who has made a happy home; who
has lifted the fallen, succored the oppressed and battled to uphold
the right; to say that such a man, because he failed to believe without
evidence, will suffer eternal pain, is to say that God is an infinite
wild beast.

Salvation for credulity means damnation for investigation.

At one time the "second birth" was regarded as a divine mystery—as a
miracle—a something done by a supernatural power; probably by the Holy
Ghost. Now ministers are explaining this mystery. A change of heart is a
change of ideas. About this there is nothing miraculous.

This happens to most men and women—happens many times in the life
of one man. If this happens without excitement—as the result of
thought—it is called reformation. If it occurs in a revival—if it is
the result of fright—it is called the "second birth."

A few years ago Christians believed in the inspiration of the Bible.
They had no doubts. The Bible was the standard. If some geologist found
a fact inconsistent with the Scriptures he was silenced with a text.
If some doubter called attention to a contradiction in the Bible he was
denounced as an ungodly and blaspheming wretch. Christians then knew
that the universe was only about six thousand years old, and any man who
denied this was an enemy of Christ and a friend of the Devil.

All this has changed. The Bible is no longer the standard. Science has
dethroned the inspired volume. Even theologians are taking facts
into consideration. Only ignorant bigots now believe in the plenary
inspiration of the Bible.

The intelligent ministers know that the Holy Scriptures are filled with
mistakes, contradictions and interpolations. They no longer believe in
the flood, in Babel, in Lot's wife or in the fire and brimstone storm.
They are not sure about the burning bush, the plagues of Egypt, the
division of the Red Sea or the miracles in the wilderness. All these
wonders are growing foolish. They belong to the Mother Goose of the
past, and many clergymen are ashamed to say that they believe them. So,
the lengthening of the day in order that General Joshua might have more
time to kill, the journey of Elijah to heaven, the voyage of Jonah
in the fish, and many other wonders of a like kind, have become so
transparently false that even a theologian refuses to believe.

The same is true of many of the miracles of the New Testament. No
sensible man now believes that Christ cast devils and unclean spirits
out of the bodies of men and women. A few years ago all Christians
believed all these devil miracles with all the mind they had. A few
years ago only Infidels denied these miracles, but now the theologians
who are studying the "Higher Criticism" are reaching the conclusions of
Voltaire and Paine. They have just discovered that the objections made
to the Bible by the Deists are supported by the facts.

At the same time these "Higher Critics," while they admit that the Bible
is not true, still insist that it is inspired.

The other evening I attended Forepaugh & Sell's Circus at Madison Square
Garden and saw a magnificent panorama of performances. While looking at
a man riding a couple of horses I thought of the "Higher Critics." They
accept Darwin and cling to Genesis. They admit that Genesis is false in
fact, and then assert that in a higher sense it is absolutely true.

A lie bursts into blossom and has the perfume of truth. These critics
declare that the Bible is the inspired word of God, and then establish
the truth of the declaration by showing that it is filled with
contradictions, absurdities and false prophecies.

The horses they ride, sometimes get so far apart that it seems to me
that walking would be easier on the legs.

So, I saw at the circus the "Snake Man." I saw him tie himself into all
kinds of knots; saw him make a necktie of his legs; saw him throw back
his head and force it between his knees; saw him twist and turn as
though his bones were made of rubber, and as I watched him I thought of
the mental doublings and contortions of the preachers who have answered
me.

Let Christians say what they will, the Bible is no longer the actual
word of God; it is no longer perfect; it is no longer quite true.

The most that is now claimed for the Bible by the "Higher Critics" is,
that some passages are inspired; that some passages are true, and that
God has left man free to pick these passages out.

The ministers are preaching Infidelity. What would Lyman Beecher have
thought of a man like Dr. Abbott? he would have consigned him to hell.
What would John Wesley have thought of a Methodist like Dr. Cadman? He
would have denounced him as a child of the Devil. What would Calvin have
thought of a Presbyterian like Professor Briggs? He would have burned
him at the stake, and through the smoke and flame would have shouted,
"You are a dog of Satan." How would Jeremy Taylor have treated an
Episcopalian like Heber Newton?

The Governor of New Hampshire is right when he says that Christianity
has declined. The flames of faith are flickering, zeal is cooling and
even bigotry is beginning to see the other side. I admit that there
are still millions of orthodox Christians whose minds are incapable of
growth, and who care no more for facts than a monitor does for bullets.
Such obstructions on the highway of progress are removed only by death.

The dogma of eternal pain is no longer believed by the reasonably
intelligent. People who have a sense of justice know that eternal
revenge cannot be enjoyed by infinite goodness. They know that hell
would make heaven impossible. If Christians believed in hell as they
once did, the fagots would be lighted again, heretics would be stretched
on the rack, and all the instruments of torture would again be stained
with innocent blood. Christianity has declined because intelligence has
increased.

Men and women who know something of the history of man, of the horrors
of plague, famine and flood, of earthquake, volcano and cyclone, of
religious persecution and slavery, have but little confidence in special
providence. They do not believe that a prayer was ever answered.

Thousands of people who accept Christ as a moral guide have thrown, away
the supernatural.

Christianity does not satisfy the brain and heart. It contains too many
absurdities. It is unphilosophic, unnatural, impossible. Not to resist
evil is moral suicide. To love your enemies is impossible. To desert
wife and children for the sake of heaven is cowardly and selfish. To
promise rewards for belief is dishonest. To threaten torture for honest
unbelief is infamous. Christianity is declining because men and women
are growing better.

The Governor was not satisfied with saying that Christianity had
declined, but he added this: "Every good citizen knows that when the
restraining influences of religion are withdrawn from a community, its
decay, moral, mental and financial is swift and sure."

The restraining influences of religion have never been withdrawn from
Spain or Portugal, from Austria or Italy. The "restraining influences"
are still active in Russia. Emperor William relies on them in Germany,
and the same influences are very busy taking care of Ireland. If these
influences should be withdrawn from Spain there would be "mental, moral
and financial decay." Is not this statement perfectly absurd?

The fact is that religion has reduced Spain to a guitar, Italy to a
hand organ and Ireland to exile. What are the restraining influences of
religion? I admit that religion can prevent people from eating meat on
Friday, from dancing in Lent, from going to the theatre on holy days and
from swearing in public. In other words, religion can restrain people
from committing artificial offences. But the real question is: Can
religion restrain people from committing natural crimes?

The church teaches that God can and will forgive sins.

Christianity sells sin on a credit. It says to men and women, "Be good;
do right; but no matter how many crimes you commit you can be forgiven."
How can such a religion be regarded as a restraining influence! There
was a time when religion had power; when the church ruled Christendom;
when popes crowned and uncrowned kings. Was there at that time moral,
mental and financial growth? Did the nations thus restrained by
religion, prosper? When these restraining influences were weakened, when
popes were humbled, when creeds were denied, did morality, intelligence
and prosperity begin to decay?

What are the restraining influences of religion? Did anybody ever hear
of a policeman being dismissed because a new church had been organized?

Christianity teaches that the man who does right carries a cross. The
exact opposite of this is true. The cross is carried by the man who
does wrong. I believe in the restraining influences of intelligence.
Intelligence is the only lever capable of raising mankind. If you wish
to make men moral and prosperous develop the brain. Men must be taught
to rely on themselves. To supplicate the supernatural is a waste of
time.

The only evils that have been caused by the decline of Christianity,
as pointed out by the Governor, are that in some villages they hear no
solemn bells, that the dead are buried without Christian ceremony, that
marriages are contracted before Justices of the Peace, and that children
go unchristened.

These evils are hardly serious enough to cause moral, mental and
financial decay. The average church bell is not very musical—not
calculated to develop the mind or quicken the conscience. The absence of
the ordinary funeral sermon does not add to the horror of death, and
the failure to hear a minister say, as he stands by the grave, "One star
differs in glory from another star. There is a difference between the
flesh of fowl and fish. Be not deceived. Evil communications corrupt
good manners," does not necessarily increase the grief of the mourners.
So far as children are concerned, if they are vaccinated, it does not
make much difference whether they are christened or not.

Marriage is a civil contract, and God is not one of the contracting
parties. It is a contract with which the church has no business to
interfere. Marriage with us is regulated by law. The real marriage—the
uniting of hearts, the lighting of the sacred flame in each—is the work
of Nature, and it is the best work that nature does. The ceremony of
marriage gives notice to the world that the real marriage has taken
place. Ministers have no real interest in marriages outside of the fees.
Certainly marriages by Justices of the Peace cannot cause the mental,
moral and financial decay of a State.

The things pointed out by the Governor were undoubtedly produced by
the decline of Christianity, but they are not evils, and they cannot
possibly injure the people morally, mentally or financially. The
Governor calls on the people to think, work and pray. With two-thirds of
this I agree. If the people of New Hampshire will think and work without
praying they will grow morally, mentally and financially. If they pray
without working and thinking, they will decay.

Prayer is beggary—an effort to get something for nothing. Labor is the
honest prayer.

I do not think that the good and true in Christianity are declining. The
good and true are more clearly perceived and more precious than ever.
The supernatural, the miraculous part of Christianity is declining.
The New Testament has been compelled to acknowledge the jurisdiction of
reason. If Christianity continues to decline at the same rate and ratio
that it has declined in this generation, in a few years all that is
supernatural in the Christian religion will cease to exist. There is a
conflict—a battle between the natural and the supernatural. The natural
was baffled and beaten for thousands of years. The flag of defeat was
carried by the few, by the brave and wise, by the real heroes of our
race. They were conquered, captured, imprisoned, tortured and burned.
Others took their places. The banner was kept in the air. In spite of
countless defeats the army of the natural increased. It began to gain
victories. It did not torture and kill the conquered. It enlightened
and blessed. It fought ignorance with science, cruelty with kindness,
slavery with justice, and all vices with virtues. In this great conflict
we have passed midnight. When the morning comes its rays will gild but
one flag—the flag of the natural.

All over Christendom religions are declining. Only children and the
intellectually undeveloped have faith—the old faith that defies facts.
Only a few years ago to be excommunicated by the pope blanched the
cheeks of the bravest. Now the result would be laughter. Only a few
years ago, for the sake of saving heathen souls, priests would brave all
dangers and endure all hardships.

I once read the diary of a priest—one who long ago went down the
Illinois River, the first white man to be borne on its waters. In this
diary he wrote that he had just been paid for all that he had suffered.
He had added a gem to the crown of his glory—had saved a soul for
Christ. He had baptized a papoose.

That kind of faith has departed from the world.

The zeal that flamed in the hearts of Calvin, Luther and Knox, is
cold and dead. Where are the Wesleys and Whitfields? Where are the old
evangelists, the revivalists who swayed the hearts of their hearers with
words of flame? The preachers of our day have lost the Promethean fire.
They have lost the tone of certainty, of authority. "Thus saith the
Lord" has dwindled to "perhaps." Sermons, messages from God, promises
radiant with eternal joy, threats lurid with the flames of hell—have
changed to colorless essays; to apologies and literary phrases; to
inferences and peradventures.

"The blood-dyed vestures of the Redeemer are not waving in triumph over
the ramparts of sin and rebellion," but over the fortresses of faith
float the white flags of truce. The trumpets no longer sound for battle,
but for parley. The fires of hell have been extinguished, and heaven
itself is only a dream. The "eternal verities" have changed to doubts.
The torch of inspiration, choked with ashes, has lost its flame. There
is no longer in the church "a sound from heaven as of a rushing, mighty
wind;" no "cloven tongues like as of fire;" no "wonders in the heaven
above," and no "signs in the earth beneath." The miracles have faded
away and the sceptre is passing from superstition to science—science,
the only possible savior of mankind.
---
# How to Edit a Liberal Paper
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1884_
A LIBERAL paper should be edited by a Liberal man.

And by the word Liberal I mean, not only free, not only one who thinks
for himself, not only one who has escaped from the prisons of customs
and creed, but one who is candid, intelligent and kind.

This Liberal editor should not forever play upon one string, no matter
how wonderful the music. He should not have his attention forever fixed
upon one question—that is to say, he should not look through a reversed
telescope and narrow his horizon to that degree that he sees only one
thing.

To know that the Bible is the literature of a barbarous people, to know
that it is uninspired, to be certain that the supernatural does not and
cannot exist—all this is but the beginning of wisdom. This only lays
the foundation for unprejudiced observation. To kill weeds, to fell
forests, to drive away or exterminate wild beasts—this is preparatory
to doing something of greater value. Of course the weeds must be killed,
the forests must be felled, and the beasts must be destroyed before the
building of homes and the cultivation of fields.

A Liberal paper should not discuss theological questions alone.
Intelligent people everywhere have given up most of the old
superstitions. They have pretty well made up their minds what is false,
and they want to know some others.

That is to say, liberal toward everything that is true. For this reason,
a Liberal paper should keep abreast of the discoveries of the human
mind. No science should be neglected; no fact should be overlooked.
Inventions should be described and understood. And not only this, but
the beautiful in thought, in form and color, should be preserved. The
paper should be filled with things calculated to interest thoughtful,
intelligent and serious people. There should be a column for children as
well as for men.

Above all, it should be perfectly kind and candid. In discussion there
is no place for hatred, no opportunity for slander. A personality
is always out of place. An angry man can neither reason himself, nor
perceive the reason of what another says. The orthodox world has always
dealt in personalities. Every minister can answer the argument of an
opponent by attacking the character of the opponent. This example should
never be followed by a Liberal man. Nobody can be bad enough to prove
that the Bible is uninspired, and nobody can be good enough to prove
that it is the word of God. These facts have no relation. They neither
stand nor fall together.

Nothing should be asserted that is not known. Nothing should be denied,
the falsity of which has not been, or cannot be, demonstrated. Opinions
are simply given for what they are worth. They are guesses, and one
guesser should give to another guesser all the right of guessing that he
claims for himself. Upon the great questions of origin, of destiny, of
immortality, of punishment and reward in other worlds, every honest man
must say, "I do not know." Upon these questions, this is the creed of
intelligence. Nothing is harder to bear than the egotism of ignorance
and the arrogance of superstition. The man who has some knowledge of
the difficulties surrounding these subjects, who knows something of the
limitations of the human mind, must, of necessity, be mentally modest.
And this condition of mental modesty is the only one consistent with
individual progress.

Above all, and over all, a Liberal paper should teach the absolute
freedom of the mind, the utter independence of the individual, the
perfect liberty of speech. We should remember that the world is as it
must be; that the present is the necessary offspring of the past; that
the future must be what the present makes it, and that the real work of
the reformer, of the philanthropist, is to change the conditions of the
present, to the end that the future may be better.

Secular Thought, Toronto, January 8,1887.
---
# Huxley and Agnosticism
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1889_
IN the February number of the Nineteenth Century, 1889, is an article
by Professor Huxley, entitled "Agnosticism." It seems that a church
congress was held at Manchester in October, 1888, and that the Principal
of King's College brought the topic of Agnosticism before the assembly
and made the following statement:

"But if this be so, for a man to urge as an escape from this article
of belief that he has no means of a scientific knowledge of an unseen
world, or of the future, is irrelevant. His difference from Christians
lies, not in the fact that he has no knowledge of these things, but
that he does not believe the authority on which they are stated. He
may prefer to call himself an Agnostic, but his real name is an older
one—he is an infidel; that is to say, an unbeliever. The word infidel,
perhaps, carries an unpleasant significance. Perhaps it is right that it
should. It is, and it ought to be, an unpleasant thing for a man to have
to say plainly that he does not believe in Jesus Christ."

Let us examine this statement, putting it in language that is easily
understood; and for that purpose we will divide it into several
paragraphs.

First.—"For a man to urge that he has no means of a scientific
knowledge of the unseen world, or of the future, is irrelevant."

Is there any other knowledge than a scientific knowledge? Are there
several kinds of knowing? Is there such a thing as scientific ignorance?
If a man says, "I know nothing of the unseen world because I have no
knowledge upon that subject," is the fact that he has no knowledge
absolutely irrelevant? Will the Principal of King's College say that
having no knowledge is the reason he knows? When asked to give your
opinion upon any subject, can it be said that your ignorance of that
subject is irrelevant? If this be true, then your knowledge of the
subject is also irrelevant?

Is it possible to put in ordinary English a more perfect absurdity? How
can a man obtain any knowledge of the unseen world? He certainly cannot
obtain it through the medium of the senses. It is not a world that he
can visit. He cannot stand upon its shores, nor can he view them from
the ocean of imagination. The Principal of King's College, however,
insists that these impossibilities are irrelevant.

No person has come back from the unseen world. No authentic message has
been delivered. Through all the centuries, not one whisper has broken
the silence that lies beyond the grave. Countless millions have sought
for some evidence, have listened in vain for some word.

It is most cheerfully admitted that all this does not prove the
non-existence of another world—all this does not demonstrate that death
ends all. But it is the justification of the Agnostic, who candidly
says, "I do not know."

Second.—The Principal of King's College states that the difference
between an Agnostic and a Christian "lies, not in the fact that he has
no knowledge of these things, but that he does not believe the authority
on which they are stated."

Is this a difference in knowledge, or a difference in belief—that is to
say, a difference in credulity?

The Christian believes the Mosaic account. He reverently hears and
admits the truth of all that he finds within the Scriptures. Is this
knowledge? How is it possible to know whether the reputed authors of the
books of the Old Testament were the real ones? The witnesses are dead.
The lips that could testify are dust. Between these shores roll the
waves of many centuries. Who knows whether such a man as Moses existed
or not? Who knows the author of Kings and Chronicles? By what testimony
can we substantiate the authenticity of the prophets, or of the
prophecies, or of the fulfillments? Is there any difference between the
knowledge of the Christian and of the Agnostic? Does the Principal of
King's College know any more as to the truth of the Old Testament than
the man who modestly calls for evidence? Has not a mistake been made? Is
not the difference one of belief instead of knowledge? And is not
this difference founded on the difference in credulity? Would not
an infinitely wise and good being—where belief is a condition to
salvation—supply the evidence? Certainly the Creator of man—if such
exist—knows the exact nature of the human mind—knows the evidence
necessary to convince; and, consequently, such a being would act in
accordance with such conditions.

There is a relation between evidence and belief. The mind is so
constituted that certain things, being in accordance with its nature,
are regarded as reasonable, as probable.

There is also this fact that must not be overlooked: that is, that just
in the proportion that the brain is developed it requires more evidence,
and becomes less and less credulous. Ignorance and credulity go hand in
hand. Intelligence understands something of the law of average, has an
idea of probability. It is not swayed by prejudice, neither is it driven
to extremes by suspicion. It takes into consideration personal motives.
It examines the character of the witnesses, makes allowance for the
ignorance of the time,—for enthusiasm, for fear,—and comes to its
conclusion without fear and without passion.

What knowledge has the Christian of another world? The senses of the
Christian are the same as those of the Agnostic.

He hears, sees, and feels substantially the same. His vision is limited.
He sees no other shore and hears nothing from another world.

Knowledge is something that can be imparted. It has a foundation
in fact. It comes within the domain of the senses. It can be told,
described, analyzed, and, in addition to all this, it can be classified.
Whenever a fact becomes the property of one mind, it can become the
property of the intellectual world. There are words in which the
knowledge can be conveyed.

The Christian is not a supernatural person, filled with supernatural
truths. He is a natural person, and all that he knows of value can be
naturally imparted. It is within his power to give all that he has to
the Agnostic.

The Principal of King's College is mistaken when he says that the
difference between the Agnostic and the Christian does not lie in the
fact that the Agnostic has no knowledge, "but that he does not believe
the authority on which these things are stated."

The real difference is this: the Christian says that he has knowledge;
the Agnostic admits that he has none; and yet the Christian accuses the
Agnostic of arrogance, and asks him how he has the impudence to admit
the limitations of his mind. To the Agnostic every fact is a torch, and
by this light, and this light only, he walks.

It is also true that the Agnostic does not believe the authority relied
on by the Christian. What is the authority of the Christian? Thousands
of years ago it is supposed that certain men, or, rather, uncertain men,
wrote certain things. It is alleged by the Christian that these men were
divinely inspired, and that the words of these men are to be taken as
absolutely true, no matter whether or not they are verified by modern
discovery and demonstration.

How can we know that any human being was divinely inspired? There has
been no personal revelation to us to the effect that certain people were
inspired—it is only claimed that the revelation was to them. For this
we have only their word, and about that there is this difficulty: we
know nothing of them, and, consequently, cannot, if we desire, rely upon
their character for truth. This evidence is not simply hearsay—it
is far weaker than that. We have only been told that they said these
things; we do not know whether the persons claiming to be inspired
wrote these things or not; neither are we certain that such persons ever
existed. We know now that the greatest men with whom we are acquainted
are often mistaken about the simplest matters. We also know that men
saying something like the same things, in other countries and in ancient
days, must have been impostors. The Christian has no confidence in the
words of Mohammed; the Mohammedan cares nothing about the declarations
of Buddha; and the Agnostic gives to the words of the Christian the
value only of the truth that is in them. He knows that these sayings get
neither truth nor worth from the person who uttered them. He knows
that the sayings themselves get their entire value from the truth they
express. So that the real difference between the Christian and the
Agnostic does not lie in their knowledge,—for neither of them has any
knowledge on this subject,—but the difference does lie in credulity,
and in nothing else. The Agnostic does not rely on the authority of
Moses and the prophets. He finds that they were mistaken in most matters
capable of demonstration. He finds that their mistakes multiply in the
proportion that human knowledge increases. He is satisfied that the
religion of the ancient Jews is, in most things, as ignorant and cruel
as other religions of the ancient world. He concludes that the efforts,
in all ages, to answer the questions of origin and destiny, and to
account for the phenomena of life, have all been substantial failures.

In the presence of demonstration there is no opportunity for the
exercise of faith. Truth does not appeal to credulity—it appeals to
evidence, to established facts, to the constitution of the mind. It
endeavors to harmonize the new fact with all that we know, and to bring
it within the circumference of human experience.

The church has never cultivated investigation. It has never said: Let
him who has a mind to think, think; but its cry from the first until now
has been: Let him who has ears to hear, hear.

The pulpit does not appeal to the reason of the pew; it speaks by
authority and it commands the pew to believe, and it not only commands,
but it threatens.

The Agnostic knows that the testimony of man is not sufficient to
establish what is known as the miraculous. We would not believe to-day
the testimony of millions to the effect that the dead had been raised.
The church itself would be the first to attack such testimony. If we
cannot believe those whom we know, why should we believe witnesses who
have been dead thousands of years, and about whom we know nothing?

Third.—The Principal of King's College, growing somewhat severe,
declares that "he may prefer to call himself an Agnostic, but his real
name is an older one—he is an infidel; that is to say, an unbeliever."

This is spoken in a kind of holy scorn. According to this gentleman, an
unbeliever is, to a certain extent, a disreputable person.

In this sense, what is an unbeliever? He is one whose mind is so
constituted that what the Christian calls evidence is not satisfactory
to him. Is a person accountable for the constitution of his mind, for
the formation of his brain? Is any human being responsible for the
weight that evidence has upon him? Can he believe without evidence? Is
the weight of evidence a question of choice? Is there such a thing as
honestly weighing testimony? Is the result of such weighing necessary?
Does it involve moral responsibility? If the Mosaic account does not
convince a man that it is true, is he a wretch because he is candid
enough to tell the truth? Can he preserve his manhood only by making a
false statement?

The Mohammedan would call the Principal of King's College an
unbeliever,—so would the tribes of Central Africa,—and he would return
the compliment, and all would be equally justified. Has the Principal of
King's College any knowledge that he keeps from the rest of the world?
Has he the confidence of the Infinite? Is there anything praiseworthy in
believing where the evidence is sufficient, or is one to be praised for
believing only where the evidence is insufficient? Is a man to be blamed
for not agreeing with his fellow-citizen? Were the unbelievers in the
pagan world better or worse than their neighbors? It is probably true
that some of the greatest Greeks believed in the gods of that nation,
and it is equally true that some of the greatest denied their existence.
If credulity is a virtue now, it must have been in the days of Athens.
If to believe without evidence entities one to eternal reward in this
century, certainly the same must have been true in the days of the
Pharaohs.

An infidel is one who does not believe in the prevailing religion. We
now admit that the infidels of Greece and Rome were right. The gods that
they refused to believe in are dead. Their thrones are empty, and long
ago the sceptres dropped from their nerveless hands. To-day the world
honors the men who denied and derided these gods.

Fourth.—The Principal of King's College ventures to suggest that "the
word infidel, perhaps, carries an unpleasant significance; perhaps it is
right that it should."

A few years ago the word infidel did carry "an unpleasant significance."
A few years ago its significance was so unpleasant that the man to
whom the word was applied found himself in prison or at the stake. In
particularly kind communities he was put in the stocks, pelted with
offal, derided by hypocrites, scorned by ignorance, jeered by cowardice,
and all the priests passed by on the other side.

There was a time when Episcopalians were regarded as infidels; when a
true Catholic looked upon a follower of Henry VIII. as an infidel, as
an unbeliever; when a true Catholic held in detestation the man who
preferred a murderer and adulterer—a man who swapped religions for the
sake of exchanging wives—to the Pope, the head of the universal church.

It is easy enough to conceive of an honest man denying the claims of
a church based on the caprice of an English king. The word infidel
"carries an unpleasant significance" only where the Christians are
exceedingly ignorant, intolerant, bigoted, cruel, and unmannerly.

The real gentleman gives to others the rights that he claims for
himself. The civilized man rises far above the bigotry of one who has
been "born again." Good breeding is far gentler than "universal love."

It is natural for the church to hate an unbeliever—natural for the
pulpit to despise one who refuses to subscribe, who refuses to give. It
is a question of revenue instead of religion. The Episcopal Church has
the instinct of self-preservation. It uses its power, its influence, to
compel contribution. It forgives the giver.

Fifth.—The Principal of King's College insists that "it is, and it
ought to be, an unpleasant thing for a man to have to say plainly that
he does not believe in Jesus Christ."

Should it be an unpleasant thing for a man to say plainly what he
believes? Can this be unpleasant except in an uncivilized community—a
community in which an uncivilized church has authority?

Why should not a man be as free to say that he does not believe as to
say that he does believe? Perhaps the real question is whether all men
have an equal right to express their opinions. Is it the duty of the
minority to keep silent? Are majorities always right? If the minority
had never spoken, what to-day would have been the condition of this
world? Are the majority the pioneers of progress, or does the pioneer,
as a rule, walk alone? Is it his duty to close his lips? Must the
inventor allow his inventions to die in the brain? Must the discoverer
of new truths make of his mind a tomb? Is man under any obligation to
his fellows? Was the Episcopal religion always in the majority? Was it
at any time in the history of the world an unpleasant thing to be
called a Protestant? Did the word Protestant "carry an unpleasant
significance"? Was it "perhaps right that it should"? Was Luther a
misfortune to the human race?

If a community is thoroughly civilized, why should it be an unpleasant
thing for a man to express his belief in respectful language? If the
argument is against him, it might be unpleasant; but why should simple
numbers be the foundation of unpleasantness? If the majority have the
facts,—if they have the argument,—why should they fear the mistakes of
the minority? Does any theologian hate the man he can answer?

It is claimed by the Episcopal Church that Christ was in fact God; and
it is further claimed that the New Testament is an inspired account of
what that being and his disciples did and said. Is there any obligation
resting on any human being to believe this account? Is it within the
power of man to determine the influence that testimony shall have upon
his mind?

If one denies the existence of devils, does he, for that reason, cease
to believe in Jesus Christ? Is it not possible to imagine that a great
and tender soul living in Palestine nearly twenty centuries ago was
misunderstood? Is it not within the realm of the possible that his
words have been inaccurately reported? Is it not within the range of the
probable that legend and rumor and ignorance and zeal have deformed his
life and belittled his character?

If the man Christ lived and taught and suffered, if he was, in reality,
great and noble, who is his friend—the one who attributes to him feats
of jugglery, or he who maintains that these stories were invented by
zealous ignorance and believed by enthusiastic credulity?

If he claimed to have wrought miracles, he must have been either
dishonest or insane; consequently, he who denies miracles does what
little he can to rescue the reputation of a great and splendid man.

The Agnostic accepts the good he did, the truth he said, and rejects
only that which, according to his judgment, is inconsistent with truth
and goodness.

The Principal of King's College evidently believes in the necessity of
belief. He puts conviction or creed or credulity in place of character.
According to his idea, it is impossible to win the approbation of God by
intelligent investigation and by the expression of honest conclusions.
He imagines that the Infinite is delighted with credulity, with belief
without evidence, faith without question.

Man has but little reason, at best; but this little should be used. No
matter how small the taper is, how feeble the ray of light it casts, it
is better than darkness, and no man should be rewarded for extinguishing
the light he has.

We know now, if we know anything, that man in this, the nineteenth
century, is better capable of judging as to the happening of any event,
than he ever was before. We know that the standard is higher to-day—we
know that the intellectual light is greater—we know that the human mind
is better equipped to deal with all questions of human interest, than at
any other time within the known history of the human race.

It will not do to say that "our Lord and his apostles must at least be
regarded as honest men." Let this be admitted, and what does it prove?
Honesty is not enough. Intelligence and honesty must go hand in hand.
We may admit now that "our Lord and his apostles" were perfectly honest
men; yet it does not follow that we have a truthful account of what they
said and of what they did. It is not pretended that "our Lord" wrote
anything, and it is not known that one of the apostles ever wrote
a word. Consequently, the most that we can say is that somebody has
written something about "our Lord and his apostles." Whether that
somebody knew or did not know is unknown to us. As to whether what is
written is true or false, we must judge by that which is written.

First of all, is it probable? is it within the experience of mankind?
We should judge of the gospels as we judge of other histories, of other
biographies. We know that many biographies written by perfectly honest
men are not correct. We know, if we know anything, that honest men can
be mistaken, and it is not necessary to believe everything that a man
writes because we believe he was honest. Dishonest men may write the
truth.

At last the standard or criterion is for each man to judge according to
what he believes to be human experience. We are satisfied that nothing
more wonderful has happened than is now happening. We believe that
the present is as wonderful as the past, and just as miraculous as the
future. If we are to believe in the truth of the Old Testament, the
word evidence loses its meaning; there ceases to be any standard of
probability, and the mind simply accepts or denies without reason.

We are told that certain miracles were performed for the purpose of
attesting the mission and character of Christ. How can these miracles
be verified? The miracles of the Middle Ages rest upon substantially the
same evidence. The same may be said of the wonders of all countries and
of all ages. How is it a virtue to deny the miracles of Mohammed and to
believe those attributed to Christ?

You may say of St. Augustine that what he said was true or false. We
know that much of it was false; and yet we are not justified in saying
that he was dishonest. Thousands of errors have been propagated by
honest men. As a rule, mistakes get their wings from honest people. The
testimony of a witness to the happening of the impossible gets no weight
from the honesty of the witness. The fact that falsehoods are in the
New Testament does not tend to prove that the writers were knowingly
untruthful. No man can be honest enough to substantiate, to the
satisfaction of reasonable men, the happening of a miracle.

For this reason it makes not the slightest difference whether the
writers of the New Testament were honest or not. Their character is not
involved. Whenever a man rises above his contemporaries, whenever he
excites the wonder of his fellows, his biographers always endeavor to
bridge over the chasm between the people and this man, and for that
purpose attribute to him the qualities which in the eyes of the
multitude are desirable.

Miracles are demanded by savages, and, consequently, the savage
biographer attributes miracles to his hero. What would we think now of a
man who, in writing the life of Charles Darwin, should attribute to him
supernatural powers? What would we say of an admirer of Humboldt who
should claim that the great German could cast out devils? We would feel
that Darwin and Humboldt had been belittled; that the biographies were
written for children and by men who had not outgrown the nursery.

If the reputation of "our Lord" is to be preserved—if he is to stand
with the great and splendid of the earth—if he is to continue a
constellation in the intellectual heavens, all claim to the miraculous,
to the supernatural, must be abandoned.

No one can overestimate the evils that have been endured by the human
race by reason of a departure from the standard of the natural. The
world has been governed by jugglery, by sleight-of-hand. Miracles,
wonders, tricks, have been regarded as of far greater importance than
the steady, the sublime and unbroken march of cause and effect. The
improbable has been established by the impossible. Falsehood has
furnished the foundation for faith.

Is the human body at present the residence of evil spirits, or have
these imps of darkness perished from the world? Where are they? If the
New Testament establishes anything, it is the existence of innumerable
devils, and that these satanic beings absolutely took possession of
the human mind. Is this true? Can anything be more absurd? Does any
intellectual man who has examined the question believe that depraved
demons live in the bodies of men? Do they occupy space? Do they live
upon some kind of food? Of what shape are they? Could they be classified
by a naturalist? Do they run or float or fly? If to deny the existence
of these supposed beings is to be an infidel, how can the word infidel
"carry an unpleasant significance"?

Of course it is the business of the principals of most colleges, as well
as of bishops, cardinals, popes, priests, and clergymen to insist upon
the existence of evil spirits. All these gentlemen are employeed to
counteract the influence of these supposed demons. Why should they take
the bread out of their own mouths? Is it to be expected that they will
unfrock themselves?

The church, like any other corporation, has the instinct of
self-preservation. It will defend itself; it will fight as long as it
has the power to change a hand into a fist.

The Agnostic takes the ground that human experience is the basis of
morality. Consequently, it is of no importance who wrote the gospels,
or who vouched or vouches for the genuineness of the miracles. In his
scheme of life these things are utterly unimportant. He is satisfied
that "the miraculous" is the impossible. He knows that the witnesses
were wholly incapable of examining the questions involved, that
credulity had possession of their minds, that "the miraculous" was
expected, that it was their daily food.

All this is very clearly and delightfully stated by Professor Huxley,
and it hardly seems possible that any intelligent man can read what he
says without feeling that the foundation of all superstition has
been weakened. The article is as remarkable for its candor as for its
clearness. Nothing is avoided—everything is met. No excuses are given..
He has left all apologies for the other side. When you have finished
what Professor Huxley has written, you feel that your mind has been
in actual contact with the mind of another, that nothing has been
concealed; and not only so, but you feel that this mind is not only
willing, but anxious, to know the actual truth.

To me, the highest uses of philosophy are, first, to free the mind of
fear, and, second, to avert all the evil that can be averted, through
intelligence—that is to say, through a knowledge of the conditions of
well-being.

We are satisfied that the absolute is beyond our vision, beneath our
touch, above our reach. We are now convinced that we can deal only with
phenomena, with relations, with appearances, with things that impress
the senses, that can be reached by reason, by the exercise of our
faculties. We are satisfied that the reasonable road is "the straight
road," the only "sacred way."

Of course there is faith in the world—faith in this world—and always
will be, unless superstition succeeds in every land. But the faith of
the wise man is based upon facts. His faith is a reasonable conclusion
drawn from the known. He has faith in the progress of the race, in the
triumph of intelligence, in the coming sovereignty of science. He has
faith in the development of the brain, in the gradual enlightenment of
the mind. And so he works for the accomplishment of great ends, having
faith in the final victory of the race.

He has honesty enough to say that he does not know. He perceives and
admits that the mind has limitations. He doubts the so-called wisdom of
the past. He looks for evidence, and he endeavors to keep his mind
free from prejudice. He believes in the manly virtues, in the judicial
spirit, and in his obligation to tell his honest thoughts.

It is useless to talk about a destruction of consolations. That which is
suspected to be untrue loses its power to console. A man should be brave
enough to bear the truth.

Professor Huxley has stated with great clearness the attitude of
the Agnostic. It seems that he is somewhat severe on the Positive
Philosophy, While it is hard to see the propriety of worshiping Humanity
as a being, it is easy to understand the splendid dream of August Comte.
Is the human race worthy to be worshiped by itself—that is to say,
should the individual worship himself? Certainly the religion of
humanity is better than the religion of the inhuman. The Positive
Philosophy is better far than Catholicism. It does not fill the heavens
with monsters, nor the future with pain.

It may be said that Luther and Comte endeavored to reform the Catholic
Church. Both were mistaken, because the only reformation of which that
church is capable is destruction. It is a mass of superstition.

The mission of Positivism is, in the language of its founder, "to
generalize science and to systematize sociality." It seems to me that
Comte stated with great force and with absolute truth the three phases
of intellectual evolution or progress.

First.—"In the supernatural phase the mind seeks causes—aspires to
know the essence of things, and the How and Why of their operation. In
this phase, all facts are regarded as the productions of supernatural
agents, and unusual phenomena are interpreted as the signs of the
pleasure or displeasure of some god."

Here at this point is the orthodox world of to-day. The church still
imagines that phenomena should be interpreted as the signs of the
pleasure or displeasure of God. Nearly every history is deformed with
this childish and barbaric view.

Second.—The next phase or modification, according to Comte, is the
metaphysical. "The supernatural agents are dispensed with, and in
their places we find abstract forces or entities supposed to inhere in
substances and capable of engendering phenomena."

In this phase people talk about laws and principles as though laws and
principles were forces capable of producing phenomena.

Third.—"The last stage is the Positive. The mind, convinced of the
futility of all enquiry into causes and essences, restricts itself to
the observation and classification of phenomena, and to the discovery of
the invariable relations of succession and similitude—in a word, to the
discovery of the relations of phenomena."

Why is not the Positive stage the point reached by the Agnostic? He
has ceased to inquire into the origin of things. He has perceived the
limitations of the mind. He is thoroughly convinced of the uselessness
and futility and absurdity of theological methods, and restricts himself
to the examination of phenomena, to their relations, to their effects,
and endeavors to find in the complexity of things the true conditions of
human happiness.

Although I am not a believer in the philosophy of Auguste Comte, I
cannot shut my eyes to the value of his thought; neither is it possible
for me not to applaud his candor, his intelligence, and the courage
it required even to attempt to lay the foundation of the Positive
Philosophy.

Professor Huxley and Frederic Harrison are splendid soldiers in the
army of Progress. They have attacked with signal success the sacred and
solemn stupidities of superstition. Both have appealed to that which is
highest and noblest in man. Both have been the destroyers of prejudice.
Both have shed light, and both have won great victories on the fields
of intellectual conflict. They cannot afford to waste time in attacking
each other.

After all, the Agnostic and the Positivist have the same end in
view—both believe in living for this world.

The theologians, finding themselves unable to answer the arguments
that have been urged, resort to the old subterfuge—to the old cry that
Agnosticism takes something of value from the life of man. Does the
Agnostic take any consolation from the world? Does he blot out, or dim,
one star in the heaven of hope? Can there be anything more consoling
than to feel, to know, that Jehovah is not God—that the message of the
Old Testament is not from the infinite?

Is it not enough to fill the brain with a happiness unspeakable to know
that the words, "Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire," will
never be spoken to one of the children of men?

Is it a small thing to lift from the shoulders of industry the burdens
of superstition? Is it a little thing to drive the monster of fear from
the hearts of men?—North American Review, April, 1889.
---
# Inspiration
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1887_
WE are told that we have in our possession the inspired will of God.
What is meant by the word "inspired" is not exactly known; but whatever
else it may mean, certainly it means that the "inspired" must be the
true. If it is true, there is in fact no need of its being inspired—the
truth will take care of itself.

The church is forced to say that the Bible differs from all other books;
it is forced to say that it contains the actual will of God. Let us then
see what inspiration really is. A man looks at the sea, and the sea
says something to him. It makes an impression upon his mind. It awakens
memory, and this impression depends upon the man's experience—upon
his intellectual capacity. Another looks upon the same sea. He has a
different brain; he has had a different experience. The sea may speak
to him of joy; to the other of grief and tears. The sea cannot tell the
same thing to any two human beings, because no two human beings have had
the same experience.

Another, standing upon the shore, listening to what the great Greek
tragedian called "The multitudinous laughter of the sea," may say: Every
drop has visited all the shores of the earth; every one has been frozen
in the vast and icy North; every one has fallen in snow, has been
whirled by storms around mountain peaks; every one has been kissed to
vapor by the sun; every one has worn the seven-hued garment of light;
every one has fallen in pleasant rain, gurgled from springs and laughed
in brooks while lovers wooed upon the banks, and every one has rushed
with mighty rivers back to the sea's embrace. Everything in Nature tells
a different story to all eyes that see, and to all ears that hear.

Once in my life, and once only, I heard Horace Greeley deliver a
lecture. I think the title was "Across the Continent." At last he
reached the mammoth trees of California, and I thought, "Here is an
opportunity for the old man to indulge his fancy. Here are trees that
have outlived a thousand human governments. There are limbs above his
head older than the pyramids. While man was emerging from barbarism
to something like civilization, these trees were growing. Older than
history, every one appeared to be a memory, a witness, and a prophecy.
The same wind that filled the sails of the Argonauts had swayed these
trees." But these trees said nothing of this kind to Mr. Greeley. Upon
these subjects not a word was told him. Instead, he took his pencil, and
after figuring awhile, remarked: "One of these trees, sawed into inch
boards, would make more than three hundred thousand feet of lumber."

I was once riding in the cars in Illinois. There had been a violent
thunder storm. The rain had ceased, the sun was going down. The
great clouds had floated toward the west, and there they assumed most
wonderful architectural shapes. There were temples and palaces domed
and turreted, and they were touched with silver, with amethyst and gold.
They looked like the homes of the Titans, or the palaces of the gods.
A man was sitting near me. I touched him and said, "Did you ever see
anything so beautiful?" He looked out. He saw nothing of the cloud,
nothing of the sun, nothing of the color; he saw only the country, and
replied, "Yes, it is beautiful; I always did like rolling land."

On another occasion I was riding in a stage. There had been a snow, and
after the snow a sleet, and all the trees were bent, and all the boughs
were arched. Every fence, every log cabin, had been transfigured,
touched with a glory almost beyond this world. The great fields were a
pure and perfect white; the forests, drooping beneath their load of gems,
made wonderful caves, from which one almost expected to see troops of
fairies come. The whole world looked like a bride, jeweled from head to
foot. A German on the back seat, hearing our talk, and our exclamations
of wonder, leaned forward, looked out of the stage window, and said,
"Y-a-a-s; it looks like a clean table cloth!"

So, when we look upon a flower, a painting, a statue, a star, or a
violet, the more we know, the more we have experienced, the more we
have thought, the more we remember,—the more the statue, the star,
the painting, the violet, has to tell. Nature says to me all that I am
capable of understanding—gives all that I can receive.

As with star or flower or sea, so with a book. A man reads Shakespeare.
What does he get from him? All that he has the mind to understand. He
gets his little cup full. Let another read him who knows nothing of the
drama, nothing of the impersonations of passion, and what does he get?
Almost nothing. Shakespeare has a different story for each reader. He
is a world in which each recognizes his acquaintances—he may know a
few—he may know all.

The impression that Nature makes upon the mind, the stories told by sea
and star and flower, must be the natural food of thought. Leaving out
for the moment the impression gained from ancestors, the hereditary
fears and drifts and trends—the natural food of thought must be the
impression made upon the brain by coming in contact, through the medium
of the five senses, with what we call the outward world. The brain is
natural. Its food is natural. The result—thought—must be natural. The
supernatural can be constructed with no material except the natural. Of
the supernatural we can have no conception.

"Thought" may be deformed, and the thought of one may be strange to, and
denominated as unnatural by, another; but it cannot be supernatural.
It may be weak, it may be insane, but it is not supernatural. Above
the natural, man cannot rise. There can be deformed ideas, as there are
deformed persons. There can be religious monstrosities and misshapen,
but they must be naturally produced. Some people have ideas about
what they are pleased to call the supernatural; what they call the
supernatural is simply the deformed. The world is to each man according
to each man. It takes the world as it really is, and that man to make
that man's world, and that man's world cannot exist without that man.

You may ask, and what of all this? I reply: As with everything in
Nature, so with the Bible. It has a different story for each reader. Is
then, the Bible a different book to every human being who reads it? It
is. Can God, then, through the Bible, make the same revelation to two
persons? He cannot. Why? Because the man who reads it is the man who
inspires. Inspiration is in the man, as well as in the book. God should
have "inspired" readers as well as writers.

You may reply, God knew that his book would be understood differently
by each one; really intended that it should be understood as it is
understood by each. If this is so, then my understanding of the Bible
is the real revelation to me. If this is so, I have no right to take the
understanding of another. I must take the revelation made to me through
my understanding, and by that revelation I must stand. Suppose, then,
that I do read this Bible honestly, carefully, and when I get through I
am compelled to say, "The book is not true!"

If this is the honest result, then you are compelled to say, either that
God has made no revelation to me, or that the revelation that it is not
true is the revelation made to me, and by which I am bound. If the book
and my brain are both the work of the same infinite God, whose fault
is it that the book and the brain do not agree? Either God should have
written a book to fit my brain, or should have made my brain to fit his
book.

The inspiration of the Bible depends upon the ignorance of him who
reads.—The Truth Seeker Annual, New York, 1885.
---
# Law's Delay
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1897_
THE object of a trial is not to convict—neither is it to acquit. The
object is to ascertain the truth by legal testimony and in accordance
with law.

In this country we give the accused the benefit of all reasonable
doubts. We insist that his guilt shall be really established by
competent testimony.

We also allow the accused to take exceptions to the rulings of the judge
before whom he is tried, and to the verdict of the jury, and to have
these exceptions passed upon by a higher court.

We also insist that he shall be tried by an impartial jury, and that
before he can be found guilty all the jurors must unite in the verdict.

Some people, not on trial for any crime, object to our methods. They
say that time is wasted in getting an impartial jury; that more time is
wasted because appeals are allowed, and that by reason of insisting on a
strict compliance with law in all respects, trials sometimes linger for
years, and that in many instances the guilty escape.

No one, so far as I know, asks that men shall be tried by partial and
prejudiced jurors, or that judges shall be allowed to disregard the law
for the sake of securing convictions, or that verdicts shall be allowed
to stand unsupported by sufficient legal evidence. Yet they talk as
if they asked for these very things. We must remember that revenge is
always in haste, and that justice can always afford to wait until the
evidence is actually heard.

There should be no delay except that which is caused by taking the time
to find the truth. Without such delay courts become mobs, before which,
trials in a legal sense are impossible. It might be better, in a city
like New York, to have the grand jury in almost perpetual session,
so that a man charged with crime could be immediately indicted and
immediately tried. So, the highest court to which appeals are taken
should be in almost constant session, in order that all appeals might be
quickly decided.

But we do not wish to take away the right of appeal. That right tends to
civilize the trial judge, reduces to a minimum his arbitrary power, puts
his hatreds and passions in the keeping and control of his intelligence.
That right of appeal has an excellent effect on the jury, because they
know that their verdict may not be the last word. The appeal, where the
accused is guilty, does not take the sword from the State, but it is a
shield for the innocent.

In England there is no appeal. The trials are shorter, the judges more
arbitrary, the juries subservient, and the verdict often depends on the
prejudice of the judge. The judge knows that he has the last guess—that
he cannot be reviewed—and in the passion often engendered by the
conflict of trial he acts much like a wild beast.

The case of Mrs. Maybrick is exactly in point, and shows how dangerous
it is to clothe the trial judge with supreme power.

Without doubt there is in this country too much delay, and this, it
seems to me, can be avoided without putting the life or liberty of
innocent persons in peril. Take only such time as may be necessary to
give the accused a fair trial, before an impartial jury, under and in
accordance with the established forms of law, and to allow an appeal to
the highest court.

The State in which a criminal cannot have an impartial trial is not
civilized. People who demand the conviction of the accused without
regard to the forms of law are savages.

But there is another side to this question. Many people are losing
confidence in the idea that punishment reforms the convict, or that
capital punishment materially decreases capital crimes.

My own opinion is that ordinary criminals should, if possible, be
reformed, and that murderers and desperate wretches should be imprisoned
for life. I am inclined to believe that our prisons make more criminals
than they reform; that places like the Reformatory at Elmira plant and
cultivate the seeds of crime.

The State should never seek revenge; neither should it put in peril the
life or liberty of the accused for the sake of a hasty trial, or by the
denial of appeal.

In my judgment, defective as our criminal courts and methods are, they
are far better than the English.

Our judges are kinder, more humane; our juries nearer independent, and
our methods better calculated to ascertain the truth.
---
# Our Schools
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1893_
I BELIEVE that education is the only lever capable of raising mankind.
If we wish to make the future of the Republic glorious we must educate
the children of the present. The greatest blessing conferred by our
Government is the free school. In importance it rises above everything
else that the Government does. In its influence it is far greater.

The schoolhouse is infinitely more important than the church, and if
all the money wasted in the building of churches could be devoted to
education we should become a civilized people. Of course, to the extent
that churches disseminate thought they are good, and to the extent that
they provoke discussion they are of value, but the real object should be
to become acquainted with nature—with the conditions of happiness—to
the end that man may take advantage of the forces of nature. I believe
in the schools for manual training, and that every child should be
taught not only to think, but to do, and that the hand should be
educated with the brain. The money expended on schools is the best
investment made by the Government.

The schoolhouses in New York are not sufficient. Many of them are small,
dark, unventilated, and unhealthy. They should be the finest public
buildings in the city. It would be far better for the Episcopalians to
build a university than a cathedral. Attached to all these schoolhouses
there should be grounds for the children—places for air and sunlight.
They should be given the best. They are the hope of the Republic and, in
my judgment, of the world.

We need far more schoolhouses than we have, and while money is being
wasted in a thousand directions, thousands of children are left to be
educated in the gutter. It is far cheaper to build schoolhouses than
prisons, and it is much better to have scholars than convicts.

The Kindergarten system should be adopted, especially for the young;
attending school is then a pleasure—the children do not run away from
school, but to school. We should educate the children not simply in
mind, but educate their eyes and hands, and they should be taught
something that will be of use, that will help them to make a living,
that will give them independence, confidence—that is to say, character.

The cost of the schools is very little, and the cost of land—giving the
children, as I said before, air and light—would amount to nothing.

There is another thing: Teachers are poorly paid. Only the best should
be employeed, and they should be well paid. Men and women of the highest
character should have charge of the children, because there is a vast
deal of education in association, and it is of the utmost importance
that the children should associate with real gentlemen—that is to say,
with real men; with real ladies—that is to say, with real women.

Every schoolhouse should be inviting, clean, well ventilated,
attractive. The surroundings should be delightful. Children forced to
school, learn but little. The schoolhouse should not be a prison or the
teachers turnkeys.

I believe that the common school is the bread of life, and all should
be commanded to eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. It would have
been far better to have expelled those who refused to eat.

The greatest danger to the Republic is ignorance. Intelligence is the
foundation of free government.—The World, New York, September 7, 1800.
---
# Political Morality
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1899_
THE room of the House Committee on Elections was crowded this morning
with committeemen and spectators to listen to an argument by Col. Robert
G. Ingersoll in the contested election case of Strobach against Herbert,
of the IId Alabama district. Colonel Ingersoll appeared for Strobach,
the contestant. While most of his argument was devoted to the dry
details of the testimony, he entered into some discussion of the general
principles involved in contested election cases, and spoke with great
eloquence and force.

The mere personal controversy, as between Herbert and Strobach, is
not worth talking about. It is a question as to whether or not the
republican system is a failure. Unless the will of the majority can be
ascertained, and surely ascertained, through the medium of the ballot,
the foundation of this Government rests upon nothing—the Government
ceases to be. I would a thousand time rather a Democrat should come
to Congress from this district, or from any district, than that a
Republican should come who was not honestly elected. I would a thousand
times rather that this country should honestly go to destruction than
dishonestly and fraudulently go anywhere. We want it settled whether
this form of government is or is not a failure. That is the real
question, and it is the question at issue in every one of these cases.
Has Congress power and has Congress the sense to say to-day, that no man
shall sit as a maker of laws for the people who has not been honestly
elected? Whenever you admit a man to Congress and allow him to vote and
make laws, you poison the source of justice—you poison the source of
power; and the moment the people begin to think that many members of
Congress are there through fraud, that moment they cease to have respect
for the legislative department of this Government—that moment they
cease to have respect for the sovereignty of the people represented by
fraud.

Now, as I have said, I care nothing about the personal part of it, and,
maybe you will not believe me, but I care nothing about the political
part. The question is, Who has the right on his side? Who is honestly
entitled to this seat? That is infinitely more important than any
personal or party question. My doctrine is that a majority of the people
must control—that we have in this country a king, that we have in this
country a sovereign, just as truly as they can have in any other, and,
as a matter of fact, a republic is the only country that does in truth
have a sovereign, and that sovereign is the legally expressed will of
the people. So that any man that puts in a fraudulent vote is a traitor
to that sovereign; any man that knowingly counts an illegal vote is a
traitor to that sovereign, and is not fit to be a citizen of the great
Republic. Any man who fraudulently throws out a vote, knowing it to be a
legal vote, tampers with the source of power, and is, in fact, false to
our institutions. Now, these are the questions to be decided, and I want
them decided, not because this case happens to come from the South any
more than if it came from the North. It is a matter that concerns the
whole country. We must decide it. There must be a law on the subject. We
have got to lay down a stringent rule that shall apply to these cases.
There should be—there must be—such a thing as political morality so
far as voting is concerned.—New York Tribune, May 13, 1883.
---
# Rev. Dr. Newton's Sermon on a New Religion
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1886_
I HAVE read the report of the Rev. R. Heber Newton's sermon and I
am satisfied, first, that Mr. Newton simply said what he thoroughly
believes to be true, and second, that some of the conclusions at which
he arrives are certainly correct. I do not regard Mr. Newton as a
heretic or sceptic. Every man who reads the Bible must, to a greater or
less extent, think for himself. He need not tell his thoughts; he has
the right to keep them to himself. But if he undertakes to tell them,
then he should be absolutely honest.

The Episcopal creed is a few ages behind the thought of the world. For
many, years the foremost members and clergymen in that church have been
giving some new meanings to the old words and phrases. Words are no
more exempt from change than other things in nature. A word at one time
rough, jagged, harsh and cruel, is finally worn smooth. A word known
as slang, picked out of the gutter, is cleaned, educated, becomes
respectable and finally is found in the mouths of the best and purest.

We must remember that in the world of art the picture depends not alone
on the painter, but on the one who sees it. So words must find some part
of their meaning in the man who hears or the man who reads. In the old
times the word "hell" gave to the hearer or reader the picture of a vast
pit filled with an ocean of molten brimstone, in which innumerable souls
were suffering the torments of fire, and where millions of devils were
engaged in the cheerful occupation of increasing the torments of the
damned. This was the real old orthodox view.

As man became civilized, however, the picture grew less and less vivid.
Finally, some expressed their doubts about the brimstone, and others
began to think that if the Devil was, and is, really an enemy of God he
would not spend his time punishing sinners to please God. Why should
the Devil be in partnership with his enemy, and why should he inflict
torments on poor souls who were his own friends, and who shared with him
the feeling of hatred toward the Almighty?

As men became more and more civilized, the idea began to dawn in their
minds that an infinitely good and wise being would not have created
persons, knowing that they would be eternal failures, or that they were
to suffer eternal punishment, because there could be no possible object
in eternal punishment—no reformation, no good to be accomplished—and
certainly the sight of all this torment would not add to the joy of
heaven, neither would it tend to the happiness of God.

So the more civilized adopted the idea that punishment is a consequence
and not an infliction. Then they took another step and concluded that
every soul, in every world, in every age, should have at least the
chance of doing right. And yet persons so believing still used the word
"hell," but the old meaning had dropped out.

So with regard to the atonement. At one time it was regarded as a kind
of bargain in which so much blood was shed for so many souls. This was a
barbaric view. Afterward, the mind developing a little, the idea got in
the brain that the life of Christ was worth its moral effect. And yet
these people use the word "atonement," but the bargain idea has been
lost.

Take for instance the word "justice." The meaning that is given to that
word depends upon the man who uses it—depends for the most part on the
age in which he lives, the country in which he was born. The same is
true of the word "freedom." Millions and millions of people boasted that
they were the friends of freedom, while at the same time they enslaved
their fellow-men. So, in the name of justice every possible crime has
been perpetrated and in the name of mercy every instrument of torture
has been used.

Mr. Newton realizes the fact that everything in the world changes; that
creeds are influenced by civilization, by the acquisition of knowledge,
by the progress of the sciences and arts—in other words, that there
is a tendency in man to harmonize his knowledge and to bring about a
reconciliation between what he knows and what he believes. This will be
fatal to superstition, provided the man knows anything.

Mr. Newton, moreover, clearly sees that people are losing confidence in
the morality of the gospel; that its foundation lacks common sense; that
the doctrine of forgiveness is unscientific, and that it is impossible
to feel that the innocent can rightfully suffer for the guilty, or that
the suffering of innocence can in any way justify the crimes of the
wicked. I think he is mistaken, however, when he says that the early
church softened or weakened the barbaric passions. I think the early
church was as barbarous as any institution that ever gained a footing
in this world. I do not believe that the creed of the early church, as
understood, could soften anything. A church that preaches the eternity
of punishment has within it the seed of all barbarism and the soil to
make it grow.

So Mr. Newton is undoubtedly right when he says that the organized
Christianity of to-day is not the leader in social progress. No one now
goes to a synod to find a fact in science or on any subject. A man in
doubt does not ask the average minister; he regards him as behind the
times. He goes to the scientist, to the library. He depends upon the
untrammelled thought of fearless men.

The church, for the most part, is in the control of the rich, of the
respectable, of the well-to-do, of the unsympathetic, of the men who,
having succeeded themselves, think that everybody ought to succeed.
The spirit of caste is as well developed in the church as it is in the
average club. There is the same exclusive feeling, and this feeling in
the next world is to be heightened and deepened to such an extent that a
large majority of our fellow-men are to be eternally excluded.

The peasants of Europe—the workingmen—do not go to the church for
sympathy. If they do they come home empty, or rather empty hearted.
So, in our own country the laboring classes, the mechanics, are not
depending on the churches to right their wrongs. They do not expect the
pulpits to increase their wages. The preachers get their money from
the well-to-do—from the employeer class—and their sympathies are with
those from whom they receive their wages.

The ministers attack the pleasures of the world. They are not so much
scandalized by murder and forgery as by dancing and eating meat on
Friday. They regard unbelief as the greatest of all sins. They are not
touching the real, vital issues of the day, and their hearts do not
throb in unison with the hearts of the struggling, the aspiring, the
enthusiastic and the real believers in the progress of the human race.

It is all well enough to say that we should depend on Providence, but
experience has taught us that while it may do no harm to say it, it will
do no good to do it. We have found that man must be the Providence of
man, and that one plow will do more, properly pulled and properly held,
toward feeding the world, than all the prayers that ever agitated the
air.

So, Mr. Newton is correct in saying, as I understand him to say, that
the hope of immortality has nothing to do with orthodox religion.
Neither, in my judgment, has the belief in the existence of a God
anything in fact to do with real religion. The old doctrine that God
wanted man to do something for him, and that he kept a watchful eye upon
all the children of men; that he rewarded the virtuous and punished
the wicked, is gradually fading from the mind. We know that some of the
worst men have what the world calls success. We know that some of
the best men lie upon the straw of failure. We know that honesty goes
hungry, while larceny sits at the banquet. We know that the vicious have
every physical comfort, while the virtuous are often clad in rags.

Man is beginning to find that he must take care of himself; that special
providence is a mistake. This being so, the old religions must go down,
and in their place man must depend upon intelligence, industry, honesty;
upon the facts that he can ascertain, upon his own experience, upon his
own efforts. Then religion becomes a thing of this world—a religion to
put a roof above our heads, a religion that gives to every man a home, a
religion that rewards virtue here.

If Mr. Newton's sermon is in accordance with the Episcopal creed, I
congratulate the creed. In any event, I think Mr. Newton deserves great
credit for speaking his thought. Do not understand that I imagine that
he agrees with me. The most I will say is that in some things I agree
with him, and probably there is a little too much truth and a little too
much humanity in his remarks to please the bishop.

There is this wonderful fact, no man has ever yet been persecuted for
thinking God bad. When any one has said that he believed God to be so
good that he would, in his own time and way, redeem the entire human
race, and that the time would come when every soul would be brought home
and sit on an equality with the others around the great fireside of
the universe, that man has been denounced as a poor, miserable, wicked
wretch.—New York Herald, December 13,1888.
---
# Science and Sentiment
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1895_
IT was thought at one time by many that science would do away with
poetry—that it was the enemy of the imagination. We know now that is
not true. We know that science goes hand in hand with imagination. We
know that it is in the highest degree poetic and that the old ideas once
considered so beautiful are flat and stale. Compare Kepler's laws with
the old Greek idea that the planets were boosted or pushed by angels.
The more we know, the more beauty, the more poetry we find. Ignorance is
not the mother of the poetic or artistic.

So, some people imagine that science will do away with sentiment. In my
judgment, science will not only increase sentiment but sense.

A person will be attracted to another for a thousand reasons, and why
a person is attracted to another, may, and in some degree will, depend
upon the intellectual, artistic and ethical development of each.

The handsomest girl in Zululand might not be attractive to Herbert
Spencer, and the fairest girl in England might not be able to hasten the
pulse of a Choctaw brave. This does not prove that there is any lack
of sentiment. Men are influenced according to their capacity, their
temperament, their knowledge.

Some men fall in love with a small waist, an arched instep or curly
hair, without the slightest regard to mind or muscle. This we call
sentiment.

Now, educate such men, develop their brains, enlarge their intellectual
horizon, teach them something of the laws of health, and then they may
fall in love with women because they are developed grandly in body and
mind. The sentiment is still there—still controls—but back of the
sentiment is science.

Sentiment can never be destroyed, and love will forever rule the human
race.

Thousands, millions of people fear that science will destroy not only
poetry, not only sentiment, but religion. This fear is idiotic. Science
will destroy superstition, but it will not injure true religion. Science
is the foundation of real religion. Science teaches us the consequences
of actions, the rights and duties of all. Without science there can be
no real religion.

Only those who live on the labor of the ignorant are the enemies of
science. Real love and real religion are in no danger from science. The
more we know the safer all good things are.

Do I think that the marriage of the sickly and diseased ought to be
prevented by law?

I have not much confidence in law—in law that I know cannot be carried
out. The poor, the sickly, the diseased, as long as they are ignorant,
will marry and help fill the world with wretchedness and want.

We must rely on education instead of legislation.

We must teach the consequences of actions. We must show the sickly and
diseased what their children will be. We must preach the gospel of the
body. I believe the time will come when the public thought will be so
great and grand that it will be looked upon as infamous to perpetuate
disease—to leave a legacy of agony.

I believe the time will come when men will refuse to fill the future
with consumption and insanity. Yes, we shall study ourselves. We shall
understand the conditions of health and then we shall say: We are under
obligation to put the flags of health in the cheeks of our children.

Even if I should get to heaven and have a harp, I know that I could
not bear to see my descendants still on the earth, diseased, deformed,
crazed—all suffering the penalties of my ignorance. Let us have more
science and more sentiment—more knowledge and more conscience—more
liberty and more love.

## Sowing and Reaping

I HAVE read the sermon on "Sowing and Reaping," and I now understand Mr.
Moody better than I did before. The other day, in New York, Mr. Moody
said that he implicitly believed the story of Jonah and really thought
that he was in the fish for three days.

When I read it I was surprised that a man living in the century of
Humboldt, Darwin, Huxley, Spencer and Haeckel, should believe such an
absurd and idiotic story.

Now I understand the whole thing. I can account for the amazing
credulity of this man. Mr. Moody never read one of my lectures. That
accounts for it all, and no wonder that he is a hundred years behind the
times. He never read one of my lectures; that is a perfect explanation.

Poor man! He has no idea of what he has lost. He has been living on
miracles and mistakes, on falsehood and foolishness, stuffing his mind
with absurdities when he could have had truth, facts and good, sound
sense.

Poor man!

Probably Mr. Moody has never read one word of Darwin and so he still
believes in the Garden of Eden and the talking snake and really thinks
that Jehovah took some mud, moulded the form of a man, breathed in its
nostrils, stood it up and called it Adam, and that he then took one
of Adam's ribs and some more mud and manufactured Eve. Probably he has
never read a word written by any great geologist and consequently still
believes in the story of the flood. Knowing nothing of astronomy, he
still thinks that Joshua stopped the sun.

Poor man! He has neglected Spencer and has no idea of evolution. He
thinks that man has, through all the ages, degenerated, the first pair
having been perfect. He does not believe that man came from lower forms
and has gradually journeyed upward.

He really thinks that the Devil outwitted God and vaccinated the human
race with the virus of total depravity.

Poor man!

He knows nothing of the great scientists—of the great thinkers, of the
emancipators of the human race; knows nothing of Spinoza, of Voltaire,
of Draper, Buckle, of Paine or Renan.

Mr. Moody ought to read something besides the Bible—ought to find
out what the really intelligent have thought. He ought to get some
new ideas—a few facts—and I think that, after he did so, he would be
astonished to find how ignorant and foolish he had been. He is a good
man. His heart is fairly good, but his head is almost useless.

The trouble with this sermon, "Sowing and Reaping," is that he
contradicts it. I believe that a man must reap what he sows, that every
human being must bear the natural consequences of his acts. Actions are
good or bad according to their consequences. That is my doctrine.

There is no forgiveness in nature. But Mr. Moody tells us that a man may
sow thistles and gather figs, that having acted like a fiend tor seventy
years, he can, between his last dose of medicine and his last breath,
repent; that he can be washed clean by the blood of the lamb, and that
myriads of angels will carry his soul to heaven—in other words, that
this man will not reap what he sowed, but what Christ sowed, that this
man's thistles will be changed to figs.

This doctrine, to my mind, is not only absurd, but dishonest and
corrupting.

This is one of the absurdities in Mr. Moody's theology. The other is
that a man can justly be damned for the sin of another.

Nothing can exceed the foolishness of these two ideas—first: "Man can
be justly punished forever for the sin of Adam." Second: "Man can be
justly rewarded with eternal joy for the goodness of Christ."

Yet the man who believes this, preaches a sermon in which he says that
a man must reap what he sows. Orthodox Christians teach exactly the
opposite. They teach that no matter what a man sows, no matter how
wicked his life has been, that he can by repentance change the crop.
That all his sins shall be forgotten and that only the goodness of
Christ will be remembered.

Let us see how this works:

Mr. A. has lived a good and useful life, kept his contracts, paid his
debts, educated his children, loved his wife and made his home a heaven,
but he did not believe in the inspiration of Mr. Moody's Bible. He died
and his soul was sent to hell. Mr. Moody says that as a man sows so
shall he reap.

Mr. B. lived a useless and wicked life. By his cruelty he drove his wife
to insanity, his children became vagrants and beggars, his home was a
perfect hell, he committed many crimes, he was a thief, a burglar, a
murderer. A few minutes before he was hanged he got religion and his
soul went from the scaffold to heaven. And yet Mr. Moody says that as a
man sows so shall he reap.

Mr. Moody ought to have a little philosophy—a little good sense.

So Mr. Moody says that only in this life can a man secure the reward of
repentance.

Just before a man dies, God loves him—loves him as a mother loves her
babe—but a moment after he dies, he sends his soul to hell. In the
other world nothing can be done to reform him. The society of God and
the angels can have no good effect. Nobody can be made better in heaven.
This world is the only place where reform is possible. Here, surrounded
by the wicked in the midst of temptations, in the darkness of ignorance,
a human being may reform if he is fortunate enough to hear the words
of some revival preacher, but when he goes before his maker—before the
Trinity—he has no chance. God can do nothing for his soul except to
send it to hell.

This shows that the power for good is confined to people in this world
and that in the next world God can do nothing to reform his children.
This is theology. This is what they call "Tidings of great joy."

Every orthodox creed is savage, ignorant and idiotic.

In the orthodox heaven there is no mercy, no pity. In the orthodox hell
there is no hope, no reform. God is an eternal jailer, an everlasting
turnkey.

And yet Christians now say that while there may be no fire in hell—no
actual flames—yet the lost souls will feel forever the tortures of
conscience.

What will conscience trouble the people in hell about? They tell us that
they will remember their sins.

Well, what about the souls in heaven? They committed awful sins, they
made their fellow-men unhappy. They took the lives of others—sent many
to eternal torment. Will they have no conscience? Is hell the only place
where souls regret the evil they have done? Have the angels no regret,
no remorse, no conscience?

If this be so, heaven must be somewhat worse than hell.

In old times, if people wanted to know anything they asked the preacher.
Now they do if they don't.

The Bible has, with intelligent men, lost its authority.

The miracles are now regarded by sensible people as the spawn of
ignorance and credulity. On every hand people are looking for facts—for
truth—and all religions are taking their places in the museum of myths.

Yes, the people are becoming civilized, and so they are putting out the
fires of hell. They are ceasing to believe in a God who seeks eternal
revenge.

The people are becoming sensible. They are asking for evidence. They
care but little for the winged phantoms of the air—for the ghosts and
devils and supposed gods. The people are anxious to be happy here and
they want a little heaven in this life.

Theology is a curse. Science is a blessing. We do not need preachers,
but teachers; not priests, but thinkers; not churches, but schools; not
steeples, but observatories. We want knowledge.

Let us hope that Mr. Moody will read some really useful books.

## Should Infidels Send Their Children to Sunday School

SHOULD parents, who are Infidels, unbelievers or Atheists, send their
children to Sunday schools and churches to give them the benefit of
Christian education?

Parents who do not believe the Bible to be an inspired book should
not teach their children that it is. They should be absolutely honest.
Hypocrisy is not a virtue, and, as a rule, lies are less valuable than
facts.

An unbeliever should not allow the mind of his child to be deformed,
stunted and shriveled by superstition. He should not allow the child's
imagination to be polluted. Nothing is more outrageous than to take
advantage of the helplessness of childhood to sow in the brain the seeds
of falsehoods, to imprison the soul in the dungeon of Fear, to teach
dimpled infancy the infamous dogma of eternal pain—filling life with
the glow and glare of hell.

No unbeliever should allow his child to be tortured in the orthodox
inquisitions. He should defend the mind from attack as he would the
body. He should recognize the rights of the soul. In the orthodox Sunday
schools, children are taught that it is a duty to believe—that evidence
is not essential—that faith is independent of facts and that religion
is superior to reason. They are taught not to use their natural
sense—not to tell what they really think—not to entertain a doubt—not
to ask wicked questions, but to accept and believe what their teachers
say. In this way the minds of the children are invaded, corrupted and
conquered. Would an educated man send his child to a school in which
Newton's statement in regard to the attraction of gravitation was
denied—in which the law of falling bodies, as given by Galileo, was
ridiculed—Kepler's three laws declared to be idiotic, and the rotary
motion of the earth held to be utterly absurd?

Why then should an intelligent man allow his child to be taught the
geology and astronomy of the Bible? Children should be taught to seek
for the truth—to be honest, kind, generous, merciful and just. They
should be taught to love liberty and to live to the ideal.

Why then should an unbeliever, an Infidel, send his child to an orthodox
Sunday school where he is taught that he has no right to seek for the
truth—no right to be mentally honest, and that he will be damned for
an honest doubt—where he is taught that God was ferocious,
revengeful, heartless as a wild beast—that he drowned millions of his
children—that he ordered wars of extermination and told his soldiers
to kill gray-haired and trembling age, mothers and children, and to
assassinate with the sword of war the babes unborn?

Why should an unbeliever in the Bible send his child to an orthodox
Sunday school where he is taught that God was in favor of slavery
and told the Jews to buy of the heathen and that they should be their
bondmen and bondwomen forever; where he is taught that God upheld
polygamy and the degradation of women?

Why should an unbeliever, who believes in the uniformity of Nature, in
the unbroken and unbreakable chain of cause and effect, allow his child
to be taught that miracles have been performed; that men have gone
bodily to heaven; that millions have been miraculously fed with manna
and quails; that fire has refused to burn clothes and flesh of men; that
iron has been made to float; that the earth and moon have been stopped
and that the earth has not only been stopped, but made to turn the other
way; that devils inhabit the bodies of men and women; that diseases have
been cured with words, and that the dead, with a touch, have been made
to live again?

The thoughtful man knows that there is not the slightest evidence that
these miracles ever were performed. Why should he allow his children to
be stuffed with these foolish and impossible falsehoods? Why should
he give his lambs to the care and keeping of the wolves and hyenas of
superstition?

Children should be taught only what somebody knows. Guesses should not
be palmed off on them as demonstrated facts. If a Christian lived in
Constantinople he would not send his children to the mosque to be taught
that Mohammed was a prophet of God and that the Koran is an inspired
book. Why? Because he does not believe in Mohammed or the Koran. That is
reason enough. So, an Agnostic, living in New York, should not allow his
children to be taught that the Bible is an inspired book. I use the word
"Agnostic" because I prefer it to the word Atheist. As a matter of fact,
no one knows that God exists and no one knows that God does not exist.
To my mind there is no evidence that God exists—that this world is
governed by a being of infinite goodness, wisdom and power, but I do
not pretend to know. What I insist upon is that children should not be
poisoned—should not be taken advantage of—that they should be treated
fairly, honestly—that they should be allowed to develop from the inside
instead of being crammed from the outside—that they should be taught
to reason, not to believe—to think, to investigate and to use their
senses, their minds.

Would a Catholic send his children to a school to be taught that
Catholicism is superstition and that Science is the only savior of
mankind?

Why then should a free and sensible believer in Science, in the
naturalness of the universe, send his child to a Catholic school?

Nothing could be more irrational, foolish and absurd.

My advice to all Agnostics is to keep their children from the orthodox
Sunday schools, from the orthodox churches, from the poison of the
pulpits.

Teach your children the facts you know. If you do not know, say so. Be
as honest as you are ignorant. Do all you can to develop their minds, to
the end that they may live useful and happy lives.

Strangle the serpent of superstition that crawls and hisses about
the cradle. Keep your children from the augurs, the soothsayers, the
medicine-men, the priests of the supernatural. Tell them that all
religions have been made by folks and that all the "sacred books" were
written by ignorant men.

Teach them that the world is natural. Teach them to be absolutely
honest. Do not send them where they will contract diseases of the
mind—the leprosy of the soul. Let us do all we can to make them
intelligent.

## What Would You Substitute for the Bible as a Moral Guide

> * Written for The Boston Investigator.

YOU ask me what I would "substitute for the Bible as a moral guide.".

I know that many people regard the Bible as the only moral guide
and believe that in that book only can be found the true and perfect
standard of morality.

There are many good precepts, many wise sayings and many good
regulations and laws in the Bible, and these are mingled with bad
precepts, with foolish sayings, with absurd rules and cruel laws.

But we must remember that the Bible is a collection of many books
written centuries apart, and that it in part represents the growth and
tells in part the history of a people. We must also remember that the
writers treat of many subjects. Many of these writers have nothing to
say about right or wrong, about vice or virtue.

The book of Genesis has nothing about morality. There is not a line in
it calculated to shed light on the path of conduct. No one can call that
book a moral guide. It is made up of myth and miracle, of tradition and
legend.

In Exodus we have an account of the manner in which Jehovah delivered
the Jews from Egyptian bondage.

We now know that the Jews were never enslaved by the Egyptians; that the
entire story is a fiction. We know this, because there is not found in
Hebrew a word of Egyptian origin, and there is not found in the language
of the Egyptians a word of Hebrew origin. This being so, we know that
the Hebrews and Egyptians could not have lived together for hundreds of
years.

Certainly Exodus was not written to teach morality. In that book you
cannot find one word against human slavery. As a matter of fact, Jehovah
was a believer in that institution.

The killing of cattle with disease and hail, the murder of the
first-born, so that in every house was death, because the king refused
to let the Hebrews go, certainly was not moral; it was fiendish. The
writer of that book regarded all the people of Egypt, their children,
their flocks and herds, as the property of Pharaoh, and these people and
these cattle were killed, not because they had done anything wrong, but
simply for the purpose of punishing the king. Is it possible to get any
morality out of this history?

All the laws found in Exodus, including the Ten Commandments, so far as
they are really good and sensible, were at that time in force among all
the peoples of the world.

Murder is, and always was, a crime, and always will be, as long as a
majority of people object to being murdered.

Industry always has been and always will be the enemy of larceny.

The nature of man is such that he admires the teller of truth and
despises the liar. Among all tribes, among all people, truth-telling has
been considered a virtue and false swearing or false speaking a vice.

The love of parents for children is natural, and this love is found
among all the animals that live. So the love of children for parents is
natural, and was not and cannot be created by law. Love does not spring
from a sense of duty, nor does it bow in obedience to commands.

So men and women are not virtuous because of anything in books or
creeds.

All the Ten Commandments that are good were old, were the result of
experience. The commandments that were original with Jehovah were
foolish.

The worship of "any other God" could not have been worse than the
worship of Jehovah, and nothing could have been more absurd than the
sacredness of the Sabbath.

If commandments had been given against slavery and polygamy, against
wars of invasion and extermination, against religious persecution in all
its forms, so that the world could be free, so that the brain might be
developed and the heart civilized, then we might, with propriety, call
such commandments a moral guide.

Before we can truthfully say that the Ten Commandments constitute a
moral guide, we must add and subtract. We must throw away some, and
write others in their places.

The commandments that have a known application here, in this world, and
treat of human obligations are good, the others have no basis in fact,
or experience.

Many of the regulations found in Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and
Deuteronomy, are good. Many are absurd and cruel.

The entire ceremonial of worship is insane.

Most of the punishment for violations of laws are un-philosophic and
brutal.... The fact is that the Pentateuch upholds nearly all crimes,
and to call it a moral guide is as absurd as to say that it is merciful
or true.

Nothing of a moral nature can be found in Joshua or Judges. These books
are filled with crimes, with massacres and murders. They are about the
same as the real history of the Apache Indians.

The story of Ruth is not particularly moral.

In first and second Samuel there is not one word calculated to develop
the brain or conscience.

Jehovah murdered seventy thousand Jews because David took a census of
the people. David, according to the account, was the guilty one, but
only the innocent were killed.

In first and second Kings can be found nothing of ethical value. All
the kings who refused to obey the priests were denounced, and all the
crowned wretches who assisted the priests, were declared to be the
favorites of Jehovah. In these books there cannot be found one word in
favor of liberty.

There are some good Psalms, and there are some that are infamous. Most
of these Psalms are selfish. Many of them, are passionate appeals for
revenge.

The story of Job shocks the heart of every good man. In this book there
is some poetry, some pathos, and some philosophy, but the story of this
drama called Job, is heartless to the last degree. The children of
Job are murdered to settle a little wager between God and the Devil.
Afterward, Job having remained firm, other children are given in the
place of the murdered ones. Nothing, however, is done for the children
who were murdered.

The book of Esther is utterly absurd, and the only redeeming feature in
the book is that the name of Jehovah is not mentioned.

I like the Song of Solomon because it tells of human love, and that is
something I can understand. That book in my judgment, is worth all the
ones that go before it, and is a far better moral guide.

There are some wise and merciful Proverbs. Some are selfish and some are
flat and commonplace.

I like the book of Ecclesiastes because there you find some sense, some
poetry, and some philosophy. Take away the interpolations and it is a
good book.

Of course there is nothing in Nehemiah or Ezra to make men better,
nothing in Jeremiah or Lamentations calculated to lessen vice, and only
a few passages in Isaiah that can be used in a good cause.

In Ezekiel and Daniel we find only ravings of the insane.

In some of the minor prophets there is now and then a good verse, now
and then an elevated thought.

You can, by selecting passages from different books, make a very good
creed, and by selecting passages from different books, you can make a
very bad creed.

The trouble is that the spirit of the Old Testament, its disposition,
its temperament, is bad, selfish and cruel. The most fiendish things are
commanded, commended and applauded.

The stories that are told of Joseph, of Elisha, of Daniel and Gideon,
and of many others, are hideous; hellish.

On the whole, the Old Testament cannot be considered a moral guide.

Jehovah was not a moral God. He had all the vices, and he lacked all the
virtues. He generally carried out his threats, but he never faithfully
kept a promise.

At the same time, we must remember that the Old Testament is a natural
production, that it was written by savages who were slowly crawling
toward the light. We must give them credit for the noble things they
said, and we must be charitable enough to excuse their faults and even
their crimes.

I know that many Christians regard the Old Testament as the foundation
and the New as the superstructure, and while many admit that there are
faults and mistakes in the Old Testament, they insist that the New is
the flower and perfect fruit.

I admit that there are many good things in the New Testament, and if we
take from that book the dogmas of eternal pain, of infinite revenge, of
the atonement, of human sacrifice, of the necessity of shedding blood;
if we throw away the doctrine of non-resistance, of loving enemies,
the idea that prosperity is the result of wickedness, that poverty is a
preparation for Paradise, if we throw all these away and take the good,
sensible passages, applicable to conduct, then we can make a fairly good
moral guide,—narrow, but moral.

Of course, many important things would be left out. You would have
nothing about human rights, nothing in favor of the family, nothing for
education, nothing for investigation, for thought and reason, but still
you would have a fairly good moral guide.

On the other hand, if you would take the foolish passages, the extreme
ones, you could make a creed that would satisfy an insane asylum.

If you take the cruel passages, the verses that inculcate eternal
hatred, verses that writhe and hiss like serpents, you can make a creed
that would shock the heart of a hyena.

It may be that no book contains better passages than the New Testament,
but certainly no book contains worse.

Below the blossom of love you find the thorn of hatred; on the lips that
kiss, you find the poison of the cobra.

The Bible is not a moral guide.

Any man who follows faithfully all its teachings is an enemy of society
and will probably end his days in a prison or an asylum.

What is morality?

In this world we need certain things. We have many wants. We are exposed
to many dangers. We need food, fuel, raiment and shelter, and besides
these wants, there is, what may be called, the hunger of the mind.

We are conditioned beings, and our happiness depends upon conditions.
There are certain things that diminish, certain things that increase,
well-being. There are certain things that destroy and there are others
that preserve.

Happiness, including its highest forms, is after all the only good, and
everything, the result of which is to produce or secure happiness, is
good, that is to say, moral. Everything that destroys or diminishes
well-being is bad, that is to say, immoral. In other words, all that is
good is moral, and all that is bad is immoral.

What then is, or can be called, a moral guide? The shortest possible
answer is one word: Intelligence.

We want the experience of mankind, the true history of the race. We want
the history of intellectual development, of the growth of the ethical,
of the idea of justice, of conscience, of charity, of self-denial. We
want to know the paths and roads that have been traveled by the human
mind.

These facts in general, these histories in outline, the results reached,
the conclusions formed, the principles evolved, taken together, would
form the best conceivable moral guide.

We cannot depend on what are called "inspired books," or the religions
of the world. These religions are based on the supernatural, and
according to them we are under obligation to worship and obey some
supernatural being, or beings. All these religions are inconsistent with
intellectual liberty. They are the enemies of thought, of investigation,
of mental honesty. They destroy the manliness of man. They promise
eternal rewards for belief, for credulity, for what they call faith.

This is not only absurd, but it is immoral.

These religions teach the slave virtues. They make inanimate things
holy, and falsehoods sacred. They create artificial crimes. To eat meat
on Friday, to enjoy yourself on Sunday, to eat on fast-days, to be happy
in Lent, to dispute a priest, to ask for evidence, to deny a creed, to
express your sincere thought, all these acts are sins, crimes against
some god. To give your honest opinion about Jehovah, Mohammed or Christ,
is far worse than to maliciously slander your neighbor. To question
or doubt miracles, is far worse than to deny known facts. Only the
obedient, the credulous, the cringers, the kneelers, the meek, the
unquestioning, the true believers, are regarded as moral, as virtuous.
It is not enough to be honest, generous and useful; not enough to be
governed by evidence, by facts. In addition to this, you must believe.
These things are the foes of morality. They subvert all natural
conceptions of virtue.

All "inspired books," teaching that what the supernatural commands
is right, and right because commanded, and that what the supernatural
prohibits is wrong, and wrong because prohibited, are absurdly
unphilosophic.

And all "inspired books," teaching that only those who obey the
commands of the supernatural are, or can be, truly virtuous, and that
unquestioning faith will be rewarded with eternal joy, are grossly
immoral.

Again I say: Intelligence is the only moral guide.
---
# Secularism
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1887_
SEVERAL people have asked me the meaning of this term.

Secularism is the religion of humanity; it embraces the affairs of this
world; it is interested in everything that touches the welfare of a
sentient being; it advocates attention to the particular planet in which
we happen to live; it means that each individual counts for something;
it is a declaration of intellectual independence; it means that the pew
is superior to the pulpit, that those who bear the burdens shall have
the profits and that they who fill the purse shall hold the strings.
It is a protest against theological oppression, against ecclesiastical
tyranny, against being the serf, subject or slave of any phantom, or of
the priest of any phantom. It is a protest against wasting this life for
the sake of one that we know not of. It proposes to let the gods take
care of themselves. It is another name for common sense; that is to say,
the adaptation of means to such ends as are desired and understood.

Secularism believes in building a home here, in this world. It trusts
to individual effort, to energy, to intelligence, to observation and
experience rather than to the unknown and the supernatural. It desires
to be happy on this side of the grave.

Secularism means food and fireside, roof and raiment, reasonable work
and reasonable leisure, the cultivation of the tastes, the acquisition
of knowledge, the enjoyment of the arts, and it promises for the human
race comfort, independence, intelligence, and above all, liberty. It
means the abolition of sectarian feuds, of theological hatreds. It means
the cultivation of friendship and intellectual hospitality. It means
the living for ourselves and each other; for the present instead of
the past, for this world rather than for another. It means the right to
express your thought in spite of popes, priests, and gods. It means that
impudent idleness shall no longer live upon the labor of honest men.
It means the destruction of the business of those who trade in fear. It
proposes to give serenity and content to the human soul. It will put out
the fires of eternal pain. It is striving to do away with violence and
vice, with ignorance, poverty and disease. It lives for the ever present
to-day, and the ever coming to-morrow. It does not believe in praying
and receiving, but in earning and deserving. It regards work as worship,
labor as prayer, and wisdom as the savior of mankind. It says to every
human being, Take care of yourself so that you may be able to help
others; adorn your life with the gems called good deeds; illumine your
path with the sunlight called friendship and love.

Secularism is a religion, a religion that is understood. It has no
mysteries, no mummeries, no priests, no ceremonies, no falsehoods, no
miracles, and no persecutions. It considers the lilies of the field, and
takes thought for the morrow. It says to the whole world, Work that you
may eat, drink, and be clothed; work that you may enjoy; work that you
may not want; work that you may give and never need.—The Independent
Pulpit, Waco, Texas, 1887.

## Criticism of "robert Elsmere," "john Ward, Preacher," and "an African Farm."

IF one wishes to know what orthodox religion really is—I mean that
religion unsoftened by Infidelity, by doubt—let him read "John Ward,
Preacher." This book shows exactly what the love of God will do in the
heart of man. This shows what the effect of the creed of Christendom is,
when absolutely believed. In this case it is the woman who is free
and the man who is enslaved. In "Robert Els-mere" the man is breaking
chains, while the woman prefers the old prison with its ivy-covered
walls.

Why should a man allow human love to stand between his soul and the
will of God—between his soul and eternal joy? Why should not the true
believer tear every blossom of pity, of charity, from his heart, rather
than put in peril his immortal soul?

An orthodox minister has a wife with a heart. Having a heart she cannot
believe in the orthodox creed. She thinks God better than he is. She
flatters the Infinite. This endangers the salvation of her soul. If she
is upheld in this the souls of others may be lost. Her husband feels not
only accountable for her soul, but for the souls of others that may
be injured by what she says, and by what she does. He is compelled to
choose between his wife and his duty, between the woman and God. He is
not great enough to go with his heart. He is selfish enough to side with
the administration, with power. He lives a miserable life and dies a
miserable death.

The trouble with Christianity is that it has no element of
compromise—it allows no room for charity so far as belief is concerned.
Honesty of opinion is not even a mitigating circumstance. You are not
asked to understand—you are commanded to believe. There is no common
ground. The church carries no flag of truce. It does not say, Believe
you must, but, You must believe. No exception can be made in favor of
wife or mother, husband or child. All human relations, all human love
must, if necessary, be sacrificed with perfect cheerfulness. "Let the
dead bury their dead—follow thou me. Desert wife and child. Human love
is nothing—nothing but a snare. You must love God better than wife,
better than child." John Ward endeavored to live in accordance with this
heartless creed.

Nothing can be more repulsive than an orthodox life—than one who lives
in exact accordance with the creed. It is hard to conceive of a more
terrible character than John Calvin. It is somewhat difficult to
understand the Puritans, who made themselves unhappy by way of
recreation, and who seemed to enjoy themselves when admitting their
utter worthlessness and in telling God how richly they deserved to be
eternally damned. They loved to pluck from the tree of life every bud,
every blossom, every leaf. The bare branches, naked to the wrath of God,
excited their admiration. They wondered how birds could sing, and the
existence of the rainbow led them to suspect the seriousness of the
Deity. How can there be any joy if man believes that he acts and lives
under an infinite responsibility, when the only business of this life
is to avoid the horrors of the next? Why should the lips of men feel
the ripple of laughter if there is a bare possibility that the creed of
Christendom is true?

I take it for granted that all people believe as they must—that all
thoughts and dreams have been naturally produced—that what we call the
unnatural is simply the uncommon. All religions, poems, statues, vices
and virtues, have been wrought by nature with the instrumentalities
called men. No one can read "John Ward, Preacher," without hating with
all his heart the creed of John Ward; and no one can read the creed of
John Ward, preacher, without pitying with all his heart John Ward; and
no one can read this book without feeling how much better the wife was
than the husband—how much better the natural sympathies are than the
religions of our day, and how much superior common sense is to what is
called theology.

When we lay down the book we feel like saying: No matter whether God
exists or not; if he does, he can take care of himself; if he does, he
does not take care of us; and whether he lives or not we must take care
of ourselves. Human love is better than any religion. It is better to
love your wife than to love God. It is better to make a happy home here
than to sunder hearts with creeds. This book meets the issues far more
frankly, with far greater candor. This book carries out to its logical
sequence the Christian creed. It shows how uncomfortable a true believer
must be, and how uncomfortable he necessarily makes those with whom he
comes in contact. It shows how narrow, how hard, how unsympathetic,
how selfish, how unreasonable, how unpoetic, the creed of the orthodox
church is.

In "Robert Elsmere" there is plenty of evidence of reading and
cultivation, of thought and talent. So in "John Ward, Preacher," there
is strength, purpose, logic, power of statement, directness and courage.
But "The Story of an African Farm" has but little in common with the
other two.

It is a work apart—belonging to no school, and not to be judged by the
ordinary rules and canons of criticism. There are some puerilities and
much philosophy, trivialities and some of the profoundest reflections.
In addition to this, there is a vast and wonderful sympathy.

The following upon love is beautiful and profound: "There is a love that
begins in the head and goes down to the heart, and grows slowly, but it
lasts till death and asks less than it gives. There is another love that
blots out wisdom, that is sweet with the sweetness of life and bitter
with the bitterness of death, lasting for an hour; but it is worth
having lived a whole life for that hour. It is a blood-red flower, with
the color of sin, but there is always the scent of a god about it."

There is no character in "Robert Elsmere" or in "John Ward, Preacher,"
comparable for a moment to Lyndall in the "African Farm." In her there
is a splendid courage. She does not blame others for her own faults;
she accepts. There is that splendid candor that you find in Juliet in
"Measure for Measure." She is asked:

"Love you the man that wronged you?"

And she replies:

"Yes; as I love the woman that wronged him."

The death of this wonderful girl is extremely pathetic.

None but an artist could have written it:

"Then slowly, without a sound, the beautiful eyes closed. The dead
face that the glass reflected was a thing of marvellous beauty and
tranquillity. The gray dawn crept in over it and saw it lying there."

So the story of the hunter is wonderfully told. This hunter climbs above
his fellows—day by day getting away from human sympathy, away from
ignorance. He lost at last his fellow-men, and truth was just as far
away as ever. Here he found the bones of another hunter, and as he
looked upon the poor remains the wild faces said:

"So he lay down here, for he was very tired. He went to sleep forever.
He put himself to sleep. Sleep is very tranquil. You are not lonely when
you are asleep, neither do your hands ache nor your heart."

So the death of Waldo is most wonderfully told. The book is filled with
thought, and with thoughts of the writer—nothing is borrowed. It is
original, true and exceedingly sad. It has the pathos of real life.
There is in it the hunger of the heart, the vast difference between the
actual and the ideal:

"I like to feel that strange life beating up against me. I like to
realize forms of life utterly unlike my own. When my own life feels
small and I am oppressed with it, I like to crush together and see it in
a picture, in an instant, a multitude of disconnected, unlike phases of
human life—a mediaeval monk with his string of beads pacing the quiet
orchard, and looking up from the grass at his feet to the heavy fruit
trees; little Malay boys playing naked on a shining sea-beach; a Hindoo
philosopher alone under his banyan tree, thinking, thinking, thinking,
so that in the thought of God he may lose himself; a troop of
Bacchanalians dressed in white, with crowns of vine-leaves, dancing
along the Roman streets; a martyr on the night of his death looking
through the narrow window to the sky and feeling that already he has the
wings that shall bear him up; an epicurean discoursing at a Roman
bath to a knot of his disciples on the nature of happiness; a Kafir
witch-doctor seeking for herbs by moonlight, while from the huts on
the hillside come the sound of dogs barking and the voices of women
and children; a mother giving bread and milk to her children in little
wooden basins and singing the evening song. I like to see it all; I
feel it run through me—that life belongs to me; it makes my little life
larger, it breaks down the narrow walls that shut me in."

The author, Olive Schreiner, has a tropic zone in her heart. She
sometimes prattles like a child, then suddenly, and without warning, she
speaks like a philosopher—like one who had guessed the riddle of the
Sphinx. She, too, is overwhelmed with the injustice of the world—with
the negligence of nature—and she finds that it is impossible to find
repose for heart or brain in any Christian creed.

These books show what the people are thinking—the tendency of modern
thought. Singularly enough the three are written by women. Mrs. Ward,
the author of "Robert Elsmere," to say the least is not satisfied with
the Episcopal Church. She feels sure that its creed is not true. At the
same time, she wants it denied in a respectful tone of voice, and she
really pities people who are compelled to give up the consolation of
eternal punishment, although she has thrown it away herself and the
tendency of her book is to make other people do so. It is what the
orthodox call "a dangerous book." It is a flank movement calculated
to suggest a doubt to the unsuspecting reader, to some sheep who has
strayed beyond the shepherd's voice.

It is hard for any one to read "John Ward, Preacher," without hating
Puritanism with all his heart and without feeling certain that nothing
is more heartless than the "scheme of salvation;" and whoever finishes
"The Story of an African Farm" will feel that he has been brought in
contact with a very great, passionate and tender soul. Is it possible
that women, who have been the Caryatides of the church, who have borne
its insults and its burdens, are to be its destroyers?

Man is a being capable of pleasure and pain. The fact that he can enjoy
himself—that he can obtain good—gives him courage—courage to defend
what he has, courage to try to get more. The fact that he can suffer
pain sows in his mind the seeds of fear. Man is also filled with
curiosity. He examines. He is astonished by the uncommon. He is forced
to take an interest in things because things affect him. He is liable at
every moment to be injured. Countless things attack him. He must defend
himself. As a consequence his mind is at work; his experience in some
degree tells him what may happen; he prepares; he defends himself from
heat and cold. All the springs of action lie in the fact that he can
suffer and enjoy. The savage has great confidence in his senses. He
has absolute confidence in his eyes and ears. It requires many years of
education and experience before he becomes satisfied that things are
not always what they appear. It would be hard to convince the average
barbarian that the sun does not actually rise and set—hard to convince
him that the earth turns. He would rely upon appearances and would
record you as insane.

As man becomes civilized, educated, he finally has more confidence in
his reason than in his eyes. He no longer believes that a being called
Echo exists. He has found out the theory of sound, and he then knows
that the wave of air has been returned to his ear, and the idea of a
being who repeats his words fades from his mind; he begins then to
rely, not upon appearances, but upon demonstration, upon the result of
investigation. At last he finds that he has been deceived in a thousand
ways, and he also finds that he can invent certain instruments that are
far more accurate than his senses—instruments that add power to his
sight, to his hearing and to the sensitiveness of his touch. Day by day
he gains confidence in himself.

There is in the life of the individual, as in the life of the race,
a period of credulity, when not only appearances are accepted without
question, but the declarations of others. The child in the cradle or
in the lap of its mother, has implicit confidence in fairy
stories—believes in giants and dwarfs, in beings who can answer wishes,
who create castles and temples and gardens with a thought. So the race,
in its infancy, believed in such beings and in such creations. As the
child grows, facts take the place of the old beliefs, and the same is
true of the race.

As a rule, the attention of man is drawn first, not to his own mistakes,
not to his own faults, but to the mistakes and faults of his neighbors.
The same is true of a nation—it notices first the eccentricities and
peculiarities of other nations. This is especially true of religious
systems. Christians take it for granted that their religion is true,
that there can be about that no doubt, no mistake. They begin to examine
the religions of other nations. They take it for granted that all
these other religions are false. They are in a frame of mind to notice
contradictions, to discover mistakes and to apprehend absurdities. In
examining other religions they use their common sense. They carry in the
hand the lamp of probability. The miracles of other Christs, or of the
founders of other religions, appear unreasonable—they find that
they are not supported by evidence. Most of the stories excite their
laughter. Many of the laws seem cruel, many of the ceremonies absurd.
These Christians satisfy themselves that they are right in their first
conjecture—that is, that other religions are all made by men. Afterward
the same arguments they have used against other religions were found to
be equally forcible against their own. They find that the miracles of
Buddha rest upon the same kind of evidence as the miracles in the Old
Testament, as the miracles in the New—that the evidence in the one case
is just as weak and unreliable as in the other. They also find that it
is just as easy to account for the existence of Christianity as for the
existence of any other religion, and they find that the human mind in
all countries has traveled substantially the same road and has arrived
at substantially the same conclusions.

It may be truthfully said that Christianity by the examination of other
religions laid the foundation for its own destruction. The moment
it examined another religion it became a doubter, a sceptic, an
investigator. It began to call for proof. This course being pursued in
the examination of Christianity itself, reached the result that had been
reached as to other religions. In other words, it was impossible for
Christians successfully to attack other religions without showing that
their own religion could be destroyed. The fact that only a few years
ago we were all provincial should be taken into consideration. A few
years ago nations were unacquainted with each other—no nation had
any conception of the real habits, customs, religions and ideas of any
other. Each nation imagined itself to be the favored of heaven—the only
one to whom God had condescended to make known his will—the only one in
direct communication with angels and deities. Since the circumnavigation
of the globe, since the invention of the steam engine, the discovery of
electricity, the nations of the world have become acquainted with each
other, and we now know that the old ideas were born of egotism, and that
egotism is the child of ignorance and savagery.

Think of the egotism of the ancient Jews, who imagined that they were
"the chosen people"—the only ones in whom God took the slightest
interest! Imagine the egotism of the Catholic Church, claiming that it
is the only church—that it is continually under the guidance of the
Holy Ghost, and that the pope is infallible and occupies the place of
God. Think of the egotism of the Presbyterian, who imagines that he
is one of "the elect," and that billions of ages before the world was
created, God, in the eternal counsel of his own good pleasure, picked
out this particular Presbyterian, and at the same time determined to
send billions and billions to the pit of eternal pain. Think of
the egotism of the man who believes in special providence. The old
philosophy, the old religion, was made in about equal parts of ignorance
and egotism. This earth was the universe. The sun rose and set simply
for the benefit of "God's chosen people." The moon and stars were made
to beautify the night, and all the countless hosts of heaven were for no
other purpose than to decorate what might be called the ceiling of the
earth. It was also believed that this firmament was solid—that up there
the gods lived, and that they could be influenced by the prayers and
desires of men.

We have now found that the earth is only a grain of sand, a speck, an
atom in an infinite universe. We now know that the sun is a million
times larger than the earth, and that other planets are millions of
times larger than the sun; and when we think of these things, the old
stories of the Garden of Eden and Sinai and Calvary seem infinitely out
of proportion.

At last we have reached a point where we have the candor and the
intelligence to examine the claims of our own religion precisely as we
examine those of other countries. We have produced men and women
great enough to free themselves from the prejudices born of
provincialism—from the prejudices, we might almost say, of patriotism.
A few people are great enough not to be controlled by the ideas of the
dead—great enough to know that they are not bound by the mistakes of
their ancestors—and that a man may actually love his mother without
accepting her belief. We have even gone further than this, and we are
now satisfied that the only way to really honor parents is to tell our
best and highest thoughts. These thoughts ought to be in the mind when
reading the books referred to. There are certain tendencies, certain
trends of thought, and these tendencies—these trends—bear fruit; that
is to say, they produce the books about which I have spoken as well as
many others.
---
# Some Interrogation Points
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1885_
A NEW party is struggling for recognition—a party with leaders who are
not politicians, with followers who are not seekers after place. Some of
those who suffer and some of those who sympathize, have combined.
Those who feel that they are oppressed are organized for the purpose of
redressing their wrongs. The workers for wages, and the seekers for
work have uttered a protest. This party is an instrumentality for the
accomplishment of certain things that are very near and very dear to the
hearts of many millions.

The object to be attained is a fairer division of profits between
employers and employed. There is a feeling that in some way the workers
should not want—that the industrious should not be the indigent. There
is a hope that men and women and children are not forever to be the
victims of ignorance and want—that the tenement house is not always to
be the home of the poor, or the gutter the nursery of their babes.

As yet, the methods for the accomplishment of these aims have not been
agreed upon. Many theories have been advanced and none has been adopted.
The question is so vast, so complex, touching human interests in so many
ways, that no one has yet been great enough to furnish a solution, or,
if any one has furnished a solution, no one else has been wise enough to
understand it.

'The hope of the future is that this question will finally be
understood. It must not be discussed in anger. If a broad and
comprehensive view is to be taken, there is no place for hatred or for
prejudice. Capital is not to blame. Labor is not to blame. Both have
been caught in the net of circumstances. The rich are as generous as
the poor would be if they should change places. Men acquire through the
noblest and the tenderest instincts. They work and save not only for
themselves, but for their wives and for their children. There is but
little confidence in the charity of the world. The prudent man in his
youth makes preparation for his age. The loving father, having struggled
himself, hopes to save his children from drudgery and toil.

In every country there are classes—that is to say, the spirit of caste,
and this spirit will exist until the world is truly civilized. Persons
in most communities are judged not as individuals, but as members of a
class. Nothing is more natural, and nothing more heartless. These lines
that divide hearts on account of clothes or titles, are growing more and
more indistinct, and the philanthropists, the lovers of the human race,
believe that the time is coming when they will be obliterated. We may
do away with kings and peasants, and yet there may still be the rich
and poor, the intelligent and foolish, the beautiful and deformed,
the industrious and idle, and it may be, the honest and vicious. These
classifications are in the nature of things. They are produced for the
most part by forces that are now beyond the control of man—but the old
rule, that men are disreputable in the proportion that they are useful,
will certainly be reversed. The idle lord was always held to be the
superior of the industrious peasant, the devourer better than the
producer, and the waster superior to the worker.

While in this country we have no titles of nobility, we have the rich
and the poor—no princes, no peasants, but millionaires and mendicants.
The individuals composing these classes are continually changing. The
rich of to-day may be the poor of to-morrow, and the children of the
poor may take their places. In this country, the children of the poor
are educated substantially in the same schools with those of the rich.
All read the same papers, many of the same books, and all for many years
hear the same questions discussed. They are continually being educated,
not only at schools, but by the press, by political campaigns, by
perpetual discussions on public questions, and the result is that those
who are rich in gold are often poor in thought, and many who have
not whereon to lay their heads have within those heads a part of the
intellectual wealth of the world.

Years ago the men of wealth were forced to contribute toward the
education of the children of the poor. The support of schools by general
taxation was defended on the ground that it was a means of providing for
the public welfare, of perpetuating the institutions of a free country
by making better men and women. This policy has been pursued until at
last the schoolhouse is larger than the church, and the common people
through education have become uncommon. They now know how little is
really known by what are called the upper classes—how little after all
is understood by kings, presidents, legislators, and men of culture.
They are capable not only of understanding a few questions, but they
have acquired the art of discussing those that no one understands.
With the facility of politicians they can hide behind phrases, make
barricades of statistics, and _chevaux-de-frise_ of inferences and
assertions. They understand the sophistries of those who have governed.

In some respects these common people are the superiors of the so-called
aristocracy. While the educated have been turning their attention to the
classics, to the dead languages, and the dead ideas and mistakes that
they contain—while they have been giving their attention to ceramics,
artistic decorations, and compulsory prayers, the common people have
been compelled to learn the practical things—to become acquainted with
facts—by doing the work of the world. The professor of a college is
no longer a match for a master mechanic. The master mechanic not only
understands principles, but their application. He knows things as they
are. He has come in contact with the actual, with realities. He knows
something of the adaptation of means to ends, and this is the highest
and most valuable form of education. The men who make locomotives, who
construct the vast engines that propel ships, necessarily know more than
those who have spent their lives in conjugating Greek verbs, looking for
Hebrew roots, and discussing the origin and destiny of the universe.

Intelligence increases wants. By education the necessities of the people
become increased. The old wages will not supply the new wants. Man longs
for a harmony between the thought within and the things without. When
the soul lives in a palace the body is not satisfied with rags and
patches. The glaring inequalities among men, the differences in
condition, the suffering and the poverty, have appealed to the good
and great of every age, and there has been in the brain of the
philanthropist a dream—a hope, a prophecy, of a better day.

It was believed that tyranny was the foundation and cause of the
differences between men—that the rich were all robbers and the poor all
victims, and that if a society or government could be founded on equal
rights and privileges, the inequalities would disappear, that all would
have food and clothes and reasonable work and reasonable leisure, and
that content would be found by every hearth.

There was a reliance on nature—an idea that men had interfered with the
harmonious action of great principles which if left to themselves would
work out universal wellbeing for the human race. Others imagined that
the inequalities between men were necessary—that they were part of a
divine plan, and that all would be adjusted in some other world—that
the poor here would be the rich there, and the rich here might be in
torture there. Heaven became the reward of the poor, of the slave, and
hell their revenge.

When our Government was established it was declared that all men are
endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among which
were life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It was then believed
that if all men had an equal opportunity, if they were allowed to make
and execute their own laws, to levy their own taxes, the frightful
inequalities seen in the despotisms and monarchies of the old world
would entirely disappear. This was the dream of 1776. The founders of
the Government knew how kings and princes and dukes and lords and barons
had lived upon the labor of the peasants. They knew the history of those
ages of want and crime, of luxury and suffering. But in spite of
our Declaration, in spite of our Constitution, in spite of universal
suffrage, the inequalities still exist. We have the kings and
princes, the lords and peasants, in fact, if not in name. Monopolists,
corporations, capitalists, workers for wages, have taken their places,
and we are forced to admit that even universal suffrage cannot clothe
and feed the world.

For thousands of years men have been talking and writing about the great
law of supply and demand—and insisting that in some way this mysterious
law has governed and will continue to govern the activities of the human
race. It is admitted that this law is merciless—that when the demand
fails, the producer, the laborer, must suffer, must perish—that the
law feels neither pity nor malice—it simply acts, regardless of
consequences. Under this law capital will employ the cheapest. The
single man can work for less than the married. Wife and children are
luxuries not to be enjoyed under this law. The ignorant have fewer wants
than the educated, and for this reason can afford to work for less.
The great law will give employment to the single and to the ignorant in
preference to the married and intelligent. The great law has nothing
to do with food or clothes, with filth or crime. It cares nothing for
homes, for penitentiaries, or asylums. It simply acts—and some men
triumph, some succeed, some fail, and some perish.

Others insist that the curse of the world is monopoly. And yet, as
long as some men are stronger than others, as long as some are more
intelligent than others, they must be, to the extent of such advantage,
monopolists. Every man of genius is a monopolist.

We are told that the great remedy against monopoly—that is to say,
against extortion, is free and unrestricted competition. But after all,
the history of this world shows that the brutalities of competition are
equaled only by those of monopoly. The successful competitor becomes a
monopolist, and if competitors fail to destroy each other, the instinct
of self-preservation suggests a combination. In other words, competition
is a struggle between two or more persons or corporations for the
purpose of determining which shall have the uninterrupted privilege of
extortion.

In this country the people have had the greatest reliance on
competition. If a railway company charged too much a rival road was
built. As a matter of fact, we are indebted for half the railroads of
the United States to the extortion of the other half, and the same may
truthfully be said of telegraph lines. As a rule, while the exactions
of monopoly constructed new roads and new lines, competition has either
destroyed the weaker, or produced the pool which is a means of keeping
both monopolies alive, or of producing a new monopoly with greater
needs, supplied by methods more heartless than the old. When a rival
road is built the people support the rival because the fares and
freights are somewhat less. Then the old and richer monopoly inaugurates
war, and the people, glorying in the benefits of competition, are absurd
enough to support the old. In a little while the new company, unable to
maintain the contest, left by the people at the mercy of the stronger,
goes to the wall, and the triumphant monopoly proceeds to make the
intelligent people pay not only the old price, but enough in addition to
make up for the expenses of the contest.

Is there any remedy for this? None, except with the people themselves.
When the people become intelligent enough to support the rival at a
reasonable price; when they know enough to allow both roads to live;
when they are intelligent enough to recognize a friend and to stand by
that friend as against a known enemy, this question will be at least on
the edge of a solution.

So far as I know, this course has never been pursued except in one
instance, and that is the present war between the Gould and Mackay
cables. The Gould system had been charging from sixty to eighty cents a
word, and the Mackay system charged forty. Then the old monopoly tried
to induce the rival to put the prices back to sixty. The rival refused,
and thereupon the Gould combination dropped to twelve and a half, for
the purpose of destroying the rival. The Mackay cable fixed the tariff
at twenty-five cents, saying to its customers, "You are intelligent
enough to understand what this war means. If our cables are defeated,
the Gould system will go back not only to the old price, but will add
enough to reimburse itself for the cost of destroying us. If you really
wish for competition, if you desire a reasonable service at a reasonable
rate, you will support us." Fortunately an exceedingly intelligent class
of people does business by the cables. They are merchants, bankers, and
brokers, dealing with large amounts, with intricate, complicated, and
international questions. Of necessity, they are used to thinking for
themselves. They are not dazzled into blindness by the glare of the
present. They see the future. They are not duped by the sunshine of a
moment or the promise of an hour. They see beyond the horizon of a
penny saved. These people had intelligence enough to say, "The rival who
stands between us and extortion is our friend, and our friend shall not
be allowed to die."

Does not this tend to show that people must depend upon themselves, and
that some questions can be settled by the intelligence of those who buy,
of those who use, and that customers are not entirely helpless?

Another thing should not be forgotten, and that is this: there is the
same war between monopolies that there is between individuals, and the
monopolies for many years have been trying to destroy each other. They
have unconsciously been working for the extinction of monopolies. These
monopolies differ as individuals do. You find among them the rich and
the poor, the lucky and the unfortunate, millionaires and tramps. The
great monopolies have been devouring the little ones.

Only a few years ago, the railways in this country were controlled by
local directors and local managers. The people along the lines were
interested in the stock. As a consequence, whenever any legislation was
threatened hostile to the interests of these railways, they had local
friends who used their influence with legislators, governors and juries.
During this time they were protected, but when the hard times came many
of these companies were unable to pay their interest. They suddenly
became Socialists. They cried out against their prosperous rivals. They
felt like joining the Knights of Labor. They began to talk about rights
and wrongs. But in spite of their cries, they have passed into the hands
of the richer roads—they were seized by the great monopolies. Now the
important railways are owned by persons living in large cities or in
foreign countries. They have no local friends, and when the time conies,
and it may come, for the General Government to say how much these
companies shall charge for passengers and freight, they will have no
local friends. It may be that the great mass of the people will then be
on the other side. So that after all, the great corporations have been
busy settling the question against themselves.

Possibly a majority of the American people believe to-day that in some
way all these questions between capital and labor can be settled by
constitutions, laws, and judicial decisions. Most people imagine that a
statute is a sovereign specific for any evil. But while the theory has
all been one way, the actual experience has been the other—just as the
free traders have all the arguments and the protectionists most of the
facts.

The truth is, as Mr. Buckle says, that for five hundred years all real
advance in legislation has been made by repealing laws. Of one thing
we must be satisfied, and that is that real monopolies have never
been controlled by law, but the fact that such monopolies exist, is
a demonstration that the law has been controlled. In our country,
legislators are for the most part controlled by those who, by their
wealth and influence, elect them. The few, in reality, cast the votes of
the many, and the few influence the ones voted for by the many. Special
interests, being active, secure special legislation, and the object of
special legislation is to create a kind of monopoly—that is to say, to
get some advantage. Chiefs, barons, priests, and kings ruled, robbed,
destroyed, and duped, and their places have been taken by corporations,
monopolists, and politicians. The large fish still live on the little
ones, and the fine theories have as yet failed to change the condition
of mankind.

Law in this country is effective only when it is the recorded will of a
majority. When the zealous few get control of the Legislature, and laws
are passed to prevent Sabbath-breaking, or wine-drinking, they succeed
only in putting their opinions and provincial prejudices in legal
phrase. There was a time when men worked from fourteen to sixteen hours
a day. These hours have not been lessened, they have not been shortened
by law. The law has followed and recorded, but the law is not a leader
and not a prophet. It appears to be impossible to fix wages—just as
impossible as to fix the values of all manufactured things, including
works of art. The field is too great, the problem too complicated, for
the human mind to grasp.

To fix the value of labor is to fix all values—labor being the
foundation of all values. The value of labor cannot be fixed unless we
understand the relations that all things bear to each other and to man.
If labor were a legal tender—if a judgment for so many dollars could be
discharged by so many days of labor,—and the law was that twelve hours
of work should be reckoned as one day, then the law could change the
hours to ten or eight, and the judgments could be paid in the shortened
days. But it is easy to see that in all contracts made after the
passage of such a law, the difference in hours would be taken into
consideration.

We must remember that law is not a creative force. It produces nothing.
It raises neither corn nor wine. The legitimate object of law is to
protect the weak, to prevent violence and fraud, and to enforce honest
contracts, to the end that each person may be free to do as he desires,
provided only that he does not interfere with the rights of others. Our
fathers tried to make people religious by law. They failed. Thousands
are now trying to make people temperate in the same manner. Such efforts
always have been and probably always will be failures. People who
believe that an infinite God gave to the Hebrews a perfect code of laws,
must admit that even this code failed to civilize the inhabitants of
Palestine.

It seems impossible to make people just or charitable or industrious
or agreeable or successful, by law, any more than you can make them
physically perfect or mentally sound. Of course we admit that good
people intend to make good laws, and that good laws faithfully and
honestly executed, tend to the preservation of human rights and to the
elevation of the race, but the enactment of a law not in accordance with
a sentiment already existing in the minds and hearts of the people—the
very people who are depended upon to enforce this law—is not a help,
but a hindrance. A real law is but the expression, in an authoritative
and accurate form, of the judgment and desire of the majority. As
we become intelligent and kind, this intelligence and kindness find
expression in law.

But how is it possible to fix the wages of every man? To fix wages is to
fix prices, and a government to do this intelligently, would necessarily
have to have the wisdom generally attributed to an infinite Being. It
would have to supervise and fix the conditions of every exchange of
commodities and the value of every conceivable thing. Many things can be
accomplished by law, employeers may be held responsible for injuries to
the employed. The mines can be ventilated. Children can be rescued
from the deformities of toil—burdens taken from the backs of wives and
mothers—houses made wholesome, food healthful—that is to say, the weak
can be protected from the strong, the honest from the vicious, honest
contracts can be enforced, and many rights protected.

The men who have simply strength, muscle, endurance, compete not only
with other men of strength, but with the inventions of genius. What
would doctors say if physicians of iron could be invented with curious
cogs and wheels, so that when a certain button was touched the proper
prescription would be written? How would lawyers feel if a lawyer could
be invented in such a way that questions of law, being put in a kind of
hopper and a crank being turned, decisions of the highest court could be
prophesied without failure? And how would the ministers feel if somebody
should invent a clergyman of wood that would to all intents and purposes
answer the purpose?

Invention has filled the world with the competitors not only of
laborers, but of mechanics—mechanics of the highest skill. To-day the
ordinary laborer is for the most part a cog in a wheel. He works with
the tireless—he feeds the insatiable. When the monster stops, the
man is out of employment, out of bread; He has not saved anything. The
machine that he fed was not feeding him, was not working for him—the
invention was not for his benefit. The other day I heard a man say
that it was almost impossible for thousands of good mechanics to get
employment, and that, in his judgment, the Government ought to furnish
work for the people. A few minutes after, I heard another say that he
was selling a patent for cutting out clothes, that one of his machines
could do the work of twenty tailors, and that only the week before he
had sold two to a great house in New York, and that over forty cutters
had been discharged.

On every side men are being discharged and machines are being invented
to take their places. When the great factory shuts down, the workers who
inhabited it and gave it life, as thoughts do the brain, go away and it
stands there like an empty skull. A few workmen, by the force of
habit, gather about the closed doors and broken windows and talk about
distress, the price of food and the coming winter. They are convinced
that they have not had their share of what their labor created. They
feel certain that the machines inside were not their friends. They look
at the mansion of the employeer and think of the places where they live.
They have saved nothing—nothing but themselves. The employeer seems to
have enough. Even when employeers fail, when they become bankrupt, they
are far better off than the laborers ever were. Their worst is better
than the toilers' best.

The capitalist comes forward with his specific. He tells the workingman
that he must be economical—and yet, under the present system, economy
would only lessen wages. Under the great law of supply and demand every
saving, frugal, self-denying workingman is unconsciously doing what
little he can to reduce the compensation of himself and his fellows. The
slaves who did not wish to run away helped fasten chains on those who
did. So the saving mechanic is a certificate that wages are high enough.
Does the great law demand that every worker live on the least possible
amount of bread? Is it his fate to work one day, that he may get enough
food to be able to work another? Is that to be his only hope—that and
death?

Capital has always claimed and still claims the right to combine.
Manufacturers meet and determine upon prices, even in spite of the great
law of supply and demand. Have the laborers the same right to consult
and combine? The rich meet in the bank, the clubhouse, or parlor.
Workingmen, when they combine, gather in the street. All the organized
forces of society are against them. Capital has the army and the navy,
the legislative, the judicial, and the executive departments. When the
rich combine, it is for the purpose of "exchanging ideas." When the poor
combine, it is a "conspiracy." If they act in concert, if they really do
something, it is a "mob." If they defend themselves, it is "treason."
How is it that the rich control the departments of government? In this
country the political power is equally divided among the men. There are
certainly more poor than there are rich. Why should the rich control?
Why should not the laborers combine for the purpose of controlling the
executive, legislative, and judicial departments? Will they ever find
how powerful they are?

In every country there is a satisfied class—too satisfied to care. They
are like the angels in heaven, who are never disturbed by the miseries
of earth. They are too happy to be generous. This satisfied class asks
no questions and answers none. They believe the world is as it should
be. All reformers are simply disturbers of the peace. When they talk
low, they should not be listened to; when they talk loud, they should be
suppressed.

The truth is to-day what it always has been—what it always will
be—those who feel are the only ones who think. A cry comes from the
oppressed, from the hungry, from the down-trodden, from the unfortunate,
from men who despair and from women who weep. There are times when
mendicants become revolutionists—when a rag becomes a banner, under
which the noblest and bravest battle for the right.

How are we to settle the unequal contest between men and machines? Will
the machine finally go into partnership with the laborer? Can these
forces of nature be controlled for the benefit of her suffering
children? Will extravagance keep pace with ingenuity? Will the workers
become intelligent enough and strong enough to be the owners of the
machines? Will these giants, these Titans, shorten or lengthen the hours
of labor? Will they give leisure to the industrious, or will they make
the rich richer, and the poor poorer?

Is man involved in the "general scheme of things"? Is there no pity, no
mercy? Can man become intelligent enough to be generous, to be just;
or does the same law or fact control him that controls the animal and
vegetable world? The great oak steals the sunlight from the smaller
trees. The strong animals devour the weak—everything eating something
else—everything at the mercy of beak and claw and hoof and tooth—of
hand and club, of brain and greed—inequality, injustice, everywhere.

The poor horse standing in the street with his dray, overworked,
over-whipped, and under-fed, when he sees other horses groomed to
mirrors, glittering with gold and silver, scorning with proud feet the
very earth, probably indulges in the usual socialistic reflections, and
this same horse, worn out and old, deserted by his master, turned into
the dusty road, leans his head on the topmost rail, looks at donkeys in
a field of clover, and feels like a Nihilist.

In the days of savagery the strong devoured the weak—actually ate
their flesh. In spite of all the laws that man has made, in spite of
all advance in science, literature and art, the strong, the cunning, the
heartless still live on the weak, the unfortunate, and foolish. True,
they do not eat their flesh, they do not drink their blood, but they
live on their labor, on their self-denial, their weariness and want.
The poor man who deforms himself by toil, who labors for wife and child
through all his anxious, barren, wasted life—who goes to the grave
without even having had one luxury—has been the food of others. He has
been devoured by his fellow-men. The poor woman living in the bare
and lonely room, cheerless and fireless, sewing night and day to keep
starvation from a child, is slowly being eaten by her fellow-men. When
I take into consideration the agony of civilized life—the number of
failures, the poverty, the anxiety, the tears, the withered hopes, the
bitter realities, the hunger, the crime, the humiliation, the shame—I
am almost forced to say that cannibalism, after all, is the most
merciful form in which man has ever lived upon his fellow-man.

Some of the best and purest of our race have advocated what is known
as Socialism. They have not only taught, but, what is much more to
the purpose, have believed that a nation should be a family; that the
government should take care of all its children; that it should provide
work and food and clothes and education for all, and that it should
divide the results of all labor equitably with all.

Seeing the inequalities among men, knowing of the destitution and crime,
these men were willing to sacrifice, not only their own liberties, but
the liberties of all.

Socialism seems to be one of the worst possible forms of slavery.
Nothing, in my judgment, would so utterly paralyze all the forces, all
the splendid ambitions and aspirations that now tend to the civilization
of man. In ordinary systems of slavery there are some masters, a few are
supposed to be free; but in a socialistic state all would be slaves.

If the government is to provide work it must decide for the worker
what he must do. It must say who shall chisel statues, who shall
paint pictures, who shall compose music, and who shall practice the
professions. Is any government, or can any government, be capable
of intelligently performing these countless duties? It must not only
control work, it must not only decide what each shall do, but it must
control expenses, because expenses bear a direct relation to products.
Therefore the government must decide what the worker shall eat and
wherewithal he shall be clothed; the kind of house in which he shall
live; the manner in which it shall be furnished, and, if this government
furnishes the work, it must decide on the days or the hours of leisure.
More than this, it must fix values; it must decide not only who shall
sell, but who shall buy, and the price that must be paid—and it must
fix this value not simply upon the labor, but on everything that can be
produced, that can be exchanged or sold.

Is it possible to conceive of a despotism beyond this?

The present condition of the world is bad enough, with its poverty and
ignorance, but it is far better than it could by any possibility be
under any government like the one described. There would be less hunger
of the body, but not of the mind. Each man would simply be a citizen of
a large penitentiary, and, as in every well regulated prison, somebody
would decide what each should do. The inmates of a prison retire
early; they rise with the sun; they have something to eat; they are not
dissipated; they have clothes; they attend divine service; they have but
little to say about their neighbors; they do not suffer from cold; their
habits are excellent, and yet, no one envies their condition. Socialism
destroys the family. The children belong to the state. Certain officers
take the places of parents. Individuality is lost.

The human race cannot afford to exchange its liberty for any possible
comfort. You remember the old fable of the fat dog that met the lean
wolf in the forest. The wolf, astonished to see so prosperous an animal,
inquired of the dog where he got his food, and the dog told him that
there was a man who took care of him, gave him his breakfast, his
dinner, and his supper with the utmost regularity, and that he had all
that he could eat and very little to do. The wolf said, "Do you think
this man would treat me as he does you?" The dog replied, "Yes, come
along with me." So they jogged on together toward the dog's home. On the
way the wolf happened to notice that some hair was worn off the dog's
neck, and he said, "How did the hair become worn?" "That is," said the
dog, "the mark of the collar—my master ties me at night." "Oh," said
the wolf, "Are you chained? Are you deprived of your liberty? I believe
I will go back. I prefer hunger."

It is impossible for any man with a good heart to be satisfied with this
world as it now is. No one can truly enjoy even what he earns—what he
knows to be his own, knowing that millions of his fellow-men are in
misery and want. When we think of the famished we feel that it is almost
heartless to eat. To meet the ragged and shivering makes one almost
ashamed to be well dressed and warm—one feels as though his heart was
as cold as their bodies.

In a world filled with millions and millions of acres of land waiting to
be tilled, where one man can raise the food for hundreds, millions are
on the edge of famine. Who can comprehend the stupidity at the bottom of
this truth?

Is there to be no change? Are "the law of supply and demand," invention
and science, monopoly and competition, capital and legislation always to
be the enemies of those who toil?

Will the workers always be ignorant enough and stupid enough to give
their earnings for the useless? Will they support millions of soldiers
to kill the sons of other workingmen? Will they always build temples
for ghosts and phantoms, and live in huts and dens themselves? Will they
forever allow parasites with crowns, and vampires with mitres, to
live upon their blood? Will they remain the slaves of the beggars they
support? How long will they be controlled by friends who seek favors,
and by reformers who want office? Will they always prefer famine in the
city to a feast in the fields? Will they ever feel and know that
they have no right to bring children into this world that they cannot
support? Will they use their intelligence for themselves, or for others?
Will they become wise enough to know that they cannot obtain their own
liberty by destroying that of others? Will they finally see that every
man has a right to choose his trade, his profession, his employment,
and has the right to work when, and for whom, and for what he will?
Will they finally say that the man who has had equal privileges with all
others has no right to complain, or will they follow the example
that has been set by their oppressors? Will they learn that force, to
succeed, must have a thought behind it, and that anything done, in order
that it may endure, must rest upon the corner-stone of justice?

Will they, at the command of priests, forever extinguish the spark that
sheds a little light in every brain? Will they ever recognize the fact
that labor, above all things, is honorable—that it is the foundation of
virtue? Will they understand that beggars cannot be generous, and that
every healthy man must earn the right to live? Will honest men stop
taking off their hats to successful fraud? Will industry, in the
presence of crowned idleness, forever fall upon its knees, and will the
lips unstained by lies forever kiss the robed impostor's hand?—North
American Review, March, 1887.
---
# Spirituality
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1889_
IF there is an abused word in our language, it is "spirituality."

It has been repeated over and over for several hundred years by pious
pretenders and snivelers as though it belonged exclusively to them.

In the early days of Christianity, the "spiritual" renounced the world
with all its duties and obligations. They deserted their wives and
children. They became hermits and dwelt in caves. They spent their
useless years in praying for their shriveled and worthless souls. They
were too "spiritual" to love women, to build homes and to labor for
children. They were too "spiritual" to earn their bread, so they became
beggars and stood by the highways of Life and held out their hands and
asked alms of Industry and Courage. They were too "spiritual" to be
merciful. They preached the dogma of eternal pain and gloried in "the
wrath to come." They were too "spiritual" to be civilized, so they
persecuted their fellow-men for expressing their honest thoughts. They
were so "spiritual" that they invented instruments of torture, founded
the Inquisition, appealed to the whip, the rack, the sword and the
fagot. They tore the flesh of their fellow-men with hooks of iron,
buried their neighbors alive, cut off their eyelids, dashed out the
brains of babes and cut off the breasts of mothers. These "spiritual"
wretches spent day and night on their knees, praying for their own
salvation and asking God to curse the best and noblest of the world.

John Calvin was intensely "spiritual" when he warmed his fleshless hands
at the flames that consumed Servetus.

John Knox was constrained by his "spirituality" to utter low and
loathsome calumnies against all women. All the witch-burners and
Quaker-maimers and mutilators were so "spiritual" that they constantly
looked heavenward and longed for the skies.

These lovers of God—these haters of men—looked upon the Greek marbles
as unclean, and denounced the glories of Art as the snares and pitfalls
of perdition.

These "spiritual" mendicants hated laughter and smiles and dimples, and
exhausted their diseased and polluted imaginations in the effort to make
love loathsome.

From almost every pulpit was heard the denunciation of all that adds
to the wealth, the joy and glory of life. It became the fashion for the
"spiritual" to malign every hope and passion that tends to humanize
and refine the heart. Man was denounced as totally depraved. Woman was
declared to be a perpetual temptation—her beauty a snare and her touch
pollution.

Even in our own time and country some of the ministers, no matter how
radical they claim to be, retain the aroma, the odor, or the smell of
the "spiritual."

They denounce some of the best and greatest—some of the benefactors
of the race—for having lived on the low plane of usefulness—and for
having had the pitiful ambition to make their fellows happy in this
world.

Thomas Paine was a groveling wretch because he devoted his life to the
preservation of the rights of man, and Voltaire lacked the "spiritual"
because he abolished torture in France and attacked, with the enthusiasm
of a divine madness, the monster that was endeavoring to drive the hope
of liberty from the heart of man.

Humboldt was not "spiritual" enough to repeat with closed eyes
the absurdities of superstition, but was so lost to all the "skyey
influences" that he was satisfied to add to the intellectual wealth of
the world.

Darwin lacked "spirituality," and in its place had nothing but
sincerity, patience, intelligence, the spirit of investigation and
the courage to give his honest conclusions to the world. He contented
himself with giving to his fellow-men the greatest and the sublimest
truths that man has spoken since lips have uttered speech.

But we are now told that these soldiers of science, these heroes of
liberty, these sculptors and painters, these singers of songs, these
composers of music, lack "spirituality" and after all were only common
clay.

This word "spirituality" is the fortress, the breastwork, the rifle-pit
of the Pharisee. It sustains the same relation to sincerity that Dutch
metal does to pure gold.

There seems to be something about a pulpit that poisons the
occupant—that changes his nature—that causes him to denounce what he
really loves and to laud with the fervor of insanity a joy that he
never felt—a rapture that never thrilled his soul. Hypnotized by his
surroundings, he unconsciously brings to market that which he supposes
the purchasers desire.

In every church, whether orthodox or radical, there are two parties—one
conservative, looking backward, one radical, looking forward, and
generally a minister "spiritual" enough to look both ways.

A minister who seems to be a philosopher on the street, or in the home
of a sensible man, cannot withstand the atmosphere of the pulpit.
The moment he stands behind the Bible cushion, like Bottom, he is
"translated" and the Titania of superstition "kisses his large, fair
ears."

Nothing is more amusing than to hear a clergyman denounce
worldliness—ask his hearers what it will profit them to build railways
and palaces and lose their own souls—inquire of the common folks
before him why they waste their precious years in following trades and
professions, in gathering treasures that moths corrupt and rust devours,
giving their days to the vulgar business of making money,—and then see
him take up a collection, knowing perfectly well that only the worldly,
the very people he has denounced, can by any possibility give a dollar.

"Spirituality" for the most part is a mask worn by idleness, arrogance
and greed.

Some people imagine that they are "spiritual" when they are sickly.

It may be well enough to ask: What is it to be really spiritual?

The spiritual man lives to his ideal. He endeavors to make others happy.
He does not despise the passions that have filled the world with art and
glory. He loves his wife and children—home and fireside. He cultivates
the amenities and refinements of life. He is the friend and champion of
the oppressed. His sympathies are with the poor and the suffering. He
attacks what he believes to be wrong, though defended by the many, and
he is willing to stand for the right against the world. He enjoys the
beautiful. In the presence of the highest creations of Art his eyes are
suffused with tears. When he listens to the great melodies, the divine
harmonies, he feels the sorrows and the raptures of death and love. He
is intensely human. He carries in his heart the burdens of the world.
He searches for the deeper meanings. He appreciates the harmonies of
conduct, the melody of a perfect life.

He loves his wife and children better than any god. He cares more for
the world he lives in than for any other. He tries to discharge the
duties of this life, to help those that he can reach. He believes in
being useful—in making money to feed and clothe and educate the ones he
loves—to assist the deserving and to support himself. He does not wish
to be a burden on others. He is just, generous and sincere.

Spirituality is all of this world. It is a child of this earth, born and
cradled here. It comes from no heaven, but it makes a heaven where it
is.

There is no possible connection between superstition and the spiritual,
or between theology and the spiritual.

The spiritually-minded man is a poet. If he does not write poetry,
he lives it. He is an artist. If he does not paint pictures or chisel
statues, he feels them, and their beauty softens his heart. He fills the
temple of his soul with all that is beautiful, and he worships at the
shrine of the Ideal.

In all the relations of life he is faithful and true. He asks for
nothing that he does not earn. He does not wish to be happy in heaven
if he must receive happiness as alms He does not rely on the goodness of
another. He is not ambitious to become a winged pauper.

Spirituality is the perfect health of the soul. It is noble, manly,
generous, brave, free-spoken, natural, superb.

Nothing is more sickening than the "spiritual" whine—the pretence
that crawls at first and talks about humility and then suddenly becomes
arrogant and says: "I am 'spiritual.' I hold in contempt the vulgar joys
of this life. You work and toil and build homes and sing songs and weave
your delicate robes. You love women and children and adorn yourselves.
You subdue the earth and dig for gold. You have your theatres, your
operas and all the luxuries of life; but I, beggar that I am, Pharisee
that I am, am your superior because I am 'spiritual.'"

Above all things, let us be sincere.—The Conservator, Philadelphia,
1891.
---
# Sumter's Gun
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1893_
1861—April 12th—1891

FOR about three-quarters of a century the statesmen, that is to say, the
politicians, of the North and South', had been busy making compromises,
adopting constitutions and enacting laws; busy making speeches, framing
platforms and political pretences, to the end that liberty and slavery
might dwell in peace and friendship under the same flag.

Arrogance on one side, hypocrisy on the other.

Right apologized to Wrong for the sake of the Union.

The sources of justice were poisoned, and patriotism became the defender
of piracy. In the name of humanity mothers were robbed of their babes.

Thirty years ago to-day a shot was fired, and in a moment all the
promises, all the laws, all the constitutional amendments, and all
the idiotic and heartless decisions of courts, and all the speeches of
orators inspired by the hope of place and power, were blown into rags
and ravelings, pieces and patches.

The North and South had been masquerading as friends, and in a moment,
while the sound of that shot was ringing in their ears, they faced each
other as enemies.

The roar of that cannon announced the birth of a new epoch. The echoes
of that shot went out, not only over the bay of Charleston, but over the
hills, the prairies and forests of the continent.

These echoes said marvelous things and uttered prophecies that none were
wise enough to understand.

Who at that time had the slightest conception of the immediate future?
Who then was great enough to see the end? Who then was wise enough
to know that the echoes would be kept alive and repeated for years by
thousands and thousands of cannon, by millions of muskets, on the fields
of ruthless war?

At that time Abraham Lincoln, an Illinois lawyer, was barely a month in
the President's chair, and that shot made him the most commanding and
majestic figure of the nineteenth century—a figure that stands alone.

Who could have guessed the names of the heroes to be repeated by
countless lips before the echoes of that shot should have died away?

There was at that time a young man at Galena, silent, unobtrusive,
unknown; and yet, the moment that shot was fired he was destined to lead
the greatest host ever marshaled on a field of war, destined to receive
the final sword of the Rebellion.

There was another, in the Southwest, who heard one of the echoes of that
shot, and who afterward marched from Atlanta to the sea; and another,
far away by the Pacific, who also heard one of the echoes, and who
became one of the immortal three.

But, above all, the echoes were heard by millions of men and women in
the fields of unpaid toil, and they knew not the meaning, but felt that
they had heard a prophecy of freedom. And the echoes told of death
and glory for many thousands—of the agonies of women—the sobs of
orphans—the sighs of the imprisoned, and the glad shouts of the
delivered, the enfranchised, the redeemed.

They who fired that gun did not dream that they were giving liberty to
millions of people, including themselves, white as well as black, North
as well as South, and that before the echoes should die away, all the
shackles would be broken, all the constitutions and statutes of slavery
repealed, and all the compromises merged and lost in a great compact
made to preserve the liberties of all.
---
# The Agnostic Christmas
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1892_
AGAIN we celebrate the victory of Light over Darkness, of the God of day
over the hosts of night. Again Samson is victorious over Delilah, and
Hercules triumphs once more over Omphale. In the embrace of Isis, Osiris
rises from the dead, and the scowling Typhon is defeated once more.
Again Apollo, with unerring aim, with his arrow from the quiver of
light, destroys the serpent of shadow. This is the festival of Thor,
of Baldur and of Prometheus. Again Buddha by a miracle escapes from the
tyrant of Madura, Zoroaster foils the King, Bacchus laughs at the rage
of Cadmus, and Chrishna eludes the tyrant.

This is the festival of the sun-god, and as such let its observance be
universal.

This is the great day of the first religion, the mother of all
religions—the worship of the sun.

Sun worship is not only the first, but the most natural and most
reasonable of all. And not only the most natural and the most
reasonable, but by far the most poetic, the most beautiful.

The sun is the god of benefits, of growth, of life, of warmth, of
happiness, of joy. The sun is the all-seeing, the all-pitying, the
all-loving.

This bright God knew no hatred, no malice, never sought for revenge.

All evil qualities were in the breast of the God of darkness, of shadow,
of night. And so I say again, this is the festival of Light. This is the
anniversary of the triumph of the Sun over the hosts of Darkness.

Let us all hope for the triumph of Light—of Right and Reason—for the
victory of Fact over Falsehood, of Science over Superstition.

And so hoping, let us celebrate the venerable festival of the Sun.—The
Journal, New York, December 25,1892.
---
# The Bigotry of Colleges
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1897_
> * A newspaper dispatch from Lawrence, Kansas, published
> yesterday, stated that Col. Robert O. Ingersoll had been
> invited by the law students of the Kansas State University
> to address them at the commencement exercises, and that the
> faculty council had objected and had invited Chauncey M.
> Depew instead.

> The dispatch also stared that the council had notified
> representatives of the law school that if they insisted on
> the great Agnostic speaking before the school, the faculty
> would take heroic measures to thwart their design.

> It was also stated that the law students had made it clearly
> understood that the lecture Ingersoll had been invited to
> deliver was to be on the subject of law, and that his views
> on religion, the Bible and the Deity were not to be alluded
> to, and they considered that the faculty council had
> "subjected them to an insult," and had gone out of its way,
> also, to affront Colonel Ingersoll without cause.

> Colonel Ingersoll, when seen yesterday and questioned about
> the matter, took it, as he does all things of that nature,
> philosophically and in a true manly spirit.

> Chauncey M. Depew was seen at his residence, No. 43 West
> Fifty-fourth Street, last night and asked if he had been
> invited to address the students of the Kansas University in
> the place of Colonel Ingersoll. He said he had not.

> "Would you go if you were invited?" he was asked.

> "No; I would not," he answered. "You see, I am so busy here;
> besides, my social and semi-political engagements are such
> that I would not have time to go to such a distant point,
> anyhow.

> "No, I do not care to express any opinion regarding the
> action of the faculty council of the Kansas University, but
> I consider Colonel Ingersoll one of the greatest intellects
> of the century, from whose teaching all can profit."—The
> Journal, New York, January 24, im.

UNIVERSITIES are naturally conservative. They know that if suspected of
being really scientific, orthodox Christians will keep their sons away,
so they pander to the superstitions of the times.

Most of the universities are exceedingly poor, and poverty is the
enemy of independence. Universities, like people, have the instinct of
self-preservation. The University of Kansas is like the rest.

The faculty of Cornell, upon precisely the same question, took exactly
the same action, and the faculty of the University of Missouri did
the same. These institutions must be the friends and defenders of
superstition.

The Vanderbilt College, or University of Tennessee, discharged Professor
Winchell because he differed with the author of Genesis on geology.

These colleges act as they must, and we should blame nobody. If Humboldt
and Darwin were now alive they would not be allowed to teach in these
institutions of "learning."

We need not find fault with the president and professors. They want
to keep their places. The probability is that they would like to do
better—that they desire to be free, and, if free, would, with all their
hearts, welcome the truth. Still, these universities seem to do good.
The minds of their students are developed to that degree, that they
naturally turn to me as the defender of their thoughts.

This gives me great hope for the future. The young, the growing, the
enthusiastic, are on my side. All the students who have selected me are
my friends, and I thank them with all my heart.
---
# The Census Enumerator's Official Catechism
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
I SUPPOSE the Government has a right to ask all of these questions, and
any more it pleases, but undoubtedly the citizen would have the right
to refuse to answer them. Originally the census was taken simply for
the purpose of ascertaining the number of people—first, as a basis of
representation; second, as a basis of capitation tax; third, as a basis
to arrive at the number of troops that might be called from each State;
and it may be for some other purposes, but I imagine that all are
embraced in the foregoing.

The Government has no right to invade the privacy of the citizen; no
right to inquire into his financial condition, as thereby his credit
might be injured; no right to pry into his affairs, into his diseases,
or his deformities; and, while the Government may have the right to ask
these questions, I think it was foolish to instruct the enumerators to
ask them, and that the citizens have a perfect right to refuse to
answer them. Personally, I have no objection to answering any of these
questions, for the reason that nothing is the matter with me that money
will not cure.

I know that it is thought advisable by many to find out the amount of
mortgages in the United States, the rate of interest that is being paid,
the general indebtedness of individuals, counties, cities and States,
and I see no impropriety in finding this out in any reasonable way.
But I think it improper to insist on the debtor exposing his financial
condition. My opinion is that Mr. Porter only wants what is perfectly
reasonable, and if left to himself, would ask only those questions that
all people would willingly answer.

I presume we can depend on medical statistics—on the reports of
hospitals, etc., in regard to diseases and deformities, without
interfering with the patients. As to the financial standing of people,
there are already enough of spies in this country attending to that
business. I don't think there is any danger of the courts compelling a
man to answer these questions. Suppose a man refuses to tell whether
he has a chronic disease or not, and he is brought up before a United
States Court for contempt. In my opinion the judge would decide that the
man could not be compelled to answer. It is bad enough to have a chronic
disease without publishing it to the world. All intelligent people, of
course, will be desirous of giving all useful information of a character
that cannot be used to their injury, but can be used for the benefit of
society at large.

If, however, the courts shall decide that the enumerators have the right
to ask these questions, and that everybody must answer them, I doubt
if the census will be finished for many years. There are hundreds and
thousands of people who delight in telling all about their diseases,
when they were attacked, what they have taken, how many doctors have
given them up to die, etc., and if the enumerators will stop to listen,
the census of 1890 will not be published until the next century.—The
World, New York, June 8, 1890.
---
# The Divided Household of Faith
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1888_
"Let determined things to destiny hold unbewailed their way." THERE is
a continual effort in the mind of man to find the harmony that he knows
must exist between all known facts. It is hard for the scientist to
implicitly believe anything that he suspects to be inconsistent with a
known fact. He feels that every fact is a key to many mysteries—that
every fact is a detective, not only, but a perpetual witness. He knows
that a fact has a countless number of sides, and that all these sides
will match all other facts, and he also suspects that to understand one
fact perfectly—like the fact of the attraction of gravitation—would
involve a knowledge of the universe.

It requires not only candor, but courage, to accept a fact. When a new
fact is found it is generally denied, resisted, and calumniated by the
conservatives until denial becomes absurd, and then they accept it with
the statement that they always supposed it was true.

The old is the ignorant enemy of the new. The old has pedigree and
respectability; it is filled with the spirit of caste; it is associated
with great events, and with great names; it is intrenched; it has an
income—it represents property. Besides, it has parasites, and the
parasites always defend themselves.

Long ago frightened wretches who had by tyranny or piracy amassed great
fortunes, were induced in the moment of death to compromise with God
and to let their money fall from their stiffening hands into the greedy
palms of priests. In this way many theological seminaries were endowed,
and in this way prejudices, mistakes, absurdities, known as religious
truths, have been perpetuated. In this way the dead hypocrites have
propagated and supported their kind.

Most religions—no matter how honestly they originated—have been
established by brute force. Kings and nobles have used them as a
means to enslave, to degrade and rob. The priest, consciously and
unconsciously, has been the betrayer of his followers.

Near Chicago there is an ox that betrays his fellows. Cattle—twenty or
thirty at a time—are driven to the place of slaughter. This ox leads
the way—the others follow. When the place is reached, this Bishop
Dupanloup turns and goes back for other victims.

This is the worst side: There is a better.

Honest men, believing that they have found the whole truth—the real
and only faith—filled with enthusiasm, give all for the purpose of
propagating the "divine creed." They found colleges and universities,
and in perfect, pious, ignorant sincerity, provide that the creed, and
nothing but the creed, must be taught, and that if any professor teaches
anything contrary to that, he must be instantly dismissed—that is to
say, the children must be beaten with the bones of the dead.

These good religious souls erect guide-boards with a provision to the
effect that the guide-boards must remain, whether the roads are changed
or not, and with the further provision that the professors who keep and
repair the guide-boards must always insist that the roads have not been
changed.

There is still another side.

Professors do not wish to lose their salaries. They love their families
and have some regard for themselves. There is a compromise between their
bread and their brain. On pay-day they believe—at other times they have
their doubts. They settle with their own consciences by giving old words
new meanings. They take refuge in allegory, hide behind parables,
and barricade themselves with oriental imagery. They give to the most
frightful passages a spiritual meaning—and while they teach the old
creed to their followers, they speak a new philosophy to their equals.

There is still another side.

A vast number of clergymen and laymen are perfectly satisfied. They have
no doubts. They believe as their fathers and mothers did. The "scheme of
salvation" suits them because they are satisfied that they are embraced
within its terms. They give themselves no trouble. They believe because
they do not understand. They have no doubts because they do not think.
They regard doubt as a thorn in the pillow of orthodox slumber. Their
souls are asleep, and they hate only those who disturb their dreams.
These people keep their creeds for future use. They intend to have them
ready at the moment of dissolution. They sustain about the same relation
to daily life that the small-boats carried by steamers do to ordinary
navigation—they are for the moment of shipwreck. Creeds, like
life-preservers, are to be used in disaster.

We must also remember that everything in nature—bad as well as
good—has the instinct of self-preservation. All lies go armed, and
all mistakes carry concealed weapons. Driven to the last corner, even
non-resistance appeals to the dagger.

Vast interests—political, social, artistic, and individual—are
interwoven with all creeds. Thousands of millions of dollars have been
invested; many millions of people obtain their bread by the propagation
and support of certain religious doctrines, and many millions have been
educated for that purpose and for that alone. Nothing is more natural
than that they should defend themselves—that they should cling to a
creed that gives them roof and raiment.

Only a few years ago Christianity was a complete system. It included
and accounted for all phenomena; it was a philosophy satisfactory to the
ignorant world; it had an astronomy and geology of its own; it answered
all questions with the same readiness and the same inaccuracy; it had
within its sacred volumes the history of the past, and the prophecies of
all the future; it pretended to know all that was, is, or ever will be
necessary for the well-being of the human race, here and hereafter.

When a religion has been founded, the founder admitted the truth of
everything that was generally believed that did not interfere with his
system. Imposture always has a definite end in view, and for the sake of
the accomplishment of that end, it will admit the truth of anything and
everything that does not endanger its success.

The writers of all sacred books—the inspired prophets—had no reason
for disagreeing with the common people about the origin of things, the
creation of the world, the rising and setting of the sun, and the
uses of the stars, and consequently the sacred books of all ages have
indorsed the belief general at the time. You will find in our sacred
books the astronomy, the geology, the philosophy and the morality of
the ancient barbarians. The religionist takes these general ideas as his
foundation, and upon them builds the supernatural structure. For many
centuries the astronomy, geology, philosophy and morality of our Bible
were accepted. They were not questioned, for the reason that the world
was too ignorant to question.

A few centuries ago the art of printing was invented. A new world was
discovered. There was a complete revolution in commerce. The arts
were born again. The world was filled with adventure; millions became
self-reliant; old ideas were abandoned—old theories were put aside—and
suddenly, the old leaders of thought were found to be ignorant, shallow
and dishonest. The literature of the classic world was discovered
and translated into modern languages. The world was circumnavigated;
Copernicus discovered the true relation sustained by our earth to the
solar system, and about the beginning of the seventeenth century many
other wonderful discoveries were made. In 1609, a Hollander found that
two lenses placed in a certain relation to each other magnified objects
seen through them. This discovery was the foundation of astronomy. In
a little while it came to the knowledge of Galileo; the result was a
telescope, with which man has read the volume of the skies.

On the 8th day of May, 1618, Kepler discovered the greatest of his three
laws. These were the first great blows struck for the enfranchisement of
the human mind. A few began to suspect that the ancient Hebrews were not
astronomers. From that moment the church became the enemy of science.
In every possible way the inspired ignorance was defended—the lash, the
sword, the chain, the fagot and the dungeon were the arguments used by
the infuriated church.

To such an extent was the church prejudiced against the new philosophy,
against the new facts, that priests refused to look through the
telescope of Galileo.

At last it became evident to the intelligent world that the inspired
writings, literally translated, did not contain the truth—the Bible was
in danger of being driven from the heavens.

The church also had its geology. The time when the earth was created had
been definitely fixed and was certainly known. This fact had not only
been stated by inspired writers, but their statement had been indorsed
by priests, by bishops, cardinals, popes and ecumenical councils; that
was settled.

But a few men had learned the art of seeing. There were some eyes not
always closed in prayer. They looked at the things about them; they
observed channels that had been worn in solid rock by streams; they saw
the vast territories that had been deposited by rivers; their attention
was called to the slow inroads upon continents by seas—to the deposits
by volcanoes—to the sedimentary rocks—to the vast reefs that had been
built by the coral, and to the countless evidences of age, of the
lapse of time—and finally it was demonstrated that this earth had been
pursuing its course about the sun for millions and millions of ages.

The church disputed every step, denied every fact, resorted to every
device that cunning could suggest or ingenuity execute, but the conflict
could not be maintained. The Bible, so far as geology was concerned, was
in danger of being driven from the earth.

Beaten in the open field, the church began to equivocate, to evade, and
to give new meanings to inspired words. Finally, falsehood having failed
to harmonize the guesses of barbarians with the discoveries of genius,
the leading churchmen suggested that the Bible was not written to teach
astronomy, was not written to teach geology, and that it was not a
scientific book, but that it was written in the language of the people,
and that as to unimportant things it contained the general beliefs of
its time.

The ground was then taken that, while it was not inspired in its
science, it was inspired in its morality, in its prophecy, in its
account of the miraculous, in the scheme of salvation, and in all that
it had to say on the subject of religion.

The moment it was suggested that the Bible was not inspired in
everything within its lids, the seeds of suspicion were sown. The priest
became less arrogant. The church was forced to explain. The pulpit had
one language for the faithful and another for the philosophical, i. e.,
it became dishonest with both.

The next question that arose was as to the origin of man.

The Bible was being driven from the skies. The testimony of the stars
was against the sacred volume. The church had also been forced to admit
that the world was not created at the time mentioned in the Bible—so
that the very stones of the earth rose and united with the stars in
giving testimony against the sacred volume.

As to the creation of the world, the church resorted to the artifice
of saying that "days" in reality meant long periods of time; so that
no matter how old the earth was, the time could be spanned by six
periods—in other words, that the years could not be too numerous to be
divided by six.

But when it came to the creation of man, this evasion, or artifice, was
impossible. The Bible gives the date of the creation of man, because
it gives the age at which the first man died, and then it gives the
generations from Adam to the flood, and from the flood to the birth of
Christ, and in many instances the actual age of the principal ancestor
is given. So that, according to this account—according to the inspired
figures—man has existed upon the earth only about six thousand years.
There is no room left for any people beyond Adam.

If the Bible is true, certainly Adam was the first man; consequently,
we know, if the sacred volume be true, just how long man has lived and
labored and suffered on this earth.

The church cannot and dare not give up the account of the creation of
Adam from the dust of the earth, and of Eve from the rib of the man. The
church cannot give up the story of the Garden of Eden—the serpent—the
fall and the expulsion; these must be defended because they are vital.
Without these absurdities, the system known as Christianity cannot
exist. Without the fall, the atonement is a _non sequitur._ Facts
bearing upon these questions were discovered and discussed by the
greatest and most thoughtful of men. Lamarck, Humboldt, Haeckel, and
above all, Darwin, not only asserted, but demonstrated, that man is not
a special creation. If anything can be established by observation, by
reason, then the fact has been established that man is related to all
life below him—that he has been slowly produced through countless
years—that the story of Eden is a childish myth—that the fall of man
is an infinite absurdity.

If anything can be established by analogy and reason, man has existed
upon the earth for many millions of ages. We know now, if we know
anything, that people not only existed before Adam, but that they
existed in a highly civilized state; that thousands of years before the
Garden of Eden was planted men communicated to each other their ideas
by language, and that artists clothed the marble with thoughts and
passions.

This is a demonstration that the origin of man given in the Old
Testament is untrue—that the account was written by the ignorance, the
prejudice and the egotism of the olden time.

So, if anything outside of the senses can be known, we do know that
civilization is a growth—that man did not commence a perfect being, and
then degenerate, but that from small beginnings he has slowly risen, to
the intellectual height he now occupies.

The church, however, has not been willing to accept these truths,
because they contradict the sacred word. Some of the most ingenious
of the clergy have been endeavoring for years to show that there is no
conflict—that the account in Genesis is in perfect harmony with the
theories of Charles Darwin, and these clergymen in some way manage to
retain their creed and to accept a philosophy that utterly destroys it.

But in a few years the Christian world will be forced to admit that
the Bible is not inspired in its astronomy, in its geology, or in its
anthropology—that is to say, that the inspired writers knew nothing of
the sciences, knew nothing of the origin of the earth, nothing of the
origin of man—in other words, nothing of any particular value to the
human race.

It is, however, still insisted that the Bible is inspired in its
morality. Let us examine this question.

We must admit, if we know anything, if we feel anything, if conscience
is more than a word, if there is such a thing as right and such a thing
as wrong beneath the dome of heaven—we must admit that slavery is
immoral. If we are honest, we must also admit that the Old Testament
upholds slavery. It will be cheerfully admitted that Jehovah was opposed
to the enslavement of one Hebrew by another. Christians may quote the
commandment "Thou shalt not steal" as being opposed to human slavery,
but after that commandment was given, Jehovah himself told his chosen
people that they might "buy their bondmen and bondwomen of the heathen
round about, and that they should be their bondmen and their bondwomen
forever." So all that Jehovah meant by the commandment "Thou shalt not
steal" was that one Hebrew should not steal from another Hebrew, but
that all Hebrews might steal from the people of any other race or creed.

It is perfectly apparent that the Ten Commandments were made only for
the Jews, not for the world, because the author of these commandments
commanded the people to whom they were given to violate them nearly all
as against the surrounding people.

A few years ago it did not occur to the Christian world that slavery was
wrong. It was upheld by the church. Ministers bought and sold the very
people for whom they declared that Christ had died. Clergymen of the
English church owned stock in slave-ships, and the man who denounced
slavery was regarded as the enemy of morality, and thereupon was duly
mobbed by the followers of Jesus Christ. Churches were built with the
results of labor stolen from colored Christians. Babes were sold from
mothers and a part of the money given to send missionaries from America
to heathen lands with the tidings of great joy. Now every intelligent
man on the earth, every decent man, holds in abhorrence the institution
of human slavery.

So with the institution of polygamy. If anything on the earth is
immoral, that is. If there is anything calculated to destroy home, to do
away with human love, to blot out the idea of family life, to cover
the hearthstone with serpents, it is the institution of polygamy. The
Jehovah of the Old Testament was a believer in that institution.

Can we now say that the Bible is inspired in its morality? Consider for
a moment the manner in which, under the direction of Jehovah, wars were
waged. Remember the atrocities that were committed. Think of a war where
everything was the food of the sword. Think for a moment of a deity
capable of committing the crimes that are described and gloated over in
the Old Testament. The civilized man has outgrown the sacred cruelties
and absurdities.

There is still another side to this question.

A few centuries ago nothing was more natural than the unnatural.
Miracles were as plentiful as actual events. In those blessed days, that
which actually occurred was not regarded of sufficient importance to
be recorded. A religion without miracles would have excited derision.
A creed that did not fill the horizon—that did not account for
everything—that could not answer every question, would have been
regarded as worthless.

After the birth of Protestantism, it could not be admitted by the
leaders of the Reformation that the Catholic Church still had the power
of working miracles. If the Catholic Church was still in partnership
with God, what excuse could have been made for the Reformation? The
Protestants took the ground that the age of miracles had passed.
This was to justify the new faith. But Protestants could not say
that miracles had never been performed, because that would take the
foundation not only from the Catholics but from themselves; consequently
they were compelled to admit that miracles were performed in the
apostolic days, but to insist that, in their time, man must rely upon
the facts in nature. Protestants were compelled to carry on two kinds of
war; they had to contend with those who insisted that miracles had never
been performed; and in that argument they were forced to insist upon the
necessity for miracles, on the probability that they were performed, and
upon the truthfulness of the apostles. A moment afterward, they had to
answer those who contended that miracles were performed at that time;
then they brought forward against the Catholics the same arguments that
their first opponents had brought against them.

This has made every Protestant brain "a house divided against itself."
This planted in the Reformation the "irrepressible conflict."

But we have learned more and more about what we call Nature—about
what we call facts. Slowly it dawned upon the mind that force is
indestructible—that we cannot imagine force as existing apart from
matter—that we cannot even think of matter existing apart from
force—that we cannot by any possibility conceive of a cause without an
effect, of an effect without a cause, of an effect that is not also
a cause. We find no room between the links of cause and effect for a
miracle. We now perceive that a miracle must be outside of Nature—that
it can have no father, no mother—that is to say, that it is an
impossibility.

The intellectual world has abandoned the miraculous.

Most ministers are now ashamed to defend a miracle. Some try to explain
miracles, and yet, if a miracle is explained, it ceases to exist. Few
congregations could keep from smiling were the minister to seriously
assert the truth of the Old Testament miracles.

Miracles must be given up. That field must be abandoned by the religious
world. The evidence accumulates every day, in every possible direction
in which the human mind can investigate, that the miraculous is simply
the impossible.

Confidence in the eternal constancy of Nature increases day by day. The
scientist has perfect confidence in the attraction of gravitation—in
chemical affinities—in the great fact of evolution, and feels
absolutely certain that the nature of things will remain forever the
same.

We have at last ascertained that miracles can be perfectly understood;
that there is nothing mysterious about them; that they are simply
transparent falsehoods.

The real miracles are the facts in nature. No one can explain the
attraction of gravitation. No one knows why soil and rain and light
become the womb of life. No one knows why grass grows, why water runs,
or why the magnetic needle points to the north. The facts in nature are
the eternal and the only mysteries. There is nothing strange about the
miracles of superstition. They are nothing but the mistakes of ignorance
and fear, or falsehoods framed by those who wished to live on the labor
of others.

In our time the champions of Christianity, for the most part, take the
exact ground occupied by the Deists. They dare not defend in the open
field the mistakes, the cruelties, the immoralities and the absurdities
of the Bible. They shun the Garden of Eden as though the serpent was
still there. They have nothing to say about the fall of man. They are
silent as to the laws upholding slavery and polygamy. They are ashamed
to defend the miraculous. They talk about these things to Sunday schools
and to the elderly members of their congregations; but when doing battle
for the faith, they misstate the position of their opponents and then
insist that there must be a God, and that the soul is immortal.

We may admit the existence of an infinite Being; we may admit the
immortality of the soul, and yet deny the inspiration of the Scriptures
and the divine origin of the Christian religion. These doctrines, or
these dogmas, have nothing in common. The pagan world believed in God
and taught the dogma of immortality. These ideas are far older than
Christianity, and they have been almost universal.

Christianity asserts more than this. It is based upon the inspiration
of the Bible, on the fall of man, on the atonement, on the dogma of the
Trinity, on the divinity of Jesus Christ, on his resurrection from the
dead, on his ascension into heaven.

Christianity teaches not simply the immortality of the soul—not simply
the immortality of joy—but it teaches the immortality of pain,
the eternity of sorrow. It insists that evil, that wickedness, that
immorality and that every form of vice are and must be perpetuated
forever. It believes in immortal convicts, in eternal imprisonment and
in a world of unending pain. It has a serpent for every breast and a
curse for nearly every soul. This doctrine is called the dearest hope of
the human heart, and he who attacks it is denounced as the most infamous
of men.

Let us see what the church, within a few years, has been compelled
substantially to abandon,—that is to say, what it is now almost ashamed
to defend.

First, the astronomy of the sacred Scriptures; second, the geology;
third, the account given of the origin of man; fourth, the doctrine
of original sin, the fall of the human race; fifth, the mathematical
contradiction known as the Trinity; sixth, the atonement—because it was
only on the ground that man is accountable for the sin of another,
that he could be justified by reason of the righteousness of another;
seventh, that the miraculous is either the misunderstood or the
impossible; eighth, that the Bible is not inspired in its morality, for
the reason that slavery is not moral, that polygamy is not good, that
wars of extermination are not merciful, and that nothing can be more
immoral than to punish the innocent on account of the sins of the
guilty; and ninth, the divinity of Christ.

All this must be given up by the really intelligent, by those not afraid
to think, by those who have the courage of their convictions and the
candor to express their thoughts. What then is left?

Let me tell you. Everything in the Bible that is true, is left; it still
remains and is still of value. It cannot be said too often that the
truth needs no inspiration; neither can it be said too often that
inspiration cannot help falsehood. Every good and noble sentiment
uttered in the Bible is still good and noble. Every fact remains. All
that is good in the Sermon on the Mount is retained. The Lord's
Prayer is not affected. The grandeur of self-denial, the nobility of
forgiveness, and the ineffable splendor of mercy are with us still. And
besides, there remains the great hope for all the human race.

What is lost? All the mistakes, all the falsehoods, all the absurdities,
all the cruelties and all the curses contained in the Scriptures.
We have almost lost the "hope" of eternal pain—the "consolation" of
perdition; and in time we shall lose the frightful shadow that has
fallen upon so many hearts, that has darkened so many lives.

The great trouble for many years has been, and still is, that the clergy
are not quite candid. They are disposed to defend the old creed.
They have been educated in the universities of the Sacred
Mistake—universities that Bruno would call "the widows of true
learning." They have been taught to measure with a false standard; they
have weighed with inaccurate scales. In youth, they became convinced of
the truth of the creed. This was impressed upon them by the solemnity of
professors who spoke in tones of awe. The enthusiasm of life's morning
was misdirected. They went out into the world knowing nothing of value.
They preached a creed outgrown. Having been for so many years
entirely certain of their position, they met doubt with a spirit of
irritation—afterward with hatred. They are hardly courageous enough to
admit that they are wrong.

Once the pulpit was the leader—it spoke with authority. By its side
was the sword of the state, with the hilt toward its hand. Now it is
apologized for—it carries a weight. It is now like a living man to
whom has been chained a corpse. It cannot defend the old, and it has not
accepted the new. In some strange way it imagines that morality cannot
live except in partnership with the sanctified follies and falsehoods of
the past.

The old creeds cannot be defended by argument. They are not within
the circumference of reason—they are not embraced in any of the facts
within the experience of man. All the subterfuges have been exposed; all
the excuses have been shown to be shallow, and at last the church must
meet, and fairly meet, the objections of our time.

Solemnity is no longer an argument. Falsehood is no longer sacred.
People are not willing to admit that mistakes are divine. Truth is more
important than belief—far better than creeds, vastly more useful than
superstitions. The church must accept the truths of the present, must
admit the demonstrations of science, or take its place in the mental
museums with the fossils and monstrosities of the past.

The time for personalities has passed; these questions cannot be
determined by ascertaining the character of the disputants; epithets
are no longer regarded as arguments; the curse of the church produces
laughter; theological slander is no longer a weapon; argument must be
answered with argument, and the church must appeal to reason, and by
that standard it must stand or fall. The theories and discoveries of
Darwin cannot be answered by the resolutions of synods, or by quotations
from the Old Testament.

The world has advanced. The Bible has remained the same. We must go back
to the book—it cannot come to us—or we must leave it forever. In order
to remain orthodox we must forget the discoveries, the inventions,
the intellectual efforts of many centuries; we must go back until our
knowledge—or rather our ignorance—will harmonize with the barbaric
creeds.

It is not pretended that all the creeds have not been naturally
produced. It is admitted that under the same circumstances the same
religions would again ensnare the human race. It is also admitted that
under the same circumstances the same efforts would be made by the great
and intellectual of every age to break the chains of superstition.

There is no necessity of attacking people—we should combat error.
We should hate hypocrisy, but not the hypocrite—larceny, but not the
thief—superstition, but not its victim. We should do all within our
power to inform, to educate, and to benefit our fellow-men.

There is no elevating power in hatred. There is no reformation in
punishment. The soul grows greater and grander in the air of kindness,
in the sunlight of intelligence.

We must rely upon the evidence of our senses, upon the conclusions of
our reason.

For many centuries the church has insisted that man is totally depraved,
that he is naturally wicked, that all of his natural desires are
contrary to the will of God. Only a few years ago it was solemnly
asserted that our senses were originally honest, true and faithful, but
having been debauched by original sin, were now cheats and liars; that
they constantly deceived and misled the soul; that they were traps and
snares; that no man could be safe who relied upon his senses, or upon
his reason;—he must simply rely upon faith; in other words, that the
only way for man to really see was to put out his eyes.

There has been a rapid improvement in the intellectual world. The
improvement has been slow in the realm of religion, for the reason that
religion was hedged about, defended and barricaded by fear, by prejudice
and by law. It was considered sacred. It was illegal to call its truth
in question. Whoever disputed the priest became a criminal; whoever
demanded a reason, or an explanation, became a blasphemer, a scoffer, a
moral leper.

The church defended its mistakes by every means within its power.

But in spite of all this there has been advancement, and there are
enough of the orthodox clergy left to make it possible for us to measure
the distance that has been traveled by sensible people.

The world is beginning to see that a minister should be a teacher, and
that "he should not endeavor to inculcate a particular system of dogmas,
but to prepare his hearers for exercising their own judgments."

As a last resource, the orthodox tell the thoughtful that they are not
"spiritual"—that they are "of the earth, earthy"—that they cannot
perceive that which is spiritual. They insist that "God is a spirit, and
must be worshiped in spirit."

But let me ask, What is it to be spiritual? In order to be really
spiritual, must a man sacrifice this world for the sake of another?
Were the selfish hermits, who deserted their wives and children for
the miserable purpose of saving their own little souls, spiritual? Were
those who put their fellow-men in dungeons, or burned them at the state*
on account of a difference of opinion, all spiritual people? Did John
Calvin give evidence of his spirituality by burning Servetus? Were
they spiritual people who invented and used instruments of torture—who
denied the liberty of thought and expression—who waged wars for the
propagation of the faith? Were they spiritual people who insisted that
Infinite Love could punish his poor, ignorant children forever? Is it
necessary to believe in eternal torment to understand the meaning of the
word spiritual? Is it necessary to hate those who disagree with you,
and to calumniate those whose argument you cannot answer, in order to be
spiritual? Must you hold a demonstrated fact in contempt; must you deny
or avoid what you know to be true, in order to substantiate the fact
that you are spiritual?

What is it to be spiritual? Is the man spiritual who searches for the
truth—who lives in accordance with his highest ideal—who loves his
wife and children—who discharges his obligations—who makes a happy
fireside for the ones he loves—who succors the oppressed—who gives his
honest opinions—who is guided by principle—who is merciful and just?

Is the man spiritual who loves the beautiful—who is thrilled by music,
and touched to tears in the presence of the sublime, the heroic and the
self-denying? Is the man spiritual who endeavors by thought and deed to
ennoble the human race?

The defenders of the orthodox faith, by this time, should know that the
foundations are insecure.

They should have the courage to defend, or the candor to abandon. If the
Bible is an inspired book, it ought to be true. Its defenders must admit
that Jehovah knew the facts not only about the earth, but about the
stars, and that the Creator of the universe knew all about geology and
astronomy even four thousand years ago.

The champions of Christianity must show that the Bible tells the truth
about the creation of man, the Garden of Eden, the temptation, the
fall and the flood. They must take the ground that the sacred book is
historically correct; that the events related really happened; that the
miracles were actually performed; that the laws promulgated from Sinai
were and are wise and just, and that nothing is upheld, commanded,
indorsed, or in any way approved or sustained that is not absolutely
right. In other words, if they insist that a being of infinite goodness
and intelligence is the author of the Bible, they must be ready to show
that it is absolutely perfect. They must defend its astronomy, geology,
history, miracle and morality.

If the Bible is true, man is a special creation, and if man is a special
creation, millions of facts must have conspired, millions of ages ago,
to deceive the scientific world of to-day.

If the Bible is true, slavery is right, and the world should go back to
the barbarism of the lash and chain. If the Bible' is true, polygamy is
the highest form of virtue. If the Bible is true, nature has a master,
and the miraculous is independent of and superior to cause and effect.
If the Bible is true, most of the children of men are destined to suffer
eternal pain. If the Bible is true, the science known as astronomy is a
collection of mistakes—the telescope is a false witness, and light is
a luminous liar. If the Bible is true, the science known as geology is
false and every fossil is a petrified perjurer.

The defenders of orthodox creeds should have the courage to candidly
answer at least two questions: First, Is the Bible inspired? Second,
Is the Bible true? And when they answer these questions, they should
remember that if the Bible is true, it needs no inspiration, and that if
not true, inspiration can do it no good.—North American Review, August,
1888.

## Why Am I an Agnostic

I.

"With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls."

THE same rules or laws of probability must govern in religious questions
as in others. There is no subject—and can be none—concerning which any
human being is under any obligation to believe without evidence. Neither
is there any intelligent being who can, by any possibility, be flattered
by the exercise of ignorant credulity. The man who, without prejudice,
reads and understands the Old and New Testaments will cease to be an
orthodox Christian. The intelligent man who investigates the religion of
any country without fear and without prejudice will not and cannot be a
believer.

Most people, after arriving at the conclusion that Jehovah is not God,
that the Bible is not an inspired book, and that the Christian religion,
like other religions, is the creation of man, usually say: "There must
be a Supreme Being, but Jehovah is not his name, and the Bible is not
his word. There must be somewhere an over-ruling Providence or Power."

This position is just as untenable as the other. He who cannot harmonize
the cruelties of the Bible with the goodness of Jehovah, cannot
harmonize the cruelties of Nature with the goodness and wisdom of a
supposed Deity. He will find it impossible to account for pestilence and
famine, for earthquake and storm, for slavery, for the triumph of the
strong over the weak, for the countless victories of injustice. He will
find it impossible to account for martyrs—for the burning of the good,
the noble, the loving, by the ignorant, the malicious, and the infamous.

How can the Deist satisfactorily account for the sufferings of women and
children? In what way will he justify religious persecution—the flame
and sword of religious hatred? Why did his God sit idly on his throne
and allow his enemies to wet their swords in the blood of his friends?
Why did he not answer the prayers of the imprisoned, of the helpless?
And when he heard the lash upon the naked back of the slave, why did he
not also hear the prayer of the slave? And when children were sold from
the breasts of mothers, why was he deaf to the mother's cry?

It seems to me that the man who knows the limitations of the mind, who
gives the proper value to human testimony, is necessarily an Agnostic.
He gives up the hope of ascertaining first or final causes, of
comprehending the supernatural, or of conceiving of an infinite
personality. From out the words Creator, Preserver, and Providence, all
meaning falls.

The mind of man pursues the path of least resistance, and the
conclusions arrived at by the individual depend upon the nature and
structure of his mind, on his experience, on hereditary drifts and
tendencies, and on the countless things that constitute the difference
in minds. One man, finding himself in the midst of mysterious phenomena,
comes to the conclusion that all is the result of design; that back of
all things is an infinite personality—that is to say, an infinite man;
and he accounts for all that is by simply saying that the universe was
created and set in motion by this infinite personality, and that it is
miraculously and supernaturally governed and preserved. This man
sees with perfect clearness that matter could not create itself, and
therefore he imagines a creator of matter. He is perfectly satisfied
that there is design in the world, and that consequently there must
have been a designer. It does not occur to him that it is necessary to
account for the existence of an infinite personality. He is perfectly
certain that there can be no design without a designer, and he is
equally certain that there can be a designer who was not designed. The
absurdity becomes so great that it takes the place of a demonstration.
He takes it for granted that matter was created and that its creator was
not. He assumes that a creator existed from eternity, without cause,
and created what is called matter out of nothing; or, whereas there was
nothing, this creator made the something that we call substance.

Is it possible for the human mind to conceive of an infinite
personality? Can it imagine a beginningless being, infinitely powerful
and intelligent? If such a being existed, then there must have been an
eternity during which nothing did exist except this being; because, if
the Universe was created, there must have been a time when it was not,
and back of that there must have been an eternity during which nothing
but an infinite personality existed. Is it possible to imagine an
infinite intelligence dwelling for an eternity in infinite nothing?
How could such a being be intelligent? What was there to be intelligent
about? There was but one thing to know, namely, that there was nothing
except this being. How could such a being be powerful? There was nothing
to exercise force upon. There was nothing in the universe to suggest an
idea. Relations could not exist—except the relation between infinite
intelligence and infinite nothing.

The next great difficulty is the act of creation. My mind is so that I
cannot conceive of something being created out of nothing. Neither can
I conceive of anything being created without a cause. Let me go one
step further. It is just as difficult to imagine something being created
with, as without, a cause. To postulate a cause does not in the least
lessen the difficulty. In spite of all, this lever remains without a
fulcrum.

We cannot conceive of the destruction of substance. The stone can be
crushed to powder, and the powder can be ground to such a fineness that
the atoms can only be distinguished by the most powerful microscope, and
we can then imagine these atoms being divided and subdivided again
and again and again; but it is impossible for us to conceive of the
annihilation of the least possible imaginable fragment of the least
atom of which we can think. Consequently the mind can imagine neither
creation nor destruction. From this point it is very easy to reach the
generalization that the indestructible could not have been created.

These questions, however, will be answered by each individual according
to the structure of his mind, according to his experience, according
to his habits of thought, and according to his intelligence or his
ignorance, his prejudice or his genius.

Probably a very large majority of mankind believe in the existence of
supernatural beings, and a majority of what are known as the civilized
nations, in an infinite personality. In the realm of thought majorities
do not determine. Each brain is a kingdom, each mind is a sovereign.

The universality of a belief does not even tend to prove its truth. A
large majority of mankind have believed in what is known as God, and an
equally large majority have as implicitly believed in what is known as
the Devil. These beings have been inferred from phenomena. They were
produced for the most part by ignorance, by fear, and by selfishness.
Man in all ages has endeavored to account for the mysteries of life and
death, of substance, of force, for the ebb and flow of things, for earth
and star. The savage, dwelling in his cave, subsisting on roots
and reptiles, or on beasts that could be slain with club and stone,
surrounded by countless objects of terror, standing by rivers, so far as
he knew, without source or end, by seas with but one shore, the prey of
beasts mightier than himself, of diseases strange and fierce, trembling
at the voice of thunder, blinded by the lightning, feeling the earth
shake beneath him, seeing the sky lurid with the volcano's glare,—fell
prostrate and begged for the protection of the Unknown.

In the long night of savagery, in the midst of pestilence and famine,
through the long and dreary winters, crouched in dens of darkness,
the seeds of superstition were sown in the brain of man. The savage
believed, and thoroughly believed, that everything happened in reference
to him; that he by his actions could excite the anger, or by his worship
placate the wrath, of the Unseen. He resorted to flattery and prayer. To
the best of his ability he put in stone, or rudely carved in wood, his
idea of this god. For this idol he built a hut, a hovel, and at last a
cathedral. Before these images he bowed, and at these shrines, whereon
he lavished his wealth, he sought protection for himself and for
the ones he loved. The few took advantage of the ignorant many. They
pretended to have received messages from the Unknown. They stood between
the helpless multitude and the gods. They were the carriers of flags of
truce. At the court of heaven they presented the cause of man, and upon
the labor of the deceived they lived.

The Christian of to-day wonders at the savage who bowed before his idol;
and yet it must be confessed that the god of stone answered prayer and
protected his worshipers precisely as the Christian's God answers prayer
and protects his worshipers to-day.

My mind is so that it is forced to the conclusion that substance is
eternal; that the universe was without beginning and will be without
end; that it is the one eternal existence; that relations are transient
and evanescent; that organisms are produced and vanish; that forms
change,—but that the substance of things is from eternity to eternity.
It may be that planets are born and die, that constellations will fade
from the infinite spaces, that countless suns will be quenched,—but the
substance will remain.

The questions of origin and destiny seem to be beyond the powers of the
human mind.

Heredity is on the side of superstition. All our ignorance pleads
for the old. In most men there is a feeling that their ancestors were
exceedingly good and brave and wise, and that in all things pertaining
to religion their conclusions should be followed. They believe that
their fathers and mothers were of the best, and that that which
satisfied them should satisfy their children. With a feeling of
reverence they say that the religion of their mother is good enough
and pure enough and reasonable enough for them. In this way the love of
parents and the reverence for ancestors have unconsciously bribed the
reason and put out, or rendered exceedingly dim, the eyes of the mind.

There is a kind of longing in the heart of the old to live and die where
their parents lived and died—a tendency to go back to the homes of
their youth. Around the old oak of manhood grow and cling these vines.
Yet it will hardly do to say that the religion of my mother is good
enough for me, any more than to say the geology or the astronomy or
the philosophy of my mother is good enough for me. Every human being is
entitled to the best he can obtain; and if there has been the slightest
improvement on the religion of the mother, the son is entitled to that
improvement, and he should not deprive himself of that advantage by
the mistaken idea that he owes it to his mother to perpetuate, in a
reverential way, her ignorant mistakes.

If we are to follow the religion of our fathers and mothers, our fathers
and mothers should have followed the religion of theirs. Had this been
done, there could have been no improvement in the world of thought. The
first religion would have been the last, and the child would have died
as ignorant as the mother. Progress would have been impossible, and on
the graves of ancestors would have been sacrificed the intelligence of
mankind.

We know, too, that there has been the religion of the tribe, of the
community, and of the nation, and that there has been a feeling that
it was the duty of every member of the tribe or community, and of every
citizen of the nation, to insist upon it that the religion of that
tribe, of that community, of that nation, was better than that of any
other. We know that all the prejudices against other religions, and
all the egotism of nation and tribe, were in favor of the local
superstition. Each citizen was patriotic enough to denounce the
religions of other nations and to stand firmly by his own. And there
is this peculiarity about man: he can see the absurdities of other
religions while blinded to those of his own. The Christian can see
clearly enough that Mohammed was an impostor. He is sure of it, because
the people of Mecca who were acquainted with him declared that he was
no prophet; and this declaration is received by Christians as a
demonstration that Mohammed was not inspired. Yet these same Christians
admit that the people of Jerusalem who were acquainted with Christ
rejected him; and this rejection they take as proof positive that Christ
was the Son of God.

The average man adopts the religion of his country, or, rather, the
religion of his country adopts him. He is dominated by the egotism of
race, the arrogance of nation, and the prejudice called patriotism. He
does not reason—he feels. He does not investigate—he believes. To him
the religions of other nations are absurd and infamous, and their gods
monsters of ignorance and cruelty. In every country this average man is
taught, first, that there is a supreme being; second, that he has made
known his will; third, that he will reward the true believer; fourth,
that he will punish the unbeliever, the scoffer, and the blasphemer;
fifth, that certain ceremonies are pleasing to this god; sixth, that
he has established a church; and seventh, that priests are his
representatives on earth. And the average man has no difficulty in
determining that the God of his nation is the true God; that the will of
this true God is contained in the sacred scriptures of his nation;
that he is one of the true believers, and that the people of other
nations—that is, believing other religions—are scoffers; that the only
true church is the one to which he belongs; and that the priests of his
country are the only ones who have had or ever will have the slightest
influence with this true God. All these absurdities to the average man
seem self-evident propositions; and so he holds all other creeds in
scorn, and congratulates himself that he is a favorite of the one true
God.

If the average Christian had been born in Turkey, he would have been a
Mohammedan; and if the average Mohammedan had been born in New England
and educated at Andover, he would have regarded the damnation of the
heathen as the "tidings of great joy."

Nations have eccentricities, peculiarities, and hallucinations, and
these find expression in their laws, customs, ceremonies, morals, and
religions. And these are in great part determined by soil, climate, and
the countless circumstances that mould and dominate the lives and
habits of insects, individuals, and nations. The average man believes
implicitly in the religion of his country, because he knows nothing of
any other and has no desire to know. It fits him because he has been
deformed to fit it, and he regards this fact of fit as an evidence of
its inspired truth.

Has a man the right to examine, to investigate, the religion of his own
country—the religion of his father and mother? Christians admit that
the citizens of all countries not Christian have not only this right,
but that it is their solemn duty. Thousands of missionaries are sent to
heathen countries to persuade the believers in other religions not only
to examine their superstitions, but to renounce them, and to adopt
those of the missionaries. It is the duty of a heathen to disregard the
religion of his country and to hold in contempt the creed of his father
and of his mother. If the citizens of heathen nations have the right
to examine the foundations of their religion, it would seem that the
citizens of Christian nations have the same right. Christians, however,
go further than this; they say to the heathen: You must examine your
religion, and not only so, but you must reject it; and, unless you do
reject it, and, in addition to such rejection, adopt ours, you will be
eternally damned. Then these same Christians say to the inhabitants of
a Christian country: You must not examine; you must not investigate; but
whether you examine or not, you must believe, or you will be eternally
damned.

If there be one true religion, how is it possible to ascertain which
of all the religions the true one is? There is but one way. We must
impartially examine the claims of all. The right to examine involves the
necessity to accept or reject. Understand me, not the right to accept
or reject, but the necessity. From this conclusion there is no possible
escape. If, then, we have the right to examine, we have the right to
tell the conclusion reached. Christians have examined other religions
somewhat, and they have expressed their opinion with the utmost
freedom—that is to say, they have denounced them all as false and
fraudulent; have called their gods idols and myths, and their priests
impostors.

The Christian does not deem it worth while to read the Koran. Probably
not one Christian in a thousand ever saw a copy of that book. And yet
all Christians are perfectly satisfied that the Koran is the work of an
impostor, No Presbyterian thinks it is worth his while to examine the
religious systems of India; he knows that the Brahmins are mistaken, and
that all their miracles are falsehoods. No Methodist cares to read the
life of Buddha, and no Baptist will waste his time studying the ethics
of Confucius. Christians of every sort and kind take it for granted that
there is only one true religion, and that all except Christianity are
absolutely without foundation. The Christian world believes that all
the prayers of India are unanswered; that all the sacrifices upon the
countless altars of Egypt, of Greece, and of Rome were without effect.
They believe that all these mighty nations worshiped their gods in vain;
that their priests were deceivers or deceived; that their ceremonies
were wicked or meaningless; that their temples were built by ignorance
and fraud, and that no God heard their songs of praise, their cries of
despair, their words of thankfulness; that on account of their religion
no pestilence was stayed; that the earthquake and volcano, the flood
and storm went on their ways of death—while the real God looked on and
laughed at their calamities and mocked at their fears.

We find now that the prosperity of nations has depended, not upon their
religion, not upon the goodness or providence of some god, but on soil
and climate and commerce, upon the ingenuity, industry, and courage
of the people, upon the development of the mind, on the spread of
education, on the liberty of thought and action; and that in this
mighty panorama of national life, reason has built and superstition has
destroyed.

Being satisfied that all believe precisely as they must, and that
religions have been naturally produced, I have neither praise nor blame
for any man. Good men have had bad creeds, and bad men have had good
ones. Some of the noblest of the human race have fought and died for the
wrong. The brain of man has been the trysting-place of contradictions.

Passion often masters reason, and "the state of man, like to a little
kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection."

In the discussion of theological or religious questions, we have almost
passed the personal phase, and we are now weighing arguments instead of
exchanging epithets and curses. They who really seek for truth must be
the best of friends. Each knows that his desire can never take the place
of fact, and that, next to finding truth, the greatest honor must be won
in honest search.

We see that many ships are driven in many ways by the same wind. So
men, reading the same book, write many creeds and lay out many roads to
heaven. To the best of my ability, I have examined the religions of many
countries and the creeds of many sects. They are much alike, and the
testimony by which they are substantiated is of such a character that to
those who believe is promised an eternal reward. In all the sacred books
there are some truths, some rays of light, some words of love and
hope. The face of savagery is sometimes softened by a smile—the human
triumphs, and the heart breaks into song. But in these books are also
found the words of fear and hate, and from their pages crawl serpents
that coil and hiss in all the paths of men.

For my part, I prefer the books that inspiration has not claimed. Such
is the nature of my brain that Shakespeare gives me greater joy than all
the prophets of the ancient world. There are thoughts that satisfy the
hunger of the mind. I am convinced that Humboldt knew more of geology
than the author of Genesis; that Darwin was a greater naturalist than he
who told the story of the flood; that Laplace was better acquainted with
the habits of the sun and moon than Joshua could have been, and that
Haeckel, Huxley, and Tyndall know more about the earth and stars, about
the history of man, the philosophy of life—more that is of use, ten
thousand times—than all the writers of the sacred books.

I believe in the religion of reason—the gospel of this world; in the
development of the mind, in the accumulation of intellectual wealth, to
the end that man may free himself from superstitious fear, to the end
that he may take advantage of the forces of nature to feed and clothe
the world.

Let us be honest with ourselves. In the presence of countless mysteries;
standing beneath the boundless heaven sown thick with constellations;
knowing that each grain of sand, each leaf, each blade of grass, asks
of every mind the answer-less question; knowing that the simplest thing
defies solution; feeling that we deal with the superficial and the
relative, and that we are forever eluded by the real, the absolute,—let
us admit the limitations of our minds, and let us have the courage and
the candor to say: We do not know.

North American Review, December, 1889.

II.

THE Christian religion rests on miracles. There are no miracles in the
realm of science. The real philosopher does not seek to excite wonder,
but to make that plain which was wonderful. He does not endeavor to
astonish, but to enlighten. He is perfectly confident that there are
no miracles in nature. He knows that the mathematical expression of the
same relations, contents, areas, numbers and proportions must forever
remain the same. He knows that there are no miracles in chemistry; that
the attractions and repulsions, the loves and hatreds, of atoms are
constant. Under like conditions, he is certain that like will always
happen; that the product ever has been and forever will be the
same; that the atoms or particles unite in definite, unvarying
proportions,—so many of one kind mix, mingle, and harmonize with just
so many of another, and the surplus will be forever cast out. There are
no exceptions. Substances are always true to their natures. They have no
caprices, no prejudices, that can vary or control their action. They are
"the same yesterday, to-day, and forever."

In this fixedness, this constancy, this eternal integrity, the
intelligent man has absolute confidence. It is useless to tell him that
there was a time when fire would not consume the combustible, when water
would not flow in obedience to the attraction of gravitation, or that
there ever was a fragment of a moment during which substance had no
weight.

Credulity should be the servant of intelligence. The ignorant have not
credulity enough to believe the actual, because the actual appears to be
contrary to the evidence of their senses. To them it is plain that the
sun rises and sets, and they have not credulity enough to believe in the
rotary motion of the earth—that is to say, they have not intelligence
enough to comprehend the absurdities involved in their belief, and the
perfect harmony between the rotation of the earth and all known facts.
They trust their eyes, not their reason. Ignorance has always been
and always will be at the mercy of appearance. Credulity, as a rule,
believes everything except the truth. The semi-civilized believe in
astrology, but who could convince them of the vastness of astronomical
spaces, the speed of light, or the magnitude and number of suns and
constellations? If Hermann, the magician, and Humboldt, the philosopher,
could have appeared before savages, which would have been regarded as a
god?

When men knew nothing of mechanics, nothing of the correlation of force,
and of its indestructibility, they were believers in perpetual motion.
So when chemistry was a kind of sleight-of-hand, or necromancy,
something accomplished by the aid of the supernatural, people talked
about the transmutation of metals, the universal solvent, and the
philosopher's stone. Perpetual motion would be a mechanical miracle; and
the transmutation of metals would be a miracle in chemistry; and if we
could make the result of multiplying two by two five, that would be a
miracle in mathematics. No one expects to find a circle the diameter of
which is just one fourth of the circumference. If one could find such a
circle, then there would be a miracle in geometry.

In other words, there are no miracles in any science. The moment we
understand a question or subject, the miraculous necessarily disappears.
If anything actually happens in the chemical world, it will, under like
conditions, happen again.

No one need take an account of this result from the mouths of others:
all can try the experiment for themselves. There is no caprice, and no
accident.

It is admitted, at least by the Protestant world, that the age of
miracles has passed away, and, consequently, miracles cannot at present
be established by miracles; they must be substantiated by the testimony
of witnesses who are said by certain writers—or, rather, by uncertain
writers—to have lived several centuries ago; and this testimony is
given to us, not by the witnesses themselves, not by persons who say
that they talked with those witnesses, but by unknown persons who did
not give the sources of their information.

The question is: Can miracles be established except by miracles? We know
that the writers may have been mistaken. It is possible that they may
have manufactured these accounts themselves. The witnesses may have told
what they knew to be untrue, or they may have been honestly deceived,
or the stories may have been true as at first told. Imagination may have
added greatly to them, so that after several centuries of accretion a
very simple truth was changed to a miracle.

We must admit that all probabilities must be against miracles, for
the reason that that which is probable cannot by any possibility be
a miracle. Neither the probable nor the possible, so far as man is
concerned, can be miraculous. The probability therefore says that the
writers and witnesses were either mistaken or dishonest.

We must admit that we have never seen a miracle ourselves, and we must
admit that, according to our experience, there are no miracles. If we
have mingled with the world, we are compelled to say that we have known
a vast number of persons—including ourselves—to be mistaken, and many
others who have failed to tell the exact truth. The probabilities are on
the side of our experience, and, consequently, against the miraculous;
and it is a necessity that the free mind moves along the path of least
resistance.

The effect of testimony depends on the intelligence and honesty of
the witness and the intelligence of him who weighs. A man living in a
community where the supernatural is expected, where the miraculous is
supposed to be of almost daily occurrence, will, as a rule, believe that
all wonderful things are the result of supernatural agencies. He will
expect providential interference, and, as a consequence, his mind will
pursue the path of least resistance, and will account for all phenomena
by what to him is the easiest method. Such people, with the best
intentions, honestly bear false witness. They have been imposed upon by
appearances, and are victims of delusion and illusion.

In an age when reading and writing were substantially unknown, and when
history itself was but the vaguest hearsay handed down from dotage to
infancy, nothing was rescued from oblivion except the wonderful, the
miraculous. The more marvelous the story, the greater the interest
excited. Narrators and hearers were alike ignorant and alike honest. At
that time nothing was known, nothing suspected, of the orderly course of
nature—of the unbroken and unbreakable chain of causes and effects. The
world was governed by caprice. Everything was at the mercy of a being,
or beings, who were themselves controlled by the same passions that
dominated man. Fragments of facts were taken for the whole, and the
deductions drawn were honest and monstrous.

It is probably certain that all of the religions of the world have been
believed, and that all the miracles have found credence in countless
brains; otherwise they could not have been perpetuated. They were not
all born of cunning. Those who told were as honest as those who heard.
This being so, nothing has been too absurd for human credence.

All religions, so far as I know, claim to have been miraculously
founded, miraculously preserved, and miraculously propagated. The
priests of all claimed to have messages from God, and claimed to have
a certain authority, and the miraculous has always been appealed to for
the purpose of substantiating the message and the authority.

If men believe in the supernatural, they will account for all phenomena
by an appeal to supernatural means or power. We know that formerly
everything was accounted for in this way except some few simple things
with which man thought he was perfectly acquainted. After a time men
found that under like conditions like would happen, and as to those
things the supposition of supernatural interference was abandoned; but
that interference was still active as to all the unknown world. In other
words, as the circle of man's knowledge grew, supernatural interference
withdrew and was active only just beyond the horizon of the known.

Now, there are some believers in universal special providence—that is,
men who believe in perpetual interference by a supernatural power,
this interference being for the purpose of punishing or rewarding, of
destroying or preserving, individuals and nations.

Others have abandoned the idea of providence in ordinary matters, but
still believe that God interferes on great occasions and at critical
moments, especially in the affairs of nations, and that his presence
is manifest in great disasters. This is the compromise position. These
people believe that an infinite being made the universe and impressed
upon it what they are pleased to call "laws," and then left it to run in
accordance with those laws and forces; that as a rule it works well,
and that the divine maker interferes only in cases of accident, or at
moments when the machine fails to accomplish the original design.

There are others who take the ground that all is natural; that there
never has been, never will be, never can be any interference from
without, for the reason that nature embraces all, and that there can be
no without or beyond.

The first class are Theists pure and simple; the second are Theists
as to the unknown, Naturalists as to the known; and the third are
Naturalists without a touch or taint of superstition.

What can the evidence of the first class be worth? This question
is answered by reading the history of those nations that believed
thoroughly and implicitly in the supernatural. There is no conceivable
absurdity that was not established by their testimony. Every law or
every fact in nature was violated. Children were bom without parents;
men lived for thousands of years; others subsisted without food,
without sleep; thousands and thousands were possessed with evil spirits
controlled by ghosts and ghouls; thousands confessed themselves guilty
of impossible offences, and in courts, with the most solemn forms,
impossibilities were substantiated by the oaths, affirmations, and
confessions of men, women, and children.

These delusions were not confined to ascetics and peasants, but they
took possession of nobles and kings; of people who were at that time
called intelligent; of the then educated. No one denied these wonders,
for the reason that denial was a crime punishable generally with death.
Societies, nations, became insane—victims of ignorance, of dreams, and,
above all, of fears. Under these conditions human testimony is not and
cannot be of the slightest value. We now know that nearly all of the
history of the world is false, and we know this because we have arrived
at that phase or point of intellectual development where and when
we know that effects must have causes, that everything is naturally
produced, and that, consequently, no nation could ever have been great,
powerful, and rich unless it had the soil, the people, the intelligence,
and the commerce. Weighed in these scales, nearly all histories are
found to be fictions.

The same is true of religions. Every intelligent American is satisfied
that the religions of India, of Egypt, of Greece and Rome, of the
Aztecs, were and are false, and that all the miracles on which they rest
are mistakes. Our religion alone is excepted. Every intelligent Hindoo
discards all religions and all miracles except his own. The question
is: When will people see the defects in their own theology as clearly as
they perceive the same defects in every other?

All the so-called false religions were substantiated by miracles, by
signs and wonders, by prophets and martyrs, precisely as our own. Our
witnesses are no better than theirs, and our success is no greater. If
their miracles were false, ours cannot be true. Nature was the same in
India and in Palestine.

One of the corner-stones of Christianity is the miracle of inspiration,
and this same miracle lies at the foundation of all religions. How can
the fact of inspiration be established? How could even the inspired man
know that he was inspired? If he was influenced to write, and did write,
and did express thoughts and facts that to him were absolutely new, on
subjects about which he had previously known nothing, how could he know
that he had been influenced by an infinite being? And if he could know,
how could he convince others?

What is meant by inspiration? Did the one inspired set down only the
thoughts of a supernatural being? Was he simply an instrument, or did
his personality color the message received and given? Did he mix his
ignorance with the divine information, his prejudices and hatreds with
the love and justice of the Deity? If God told him not to eat the flesh
of any beast that dieth of itself, did the same infinite being also tell
him to sell this meat to the stranger within his gates?

A man says that he is inspired—that God appeared to him in a dream, and
told him certain things. Now, the things said to have been communicated
may have been good and wise; but will the fact that the communication
is good or wise establish the inspiration? If, on the other hand, the
communication is absurd or wicked, will that conclusively show that the
man was not inspired? Must we judge from the communication? In other
words, is our reason to be the final standard?

How could the inspired man know that the communication was received from
God? If God in reality should appear to a human being, how could this
human being know who had appeared? By what standard would he judge? Upon
this question man has no experience; he is not familiar enough with the
supernatural to know gods even if they exist. Although thousands have
pretended to receive messages, there has been no message in which there
was, or is, anything above the invention of man. There are just as
wonderful things in the uninspired as in the inspired books, and the
prophecies of the heathen have been fulfilled equally with those of the
Judean prophets. If, then, even the inspired man cannot certainly know
that he is inspired, how is it possible for him to demonstrate his
inspiration to others? The last solution of this question is that
inspiration is a miracle about which only the inspired can have the
least knowledge, or the least evidence, and this knowledge and this
evidence not of a character to absolutely convince even the inspired.

There is certainly nothing in the Old or the New Testament that could
not have been written by uninspired human beings. To me there is nothing
of any particular value in the Pentateuch. I do not know of a solitary
scientific truth contained in the five books commonly attributed to
Moses. There is not, as far as I know, a line in the book of Genesis
calculated to make a human being better. The laws contained in Exodus,
Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy are for the most part puerile and
cruel. Surely there is nothing in any of these books that could not have
been produced by uninspired men. Certainly there is nothing calculated
to excite intellectual admiration in the book of Judges or in the wars
of Joshua; and the same may be said of Samuel, Chronicles, and Kings.
The history is extremely childish, full of repetitions of useless
details, without the slightest philosophy, without a generalization bom
of a wide survey. Nothing is known of other nations; nothing imparted of
the slightest value; nothing about education, discovery, or invention.
And these idle and stupid annals are interspersed with myth and miracle,
with flattery for kings who supported priests, and with curses and
denunciations for those who would not hearken to the voice of the
prophets. If all the historic books of the Bible were blotted from the
memory of mankind, nothing of value would be lost.

Is it possible that the writer or writers of First and Second Kings
were inspired, and that Gibbon wrote "The Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire" without supernatural assistance? Is it possible that the author
of Judges was simply the instrument of an infinite God, while John W.
Draper wrote "The Intellectual Development of Europe" without one ray
of light from the other world? Can we believe that the author of Genesis
had to be inspired, while Darwin experimented, ascertained, and reached
conclusions for himself.

Ought not the work of a God to be vastly superior to that of a man? And
if the writers of the Bible were in reality inspired, ought not that
book to be the greatest of books? For instance, if it were contended
that certain statues had been chiselled by inspired men, such statues
should be superior to any that uninspired man has made. As long as it is
admitted that the Venus de Milo is the work of man, no one will believe
in inspired sculptors—at least until a superior statue has been found.
So in the world of painting. We admit that Corot was uninspired. Nobody
claims that Angelo had supernatural assistance. Now, if some one should
claim that a certain painter was simply the instrumentality of God,
certainly the pictures produced by that painter should be superior to
all others.

I do not see how it is possible for an intelligent human being to
conclude that the Song of Solomon is the work of God, and that the
tragedy of Lear was the work of an uninspired man. We are all liable to
be mistaken, but the Iliad seems to me a greater work than the Book of
Esther, and I prefer it to the writings of Haggai and Hosea. AEschylus is
superior to Jeremiah, and Shakespeare rises immeasurably above all the
sacred books of the world.

It does not seem possible that any human being ever tried to establish a
truth—anything that really happened—by what is called a miracle. It
is easy to understand how that which was common became wonderful by
accretion,—by things added, and by things forgotten,—and it is easy
to conceive how that which was wonderful became by accretion what was
called supernatural. But it does not seem possible that any intelligent,
honest man ever endeavored to prove anything by a miracle.

As a matter of fact, miracles could only satisfy people who demanded no
evidence; else how could they have believed the miracle? It also appears
to be certain that, even if miracles had been performed, it would be
impossible to establish that fact by human testimony. In other words,
miracles can only be established by miracles, and in no event could
miracles be evidence except to those who were actually present; and in
order for miracles to be of any value, they would have to be perpetual.
It must also be remembered that a miracle actually performed could by
no possibility shed any light on any moral truth, or add to any human
obligation.

If any man has, ever been inspired, this is a secret miracle, known to
no person, and suspected only by the man claiming to be inspired. It
would not be in the power of the inspired to give satisfactory evidence
of that fact to anybody else.

The testimony of man is insufficient to establish the supernatural.
Neither the evidence of one man nor of twelve can stand when
contradicted by the experience of the intelligent world. If a book
sought to be proved by miracles is true, then it makes no difference
whether it was inspired or not; and if it is not true, inspiration
cannot add to its value.

The truth is that the church has always—unconsciously, perhaps—offered
rewards for falsehood. It was founded upon the supernatural, the
miraculous, and it welcomed all statements calculated to support
the foundation. It rewarded the traveller who found evidences of the
miraculous, who had seen the pillar of salt into which the wife of Lot
had been changed, and the tracks of Pharaoh's chariots on the sands of
the Red Sea. It heaped honors on the historian who filled his pages with
the absurd and impossible. It had geologists and astronomers of its own
who constructed the earth and the constellations in accordance with the
Bible. With sword and flame it destroyed the brave and thoughtful men
who told the truth. It was the enemy of investigation and of reason.
Faith and fiction were in partnership.

To-day the intelligence of the world denies the miraculous. Ignorance
is the soil of the supernatural. The foundation of Christianity has
crumbled, has disappeared, and the entire fabric must fall. The natural
is true. The miraculous is false.

North American Review, March, 1890.

HUXLEY AND AGNOSTICISM.
---
# The Improved Man
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
THE Improved Man will be in favor of universal liberty, that is to say, he
will be opposed to all kings and nobles, to all privileged classes.
He will give to all others the rights he claims for himself. He will
neither bow nor cringe, nor accept bowing and cringing from others. He
will be neither master nor slave, neither prince nor peasant—simply
man.

He will be the enemy of all caste, no matter whether its foundation be
wealth, title or power, and of him it will be said: "Blessed is that man
who is afraid of no man and of whom no man is afraid."

The Improved Man will be in favor of universal education. He will
believe it the duty of every person to shed all the light he can, to the
end that no child may be reared in darkness. By education he will mean
the gaining of useful knowledge, the development of the mind along the
natural paths that lead to human happiness.

He will not waste his time in ascertaining the foolish theories of
extinct peoples or in studying the dead languages for the sake of
understanding the theologies of ignorance and fear, but he will turn his
attention to the affairs of life, and will do his utmost to see to it
that every child has an opportunity to learn the demonstrated facts of
science, the true history of the world, the great principles of right
and wrong applicable to human conduct—the things necessary to the
preservation of the individual and of the state, and such arts and
industries as are essential to the preservation of all.

He will also endeavor to develop the mind in the direction of the
beautiful—of the highest art—so that the palace in which the mind
dwells may be enriched and rendered beautiful, to the end that these
stones, called facts, may be changed into statues.

The Improved Man will believe only in the religion of this world. He
will have nothing to do with the miraculous and supernatural. He will
find that there is no room in the universe for these things. He will
know that happiness is the only good, and that everything that tends to
the happiness of sentient beings is good, and that to do the things—and
no other—that add to the happiness of man is to practice the highest
possible religion. His motto will be: "Sufficient unto each world is the
evil thereof." He will know that each man should be his own priest, and
that the brain is the real cathedral. He will know that in the realm
of mind there is no authority—that majorities in this mental world can
settle nothing—that each soul is the sovereign of its own world, and
that it cannot abdicate without degrading itself. He will not bow to
numbers or force; to antiquity or custom. He, standing under the flag of
nature, under the blue and stars, will decide for himself. He will not
endeavor by prayers and supplication, by fastings and genuflections, to
change the mind of the "Infinite" or alter the course of nature, neither
will he employ others to do those things in his place. He will have no
confidence in the religion of idleness, and will give no part of what he
earns to support parson or priest, archbishop or pope. He will know that
honest labor is the highest form of prayer. He will spend no time
in ringing bells or swinging censers, or in chanting the litanies
of barbarism, but he will appreciate all that is artistic—that is
beautiful—that tends to refine and ennoble the human race. He will not
live a life of fear. He will stand in awe neither of man nor ghosts. He
will enjoy not only the sunshine of life, but will bear with fortitude
the darkest days. He will have no fear of death. About the grave, there
will be no terrors, and his life will end as serenely as the sun rises.

The Improved Man will be satisfied that the supernatural does not
exist—that behind every fact, every thought and dream is an efficient
cause. He will know that every human action is a necessary product,
and he will also know that men cannot be reformed by punishment, by
degradation or by revenge. He will regard those who violate the laws
of nature and the laws of States as victims of conditions, of
circumstances, and he will do what he can for the wellbeing of his
fellow-men.

The Improved Man will not give his life to the accumulation of wealth.
He will find no happiness in exciting the envy of his neighbors. He will
not care to live in a palace while others who are good, industrious and
kind are compelled to huddle in huts and dens. He will know that great
wealth is a great burden, and that to accumulate beyond the actual
needs of a reasonable human being is to increase not wealth, but
responsibility and trouble.

The Improved Man will find his greatest joy in the happiness of others
and he will know that the home is the real temple. He will believe in
the democracy of the fireside, and will reap his greatest reward in
being loved by those whose lives he has enriched.

The Improved Man will be self-poised, independent, candid and free.
He will be a scientist. He will observe, investigate, experiment and
demonstrate. He will use his sense and his senses. He will keep his mind
open as the day to the hints and suggestions of nature. He will always
be a student, a learner and a listener—a believer in intellectual
hospitality. In the world of his brain there will be continuous summer,
perpetual seed-time and harvest. Facts will be the foundation of his
faith. In one hand he will carry the torch of truth, and with the other
raise the fallen.—The World, New York, February 28,1890.
---
# The Jews
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
WHEN I was a child, I was taught that the Jews were an exceedingly
hard-hearted and cruel people, and that they were so destitute of the
finer feelings that they had a little while before that time crucified
the only perfect man who had appeared upon the earth; that this perfect
man was also perfect God, and that the Jews had really stained their
hands with the blood of the Infinite.

When I got somewhat older, I found that nearly all people had been
guilty of substantially the same crime—that is, that they had destroyed
the progressive and the thoughtful; that religionists had in all ages
been cruel; that the chief priests of all people had incited the mob, to
the end that heretics—that is to say, philosophers—that is to say, men
who knew that the chief priests were hypocrites—might be destroyed.

I also found that Christians had committed more of these crimes than all
other religionists put together.

I also became acquainted with a large number of Jewish people, and I
found them like other people, except that, as a rule, they were more
industrious, more temperate, had fewer vagrants among them, no beggars,
very few criminals; and in addition to all this, I found that they were
intelligent, kind to their wives and children, and that, as a rule, they
kept their contracts and paid their debts.

The prejudice was created almost entirely by religious, or rather
irreligious, instruction. All children in Christian countries are taught
that all the Jews are to be eternally damned who die in the faith
of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; that it is not enough to believe in
the inspiration of the Old Testament—not enough to obey the Ten
Commandments—not enough to believe the miracles performed in the days
of the prophets, but that every Jew must accept the New Testament
and must be a believer in Christianity—that is to say, he must be
regenerated—or he will simply be eternal kindling wood.

The church has taught, and still teaches, that every Jew is an outcast;
that he is to-day busily fulfilling prophecy; that he is a wandering
witness in favor of "the glad tidings of great joy;" that Jehovah is
seeing to it that the Jews shall not exist as a nation—that they shall
have no abiding place, but that they shall remain scattered, to the end
that the inspiration of the Bible may be substantiated.

Dr. John Hall of this city, a few years ago, when the Jewish people were
being persecuted in Russia, took the ground that it was all fulfillment
of prophecy, and that whenever a Jewish maiden was stabbed to death, God
put a tongue in every wound for the purpose of declaring the truth of
the Old Testament.

Just as long as Christians take these positions, of course they will do
what they can to assist in the fulfillment of what they call prophecy,
and they will do their utmost to keep the Jewish people in a state
of exile, and then point to that fact as one of the corner-stones of
Christianity.

My opinion is that in the early days of Christianity all sensible Jews
were witnesses against the faith, and in this way excited the hostility
of the orthodox. Every sensible Jew knew that no miracles had been
performed in Jerusalem. They all knew that the sun had not been
darkened, that the graves had not given up their dead, that the veil
of the temple had not been rent in twain—and they told what they knew.
They were then denounced as the most infamous of human beings, and this
hatred has pursued them from that day to this.

There is no other chapter in history so infamous, so bloody, so cruel,
so relentless, as the chapter in which is told the manner in which
Christians—those who love their enemies—have treated the Jewish
people. This story is enough to bring the blush of shame to the cheek,
and the words of indignation to the lips of every honest man.

Nothing can be more unjust than to generalize about nationalities, and
to speak of a race as worthless or vicious, simply because you have met
an individual who treated you unjustly. There are good people and bad
people in all races, and the individual is not responsible for the
crimes of the nation, or the nation responsible for the actions of the
few. Good men and honest men are found in every faith, and they are not
honest or dishonest because they are Jews or Gentiles, but for entirely
different reasons.

Some of the best people I have ever known are Jews, and some of the
worst people I have known are Christians. The Christians were not bad
simply because they were Christians, neither were the Jews good because
they were Jews. A man is far above these badges of faith and race. Good
Jews are precisely the same as good Christians, and bad Christians are
wonderfully like bad Jews.

Personally, I have either no prejudices about religion, or I have equal
prejudice against all religions. The consequence is that I judge of
people not by their creeds, not by their rites, not by their mummeries,
but by their actions.

In the first place, at the bottom of this prejudice lies the coiled
serpent of superstition. In other words, it is a religious question.
It seems impossible for the people of one religion to like the people
believing in another religion. They have different gods, different
heavens, and a great variety of hells. For the followers of one god to
treat the followers of another god decently is a kind of treason. In
order to be really true to his god, each follower must not only hate all
other gods, but the followers of all other gods.

The Jewish people should outgrow their own superstitions. It is time
for them to throw away the idea of inspiration. The intelligent jew of
to-day knows that the Old Testament was written by barbarians., and he
knows that the rites and ceremonies are simply absurd. He knows that
no intelligent man should care anything about Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
three dead barbarians. In other words, the Jewish people should leave
their superstition and rely on science and philosophy.

The Christian should do the same. He, by this time, should know that his
religion is a mistake, that his creed has no foundation in the eternal
verities. The Christian certainly should give up the hopeless task of
converting the Jewish people, and the Jews should give up the useless
task of converting the Christians. There is no propriety in swapping
superstitions—neither party can afford to give any boot.

When the Christian throws away his cruel and heartless superstitions,
and when the Jew throws away his, then they can meet as man to man.

In the meantime, the world will go on in its blundering way, and I shall
know and feel that everybody does as he must, and that the Christian,
to the extent that he is prejudiced, is prejudiced by reason of his
ignorance, and that consequently the great lever with which to raise all
mankind into the sunshine of philosophy, is intelligence.
---
# The Libel Laws
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1887_
Question. Have you any suggestions to make in regard to remodeling the
libel laws?

Answer. I believe that every article appearing in a paper should
be signed by the writer. If it is libelous, then the writer and the
publisher should both be held responsible in damages. The law on
this subject, if changed, should throw greater safeguards around the
reputation of the citizen. It does not seem to me that the papers have
any right to complain. Probably a good many suits are brought that
should not be instituted, but just think of the suits that are not
brought.

Personally I have no complaint to make, as it would be very hard to find
anything in any paper against me, but it has never occurred to me that
the press needed any greater liberty than it now enjoys.

It might be a good thing for a paper to publish each week, a list of
mistakes, if this could be done without making that edition too large.
But certainly when a false and scandalous charge has been made by
mistake or as the result of imposition, great pains should be taken to
give the retraction at once and in a way to attract attention.

I suppose the papers are liable to be imposed upon—liable to print
thousands of articles to which the attention of the editor or proprietor
was not called. Still, that is not the fault of the man whose character
is attacked. On the whole I think the papers have the advantage of the
average citizen as the law now is.

If all articles had to be signed by the writer, I am satisfied the
writer would be more careful and less liable to write anything of a
libelous nature. I am willing to admit that I have given but little
attention to the subject, probably for the reason that I have never been
a sufferer.

It would hardly do to hold only the writer responsible. Suppose a man
writes a libelous article, leaves the country, and then the article is
published; is there no remedy? A suit for libel is not much of a remedy,
I admit, but it is some. It is like the bayonet in war. Very few are
injured by bayonets, but a good many are afraid that they may be.

—The Herald, New York, October 26,1888.
---
# The Three Philanthropists
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1890_
> "Well, while I am a beggar, I will rail,
> And say there is no sin but to be rich."

MR. A. lived in the kingdom of————. He was a sincere professional
philanthropist. He was absolutely certain that he loved his fellow-men,
and that his views were humane and scientific. He concluded to turn his
attention to taking care of people less fortunate than himself.

With this object in view he investigated the common people that lived
about him, and he found that they were extremely ignorant, that many of
them seemed to take no particular interest in life or in business, that
few of them had any theories of their own, and that, while many had
muscle, there was only now and then one who had any mind worth speaking
of. Nearly all of them were destitute of ambition. They were satisfied
if they got something to eat, a place to sleep, and could now and
then indulge in some form of dissipation. They seemed to have great
confidence in to-morrow—trusted to luck, and took no thought for the
future. Many of them were extravagant, most of them dissipated, and a
good many dishonest.

Mr. A. found that many of the husbands not only failed to support their
families, but that some of them lived on the labor of their wives; that
many of the wives were careless of their obligations, knew nothing about
the art of cooking; nothing about keeping house; and that parents, as a
general thing, neglected their children or treated them with cruelty. He
also found that many of the people were so shiftless that they died of
want and exposure.

After having obtained this information Mr. A. made up his mind to do
what little he could to better their condition. He petitioned the king
to assist him, and asked that he be allowed to take control of five
hundred people in consideration that he would pay a certain amount into
the treasury of the kingdom. The king being satisfied that Mr. A.
could take care of these people better than they were taking care of
themselves, granted the petition.

Mr. A., with the assistance of a few soldiers, took these people from
their old homes and haunts to a plantation of his own. He divided
them into groups, and over each group placed a superintendent. He
made certain rules and regulations for their conduct. They were only
compelled to work from twelve to fourteen hours a day, leaving ten hours
for sleep and recreation. Good and substantial food was provided. Their
houses were comfortable and their clothing sufficient. Their work was
laid out from day to day and from month to month, so that they knew
exactly what they were to do in each hour of every day. These rules
were made for the good of the people, to the end that they might not
interfere with each other, that they might attend to their duties, and
enjoy themselves in a reasonable way. They were not allowed to waste
their time, or to use stimulants or profane language. They were told to
be respectful to the superintendents, and especially to Mr. A.; to be
obedient, and, above all, to accept the position in which Providence had
placed them, without complaining, and to cheerfully perform their tasks.

Mr. A. had found out all that the five hundred persons had earned the
year before they were taken control of by him—just how much they had
added to the wealth of the world. He had statistics taken for the
year before with great care showing the number of deaths, the cases of
sickness and of destitution, the number who had committed suicide, how
many had been convicted of crimes and misdemeanors, how many days they
had been idle, and how much time and money they had spent in drink and
for worthless amusements.

During the first year of their enslavement he kept like statistics. He
found that they had earned several times as much; that there had been no
cases of destitution, no drunkenness; that no crimes had been committed;
that there had been but little sickness, owing to the regular course
of their lives; that few had been guilty of misdemeanors, owing to
the certainty of punishment; and that they had been so watched and
superintended that for the most part they had traveled the highway of
virtue and industry.

Mr. A. was delighted, and with a vast deal of pride showed these
statistics to his friends. He not only demonstrated that the five
hundred people were better off than they had been before, but that his
own income was very largely increased. He congratulated himself that he
had added to the well-being of these people not only, but had laid the
foundation of a great fortune for himself. On these facts and these
figures he claimed not only to be a philanthropist, but a philosopher;
and all the people who had a mind to go into the same business agreed
with him.

Some denounced the entire proceeding as unwarranted, as contrary to
reason and justice. These insisted that the five hundred people had
a right to live in their own way provided they did not interfere with
others; that they had the right to go through the world with little food
and with poor clothes, and to live in huts, if such was their choice.
But Mr. A. had no trouble in answering these objectors. He insisted
that well-being is the only good, and that every human being is under
obligation, not only to take care of himself, but to do what little
he can towards taking care of others; that where five hundred people
neglect to take care of themselves, it is the duty of somebody else, who
has more intelligence and more means, to take care of them; that the man
who takes five hundred people and improves their condition, gives
them on the average better food, better clothes, and keeps them out of
mischief, is a benefactor.

"These people," said Mr. A., "were tried. They were found incapable of
taking care of themselves. They lacked intelligence or will or honesty
or industry or ambition or something, so that in the struggle for
existence they fell behind, became stragglers, dropped by the wayside,
died in gutters; while many were destined to end their days either in
dungeons or on scaffolds. Besides all this, they were a nuisance to
their prosperous fellow-citizens, a perpetual menace to the peace of
society. They increased the burden of taxation; they filled the ranks
of the criminal classes, they made it necessary to build more jails, to
employ more policemen and judges; so that I, by enslaving them, not
only assisted them, not only protected them against themselves, not only
bettered their condition, not only added to the well-being of-society at
large, but greatly increased my own fortune."

Mr. A. also took the ground that Providence, by giving him superior
intelligence, the genius of command, the aptitude for taking charge
of others, had made it his duty to exercise these faculties for the
well-being of the people and for the glory of God. Mr. A. frequently
declared that he was God's steward. He often said he thanked God that he
was not governed by a sickly sentiment, but that he was a man of sense,
of judgment, of force of character, and that the means employeed by him
were in accordance with the logic of facts.

Some of the people thus enslaved objected, saying that they had the same
right to control themselves that Mr. A. had to control himself. But it
only required a little discipline to satisfy them that they were wrong.
Some of the people were quite happy, and declared that nothing gave them
such perfect contentment as the absence of all responsibility. Mr. A.
insisted that all men had not been endowed with the same capacity; that
the weak ought to be cared for by the strong; that such was evidently
the design of the Creator, and that he intended to do what little he
could to carry that design into effect.

Mr. A. was very successful. In a few years he had several thousands of
men, women, and children working for him. He amassed a large fortune.
He felt that he had been intrusted with this money by Providence. He
therefore built several churches, and once in a while gave large sums to
societies for the spread of civilization. He passed away regretted by a
great many people—not including those who had lived under his immediate
administration. He was buried with great pomp, the king being one of the
pall-bearers, and on his tomb was this:

## He Was the Providence of the Poor

II.

> "And, being rich, my virtue then shall be
> To say there is no vice but beggary."

Mr. B. did not believe in slavery. He despised the institution with
every drop of his blood, and was an advocate of universal freedom. He
held all the ideas of Mr. A. in supreme contempt, and frequently spent
whole evenings in denouncing the inhumanity and injustice of the whole
business. He even went so far as to contend that many of A.'s slaves had
more intelligence than A. himself, and that, whether they had
intelligence or not, they had the right to be free. He insisted that Mr.
A.'s philanthropy was a sham; that he never bought a human being for the
purpose of bettering that being's condition; that he went into the
business simply to make money for himself; and that his talk about his
slaves committing less crime than when they were free was simply to
justify the crime committed by himself in enslaving his fellow-men.

Mr. B. was a manufacturer, and he employeed some five or six thousand
men. He used to say that these men were not forced to work for him; that
they were at perfect liberty to accept or reject the terms; that, so far
as he was concerned, he would just as soon commit larceny or robbery as
to force a man to work for him. "Every laborer under my roof," he used
to say, "is as free to choose as I am."

Mr B. believed in absolutely free trade; thought it an outrage to
interfere with the free interplay of forces; said that every man should
buy, or at least have the privilege of buying, where he could buy
cheapest, and should have the privilege of selling where he could get
the most. He insisted that a man who has labor to sell has the right to
sell it to the best advantage, and that the purchaser has the right to
buy it at the lowest price. He did not enslave men—he hired them. Some
said that he took advantage of their necessities; but he answered
that he created no necessities, that he was not responsible for their
condition, that he did not make them poor, that he found them poor and
gave them work, and gave them the same wages that he could employ others
for. He insisted that he was absolutely just to all; he did not give one
man more than another, and he never refused to employ a man on account
of the man's religion or politics; all that he did was simply to employ
that man if the man wished to be employed, and give him the wages, no
more and no less, that some other man of like capacity was willing to
work for.

Mr. B. also said that the price of the article manufactured by him
fixed the wages of the persons employed, and that he, Mr. B., was not
responsible for the price of the article he manufactured; consequently
he was not responsible for the wages of the workmen. He agreed to pay
them a certain price, he taking the risk of selling his articles, and he
paid them regularly just on the day he agreed to pay them, and if they
were not satisfied with the wages, they were at perfect liberty to
leave. One of his private sayings was: "The poor ye have always with
you." And from this he argued that some men were made poor so that
others could be generous. "Take poverty and suffering from the world,"
he said, "and you destroy sympathy and generosity."

Mr. B. made a large amount of money. Many of his workmen complained
that their wages did not allow them to live in comfort. Many had large
families, and therefore but little to eat. Some of them lived in crowded
rooms. Many of the children were carried off by disease; but Mr. B. took
the ground that all these people had the right to go, that he did not
force them to remain, that if they were not healthy it was not his
fault, and that whenever it pleased Providence to remove a child, or one
of the parents, he, Mr. B., was not responsible.

Mr. B. insisted that many of his workmen were extravagant; that they
bought things that they did not need; that they wasted in beer and
tobacco, money that they should save for funerals; that many of them
visited places of amusement when they should have been thinking about
death, and that others bought toys to please the children when
they hardly had bread enough to eat. He felt that he was in no way
accountable for this extravagance, nor for the fact that their wages did
not give them the necessaries of life, because he not only gave them the
same wages that other manufacturers gave, but the same wages that other
workmen were willing to work for.

Mr. B. said,—and he always said this as though it ended the
argument,—and he generally stood up to say it: "The great law of supply
and demand is of divine origin; it is the only law that will work in
all possible or conceivable cases; and this law fixes the price of all
labor, and from it there is no appeal. If people are not satisfied
with the operation of the law, then let them make a new world for
themselves."

Some of Mr. B.'s friends reported that on several occasions, forgetting
what he had said on others, he did declare that his confidence was
somewhat weakened in the law of supply and demand; but this was only
when there seemed to be an over-production of the things he was engaged
in manufacturing, and at such times he seemed to doubt the absolute
equity of the great law.

Mr. B. made even a larger fortune than Mr. A., because when his workmen
got old he did not have to care for them, when they were sick he paid no
doctors, and when their children died he bought no coffins. In this way
he was relieved of a large part of the expenses that had to be borne by
Mr. A. When his workmen became too old, they were sent to the poorhouse;
when they were sick, they were assisted by charitable societies; and
when they died, they were buried by pity.

In a few years Mr. B. was the owner of many millions. He also considered
himself as one of God's stewards; felt that Providence had given him the
intelligence to combine interests, to carry out great schemes, and
that he was specially raised up to give employment to many thousands
of people. He often regretted that he could do no more for his laborers
without lessening his own profits, or, rather, without lessening his
fund for the blessing of mankind—the blessing to begin immediately
after his death. He was so anxious to be the providence of posterity
that he was sometimes almost heartless in his dealings with
contemporaries. He felt that it was necessary for him to be economical,
to save every dollar that he could, because in this way he could
increase the fund that was finally to bless mankind. He also felt that
in this way he could lay the foundations of a permanent fame—that
he could build, through his executors, an asylum to be called the "B.
Asylum," that he could fill a building with books to be called the
"B. Library," and that he could also build and endow an institution of
learning to be called the "B. College," and that, in addition, a
large amount of money could be given for the purpose of civilizing the
citizens of less fortunate countries, to the end that they might become
imbued with that spirit of combination and manufacture that results in
putting large fortunes in the hands of those who have been selected by
Providence, on account of their talents, to make a better distribution
of wealth than those who earned it could have done.

Mr. B. spent many thousands of dollars to procure such legislation as
would protect him from foreign competition. He did not believe the law
of supply and demand would work when interfered with by manufacturers
living in other countries.

Mr. B., like Mr. A., was a man of judgment. He had what is called a
level head, was not easily turned aside from his purpose, and felt that
he was in accord with the general sentiment of his time. By his own
exertions he rose from poverty to wealth. He was born in a hut and died
in a palace. He was a patron of art and enriched his walls with the
works of the masters. He insisted that others could and should follow
his example. For those who failed or refused he had no sympathy. He
accounted for their poverty and wretchedness by saying: "These paupers
have only themselves to blame." He died without ever having lost a
dollar. His funeral was magnificent, and clergymen vied with each other
in laudations of the dead. Over his dust rises a monument of marble with
the words:

## He Lived for Others

III

> "But there are men who steal, and vainly try
> To gild the crime with pompous charity."

There was another man, Mr. C., who also had the genius for combination.
He understood the value of capital, the value of labor; knew exactly
how much could be done with machinery; understood the economy of things;
knew how to do everything in the easiest and shortest way. And he, too,
was a manufacturer and had in his employ many thousands of men, women,
and children. He was what is called a visionary, a sentimentalist,
rather weak in his will, not very obstinate, had but little egotism; and
it never occurred to him that he had been selected by Providence, or any
supernatural power, to divide the property of others. It did not seem
to him that he had any right to take from other men their labor without
giving them a full equivalent. He felt that if he had more intelligence
than his fellow-men he ought to use that intelligence not only for his
own good but for theirs; that he certainly ought not to use it for the
purpose of gaining an advantage over those who were his intellectual
inferiors. He used to say that a man strong intellectually had no more
right to take advantage of a man weak intellectually than the physically
strong had to rob the physically weak.

He also insisted that we should not take advantage of each other's
necessities; that you should not ask a drowning man a greater price for
lumber than you would if he stood on the shore; that if you took into
consideration the necessities of your fellow-man, it should be only to
lessen the price of that which you would sell to him, not to increase
it. He insisted that honest men do not take advantage of their fellows.
He was so weak that he had not perfect confidence in the great law
of supply and demand as applied to flesh and blood. He took into
consideration another law of supply and demand; he knew that the
workingman had to be supplied with food, and that his nature demanded
something to eat, a house to live in, clothes to wear.

Mr. C. used to think about this law of supply and demand as applicable
to individuals. He found that men would work for exceedingly small wages
when pressed for the necessaries of life; that under some circumstances
they would give their labor for half of what it was worth to the
employer, because they were in a position where they must do something
for wife or child. He concluded that he had no right to take advantage
of the necessities of others, and that he should in the first place
honestly find what the work was worth to him, and then give to the man
who did the work that amount.

Other manufacturers regarded Mr. C. as substantially insane, while
most of his workmen looked upon him as an exceedingly good-natured
man, without any particular genius for business. Mr. C., however,
cared little about the opinions of others, so long as he maintained his
respect for himself.

At the end of the first year he found that he had made a large profit,
and thereupon he divided this profit with the people who had earned
it. Some of his friends said to him that he ought to endow some public
institution; that there should be a college in his native town; but Mr.
C. was of such a peculiar turn of mind that he thought justice ought
to go before charity, and a little in front of egotism, and a desire
to immortalize one's self. He said that it seemed to him that of all
persons in the world entitled to this profit were the men who had earned
it, the men who had made it by their labor, by days of actual toil. He
insisted that, as they had earned it, it was really theirs, and if it
was theirs, they should have it and should spend it in their own way.
Mr. C. was told that he would make the workmen in other factories
dissatisfied, that other manufacturers would become his enemies, and
that his course would scandalize some of the greatest men who had
done so much for the civilization of the world and for the spread of
intelligence. Mr. C. became extremely unpopular with men of talent, with
those who had a genius for business. He, however, pursued his way, and
carried on his business with the idea that the men who did the work were
entitled to a fair share of the profits; that, after all, money was not
as sacred as men, and that the law of supply and demand, as understood,
did not apply to flesh and blood.

Mr. C. said: "I cannot be happy if those who work for me are defrauded.
If I feel I am taking what belongs to them, then my life becomes
miserable. To feel that I have done justice is one of the necessities of
my nature. I do not wish to establish colleges. I wish to establish
no public institution. My desire is to enable those who work for me to
establish a few thousand homes for themselves. My ambition is to
enable them to buy the books they really want to read. I do not wish to
establish a hospital, but I want to make it possible for my workmen
to have the services of the best physicians—physicians of their own
choice.

"It is not for me to take their money and use it for the good of others
or for my own glory. It is for me to give what they have earned to them.
After I have given them the money that belongs to them, I can give them
my advice—I can tell them how I hope they will use it; and after I have
advised them, they will use it as they please. You cannot make great
men and great women by suppression. Slavery is not the school in
which genius is born. Every human being must make his own mistakes for
himself, must learn for himself, must have his own experience; and if
the world improves, it must be from choice, not from force; and every
man who does justice, who sets the example of fair dealing, hastens the
coming of universal honesty, of universal civilization."

Mr. C. carried his doctrine out to the fullest extent, honestly and
faithfully. When he died, there were at the funeral those who had worked
for him, their wives and their children. Their tears fell upon his
grave. They planted flowers and paid to him the tribute of their love.
Above his silent dust they erected a monument with this inscription:

## He Allowed Others to Live for Themselves

North American Review, December, 1831.

## Should the Chinese Be Excluded

THE average American, like the average man of any country, has but
little imagination. People who speak a different language, or worship
some other god, or wear clothing unlike his own, are beyond the horizon
of his sympathy. He cares but little or nothing for the sufferings or
misfortunes of those who are of a different complexion or of another
race. His imagination is not powerful enough to recognize the human
being, in spite of peculiarities. Instead of this he looks upon every
difference as an evidence of inferiority, and for the inferior he has
but little if any feeling. If these "inferior people" claim equal
rights he feels insulted, and for the purpose of establishing his own
superiority tramples on the rights of the so-called inferior.

In our own country the native has always considered himself as much
better than the immigrant, and as far superior to all people of a
different complexion. At one time our people hated the Irish, then the
Germans, then the Italians, and now the Chinese. The Irish and Germans,
however, became numerous. They became citizens, and, most important of
all, they had votes. They combined, became powerful, and the political
parties sought their aid. They had something to give in exchange for
protection—in exchange for political rights. In consequence of this
they were flattered by candidates, praised by the political press, and
became powerful enough not only to protect themselves, but at last to
govern the principal cities in the United States. As a matter of fact
the Irish and the Germans drove the native Americans out of the trades
and from the lower forms of labor. They built the railways and canals.
They became servants. Afterward the Irish and the Germans were driven
from the canals and railways by the Italians.

The Irish and Germans improved their condition. They went into other
businesses, into the higher and more lucrative trades. They entered
the professions, turned their attention to politics, became merchants,
brokers, and professors in colleges. They are not now building railroads
or digging on public works. They are contractors, legislators, holders
of office, and the Italians and Chinese are doing the old work.

If matters had been allowed to work in a natural way, without the
interference of mobs or legislators, the Chinese would have driven the
Italians to better employments, and all menial labor would, in time, be
done by the Mongolians.

In olden times each nation hated all others. This was considered natural
and patriotic. Spain, after many centuries of war, expelled the Moors,
then the Moriscoes, and then the Jews. And Spain, in the name of
religion and patriotism, succeeded in driving from its territory its
industry, its taste and its intelligence, and by these mistakes became
poor, ignorant and weak. France started on the same path when the
Huguenots were expelled, and even England at one time deported the Jews.
In those days a difference of race or religion was sufficient to justify
any absurdity and any cruelty.

In our country, as a matter of fact, there is but little prejudice
against emigrants coming from Europe, except among naturalized citizens;
but nearly all foreign-born citizens are united in their prejudice
against the Chinese.

The truth is that the Chinese came to this country by invitation. Under
the Burlingame Treaty, China and the United States recognized:

"The inherent and inalienable right of man to change his home and
allegiance, and also the mutual advantage of free migration and
emigration of their citizens and subjects respectively from one country
to the other for purposes of curiosity, of trade, or as permanent
residents."

And it was provided:

"That the citizens of the United States visiting or residing in China
and Chinese subjects visiting or residing in the United States should
reciprocally enjoy the same privileges, immunities and exemptions, in
respect to travel or residence, as shall be enjoyed by the citizens or
subjects of the most favored nation, in the country in which they shall
respectively be visiting or residing."

So, by the treaty of 1880, providing for the limitation or suspension of
emigration of Chinese labor, it was declared:

"That the limitation or suspension should apply only to Chinese who
emigrated to the United States as laborers; but that Chinese laborers
who were then in the United States should be allowed to go and come of
their own free will and should be accorded all the rights, privileges,
immunities and exemptions, which were accorded to the citizens and
subjects of the most favored nations."

It will thus be seen that all Chinese laborers who came to this country
prior to the treaty of 1880 were to be treated the same as the citizens
and subjects of the most favored nation; that is to say, they were to be
protected by our laws the same as we protect our own citizens.

These Chinese laborers are inoffensive, peaceable and law-abiding.
They are honest, keeping their contracts, doing as they agree. They
are exceedingly industrious, always ready to work and always giving
satisfaction to their employers. They do not interfere with other
people. They cannot become citizens. They have no voice in the making or
the execution of the laws. They attend to their own business. They have
their own ideas, customs, religion and ceremonies—about as foolish as
our own; but they do not try to make converts or to force their dogmas
on others. They are patient, uncomplaining, stoical and philosophical.
They earn what they can, giving reasonable value for the money they
receive, and as a rule, when they have amassed a few thousand dollars,
they go back to their own country. They do not interfere with our
ideas, our ways or customs. They are silent workers, toiling without any
object, except to do their work and get their pay. They do not establish
saloons and run for Congress. Neither do they combine for the purpose
of governing others. Of all the people on our soil they are the least
meddlesome. Some of them smoke opium, but the opium-smoker does not beat
his wife. Some of them play games of chance, but they are not members of
the Stock Exchange. They eat the bread that they earn; they neither beg
nor steal, but they are of no use to parties or politicians except as
they become fuel to supply the flame of prejudice. They are not citizens
and they cannot vote. Their employers are about the only friends they
have.

In the Pacific States the lowest became their enemies and asked for
their expulsion. They denounced the Chinese and those who gave
them work. The patient followers of Confucius were treated as
outcasts—stoned by boys in the streets and mobbed by the fathers. Few
seemed to have any respect for their rights or their feelings. They were
unlike us. They wore different clothes. They dressed their hair in
a peculiar way, and therefore they were beyond our sympathies. These
ideas, these practices, demoralized many communities; the laboring
people became cruel and the small politicians infamous.

When the rights of even one human being are held in contempt the rights
of all are in danger. We cannot destroy the liberties of others without
losing our own. By exciting the prejudices of the ignorant we at last
produce a contempt for law and justice, and sow the seeds of violence
and crime.

Both of the great political parties pandered to the leaders of the
crusade against the Chinese for the sake of electoral votes, and in the
Pacific States the friends of the Chinese were forced to keep still
or to publicly speak contrary to their convictions. The orators of
the "Sand Lots" were in power, and the policy of the whole country was
dictated by the most ignorant and prejudiced of our citizens. Both
of the great parties ratified the outrages committed by the mobs, and
proceeded with alacrity to violate the treaties and solemn obligations
of the Government. These treaties were violated, these obligations were
denied, and thousands of Chinamen were deprived of their rights, of
their property, and hundreds were maimed or murdered. They were driven
from their homes. They were hunted like wild beasts. All this was done
in a country that sends missionaries to China to tell the benighted
savages of the blessed religion of the United States.

At first a demand was made that the Chinese should be driven out, then
that no others should be allowed to come, and laws with these objects in
view were passed, in spite of the treaties, preventing the coming of any
more. For a time that satisfied the haters of the Mongolian. Then came
a demand for more stringent legislation, so that many of the Chinese
already here could be compelled to leave. The answer or response to this
demand is what is known as the Geary Law.

By this act it is provided, among other things, that any Chinaman
convicted of not being lawfully in the country shall be removed to
China, after having been imprisoned at hard labor for not exceeding one
year. This law also does away with bail on _habeas corpus_, proceedings
where the right to land has been denied to a Chinaman. It also compels
all Chinese laborers to obtain, within one year after the passage of the
law, certificates of residence from the revenue collectors, and if found
without such certificate they shall be held to be unlawfully in the
United States.

It is further provided that if a Chinaman claims that he failed to get
such certificate by "accident, sickness or other unavoidable cause,"
then he must clearly establish such claim to the satisfaction of the
judge "by at least one credible white witness."

If we were at war with China then we might legally consider every
Chinaman as an enemy, but we were and are at peace with that country.
The Geary Act was passed by Congress and signed by the President simply
for the sake of votes. The Democrats in Congress voted for it to save
the Pacific States to the Democratic column; and a Republican President
signed it so that the Pacific States should vote the Republican ticket.
Principle was forgotten, or rather it was sacrificed, in the hope of
political success. It was then known, as now, that China is a peaceful
nation, that it does not believe in war as a remedy, that it relies
on negotiation and treaty. It is also known that the Chinese in
this country were helpless, without friends, without power to defend
themselves. It is possible that many members of Congress voted in
favor of the Act believing that the Supreme Court would hold it
unconstitutional, and that in the meantime it might be politically
useful.

The idea of imprisoning a man at hard labor for a year, and this man
a citizen of a friendly nation, for the crime of being found in this
country without a certificate of residence, must be abhorrent to the
mind of every enlightened man. Such punishment for such an "offence" is
barbarous and belongs to the earliest times of which we know. This law
makes industry a crime and puts one who works for his bread on a level
with thieves and the lowest criminals, treats him as a felon, and
clothes him in the stripes of a convict,—and all this is done at the
demand of the ignorant, of the prejudiced, of the heartless, and because
the Chinese are not voters and have no political power.

The Chinese are not driven away because there is no room for them. Our
country is not crowded. There are many millions of acres waiting for
the plow. There is plenty of room here under our flag for five hundred
millions of people. These Chinese that we wish to oppress and imprison
are people who understand the art of irrigation. They can redeem the
deserts. They are the best of gardeners. They are modest and willing to
occupy the lowest seats. They only ask to be day-laborers, washers and
ironers. They are willing to sweep and scrub. They are good cooks. They
can clear lands and build railroads. They do not ask to be masters—they
wish only to serve. In every capacity they are faithful; but in this
country their virtues have made enemies, and they are hated because of
their patience, their honesty and their industry.

The Geary Law, however, failed to provide the ways and means for
carrying it into effect, so that the probability is it will remain a
dead letter upon the statute book. The sum of money required to carry it
out is too large, and the law fails to create the machinery and name the
persons authorized to deport the Chinese. Neither is there any mode of
trial pointed out. According to the law there need be no indictment by
a grand jury, no trial by a jury, and the person found guilty of being
here without a certificate of residence can be imprisoned and treated as
a felon without the ordinary forms of trial.

This law is contrary to the laws and customs of nations. The punishment
is unusual, severe, and contrary to our Constitution, and under its
provisions aliens—citizens of a friendly nation—can be imprisoned
without due process of law. The law is barbarous, contrary to the spirit
and genius of American institutions, and was passed in violation of
solemn treaty stipulations.

The Congress-that passed it is the same that closed the gates of the
World's Fair on the "blessed Sabbath," thinking it wicked to look at
statues and pictures on that day. These representatives of the people
seem to have had more piety than principle.

After the passage of such a law by the United States is it not indecent
for us to send missionaries to China? Is there not work enough for them
at home? We send ministers to China to convert the heathen; but when we
find a Chinaman on our soil, where he can be saved by our example, we
treat him as a criminal.

It is to the interest of this country to maintain friendly relations
with China. We want the trade of nearly one-fourth of the human race.
We want to pay for all we get from that country in articles of our
own manufacture. We lost the trade of Mexico and the South American
Republics because of slavery, because we hated people in whose veins was
found a drop of African blood, and now we are losing the trade of China
by pandering to the prejudices of the ignorant and cruel.

After all, it pays to do right. This is a hard truth to
learn—especially for a nation. A great nation should be bound by the
highest conception of justice and honor. Above all things it should be
true to its treaties, its contracts, its obligations. It should
remember that its responsibilities are in accordance with its power and
intelligence.

Our Government is founded on the equality of human rights—on the idea,
the sacred truth, that all are entitled to life, liberty and the
pursuit of happiness. Our country is an asylum for the oppressed of
all nations—of all races. Here, the Government gets its power from
the consent of the governed. After the abolition of slavery these
great truths were not only admitted, but they found expression in our
Constitution and laws.

Shall we now go back to barbarism?

Russia is earning the hatred of the civilized world by driving the Jews
from their homes. But what can the United States say? Our mouths are
closed by the Geary Law. We are in the same business. Our law is as
inhuman as the order or ukase of the Czar.

Let us retrace our steps, repeal the law and accomplish what we justly
desire by civilized means. Let us treat China as we would England; and,
above all, let us respect the rights of men,—North American Review,
July, 1893.
---
# The Truth of History
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1887_
THOUSANDS of Christians have asked: How was it possible for Christ and
his apostles to deceive the people of Jerusalem? How came the miracles
to be believed? Who had the impudence to say that lepers had been
cleansed, and that the dead had been raised? How could such impostors
have escaped exposure?

I ask: How did Mohammed deceive the people of Mecca? How has the
Catholic Church imposed upon millions of people? Who can account for the
success of falsehood?

Millions of people are directly interested in the false. They live by
lying. To deceive is the business of their lives. Truth is a cripple;
lies have wings. It is almost impossible to overtake and kill and bury
a lie. If you do, some one will erect a monument over the grave, and the
lie is born again as an epitaph. Let me give you a case in point.

A few days ago the Matlock _Register_, a paper published in England,
printed the following:

## Conversion of the Arch Atheist

"Mr. Isaac Loveland, of Shoreham, desires us to insert the following:—

"November 27, 1886.

"Dear Mr. Loveland.—A day or two since, I received from Mr.
Hine the exhilarating intelligence that through his lectures on the
'Identity of the British Nation with Lost Israel,' in Canada and the
United States, that Col. Bob Ingersoll, the arch Atheist, has been
converted to Christianity, and has joined the Episcopal Church. Praise
the Lord!!! 5,000 of his followers _have been won for Christ_ through
Mr. Hine's grand mission work, the other side of the Atlantic. The
Colonel's cousin, the Rev. Mr. Ingersoll, wrote to Mr. Hine soon after
he began lecturing in America, informing him that his lectures had made
a great impression on the Colonel and other Atheists. I noted it at the
time in the Messenger. Bradlaugh will yet be converted; his brother has
been, and has joined a British Israel Identity Association. This is
progress, and shows what an energetic, determined man (like Mr. Hine),
who is earnest in his faith, can do.

"Very faithfully yours,

"H. HODSON RUGG.

"Grove-road, St. John's Wood, London."

How can we account for an article like that? Who made up this story? Who
had the impudence to publish it?

As a matter of fact, I never saw Mr. Hine, never heard of him until this
extract was received by me in the month of December. I never read a word
about the "Identity of Lost Israel with the British Nation." It is a
question in which I never had, and never expect to have, the slightest
possible interest.

Nothing can be more preposterous than that the Englishman in whose veins
can be found the blood of the Saxon, the Dane, the Norman, the Piet, the
Scot and the Celt, is the descendant of "Abraham, Isaac and Jacob." The
English language does not bear the remotest resemblance to the Hebrew,
and yet it is claimed by the Reverend Hod-son Rugg that not only myself,
but five thousand other Atheists, were converted by the Rev. Mr. Hine,
because of his theory that Englishmen and Americans are simply Jews in
disguise.

This letter, in my judgment, was published to be used by missionaries in
China, Japan, India and Africa.

If stories like this can be circulated about a living man, what may we
not expect concerning the dead who have opposed the church?

Countless falsehoods have been circulated about all the opponents of
superstition. Whoever attacks the popular falsehoods of his time will
find that a lie defends itself by telling other lies. Nothing is so
prolific, nothing can so multiply itself, nothing can lay and hatch as
many eggs, as a good, healthy, religious lie.

And nothing is more wonderful than the credulity of the believers in the
supernatural. They feel under a kind of obligation to believe everything
in favor of their religion, or against any form of what they are pleased
to call "Infidelity."

The old falsehoods about Voltaire, Paine, Hume, Julian, Diderot and
hundreds of others, grow green every spring. They are answered; they
are demonstrated to be without the slightest foundation; but they
rarely die. And when one does die there seems to be a kind of Caesarian
operation, so that in each instance although the mother dies the child
lives to undergo, if necessary, a like operation, leaving another child,
and sometimes two.

There are thousands and thousands of tongues ready to repeat what the
owners know to be false, and these lies are a part of the stock in
trade, the valuable assets, of superstition. No church can afford to
throw its property away. To admit that these stories are false now, is
to admit that the church has been busy lying for hundreds of years, and
it is also to admit that the word of the church is not and cannot be
taken as evidence of any fact.

A few years ago, I had a little controversy with the editor of the New
York _Observer_, the Rev. Irenaeus Prime, (who is now supposed to be
in heaven enjoying the bliss of seeing Infidels in hell), as to whether
Thomas Paine recanted his religious opinions. I offered to deposit a
thousand dollars for the benefit of a charity, if the reverend doctor
would substantiate the charge that Paine recanted. I forced the New York
_Observer_ to admit that Paine did not recant, and compelled that paper
to say that "Thomas Paine died a blaspheming Infidel."

A few months afterward an English paper was sent to me—a religious
paper—and in that paper was a statement to the effect that the editor
of the New York _Observer_ had claimed that Paine recanted; that I had
offered to give a thousand dollars to any charity that Mr. Prime might
select, if he would establish the fact that Paine did recant; and that
so overwhelming was the testimony brought forward by Mr. Prime, that I
admitted that Paine did recant, and paid the thousand dollars.

This is another instance of what might be called the truth of history.

I wrote to the editor of that paper, telling the exact facts, and
offering him advertising rates to publish the denial, and in addition,
stated that if he would send me a copy of his paper with the denial, I
would send him twenty-five dollars for his trouble. I received no reply,
and the lie is in all probability still on its travels, going from
Sunday school to Sunday school, from pulpit to pulpit, from hypocrite
to savage,—that is to say, from missionary to Hottentot—without the
slightest evidence of fatigue—fresh and strong, and in its cheeks the
roses and lilies of perfect health.

Some person, expecting to add another gem to his crown of glory, put
in circulation the story that one of my daughters had joined the
Presbyterian Church,—a story without the slightest foundation—and
although denied a hundred times, it is still being printed and
circulated for the edification of the faithful. Every few days I receive
some letter of inquiry as to this charge, and I have industriously
denied it for years, but up to the present time, it shows no signs of
death—not even of weakness.

Another religious gentleman put in print the charge that my son, having
been raised in the atmosphere of Infidelity, had become insane and died
in an asylum. Notwithstanding the fact that I never had a son, the story
still goes right on, and is repeated day after day without the semblance
of a blush.

Now, if all this is done while I am alive and well, and while I have all
the facilities of our century for spreading the denials, what will be
done after my lips are closed?

The mendacity of superstition is almost enough to make a man believe in
the supernatural.

And so I might go on for a hundred columns. Billions of falsehoods have
been told and there are trillions yet to come. The doctrines of Malthus
have nothing to do with this particular kind of reproduction.

"And there are also many other falsehoods which the church has told, the
which if they should be written every one, I suppose that even the world
itself could not contain the books that should be written."—The Truth
Seeker, New York, February, 19,1887.
---
# Thomas Paine (Magazine Article)
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1892_
> "A great man's memory may outlive his life half a year,
> But, by'r lady, he must build churches then."

EIGHTY-THREE years ago Thomas Paine ceased to defend himself. The moment
he became dumb all his enemies found a tongue. He was attacked on every
hand. The Tories of England had been waiting for their revenge. The
believers in kings, in hereditary government, the nobility of every
land, execrated his memory. Their greatest enemy was dead. The believers
in human slavery, and all who clamored for the rights of the States
as against the sovereignty of a Nation, joined in the chorus of
denunciation. In addition to this, the believers in the inspiration of
the Scriptures, the occupants of orthodox pulpits, the professors in
Christian colleges, and the religious historians, were his sworn and
implacable foes.

This man had gratified no ambition at the expense of his fellow-men;
he had desolated no country with the flame and sword of war; he had not
wrung millions from the poor and unfortunate; he had betrayed no trust,
and yet he was almost universally despised. He gave his life for the
benefit of mankind. Day and night for many, many weary years, he labored
for the good of others, and gave himself body and soul to the great
cause of human liberty. And yet he won the hatred of the people for
whose benefit, for whose emancipation, for whose civilization, for whose
exaltation he gave his life.

Against him every slander that malignity could coin and hypocrisy pass
was gladly and joyously taken as genuine, and every truth with regard to
his career was believed to be counterfeit. He was attacked by thousands
where he was defended by one, and the one who defended him was instantly
attacked, silenced, or destroyed.

At last his life has been written by Moncure D. Conway, and the real
history of Thomas Paine, of what he attempted and accomplished, of what
he taught and suffered, has been intelligently, truthfully and candidly
given to the world. Henceforth the slanderer will be without excuse.

He who reads Mr. Conway's pages will find that Thomas Paine was more
than a patriot—that he was a philanthropist—a lover not only of his
country, but of all mankind. He will find that his sympathies were
with those who suffered, without regard to religion or race, country or
complexion. He will find that this great man did not hesitate to attack
the governing class of his native land—to commit what was called
treason against the king, that he might do battle for the rights of
men; that in spite of the prejudices of birth, he took the side of the
American Colonies; that he gladly attacked the political abuses and
absurdities that had been fostered by altars and thrones for many
centuries; that he was for the people against nobles and kings, and that
he put his life in pawn for the good of others.

In the winter of 1774, Thomas Paine came to America. After a time he was
employeed as one of the writers on the _Pennsylvania Magazine._

Let us see what he did, calculated to excite the hatred of his
fellow-men.

The first article he ever wrote in America, and the first ever published
by him anywhere, appeared in that magazine on the 8th of 'March, 1775.
It was an attack on American slavery—a plea for the rights of the
negro. In that article will be found substantially all the arguments
that can be urged against that most infamous of all institutions. Every
is full of humanity, pity, tenderness, and love of justice.

Five days after this article appeared the American Anti-Slavery Society
was formed. Certainly this should not excite our hatred. To-day the
civilized world agrees with the essay written by Thomas Paine in 1775.

At that time great interests were against him. The owners of slaves
became his enemies, and the pulpits, supported by slave labor, denounced
this abolitionist.

The next article published by Thomas Paine, in the same magazine, and
for the next month, was an attack on the practice of dueling, showing
that it was barbarous, that it did not even tend to settle the right or
wrong of a dispute, that it could not be defended on any just grounds,
and that its influence was degrading and cruel. The civilized world now
agrees with the opinions of Thomas Paine upon that barbarous practice.

In May, 1775, appeared in the same magazine another article written by
Thomas Paine, a Protest Against Cruelty to Animals. He began the work
that was so successfully and gloriously carried out by Henry Bergh,
one of the noblest, one of the grandest, men that this continent has
produced.

The good people of this world agree with Thomas Paine.

In August of the same year he wrote a plea for the Rights of Woman, the
first ever published in the New World. Certainly he should not be hated
for that.

He was the first to suggest a union of the colonies. Before the
Declaration of Independence was issued, Paine had written of and about
the Free and Independent States of America. He had also spoken of the
United Colonies as the "Glorious Union," and he was the first to write
these words: "The United States of America."

In May, 1775, Washington said: "If you ever hear of me joining in any
such measure (as separation from Great Britain) you have my leave to set
me down for everything wicked." He had also said; "It is not the wish or
interest of the government (meaning Massachusetts), or of any other upon
this continent, separately or collectively, to set up for independence."
And in the same year Benjamin Franklin assured Chatham that no one in
America was in favor of separation. As a matter of fact, the people
of the colonies wanted a redress of their grievances—they were not
dreaming of separation, of independence.

In 1775 Paine wrote the pamphlet known as "Common Sense." This was
published on the 10th of January, 1776. It was the first appeal for
independence, the first cry for national life, for absolute separation.
No pamphlet, no book, ever kindled such a sudden conflagration,—a
purifying flame, in which the prejudices and fears of millions were
consumed. To read it now, after the lapse of more than a hundred years,
hastens the blood. It is but the meagre truth to say that Thomas Paine
did more for the cause of separation, to sow the seeds of independence,
than any other man of his time. Certainly we should not despise him for
this. The Declaration of Independence followed, and in that declaration
will be found not only the thoughts, but some of the expressions of
Thomas Paine.

During the war, and in the very darkest hours, Paine wrote what is
called "The Crisis," a series of pamphlets giving from time to time
his opinion of events, and his prophecies. These marvelous publications
produced an effect nearly as great as the pamphlet "Common Sense." These
strophes, written by the bivouac fires, had in them the soul of battle.

In all he wrote, Paine was direct and natural. He touched the very heart
of the subject. He was not awed by names or titles, by place or power.
He never lost his regard for truth, for principle—never wavered in his
allegiance to reason, to what he believed to be right. His arguments
were so lucid, so unanswerable, his comparisons and analogies so apt, so
unexpected, that they excited the passionate admiration of friends
and the unquenchable hatred of enemies. So great were these appeals to
patriotism, to the love of liberty, the pride of independence, the glory
of success, that it was said by some of the best and greatest of that
time that the American cause owed as much to the pen of Paine as to the
sword of Washington.

On the 2d day of November, 1779, there was introduced into the Assembly
of Pennsylvania an act for the abolition of slavery. The preamble was
written by Thomas Paine. To him belongs the honor and glory of having
written the first Proclamation of Emancipation in America—Paine the
first, Lincoln the last.

Paine, of all others, succeeded in getting aid for the struggling
colonies from France. "According to Lamartine, the King, Louis XVI.,
loaded Paine with favors, and a gift of six millions was confided into
the hands of Franklin and Paine. On the 25th of August, 1781, Paine
reached Boston bringing two million five hundred thousand livres in
silver, and in convoy a ship laden with clothing and military stores."

"In November, 1779, Paine was elected clerk to the General Assembly
of Pennsylvania. In 1780, the Assembly received a letter from General
Washington in the field, saying that he feared the distresses in the
army would lead to mutiny in the ranks. This letter was read by Paine to
the Assembly. He immediately wrote to Blair McClenaghan, a Philadelphia
merchant, explaining the urgency, and inclosing five hundred dollars,
the amount of salary due him as clerk, as his contribution towards
a relief fund. The merchant called a meeting the next day, and read
Paine's letter. A subscription list was immediately circulated, and in
a short time about one million five hundred thousand dollars was raised.
With this capital the Pennsylvania bank—afterwards the bank of North
America—was established for the relief of the army."

In 1783 "Paine wrote a memorial to Chancellor Livingston, Secretary of
Foreign Affairs, Robert Morris, Minister of Finance, and his assistant,
urging the necessity of adding a Continental Legislature to Congress, to
be elected by the several States. Robert Morris invited the Chancellor
and a number of eminent men to meet Paine at dinner, where his plea
for a stronger Union was discussed and approved. This was probably the
earliest of a series of consultations preliminary to the Constitutional
Convention."

"On the 19th of April, 1783, it being the eighth anniversary of the
Battle of Lexington, Paine printed a little pamphlet entitled 'Thoughts
on Peace and the Probable Advantages Thereof.'" In this pamphlet
he pleads for "a supreme Nationality absorbing all cherished
sovereignties." Mr. Conway calls this pamphlet Paine's "Farewell
Address," and gives the following extract:

"It was the cause of America that made me an author. The force with
which it struck my mind, and the dangerous condition in which
the country was in, by courting an impossible and an unnatural
reconciliation with those who were determined to reduce her, instead of
striking out into the only line that could save her,—a Declaration
of Independence.—made it impossible for me, feeling as I did, to be
silent; and if, in the course of more than seven years, I have rendered
her any service, I have likewise added something to the reputation of
literature, by freely and disinterestedly employing it in the great
cause of mankind.... But as the scenes of war are closed, and every
man preparing for home and happier times, I therefore take leave of the
subject. I have most sincerely followed it from beginning to end, and
through all its turns and windings; and whatever country I may hereafter
be in, I shall always feel an honest pride at the part I have taken and
acted, and a gratitude to nature and providence for putting it in my
power to be of some use to mankind."

Paine had made some enemies, first, by attacking African slavery, and,
second, by insisting upon the sovereignty of the Nation.

During the Revolution our forefathers, in order to justify making war
on Great Britain, were compelled to take the ground that all men are
entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. In no other way
could they justify their action. After the war, the meaner instincts
began to take possession of the mind, and those who had fought for
their own liberty were perfectly willing to enslave others. We must
also remember that the Revolution was begun and carried on by a noble
minority—that the majority were really in favor of Great Britain and
did what they dared to prevent the success of the American cause. The
minority, however, had control of affairs. They were active, energetic,
enthusiastic, and courageous, and the majority were overawed, shamed,
and suppressed. But when peace came, the majority asserted themselves
and the interests of trade and commerce were consulted. Enthusiasm
slowly died, and patriotism was mingled with the selfishness of traffic.

But, after all, the enemies of Paine were few, the friends were many.
He had the respect and admiration of the greatest and the best, and was
enjoying the fruits of his labor.

The Revolution was ended, the colonies were free. They had been united,
they formed a Nation, and the United States of America had a place on
the map of the world.

Paine was not a politician. He had not labored for seven years to get an
office. His services were no longer needed in America. He concluded to
educate the English people, to inform them of their rights, to expose
the pretences, follies and fallacies, the crimes and cruelties of
nobles, kings, and parliaments. In the brain and heart of this man were
the dream and hope of the universal republic. He had confidence in the
people. He hated tyranny and war, despised the senseless pomp and vain
show of crowned robbers, laughed at titles, and the "honorable" badges
worn by the obsequious and servile, by fawners and followers; loved
liberty with all his heart, and bravely fought against those who could
give the rewards of place and gold, and for those who could pay only
with thanks.

Hoping to hasten the day of freedom, he wrote the "Rights of Man"—a
book that laid the foundation for all the real liberty that the English
now enjoy—a book that made known to Englishmen the Declaration of
Nature, and convinced millions that all are children of the same
mother, entitled to share equally in her gifts. Every Englishman who
has outgrown the ideas of 1688 should remember Paine with love and
reverence. Every Englishman who has sought to destroy abuses, to lessen
or limit the prerogatives of the crown, to extend the suffrage, to do
away with "rotten boroughs," to take taxes from knowledge, to increase
and protect the freedom of speech and the press, to do away with
bribes under the name of pensions, and to make England a government of
principles rather than of persons, has been compelled to adopt the creed
and use the arguments of Thomas Paine. In England every step toward
freedom has been a triumph of Paine over Burke and Pitt. No man ever
rendered a greater service to his native land.

The book called the "Rights of Man" was the greatest contribution that
literature had given to liberty. It rests on the bed-rock. No attention
is paid to precedents except to show that they are wrong. Paine was not
misled by the proverbs that wolves had written for sheep. He had the
intelligence to examine for himself, and the courage to publish his
conclusions. As soon as the "Rights of Man" was published the Government
was alarmed. Every effort was made to suppress it. The author was
indicted; those who published, and those who sold, were arrested and
imprisoned. But the new gospel had been preached—a great man had shed
light—a new force had been born, and it was beyond the power of nobles
and kings to undo what the author-hero had done.

To avoid arrest and probable death, Paine left England. He had sown with
brave hand the seeds of thought, and he knew that he had lighted a fire
that nothing could extinguish until England should be free.

The fame of Thomas Paine had reached France in many ways—principally
through Lafayette. His services in America were well known. The pamphlet
"Common Sense" had been published in French, and its effect had been
immense. "The Rights of Man" that had created, and was then creating,
such a stir in England, was also known to the French. The lovers of
liberty everywhere were the friends and admirers of Thomas Paine. In
America, England, Scotland, Ireland, and France he was known as the
defender of popular rights. He had preached a new gospel. He had given a
new Magna Charta to the people.

So popular was Paine in France that he was elected by three
constituencies to the National Convention. He chose to represent Calais.
From the moment he entered French territory he was received with almost
royal honors. He at once stood with the foremost, and was welcomed
by all enlightened patriots. As in America, so in France, he knew no
idleness—he was an organizer and worker. The first thing he did was to
found the first Republican Society, and the next to write its Manifesto,
in which the ground was taken that France did not need a king; that the
people should govern themselves. In this Manifesto was this argument:

"What kind of office must that be in a government which requires
neither experience nor ability to execute? that may be abandoned to the
desperate chance of birth; that may be filled with an idiot, a madman,
a tyrant, with equal effect as with the good, the virtuous, the wise? An
office of this nature is a mere nonentity; it is a place of show, not of
use."

He said:

"I am not the personal enemy of kings. Quite the contrary. No man wishes
more heartily than myself to see them all in the happy and honorable
state of private individuals; but I am the avowed, open and intrepid
enemy of what is called monarchy; and I am such by principles which
nothing can either alter or corrupt, by my attachment to humanity, by
the anxiety which I feel within myself for the dignity and honor of the
human race."

One of the grandest things done by Thomas Paine was his effort to save
the life of Louis XVI. The Convention was in favor of death. Paine was a
foreigner. His career had caused some jealousies. He knew the danger he
was in—that the tiger was already crouching for a spring—but he
was true to his principles. He was opposed to the death penalty. He
remembered that Louis XVI. had been the friend of America, and he very
cheerfully risked his life, not only for the good of France, not only to
save the king, but to pay a debt of gratitude. He asked the Convention
to exile the king to the United States. He asked this as a member of the
Convention and as a citizen of the United States. As an American he felt
grateful not only to the king, but to every Frenchman. He, the adversary
of all kings, asked the Convention to remember that kings were men, and
subject to human frailties. He took still another step, and said: "As
France has been the first of European nations to abolish royalty, let us
also be the first to abolish the punishment of death."

Even after the death of Louis had been voted, Paine made another appeal.
With a courage born of the highest possible sense of duty he said:

"France has but one ally—the United States of America. That is the only
nation that can furnish France with naval provisions, for the kingdoms
of Northern Europe are, or soon will be, at war with her. It happens
that the person now under discussion is regarded in America as a
deliverer of their country. I can assure you that his execution will
there spread universal sorrow, and it is in your power not thus to wound
the feelings of your ally. Could I speak the French language I would
descend to your bar, and in their name become your petitioner to respite
the execution of your sentence on Louis. Ah, citizens, give not the
tyrant of England the triumph of seeing the man perish on the scaffold
who helped my dear brothers of America to break his chains."

This was worthy of the man who had said: "Where Liberty is _not_, there
is my country."

Paine was second on the committee to prepare the draft of a constitution
for France to be submitted to the Convention. He was the real author,
not only of the draft of the Constitution, but of the Declaration of
Rights.

In France, as in America, he took the lead. His first thoughts seemed
to be first principles. He was clear because he was profound. People
without ideas experience great difficulty in finding words to express
them.

From the moment that Paine cast his vote in favor of mercy—in favor of
life—the shadow of the guillotine was upon him. He knew that when he
voted for the King's life, he voted for his own death. Paine remembered
that the king had been the friend of America, and to him ingratitude
seemed the worst of crimes. He worked to destroy the monarch, not the
man; the king, not the friend. He discharged his duty and accepted
death. This was the heroism of goodness—the sublimity of devotion.

Believing that his life was near its close, he made up his mind to give
to the world his thoughts concerning "revealed religion." This he
had for some time intended to do, but other matters had claimed his
attention. Feeling that there was no time to be lost, he wrote the first
part of the "Age of Reason," and gave the manuscript to Joel Barlow.
Six hours after, he was arrested. The second part was written in prison
while he was waiting for death.

Paine clearly saw that men could not be really free, or defend the
freedom they had, unless they were free to think and speak. He knew that
the church was the enemy of liberty, that the altar and throne were in
partnership, that they helped each other and divided the spoils.

He felt that, being a man, he had the right to examine the creeds and
the Scriptures for himself, and that, being an honest man, it was his
duty and his privilege to tell his fellow-men the conclusions at which
he arrived.

He found that the creeds of all orthodox churches were absurd and cruel,
and that the Bible was no better. Of course he found that there were
some good things in the creeds and in the Bible. These he defended, but
the infamous, the inhuman, he attacked.

In matters of religion he pursued the same course that he had in things
political. He depended upon experience, and above all on reason. He
refused to extinguish the light in his own soul. He was true to himself,
and gave to others his honest thoughts. He did not seek wealth, or
place, or fame. He sought the truth.

He had felt it to be his duty to attack the institution of slavery in
America, to raise his voice against dueling, to plead for the rights
of woman, to excite pity for the sufferings of domestic animals,
the speechless friends of man; to plead the cause of separation, of
independence, of American nationality, to attack the abuses and crimes
of mon-archs, to do what he could to give freedom to the world.

He thought it his duty to take another step. Kings asserted that they
derived their power, their right to govern, from God. To this assertion
Paine replied with the "Rights of Man." Priests pretended that they were
the authorized agents of God. Paine replied with the "Age of Reason."

This book is still a power, and will be as long as the absurdities
and cruelties of the creeds and the Bible have defenders. The "Age of
Reason" affected the priests just as the "Rights of Man" affected nobles
and kings. The kings answered the arguments of Paine with laws, the
priests with lies. Kings appealed to force, priests to fraud. Mr. Conway
has written in regard to the "Age of Reason" the most impressive and the
most interesting chapter in his book.

Paine contended for the rights of the individual,—tor the jurisdiction
of the soul. Above all religions he placed Reason, above all kings, Men,
and above all men, Law.

The first part of the "Age of Reason" was written in the shadow of a
prison, the second part in the gloom of death. From that shadow, from
that gloom, came a flood of light. This testament, by which the wealth
of a marvelous brain, the love of a great and heroic heart were given to
the world, was written in the presence of the scaffold, when the writer
believed he was giving his last message to his fellow-men.

The "Age of Reason" was his crime.

Franklin, Jefferson, Sumner and Lincoln, the four greatest statesmen
that America has produced, were believers in the creed of Thomas Paine.

The Universalists and Unitarians have found their best weapons, their
best arguments, in the "Age of Reason."

Slowly, but surely, the churches are adopting not only the arguments,
but the opinions of the great Reformer.

Theodore Parker attacked the Old Testament and Calvinistic theology
with the same weapons and with a bitterness excelled by no man who has
expressed his thoughts in our language.

Paine was a century in advance of his time. If he were living now
his sympathy would be with Savage, Chadwick, Professor Briggs and the
"advanced theologians." He, too, would talk about the "higher criticism"
and the latest definition of "inspiration." These advanced thinkers
substantially are repeating the "Age of Reason." They still wear the
old uniform—clinging to the toggery of theology—but inside of their
religious rags they agree with Thomas Paine.

Not one argument that Paine urged against the inspiration of the Bible,
against the truth of miracles, against the barbarities and infamies of
the Old Testament, against the pretensions of priests and the claims of
kings, has ever been answered.

His arguments in favor of the existence of what he was pleased to call
the God of Nature were as weak as those of all Theists have been. But
in all the affairs of this world, his clearness of vision, lucidity
of expression, cogency of argument, aptness of comparison, power
of statement and comprehension of the subject in hand, with all its
bearings and consequences, have rarely, if ever, been excelled.

He had no reverence for mistakes because they were old. He did not
admire the castles of Feudalism even when they were covered with ivy. He
not only said that the Bible was not inspired, but he demonstrated that
it could not all be true. This was "brutal." He presented arguments so
strong, so clear, so convincing, that they could not be answered. This
was "vulgar."

He stood for liberty against kings, for humanity against creeds and
gods. This was "cowardly and low." He gave his life to free and civilize
his fellow-men. This was "infamous."

Paine was arrested and imprisoned in December, 1793. He was, to say the
least, neglected by Gouverneur Morris and Washington. He was released
through the efforts of James Monroe, in November, 1794. He was called
back to the Convention, but too late to be of use. As most of the actors
had suffered death, the tragedy was about over and the curtain was
falling. Paine remained in Paris until the "Reign of Terror" was ended
and that of the Corsican tyrant had commenced.

Paine came back to America hoping to spend the remainder of his life
surrounded by those for whose happiness and freedom he had labored so
many years. He expected to be rewarded with the love and reverence of
the American people.

In 1794 James Monroe had written to Paine these words:

"It is unnecessary for me to tell you how much all your countrymen, I
speak of the great mass of the people, are interested in your welfare.
They have not forgot the history of their own Revolution and the
difficult scenes through which they passed; nor do they review its
several stages without reviving in their bosoms a due sensibility of the
merits of those who served them in that great and arduous conflict. The
crime of ingratitude has not yet stained, and I hope never will stain,
our national character. You are considered by them as not only having
rendered important services in our own Revolution, but as being on a
more extensive scale the friend of human rights and a distinguished and
able advocate of public liberty. To the welfare of Thomas Paine we are
not and cannot be indifferent."

In the same year Mr. Monroe wrote a letter to the Committee of General
Safety, asking for the release of Mr. Paine, in which, among other
things, he said:

"The services Thomas Paine rendered to his country in its struggle
for freedom have implanted in the hearts of his countrymen a sense of
gratitude never to be effaced as long as they shall deserve the title of
a just and generous people."

On reaching America, Paine found that the sense of gratitude had been
effaced. He found that the Federalists hated him with all their hearts
because he believed in the rights of the people and was still true
to the splendid principles advocated during the darkest days of the
Revolution. In almost every pulpit he found a malignant and implacable
foe, and the pews were filled with his enemies. The slaveholders
hated him. He was held responsible even for the crimes of the French
Revolution. He was regarded as a blasphemer, an Atheist, an enemy of God
and man. The ignorant citizens of Bordentown, as cowardly as orthodox,
longed to mob the author of "Common Sense" and "The Crisis." They
thought he had sold himself to the Devil because he had defended God
against the slanderous charges that he had inspired the writers of the
Bible—because he had said that a being of infinite goodness and purity
did not establish slavery and polygamy.

Paine had insisted that men had the right to think for themselves. This
so enraged the average American citizen that he longed for revenge.

In 1802 the people of the United States had exceedingly crude ideas
about the liberty of thought and expression Neither had they any
conception of religious freedom. Their highest thought on that subject
was expressed by the word "toleration," and even this toleration
extended only to the various Christian sects. Even the vaunted religious
liberty of colonial Maryland was only to the effect that one kind of
Christian should not fine, imprison and kill another kind of Christian,
but all kinds of Christians had the right, and it was their duty, to
brand, imprison and kill Infidels of every kind.

Paine had been guilty of thinking for himself and giving his conclusions
to the world without having asked the consent of a priest—just as he
had published his political opinions without leave of the king. He had
published his thoughts on religion and had appealed to reason—to the
light in every mind, to the humanity, the pity, the goodness which he
believed to be in every heart. He denied the right of kings to make laws
and of priests to make creeds. He insisted that the people should make
laws, and that every human being should think for himself. While some
believed in the freedom of religion, he believed in the religion of
freedom.

If Paine had been a hypocrite, if he had concealed his opinions, if he
had defended slavery with quotations from the "sacred Scriptures"—if
he had cared nothing for the liberties of men in other lands—if he had
said that the state could not live without the church—if he had sought
for place instead of truth, he would have won wealth and power, and his
brow would have been crowned with the laurel of fame.

He made what the pious call the "mistake" of being true to himself—of
living with an unstained soul. He had lived and labored for the people.
The people were untrue' to him. They returned evil for good, hatred for
benefits received, and yet this great chivalric soul remembered their
ignorance and loved them with all his heart, and fought their oppressors
with all his strength.

We must remember what the churches and creeds were in that day, what the
theologians really taught, and what the people believed. To save a few
in spite of their vices, and to damn the many without regard to their
virtues, and all for the glory of the Damner:—_this was Calvinism_. "He
that hath ears to hear, let him hear," but he that hath a brain to think
must not think. He that believeth without evidence is good, and he that
believeth in spite of evidence is a saint. Only the wicked doubt, only
the blasphemer denies. _This was orthodox Christianity_.

Thomas Paine had the courage, the sense, the heart, to denounce these
horrors, these absurdities, these infinite infamies. He did what he
could to drive these theological vipers, these Calvinistic cobras, these
fanged and hissing serpents of superstition from the heart of man.

A few civilized men agreed with him then, and the world has progressed
since 1809. Intellectual wealth has accumulated; vast mental estates
have been left to the world. Geologists have forced secrets from the
rocks, astronomers from the stars, historians from old records and lost
languages. In every direction the thinker and the investigator have
ventured and explored, and even the pews have begun to ask questions of
the pulpits. Humboldt has lived, and Darwin and Haeckel and Huxley, and
the armies led by them, have changed the thought of the world.

The churches of 1809 could not be the friends of Thomas Paine. No church
asserting that belief is necessary to salvation ever was, or ever will
be, the champion of true liberty. A church founded on slavery—that
is to say, on blind obedience, worshiping irresponsible and arbitrary
power, must of necessity be the enemy of human freedom.

The orthodox churches are now anxious to save the little that Paine left
of their creed. If one now believes in God, and lends a little financial
aid, he is considered a good and desirable member. He need not define
God after the manner of the catechism. He may talk about a "Power that
works for righteousness," or the tortoise Truth that beats the rabbit
Lie in the long run, or the "Unknowable," or the "Unconditioned," or
the "Cosmic Force," or the "Ultimate Atom," or "Protoplasm," or the
"What"—provided he begins this word with a capital.

We must also remember that there is a difference between independence
and liberty. Millions have fought for independence—to throw off some
foreign yoke—and yet were at heart the enemies of true liberty. A man
in jail, sighing to be free, may be said to be in favor of liberty, but
not from principle; but a man who, being free, risks or gives his life
to free the enslaved, is a true soldier of liberty.

Thomas Paine had passed the legendary limit of life. One by one most of
his old friends and acquaintances had deserted him. Maligned on
every side, execrated, shunned and abhorred—his virtues denounced as
vices—his services forgotten—his character blackened, he preserved the
poise and balance of his soul. He was a victim of the people, but his
convictions remained unshaken. He was still a soldier in the army
of freedom, and still tried to enlighten and civilize those who were
impatiently waiting for his death. Even those who loved their enemies
hated him, their friend—the friend of the whole world—with all their
hearts.

On the 8th of June, 1809, death came—Death, almost his only friend.

At his funeral no pomp, no pageantry, no civic procession, no military
display. In a carriage, a woman and her son who had lived on the
bounty of the dead—On horseback, a Quaker, the humanity of whose heart
dominated the creed of his head—and, following on foot, two negroes
filled with gratitude—constituted the funeral cortege of Thomas Paine.

He who had received the gratitude of many millions, the thanks of
generals and statesmen—he who had been the friend and companion of the
wisest and best—he who had taught a people to be free, and whose words
had inspired armies and enlightened nations, was thus given back to
Nature, the mother of us all.

If the people of the great Republic knew the life of this generous, this
chivalric man, the real story of his services, his sufferings and his
triumphs—of what he did to compel the robed and crowned, the priests
and kings, to give back to the people liberty, the jewel of the soul; if
they knew that he was the first to write, "The Religion of Humanity";
if they knew that he, above all others, planted and watered the seeds
of independence, of union, of nationality, in the hearts of our
forefathers—that his words were gladly repeated by the best and bravest
in many lands; if they knew that he attempted, by the purest means, to
attain the noblest and loftiest ends—that he was original, sincere,
intrepid, and that he could truthfully say: "The world is my country, to
do good my religion"—if the people only knew all this—the truth—they
would repeat the words of Andrew Jackson: "Thomas Paine needs no
monument made with hands; he has erected a monument in the hearts of all
lovers of liberty."—North American Review, August, 1893.
---
# Trial of C. B. Reynolds for Blasphemy
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1887_
Address to the Jury.

> * Within thirty miles of New York, in the city of
> Morristown, New Jersey, a man was put on trial yesterday for
> distributing a pamphlet argument against the infallibility
> of the Bible. The crime which the Indictment alleges Is
> Blasphemy, for which the statutes of New Jersey provide a
> penalty of two hundred dollars fine, or twelve months
> imprisonment, or both. It is the first case of the kind ever
> tried in New Jersey, although the law dates back to colonial
> days. Charles B. Reynolds is the man on trial, and the State
> of New Jersey, through the Prosecuting Attorney of Morris
> County, is the prosecutor. The Circuit Court, Judge Francis
> Child, assisted by County Judges Munson and Quimby, sit upon
> the case. Prosecutor Wilder W. Cutler represents the State,
> and Robert G. Ingersoll appears for the defendant.

> Mr. Reynolds went to Boonton last summer to hold "free-
> thought" meetings. Announcing his purpose without any
> flourish, he secured a piece of ground, pitched a tent upon
> it, and invited the towns-people to come and hear him. It
> was understood that he had been a Methodist minister: that,
> finding it impossible to reconcile his mind to some of the
> historical parts of the Bible, and unable to accept it in
> its entirety as a moral guide, he left the church and set
> out to proclaim his conclusions. The churches in Boonton
> arrayed themselves against him. The Catholics and Methodists
> were especially active. Taking this opposition as an excuse,
> one element of the town invaded his tent. They pelted
> Reynolds with ancient eggs and vegetables. They chopped away
> the guy ropes of the tent and slashed the canvas with their
> knives. When the tent collapsed, the crowd rushed for the
> speaker to inflict further punishment by plunging him in the
> duck pond They rummaged the wrecked tent, but in vain. He
> had made his way ont in the confusion and was no more seen
> in Boonton.

> But what he had said did not leave Boonton with him, and the
> pamphlets he had distributed were read by many who probably
> would not have looked between their covers had his visit
> been attended by no unusual circumstances. Boonton was still
> agitated up on the subject when Mr. Reynolds appeared in
> Morristown. This time he did not try to hold meetings, but
> had his pamphlets with him.

> Mr. Reynolds appeared in Morristown with the pamphlets on
> October thirteenth. A Boonton delegation was there,
> clamoring for his indictment for blasphemy. The Grand Jury
> heard of his visit and found two indictments against him;
> one for blasphemy at

> Boonton and the second for blasphemy at Morristown. He
> furnished a five hundred dollar bond to appear for trial. On
> account of Colonel Ingersoll's throat troubles the case was
> adjourned several times through the winter and until Monday
> last, when it was set peremptorily for trial yesterday.

> The public feeling excited at Boonton was overshadowed by
> that at Morristown and the neighboring region. For six
> months no topic was so interesting to the public as this. It
> monopolized attention at the stores, and became a fruitful
> subject of gossip in social and church circles. Under such
> circumstances it was to be expected that everybody who could
> spare the time would go to court yesterday. Lines of people
> began to climb the court house hill early in the morning. At
> the hour of opening court the room set apart for the trial
> was packed, and distaffs had to be stationed at the foot of
> the stairs to keep back those who were not early enough.
> From nine thirty to eleven o'clock the crowd inside talked
> of blasphemy in all the phases suggested by this case, and
> the outsiders waited patiently on the lawn and steps and
> along the dusty approaches to the gray building.

> Eleven o'clock brought the train from New York and on it
> Colonel Ingersoll. His arrival at the court house with his
> clerk opened a new chapter in the day's gossip. The event
> was so absorbing indeed, that the crowd failed entirely to
> notice an elderly man wearing a black frock snit, a silk
> hat, with an army badge pinned to his coat, and looking like
> a merchant of means, who entered the court house a few
> minutes behind the famous lawyer. The last comer was the
> defendant.

> All was ready for the case. Within five minutes five jurors
> were in the box. Then Colonel Ingersoll asked what were his
> rights about challenges. He was informed that he might make
> six peremptory challenges and must challenge before the
> jurors took their seats. The only disqualification the Court
> would recognize would be the inability of a juror to change
> his opinion in spite of evidence. Colonel Ingersoll induced
> the Court to let him examine the five in the box and
> promptly ejected two Presbyterians.

> Thereafter Colonel Ingersoll examined every juror as soon as
> presented. He asked particularly about the nature of each
> man's prejudice, if he had one. To a juror who did not know
> that he understood the word, the Colonel replied: "I may not
> define the word legally, but my own idea is that a man is
> prejudiced when he has made up his mind on a case without
> knowing anything about it." This juror thought that he came
> under that category.

> Presbyterians had a rather hard time with the examiner.
> After twenty men had been examined and the defence had
> exercised five of its peremptory challenges, the following
> were sworn as jurymen. * * * *

> The jury having been sworn, Prosecutor Cutler announced that
> he would try only the indictment for the offence in
> Morristown. He said that Reynolds was charged with
> distributing pamphlets containing matter claimed to be
> blasphemous under the law. If the charge could be proved he
> asked a verdict of guilty. Then he called sixteen towns-
> people, to most of whom Reynolds had given a pamphlet.

> Colonel Ingersoll tried to get the Presbyterian witnesses to
> say that they had read the pamphlet. Not one of them
> admitted it. Further than this he attempted no
> cross-examination.

> "I do not know that I shall have any witnesses one way or
> the other," Colonel Ingersoll said, rising to suggest a
> recess. "Perhaps after dinner I may feel like making a few
> remarks."

> "There will be great disappointment if you do not" Judge
> Child responded, in a tone that meant a word for himself as
> well as for the other listeners. The spectators nodded
> approval to this sentiment. At 4:20 o'clock Col. Ingersoll
> having spoken since 2 o'clock, Judge Child adjourned court
> until this morning.

> As Colonel Ingersoll left the room a throng pressed after
> him to offer congratulations. One old man said: "Colonel
> Ingersoll I am a Presbyterian pastor, but I must say that
> was the noblest speech in defence of liberty I ever heard!
> Your hand, sir; your hand,"—The Times, New York, May
> 20,1887.

GENTLEMEN of the Jury: I regard this as one of the most important cases
that can be submitted to a jury. It is not a case that involves a little
property, neither is it one that involves simply the liberty of one man.
It involves the freedom of speech, the intellectual liberty of every
citizen of New Jersey.

The question to be tried by you is whether a man has the right to
express his honest thought; and for that reason there can be no case of
greater importance submitted to a jury. And it may be well enough for
me, at the outset, to admit that there could be no case in which I could
take a greater—a deeper interest. For my part, I would not wish to live
in a world where I could not express my honest opinions. Men who deny to
others the right of speech are not fit to live with honest men.

I deny the right of any man, of any number of men, of any church, of
any State, to put a padlock on the lips—to make the tongue a convict.
I passionately deny the right of the Herod of authority to kill the
children of the brain. A man has a right to work with his hands, to
plow the earth, to sow the seed, and that man has a right to reap the
harvest. If we have not that right, then all are slaves except those who
take these rights from their fellow-men. If you have the right to
work with your hands and to gather the harvest for yourself and your
children, have you not a right to cultivate your brain? Have you not the
right to read, to observe, to investigate—and when you have so read and
so investigated, have you not the right to reap that field? And what
is it to reap that field? It is simply to express what you have
ascertained—simply to give your thoughts to your fellow-men.

If there is one subject in this world worthy of being discussed, worthy
of being understood, it is the question of intellectual liberty. Without
that, we are simply painted clay; without that, we are poor, miserable
serfs and slaves. If you have not the right to express your opinions,
if the defendant has not this right, then no man ever walked beneath
the blue of heaven that had the right to express his thought. If others
claim the right, where did they get it? How did they happen to have it,
and how did you happen to be deprived of it? Where did a church or a
nation get that right?

Are we not all children of the same Mother? Are we not all compelled to
think, whether we wish to or not? Can you help thinking as you do? When
you look out upon the woods, the fields,—when you look at the solemn
splendors of the night—these things produce certain thoughts in your
mind, and they produce them necessarily. No man can think as he desires.
No man controls the action of his brain, any more than he controls the
action of his heart. The blood pursues its old accustomed ways in spite
of you. The eyes see, if you open them, in spite of you. The ears hear,
if they are unstopped, without asking your permission. And the brain
thinks in spite of you. Should you express that thought? Certainly you
should, if others express theirs. You have exactly the same right. He
who takes it from you is a robber.

For thousands of years people have been trying to force other people
to think their way. Did they succeed? No. Will they succeed? No. Why?
Because brute force is not an argument. You can stand with the lash over
a man, or you can stand by the prison door, or beneath the gallows, or
by the stake, and say to this man: "Recant or the lash descends, the
prison door is locked upon you, the rope is put about your neck, or the
torch is given to the fagot." And so the man recants. Is he convinced?
Not at all. Have you produced a new argument? Not the slightest. And
yet the ignorant bigots of this world have been trying for thousands of
years to rule the minds of men by brute force. They have endeavored to
improve the mind by torturing the flesh—to spread religion with the
sword and torch. They have tried to convince their brothers by putting
their feet in iron boots, by putting fathers, mothers, patriots,
philosophers and philanthropists in dungeons. And what has been the
result? Are we any nearer thinking alike to-day than we were then?

No orthodox church ever had power that it did not endeavor to make
people think its way by force and flame. And yet every church that
ever was established commenced in the minority, and while it was in the
minority advocated free speech—every one. John Calvin, the founder
of the Presbyterian Church, while he lived in France, wrote a book on
religious toleration in order to show that all men had an equal right to
think; and yet that man afterward, clothed in a little authority, forgot
all his sentiments about religious liberty, and had poor Servetus burned
at the stake, for differing with him on a question that neither of them
knew anything about. In the minority, Calvin advocated toleration—in
the majority, he practiced murder.

I want you to understand what has been done in the world to force men
to think alike. It seems to me that if there is some infinite being who
wants us to think alike, he would have made us alike. Why did he not do
so? Why did he make your brain so that you could not by any possibility
be a Methodist? Why did he make yours so that you could not be a
Catholic? And why did he make the brain of another so that he is an
unbeliever—why the brain of another so that he became a Mohammedan—if
he wanted us all to believe alike?

After all, may be Nature is good enough and grand enough and broad
enough to give us the diversity born of liberty. May be, after all, it
would not be best for us all to be just the same. What a stupid world,
if everybody said yes to everything that everybody else might say.

The most important thing in this world is liberty. More important than
food or clothes—more important than gold or houses or lands—more
important than art or science—more important than all religions, is the
liberty of man.

If civilization tends to do away with liberty, then I agree with
Mr. Buckle that civilization is a curse. Gladly would I give up the
splendors of the nineteenth century—gladly would I forget every
invention that has leaped from the brain of man—gladly would I see all
books ashes, all works of art destroyed, all statues broken, and all
the triumphs of the world lost—gladly, joyously would I go back to
the abodes and dens of savagery, if that were necessary to preserve the
inestimable gem of human liberty. So would every man who has a heart and
brain.

How has the church in every age, when in authority, defended itself?
Always by a statute against blasphemy, against argument, against free
speech. And there never was such a statute that did not stain the book
that it was in, and that did not certify to the savagery of the men who
passed it. Never. By making a statute and by defining blasphemy, the
church sought to prevent discussion—sought to prevent argument—sought
to prevent a man giving his honest opinion. Certainly a tenet, a dogma,
a doctrine, is safe when hedged about by a statute that prevents your
speaking against it. In the silence of slavery it exists. It lives
because lips are locked. It lives because men are slaves.

If I understand myself, I advocate only the doctrines that in my
judgment will make this world happier and better. If I know myself,
I advocate only those things that will make a man a better citizen, a
better father, a kinder husband—that will make a woman a better wife,
a better mother—doctrines that will fill every home with sunshine and
with joy. And if I believed that anything I should say to-day would have
any other possible tendency, I would stop. I am a believer in liberty.
That is my religion—to give to every other human being every right
that I claim for myself, and I grant to every other human being, not the
right—because it is his right—but instead of granting I declare that
it is his right, to attack every doctrine that I maintain, to answer
every argument that I urge—in other words, he must have absolute
freedom of speech.

I am a believer in what I call "intellectual hospitality." A man comes
to your door. If you are a gentleman and he appears to be a good man,
you receive him with a smile. You ask after his health. You say: "Take
a chair; are you thirsty, are you hungry, will you not break bread with
me?" That is what a hospitable, good man does—he does not set the dog
on him. Now, how should we treat a new thought? I say that the brain
should be hospitable and say to the new thought: "Come in; sit down; I
want to cross-examine you; I want to find whether you are good or bad;
if good, stay; if bad, I don't want to hurt you—probably you think you
are all right,—but your room is better than your company, and I will
take another idea in your place." Why not? Can any man have the egotism
to say that he has found it all out? No. Every man who has thought,
knows not only how little he knows, but how little every other human
being knows, and how ignorant, after all, the world must be.

There was a time in Europe when the Catholic Church had power. And I
want it distinctly understood with this jury, that while I am opposed
to Catholicism I am not opposed to Catholics—while I am opposed to
Presbyterianism I am not opposed to Presbyterians. I do not fight
people,—I fight ideas, I fight principles, and I never go
into personalities. As I said, I do not hate Presbyterians, but
Presbyterianism—that is, I am opposed to their doctrine. I do not hate
a man that has the rheumatism—I hate the rheumatism when it has a man.
So I attack certain principles because I think they are wrong, but I
always want it understood that I have nothing against persons—nothing
against victims.

There was a time when the Catholic Church was in power in the Old World.
All at once there arose a man called Martin Luther, and what did the
dear old Catholics think? "Oh," they said, "that man and his followers
are going to hell." But they did not go. They were very good people.
They may have been mistaken—I do not know. I think they were right in
their opposition to Catholicism—but I have just as much objection to
the religion they founded as I have to the church they left. But they
thought they were right, and they made very good citizens, and it turned
out that their differing from the Mother Church did not hurt them.
And then after awhile they began to divide, and there arose Baptists;
and-the other gentlemen, who believed in this law that is now in New
Jersey, began cutting off their ears so that they could hear better;
they began putting them in prison so that they would have a chance to
think. But the Baptists turned out to be good folks—first rate—good
husbands, good fathers, good citizens. And in a little while, in
England, the people turned to be Episcopalians, on account of a little
war that Henry VIII. had with the Pope,—and I always sided with the
Pope in that war—but it made no difference; and in a little while
the Episcopalians turned out to be just about like other folks—no
worse—and, as I know of, no better.

After awhile arose the Puritan, and the Episcopalian said, "We don't
want anything of him—he is a bad man;" and they finally drove some of
them away and they settled in New England, and there were among
them Quakers, than whom there never were better people on the
earth—industrious, frugal, gentle, kind and loving—and yet these
Puritans began hanging them. They said: "They are corrupting our
children; if this thing goes on, everybody will believe in being kind
and gentle and good, and what will become of us?" They were honest about
it. So they went to cutting off ears. But the Quakers were good people
and none of the prophecies were fulfilled.

In a little while there came some Unitarians and they said, "The world
is going to ruin, sure;"—but the world went on as usual, and the
Unitarians produced men like Channing—one of the tenderest spirits that
ever lived—they produced men like Theodore Parker—one of the greatest
brained and greatest hearted men produced upon this continent—a good
man—and yet they thought he was a blasphemer—they even prayed for his
death—on their bended knees they asked their God to take time to kill
him. Well, they were mistaken. Honest, probably.

After awhile came the Universalists, who said: "God is good. He will not
damn anybody always, just for a little mistake he made here. This is
a very short life; the path we travel is very dim, and a great many
shadows fall in the way, and if a man happens to stub his toe, God will
not burn him forever." And then all the rest of the sects cried
out, "Why, if you do away with hell, everybody will murder just for
pastime—everybody will go to stealing just to enjoy themselves." But
they did not. The Universalists were good people—just as good as any
others. Most of them much better. None of the prophecies were fulfilled,
and yet the differences existed.

And so we go on until we find people who do not believe the Bible at
all, and when they say they do not, they come within this statute.

Now, gentlemen, I am going to try to show you, first, that this statute
under which Mr. Reynolds is being tried is unconstitutional—that it is
not in harmony with the constitution of New Jersey; and I am going to
try to show you in addition to that, that it was passed hundreds of
years ago, by men who believed it was right to burn heretics and tie
Quakers to the end of a cart; men and even modest women—stripped
naked—and lash them from town to town. They were the men who originally
passed that statute, and I want to show you that it has slept all this
time, and I am informed—I do not know how it is—that there never has
been a prosecution in this State for blasphemy.

Now, gentlemen, what is blasphemy? Of course nobody knows what it is,
unless he takes into consideration where he is. What is blasphemy in
one country would be a religious exhortation, in another. It is owing to
where you are and who is in authority. And let me call your attention
to the impudence and bigotry of the American Christians. We send
missionaries to other countries. What for? To tell them that their
religion is false, that their gods are myths and monsters, that their
saviors and apostles were impostors, and that our religion is true.
You send a man from Morristown—a Presbyterian, over to Turkey. He goes
there, and he tells the Mohammedans—and he has it in a pamphlet and he
distributes it—that the Koran is a lie, that Mohammed was not a prophet
of God, that the angel Gabriel is not so large that it is four hundred
leagues between his eyes—that it is all a mistake—there never was an
angel so large as that. Then what would the Turks do? Suppose the Turks
had a law like this statute in New Jersey. They would put the Morristown
missionary in jail, and he would send home word, and then what would the
people of Morristown say? Honestly—what do you think they would say?
They would say, "Why, look at those poor, heathen wretches. We sent a
man over there armed with the truth, and yet they were so blinded
by their idolatrous religion, so steeped in superstition, that they
actually put that man in prison." Gentlemen, does not that show the need
of more missionaries? I would say, yes.

Now, let us turn the tables. A gentleman comes from Turkey to
Morristown. He has got a pamphlet. He says, "The Koran is the inspired
book, Mohammed is the real prophet, your Bible is false and your Savior
simply a myth." Thereupon the Morristown people put him in jail.
Then what would the Turks say? They would say, "Morristown needs more
missionaries," and I would agree with them.

In other words, what we want is intellectual hospitality. Let the
world talk. And see how foolish this trial is. I have no doubt that the
prosecuting attorney-agrees with me to-day, that whether this law is
good or bad, this trial should not have taken place. And let me tell you
why. Here comes a man into your town and circulates a pamphlet. Now,
if they had just kept still, very few would ever have heard of it. That
would have been the end. The diameter of the echo would have been a few
thousand feet. But in order to stop the discussion of that question,
they indicted this man, and that question has been more discussed in
this country since this indictment than all the discussions put together
since New Jersey was first granted to Charles II.'s dearest brother
James, the Duke of York.. And what else? A trial here that is to be
reported and published all over the United States, a trial that will
give Mr. Reynolds a congregation of fifty millions of people. And yet
this was done for the purpose of stopping a discussion of this subject.
I want to show you that the thing is in itself almost idiotic—that it
defeats itself, and that you cannot crush out these things by force. Not
only so, but Mr. Reynolds has the right to be defended, and his counsel
has the right to give his opinions on this subject.

Suppose that we put Mr. Reynolds in jail. The argument has not been sent
to jail. That is still going the rounds, free as the winds. Suppose you
keep him at hard labor a year—all the time he is there, hundreds and
thousands of people will be reading some account, or some fragment, of
this trial. There is the trouble. If you could only imprison a thought,
then intellectual tyranny might succeed. If you could only take an
argument and put a striped suit of clothes on it—if you could only
take a good, splendid, shining fact and lock it up in some dungeon of
ignorance, so that its light would never again enter the mind of man,
then you might succeed in stopping human progress. Otherwise, no.

Let us see about this particular statute. In the first place, the State
has a constitution. That constitution is a rule, a limitation to the
power of the Legislature, and a certain breastwork for the protection
of private rights, and the constitution says to this sea of passions
and prejudices: "Thus far and no farther." The constitution says to each
individual: "This shall panoply you; this is your complete coat of mail;
this shall defend your rights." And it is usual in this country to make
as a part of each constitution several general declarations—called the
Bill of Rights. So I find that in the old constitution of New Jersey,
which was adopted in the year of grace 1776, although the people at that
time were not educated as they are now—the spirit of the Revolution at
that time not having permeated all classes of society—a declaration in
favor of religious freedom. The people were on the eve of a revolution.
This constitution was adopted on the third day of July, 1776, one day
before the immortal Declaration of Independence. Now, what do we find
in this—and we have got to go by this light, by this torch, when we
examine the statute.

I find in that constitution, in its Eighteenth Section, this: "No person
shall ever in this State be deprived of the inestimable privilege
of worshiping God, in a manner agreeable to the dictates of his own
conscience; nor under any pretence whatever be compelled to attend any
place of worship contrary to his own faith and judgment; nor shall he
be obliged to pay tithes, taxes, or any other rates for the purpose
of building or repairing any church or churches, contrary to what he
believes to be true." That was a very great and splendid step. It was
the divorce of church and state. It no longer allowed the State to levy
taxes for the support of a particular religion, and it said to every
citizen of New Jersey: All that you give for that purpose must be
voluntarily given, and the State will not compel you to pay for the
maintenance of a church in which you do not believe. So far so good.

The next paragraph was not so good. "There shall be no establishment of
any one religious sect in this State in preference to another, and no
Protestant inhabitants of this State shall be denied the enjoyment of
any civil right merely on account of his religious principles; but all
persons professing a belief in the faith of any Protestant sect, who
shall demean themselves peaceably, shall be capable of being elected to
any office of profit or trust, and shall fully and freely enjoy every
privilege and immunity enjoyed by other citizens."

What became of the Catholics under that clause, I do not know—whether
they had any right to be elected to office or not under this Act. But
in 1844, the State having grown civilized in the meantime, another
constitution was adopted. The word Protestant was then left out.
There was to be no establishment of one religion over another. But
Protestantism did not render a man capable of being elected to office
any more than Catholicism, and nothing is said about any religious
belief whatever. So far, so good.

"No religious test shall be required as a qualification for any office
of public trust. No person shall be denied the enjoyment of any civil
right on account of his religious principles."

That is a very broad and splendid provision. "No person shall be denied
any civil right on account of his religious principles." That was
copied from the Virginia constitution, and that clause in the Virginia
constitution was written by Thomas Jefferson, and under that clause men
were entitled to give their testimony in the courts of Virginia whether
they believed in any religion or not, in any bible or not, or in any god
or not.

That same clause was afterward adopted by the State of Illinois, also by
many other States, and wherever that clause is, no citizen can be denied
any civil right on account of his religious principles. It is a broad
and generous clause. This statute, under which this indictment is drawn,
is not in accordance with the spirit of that splendid sentiment. Under
that clause, no man can be deprived of any civil right on account of his
religious principles, or on account of his belief. And yet, on account
of this miserable, this antiquated, this barbarous and savage statute,
the same man who cannot be denied any political or civil right, can be
sent to the penitentiary as a common felon for simply expressing his
honest thought. And before I get through I hope to convince you that
this statute is unconstitutional.

But we will go another step: "Every person may freely speak, write, or
publish his sentiments on all subjects, being responsible for the abuse
of that right."

That is in the constitution of nearly every State in the Union, and the
intention of that is to cover slanderous words—to cover a case where a
man under pretence of enjoying the freedom of speech falsely assails or
accuses his neighbor. Of course he should be held responsible for that
abuse.

Then follows the great clause in the constitution of 1844—more
important than any other clause in that instrument—a clause that shines
in that constitution like a star at night.—

"No law shall be passed to restrain or abridge the liberty of speech or
of the press."

Can anything be plainer—anything be more forcibly stated?

"No law shall be passed to abridge the liberty of speech."

Now, while you are considering this statute, I want you to keep in mind
this other statement:

"No law shall be passed to restrain or abridge the liberty of speech or
of the press."

And right here there is another thing I want to call your attention to.
There is a constitution higher than any statute. There is a law higher
than any constitution. It is the law of the human conscience, and no man
who is a man will defile and pollute his conscience at the bidding of
any legislature. Above all things, one should maintain his selfrespect,
and there is but one way to do that, and that is to live in accordance
with your highest ideal.

There is a law higher than men can make. The facts as they exist in this
poor world—the absolute consequences of certain acts—they are
above all. And this higher law is the breath of progress, the very
outstretched wings of civilization, under which we enjoy the freedom
we have. Keep that in your minds. There never was a legislature great
enough—there never was a constitution sacred enough, to compel a
civilized man to stand between a black man and his liberty. There never
was a constitution great enough to make me stand between any human being
and his right to express his honest thoughts. Such a constitution is an
insult to the human soul, and I would care no more for it than I would
for the growl of a wild beast. But we are not driven to that necessity
here. This constitution is in accord with the highest and noblest
aspirations of the heart—"No law shall be passed to restrain or abridge
the liberty of speech."

Now let us come to this old law—this law that was asleep for a hundred
years before this constitution was adopted—this law coiled like a
snake beneath the foundations of the Government—this law, cowardly,
dastardly—this law passed by wretches who were afraid: to discuss—this
law passed by men who could not, and who knew they could not, defend
their creed—and so they said: "Give us the sword of the State and we
will cleave the heretic down." And this law was made to control the
minority. When the Catholics were in power they visited that law upon
their opponents. When the Episcopalians were in power, they tortured and
burned the poor Catholic who had scoffed and who had denied the truth of
their religion. Whoever was in power used that, and whoever was out of
power cursed that—and yet, the moment he got in power he used it: The
people became civilized—but that law was on the statute book. It simply
remained. There it was, sound asleep—its lips drawn over its long and
cruel teeth. Nobody savage enough to waken it. And it slept on, and New
Jersey has flourished. Men have done well. You have had average health
in this country. Nobody roused the statute until the defendant in this
case went to Boonton, and there made a speech in which he gave his
honest thought, and the people not having an argument handy, threw
stones. Thereupon Mr. Reynolds, the defendant, published a pamphlet on
Blasphemy and in it gave a photograph of the Boonton Christians. That is
his offence. Now let us read this infamous statute:

"_If any person shall willfully blaspheme the holy name of God by
denying, cursing, or contumeliously reproaching his being_"—

I want to say right here—many a man has cursed the God of another man.
The Catholics have cursed the God of the Protestant. The Presbyterians
have cursed the God of the Catholics—charged them with idolatry—cursed
their images, laughed at their ceremonies. And these compliments have
been interchanged between all the religions of the world. But I say here
to-day that no man, unless a raving maniac, ever cursed the God in whom
he believed. No man, no human being, has ever lived who cursed his own
idea of God. He always curses the idea that somebody else entertains. No
human being ever yet cursed what he believed to be infinite wisdom and
infinite goodness—and you know it. Every man on this jury knows that.
He feels that that must be an absolute certainty. Then what have they
cursed? Some God they did not believe in—that is all. And has a man
that right? I say, yes. He has a right to give his opinion of Jupiter,
and there is nobody in Morristown who will deny him that right. But
several thousands years ago it would have been very dangerous for him to
have cursed Jupiter, and yet Jupiter is just as powerful now as he was
then, but the Roman people are not powerful, and that is all there was
to Jupiter—the Roman people.

So there was a time when you could have cursed Zeus, the god of the
Greeks, and like Socrates, they would have compelled you to drink
hemlock. Yet now everybody can curse this god. Why? Is the god dead? No.
He is just as alive as he ever was. Then what has happened? The Greeks
have passed away. That is all. So in all of our churches here. Whenever
a church is in the minority it clamors for free speech. When it gets in
the majority, no. I do not believe the history of the world will show
that any orthodox church when in the majority ever had the courage to
face the free lips of the world. It sends for a constable. And is it
not wonderful that they should do this when they preach the gospel of
universal forgiveness—when they say, "if a man strike you on one cheek
turn to him the other also—but if he laughs at your religion, put him
in the penitentiary"? Is that the doctrine? Is that the law?

Now, read this law. Do you know as I read it I can almost hear John
Calvin laugh in his grave. That would have been a delight to him. It
is written exactly as he would have written it. There never was an
inquisitor who would not have read that law with a malicious smile. The
Christians who brought the fagots and ran with all their might to be at
the burning, would have enjoyed that law. You know that when they used
to burn people for having said something against religion, they used
to cut their tongues out before they burned them. Why? For fear that if
they did not, the poor, burning victims might say something that would
scandalize the Christian gentlemen who were building the fire. All these
persons would have been delighted with this law.

Let us read a little further:

"—_Or by cursing or contumeliously reproaching Jesus Christ_."

Why, whoever did, since the poor man, or the poor God, was crucified?
How did they come to crucify him? Because they did not believe in free
speech in Jerusalem. How else? Because there was a law against blasphemy
in Jerusalem—a law exactly like this. Just think of it. Oh, I tell
you we have passed too many mile-stones on the shining road of human
progress to turn back and wallow in that blood, in that mire.

No: Some men have said that he was simply a man. Some believed that he
was actually a God. Others believed that he was not only a man, but that
he stood as the representative of infinite love and wisdom. No man ever
said one word against that Being for saying "Do unto others as ye would
that others should do unto you." No man ever raised his voice against
him because he said, "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain
mercy." And are they the "merciful" who when some man endeavors to
answer their argument, put him in the penitentiary? No. The trouble is,
the priests—the trouble is, the ministers—the trouble is, the people
whose business it was to tell the meaning of these things, quarreled'
with each other, and they put meanings upon human expressions by malice,
meanings that the words will not bear. And let me be just to them.
I believe that nearly all that has been done in this world has been
honestly done. I believe that the poor savage who kneels down and prays
to a stuffed snake—prays that his little children may recover from the
fever—is honest, and it seems to me that a good God would answer his
prayer if he could, if it was in accordance with wisdom, because the
poor savage was doing the best he could, and no one can do any better
than that.

So I believe that the Presbyterians who used to think that nearly
everybody was going to hell, said exactly what they believed. They were
honest about it, and I would not send one of them to jail—would never
think of such a thing—even if he called the unbelievers of the world
"wretches," "dogs," and "devils." What would I do? I would simply answer
him—that is all; answer him kindly. I might laugh at him a little, but
I would answer him in kindness.

So these divisions of the human mind are natural. They are a necessity.
Do you know that all the mechanics that ever lived—take the best
ones—cannot make two clocks that will run exactly alike one hour, one
minute? They cannot make two pendulums that will beat in exactly the
same time, one beat. If you cannot do that, how are you going to make
hundreds, thousands, billions of people, each with a different quality
and quantity of brain, each clad in a robe of living, quivering flesh,
and each driven by passion's storm over the wild sea of life—how are
you going to make them all think alike? This is the impossible thing
that Christian ignorance and bigotry and malice have been trying to do.
This was the object of the Inquisition and of the foolish Legislature
that passed this statute.

Let me read you another line from this ignorant statute:—

"_Or the Christian religion_."

Well, what is the Christian religion? "If you scoff at the Christian
religion—if you curse the Christian religion." Well what is it?
Gentlemen, you hear Presbyterians every day attack the Catholic
Church. Is that the Christian religion? The Catholic believes it is the
Christian religion, and you have to admit that it is the oldest one, and
then the Catholics turn round and scoff at the Protestants. Is that the
Christian religion? If so, every Christian religion has been cursed
by every other Christian religion. Is not that an absurd and foolish
statute?

I say that the Catholic has the right to attack the Presbyterian and
tell him, "Your doctrine is all wrong." I think he has the right to say
to him, "You are leading thousands to hell." If he believes it, he not
only has the right to say it, but it is his duty to say it; and if the
Presbyterian really believes the Catholics are all going to the devil,
it is his duty to say so. Why not? I will never have any religion that
I cannot defend—that is, that I do not believe I can defend. I may be
mistaken, because no man is absolutely certain that he knows. We all
understand that. Every one is liable to be mistaken. The horizon of each
individual is very narrow, and in his poor sky the stars are few and
very small.

"_Or the Word of God_—"

What is that?

"_The canonical Scriptures contained in the books of the Old and New
Testaments_."

Now, what has a man the right to say about that? Has he the right to
show that the book of Revelation got into the canon by one vote, and one
only? Has he the right to show that they passed in convention upon what
books they would put in and what they would not? Has he the right
to show that there were twenty-eight books called "The Books of the
Hebrew's"? Has he the right to show that? Has he the right to show that
Martin Luther said he did not believe there was one solitary word of
gospel in the Epistle to the Romans? Has he the right to show that some
of these books were not written till nearly two hundred years afterward?
Has he the right to say it, if he believes it? I do not say whether this
is true or not, but has a man the right to say it if he believes it?

Suppose I should read the Bible all through right here in Morristown,
and after I got through I should make up my mind that it is not a true
book—what ought I to say? Ought I to clap my hand over my mouth and
start for another State, and the minute I got over the line say, "It is
not true, It is not true"? Or, ought I to have the right and privilege
of saying right here in New Jersey, "My fellow-citizens, I have read
the book—I do not believe that it is the word of God"? Suppose I read
it and think it is true, then I am bound to say so. If I should go to
Turkey and read the Koran and make up my mind that it is false, you
would all say that I was a miserable poltroon if I did not say so.

By force you can make hypocrites—men who will agree with you from the
teeth out, and in their hearts hate you. We want no more hypocrites.
We have enough in every community. And how are you going to keep from
having more? By having the air free,—by wiping from your statute books
such miserable and infamous laws as this.

"_The Holy Scriptures_."

Are they holy? Must a man be honest? Has he the right to be sincere?
There are thousands of things in the Scriptures that everybody believes.
Everybody believes the Scriptures are right when they say, "Thou shalt
not steal"—everybody. And when they say "Give good measure, heaped up
and running over," everybody says, "Good!" So when they say "Love your
neighbor," everybody applauds that. Suppose a man believes that, and
practices it, does it make any difference whether he believes in the
flood or not? Is that of any importance? Whether a man built an ark or
not—does that make the slightest difference? A man might deny it and
yet be a very good man. Another might believe it and be a very mean
man. Could it now, by any possibility, make a man a good father, a good
husband, a good citizen? Does it make any difference whether you believe
it or not? Does it make any difference whether or not you believe that a
man was going through town, and his hair was a little short, like mine,
and some little children laughed at him, and thereupon two bears from
the woods came down and tore to pieces about forty of these children? Is
it necessary to believe that? Suppose a man should say, "I guess that is
a mistake; they did not copy that right; I guess the man that reported
that was a little dull of hearing and did not get the story exactly
right." Any harm in saying that? Is a man to be sent to the penitentiary
for that? Can you imagine an infinitely good God sending a man to hell
because he did not believe the bear story?

So I say if you believe the Bible, say so; if you do not believe it, say
so. And here is the vital mistake, I might almost say, in Protestantism
itself. The Protestants when they fought the Catholics said: "Read the
Bible for yourselves—stop taking it from your priests—read the sacred
volume with your own eyes; it is a revelation from God to his children,
and you are the children." And then they said: "If after you read it you
do not believe it, and you say anything against it, we will put you in
jail, and God will put you in hell." That is a fine position to get a
man in. It is like a man who invited his neighbor to come and look at
his pictures, saying: "They are the finest in the place, and I want your
candid opinion. A man who looked at them the other day said they were
daubs, and I kicked him downstairs—now I want your candid judgment." So
the Protestant Church says to a man, "This Bible is a message from your
Father,—your Father in heaven. Read it. Judge for yourself. But if
after you have read it you say it is not true, I will put you in the
penitentiary for one year."

The Catholic Church has a little more sense about that—at least more
logic. It says: "This Bible is not given to everybody. It is given to
the world, to be sure, but it must be interpreted by the church. God
would not give a Bible to the world unless he also appointed some one,
some organization, to tell the world what it means." They said: "We do
not want the world filled with interpretations, and all the interpreters
fighting each other." And the Protestant has gone to the infinite
absurdity of saying: "Judge for yourself, but if you judge wrong you
will go to the penitentiary here and to hell hereafter.".

Now, let us see further:

"_Or by profane scoffing expose them to ridicule_"

Think of such a law as that, passed under a constitution that says, "No
law shall abridge the liberty of speech." But you must not ridicule
the Scriptures. Did anybody ever dream of passing a law to protect
Shakespeare from being laughed at? Did anybody ever think of such a
thing? Did anybody ever want any legislative enactment to keep people
from holding Robert Burns in contempt? The songs of Burns will be sung
as long as there is love in the human heart. Do we need to protect him
from ridicule by a statute? Does he need assistance from New Jersey?
Is any statute needed to keep Euclid from being laughed at in this
neighborhood? And is it possible that a work written by an infinite
Being has to be protected by a legislature? Is it possible that a book
cannot be written by a God so that it will not excite the laughter of
the human race?

Why, gentlemen, humor is one of the most valuable things in the human
brain. It is the torch of the mind—it sheds light. Humor is the
readiest test of truth—of the natural, of the sensible—and when you
take from a man all sense of humor, there will only be enough left
to make a bigot. Teach this man who has no humor—no sense of
the absurd—the Presbyterian creed, fill his darkened brain with
superstition and his heart with hatred—then frighten him with the
threat of hell, and he will be ready to vote for that statute. Such men
made that law.

Let us read another clause:—

"_And every person so offending shall, on conviction, be fined nor
exceeding two hundred dollars, or imprisoned at hard labor not exceeding
twelve months, or both_."

I want you to remember that this statute was passed in England hundreds
of years ago—just in that language. The punishment, however, has
been somewhat changed. In the good old days when the king sat on the
throne—in the good old days when the altar was the right-bower of
the throne—then, instead of saying: "Fined two hundred dollars and
imprisoned one year," it was: "All his goods shall be confiscated; his
tongue shall be bored with a hot iron, and upon his forehead he shall
be branded with the letter B; and for the second offence he shall suffer
death by burning." Those were the good old days when people maintained
the orthodox religion in all its purity and in all its ferocity.

The first question for you, gentlemen, to decide in this case is: Is
this statute constitutional? Is this statute in harmony with, the part
of the constitution of 1844 which says: "The liberty of speech shall not
be abridged"? That is for you to say. Is this law constitutional, or
is it simply an old statute that fell asleep, that was forgotten, that
people simply failed to repeal? I believe I can convince you, if you
will think a moment, that our fathers never intended to establish a
government like that. When they fought for what they believed to be
religious liberty—when they fought for what they believed to be liberty
of speech, they believed that all such statutes would be wiped from the
statute books of all the States.

Let me tell you another reason why I believe this. We have in this
country naturalization laws. People may come here irrespective of their
religion. They must simply swear allegiance to this country—they must
forswear allegiance to every other potentate, prince and power—but they
do not have to change their religion. A Hindoo may become a citizen of
the United States, and the Constitution of the United States, like the
constitution of New Jersey, guarantees religious liberty. That Hindoo
believes in a God—in a God that no Christian does believe in.
He believes in a sacred book that every Christian looks upon as a
collection of falsehoods. He believes, too, in a Savior—in Buddha. Now,
I ask you,—when that man comes here and becomes a citizen—when the
Constitution is about him, above him—has he the right to give his ideas
about his religion? Has he the right to say in New Jersey: "There is
no God except the Supreme Brahm—there is no Savior except Buddha, the
Illuminated, Buddha the Blest"? I say that he has that right—and you
have no right, because in addition to that he says, "You are mistaken;
your God is not God; your Bible is not true, and your religion is a
mistake," to abridge his liberty of speech. He has the right to say it,
and if he has the right to say it, I insist before this Court and before
this jury, that he has the right to give his reasons for saying it; and
in giving those reasons, in maintaining his side, he has the right, not
simply to appeal to history, not simply to the masonry of logic, but
he has the right to shoot the arrows of wit, and to use the smile of
ridicule. Anything that can be laughed out of this world ought not to
stay in it.

So the Persian—the believer in Zoroaster, in the spirits of Good and
Evil, and that the spirit of Evil will finally triumph forever—if that
is his religion—has the right to state it, and the right to give his
reasons for his belief. How infinitely preposterous for you, one of the
States of this Union, to invite a Persian or a Hindoo to come to your
shores. You do not ask him to renounce his God. You ask him to renounce
the Shah. Then when he becomes a citizen, having the rights of every
other citizen, he has the right to defend his religion and to denounce
yours.

There is another thing. What was the spirit of our Government at that
time? You must look at the leading men. Who were they? What were their
opinions? Were most of them as guilty of blasphemy as is the defendant
in this case? Thomas Jefferson—and there is, in my judgment, only one
name on the page of American history greater than his—only one name
for which I have a greater and tenderer reverence—and that is Abraham
Lincoln, because of all men who ever lived and had power, he was the
most merciful. And that is the way to test a man. How does he use power?
Does he want to crush his fellow citizens? Does he like to lock somebody
up in the penitentiary because he has the power of the moment? Does he
wish to use it as a despot, or as a philanthropist—like a devil,
or like a man? Thomas Jefferson entertained about the same views
entertained by the defendant in this case, and he was made President of
the United States. He was the author of the Declaration of Independence,
founder of the University of Virginia, writer of that clause in the
constitution of that State, that made all the citizens equal before the
law. And when I come to the very sentences here charged as blasphemy, I
will show you that these were the common sentiments of thousands of very
great, of very intellectual and admirable men.

I have no time, and it may be this is not the place and the occasion,
to call your attention to the infinite harm that has been done in almost
every religious nation by statutes such as this. Where that statute is,
liberty can not be; and if this statute is enforced by this jury and
by this Court, and if it is afterwards carried out, and if it could be
carried out in the States of this Union, there would be an end of all
intellectual progress. We would go back to the Dark Ages. Every man's
mind, upon these subjects at least, would become a stagnant pool,
covered with the scum of prejudice and meanness.

And wherever such laws have been enforced, have the people been friends?
Here we are to-day in this blessed air—here amid these happy fields.
Can we imagine, with these surroundings, that a man for having been
found with a crucifix in his poor little home, had been taken from his
wife and children and burned—burned by Protestants? You cannot conceive
of such a thing now. Neither can you conceive that there was a time when
Catholics found some poor Protestant contradicting one of the dogmas of
the church, and took that poor honest wretch—while his wife wept—while
his children clung to his hands—to the public square, drove a stake in
the ground, put a chain or two about him, lighted the fagots, and let
the wife whom he loved and his little children see the flames climb
around his limbs—you cannot imagine that any such infamy was ever
practiced. And yet I tell you that the same spirit made this detestable,
infamous, devilish statute.

You can hardly imagine that there was a time when the same kind of men
that made this law said to another man: "You say this world is round?"
"Yes, sir; I think it is, because I have seen its shadow on the moon."
"You have?"—Now, can you imagine a society, outside of hyenas and
boa-constrictors, that would take that man, put him in the penitentiary,
in a dungeon, turn the key upon him, and let his name be blotted from
the book of human life? Years afterward some explorer amid ruins finds
a few bones. The same spirit that did that, made this statute—the same
spirit that did that, went before the grand jury in this case—exactly.
Give the men that had this man indicted, the power, and I would not want
to live in that particular part of the country. I would not willingly
live with such men. I would go somewhere else, where the air is free,
where I could speak my sentiments to my wife, to my children, and to my
neighbors.

Now, this persecution differs only in degree from the infamies of the
olden times. What does it mean? It means that the State of New Jersey
has all the light it wants. And what does that mean? It means that the
State of New Jersey is absolutely infallible—that it has got its growth
and does not propose to grow any more. New Jersey knows enough, and it
will send teachers to the penitentiary.

It is hardly possible that this State has accomplished all that it is
ever going to accomplish. Religions are for a day. They are the clouds.
Humanity is the eternal blue. Religions are the waves of the sea. These
waves depend upon the force and direction of the wind—that is to say,
of passion; but Humanity is the great sea. And so our religions change
from day to day, and it is a blessed thing that they do. Why? Because we
grow, and we are getting a little more civilized every day,—and any
man that is not willing to let another man express his opinion, is not a
civilized man, and you know it. Any man that does not give to everybody
else the rights he claims for himself, is not in honest man.

Here is a man who says, "I am going to join the Methodist Church." What
right has he? Just the same right to join it that I have not to join
it—no more, no less. But if you are a Methodist and I am not, it simply
proves that you do not agree with me, and that I do not agree with
you—that is all. Another man is a Catholic. He was born a Catholic, or
is convinced that Catholicism is right. That is his business, and any
man that would persecute him on that account, is a poor barbarian—a
savage; any man that would abuse him on that account, is a barbarian—a
savage.

Then I take the next step. A man does not wish to belong to any church.
How are you going to judge him? Judge him by the way he treats his wife,
his children, his neighbors. Does he pay his debts? Does he tell the
truth? Does he help the poor? Has he got a heart that melts when he
hears grief's story? That is the way to judge him. I do not care what
he thinks about the bears, or the flood, about bibles or gods. When some
poor mother is found wandering in the street with a babe at her breast,
does he quote Scripture, or hunt for his pocket-book? That is the way
to judge. And suppose he does not believe in any bible whatever? If
Christianity is true, that is his misfortune, and everybody should pity
the poor wretch that is going down the hill. Why kick him? You will get
your revenge on him through all eternity—is not that enough?

So I say, let us judge each other by our actions, not by theories, not
by what we happen to believe—because that depends very much on where we
were born.

If you had been born in Turkey, you probably would have been a
Mohammedan. If I had been born among the Hindoos, I might have been a
Buddhist—I can't tell. If I had been raised in Scotland, on oatmeal, I
might have been a Covenanter—nobody knows. If I had lived in Ireland,
and seen my poor wife and children driven into the street, I think I
might have been a Home-ruler—no doubt of it. You see it depends on
where you were born—much depends on our surroundings.

Of course, there are men born in Turkey who are not Mohammedans, and
there are men born in this country who are not Christians—Methodists,
Unitarians, or Catholics, plenty of them, who are unbelievers—plenty of
them who deny the truth of the Scriptures—plenty of them who say:

"I know not whether there be a God or not." Well, it is a thousand times
better to say that honestly than to say dishonestly that you believe in
God.

If you want to know the opinion of your neighbor, you want his honest
opinion. You do not want to be deceived. You do not want to talk with a
hypocrite. You want to get straight at his honest mind—and then you are
going to judge him, not by what he says but by what he does. It is very
easy to sail along with the majority—easy to sail the way the boats are
going—easy to float with the stream; but when you come to swim against
the tide, with the men on the shore throwing rocks at you, you will get
a good deal of exercise in this world.

And do you know that we ought to feel under the greatest obligation to
men who have fought the prevailing notions of their day? There is not a
Presbyterian in Morristown that does not hold up for admiration the
man that carried the flag of the Presbyterians when they were in the
minority—not one. There is not a Methodist in this State who does not
admire John and Charles Wesley and Whitefield, who carried the banner
of that new and despised sect when it was in the minority. They glory
in them because they braved public opinion, because they dared to oppose
idiotic, barbarous and savage statutes like this. And there is not a
Universalist that does not worship dear old Hosea Ballou—I love him
myself—because he said to the Presbyterian minister: "You are going
around trying to keep people out of hell, and I am going around trying
to keep hell out of the people." Every Universalist admires him and
loves him because when despised and railed at and spit upon, he stood
firm, a patient witness for the eternal mercy of God. And there is not a
solitary Protestant who does not honor Martin Luther—who does not honor
the Covenanters in poor Scotland, and that poor girl who was tied out
on the sand of the sea by Episcopalians, and kept there till the rising
tide drowned her, and all she had to do to save her life was to say,
"God save the king," but she would not say it without the addition of
the words, "If it be God's will." No one, who is not a miserable,
contemptible wretch, can fail to stand in admiration before such
courage, such self-denial—such heroism. No matter what the attitude of
your body may be, your soul falls on its knees before such men and such
women.

Let us take another step. Where would we have been if authority had
always triumphed? Where would we have been if such statutes had always
been carried out? We have now a science called astronomy. That science
has done more to enlarge the horizon of human thought than all things
else. We now live in an infinite universe. We know that the sun is a
million times larger than our earth, and we know that there are other
great luminaries millions of times larger than our sun. We know that
there are planets so far away that light, traveling at the rate of
one hundred and eighty-five thousand miles a second, requires fifteen
thousand years to reach this grain of sand, this tear, we call the
earth—and we now know that all the fields of space are sown thick with
constellations. If that statute had been enforced, that science would
not now be the property of the human mind. That science is contrary to
the Bible, and for asserting the truth you become a criminal. For
what sum of money, for what amount of wealth, would the world have the
science of astronomy expunged from the brain of man? We learned the
story of the stars in spite of that statute.

The first men who said the world was round were scourged for scoffing at
the Scriptures. And even Martin Luther, speaking of one of the greatest
men that ever lived, said: "Does he think with his little lever to
overturn the Universe of God?" Martin Luther insisted that such men
ought to be trampled under foot. If that statute had been carried into
effect, Galileo would have been impossible. Kepler, the discoverer of
the three laws, would have died with the great secret locked in his
brain, and mankind would have been left ignorant, superstitious, and
besotted. And what else? If that statute had been carried out, the
world would have been deprived of the philosophy of Spinoza; of the
philosophy, of the literature, of the wit and wisdom, the justice and
mercy of Voltaire, the greatest Frenchman that ever drew the breath of
life—the man who by his mighty pen abolished torture in a nation, and
helped to civilize a world.

If that statute had been enforced, nearly all the books that enrich the
libraries of the world could not have been written. If that statute had
been enforced, Humboldt could not have delivered the lectures now known
as "The Cosmos." If that statute had been enforced, Charles Darwin would
not have been allowed to give to the world his discoveries that have
been of more benefit to mankind than all the sermons ever uttered. In
England they have placed his sacred dust in the great Abbey. If he had
lived in New Jersey, and this statute could have been enforced, he would
have lived one year at least in your penitentiary. Why? That man went
so far as not simply to deny the truth of your Bible, but absolutely
to deny the existence of your God. Was he a good man? Yes, one of the
noblest and greatest of men. Humboldt, the greatest German who ever
lived, was of the same opinion.

And so I might go on with the great men of to-day. Who are the men
who are leading the race upward and shedding light in the intellectual
world? They are the men declared by that statute to be criminals. Mr.
Spencer could not publish his books in the State of New Jersey. He would
be arrested, tried, and imprisoned; and yet that man has added to the
intellectual wealth of the world.

So with Huxley, so with Tyndall, so with Helmholtz—so with the greatest
thinkers and greatest writers of modern times.

You may not agree with these men—and what does that prove? It simply
proves that they do not agree with you—that is all. Who is to blame?
I do not know. They may be wrong, and you may be right; but if they had
the power, and put you in the penitentiary simply because you differed
with them, they would be savages; and if you have the power and imprison
men because they differ from you, why then, of course, you are savages.

No; I believe in intellectual hospitality. I love men that have a little
horizon to their minds—a little sky, a little scope. I hate anything
that is narrow and pinched and withered and mean and crawling, and that
is willing to live on dust. I believe in creating such an atmosphere
that things will burst into blossom. I believe in good will, good
health, good fellowship, good feeling—and if there is any God on the
earth, or in heaven, let us hope that he will be generous and grand. Do
you not see what the effect will be? I am not cursing you because you
are a Methodist, and not damning you because you are a Catholic, or
because you are an Infidel—a good man is more than all of these. The
grandest of all things is to be in the highest and noblest sense a man.

Now let us see the frightful things that this man, the defendant in this
case, has done. Let me read the charges against him as set out in this
indictment.

I shall insist that this statute does not cover any publication—that
it covers simply speech—not in writing, not in book or pamphlet. Let us
see:

"_This Bible describes God as so loving that he drowned the whole world
in his mad fury_."

Well, the great question about that is, is it true? Does the Bible
describe God as having drowned the whole world with the exception of
eight people? Does it, or does it not? I do not know whether there is
anybody in this county who has really read the Bible, but I believe the
story of the flood is there. It does say that God destroyed all flesh,
and that he did so because he was angry. He says so, himself, if the
Bible be true.

The defendant has simply repeated what is in the Bible. The Bible says
that God is loving, and says that he drowned the world, and that he was
angry. Is it blasphemy to quote from the "Sacred Scriptures"?

"_Because it was so much worse than he, knowing all things, ever
supposed it could be._"

Well, the Bible does say that he repented having made man. Now, is
there any blasphemy in saying that the Bible is true? That is the only
question. It is a fact that God, according to the Bible, did drown
nearly everybody. If God knows all things, he must have known at the
time he made them that he was going to drown them. Is it likely that
a being of infinite wisdom would deliberately do what he knew he must
undo? Is it blasphemy to ask that question? Have you a right to think
about it at all? If you have, you have the right to tell somebody what
you think—if not, you have no right to discuss it, no right to think
about it. All you have to do is to read it and believe it—to open your
mouth like a young robin, and swallow—worms or shingle nails—no matter
which.

The defendant further blasphemed and said that:—

"_An all-wise, unchangeable God, who got out of patience with a world
which was just what his own stupid blundering had made it, knew no
better way out of the muddle than to destroy it by drowning!_"

Is that true? Was not the world exactly as God made it? Certainly. Did
he not, if the Bible is true, drown the people? He did. Did he know he
would drown them when he made them? He did. Did he know they ought to
be drowned when they were made? He did. Where then, is the blasphemy
in saying so? There is not a minister in this world who could explain
it—who would be permitted to explain it—under this statute. And yet
you would arrest this man and put him in the penitentiary. But after you
lock him in the cell, there remains the question still. Is it possible
that a good and wise God, knowing that he was going to drown them, made
millions of people? What did he make them for? I do not know. I do not
pretend to be wise enough to answer that question. Of course, you cannot
answer the question. Is there anything blasphemous in that? Would it
be blasphemy in me to say I do not believe that any God ever made men,
women and children—mothers, with babes clasped to their breasts, and
then sent a flood to fill the world with death?

A rain lasting for forty days—the water rising hour by hour, and the
poor wretched children of God climbing to the tops of their houses—then
to the tops of the hills. The water still rising—no mercy. The people
climbing higher and higher, looking to the mountains for salvation—the
merciless rain still falling, the inexorable flood still rising.
Children falling from the arms of mothers—no pity. The highest hills
covered—infancy and old age mingling in death—the cries of women, the
sobs and sighs lost in the roar of waves—the heavens still relentless.
The mountains are covered—a shoreless sea rolls round the world, and on
its billows are billions of corpses.

This is the greatest crime that man has imagined, and this crime is
called a deed of infinite mercy.

Do you believe that? I do not believe one word of it, and I have the
right to say to all the world that this is false.

If there be a good God, the story is not true. If there be a wise
God, the story is not true. Ought an honest man to be sent to the
penitentiary for simply telling the truth?

Suppose we had a statute that whoever scoffed at science—whoever
by profane language should bring the rule of three into contempt, or
whoever should attack the proposition that two parallel lines will never
include a space, should be sent to the penitentiary—what would you
think of it? It would be just as wise and just as idiotic as this.

And what else says the defendant?

"_The Bible-God says that his people made him jealous." "Provoked him to
anger._"

Is that true? It is. If it is true, is it blasphemous?

Let us read another line—

"_And now he will raise the mischief with them; that his anger bums like
hell_."

That is true. The Bible says of God—"My anger burns to the lowest
hell." And that is all that the defendant says. Every word of it is
in the Bible. He simply does not believe it—and for that reason is a
"blasphemer."

I say to you now, gentlemen,—and I shall argue to the Court,—that
there is not in what I have read a solitary blasphemous word—not a word
that has not been said in hundreds of pulpits in the Christian world.
Theodore Parker, a Unitarian, speaking of this Bible-God said: "Vishnu
with a necklace of skulls, Vishnu with bracelets of living, hissing
serpents, is a figure of Love and Mercy compared to the God of the Old
Testament." That, we might call "blasphemy," but not what I have read.

Let us read on:—

"_He would destroy them all were it not that he feared the wrath of the
enemy_."

That is in the Bible—word for word. Then the defendant in astonishment
says:

"_The Almighty God afraid of his enemies!_"

That is what the Bible says. What does it mean? If the Bible is true,
God was afraid.

"_Can the mind conceive of more horrid blasphemy?_"

Is not that true? If God be infinitely good and wise and powerful, is
it possible he is afraid of anything? If the defendant had said that God
was afraid of his enemies, that might have been blasphemy—but this man
says the Bible says that, and you are asked to say that it is blasphemy.
Now, up to this point there is no blasphemy, even if you were to enforce
this infamous statute—this savage law.

"_The Old Testament records for our instruction in morals, the most foul
and bestial instances of fornication, incest, and polygamy, perpetrated
by God's own saints, and the New Testament indorses these lecherous
wretches as examples for all good Christians to follow_.".

Now, is it not a fact that the Old Testament does uphold polygamy?
Abraham would have gotten into trouble in New Jersey—no doubt of that.
Sarah could have obtained a divorce in this State—no doubt of that.
What is the use of telling a falsehood about it? Let us tell the truth
about the patriarchs.

Everybody knows that the same is true of Moses. We have all heard of
Solomon—a gentleman with five or six hundred wives, and three or four
hundred other ladies with whom he was acquainted. This is simply what
the defendant says. Is there any blasphemy about that? It is only the
truth. If Solomon were living in the United States to-day, we would put
him in the penitentiary. You know that under the Edmunds Mormon law
he would be locked up. If you should present a petition signed by his
eleven hundred wives, you could not get him out.

So it was with David. There are some splendid things about David, of
course. I admit that, and pay my tribute of respect to his courage—but
he happened to have ten or twelve wives too many, so he shut them up,
put them in a kind of penitentiary and kept them there till they died.
That would not be considered good conduct even in Morristown. You know
that. Is it any harm to speak of it? There are plenty of ministers here
to set it right—thousands of them all over the country, every one with
his chance to talk all day Sunday and nobody to say a word back. The pew
cannot reply to the pulpit, you know; it has just to sit there and
take it. If there is any harm in this, if it is not true, they ought to
answer it. But it is here, and the only answer is an indictment.

I say that Lot was a bad man. So I say of Abraham, and of Jacob. Did you
ever know of a more despicable fraud practiced by one brother on another
than Jacob practiced on Esau? My sympathies have always been with Esau.
He seemed to be a manly man. Is it blasphemy to say that you do not like
a hypocrite, a murderer, or a thief, because his name is in the Bible?
How do you know what such men are mentioned for? May be they are
mentioned as examples, and you certainly ought not to be led away and
induced to imagine that a man with seven hundred wives is a pattern
of domestic propriety, one to be followed by yourself and your sons. I
might go on and mention the names of hundreds of others who committed
every conceivable crime, in the name of religion—who declared war, and
on the field of battle killed men, women and babes, even children yet
unborn, in the name of the most merciful God. The Bible is filled with
the names and crimes of these sacred savages, these inspired beasts. Any
man who says that a God of love commanded the commission of these crimes
is, to say the least of it, mistaken. If there be a God, then it is
blasphemous to charge him with the commission of crime.

But let us read further from this indictment:

"The aforesaid printed document contains other scandalous, infamous and
blasphemous matters and things, to the tenor and effect following, that
is to say—"

Then comes this particularly blasphemous line:

"_Now, reader, take time and calmly think it over _."

Gentlemen, there are many things I have read that I should not have
expressed in exactly the same language used by the defendant, and many
things that I am going to read I might not have said at all, but the
defendant had the right to say every word with which he is charged in
this indictment. He had the right to give his honest thought, no matter
whether any human being agreed with what he said or not, and no matter
whether any other man approved of the manner in which he said these
things. I defend his right to speak, whether I believe in what he spoke
or not, or in the propriety of saying what he did. I should defend a man
just as cheerfully who had spoken against my doctrine, as one who had
spoken against the popular superstitions of my time. It would make
no difference to me how unjust the attack was upon my belief—how
maliciously ingenious; and no matter how sacred the conviction that
was attacked, I would defend the freedom of speech. And why? Because no
attack can be answered by force, no argument can be refuted by a blow,
or by imprisonment, or by fine. You may imprison the man, but the
argument is free; you may fell the man to the earth, but the statement
stands.

The defendant in this case has attacked certain beliefs, thought by the
Christian world to be sacred. Yet, after all, nothing is sacred but the
truth, and by truth I mean what a man sincerely and honestly believes.
The defendant says:

"_Take time to calmly think it over: Was a Jewish girl the mother of
God, the mother of your God?_"

The defendant probably asked this question, supposing that it must
be answered by all sensible people in the negative. If the Christian
religion is true, then a Jewish girl was the mother of Almighty God.
Personally, if the doctrine is true, I have no fault to find with the
statement that a Jewish maiden was the mother of God.—Millions believe,
that this is true—I do not believe,—but who knows? If a God came from
the throne of the universe, came to this world and became the child of
a pure and loving woman, it would not lessen, in my eyes, the dignity or
the greatness of that God.

There is no more perfect picture on the earth, or within the imagination
of man, than a mother holding in her thrilled and happy arms a child,
the fruit of love.

No matter how the statement is made, the fact remains the same. A Jewish
girl became the mother of God. If the Bible is true, that is true, and
to repeat it, even according to your law, is not blasphemous, and to
doubt it, or to express the doubt, or to deny it, is not contrary to
your constitution.

To this defendant it seemed improbable that God was ever born of woman,
was ever held in the lap of a mother; and because he cannot believe
this, he is charged with blasphemy. Could you pour contempt on
Shakespeare by saying that his mother was a woman,—by saying that he
was once a poor, crying, little, helpless child? Of course he was; and
he afterwards became the greatest human being that ever touched the
earth,—the only man whose intellectual wings have reached from sky to
sky; and he was once a crying babe. What of it? Does that cast any scorn
or contempt upon him? Does this take any of the music from "Midsummer
Night's Dream"?—any of the passionate wealth from "Antony and
Cleopatra," any philosophy from "Macbeth," any intellectual grandeur
from "King Lear"? On the contrary, these great productions of the brain
show the growth of the dimpled babe, give every mother a splendid
dream and hope for her child, and cover every cradle with a sublime
possibility.

The defendant is also charged with having said that: "_God cried and
screamed_."

Why not? If he was absolutely a child, he was like other children,—like
yours, like mine. I have seen the time, when absent from home, that I
would have given more to have heard my children cry, than to have heard
the finest orchestra that ever made the air burst into flower. What if
God did cry? It simply shows that his humanity was real and not assumed,
that it was a tragedy, real, and not a poor pretence. And the defendant
also says that if the orthodox religion be true, that the

"_God of the Universe kicked, and flung about his little arms, and made
aimless dashes into space with his little fists_."

Is there anything in this that is blasphemous? One of the best pictures
I ever saw of the Virgin and Child was painted by the Spaniard, Murillo.
Christ appears to be a truly natural, chubby, happy babe. Such a
picture takes nothing from the majesty, the beauty, or the glory of the
incarnation.

I think it is the best thing about the Catholic Church that it lifts
up for adoration and admiration, a mother,—that it pays what it calls
"Divine honors" to a woman. There is certainly goodness in that, and
where a church has so few practices that are good, I am willing to point
this one out. It is the one redeeming feature about Catholicism, that it
teaches the worship of a woman.

The defendant says more about the childhood of Christ. He goes so far as
to say, that:

"_He was found staring foolishly at his own little toes._"

And why not? The Bible says, that "he increased in wisdom and stature."
The defendant might have referred to something far more improbable. In
the same verse in which St. Luke says that Jesus increased in wisdom and
stature, will be found the assertion that he increased in favor with God
and man. The defendant might have asked how it was that the love of God
for God increased.

But the defendant has simply stated that the child Jesus grew, as other
children grow; that he acted like other children, and if he did, it is
more than probable that he did stare at his own toes. I have laughed
many a time to see little children astonished with the sight of their
feet. They seem to wonder what on earth puts the little toes in motion.
Certainly there is nothing blasphemous in supposing that the feet of
Christ amused him, precisely as the feet of other children have amused
them. There is nothing blasphemous about this; on the contrary, it is
beautiful. If I believed in the existence of God, the Creator of this
world, the Being who, with the hand of infinity, sowed the fields of
space with stars, as a farmer sows his grain, I should like to think of
him as a little, dimpled babe, overflowing with joy, sitting upon the
knees of a loving mother. The ministers themselves might take a lesson
even from the man who is charged with blasphemy, and make an effort to
bring an infinite God a little nearer to the human heart.

The defendant also says, speaking of the infant Christ, "_He was nursed
at Mary's breast._"

Yes, and if the story be true, that is the tenderest fact in it. Nursed
at the breast of woman. No painting, no statue, no words can make a
deeper and a tenderer impression upon the heart of man than this: The
infinite God, a babe, nursed at the holy breast of woman.

You see these things do not strike all people the same. To a man
that has been raised on the orthodox desert, these things are
incomprehensible. He has been robbed of his humanity. He has no humor,
nothing but the stupid and the solemn. His fancy sits with folded wings.

Imagination, like the atmosphere of spring, woos every seed of earth
to seek the blue of heaven, and whispers of bud and flower and fruit.
Imagination gathers from every field of thought and pours the wealth
of many lives into the lap of one. To the contracted, to the cast-iron
people who believe in heartless and inhuman creeds, the words of the
defendant seem blasphemous, and to them the thought that God was a
little child is monstrous.

They cannot bear to hear it said that he nursed at the breast of a
maiden, that he was wrapped in swaddling clothes, that he had the joys
and sorrows of other babes. I hope, gentlemen, that not only you,
but the attorneys for the prosecution, have read what is known as the
"Apocryphal New Testament," books that were once considered inspired,
once admitted to be genuine, and that once formed a part of our New
Testament. I hope you have read the books of Joseph and Mary, of the
Shepherd of Hermes, of the Infancy and of Mary, in which many of the
things done by the youthful Christ are described—books that were once
the delight of the Christian world; books that gave joy to children,
because in them they read that Christ made little birds of clay, that
would at his command stretch out their wings and fly with joy above his
head. If the defendant in this case had said anything like that, here
in the State of New Jersey, he would have been indicted; the orthodox
ministers would have shouted "blasphemy," and yet, these little stories
made the name of Christ dearer to children.

The church of to-day lacks sympathy; the theologians are without
affection. After all, sympathy is genius. A man who really sympathizes
with another understands him. A man who sympathizes with a religion,
instantly sees the good that is in it, and the man who sympathizes with
the right, sees the evil that a creed contains.

But the defendant, still speaking of the infant Christ, is charged with
having said:

"_God smiled when he was comfortable. He lay in a cradle and was rocked
to sleep._"

Yes, and there is no more beautiful picture than that. Let some great
religious genius paint a picture of this kind—of a babe smiling with
content, rocked in the cradle by the mother who bends tenderly and
proudly above him. There could be no more beautiful, no more touching,
picture than this. What would I not give for a picture of Shakespeare as
a babe,—a picture that was a likeness,—rocked by his mother? I would
give more for this than for any painting that now enriches the walls of
the world.

The defendant also says, that:

"_God was sick when cutting his teeth._"

And what of that? We are told that he was tempted in all points, as we
are. That is to say, he was afflicted, he was hungry, he was thirsty,
he suffered the pains and miseries common to man. Otherwise, he was not
flesh, he was not human.

"_He caught the measles, the mumps, the scarlet fever and the whooping
cough_."

Certainly he was liable to have these diseases, for he was, in fact,
a child. Other children have them. Other children, loved as dearly by
their mothers as Christ could have been by his, and yet they are taken
from the little family by fever; taken, it may be, and buried in the
snow, while the poor mother goes sadly home, wishing that she was lying
by its side. All that can be said of every word in this address, about
Christ and about his childhood, amounts to this; that he lived the
life of a child; that he acted like other children. I have read you
substantially what he has said, and this is considered blasphemous.

He has said, that:

"_According to the Old Testament, the God of the Christian world
commanded people to destroy each other._"

If the Bible is true, then the statement of the defendant is true. Is it
calculated to bring God into contempt to deny that he upheld polygamy,
that he ever commanded one of his generals to rip open with the sword
of war, the woman with child? Is it blasphemy to deny that a God of
infinite love gave such commandments? Is such a denial calculated to
pour contempt and scorn upon the God of the orthodox?

Is it blasphemous to deny that God commanded his children to murder each
other? Is it blasphemous to say that he was benevolent, merciful and
just?

It is impossible to say that the Bible is true and that God is good.
I do not believe that a God made this world, filled it with people and
then drowned them. I do not believe that infinite wisdom ever made a
mistake. If there be any God he was too good to commit such an infinite
crime, too wise, to make such a mistake. Is this blasphemy? Is it
blasphemy to say that Solomon was not a virtuous man, or that David was
an adulterer?

Must we say when this ancient King had one of his best generals placed
in the front of the battle—deserted him and had him murdered for the
purpose of stealing his wife, that he was "a man after God's own heart"?
Suppose the defendant in this case were guilty of something like that?
Uriah was fighting for his country, fighting the battles of David, the
King. David wanted to take from him his wife. He sent for Joab, his
commander-in-chief, and said to him:

"Make a feint to attack a town. Put Uriah at the front of the attacking
force, and when the people sally forth from the town to defend its gate,
fall back so that this gallant, noble, patriotic man may be slain."

This was done and the widow was stolen by the King. Is it blasphemy to
tell the truth and to say exactly what David was? Let us be honest with
each other; let us be honest with this defendant.

For thousands of years men have taught that the ancient patriarchs were
sacred, that they were far better than the men of modern times, that
what was in them a virtue, is in us a crime. Children are taught in
Sunday schools to admire and respect these criminals of the ancient
days. The time has come to tell the truth about these men, to call
things by their proper names, and above all, to stand by the right, by
the truth, by mercy and by justice. If what the defendant has said is
blasphemy under this statute then the question arises, is the statute in
accordance with the constitution? If this statute is constitutional, why
has it been allowed to sleep for all these years? I take this position:
Any law made for the preservation of a human right, made to guard a
human being, cannot sleep long enough to die; but any law that deprives
a human being of a natural right—if that law goes to sleep, it never
wakes, it sleeps the sleep of death.

I call the attention of the Court to that remarkable case in England
where, only a few years ago, a man appealed to trial by battle. The law
allowing trial by battle had been asleep in the statute book of England
for more than two hundred years, and yet the court held that, in spite
of the fact that the law had been asleep—it being a law in favor of a
defendant—he was entitled to trial by battle. And why? Because it was
a statute at the time made in defence of a human right, and that statute
could not sleep long enough or soundly enough to die. In consequence
of this decision, the Parliament of England passed a special act, doing
away forever with the trial by battle.

When a statute attacks an individual right, the State must never let it
sleep. When it attacks the right of the public at large and is allowed
to pass into a state of slumber, it cannot be raised for the purpose of
punishing an individual.

Now, gentlemen, a few words more. I take an almost infinite interest
in this trial, and before you decide, I am exceedingly anxious that you
should understand with clearness the thoughts I have expressed upon this
subject I want you to know how the civilized feel, and the position now
taken by the leaders of the world.

A few years ago almost everything spoken against the grossest possible
superstition was considered blasphemous. The altar hedged itself about
with the sword; the Priest went in partnership with the King. In those
days statutes were leveled against all human speech. Men were convicted
of blasphemy because they believed in an actual personal God; because
they insisted that God had body and parts. Men were convicted of
blasphemy because they denied that God had form. They have been
imprisoned for denying the doctrine of transubstantiation, and they
have been torn in pieces for defending that doctrine. There are but few
dogmas now believed by any Christian church that have not at some time
been denounced as blasphemous.

When Henry VIII. put himself at the head of the Episcopal Church a
creed was made, and in that creed there were five dogmas that must,
of necessity, be believed. Anybody who denied any one, was to be
punished—for the first offence, with fine, with imprisonment, or
branding, and for the second offence, with death. Not one of these five
dogmas is now a part of the creed of the Church of England.

So I could go on for days and weeks and months, showing that hundreds
and hundreds of religious dogmas, to deny which was death, have been
either changed or abandoned for others nearly as absurd as the old ones
were. It may be, however, sufficient to say, that wherever the church
has had power it has been a crime for any man to speak his honest
thought. No church has ever been willing that any opponent should give
a transcript of his mind. Every church in power has appealed to brute
force, to the sword, for the purpose of sustaining its creed. Not one
has had the courage to occupy the open field. The church has not been
satisfied with calling Infidels and unbelievers blasphemers. Each church
has accused nearly every other church of being a blasphemer. Every
pioneer has been branded as a criminal. The Catholics called Martin
Luther a blasphemer, and Martin Luther called Copernicus a blasphemer.
Pious ignorance always regards intelligence as a kind of blasphemy. Some
of the greatest men of the world, some of the best, have been put to
death for the crime of blasphemy, that is to say, for the crime of
endeavoring to benefit their fellow-men.

As long as the church has the power to close the lips of men, so long
and no longer will superstition rule this world.

"Blasphemy is the word that the majority hisses into the ear of the
few."

After every argument of the church has been answered, has been refuted,
then the church cries, "blasphemy!"

Blasphemy is what an old mistake says of a newly discovered truth.

Blasphemy is what a withered last year's leaf says to a this year's bud.

Blasphemy is the bulwark of religious prejudice.

Blasphemy is the breastplate of the heartless.

And let me say now, that the crime of blasphemy, as set out in this
statute, is impossible. No man can blaspheme a book. No man can commit
blasphemy by telling his honest thought. No man can blaspheme a God, or
a Holy Ghost, or a Son of God. The Infinite cannot be blasphemed.

In the olden time, in the days of savagery and superstition, when some
poor man was struck by lightning, or when a blackened mark was left on
the breast of a wife and mother, the poor savage supposed that some god,
angered by something he had done, had taken his revenge. What else did
the savage suppose? He believed that this god had the same feelings,
with regard to the loyalty of his subjects, that an earthly chief had,
or an earthly king had, with regard to the loyalty or treachery of
members of his tribe, or citizens of his kingdom. So the savage said,
when his country was visited by a calamity, when the flood swept the
people away, or the storm scattered their poor houses in fragments:
"We have allowed some Freethinker to live; some one is in our town or
village who has not brought his gift to the priest, his incense to the
altar; some man of our tribe or of our country does not respect our
god." Then, for the purpose of appeasing the supposed god, for the
purpose of again winning a smile from heaven, for the purpose of
securing a little sunlight for their fields and homes, they drag the
accused man from his home, from his wife and children, and with all
the ceremonies of pious brutality, shed his blood. They did it in
self-defence; they believed that they were saving their own lives and
the lives of their children; they did it to appease their god. Most
people are now beyond that point. Now when disease visits a community,
the intelligent do not say the disease came because the people were
wicked; when the cholera comes, it is not because of the Methodists, of
the Catholics, of the Presbyterians, or of the Infidels. When the wind
destroys a town in the far West, it is not because somebody there had
spoken his honest thoughts. We are beginning to see that the wind
blows and destroys without the slightest reference to man, without the
slightest care whether it destroys the good or the bad, the irreligious
or the religious. When the lightning leaps from the clouds it is just as
likely to strike a good man as a bad man, and when the great serpents of
flame climb around the houses of men, they burn just as gladly and just
as joyously, the home of virtue, as they do the den and lair of vice.

Then the reason for all these laws has failed. The laws were made on
account of a superstition. That superstition has faded from the minds
of intelligent men, and, as a consequence, the laws based on the
superstition ought to fail.

There is one splendid thing in nature, and that is that men and nations
must reap the consequences of their acts—reap them in this world, if
they live, and in another if there be one. The man who leaves this
world a bad man, a malicious man, will probably be the same man when
he reaches another realm, and the man who leaves this shore good,
charitable and honest, will be good, charitable and honest, no matter
on what star he lives again. The world is growing sensible upon these
subjects, and as we grow sensible, we grow charitable.

Another reason has been given for these laws against blasphemy, the most
absurd reason that can by any possibility be given. It is this: There
should be laws against blasphemy, because the man who utters blasphemy
endangers the public peace.

Is it possible that Christians will break the peace? Is it possible
that they will violate the law? Is it probable that Christians will
congregate together and make a mob, simply because a man has given an
opinion against their religion? What is their religion? They say, "If
a man smites you on one cheek, turn the other also." They say, "We must
love our neighbors as we love ourselves." Is it possible then, that you
can make a mob out of Christians,—that these men, who love even their
enemies, will attack others, and will destroy life, in the name of
universal love? And yet, Christians themselves say that there ought to
be laws against blasphemy, for fear that Christians, who are controlled
by universal love, will become so outraged, when they hear an honest man
express an honest thought, that they will leap upon him and tear him in
pieces.

What is blasphemy? I will give you a definition; I will give you my
thought upon this subject. What is real blasphemy?

To live on the unpaid labor of other men—that is blasphemy.

To enslave your fellow-man, to put chains upon his body—that is
blasphemy.

To enslave the minds of men, to put manacles upon the brain, padlocks
upon the lips—that is blasphemy.

To deny what you believe to be true, to admit to be true what you
believe to be a lie—that is blasphemy.

To strike the weak and unprotected, in order that you may gain the
applause of the ignorant and superstitious mob—that is blasphemy.

To persecute the intelligent few, at the command of the ignorant
many—that is blasphemy.

To forge chains, to build dungeons, for your honest fellow-men—that is
blasphemy.

To pollute the souls of children with the dogma of eternal pain—that is
blasphemy.

To violate your conscience—that is blasphemy.

The jury that gives an unjust verdict, and the judge who pronounces an
unjust sentence, are blasphemers.

The man who bows to public opinion against his better judgment and
against his honest conviction, is a blasphemer.

Why should we fear our fellow-men? Why should not each human being have
the right, so far as thought and its expression are concerned, of all
the world? What harm can come from an honest interchange of thought?

I have been giving you my real ideas. I have spoken freely, and yet
the sun rose this morning, just the same as it always has. There is no
particular change visible in the world, and I do not see but that we are
all as happy to-day as though we had spent yesterday in making somebody
else miserable. I denounced on yesterday the superstitions of the
Christian world, and yet, last night I slept the sleep of peace. You
will pardon me for saying again that I feel the greatest possible
interest in the result of this trial, in the principle at stake. This is
my only apology, my only excuse, for taking your time. For years I
have felt that the great battle for human liberty, the battle that has
covered thousands of fields with heroic dead, had finally been won. When
I read the history of this world, of what has been endured, of what has
been suffered, of the heroism and infinite courage of the intellectual
and honest few, battling with the countless serfs and slaves of kings
and priests, of tyranny, of hypocrisy, of ignorance and prejudice, of
faith and fear, there was in my heart the hope that the great battle had
been fought, and that the human race, in its march towards the dawn, had
passed midnight, and that the "great balance weighed up morning." This
hope, this feeling, gave me the greatest possible joy. When I thought
of the many who had been burnt, of how often the sons of liberty had
perished in ashes, of how many o! the noblest and greatest had stood
upon scaffolds, and of the countless hearts, the grandest that ever
throbbed in human breasts, that had been broken by the tyranny of church
and state, of how many of the noble and loving had sighed themselves
away in dungeons, the only consolation was that the last bastile had
fallen, that the dungeons of the Inquisition had been torn down and that
the scaffolds of the world could no longer be wet with heroic blood.

You know that sometimes, after a great battle has been fought, and one
of the armies has been broken, and its fortifications carried, there
are occasional stragglers beyond the great field, stragglers who know
nothing of the fate of their army, know nothing of the victory, and for
that reason, fight on. There are a few such stragglers in the State of
New Jersey. They have never heard of the great victory. They do not know
that in all civilized countries the hosts of superstition have been put
to flight. They do not know that Freethinkers, Infidels, are to-day the
leaders of the intellectual armies of the world.

One of the last trials of this character, tried in Great Britain,—and
that is the country that our ancestors fought in the sacred name of
liberty,—one of the last trials in that country, a country ruled by a
state church, ruled by a woman who was born a queen, ruled by dukes and
nobles and lords, children of ancient robbers—was in the year 1843.
George Jacob Holyoake, one of the best of the human race, was imprisoned
on a charge of Atheism, charged with having written a pamphlet and
having made a speech in which he had denied the existence of the British
God. The judge who tried him, who passed sentence upon him, went down
to his grave with a stain upon his intellect and upon his honor. All the
real intelligence of Great Britain rebelled against the outrage. There
was a trial after that to which I will call your attention. Judge
Coleridge, father of the present Chief Justice of England, presided at
this trial. A poor man by the name of Thomas Pooley, a man who dug wells
for a living, wrote on the gate of a priest, that, if people would burn
their Bibles and scatter the ashes on the lands, the crops would be
better, and that they would also save a good deal of money in tithes. He
wrote several sentences of a kindred character. He was a curious man. He
had an idea that the world was a living, breathing animal. He would not
dig a well beyond a certain depth for fear he might inflict pain upon
this animal, the earth. He was tried before Judge Coleridge, on that
charge. An infinite God was about to be dethroned, because an honest
well-digger had written his sentiments on the fence of a parson. He
was indicted, tried, convicted and sentenced to prison. Afterward, many
intelligent people asked for his pardon, on the ground that he was in
danger of becoming insane. The judge refused to sign the petition. The
pardon was refused. Long before his sentence expired, he became a raving
maniac. He was removed to an asylum and there died. Some of the greatest
men in England attacked that judge, among these, Mr. Buckle, author of
"The History of Civilization in England," one of the greatest books in
this world. Mr. Buckle denounced Judge Coleridge. He brought him before
the bar of English opinion, and there was not a man in England, whose
opinion was worth anything, who did not agree with Mr. Buckle, and did
not with him, declare the conviction of Thomas Pooley to be an infamous
outrage. What were the reasons given? This, among others: The law was
dead; it had been asleep for many years; it was a law passed during the
ignorance of the Middle Ages, and a law that came out of the dungeon
of religious persecution; a law that was appealed to by bigots and by
hypocrites, to punish, to imprison an honest man.

In many parts of this country, people have entertained the idea that New
England was still filled with the spirit of Puritanism, filled with
the descendants of those who killed Quakers in the name of universal
benevolence, and traded Quaker children in the Barbadoes for rum, for
the purpose of establishing the fact that God is an infinite father.

Yet, the last trial in Massachusetts on a charge like this, was when
Abner Kneeland was indicted on a charge of Atheism. He was tried for
having written this sentence: "The Universalists believe in a God which
I do not." He was convicted and imprisoned. Chief Justice Shaw upheld
the decision, and upheld it because he was afraid of public opinion;
upheld it, although he must have known that the statute under which
Kneeland was indicted was clearly and plainly in violation of the
Constitution. No man can read the decision of Justice Shaw without
being convinced that he was absolutely dominated, either by bigotry,
or hypocrisy. One of the judges of that court, a noble man, wrote a
dissenting opinion, and in that dissenting opinion is the argument of
a civilized, of an enlightened jurist. No man can answer the dissenting
opinion of Justice Morton. The case against Kneeland was tried more
than fifty years ago, and there has been none since in the New England
States; and this case, that we are now trying, is the first ever
tried in New Jersey. The fact that it is the first, certifies to my
interpretation of this statute, and it also certifies to the toleration
and to the civilization of the people of this State. The statute is
upon your books. You inherited it from your ignorant ancestors, and they
inherited it from their savage ancestors. The people of New Jersey were
heirs of the mistakes and of the atrocities of ancient England.

It is too late to enforce a law like this. Why has it been allowed to
slumber? Who obtained this indictment? Were they actuated by good and
noble motives? Had they the public weal at heart, or were they simply
endeavoring to be revenged upon this defendant? Were they willing to
disgrace the State, in order that they might punish him?

I have given you my definition of blasphemy, and now the question
arises, what is worship? Who is a worshiper? What is prayer? What is
real religion? Let me answer these questions.

Good, honest, faithful work, is worship. The man who ploughs the fields
and fells the forests; the man who works in mines, the man who battles
with the winds and waves out on the wide sea, controlling the commerce
of the world; these men are worshipers. The man who goes into the
forest, leading his wife by the hand, who builds him a cabin, who makes
a home in the wilderness, who helps to people and civilize and cultivate
a continent, is a worshiper.

Labor is the only prayer that Nature answers; it is the only prayer that
deserves an answer,—good, honest, noble work.

A woman whose husband has gone down to the gutter, gone down to
degradation and filth; the woman who follows him and lifts him out of
the mire and presses him to her noble heart, until he becomes a man once
more, this woman is a worshiper. Her act is worship.

The poor man and the poor woman who work night and day, in order that
they may give education to their children, so that they may have a
better life than their father and mother had; the parents who deny
themselves the comforts of life, that they may lay up something to help
their children to a higher place—they are worshipers; and the children
who, after they reap the benefit of this worship, become ashamed of
their parents, are blasphemers.

The man who sits by the bed of his invalid wife,—a wife prematurely old
and gray,—the husband who sits by her bed and holds, her thin, wan hand
in his as lovingly, and kisses it as rapturously, as passionately, as
when it was dimpled,—that is worship; that man is a worshiper; that is
real religion.

Whoever increases the sum of human joy, is a worshiper. He who adds to
the sum of human misery, is a blasphemer.

Gentlemen, you can never make me believe—no statute can ever convince
me, that there is any infinite Being in this universe who hates an
honest man. It is impossible to satisfy me that there is any God, or
can be any God, who holds in abhorrence a soul that has the courage to
express his thought. Neither can the whole world convince me that any
man should be punished, either in this world or in the next, for being
candid with his fellow-men. If you send men to the penitentiary for
speaking their thoughts, for endeavoring to enlighten their fellows,
then the penitentiary will become a place of honor, and the victim will
step from it—not stained, not disgraced, but clad in robes of glory.

Let us take one more step.

What is holy, what is sacred? I reply that human happiness is holy,
human rights are holy. The body and soul of man—these are sacred. The
liberty of man is of far more importance than any book; the rights of
man more sacred than any religion—than any Scriptures, whether inspired
or not.

What we want is the truth, and does any one suppose that all of the
truth is confined in one book—that the mysteries of the whole world are
explained by one volume?

All that is—all that conveys information to man—all that has been
produced by the past—all that now exists—should be considered by an
intelligent man. All the known truths of this world—all the philosophy,
all the poems, all the pictures, all the statues, all the entrancing
music—the prattle of babes, the lullaby of mothers, the words of honest
men, the trumpet calls to duty—all these make up the bible of the
world—everything that is noble and true and free, you will find in this
great book.

If we wish to be true to ourselves,—if we wish to benefit our
fellow-men—if we wish to live honorable lives—we will give to every
other human being every right that we claim for ourselves.

There is another thing that should be remembered by you. You are the
judges of the law, as well as the judges of the facts. In a case like
this, you are the final judges as to what the law is; and if you acquit,
no court can reverse your verdict. To prevent the least misconception,
let me state to you again what I claim:

First. I claim that the constitution of New Jersey declares that:

"_The liberty of speech shall not be abridged_." Second. That this
statute, under which this indictment is found, is unconstitutional,
because it does abridge the liberty of speech; it does exactly that
which the constitution emphatically says shall not be done.

Third. I claim, also, that under this law—even if it be
constitutional—the words charged in this indictment do not amount to
blasphemy, read even in the light, or rather in the darkness, of this
statute.

Do not, I pray you, forget this point. Do not forget, that, no matter
what the Court may tell you about the law—how good it is, or how bad
it is—no matter what the Court may instruct you on that subject—do not
forget one thing, and that is: That the words charged in the indictment
are the only words that you can take into consideration in this case.
Remember that no matter what else may be in the pamphlet—no matter what
pictures or cartoons there may be of the gentlemen in Boonton who mobbed
this man in the name of universal liberty and love—do not forget that
you have no right to take one word into account except the exact words
set out in this indictment—that is to say, the words that I have
read to you. Upon this point the Court will instruct you that you have
nothing to do with any other line in that pamphlet; and I now claim,
that should the Court instruct you that the statute is constitutional,
still I insist that the words set out in this indictment do not amount
to blasphemy.

There is still another point. This statute says: "Whoever shall
_willfully_ speak against." Now, in this case, you must find that the
defendant "willfully" did so and so—that is to say, that he made the
statements attributed to him knowing that they were not true. If you
believe that he was honest in what he said, then this statute does not
touch him. Even under this statute, a man may give his honest opinion.
Certainly, there is no law that charges a man with "willfully" being
honest—"willfully" telling his real opinion—"willfully" giving to his
fellow-men his thought.

Where a man is charged with larceny, the indictment must set out that
he took the goods or the property with the intention to steal—with
what the law calls the _animus furandi_. If he took the goods with
the intention to steal, then he is a thief; but if he took the goods
believing them to be his own, then he is guilty of no offence. So in
this case, whatever was said by the defendant must have been "willfully"
said. And I claim that if you believe that what the man said was
honestly said, you cannot find him guilty under this statute.

One more point: This statute has been allowed to slumber so long, that
no man had the right to awaken it. For more than one hundred years it
has slept; and so far as New Jersey is concerned, it has been sound
asleep since 1664. For the first time it is dug out of its grave. The
breath of life is sought to be breathed into it, to the end that some
people may wreak their vengeance on an honest man.

Is there any evidence—has there been any—to show that the defendant
was not absolutely candid in the expression of his opinions? Is there
one particle of evidence tending, to show that he is not a perfectly
honest and sincere man? Did the prosecution have the courage to
attack his reputation? No. The State has simply proved to you that he
circulated that pamphlet—that is all.

It was claimed, among other things, that the defendant circulated this
pamphlet among children. There was no such evidence—not the slightest.
The only evidence about schools, or school-children was, that when the
defendant talked with the bill-poster,—whose business the defendant was
interfering with,—he asked him something about the population of the
town, and about the schools. But according to the evidence, and as a
matter of fact, not a solitary pamphlet was ever given to any child, or
to any youth. According to the testimony, the defendant went into two or
three stores,—laid the pamphlets on a show case, or threw them upon a
desk—put them upon a stand where papers were sold, and in one instance
handed a pamphlet to a man. That is all.

In my judgment, however, there would have been no harm in giving this
pamphlet to every citizen of your place.

Again I say, that a law that has been allowed to sleep for all these
years—allowed to sleep by reason of the good sense and by reason of
the tolerant spirit of the State of New Jersey, should not be allowed
to leap into life because a few are intolerant, or because a few lacked
good sense and judgment. This snake should not be warmed into vicious
life by the blood of anger.

Probably not a man on this jury agrees with me about the subject of
religion. Probably not a member of this jury thinks that I am right in
the opinions that I have entertained and have so often expressed. Most
of you belong to some church, and I presume that those who do, have the
good of what they call Christianity at heart. There maybe among you some
Methodists. If so, they have read the history of their church, and they
know that when it was in the minority, it was persecuted, and they know
that they can not read the history of that persecution without becoming
indignant. They know that the early Methodists were denounced as
heretics, as ranters, as ignorant pretenders.

There are also on this jury, Catholics, and they know that there is a
tendency in many parts of this country to persecute a man now because he
is a Catholic. They also know that their church has persecuted in
times past, whenever and wherever it had the power; and they know that
Protestants, when in power, have always persecuted Catholics; and they
know, in their hearts, that all persecution, whether in the name of law,
or religion, is monstrous, savage, and fiendish.

I presume that each one of you has the good of what you call
Christianity at heart. If you have, I beg of you to acquit this man. If
you believe Christianity to be a good, it never can do any church any
good to put a man in jail for the expression of opinion. Any church that
imprisons a man because he has used an argument against its creed, will
simply convince the world that it cannot answer the argument.

Christianity will never reap any honor, will never reap any profit,
from persecution. It is a poor, cowardly, dastardly way of answering
arguments. No gentleman will do it—no civilized man ever did do it—no
decent human being ever did, or ever will.

I take it for granted that you have a certain regard, a certain
affection, for the State in which you live—that you take a pride in the
Commonwealth of New Jersey. If you do, I beg of you to keep the record
of your State clean. Allow no verdict to be recorded against the freedom
of speech. At present there is not to be found on the records of any
inferior court, or on those of the Supreme tribunal—any case in which a
man has been punished for speaking his sentiments. The records have not
been stained—have not been polluted—with such a verdict.

Keep such a verdict from the Reports of your State—from the Records of
your courts. No jury has yet, in the State of New Jersey, decided that
the lips of honest men are not free—that there is a manacle upon the
brain.

For the sake of your State—for the sake of her reputation throughout
the world—for your own sakes—and those of your children, and their
children yet to be—say to the world that New Jersey shares in the
spirit of this age,—that New Jersey is not a survival of the Dark
Ages,—that New Jersey does not still regard the thumbscrew as an
instrument of progress,—that New Jersey needs no dungeon to answer the
arguments of a free man, and does not send to the penitentiary, men who
think, and men who speak. Say to the world, that where arguments are
without foundation, New Jersey has confidence enough in the brains of
her people to feel that such arguments can be refuted by reason.

For the sake of your State, acquit this man. For the sake of something
of far more value to this world than New Jersey—for the sake of
something of more importance to mankind than this continent—for the
sake of Human Liberty, for the sake of Free Speech, acquit this man.

What light is to the eyes, what love is to the heart, Liberty is to the
soul of man. Without it, there come suffocation, degradation and death.

In the name of Liberty, I implore—and not only so, but I insist—that
you shall find a verdict in favor of this defendant. Do not do the
slightest thing to stay the march of human progress. Do not carry us
back, even for a moment, to the darkness of that cruel night that good
men hoped had passed away forever.

Liberty is the condition of progress. Without Liberty, there remains
only barbarism. Without Liberty, there can be no civilization.

If another man has not the right to think, you have not even the right
to think that he thinks wrong. If every man has not the right to think,
the people of New Jersey had no right to make a statute, or to adopt a
constitution—no jury has the right to render a verdict, and no court to
pass its sentence.

In other words, without liberty of thought, no human being has the right
to form a judgment. It is impossible that there should be such a thing
as real religion without liberty. Without liberty there can be no such
thing as conscience, no such word as justice. All human actions—all
good, all bad—have for a foundation the idea of human liberty, and
without Liberty there can be no vice, and there can be no virtue.

Without Liberty there can be no worship, no blasphemy—no love, no
hatred, no justice, no progress.

Take the word Liberty from human speech and all the other words become
poor, withered, meaningless sounds—but with that word realized—with
that word understood, the world becomes a paradise.

Understand me. I am not blaming the people. I am not blaming the
prosecution, or the prosecuting attorney. The officers of the court
are simply doing what they feel to be their duty. They did not find the
indictment. That was found by the grand jury. The grand jury did not
find the indictment of its own motion. Certain people came before the
grand jury and made their complaint—gave their testimony, and upon that
testimony, under this statute, the indictment was found.

While I do not blame these people—they not being on trial—I do ask you
to stand on the side of right.

I cannot conceive of much greater happiness than to discharge a public
duty, than to be absolutely true to conscience, true to judgment, no
matter what authority may say, no matter what public opinion may demand.
A man who stands by the right, against the world, cannot help applauding
himself, and saying: "I am an honest man."

I want your verdict—a verdict born of manhood, of courage; and I want
to send a dispatch to-day to a woman who is lying sick. I wish you to
furnish the words of this dispatch—only two words—and these two words
will fill an anxious heart with joy. They will fill a soul with light.
It is a very short message—only two words—and I ask you to furnish
them: "Not guilty."

You are expected to do this, because I believe you will be true to your
consciences, true to your best judgment, true to the best interests of
the people of New Jersey, true to the great cause of Liberty.

I sincerely hope that it will never be necessary again, under the flag
of the United States—that flag for which has been shed the bravest and
best blood of the world—under that flag maintained by Washington, by
Jefferson, by Franklin and by Lincoln—under that flag in defence of
which New Jersey poured out her best and bravest blood—I hope it will
never be necessary again for a man to stand before a jury and plead for
the Liberty of Speech.

> Note: The jury in this case brought in a verdict of guilty.
> The Judge imposed a fine of twenty-five dollars and costs
> amounting in all to seventy-five dollars, which Colonel
> Ingersoll paid, giving his services free.—C. P. Farrell.
---
# Vivisection
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1893_
> *A letter written to Philip G. Peabody. May 27, 1800.

VIVISECTION is the Inquisition—the Hell—of Science.

All the cruelty which the human—or rather the inhuman—heart is capable
of inflicting, is in this one word. Below this there is no depth. This
word lies like a coiled serpent at the bottom of the abyss.

We can excuse, in part, the crimes of passion. We take into
consideration the fact that man is liable to be caught by the whirlwind,
and that from a brain on fire the soul rushes to a crime. But
what excuse can ingenuity form for a man who deliberately—with an
unaccelerated pulse—with the calmness of John Calvin at the murder
of Servetus—seeks, with curious and cunning knives, in the living,
quivering flesh of a dog, for all the throbbing nerves of pain? The
wretches who commit these infamous crimes pretend that they are working
for the good of man; that they are actuated by philanthropy; and that
their pity for the sufferings of the human race drives out all pity for
the animals they slowly torture to death. But those who are incapable
of pitying animals are, as a matter of fact, incapable of pitying men.
A physician who would cut a living rabbit in pieces—laying bare the
nerves, denuding them with knives, pulling them out with forceps—would
not hesitate to try experiments with men and women for the gratification
of his curiosity.

To settle some theory, he would trifle with the life of any patient
in his power. By the same reasoning he will justify the vivisection of
animals and patients. He will say that it is better that a few animals
should suffer than that one human being should die; and that it is far
better that one patient should die, if through the sacrifice of that
one, several may be saved.

Brain without heart is far more dangerous than heart without brain.

Have these scientific assassins discovered anything of value? They may
have settled some disputes as to the action of some organ, but have they
added to the useful knowledge of the race?

It is not necessary for a man to be a specialist in order to have and
express his opinion as to the right or wrong of vivisection. It is not
necessary to be a scientist or a naturalist to detest cruelty and to
love mercy. Above all the discoveries of the thinkers, above all the
inventions of the ingenious, above all the victories won on fields of
intellectual conflict, rise human sympathy and a sense of justice.

I know that good for the human race can never be accomplished by
torture. I also know that all that has been ascertained by vivisection
could have been done by the dissection of the dead. I know that all the
torture has been useless. All the agony inflicted has simply hardened
the hearts of the criminals, without enlightening their minds.

It may be that the human race might be physically improved if all the
sickly and deformed babes were killed, and if all the paupers, liars,
drunkards, thieves, villains, and vivisectionists were murdered. All
this might, in a few ages, result in the production of a generation
of physically perfect men and women; but what would such beings be
worth,—men and women healthy and heartless, muscular and cruel—that is
to say, intelligent wild beasts?

Never can I be the friend of one who vivisects his fellow-creatures. I
do not wish to touch his hand.

When the angel of pity is driven from the heart; when the fountain of
tears is dry,—the soul becomes a serpent crawling in the dust of a
desert.
---
# What I Want for Christmas
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1891_
IF I had the power to produce exactly what I want for next Christmas,
I would have all the kings and emperors resign and allow the people to
govern themselves.

I would have all the nobility drop their titles and give their lands
back to the people. I would have the Pope throw away his tiara, take off
his sacred vestments, and admit that he is not acting for God—is
not infallible—but is just an ordinary Italian. I would have all the
cardinals, archbishops, bishops, priests and clergymen admit that they
know nothing about theology, nothing about hell or heaven, nothing about
the destiny of the human race, nothing about devils or ghosts, gods
or angels. I would have them tell all their "flocks" to think for
themselves, to be manly men and womanly women, and to do all in their
power to increase the sum of human happiness.

I would have all the professors in colleges, all the teachers in schools
of every kind, including those in Sunday schools, agree that they would
teach only what they know, that they would not palm off guesses as
demonstrated truths.

I would like to see all the politicians changed to statesmen,—to men
who long to make their country great and free,—to men who care more for
public good than private gain—men who long to be of use.

I would like to see all the editors of papers and magazines agree to
print the truth and nothing but the truth, to avoid all slander and
misrepresentation, and to let the private affairs of the people alone.

I would like to see drunkenness and prohibition both abolished.

I would like to see corporal punishment done away with in every home, in
every school, in every asylum, reformatory, and prison. Cruelty hardens
and degrades, kindness reforms and ennobles.

I would like to see the millionaires unite and form a trust for the
public good.

I would like to see a fair division of profits between capital and
labor, so that the toiler could save enough to mingle a little June with
the December of his life.

I would like to see an international court established in which to
settle disputes between nations, so that armies could be disbanded and
the great navies allowed to rust and rot in perfect peace.

I would like to see the whole world free—free from injustice—free from
superstition.

This will do for next Christmas. The following Christmas, I may want
more.—The Arena, Boston, December, 1897.
---
# What Infidels Have Done
_Dresden Edition, Volume 11, 1892_
ONE HUNDRED years after Christ had died suppose some one had asked a
Christian, What hospitals have you built? What asylums have you founded?
They would have said "None." Suppose three hundred years after the death
of Christ the same questions had been asked the Christian, he would have
said "None, not one." Two hundred years more and the answer would
have been the same. And at that time the Christian could have told the
questioner that the Mohammedans had built asylums before the Christians.
He could also have told him that there had been orphan asylums in China
for hundreds and hundreds of years, hospitals in India, and hospitals
for the sick at Athens.

Here it may be well enough to say that all hospitals and asylums are
not built for charity. They are built because people do not want to be
annoyed by the sick and the insane. If a sick man should come down the
street and sit upon your doorstep, what would you do with him? You
would have to take him into your house or leave him to suffer. Private
families do not wish to take the burden of the sick. Consequently,
in self-defence, hospitals are built so that any wanderer coming to a
house, dying, or suffering from any disease, may immediately be packed
off to a hospital and not become a burden upon private charity. The fact
that many diseases are contagious rendered hospitals necessary for the
preservation of the lives of the citizens. The same thing is true of the
asylums. People do not, as a rule, want to take into their families, all
the children who happen to have no fathers and mothers. So they endow
and build an asylum where those children can be sent—and where they
can be whipped according to law. Nobody wants an insane stranger in
his house. The consequence is, that the community, to get rid of these
people, to get rid of the trouble, build public institutions and send
them there.

Now, then, to come to the point, to answer the interrogatory often flung
at us from the pulpit, What institutions have Infidels built? In the
first place, there have not been many Infidels for many years and, as
a rule, a known Infidel cannot get very rich, for the reason that the
Christians are so forgiving and loving they boycott him. If the average
Infidel, freely stating his opinion, could get through the world
himself, for the last several hundred years, he has been in good luck.
But as a matter of fact there have been some Infidels who have done
some good, even from a Christian standpoint. The greatest charity ever
established in the United States by a man—not by a community to get rid
of a nuisance, but by a man who wished to do good and wished that
good to last after his death—is the Girard College in the city of
Philadelphia. Girard was an Infidel. He gained his first publicity by
going like a common person into the hospitals and taking care of those
suffering from contagious diseases—from cholera and smallpox. So there
is a man by the name of James Lick, an Infidel, who has given the finest
observatory ever given to the world. And it is a good thing for an
Infidel to increase the sight of men. The reason people are theologians
is because they cannot see. Mr. Lick has increased human vision, and
I can say right here that nothing has been seen through the telescope,
calculated to prove the astronomy of Joshua. Neither can you see with
that telescope a star that bears a Christian name. The reason is
that Christianity was opposed to astronomy. So astronomers took their
revenge, and now there is not one star that glitters in all the vast
firmament of the boundless heavens that has a Christian name. Mr.
Carnegie has been what they call a public-spirited man. He has given
millions of dollars for libraries and other institutions, and he
certainly is not an orthodox Christian.

Infidels, however, have done much better even than that. They have
increased the sum of human knowledge. John W. Draper, in his work on
"The Intellectual Development of Europe," has done more good to the
American people and to the civilized world than all the priests in it.
He was an Infidel. Buckle is another who has added to the sum of human
knowledge. Thomas Paine, an Infidel, did more for this country than any
other man who ever lived in it.

Most of the colleges in this country have, I admit, been founded
by Christians, and the money for their support has been donated by
Christians, but most of the colleges of this country have simply
classified ignorance, and I think the United States would be more
learned than it is to-day if there never had been a Christian college in
it. But whether Christians gave or Infidels gave has nothing to do with
the probability of the Jonah story or with the probability that the mark
on the dial went back ten degrees to prove that a little Jewish king was
not going to die of a boil. And if the Infidels are all stingy and the
Christians are all generous it does not even tend to prove that three
men were in a fiery furnace heated seven times hotter than was its wont
without even scorching their clothes.

The best college in this country—or, at least, for a long time the
best—was the institution founded by Ezra Cornell. That is a school
where people try to teach what they know instead of what they guess. Yet
Cornell University was attacked by every orthodox college in the United
States at the time it was founded, because they said it was without
religion.

Everybody knows that Christianity does not tend to generosity.
Christianity says: "Save your own soul, whether anybody else saves his
or not." Christianity says: "Let the great ship go down. You get into
the little life-boat of the gospel and paddle ashore, no matter what
becomes of the rest." Christianity says you must love God, or something
in the sky, better than you love your wife and children. And the
Christian, even when giving, expects to get a very large compound
interest in another world. The Infidel who gives, asks no return except
the joy that comes from relieving the wants of another.

Again the Christians, although they have built colleges, have built them
for the purpose of spreading their superstitions, and have poisoned the
minds of the world, while the Infidel teachers have filled the world
with light. Darwin did more for mankind than if he had built a thousand
hospitals. Voltaire did more than if he had built a thousand asylums for
the insane. He will prevent thousands from going insane that otherwise
might be driven into insanity by the "glad tidings of great joy."
Haeckel is filling the world with light.

I am perfectly willing that the results of the labors of Christians and
the labors of Infidels should be compared. Then let it be understood
that Infidels have been in this world but a very short time. A few years
ago there were hardly any. I can remember when I was the only Infidel in
the town where I lived. Give us time and we will build colleges in which
something will be taught that is of use. We hope to build temples that
will be dedicated to reason and common sense, and where every effort
will be made to reform mankind and make them better and better in this
world.

I am saying nothing against the charity of Christians; nothing against
any kindness or goodness. But I say the Christians, in my judgment, have
done more harm than they have done good. They may talk of the asylums
they have built, but they have not built asylums enough to hold the
people who have been driven insane by their teachings. Orthodox religion
has opposed liberty. It has opposed investigation and free thought. If
all the churches in Europe had been observatories, if the cathedrals had
been universities where facts were taught and where nature was studied,
if all the priests had been real teachers, this world would have been
far, far beyond what it is to-day.

There is an idea that Christianity is positive, and Infidelity is
negative. If this be so, then falsehood is positive and truth is
negative. What I contend is that Infidelity is a positive religion; that
Christianity is a negative religion. Christianity denies and Infidelity
admits. Infidelity stands by facts; it demonstrates by the conclusions
of the reason. Infidelity does all it can to develop the brain and the
heart of man. That is positive. Religion asks man to give up this
world for one he knows nothing about. That is negative. I stand by the
religion of reason. I stand by the dogmas of demonstration.
---
# A Few Fragments on Expansion
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
A NATION rises from infancy to manhood and sinks from dotage to death.
I think that the great Republic is in the morning of her life—the sun
just above the horizon—the grass still wet with dew.

Our country has the courage and enthusiasm of youth—her blood flows
full—her heart beats strong and her brow is fair. We stand on
the threshold of a great, a sublime career. All the conditions are
favorable—the environment kind. The best part of this hemisphere is
ours. We have a thousand million acres of fertile land, vast forests,
whole States underlaid with coal; ranges of mountains filled with
iron, silver and gold, and we have seventy-five millions of the most
energetic, active, inventive, progressive and practical people in the
world. The great Republic is a happy combination of mind and muscle, of
head and heart, of courage and good nature. We are growing. We have the
instinct of expansion. We are full of life and health. We are about to
take our rightful place at the head of the nations. The great powers
have been struggling to obtain markets. They are fighting for the trade
of the East. They are contending for China. We watched, but we did
not act. They paid no attention to us or we to them. Conditions have
changed. We own the Hawaiian Islands. We will own the Philippines.

Japan and China will be our neighbors—our customers. Our interests must
be protected. In China we want the "open door," and we will see to it
that the door is kept open. The nation that tries to shut it, will get
its fingers pinched. We have taught the Old World that the Republic must
be consulted. We have entered on the great highway, and we are destined
to become the most powerful, the most successful and the most generous
of nations. I am for expansion. The more people beneath the flag the
better. Let the Republic grow..

I BELIEVE in growth. Of course there are many moss-back conservatives
who fear expansion. Thousands opposed the purchase of Louisiana from
Napoleon, thousands were against the acquisition of Florida and of the
vast territory we obtained from Mexico. So, thousands were against the
purchase of Alaska, and some dear old mummies opposed the annexation
of the Sandwich Islands, and yet, I do not believe that there is an
intelligent American who would like to part with one acre that has
been acquired by the Government. Now, there are some timid, withered
statesmen who do not want Porto Rico—who beg us in a trembling,
patriotic voice not to keep the Philippines. But the sensible people
feel exactly the other way. They love to see our borders extended.
They love to see the flag floating over the islands of the
tropics,—showering its blessings upon the poor people who have been
robbed and tortured by the Spanish. Let the Republic grow! Let us spread
the gospel of Freedom! In a few years I hope that Canada will be ours—I
want Mexico—in other words, I want all of North America. I want to see
our flag waving from the North Pole.

I think it was a mistake to appoint a peace commission. The President
should have demanded the unconditional surrender of Cuba, Porto Rico
and the Philippines. Spain was helpless. The war would have ended on our
terms, and all this commission nonsense would have been saved. Still, I
make no complaint. It will probably come out right, though it would have
been far better to have ended the business when we could—when Spain
was prostrate. It was foolish to let her get up and catch her breath and
hunt for friends.

ONLY a few days ago our President, by proclamation, thanked God for
giving us the victory at Santiago. He did not thank him for sending the
yellow fever. To be consistent the President should have thanked him
equally for both. Man should think; he should use all his senses; he
should examine; he should reason. The man who cannot think is less than
man; the man who will not think is a traitor to himself; the man who
fears to think is superstition's slave. I do not thank God for the
splendid victory in Manila Bay. I don't know whether he had anything
to do with it; if I find out that he did I will thank him readily.
Meanwhile, I will thank Admiral George Dewey and the brave fellows who
were with him.

I do not thank God for the destruction of Cervera's fleet at Santiago.
No, I thank Schley and the men with the trained eyes and the nerves of
steel, who stood behind the guns. I do not thank God because we won
the battle of Santiago. I thank the Regular Army, black and white—the
Volunteers—the Rough Riders, and all the men who made the grand charge
at San Juan Hill. I have asked, "Why should God help us to whip Spain?"
and have been answered: "For the sake of the Cubans, who have been
crushed and ill-treated by their Spanish masters." Then why did not God
help the Cubans long before? Certainly, they were fighting long enough
and needed his help badly enough. But, I am told, God's ways are
inscrutable. Suppose Spain had whipped us; would the Christians then say
that God did it? Very likely they would, and would have as an excuse,
that we broke the Sabbath with our base-ball, our bicycles and bloomers.

## Is it Ever Right for Husband or Wife to Kill Rival

HOW far should a husband or wife go in defending the sanctity of home?

Is it right for the husband to kill the paramour of his wife?

Is it right for the wife to kill the paramour of her husband?

These three questions are in substance one, and one answer will be
sufficient for all.

In the first place, we should have an understanding of the real relation
that exists, or should exist, between husband and wife.

The real good orthodox people, those who admire St. Paul, look upon the
wife as the property of the husband. He owns, not only her body, but her
very soul. This being the case, no other man has the right to steal
or try to steal this property. The owner has the right to defend his
possession, even to the death. In the olden time the husband was
never regarded as the property of the wife. She had a claim on him for
support, and there was usually some way to enforce the claim. If
the husband deserted the wife for the sake of some other woman, or
transferred his affections to another, the wife, as a rule, suffered in
silence. Sometimes she took her revenge on the woman, but generally she
did nothing. Men killed the "destroyers" of their homes, but the women,
having no homes, being only wives, nothing but mothers—bearers of babes
for masters—allowed their destroyers to live.

In recent years women have advanced. They have stepped to the front.
Wives are no longer slaves. They are the equals of husbands. They have
homes to defend, husbands to protect and "destroyers" to kill. The
rights of husbands and wives are now equal. They live under the same
moral code. Their obligations to each other are mutual. Both are bound,
and equally bound, to live virtuous lives.

Now, if A falls in love with the wife of B, and she returns his love,
has B the right to kill him? Or if A falls in love with the husband of
B, and he returns her love, has B the right to kill her?

If the wronged husband has the right to kill, so has the wronged wife.

Suppose that a young man and woman are engaged to be married, and that
she falls in love with another and marries him, has the first lover a
right to kill the last?

This leads me to another question: What is marriage? Men and women
cannot truly be married by any set or form of words, or by any
ceremonies however solemn, or by contract signed, sealed and witnessed,
or by the words or declarations of priests or judges. All these put
together do not constitute marriage. At the very best they are only
evidences of the fact of marriage—something that really happened
between the parties. Without pure, honest, mutual love there can be no
real marriage. Marriage without love is only a form of prostitution.
Marriage for the sake of position or wealth is immoral. No good,
sensible man wants to marry a woman whose heart is not absolutely his,
and no good, sensible woman wants to marry a man whose heart is not
absolutely hers. Now, if there can be no real marriage without mutual
love, does the marriage outlast the love? If it is immoral for a woman
to marry a man without loving him, is it moral for her to live as the
wife of a man whom she has ceased to love? Is she bound by the words, by
the ceremony, after the real marriage is dead? Is she so bound that the
man she hates has the right to be the father of her babes?

If a girl is engaged and afterward meets her ideal, a young man whose
presence is joy, whose touch is ecstasy, is it her duty to fulfill her
engagement? Would it not be a thousand times nobler and purer for her to
say to the first lover: "I thought I loved you; I was mistaken. I belong
heart and soul to another, and if I married you I could not be yours."

So, if a young man is engaged and finds that he has made a mistake, is
it honorable for him to keep his contract? Would it not be far nobler
for him to tell her the truth?

The civilized man loves a woman not only for his own sake, but for
her sake. He longs to make her happy—to fill her life with joy. He
is willing to make sacrifices for her, but he does not want her to
sacrifice herself for him. The civilized husband wants his wife to be
free—wants the love that she cannot help giving him. He does not want
her, from a sense of duty, or because of the contract or ceremony, to
act as though she loved him, when in fact her heart is far away. He
does not want her to pollute her soul and live a lie for his sake. The
civilized husband places the happiness of his wife above his own. Her
love is the wealth of his heart, and to guard her from evil is the
business of his life.

But the civilized husband knows when his wife ceases to love him that
the real marriage has also ceased. He knows that it is then infamous for
him to compel her to remain his wife. He knows that it is her right
to be free—that her body belongs to her, that her soul is her own. He
knows, too, if he knows anything, that her affection is not the slave of
her will.

In a case like this, the civilized husband would, so far as he had
the power, release his wife from the contract of marriage, divide his
property fairly with her and do what he could for her welfare. Civilized
love never turns to hatred.

Suppose he should find that there was a man in the case, that another
had won her love, or that she had given her love to another, would it
then be his right or duty to kill that man? Would the killing do any
good? Would it bring back her love? Would it reunite the family? Would
it annihilate the disgrace or the memory of the shame? Would it lessen
the husband's loss?

Society says that the husband should kill the man because he led the
woman astray.

How do we know that he betrayed the woman? Mrs. Potiphar left many
daughters, and Joseph certainly had but few sons. How do we know that
it was not the husband's fault? She may for years have shivered in the
winter of his neglect. She may have borne his cruelties of word and deed
until her love w'as dead and buried side by side with hope. Another man
comes into her life. He pities her. She looks and loves. He lifts her
from the grave. Again she really lives, and her poor heart is rich with
love's red blood. Ought this man to be killed? He has robbed no husband,
wronged no man. He has rescued a victim, released an innocent prisoner
and made a life worth living. But the brutal husband says that the wife
has been led astray; that he has been wronged and dishonored, and that
it is his right, his duty, to shed the seducer's blood. He finds the
facts himself. He is witness, jury, judge and executioner. He forgets
his neglect, his cruelties, his faithlessness; forgets that he drove her
from his heart, remembers only that she loves another, and then in the
name of justice he takes the life of the one she loves.

A husband deserts his wife, leaves her without money, without the means
to live, with his babes in her arms. She cannot get a divorce; she must
wait, and in the meantime she must live. A man falls in love with her
and she with him. He takes care of her and the deserted children. The
"wronged" husband returns and kills the "betrayer" of his wife. He
believes in the sacredness of marriage, the holiness of home.

It may be admitted that the deserted wife did wrong, and that the man
who cared for her and her worse than fatherless children also did wrong,
but certainly he had done nothing for which he deserved to be murdered.

A woman finds that her husband is in love with another woman, that he
is false, and the question is whether it is her right to kill the other
woman. The wronged husband has always claimed that the man led his wife
astray, that he had crept and crawled into his Eden, but now the wronged
wife claims that the woman seduced her husband, that she spread the
net, wove the web and baited the trap in which the innocent husband was
caught. Thereupon she kills the other woman.

In the first place, how can she be sure of the facts? How does she know
whose fault it was? Possibly she was to blame herself.

But what good has the killing done? It will not give her back her
husband's love. It will not cool the fervor of her jealousy. It will not
give her better sleep or happier dreams.

It would have been far better if she had said to her husband: "Go with
the woman you love. I do not want your body without your heart, your
presence without your love."

So, it would be better for the wronged husband to say to the unfaithful
wife: "Go with the man you love. Your heart is his, I am not your
master. You are free."

After all, murder is a poor remedy. If you kill a man for one wrong, why
not for another? If you take the law into your own hands and kill a man
because he loves your wife and your wife loves him, why not kill him for
any injury he may inflict on you or yours?...

In a civilized nation the people are governed by law. They do not
redress their own wrongs. They submit their differences to courts. If
they are wronged they appeal to the law. Savages redress what they call
their wrongs. They appeal to knife or gun. They kill, they assassinate,
they murder; and they do this to preserve their honor. Admit that the
seducer of the wife deserves death, that the woman who leads the husband
astray deserves death, admit that both have justly forfeited their
lives, the question yet remains whether the wronged husband and the
wronged wife have the right to commit murder.

If they have this right, then there ought to be some way provided for
ascertaining the facts. Before the husband kills the "betrayer," the
fact that the wife was really led astray should be established, and the
"wronged" husband who claims the right to kill, should show that he had
been a good, loving and true husband.

As a rule, the wives of good and generous men are true and faithful.
They love their homes, they adore their children. In poverty and
disaster they cling the closer. But when husbands are indolent and mean,
when they are cruel and selfish, when they make a hell of home, why
should we insist that their wives should love them still?

When the civilized man finds that his wife loves another he does not
kill, he does not murder. He says to his wife, "You are free."

When the civilized woman finds that her husband loves another she does
not kill, she does not murder. She says to her husband, "I am free."
This, in my judgment, is the better way. It is in accordance with a far
higher philosophy of life, of the real rights of others. The civilized
man is governed by his reason, his intelligence; the savage by his
passions. The civilized, man seeks for the right, regardless of himself;
the savage for revenge, regardless of the rights of others.

I do not believe that murder guards the sacredness of home, the purity
of the fireside. I do not believe that crime wins victories for virtue.
I believe in liberty and I believe in law. That country is free where
the people make and honestly uphold the law. I am opposed to a redress
of grievances or the punishment of criminals by mobs and I am equally
opposed to giving the "wronged" husbands and the "wronged" wives the
right to kill the men and women they suspect. In other words, I believe
in civilization.

A few years ago a merchant living in the West suspected that his wife
and bookkeeper were in love. One morning he started for a distant city,
pretending that he would be absent for a couple of weeks. He came back
that night and found the lovers occupying the same room. He did not kill
the man, but said to him: "Take her; she is yours. Treat her well
and you will not be troubled. Abuse or desert her and I will be her
avenger."

He did not kill his wife, but said: "We part forever. You are entitled
to one-half of the property we have accumulated. You shall have it.
Farewell!"

The merchant was a civilized man—a philosopher.
---
# A Tribute to Anton Seidl
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
## A Tribute to Anton Seidl

> A telegram read at the funeral services in the Metropolitan
> Opera House, New York City, March 31, 1898.

IN the noon and zenith of his career, in the flush and glory of success,
Anton Seidl, the greatest orchestral leader of all time, the perfect
interpreter of Wagner, of all his subtlety and sympathy, his heroism and
grandeur, his intensity and limitless passion, his wondrous harmonies
that tell of all there is in life, and touch the longings and the hopes
of every heart, has passed from the shores of sound to the realm of
silence, borne by the mysterious and resistless tide that ever ebbs but
never flows.

All moods were his. Delicate as the perfume of the first violet, wild as
the storm, he knew the music of all sounds, from the rustle of leaves,
the whisper of hidden springs, to the voices of the sea.

He was the master of music, from the rhythmical strains of irresponsible
joy to the sob of the funeral march.

He stood like a king with his sceptre in his hand, and we knew that
every tone and harmony were in his brain, every passion in his breast,
and yet his sculptured face was as calm, as serene as perfect art. He
mingled his soul with the music and gave his heart to the enchanted air.

He appeared to have no limitations, no walls, no chains. He seemed to
follow the pathway of desire, and the marvelous melodies, the sublime
harmonies, were as free as eagles above the clouds with outstretched
wings.

He educated, refined, and gave unspeakable joy to many thousands of his
fellow-men. He added to the grace and glory of life. He spoke a language
deeper, more poetic than words—the language of the perfect, the
language of love and death.

But he is voiceless now; a fountain of harmony has ceased. Its inspired
strains have died away in night, and all its murmuring melodies are
strangely still.

We will mourn for him, we will honor him, not in words, but in the
language that he used.

Anton Seidl is dead. Play the great funeral march. Envelop him in music.
Let its wailing waves cover him. Let its wild and mournful winds sigh
and moan above him. Give his face to its kisses and its tears.

Play the great funeral march, music as profound as death. That will
express our sorrow—that will voice our love, our hope, and that will
tell of the life, the triumph, the genius, the death of Anton Seidl.
---
# A Tribute to Courtlandt Palmer
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1888_
## A Tribute to Courtlandt Palmer

New York, July 26, 1888.

MY FRIENDS: A thinker of pure thoughts, a speaker of brave words, a doer
of generous deeds has reached the silent haven that all the dead have
reached, and where the voyage of every life must end; and we, his
friends, who even now are hastening after him, are met to do the last
kind acts that man may do for man—to tell his virtues and to lay with
tenderness and tears lay ashes in the sacred place of rest and peace.

Some one has said, that in the open hands of death we find only what
they gave away.

Let us believe that pure thoughts, brave words and generous deeds can
never die. Let us believe that they bear fruit and add forever to the
well-being of the human race. Let us believe that a noble, self-denying
life increases the moral wealth of man, and gives assurance that the
future will be grander than the past.

In the monotony of subservience, in the multitude of blind followers,
nothing is more inspiring than a free and independent man—one who gives
and asks reasons; one who demands freedom and gives what he demands; one
who refuses to be slave or master. Such a man was Courtlandt Palmer, to
whom we pay the tribute of respect and love.

He was an honest man—he gave the rights he claimed. This was the
foundation on which he built. To think for himself—to give his thought
to others; this was to him not only a privilege, not only a right, but a
duty.

He believed in self-preservation—in personal independence—that is to
say, in manhood.

He preserved the realm of mind from the invasion of brute force, and
protected the children of the brain from the Herod of authority.

He investigated for himself the questions, the problems and the
mysteries of life. Majorities were nothing to him. No error could be old
enough—popular, plausible or profitable enough—to bribe his judgment
or to keep his conscience still.

He knew that, next to finding truth, the greatest joy is honest search.

He was a believer in intellectual hospitality, in the fair exchange of
thought, in good mental manners, in the amenities of the soul, in the
chivalry of discussion.

He insisted that those who speak should hear; that those who question
should answer; that each should strive not for a victory over others,
but for the discovery of truth, and that truth when found should be
welcomed by every human soul.

He knew that truth has no fear of investigation—of being understood.
He knew that truth loves the day—that its enemies are ignorance,
prejudice, egotism, bigotry, hypocrisy, fear and darkness, and that
intelligence, candor, honesty, love and light are its eternal friends.

He believed in the morality of the useful—that the virtues are the
friends of man—the seeds of joy.

He knew that consequences determine the quality of actions, and "that
whatsoever a man sows that shall he also reap."

In the positive philosophy of Auguste Comte he found the framework of
his creed. In the conclusions of that great, sublime and tender soul he
found the rest, the serenity and the certainty he sought.

The clouds had fallen from his life. He saw that the old faiths were
but phases in the growth of man—that out from the darkness, up from
the depths, the human race through countless ages and in every land had
struggled toward the ever-growing light.

He felt that the living are indebted to the noble dead, and that each
should pay his debt; that he should pay it by preserving to the extent
of his power the good he has, by destroying the hurtful, by adding to
the knowledge of the world, by giving better than he had received; and
that each should be the bearer of a torch, a giver of light for all that
is, for all to be.

This was the religion of duty perceived, of duty within the reach of
man, within the circumference of the known—a religion without mystery,
with experience for the foundation of belief—a religion understood by
the head and approved by the heart—a religion that appealed to reason
with a definite end in view—the civilization and development of the
human race by legitimate, adequate and natural means—that is to say, by
ascertaining the conditions of progress and by teaching each to be noble
enough to live for all.

This is the gospel of man; this is the gospel of this world; this is the
religion of humanity; this is a philosophy that comtemplates not with
scorn, but with pity, with admiration and with love all that man has
done, regarding, as it does, the past with all its faults and virtues,
its sufferings, its cruelties and crimes, as the only road by which the
perfect could be reached.

He denied the supernatural—the phantoms and the ghosts that fill
the twilight-land of fear. To him and for him there was but one
religion—the religion of pure thoughts, of noble words, of self-denying
deeds, of honest work for all the world—the religion of Help and Hope.

Facts were the foundation of his faith; history was his prophet; reason
his guide; duty his deity; happiness the end; intelligence the means.

He knew that man must be the providence of man.

He did not believe in Religion and Science, but in the Religion of
Science—that is to say, wisdom glorified by love, the Savior of our
race—the religion that conquers prejudice and hatred, that drives all
superstition from the mind, that ennobles, lengthens and enriches life,
that drives from every home the wolves of want, from every heart the
fiends of selfishness and fear, and from every brain the monsters of the
night.

He lived and labored for his fellow-men. He sided with the weak and poor
against the strong and rich. He welcomed light. His face was ever toward
the East.

According to his light he lived. "The world was his country—to do good
his religion." There is no language to express a nobler creed than this;
nothing can be grander, more comprehensive, nearer perfect. This was the
creed that glorified his life and made his death sublime.

He was afraid to do wrong, and for that reason was not afraid to die.

He knew that the end was near. He knew that his work was done. He stood
within the twilight, within the deepening gloom, knowing that for the
last time the gold was fading from the West and that there could not
fall again within his eyes the trembling lustre of another dawn. He knew
that night had come, and yet his soul was filled with light, for in that
night the memory of his generous deeds shone out like stars.

What can we say? What words can solve the mystery of life, the mystery
of death? What words can justly pay a tribute to the man who lived
to his ideal, who spoke his honest thought, and who was turned aside
neither by envy, nor hatred, nor contumely, nor slander, nor scorn, nor
fear?

What words will do that life the justice that we know and feel?

A heart breaks, a man dies, a leaf falls in the far forest, a babe is
born, and the great world sweeps on.

By the grave of man stands the angel of Silence.

No one can tell which is better—Life with its gleams and shadows, its
thrills and pangs, its ecstasy and tears, its wreaths and thorns, its
crowns, its glories and Golgothas, or Death, with its peace, its rest,
its cool and placid brow that hath within no memory or fear of grief or
pain.

Farewell, dear friend. The world is better for your life—The world is
braver for your death.

Farewell! We loved you living, and we love you now.
---
# A Tribute to Dr. Thomas Seton Robertson
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
## A Tribute to Dr. Thomas Seton Robertson

New York September 8, 1898.

IN the pulseless hush of death, silence seems more expressive, more
appropriate—than speech. In the presence of the Great Mystery, the
great mystery that waits to enshroud us all, we feel the uselessness of
words. But where a fellow-mortal has reached his journey's end—where
the darkness from which he emerged has received him again, it is but
natural for his friends to mingle with their grief, expressions of their
love and loss.

He who lies before us in the sleep of death was generous to his
fellow-men. His hands were always stretched to help, to save. He pitied
the friendless, the unfortunate, the hopeless—proud of his skill—of
his success. He was quick to decide—to act—prompt, tireless, forgetful
of self. He lengthened life and conquered pain—hundreds are well and
happy now because he lived. This is enough. This puts a star above the
gloom of death.

He was sensitive to the last degree—quick to feel a slight—to resent
a wrong—but in the warmth of kindness the thorn of hatred blossomed. He
was not quite fashioned for this world. The flints and thorns on life's
highway bruised and pierced his flesh, and for his wounds he did
not have the blessed balm of patience. He felt the manacles, the
limitations—the imprisonments of life and so within the walls and bars
he wore his very soul away. He could not bear the storms. The tides,
the winds, the waves, in the morning of his life, dashed his frail bark
against the rocks.

He fought as best he could, and that he failed was not his fault.

He was honest, generous and courageous. These three great virtues were
his. He was a true and steadfast friend, seeing only the goodness of the
ones he loved. Only a great and noble heart is capable of this.

But he has passed beyond the reach of praise or blame—passed to the
realm of rest—to the waveless calm of perfect peace.

The storm is spent—the winds are hushed—the waves have died along the
shore—the tides are still—the aching heart has ceased to beat, and
within the brain all thoughts, all hopes and fears—ambitions, memories,
rejoicings and regrets—all images and pictures of the world, of
life, are now as though they had not been. And yet Hope, the child of
Love—the deathless, beyond the darkness sees the dawn. And we who knew
and loved him, we, who now perform the last sad rites—the last that
friendship can suggest—"will keep his memory green."

Dear Friend, farewell! "If we do meet again we shall smile indeed—if
not, this parting is well made." Farewell!
---
# A Tribute to Ebon C. Ingersoll
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1879_
Washington, D. C., May 31, 1879.

> * The funeral of the Hon. E. C. Ingersoll took place
> yesterday afternoon at four o'clock, from his late
> residence, 1403 K Street The only ceremony at the house,
> other than the viewing of the remains, was a most affecting
> pathetic, and touching address by Col. Robert G. ingersoll,
> brother of the deceased. Not only the speaker, but every one
> of his hearers were deeply affected. When he began to read
> his eloquent characterization of the dead man his eyes at
> once filled with tears. He tried to hide them, but he could
> not do it, and finally he bowed his head upon the dead man's
> coffin in uncontrollable grief It was only after some delay,
> and the greatest efforts a self-mastery, that Colonel
> Ingersoll was able to finish reading his address. When he
> had ceased speaking, the members of the bereaved family
> approached the casket and looked upon the form which it
> contained, for the last time. The scene was heartrending.
> The devotion of all connected with the household excited
> the sympathy of all and there was not a dry eye to be seen.
> The pall-bearers—Senator William B. Allison, Senator James
> G. Blaine, Senator David Davis, Senator Daniel W Voorhees.
> Representative James A. Garfield, Senator A. S Paddock,
> Representative Thomas Q. Boyd of Illinois, the Hon. Ward H.
> Lermon, ex-Congressman Jere Wilson, and Representative Adlai
> E. Stevenson of Illinois—then bore the remains to the
> hearse, and the lengthy cortege proceeded to the Oak Hill
> Cemetery, where the remains were interred, in the presence
> of the family and friends, without further ceremony.—
> National Republican, Washington, D. C., June 3, 1879.

DEAR FRIENDS: I am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would
do for me.

The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where
manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were
falling toward the west.

He had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest
point; but being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and
using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that
kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured
with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust.

Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour
of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash
against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a
sunken ship. For whether in mid-sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther
shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every
life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment
jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep
and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death.

This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but
in the sunshine he was vine and flower. He was the friend of all heroic
souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far below,
while on his forehead fell the golden dawning of the grander day.

He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to
tears. He sided with the weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly
gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully
discharged all public trusts.

He was a worshiper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand
times I have heard him quote these words: "_For Justice all place a
temple, and all season, summer_." He believed that happiness is the only
good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only
religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy;
and were every one to whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom
to his grave, he would sleep tonight beneath a wilderness of flowers.

Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two
eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud,
and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless
lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of
death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.

He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the
return of health, whispered with his latest breath, "I am better now."
Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that
these dear words are true of all the countless dead.

The record of a generous life runs like a vine around the memory of our
dead, and every sweet, unselfish act is now a perfumed flower.

And now, to you, who have been chosen, from among the many men he loved,
to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust.

Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is, no gentler,
stronger, manlier man.
---
# A Tribute to Elizur Wright
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1885_
## A Tribute to Elizur Wright

New York. December 19, 1885.

ANOTHER hero has fallen asleep—one who enriched the world with an
honest life.

Elizur Wright was one of the Titans who attacked the monsters, the
Gods, of his time—one of the few whose confidence in liberty was never
shaken, and who, with undimmed eyes, saw the atrocities and barbarisms
of his day and the glories of the future.

When New York was degraded enough to mob Arthur Tappan, the noblest of
her citizens; when Boston was sufficiently infamous to howl and hoot at
Harriet Martineau, the grandest Englishwoman that ever touched our soil;
when the North was dominated by theology and trade, by piety and piracy;
when we received our morals from merchants, and made merchandise of our
morals, Elizur Wright held principle above profit, and preserved his
manhood at the peril of his life.

When the rich, the cultured, and the respectable,—when church members
and ministers, who had been "called" to preach the "glad tidings," and
when statesmen like Webster joined with bloodhounds, and in the name
of God hunted men and mothers, this man rescued the fugitives and gave
asylum to the oppressed.

During those infamous years—years of cruelty and national
degradation—years of hypocrisy and greed and meanness beneath the reach
of any English word, Elizur Wright became acquainted with the orthodox
church. He found that a majority of Christians were willing to enslave
men and women for whom they said that Christ had died—that they would
steal the babe of a Christian mother, although they believed that the
mother would be their equal in heaven forever. He found that those who
loved their enemies would enslave their friends—that people who when
smitten on one cheek turned the other, were ready, willing and anxious
to mob and murder those who simply said: "The laborer is worthy of his
hire."

In those days the church was in favor of slavery, not only of the body
but of the mind. According to the creeds, God himself was an infinite
master and all his children serfs. He ruled with whip and chain, with
pestilence and fire. Devils were his bloodhounds, and hell his place of
eternal torture.

Elizur Wright said to himself, why should we take chains from bodies and
enslave minds—why fight to free the cage and leave the bird a prisoner?
He became an enemy of orthodox religion—that is to say, a friend of
intellectual liberty.

He lived to see the destruction of legalized larceny; to read the
Proclamation of Emancipation; to see a country without a slave, a flag
without a stain. He lived long enough to reap the reward for having
been an honest man; long enough for his "disgrace" to become a crown of
glory; long enough to see his views adopted and his course applauded by
the civilized world; long enough for the hated word "abolitionist" to
become a title of nobility, a certificate of manhood, courage and true
patriotism.

Only a few years ago, the heretic was regarded as an enemy of the human
race. The man who denied the inspiration of the Jewish Scriptures was
looked upon as a moral leper, and the Atheist as the worst of criminals.
Even in that day, Elizur Wright was grand enough to speak his honest
thought, to deny the inspiration of the Bible; brave enough to defy
the God of the orthodox church—the Jehovah of the Old Testament, the
Eternal Jailer, the Everlasting Inquisitor.

He contended that a good God would not have upheld slavery and polygamy;
that a loving Father would not assist some of his children to enslave or
exterminate their brethren; that an infinite being would not be unjust,
irritable, jealous, revengeful, ignorant, and cruel.

And it was his great good fortune to live long enough to find the
intellectual world on his side; long enough to know that the greatest'
naturalists, philosophers, and scientists agreed with him; long enough
to see certain words change places, so that "heretic" was honorable
and "orthodox" an epithet. To-day, the heretic is known to be a man of
principle and courage—one blest with enough mental independence to
tell his thought. To-day, the thoroughly orthodox means the thoroughly
stupid.

Only a few years ago it was taken for granted that an "unbeliever" could
not be a moral man; that one who disputed the inspiration of the legends
of Judea could not be sympathetic and humane, and could not really love
his fellow-men. Had we no other evidence upon this subject, the noble
life of Elizur Wright would demonstrate the utter baselessness of these
views.

His life was spent in doing good—in attacking the hurtful, in defending
what he believed to be the truth. Generous beyond his means; helping
others to help themselves; always hopeful, busy, just, cheerful; filled
with the spirit of reform; a model citizen—always thinking of the
public good, devising ways and means to save something for posterity,
feeling that what he had he held in trust; loving Nature, familiar
with the poetic side of things, touched to enthusiasm by the beautiful
thought, the brave word, and the generous deed; friendly in manner,
candid and kind in speech, modest but persistent; enjoying leisure
as only the industrious can; loving and gentle in his family;
hospitable,—judging men and women regardless of wealth, position or
public clamor; physically fearless, intellectually honest, thoroughly
informed; unselfish, sincere, and reliable as the attraction of
gravitation. Such was Elizur Wright,—one of the staunchest soldiers
that ever faced and braved for freedom's sake the wrath and scorn and
lies of place and power.

A few days ago I met this genuine man. His interest in all human
things was just as deep and keen, his hatred of oppression, his love of
freedom, just as intense, just as fervid, as on the day I met him first.
True, his body was old, but his mind was young, and his heart, like
a spring in the desert, bubbled over as joyously as though it had the
secret of eternal youth. But it has ceased to beat, and the mysterious
veil that hangs where sight and blindness are the same—the veil that
revelation has not drawn aside—that science cannot lift, has fallen
once again between the living and the dead.

And yet we hope and dream. May be the longing for another life is but
the prophecy forever warm from Nature's lips, that love, disguised as
death, alone fulfills. We cannot tell. And yet perhaps this Hope is but
an antic, following the fortunes of an uncrowned king, beguiling grief
with jest and satisfying loss with pictured gain. We do not know.

But from the Christian's cruel hell, and from his heaven more heartless
still, the free and noble soul, if forced to choose, should loathing
turn, and cling with rapture to the thought of endless sleep.

But this we know: good deeds are never childless. A noble life is never
lost. A virtuous action does not die. Elizur Wright scattered with
generous hand the priceless seeds, and we shall reap the golden grain.
His words and acts are ours, and all he nobly did is living still.

Farewell, brave soul! Upon thy grave I lay this tribute of respect and
love. When last our hands were joined, I said these parting words: "Long
life!" And I repeat them now.
---
# A Tribute to George Jacob Holyoake
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1884_
## A Tribute to George Jacob Holyoake

TWO articles have recently appeared attacking the motives of George
Jacob Holyoake. He is spoken of as a man governed by a desire to please
the rich and powerful, as one afraid of public opinion and who in the
perilous hour denies or conceals his convictions.

In these attacks there is not one word of truth. They are based upon
mistakes and misconceptions.

There is not in this world a nobler, braver man. In England he has done
more for the great cause of intellectual liberty than any other man
of this generation. He has done more for the poor, for the children of
toil, for the homeless and wretched than any other living man. He has
attacked all abuses, all tyranny and all forms of hypocrisy. His weapons
have been reason, logic, facts, kindness, and above all, example. He has
lived his creed. He has won the admiration and respect of his bitterest
antagonists. He has the simplicity of childhood, the enthusiasm of
youth and the wisdom of age. He is not abusive, but he is clear and
conclusive.. He is intense without violence—firm without anger. He has
the strength of perfect kindness. He does not hate—he pities. He does
not attack men and women, but dogmas and creeds. And he does not attack
them to get the better of people, but to enable people to get the better
of them. He gives the light he has. He shares his intellectual wealth
with the orthodox poor. He assists without insulting, guides without
arrogance, and enlightens without outrage. Besides, he is eminent for
the exercise of plain common sense. He knows that there are wrongs
besides those born of superstition—that people are not necessarily
happy because they have renounced the Thirty-nine Articles—and that
the priest is not the only enemy of mankind. He has for forty years been
preaching and practicing industry, economy, self-reliance, and kindness.
He has done all within his power to give the workingman a better home,
better food, better wages, and better opportunities for the education
of his children. He has demonstrated the success of co-operation—of
intelligent combination for the common good. As a rule, his methods have
been perfectly legal. In some instances he has knowingly violated the
law, and did so with the intention to take the consequences. He would
neither ask nor accept a pardon, because to receive a pardon carries
with it the implied promise to keep the law, and an admission that
you were in the wrong. He would not agree to desist from doing what he
believed ought to be done, neither would he stain his past to brighten
his future, nor imprison his soul to free his body. He has that happy
mingling of gentleness and firmness found only in the highest type of
moral heroes. He is an absolutely just man, and will never do an act
that he would condemn in another. He admits that the most bigoted
churchman has a perfect right to express his opinions not only, but
that he must be met with argument couched in kind and candid terms. Mr.
Holyoake is not only the enemy of a theological hierarchy, but he is
also opposed to mental mobs. He will not use the bludgeon of epithet.

Perfect fairness is regarded by many as weakness. Some people have
altogether more confidence in their beliefs than in their own arguments.
They resort to assertion. If what they assert be denied, the "debate"
becomes a question of veracity. On both sides of most questions there
are plenty of persons who imagine that logic dwells only in adjectives,
and that to speak kindly of an opponent is a virtual surrender.

Mr. Holyoake attacks the church because it has been, is, and ever will
be the enemy of mental freedom, but he does not wish to deprive the
church even of its freedom to express its opinion against freedom. He
is true to his own creed, knowing that when we have freedom we can take
care of all its enemies.

In one of the articles to which I have referred it is charged that Mr.
Holyoake refused to sign a petition for the pardon of persons convicted
of blasphemy. If this is true, he undoubtedly had a reason satisfactory
to himself. You will find that his action, or his refusal to act, rests
upon a principle that he would not violate in his own behalf.

Why should we suspect the motives of this man who has given his life
for the good of others? I know of no one who is his mental or moral
superior. He is the most disinterested of men. His name is a synonym
of candor. He is a natural logician—an intellectual marksman. Like an
unerring arrow his thought flies to the heart and center. He is
governed by principle, and makes no exception in his own favor. He is
intellectually honest. He shows you the cracks and flaws in his own
wares. He calls attention to the open joints and to the weakest links.
He does not want a victory for himself, but for truth. He wishes to
expose and oppose, not men, but error. He is blessed with that cloudless
mental vision that appearances cannot deceive, that interest cannot
darken, and that even ingratitude cannot blur. Friends cannot induce
and enemies cannot drive this man to do an act that his heart and brain
would not applaud. That such a character was formed without the aid
of the church, without the hope of harp or fear of flame, is a
demonstration against the necessity of superstition.

Whoever is opposed to mental bondage, to the shackles wrought by cruelty
and worn by fear, should be the friend of this heroic and unselfish man.

I know something of his life—something of what he has suffered—of what
he has accomplished for his fellow-men. He has been maligned, imprisoned
and impoverished. "He bore the heat and burden of the unregarded day"
and "remembered the misery of the many." For years his only recompense
was ingratitude. At last he was understood. He was recognized as an
earnest, honest, gifted, generous, sterling man, loving his country,
sympathizing with the poor, honoring the useful, and holding in supreme
abhorrence tyranny and falsehood in all their forms. The idea that this
man could for a moment be controlled by any selfish motive, by the
hope of preferment, by the fear of losing a supposed annuity, is
simply absurd. The authors of these attacks are not acquainted with Mr.
Holyoake. Whoever dislikes him does not know him.

Read his "Trial of Theism"—his history of "Co-operation in England"—if
you wish to know his heart—to discover the motives of his life—the
depth and tenderness of his sympathy—the nobleness of his nature—the
subtlety of his thought—the beauty of his spirit—the force and volume
of his brain—the extent of his information—his candor, his kindness,
his genius, and the perfect integrity of his stainless soul.

There is no man for whom I have greater respect, greater reverence,
greater love, than George Jacob Holyoake.—

August 8, 1883.
---
# A Tribute to Henry Ward Beecher
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1887_
## A Tribute to Henry Ward Beecher

New York, June 26,1887.

HENRY WARD BEECHER was born in a Puritan penitentiary, of which
his father was one of the wardens—a prison with very narrow and
closely-grated windows. Under its walls were the rayless, hopeless and
measureless dungeons of the damned, and on its roof fell the shadow of
God's eternal frown. In this prison the creed and catechism were primers
for children, and from a pure sense of duty their loving hearts were
stained and scarred with the religion of John Calvin.

In those days the home of an orthodox minister was an inquisition in
which babes were tortured for the good of their souls. Children then,
as now, rebelled against the infamous absurdities and cruelties of the
creed. No Calvinist was ever able, unless with blows, to answer the
questions of his child. Children were raised in what was called "the
nurture and admonition of the Lord"—that is to say, their wills were
broken or subdued, their natures were deformed and dwarfed, their
desires defeated or destroyed, and their development arrested or
perverted. Life was robbed of its Spring, its Summer and its Autumn.
Children stepped from the cradle into the snow. No laughter, no
sunshine, no joyous, free, unburdened days. God, an infinite detective,
watched them from above, and Satan, with malicious leer, was waiting
for their souls below. Between these monsters life was passed. Infinite
consequences were predicated of the smallest action, and a burden
greater than a God could bear was placed upon the heart and brain of
every child. To think, to ask questions, to doubt, to investigate,
were acts of rebellion. To express pity for the lost, writhing in the
dungeons below, was simply to give evidence that the enemy of souls had
been at work within their hearts.

Among all the religions of this world—from the creed of cannibals who
devoured flesh, to that of Calvinists who polluted souls—there is none,
there has been none, there will be none, more utterly heartless and
inhuman than was the orthodox Congregationalism of New England in the
year of grace 1813. It despised every natural joy, hated pictures,
abhorred statues as lewd and lustful things, execrated music, regarded
nature as fallen and corrupt, man as totally depraved and woman as
somewhat worse. The theatre was the vestibule of perdition, actors the
servants of Satan, and Shakespeare a trifling wretch whose words
were seeds of death. And yet the virtues found a welcome, cordial and
sincere; duty was done as understood; obligations were discharged; truth
was told; self-denial was practiced for the sake of others, and many
hearts were good and true in spite of book and creed.

In this atmosphere of theological miasma, in this hideous dream of
superstition, in this penitentiary, moral and austere, this babe first
saw the imprisoned gloom. The natural desires ungratified, the laughter
suppressed, the logic brow-beaten by authority, the humor frozen by
fear—of many generations—were in this child, a child destined to rend
and wreck the prison's walls.

Through the grated windows of his cell, this child, this boy, this man,
caught glimpses of the outer world, of fields and skies. New thoughts
were in his brain, new hopes within his heart. Another heaven bent above
his life. There came a revelation of the beautiful and real.

Theology grew mean and small. Nature wooed and won and saved this mighty
soul.

Her countless hands were sowing seeds within his tropic brain. All
sights and sounds—all colors, forms and fragments—were stored within
the treasury of his mind. His thoughts were moulded by the graceful
curves of streams, by winding paths in woods, the charm of quiet country
roads, and lanes grown indistinct with weeds and grass—by vines that
cling and hide with leaf and flower the crumbling wall's decay—by
cattle standing in the summer pools like statues of content.

There was within his words the subtle spirit of the season's change—of
everything that is, of everything that lies between the slumbering seeds
that, half awakened by the April rain, have dreams of heaven's blue, and
feel the amorous kisses of the sun, and that strange tomb wherein the
alchemist doth give to death's cold dust the throb and thrill of life
again. He saw with loving eyes the willows of the meadow-streams grow
red beneath the glance of Spring—the grass along the marsh's edge—the
stir of life beneath the withered leaves—the moss below the drip of
snow—the flowers that give their bosoms to the first south wind that
wooes—the sad and timid violets that only bear the gaze of love from
eyes half closed—the ferns, where fancy gives a thousand forms with but
a single plan—the green and sunny slopes enriched with daisy's silver
and the cowslip's gold.

As in the leafless woods some tree, aflame with life, stands like a rapt
poet in the heedless crowd, so stood this man among his fellow-men.

All there is of leaf and bud, of flower and fruit, of painted insect
life, and all the winged and happy children of the air that Summer holds
beneath her dome of blue, were known and loved by him. He loved the
yellow Autumn fields, the golden stacks, the happy homes of men, the
orchard's bending boughs, the sumach's flags of flame, the maples
with transfigured leaves, the tender yellow of the beech, the wondrous
harmonies of brown and gold—the vines where hang the clustered spheres
of wit and mirth. He loved the winter days, the whirl and drift of
snow—all forms of frost—the rage and fury of the storm, when in the
forest, desolate and stripped, the brave old pine towers green and
grand—a prophecy of Spring. He heard the rhythmic sounds of Nature's
busy strife, the hum of bees, the songs of birds, the eagle's cry, the
murmur of the streams, the sighs and lamentations of the winds, and all
the voices of the sea. He loved the shores, the vales, the crags and
cliffs, the city's busy streets, the introspective, silent plain, the
solemn splendors of the night, the silver sea of dawn, and evening's
clouds of molten gold. The love of nature freed this loving man.

One by one the fetters fell; the gratings disappeared, the sunshine
smote the roof, and on the floors of stone, light streamed from open
doors. He realized the darkness and despair, the cruelty and hate, the
starless blackness of the old, malignant creed. The flower of pity grew
and blossomed in his heart. The selfish "consolation" filled his eyes
with tears. He saw that what is called the Christian's hope is, that,
among the countless billions wrecked and lost, a meagre few perhaps
may reach the eternal shore—a hope that, like the desert rain, gives
neither leaf nor bud—a hope that gives no joy, no peace, to any great
and loving soul. It is the dust on which the serpent feeds that coils in
heartless breasts.

Day by day the wrath and vengeance faded from the sky—the Jewish God
grew vague and dint—the threats of torture and eternal pain grew vulgar
and absurd, and all the miracles seemed strangely out of place. They
clad the Infinite in motley garb, and gave to aureoled heads the cap and
bells.

Touched by the pathos of all human life, knowing the shadows that fall
on every heart—the thorns in every path, the sighs, the sorrows, and
the tears that lie between a mother's arms and death's embrace—this
great and gifted man denounced, denied, and damned with all his heart
the fanged and frightful dogma that souls were made to feed the eternal
hunger—ravenous as famine—of a God's revenge.

Take out this fearful, fiendish, heartless lie—compared with which all
other lies are true—and the great arch of orthodox religion crumbling
falls.

To the average man the Christian hell and heaven are only words. He has
no scope of thought. He lives but in a dim, impoverished now. To him the
past is dead—the future still unborn. He occupies with downcast eyes
that narrow line of barren, shifting sand that lies between the flowing
seas. But Genius knows all time. For him the dead all live and breathe,
and act their countless parts again. All human life is in his now, and
every moment feels the thrill of all to be.

No one can overestimate the good accomplished by this marvelous,
many-sided man. He helped to slay the heart-devouring monster of the
Christian world. He tried to civilize the church, to humanize the
creeds, to soften pious breasts of stone, to take the fear from mothers'
hearts, the chains of creed from every brain, to put the star of hope
in every sky and over every grave. Attacked on every side, maligned
by those who preached the law of love, he wavered not, but fought
whole-hearted to the end.

Obstruction is but virtue's foil. From thwarted light leaps color's
flame. The stream impeded has a song.

He passed from harsh and cruel creeds to that serene philosophy that has
no place for pride or hate, that threatens no revenge, that looks on sin
as stumblings of the blind and pities those who fall, knowing that in
the souls of all there is a sacred yearning for the light. He ceased
to think of man as something thrust upon the world—an exile from
some other sphere. He felt at last that men are part of Nature's
self—kindred of all life—the gradual growth of countless years; that
all the sacred books were helps until outgrown, and all religions rough
and devious paths that man has worn with weary feet in sad and painful
search for truth and peace. To him these paths were wrong, and yet all
gave the promise of success. He knew that all the streams, no matter how
they wander, turn and curve amid the hills or rocks, or linger in the
lakes and pools, must some time reach the sea. These views enlarged his
soul and made him patient with the world, and while the wintry snows of
age were falling on his head, Spring, with all her wealth of bloom, was
in his heart.

The memory of this ample man is now a part of Nature's wealth. He
battled for the rights of men. His heart was with the slave. He stood
against the selfish greed of millions banded to protect the pirate's
trade. His voice was for the right when freedom's friends were few. He
taught the church to think and doubt. He did not fear to stand
alone. His brain took counsel of his heart. To every foe he offered
reconciliation's hand. He loved this land of ours, and added to its
glory through the world. He was the greatest orator that stood within
the pulpit's narrow curve. He loved the liberty of speech. There was no
trace of bigot in his blood. He was a brave and generous man.

With reverent hands, I place this tribute on his tomb.
---
# A Tribute to Horace Seaver
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1889_
## A Tribute to Horace Seaver

At Paine Hall, Boston, August 25, 1889.

> * The eulogy pronounced at the funeral of Horace Shaver In
> Paine Hall last Sunday was the tribute of one great man to
> another. To have Robert G. Ingersoll speak words of praise
> above the silent form is fame; to deserve these words is
> immortality.—The Boston Investigator, August 28, 1889.

HORACE SEAVER was a pioneer, a torch-bearer, a toiler in that great
field we call the world—a worker for his fellow-men. At the end of his
task he has fallen asleep, and we are met to tell the story of his long
and useful life—to pay our tribute to his work and worth.

He was one who saw the dawn while others lived in night. He kept his
face toward the "purpling east" and watched the coming of the blessed
day.

He always sought for light. His object was to know—to find a reason for
his faith—a fact on which to build.

In superstition's sands he sought the gems of truth; in superstition's
night he looked for stars.

Born in New England—reared amidst the cruel superstitions of his age
and time, he had the manhood and the courage to investigate, and he had
the goodness and the courage to tell his honest thoughts.

He was always kind, and sought to win the confidence of men by sympathy
and love. There was no taint or touch of malice in his blood. To him
his fellows did not seem depraved—they were not wholly bad—there was
within the heart of each the seeds of good. He knew that back of every
thought and act were forces uncontrolled. He wisely said: "Circumstances
furnish the seeds of good and evil, and man is but the soil in which
they grow." Horace Seaver was crowned with the wreath of his own deeds,
woven by the generous hand of a noble friend. He fought the creed, and
loved the man. He pitied those who feared and shuddered at the thought
of death—who dwelt in darkness and in dread.

The religion of his day filled his heart with horror.

He was kind, compassionate, and tender, and could not fall upon his
knees before a cruel and revengeful God—he could not bow to one
who slew with famine, sword and fire—to one pitiless as pestilence,
relentless as the lightning stroke. Jehovah had no attribute that he
could love.

He attacked the creed of New England—a creed that had within it
the ferocity of Knox, the malice of Calvin, the cruelty of Jonathan
Edwards—a religion that had a monster for a God—a religion whose
dogmas would have shocked cannibals feasting upon babes.

Horace Seaver followed the light of his brain—the impulse of his heart.
He was attacked, but he answered the insulter with a smile; and even he
who coined malignant lies was treated as a friend misled. He did not
ask God to forgive his enemies—he forgave them himself. He was sincere.
Sincerity is the true and perfect mirror of the mind. It reflects the
honest thought. It is the foundation of character, and without it there
is no moral grandeur.

Sacred are the lips from which has issued only truth. Over all wealth,
above all station, above the noble, the robed and crowned, rises the
sincere man. Happy is the man who neither paints nor patches, veils nor
veneers. Blessed is he who wears no mask.

The man who lies before us wrapped in perfect peace, practiced no art to
hide or half conceal his thought. He did not write or speak the double
words that might be useful in retreat. He gave a truthful transcript of
his mind, and sought to make his meaning clear as light.

To use his own words, he had "the courage which impels a man to do
his duty, to hold fast his integrity, to maintain a conscience void
of offence, at every hazard and at every sacrifice, in defiance of the
world."

He lived to his ideal. He sought the approbation of himself. He did not
build his character upon the opinions of others, and it was out of the
very depths of his nature that he asked this profound question:

"What is there in other men that makes us desire their approbation, and
fear their censure more than our own?"

Horace Seaver was a good and loyal citizen of the mental republic—a
believer in, intellectual hospitality, one who knew that bigotry is
born of ignorance and fear—the provincialisms of the brain. He did
not belong to the tribe, or to the nation, but to the human race. His
sympathy was wide as want, and, like the sky, bent above the suffering
world.

This man had that superb thing called moral courage—courage in its
highest form. He knew that his thoughts were not the thoughts of
others—that he was with the few, and that where one would take his
side, thousands would be his eager foes. He knew that wealth would
scorn and cultured ignorance deride, and that believers in the creeds,
buttressed by law and custom, would hurl the missiles of revenge and
hate. He knew that lies, like snakes, would fill the pathway of his
life—and yet he told his honest thought—told it without hatred and
without contempt—told it as it really was. And so, through all his
days, his heart was sound and stainless to the core.

When he enlisted in the army whose banner is light, the honest
investigator was looked upon as lost and cursed, and even Christian
criminals held him in contempt. The believing embezzler, the orthodox
wife-beater, even the murderer, lifted his bloody hands and thanked God
that on his soul there was no stain of unbelief.

In nearly every State of our Republic, the man who denied the
absurdities and impossibilities lying at the foundation of what is
called orthodox religion, was denied his civil rights. He was not
canopied by the aegis of the law. He stood beyond the reach of sympathy.
He was not allowed to testify against the invader of his home, the
seeker for his life—his lips were closed. He was declared dishonorable,
because he was honest. His unbelief made him a social leper, a pariah,
an outcast. He was the victim of religious hate and scorn. Arrayed
against him were all the prejudices and all the forces and hypocrisies
of society. All mistakes and lies were his enemies. Even the Theist was
denounced as a disturber of the peace, although he told his thoughts in
kind and candid words. He was called a blasphemer, because he sought to
rescue the reputation of his God from the slanders of orthodox priests.

Such was the bigotry of the time, that natural love was lost. The
unbelieving son was hated by his pious sire, and even the mother's heart
was by her creed turned into stone.

Horace Seaver pursued his way. He worked and wrought as best he could,
in solitude and want. He knew the day would come. He lived to be
rewarded for his toil—to see most of the laws repealed that had made
outcasts of the noblest, the wisest, and the best. He lived to see the
foremost preachers of the world attack the sacred creeds. He lived to
see the sciences released from superstition's clutch. He lived to see
the orthodox theologian take his place with the professor of the
black art, the fortune-teller, and the astrologer. He lived to see
the greatest of the world accept his thought—to see the theologian
displaced by the true priests of Nature—by Humboldt and Darwin, by
Huxley and Haeckel.

Within the narrow compass of his life the world was changed. The
railway, the steamship, and the telegraph made all nations neighbors.
Countless inventions have made the luxuries of the past the necessities
of to-day. Life has been enriched, and man ennobled. The geologist has
read the records of frost and flame, of wind and wave—the astronomer
has told the story of the stars—the biologist has sought the germ of
life, and in every department of knowledge the torch of science sheds
its sacred light.

The ancient creeds have grown absurd. The miracles are small and mean.
The inspired book is filled with fables told to please a childish world,
and the dogma of eternal pain now shocks the heart and brain.

He lived to see a monument unveiled to Bruno in the city of Rome—to
Giordano Bruno—that great man who two hundred and eighty-nine years ago
suffered death for having proclaimed the truths that since have
filled the world with joy. He lived to see the victim of the church a
victor—lived to see his memory honored by a nation freed from papal
chains.

He worked knowing what the end must be—expecting little while he
lived—but knowing that every fact in the wide universe was on his side.
He knew that truth can wait, and so he worked patient as eternity.

He had the brain of a philosopher and the heart of a child.

Horace Seaver was a man of common sense.

By that I mean, one who knows the law of average. He denied the Bible,
not on account of what has been discovered in astronomy, or the length
of time it took to form the delta of the Nile—but he compared the
things he found with what he knew.

He knew that antiquity added nothing to probability—that lapse of time
can never take the place of cause, and that the dust can never gather
thick enough upon mistakes to make them equal with the truth.

He knew that the old, by no possibility, could have been more wonderful
than the new, and that the present is a perpetual torch by which we know
the past.

To him all miracles were mistakes, whose parents were cunning and
credulity. He knew that miracles were not, because they are not.

He believed in the sublime, unbroken, and eternal march of causes and
effects—denying the chaos of chance, and the caprice of power.

He tested the past by the now, and judged of all the men and races of
the world by those he knew.

He believed in the religion of free thought and good deed—of character,
of sincerity, of honest endeavor, of cheerful help—and above all, in
the religion of love and liberty—in a religion for every day—for
the world in which we live—for the present—the religion of roof and
raiment, of food, of intelligence, of intellectual hospitality—the
religion that gives health and happiness, freedom and content—in the
religion of work, and in the ceremonies of honest labor.

He lived for this world; if there be another, he will live for that.

He did what he could for the destruction of fear—the destruction of
the imaginary monster who rewards the few in heaven—the monster who
tortures the many in perdition.

He was a friend of all the world, and sought to civilize the human race.

For more than fifty years he labored to free the bodies and the souls
of men—and many thousands have read his words with joy. He sought the
suffering and oppressed. He sat by those in pain—and his helping hand
was laid in pity on the brow of death.

He asked only to be treated as he treated others. He asked for only what
he earned, and had the manhood cheerfully to accept the consequences of
his actions. He expected no reward for the goodness of another.

But he has lived his life. We should shed no tears except the tears of
gratitude. We should rejoice that he lived so long.

In Nature's course, his time had come. The four seasons were complete
in him. The Spring could never come again. The measure of his years was
full.

When the day is done—when the work of a life is finished—when the gold
of evening meets the dusk of night, beneath the silent stars the tired
laborer should fall asleep. To outlive usefulness is a double death.
"Let me not live after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger
spirits."

When the old oak is visited in vain by Spring—when light and rain no
longer thrill—it is not well to stand leafless, desolate, and alone. It
is better far to fall where Nature softly covers all with woven moss and
creeping vine.

How little, after all, we know of what is ill or well! How little of
this wondrous stream of cataracts and pools—this stream of life, that
rises in a world unknown, and flows to that mysterious sea whose shore
the foot of one who comes has never pressed! How little of this life we
know—this struggling ray of light 'twixt gloom and gloom—this strip of
land by verdure clad, between the unknown wastes—this throbbing moment
filled with love and pain—this dream that lies between the shadowy
shores of sleep and death!

We stand upon this verge of crumbling time. We love, we hope, we
disappear. Again we mingle with the dust, and the "knot intrinsicate"
forever falls apart.

But this we know: A noble life enriches all the world.

Horace Seaver lived for others. He accepted toil and hope deferred.
Poverty was his portion. Like Socrates, he did not seek to adorn his
body, but rather his soul with the jewels of charity, modesty, courage,
and above all, with a love of liberty.

Farewell, O brave and modest man!

Your lips, between which truths burst into blossom, are forever closed.
Your loving heart has ceased to beat. Your busy brain is still, and from
your hand has dropped the sacred torch.

Your noble, self-denying life has honored us, and we will honor you.

You were my friend, and I was yours. Above your silent clay I pay this
tribute to your worth.

Farewell!
---
# A Tribute to Isaac H. Bailey
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
## A Tribute to Isaac H. Bailey

New York, March 27, 1899.

MY FRIENDS: When one whom we hold dear has reached the end of life and
laid his burden down, it is but natural for us, his friends, to pay the
tribute of respect and love; to tell his virtues, to express our sense
of loss and speak above the sculptured clay some word of hope.

Our friend, about whose bier we stand, was in the highest, noblest sense
a man. He was not born to wealth—he was his own providence, his own
teacher. With him work was worship and labor was his only prayer. He
depended on himself, and was as independent as it is possible for man to
be. He hated debt, and obligation was a chain that scarred his flesh. He
lived a long and useful life. In age he reaped with joy what he had cown
in youth. He did not linger "until his flame lacked oil," but with his
senses keen, his mind undimmed, and with his arms filled with gathered
sheaves, in an instant, painlessly, unconsciously, he passed from
happiness and health to the realm of perfect peace. We need not mourn
for him, but for ourselves, for those he loved.

He was an absolutely honest man—a man who kept his word, who fulfilled
his contracts, gave heaped and rounded measure and discharged all
obligations with the fabled chivalry of ancient knights. He was
absolutely honest, not only with others but with himself. To his last
moment his soul was stainless. He was true to his ideal—true to his
thought, and what his brain conceived his lips expressed. He refused to
pretend. He knew that to believe without evidence was impossible to
the sound and sane, and that to say you believed when you did not, was
possible only to the hypocrite or coward. He did not believe in the
supernatural. He was a natural man and lived a natural life. He had no
fear of fiends. He cared nothing for the guesses of inspired savages;
nothing for the threats or promises of the sainted and insane.

He enjoyed this life—the good things of this world—the clasp and
smile of friendship, the exchange of generous deeds, the reasonable
gratification of the senses—of the wants of the body and mind. He was
neither an insane ascetic nor a fool of pleasure, but walked the
golden path along the strip of verdure that lies between the deserts of
extremes.

With him to do right was not simply a duty, it was a pleasure. He had
philosophy enough to know that the quality of actions depends upon
their consequences, and that these consequences are the rewards and
punishments that no God can give, inflict, withhold or pardon.

He loved his country, he was proud of the heroic past, dissatisfied
with the present, and confident of the future. He stood on the rock
of principle. With him the wisest policy was to do right. He would not
compromise with wrong. He had no respect for political failures who
became reformers and decorated fraud with the pretence of philanthropy,
or sought to gain some private end in the name of public good. He
despised time-servers, trimmers, fawners and all sorts and kinds of
pretenders.

He believed in national honesty; in the preservation of public faith.
He believed that the Government should discharge every obligation—the
implied as faithfully as the expressed. And I would be unjust to his
memory if I did not say that he believed in honest money, in the best
money in the world, in pure gold, and that he despised with all his
heart financial frauds, and regarded fifty cents that pretended to be a
dollar, as he would a thief in the uniform of a policeman, or a criminal
in the robe of a judge.

He believed in liberty, and liberty for all. He pitied the slave and
hated the master; that is to say, he was an honest man. In the dark days
of the Rebellion he stood for the right. He loved Lincoln with all his
heart—loved him for his genius, his courage and his goodness. He
loved Conkling—loved him for his independence, his manhood, for his
unwavering courage, and because he would not bow or bend—loved him
because he accepted defeat with the pride of a victor. He loved Grant,
and in the temple of his heart, over the altar, in the highest niche,
stood the great soldier.

Nature was kind to our friend. She gave him the blessed gift of humor.
This filled his days with the climate of Autumn, so that to him even
disaster had its sunny side. On account of his humor he appreciated and
enjoyed the great literature of the world. He loved Shakespeare, his
clowns and heroes. He appreciated and enjoyed Dickens. The characters of
this great novelist were his acquaintances. He knew them all; some were
his friends and some he dearly loved. He had wit of the keenest
and quickest. The instant the steel of his logic smote the flint of
absurdity the spark glittered. And yet, his wit was always kind.
The flower went with the thorn. The targets of his wit were not made
enemies, but admirers.

He was social, and after the feast of serious conversation he loved the
wine of wit—the dessert of a good story that blossomed into mirth. He
enjoyed games—was delighted by the relations of chance—the curious
combinations of accident. He had the genius of friendship. In his nature
there was no suspicion. He could not be poisoned against a friend.
The arrows of slander never pierced the shield of his confidence. He
demanded demonstration. He defended a friend as he defended himself.
Against all comers he stood firm, and he never deserted the field until
the friend had fled. I have known many, many friends—have clasped the
hands of many that I loved, but in the journey of my life I have never
grasped the hand of a better, truer, more unselfish friend than he who
lies before us clothed in the perfect peace of death. He loved me living
and I love him now.

In youth we front the sun; we live in light without a fear, without a
thought of dusk or night. We glory in excess. There is no dread of loss
when all is growth and gain. With reckless hands we spend and waste and
chide the flying hours for loitering by the way.

The future holds the fruit of joy; the present keeps us from the feast,
and so, with hurrying feet we climb the heights and upward look with
eager eyes. But when the sun begins to sink and shadows fall in front,
and lengthen on the path, then falls upon the heart a sense of loss, and
then we hoard the shreds and crumbs and vainly long for what was cast
away. And then with miser care we save and spread thin hands before
December's half-fed flickering flames, while through the glass of time
we moaning watch the few remaining grains of sand that hasten to their
end. In the gathering gloom the fires slowly die, while memory dreams of
youth, and hope sometimes mistakes the glow of ashes for the coming of
another morn.

But our friend was an exception. He lived in the present; he enjoyed
the sunshine of to-day. Although his feet had touched the limit of
four-score, he had not reached the time to stop, to turn and think:
about the traveled road. He was still full of life and hope, and had the
interest of youth in all the affairs of men.

He had no fear of the future—no dread. He was ready for the end. I have
often heard him repeat the words of Epicurus: "Why should I fear death?
If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that
which cannot exist when I do?"

If there is, beyond the veil, beyond the night called death, another
world to which men carry all the failures and the triumphs of this life;
if above and over all there be a God who loves the right, an honest man
has naught to fear. If there be another world in which sincerity is a
virtue, in which fidelity is loved and courage honored, then all is well
with the dear friend whom we have lost.

But if the grave ends all; if all that was our friend is dead, the
world is better for the life he lived. Beyond the tomb we cannot see. We
listen, but from the lips of mystery there comes no word. Darkness and
silence brooding over all. And yet, because we love we hope. Farewell!
And yet again, Farewell!

And will there, sometime, be another world? We have our dream. The idea
of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart,
beating with its countless waves against the sands and rocks of time
and fate, was not born of any book or of any creed. It was born of
affection. And it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and
clouds of doubt and darkness, as long as love kisses the lips of death.
We have our dream!
---
# A Tribute to John G. Mills
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1884_
## A Tribute to John G. Mills

Washington, D. C., April 15, 1883.

MY FRIENDS: Again we are face to face with the great mystery that
shrouds this world. We question, but there is no reply. Out on the wide
waste seas, there drifts no spar. Over the desert of death the sphinx
gazes forever, but never speaks.

In the very May of life another heart has ceased to beat. Night has
fallen upon noon. But he lived, he loved, he was loved. Wife and
children pressed their kisses on his lips. This is enough. The longest
life contains no more. This fills the vase of joy.

He who lies here, clothed with the perfect peace of death, was a kind
and loving husband, a good father, a generous neighbor, an honest
man,—and these words build a monument of glory above the humblest
grave. He was always a child, sincere and frank, as full of hope as
Spring. He divided all time into to-day and to-morrow. To-morrow was
without a cloud, and of to-morrow he borrowed sunshine for to-day. He
was my friend. He will remain so. The living oft become estranged; the
dead are true. He was not a Christian. In the Eden of his hope there
did not crawl and coil the serpent of eternal pain. In many languages
he sought the thoughts of men, and for himself he solved the problems of
the world. He accepted the philosophy of Auguste Comte. Humanity was his
God; the human race was his Supreme Being. In that Supreme Being he put
his trust. He believed that we are indebted for what we enjoy to the
labor, the self-denial, the heroism of the human race, and that as we
have plucked the fruit of what others planted, we in thankfulness should
plant for others yet to be.

With him immortality was the eternal consequences of his own acts. He
believed that every pure thought, every disinterested deed, hastens the
harvest of universal good. This is a religion that enriches poverty;
that enables us to bear the sorrows of the saddest life; that peoples
even solitude with the happy millions yet to live,—a religion born
not of selfishness and fear, but of love, of gratitude, and hope,—a
religion that digs wells to slake the thirst of others, and gladly bears
the burdens of the unborn.

But in the presence of death, how beliefs and dogmas wither and decay!
How loving words and deeds burst into blossom! Pluck from the tree
of any life these flowers, and there remain but the barren thorns of
bigotry and creed.

All wish for happiness beyond this life. All hope to meet again
the loved and lost. In every heart there grows this sacred flower.
Immortality is a word that Hope through all the ages has been whispering
to Love. The miracle of thought we cannot understand. The mystery of
life and death we cannot comprehend. This chaos called the world has
never been explained. The golden bridge of life from gloom emerges, and
on shadow rests. Beyond this we do not know. Fate is speechless, destiny
is dumb, and the secret of the future has never yet been told. We love;
we wait; we hope. The more we love, the more we fear. Upon the tenderest
heart the deepest shadows fall. All paths, whether filled with thorns
or flowers, end here. Here success and failure are the same. The rag of
Wretchedness and the purple robe of power all difference and distinction
lose in this democracy of death. Character survives; goodness lives;
love is immortal.

And yet to all a time may come when the fevered lips of life will long
for the cool, delicious kiss of death—when tired of the dust and glare
of day we all shall hear with joy the rustling garments of the night.

What can we say of death? What can we say of the dead? Where they have
gone, reason cannot go, and from thence revelation has not come. But let
us believe that over the cradle Nature bends and smiles, and lovingly
above the dead in benediction holds her outstretched hands.
---
# A Tribute to Lawrence Barrett
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1891_
## A Tribute to Lawrence Barrett

At the Broadway Theatre, New York, March 22, 1891.

MY heart tells me that on the threshold of my address it will be
appropriate for me to say a few words about the great actor who has
just fallen into that sleep that we call death. Lawrence Barrett was my
friend, and I was his. He was an interpreter of Shakespeare, to whose
creations he gave flesh and blood. He began at the foundation of his
profession, and rose until he stood next to his friend—next to one who
is regarded as the greatest tragedian of our time—next to Edwin Booth.

The life of Lawrence Barrett was a success, because he honored himself
and added glory to the stage.

He did not seek for gain by pandering to the thoughtless, ignorant or
base. He gave the drama in its highest and most serious form. He shunned
the questionable, the vulgar and impure, and gave the intellectual,
the pathetic, the manly and the tragic. He did not stoop to conquer—he
soared. He was fitted for the stage. He had a thoughtful face, a vibrant
voice and the pose of chivalry, and besides he had patience, industry,
courage and the genius of success.

He was a graceful and striking Bassanio, a thoughtful Hamlet, an intense
Othello, a marvelous Harebell, and the best Cassius of his century.

In the drama of human life, all are actors, and no one knows his part.
In this great play the scenes are shifted by unknown forces, and the
commencement, plot and end are still unknown—are still unguessed. One
by one the players leave the stage, and others take their places. There
is no pause—the play goes on. No prompter's voice is heard, and no one
has the slightest clue to what the next scene is to be.

Will this great drama have an end? Will the curtain fall at last? Will
it rise again upon some other stage? Reason says perhaps, and Hope still
whispers yes. Sadly I bid my friend farewell, I admired the actor, and I
loved the man.
---
# A Tribute to Mrs. Ida Whiting Knowles
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1886_
## A Tribute to Mrs. Ida Whiting Knowles

New York, Dec, 16, 1887.

MY FRIENDS: Again we stand in the shadow of the great mystery—a shadow
as deep and dark as when the tears of the first mother fell upon the
pallid face of her lifeless babe—a mystery that has never yet been
solved.

We have met in the presence of the sacred dead, to speak a word of
praise, of hope, of consolation.

Another life of love is now a blessed memory—a lingering strain of
music.

The loving daughter, the pure and consecrated wife, the sincere friend,
who with tender faithfulness discharged the duties of a life, has
reached her journey's end.

A braver, a more serene, a more chivalric spirit—clasping the loved and
by them clasped—never passed from life to enrich the realm of death.
No field of war ever witnessed greater fortitude, more perfect, smiling
courage, than this poor, weak and helpless woman displayed upon the bed
of pain and death.

Her life was gentle and her death sublime. She loved the good and all
the good loved her.

There is this consolation: she can never suffer more; never feel again
the chill of death; never part again from those she loves. Her heart can
break no more. She has shed her last tear, and upon her stainless brow
has been set the wondrous seal of everlasting peace.

When the Angel of Death—the masked and voiceless—enters the door of
home, there come with her all the daughters of Compassion, and of these
Love and Hope remain forever.

You are about to take this dear dust home—to the home of her girlhood,
and to the place that was once my home. You will lay her with neighbors
whom I have loved, and who are now at rest. You will lay her where my
father sleeps.

> "Lay her i' the earth,
> And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
> May violets spring."

I never knew, I never met, a braver spirit than the one that once
inhabited this silent form of dreamless clay.
---
# A Tribute to Mrs. Mary H. Fiske
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1888_
## A Tribute to Mrs. Mary H. Fiske

At Scottish Rite Hall, New York, February 6, 1889.

MY FRIENDS: In the presence of the two great mysteries, Life and Death,
we are met to say above this still, unconscious house of clay, a few
words of kindness, of regret, of love, and hope.

In this presence, let us speak of the goodness, the charity, the
generosity and the genius of the dead.

Only flowers should be laid upon the tomb. In life's last pillow there
should be no thorns.

Mary Fiske was like herself—she patterned after none. She was a genius,
and put her soul in all she did and wrote. She cared nothing for roads,
nothing for beaten paths, nothing for the footsteps of others—she went
across the fields and through the woods and by the winding streams, and
down the vales, or over crags, wherever fancy led. She wrote lines that
leaped with laughter and words that were wet with tears. She gave us
quaint thoughts, and sayings filled with the "pert and nimble spirit of
mirth." Her pages were flecked with sunshine and shadow, and in every
word were the pulse and breath of life.

Her heart went out to all the wretched in this weary world—and yet she
seemed as joyous as though grief and death were nought but words. She
wept where others wept, but in her own misfortunes found the food of
hope. She cared for the to-morrow of others, but not for her own. She
lived for to-day.

Some hearts are like a waveless pool, satisfied to hold the image of a
wondrous star—but hers was full of motion, life and light and storm.

She longed for freedom. Every limitation was a prison's wall. Rules were
shackles, and forms were made for serfs and slaves.

She gave her utmost thought. She praised all generous deeds; applauded
the struggling and even those who failed.

She pitied the poor, the forsaken, the friendless. No one could fall
below her pity, no one could wander beyond the circumference of her
sympathy. To her there were no outcasts—they were victims. She knew
that the inhabitants of palaces and penitentiaries might change
places without adding to the injustice of the world. She knew that
circumstances and conditions determine character—that the lowest and
the worst of our race were children once, as pure as light, whose cheeks
dimpled with smiles beneath the heaven of a mother's eyes. She thought
of the road they had traveled, of the thorns that had pierced their
feet, of the deserts they had crossed, and so, instead of words of scorn
she gave the eager hand of help.

No one appealed to her in vain. She listened to the story of the poor,
and all she had she gave. A god could do no more.

The destitute and suffering turned naturally to her. The maimed and hurt
sought for her open door, and the helpless put their hands in hers.

She shielded the weak—she attacked the strong.

Her heart was open as the gates of day. She shed kindness as the sun
sheds light. If all her deeds were flowers, the air would be faint with
perfume. If all her charities could change to melodies, a symphony would
fill the sky.

Mary Fiske had within her brain the divine fire called genius, and in
her heart the "touch of nature that makes the whole world kin."

She wrote as a stream runs, that winds and babbles through the shadowy
fields, that falls in foam of flight and haste and laughing joins the
sea.

A little while ago a babe was found—one that had been abandoned by
its mother—left as a legacy to chance or fate. The warm heart of Mary
Fiske, now cold in death, was touched. She took the waif and held it
lovingly to her breast and made the child her own.

We pray thee, Mother Nature, that thou wilt take this woman and hold her
as tenderly in thy arms, as she held and pressed against her generous,
throbbing heart, the abandoned babe.

We ask no more.

In this presence, let us remember our faults, our frailties, and the
generous, helpful, self-denying, loving deeds of Mary Fiske.
---
# A Tribute to Philo D. Beckwith
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1892_
## A Tribute to Philo D. Beckwith

Dowagiac, Mich., January 25, 1893.

LADIES and Gentlemen: Nothing is nobler than to plant the flower of
gratitude on the grave of a generous man—of one who labored for the
good of all—whose hands were open and whose heart was full.

Praise for the noble dead is an inspiration for the noble living.

Loving words sow seeds of love in every gentle heart. Appreciation is
the soil and climate of good and generous deeds.

We are met to-night not to pay, but to acknowledge a debt of gratitude
to one who lived and labored here—who was the friend of all and who for
many years was the providence of the poor. To one who left to those who
knew him best, the memory of countless loving deeds—the richest legacy
that man can leave to man.

We are here to dedicate this monument to the stainless memory of Philo
D. Beckwith—one of the kings of men.

This monument—this perfect theatre—this beautiful house of
cheerfulness and joy—this home and child of all the arts—this temple
where the architect, the sculptor and painter united to build and
decorate a stage whereon the drama with a thousand tongues will tell
the frailties and the virtues of the human race, and music with her
thrilling voice will touch the source of happy tears.

This is a fitting monument to the man whose memory we honor—to one,
who broadening with the years, outgrew the cruel creeds, the heartless
dogmas of his time—to one who passed from superstition to science—from
religion to reason—from theology to humanity—from slavery to
freedom—from the shadow of fear to the blessed light of love and
courage. To one who believed in intellectual hospitality—in the perfect
freedom of the soul, and hated tyranny, in every form, with all his
heart.

To one whose head and hands were in partnership constituting the firm
of Intelligence and Industry, and whose heart divided the profits with
his fellow-men. To one who fought the battle of life alone, without the
aid of place or wealth, and yet grew nobler and gentler with success.

To one who tried to make a heaven here and who believed in the blessed
gospel of cheerfulness and love—of happiness and hope.

And it is fitting, too, that this monument should be adorned with the
sublime faces, wrought in stone, of the immortal dead—of those who
battled for the rights of man—who broke the fetters of the slave—of
those who filled the minds of men with poetry, art, and light—of
Voltaire, who abolished torture in France and who did more for liberty
than any other of the sons of men—of Thomas Paine, whose pen did as
much as any sword to make the New World free—of Victor Hugo, who wept
for those who weep—of Emerson, a worshiper of the Ideal, who filled
the mind with suggestions of the perfect—of Goethe, the
poet-philosopher—of Whitman, the ample, wide as the sky—author of the
tenderest, the most pathetic, the sublimest poem that this continent has
produced—of Shakespeare, the King of all—of Beethoven, the divine,—of
Chopin and Verdi and of Wagner, grandest of them all, whose music
satisfies the heart and brain and fills imagination's sky—of George
Eliot, who wove within her brain the purple robe her genius wears—of
George Sand, subtle and sincere, passionate and free—and with
these—faces of those who, on the stage, have made the mimic world as
real as life and death.

Beneath the loftiest monuments may be found ambition's worthless dust,
while those who lived the loftiest lives are sleeping now in unknown
graves.

It may be that the bravest of the brave who ever fell upon the field of
ruthless war, was left without a grave to mingle slowly with the land he
saved.

But here and now the Man and Monument agree, and blend like sounds that
meet and melt in melody—a monument for the dead—a blessing for the
living—a memory of tears—a prophecy of joy.

Fortunate the people where this good man lived, for they are all his
heirs—and fortunate for me that I have had the privilege of laying this
little laurel leaf upon his unstained brow.

And now, speaking for those he loved—for those who represent the
honored dead—I dedicate this home of mirth and song—of poetry and
art—to the memory of Philo D. Beckwith—a true philosopher—a real
philanthropist.
---
# A Tribute to Richard H. Whiting
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1888_
## A Tribute to Richard H. Whiting

New York, May 24., 1888.

MY FRIENDS: The river of another life has reached the sea.

Again we are in the presence of that eternal peace that we call death.

My life has been rich in friends, but I never had a better or a truer
one than he who lies in silence here. He was as steadfast, as faithful,
as the stars.

Richard H. Whiting was an absolutely honest man. His word was gold—his
promise was fulfillment—and there never has been, there never will be,
on this poor earth, any thing nobler than an honest, loving soul.

This man was as reliable as the attraction of gravitation—he knew
no shadow of turning. He was as generous as autumn, as hospitable as
summer, and as tender as a perfect day in June. He forgot only himself,
and asked favors only for others. He begged for the opportunity to
do good—to stand by a friend, to support a cause, to defend what he
believed to be right.

He was a lover of nature—of the woods, the fields and flowers. He was
a home-builder. He believed in the family and the fireside—in the
sacredness of the hearth.

He was a believer in the religion of deed, and his creed was to do good.
No man has ever slept in death who nearer lived his creed.

I have known him for many years, and have yet to hear a word spoken of
him except in praise.

His life was full of honor, of kindness and of helpful deeds. Besides
all, his soul was free. He feared nothing, except to do wrong. He was
a believer in the gospel of help and hope. He knew how much better, how
much more sacred, a kind act is than any theory the brain has wrought.

The good are the noble. His life filled the lives of others with
sunshine. He has left a legacy of glory to his children. They can
truthfully say that within their veins is right royal blood—the blood
of an honest, generous man, of a steadfast friend, of one who was true
to the very gates of death.

If there be another world, another life beyond the shore of this,—if
the great and good who died upon this orb are there,—then the noblest
and the best, with eager hands, have welcomed him—the equal in honor,
in generosity, of any one that ever passed beyond the veil.

To me this world is growing poor. New friends can never fill the places
of the old.

Farewell! If this is the end, then you have left to us the sacred memory
of a noble life. If this is not the end, there is no world in which you,
my friend, will not be loved and welcomed. Farewell!
---
# A Tribute to Roscoe Conkling
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1888_
## A Tribute to Roscoe Conkling

> Delivered before the New York State Legislature, at Albany,
> N. Y, May 9,1888.

ROSCOE CONKLING—a great man, an orator, a statesman, a lawyer, a
distinguished citizen of the Republic, in the zenith of his fame and
power has reached his journey's end; and we are met, here in the city of
his birth, to pay our tribute to his worth and work. He earned and held
a proud position in the public thought. He stood for independence, for
courage, and above all for absolute integrity, and his name was known
and honored by many millions of his fellow-men.

The literature of many lands is rich with the tributes that gratitude,
admiration and love have paid to the great and honored dead. These
tributes disclose the character of nations, the ideals of the human
race. In them we find the estimates of greatness—the deeds and lives
that challenged praise and thrilled the hearts of men.

In the presence of death, the good man judges as he would be judged. He
knows that men are only fragments—that the greatest walk in shadow, and
that faults and failures mingle with the lives of all.

In the grave should be buried the prejudices and passions born of
conflict. Charity should hold the scales in which are weighed the deeds
of men. Peculiarities, traits born of locality and surroundings—these
are but the dust of the race—these are accidents, drapery, clothes,
fashions, that have nothing to do with the man except to hide his
character. They are the clouds that cling to mountains. Time gives us
clearer vision. That which was merely local fades away. The words of
envy are forgotten, and all there is of sterling worth remains. He who
was called a partisan is a patriot. The revolutionist and the outlaw are
the founders of nations, and he who was regarded as a scheming, selfish
politician becomes a statesman, a philosopher, whose words and deeds
shed light.

Fortunate is that nation great enough to know the great.

When a great man dies—one who has nobly fought the battle of a life,
who has been faithful to every trust, and has uttered his highest,
noblest thought—one who has stood proudly by the right in spite of jeer
and taunt, neither stopped by foe nor swerved by friend—in honoring
him, in speaking words of praise and love above his dust, we pay a
tribute to ourselves.

How poor this world would be without its graves, without the memories of
its mighty dead. Only the voiceless speak forever.

Intelligence, integrity and courage are the great pillars that support
the State.

Above all, the citizens of a free nation should honor the brave
and independent man—the man of stainless integrity, of will and
intellectual force. Such men are the Atlases on whose mighty shoulders
rest the great fabric of the Republic. Flatterers, cringers, crawlers,
time-servers are the dangerous citizens of a democracy. They who gain
applause and power by pandering to the mistakes, the prejudices and
passions of the multitude, are the enemies of liberty.

When the intelligent submit to the clamor of the many, anarchy begins
and the Republic reaches the edge of chaos. Mediocrity, touched with
ambition, flatters the base and calumniates the great, while the true
patriot, who will do neither, is often sacrificed.

In a government of the people a leader should be a teacher—he should
carry the torch of truth.

Most people are the slaves of habit—followers of custom—believers in
the wisdom of the past—and were it not for brave and splendid souls,
"the dust of antique time would lie unswept, and mountainous error be
too highly heaped for truth to overpeer." Custom is a prison, locked
and barred by those who long ago were dust, the keys of which are in the
keeping of the dead.

Nothing is grander than when a strong, intrepid man breaks chains,
levels walls and breasts the many-headed mob like some great cliff that
meets and mocks the innumerable billows of the sea.

The politician hastens to agree with the majority—insists that their
prejudice is patriotism, that their ignorance is wisdom;—not that
he loves them, but because he loves himself. The statesman, the
real reformer, points out the mistakes of the multitude, attacks the
prejudices of his countrymen, laughs at their follies, denounces
their cruelties, enlightens and enlarges their minds and educates the
conscience—not because he loves himself, but because he loves and
serves the right and wishes to make his country great and free.

With him defeat is but a spur to further effort. He who refuses to
stoop, who cannot be bribed by the promise of success, or the fear of
failure—who walks the highway of the right, and in disaster stands
erect, is the only victor. Nothing is more despicable than to reach fame
by crawling,—position by cringing.

When real history shall be written by the truthful and the wise, these
men, these kneelers at the shrines of chance and fraud, these brazen
idols worshiped once as gods, will be the very food of scorn, while
those who bore the burden of defeat, who earned and kept their
self-respect, who would not bow to man or men for place or power, will
wear upon their brows the laurel mingled with the oak.

Roscoe Conkling was a man of superb courage.

He not only acted without fear, but he had that fortitude of soul that
bears the consequences of the course pursued without complaint. He was
charged with being proud. The charge was true—he was proud. His knees
were as inflexible as the "unwedgeable and gnarled oak," but he was
not vain. Vanity rests on the opinion of others—pride, on our own. The
source of vanity is from without—of pride, from within. Vanity is a
vane that turns, a willow that bends, with every breeze—pride is
the oak that defies the storm. One is cloud—the other rock. One is
weakness—the other strength.

This imperious man entered public life in the dawn of the
reformation—at a time when the country needed men of pride, of
principle and courage. The institution of slavery had poisoned all
the springs of power. Before this crime ambition fell upon its
knees,—politicians, judges, clergymen, and merchant-princes bowed low
and humbly, with their hats in their hands. The real friend of man was
denounced as the enemy of his country—the real enemy of the human race
was called a statesman and a patriot. Slavery was the bond and pledge of
peace, of union, and national greatness. The temple of American liberty
was finished—the auction-block was the corner-stone.

It is hard to conceive of the utter demoralization, of the political
blindness and immorality, of the patriotic dishonesty, of the
cruelty and degradation of a people who supplemented the incomparable
Declaration of Independence with the Fugitive Slave Law.

Think of the honored statesmen of that ignoble time who wallowed in this
mire and who, decorated with dripping filth, received the plaudits of
their fellow-men. The noble, the really patriotic, were the victims of
mobs, and the shameless were clad in the robes of office.

But let us speak no word of blame—let us feel that each one acted
according to his light—according to his darkness.

At last the conflict came. The hosts of light and darkness prepared
to meet upon the fields of war. The question was presented: Shall the
Republic be slave or free? The Republican party had triumphed at the
polls. The greatest man in our history was President elect. The victors
were appalled—they shrank from the great responsibility of success. In
the presence of rebellion they hesitated—they offered to return the
fruits of victory. Hoping to avert war they were willing that slavery
should become immortal. An amendment to the Constitution was proposed,
to the effect that no subsequent amendment should ever be made that in
anyway should interfere with the right of man to steal his fellow-men.

This, the most marvelous proposition ever submitted to a Congress of
civilized men, received in the House an overwhelming majority, and the
necessary two-thirds in the Senate. The Republican party, in the moment
of its triumph, deserted every principle for which it had so gallantly
contended, and with the trembling hands of fear laid its convictions on
the altar of compromise.

The Old Guard, numbering but sixty-five in the House, stood as firm
as the three hundred at Thermopylae. Thad-deus Stevens—as maliciously
right as any other man was ever wrong—refused to kneel. Owen Lovejoy,
remembering his brother's noble blood, refused to surrender, and on the
edge of disunion, in the shadow of civil war, with the air filled with
sounds of dreadful preparation, while the Republican party was retracing
its steps, Roscoe Conkling voted No. This puts a wreath of glory on his
tomb. From that vote to the last moment of his life he was a champion of
equal rights, staunch and stalwart.

From that moment he stood in the front rank. He never wavered and he
never swerved. By his devotion to principle—his courage, the splendor
of his diction,—by his varied and profound knowledge, his conscientious
devotion to the great cause, and by his intellectual scope and grasp, he
won and held the admiration of his fellow-men.

Disasters in the field, reverses at the polls, did not and could not
shake his courage or his faith. He knew the ghastly meaning of defeat.
He knew that the great ship that slavery sought to strand and wreck was
freighted with the world's sublimest hope.

He battled for a nation's life—for the rights of slaves—the dignity
of labor, and the liberty of all. He guarded with a father's care the
rights of the hunted, the hated and despised. He attacked the savage
statutes of the reconstructed States with a torrent of invective, scorn
and execration. He was not satisfied until the freedman was an American
Citizen—clothed with every civil right—until the Constitution was his
shield—until the ballot was his sword.

And long after we are dead, the colored man in this and other lands will
speak his name in reverence and love. Others wavered, but he stood
firm; some were false, but he was proudly true—fearlessly faithful unto
death.

He gladly, proudly grasped the hands of colored men who stood with him
as makers of our laws, and treated them as equals and as friends. The
cry of "social equality" coined and uttered by the cruel and the base,
was to him the expression of a great and splendid truth. He knew that no
man can be the equal of the one he robs—that the intelligent and unjust
are not the superiors of the ignorant and honest—and he also felt, and
proudly felt, that if he were not too great to reach the hand of help
and recognition to the slave, no other Senator could rightfully refuse.

We rise by raising others—and he who stoops above the fallen, stands
erect.

Nothing can be grander than to sow the seeds of noble thoughts and
virtuous deeds—to liberate the bodies and the souls of men—to earn
the grateful homage of a race—and then, in life's last shadowy hour,
to know that the historian of Liberty will be compelled to write your
name.

There are no words intense enough,—with heart enough—to express my
admiration for the great and gallant souls who have in every age and
every land upheld the right, and who have lived and died for freedom's
sake.

In our lives have been the grandest years that man has lived, that Time
has measured by the flight of worlds.

The history of that great Party that let the oppressed go free—that
lifted our nation from the depths of savagery to freedom's cloudless
heights, and tore with holy hands from every law the words that
sanctified the cruelty of man, is the most glorious in the annals of our
race. Never before was there such a moral exaltation—never a party with
a purpose so pure and high. It was the embodied conscience of a nation,
the enthusiasm of a people guided by wisdom, the impersonation of
justice; and the sublime victory achieved loaded even the conquered with
all the rights that freedom can bestow.

Roscoe Conkling was an absolutely honest man. Honesty is the oak around
which all other virtues cling. Without that they fall, and groveling
die in weeds and dust. He believed that a nation should discharge its
obligations. He knew that a promise could not be made often enough, or
emphatic enough, to take the place of payment. He felt that the promise
of the Government was the promise of every citizen—that a national
obligation was a personal debt, and that no possible combination of
words and pictures could take the place of coin. He uttered the splendid
truth that "the higher obligations among men are not set down in writing
signed and sealed, but reside in honor." He knew that repudiation was
the sacrifice of honor—the death of the national soul. He knew that
without character, without integrity, there is no wealth, and that
below poverty, below bankruptcy, is the rayless abyss of repudiation.
He upheld the sacredness of contracts, of plighted national faith, and
helped to save and keep the honor of his native land. This adds another
laurel to his brow.

He was the ideal representative, faithful and incorruptible. He believed
that his constituents and his country were entitled to the fruit of
his experience, to his best and highest thought. No man ever held the
standard of responsibility higher than he. He voted according to his
judgment, his conscience. He made no bargains—he neither bought nor
sold.

To correct evils, abolish abuses and inaugurate reforms, he believed was
not only the duty, but the privilege, of a legislator. He neither sold
nor mortgaged himself. He was in Congress during the years of vast
expenditure, of war and waste—when the credit of the nation was loaned
to individuals—when claims were thick as leaves in June, when the
amendment of a statute, the change of a single word, meant millions, and
when empires were given to corporations. He stood at the summit of his
power—peer of the greatest—a leader tried and trusted. He had the
tastes of a prince, the fortune of a peasant, and yet he never swerved.
No corporation was great enough or rich enough to purchase him. His vote
could not be bought "for all the sun sees, or the close earth wombs, or
the profound seas hide." His hand was never touched by any bribe, and
on his soul there never was a sordid stain. Poverty was his priceless
crown.

Above his marvelous intellectual gifts—above all place he ever
reached,—above the ermine he refused,—rises his integrity like some
great mountain peak—and there it stands, firm as the earth beneath,
pure as the stars above.

He was a great lawyer. He understood the frame-work, the anatomy, the
foundations of law; was familiar with the great streams and currents and
tides of authority.

He knew the history of legislation—the principles that have
been settled upon the fields of war. He knew the maxims,—those
crystallizations of common sense, those hand-grenades of argument. He
was not a case-lawyer—a decision index, or an echo; he was original,
thoughtful and profound. He had breadth and scope, resource, learning,
logic, and above all, a sense of justice. He was painstaking and
conscientious—anxious to know the facts—preparing for every attack,
ready for every defence. He rested only when the end was reached. During
the contest, he neither sent nor received a flag of truce. He was
true to his clients—making their case his. Feeling responsibility, he
listened patiently to details, and to his industry there were only the
limits of time and strength. He was a student of the Constitution. He
knew the boundaries of State and Federal jurisdiction, and no man
was more familiar with those great decisions that are the peaks and
promontories, the headlands and the beacons, of the law.

He was an orator,—logical, earnest, intense and picturesque. He laid
the foundation with care, with accuracy and skill, and rose by "cold
gradation and well balanced form" from the corner-stone of statement
to the domed conclusion. He filled the stage. He satisfied the eye—the
audience was his. He had that indefinable thing called presence. Tall,
commanding, erect—ample in speech, graceful in compliment, Titanic
in denunciation, rich in illustration, prodigal of comparison and
metaphor—and his sentences, measured and rhythmical, fell like music on
the enraptured throng.

He abhorred the Pharisee, and loathed all conscientious fraud. He had a
profound aversion for those who insist on putting base motives back
of the good deeds of others. He wore no mask. He knew his friends—his
enemies knew him.

He had no patience with pretence—with patriotic reasons for unmanly
acts. He did his work and bravely spoke his thought.

Sensitive to the last degree, he keenly felt the blows and stabs of the
envious and obscure—of the smallest, of the weakest—but the greatest
could not drive him from conviction's field. He would not stoop to
ask or give an explanation. He left his words and deeds to justify
themselves.

He held in light esteem a friend who heard with half-believing ears the
slander of a foe. He walked a highway of his own, and kept the company
of his self-respect. He would not turn aside to avoid a foe—to greet or
gain a friend.

In his nature there was no compromise. To him there were but two
paths—the right and wrong. He was maligned, misrepresented and
misunderstood—but he would not answer. He knew that character speaks
louder far than any words. He was as silent then as he is now—and his
silence, better than any form of speech, refuted every charge.

He was an American—proud of his country, that was and ever will be
proud of him. He did not find perfection only in other lands. He did
not grow small and shrunken, withered and apologetic, in the presence
of those upon whom greatness had been thrust by chance. He could not
be overawed by dukes or lords, nor flattered into vertebrate-less
subserviency by the patronizing smiles of kings. In the midst of
conventionalities he had the feeling of suffocation. He believed in the
royalty of man, in the sovereignty of the citizen, and in the matchless
greatness of this Republic.

He was of the classic mould—a figure from the antique world. He had
the pose of the great statues—the pride and bearing of the intellectual
Greek, of the conquering Roman, and he stood in the wide free air as
though within his veins there flowed the blood of a hundred kings.

And as he lived he died. Proudly he entered the darkness—or the
dawn—that we call death. Unshrinkingly he passed beyond our horizon,
beyond the twilight's purple hills, beyond the utmost reach of human
harm or help—to that vast realm of silence or of joy where the
innumerable dwell, and he has left with us his wealth of thought and
deed—the memory of a brave, imperious, honest man, who bowed alone to
death.
---
# A Tribute to the Rev. Alexander Clark
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1879_
## A Tribute to the Rev. Alexander Clark

Washington, D. C. July 13, 1879.

UPON the grave of the Reverend Alexander Clark I wish to place one
flower. Utterly destitute of cold, dogmatic pride, that often passes for
the love of God; without the arrogance of the "elect;" simple, free, and
kind—this earnest man made me his friend by being mine. I forgot that
he was a Christian, and he seemed to forget that I was not, while each
remembered that the other was at least a man.

Frank, candid, and sincere, he practiced what he preached, and looked
with the holy eyes of charity upon the failings and mistakes of men. He
believed in the power of kindness, and spanned with divine sympathy the
hideous gulf that separates the fallen from the pure.

Giving freely to others the rights that he claimed for himself, it never
occurred to him that his God hated a brave and honest unbeliever. He
remembered that even an Infidel had rights that love respects; that
hatred has no saving power, and that in order to be a Christian it is
not necessary to become less than a human being. He knew that no one can
be maligned into kindness; that epithets cannot convince; that curses
are not arguments, and that the finger of scorn never points toward
heaven. With the generosity of an honest man, he accorded to all the
fullest liberty of thought, knowing, as he did, that in the realm of
mind a chain is but a curse.

For this man I felt the greatest possible regard. In spite of the taunts
and jeers of his brethren, he publicly proclaimed that he would treat
Infidels with fairness and respect; that he would endeavor to convince
them by argument and win them with love. He insisted that the God
he worshiped loved the well-being even of an Atheist. In this grand
position he stood almost alone. Tender, just, and loving where others
were harsh, vindictive, and cruel, he challenged the admiration of every
honest man. A few more such clergymen might drive calumny from the lips
of faith and render the pulpit worthy of esteem.

The heartiness and kindness with which this generous man treated me can
never be excelled. He admitted that I had not lost, and could not lose,
a single right by the expression of my honest thought. Neither did he
believe that a servant could win the respect of a generous master by
persecuting and maligning those whom the master would willingly forgive.

While this good man was living, his brethren blamed him for having
treated me with fairness. But, I trust, now that he has left the shore
touched by the mysterious sea that never yet has borne, on any wave, the
image of a homeward sail, this crime will be forgiven him by those who
still remain to preach the love of God.

His sympathies were not confined within the prison, of a creed, but ran
out and over the walls like vines, hiding the cruel rocks and rusted
bars with leaf and flower. He could not echo with his heart the fiendish
sentence of eternal fire. In spite of book and creed, he read "between
the lines" the words of tenderness and love, with promises for all the
world.. Above, beyond, the dogmas of his church—humane even to the
verge of heresy—causing some to doubt his love of God because he
failed to hate his unbelieving fellow-men, he labored for the welfare of
mankind and to his work gave up his life with all his heart.
---
# A Tribute to Thomas Corwin
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1897_
## A Tribute to Thomas Corwin

Lebanon, Ohio, March 5, 1899.

> * An Impromptu preface to Colonel Ingersoll's lecture at
> Lebanon, Ohio.

LADIES and Gentlemen: Being for the first time where Thomas Corwin lived
and where his ashes rest, I cannot refrain from saying something of
what I feel. Thomas Corwin was a natural orator—armed with the sword of
attack and the shield of defence.

Nature filled his quiver with perfect arrows. He was the lord of logic
and laughter. He had the presence, the pose, the voice, the face
that mirrored thoughts, the unconscious gesture of the orator. He had
intelligence—a wide horizon—logic as unerring as mathematics—humor as
rich as autumn when the boughs and vines bend with the weight of ripened
fruit, while the forests flame with scarlet, brown and gold. He had wit
as quick and sharp as lightning, and like the lightning it filled the
heavens with sudden light.

In his laughter there was logic, in his wit wisdom, and in his humor
philosophy and philanthropy. He was a supreme artist. He painted
pictures with words. He knew the strength, the velocity of verbs, the
color, the light and shade of adjectives.

He was a sculptor in speech—changing stones to statues. He had in
his heart the sacred something that we call sympathy. He pitied the
unfortunate, the oppressed and the outcast His words were often wet
with tears—tears that in a moment after were glorified by the light of
smiles. All moods were his. He knew the heart, its tides and currents,
its calms and storms, and like a skillful pilot he sailed emotion's
troubled sea. He was neither solemn nor dignified, because he was
neither stupid nor egotistic. He was natural, and had the spontaneity
of winds and waves. He was the greatest orator of his time, the grandest
that ever stood beneath our flag. Reverently I lay this leaf upon his
grave.
---
# A Tribute to Walt Whitman
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1892_
## A Tribute to Walt Whitman

Camden, N. J., March 30, 1892.

MY FRIENDS: Again we, in the mystery of Life, are brought face to face
with the mystery of Death. A great man, a great American, the most
eminent citizen of this Republic, lies dead before us, and we have met
to pay a tribute to his greatness and his worth.

I know he needs no words of mine. His fame is secure. He laid the
foundations of it deep in the human heart and brain. He was, above all
I have known, the poet of humanity, of sympathy. He was so great that he
rose above the greatest that he met without arrogance, and so great
that he stooped to the lowest without conscious condescension. He never
claimed to be lower or greater than any of the sous of men.

He came into our generation a free, untrammeled spirit, with sympathy
for all. His arm was beneath the form of the sick. He sympathized with
the imprisoned and despised, and even on the brow of crime he was great
enough to place the kiss of human sympathy.

One of the greatest lines in our literature is his, and the line is
great enough to do honor to the greatest genius that has ever lived.
He said, speaking of an outcast: "Not till the sun excludes you do I
exclude you."

His charity was as wide as the sky, and wherever there was human
suffering, human misfortune, the sympathy of Whitman bent above it as
the firmament bends above the earth.

He was built on a broad and splendid plan—ample, without appearing to
have limitations—passing easily for a brother of mountains and seas and
constellations; caring nothing for the little maps and charts with which
timid pilots hug the shore, but giving himself freely with recklessness
of genius to winds and waves and tides; caring for nothing as long as
the stars were above him. He walked among men, among writers, among
verbal varnishers and veneerers, among literary milliners and tailors,
with the unconscious majesty of an antique god.

He was the poet of that divine democracy which gives equal rights to
all the sons and daughters of men. He uttered the great American voice;
uttered a song worthy of the great Republic. No man ever said more
for the rights of humanity, more in favor of real democracy, of real
justice. He neither scorned nor cringed, was neither tyrant nor slave.
He asked only to stand the equal of his fellows beneath the great flag
of nature, the blue and stars.

He was the poet of Life. It was a joy simply to breathe. He loved the
clouds; he enjoyed the breath of morning, the twilight, the wind, the
winding streams. He loved to look at the sea when the waves burst into
the whitecaps of joy. He loved the fields, the hills; he was acquainted
with the trees, with birds, with all the beautiful objects of the earth.
He not only saw these objects, but understood their meaning, and he used
them that he might exhibit his heart to his fellow-men.

He was the poet of Love. He was not ashamed of that divine passion that
has built every home in the world; that divine passion that has painted
every picture and given us every real work of art; that divine passion
that has made the world worth living in and has given some value to
human life.

He was the poet of the natural, and taught men not to be ashamed of that
which is natural. He was not only the poet of democracy, not only the
poet of the great Republic, but he was the poet of the human race. He
was not confined to the limits of this country, but his sympathy went
out over the seas to all the nations of the earth.

He stretched out his hand and felt himself the equal of all kings and of
all princes, and the brother of all men, no matter how high, no matter
how low.

He has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century,
possibly of almost any other. He was, above all things, a man, and above
genius, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence, above all art,
rises the true man. Greater than all is the true man, and he walked
among his fellow-men as such.

He was the poet of Death. He accepted all life and all death, and he
justified all. He had the courage to meet all, and was great enough and
splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is of life as a
divine melody.

You know better than I what his life has been, but let me say one
thing. Knowing, as he did, what others can know and what they cannot,
he accepted and absorbed all theories, all creeds, all religions, and
believed in none. His philosophy was a sky that embraced all clouds and
accounted for all clouds. He had a philosophy and a religion of his own,
broader, as he believed—and as I believe—than others. He accepted all,
he understood all, and he was above all.

He was absolutely true to himself. He had frankness and courage, and he
was as candid as light. He was willing that all the sons of men should
be absolutely acquainted with his heart and brain. He had nothing to
conceal. Frank, candid, pure, serene, noble, and yet for years he was
maligned and slandered, simply because he had the candor of nature.
He will be understood yet, and that for which he was condemned—his
frankness, his candor—will add to the glory and greatness of his fame.

He wrote a liturgy for mankind; he wrote a great and splendid psalm of
life, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity—the greatest gospel that
can be preached.

He was not afraid to live, not afraid to die. For many years he and
death were near neighbors. He was always willing and ready to meet
and greet this king called death, and for many months he sat in the
deepening twilight waiting for the night, waiting for the light.

He never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys, he looked
upon the mountain tops, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared,
he fixed his gaze upon the stars.

In his brain were the blessed memories of the day, and in his heart were
mingled the dawn and dusk of life.

He was not afraid; he was cheerful every moment. The laughing nymphs of
day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hands
and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. And
when they did come, Walt Whitman stretched his hand to them. On one side
were the nymphs of the day, and on the other the silent sisters of the
night, and so, hand in hand, between smiles and tears, he reached his
journey's end.

From the frontier of life, from the western wave-kissed shore, he
sent us messages of content and hope, and these messages seem now like
strains of music blown by the "Mystic Trumpeter" from Death's pale
realm.

To-day we give back to Mother Nature, to her clasp and kiss, one of the
bravest, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay.

Charitable as the air and generous as Nature, he was negligent of all
except to do and say what he believed he should do and should say.

And I to-day thank him, not only for you but for myself, for all the
brave words he has uttered. I thank him for all the great and splendid
words lie has said in favor of liberty, in favor of man and woman, in
favor of motherhood, in favor of fathers, in favor of children, and I
thank him for the brave words that he has said of death.

He has lived, he has died, and death is less terrible than it was
before. Thousands and millions will walk down into the "dark valley of
the shadow" holding Walt Whitman by the hand. Long after we are dead the
brave words he has spoken will sound like trumpets to the dying.

And so I lay this little wreath upon this great mans tomb. I loved him
living, and I love him still.
---
# Address to the Actors' Fund of America
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1888_
New York, June 5, 1888.

MR. PRESIDENT, Ladies and Gentlemen: I have addressed, or annoyed, a
great many audiences in my life and I have not the slightest doubt that
I stand now before more ability, a greater variety of talent, and more
real genius than I ever addressed in my life.

I know all about respectable stupidity, and I am perfectly acquainted
with the brainless wealth and success of this life, and I know, after
all, how poor the world would be without that divine thing that we call
genius—what a worthless habitation, if you take from it all that genius
has given.

I know also that all joy springs from a love of nature. I know that all
joy is what I call Pagan. The natural man takes delight in everything
that grows, in everything that shines, in everything that enjoys—he has
an immense sympathy with the whole human race.

Of that feeling, of that spirit, the drama is born. People must first be
in love with life before they can think it worth representing. They
must have sympathy with their fellows before they can enter into their
feelings and know what their heart throbs about. So, I say, back of the
drama is this love of life, this love of nature. And whenever a country
becomes prosperous—and this has been pointed cut many times—when a
wave of wealth runs over a land,—behind it you will see all the sons
and daughters of genius. When a man becomes of some account he is worth
painting. When by success and prosperity he gets the pose of a victor,
the sculptor is inspired; and when love is really in his heart, words
burst into blossom and the poet is born. When great virtues appear, when
magnificent things are done by heroines and heroes, then the stage is
built, and the life of a nation is compressed into a few hours, or—to
use the language of the greatest—"turning the accomplishment of many
years into an hour-glass"; the stage is born, and we love it because we
love life—and he who loves the stage has a kind of double life.

The drama is a crystallization of history, an epitome of the human
heart. The past is lived again and again, and we see upon the stage,
love, sacrifice, fidelity, courage—all the virtues mingled with all the
follies.

And what is the great thing that the stage does? It cultivates the
imagination. And let me say now, that the imagination constitutes the
great difference between human beings.

The imagination is the mother of pity, the mother of generosity, the
mother of every possible virtue. It is by the imagination that you are
enabled to put yourself in the place of another. Every dollar that has
been paid into your treasury came from an imagination vivid enough
to imagine himself or herself lying upon the lonely bed of pain, or
as having fallen by the wayside of life, dying alone. It is this
imagination that makes the difference in men.

Do you believe that a man would plunge the dagger into the heart of
another if he had imagination enough to see him dead—imagination enough
to see his widow throw her arms about the corpse and cover his face with
sacred tears—imagination enough to see them digging his grave, and to
see the funeral and to hear the clods fall upon the coffin and the sobs
of those who stood about—do you believe he would commit the crime?
Would any man be false who had imagination enough to see the woman that
he once loved, in the darkness of night, when the black clouds were
floating through the sky hurried by the blast as thoughts and memories
were hurrying through her poor brain—if he could see the white flutter
of her garment as she leaped to the eternal, blessed sleep of death—do
you believe that he would be false to her? I tell you that he would be
true.

So that, in my judgment, the great mission of the stage is to cultivate
the human imagination. That is the reason fiction has done so much good.
Compared with the stupid lies-called history, how beautiful are the
imagined things with painted wings. Everybody detests a thing that
pretends to be true and is not; but when it says, "I am about to
create," then it is beautiful in the proportion that it is artistic, in
the proportion that it is a success.

Imagination is the mother of enthusiasm. Imagination fans the little
spark into a flame great enough to warm the human race; and enthusiasm
is to the mind what spring is to the world. .

Now I am going to say a few words because I want to, and because I have
the chance.

What is known as "orthodox religion" has always been the enemy of the
theatre. It has been the enemy of every possible comfort, of every
rational joy—that is to say, of amusement. And there is a reason for
this. Because, if that religion be true, there should be no amusement.
If you believe that in every moment is the peril of eternal pain—do
not amuse yourself. Stop the orchestra, ring down the curtain, and be as
miserable as you can. That idea puts an infinite responsibility upon the
soul—an infinite responsibility—and how can there be any art, how can
there be any joy, after that? You might as well pile all the Alps on one
unfortunate ant, and then say, "Why don't you play? Enjoy yourself."

If that doctrine be true, every one should regard time as a kind of
dock, a pier running out into the ocean of eternity, on which you sit
on your trunk and wait for the ship of death—solemn, lugubrious,
melancholy to the last degree.

And that is why I have said joy is Pagan. It comes from a love of
nature, from a love of this world, from a love of this life. According
to the idea of some good people, life is a kind of green-room, where you
are getting ready for a "play" in some other country.

You all remember the story of "Great Expectations," and I presume you
have all had them. That is another thing about this profession of acting
that I like—you do not know how it is coming out—and there is this
delightful uncertainty.

You have all read the book called "Great Expectations," written, in
my judgment, by the greatest novelist that ever wrote the English
language—the man who created a vast realm of joy. I love the
joy-makers—not the solemn, mournful wretches. And when I think of the
church asking something of the theatre, I remember that story of "Great
Expectations." You remember Miss Haversham—she was to have been
married some fifty or sixty years before that time—sitting there in the
darkness, in all of her wedding finery, the laces having turned yellow
by time, the old wedding cake crumbled, various insects having made
it their palatial residence—you remember that she sent for that poor
little boy Pip, and when he got there in the midst of all these horrors,
she looked at him and said, "Pip, play!" And if their doctrine be true,
every actor is in that situation.

I have always loved the theatre—loved the stage, simply because it has
added to the happiness of this life. "Oh, but," they say, "is it moral?"
A superstitious man suspects everything that is pleasant. It seems
inbred in his nature, and in the nature of most people. You let such a
man pull up a little weed and taste it, and if it is sweet and good, he
says, "I'll bet it is poison." But if it tastes awful, so that his
face becomes a mask of disgust, he says, "I'll bet you that it is good
medicine."

Now, I believe that everything in the world that tends to make man
happy, is moral. That is my definition of morality. Anything that bursts
into bud and blossom, and bears the fruit of joy, is moral.

Some people expect to make the world good by destroying desire—by a
kind of pious petrifaction, feeling that if you do not want anything,
you will not want anything bad. In other words, you will be good
and moral if you will only stop growing, stop wishing, turn all your
energies in the direction of repression, and if from the tree of life
you pull every leaf, and then every bud—and if an apple happens to get
ripe in spite of you, don't touch it—snakes!

I insist that happiness is the end—virtue the means—and anything
that wipes a tear from the face of man is good. Everything that gives
laughter to the world—laughter springing from good nature, that is the
most wonderful music that has ever enriched the ears of man. And let me
say that nothing can be more immoral than to waste your own life, and
sour that of others.

Is the theatre moral? I suppose you have had an election to-day. They
had an election at the Metropolitan Opera House for bishops, and they
voted forged tickets; and after the election was over, I suppose they
asked the old question in the same solemn tone: "Is the theatre moral?"

At last, all the intelligence of the world admits that the theatre is a
great, a splendid instrumentality for increasing the well-being of man.
But only a few years ago our fathers were poor barbarians. They only
wanted the essentials of life, and through nearly all the centuries
Genius was a vagabond—Art was a servant. He was the companion of the
clown. Writers, poets, actors, either sat "below the salt" or devoured
the "remainder biscuit," and drank what drunkenness happened to leave,
or lived on crumbs, and they had less than the crumbs of respect. The
painter had to have a patron, and then in order to pay the patron, he
took the patron's wife for Venus—and the man, he was the Apollo! So the
writer had to have a patron, and he endeavored to immortalize him in a
preface of obsequious lies. The writer had no courage. The painter,
the sculptor—poor wretches—had "patrons." Some of the greatest of the
world were treated as servants, and yet they were the real kings of the
human race.

Now the public is the patron. The public has the intelligence to see
what it wants. The stage does not have to flatter any man. The actor now
does not enroll himself as the servant of duke or lord. He has the great
public, and if he is a great actor, he stands as high in the public
estimation as any other man in any other walk of life.

And these men of genius, these "vagabonds," these "sturdy vagrants" of
the old law—and let me say one thing right here: I do not believe
that there ever was a man of genius that had not a little touch of the
vagabond in him somewhere—just a little touch of chaos—that is to
say, he must have generosity enough now and then absolutely to forget
himself—he must be generous to that degree that he starts out without
thinking of the shore and without caring for the sea—and that is that
touch of chaos. And yet, through all those years the poets and the
actors lacked bread. Imagine the number of respectable dolts who felt
above them. The men of genius lived on the bounty of the few, grudgingly
given.

Now, just think what would happen, what we would be, if you could blot
from this world what these men have done. If you could take from the
walls the pictures; from the niches the statues; from the memory of man
the songs that have been sung by "The Plowman"—take from the memory of
the world what has been done by the actors and play-writers, and this
great globe would be like a vast skull emptied of all thought.

And let me say one word more, and that is as to the dignity of your
profession.

The greatest genius of this world has produced your literature. I am not
now alluding simply to one—but there has been more genius lavished upon
the stage—more real genius, more creative talent, than upon any
other department of human effort. And when men and women belong to a
profession that can count Shakespeare in its number, they should feel
nothing but pride.

Nothing gives me more pleasure than to speak of
Shakespeare—Shakespeare, in whose brain were the fruits of all thoughts
past, the seeds of all to be—Shakespeare, an intellectual ocean toward
which all rivers ran, and from which now the isles and continents of
thought receive their dew and rain.

A profession that can boast that Shakespeare was one of its members, and
that from his brain poured out that mighty intellectual cataract—that
Mississippi that will enrich all coming generations—the man that
belongs to that profession—should feel that no other man by reason of
belonging to some other, can be his superior.

And such a man, when he dies—or the friend of such a man, when that man
dies—should not imagine that it is a very generous and liberal thing
for some minister to say a few words above the corpse—and I do not want
to see this profession cringe before any other.

One word more. I hope that you will sustain this splendid charity. I do
not believe that more generous people exist than actors. I hope you will
sustain this charity. And yet, there was one little thing I saw in
your report of last year, that I want to call attention to. You had
"benefits" all over this country, and of the amount raised, one hundred
and twenty-five thousand dollars were given to religious societies and
twelve thousand dollars to the Actors' Fund—and yet they say actors are
not Christians! Do you not love your enemies? After this, I hope that
you will also love your friends.
---
# Address to the Press Club
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
New Orleans, February 1, 1898.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN of the New Orleans

Press Club: I do not remember to have agreed or consented to make any
remarks about the press or anything else on the present occasion, but I
am glad of this opportunity to say a word or two. Of course, I have the
very greatest respect for this profession, the profession of the press,
knowing it, as I do, to be one of the greatest civilizers of the
world. Above all other institutions and all other influences, it is the
greatest agency in breaking down the hedges of provincialism. In olden
times one nation had no knowledge or understanding of another nation,
and no insight or understanding into its life; and, indeed, various
parts of one nation held the other parts of it somewhat in the attitude
of hostility, because of a lack of more thorough knowledge; and,
curiously enough, we are prone to look upon strangers more or less in
the light of enemies. Indeed, enemy and stranger in the old vocabularies
are pretty much of the same significance. A stranger was an enemy. I
think it is Darwin who alludes to the instinctive fear a child has of
a stranger as one of the heritages of centuries of instinctive
cultivation, the handed-down instinct of years ago. And even now it is
a fact that we have very little sympathy with people of a different
country, even people speaking the same language, having the same god
with a different name, or another god with the same name, recognizing
the same principles of right and wrong.

But the moment people began to trade with each other, the moment they
began to enjoy the results of each other's industry and brain, the
moment that, through this medium, they began to get an insight into
each other's life, people began to see each other as they were; and
so commerce became the greatest of all missionaries of civilization,
because, like the press, it tended to do away with provincialism.

You know there is no one else in the world so egotistic as the man who
knows nothing. No man is more certain than the man who knows nothing.
The savage knows everything. The moment man begins to be civilized he
begins to appreciate how little he knows, how very circumscribed in its
very nature human knowledge is.

Now, after commerce came the press. From the Moors, I believe, we
learned the first rudiments of that art which has civilized the world.
With the invention of movable type came an easy and cheap method of
preserving the thoughts and history of one generation to another and
transmitting the life of one nation to another. Facts became immortal,
and from that day to this the intelligence of the world has rapidly and
steadily increased.

And now, if we are provincial, it is our own fault, and if we are
hateful and odious and circumscribed and narrow and peevish and limited
in the light we get from the known universe, it is our own fault.

Day by day the world is growing smaller and men larger. But a few years
ago the State of New York was as large as the United States is to-day.
It required as much time to reach Albany from New York as it now
requires to reach San Francisco from the same city, and so far as the
transmission of thought goes the world is but a hamlet.

I count as one of the great good things of the modern press—as one
of the specific good things—that the same news, the same direction of
thought is transmitted to many millions of people each day. So that the
thoughts of multitudes of men are substantially tending at the same time
along the same direction. It tends more and more to make us citizens
in the highest sense of the term, and that is the reason that I have so
much respect for the press.

Of course I know that the news and opinions are written by folks liable
to the same percentage of error as characterizes all mankind. No one
makes no mistakes but the man who knows everything—no one makes no
mistakes but the hypocrite.

I must confess, however, that there are things about the press of to-day
that I would have changed—that I do not like.

I hate to see brain the slave of the material god. I hate to see money
own genius. So I think that every writer on every paper should be
compelled to sign his name to everything he writes. There are many
reasons why he has a right to the reputation he makes. His reputation
is his property, his capital, his stock in trade, and it is not just
or fair or right that it should be absorbed by the corporation which
employs him. After giving great thoughts to the world, after millions of
people have read his thoughts with delight, no one knows this lonely
man or his solitary name. If he loses the good will of his employer, he
loses his place and with it all that his labor and time and brain have
earned for himself as his own inalienable property, and his corporation
or employer reaps the benefit of it.

There is another reason establishing the absolute equity of this
proposition, a reason pointing in other directions than to the writer
and his rights. It is no more than right to the reader that the opinion
or the narrative should be that of Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown or Mr. So and
So, and not that of, say, the _Picayune_. That is too impersonal. It is
no more than right that a single man should have his honor at stake for
what is said, and not an impersonal something. I know that we are all
liable to believe it if the _Picayune_ says it, and yet, after all,
it is the individual man who is saying it and it is in the interest of
justice that the reader be apprised of the fact.

I believe I have just a little fault to find with the tendency of
the modern press to go into personal affairs—into so-called private
affairs. In saying this, I have no complaint to lodge on my own behalf,
for I have no private affairs. I am not so much opposed to what
is called sensationalism, for that must exist as long as crime is
considered news, and believe me, when virtue becomes news it can only be
when this will have become an exceedingly bad world. At the same time I
think that the publication of crime may have more or less the tendency
of increasing it.

I read not long ago that if some heavy piece of furniture were dropped
in a room in which there was a string instrument, the strings in harmony
with the vibrations of the air made by that noise would take up the
sound. Now a man with a tendency to crime would pick up that criminal
feeling inspiring the act which he sees blazoned forth in all its detail
in the press. In that view of the matter it seems to me better not to
give details of all offences.

Now, as to the matter of being too personal, I think that one of the
results of that sort of journalism is to drive a great many capable and
excellent men out of public life. I heard a little story quite recently
of a man who was being urged for the Legislature, and yet hesitated
because of his fear of newspaper criticism of this character. "I
don't want to run," said he to his wife, who urged that this was an
opportunity to do himself and his friends honor, and that it was a sort
of duty in him. "I would if I were you," said his wife. "Well, but there
is no saying," he responded, "what the newspapers might print about me."
"Why, your life has always been honorable," said she; "they could not
say anything to your disparagement." "But they might attack my father."
"Well, there was nothing in his career of which any one might feel
ashamed. He was as irreproachable as you." "Ay, but they might attack
you and tell of some devilment you went into before we were married."
"Then you better not run," said his wife promptly. I think this fear on
the part of husband and wife is identical with that which keeps many a
great man out of public service.

Now, there is another thing which every one ought to abhor. All men and
newspapers are entirely too apt to criticise the motives of men. It is
a fault common to all good men—except the clergy, of course—this habit
of attacking motives. And whenever we see a man do something which is
great and praiseworthy, let us talk about the act itself and not go
into a speculation or an attack upon the motive which prompted the act.
Attack what a man actually does.

But these are only small matters. The press is the most powerful of all
agencies for the dissemination of intelligence, and as such I hail
it always. It has nearly always been very friendly and kind to me
and certainly I have received at the hands of the New Orleans press a
treatment I shall never forget.

Our Sunday newspapers, to my mind, rank among the greatest institutions
of the present day. One finds in them matter that could not be found in
several hundreds of books,—beautiful thoughts, broad intelligence, a
range of information perfectly startling in its usefulness and perfectly
charming in its entertainment. Contrast, please, how we are enabled by
their good offices to spend the Sabbath, with the descriptions of hell
with all its terrors and all the gloom characterizing the Sabbaths our
forefathers had to spend. The Sunday newspaper is an absolute blessing
to the American people, a picture gallery, short stories, little poems,
a symposium of brain and intelligence and refinement and—divorce
proceedings.

As I have said, the good will and the fair treatment of the American
press have nearly always been my lot. There have been some misguided
people who have said harsh things, but when I remember all the
misguided things I have done, I am inclined to be charitable for their
shortcomings.

I do not know that I have anything else to say, except that I wish you
all good luck and sunshine and prosperity, and enough of it to last you
through a long life.
---
# At a Child's Grave
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1882_
Washington, D. C., January 8, 1882.

MY FRIENDS: I know how vain it is to gild a grief with words, and yet I
wish to take from every grave its fear. Here in this world, where life
and death are equal kings, all should be brave enough to meet what all
the dead have met. The future has been filled with fear, stained and
polluted by the heartless past. From the wondrous tree of life the buds
and blossoms fall with ripened fruit, and in the common bed of earth,
patriarchs and babes sleep side by side.

Why should we fear that which will come to all that is? We cannot tell,
we do not know, which is the greater blessing—life or death. We cannot
say that death is not a good. We do not know whether the grave is the
end of this life, or the door of another, or whether the night here
is not somewhere else a dawn. Neither can we tell which is the more
fortunate—the child dying in its mother's arms, before its lips have
learned to form a word, or he who journeys all the length of life's
uneven road, painfully taking the last slow steps with staff and crutch.

Every cradle asks us "Whence?" and every coffin "Whither?" The poor
barbarian, weeping above his dead, can answer these questions just
as well as the robed priest of the most authentic creed. The tearful
ignorance of the one, is as consoling as the learned and unmeaning words
of the other. No man, standing where the horizon of a life has touched a
grave, has any right to prophesy a future filled with pain and tears.

May be that death gives all there is of worth to life. If those we press
and strain within our arms could never die, perhaps that love would
wither from the earth. May be this common fate treads from out the paths
between our hearts the weeds of selfishness and hate. And I had rather
live and love where death is king, than have eternal life where love is
not. Another life is nought, unless we know and love again the ones who
love us here.

They who stand with breaking hearts around this little grave, need have
no fear. The larger and the nobler faith in all that is, and is to be,
tells us that death, even at its worst, is only perfect rest. We know
that through the common wants of life—the needs and duties of each
hour—their grief will lessen day by day, until at last this grave will
be to them a place of rest and peace—almost of joy. There is for them
this consolation: The dead do not suffer. If they live again, their
lives will surely be as good as ours. We have no fear. We are all
children of the same mother, and the same fate awaits us all. We, too,
have our religion, and it is this: Help for the living—Hope for the
dead.
---
# At the Grave of Benjamin W. Parker
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1895_
## At the Grave of Benjamin W. Parker

> * This was the first tribute ever delivered by Colonel
> Ingersoll at a grave. Mr. Parker himself was an Agnostic,
> was the father of Mrs. Ingersoll, and was always a devoted
> friend and admirer of the Colonel even before the latter's
> marriage with his daughter.

Peoria, Ill., May 24, 1876.

FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS: To fulfill a promise made many years ago, I wish
to say a word.

He whom we are about to lay in the earth, was gentle, kind and loving
in his life. He was ambitious only to live with those he loved. He was
hospitable, generous, and sincere. He loved his friends, and the friends
of his friends. He returned good for good. He lived the life of a child,
and died without leaving in the memory of his family the record of an
unkind act. Without assurance, and without fear, we give him back to
Nature, the source and mother of us all.

With morn, with noon, with night; with changing clouds and changeless
stars; with grass and trees and birds, with leaf and bud, with flower
and blossoming vine,—with all the sweet influences of nature, we leave
our dead.

Husband, father, friend, farewell.
---
# Convention of the American Secular Union
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1885_
Albany, N. Y., September 13, 1885.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: While I have never sought any place in any
organization, and while I never intended to accept any place in any
organization, yet as you have done me the honor to elect me president of
the American Secular Union, I not only accept the place, but tender to
you each and all my sincere thanks.

This is a position that a man cannot obtain by repressing his honest
thought. Nearly all other positions he obtains in that way. But I
am glad that the time has come when men can afford to preserve
their manhood in this country. Maybe they cannot be elected to the
Legislature, cannot become errand boys in Congress, cannot be placed as
weather-vanes in the presidential chair, but the time has come when a
man can express his honest thought and be treated like a gentleman
in the United States. We have arrived at a point where priests do not
govern, and have reached that stage of our journey where we, as Harriet
Martineau expressed it, are "free rovers on the breezy common of the
universe." Day by day we are getting rid of the aristocracy of the air.
We have been the slaves of phantoms long enough, and a new day, a day
of glory, has dawned upon this new world—this new world which is far
beyond the old in the real freedom of thought.

In the selection of your officers, without referring to myself, I think
you have shown great good sense. The first man chosen as vice-president,
Mr. Charles Watts, is a gentleman of sound, logical mind; one who
knows what he wants to say and how to say it; who is familiar with the
organization of Secular societies, knows what we wish to accomplish and
the means to attain it. I am glad that he is about to make this country
his home, and I know of no man who, in my judgment, can do more for the
cause of intellectual liberty.

The next vice-president, Mr. Remsburg, has done splendid work all over
the country. He is an absolutely fearless man, and tells really and
truly what his mind produces. We need such men everywhere.

You know it is almost a rule, or at any rate the practice, in political
parties and in organizations generally, to be so anxious for success
that all the offices and places of honor are given to those who will
come in at the eleventh hour. The rule is to hold out these honors as
bribes for newcomers instead of conferring them upon those who have
borne the heat and burden of the day. I hope that the American Secular
Union will not be guilty of any such injustice. Bestow your honors upon
the men who stood by you when you had few friends, the men who enlisted
for the war when the cause needed soldiers. Give your places to them,
and if others want to join your ranks, welcome them heartily to the
places of honor in the rear and let them learn how to keep step.

In this particular, leaving out myself as I have said, you have done
magnificently well. Mrs. Mattie Krekel, another vice-president, is a
woman who has the courage to express her opinions, and she is all the
more to be commended because, as you know, women have to suffer a little
more punishment than men, being amenable to social laws that are more
exacting and tyrannical than those passed by Legislatures.

Of Mr. Wakeman it is not necessary to speak. You all know him to be an
able, thoughtful, and experienced man, capable in every respect; one
who has been in this organization from the beginning, and who is now
president of the New York society. Elizur Wright, one of the patriarchs
of Freethought, who was battling for liberty before I was born, and who
will be found in the front rank until he ceases to be. You have honored
yourselves by electing James Parton, a thoughtful man, a scholar, a
philosopher, and a philanthropist—honest, courageous, and logical—with
a mind as clear as a cloudless sky. Parker Pillsbury, who has always
been on the side of liberty, always willing, if need be, to stand
alone—a man who has been mobbed many times because he had the goodness
and courage to denounce the institution of slavery—a man possessed
of the true martyr spirit. Messrs. Algie and Adams, our friends from
Canada, men of the highest character, worthy of our fullest confidence
and esteem—conscientious, upright, and faithful.

And permit me to say that I know of no man of kinder heart, of gentler
disposition, with more real, good human feeling toward all the world,
with a more forgiving and tender spirit, than Horace Seaver. He and Mr.
Mendum are the editors of the _Investigator_, the first Infidel paper
I ever saw, and I guess the first that any one of you ever saw—a paper
once edited by Abner Kneeland, who was put in prison for saying, "The
Universalists believe in a God which I do not." The court decided that
he had denied the existence of a Supreme Being, and at that time it was
not thought safe to allow a remark of that kind to be made, and so, for
the purpose of keeping an infinite God from tumbling off his throne, Mr.
Kneeland was put in jail. But Horace Seaver and Mr. Mendum went on with
his work. They are pioneers in this cause, and they have been absolutely
true to the principles of Freethought from the first day until now.

If there is anybody belonging to our Secular Union more enthusiastic and
better calculated to impart something of his enthusiasm to others than
Samuel P. Putnam, our secretary, I do not know him. Courtlandt Palmer,
your treasurer, you all know, and you will presently know him better
when you hear the speech he is about to make, and that speech will speak
better for him than I possibly can. Wait until you hear him, as he is
now waiting for me to get through that you may hear him. He will give
you the definition of the true gentleman, and that definition will be a
truthful description of himself.

Mr. Reynolds is on our side if anybody is or ever was, and Mr.
Macdonald, editor of _The Truth Seeker_, aiming not only to seek the
truth but to expose error, has done and is doing incalculable good in
the cause of mental freedom.

All these men and women are men and women of character, of high purpose;
in favor of Freethought not as a peculiarity or as an eccentricity of
the hour, but with all their hearts, through and through, to the very
center and core of conviction, life, and purpose.

And so I can congratulate you on your choice, and believe that you have
entered upon the most prosperous year of your existence. I believe that
you will do all you can to have every law repealed that puts a hypocrite
above an honest mail. We know that no man is thoroughly honest who does
not tell his honest thought. We want the Sabbath day for ourselves and
our families. Let the gods have the heavens. Give us the earth. If the
gods want to stay at home Sundays and look solemn, let them do it; let
us have a little wholesome recreation and pleasure. If the gods wish to
go out with their wives and children, let them go. If they want to play
billiards with the stars, so they don't carom on us, let them play.

We want to do what we can to compel every church to pay taxes on its
property as other people pay on theirs. Do you know that if church
property is allowed to go without taxation, it is only a question
of time when they will own a large per cent, of the property of the
civilized world? It is the same as compound interest; only give it time.
If you allow it to increase without taxing it for its protection, its
growth can only be measured by the time in which it has to grow. The
church builds an edifice in some small town, gets several acres of land.
In time a city rises around it. The labor of others has added to the
value of this property, until it is worth millions. If this property is
not taxed, the churches will have so much in their hands that they will
again become dangerous to the liberties of mankind. There never will be
real liberty in this country until all property is put upon a perfect
equality. If you want to build a Joss house, pay taxes. If you want
to build churches, pay taxes. If you want to build a hall or temple in
which Freethought and science are to be taught, pay taxes. Let there be
no property untaxed. When you fail to tax any species of property, you
increase the tax of other people owning the rest. To that extent, you
unite church and state. You compel the Infidel to support the
Catholic. I do not want to support the Catholic Church. It is not worth
supporting. It is an unadulterated evil. Neither do I want to reform
the Catholic Church. The only reformation of which that church or any
orthodox church is capable, is destruction. I want to spend no more
money on superstition. Neither should our money be taken to support
sectarian schools. We do not wish to employ any chaplains in the navy,
or in the army, or in the Legislatures, or in Congress. It is useless to
ask God to help the political party that happens to be in power. We want
no President, no Governor "clothed with a little brief authority," to
issue a proclamation as though he were an agent of God, authorized to
tell all his loving subjects to fast on a certain day, or to enter their
churches and pray for the accomplishment of a certain object. It is
none of his business. When they called on Thomas Jefferson to issue
a proclamation, he said he had no right to do it, that religion was a
personal, individual matter, and that the state had no right, no power,
to interfere.

I now have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Courtlandt Palmer, who will
speak to you on the "Aristocracy of Freethought," in my judgment the
aristocracy not only of the present, but the aristocracy of the future.
---
# Convention of the National Liberal League
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1878_
Cincinnati, O., September 14.1878.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Allow me to say that the cause nearest my heart,
and to which I am willing to devote the remainder of my life, is the
absolute, the _absolute_, enfranchisement of the human mind. I believe
that the family is the unit of good government, and that every good
government is simply an aggregation of good families. I therefore not
only believe in perfect civil and religious liberty, but I believe in
the one man loving the one woman. I believe the real temple of the human
heart is the hearthstone, and that there is where the sacrifice of life
should be made; and just in proportion as we have that idea in this
country, just in that proportion we shall advance and become a great,
glorious and splendid nation. I do not want the church or the state to
come between the man and wife. I want to do what little I can while I
live to strengthen and render still more sacred the family relation. I
am also in favor of granting every right to every other human being that
I claim for myself; and when I look about upon the world and see how the
children that are born to-day, or this year, or this age, came into a
world that has nearly all been taken up before their arrival; when I see
that they have not even an opportunity to labor for bread; when I see
that in our splendid country some who do the most have the least,
and others who do the least have the most; I say to myself there is
something wrong somewhere, and I hope the time will come when every
child that nature has invited to our feast will have an equal right with
all the others. There is only one way, in my judgment, to bring that
about; and that is, first, not simply by the education of the head, but
by the universal education of the heart. The time will come when a man
with millions in his possession will not be respected unless with those
millions he improves the condition of his fellow-men.

The time will come when it will be utterly impossible for a man to go
down to death, grasping millions in the clutch of avarice. The time will
come when it will be impossible for such a man to exist, for he will be
followed by the scorn and execration of mankind. The time will come
when such a man when stricken by death, cannot purchase the favor of
posterity by leaving a portion of the gains which he has wrung from the
poor, to some church or Bible society for the glory of God.

Now, let me say that we have met together as a Liberal League. We have
passed the same platform again; but if you will read that platform you
will see that it covers nearly every word that I have spoken—universal
education—the laws of science included, not the guesses of
superstition—universal education, not for the next world but for
this—happiness, not so much for an unknown land beyond the clouds as
for this life in this world. I do not say that there is not another
life. If there is any God who has allowed his children to be oppressed
in this world he certainly needs another life to reform the blunders he
has made in this.

Now, let us all agree that we will stand by each other splendidly,
grandly; and when we come into convention let us pass resolutions that
are broad, kind, and genial, because, if you are true Liberals, you will
hold in a kind of tender pity the most outrageous superstitions in
the world. I have said some things in my time that were not altogether
charitable; but, after all, when I think it over, I see that men are as
they are, because they are the result of every thing that has ever been.

Sometimes I think the clergy a necessary evil; but I say, let us be
genial and kind, and let us know that every other person has the same
right to be a Catholic or a Presbyterian, and gather consolation
from the doctrine of reprobation, that he has the same right to be
a Methodist or a Christian Disciple or a Baptist; the same right to
believe these phantasies and follies and superstitions—[_A voice—"And
to burn heretics?"_]

No—The same right that we have to believe that it is all superstition.
But when that Catholic or Baptist or Methodist endeavors to put chains
on the bodies or intellects of men, it is then the duty of every Liberal
to prevent it at all hazards. If we can do any good in our day and
generation, let us do it.

There is no office I want in this world. I will make up my mind as to
the next when I get there, because my motto is—and with that motto I
will close what I have to say—My motto is: One world at a time!
---
# Death of the Aged
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1892_
> * From a letter of condolence written to a friend on the
> death of his mother.

After all, there is something tenderly appropriate in the serene death
of the old. Nothing is more touching than the death of the young, the
strong. But when the duties of life have all been nobly done; when the
sun touches the horizon; when the purple twilight falls upon the past,
the present, and the future; when memory, with dim eyes, can scarcely
spell the blurred and faded records of the vanished days—then,
surrounded by kindred and by friends, death comes like a strain of
music. The day has been long, the road weary, and the traveler gladly
stops at the welcome inn.

Nearly forty-eight years ago, under the snow, in the little town
of Cazenovia, my poor mother was buried. I was but two years old. I
remember her as she looked in death. That sweet, cold face has kept my
heart warm through all the changing years.

*****

> There is no cunning art to trace
> In any feature, form or face,

> Or wrinkled palm, with criss-cross lines
> The good or bad in peoples' minds.

> Nor can we guess men's thoughts or aims
> By seeing how they write their names.

> We could as well foretell their acts
> By getting outlines of their tracks.

> Ourselves we do not know—how then
> Can we find out our fellow-men?

> And yet—although the reason laughs—

> We like to look at autographs—

> And almost think that we can guess
> What lines and dots of ink express.

> * From the autograph collection of Miss Eva Ingersoll
> Farrell.

> August 11, 1892. R. G. Ingersoll.

*****

The World is Growing Poor.—Darwin the naturalist, the observer,
the philosopher, is dead. Wagner the greatest composer the world has
produced, is silent. Hugo the poet, patriot and philanthropist, is at
rest. Three mighty rivers have ceased to flow. The smallest insect was
made interesting by Darwin's glance; the poor blind worm became the
farmer's friend—the maker of the farm,—and even weeds began to dream
and hope.

*****

But if we live beyond life's day and reach the dusk, and slowly travel
in the shadows of the night, the way seems long, and being weary we ask
for rest, and then, as in our youth, we chide the loitering hours. When
eyes are dim and memory fails to keep a record of events; when ears are
dull and muscles fail to obey the will; when the pulse is low and the
tired heart is weak, and the poor brain has hardly power to think,
then comes the dream, the hope of rest, the longing for the peace of
dreamless sleep.

*****

SAINTS.—The saints have poisoned life with piety. They have soured the
mother's milk. They have insisted that joy is crime—that beauty is a
bait with which the Devil captures the souls of men—that laughter leads
to sin—that pleasure, in its every form, degrades, and that love itself
is but the loathsome serpent of unclean desire. They have tried to
compel men to love shadows rather than women—phantoms rather than
people.

The saints have been the assassins of sunshine,—the skeletons at
feasts. They have been the enemies of happiness. They have hated the
singing birds, the blossoming plants. They have loved the barren and
the desolate—the croaking raven and the hooting owl—tombstones, rather
than statues.

And yet, with a strange inconsistency, happiness was to be enjoyed
forever, in another world. There, pleasure, with all its corrupting
influences, was to be eternal. No one pretended that heaven was to be
filled with self-denial, with fastings and scourgings, with weepings and
regrets, with solemn and emaciated angels, with sad-eyed seraphim, with
lonely parsons, with mumbling monks, with shriveled nuns, with days of
penance and with nights of prayer.

Yet all this self-denial on the part of the saints was founded in the
purest selfishness. They were to be paid for all their sufferings in
another world. They were "laying up treasures in heaven." They had made
a bargain with God. He had offered eternal joy to those who would make
themselves miserable here. The saints gladly and cheerfully accepted the
terms. They expected pay for every pang of hunger, for every groan,
for every tear, for every temptation resisted; and this pay was to bean
eternity of joy. The selfishness of the saints was equaled only by the
stupidity of the saints.

It is not true that character is the aim of life. Happiness should be
the aim—and as a matter of fact is and always has been the aim,
not only of sinners, but of saints. The saints seemed to think that
happiness was better in another world than here, and they expected this
happiness beyond the clouds. They looked upon the sinner as foolish to
enjoy himself for the moment here, and in consequence thereof to suffer
forever. Character is not an end, it is a means to an end. The object of
the saint is happiness hereafter—the means, to make himself miserable
here. The object of the philosopher is happiness here and now, and
hereafter,—if there be another world.

If struggle and temptation, misery and misfortune, are essential to
the formation of what you call character, how do you account for the
perfection of your angels, or for the goodness of your God? Were the
angels perfected through misfortune? If happiness is the only good in
heaven, why should it not be considered the only good here?

In order to be happy, we must be in harmony with the conditions of
happiness. It cannot be obtained by prayer,—it does not come from
heaven—it must be found here, and nothing should be done, or left
undone, for the sake of any supernatural being, but for the sake of
ourselves and other natural beings.

The early Christians were preparing for the end of the world. In their
view, life was of no importance except as it gave them time to prepare
for "The Second Coming." They were crazed by fear. Since that time, the
world not coming to the expected end, they have been preparing for "The
Day of Judgment," and have, to the extent of their ability, filled the
world with horror. For centuries, it was, and still is, their business
to destroy the pleasures of this life. In the midst of prosperity they
have prophesied disaster. At every feast they have spoken of famine, and
over the cradle they have talked of death. They have held skulls before
the faces of terrified babes. On the cheeks of health they see the worms
of the grave, and in their eyes the white breasts of love are naught but
corruption and decay.

*****

THE WASTE FORCES OF NATURE.—For countless years the great cataracts, as
for instance, Niagara, have been singing their solemn songs, filling the
savage with terror, the civilized with awe; recording its achievements
in books of stone—useless and sublime; inspiring beholders with the
majesty of purposeless force and the wastefulness of nature.

Force great enough to turn the wheels of the world, lost, useless.

So with the great tides that rise and fall on all the shores of the
world—lost forces. And yet man is compelled to use to exhaustion's
point the little strength he has.

This will be changed.

The great cataracts and the great tides will submit to the genius of
man. They are to be for use. Niagara will not be allowed to remain a
barren roar. It must become the servant of man. It will weave robes
for men and women. It will fashion implements for the farmer and the
mechanic. It will propel coaches for rich and poor. It will fill streets
and homes with light, and the old barren roar will be changed to songs
of success, to the voices of love and content and joy.

Science at last has found that all forces are convertible into each
other, and that all are only different aspects of one fact.

So the flood is still a terror, but, in my judgment, the time will
come when the floods will be controlled by the genius of man, when the
tributaries of the great rivers and their tributaries will be dammed
in such a way as to collect the waters of every flood and give them
out gradually through all the year, maintaining an equal current at all
times in the great rivers.

We have at last found that force occupies a circle, that Niagara is a
child of the Sun—that the sun shines, the mist rises, clouds form, the
rain falls, the rivers flow to the lakes, and Niagara fills the heavens
with its song. Man will arrest the falling flood; he will change its
force to electricity; that is to say, to light, and then force will have
made the circuit from light to light.

*****

ARE Men's characters fully determined at the age of thirty?

It depends, first, on what their opportunities have been—that is to
say, on their surroundings, their education, their advantages; second,
on the shape, quality and quantity of brain they happen to possess;
third, on their mental and moral courage; and, fourth, on the character
of the people among whom they live.

The natural man continues to grow. The longer he lives, the more he
ought to know, and the more he knows, the more he changes the views and
opinions held by him in his youth. Every new fact results in a change of
views more or less radical. This growth of the mind may be hindered
by the "tyrannous north wind" of public opinion; by the bigotry of
his associates; by the fear that he cannot make a living if he becomes
unpopular; and it is to some extent affected by the ambition of the
person; that is to say, if he wishes to hold office the tendency is to
agree with his neighbor, or at least to round off and smooth the corners
and angles of difference. If a man wishes to ascertain the truth,
regardless of the opinions of his fellow-citizens, the probability is
that he will change from day to day and from year to year—that is, his
intellectual horizon will widen—and that what he once deemed of great
importance will be regarded as an exceedingly small segment of a greater
circle.

Growth means change. If a man grows after thirty years he must
necessarily change. Many men probably reach their intellectual height
long before they have lived thirty years, and spend the balance of their
lives in defending the mistakes of their youth. A great man continues to
grow until his death, and growth—as I said before—means change. Darwin
was continually finding new facts, and kept his mind as open to a new
truth as the East is to the rising of another sun. Humboldt at the age
of ninety maintained the attitude of a pupil, and was, until the moment
of his death, willing to learn.

The more a man knows, the more willing he is to learn. The less a man
knows, the more positive, a? is that he knows everything.

The smallest minds mature the earliest. The less there is to a man the
quicker he attains his growth. I have known many people who reached
their intellectual height while in their mother's arms. I have known
people who were exceedingly smart babies to become excessively stupid
people. It is with men as with other things. The mullein needs only a
year, but the oak a century, and the greatest men are those who have
continued to grow as long as they have lived. Small people delight in
what they call consistency—that is, it gives them immense pleasure to
say that they believe now exactly as they did ten years ago. This simply
amounts to a certificate that they have not grown—that they have not
developed—and that they know just as little now as they ever did.
The highest possible conception of consistency is to be true to the
knowledge of to-day, without the slightest reference to what your
opinion was years ago.

There is another view of this subject. Few men have settled opinions
before or at thirty. Of course, I do not include persons of genius. At
thirty the passions have, as a rule, too much influence; the intellect
is not the pilot. At thirty most men have prejudices rather than
opinions—that is to say, rather than judgments—and few men have lived
to be sixty without materially modifying the opinions they held at
thirty.

As I said in the first place, much depends on the shape, quality and
quantity of brain; much depends on mental and moral courage. There are
many people with great physical courage who are afraid to express their
opinions; men who will meet death without a tremor and will yet hesitate
to express their views.

So, much depends on the character of the people among whom we live. A
man in the old times living in New England thought several times before
he expressed any opinion contrary to the views of the majority. But
if the people have intellectual hospitality, then men express their
views—and it may be that we change somewhat in proportion to the
decency of our neighbors. In the old times it was thought that God was
opposed to any change of opinion, and that nothing so excited the auger
of the deity as the expression of a new thought. That idea is fading
away.

The real truth is that men change their opinions as long as they grow,
and only those remain of the same opinion still who have reached the
intellectual autumn of their lives; who have gone to seed, and who are
simply waiting for the winter of death. Now and then there is a brain
in which there is the climate of perpetual spring—men who never grow
old—and when such a one is found we say, "Here is a genius."

Talent has the four seasons: spring, that is to say, the sowing of the
seeds; summer, growth; autumn, the harvest; winter, intellectual death.
But there is now and then a genius who has no winter, and, no matter
how many years he may live, on the blossom of his thought no snow falls.
Genius has the climate of perpetual growth.

*****

THE MOIETY SYSTEM.—The Secretary of the Treasury recommends a revival
of the moiety system. Against this infamous step every honest citizen
ought to protest.

In this country, taxes cannot be collected through such
instrumentalities. An _informer_ is not indigenous to our soil. He
always has been and always will be held in merited contempt.

Every inducement, by this system, is held out to the informer to become
a liar. The spy becomes an officer of the Government. He soon becomes
the terror of his superior. He is a sword without a hilt and without a
scabbard. Every taxpayer becomes the lawful prey of a detective whose
property depends upon the destruction of his prey.

These informers and spies are corrupters of public morals. They resort
to all known dishonest means for the accomplishment of what they pretend
to be an honest object. With them perjury becomes a fine art. Their
words are a commodity bought and sold in courts of justice.

This is the first phase. In a little while juries will refuse to believe
them, and every suit in which they are introduced will be lost by the
Government. Of this the real thieves will be quick to take advantage. So
many honest men will have been falsely charged by perjured informers and
moiety miscreants, that to convict the guilty will become impossible.
If the Government wishes to collect the taxes it must set an honorable
example. It must deal kindly and honestly with the people. It must
not inaugurate a vampire system of espionage. It must not take it for
granted that every manufacturer and importer is a thief, and that all
spies and informers are honest men.

The revenues of this country are as honestly paid as they are expended.
There has been as much fair dealing outside as inside of the Treasury
Department.

But, however that may be, the informer system will not make them honest
men, but will in all probability produce exactly the opposite result.
If our system of taxation is so unpopular that the revenues cannot be
collected without bribing men to tell the truth; if our officers must
be offered rewards beyond their salaries to state the facts; if it is
impossible to employ men to discharge their duties honestly, then let
us change the system. The moiety system makes the Treasury Department
a vast vampire sucking the blood of the people upon shares. Americans
detest informers, spies, detectives, turners of State's evidence,
eavesdroppers, paid listeners, hypocrites, public smellers, trackers,
human hounds and ferrets. They despise men who "suspect" for a living;
they hate legal lyers-in-wait and the highwaymen of the law. They abhor
the betrayers of friends and those who lead and tempt others to commit
a crime in order that they may detect it. In a monarchy, the detective
system is a necessity. The great thief has to be sustained by smaller
ones.—December 4,1877.

*****

LANGUAGE.—Most people imagine that men have always talked; that
language is as old as the race; and it is supposed that some language
was taught by some mythological god to the first pair. But we now know,
if we know anything, that language is a growth; that every word had to
be created by man, and that back of every word is some want, some wish,
some necessity of the body or mind, and also a genius to embody that
want or that wish, to express that thought in some sound that we call a
word.

At first, the probability is that men uttered sounds of fear, of
content, of anger, or happiness. And the probability is that the first
sounds or cries expressed such feelings, and these sounds were nouns,
adjectives, and verbs.

After a time, man began to give his ideas to others by rude pictures,
drawings of animals and trees and the various other things with which he
could give rude thoughts. At first he would make a picture of the whole
animal. Afterward some part of the animal would stand for the whole, and
in some of the old picture-writings the curve of the nostril of a horse
stands for the animal. This was the shorthand of picture-writing. But it
was a long journey to where marks would stand, not for pictures, but for
sounds. And then think of the distance still to the alphabet. Then to
writing, so that marks took entirely the place of pictures. Then the
invention of movable type, and then the press, making it possible to
save the wealth of the brain; making it possible for a man to leave not
simply his property to his fellow-man, not houses and lands and dollars,
but his ideas, his thoughts, his theories, his dreams, the poetry and
pathos of his soul. Now each generation is heir to all the past.

If we had free thought, then we could collect the wealth of the
intellectual world. In the physical world, springs make the creeks and
brooks, and they the rivers, and the rivers empty into the great sea. So
each brain should add to the sum of human knowledge. If we deny freedom
of thought, the springs cease to gurgle, the rivers to run, and the
great ocean of knowledge becomes a desert of barren, ignorant sand.

*****

THIS IS AN AGE OF MONEY-GETTING, of materialism, of cold, unfeeling
science. The question arises, Is the world growing less generous, less
heroic, less chivalric?

Let us answer this. The experience of the individual is much like the
experience of a generation, or of a race. An old man imagines that
everything was better when he was young; that the weather could then be
depended on; that sudden changes are recent inventions. So he will tell
you that people used to be honest; that the grocers gave full weight and
the merchants full measure, and that the bank cashier did not spend the
evening of his days in Canada.

He will also tell you that the women were handsome and virtuous. There
were no scandals then, no divorces, and that in religion all were
orthodox—no Infidels. Before he gets through, he will probably tell you
that the art of cooking has been lost—that nobody can make biscuit now,
and that he never expects to eat another slice of good bread.

He mistakes the twilight of his own life for the coming of the night
of universal decay and death. He imagines that that has happened to the
world, which has only happened to him. It does not occur to him that
millions at the moment he is talking are undergoing the experience of
his youth, and that when they become old they will praise the very days
that he denounces.

The Garden of Eden has always been behind us. The Golden Age, after all,
is the memory of youth—it is the result of remembered pleasure in the
midst of present pain.

To old age youth is divine, and the morning of life cloudless.

So now thousands and millions of people suppose that the age of true
chivalry has gone by and that honesty has about concluded to leave the
world. As a matter of fact, the age known as the age of chivalry was the
age of tyranny, of arrogance and cowardice. Men clad in complete armor
cut down the peasants that were covered with leather, and these soldiers
of the chivalric age armored themselves to that degree that if they fell
in battle they could not rise, held to the earth by the weight of
iron that their bravery had got itself entrenched within. Compare the
difference in courage between going to war in coats of mail against
sword and spear, and charging a battery of Krupp guns!

The ideas of justice have grown larger and nobler. Charity now does,
without a thought, what the average man a few centuries ago was
incapable of imagining. In the old times slavery was upheld, and
imprisonment for debt. Hundreds of crimes—or rather misdemeanors—were
punishable by death. Prisons were loathsome beyond description.
Thousands and thousands died in chains. The insane were treated like
wild beasts; no respect was paid to sex or age. Women were burned and
beheaded and torn asunder as though they had been hyenas, and children
were butchered with the greatest possible cheerfulness.

So it seems to me that the world is more chivalric, more generous,
nearer just and fair, more charitable, than ever before.

*****

THE COLORED MAN is doing well. He is hungry for knowledge. Their
children are going to school. Colored boys are taking prizes in the
colleges. A colored man was the orator of Harvard. They are industrious,
and in the South many are becoming rich. As the people, black and white,
become educated they become better friends. The old prejudice is the
child of ignorance. The colored man will succeed if the South succeeds.
The South is richer to-day than ever before, more prosperous, and both
races are really improving. The greatest danger in the South, and for
that matter all over the country, is the mob. It is the duty of every
good citizen to denounce the mob. Down with the mob.

*****

FREEDOM OF RELIGION is the destruction of religion. In Rome, after
people were allowed to worship their own gods, all gods fell into
disrepute. It will be so in America. Here is freedom of religion, and
all devotees find that the gods of other devotees are just as good as
theirs. They find that the prayers of others are answered precisely as
their prayers are answered.

The Protestant God is no better than the Catholic, and the Catholic is
no better than the Mormon, and the Mormon is no better than Nature for
answering prayers. In other words, all prayers die in the air which they
uselessly agitate. There is undoubtedly a tendency among the Protestant
denominations to unite. This tendency is born of weakness, not of
strength. In a few years, if all should unite, they would hardly have
power enough to obstruct, for any considerable time, the march of the
intellectual host destined to conquer the world. But let us all be
good natured; let us give to others all the rights that we claim for
ourselves. The future, I believe, has both hands full of blessings for
the human race.

*****

THE DEISTS AND NATURE.—We who deny the supernatural origin of the
Bible, must admit not only that it exists, but that it was naturally
produced. If it is not supernatural, it is natural. It will hardly
do for the worshipers of Nature to hold the Bible in contempt, simply
because it is not a supernatural book.

The Deists of the last century made a mistake. They proceeded to show
that the Bible is immoral, untrue, cruel and absurd, and therefore came
to the conclusion that it could not have been written by a being of
infinite wisdom and goodness,—the being whom they believed to be the
author of Nature. Could not infinite wisdom and goodness just as easily
command crime as to permit it? Is it really any worse to order the
strong to slay the weak, than to stand by and refuse to protect the
weak?

After all, is Nature, taken together, any better than the Bible? If God
did not command the Jews to murder the Canaanites, Nature, to say
the least, did not prevent it. If God did not uphold the practice of
polygamy, Nature did. The moment we deny the supernatural origin of the
Bible, we declare that Nature wrote its every word, commanded all its
cruelties, told all its falsehoods. The Bible is, like Nature, a mixture
of what we call "good" and "bad,"—of what appears, and of what in
reality is.

The Bible must have been a perfectly natural production not only, but
a necessary one. There was, and is, no power in the universe that could
have changed one word. All the mistakes in translation were necessarily
made, and not one, by any possibility, could have been avoided. That
book, like all other facts in Nature, could not have been otherwise than
it is. The fact being that Nature has produced all superstitions, all
persecution, all slavery, and every crime, ought to be sufficient to
deter the average man from imagining that this power, whatever it may
be, is worthy of worship.

There is good in Nature. It is the nature in us that perceives the evil,
that pursues the right. In man, Nature not only contemplates herself,
but approves or condemns her actions. Of course, "good" and "bad" are
relative terms, and things are "good" or "bad" as they affect man well
or ill.

Infidels, skeptics,—that is to say, Freethinkers, have opposed the
Bible on account of the bad things in it, and Christians have upheld it,
not on account of the bad, but on account of the good. Throw away the
doctrine of inspiration, and the Bible will be more powerful for good
and far less for evil. Only a few years ago, Christians looked upon the
Bible as the bulwark of human slavery. It was the word of God, and for
that reason was superior to the reason of uninspired man. Had it been
considered simply as the work of man, it would not have been quoted to
establish that which the man of this age condemns. Throw away the idea
of inspiration, and all passages in conflict with liberty, with science,
with the experience of the intelligent part of the human race, instantly
become harmless. They are no longer guides for man. They are simply
the opinions of dead barbarians. The good passages not only remain, but
their influence is increased, because they are relieved of a burden.

No one cares whether the truth is inspired or not. The truth is
independent of man, not only, but of God. And by truth I do not mean
the absolute, I mean this: Truth is the relation between things and
thoughts, and between thoughts and thoughts. The perception of this
relation bears the same relation to the logical faculty in man, that
music does to some portion of the brain—that is to say, it is a
mental melody. This sublime strain has been heard by a few, and I am
enthusiastic enough to believe that it will be the music of the future.

For the good and for the true in the Old and New Testaments I have the
same regard that I have for the good and true, no matter where they may
be found. We who know how false the history of to-day is; we who know
the almost numberless mistakes that men make who are endeavoring to tell
the truth; we who know how hard it is, with all the facilities we now
have—with the daily press, the telegraph, the fact that nearly all can
read and write—to get a truthful report of the simplest occurrence,
must see that nothing short of inspiration (admitting for the moment the
possibility of such a thing,) could have prevented the Scriptures from
being filled with error.

*****

AT LAST, THE SCHOOLHOUSE is larger than the church. The common people
have, through education, become uncommon. They now know how little is
really known by kings, presidents, legislators, and professors. At last,
they are capable of not only understanding a few questions, but they
have acquired the art of discussing those that no one understands. With
the facility of the cultured, they can now hide behind phrases and make
barricades of statistics. They understand the sophistries of the upper
classes; and while the cultured have been turning their attention to
the classics, to the dead languages, and the dead ideas that they
contain,—while they have been giving their attention to ceramics,
artistic decorations, and compulsory prayers, the common people have
been compelled to learn the practical things. They are acquainted with
facts, because they have done the work of the world.

*****

CRUELTY.—Sometimes it has seemed to me that cruelty is the climate of
crime, and that generosity is the Spring, Summer and Autumn of virtue.
Every form of wickedness, of meanness, springs from selfishness, that is
to say, from cruelty. Every good man hates and despises the wretch who
abuses wife and child—who rules by curses and blows and makes his home
a kind of hell. So, no generous man wishes to associate with one who
overworks his horse and feeds the lean and fainting beast with blows.

The barbarian delights in inflicting pain. He loves to see his victim
bleed,—but the civilized man staunches blood, binds up wounds and
decreases pain. He pities the suffering animal as well as the suffering
man.

He would no more inflict wanton wounds upon a dog than on a man. The
heart of the civilized man speaks for the dumb and helpless.

A good man would no more think of flaying a living animal than of
murdering his mother. The man who cuts a hoof from the leg of a horse is
capable of committing any crime that does not require courage. Such an
experiment can be of no use. Under no circumstances are hoofs taken from
horses for the good of the horses any more than their heads would be cut
off.

Think of the pain inflicted by separating the hoof of a living horse
from the flesh! If the poor beast could speak what would he say? The
same knowledge could be obtained by cutting away the hoof of a dead
horse. Knowledge of every bone, ligament, artery and vein, of every
cartilage and joint can be obtained by the dissection of the dead.
"But," says the biologist, "we must dissect the living."

Well, millions of living animals have been cut in pieces; millions of
experiments have been tried; all the nerves have been touched; every
possible agony has been inflicted that ingenuity could invent and
cruelty accomplish. Many volumes have been published filled with
accounts of these experiments, giving all the details and the results.
People who are curious about such things can read these reports. There
is no need of repeating these savage experiments. It is now known how
long a dog can live with all the pores of his skin closed, how long he
can survive the loss of his skin, or one lobe of his brain, or both of
his kidneys, or part of his intestines, or without his liver, and there
is no necessity of mutilating and mangling thousands of other dogs to
substantiate what is already known.

Of what possible use is it to know just how long an animal can live
without water—at what time he becomes insane from thirst, or blind or
deaf?

*****

THE WORLD'S FAIR will do great good. A great many thousand people of the
Old World will for the first time understand the new; will for the first
time appreciate what a free people can do. For the first time they will
know the value of free institutions, of individual independence, of
a country where people express their thoughts, are not afraid of
each other, not afraid to try—a people so accustomed to success
that disaster is not taken into calculation. Of course, we have great
advantages. We have a new half of the world. We have soil better than is
found in other countries, and the soil is new and generous and anxious
to be cultivated. So we have everything in hill and mountain that
man can need—silver, and gold, and iron beyond computation—and, in
addition to all that, our people are the most inventive. We sustain
about the same relation to invention that Italy in her palmy days did to
art, or that Spain did to superstition.

And right here it may be well enough to say that I think it was
exceedingly unfortunate that this country was discovered under the
auspices of Spain. Ferdinand and Isabella were a couple of wretches. The
same year that Columbus discovered America, these sovereigns expelled
the Jews from Spain, and the expulsion was accompanied by every outrage,
by every atrocity to which man—that is to say, savage man—that is to
say, the superstitious savage—is capable of inflicting.

The Spaniards came to America and destroyed two civilizations far better
than their own. They were natural robbers, buccaneers, and thought
nothing of murdering thousands for gold. I am perfectly willing to
celebrate the fact of discovery, but for the sovereigns of Spain I am
not willing to celebrate, except, perhaps their deaths. There is at
least some joy to be extracted from that.

In spite of the untoward circumstances under which the continent was
discovered and settled, there is one thing that counteracted to a
certain degree the influence of the Old World in the New. Possibly we
owe our liberty to the Indians. If there had been no hostile savages on
this continent, the kings and princes of the Old World would have taken
possession and would have divided it out among their favorites. They
tried to do that, but their favorites could not take possession. They
had to fight for the soil and in the conflict of centuries they found
that a good fighter was a good citizen, and the ideas of caste were
slowly lost.

Then another thing was of benefit to us. The settlers felt that they
had earned the soil; that they had fought for it, gained it by their
sufferings, their courage, their selfdenial, and their labor; and the
idea crept into their heads that the kings in Europe, who had done
nothing, had no right to dictate to them.

Thus at first the spirit of caste was destroyed by respectability
resting on usefulness. The spirit of subserviency to the Old World also
died, and the people who had rescued the land made up their minds not
only to own it, but to control it. They were also firmly convinced that
the profits belonged to them. In this way manhood was recognized in the
New World. In this way grew up the feeling of nationality here.

What I wish to see celebrated in this great exposition are the triumphs
that have been achieved in this New World. These I wish to see above
all. At the same time I want the best that labor and thought have
produced in all countries. It seems to me that in the presence of the
wonderful machines, of those marvelous mechanical contrivances by which
we take advantage of the forces of nature, by which we make servants of
the elemental powers—in the presence, I say, of these, it seems to me
respect for labor must be born. We shall begin to appreciate the men of
use instead of those who have posed as decorations. All the beautiful
things, all the useful things, come from labor, and it is labor that has
made the world a fit habitation for the human race.

Take from the World's Fair what labor has produced—the work of the
great artists—and nothing will be left. What have the great conquerors
to show in this great exhibition? What shall we get from the Caesars and
the Napoleons? What shall we get from popes and cardinals? What shall
we get from the nobility? From princes and lords and dukes? What excuse
have they for having existence and for having lived on the bread earned
by honest men? They stand in the show-windows of history, lay figures,
on which fine goods are shown, but inside the raiment there is nothing,
and never was. This exposition will be the apotheosis of labor. No man
can attend it without losing, if he has any sense at all, the spirit
of caste; or, if he still maintains it, he will put the useful in the
highest class, and the useless, whether carrying sceptres or dishes for
alms, in the lowest.—October, 1892.

*****

THE SAVAGE made of the river, the tree, the mountain, a fetich. He put
within, or behind these things, a spirit—according to Mr. Spencer, the
spirit of a dead ancestor. This is considered by the modern Christian,
and in fact by the modern philosopher, as the lowest possible phase of
the religious idea. To put behind the river or the tree, or within them,
a spirit, a something, is considered the religion of savagery; but
to put behind the universe, or within it, the same kind of fetich, is
considered the height of philosophy.

For my part, I see no possible distinction in these systems, except that
the view of the savage is altogether the more poetic. The _fetich_ of
the savage is the _noumenon_ of the Greek, the _God_ of the theologian,
the _First Cause_ of the metaphysician, the _Unknowable_ of Spencer.

*****

THE UNTHINKABLE.—It is admitted by all who have thought upon the
question that a First Cause is unthinkable—that a creative power
is beyond the reach of human thought. It therefore follows that the
miraculous is unthinkable. There is no possible way in which the human
mind can even think of a miracle. It is infinitely beyond our power of
conception. We can conceive of the statement, but not of the thing. It
is impossible for the intellect to conceive of a clay pot producing oil.
It is impossible to conceive even, of human life being perpetuated in
the midst of fire. This is just as unthinkable as that twice two are
twenty-seven. A man can say that three times three are two, but it
is impossible to think of any such thing—that is, to think of such a
statement as true. A man may say that he heard a stone sing a song and
heard it afterward repeat a part of Milton's "Paradise Lost." Now, I can
conceive of a man telling such a falsehood, but I cannot conceive of the
thing having happened.

*****

CAN HUMAN TESTIMONY Overcome the Apparently Impossible Without
Explanation?—It can only be believed by a philosophic mind when
explained—that is to say, by being destroyed as a miracle, and
persisting simply as a fact.

Now, I say that a miracle is unthinkable because a power above Nature,
a power that created Nature, is unthinkable. And if a power above
Nature be unthinkable, the miracles claiming to be supernatural are
unthinkable. In other words, all consequences flowing from a belief in
an infinite Creator are necessarily unthinkable.

*****

EDOUARD REMENYI.—This week the great violinist, Edouard Remenyi, as my
guest, visited the Bass Rocks House, Cape Ann, Mass., and for three days
delighted and entranced the fortunate idlers of the beach. He played
nearly all the time, night and day, seemingly carried away with his own
music. Among the many selections given, were the andante from the Tenth
Sonata in E flat, also from the Twelfth Sonata in G minor, by Mozart.
Nothing could exceed the wonderful playing of the selections from the
Twelfth Sonata. A hush as of death fell upon the audience, and when he
ceased, tears fell upon applauding hands. Then followed the Elegie from
Ernst; then "The Ideal Dance" composed by himself—a fairy piece, full
of wings and glancing feet, moonlight and melody, where fountains fall
in showers of pearl, and waves of music die on sands of gold—then came
the "Barcarole" by Schubert, and he played this with infinite spirit,
in a kind of inspired frenzy, as though music itself were mad with joy;
then the grand Sonata in G, in three movements, by Beethoven.—August,
1880.

Remenyi's Playing.—In my mind the old tones are still rising and
falling—still throbbing, pleading, beseeching, imploring, wailing like
the lost—rising winged and triumphant, superb and victorious—then
caressing, whispering every thought of love—intoxicated, delirious with
joy—panting with passion—fading to silence as softly and imperceptibly
as consciousness is lost in sleep.

*****

THE KINDERGARTEN is perfectly adapted to the natural needs and desires
of children. Most children dislike the old system and go "unwillingly
to school." They feel imprisoned and wait impatiently for their liberty.
They learn without understanding and take no interest in their lessons.
In the Kindergarten there is perfect liberty, and study is transformed
into play. To learn is a pleasure. There are no wearisome tasks—no
mental drudgery—nothing but enjoyment,—the enjoyment of natural
development in natural ways. Children do not have to be driven to the
Kindergarten. To be kept away is a punishment.

The experience in many towns and cities justifies our belief that the
Kindergarten is the only valuable school for little children. They are
brought in contact with actual things—with forms and colors—things
that can be seen and touched, and they are taught to use their hands and
senses—to understand qualities and relations, and all is done under
the guise of play. We agree with Froebel who said: "Let us live for our
children."

*****

THE METHODIST CHURCH STATISTICS.—First. In 1800, a resolution in favor
of gradual emancipation was defeated.

Second. In 1804, resolutions passed requiring ministers to exhort slaves
to be obedient to their masters.

Third. In 1808, everything about laymen owning slaves Stricken out.

Fourth. In 1820, a resolution that ministers should not hold slaves was
defeated.

Fifth. In 1836, a resolution passed that the Methodist Church opposed,
abolition of slavery—one hundred and twenty to fourteen.

Sixth. In 1845-1846, the Methodist Church divided—Bishop Andrews owned
slaves.

Seventh. As late as 1860 there were over ten thousand Methodists who
were slaveholders in the M. E. Church, North.

*****

117 East 21st Str., N. Y.

> * Response to an invitation to a dinner and a billiard
> tournament at the Manhattan Athletic Club, New York City.

Feby. 18, 1899.

My Dear Dr. Ranney:

I go to Boston to-morrow. So, you see it is impossible for me to be with
you on the 22d inst. I would like to make a few remarks on "orthodox
billiards." The fact is that the whole world is a table, we are the
balls and Fate plays the game. We are knocked and whacked against each
other,—followed and drawn—whirled and twisted, pocketed and spotted,
and all the time we think that we are doing the playing. But no matter,
we feel that we are in the game, and a real good illusion is, after all,
it may be, the only reality that we know. At the same time, I feel
that Fate is a careless player—that he is always a little nervous and
generally forgets to chalk his cue. I know that he has made lots of
mistakes with me—lots of misses.

With many thanks, I remain, yours always.

R. G. Ingersoll.

*****

THOUGHTS ON CHRISTMAS, 1891.—It is beautiful to give one day to the
ideal—to have one day apart; one day for generous deeds, for good will,
for gladness; one day to forget the shadows, the rains, the storms of
life; to remember the sunshine, the happiness of youth and health; one
day to forget the briers and thorns of the winding path, to remember the
fruits and flowers; one day in which to feed the hungry, to salute
the poor and lowly; one day to feel the brotherhood of man; one day
to remember the heroic and loving deeds of the dead; one day to get
acquainted with children, to remember the old, the unfortunate and the
imprisoned; one day in which to forget yourself and think lovingly of
others; one day for the family, for the fireside, for wife and children,
for the love and laughter, the joy and rapture, of home; one day in
which bonds and stocks and deeds and notes and interest and mortgages
and all kinds of business and trade are forgotten, and all stores and
shops and factories and offices and banks and ledgers and accounts and
lawsuits are cast aside, put away and locked up, and the weary heart and
brain are given a voyage to fairyland.

Let us hope that such a day is a prophecy of what all days will be.

*****

THE ORTHODOX PREACHERS are several centuries in the rear. They all love
the absurd, and glory in believing the impossible. They are also as
conservative as though they were dead—good people—the leaders of those
who are going backward.

*****

> The Man who builds a home erects a temple.
> The flame upon the hearth is the sacred fire.
> He who loves wife and children is the true worshiper.
> Forms and ceremonies, kneelings and fastings are born of selfish fear.
> A good deed is the best prayer.
> A loving life is the best religion.
> No one knows whether the Unknown is worthy of worship or not.

*****

WE TWO, THE DOUBTING BRAIN AND HOPING HEART, with somber thought and
radiant wish, in dusk and dawn, in light and shade 'neath star and
sun, together journeying toward the night. And then the end, sighs the
doubting brain—but there is no end, says the hoping heart. O Brain! if
you knew, you would not doubt. O Heart! if you knew, you would not hope.

*****

RIGHTS AND DUTIES spring from the same source. He who has no rights
has no duties. Without liberty there can be no responsibility and no
conscience. Man calls himself to an account for the use of his power,
and passes judgment upon himself. The standard of such judgment we call
conscience. In the proportion that man uses his liberty, his power, for
the good of all, he advances, becomes civilized. Civilization does not
consist merely in invention, discovery, material advancement, but
in doing justice. By civilization is meant all discoveries, facts,
theories, agencies, that add to the happiness of man.

*****

AT BAY.—Sometimes in the darkness of night I feel as though surrounded
by the great armies of effacement—that the horizon is growing
smaller every moment—that the final surrender is only postponed—that
everything is taking something from me—that Nature robs me with her
countless hands—that my heart grows weaker with every beat—that even
kisses wear me away, and that every thought takes toll of my brief life.

*****

THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY.*—One year of perfect health—of countless
smiles—of wonder and surprise—of growing thought and love—was duly
celebrated on this day, and all paid tribute to the infant queen. There
were whirling things that scattered music as they turned—and boxes
filled with tunes—and curious animals of whittled wood—and ivory rings
with tinkling bells—and little dishes for a fairy-feast—horses that
rocked, and bleating sheep and monstrous elephants of painted tin. A
baby-tender, for a tender babe, garments of silk and cushions wrought
with flowers, and pictures of her mother when a babe—and silver dishes
for another year—and coach and four and train of cars—and bric-a-brac
for a baby's house—and last of all, a pearl, to mark her first round
year of life and love.

> * Written on the first anniversary of his grandchild, Eva
> Ingersoll-Brown, August 27, 1892.

*****

SHELLEY.—The light of morn beyond the purple hills—a palm that lifts
its coronet of leaves above the desert's sands—an isle of green in some
far sea—a spring that waits for lips of thirst—a strain of music heard
within some palace wrought of dreams—a cloud of gold above a setting
sun—a fragrance wafted from some unseen shore.

*****

FATE.—Never hurried, never delayed, passionless, pitiless, patient,
keeping the tryst—neither early nor late—there, on the very stroke and
center of the instant fixed.

*****

QUIET, and introspective calm come with the afternoon. Toward evening
the mind grows satisfied and still. The flare and flicker of youth are
gone, and the soul is like the flame of a lamp where the air is at rest.
Age discards the superfluous, the immaterial, the straw and chaff, and
hoards the golden grain. The highway is known, and the paths no longer
mislead. Clouds are not mistaken for mountains.

*****

THE OLD MAN has been long at the fair. He is acquainted with the
jugglers at the booths. His curiosity has been satisfied. He no longer
cares for the exceptional, the monstrous, the marvelous and deformed. He
looks through and beyond the gilding, the glitter and gloss, not only
of things, but of conduct, of manners, theories, religions and
philosophies. He sees clearer. The light no longer shines in his eyes.

*****

The time will come when even selfishness will be charitable for its own
sake, because at that time the man will have grown and developed to that
degree that selfishness demands generosity and kindness and justice. The
self becomes so noble that selfishness is a virtue. The lowest form of
selfishness is when one is willing to be happy, or wishes to be happy,
at the expense or the misery of another. The highest form of selfishness
is when a man becomes so noble that he finds his happiness in making
others so. This is the nobility of selfishness.

*****

CUBA fell upon her knees—stretched her thin hands toward the great
Republic. We saw her tear-filled eyes—her withered breasts—her dead
babes—her dying—her buried and unburied dead. We heard her voice, and
pity, roused to action by her grief, became as stern as justice, and
the great Republic cried to Spain: "Sheathe the dagger of assassination;
take your bloody hand from the throat of the helpless; and take your
flag from the heaven of the Western World."

*****

Perhaps I have reached the years of discretion. But it may be that
discretion is the enemy of happiness. If the buds had discretion there
might be no fruit. So it may be that the follies committed in the spring
give autumn the harvest.—August 11,1892.

*****

Dickens wrote for homes—Thackeray for clubs. Byron did not care for the
fireside—for the prattle of babes—for the smiles and tears of humble
life. He was touched by grandeur rather than goodness,—loved storm and
crag and the wild sea. But Burns lived in the valley, touched by the
joys and griefs of lowly lives.

Imagine amethysts, rubies, diamonds, emeralds and opals mingled as
liquids—then imagine these marvelous glories of light and color changed
to a tone, and you have the wondrous, the incomparable voice of Scalchi.

*****

THE ORGAN.—The beginnings—the timidities—the half
thoughts—blushes—suggestions—a phrase of grace and feeling—a
sustained note—the wing on the wind—confidence—the flight—rising
with many harmonies that unite in the voluptuous swell—in the
passionate tremor—rising still higher—flooding the great dome with the
soul of enraptured sound.

*****

NEW MEXICO is a most wonderful country. It is a ragged miser with
billions of buried treasure. It looks as if Nature had guarded her
silver and gold with enough desolation to deter all but the brave.

*****

WHY SHOULD THE INDIAN SUMMER of a life be lost—the long, serene, and
tender days when earth and sky are friends? The falling leaves disclose
the ripened fruit—and so the flight of youth with dreams and fancies
should show the wealth of bending bough.

*****

Give milk to babes, and wine to youth. But for old age, when ghosts
of more than two-score years are wandering on the traveled road, the
fragrant tea, that loosens gossip's tongue, is best.—December 25,1892.

> [From a letter thanking a friend for a Christmas present of
> a chest of tea.]

*****

ON MEMORIAL DAY our hearts blossom in gratitude as we lovingly remember
the brave men upon whose brows Death, with fleshless hands, placed the
laurel wreath of fame.

*****

THE SOUL IS AN ARCHITECt—it builds a habitation for itself—and as the
soul is, is the habitation. Some live in dens and caves, and some in
lowly homes made rich with love, and overrun with vine and flower.

*****

SCIENCE at last holds with honest hand the scales wherein are weighed
the facts and fictions of the world. She neither kneels nor prays, she
stands erect and thinks. Her tongue is not a traitor to her brain. Her
thought and speech agree.

*****

THE NEGRO who can pass me in the race of life will receive my
admiration, and he can count on my friendship. No man ever lived who
proved his superiority by trampling on the weak.

*****

RELIGION is like a palm tree—it grows at the top. The dead leaves are
all orthodox, while the new ones and the buds are all heretics.

*****

MEMORY is the miser of the mind; forgetfulness the spendthrift.

*****

HOPE is the only bee that makes honey without flowers.

*****

THE FIRES OF THE NEXT WORLD sustain the same relation to churches that
those in this world sustain to insurance companies.

*****

Now and then there arises a man who on peril's edge draws from the
scabbard of despair the sword of victory.

*****

The falling leaf that tells of autumn's death is, in a subtler sense, a
prophecy of spring.

*****

Vice lives either before Love is born, or after Love is dead.

*****

Intellectual freedom is only the right to be honest.

*****

I believe that finally man will go through the phase of religion before
birth.

*****

When shrill chanticleer pierces the dull ear of morn.

*****

Orthodoxy is the refuge of mediocrity.

*****

The ocean is the womb of all that will be, the tomb of all that has
been.

*****

Jealousy never knows the value of a fact.

Envy cannot reason, malice cannot prophesy.

*****

Love has a kind of second sight.

*****

I have never given to any one a sketch of my life. According to my idea
a life should not be written until it has been lived.—July 1, 1888.
---
# Effect of the World's Fair on the Human Race
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1893_
THE Great Fair should be for the intellectual, mechanical, artistic,
political and social advancement of the world. Nations, like small
communities, are in danger of becoming provincial, and must become
so, unless they exchange commodities, theories, thoughts, and ideals.
Isolation is the soil of ignorance, and ignorance is the soil of
egotism; and nations, like individuals who live apart, mistake
provincialism for perfection, and hatred of all other nations for
patriotism. With most people, strangers are not only enemies, but
inferiors. They imagine that they are progressive because they know
little of others, and compare their present, not with the present of
other nations, but with their own past.

Few people have imagination enough to sympathize with those of a
different complexion, with those professing another religion or speaking
another language, or even wearing garments unlike their own. Most people
regard every difference between themselves and others as an evidence of
the inferiority of the others. They have not intelligence enough to put
themselves in the place of another if that other happens to be outwardly
unlike themselves.

Countless agencies have been at work for many years destroying the
hedges of thorn that have so long divided nations, and we at last are
beginning to see that other people do not differ from us, except in the
same particulars that we differ from them. At last, nations are becoming
acquainted with each other, and they now know that people everywhere are
substantially the same. We now know that while nations differ outwardly
in form and feature, somewhat in theory, philosophy and creed,
still, inwardly—that is to say, so far as hopes and passions are
concerned—they are much the same, having the same fears, experiencing
the same joys and sorrows. So we are beginning to find that the virtues
belong exclusively to no race, to no creed, and to no religion; that the
humanities dwell in the hearts of men, whomever and whatever they
may happen to worship. We have at last found that every creed is of
necessity a provincialism, destined to be lost in the universal.

At last, Science extends an invitation to all nations, and places at
their disposal its ships and its cars; and when these people meet—or
rather, the representatives of these people—they will find that, in
spite of the accidents of birth, they are, after all, about the same;
that their sympathies, their ideas' of right and wrong, of virtue and
vice, of heroism and honor, are substantially alike. They will find that
in every land honesty is honored, truth respected and admired, and that
generosity and charity touch all hearts.

So it is of the greatest importance that the inventions of the world
should be brought beneath one roof. These inventions, in my judgment,
are destined to be the liberators of mankind. They enslave forces and
compel the energies of nature to work for man. These forces have no
backs to feel the lash, no tears to shed, no hearts to break.

The history of the world demonstrates that man becomes What we call
civilized by increasing his wants. As his necessities increase, he
becomes industrious and energetic. If his heart does not keep pace with
his brain, he is cruel, and the physically or mentally strong enslave
the physically or mentally weak. At present these inventions, while they
have greatly increased the countless articles needed by man, have to
a certain extent enslaved mankind. In a savage state there are few
failures. Almost any one succeeds in hunting and fishing. The wants are
few, and easily supplied. As man becomes civilized, wants increase; or
rather as wants increase, man becomes civilized. Then the struggle for
existence becomes complex; failures increase.

The first result of the invention of machinery has been to increase the
wealth of the few. The hope of the world is that through invention man
can finally take such advantage of these forces of nature, of the weight
of water, of the force of wind, of steam, of electricity, that they will
do the work of the world; and it is the hope of the really civilized
that these inventions will finally cease to be the property of the few,
to the end that they may do the work of all for all.

When those who do the work own the machines, when those who toil control
the invention, then, and not till then, can the world be civilized or
free. When these forces shall do the bidding of the individual, when
they become the property of the mechanic instead of the monopoly, when
they belong to labor instead of what is called capital, when these great
powers are as free to the individual laborer as the air and light
are now free to all, then, and not until then, the individual will be
restored and all forms of slavery will disappear.

Another great benefit will come from the Fair. Other nations in some
directions are more artistic than we, but no other nation has made
the common as beautiful as we have. We have given beauty of form to
machines, to common utensils, to the things of every day, and have thus
laid the foundation for producing the artistic in its highest possible
forms. It will be of great benefit to us to look upon the paintings and
marbles of the Old World. To see them is an education.

The great Republic has lived a greater poem than the brain and heart of
man have as yet produced, and we have supplied material for artists and
poets yet unborn; material for form and color and song. The Republic is
to-day Art's greatest market.

Nothing else is so well calculated to make friends of all nations as
really to become acquainted with the best that each has produced.

The nation that has produced a great poet, a great artist, a great
statesman, a great thinker, takes its place on an equality with other
nations of the world, and transfers to all of its citizens some of the
genius of its most illustrious men.

This great Fair will be an object lesson to other nations. They will see
the result of a government, republican in form, where the people are the
source of authority, where governors and presidents are servants—not
rulers. We want all nations to see the great Republic as it is, to study
and understand its growth, development and destiny. We want them to know
that here, under our flag, are sixty-five millions of people and that
they are the best fed, the best clothed and the best housed in the
world. We want them to know that we are solving the great social
problems, and that we are going to demonstrate the right and power of
man to govern himself. We want the subjects of other nations to see
aland filled with citizens—not subjects; aland in which the pew is
above the pulpit; where the people are superior to the state; where
legislators are representatives and where authority means simply the
duty to enforce the people's will.

Let us hope above all things that this Fair will bind the nations
together closer and stronger; and let us hope that this will result in
the settlement of all national difficulties by arbitration instead of
war. In a savage state, individuals settle their own difficulties by
an appeal to force. After a time these individuals agree that their
difficulties shall be settled by others. This is the first great step
toward civilization. The result is the establishment of courts. Nations
at present sustain to each other the same relation that savage does
to savage. Each nation is left to decide for itself, and it generally
decides according to its strength—not the strength of its side of the
case, but the strength of its army. The consequence is that what is
called "the Law of Nations" is a savage code. The world will never be
civilized until there is an international court. Savages begin to be
civilized when they submit their difficulties to their peers. Nations
will become civilized when they submit their difficulties to a great
court, the judgments of which can be carried out, all nations pledging
the co-operation of their armies and their navies for that purpose.

If the holding of the great Fair shall result in hastening the coming of
that time it will be a blessing to the whole world.

And here let me prophesy: The Fair will be worthy of Chicago, the
most wonderful city of the world—of Illinois, the best State in the
Union—of the United States, the best country on the earth. It will
eclipse all predecessors in every department. It will represent the
progressive spirit of the nineteenth century. Beneath its ample roofs
will be gathered the treasures of Art, and the accomplishments of
Science. At the feet of the Republic will be laid the triumphs of our
race, the best of every land.—The illustrated World's Fair, Chicago,
November, 1891.
---
# Fragments
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1895_
## Clover

> * A letter written to Col. Thomas Donaldson, of Philadelphia,
> declining an invitation to be a guest of the Clover Club of
> that city.

I regret that I cannot be "in clover" with you on the 28th instant.

A wonderful thing is clover! It means honey and cream,—that is to say,
industry and contentment,—that is to say, the happy bees in perfumed
fields, and at the cottage gate "bos" the bountiful serenely chewing
satisfaction's cud, in that blessed twilight pause that like a
benediction falls between all toil and sleep.

This clover makes me dream of happy hours; of childhood's rosy cheeks;
of dimpled babes; of wholesome, loving wives; of honest men; of springs
and brooks and violets and all there is of stainless joy in peaceful
human life.

A wonderful word is "clover"! Drop the "c," and you have the happiest
of mankind. Drop the "r," and "c," and you have left the only thing that
makes a heaven of this dull and barren earth. Drop the "r," and there
remains a warm, deceitful bud that sweetens breath and keeps the peace
in countless homes whose masters frequent clubs. After all, Bottom was
right:

"Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow."

Yours sincerely and regretfully,

## R. G. Ingersoll

Washington, D. C., January 16, 1883.

*****

SUPERSTITION puts belief above goodness—credulity above virtue.

Here are two men. One is industrious, frugal, honest, generous. He has
a happy home—loves his wife and children—fills their lives with
sunshine. He enjoys study, thoughts, music, and all the subtleties of
Art—but he does not believe the creed—cares nothing for sacred books,
worships no god and fears no devil.

The other is ignorant, coarse, brutal, beats his wife and children—but
he believes—regards the Bible as inspired—bows to the priests, counts
his beads, says his prayers, confesses and contributes, and the Catholic
Church declares and the Protestant Churches declare that he is the
better man.

The ignorant believer, coarse and brutal as he is, is going to heaven.
He will be washed in the blood of the Lamb. He will have wings—a harp
and a halo.

The intelligent and generous man who loves his fellow-men—who develops
his brain, who enjoys the beautiful, is going to hell—to the eternal
prison.

Such is the justice of God—the mercy of Christ.

*****

WHILE reading the accounts of the coronation of the Czar, of the
pageants, processions and feasts, of the pomp and parade, of the
barbaric splendor, of cloth of gold and glittering gems, I could not
help thinking of the poor and melancholy peasants, of the toiling,
half-fed millions, of the sad and ignorant multitudes who belong body
and soul to this Czar.

I thought of the backs that have been scarred by the knout, of the
thousands in prisons for having dared to say a whispered word for
freedom, of the great multitude who had been driven like cattle along
the weary roads that lead to the hell of Siberia.

The cannon at Moscow were not loud enough, nor the clang of the bells,
nor the blare of the trumpets, to drown the groans of the captives.

I thought of the fathers that had been torn from wives and children for
the crime of speaking like men.

And when the priests spoke of the Czar as the "God-selected man," the
"God-adorned man," my blood grew warm.

When I read of the coronation of the Czarina I thought of Siberia. I
thought of girls working in the mines, hauling ore from the pits with
chains about their waists; young girls, almost naked, at the mercy
of brutal officials; young girls weeping and moaning their lives away
because between their pure lips the word Liberty had burst into blossom.

Yet law neglects, forgets them, and crowns the Czarina. The injustice,
the agony and horror in this poor world are enough to make mankind
insane.

Ignorance and superstition crown impudence and tyranny. Millions of
money squandered for the humiliation of man, to dishonor the people.

Back of the coronation, back of all the ceremonies, back of all the
hypocrisy there is nothing but a lie.

It is not true that God "selected" this Czar to rule and rob a hundred
millions of human beings.

It is all an ignorant, barbaric, superstitious lie—a lie that pomp and
pageant, and flaunting flags, and robed priests, and swinging censers,
cannot change to truth.

Those who are not blinded by the glare and glitter at Moscow see
millions of homes on which the shadows fall; see millions of weeping
mothers, whose children have been stolen by the Czar; see thousands of
villages without schools, millions of houses without books, millions and
millions of men, women and children in whose future there is no star and
whose only friend is death.

The coronation is an insult to the nineteenth century.

Long live the people of Russia!

*****

MUSIC.—The savage enjoys noises—explosion—the imitation of thunder.
This noise expresses his feeling. He enjoys concussion. His ear and
brain are in harmony. So, he takes cognizance of but few colors. The
neutral tints make no impression on his eyes. He appreciates the flames
of red and yellow. That is to say, there is a harmony between his brain
and eye. As he advances, develops, progresses, his ear catches other
sounds, his eye other colors. He becomes a complex being, and there has
entered into his mind the idea of proportion. The music of the drum no
longer satisfies him. He sees that there is as much difference between
noises and melodies as between stones and statues. The strings in
Corti's Harp become sensitive and possibly new ones are developed.

The eye keeps pace with the ear, and the worlds of sound and sight
increase from age to age.

The first idea of music is the keeping of time—a recurring emphasis at
intervals of equal length or duration. This is afterward modified—the
music of joy being fast, the emphasis at short intervals, and that of
sorrow slow.

After all, this music of time corresponds to the action of the blood and
muscles. There is a rise and fall under excitement of both. In joy the
heart beats fast, and the music corresponding to such emotion is quick.
In grief—in sadness, the blood is delayed. In music the broad division
is one of time. In language, words of joy are born of light—that which
shines—words of grief of darkness and gloom. There is still another
division: The language of happiness comes also from heat, and that of
sadness from cold.

These ideas or divisions are universal. In all art are the light and
shadow—the heat and cold.

*****

OF COURSE ENGLAND has no love for America. By England I mean the
governing class. Why should monarchy be in love with republicanism, with
democracy? The monarch insists that he gets his right to rule from
what he is pleased to call the will of God, whereas in a republic the
sovereign authority is the will of the people. It is impossible that
there should be any real friendship between the two forms of government.

We must, however, remember one thing, and that is, that there is an
England within England—an England that does not belong to the titled
classes—an England that has not been bribed or demoralized by those
in authority; and that England has always been our friend, because that
England is the friend of liberty and of progress everywhere. But the
lackeys, the snobs, the flatterers of the titled, those who are willing
to crawl that they may rise, are now and always have been the enemies of
the great Republic.

It is a curious fact that in monarchical governments the highest
and lowest are generally friends. There may be a foundation for this
friendship in the fact that both are parasites—both live on the labor
of honest men. After all, there is a kinship between the prince and the
pauper. Both extend the hand for alms, and the fact that one is jeweled
and the other extremely dirty makes no difference in principle—and the
owners of these hands have always been fast friends, and, in accordance
with the great law of ingratitude, both have held in contempt the people
who supported them.

One thing we must not forget, and that is that the best people of
England are our friends. The best writers, the best thinkers are on our
side. It is only natural that all who visit America should find some
fault. We find fault ourselves, and to be thin-skinned is almost a plea
of guilty. For my part, I have no doubt about the future of America.
It not only is, but is to be for many, many generations, the greatest
nation of the world.

I DO not care so much where, as with whom, I live. If the right folks
are with me I can manage to get a good deal of happiness in the city or
in the country. Cats love places and become attached to chimney-corners
and all sorts of nooks—but I have but little of the cat in me, and
am not particularly in love with places. After all, a palace without
affection is a poor hovel, and the meanest hut with love in it is a
palace for the soul.

If the time comes when poverty and want cease for the most part to
exist, then the city will be far better than the country. People
are always talking about the beauties of nature and the delights of
solitude, but to me some people are more interesting than rocks and
trees. As to city and country life I think that I substantially agree
with Touchstone:

"In respect that it is solitary I like it very well; but in respect
that it is private it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it is in the
fields it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court it is
tedious."

*****

WHAT do I think of the lynchings in Georgia?

I suppose these outrages—these frightful crimes—make the same
impression on my mind that they do on the minds of all civilized
people. I know of no words strong enough, bitter enough, to express my
indignation and horror. Men who belong to the "superior" race take a
negro—a criminal, a supposed murderer, one alleged to have assaulted a
white woman—chain him to a tree, saturate his clothing with kerosene,
pile fagots about his feet. This is the preparation for the festival.
The people flock in from the neighborhood—come in special trains from
the towns. They are going to enjoy themselves.

Laughing and cursing they gather about the victim. A man steps from the
crowd—a man who hates crime and loves virtue. He draws his knife, and
in a spirit of merry sport cuts off one of the victim's ears. This he
keeps for a trophy—a souvenir. Another gentlemen fond of a jest cuts
off the other ear. Another cuts off the nose of the chained and
helpless wretch. The victim suffered in silence. He uttered no groan, no
word—the one man of the two thousand who had courage.

Other white heroes cut and slashed his flesh. The crowd cheered. The
people were intoxicated with joy. Then the fagots were lighted and the
bleeding and mutilated man was clothed in flame.

The people were wild with hideous delight. With greedy eyes they watched
him burn; with hungry ears they listened for his shrieks—for the music
of his moans and cries. He did not shriek. The festival was not quite
perfect.

But they had their revenge. They trampled on the charred and burning
corpse. They divided among themselves the broken bones. They wanted
mementos—keepsakes that they could give to their loving wives and
gentle babes.

These horrors were perpetrated in the name of justice. The savages who
did these things belong to the superior race. They are citizens of the
great Republic. And yet, it does not seem possible that such fiends are
human beings. They are a disgrace to our country, our century and the
human race.

Ex-Governor Atkinson protested against this savagery. He was threatened
with death. The good people were helpless. While these lynchers murder
the blacks they will destroy their own country. No civilized man wishes
to live where the mob is supreme. He does not wish to be governed by
murderers.

Let me say that what I have said is flattery compared with what I feel.
When I think of the other lynching—of the poor man mutilated and hanged
without the slightest evidence, of the negro who said that these murders
would be avenged, and who was brutally murdered for the utterance of a
natural feeling—I am utterly at a loss for words.

Are the white people insane? Has mercy fled to beasts? Has the United
States no power to protect a citizen? A nation that cannot or will not
protect its citizens in time of peace has no right to ask its citizens
to protect it in time of War.

*****

OUR COUNTRY.—Our country is all we hope for—all we are. It is the
grave of our father, of our mother, of each and every one of the sacred
dead.

It is every glorious memory of our race. Every heroic deed. Every act of
self-sacrifice done by our blood. It is all the accomplishments of the
past—all the wise things said—all the kind things done—all the poems
written and all the poems lived—all the defeats sustained—all the
victories won—the girls we love—the wives we adore—the children we
carry in our hearts—all the firesides of home—all the quiet springs,
the babbling brooks, the rushing rivers, the mountains, plains and
woods—the dells and dales and vines and vales.

*****

GIFT GIVING.—I believe in the festival called Christmas—not in the
celebration of the birth of any man, but to celebrate the triumph of
light over darkness—the victory of the sun.

I believe in giving gifts on that day, and a real gift should be given
to those who cannot return it; gifts from the rich to the poor, from the
prosperous to the unfortunate, from parents to children.

There is no need of giving water to the sea or light to the sun. Let us
give to those who need, neither asking nor expecting return, not even
asking gratitude, only asking that the gift shall make the receiver
happy—and he who gives in that way increases his own joy.

*****

We have no right to enslave our children. We have no right to bequeath
chains and manacles to our heirs. We have no right to leave a legacy of
mental degradation.

Liberty is the birthright of all. Parents should not deprive their
children of the great gifts of nature. We cannot all leave lands and
gold to those we love; but we can leave Liberty, and that is of more
value than all the wealth of India.

The dead have no right to enslave the living. To worship ancestors is to
curse posterity. He who bows to the Past insults the Future; and allows,
so to speak, the dead to rob the unborn. The coffin is good enough in
its way, but the cradle is far better. With the bones of the fathers
they beat out the brains of the children.

*****

RANDOM THOUGHTS.—The road is short to anything we fear.

> Joy lives in the house beyond the one we reach.
> In youth the time is halting, slow and lame.
> In age the time is winged and eager as a flame.
> The sea seems narrow as we near the farther shore.

Youth goes hand in hand with hope—old age with fear. .

Youth has a wish—old age a dread.

In youth the leaves and buds seem loath to grow.

Youth shakes the glass to speed the lingering sands.

Youth says to Time: O crutched and limping laggard, get thee wings.

The dawn comes slowly, but the Westering day leaps like a lover to the
dusky bosom of the Ethiop night.

*****

I THINK that all days are substantially alike in the long run. It is no
worse to drink on Sunday than on Monday. The idea that one day in the
week is holy is wholly idiotic. Besides, these closing laws do no good.

Laws are not locks and keys. Saloon doors care nothing about laws. Law
or no law, people will slip in, and then, having had so much trouble
getting there, they will stay until they stagger out. These nasty,
meddlesome, Pharisaic, hypocritical laws make sneaks and hypocrites. The
children of these laws are like the fathers of the laws. Ever since I
can remember, people have been trying to make other people temperate by
intemperate laws. I have never known of the slightest success. It is
a pity that Christ manufactured wine, a pity that Paul took heart and
thanked God when he saw the sign of the Three Taverns; a pity that
Jehovah put alcohol in almost everything that grows; a great pity that
prayer-meetings are not more popular than saloons; a pity that our
workingmen do not amuse themselves reading religious papers and the
genealogies in the Old Testament.

Rum has caused many quarrels and many murders.

Religion has caused many wars and covered countless fields with dead.

Of course, all men should be temperate,—should avoid excess—should
keep the golden path between extremes—should gather roses, not thorns.
The only way to make men temperate is to develop the brain.

When passions and appetites are stronger than the intellect, men are
savages; when the intellect governs the passions, when the
passions are servants, men are civilized. The people need
education—facts—philosophy. Drunkenness is one form of intemperance,
prohibition is another form. Another trouble is that these little laws
and ordinances can not be enforced.

Both parties want votes, and to get votes they will allow unpopular laws
to sleep, neglected, and finally refuse to enforce them. These spasms of
virtue, these convulsions of conscience are soon over, and then comes a
long period of neglectful rest.

*****

THE OLD AND NEW YEAR.—For countless ages the old earth has been making,
in alternating light and shade, in gleam and gloom, the whirling circuit
of the sun, leaving the record of its flight in many forms—in leaves of
stone, in growth of tree and vine and flower, in glittering gems of many
hues, in curious forms of monstrous life, in ravages of flood and flame,
in fossil fragments stolen from decay by chance, in molten masses hurled
from lips of fire, in gorges worn by waveless, foamless cataracts of
ice, in coast lines beaten back by the imprisoned sea, in mountain
ranges and in ocean reefs, in islands lifted from the underworld—in
continents submerged and given back to light and life.

Another year has joined his shadowy fellows in the wide and voiceless
desert of the past, where, from the eternal hour-glass forever fall the
sands of time. Another year, with all its joy and grief, of birth and
death, of failure and success—of love and hate. And now, the first day
of the new o'er arches all. Standing between the buried and the babe, we
cry, "Farewell and Hail!"—January 1,1893.

*****

KNOWLEDGE consists in the perception of facts, their
relations—conditions, modes and results of action. Experience is the
foundation of knowledge—without experience it is impossible to know.
It may be that experience can be transmitted—inherited. Suppose that an
infinite being existed in infinite space. He being the only existence,
what knowledge could he gain by experience? He could see nothing, hear
nothing, feel nothing. He would have no use for what we call the senses.
Could he use what we call the faculties of the mind? He could not
compare, remember, hope or fear. He could not reason. How could he
know that he existed? How could he use force? There was in the universe
nothing that would resist—nothing.

*****

Most men are economical when dealing with abundance, hoarding gold and
wasting time—throwing away the sunshine of life—the few remaining
hours, and hugging to their shriveled hearts that which they do not and
cannot even expect to use. Old age should enjoy the luxury of giving.
How divine to live in the atmosphere, the climate of gratitude! The men
who clutch and fiercely hold and look at wife and children with eyes
dimmed by age and darkened by suspicion, giving naught until the end,
then give to death the gratitude that should have been their own.

*****
---
# General Grant's Birthday Dinner
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1890_
## General Grant's Birthday Dinner

New York, April 27, 1888.

> * The tribute at Delmonico's last night was to the man
> Grant as a supreme type of the confidence of the American
> Republic in its own strength and destiny. Soldiers over
> whose lost cause the wheels of a thousand cannons rolled,
> and whose doctrines were ground to dust under the heels of
> conquering legions, poured out their souls at the feet of
> the great commander. Magnanimity, mercy, faith—these were
> the themes of every orator. Christian and Infidel, blue and
> gray, Republican and Democrat talked of Grant almost as men
> have come to talk of Washington.

> And, alas! In the midst of it all, with its soft glow of
> lights, its sweet breath of flowers, its throb of music and
> bewildering radiance of banners,  there was a vacant chair.
> Upon it hung a wreath of green, tied with a knot of white
> ribbon. Soldier and statesman and orator walked past that
> chair and seemed to reverence it. It was the seat intended
> for the trumpet tongued advocate of Grant in war, Grant in
> victory, Grant in peace, Grant in adversity—the seat of
> Roscoe Conkling. A little later and a clergyman jostled into
> the vacant chair and brushed the green circlet to the floor.

> Gray and grim old General Sherman presided. About the nine
> round, flower heaped tables were grouped the long list of
> distinguisned men from every walk or life and from every
> section of the country.

> Among the speakers was Ex-Minister Edwards Pierrepont who
> was one of Grant's cabinet and who made a long speech, part
> of which was devoted to explaining the court etiquette of
> dukes and earls and ministers in England, and how an ex-
> President of the United States ranks in Europe when an
> American Minister helps him out. The rest of the speech
> seemed to be an attempt to get up a presidential boom for
> the Prince of Wales.

> When Mr. Pierrepont sat down, General Sherman explained that
> Col. Robert Ingersoll did not want to speak, but a group of
> gentlemen lifted the orator up and carried him forward by
> main force.—New York Herald, April 28,1888.

TOAST: GENERAL GRANT

GEN. SHERMAN and Gentlemen: I firmly believe that any nation great
enough to produce and appreciate a great and splendid man is great
enough to keep his memory green. No man admires more than I do men who
have struggled and fought for what they believed to be right. I admire
General Grant, as well as every soldier who fought in the ranks of the
Union,—not simply because they were fighters, not simply because they
were willing to march to the mouth of the guns, but because they fought
for the greatest cause that can be expressed in human language—the
liberty of man. And to-night while General Mahone was speaking, I could
not but think that the North was just as responsible for the war as the
South. The South upheld and maintained what is known as human slavery,
and the North did the same; and do you know, I have always found in my
heart a greater excuse for the man who held the slave, and lived on his
labor, and profited by the rascality, than I did for a Northern man that
went into partnership with him with a distinct understanding that he was
to have none of the profits and half of the disgrace. So I say, that,
in a larger sense—that is, when we view the question from a philosophic
height—the North was as responsible as the South; and when I remember
that in this very city, _in this very city_, men were mobbed simply for
advocating the abolition of slavery, I cannot find it in my heart to lay
a greater blame upon the South than upon the North. If this had been a
war of conquest, a war simply for national aggrandizement, then I should
not place General Grant side by side with or in advance of the greatest
commanders of the world. But when I remember that every blow was to
break a chain, when I remember that the white man was to be civilized
at the same time the black man was made free, when I remember that this
country was to be made absolutely free, and the flag left without a
stain, then I say that the great General who commanded the greatest army
ever marshaled in the defence of human rights, stands at the head of the
commanders of this world.

There is one other idea,—and it was touched upon and beautifully
illustrated by Mr. Depew. I do not believe that a more merciful general
than Grant ever drew his sword. All greatness is merciful. All greatness
longs to forgive. All true grandeur and nobility is capable of shedding
the divine tear of pity.

Let me say one more word in that direction. The man in the wrong
defeated, and who sees the justice of his defeat, is a victor; and in
this view—and I say it understanding my words fully—the South was as
victorious as the North.

No man, in my judgment, is more willing to do justice to all parts
of this country than I; but, after all, I have a little sentiment—a
little. I admire great and splendid deeds, the dramatic effect of great
victories; but even more than that I admire that "touch of nature which
makes the whole world kin." I know the names of Grant's victories. I
know that they shine like stars in the heaven of his fame. I know them
all. But there is one thing in the history of that great soldier that
touched me nearer and more deeply than any victory he ever won, and that
is this: When about to die, he insisted that his dust should be laid in
no spot where his wife, when she sleeps in death, could not lie by his
side. That tribute to the great and splendid institution that rises
above all others, the institution of the family, touched me even more
than the glories won upon the fields of war.

And now let me say, General Sherman, as the years go by, in America, as
long as her people are great, as long as her people are free, as long
as they admire patriotism and courage, as long as they admire deeds of
self-denial, as long as they can remember the sacred blood shed for
the good of the whole nation, the birthday of General Grant will be
celebrated. And allow me to say, gentlemen, that there is another with
us to-night whose birthday will be celebrated. Americans of the future,
when they read the history of General Sherman, will feel the throb and
thrill that all men feel in the presence of the patriotic and heroic.

One word more—when General Grant went to England, when he sat down
at the table with the Ministers of her Britannic Majesty, he conferred
honor upon them. There is one change I wish to see in the diplomatic
service—and I want the example to be set by the great Republic—I want
precedence given here in Washington to the representatives of Republics.
Let us have some backbone ourselves. Let the representatives of
Republics come first and the ambassadors of despots come in next day. In
other words, let America be proud of American institutions, proud of a
Government by the people. We at last have a history, we at last are a
civilized people, and on the pages of our annals are found as glorious
names as have been written in any language.
---
# Jesus Christ
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1899_
> * An unfinished lecture which Colonel Ingersoll commenced a
> few days before his death.

FOR many centuries and by many millions of people, Christ has been
worshiped as God. Millions and millions of eulogies on his character
have been pronounced by priest and layman, in all of which his praises
were measured only by the limitations of language—words were regarded
as insufficient to paint his perfections.

In his praise it was impossible to be extravagant. Sculptor, poet and
painter exhausted their genius in the portrayal of the peasant, who was
in fact the creator of all worlds.

His wisdom excited the wonder, his sufferings the pity and his
resurrection and ascension the astonishment of the world.

He was regarded as perfect man and infinite God. It was believed that
in the gospels was found the perfect history of his life, his words and
works, his death, his triumph over the grave and his return to heaven.
For many centuries his perfection, his divinity—have been defended by
sword and fire.

By the altar was the scaffold—in the cathedral, the dungeon—the
chamber of torture.

The story of Christ was told by mothers to their babes. For the most
part his story was the beginning and end of education. It was wicked to
doubt—infamous to deny.

Heaven was the reward for belief and hell the destination of the denier.

All the forces of what we call society, were directed against
investigation. Every avenue to the mind was closed. On all the highways
of thought, Christians placed posts and boards, and on the boards were
the words "No Thoroughfare," "No Crossing." The windows of the soul
were darkened—the doors were barred. Light was regarded as the enemy of
mankind.

During these Christian years faith was rewarded with position,
wealth and power. Faith was the path to fame and honor. The man who
investigated was the enemy, the assassin of souls. The creed was
barricaded on every side, above it were the glories of heaven—below
were the agonies of hell. The soldiers of the cross were strangers to
pity. Only traitors to God were shocked by the murder of an unbeliever.
The true Christian was a savage. His virtues were ferocious, and
compared with his vices were beneficent. The drunkard was a better
citizen than the saint. The libertine and prostitute were far nearer
human, nearer moral, than those who pleased God by persecuting their
fellows.

The man who thought, and expressed his thoughts, died in a dungeon—on
the scaffold or in flames.

The sincere Christian was insane. His one object was to save his soul.
He despised all the pleasures of sense. He believed that his nature was
depraved and that his desires were wicked.

He fasted and prayed—deserted his wife and children—inflicted tortures
on himself and sought by pain endured to gain the crown. * * *
---
# Life
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1886_
> * Written for Mr. Harrison Grey Fiske, editor of The New
> York Dramatic Mirror, December 18,1886.

BORN of love and hope, of ecstasy and pain, of agony and fear, of tears
and joy—dowered with the wealth of two united hearts—held in happy
arms, with lips upon life's drifted font, blue-veined and fair, where
perfect peace finds perfect form—rocked by willing feet and wooed to
shadowy shores of sleep by siren mother singing soft and low—looking
with wonder's wide and startled eyes at common things of life and
day—taught by want and wish and contact with the things that touch the
dimpled flesh of babes—lured by light and flame, and charmed by color's
wondrous robes—learning the use of hands and feet, and by the love
of mimicry beguiled to utter speech—releasing prisoned thoughts from
crabbed and curious marks on soiled and tattered leaves—puzzling the
brain with crooked numbers and their changing, tangled worth—and so
through years of alternating day and night, until the captive grows
familiar with the chains and walls and limitations of a life.

And time runs on in sun and shade, until the one of all the world is
wooed and won, and all the lore of love is taught and learned again.
Again a home is built with the fair chamber wherein faint dreams, like
cool and shadowy vales, divide the billowed hours of love. Again the
miracle of a birth—the pain and joy, the kiss of welcome and the
cradle-song drowning the drowsy prattle of a babe.

And then the sense of obligation and of wrong—pity for those who toil
and weep—tears for the imprisoned and despised—love for the generous
dead, and in the heart the rapture of a high resolve.

And then ambition, with its lust of pelf and place and power, longing to
put upon its breast distinction's worthless badge. Then keener thoughts
of men, and eyes that see behind the smiling mask of craft—flattered no
more by the obsequious cringe of gain and greed—knowing the uselessness
of hoarded gold—of honor bought from those who charge the usury of
self-respect—of power that only bends a coward's knees and forces
from the lips of fear the lies of praise. Knowing at last the unstudied
gesture of esteem, the reverent eyes made rich with honest thought, and
holding high above all other things—high as hope's great throbbing star
above the darkness of the dead—the love of wife and child and friend.

Then locks of gray, and growing love of other days and half-remembered
things—then holding withered hands of those who first held his, while
over dim and loving eyes death softly presses down the lids of rest.

And so, locking in marriage vows his children's hands and crossing
others on the breasts of peace, with daughters' babes upon his knees,
the white hair mingling with the gold, he journeys on from day to day to
that horizon where the dusk is waiting for the night.—At last, sitting
by the holy hearth of home as evening's embers change from red to gray,
he falls asleep within the arms of her he worshiped and adored, feeling
upon his pallid lips love's last and holiest kiss.

*****

Fac-simile of the Last Letter written by Ingersoll

Urn Containing the Ashes of Ingersoll
---
# Lotos Club Dinner — Twentieth Anniversary
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1890_
## Lotos Club Dinner, Twentieth Anniversary

New York, March 22, 1890.

YOU have talked so much of old age and gray hairs and thin locks,
so much about the past, that I feel sad. Now, I want to destroy the
impression that baldness is a sign of age. The very youngest people I
ever saw were bald.

Sometimes I think, and especially when I am at a meeting where they
have what they call reminiscences, that a world with death in it is a
mistake. What would you think of a man who built a railroad, knowing
that every passenger was to be killed—knowing that there was no escape?
What would you think of the cheerfulness of the passengers if every one
knew that at some station, the name of which had not been called out,
there was a hearse waiting for him; backed up there, horses fighting
flies, driver whistling, waiting for you? Is it not wonderful that the
passengers on that train really enjoy themselves? Is it not magnificent
that every one of them, under perpetual sentence of death, after all,
can dimple their cheeks with laughter; that we, every one doomed to
become dust, can yet meet around this table as full of joy as spring is
full of life, as full of hope as the heavens are full of stars?

I tell you we have got a good deal of pluck.

And yet, after all, what would this world be without death? It may be
from the fact that we are all victims, from the fact that we are all
bound by common fate; it may be that friendship and love are born of
that fact; but Whatever the fact is, I am perfectly satisfied that
the highest possible philosophy is to enjoy to-day, not regretting
yesterday, and not fearing to-morrow. So, let us suck this orange of
life dry, so that when death does come, we can politely say to him, "You
are welcome to the peelings. What little there was we have enjoyed."

But there is one splendid thing about the play called Life. Suppose that
when you die, that is the end. The last thing that you will know is
that you are alive, and the last thing that will happen to you is the
curtain, not falling, but the curtain rising on another thought, so
that as far as your consciousness is concerned you will and must live
forever. No man can remember when he commenced, and no man can remember
when he ends. As far as we are concerned we live both eternities,
the one past and the one to come, and it is a delight to me to feel
satisfied, and to feel in my own heart, that I can never be certain that
I have seen the faces I love for the last time.

When I am at such a gathering as this, I almost wish I had had the
making of the world. What a world I would have made! In that world
unhappiness would have been the only sin; melancholy the only crime;
joy the only virtue. And whether there is another world, nobody knows.
Nobody can affirm it; nobody can deny it. Nobody can collect tolls from
me, claiming that he owns a turnpike, and nobody can certainly say that
the crooked path that I follow, beside which many roses are growing,
does not lead to that place. He doesn't know. But if there is such a
place, I hope that all good fellows will be welcome.
---
# Lotos Club Dinner in Honor of Anton Seidl
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1893_
## Lotos Club Dinner in Honor of Anton Seidl

New York, February 2, 1895.

MR. PRESIDENT, Mr. Anton Seidl, and Gentlemen: I was enjoying myself
with music and song; why I should be troubled, why I should be called
upon to trouble you, is a question I can hardly answer. Still, as the
president has remarked, the American people like to hear speeches. Why,
I don't know. It has always been a matter of amazement that anybody
wanted to hear me. Talking is so universal; with few exceptions—the
deaf and dumb—everybody seems to be in the business. Why they should be
so anxious to hear a rival I never could understand. But, gentlemen,
we are all pupils of nature; we are taught by the countless things that
touch us on every side; by field and flower and star and cloud and river
and sea, where the waves break into whitecaps, and by the prairie, and
by the mountain that lifts its granite forehead to the sun; all things
in nature touch us, educate us, sharpen us, cause the heart to bud, to
burst, it may be, into blossom; to produce fruit. In common with the
rest of the world I have been educated a little that way; by the things
I have seen and by the things I have heard and by the people I have met.
But there are a few things that stand out in my recollection as having
touched me more deeply than others, a few men to whom I feel indebted
for the little I know, and for the little I happen to be. Those men,
those things, are forever present in my mind. But I want to tell you
to-night that the first man that let up the curtain in my mind, that
ever opened a blind, that ever allowed a little sunshine to straggle in,
was Robert Burns. I went to get my shoes mended, and I had to go with
them. And I had to wait till they were done. I was like the fellow
standing by the stream naked washing his shirt. A lady and gentleman
were riding by in a carriage, and upon seeing him the man indignantly
shouted, "Why don't you put on another shirt when you are washing one?"
The fellow said, "I suppose you think I've got a hundred shirts!"

When I went into the shop of the old Scotch shoemaker he was reading
a book, and when he took my shoes in hand I took his book, which was
"Robert Burns." In a few days I had a copy; and, indeed, gentlemen, from
that time if "Burns" had been destroyed I could have restored more than
half of it. It was in my mind day and night. Burns you know is a little
valley, not very wide, but full of sunshine; a little stream runs down
making music over the rocks, and children play upon the banks; narrow
roads overrun with vines, covered with blossoms, happy children, the hum
of bees, and little birds pour out their hearts and enrich the air. That
is Burns. Then, you must know that I was raised respectably. Certain
books were not thought to be good for the young person; only such books
as would start you in the narrow road for the New Jerusalem. But one
night I stopped at a little hotel in Illinois, many years ago, when we
were not quite civilized, when the footsteps of the red man were still
in the prairies. While I was waiting for supper an old man was reading
from a book, and among others who were listening was myself. I was
filled with wonder. I had never heard anything like it. I was ashamed to
ask him what he was reading; I supposed that an intelligent boy ought to
know. So I waited, and when the little bell rang for supper I hung back
and they went out. I picked up the book; it was Sam Johnson's edition of
Shakespeare. The next day I bought a copy for four dollars. My God!
more than the national debt. You talk about the present straits of the
Treasury! For days, for nights, for months, for years, I read those
books, two volumes, and I commenced with the introduction. I haven't
read that introduction for nearly fifty years, certainly forty-five, but
I remember it still. Other writers are like a garden diligently planted
and watered, but Shakespeare a forest where the oaks and elms toss their
branches to the storm, where the pine towers, where the vine bursts into
blossom at its foot. That book opened to me a new world, another nature.
While Burns was the valley, here was a range of mountains with thousands
of such valleys; while Burns was as sweet a star as ever rose into the
horizon, here was a heaven filled with constellations. That book has
been a source of perpetual joy to me from that day to this; and whenever
I read Shakespeare—if it ever happens that I fail to find some new
beauty, some new presentation of some wonderful truth, or another
word that bursts into blossom, I shall make up my mind that my mental
faculties are failing, that it is not the fault of the book. Those,
then, are two things that helped to educate me a little.

Afterward I saw a few paintings by Rembrandt, and all at once I was
overwhelmed with the genius of the man that could convey so much thought
in form and color. Then I saw a few landscapes by Corot, and I began to
think I knew something about art. During all my life, of course, like
other people, I had heard what they call music, and I had my favorite
pieces, most of those favorite pieces being favorites on account of
association; and nine-tenths of the music that is beautiful to the world
is beautiful because of the association, not because the music is good,
but because of association.. We cannot write a very poetic thing about a
pump or about water works; they are not old enough.

We can write a poetic thing about a well and a sweep and an old
moss-covered bucket, and you can write a poem about a spring, because
a spring seems a gift of nature, something that cost no trouble and no
work, something that will sing of nature under the quiet stars of June.
So, it is poetic on account of association. The stage coach is more
poetic than the car, but the time will come when cars will be poetic,
because human feelings, love's remembrances, will twine around them, and
consequently they will become beautiful. There are two pieces of music,
"The Last Rose of Summer," and "Home Sweet Home," with the music a
little weak in the back; but association makes them both beautiful. So,
in the "Marseillaise" is the French Revolution, that whirlwind and flame
of war, of heroism the highest possible, of generosity, of self-denial,
of cruelty, of all of which the human heart and brain are capable; so
that music now sounds as though its notes were made of stars, and it is
beautiful mostly by association.

Now, I always felt that there must be some greater music somewhere,
somehow. You know this little music that comes back with recurring
emphasis every two inches or every three-and-a-half inches; I thought
there ought to be music somewhere with a great sweep from horizon to
horizon, and that could fill the great dome of sound with winged notes
like the eagle; if there was not such music, somebody, sometime, would
make it, and I was waiting for it. One day I heard it, and I said, "What
music is that?" "Who wrote that?" I felt it everywhere. I was cold. I
was almost hysterical. It answered to my brain, to my heart; not only to
association, but to all there was of hope and aspiration, all my future;
and they said this is the music of Wagner. I never knew one note from
another—of course I would know it from a promissory note—and
was utterly and absolutely ignorant of music until I heard Wagner
interpreted by the greatest leader, in my judgment, in the world—Anton
Seidl. He not only understands Wagner in the brain, but he feels him in
the heart, and there is in his blood the same kind of wild and splendid
independence that was in the brain of Wagner. I want to say to-night,
because there are so many heresies, Mr. President, creeping into this
world, I want to say and say it with all my might, that Robert Burns was
not Scotch. He was far wider than Scotland: he had in him the universal
tide, and wherever it touches the shore of a human being it finds
access. Not Scotch, gentlemen, but a man, a man! I can swear to it,
or rather affirm, that Shakespeare was not English, but another man,
kindred of all, of all races and peoples, and who understood the
universal brain and heart of the human race, and who had imagination
enough to put himself in the place of all.

And so I want to say to-night, because I want to be consistent, Richard
Wagner was not a German, and his music is not German; and why? Germany
would not have it. Germany denied that it was music. The great German
critics said it was nothing in the world but noise. The best interpreter
of Wagner in the world is not German, and no man has to be German to
understand Richard Wagner. In the heart of nearly every man is an AEolian
harp, and when the breath of true genius touches that harp, every man
that has one, or that knows what music is or has the depth and height
of feeling necessary to appreciate it, appreciates Richard Wagner. To
understand that music, to hear it as interpreted by this great leader,
is an education. It develops the brain; it gives to the imagination
wings; the little earth grows larger; the people grow important; and
not only that, it civilizes the heart; and the man who understands
that music can love better and with greater intensity than he ever did
before. The man who understands and appreciates that music, becomes in
the highest sense spiritual—and I don't mean by spiritual, worshiping
some phantom, or dwelling upon what is going to happen to some of us—I
mean spiritual in the highest sense; when a perfume arises from the
heart in gratitude, and when you feel that you know what there is of
beauty, of sublimity, of heroism and honor and love in the human heart.
This is what I mean by being spiritual. I don't mean denying yourself
here and living on a crust with the expectation of eternal joy—that is
not what I mean. By spiritual I mean a man that has an ideal, a great
ideal, and who is splendid enough to live to that ideal; that is what I
mean by spiritual. And the man who has heard the music of Wagner, that
music of love and death, the greatest music, in my judgment, that ever
issued from the human brain, the man who has heard that and understands
it has been civilized.

Another man to whom I feel under obligation whose name I do not know—I
know Burns, Shakespeare, Rembrandt and Wagner, but there are some other
fellows whose names I do not know—is he who chiseled the Venus de Milo.
This man helped to civilize the world; and there is nothing under the
sun so pathetic as the perfect. Whoever creates the perfect has thought
and labored and suffered; and no perfect thing has ever been done except
through suffering and except through the highest and holiest thought,
and among this class of men is Wagner. Let me tell you something
more. You know I am a great believer. There is no man in the world who
believes more in human nature than I do. No man believes more in the
nobility and splendor of humanity than I do; no man feels more grateful
than I to the self-denying, heroic, splendid souls who have made this
world fit for ladies and gentlemen to live in. But I believe that the
human mind has reached its top in three departments. I don't believe
the human race—no matter if it lives millions of years more upon this
wheeling world—I don't believe the human race will ever produce in the
world anything greater, sublimer, than the marbles of the Greeks. I do
not believe it. I believe they reach absolutely the perfection of form
and the expression of force and passion in stone. The Greeks made marble
as sensitive as flesh and as passionate as blood. I don't believe that
any human being of any coming race—no matter how many suns may rise and
set, or how many religions may rise and fall, or how many languages
be born and decay—I don't believe any human being will ever excel the
dramas of Shakespeare. Neither do I believe that the time will ever come
when any man with such instruments of music as we now have, and having
nothing but the common air that we now breathe, will ever produce
greater pictures in sound, greater music, than Wagner. Never! Never! And
I don't believe he will ever have a better interpreter than Anton Seidl.
Seidl is a poet in sound, a sculptor in sound. He is what you might call
an orchestral orator, and as such he expresses the deepest feelings,
the highest aspirations and the in-tensest and truest love of which the
brain and heart of man are capable.

Now, I am glad, I am delighted, that the people here in this city and in
various other cities of our great country are becoming civilized enough
to appreciate these harmonies; I am glad they are civilized at last
enough to know that the home of music is tone, not tune; that the home
of music is in harmonies where you braid them like rainbows; I am glad
they are great enough and civilized enough to appreciate the music
of Wagner, the greatest music in this world. Wagner sustains the same
relation to other composers that Shakespeare does to other dramatists,
and any other dramatist compared with Shakespeare is like one tree
compared with an immeasurable forest, or rather like one leaf compared
with a forest; and all the other composers of the world are embraced in
the music of Wagner.

"Nobody has written anything more tender than he, nobody anything
sublimer than he. Whether it is the song of the deep, or the warble of
the mated bird, nobody has excelled Wagner; he has expressed all that
the human heart is capable of appreciating. And now, gentlemen, having
troubled you long enough, and saying long live Anton Seidl, I bid you
good-night."
---
# Lotos Club Dinner in Honor of Rear Admiral Schley
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
## Lotos Club Dinner in Honor of Rear Admiral Schley

New York, November 26, 1898.

> * The Lotos Club did honor to Rear Admiral Winfield Scott
> Schley, and incidentally, to the United States, at its
> clubhouse in Fifth Avenue last night. All day long the
> square, blue pennant, blazoned with the two stars of a Rear
> Admiral, snapped in the wind, signifying to all who saw it
> that the Lotos Clubhouse was for the time being the flagship
> of the erstwhile Flying Squadron.

> Within the home of the club were gathered men who like the
> guest of the evening were prominent in the war with Spain,
> The navy was represented by Capt. Charles D. Sigs-Dee, Capt.
> A. T. Mahan and Captain Goodrich. From the army there was
> Brig. Gen. W F. Randolph, and from civil life many men
> prominent in the business, professional and social life of
> the city. The one impulse that led these men to brave the
> storm was their desire to pay their respects to one of the
> men who had done so much to win laurels for the American
> arms.

> The parlors and dining rooms of the clubhouse wore thrown
> into one in order to accommodate the three hundred men
> present fit the dinner. Smilax covered the walls, save hero
> and there where the American flag was draped in graceful
> folds. From the archway under which the table of honor was
> spread, hung a large National ensign and a Rear Admiral's
> pennant.

> The menu was unique. Etched on a cream-tinted paper appeared
> an open nook, and on the tops of the pages was inscribed,
> "Logge of the Goode Ship Lotos." "Dinner to Rear Admiral
> Winfield Scott Schley, given in the cabin of ye Shippe, Nov.
> 26, l898, Lat. 40 degrees 42 minutes 43 seconds north;
> longitude, 74 degrees 3 seconds west."

> On each side of the menu was stretched a string of signal
> flags, giving the orders made famous by Admiral Schley in
> the naval engagement of July 3, 1898. On the second page of
> the menu was a fine etching of the Brooklyn, Admiral
> Schley's flagship. The souvenir menu was inclosed in blue
> paper, upon which were two white stars, the whole
> representing Rear Admiral Schley's pennant.

MR.PRESIDENT, Gentlemen of the Club—Boys: I congratulate all of you and
I congratulate myself, and I will tell you why. In the first place, we
were well born, and we were all born rich, all of us. We belong to a
great race. That is something; that is having a start, to feel that in
your veins flows heroic blood, blood that has accomplished great things
and has planted the flag of victory on the field of war. It is a great
thing to belong to a great race.

I congratulate you and myself on another thing; we were born in a great
nation, and you can't be much of a man without having a nation behind
you, with you; Just think about it! What would Shakespeare have been, if
he had been born in Labrador? I used to know an old lawyer in southern
Illinois, a smart old chap, who mourned his unfortunate surroundings.
He lived in Pinkneyville, and occasionally drank a little too freely of
Illinois wine; and when in his cups he sometimes grew philosophic and
egotistic. He said one day, "Boys, I have got more brains than you have,
I have, but I have never had a chance. I want you just to think of
it. What would Daniel Webster have been, by God, if he had settled in
Pinkneyville?"

So I congratulate you all that you were born in a great nation,
born rich; and why do I say rich? Because you fell heir to a great,
expressive, flexible language; that is one thing. What could a man do
who speaks a poor language, a language of a few words that you could
almost count on your fingers? What could he do? You were born heirs to
a great literature, the greatest in the world—in all the world. All the
literature of Greece and Rome would not make one act of "Hamlet." All
the literature of the ancient world added to all of the modern world,
except England, would not equal the literature that we have. We were
born to it, heirs to that vast intellectual possession.

So I say you were all born rich, all. And then you were very fortunate
in being born in this country, where people have some rights, not as
many as they should have, not as many as they would have if it were not
for the preachers, may be, but where we have some; and no man yet was
ever great unless a great drama was being played on some great stage and
he got a part. Nature deals you a hand, and all she asks is for you to
have the sense to play it. If no hand is dealt to you, you win no money.
You must have the opportunity, must be on the stage, and some great
drama must be there. Take it in our own country. The Revolutionary
war was a drama, and a few great actors appeared; the War of 1812 was
another, and a few appeared; the Civil war another. Where would have
been the heroes whose brows we have crowned with laurel had there been
no Civil war? What would have become of Lincoln, a lawyer in a country
town? What would have become of Grant? He would have been covered with
the mantle of absolute obscurity, tucked in at all the edges, his name
never heard of by any human being not related to him.

Now, you have got to have the chance, and you cannot create it. I heard
a gentleman say here a few minutes ago that this war could have been
averted. That is not true. I am not doubting his veracity, but rather
his philosophy. Nothing ever happened beneath the dome of heaven that
could have been avoided. Everything that is possible happens. That may
not suit all the creeds, but it is true. And everything that is possible
will continue to happen. The war could not have been averted, and the
thing that makes me glad and proud is that it was not averted. I will
tell you why.

It was the first war in the history of this world that was waged
unselfishly for the good of others; the first war. Almost anybody will
fight for himself; a great many people will fight for their country,
their fellow-men, their fellow-citizens; but it requires something
besides courage to fight for the rights of aliens; it requires not only
courage, but principle and the highest morality. This war was waged to
compel Spain to take her bloody hands from the throat of Cuba. That
is exactly what it was waged for. Another great drama was put upon
the boards, another play was advertised, and the actors had their
opportunity. Had there been no such war, many of the actors would never
have been heard of.

But the thing is to take advantage of the occasion when it arrives. In
this war we added to the greatness and the glory of our history. That is
another thing that we all fell heirs to—the history of our people, the
history of our Nation. We fell heirs to all the great and grand things
that had been accomplished, to all the great deeds, to the splendid
achievements either in the realm of mind or on the field of battle.

Then there was another great drama. The first thing we knew, a man in
the far Pacific, a gentleman from Vermont, sailed one May morning into
the bay of Manila, and the next news was that the Spanish fleet had been
beached, burned, destroyed, and nothing had happened to him. I have read
a little history, not much, and a good deal that I have read was not
true. I have read something about our own navy, not much. I recollect
when I was a boy my hero was John Paul Jones; he covered the ocean; and
afterward I knew of Hull and Perry and Decatur and Bainbridge and a good
many others that I don't remember now. And then came the Civil war, and
I remember a little about Farragut, a great Admiral, as great as ever
trod a deck, in my judgment. And I have also read about other admirals
and sailors of the world. I knew something of Drake and I have read the
"Life of Nelson" and several other sea dogs; but when I got the news
from Manila I said, "There is the most wonderful victory ever won upon
the sea;" and I did not think it would ever be paralleled. I thought
such things come one in a box. But a little while afterward another of
Spain's fleets was heard from. Oh, those Spaniards! They have got the
courage of passion, but that is not the highest courage. They have got
plenty of that; but it is necessary to be coolly courageous, and to have
the brain working with the accuracy of an engine—courageous, I don't
care how mad you get, but there must not be a cloud in the heaven of
your judgment. That is Anglo-Saxon courage, and there is no higher type.
The Spaniards sprinkled the holy water on their guns, then banged away
and left it to the Holy Ghost to direct the rest.

Another fleet, at Santiago, ventured out one day, and another great
victory was won by the American Navy. I don't know which victory was
the more wonderful, that at Manila Bay or that at Santiago. The Spanish
ships were, some of them, of the best class and type, and had fine guns,
yet in a few moments they were wrecks on the shore of defeat, gone,
lost.

Now, when I used to read about these things in the olden times, what
ideas I had of the hero! I never expected to see one; and yet to-night I
have the happiness of dining with one, with one whose name is associated
with as great a victory, in my judgment, as was ever won; a victory that
required courage, intelligence, that power of will that holds itself
firm until the thing sought has been accomplished; and that has my
greatest admiration. I thank Admiral Schley for having enriched my
country, for having added a little to my own height, to my own pride, so
that I utter the word America with a little more unction than I ever
did before, and the old flag looks a little brighter, better, and has
an added glory. When I see it now, it looks as if the air had burst into
blossom, and it stands for all that he has accomplished.

Admiral Schley has added not only to our wealth, but to the wealth of
the children yet unborn that are going to come into the great heritage
not only of wealth, but of the highest possible riches, glory, honor,
achievement. That is the reason I congratulate you to-night. And I
congratulate you on another thing, that this country has entered upon
the great highway, I believe, of progress. I believe that the great
nation has the sentiment, the feeling of growth. The successful farmer
wants to buy the land adjoining him; the great nation loves to see its
territory increase. And what has been our history? Why, when we bought
Louisiana from Napoleon, in 1803, thousands of people were opposed to
"imperialism," to expansion; the poor old moss-backs were opposed to it.
When we bought Florida, it was the same. When we took the vast West from
Mexico in 1848 it was the same. When we took Alaska it was the same.
Now, is anybody in favor of modifying that sentiment?

We have annexed Hawaii, and we have got the biggest volcano in the
business. A man I know visited that volcano some years ago and came back
and told me about his visit. He said that at the little hotel they had
a guest-book in which the people wrote their feelings on seeing the
volcano in action. "Now," he said, "I will tell you this so that you
may know how you are spreading out yourself. One man had written in
that book, 'if Bob Ingersoll were here, I think he would change his mind
about hell.'"

I want that volcano. I want the Philippines. It would be simply infamous
to hand those people back to the brutality of Spain. Spain has been
Christianizing them for about four hundred years. The first thing the
poor devils did was to sign a petition asking for the expulsion of the
priests. That was their idea of the commencement of liberty. They are
not quite so savage as some people imagine. I want those islands; I want
all of them, and I don't know that I disagree with the Rev. Mr. Slicer
as to the use we can put them to. I don't know that they will be of any
use, but I want them; they might come handy. And I wanted to pick up
the small change, the Ladrones and the Carolines. I am glad we have got
Porto Rico. I don't know as it will be of any use, but there's no harm
in having the title. I want Cuba whenever Cuba wants us, and I favor
the idea of getting her in the notion of wanting us. I want it in the
interest, as I believe, of humanity, of progress; in other words, of
human liberty. That is what the war was waged for, and the fact that it
was waged for that, gives an additional glory to these naval officers
and to the officers in the army. They fought in the first righteous war;
I mean righteous in the sense that we fought for the liberty of others.

Now, gentlemen, I feel that we have all honored ourselves to-night by
honoring Rear Admiral Schley. I want you to know that long after we
are dead and long after the Admiral has ceased to sail, he will be
remembered, and in the constellation of glory one of the brightest stars
will stand for the name of Winfield Scott Schley, as brave an officer as
ever sailed a ship. I am glad I am here to-night, and again, gentlemen,
I congratulate you all upon being here. I congratulate you that you
belong to this race, to this nation, and that you are equal heirs in the
glory of the great Republic.
---
# Manhattan Athletic Club Dinner
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1890_
## Manhattan Athletic Club Dinner

New York, December 27, 1890.

TOAST: ATHLETICS AMONG THE ANCIENTS.

THE first record of public games is found in the twentythird Book of the
Iliad. These games were performed at the funeral of Patroclus, and there
were:

First. A chariot race, and the first prize was:

"A woman fair, well skilled in household care."

Second. There was a pugilistic encounter, and the first prize,
appropriately enough, was a mule.

It gave me great pleasure to find that Homer did not hold in high esteem
the victor. I have reached this conclusion, because the poet put these
words in the mouth of Eppius, the great boxer winding up with the
following refined declaration concerning his opponent:

"I mean to pound his flesh and smash his bones."

After the battle, the defeated was helped from the field. He spit
forth clotted gore. His head rolled from side to side, until he fell
unconscious.

Third, wrestling; fourth, foot-race; fifth, fencing; sixth, throwing the
iron mass or bar; seventh, archery, and last, throwing the javelin.

All of these games were in honor of Patroclus. This is the same
Patroclus who, according to Shakespeare, addressed Achilles in these
words:

> "In the battle-field I claim no special praise;
> 'Tis not for man in all things to excel—"

> "Rouse yourself, and the weak wanton Cupid
> Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,
> And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane,
> Be shook to air."

These games were all born of the instinct of self-defence. The chariot
was used in war. Man should know the use of his hands, to the end that
he may repel assault. He should know the use of the sword, to the end
that he may strike down his enemy. He should be skillful with the arrow,
to the same end. If overpowered, he seeks safety in flight—he should
therefore know how to run. So, too, he could preserve himself by the
skillful throwing of the javelin, and in the close encounter a knowledge
of wrestling might save his life.

Man has always been a fighting animal, and the art of self-defence is
nearly as important now as ever—and will be, until man rises to that
supreme height from which he will be able to see that no one can commit
a crime against another without injuring himself.

The Greeks knew that the body bears a certain relation to the soul—that
the better the body—other things being equal—the greater the
mind. They also knew that the body could be developed, and that such
development would give or add to the health, the courage, the endurance,
the self-confidence, the independence and the morality of the human
race. They knew, too, that health was the foundation, the corner-stone,
of happiness.

They knew that human beings should know something about themselves,
something of the capacities of body and mind, to the end that they might
ascertain the relation between conduct and happiness, between temperance
and health.

It is needless to say that the Greeks were the most intellectual of all
races, and that they were in love with beauty, with proportion, with the
splendor of the body and of mind; and so great was their admiration
for the harmoniously developed, that Sophocles had the honor of walking
naked at the head of a great procession.

The Greeks, through their love of physical and mental development, gave
us the statues—the most precious of all inanimate things—of far more
worth than all the diamonds and rubies and pearls that ever glittered in
crowns and tiaras, on altars or thrones, or, flashing, rose and fell on
woman's billowed breast. In these marbles we find the highest types of
life, of superb endeavor and supreme repose. In looking at them we feel
that blood flows, that hearts throb and souls aspire. These miracles of
art are the richest legacies the ancient world has left our race.

The nations in love with life, have games. To them existence is
exultation. They are fond of nature. They, seek the woods and streams.
They love the winds and waves of the sea. They enjoy the poem of the
day, the drama of the year.

Our Puritan fathers were oppressed with a sense of infinite
responsibility. They were disconsolate and sad, and no more thought
of sport, except the flogging of; Quakers, than shipwrecked wretches
huddled on a raft would turn their attention to amateur theatricals.

For many centuries the body was regarded as a decaying; casket, in
which had been placed the gem called the soul, and the nearer rotten the
casket the more brilliant the jewel.

In those blessed days, the diseased were sainted and insanity born
of fasting and self-denial and abuse of the body, was looked upon as
evidence of inspiration. Cleanliness was not next to godliness—it
was the opposite; and in those days, what was known as "the odor of
sanctity" had a substantial foundation. Diseased bodies produced all
kinds of mental maladies. There is a direct relation between sickness
and superstition. Everybody knows that Calvinism was the child of
indigestion.

Spooks and phantoms hover about the undeveloped and diseased, as
vultures sail above the dead.

Our ancestors had the idea that they ought to be spiritual, and that
good health was inconsistent with the highest forms of piety. This
heresy crept into the minds even of secular writers, and the novelists
described their heroines as weak and languishing, pale as lilies, and in
the place of health's brave flag they put the hectic flush.

Weakness was interesting, and fainting captured the hearts of all.
Nothing was so attractive as a society belle with a drug-store
attachment.

People became ashamed of labor, and consequently, of the evidences
of labor. They avoided "sun-burnt mirth"—were proud of pallor, and
regarded small, white hands as proof that they had noble blood within
their veins. It was a joy to be too weak to work, too languishing to
labor.

The tide has turned. People are becoming sensible enough to desire
health, to admire physical development, symmetry of form, and we now
know that a race with little feet and hands has passed the climax and is
traveling toward the eternal night.

When the central force is strong, men and women are full of life to
the finger tips. When the fires burn low, they begin to shrivel at the
extremities—the hands and feet grow small, and the mental flame wavers
and wanes.

To be self-respecting we must be self-supporting.

Nobility is a question of character, not of birth.

Honor cannot be received as alms—it must be earned.

It is the brow that makes the wreath of glory green.

All exercise should be for the sake of development—that is to say, for
the sake of health, and for the sake of the mind—all to the end that
the person may become better, greater, more useful. The gymnast or the
athelete should seek for health as the student should seek for truth;
but when athletics degenerate into mere personal contests, they become
dangerous, because the contestants lose sight of health, as in the
excitement of debate the students prefer personal victory to the
ascertainment of truth.

There is another thing to be avoided by all athletic clubs, and that is,
anything that tends to brutalize, destroy or dull the finer feelings.
Nothing is more disgusting, more disgraceful, than pugilism—nothing
more demoralizing than an exhibition of strength united with ferocity,
and where the very body developed by exercise is mutilated and
disfigured.

Sports that can by no possibility give pleasure, except to the
unfeeling, the hardened and the really brainless, should be avoided.
No gentleman should countenance rabbit-coursing, fighting of dogs, the
shooting of pigeons, simply as an exhibition of skill.

All these things are calculated to demoralize and brutalize not only
the actors, but the lookers on. Such sports are savage, fit only to be
participated in and enjoyed by the cannibals of Central Africa or the
anthropoid apes.

Find what a man enjoys—what he laughs at—what he calls diversion—and
you know what he is. Think of a man calling himself civilized, who is in
raptures at a bull fight—who smiles when he sees the hounds pursue and
catch and tear in pieces the timid hare, and who roars with laughter
when he watches the pugilists pound each other's faces, closing each
other's eyes, breaking jaws and smashing noses. Such men are beneath
the animals they torture—on a level with the pugilists they applaud.
Gentlemen should hold such sports in unspeakable contempt. No man finds
pleasure in inflicting pain.

In every public school there should be a gymnasium.

It is useless to cram minds and deform bodies. Hands should be educated
as well as heads. All should be taught the sports and games that require
mind, muscle, nerve and judgment.

Even those who labor should take exercise, to the end that the whole
body may be developed. Those who work at one employment become deformed.
Proportion is lost. But where harmony is preserved by the proper
exercise, even old age is beautiful.

To the well developed, to the strong, life seems rich, obstacles small,
and success easy. They laugh at cold and storm. Whatever the season may
be their hearts are filled with summer.

Millions go from the cradle to the coffin without knowing what it is
to live. They simply succeed in postponing death. Without appetites,
without passions, without struggle, they slowly rot in a waveless pool.
They never know the glory of success, the rapture of the fight.

To become effeminate is to invite misery. In the most delicate bodies
may be found the most degraded souls. It was the Duchess Josiane whose
pampered flesh became so sensitive that she thought of hell as a place
where people were compelled to sleep between coarse sheets.

We need the open air—we need the experience of heat and cold. We need
not only the rewards and caresses, but the discipline of our mother
Nature. Life is not all sunshine, neither is it all storm, but man
should be enabled to enjoy the one and to withstand the other.

I believe in the religion of the body—of physical development—in
devotional exercise—in the beatitudes of cheerfulness, good health,
good food, good clothes, comradeship, generosity, and above all, in
happiness. I believe in salvation here and now. Salvation from deformity
and disease—from weakness and pain—from ennui and insanity. I believe
in heaven here and now—the heaven of health and good digestion—of
strength and long life—of usefulness and joy. I believe in the builders
and defenders of homes.

The gentlemen whom we honor to-night have done a great work. To their
energy we are indebted for the nearest perfect, for the grandest
athletic clubhouse in the world. Let these clubs multiply. Let the
example be followed, until our country is filled with physical and
intellectual athletes—superb fathers, perfect mothers, and every child
an heir to health and joy.
---
# Organized Charities
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1897_
I HAVE no great confidence in organized charities. Money is left and
buildings are erected and sinecures provided for a good many worthless
people. Those in immediate control are almost, or when they were
appointed were almost, in want themselves, and they naturally hate other
beggars.

They regard persons who ask assistance as their enemies. There is an old
story of a tramp who begged a breakfast. After breakfast another tramp
came to the same place to beg his breakfast, and the first tramp with
blows and curses drove him away, saying at the same time: "I expect to
get dinner here myself."

This is the general attitude of beggar toward beggar.

Another trouble with organized charities is the machinery, the various
methods they have adopted to prevent what they call fraud. They are
exceedingly anxious that the needy, that those who ask help, who have
been without fault, shall be attended to, their rule apparently being to
assist only the unfortunate perfect.

The trouble is that Nature produces very few specimens of that kind. As
a rule, men come to want on account of their imperfections, on account
of their ignorance, on account of their vices, and their vices are born
of their lack of capacity, of their want of brain. In other words, they
are failures of Nature, and the fact that they need help is not their
own fault, but the fault of their construction, their surroundings.

Very few people have the opportunity of selecting their parents, and it
is exceedingly difficult in the matter of grandparents. Consequently,
I do not hold people responsible for hereditary tendencies, traits and
vices. Neither do I praise them for having hereditary virtues.

A man going to one of these various charitable establishments is
cross-examined. He must give his biography. And after he has answered
all the supercilious, impudent questions, he is asked for references.

Then the people referred to are sought out, to find whether the
statements made by the applicant are true. By the time the thing is
settled the man who asked aid has either gotten it somewhere else or
has, in the language of the Spiritualists, "passed over to the other
side."

Of course this does not trouble the persons in charge of the organized
charities, because their salaries are going on.

As a rule, these charities were commenced by the best of people. Some
generous, philanthropic man or woman gave a life to establish a "home,"
it may be, for aged women, for orphans, for the waifs of the pavements.

These generous people, filled with the spirit of charity, raised a
little money, succeeded in hiring or erecting a humble building, and the
money they collected, so honestly given, they honestly used to bind up
the wounds and wipe away the tears of the unfortunate, and to save, if
possible, some who had been wrecked on the rocks and reefs of crime.

Then some very rich man dies who had no charity and who would not have
left a dollar could he have taken his money with him. This rich man, who
hated his relatives and the people he actually knew, gives a large sum
of money to some particular charity—not that he had any charity, but
because he wanted to be remembered as a philanthropist.

Then the organized charity becomes rich, and the richer the meaner, the
richer the harder of heart and the closer of fist.

Now, I believe that Trinity Church, in this city, would be called an
organized charity. The church was started to save, if possible, a few
souls from eternal torment, and on the plea of saving these souls money
was given to the church.

Finally the church became rich. It is now a landlord—has many buildings
to rent. And if what I hear is true there is no harder landlord in the
city of New York.

So, I have heard it said of Dublin University, that it is about the
hardest landlord in Ireland.

I think you will find that all such institutions try to collect the very
last cent, and, in the name of pity, drive pity from their hearts.

I think it is Shakespeare who says, "Pity drives out pity," and he must
have had organized charities in his mind when he uttered this remark. Of
course a great many really good and philanthropic people leave vast sums
of money to charities.

I find that it is sometimes very difficult to get an injured man, or one
seized with some sudden illness, taken into a city hospital. There are
so many rules and so many regulations, so many things necessary to be
done, that while the rules are being complied with the soul of the sick
or injured man, weary of the waiting, takes its flight. And after the
man is dead, the doctors are kind enough to certify that he died of
heart failure.

So—in a general way—I speak of all the asylums, of all the homes for
orphans. When I see one of those buildings I feel that it is full of
petty tyranny, of what might be called pious meanness, devout deviltry,
where the object is to break the will of every recipient of public
favor.

I may be all wrong. I hope I am. At the same time I fear that I am
somewhere near right.

You may take our prisons; the treatment of prisoners is often infamous.
The Elmira Reformatory is a worthy successor of the Inquisition, a
disgrace, in my judgment, to the State of New York, to the civilization
of our day. Every little while something comes to light showing the
cruelty, the tyranny, the meanness, of these professional distributers
of public charity—of these professed reformers.

I know that they are visited now and then by committees from the
Legislature, and I know that the keepers of these places know when the
"committee" may be expected.

I know that everything is scoured and swept and burnished for the
occasion; and I know that the poor devils that have been abused or
whipped or starved, fear to open their mouths, knowing that if they
do they may not be believed and that they will be treated afterward as
though they were wild beasts.

I think these public institutions ought to be open to inspection at all
times. I think the very best men ought to be put in control of them.
I think only those doctors who have passed, and recently passed,
examinations as to their fitness, as to their intelligence and
professional acquirements, ought to be put in charge.

I do not think that hospitals should be places for young doctors to
practice sawing off the arms and legs of paupers or hunting in the
stomachs of old women for tumors. I think only the skillful, the
experienced, should be employed in such places. Neither do I think
hospitals should be places where medicine is distributed by students to
the poor.

Ignorance is a poor doctor, even for the poor, and if we pretend to be
charitable we ought to carry it out.

I would like to see tyranny done away with in prisons, in the
reformatories, and in all places under the government or supervision of
the State.

I would like to have all corporal punishment abolished, and I would also
like to see the money that is given to charity distributed by charity
and by intelligence. I hope all these institutions will be overhauled.

I hope all places where people are pretending to take care of the poor
and for which they collect money from the public, will be visited, and
will be visited unexpectedly and the truth told.

In my judgment there is some better way. I think every hospital,
every asylum, every home for waifs and orphans should be supported by
taxation, not by charity; should be under the care and control of the
State absolutely.

I do not believe in these institutions being managed by any individual
or by any society, religious or secular, but by the State. I would no
more have hospitals and asylums depend on charity than I would have the
public school depend on voluntary contributions.

I want the schools supported by taxation and to be controlled by the
State, and I want the hospitals and asylums and charitable institutions
founded and controlled and carried on in the same way. Let the property
of the State do it.

Let those pay the taxes who are able. And let us do away forever with
the idea that to take care of the sick, of the helpless, is a charity.
It is not a charity. It is a duty. It is something to be done for our
own sakes. It is no more a charity than it is to pave or light the
streets, no more a charity than it is to have a system of sewers.

It is all for the purpose of protecting society and of civilizing
ourselves.
---
# Our New Possessions
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
AS I understand it, the United States went into this war against Spain
in the cause of freedom. For three years Spain has been endeavoring
to conquer these people. The means employed were savage. Hundreds
of thousands were starved. Yet the Cubans, with great heroism, were
continuing the struggle. In spite of their burned homes, their wasted
fields, their dead comrades, the Cubans were not conquered and still
waged war. Under those circumstances we said to Spain, "You must
withdraw from the Western World. The Cubans have the right to be free!"
They have been robbed and enslaved by Spanish officers and soldiers.
Undoubtedly they were savages when first found, and undoubtedly they are
worse now than when discovered—more barbarous. They wouldn't make
very good citizens of the United States; they are probably incapable
of self-government, but no people can be ignorant enough to be justly
robbed or savage enough to be rightly enslaved. I think that we should
keep the islands, not for our own sake, but for the sake of these
people.

It was understood and declared at the time, that we were not waging war
for the sake of territory, that we were not trying to annex Cuba, but
that we were moved by compassion—a compassion that became as stern as
justice. I did not think at the time there would be war. I supposed that
the Spanish people had some sense, that they knew their own condition
and the condition of this Republic. But the improbable happened, and
now, after the successes we have had, the end of the war appears to be
in sight, and the question arises: What shall we do with the Spanish
islands that we have taken already, or that we may take before peace
comes?

Of course, we could not, without stultifying ourselves and committing
the greatest of crimes, hand back Cuba to Spain. But to do that would be
no more criminal, no more infamous, than to hand back the Philippines.
In those islands there are from eight to ten millions of people.

As far as the Philippines are concerned, I think that we should endeavor
to civilize them, and to do this we should send teachers, not preachers.
We should not endeavor to give them our superstition in place of
Spanish superstition. They have had superstition enough. They don't
need churches, they need schools. We should teach them our arts; how to
cultivate the soil, how to manufacture the things they need. In other
words, we should deal honestly with them, and try our best to make them
a self-supporting and a self-governing people. The eagle should spread
its wings over those islands for that and for no other purpose. We can
not afford to give them to other nations or to throw fragments of them
to the wild beasts of Europe. We can not say to Russia, "You may have a
part," and to Germany, "You may have a share," and to France, "You take
something," and so divide out these people as thieves divide plunder.
That we will never do.

There is, moreover, in my mind, a little sentiment mixed with this
matter. Manila Bay has been filled with American glory. There was won
one of our greatest triumphs, one of the greatest naval victories of the
world—won by American courage and genius. We can not allow any other
nation to become the owner of the stage on which this American drama was
played. I know that we can be of great assistance to the inhabitants of
the Philippines. I know that we can be an unmixed blessing to them, and
that is the only ambition I have in regard to those islands. I would no
more think of handing them back to Spain than I would of butchering the
entire population in cold blood. Spain is unfit to govern. Spain has
always been a robber. She has never made an effort to civilize a human
being. The history of Spain, I think, is the darkest page in the history
of the world.

At the same time I have a kind of pity for the Spanish people. I feel
that they have been victims—victims of superstition. Their blood has
been sucked, their energies have been wasted and misdirected, and they
excite my sympathies. Of course, there are many good Spaniards, good
men, good women. Cervera appears to be a civilized man, a gentleman, and
I feel obliged to him for his treatment of Hobson. The great mass of
the Spaniards, however, must be exceedingly ignorant. Their so-called
leaders dare not tell them the truth about the progress of this war.
They seem to be afraid to state the facts. They always commence with a
lie, then change it a little, then change it a little more, and may be
at last tell the truth. They never seem to dare to tell the truth at
first, if the truth is bad. They put me in mind of the story of a man
telegraphing to a wife about the condition of her husband. The first
dispatch was, "Your husband is well, never better." The second was,
"Your husband is sick, but not very." The third was, "Your husband is
much worse, but we still have hope." The fourth was, "You may as well
know the truth—we buried your husband yesterday." That is about the way
the Spanish people get their war news.

That is why it may be incorrect to assume that peace is coming quickly.
If the Spaniards were a normal people, who acted as other folks do, we
might prophesy a speedy peace, but nobody has prophetic vision enough
to tell what such a people will do. In spite of all appearances, and all
our successes, and of all sense, the war may drag on. But I hope not,
not only for our own sake, but for the sake of the Spaniards themselves.
I can't help thinking of the poor peasants who will be killed, neither
can I help thinking of the poor peasants who will have to toil for many
years on the melancholy fields of Spain to pay the cost of this war. I
am sorry for them, and I am sorry also for the widows and orphans, and
no one will be more delighted when peace comes.

The argument has been advanced in the National Senate and elsewhere,
that the Federal Constitution makes no provision for the holding of
colonies or dependencies, such as the Philippines would be; that we can
only acquire them as territories, and eventually must take them in
as States, with their population of mixed and inferior races. That is
hardly an effective argument.

When this country was an infant, still in its cradle, George Washington
gave the child some very good advice; told him to beware of entangling
alliances, to stay at home and attend to his own business. Under the
circumstances this was all very good. But the infant has been growing,
and the Republic is now one of the most powerful nations in the world,
and yet, from its infant days until now, good, conservative people have
been repeating the advice of Washington. It was repeated again and again
when we were talking about purchasing Louisiana, and many Senators and
Congressmen became hysterical and predicted the fall of the Republic if
that was done. The same thing took place when we purchased Florida, and
again when we got one million square miles from Mexico, and still again
when we bought Alaska. These ideas about violating the Constitution and
wrecking the Republic were promulgated by our great and wise statesmen
on all these previous occasions, but, after all, the Constitution seems
to have borne the strain. There seems to be as much liberty now as there
was then, and, in fact, a great deal more. Our Territories have given us
no trouble, while they have greatly added to our population and vastly
increased our wealth.

Beside this, the statesmen of the olden time, the wise men with whom
wisdom was supposed to have perished, could not and did not imagine the
improvements that would take place after they were gone. In their time,
practically speaking, it was farther from New York to Buffalo than it is
now from New York to San Francisco, and so far as the transportation of
intelligence is concerned, San Francisco is as near New York as it would
have been in their day had it been just across the Harlem River. Taking
into consideration the railways, the telegraphs and the telephones, this
country now, with its area of three million five hundred thousand square
miles, is not so large as the thirteen original colonies were; that is
to say, the distances are more easily traveled and more easily overcome.
In those days it required months and months to cross the continent. Now
it is the work of four or five days.

Yet, when we came to talk about annexing the Hawaiian Islands, the
advice of George Washington was again repeated, and the older the
Senator the fonder he was of this advice. These Senators had the idea
that the Constitution, having nothing in favor of it, must contain
something, at least in spirit, against it. Of course, our fathers had
no idea of the growth of the Republic. We have, because with us it is a
matter of experience. I don't see that Alaska has imperiled any of the
liberties of New York. We need not admit Alaska as a State unless it has
a population entitling it to admission, and we are not bound to take in
the Sandwich Islands until the people are civilized, until they are fit
companions of free men and free women. It may be that a good many of our
citizens will go to the Sandwich Islands, and that, in a short time,
the people there will be ready to be admitted as a State. All this the
Constitution can stand, and in it there is no danger of imperialism.

I believe in national growth. As a rule, the prosperous farmer wants to
buy the land that adjoins him, and I think a prosperous nation has the
ambition of growth. It is better to expand than to shrivel; and, if our
Constitution is too narrow to spread over the territory that we have
the courage to acquire, why we can make a broader one. It is a very easy
matter to make a constitution, and no human happiness, no prosperity,
no progress should be sacrificed for the sake of a piece of paper with
writing on it; because there is plenty of paper and plenty of men to do
the writing, and plenty of people to say what the writing should be.
I take more interest in people than I do in constitutions. I regard
constitutions as secondary; they are means to an end, but the dear,
old, conservative gentlemen seem to regard constitutions as ends in
themselves.

I have read what ex-President Cleveland had to say on this important
subject, and I am happy to say that I entirely disagree with him. So,
too, I disagree with Senator Edmunds, and with Mr. Bryan, and with
Senator Hoar, and with all the other gentlemen who wish to stop the
growth of the Republic. I want it to grow.

As to the final destiny of the island possessions won from Spain, my
idea is that the Philippine Islands will finally be free, protected, it
may be for a long time, by the United States. I think Cuba will come to
us for protection, naturally, and, so far as I am concerned, I want
Cuba only when Cuba wants us. I think that Porto Rico and some of those
islands will belong permanently to the United States, and I believe Cuba
will finally become a part of our Republic.

When the opponents of progress found that they couldn't make the
American people take the back track by holding up their hands over the
Constitution, they dragged in the Monroe doctrine. When we concluded not
to allow Spain any longer to enslave her colonists, or the people who
had been her colonists, in the New World, that was a very humane and
wise resolve, and it was strictly in accord with the Monroe doctrine.
For the purpose of conquering Spain, we attacked her fleet in Manila
Bay, and destroyed it. I can not conceive how that action of ours can
be twisted into a violation of the Monroe doctrine. The most that can be
said is, that it is an extension of that doctrine, and that we are now
saying to Spain, "You shall not enslave, you shall not rob, anywhere
that we have the power to prevent it."

Having taken the Philippines, the same humanity that dictated the
declaration of what is called the Monroe doctrine, will force us to act
there in accordance with the spirit of that doctrine. The other day I
saw in the paper an extract, I think, from Goldwin Smith, in which
he says that if we were to bombard Cadiz we would give up the Monroe
doctrine. I do not see the application. We are at war with Spain, and we
have a right to invade that country, and the invasion would have nothing
whatever to do with the Monroe doctrine. War being declared, we have
the right to do anything consistent with civilized warfare to gain the
victory. The bombardment of Cadiz would have no more to do with the
Monroe doctrine than with the attraction of gravitation. If, by the
Monroe doctrine is meant that we have agreed to stay in this hemisphere,
and to prevent other nations from interfering with any people
on this hemisphere, and if it is said that, growing out of this, is
another doctrine, namely, that we are pledged not to interfere with
any people living on the other hemisphere, then it might be called a
violation of the Monroe doctrine for us to bombard Cadiz. But such is
not the Monroe doctrine. If, we being at war with England, she should
bombard the city of New York, or we should bombard some city of England,
would anybody say that either nation had violated the Monroe doctrine? I
do not see how that doctrine is involved, whether we fight at sea or on
the territory of the enemy.

This is the first war, so far as I know, in the history of the world
that has been waged absolutely in the interest of humanity; the only
war born of pity, of sympathy; and for that reason I have taken a deep
interest in it, and I must say that I was greatly astonished by the
victory of Admiral Dewey in Manila Bay. I think it one of the most
wonderful in the history of the world, and I think all that Dewey
has done shows clearly that he is a man of thought, of courage and of
genius. So, too, the victory over the fleet of Cervera by Commodore
Schley, is one of the most marvelous and the most brilliant in all
the annals of the world. The marksmanship, the courage, the absolute
precision with which everything was done, is to my mind astonishing.
Neither should we forget Wainwright's heroic exploit, as commander of
the Gloucester, by which he demonstrated that torpedo destroyers have
no terrors for a yacht manned by American pluck. Manila Bay and Santiago
both are surpassingly wonderful. There are no words with which to
describe such deeds—deeds that leap like flames above the clouds and
glorify the whole heavens.

The Spanish have shown in this contest that they possess courage, and
they have displayed what you might call the heroism of desperation,
but the Anglo-Saxon has courage and coolness—courage not blinded by
passion, courage that is the absolute servant of intelligence. The
Anglo-Saxon has a fixedness of purpose that is never interfered with by
feeling; he does not become enraged—he becomes firm, unyielding, his
mind is absolutely made up, clasped, locked, and he carries out his
will. With the Spaniard it is excitement, nervousness; he becomes
frantic. I think this war has shown the superiority, not simply of our
ships, or our armor, or our guns, but the superiority of our men, of
our officers, of our gunners. The courage of our army about Santiago was
splendid, the steadiness and bravery of the volunteers magnificent. I
think that what has already been done has given us the admiration of the
civilized world.

I know, of course, that some countries hate us. Germany is filled with
malice, and has been just on the crumbling edge of meanness for months,
wishing but not daring to interfere; hateful, hostile, but keeping just
within the overt act. We could teach Germany a lesson and her ships
would go down before ours just the same as the Spanish ships have done.
Sometimes I have almost wished that a hostile German shot might be
fired. But I think we will get even with Germany and with France—at
least I hope so.

And there is another thing I hope—that the good feeling now existing
between England and the United States may be eternal. In other words,
I hope it will be to the interests of both to be friends. I think the
English-speaking peoples are to rule this world. They are the kings of
invention, of manufactures, of commerce, of administration, and they
have a higher conception of human liberty than any other people. Of
course, they are not entirely free; they still have some of the rags and
tatters and ravelings of superstition; but they are tatters and they are
rags and they are ravelings, and the people know it. And, besides all
this, the English language holds the greatest literature of the world.
---
# Prof. Van Buren Denslow's \"Modern Thinkers\"
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1880_
IF others who read this book get as much information as I did from the
advance sheets, they will feel repaid a hundred times. It is perfectly
delightful to take advantage of the conscientious labors of those who go
through and through volume after volume, divide with infinite patience
the gold from the dross, and present us with the pure and shining coin.
Such men may be likened to bees who save us numberless journeys by
giving us the fruit of their own.

While this book will greatly add to the information of all who read it,
it may not increase the happiness of some to find that Swedenborg was
really insane. But when they remember that he was raised by a bishop,
and disappointed in love, they will cease to wonder at his mental
condition. Certainly an admixture of theology and "dis-prized love"
is often sufficient to compel reason to abdicate the throne of the
mightiest soul.

The trouble with Swedenborg was that he changed realities into dreams,
and then out of the dreams made facts upon which he built, and with
which he constructed his system.

He regarded all realities as shadows cast by ideas. To him the material
was the unreal, and things were definitions of the ideas of God. He
seemed to think that he had made a discovery when he found that ideas
were back of words, and that language had a subjective as well as an
objective origin; that is that the interior meaning had been clothed
upon. Of course, a man capable of drawing the conclusion that natural
reason cannot harmonize with spiritual truth because in a dream, he had
seen a beetle that could not use its feet, is capable of any absurdity
of which the imagination can conceive. The fact is, that Swedenborg
believed the Bible. That was his misfortune. His mind had been
overpowered by the bishop, but the woman had not utterly destroyed his
heart. He was shocked by the liberal interpretation of the Scriptures,
and sought to avoid the difficulty by giving new meanings consistent
with the decency and goodness of God. He pointed out a way to preserve
the old Bible with a new interpretation. In this way Infidelity could
be avoided; and, in his day, that was almost a necessity. Had Swedenborg
taken the ground that the Bible was not inspired, the ears of the
world would have been stopped. His readers believed in the dogma of
inspiration, and asked, not how to destroy the Scriptures, but for some
way in which they might be preserved. He and his followers unconsciously
rendered immense service to the cause of intellectual enfranchisement
by their efforts to show the necessity of giving new meanings to the
barbarous laws, and cruel orders of Jehovah. For this purpose they
attacked with great fury the literal text, taking the ground that if the
old interpretation was right, the Bible was the work of savage men. They
heightened in every way the absurdities, cruelties and contradictions of
the Scriptures for the purpose of showing that a new interpretation must
be found, and that the way pointed out by Swedenborg was the only one by
which the Bible could be saved.

Great men are, after all the instrumentalities of their time. The heart
of the civilized world was beginning to revolt at the cruelties ascribed
to God, and was seeking for some interpretation of the Bible that kind
and loving people could accept. The method of interpretation found by
Swedenborg was suitable for all. Each was permitted to construct his own
"science of correspondence" and gather such fruits as he might prefer.
In this way the ravings of revenge can instantly be changed to mercy's
melting tones, and murder's dagger to a smile of love. In this way and
in no other, can we explain the numberless mistakes and crimes ascribed
to God. Thousands of most excellent people, afraid to throw away the
idea of inspiration, hailed with joy a discovery that allowed them to
write a Bible for themselves.

But, whether Swedenborg was right or not, every man who reads a book,
necessarily gets from that book all that he is capable of receiving.
Every man who walks in the forest, or gathers a flower, or looks at a
picture, or stands by the sea, gets all the intellectual wealth he is
capable of receiving. What the forest, the flower, the picture or the
sea is to him, depends upon his mind, and upon the stage of development
he has reached. So that after all, the Bible must be a different book to
each person who reads it, as the revelations of nature depend upon the
individual to whom they are revealed, or by whom they are discovered.
And the extent of the revelation or discovery depends absolutely upon
the intellectual and moral development of the person to whom, or by
whom, the revelation or discovery is made. So that the Bible cannot be
the same to any two people, but each one must necessarily interpret it
for himself. Now, the moment the doctrine is established that we can
give to this book such meanings as are consistent with our highest
ideals; that we can treat the old words as purses or old stockings
in which to put our gold, then, each one will, in effect, make a new
inspired Bible for himself, and throw the old away. If his mind is
narrow, if he has been raised by ignorance and nursed by fear, he
will believe in the literal truth of what he reads. If he has a little
courage he will doubt, and the doubt will with new interpretations
modify the literal text; but if his soul is free he will with scorn
reject it all.

Swedenborg did one thing for which I feel almost grateful. He gave an
account of having met John Calvin in hell. Nothing connected with the
supernatural could be more perfectly natural than this. The only thing
detracting from the value of this report is, that if there is a hell, we
know without visiting the place that John Calvin must be there.

All honest founders of religions have been the dreamers of dreams, the
sport of insanity, the prey of visions, the deceivers of others and of
themselves. All will admit that Swedenborg was a man of great intellect,
of vast acquirements and of honest intentions; and I think it equally
clear that upon one subject, at least, his mind was touched, shattered
and shaken.

Misled by analogies, imposed upon by the bishop, deceived by the woman,
borne to other worlds upon the wings of dreams, living in the twilight
of reason and the dawn of insanity, he regarded every fact as a patched
and ragged garment with a lining of the costliest silk, and insisted
that the wrong side, even of the silk, was far more beautiful than the
right.

Herbert Spencer is almost the opposite of Swedenborg. He relies upon
evidence, upon demonstration, upon experience, and occupies himself with
one world at a time. He perceives that there is a mental horizon that
we cannot pierce, and that beyond that is the unknown—possibly the
unknowable. He endeavors to examine only that which is capable of being
examined, and considers the theological method as not only useless,
but hurtful. After all, God is but a guess, throned and established by
arrogance and assertion. Turning his attention to those things that
have in some way affected the condition of mankind, Spencer leaves the
unknowable to priests and to the believers in the "moral government" of
the world. He sees only natural causes and natural results, and seeks to
induce man to give up gazing into void and empty space, that he may give
his entire attention to the world in which he lives. He sees that right
and wrong do not depend upon the arbitrary will of even an infinite
being, but upon the nature of things; that they are relations, not
entities, and that they cannot exist, so far as we know, apart from
human experience.

It may be that men will finally see that selfishness and self-sacrifice
are both mistakes; that the first devours itself; that the second is
not demanded by the good, and that the bad are unworthy of it. It may be
that our race has never been, and never will be, deserving of a martyr.
Sometime we may see that justice is the highest possible form of mercy
and love, and that all should not only be allowed, but compelled to reap
exactly what they sow; that industry should not support idleness, and
that they who waste the spring and summer and autumn of their lives
should bear the winter when it comes. The fortunate should assist
the victims of accident; the strong should defend the weak, and the
intellectual should lead, with loving hands, the mental poor; but
Justice should remove the bandage from her eyes long enough to
distinguish between the vicious and the unfortunate.

Mr. Spencer is wise enough to declare that "acts are called good or bad
according as they are well or ill adjusted to ends;" and he might have
added, that ends are good or bad according as they affect the happiness
of mankind.

It would be hard to over-estimate the influence of this great man. From
an immense intellectual elevation he has surveyed the world of thought.
He has rendered absurd the idea of special providence, born of the
egotism of savagery. He has shown that the "will of God" is not a rule
for human conduct; that morality is not a cold and heartless tyrant;
that by the destruction of the individual will, a higher life cannot
be reached, and that after all, an intelligent love of self extends the
hand of help and kindness to all the human race.

But had it not been for such men as Thomas Paine, Herbert Spencer could
not have existed for a century to come. Some one had to lead the way,
to raise the standard of revolt, and draw the sword of war. Thomas Paine
was a natural revolutionist. He was opposed to every government existing
in his day. Next to establishing a wise and just republic based upon
the equal rights of man, the best thing that can be done is to destroy a
monarchy.

Paine had a sense of justice, and had imagination enough to put himself
in the place of the oppressed. He had, also, what in these pages is so
felicitously expressed, "a haughty intellectual pride, and a willingness
to pit his individual thought against the clamor of a world."

I cannot believe that he wrote the letters of "Junius," although the two
critiques combined in this volume, entitled "Paine" and "Junius," make
by far the best argument upon that subject I have ever read. First,
Paine could have had no personal hatred against the men so bitterly
assailed by Junius. Second, He knew, at that time, but little of English
politicians, and certainly had never associated with men occupying the
highest positions, and could not have been personally acquainted with
the leading statesmen of England. Third., He was not an unjust man. He
was neither a coward, a calumniator, nor a sneak. All these delightful
qualities must have lovingly united in the character of Junius. Fourth,
Paine could have had no reason for keeping the secret after coming to
America.

I have always believed that Junius, after having written his letters,
accepted office from the very men he had maligned, and at last became
a pensioner of the victims of his slander. "Had he as many mouths as
Hydra, such a course must have closed them all." Certainly the author
must have kept the secret to prevent the loss of his reputation.

It cannot be denied that the style of Junius is much like that of Paine.
Should it be established that Paine wrote the letters of Junius, it
would not, in my judgment, add to his reputation as a writer. Regarded
as literary efforts they cannot be compared with "Common Sense," "The
Crisis," or "The Rights of Man."

The claim that Paine was the real author of the Declaration of
Independence is much better founded. I am inclined to think that he
actually wrote it; but whether this is true or not, every idea contained
in it had been written by him long before. It is now claimed that the
original document is in Paine's handwriting. It certainly is not in
Jefferson's. Certain it is, that Jefferson could not have written
anything so manly, so striking, so comprehensive, so clear, so
convincing, and so faultless in rhetoric and rhythm as the Declaration
of Independence.

Paine was the first man to write these words, "The United States of
America." He was the first great champion of absolute separation
from England. He was the first to urge the adoption of a Federal
Constitution; and, more clearly than any other man of his time, he
perceived the future greatness of this country.

He has been blamed for his attack on Washington. The truth is, he was
in prison in France. He had committed the crime of voting, against the
execution of the king It was the grandest act of his life, but at that
time to be merciful was criminal. Paine; being an American citizen,
asked Washington, then President, to say a word to Robespierre in
his behalf. Washington remained silent. In the calmness of power, the
serenity, of fortune, Washington the President, read the request of
Paine, the prisoner, and with the complacency of assured fame, consigned
to the wastebasket of forgetfulness the patriot's cry for help.

> "Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
> Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
> A great-sized monster of ingratitudes.
> Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd
> As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
> As done."

In this controversy, my sympathies are with the prisoner.

Paine did more to free the mind, to destroy the power of ministers and
priests in the New World, than any other man. In order to answer his
arguments, the churches found it necessary to attack his character.
There was a general resort to falsehood. In trying to destroy the
reputation of Paine, the churches have demoralized themselves. Nearly
every minister has been a willing witness against the truth. Upon the
grave of Thomas Paine, the churches of America have sacrificed their
honor. The influence of the Hero author increases every day, and there
are more copies of the "Age of Reason" sold in the United States, than
of any work written in defence of the Christian religion. Hypocrisy,
with its forked tongue, its envious and malignant heart, lies coiled
upon the memory of Paine, ready to fasten its poisonous fangs in the
reputation of any man who dares defend the great and generous dead.

Leaving the dust and glory of revolutions, let us spend a moment of
quiet with Adam Smith. I was glad to find that a man's ideas upon the
subject of protection and free trade depend almost entirely upon the
country in which he lives, or the business in which he happens to
be engaged, and that, after all, each man regards the universe as a
circumference of which he is the center. It gratified me to learn that
even Adam Smith was no exception to this rule, and that he regarded
all "protection as a hurtful and ignorant interference," except when
exercised for the good of Great Britain. Owing to the fact that his
nationality quarreled with his philosophy, he succeeded in writing
a book that is quoted with equal satisfaction by both parties. The
protectionists rely upon the exceptions he made for England, and the
free traders upon the doctrines laid down for other countries.

He seems to have reasoned upon the question of money precisely as we
have, of late years, in the United States; and he has argued both sides
equally well. Poverty asks for inflation. Wealth is conservative, and
always says there is money enough.

Upon the question of money, this volume contains the best thing I have
ever read: "The only mode of procuring the service of others, on any
large scale, in the absence of money, is by force, which is slavery.
Money, by constituting a medium in which the smallest services can be
paid for, substitutes wages for the lash, and renders the liberty of
the individual consistent with the maintenance and support of society."
There is more philosophy in that one paragraph than Adam Smith expresses
in his whole work. It may truthfully be said, that without money,
liberty is impossible. No one, whatever his views may be, can read the
article on Adam Smith without profit and delight.

The discussion of the money question is in every respect admirable, and
is as candid as able. The world will sooner or later learn that there is
nothing miraculous in finance; that money is a real and tangible thing,
a product of labor, serving not merely as a medium of exchange but as
a basis of credit as well; that it cannot be created by an act of the
Legislature; that dreams cannot be coined, and that only labor, in some
form, can put, upon the hand of want, Alladin's magic ring.

Adam Smith wrote upon the wealth of nations, while Charles Fourier
labored for the happiness of mankind. In this country, few seem
to understand communism. While here, it may be regarded as vicious
idleness, armed with the assassin's knife and the incendiary's torch, in
Europe, it is a different thing. There, it is a reaction from Feudalism.
Nobility is communism in its worst possible form. Nothing can be worse
than for idleness to eat the bread of industry. Communism in Europe
is not the "stand and deliver" of the robber, but the protest of the
robbed. Centuries ago, kings and priests, that is to say, thieves and
hypocrites, divided Europe among themselves. Under this arrangement, the
few were masters and the many slaves. Nearly every government in the
Old World rests upon simple brute force. It is hard for the many to
understand why the few should own the soil. Neither can they clearly
see why they should give their brain and blood to those who steal their
birthright and their bread. It has occurred to them that they who do the
most should not receive the least, and that, after all, an industrious
peasant is of far more value to the world than a vain and idle king.

The Communists of France, blinded as they were, made the Republic
possible. Had they joined with their countrymen, the invaders would have
been repelled, and some Napoleon would still have occupied the throne.
Socialism perceives that Germany has been enslaved by victory, while
France found liberty in defeat. In Russia the Nihilists prefer chaos to
the government of the bayonet, Siberia and the knout, and these intrepid
men have kept upon the coast of despotism one beacon fire of hope.

As a matter of fact, every society is a species of communism—a kind
of co-operation in which selfishness, in spite of itself, benefits the
community. Every industrious man adds to the wealth, not only of his
nation, but to that of the world. Every inventor increases human power,
and every sculptor, painter and poet adds to the value of human life.
Fourier, touched by the sufferings of the poor as well as by the barren
joys of hoarded wealth, and discovering the vast advantages of combined
effort, and the immense economy of co-operation, sought to find some way
for men to help themselves by helping each other. He endeavored to do
away with monopoly and competition, and to ascertain some method by
which the sensuous, the moral, and the intellectual passions of man
could be gratified.

For my part I can place no confidence in any system that does away, or
tends to do away, with the institution of marriage. I can conceive of no
civilization of which the family must not be the unit.

Societies cannot be made; they must grow. Philosophers may predict, but
they cannot create. They may point out as many ways as they please; but
after all, humanity will travel in paths of its own.

Fourier sustained about the same relation to this world that Swedenborg
did to the other. There must be something wrong about the brain of one
who solemnly asserts that, "the elephant, the ox and the diamond, were
created by the sun; the horse, the lily and the ruby, by Saturn; the
cow, the jonquil and the topaz by Jupiter; and the dog, the violet and
the opal stones by the earth itself."

And yet, forgetting these aberrations of the mind, this lunacy of a
great and loving soul, for one, I hold in tender-est regard the memory
of Charles Fourier, one of the best and noblest of our race.

While Fourier was in his cradle, Jeremy Bentham, who read history when
three years old, played on the violin at five, "and at fifteen detected
the fallacies of Blackstone," was demonstrating that the good was the
useful; that a thing was right because it paid in the highest and best
sense; that utility was the basis of morals; that without allowing
interest to be paid upon money commerce could not exist; and that
the object of all human governments should be to secure the greatest
happiness of the greatest number. He read Hume and Helvetius, threw away
the Thirty-nine Articles, and endeavored to impress upon the English
Law the fact that its ancestor was a feudal savage. He held the past in
contempt, hated Westminster and despised Oxford. He combated the
idea that governments were originally founded on contract. Locke and
Blackstone talked as though men originally lived apart, and formed
societies by agreement. These writers probably imagined that at one time
the trees were separated like telegraph poles, and finally came together
and made groves by agreement. I believe that it was Pufendorf who said
that slavery was originally founded on contract. To which Voltaire
replied:—"If my lord Pufendorf will produce the original contract
_signed by the party who was to be the slave_, I will admit the truth of
his statement."

A contract back of society is a myth manufactured by those in power to
serve as a title to place, and to impress the multitude with the
idea that they are, in some mysterious way, bound, fettered, and even
benefited by its terms.

The glory of Bentham is, that he gave the true basis of morals, and
furnished statesmen with the star and compass of this sentence:—"The
greatest happiness of the greatest number."

Most scientists have deferred to the theologians. They have admitted
that some questions could not, at present, be solved. These admissions
have been thankfully received by the clergy, who have always begged for
some curtain to be left, behind which their God could still exist. Men
calling themselves "scientific" have tried to harmonize the "apparent"
discrepancies between the Bible and the _other_ works of Jehovah. In
this way they have made reputations. They were at once quoted by
the ministers as wonderful examples of piety and learning. These men
discounted the future that they might enjoy the ignorant praise of the
present. Agassiz preferred the applause of Boston, while he lived, to
the reverence of a world after he was dead. Small men appear great only
when they agree with the multitude.

The last Scientific Congress in America was opened with prayer. Think
of a science that depends upon the efficacy of words addressed to the
Unknown and Unknowable!

In our country, most of the so-called scientists are professors in
sectarian colleges, in which Moses is considered a geologist, and
Joshua an astronomer. For the most part their salaries depend upon
the ingenuity with which they can explain away facts and dodge
demonstration.

The situation is about the same in England. When Mr. Huxley saw fit to
attack the Mosaic account of the creation, he did not deem it advisable
to say plainly what he meant. He attacked the account of creation as
given by Milton, although he knew that the Mosaic and Miltonic were
substantially the same. Science has acted like a guest without a wedding
garment, and has continually apologized for existing. In the presence
of arrogant absurdity, overawed by the patronizing airs of a successful
charlatan, it has played the role of a "poor relation," and accepted,
while sitting below the salt, insults as honors.

There can be no more pitiable sight than a scientist in the employ of
superstition dishonoring himself without assisting his master. But there
are a multitude of brave and tender men who give their honest thoughts,
who are true to nature, who give the facts and let consequences shirk
for themselves, who know the value and meaning of a truth, and who have
bravely tried the creeds by scientific tests.

Among the bravest, side by side with the greatest of the world, in
Germany, the land of science, stands Ernst Haeckel, who may be said
to have not only demonstrated the theories of Darwin, but the Monistic
conception of the world. Rejecting all the puerile ideas of a personal
Creator, he has had the courage to adopt the noble words of Bruno:—"A
spirit exists in all things, and no body is so small but it contains a
part of the divine substance within itself, by which it is animated." He
has endeavored—and I think with complete success—to show that there is
not, and never was, and never can be the _Creator_ of anything. There
is no more a personal Creator than there is a personal destroyer. Matter
and force must have existed from eternity, all generation must have been
spontaneous, and the simplest organisms must have been the ancestors of
the most perfect and complex.

Haeckel is one of the bitterest enemies of the church, and is,
therefore, one of the bravest friends of man.

Catholicism was, at one time, the friend of education—of an education
sufficient to make a Catholic out of a barbarian. Protestantism was also
in favor of education—of an education sufficient to make a Protestant
out of a Catholic. But now, it having been demonstrated that real
education will make Freethinkers, Catholics and Protestants both are the
enemies of true learning.

In all countries where human beings are held in bondage, it is a crime
to teach a slave to read and write. Masters know that education is an
abolitionist, and theologians know that science is the deadly foe of
every creed in Christendom.

In the age of Faith, a personal god stood at the head of every
department of ignorance, and was supposed to be the King of kings, the
rewarder and punisher of individuals, and the governor of nations.

The worshipers of this god have always regarded the men in love with
simple facts, as Atheists in disguise. And it must be admitted that
nothing is more Atheistic than a fact. Pure science is necessarily
godless, It is incapable of worship. It investigates, and cannot afford
to shut its eyes even long enough to pray. There was a time when those
who disputed the divine right of kings were denounced as blasphemous;
but the time came when liberty demanded that a personal god should be
retired from politics. In our country this was substantially done in
1776, when our fathers declared that all power to govern came from
the consent of the governed. The cloud-theory was abandoned, and one
government has been established for the benefit of mankind. Our fathers
did not keep God out of the Constitution from principle, but from
jealousy. Each church, in colonial times, preferred to live in single
blessedness rather than see some rival wedded to the state. Mutual
hatred planted our tree of religious liberty. A constitution without a
god has at last given us a nation without a slave.

A personal god sustains the same relation to religion as to politics.
The Deity is a master, and man a serf; and this relation is inconsistent
with true progress. The Universe ought to be a pure democracy—an
infinite republic without a tyrant and without a chain.

Auguste Comte endeavored to put humanity in the place of Jehovah, and no
conceivable change can be more desirable than this. This great man did
not, like some of his followers, put a mysterious something called law
in the place of God, which is simply giving the old master a new name.
Law is this side of phenomena, not the other. It is not the cause,
neither is it the result of phenomena. The fact of succession and
resemblance, that is to say, the same thing happening under the same
conditions, is all we mean by law. No one can conceive of a law
existing apart from matter, or controlling matter, any more than he can
understand the eternal procession of the Holy Ghost, or motion apart
from substance. We are beginning to see that law does not, and cannot
exist as an entity, but that it is only a conception of the mind to
express the fact that the same entities, under the same conditions,
produce the same results. Law does not produce the entities, the
conditions, or the results, or even the sameness of the results.
Neither does it affect the relations of entities, nor the result of such
relations, but it stands simply for the fact that the same causes, under
the same conditions, eternally have produced and eternally will produce
the same results.

The metaphysicians are always giving us explanations of phenomena which
are as difficult to understand as the phenomena they seek to explain;
and the believers in God establish their dogmas by miracles, and then
substantiate the miracles by assertion.

The Designer of the teleologist, the First Cause of the religious
philosopher, the Vital Force of the biologist, and the law of the
half-orthodox scientist, are all the shadowy children of ignorance and
fear.

The Universe is all there is. It is both subject and object;
contemplator and contemplated; creator and created; destroyer and
destroyed; preserver and preserved; and within itself are all causes,
modes, motions and effects.

Unable in some things to rise above the superstitions of his day,
Comte adopted not only the machinery, but some of the prejudices, of
Catholicism. He made the mistake of Luther. He tried to reform the
Church of Rome. Destruction is the only reformation of which that church
is capable. Every religion is based upon a misconception, not only of
the cause of phenomena, but of the real object of life; that is to say,
upon falsehood; and the moment the truth is known and understood, these
religions must fall. In the field of thought, they are briers, thorns,
and noxious weeds; on the shores of intellectual discovery, they are
sirens, and in the forests that the brave thinkers are now penetrating,
they are the wild beasts, fanged and monstrous.

You cannot reform these weeds. Sirens cannot be changed into good
citizens; and such wild beasts, even when tamed, are of no possible use.
Destruction is the only remedy. Reformation is a hospital where the new
philosophy exhausts its strength nursing the old religion.

There was, in the brain of the great Frenchman, the dawn of that happy
day in which humanity will be the only religion, good the only god,
happiness the only object, restitution the only atonement, mistake the
only sin, and affection, guided by intelligence, the only savior of
mankind. This dawn enriched his poverty, illuminated the darkness of
his life, peopled his loneliness with the happy millions yet to be, and
filled his eyes with proud and tender tears.

A few years ago I asked the superintendent of Pere La Chaise if he knew
where I could find the tomb of Auguste Comte. He had never heard even
the name of the author of the "Positive Philosophy." I asked him if
he had ever heard of Napoleon Bonaparte. In a half-insulted tone,
he replied, "Of course I have, why do you ask me such a question?"
"Simply," was my answer, "that I might have the opportunity of saying,
that when everything connected with Napoleon, except his crimes, shall
have been forgotten, Auguste Comte will be lovingly remembered as a
benefactor of the human race."

The Jewish God must be dethroned! A personal Deity must go back to
the darkness of barbarism from whence he came. The theologians must
abdicate, and popes, priests, and clergymen, labeled as "extinct
species," must occupy the mental museums of the future.

In my judgment, this book, filled with original thought, will hasten the
coming of that blessed time.

Washington, D. C., Nov. 29,1879.

## Preface to Dr. Edgar C. Beall's "the Brain and the Bible."

THIS book, written by a brave and honest man, is filled with brave and
honest thoughts. The arguments it presents can not be answered by all
the theologians in the world. The author is convinced that the universe
is natural, that man is naturally produced, and that there is a
necessary relation between character and brain. He sees, and clearly
sees, that the theological explanation of phenomena is only a plausible
absurdity, and, at best, as great a mystery as it tries to solve. I
thank the man who breaks, or tries to break, the chains of custom,
creed, and church, and gives in plain, courageous words, the product of
his brain.

It is almost impossible to investigate any subject without somewhere
touching the religious prejudices of ourselves or others. Most people
judge of the truth of a proposition by the consequences upon some
preconceived opinion. Certain things they take as truths, and with this
little standard in their minds, they measure all other theories. If
the new facts do not agree with the standard, they are instantly thrown
away, because it is much easier to dispose of the new facts than to
reconstruct an entire philosophy.

A few years ago, when men began to say that character could be
determined by the form, quantity, and quality of the brain, the
religious world rushed to the conclusion that this fact might destroy
what they were pleased to call the free moral agency of man. They
admitted that all things in the physical world were links in the
infinite chain of causes and effects, and that not one atom of the
material universe could, by any possibility, be entirely exempt from
the action of every other. They insisted that, if the motions of the
spirit—the thoughts, dreams, and conclusions of the brain, were as
necessarily produced as stones and stars, virtue became necessity, and
morality the result of forces capable of mathematical calculation.
In other words, they insisted that, while there were causes for all
material phenomena, a something called the Will sat enthroned above
all law, and dominated the phenomena of the intellectual world. They
insisted that man was free; that he controlled his brain; that he was
responsible for thought as well as action; that the intellectual world
of each man was a universe in which his will was king. They were
afraid that phrenology might, in some way, interfere with the scheme of
salvation, or prevent the eternal torment of some erring soul.

It is insisted that man is free, and is responsible, because he knows
right from wrong. But the compass does not navigate the ship; neither
does it, in any way, of itself, determine the direction that is taken.
When winds and waves are too powerful, the compass is of no importance.
The pilot may read it correctly, and may know the direction the ship
ought to take, but the compass is not a force. So men, blown by the
tempests of passion, may have the intellectual conviction that
they should go another way; but, of what use, of what force, is the
conviction?

Thousands of persons have gathered curious statistics for the purpose of
showing that man is absolutely dominated by his surroundings. By these
statistics is discovered what is called "the law of average." They show
that there are about so many suicides in London every year, so many
letters misdirected at Paris, so many men uniting themselves In marriage
with women older than themselves in Belgium, so many burglaries to one
murder in France, or so many persons driven insane by religion in the
United States. It is asserted that these facts conclusively show
that man is acted upon; that behind each thought, each dream, is the
efficient cause, and that the doctrine of moral responsibility has been
destroyed by statistics.

But, does the fact that about so many crimes are committed on the
average, in a given population, or that so many any things are done,
prove that there is no freedom in human action?

Suppose a population of ten thousand persons; and suppose, further, that
they are free, and that they have the usual wants of mankind. Is it not
reasonable to say that they would act in some way? They certainly would
take measures to obtain food, clothing, and shelter. If these people
differed in intellect, in surroundings, in temperament, in strength, it
is reasonable to suppose that all would not be equally successful. Under
such circumstances, may we not safely infer that, in a little while, if
the statistics were properly taken, a law of average would appear? In
other words, free people would act; and, being different in mind, body,
and circumstances, would not all act exactly alike. All would not be
alike acted upon. The deviations from what might be thought wise, or
right, would sustain such a relation to time and numbers that they could
be expressed by a law of average.

If this is true, the law of average does not establish necessity.

But, in my supposed case, the people, after all, are not free. They have
wants. They are under the necessity of feeding, clothing, and sheltering
themselves. To the extent of their actual wants, they are not free.
Every limitation is a master. Every finite being is a prisoner, and no
man has ever yet looked above or beyond the prison walls.

Our highest conception of liberty is to be free from the dictation of
fellow prisoners.

To the extent that we have wants, we are not free. To the extent that we
do not have wants, we do not act.

If we are responsible for our thoughts, we ought not only to know how
they are formed, but we ought to form them. If we are the masters of our
own minds, we ought to be able to tell what we are going to think at any
future time. Evidently, the food of thought—its very warp and woof—is
furnished through the medium of the senses. If we open our eyes, we
cannot help seeing. If we do not stop our ears, we cannot help hearing.
If anything touches us, we feel it. The heart beats in spite of us.
The lungs supply themselves with air without our knowledge. The blood
pursues its old accustomed rounds, and all our senses act without our
leave. As the heart beats, so the brain thinks. The will is not its
king. As the blood flows, as the lungs expand, as the eyes see, as the
ears hear, as the flesh is sensitive to touch, so the brain thinks.

I had a dream, in which I debated a question with a friend. I thought
to myself: "This is a dream, and yet I can not tell what my opponent is
going to say. Yet, if it is a dream, I am doing the thinking for both
sides, and therefore ought to know in advance what my friend will urge."
But, in a dream, there is some one who seems to talk to us. Our own
brain tells us news, and presents an unexpected thought. Is it not
possible that each brain is a field where all the senses sow the seeds
of thought? Some of these fields are mostly barren, poor, and hard,
producing only worthless weeds; and some grow sturdy oaks and stately
palms; and some are like the tropic world, where plants and trees and
vines seem royal children of the soil and sun.

Nothing seems more certain than that the capacity of a human being
depends, other things being equal, upon the amount, form, and quality
of his brain. We also know that health, disposition, temperament,
occupation, food, surroundings, ancestors, quality, form, and texture
of the brain, determine what we call character. Man is, collectively and
individually, what his surroundings have made him. Nations differ from
each other as greatly as individuals in the same nation. Nations depend
upon soil, climate, geographical position, and countless other facts.
Shakespeare would have been impossible without the climate of England.
There is a direct relation between Hamlet and the Gulf Stream. Dr.
Draper has shown that the great desert of Sahara made negroes possible
in Africa. If the Caribbean Sea had been a desert, negroes might have
been produced in America.

Are the effects of climate upon man necessary effects? Is it possible
for man to escape them? Is he responsible for what he does as a
consequence of his surroundings? Is the mind dependent upon causes?
Does it act without cause? Is every thought a necessity? Can man choose
without reference to any quality in the thing chosen?

No one will blame Mr. Brown or Mr. Jones for not writing like
Shakespeare. Should they be blamed for not acting like Christ? We say
that a great painter has genius. Is it not possible that a certain
genius is required to be what is called "good"? All men cannot be
great. All men cannot be successful. Can all men be kind? Can all men be
honest?

It may be that a crime appears terrible in proportion as we realize
its consequences. If this is true, morality may depend largely upon the
imagination. Man cannot have imagination at will; that, certainly, is
a natural product. And yet, a man's action may depend largely upon the
want of imagination. One man may feel that he really wishes to kill
another. He may make preparations to commit the deed; and yet, his
imagination may present such pictures of horror and despair; he may so
vividly see the widow clasping the mangled corpse; he may so plainly
hear the cries and sobs of orphans, while the clods fall upon the
coffin, that his hand is stayed. Another, lacking imagination, thirsting
only for revenge, seeing nothing beyond the accomplishment of the deed,
buries, with blind-and thoughtless hate, the dagger in his victim's
heart.

Morality, for the most part, is the verdict of the majority.
This verdict depends upon the intelligence of the people; and the
intelligence depends upon the amount, form, and quality of the average
brain.

If the mind depends upon certain organs for the expression of its
thought, does it have thought independently of those organs? Is there
any mind without brain? Does the mind think apart from the brain, and
then express its thought through the instrumentality of the brain?
Theologians tell us that insanity is not a disease of the soul, but of
the brain; that the soul is perfectly untouched; but that the instrument
with which, and through which, it manifests itself, is impaired. The
fact, however, seems to be, that the mind, the something that is the
man, is unconscious of the fact that anything is out of order in the
brain. Insane people insist that they are sane.

If we should find a locomotive off the track, and the engineer using the
proper appliances to put it back, we would say that the machine is
out of order, but the engineer is not. But, if we found the locomotive
upside down, with wheels in air, and the engineer insisting that it
was on the track, and never running better, we would then conclude
that something was wrong, not only with the locomotive, but with the
engineer.

We are told in medical books of a girl, who, at about the age of nine
years, was attacked with some cerebral disease. When she recovered, she
had forgotten all she ever knew, and had to relearn the alphabet, and
the names of her parents and kindred. In this abnormal state, she was
not a good girl; in the normal state, she was. After having lived in the
second state for several years, she went back to the first; and all she
had learned in the second state was forgotten, and all she had learned
in the first was remembered.

I believe she changed once more, and died in the abnormal state. In
which of these states was she responsible? Were her thoughts and
actions as free in one as in the other? It may be contended that, in her
diseased state, the mind or soul could not correctly express itself. If
this is so, it follows that, as no one is perfectly healthy, and as
no one has a perfect brain, it is impossible that the soul should ever
correctly express itself. Is the soul responsible for the defects of the
brain? Is it not altogether more rational to say, that what we call mind
depends upon the brain, and that the child—mind, inherits the defects
of its parent—brain?

Are certain physical conditions necessary to the production of what
we call virtuous actions? Is it possible for anything to be produced
without what we call cause, and, if the cause was sufficient, was it not
necessarily produced? Do not most people mistake for freedom the right
to examine their own chains? If morality depends upon conditions, should
it not be the task of the great and good to discover such conditions?
May it not be possible so to understand the brain that we can stop
producing criminals?

It may be insisted that there is something produced by the brain besides
thought—a something that takes cognizance of thoughts—a something
that weighs, compares, reflects and pronounces judgment. This something
cannot find the origin of itself. Does it exist independently of the
brain? Is it merely a looker-on? If it is a product of the brain, then
its power, perception, and judgment depend upon the quantity, form, and
quality of the brain.

Man, including all his attributes, must have been necessarily produced,
and the product was the child of conditions.

Most reformers have infinite confidence in creeds, resolutions, and
laws. They think of the common people as raw material, out of which
they propose to construct institutions and governments, like mechanical
contrivances, where each person will stand for a cog, rope, wheel,
pulley, bolt, or fuel, and the reformers will be the managers and
directors. They forget that these cogs and wheels have opinions of their
own; that they fall out with other cogs, and refuse to turn with other
wheels; that the pulleys and ropes have ideas peculiar to themselves,
and delight in mutiny and revolution. These reformers have theories that
can only be realized when other people have none.

Some time, it will be found that people can be changed only by changing
their surroundings. It is alleged that, at least ninety-five per cent.
of the criminals transported from England to Australia and other penal
colonies, became good and useful citizens in a new world. Free from
former associates and associations, from the necessities of a hard,
cruel, and competitive civilization, they became, for the most part,
honest people. This immense fact throws more light upon social questions
than all the theories of the world. All people are not able to support
themselves. They lack intelligence, industry, cunning—in short,
capacity. They are continually falling by the way. In the midst of
plenty, they are hungry. Larceny is born of want and opportunity. In
passion's storm, the will is wrecked upon the reefs and rocks of crime.

The complex, tangled web of thought and dream, of perception and memory,
of imagination and judgment, of wish and will and want—the woven wonder
of a life—has never yet been raveled back to simple threads.

Shall we not become charitable and just, when we know that every act is
but condition's fruit; that Nature, with her countless hands, scatters
the seeds of tears and crimes—of every virtue and of every joy; that
all the base and vile are victims of the Blind, and that the good and
great have, in the lottery of life, by chance or fate, drawn heart and
brain?

Washington, December 21, 1881.

## Preface to "men, Women and Gods."

NOTHING gives me more pleasure, nothing gives greater promise for the
future, than the fact that woman is achieving intellectual and physical
liberty.

It is refreshing to know that here, in our country, there are thousands
of women who think, and express their thoughts—who are thoroughly
free and thoroughly conscientious—who have neither been narrowed nor
corrupted by a heartless creed—who do not worship a being in heaven
whom they would shudderingly loathe on earth—women who do not stand
before the altar of a cruel faith, with downcast eyes of timid
acquiescence, and pay to impudent authority the tribute of a thoughtless
yes. They are no longer satisfied with being told. They examine for
themselves. They have ceased to be the prisoners of society—the
satisfied serfs of husbands, or the echoes of priests. They demand the
rights that naturally belong to intelligent human beings. If wives, they
wish to be the equals of husbands. If mothers, they wish to rear their
children in the atmosphere of love, liberty and philosophy. They believe
that woman can discharge all her duties without the aid of superstition,
and preserve all that is true, pure, and tender, without sacrificing in
the temple of absurdity the convictions of the soul.

Woman is not the intellectual inferior of man. She has lacked, not mind,
but opportunity. In the long night of barbarism, physical strength and
the cruelty to use it, were the badges of superiority. Muscle was more
than mind. In the ignorant age of Faith, the loving nature of woman was
abused. Her conscience was rendered morbid and diseased. It might almost
be said that she was betrayed by her own virtues. At best she secured,
not opportunity, but flattery—the preface to degradation. She was
deprived of liberty, and without that, nothing is worth the having. She
was taught to obey without question, and to believe without thought.
There were universities for men before the alphabet had been taught to
women. At the intellectual feast, there were no places for wives and
mothers. Even now they sit at the second table and eat the crusts and
crumbs. The schools for women, at the present time, are just far enough
behind those for men, to fall heirs to the discarded; on the same
principle that when a doctrine becomes too absurd for the pulpit, it is
given to the Sunday-school.

The ages of muscle and miracle—of fists and faith—are passing away.
Minerva occupies at last a higher niche than Hercules. Now a word
is stronger than a blow. At last we see women who depend upon
themselves—who stand, self poised, the shocks of this sad world,
without leaning for support against a church—who do not go to the
literature of barbarism for consolation, or use the falsehoods and
mistakes of the past for the foundation of their hope—women brave
enough and tender enough to meet and bear the facts and fortunes of this
world.

The men who declare that woman is the intellectual inferior of man, do
not, and cannot, by offering themselves in evidence, substantiate their
declaration.

Yet, I must admit that there are thousands of wives who still have
faith in the saving power of superstition—who still insist on attending
church while husbands prefer the shores, the woods, or the fields. In
this way, families are divided. Parents grow apart, and unconsciously
the pearl of greatest price is thrown away. The wife ceases to be
the intellectual companion of the husband. She reads _The Christian
Register_, sermons in the Monday papers, and a little gossip about
folks and fashions, while he studies the works of Darwin, Haeckel, and
Humboldt. Their sympathies become estranged. They are no longer mental
friends. The husband smiles at the follies of the wife, and she weeps
for the supposed sins of the husband. Such wives should read this book.
They should not be satisfied to remain forever in the cradle of thought,
amused with the toys of superstition.

The parasite of woman is the priest.

It must also be admitted that there are thousands of men who believe
that superstition is good for women and children—who regard falsehood
as the fortress of virtue, and feel indebted to ignorance for the purity
of daughters and the fidelity of wives. These men think of priests
as detectives in disguise, and regard God as a policeman who prevents
elopements. Their opinions about religion are as correct as their
estimate of woman.

The church furnishes but little food for the mind. People of
intelligence are growing tired of the platitudes of the pulpit—the
iterations of the itinerants. The average sermon is "as tedious as a
twice told tale vexing the ears of a drowsy man."

One Sunday a gentleman, who is a great inventor, called at my house.
Only a few words had passed between us, when he arose, saying that he
must go as it was time for church. Wondering that a man of his mental
wealth could enjoy the intellectual poverty of the pulpit, I asked for
an explanation, and he gave me the following: "You know that I am an
inventor. Well, the moment my mind becomes absorbed in some difficult
problem, I am afraid that something may happen to distract my attention.
Now, I know that I can sit in church for an hour without the slightest
danger of having the current of my thought disturbed."

Most women cling to the Bible because they have been taught that to give
up that book is to give up all hope of another life—of ever meeting
again the loved and lost. They have also been taught that the Bible is
their friend, their defender, and the real civilizer of man.

Now, if they will only read this book—these three lectures, without
fear, and then read the Bible, they will see that the truth or falsity
of the dogma of inspiration has nothing to do with the question of
immortality. Certainly the Old Testament does not teach us that there is
another life, and upon that question even the New is obscure and vague.
The hunger of the heart finds only a few small and scattered crumbs.
There is nothing definite, solid, and satisfying. United with the idea
of immortality we find the absurdity of the resurrection. A prophecy
that depends for its fulfillment upon an impossibility, cannot satisfy
the brain or heart.

There are but few who do not long for a dawn beyond the night. And
this longing is born of and nourished by the heart. Love wrapped in
shadow—bending with tear-filled eyes above its dead, convulsively
clasps the outstretched hand of hope.

I had the pleasure of introducing Miss Gardener to her first audience,
and in that introduction said a few words that I will repeat.

"We do not know, we cannot say, whether death is a wall or a door; the
beginning or end of a day; the spreading of pinions to soar, or the
folding forever of wings; the rise or the set of a sun, or an endless
life that brings the rapture of love to every one.

"Under the seven-hued arch of hope let the dead sleep."

They will also discover, as they read the "Sacred Volume," that it is
not the friend of woman. They will find that the writers of that book,
for the most part, speak of woman as a poor beast of burden, a serf, a
drudge, a kind of necessary evil—as mere property. Surely, a book that
upholds polygamy is not the friend of wife and mother.

Even Christ did not place woman on an equality with man. He said not
one word about the sacredness of home, the duties of the husband to the
wife—nothing calculated to lighten the hearts of those who bear the
saddest burdens of this life.

They will also find that the Bible has not civilized mankind. A book
that establishes and defends slavery and wanton war is not calculated to
soften the hearts of those who believe implicitly that it is the work of
God. A book that not only permits, but commands, religious persecution,
has not, in my judgment, developed the affectional nature of man.
Its influence has been bad and bad only. It has filled the world with
bitterness, revenge and crime, and retarded in countless ways the
progress of our race.

The writer of this volume has read the Bible with open eyes. The mist
of sentimentality has not clouded her vision. She has had the courage
to tell the result of her investigations. She has been quick to discover
contradictions. She appreciates the humorous side of the stupidly
solemn. Her heart protests against the cruel, and her brain rejects the
childish, the unnatural and absurd. There is no misunderstanding between
her head and heart. She says what she thinks, and feels what she says.

No human being can answer her arguments. There is no answer. All the
priests in the world cannot explain away her objections. There is no
explanation. They should remain dumb, unless they can show that the
impossible is the probable—that slavery is better than freedom—that
polygamy is the friend of woman—that the innocent can justly suffer for
the guilty, and that to persecute for opinion's sake is an act of love
and worship.

Wives who cease to learn—who simply forget and believe—will fill the
evening of their lives with barren sighs and bitter tears.

The mind should outlast youth. If when beauty fades, Thought, the deft
and unseen sculptor, hath not left his subtle lines upon the face,
then all is lost. No charm is left. The light is out. There is no flame
within to glorify the wrinkled clay.

Hoffman House, New York, July, 22, 1885.

## Preface to "for Her Daily Bread."

I HAVE read, this story, this fragment of a life mingled with fragments
of other lives, and have been pleased, interested, and instructed. It
is filled with the pathos of truth, and has in it the humor that
accompanies actual experience. It has but little to do with the world
of imagination; certain feelings are not attributed to persons born
of fancy, but it is the history of a heart and brain interested in the
common things of life. There are no kings, no lords, no titled ladies,
but there are real people, the people of the shop and street whom every
reader knows, and there are lines intense and beautiful, and scenes
that touch the heart. You will find no theories of government, no hazy
outlines of reform, nothing but facts and folks, as they have been, as
they are, and probably will be for many centuries to come.

If you read this book you will be convinced that men and women are good
or bad, charitable or heartless, by reason of something within, and not
by virtue of any name they bear, or any trade or profession they follow,
or of any creed they may accept. You will also find that men sometimes
are honest and mean; that women may be very virtuous and very cruel;
that good, generous and sympathetic men are often disreputable, and that
some exceedingly worthy citizens are extremely mean and uncomfortable
neighbors.

It takes a great deal of genius and a good deal of selfdenial to be
very bad or to be very good. Few people understand the amount of energy,
industry, and self-denial it requires to be consistently vicious. People
who have a pride in being good and fail, and those who have a pride in
being bad and fail, in order to make their records consistent generally
rely upon hypocrisy. The people that live and hope and fear in this
book, are much like the people who live and hope and fear in the actual
world. The professor is much like the professor in the ordinary college.
You will find the conscientious, half-paid teacher, the hopeful poor,
the anxious rich, the true lover, the stingy philanthropist, who cares
for people only in the aggregate,—the individual atom being too small
to attract his notice or to enlist his heart; the sympathetic man who
loves himself, and gives, not for the sake of the beggar, but for
the sake of getting rid of the beggar, and you will also find the man
generous to a fault—with the money of others. And the reader will find
these people described naturally, truthfully and without exaggeration,
and he will feel certain that all these people have really lived.

The reader of this story will get some idea as to what is encountered
by a girl in an honest effort to gain her daily bread. He will find how
steep, how devious and how difficult is the path she treads.

There are so few occupations open to woman, so few things in which she
can hope for independence, that to be thrown upon her own resources
is almost equivalent to being cast away. Besides, she is an object of
continual suspicion, watched not only by men but by women. If she does
anything that other women are not doing, she is at once suspected,
her reputation is touched, and other women, for fear of being stained
themselves, withdraw not only the hand of help, but the smile of
recognition. A young woman cannot defend herself without telling the
charge that has been made against her. This, of itself, gives a kind of
currency to slander. To speak of the suspicion that has crawled across
her path, is to plant the seeds of doubt in other minds; to even deny
it, admits that it exists. To be suspected, that is enough. There is no
way of destroying this suspicion. There is no court in which suspicions
are tried; no juries that can render verdicts of not guilty. Most women
are driven at last to the needle, and this does not allow them to live;
it simply keeps them from dying.

It is hard to appreciate the dangers and difficulties that lie in wait
for woman. Even in this Christian country of ours, no girl is safe in
the streets of any city after the sun has gone down. After all, the sun
is the only god that has ever protected woman. In the darkness she has
been the prey of the wild beast in man.

Nearly all charitable people, so-called, imagine that nothing is easier
than to obtain work. They really feel that anybody, no matter what his
circumstances may be, can get work enough to do if he is only willing to
do the work. They cannot understand why any healthy human being should
lack food or clothes. Meeting the unfortunate and the wretched in the
streets of the great city, they ask them in a kind of wondering way, why
they do not go to the West, why they do not cultivate the soil, and why
they are so foolish, stupid, and reckless as to remain in the town. It
would be just as sensible to ask a beggar why he does not start a bank
or a line of steamships, as to ask him why he does not cultivate the
soil, or why he does not go to the West. The man has no money to pay his
fare, and if his fare were paid he would be, when he landed in the
West, in precisely the same condition as he was when he left the East.
Societies and institutions and individuals supply the immediate wants
of the hungry and the ragged, but they afford only the relief of the
moment.

Articles by the thousand have been written for the purpose of showing
that women should become servants in houses, and the writers of these
articles are filled with astonishment that any girl should hesitate to
enter domestic service. They tell us that nearly every family needs a
good cook, a good chambermaid, a good sweeper of floors and washer of
dishes, a good stout girl to carry the baby and draw the wagon, and
these good people express the greatest astonishment that all girls
are not anxious to become domestics. They tell them that they will be
supplied with good food, that they will have comfortable beds and warm
clothing, and they ask, "What more do you want?" These people have
not, however, solved the problem. If girls, as a rule, keep away from
kitchens and chambers, if they hate to be controlled by other women,
there must be a reason. When we see a young woman prefer a clerkship in
a store,—a business which keeps her upon her feet all day, and sends
her to her lonely room, filled with weariness and despair, and when we
see other girls who are willing to sew for a few cents a day rather than
become the maid of "my lady," there must be some reason, and this reason
must be deemed sufficient by the persons who are actuated by it. What is
it?

Every human being imagines that the future has something in store for
him. It is natural to build these castles in Spain. It is natural for
a girl to dream of being loved by the noble, by the superb, and it is
natural for the young man to dream of success, of a home, of a good, a
beautiful and loving wife. These dreams are the solace of poverty; they
keep back the tears in the eyes of the young and the hungry. To engage
in any labor that degrades, in any work that leaves a stain, in any
business the mention of which is liable to redden the cheek, seems to be
a destruction of the foundation of hope, a destruction of the future; it
seems to be a crucifixion of his or her better self. It assassinates the
ideal.

It may be said that labor is noble, that work is a kind of religion, and
whoever says this tells the truth, But after all, what has the truth
to do with this question? What is the opinion of society?—What is the
result? It cures no wound to say that it was wrongfully inflicted.
The opinion of sensible people is one way, the action of society is
inconsistent with that opinion. Domestic servants are treated as
though their employment was and is a degradation. Bankers, merchants,
professional men, ministers of the gospel, do not want their sons
to become the husbands of chambermaids and cooks. Small hands are
beautiful; they do not tell of labor.

I have given one reason; there is another. The work of a domestic is
never done. She is liable to be called at any moment, day or night. She
has no time that she can call her own. A woman who works by the piece
can take a little rest; if she is a clerk she has certain hours of labor
and the rest of the day is her own.

And there is still another reason that I almost hate to give, and that
is this: As a rule, woman is exacting with woman. As a rule, woman does
not treat woman as well as man treats man, or as well as man treats
woman. There are many other reasons, but I have given enough.

For many years, women have been seeking employment other than that of
domestic service. They have so hated this occupation, that they have
sought in every possible direction for other ways to win their bread.
At last hundreds of employments are open to them, and, as a consequence,
domestic servants are those who can get nothing else to do.

In the olden time, servants sat at the table with the family; they were
treated something like human beings, harshly enough to be sure, but
in many cases almost as equals. Now the kitchen is far away from the
parlor. It is another world, occupied by individuals of a different
race. There is no bond of sympathy—no common ground. This is especially
true in a Republic. In the Old World, people occupying menial places
account for their positions by calling attention to the laws—to the
hereditary nobility and the universal spirit of caste. Here, there are
no such excuses. All are supposed to have equal opportunities, and those
who are compelled to labor for their daily bread, in avocations that
require only bodily strength, are regarded as failures. It is this fact
that stabs like a knife. And yet in the conclusion drawn, there is but
little truth. Some of the noblest and best pass their lives in daily
drudgery and unremunerative toil—while many of the mean, vicious and
stupid reach place and power.

This story is filled with sympathy for the destitute, for the
struggling, and tends to keep the star of hope above the horizon of the
unfortunate. After all, we know but little of the world, and have but a
faint conception of the burdens that are borne, and of the courage and
heroism displayed by the unregarded poor. Let the rich read these pages;
they will have a kinder feeling toward those who toil; let the workers
read them, and they will think better of themselves.

## Preface to "agnosticism and Other Essays."

I.

EDGAR FAWCETT—a great poet, a metaphysician and logician—has been for
years engaged in exploring that strange world wherein are supposed to
be the springs of human action. He has sought for something back of
motives, reasons, fancies, passions, prejudices, and the countless tides
and tendencies that constitute the life of man.

He has found some of the limitations of mind, and knows that beginning
at that luminous centre called consciousness, a few short steps bring
us to the prison wall where vision fails and all light dies. Beyond this
wall the eternal darkness broods. This gloom is "the other world" of the
supernaturalist. With him, real vision begins where the sight fails. He
reverses the order of nature. Facts become illusions, and illusions the
only realities. He believes that the cause of the image, the reality, is
behind the mirror.

A few centuries ago the priests said to their followers: The other world
is above you; it is just beyond where you see. Afterward, the astronomer
with his telescope looked, and asked the priests: Where is the world
of which you speak? And the priests replied: It has receded—it is just
beyond where you see.

As long as there is "a beyond," there is room for the priests' world.
Theology is the geography of this beyond.

Between the Christian and the Agnostic there is the difference of
assertion and question—between "There is a God" and "Is there a
God?" The Agnostic has the arrogance to admit his ignorance, while the
Christian from the depths of humility impudently insists that he knows.

Mr. Fawcett has shown that at the root of religion lies the coiled
serpent of fear, and that ceremony, prayer, and worship are ways and
means to gain the assistance or soften the heart of a supposed deity.

He also shows that as man advances in knowledge he loses confidence in
the watchfulness of Providence and in the efficacy of prayer.

## II. Science.

The savage is certain of those things that cannot be known. He is
acquainted with origin and destiny, and knows everything except that
which is useful. The civilized man, having outgrown the ignorance, the
arrogance, and the provincialism of savagery, abandons the vain search
for final causes, for the nature and origin of things.

In nearly every department of science man is allowed to investigate, and
the discovery of a new fact is welcomed, unless it threatens some creed.

Of course there can be no advance in a religion established by infinite
wisdom. The only progress possible is in the comprehension of this
religion.

For many generations, what is known under a vast number of disguises
and behind many masks as the Christian religion, has been propagated
and preserved by the sword and bayonet—that is to say, by force. The
credulity of man has been bribed and his reason punished. Those who
believed without the slightest question, and whose faith held evidence
in contempt, were saints; those who investigated were dangerous, and
those who denied were destroyed.

Every attack upon this religion has been made in the shadow of human and
divine hatred—in defiance of earth and heaven. At one time Christendom
was beneath the ignorant feet of one man, and those who denied his
infallibility were heretics and Atheists. At last, a protest was
uttered. The right of conscience was proclaimed, to the extent of making
a choice between the infallible man and the infallible book. Those
who rejected the man and accepted the book became in their turn
as merciless, as tyrannical and heartless, as the followers of the
infallible man. The Protestants insisted that an infinitely wise and
good God would not allow criminals and wretches to act as his infallible
agents.

Afterward, a few protested against the infallibility of the book, using
the same arguments against the book that had formerly been used against
the pope. They said that an infinitely wise and good God could not be
the author of a cruel and ignorant book. But those who protested against
the book fell into substantially the same error that had been fallen
into by those who had protested against the man. While they denounced
the book, and insisted that an infinitely wise and good being could not
have been its author, they took the ground that an infinitely wise and
good being was the creator and governor of the world.

Then was used against them the same argument that had been used by the
Protestants against the pope and by the Deists against the Protestants.
Attention was called to the fact that Nature is as cruel as any pope or
any book—that it is just as easy to account for the destruction of the
Canaanites consistently with the goodness of Jehovah as to account for
pestilence, earthquake, and flood consistently with the goodness of the
God of Nature.

The Protestant and Deist both used arguments against the Catholic that
could in turn be used with equal force against themselves. So that there
is no question among intelligent people as to the infallibility of the
pope, as to the inspiration of the book, or as to the existence of the
Christian's God—for the conclusion has been reached that the human mind
is incapable of deciding as to the origin and destiny of the universe.

For many generations the mind of man has been traveling in a circle. It
accepted without question the dogma of a First Cause—of the existence
of a Creator—of an Infinite Mind back of matter, and sought in many
ways to define its ignorance in this behalf. The most sincere worshipers
have declared that this being is incomprehensible,—that he is "without
body, parts, or passions"—that he is infinitely beyond their grasp, and
at the same time have insisted that it was necessary for man not only
to believe in the existence of this being, but to love him with all his
heart.

Christianity having always been in partnership with the state,—having
controlled kings and nobles, judges and legislators—having been
in partnership with armies and with every form of organized
destruction,—it was dangerous to discuss the foundation of its
authority. To speak lightly of any dogma was a crime punishable by
death. Every absurdity has been bastioned and barricaded by the power of
the state. It has been protected by fist, by club, by sword and cannon.

For many years Christianity succeeded in substantially closing the
mouths of its enemies, and lived and flourished only where investigation
and discussion were prevented by hypocrisy and bigotry. The church still
talks about "evidence," about "reason," about "freedom of conscience"
and the "liberty of speech," and yet denounces those who ask for
evidence, who appeal to reason, and who honestly express their thoughts.

To-day we know that the miracles of Christianity are as puerile and
false as those ascribed to the medicine-men of Central Africa or the
Fiji Islanders, and that the "sacred Scriptures" have the same claim to
inspiration that the Koran has, or the Book of Mormon—no less, no more.
These questions have been settled and laid aside by free and intelligent
people. They have ceased to excite interest; and the man who now really
believes in the truth of the Old Testament is regarded with a smile—
looked upon as an aged child—still satisfied with the lullabys and toys
of the cradle.

## III. Morality.

It is contended that without religion—that is to say, without
Christianity—all ideas of morality must of necessity perish, and that
spirituality and reverence will be lost.

What is morality?

Is it to obey without question, or is it to act in accordance with
perceived obligation? Is it something with which intelligence has
nothing to do? Must the ignorant child carry out the command of the wise
father—the rude peasant rush to death at the request of the prince?

Is it impossible for morality to exist where the brain and heart are
in partnership? Is there no foundation for morality except punishment
threatened or reward promised by a superior to an inferior? If this be
true, how can the superior be virtuous? Cannot the reward and the threat
be in the nature of things? Can they not rest in consequences perceived
by the intellect? How can the existence or non-existence of a deity
change my obligation to keep my hands out of the fire?

The results of all actions are equally certain, but not equally known,
not equally perceived. If all men knew with perfect certainty that to
steal from another was to rob themselves, larceny would cease. It
cannot be said too often that actions are good or bad in the light of
consequences, and that a clear perception of consequences would control
actions. That which increases the sum of human happiness is moral; and
that which diminishes the sum of human happiness is immoral. Blind,
unreasoning obedience is the enemy of morality. Slavery is not the
friend of virtue. Actions are neither right nor wrong by virtue of what
men or gods can say—the right or wrong lives in results—in the nature
of things, growing out of relations violated or caused.

Accountability lives in the nature of consequences—in their absolute
certainty—in the fact that they cannot be placated, avoided, or bribed.

The relations of human life are too complicated to be accurately and
clearly understood, and, as a consequence, rules of action vary from age
to age. The ideas of right and wrong change with the experience of
the race, and this change is wrought by the gradual ascertaining of
consequences—of results. For this reason the religion of one age fails
to meet the standard of another, precisely as the laws that satisfied
our ancestors are repealed by us; so that, in spite of all efforts,
religion itself is subject to gradual and perpetual change.

The miraculous is no longer the basis of morals. Man is a sentient
being—he suffers and enjoys. In order to be happy he must preserve the
conditions of well-being—must live in accordance with certain facts by
which he is surrounded. If he violates these conditions the result is
unhappiness, failure, disease, misery.

Man must have food, roof, raiment, fireside, friends—that is to say,
prosperity; and this he must earn—this he must deserve. He is no
longer satisfied with being a slave, even of the Infinite. He wishes to
perceive for himself, to understand, to investigate, to experiment; and
he has at last the courage to bear the consequences that he brings upon
himself. He has also found that those who are the most religious are not
always the kindest, and that those who have been and are the worshipers
of God enslave their fellow-men. He has found that there is no necessary
connection between religion and morality.

Morality needs no supernatural assistance—needs neither miracle nor
pretence. It has nothing to do with awe, reverence, credulity, or blind,
unreasoning faith. Morality is the highway perceived by the soul, the
direct road, leading to success, honor, and happiness.

The best thing to do under the circumstances is moral.

The highest possible standard is human. We put ourselves in the places
of others. We are made happy by the kindness of others, and we feel that
a fair exchange of good actions is the wisest and best commerce. We know
that others can make us miserable by acts of hatred and injustice,
and we shrink from inflicting the pain upon others that we have felt
ourselves; this is the foundation of conscience.

If man could not suffer, the words right and wrong could never have been
spoken.

The Agnostic, the Infidel, clearly perceives the true basis of morals,
and, so perceiving, he knows that the religious man, the superstitious
man, caring more for God than for his fellows, will sacrifice his
fellows, either at the supposed command of his God, or to win his
approbation. He also knows that the religionist has no basis for morals
except these supposed commands. The basis of morality with him lies not
in the nature of things, but in the caprice of some deity. He seems to
think that, had it not been for the Ten Commandments, larceny and murder
might have been virtues.

## IV. Spirituality.

What is it to be spiritual?

Is this fine quality of the mind destroyed by the development of the
brain? As the domain wrested by science from ignorance increases—as
island after island and continent after continent are discovered—as
star after star and constellation after constellation in the
intellectual world burst upon the midnight of ignorance, does the
spirituality of the mind grow less and less? Like morality, is it only
found in the company of ignorance and superstition? Is the spiritual man
honest, kind, candid?—or dishonest, cruel and hypocritical? Does he
say what he thinks? Is he guided by reason? Is he the friend of the
right?—the champion of the truth? Must this splendid quality called
spirituality be retained through the loss of candor? Can we not
truthfully say that absolute candor is the beginning of wisdom?

To recognize the finer harmonies of conduct—to live to the ideal—to
separate the incidental, the evanescent, from the perpetual—to be
enchanted with the perfect melody of truth—open to the influences of
the artistic, the beautiful, the heroic—to shed kindness as the sun
sheds light—to recognize the good in others, and to include the world
in the idea of self—this is to be spiritual.

There is nothing spiritual in the worship of the unknown and unknowable,
in the self-denial of a slave at the command of a master whom he fears.
Fastings, prayings, mutilations, kneelings, and mortifications are
either the results of, or result in, insanity.

This is the spirituality of Bedlam, and is of no kindred with the soul
that finds its greatest joy in the discharge of obligation perceived.

## V. Reverence.

What is reverence?

It is the feeling produced when we stand in the presence of our ideal,
or of that which most nearly approaches it—that which is produced by
what we consider the highest degree of excellence.

The highest is reverenced, praised, and admired without qualification.

Each man reverences according to his nature, his experience, his
intellectual development. He may reverence' Nero or Marcus Aurelius,
Jehovah or Buddha, the author of Leviticus or Shakespeare. Thousands of
men reverence John Calvin, Torquemada, and the Puritan fathers; and some
have greater respect for Jonathan Edwards than for Captain Kidd.

A vast number of people have great reverence for anything that is
covered by mould, or moss, or mildew. They bow low before rot and rust,
and adore the worthless things that have been saved by the negligence of
oblivion.

They are enchanted with the dull and fading daubs of the old masters,
and hold in contempt those miracles of art, the paintings of to-day.

They worship the ancient, the shadowy, the mysterious, the wonderful.
They doubt the value of anything that they understand.

The creed of Christendom is the enemy of morality. It teaches that the
innocent can justly suffer for the guilty, that consequences can be
avoided by repentance, and that in the world of mind the great fact
known as cause and effect does not apply.

It is the enemy of spirituality, because it teaches that credulity is of
more value than conduct, and because it pours contempt upon human love
by raising far above it the adoration of a phantom.

It is the enemy of reverence. It makes ignorance the foundation of
virtue. It belittles the useful, and cheapens the noblest of! the
virtues. It teaches man to live on mental alms, and glorifies the
intellectual pauper. It holds candor in contempt, and is the malignant
foe of mental manhood.

## VI. Existence of God.

Mr. Fawcett has shown conclusively that it is no easier to establish the
existence of an infinitely wise and good being by the existence of what
we call "good" than to establish the existence of an infinitely bad
being by what we call "bad."

Nothing can be surer than that the history of this world furnishes no
foundation on which to base an inference that it has been governed by
infinite wisdom and goodness. So terrible has been the condition of
man, that religionists in all ages have endeavored to excuse God by
accounting for the evils of the world by the wickedness of men. And the
fathers of the Christian Church were forced to take the ground that this
world had been filled with briers and thorns, with deadly serpents
and with poisonous weeds, with disease and crime and earthquake and
pestilence and storm, by the curse of God.

The probability is that no God has cursed, and that no God will bless,
this earth. Man suffers and enjoys according to conditions. The sun
shines without love, and the lightning blasts without hate. Man is the
Providence of man.

Nature gives to our eyes all they can see, to our ears all they can
hear, and to the mind what it can comprehend. The human race reaps the
fruit of every victory won on the fields of intellectual or physical
conflict. We have no right to expect something for nothing. Man will
reap no harvest the seeds of which he has not sown.

The race must be guided by intelligence, must be free to investigate,
and must have the courage and the candor not only to state what is
known, but to cheerfully admit the limitations of the mind.

No intelligent, honest man can read what Mr. Fawcett has written and
then say that he knows the origin and destiny of things—that he knows
whether an infinite Being exists or not, and that he knows whether the
soul of man is or is not immortal.

In the land of————, the geography of which is not certainly known,
there was for many years a great dispute among the inhabitants as to
which road led to the city of Miragia, the capital of their country, and
known to be the most delightful city on the earth. For fifty generations
the discussion as to which road led to the city had been carried on with
the greatest bitterness, until finally the people were divided into a
great number of parties, each party claiming that the road leading
to the city had been miraculously made known to the founder of that
particular sect. The various parties spent most of their time putting up
guide-boards on these roads and tearing down the guide-boards of others.
Hundreds of thousands had been killed, prisons were filled, and the
fields had been ravaged by the hosts of war.

One day, a wise man, a patriot, wishing to bring peace to his country,
met the leaders of the various sects and asked them whether it was
absolutely certain that the city of Miragia existed. He called their
attention to the facts that no resident of that city had ever visited
them and that none of their fellow-men who had started for the capital
had ever returned, and modestly asked whether it would not be better
to satisfy themselves beyond a doubt that there was such a city, adding
that the location of the city would determine which of all the roads was
the right one.

The leaders heard these words with amazement. They denounced the speaker
as a wretch without morality, spirituality, or reverence, and thereupon
he was torn in pieces.

## Preface to "faith or Fact."

I LIKE to know the thoughts, theories and conclusions of an honest,
intelligent man; candor is always charming, and it is a delight to feel
that you have become acquainted with a sincere soul.

I have read this book with great pleasure, not only because I know, and
greatly esteem the author, not only because he is my unwavering friend,
but because it is full of good sense, of accurate statement, of sound
logic, of exalted thoughts happily expressed, and for the further reason
that it is against tyranny, superstition, bigotry, and every form of
injustice, and in favor of every virtue.

Henry M. Taber, the author, has for many years taken great interest
in religious questions. He was raised in an orthodox atmosphere, was
acquainted with many eminent clergymen from whom he endeavored to
find out what Christianity is—and the facts and evidence relied on to
establish the truth of the creeds. He found that the clergy of even the
same denomination did not agree—that some of them preached one way
and talked another, and that many of them seemed to regard the creed as
something to be accepted whether it was believed or not. He found that
each one gave his own construction to the dogmas that seemed heartless
or unreasonable. While some insisted that the Bible was absolutely true
and the creed without error, others admitted that there were mistakes in
the sacred volume and that the creed ought to be revised. Finding these
differences among the ministers, the shepherds, and also finding that
no one pretended to have any evidence except faith, or any facts but
assertions, he concluded to investigate the claims of Christianity for
himself.

For half a century he has watched the ebb and flow of public opinion,
the growth of science, the crumbling of creeds—the decay of the
theological spirit, the waning influence of the orthodox pulpit, the
loss of confidence in special providence and the efficacy of prayer.

He has lived to see the church on the defensive—to hear faith asking
for facts—and to see the shot and shell of science batter into
shapelessness the fortresses of superstition. He has lived to see
Infidels, blasphemers and Agnostics the leaders of the intellectual
world. In his time the supernaturalists have lost the sceptre and have
taken their places in the abject rear.

Fifty years ago the orthodox Christians believed their creeds. To them
the Bible was an actual revelation from God. Every word was true.
Moses and Joshua were regarded as philosophers and scientists. All the
miracles and impossibilities recorded in the Bible were accepted as
facts. Credulity was the greatest of virtues. Everything, except the
reasonable, was believed, and it was considered wickedly presumptuous
to doubt anything except facts. The reasonable things in the Bible could
safely be doubted, but to deny the miracles was like the sin against
the Holy Ghost. In those days the preachers were at the helm. They spoke
with authority. They knew the origin and destiny of the soul. They were
on familiar terms with the Trinity—the three-headed God. They knew the
narrow path that led to heaven and the great highway along which the
multitude were traveling to the Prison of Pain.

While these reverend gentlemen were busy trying to prevent the
development of the brain and to convince the people that the good in
this life were miserable, that virtue wore a crown of thorns and carried
a cross, while the wicked and ungodly walked in the sunshine of joy,
yet that after death the wicked would be eternally tortured and the
good eternally rewarded. According to the pious philosophy the good
God punished virtue, and rewarded vice, in this world—and in the next,
rewarded virtue and punished vice. These divine truths filled their
hearts with holy peace—with pious resignation. It would be difficult
to determine which gave them the greater joy—the hope of heaven for
themselves, or the certainty of hell for their enemies. For the grace of
God they were fairly thankful, but for his "justice" their gratitude
was boundless. From the heights of heaven they expected to witness the
eternal tragedy in hell.

While these good divines, these doctors of divinity, were busy
misinterpreting the Scriptures, denying facts and describing the glories
and agonies of eternity, a good many other people were trying to find
out something about this world. They were busy with retort and crucible,
searching the heavens with the telescope, examining rocks and craters,
reefs and islands, studying plant and animal life, inventing ways to
use the forces of nature for the benefit of man, and in every direction
searching for the truth. They were not trying to destroy religion or to
injure the clergy. Many of them were members of churches and believed
the creeds. The facts they found were honestly given to the world. Of
course all facts are the enemies of superstition. The clergy, acting
according to the instinct of self-preservation, denounced these "facts"
as dangerous and the persons who found and published them, as Infidels
and scoffers.

Theology was arrogant and bold. Science was timid. For some time
the churches seemed to have the best of the controversy. Many of the
scientists surrendered and did their best to belittle the facts and
patch up a cowardly compromise between Nature and Revelation—that is,
between the true and the false.

Day by day more facts were found that could not be reconciled with the
Scriptures, or the creeds. Neither was it possible to annihilate facts
by denial. The man who believed the Bible could not accept the facts,
and the man who believed the facts could not accept the Bible. At
first, the Bible was the standard, and all facts inconsistent with that
standard were denied. But in a little while science became the standard,
and the passages in the Bible contrary to the standard had to be
explained or given up. Great efforts were made to harmonize the mistakes
in the Bible with the demonstrations of science. It was difficult to be
ingenious enough to defend them both. The pious professors twisted and
turned but found it hard to reconcile the creation of Adam with the slow
development of man from lower forms. They were greatly troubled about
the age of the universe. It seemed incredible that until about six
thousand years ago there was nothing in existence but God—and nothing.
And yet they tried to save the Bible by giving new meanings to the
inspired texts, and casting a little suspicion on the facts.

This course has mostly been abandoned, although a few survivals, like
Mr. Gladstone, still insist there is no conflict between Revelation and
Science. But these champions of Holy Writ succeed only in causing the
laughter of the intelligent and the amazement of the honest. The more
intelligent theologians confessed that the inspired writers could not
be implicitly believed. As they personally know nothing of astronomy or
geology and were forced to rely entirely on inspiration, it is wonderful
that more mistakes were not made. So it was claimed that Jehovah cared
nothing about science, and allowed the blunders and mistakes of the
ignorant people concerning everything except religion, to appear in his
supernatural book as inspired truths.

The Bible, they said, was written to teach religion in its highest and
purest form—to make mankind fit to associate with God and his angels.
True, polygamy was tolerated and slavery established, yet Jehovah
believed in neither, but on account of the wickedness of the Jews was in
favor of both.

At the same time quite a number of real scholars were investigating
other religions, and in a little while they were enabled to show that
these religions had been manufactured by men—that their Christs and
apostles were myths and that all their sacred books were false and
foolish. This pleased the Christians. They knew that theirs was the only
true religion and that their Bible was the only inspired book.

The fact that there is nothing original in Christianity, that all the
dogmas, ceremonies and festivals had been borrowed, together with some
mouldy miracles used as witnesses, weakened the faith of some and sowed
the seeds of doubt in many minds. But the pious petrifactions, the
fossils of faith, still clung to their book and creed. While they were
quick to see the absurdities in other sacred books, they were either
unconsciously blind or maliciously shut their eyes to the same
absurdities in the Bible. They knew that Mohammed was an impostor,
because the citizens of Mecca, who knew him, said he was, and they knew
that Christ was not an impostor, because the people of Jerusalem who
knew him, said he was. The same fact was made to do double duty. When
they attacked other religions it was a sword and when their religion was
attacked it became a shield.

The men who had investigated other religions turned their attention to
Christianity. They read our Bible as they had read other sacred books.
They were not blinded by faith or paralyzed by fear, and they found that
the same arguments they had used against other religions destroyed our
own.

But the real old-fashioned orthodox ministers denounced the
investigators as Infidels and denied every fact that was inconsistent
with the creed. They wanted to protect the young and feeble minded. They
were anxious about the souls of the "thoughtless."

Some ministers changed their views just a little, not enough to be
driven from their pulpits—but just enough to keep sensible people
from thinking them idiotic. These preachers talked about the "higher
criticism" and contended that it was not necessary to believe every word
in the Bible, that some of the miracles might be given up and some of
the books discarded. But the stupid doctors of divinity had the Bible
and the creeds on their side and the machinery of the churches was in
their control. They brought some of the offending clergymen to the bar,
and had them tried for heresy, made some recant and closed the mouths
of others. Still, it was not easy to put the heretics down. The
congregations of ministers found guilty, often followed the shepherds.
Heresy grew popular, the liberal preachers had good audiences, while the
orthodox addressed a few bonnets, bibs and benches.

For many years the pulpit has been losing influence and the sacred
calling no longer offers a career to young men of talent and ambition.

When people believed in "special providence," they also believed that
preachers had great influence with God. They were regarded as celestial
lobbyists and they were respected and feared because of their supposed
power.

Now no one who has the capacity to think, believes in special
providence. Of course there are some pious imbeciles who think that
pestilence and famine, cyclone and earthquake, flood and fire are the
weapons of God, the tools of his trade, and that with these weapons,
these tools, he kills and starves, rends and devours, drowns and burns
countless thousands of the human race.

If God governs this world, if he builds and destroys, if back of every
event is his will, then he is neither good nor wise, He is ignorant and
malicious.

A few days ago, in Paris, men and women had gathered together in the
name of Charity. The building in which they, were assembled took fire
and many of these men and women perished in the flames.

A French priest called this horror an act of God.

Is it not strange that Christians speak of their God as an assassin?

How can they love and worship this monster who murders, his children?

Intelligence seems to be leaving the orthodox church. The great divines
are growing smaller, weaker, day by day. Since the death of Henry Ward
Beecher no man of genius has stood in the orthodox pulpit. The ministers
of intelligence are found in the liberal churches where they are allowed
to express their thoughts and preserve their manhood. Some of these
preachers keep their faces toward the East and sincerely welcome the
light, while their orthodox brethren stand with their backs to the
sunrise and worship the sunset of the day before.

During these years of change, of decay and growth, the author of this
book looked and listened, became familiar with the questions raised, the
arguments offered and the results obtained. For his work a better man
could not have been found. He has no prejudice, no hatred. He is by
nature candid, conservative, kind and just. He does not attack persons.
He knows the difference between exchanging epithets and thoughts. He
gives the facts as they appear to him and draws the logical conclusions.
He charges and proves that Christianity has not always been the friend
of morality, of civil liberty, of wives and mothers, of free though and
honest speech. He shows that intolerance is its nature, that it always
has, and always will persecute to the extent of its power, and that
Christianity will always despise the doubter.

Yet we know that doubt must inhabit every finite mind. We know that
doubt is as natural as hope, and that man is no more responsible for his
doubts than for the beating of his heart. Every human being who knows
the nature of evidence, the limitations of the mind, must have "doubts"
about gods and devils, about heavens and hells, and must know that there
is not the slightest evidence tending to show that gods and devils ever
existed.

God is a guess.

An undesigned designer, an uncaused cause, is as incomprehensible to the
human mind as a circle without a diameter.

The dogma of the Trinity multiplies the difficulty by three.

Theologians do not, and cannot believe that the authority to govern
comes from the consent of the governed. They regard God as the monarch,
and themselves as his agents. They always have been the enemies of
liberty.

They claim to have a revelation from their God, a revelation that is the
rightful master of reason. As long as they believe this, they must be
the enemies of mental freedom. They do not ask man to think, but command
him to obey.

If the claims of the theologians are admitted, the church becomes the
ruler of the world, and to support and obey priests will be the business
of mankind. All these theologians claim to have a revelation from their
God, and yet they cannot agree as to what the revelation reveals. The
other day, looking from my window at the bay of New York, I saw many
vessels going in many directions, and yet all were moved by the same
wind. The direction in which they were going did not depend on the
direction of the breeze, but on the set of the sails. In this way the
same Bible furnishes creeds for all the Christian sects. But what would
we say if the captains of the boats I saw, should each swear that his
boat was the only one that moved in the same direction the wind was
blowing?

I agree with Mr. Taber that all religions are founded on mistakes,
misconceptions and falsehoods, and that superstition is the warp and
woof of every creed.

This book will do great good. It will furnish arguments and facts
against the supernatural and absurd. It will drive phantoms from the
brain, fear from the heart, and many who read these pages will be
emancipated, enlightened and ennobled.

Christianity, with its ignorant and jealous God—its loving and
revengeful Christ—its childish legends—its grotesque miracles—its
"fall of man"—its atonement—its salvation by faith—its heaven for
stupidity and its hell for genius, does not and cannot satisfy the free
brain and the good heart.
---
# Professor Briggs
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1893_
To the study of the Bible he has given the best years of his life. When
he commenced this study he was probably a devout believer in the plenary
inspiration of the Scripture—thought that the Bible was without an
error; that all the so-called contradictions could be easily explained.
He had been educated by Presbyterians and had confidence in his
teachers.

In spite of his early training, in spite of his prejudices, he was led,
in some mysterious way, to rely a little on his own reason. This was
a dangerous thing to do. The moment a man talks about reason he is on
dangerous ground. He is liable to contradict the "Word of God." Then he
loses spirituality and begins to think more of truth than creed. This is
a step toward heresy—toward Infidelity.

Professor Briggs began to have doubts about some of the miracles.
These doubts, like rats, began to gnaw the foundations of his faith. He
examined these wonderful stories in the light of what is known to have
happened, and in the light of like miracles found in the other sacred
books of the world. And he concluded that they were not quite true. He
was not ready to say that they were actually false; that would be too
brutally candid.

I once read of an English lord who had a very polite gamekeeper. The
lord wishing to show his skill with the rifle fired at a target. He and
the gamekeeper went to see where the bullet had struck. The gamekeeper
was first at the target, and the lord cried out: "Did I miss it?"

"I would not," said the gamekeeper, "go so far as to say that your
lordship missed it, but—but—you didn't hit it."

Professor Briggs saw clearly that the Bible was the product, the growth
of many centuries; that legends and facts, mistakes, contradictions,
miracles, myths and history, interpolations, prophecies and dreams,
wisdom, foolishness, justice, cruelty, poetry and bathos were mixed,
mingled and interwoven. In other words, that the gold of truth was
surrounded by meaner metals and worthless stones.

He saw that it was necessary to construct what might be called a sacred
smelter to divide the true from the false.

Undoubtedly he reached this conclusion in the interest of what he
believed to be the truth. He had the mistaken but honest idea that a
Christian should really think. Of course, we know that all heresy
has been the result of thought. It has always been dangerous to grow.
Shrinking is safe.

Studying the Bible was the first mistake that Professor Briggs made,
reasoning was the second, and publishing his conclusions was the third.
If he had read without studying, if he had believed without reasoning,
he would have remained a good, orthodox Presbyterian. He probably read
the works of Humboldt, Darwin and Haeckel, and found that the author
of Genesis was not a geologist, not a scientist. He seems to have his
doubts about the truth of the story of the deluge. Should he be blamed
for this? Is there a sensible man in the wide world who really believes
in the flood?

This flood business puts Jehovah in such an idiotic light.

Of course, he must have known, after the "fall" of Adam and Eve, that he
would have to drown their descendants. Certainly it would have been
more merciful to have killed Adam and Eve, made a new pair and kept the
serpent out of the Garden of Eden. If Jehovah had been an intelligent
God he never would have created the serpent. Then there would have been
no fall, no flood, no atonement, no hell.

Think of a God who drowned a world! What a merciless monster! The
cruelty of the flood is exceeded only by its stupidity.

Thousands of little theologians have tried to explain this miracle. This
is the very top of absurdity. To explain a miracle is to destroy it.
Some have said that the flood was local. How could water that rose over
the mountains remain local?

Why should we expect mercy from a God who drowned millions of men, women
and babes? I would no more think of softening the heart of such a God
by prayer than of protecting myself from a hungry tiger by repeating
poetry.

Professor Briggs has sense enough to see that the story of the flood
is but an ignorant legend. He is trying to rescue Jehovah from the
frightful slander. After all, why should we believe the unreasonable?
Must we be foolish to be virtuous? The rain fell for forty days; this
caused the flood. The water was at least thirty thousand feet in depth.
Seven hundred and fifty feet a day—more than thirty feet an hour, six
inches a minute; the rain fell for forty days. Does any man with sense
enough to eat and breathe believe this idiotic lie?

Professor Briggs knows that the Jews got the story of the flood from the
Babylonians, and that it is no more inspired than the history of "Peter
Wilkins and His Flying Wife." The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah is
another legend.

If those cities were destroyed sensible people believe the phenomenon
was as natural as the destruction of Herculaneum and Pompeii. They do
not believe that in either case it was the result of the wickedness of
the people.

Neither does any thinking man believe that the wife of Lot was changed
or turned into a pillar of salt as a punishment for having looked back
at her burning home. How could flesh, bones and blood be changed to
salt? This presupposes two miracles. First, the annihilation
of the woman, and second, the creation of salt. A God cannot
annihilate or create matter. Annihilation and creation are both
impossible—unthinkable. A grain of sand can defy all the gods. What was
Mrs. Lot turned to salt for? What good was achieved? What useful lesson
taught? What man with a head fertile enough to raise one hair can
believe a story like this?

Does a man who denies the truth of this childish absurdity weaken the
foundation of virtue? Does he discourage truth-telling by denouncing
lies? Should a man be true to himself? If reason is not the standard,
what is? Can a man think one way and believe another? Of course he can
talk one way and think another. If a man should be honest with himself
he should be honest with others. A man who conceals his doubts lives a
dishonest life. He defiles his own soul.

When a truth-loving man reads about the plagues of Egypt, should he
reason as he reads? Should he take into consideration the fact that like
stories have been told and believed by savages for thousands of years?
Should he ask himself whether Jehovah in his efforts to induce the
Egyptian King to free the Hebrews acted like a sensible God? Should he
ask himself whether a good God would kill the babes of the people on
account of the sins of the king? Whether he would torture, mangle and
kill innocent cattle to get even with a monarch?

Is it better to believe without thinking than to think without
believing? If there be a God can we please him by believing that he
acted like a fiend?

Probably Professor Briggs has a higher conception of God than the author
of Exodus. The writer of that book was a barbarian—an honest barbarian,
and he wrote what he supposed was the truth. I do not blame him for
having written falsehoods. Neither do I blame Professor Briggs for
having detected these falsehoods. In our day no man capable of reasoning
believes the miracles wrought for the Hebrews in their flight through
the wilderness. The opening of the sea, the cloud and pillar, the
quails, the manna, the serpents and hornets are no more believed than
the miracles of the Mormons when they crossed the plains.

The probability is that the Hebrews never were in Egypt. In the Hebrew
language there are no Egyptian words, and in the Egyptian no Hebrew.
This proves that the Hebrews could not have mingled with the Egyptians
for four hundred and thirty years. As a matter of fact, Moses is a myth.
The enslavement of the Hebrews, the flight, the journey through the
wilderness existed only in the imagination of ignorance.

So Professor Briggs has his doubts about the sun and moon having been
stopped for a day in order that Gen. Joshua might kill more heathen.
Theologians have gathered around this miracle like moths around a flame.
They have done their best to make it reasonable. They have talked about
refraction and reflection, about the nature of the air having been
changed so that the sun was visible all night. They have even gone
so far as to say that Joshua and his soldiers killed so many that
afterward, when thinking about it, they concluded that it must have
taken them at least two days.

This miracle can be accounted for only in one way. Jehovah must have
stopped the earth. The earth, turning over at about one thousand miles
an hour—weighing trillions of tons—had to be stopped. Now we know that
all arrested motion changes instantly to heat. It has been calculated
that to stop the earth would cause as much heat as could be produced by
burning three lumps of coal, each lump as large as this world.

Now, is it possible that a God in his right mind would waste all that
force? The Bible also tells us that at the same time God cast hailstones
from heaven on the poor heathen. If the writer had known something of
astronomy he would have had more hailstones and said nothing about the
sun and moon.

Is it wise for ministers to ask their congregations to believe this
story? Is it wise for congregations to ask their ministers to believe
this story? If Jehovah performed this miracle he must have been insane.
There should be some relation, some proportion, between means and ends.
No sane general would call into the field a million soldiers and a
hundred batteries to kill one insect. And yet the disproportion of means
to the end sought would be reasonable when compared with what Jehovah is
claimed to have done.

If Jehovah existed let us admit that he had some sense.

If it should be demonstrated that the book of Joshua is all false, what
harm could follow? There would remain the same reasons for living a
useful and virtuous life; the same reasons against theft and murder.
Virtue would lose no prop and vice would gain no crutch. Take all the
miracles from the Old Testament and the book would be improved. Throw
away all its cruelties and absurdities and its influence would be far
better.

Professor Briggs seems to have doubts about the inspiration of Ruth. Is
there any harm in that? What difference does it make whether the story
of Ruth is fact or fiction; history or poetry? Its value is just the
same. Who cares whether Hamlet or Lear lived? Who cares whether
Imogen and Perdita were real women or the creation of Shakespeare's
imagination?

The book of Esther is absurd and cruel. It has no ethical value. There
is not a line, a word in it calculated to make a human being better. The
king issued a decree to kill the Jews. Esther succeeded in getting this
decree set aside, and induced the king to issue another decree that
the Jews should kill the other folks, and so the Jews killed some
seventy-five thousand of the king's subjects. Is it really important to
believe that the book of Esther is inspired? Is it possible that Jehovah
is proud of having written this book? Does he guard his copyright with
the fires of hell? Why should the facts be kept from the people? Every
intelligent minister knows that Moses did not write the Pentateuch; that
David did not write the Psalms, and that Solomon was not the author of
the song or the book of Ecclesiastes. Why not say so?

No intelligent minister believes the story of Daniel in the Lion's den,
or of the three men who were cast into the furnace, or the story of
Jonah. These miracles seem to have done no good—seem to have convinced
nobody and to have had no consequences. Daniel w'as miraculously saved
from the lions, and then the king sent for the men who had accused
Daniel, for their wives and their children, and threw them all into
the den of lions and they were devoured by beasts almost as cruel as
Jehovah. What a beautiful story! How can any man be wicked enough to
doubt its truth?

God told Jonah to go to Nineveh. Jonah ran away, took a boat for another
place. God raised a storm, the sailors became frightened, threw Jonah
overboard, and the poor wretch was swallowed and carried ashore by a
fish that God had prepared. Then he made his proclamation in Nineveh.
Then the people repented and Jonah was disappointed. Then he became
malicious and found fault with God. Then comes the story of the gourd,
the worm and the east wind, and the effect of the sun on a bald-headed
prophet. Would not this story be just as beautiful with the storm and
fish left out? Could we not dispense with the gourd, the worm and the
east wind?

Professor Briggs does not believe this story. He does not reject it
because he is wicked or because he wishes to destroy religion, but
because, in his judgment, it is not true. This may not be religious, but
it is honest. It may not become a minister, but it certainly becomes a
man.

Professor Briggs wishes to free the Old Testament from interpolations,
from excrescences, from fungus growths, from mistakes and falsehoods.

I am satisfied that he is sincere, actuated by the noblest motives.

Suppose that all the interpolations in the Bible should be found and the
original be perfectly restored, what evidence would we have that it was
written by inspired men? How can the fact of inspiration be established?
When was it established? Did Jehovah furnish anybody with a list of
books he had inspired? Does anybody know that he ever said that he had
inspired anybody? Did the writer of Genesis claim that he was inspired?
Did any writer of any part of the Pentateuch make the claim? Did the
authors of Joshua, Judges, Kings or Chronicles pretend that they had
obtained their facts from Jehovah? Does the author of Job or of the
Psalms pretend to have received assistance from God?

There is not the slightest reference to God in Esther or in Solomon's
Song. Why should theologians say that those books were inspired? The
dogma of inspiration rests on no established fact. It rests only on
assertion—the assertion of those who have no knowledge on the subject.
Professor Briggs calls the Bible a "holy" book. He seems to think that
much of it was inspired; that it is in some sense a message from God.
The reasons he has for thinking so I cannot even guess. He seems also to
have his doubts about certain parts of the New Testament. He is not
certain that the angel who appeared to Joseph in a dream was entirely
truthful, or he is not certain that Joseph had the dream.

It seems clear that when the gospel according to Matthew was first
written the writer believed that Christ was a lineal descendant of
David, through his father, Joseph. The genealogy is given for the
purpose of showing that the blood of David flowed in the veins of
Christ. The man who wrote that genealogy had never heard that the Holy
Ghost was the father of Christ. That was an afterthought.

How is it possible to prove that the Holy Ghost was the father of
Christ? The Holy Ghost said nothing on the subject. Mary wrote nothing
and we have no evidence that Joseph had a dream.

The divinity of Christ rests upon a dream that somebody said Joseph had.

According to the New Testament, Mary herself called Joseph the father
of Christ. She told Christ that Joseph, his father, had been looking for
him. Her statement is better evidence than Joseph's dream—if he really
had it. If there are legends in Holy Scripture, as Professor Briggs
declares, certainly the divine parentage of Christ is one of them. The
story lacks even originality. Among the Greeks many persons had gods for
fathers. Among Hindoos and Egyptians these god-men were common. So in
many other countries the blood of gods was in the veins of men. Such
wonders, told in Sanscrit, are just as reasonable as when told in
Hebrew—just as reasonable in India as in Palestine. Of course, there
is no evidence that any human being had a god for a father, or a goddess
for a mother. Intelligent people have outgrown these myths. Centaurs,
satyrs, nymphs and god-men have faded away. Science murdered them all.

There are many contradictions in the gospels. They differ not only on
questions of fact, but as to Christianity itself. According to Matthew,
Mark and Luke, if you will forgive others God will forgive you. This
is the one condition of salvation. But in John we find an entirely
different religion. According to John you must be born again and
believe in Jesus Christ. There you find for the first time about
the atonement—that Christ died to save sinners. The gospel of John
discloses a regular theological system—a new one. To forgive others is
not enough. You must have faith. You must be born again.

The four gospels cannot be harmonized. If John is true the others are
false. If the others are true John is false. From this there is no
escape. I do not for a moment suppose that Professor Briggs agrees with
me on these questions. He probably regards me as a very bad and wicked
man, and my opinions as blasphemies. I find no fault with him for that.
I believe him to be an honest man; right in some things and wrong in
many. He seems to be true to his thought and I honor him for that.

He would like to get all the stumbling-blocks out of the Bible, so
that a really thoughtful man can "believe." If theologians cling to
the miracles recorded in the New Testament the entire book will be
disparaged and denied. The "Gospel ship" is overloaded. Somethings must
be thrown overboard or the boat will go down. If the churches try to
save all they will lose all.

They must throw the miracles away. They must admit that Christ did not
cast devils out of the bodies of men and women—that he did not cure
diseases with a word, or blindness with spittle and clay; that he had no
power over winds and waves; that he did not raise the dead; that he was
not raised from the dead himself, and that he did not ascend bodily to
heaven. These absurdities must be given up, or in a little while the
orthodox ministers will be preaching the "tidings of great joy" to
benches, bonnets and bibs.

Professor Briggs, as I understand him, is willing to give up the
absurdest absurdities, but wishes to keep all the miracles that
can possibly be believed. He is anxious to preserve the important
miracles—the great central falsehoods—but the little lies that were
told just to embellish the story—to furnish vines for the columns—he
is willing to cast aside.

But Professor Briggs was honest enough to say that we do not know the
authors of most of the books in the Bible; that we do not know who wrote
the Psalms or Job or Proverbs or the Song of Songs or Ecclesiastes or
the Epistle to the Hebrews. He also said that no translation can ever
take the place of the original Scriptures, because a translation is at
best the work of men. In other words, that God has not revealed to us
the names of the inspired books. That this must be determined by us.
Professor Briggs puts reason above revelation. By reason we are to
decide what books are inspired. By reason we are to decide whether
anything has been improperly added to those books. By reason we are to
decide the real meaning of those books.

It therefore follows that if the books are unreasonable they are
uninspired. It seems to me that this position is absolutely correct.
There is no other that can be defended. The Presbyterians who pretend to
answer Professor Briggs seem to be actuated by hatred.

Dr. Da Costa answers with vituperation and epithet. He answers no
argument; brings forward no fact; points out no mistake. He simply
attacks the man. He exhibits the ordinary malice of those who love their
enemies.

President Patton, of Princeton, is a despiser of reason; a hater of
thought. Progress is the only thing that he fears. He knows that
the Bible is absolutely true. He knows that every word is inspired.
According to him, all questions have been settled, and criticism said
its last word when the King James Bible was printed. The Presbyterian
Church is infallible, and whoever doubts or denies will be damned.
Morality is worthless without the creed. This, is the religion, the
philosophy, of Dr. Patton. He fights with the ancient weapons, with
stone and club. He is a private in Captain Calvin's company, and he
marches to defeat with the courage of invincible ignorance.

I do not blame the Presbyterian Church for closing the mouth of
Professor Briggs. That church believes the Bible—all of it—and the
members did not feel like paying a man for showing that it was not all
inspired. Long ago the Presbyterians stopped growing. They have been
petrified for many years. Professor Briggs had been growing. He had
to leave the church or shrink. He left. Then he joined the Episcopal
Church. He probably supposed that that church preferred the living to
the dead. He knew about Colenso, Stanley, Temple, Heber Newton, Dr.
Rainsford and Farrar, and thought that the finger and thumb of authority
would not insist on plucking from the mind the buds of thought.

Whether he was mistaken or not remains to be seen.

The Episcopal Church may refuse to ordain him, and by such refusal put
the bigot brand upon its brow.

The refusal cannot injure Professor Briggs. It will leave him where
it found him—with too much science for a churchman and too much
superstition for a scientist; with his feet in the gutter and his head
in the clouds.

I admire every man who is true to himself, to his highest ideal, and who
preserves unstained the veracity of his soul.

I believe in growth. I prefer the living to the dead. Men are superior
to mummies. Cradles are more beautiful than coffins. Development is
grander than decay. I do not agree with Professor Briggs. I do not
believe in inspired books, or in the Holy Ghost, or that any God has
ever appeared to man. I deny the existence of the supernatural. I know
of no religion that is founded on facts.

But I cheerfully admit that Professor Briggs appears to be candid, good
tempered and conscientious—the opposite of those who attack him. He is
not a Freethinker, but he honestly thinks that he is free.
---
# Robson and Crane Dinner
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1889_
## Robson and Crane Dinner

New York, November 21, 1887.

> * The theatre party and supper given by Charles P. Palmer,
> brother of Courtlandt Palmer, on Monday evening were
> unusually attractive in many ways. Mr Palmer has recently
> returned from Europe, and took this opportunity to gather
> around him his old club associates and friends, and to show
> his admiration of the acting of Messrs. Robson and Crane.
> The appearance of Mr. Palmer's fifty guests in the theatre
> excited much interest in all parts of the house. It is not
> often that theatre-goers have the opportunity of seeing in a
> single row, Channcey M. Depew, Gen. William T. Sherman, Gen.
> Horace Porter and Robert G. Ingersoll, with Leonard Jerome
> and his brother Lawrence, Murat Halstead and other well-
> known men in close proximity

> The supper table at Delmonico's was decorated with a lavish
> profusion of flowers rarely approached even at that famous
> restaurant.

> Mr. Palmer was a charming host, full of humor, jollity and
> attention to every guest. He opened the speaking with a few
> apt words. Then Stuart Rodson made some witty remarks, and
> called upon William H. Crane, whose well-rounded speech was
> heartily applauded General Sherman, Chauncey M. Depew,
> General Porter, Lawrence Jerome and Colonel Ingersoll were
> all in their best moods, and the sallies of wit and the
> abundance of genuine humor in their informal addresses kept
> their hearers in almost continuous laughter. Lawrence Jerome
> was in especially fine form. He sang songs, told stories and
> said: "Depew and Ingersoll know so much that intelligence
> has become a drag in the market, and it's no use to tell you
> what a good speech I would have made." J. Seaver Page made
> an uncommonly witty and effective speech. Murat Halstead
> related some reminiscences of his last European tour and of
> his experiences in London with Lawrence and Leonard Jerome,
> which were received with shouts of laughter. Altogether the
> supper was one to be long remembered by all present.—The
> Tribune, New York, November 23, 1887;

TOAST: COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

I BELIEVE in the medicine of mirth, and in what I might call the
longevity of laughter. Every man who has caused real, true, honest
mirth, has been a benefactor of the human race. In a world like this,
where there is so much trouble—a world gotten up on such a poor
plan—where sometimes one is almost inclined to think that the Deity, if
there be one, played a practical joke—to find, I say, in such a world,
something that for the moment allows laughter to triumph over sorrow,
is a great piece of good fortune. I like the stage, not only because
General Sherman likes it—and I do not think I was ever at the theatre
in my life but I saw him—I not only like it because General Washington
liked it, but because the greatest man that ever touched this grain of
sand and tear we call the world, wrote for the stage, and poured out
a very Mississippi of philosophy and pathos and humor, and everything
calculated to raise and ennoble mankind.

I like to see the stage honored, because actors are the ministers, the
apostles, of the greatest man who ever lived, and because they put
flesh upon and blood and passion within the greatest characters that
the greatest man drew. This is the reason I like the stage. It makes us
human. A rascal never gained applause on the stage. A hypocrite never
commanded admiration, not even when he was acting a clergyman—except
for the naturalness of the acting. No one has ever yet seen any play
in which, in his heart, he did not applaud honesty, heroism, sincerity,
fidelity, courage, and self-denial. Never. No man ever heard a great
play who did not get up a better, wiser, and more humane man; and no man
ever went to the theatre and heard Robson and Crane, who did not go home
better-natured, and treat his family that night a little better than on
a night when he had not heard these actors.

I enjoy the stage; I always did enjoy it. I love the humanity of it. I
hate solemnity; it is the brother of stupidity—always. You never knew a
solemn man who was not stupid, and you never will. There never was a
man of true genius who had not the simplicity of a child, and over whose
lips had not rippled the river of laughter—never, and there never will
be. I like, I say, the stage for its wit and for its humor. I do not
like sarcasm; I do not like mean humor. There is as much difference
between humor and malicious wit as there is between a bee's honey and
a bee's sting, and the reason I like Robson and Crane is that they have
the honey without the sting.

Another thing that makes me glad is, that I live in an age and
generation and day that has sense enough to appreciate the stage; sense
enough to appreciate music; sense enough to appreciate everything
that lightens the burdens of this life. Only a few years ago our dear
ancestors looked upon the theatre as the vestibule of hell; and every
actor was going "the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire." In those
good old days, our fathers, for the sake of relaxation, talked about
death and graves and epitaphs and worms and shrouds and dust and hell.
In those days, too, they despised music, cared nothing for art; and
yet I have lived long enough to hear the world—that is, the civilized
world—say that Shakespeare wrote the greatest book that man has ever
read. I have lived long enough to see men like Beethoven and Wagner put
side by side with the world's greatest men—great in imagination—and we
must remember that imagination makes the great difference between men.
I have lived long enough to see actors placed with the grandest and
noblest, side by side with the greatest benefactors of the human race.

There is one thing in which I cannot quite agree with what has been
said. I like tragedy, because tragedy is only the other side of the
shield and I like both sides. I love to spend an evening on the twilight
boundary line between tears and smiles. There is nothing that pleases me
better than some scene, some act, where the smile catches the tears
in the eyes; where the eyes are almost surprised by the smile, and the
smile touched and softened by the tears. I like that. And the greatest
comedians and the greatest tragedians have that power; and, in
conclusion, let me say, that it gives me more than pleasure to
acknowledge the debt of gratitude I owe, not only to the stage, but to
the actors whose health we drink to-night.
---
# Sabbath Superstition
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1894_
THE idea that one day in the week is better than the others and should
be set apart for religious purposes; that it should be considered holy;
that no useful work should be done on that day; that it should be given
over to pious idleness and sad ceremonies connected with the worship of
a supposed Being, seems to have been originated by the Jews.

According to the Old Testament, the Sabbath was marvelously sacred for
two reasons; the first being, that Jehovah created the universe in six
days and rested on the seventh: and the second, because the Jews had
been delivered from the Egyptians.

The first of these reasons we now know to be false; and the second has
nothing, so far as we are concerned, to do with the question.

There is no reason for our keeping the seventh day because the Hebrews
were delivered from the Egyptians.

The Sabbath was a Jewish institution, and, according to the Bible, only
the Jews were commanded to keep that day. Jehovah said nothing to the
Egyptians on that subject; nothing to the Philistines, nothing to the
Gentiles.

The Jews kept that day with infinite strictness, and with them this
space of time known as the Sabbath became so holy that he who violated
it by working was put to death. Sabbath-breaking and murder were equal
crimes. On the Sabbath the pious Jew would not build a fire in his
house. He ate cold victuals and thanked God. The gates of the city were
closed. No business was done, and the traveler who arrived at the city
on that day remained outside until evening. If he happened to fall, he
remained where he fell until the sun had gone done.

The early Christians did not hold the seventh day in such veneration.
As a matter of fact, they ceased to regard it as holy, and changed the
sacred day from the seventh to the first. This change was really made
by Constantine, because the first day of the week was the Sunday of the
Pagans; and this day had been given to pleasure and recreation and to
religious ceremonies for many centuries.

After Constantine designated the first day to be kept and observed by
Christians, our Sunday became the sacred time.

The early Christians, however, kept the day much as it had been kept by
the Pagans. They attended church in the morning, and in the afternoon
enjoyed themselves as best they could..

The Catholic Church fell in with the prevailing customs, and to
accommodate itself to Pagan ways and superstitions, it agreed, as far as
it could, with the ideas of the Pagan.

Up to the time of the Reformation, Sunday had been divided between the
discharge of religious duties and recreation.

Luther did not believe in the sacredness of the Sabbath. After church he
enjoyed himself by playing games, and wanted others to do the same.

Even John Calvin, whose view had been blurred by the "Five Points,"
allowed the people to enjoy themselves on Sunday afternoon.

The reformers on the continent never had the Jewish idea of the
sacredness of the Sabbath.

In Geneva, Germany and France, all kinds of innocent amusement were
allowed on that day; and I believe the same was true of Holland.

But in Scotland the Jewish idea was adopted to the fullest extent. There
Sabbath-breaking was one of the blackest and one of the most terrible
crimes. Nothing was considered quite as sacred as the Sabbath.

The Scotch went so far as to take the ground that it was wrong to save
people who were drowning on Sunday, the drowning being a punishment
inflicted by God. Upon the question of keeping the Sabbath most of the
Scottish people became insane.

The same notions about the holy day were adopted by the Dissenters in
England, and it became the principal tenet in their creed.

The Puritans and Pilgrims were substantially crazy about the sacredness
of Sunday. With them the first day of the week was set apart for
preaching, praying, attending church, reading the Bible and studying
the catechism. Walking, riding, playing on musical instruments, boating,
swimming and courting, were all crimes.

No one had the right to be happy on that blessed day. It was a time of
gloom, sacred, solemn and religiously stupid.

They did their best to strip their religion of every redeeming feature.
They hated art and music—everything calculated to produce joy. They
despised everything except the Bible, the church, God, Sunday and the
creed.

The influence of these people has been felt in every part of our
country. The Sabbath superstition became almost universal. No laughter,
no smiles on that day; no games, no recreation, no riding, no walking
through the perfumed fields or by the winding streams or the shore of
the sea. No communion with the subtile beauties of nature; no wandering
in the woods with wife and children, no reading of poetry and fiction;
nothing but solemnity and gloom, listening to sermons, thinking about
sin, death, graves, coffins, shrouds, epitaphs and ceremonies and the
marvelous truths of sectarian religion, and the weaknesses of those
who were natural enough and sensible enough to enjoy themselves on the
Sabbath day.

So universal became the Sabbath superstition that the Legislatures of
all the States, or nearly all, passed laws to prevent work and enjoyment
on that day, and declared all contracts void relating to business
entered into on Sunday.

The Germans gave us the first valuable lesson on this subject. They
came to this country in great numbers; they did not keep the American
Sabbath. They listened to music and they drank beer on that holy day.
They took their wives and children with them and enjoyed themselves;
yet they were good, kind, industrious people. They paid their debts and
their credit was the best.

Our people saw that men could be good and women virtuous without
"keeping" the Sabbath.

This did us great good, and changed the opinions of hundreds of
thousands of Americans.

But the churches insisted on the old way. Gradually our people began
to appreciate the fact that one-seventh of the time was being stolen by
superstition. They began to ask for the opening of libraries, for music
in the parks and to be allowed to visit museums and public places on the
Sabbath.

In several States these demands were granted, and the privileges have
never been abused. The people were orderly, polite to officials and to
each other.

In 1876, when the Centennial was held at Philadelphia, the Sabbatarians
had control. Philadelphia was a Sunday city, and so the gates of the
Centennial were closed on that day.

This was in Philadelphia where the Sabbath superstition had been so
virulent that chains had been put across the streets to prevent stages
and carriages from passing at that holy time.

At that time millions of Americans felt that a great wrong was done by
closing the Centennial to the laboring people; but the managers—most
of them being politicians—took care of themselves and kept the gates
closed.

In 1876 the Sabbatarians triumphed, and when it was determined to hold a
world's fair at Chicago they made up their minds that no one should look
upon the world's wonders on the Sabbath day.

To accomplish this pious and foolish purpose committees were appointed
all over the country; money was raised to make a campaign; persons were
employed to go about and arouse the enthusiasm of religious people;
petitions by the thousand were sent to Congress and to the officers
of the World's Fair, signed by thousands of people who never saw them;
resolutions were passed in favor of Sunday closing by conventions,
presbyteries, councils and associations. Lobbyists were employed to
influence members of Congress. Great bodies of Christians threatened to
boycott the fair and yet the World's Fair is open on Sunday.

What is the meaning of this? Let me tell you. It means that in this
country the Scotch New England Sabbath has ceased to be; it means that
it is dead. The last great effort for its salvation has been put forth,
and has failed. It belonged to the creed of Jonathan Edwards and the
belief of the witch-burners, and in this age it is out of place.

There was a time when the minister and priest were regarded as the
foundation of wisdom; when information came from the altar, from the
pulpit; and when the sheep were the property of the shepherd.

That day in intelligent communities has passed. We no longer go to the
minister or the church for information. The orthodox minister is
losing his power, and the Sabbath is now regarded as a day of rest, of
recreation and of pleasure.

The church must keep up with the people. The minister must take another
step. The multitude care but little about controversies in churches, but
they do care about the practical questions that directly affect their
daily lives.

Must we waste one day in seven; must we make ourselves unhappy or
melancholy one-seventh of the time?

These are important questions and for many years the church in our
country has answered them both in the affirmative, and a vast number of
people not Christians have also said "yes" because they wanted votes, or
because they feared to incite the hatred of the church.

Now in this year of 1893 a World's Fair answered this question in the
negative, and a large majority of the citizens of the Republic say that
the officers of the Fair have done right.

This marks an epoch in the history of the Sabbath. It is to be sacred
in a religious sense in this country no longer. Henceforth in the United
States the Sabbath is for the use of man.

Many of those who labored for the closing of the Fair on Sunday took the
ground that if the gates were opened, God would visit this nation with
famine, flood and fire.

It hardly seems possible that God will destroy thousands of women and
children who had nothing to do with the opening of the Fair; still, if
he is the same God described in the Christian Bible, he may destroy our
babes as he did those of the Egyptians. It is a little hard to tell in
advance what a God of that kind will do.

It was believed for many centuries that God punished the
Sabbath-breaking individual and the Sabbath-breaking nation. Of course
facts never had anything to do with this belief, and the prophecies
of the pulpit were never fulfilled. People who were drowned on Sunday,
according to the church, lost their lives by the will of God. Those
drowned on other days were the victims of storm or accident. The nations
that kept the Sabbath were no more prosperous than those that broke the
sacred day. Certainly France is as prosperous as Scotland.

Let us hope, however, that these zealous gentlemen who have predicted
calamities were mistaken; let us be glad that hundreds of thousands of
workingmen and women will be delighted and refined by looking at the
statues, the paintings, the machinery, and the countless articles of use
and beauty gathered together at the great Fair, and let us be glad that
on the one day that they can spare from toil, the gates will be open to
them.
---
# Spain and the Spaniards
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1898_
SPAIN has always been exceedingly religious and exceedingly cruel. That
country had an unfortunate experience. The Spaniards fought the Moors
for about seven hundred or eight hundred years, and during that time
Catholicism and patriotism became synonymous. They were fighting the
Moslems. It was a religious war. For this reason they became intense in
their Catholicism, and they were fearful that if they should grant the
least concession to the Moor, God would destroy them. Their idea was
that the only way to secure divine aid was to have absolute faith, and
this faith was proved by their hatred of all ideas inconsistent with
their own.

Spain has been and is the victim of superstition. The Spaniards expelled
the Jews, who at that time represented a good deal of wealth and
considerable intelligence. This expulsion was characterized by infinite
brutality and by cruelties that words can not express. They drove
out the Moors at last. Not satisfied with this, they drove out the
Moriscoes. These were Moors who had been converted to Catholicism.

The Spaniards, however, had no confidence in the honesty of the
conversion, and for the purpose of gaining the good will of God, they
drove them out. They had succeeded in getting rid of Jews, Moors and
Moriscoes; that is to say, of the intelligence and industry of Spain.
Nothing was left but Spaniards; that is to say, indolence, pride,
cruelty and infinite superstition. So Spain destroyed all freedom of
thought through the Inquisition, and for many years the sky was livid
with the flames of the _Auto da fe_; Spain was busy carrying fagots
to the feet of philosophy, busy in burning people for thinking, for
investigating, for expressing honest opinions. The result was that a
great darkness settled over Spain, pierced by no star and shone upon by
no rising sun.

At one time Spain was the greatest of powers, owner of half the world,
and now she has only a few islands, the small change of her great
fortune, the few pennies in the almost empty purse, souvenirs of
departed wealth, of vanished greatness. Now Spain is bankrupt, bankrupt
not only in purse, but in the higher faculties of the mind, a nation
without progress, without thought; still devoted to bull fights and
superstition, still trying to affright contagious diseases by religious
processions. Spain is a part of the mediaeval ages, belongs to an ancient
generation. It really has no place in the nineteenth century.

Spain has always been cruel. S. S. Prentice, many years ago, speaking
of Spain said: "On the shore of discovery it leaped an armed robber, and
sought for gold even in the throats of its victims." The bloodiest pages
in the history of this world have been written by Spain. Spain in Peru,
in Mexico, Spain in the low countries—all possible cruelties come back
to the mind when we say Philip II., when we say the Duke of Alva, when
we pronounce the names of Ferdinand and Isabella. Spain has inflicted
every torture, has practiced every cruelty, has been guilty of every
possible outrage. There has been no break between Torquemada and
Weyler, between the Inquisition and the infamies committed in Cuba.

When Columbus found Cuba, the original inhabitants were the kindest and
gentlest of people. They practiced no inhuman rites, they were good,
contented people. The Spaniards enslaved them or sought to enslave them.
The people rising, they were hunted with dogs, they were tortured, they
were murdered, and finally exterminated. This was the commencement of
Spanish rule on the island of Cuba. The same spirit is in Spain to-day
that was in Spain then. The idea is not to conciliate, but to coerce,
not to treat justly, but to rob and enslave. No Spaniard regards a
Cuban as having equal rights with himself. He looks upon the island as
property, and upon the people as a part of that property, both equally
belonging to Spain.

Spain has kept no promises made to the Cubans and never will. At last
the Cubans know exactly what Spain is, and they have made up their minds
to be free or to be exterminated. There is nothing in history to equal
the atrocities and outrages that have been perpetrated by Spain upon
Cuba. What Spain does now, all know is only a repetition of what Spain
has done, and this is a prophecy of what Spain will do if she has the
power.

So far as I am concerned, I have no idea that there is to be any war
between Spain and the United States. A country that can't conquer Cuba,
certainly has no very flattering chance of overwhelming the United
States. A man that cannot whip one of his own boys is foolish when he
threatens to clean out the whole neighborhood. Of course, there is
some wisdom even in Spain, and the Spaniards who know anything of this
country know that it would be absolute madness and the utmost extreme
of folly to attack us. I believe in treating even Spain with perfect
fairness. I feel about the country as Burns did about the Devil: "O wad
ye tak' a thought an' mend!" I know that nations, like people, do as
they must, and I regard Spain as the victim and result of conditions,
the fruit of a tree that was planted by ignorance and watered by
superstition.

I believe that Cuba is to be free, and I want that island to give a new
flag to the air, whether it ever becomes a part of the United States
or not. My sympathies are all with those who are struggling for their
rights, trying to get the clutch of tyranny from their throats; for
those who are defending their homes, their firesides, against tyrants
and robbers.

Whether the Maine was blown up by the Spaniards is still a question. I
suppose it will soon be decided. In my own opinion, the disaster came
from the outside, but I do not know, and not knowing, I am willing
to wait for the sake of human nature. I sincerely hope that it was an
accident. I hate to think that there are people base and cruel enough
to commit such an act. Still, I think that all these matters will be
settled without war.

I am in favor of an international court, the members to be selected
by the ruling nations of the world; and before this court I think all
questions between nations should be decided, and the only army and the
only navy should be under its direction, and used only for the purpose
of enforcing its decrees. Were there such a court now, before which
Cuba could appear and tell the story of her wrongs, of the murders, the
assassinations, the treachery, the starvings, the cruelty, I think that
the decision would instantly be in her favor and that Spain would be
driven from the island. Until there is such a court there is no need of
talking about the world being civilized.

I am not a Christian, but I do believe in the religion of justice, of
kindness. I believe in humanity. I do believe that usefulness is the
highest possible form of worship. The useful man is the good man, the
useful man is the real saint. I care nothing about supernatural myths
and mysteries, but I do care for human beings. I have a little short
creed of my own, not very hard to understand, that has in it no
contradictions, and it is this: Happiness is the only good. The time to
be happy is now. The place to be happy is here. The way to be happy is
to make others so.

I think this creed if adopted, would do away with war. I think it would
destroy superstition, and I think it would civilize even Spain.
---
# The Children of the Stage
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1888_
## The Children of the Stage

New York, March 23, 1899.

> * Col. Robert G. Ingersoll was the special star among stars
> at the benefit given yesterday afternoon at the Fifth Avenue
> Theatre for the Actors' Fund. There were a great many other
> stars and a very long programme. The consequence was that
> the performance began before one o'clock and was not over
> until almost dinner time.

> Usually in such cases the least important performers are
> placed at the beginning and the audience straggles in
> leisurely without worrying a great deal over what it has
> missed. Yesterday, however, it had been announced in advance
> that Col. Ingersoll would start the ball a-rolling and the
> result was that before the overture was finished the house
> was packed to the doors.

> Col. Ingersoll's contribution was a short address delivered
> in his characteristic style of florid eloquence.—The World,
> New York, March 24, 1899.

Disguise it as we may, we live in a frightful world, with evils, with
enemies, on every side. From the hedges along the path of life, leap the
bandits that murder and destroy; and every human being, no matter how
often he escapes, at last will fall beneath the assassin's knife.

To change the figure: We are all passengers on the train of life. The
tickets give the names of the stations where we boarded the car, but
the destination is unknown. At every station some passengers, pallid,
breathless, dead, are put away, and some with the light of morning in
their eyes, get on.

To change the figure again: On the wide sea of life we are all on ships
or rafts or spars, and some by friendly winds are borne to the fortunate
isles, and some by storms are wrecked on the cruel rocks. And yet upon
the isles the same as upon the rocks, death waits for all. And death
alone can truly say, "All things come to him who waits."

And yet, strangely enough, there is in this world of misery, of
misfortune and of death, the blessed spirit of mirth. The travelers on
the path, on the train, on the ships, the rafts and spars, sometimes
forget their perils and their doom.

All blessings on the man whose face was first illuminated by a smile!

All blessings on the man who first gave to the common air the music
of laughter—the music that for the moment drove fears from the heart,
tears from the eyes, and dimpled cheeks with joy!

All blessings on the man who sowed with merry hands the seeds of humor,
and at the lipless skull of death snapped the reckless fingers of
disdain! Laughter is the blessed boundary line between the brute and
man.

Who are the friends of the human race? They who hide with vine and
flower the cruel rocks of fate—the children of genius, the sons and
daughters of mirth and laughter, of imagination, those whose thoughts,
like moths with painted wings, fill the heaven of the mind.

Among these sons and daughters are the children of the stage, the
citizens of the mimic world—the world enriched by all the wealth of
genius—enriched by painter, orator, composer and poet. The world
of which Shakespeare, the greatest of human beings, is still the
unchallenged emperor. These children of the stage have delighted the
weary travelers on the thorny path, amused the passengers on the fated
train, and filled with joy the hearts of the clingers to spars, and the
floaters on rafts.

These, children of the stage, with fancy's wand rebuild the past. The
dead are brought to life and made to act again the parts they played.
The hearts and lips that long ago were dust, are made to beat and speak
again. The dead kings are crowned once more, and from the shadows of the
past emerge the queens, jeweled and sceptred as of yore. Lovers leave
their graves and breathe again their burning vows; and again the white
breasts rise and fall in passion's storm. The laughter that died away
beneath the touch of death is heard again and lips that fell to ashes
long ago are curved once more with mirth. Again the hero bares his
breast to death; again the patriot falls, and again the scaffold,
stained with noble blood, becomes a shrine.

The citizens of the real world gain joy and comfort from the stage.
The broker, the speculator ruined by rumor, the lawyer baffled by the
intelligence of a jury or the stupidity of a judge, the doctor who lost
his patience because he lost his patients, the merchant in the dark days
of depression, and all the children of misfortune, the victims of hope
deferred, forget their troubles for a little while when looking on
the mimic world. When the shaft of wit flies like the arrow of Ulysses
through all the rings and strikes the centre; when words of wisdom
mingle with the clown's conceits; when folly laughing shows her pearls,
and mirth holds carnival; when the villain fails and the right triumphs,
the trials and the griefs of life for the moment fade away.

And so the maiden longing to be loved, the young man waiting for
the "Yes" deferred; the unloved wife, hear the old, old story told
again,—and again within their hearts is the ecstasy of requited love.

The stage brings solace to the wounded, peace to the troubled, and with
the wizard's wand touches the tears of grief and they are changed to the
smiles of joy.

The stage has ever been the altar, the pulpit, the cathedral of the
heart. There the enslaved and the oppressed, the erring, the fallen,
even the outcast, find sympathy, and pity gives them all her tears—and
there, in spite of wealth and power, in spite of caste and cruel pride,
true love has ever triumphed over all.

The stage has taught the noblest lesson, the highest truth, and that is
this: It is better to deserve without receiving than to receive without
deserving. As a matter of fact, it is better to be the victim of
villainy than to be a villain. Better to be stolen from than to be
a thief, and in the last analysis the oppressed, the slave, is less
unfortunate than the oppressor, the master.

The children of the stage, these citizens of the mimic world, are
not the grasping, shrewd and prudent people of the mart; they are
improvident enough to enjoy the present and credulous enough to believe
the promises of the universal liar known as Hope. Their hearts and hands
are open. As a rule genius is generous, luxurious, lavish, reckless and
royal. And so, when they have reached the ladder's topmost round, they
think the world is theirs and that the heaven of the future can have
no cloud. But from the ranks of youth the rival steps. Upon the veteran
brows the wreaths begin to fade, the leaves to fall; and failure sadly
sups on memory. They tread the stage no more. They leave the mimic
world, fair fancy's realm; they leave their palaces and thrones; their
crowns are gone, and from their hands the sceptres fall. At last, in age
and want, in lodgings small and bare, they wait the prompter's call;
and when the end is reached, maybe a vision glorifies the closing scene.
Again they are on the stage; again their hearts throb high; again they
utter perfect words; again the flowers fall about their feet; and as the
curtain falls, the last sound that greets their ears, is the music of
applause, the "bravos" for an encore.

And then the silence falls on darkness.

Some loving hands should close their eyes, some loving lips should leave
upon their pallid brows a kiss; some friends should lay the breathless
forms away, and on the graves drop blossoms jeweled with the tears of
love.

This is the work of the generous men and women who contribute to the
Actors' Fund. This is charity; and these generous men and women have
taught, and are teaching, a lesson that all the world should learn, and
that is this: The hands that help are holier than the lips that pray.
---
# The Circulation of Obscene Literature
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1879_
> * From "Ingersoll As He Is," by E. M. Macdonald.

"ONE of the charges most persistently made against Colonel Ingersoll is
that during and after the trial of D. M. Bennett, persecuted by Anthony
Comstock, the Colonel endeavored to have the law against sending obscene
literature through the mail repealed. That the charge is maliciously
false is fully shown by the following brief history of events connected
with the prosecution of D. M. Bennett, and Mr. Ingersoll's efforts in
his behalf....

"After Mr. Bennett's arrest in 1877, he printed a petition to Congress,
written by T. B. Wakeman, asking for the _repeal or modification_ of
Comstock's law by which he expected to stamp out the publications of
Freethinkers....

"The connection of Mr. Ingersoll with this petition is soon explained.
Mr. Ingersoll knew of Comstock's attempts to suppress heresy by means of
this law, and when called upon by the Washington committee in charge
of the petition, he allowed his name to go on the petition for
modification, but he told them distinctly and plainly that he was _not_
in favor of the _repeal_ of the law, as he was willing and anxious that
obscenity should be suppressed by all legal means. His sentiments are
best expressed by himself in a letter to the _Boston Journal_. He says:

"'Washington, March 18, 1878.

"'To the Editor of the Boston Journal:

"'My attention has been called to the following article that recently
appeared in your paper:

"'Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, and others, feel aggrieved because Congress,
in 1873, enacted a law for the suppression of obscene literature, and,
believing it an infringement of the rights of certain citizens, and an
effort to muzzle the press and conscience, petition for its repeal. When
a man's conscience permits him to spread broadcast obscene literature,
it is time that conscience was muzzled. The law is a terror only to
evil-doers."

"'No one wishes the repeal of any law for the suppression of obscene
literature. For my part, I wish all such laws rigidly enforced. The only
objection I have to the law of 1873 is, that it has been construed to
include books and pamphlets written against the religion of the day,
although containing nothing that can be called obscene or impure.
Certain religious fanatics, taking advantage of the word "immoral" in
the law, have claimed that all writings against what they are pleased to
call orthodox religion are immoral, and such books have been seized and
their authors arrested. To this, and this only, I object.

"'Your article does me great injustice, and I ask that you will have the
kindness to publish this note.

"'From the bottom of my heart I despise the publishers of obscene
literature. Below them there is no depth of filth. And I also despise
those, who, under the pretence of suppressing obscene literature,
endeavor to prevent honest and pure men from writing and publishing
honest and pure thoughts. Yours truly.

"'R. G. Ingersoll.'

"This is sufficiently easy of comprehension even for ministers, but of
course they misrepresented and lied about the writer. From that day
to this he has been accused of favoring the dissemination of obscene
literature. That the friends of Colonel Ingersoll may know just
how infamous this is, we will give a brief history of the repeal or
modification movement....

"On October 26, the National Liberal League held its Congress in
Syracuse. At this Congress the League left the matter of repeal or
modification of the laws open, taking no action as an organization,
either way, but elected officers known to be in favor of repeal. On
December 10, Mr. Bennett was again arrested. He was tried, and found
guilty; he appealed, the conviction was affirmed, and he was sentenced
to thirteen months' imprisonment at hard labor.

"After the trial Colonel Ingersoll interposed, and endeavored to get
a pardon for Mr. Bennett, who was held in Ludlow street jail pending
President Hayes's reply. The man who occupied the President's office
promised to pardon the Infidel editor; then he went back on his word,
and Mr. Bennett served his term of imprisonment.

"Then preachers opened the sluiceways of vituperation and billingsgate
upon Colonel Ingersoll for having interceded for a man convicted of
mailing obscene literature. The charges were as infamously false then
as they are now, and to show it, it is only necessary to quote
Colonel Ingersoll's words during the year or two succeeding, when
the Freethinkers and the Christians were not only opposing each
other vigorously, but the Freethinkers themselves were divided on the
question. In 1879, while Mr. Bennett was in prison, a correspondent of
the Nashville, Tenn., _Banner_ said that the National Liberal League and
Colonel Ingersoll were in favor of disseminating obscene literature. To
this Colonel Ingersoll replied in a letter to a friend:

"1417 G St., Washington, Aug. 21, 1879.

"'My Dear Sir: The article in the Nashville _Banner_ by "J. L." is
utterly and maliciously false.

"'A petition was sent to Congress praying for the repeal or modification
of certain postal laws, to the end that the freedom of conscience and of
the press should not be abridged.

"'Nobody holds in greater contempt than I the writers, publishers, or
dealers in obscene literature. One of my objections to the Bible is that
it contains hundreds of grossly obscene passages not fit to be read by
any decent man, thousands of passages, in my judgment, calculated to
corrupt the minds of youth. I hope the time will soon come when the
good sense of the American people will demand a Bible with all obscene
passages left out.

"'The only reason a modification of the postal laws is necessary is that
at present, under color of those laws, books and pamphlets are excluded
from the mails simply because they are considered heterodox and
blasphemous. In other words, every man should be allowed to write,
publish, and send through the mails his thoughts upon any subject,
expressed in a decent and becoming manner. As to the propriety of giving
anybody authority to overhaul mails, break seals, and read private
correspondence, that is another question.

"'Every minister and every layman who charges me with directly or
indirectly favoring the dissemination of anything that is impure,
retails what he knows to be a wilful and malicious lie. I remain, Yours
truly,

"'R. G. Ingersoll.'

"Three weeks after this letter was written the National Liberal League
held its third annual Congress at Cincinnati. Colonel Ingersoll was
chairman of the committee on resolutions and platform and unfinished
business of the League. One of the subjects to be dealt with was these
Comstock laws. The following are Colonel Ingersoll's remarks and the
resolutions he presented:

"'It may be proper, before presenting the resolutions of the committee,
to say a word in explanation. The committee were charged with the
consideration of the unfinished business of the League. It seems that
at Syracuse there was a division as to what course should be taken in
regard to the postal laws of the United States. These laws were used
as an engine of oppression against the free circulation of what we
understand to be scientific literature. Every honest man in this country
is in favor of allowing every other human being every right that he
claims for himself. The majority at Syracuse were at that time simply
in favor of the absolute repeal of those laws, believing them to be
unconstitutional—not because they were in favor of anything obscene,
but because they were opposed to the mails of the United States being
under the espionage and bigotry of the church. They therefore demanded
an absolute repeal of the law. Others, feeling that they might be
misunderstood, and knowing that theology can coin the meanest words
to act as the vehicle of the lowest lies, were afraid of being
misunderstood, and therefore they said, Let us amend these laws so that
our literature shall be upon an equality with that of theology. I know
that there is not a Liberal here, or in the United States, that is in
favor of the dissemination of obscene literature. One of the objections
which we have to the book said to be written by God is that it is
obscene.

"'The Liberals of this country believe in purity, and they believe that
every fact in nature and in science is as pure as a star. We do not need
to ask for any more than we want. We simply want the laws of our country
so framed that we are not discriminated against. So, taking that view of
the vexed question, we want to put the boot upon the other foot. We want
to put the charge of obscenity where it belongs, and the committee, of
which I have the honor to be one of the members, have endeavored to do
just that thing. Men have no right to talk to me about obscenity who
regard the story of Lot and his daughters as a fit thing for men, women,
and children to read, and who worship a God in whom the violation of
[_Cheers drowned the conclusion of this sentence so the reporters could
not hear it._] Such a God I hold in infinite contempt.

"'Now I will read you the resolutions recommended by the committee.

"'RESOLUTIONS.

"'Your committee have the honor to submit the following report: "'First,
As to the unfinished business of the League, your committee submits the
following resolutions:

"'Resolved., That we are in favor of such postal laws as will allow the
free transportation through the mails of the United States of all books,
pamphlets, and papers, irrespective of the religious, irreligious,
political, and scientific views they may contain, so that the literature
of science may be placed upon an equality with that of superstition.

"'Resolved, That we are utterly opposed to the dissemination, through
the mails, or by any other means, of obscene literature, whether
"inspired" or uninspired, and hold in measureless contempt its authors
and disseminators.

"'Resolved, That we call upon the Christian world to expunge from the
so-called "sacred" Bible every passage that cannot be read without
covering the cheek of modesty with the blush of shame; and until such
passages are expunged, we demand that the laws against the dissemination
of obscene literature be impartially enforced. '...

"We believe that lotteries and obscenity should be dealt with by State
and municipal legislation, and offenders punished in the county in which
they commit their offence. So in those days we argued for the repeal of
the Comstock laws, as did dozens of others—James Parton, Elizur Wright,
O. B. Frothingham, T. C. Leland, Courtlandt Palmer, and many more whose
names we do not recall. But Colonel Ingersoll did not, and when the
National Liberal League met the next year at Chicago (September 17,
1880), he was opposed to the League's making a pledge to defend every
case under the Comstock laws, and he was opposed to a resolution
demanding a repeal of those laws. The following is what Colonel
Ingersoll said upon the subject:

"'Mr. Chairman, I wish to offer the following resolution in place and
instead of resolutions numbered 5 and 6:

"'Resolved, That the committee of defence, whenever a person has been
indicted for what he claims to have been an honest exercise of the
freedom of thought and expression, shall investigate the case, and if it
appears that such person has been guilty of no offence, then it shall
be the duty of said committee to defend such person if he is unable to
defend himself.'

"'Now, allow me one moment to state my reasons. I do not, I have not, I
never shall, accuse or suspect a solitary member of the Liberal League
of the United States of being in favor of doing any act under heaven
that he is not thoroughly convinced is right. We all claim freedom of
speech, and it is the gem of the human soul. We all claim a right to
express our honest thoughts. Did it ever occur to any Liberal that
he wished to express any thought honestly, truly, and legally that he
considered immoral? How does it happen that _we_ have any interest in
what is known as immoral literature? I deny that the League has any
interest in that kind of literature. Whenever we mention it, whenever we
speak of it, we put ourselves in a false position. What do we want? We
want to see to it that the church party shall not smother the literature
of Liberalism. We want to see to it that the viper of intellectual
slavery shall not sting our cause. We want it so that every honest man,
so that every honest woman, can express his or her honest thought upon
any subject in the world. And the question, and the only question, as to
whether they are amenable to the law, in my mind, is, Were they honest?
Was their effort to benefit mankind? Was that their intention? And no
man, no woman, should be convicted of any offence that that man or woman
did not intend to commit. Now, then, suppose some person is arrested,
and it is claimed that a work written by him is immoral, is illegal.
Then, I say, let our committee of defence examine that case, and if
our enemies are seeking to trample out Freethought under the name of
immorality, and under the cover and shield of our criminal law, then let
us defend that man to the last dollar we have. But we do not wish to put
ourselves in the position of general defenders of all the slush that may
be written in this or any other country. You cannot afford to do it.
You cannot afford to put into the mouth of theology a perpetual and
continual slur. You cannot afford to do it. And this meeting is not the
time to go into the question of what authority the United States may
have over the mails. It is a very wide question. It embraces many
others. Has the Government a right to say what shall go into the mails?
Why, in one sense, assuredly. Certainly they have a right to say you
shall not send a horse and wagon by mail. They have a right to fix some
limit; and the only thing we want is that the literature of liberty, the
literature of real Freethought, shall not be discriminated against.
And we know now as well as if it had been perfectly and absolutely
demonstrated, that the literature of Freethought will be absolutely
pure. We know it, We call upon the Christian world to expunge obscenity
from their book, and until that is expunged we demand that the laws
against obscene literature shall be executed. And how can we, in the
next resolution, say those laws ought all to be repealed? We cannot do
that. I have always been in favor of such an amendment of the law that
by no trick, by no device, by no judicial discretion, an honest, high,
pure-minded man should be subjected to punishment simply for giving his
best and his honest thought. What more do we need? What more can we ask?
I am as much opposed as my friend Mr. Wakeman can be to the assumption
of the church that it is the guardian of morality. If our morality is
to be guarded by that sentiment alone, then is the end come. The natural
instinct of self-defence in mankind and in all organized society is the
fortress of the morality in mankind. The church itself was at one time
the outgrowth of that same feeling, but now the feeling has outgrown the
church. Now, then, we will have a Committee of Defence. That committee
will examine every case. Suppose some man has been indicted, and suppose
he is guilty. Suppose he has endeavored to soil the human mind. Suppose
he has been willing to make money by pandering to the lowest passions
in the human breast. What will that committee do with him then? We will
say, "Go on; let the law take its course." But if, upon reading his
book, we find that he is all wrong, horribly wrong, idiotically wrong,
but make up our minds that he was honest in his error, I will give
as much as any other living man of my means to defend that man. And I
believe you will all bear me witness when I say that I have the cause of
intellectual liberty at heart as much as I am capable of having anything
at heart. And I know hundreds of others here just the same. I understand
that. I understand their motive. I believe it to be perfectly good, but
I truly and honestly think they are mistaken.

If we have an interest in the business, I would fight for it. If our
cause were assailed by law, then I say fight; and our cause is assailed,
and I say fight. They will not allow me, in many States of this Union,
to testify. I say fight until every one of those laws is repealed. They
discriminate against a man simply because he is honest. Repeal such
laws. The church, if it had the power to-day, would trample out every
particle of free literature in this land. And when they endeavor to
do that, I say fight. But there is a distinction wide as the
Mississippi—yes, wider than the Atlantic, wider than all the
oceans—between the literature of immorality and the literature of
Freethought. One is a crawling, slimy lizard, and the other an
angel with wings of light. Now, let us draw this distinction, let us
understand ourselves, and do not give to the common enemy a word covered
with mire, a word stained with cloaca, to throw at us. We thought we had
settled that question a year ago. We buried it then, and I say let it
rot.

"'This question is of great importance. It is the most important one we
have here. I have fought this question; I am ever going to do so, and
I will not allow anybody to put a stain upon me. This question must be
understood if it takes all summer. Here is a case in point. Some lady
has written a work which, I am informed, is a good work, and that has
nothing wrong about it. Her opinions may be foolish or wise. Let this
committee examine that case. If they find that she is a good woman, that
she had good intentions, no matter how terrible the work may be, if
her intentions are good, she has committed no crime. I want the honest
thought. I think I have always been in favor of it. But we haven't the
time to go into all these questions.

"'Then comes the question for this house to decide in a moment whether
these cases should have been tried in the State or Federal court. I
want it understood that I have confidence in the Federal courts of the
nation. There may be some bad judges, there may be some idiotic jurors.
I think there was in that case [of Mr. Bennett]. But the Committee of
Defence, if I understand it, supplied means, for the defence of that
man. They did, but are we ready now to decide in a moment what courts
shall have jurisdiction? Are we ready to say that the Federal courts
shall be denied jurisdiction in any case arising about the mails?
Suppose somebody robs the mails? Before whom shall we try the robber?
Try him before a Federal judge. Why? Because he has violated a Federal
law. We have not any time for such an investigation as this. What we
want to do is to defend free speech everywhere. What we want to do is to
defend the expression of thought in papers, in pamphlets, in books. What
we want to do is to see to it that these books, papers, and pamphlets
are on an equality with all other books, papers, and pamphlets in the
United States mails. And then the next step we want to take, if any man
is indicted under the pretence that he is publishing immoral books,
is to have our Committee of Defence well examine the case; and if we
believe the man to be innocent we will help defend him if he is
unable to defend himself; and if we find that the law is wrong in that
particular, we will go for the amendment of that law. I beg of you to
have some sense in this matter. We must have it. If we don't, upon that
rock we shall split—upon that rock we shall again divide. Let us not do
it. The cause of intellectual liberty is the highest to the human mind.
Let us stand by it, and we can help all these people by this resolution.
We can do justice everywhere with it, while if we agree to the fifth and
sixth resolutions that have been offered I say we lay ourselves open to
the charge, and it will be hurled against us, no matter how unjustly,
that we are in favor of widespread immorality.

"'Mr. Clarke: We are not afraid of it.

"'Colonel Ingersoll: You may say we are not afraid. I am not afraid. He
only is a fool who rushes into unnecessary danger.

"'Mr. Clarke: What are you talking about, anyway?

"'Colonel Ingersoll: I am talking with endeavor to put a little sense
into such men as you. Your very question shows that it was necessary
that I should talk. And now I move that my resolution be adopted.

"'Mr. Wakeman moved that it be added to that portion of the sixth
resolution which recommended the constitution of the Committee of
Defence.

"'Col. Ingersoll: I cannot agree to the sixth resolution. I think nearly
every word of it is wrong in principle. I think it binds us to a course
of action that we shall not be willing to follow; and my resolution
covers every possible case. My resolution binds us to defend every
honest man in the exercise of his right. I can't be bound to say that
the Government hasn't control of its morals—that we cannot trust the
Federal courts—that, under any circumstances, at any time, I am bound
to defend, either by word or money, any man who violates the laws of
this country.

"'Mr. Wakeman: We do not say that.

"'Colonel Ingersoll: I beg of you, I beseech you, not to pass the sixth
resolution. If you do, I wouldn't give that [snapping his fingers] for
the platform. A part of the Comstock law authorizes the vilest possible
trick. We are all opposed to that.

"'Mr. Leland: What is the question?

"'Colonel Ingersoll: Don't let us be silly. Don't let us say we are
opposed to what we are not opposed to. If any man here is opposed to
putting down the vilest of all possible trash he ought to go home.
We are opposed to only a part of the law—opposed to it whenever they
endeavor to trample Freethought under foot in the name of immorality.

Afterward, at the same session of the Congress, the following colloquy
took place between Colonel Ingersoll and T. B. Wakeman:

"'Colonel Ingersoll: You know as well as I that there are certain
books not fit to go through the mails—books and pictures not fit to be
delivered.

"'Mr. Wakeman: That is so.

"'Colonel Ingersoll: There is not a man here who is not in favor, when
these books and pictures come into the control of the United States,
of burning them up when they are manifestly obscene. You don't want any
grand jury there.

"'Mr. Wakeman: Yes, we do.

"'Colonel Ingersoll: No, we don't. When they are manifestly obscene,
burn them up.

"'A delegate: Who is to be judge of that?

"'Colonel Ingersoll: There are books that nobody differs about. There
are certain things about which we can use discretion. If that discretion
is abused, a man has his remedy. We stand for the free thought of this
country. We stand for the progressive spirit of the United States. We
can't afford to say that all these laws should be repealed. If we had
time to investigate them we could say in what they should be amended.
Don't tie us to this nonsense—to the idea that we have an interest in
immoral literature. Let us remember that Mr. Wakeman is sore. He had a
case before the Federal courts, and he imagines, having lost that case,
you cannot depend on them. I have lost hundreds of cases. I have as much
confidence in the Federal courts as in the State courts. I am not to be
a party to throwing a slur upon the Federal judiciary. All we want is
fair play. We want the same chance for our doctrines that others have
for theirs. And how this infernal question of obscenity ever got into
the Liberal League I could never understand. If an innocent man is
convicted of larceny, should we repeal all the laws on the subject? I
don't pretend to be better than other people.

It is easy to talk right—so easy to be right that I never care to have
the luxury of being wrong. I am advocating something that we can stand
upon. I do not misunderstand Mr. Wakeman's motives. I believe they are
perfectly good—that he is thoroughly honest. Why not just say we will
stand by freedom of thought and its expression? Why not say that we
are in favor of amending any law that is wrong? But do not make the
wholesale statement that all these laws ought to be repealed. They ought
not to be repealed. Some of them are good." The law against sending
instruments of vice in the mails is good, as is the law against sending
obscene books and pictures, and the law against letting ignorant hyenas
prey upon sick people, and the law which prevents the getters up of
bogus lotteries sending their letters through the mail.'

"At the evening session of the Congress, on the same day, Mr. Ingersoll
made this speech in opposition to the resolution demanding the repeal of
the Comstock laws:

"'I am not in favor of the repeal of those laws. I have never been, and
I never expect to be. But I do wish that every law providing for the
punishment of a criminal offence should distinctly define the offence.
That is the objection to this law, that it does not define the offence,
so that an American citizen can readily know when he is about to violate
it and consequently the law ought in all probability to be modified
in that regard. I am in favor of every law defining with perfect
distinctness the offence to be punished, but I cannot say by wholesale
these laws should be repealed. I have the cause of Freethought too much
at heart. Neither will I consent to the repeal simply because the church
is in favor of those laws. In so far as the church agrees with me, I
congratulate the church. In so far as superstition is willing to help
me, good! I am willing to accept it. I believe, also, that this League
is upon a secular basis, and there should be nothing in our platform
that would prevent any Christian from acting with us. What is our
platform?—and we ought to leave it as it is. It needs no amendment.
Our platform is for a secular government. Is it improper in a secular
government to endeavor to prevent the spread of obscene literature? It
is the business of a secular government to do it, but if that government
attempts to stamp out Freethought in the name of obscenity, it is then
for the friends of Freethought to call for a definition of the word, and
such a definition as will allow Freethought to go everywhere through all
the mails of the United States. We are also in favor of secular schools.
Good! We are in favor of doing away with every law that discriminates
against a man on account of his belief. Good! We are in favor of
universal education. Good! We are in favor of the taxation of church
property. Good!—because the experience of the world shows that where
you allow superstition to own property without taxing it, it will absorb
the net profits. Is it time now that we should throw into the scale,
against all these splendid purposes, an effort to repeal some postal
laws against obscenity? As well might we turn the League into an engine
to do away with all laws against the sale of stale eggs.

"'What have we to do with those things? Is it possible that Freethought
can be charged with being obscene? Is it possible that, if the charge
is made, it can be substantiated? Can you not attack any superstition
in the world in perfectly pure language? Can you not attack anything you
please in perfectly pure language? And where a man intends right, no law
should find him guilty; and if the law is weak in that respect, let it
be modified. But I say to you that I cannot go with any body of men who
demand the unconditional repeal of these laws. I believe in liberty
as much as any man that breathes. I will do as much, according to my
ability, as any other man to make this an absolutely free and secular
government I will do as much as any other man of my strength and of my
intellectual power to give every human being every right that I claim
for myself. But this obscene law business is a stumbling block. Had it
not been for this, instead of the few people voting here—less than one
hundred—we would have had a Congress numbered by thousands. Had it not
been for this business, the Liberal League of the United States would
to-night hold in its hand the political destiny of the United States.
Instead of that, we have thrown away our power upon a question in which
we are not interested. Instead of that, we have wasted our resources
and our brain for the repeal of a law that we don't want repealed. If
we want anything, we simply want a modification. Now, then, don't stain
this cause by such a course. And don't understand that I am pretending,
or am insinuating, that anyone here is in favor of obscene literature.
It is a question, not of principle, but of means, and I beg pardon
of this Convention if I have done anything so horrible as has been
described by Mr. Pillsbury. I regret it if I have ever endeavored to
trample upon the rights of this Convention.

"'There is one thing I have not done—I have not endeavored to cast
five votes when I didn't have a solitary vote. Let us be fair; let us be
fair. I have simply given my vote. I wish to trample upon the rights
of no one; and when Mr. Pillsbury gave those votes he supposed he had
a right to give them; and if he had a right, the votes would have been
counted. I attribute nothing wrong to him, but I say this: I have the
right to make a motion in this Congress, I have the right to argue that
motion, but I have no more rights than any other member, and I claim
none. But I want to say to you—and I want you to know and feel it—that
I want to act with every Liberal man and woman in this world. I want you
to know and feel it that I want to do everything I can to get every one
of these statutes off our books that discriminates against a man because
of his religious belief—that I am in favor of a secular government,
and of all these rights. But I cannot, and I will not, operate with any
organization that asks for the unconditional repeal of those laws. I
will stand alone, and I have stood alone. I can tell my thoughts to my
countrymen, and I will do it, and whatever position you take, whether
I am with you or not, you will find me battling everywhere for the
absolute freedom of the human mind. You will find me battling everywhere
to make this world better and grander; and whatever my personal conduct
may be, I shall endeavor to keep my theories right. I beg of you,
I implore you, do not pass the resolution No. 6. It is not for our
interest; it will do us no good. It will lose us hosts of honest,
splendid friends. Do not do it; it will be a mistake; and the only
reason I offered the motion was to give the members time to think this
over. I am not pretending to know more than other people. I am perfectly
willing to say that in many things I know less. But upon this subject I
want you to think. No matter whether you are afraid of your sons, your
daughters, your wives, or your husbands, that isn't it—I don't want the
splendid prospects of this League put in jeopardy upon such an issue
as this. I have no more to say. But if that resolution is passed, all I
have to say is that, while I shall be for liberty everywhere, I cannot
act with this organization, and I will not.'

"The resolution was finally adopted, and Colonel Ingersoll resigned his
office of vice-president in the League, and never acted with it again
until the League dropped all side issues, and came back to first
principles—the enforcement of the Nine Demands of Liberalism."

In 1892, writing upon this subject in answer to a minister who had
repeated these absurd charges, Colonel Ingersoll made this offer:

"I will pay a premium of one thousand dollars a word for each and every
word I ever said or wrote in favor of sending obscene publications
through the mails."
---
# The Frank B. Carpenter Dinner
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1892_
## The Frank B. Carpenter Dinner

New York, December 1, 1891

> * There was a notable gathering of leading artists, authors,
> scientists, journalists, lawyer, clergymen and other
> professional men at Sherry's last evening. The occasion was
> a dinner tendered to Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the famous
> portrait and portrait group artist, by his immediate friends
> to celebrate the completion of his new historical painting,
> entitled "International Arbitration," which is to be sent to
> Queen Victoria next week as the gift of a wealthy American
> lady. No such tribute has ever been paid before to an artist
> of-this country. Let us hope that the extraordinary
> attention thus paid to Mr. Carpenter will give our "English
> cousins" some idea of how he is prized and his work indorsed
> at home. The dinner to Mr. Carpenter was a great success—
> most enjoyable in every way. The table was laid in the form
> ol a horse shoe with a train of smilax, and sweet flowers
> extending the entire length of the table, amid pots of
> chrysanthemums and roses. Ex-Minister Andrew D White
> presided in the absence of John Russell

> Young..........Mr. White said: "During the entire course of
> these proceedings we have been endeavoring to find a
> representative of the great Fourth Estate who would present
> its claims in relation to arbitration on this occasion.
> There are present men whose names are household words in
> connection with the press throughout this land. There is
> certainly one distinguished as orator: there is another
> distinguished as a scholar. But they prefer to be silent. We
> will therefore consider that the toast of 'The Press in
> Connection with War and Peace' has been duly honored
> although it has not been responded to, and now there is one
> subject which I think you will consider as coming strangely
> at this late hour. It is a renewal of the subject with which
> we began, and I am to ask to speak to it a man who is
> admired and feared throughout the country. At one moment he
> smashes the most cherished convictions of the country, and
> at another he raises our highest aspirations for the future
> of humanity.

> "It happened several years ago that I was crossing the
> Atlantic, and when I had sufficiently recovered from
> seasickness to sit out on the deck I came across Colonel
> Ingersoll, and of all subjects of discussion you can imagine
> we fell upon the subject of art, and we went at it hot and
> heavy. So I said to him to-night that I had a rod in pickle
> for him and that he was not to know anything about it until
> it was displayed.

> "I now call upon him to talk to us about art, and if he
> talks now as he talked on the deck of the steamer I do not
> know whether it would clear the room, but it would make a
> sensation in this State and country. I have great pleasure
> in announcing Colonel Ingersoll, to speak on the subject of
> art—or on any other subject, for no matter upon what he
> speaks his words are always welcome."

> New York Press, December 2, 1891.

TOAST: ART.

I PRESUME I take about as much interest in what that picture represents
as anybody else. I believe that it has been said this evening that the
world will never be civilized so long as differences between nations
are settled by gun or cannon or sword. Barbarians still settle their
personal differences with clubs or arms, and finally, when they agree
to submit their differences to their peers, to a court, we call them
civilized. Now, nations sustain the same relations to each other that
barbarians sustain; that is, they settle their differences by force;
each nation being the judge of the righteousness of its cause, and its
judgment depending entirely—or for the most part—on its strength; and
the strongest nation is the nearest right. Now, until nations submit
their differences to an international court—a court with the power to
carry its judgment into effect by having the armies and navies of all
the rest of the world pledged to support it—the world will not be
civilized. Our differences will not be settled by arbitration until more
of the great nations set the example, and until that is done, I am in
favor of the United States being armed. Until that is done it will give
me joy to know that another magnificent man-of-war has been launched
upon our waters. And I will tell you why. Look again at that picture.
There is another face; it is not painted there, and yet without it
that picture would not have been painted, and that is the face of U.
S. Grant. The olive branch, to be of any force, to be of any beneficent
power, must be offered by the mailed hand. It must be offered by a
nation which has back of the olive branch the force. It cannot be
offered by weakness, because then it will excite only ridicule. The
powerful, the imperial, must offer that branch. Then it will be accepted
in the true spirit; otherwise not. So, until the world is a little more
civilized I am in favor of the largest guns that can be made and the
best navy that floats. I do not want any navy unless we have the best,
because if you have a poor one you will simply make a present of it to
the enemy as soon as war opens. We should be ready to defend ourselves
against the world. Not that I think there is going to be any war, but
because I think that is the best way to prevent it. Until the whole
world shall have entered into the same spirit as the artist when he
painted that picture, until that spirit becomes general we have got to
be prepared for war. And we cannot depend upon war suasion. If a fleet
of men-of-war should sail into our harbor, talk would not be of any
good; we must be ready to answer them in their own way.

I suppose I have been selected to speak on art because I can speak on
that subject without prejudice, knowing nothing about it. I have on this
subject no hobbies, no pet theories, and consequently will give you not
what I know, but what I think. I am an Agnostic in many things, and the
way I understand art is this: In the first place we are all invisible
to each other. There is something called soul; something that thinks and
hopes and loves. It is never seen. It occupies a world that we call the
brain, and is forever, so far as we know, invisible. Each soul lives in
a world of its own, and it endeavors to communicate with another soul
living in a world of its own, each invisible to the other, and it does
this in a variety of ways. That is the noblest art which expresses the
noblest thought, that gives to another the noblest emotions that this
unseen soul has. In order to do this we have to seize upon the seen, the
visible. In other words, nature is a vast dictionary that we use simply
to convey from one invisible world to another what happens in our
invisible world. The man that lives in the greatest world and succeeds
in letting other worlds know what happens in his world, is the greatest
artist.

I believe that all arts have the same father and the same mother, and no
matter whether you express what happens in these unseen worlds in mere
words—because nearly all pictures have been made with words—or whether
you express it in marble, or form and color in what we call painting, it
is to carry on that commerce between these invisible worlds, and he is
the greatest artist who expresses the tenderest, noblest thoughts to
the unseen worlds about him. So that all art consists in this commerce,
every soul being an artist and every brain that is worth talking about
being an art gallery, and there is no gallery in this world, not in the
Vatican or the Louvre or any other place, comparable with the gallery
in every great brain. The millions of pictures that are in every
brain to-night; the landscapes, the faces, the groups, the millions of
millions of millions of things that are now living here in every brain,
all unseen, all invisible forever! Yet we communicate with each other by
showing each other these pictures, these studies, and by inviting others
into our galleries and showing them what we have, and the greatest
artist is he who has the most pictures to show to other artists.

I love anything in art that suggests the tender, the beautiful. What is
beauty? Of course there is no absolute beauty. All beauty is relative.
Probably the most beautiful thing to a frog is the speckled belly of
another frog, or to a snake the markings of another snake. So there
is no such thing as absolute beauty. But what I call beauty is what
suggests to me the highest and the tenderest thought; something that
answers to something in my world. So every work of art has to be born in
some brain, and it must be made by the unseen artist we call the soul.
Now, if a man simply copies what he sees, he is nothing but a copyist.
That does not require genius. That requires industry and the habit of
observation. But it is not genius; it is not art. Those little daubs and
shreds and patches we get by copying, are pieces of iron that need to be
put into the flame of genius to be molten and then cast in noble forms;
otherwise there is no genius.

The great picture should have, not only the technical part of art, which
is neither moral nor immoral, but in addition some great thought, some
great event. It should contain not only a history but a prophecy. There
should be in it soul, feeling, thought I love those little pictures of
the home, of the fireside, of the old lady, boiling the kettle, the
vine running over the cottage door, scenes suggesting to me happiness,
contentment. I think more of them than of the great war pieces, and I
hope I shall have a few years in some such scenes, during which I shall
not care what time it is, what day of the week or month it is. Just that
feeling of content when it is enough to live, to breathe, to have the
blue sky above you and to hear the music of the water. All art that
gives us that content, that delight, enriches this world and makes life
better and holier.

That, in a general kind of way, as I said before, is my idea of art, and
I hope that the artists of America—and they ought to be as good here as
in any place on earth—will grow day by day and year by year independent
of all other art in the world, and be true to the American or republican
spirit always. As to this picture, it is representative, it is American.
There is one word Mr. Daniel Dougherty said to which I would like to
refer. I have never said very much in my life in defence of England, at
the same time I have never blamed England for being against us during
our war, and I will tell you why. We had been a nation of hypocrites. We
pretended to be in favor of liberty and yet we had four or five millions
of our people enslaved. That was a very awkward position. We had
bloodhounds to hunt human beings and the apostles setting them on; and
while this was going on these poor wretches sought and found liberty
on British soil. Now, why not be honest about it? We were rather a
contemptible people, though Mr. Dougherty thinks the English were wholly
at fault. But England abolished the slave-trade in 1803; she abolished
slavery in her colonies in 1833. We were lagging behind. That is all
there is about it. No matter why, we put ourselves in the position of
pretending to be a free people while we had millions of slaves, and it
was only natural that England should dislike it.

I think the chairman said that there had been no great historic picture
of the signing of the Constitution. There never should be, never! It was
fit, it was proper, to have a picture of the signing of the Declaration
of Independence. That was an honest document. Our people wanted to give
a good reason for fighting Great Britain, and in order to do that they
had to dig down to the bed-rock of human rights, and then they said all
men are created equal. But just as soon as we got our independence
we made a Constitution that gave the lie to the Declaration of
Independence, and that is why the signing of the Constitution never
ought to be painted. We put in that Constitution a clause that the
slave-trade should not be interfered with for years, and another clause
that this entire Government was pledged to hand back to slavery any poor
woman with a child at her breast, seeking freedom by flight. It was a
very poor document. A little while ago they celebrated the one hundredth
anniversary of that business and talked about the Constitution being
such a wonderful thing; yet what was in that Constitution brought on the
most terrible civil war ever known, and during that war they said: "Give
us the Constitution as it is and the Union as it was." And I said then:
"Curse the Constitution as it is and the Union as it was. Don't talk
to me about fighting for a Constitution that has brought on a war like
this; let us make a new one." No, I am in favor of a painting that
would celebrate the adoption of the amendment to the Constitution that
declares that there shall be no more slavery on this soil.

I believe that we are getting a little more free every day—a little
more sensible all the time. A few years ago a woman in Germany made a
speech, in which she asked: "Why should the German mother in pain and
agony give birth to a child and rear that child through industry and
poverty, and teach him that when he arrives at the age of twenty-one it
will be his duty to kill the child of the French mother? And why should
the French mother teach her son, that it will be his duty sometime to
kill the child of the German mother?" There is more sense in that than
in all the diplomacy I ever read, and I think the time is coming when
that question will be asked by every mother—Why should she raise a
child to kill the child of another mother?

The time is coming when we will do away with all this. Man has been
taught that he ought to fight for the country where he was born; no
matter about that country being wrong, whether it supported him or not,
whether it enslaved him and trampled on every right he had, still it was
his duty to march up in support of that country. The time will come when
the man will make up his mind himself whether the country is worth
while fighting for, and he is the greatest patriot who seeks to make
his country worth fighting for, and not he who says, I am for it anyhow,
whether it is right or not. These patriots will be the force Mr. George
was speaking about. If war between this country and Great Britain were
declared, and there were men in both countries sufficient to take a
right view of it, that would be the end of war. The thing would be
settled by arbitration—settled by some court—and no one would dream of
rushing to the field of battle. So, that is my hope for the world; more
policy, more good, solid, sound sense and less mud patriotism.

I think that this country is going to grow. I think it will take in Mr.
Wiman's country. I do not mean that we are going to take any country.
I mean that they are going to come to us. I do not believe in conquest.
Canada will come just as soon as it is to her interest to come, and I
think she will come or be a great country to herself. I do not believe
in those people, intelligent as they are, sending three thousand miles
for information they have at home. I do not believe in their being
governed by anybody except themselves. So if they come we shall be glad
to have them, if they don't want to come I don't want them.

Yes, we are growing. I don't know how many millions of people we have
now, probably over sixty-two if they all get counted; and they are still
coming. I expect to live to see one hundred millions here. I know some
say that we are getting too many foreigners, but I say the more that
come the better. We have got to have somebody to take the places of the
sons of our rich people. So I say let them come. There is plenty of land
here, everywhere. I say to the people of every country, come; do your
work here, and we will protect you against other countries. We will give
you all the work to supply yourselves and your neighbors.

Then if we have differences with another country we shall have a strong
navy, big ships, big guns, magnificent men and plenty of them, and if we
put out the hand of fellowship and friendship they will know there is
no foolishness about it. They will know we are not asking any favor. We
will just say: We want peace, and we tell you over the glistening leaves
of this olive branch that if you don't compromise we will mop the earth
with you.

That is the sort of arbitration I believe in, and it is the only sort,
in my judgment, that will be effectual for all time. And I hope that we
may still grow, and grow more and more artistic, and more and more
in favor of peace, and I pray that we may finally arrive at being
absolutely worthy of having presented that picture, with all that it
implies, to the most warlike nation in the world—to the nation that
first sends the gospel and then the musket immediately after, and says:
You have got to be civilized, and the only evidence of civilization that
you can give is to buy our goods and to buy them now, and to pay for
them. I wish us to be worthy of the picture presented to such a nation,
and my prayer is that America may be worthy to have sent such a token
in such a spirit, and my second prayer is that England may be worthy
to receive it and to keep it, and that she may receive it in the same
spirit that it is sent.

I am glad that it is to be sent by a woman. The gentleman who spoke to
the toast, "Woman as a Peacemaker," seemed to believe that woman brought
all the sorrows that ever happened, not only of war, but troubles of
every kind. I want to say to him that I would rather live with the woman
I love in a world of war, in a world full of troubles and sorrows,
than to live in heaven with nobody but men. I believe that woman is a
peacemaker, and so I am glad that a woman presents this token to another
woman; and woman is a far higher title than queen, in my judgment; far
higher. There are no higher titles than woman, mother, wife, sister, and
when they come to calling them countesses and duchesses and queens, that
is all rot. That adds nothing to that unseen artist who inhabits the
world called the brain. That unseen artist is great by nature and cannot
be made greater by the addition of titles. And so one woman gives to
another woman the picture that prophesies war is finally to cease,
and the civilized nations of the world will henceforth arbitrate their
differences and no longer strew the plains with corpses of brethren.
That is the supreme lesson that is taught by this picture, and I
congratulate Mr. Carpenter that his name is associated with it and
also with the "Proclamation of Emancipation." In the latter work he has
associated his name with that of Lincoln, which is the greatest name
in history, and the gentlest memory in this world. Mr. Carpenter has
associated his name with that and with this and with that of General
Grant, for I say that this picture would never have been possible had
there not been behind it Grant; if there had not been behind it the
victorious armies of the North and the great armies of the South, that
would have united instantly to repel any foreign foe.
---
# The Grant Banquet
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1879_
Chicago, November 13, 1879.

## Twelfth Toast

> * The meteoric display predicted to take place last Thursday
> night did not occur, but there did occur on that evening a
> display of oratorical brilliancy at Chicago seldom if ever
> surpassed. The speeches at the banquet of the Army of the
> Tennessee, taken together, constitute one of the most
> remarkable collections of extemporaneous eloquence on
> record. The principal speakers of the evening were Gen. U.
> S. Grant, Gen. John A. Logan Col. Win, F. Vilas, Gen.
> Stewart L. Woodford, General Pope, Col. R. G. Ingersoll,
> Gen. J. H. Wilson, and "Mark Twain." In an oratorical
> tournament General Grant is, of course, better as a listener
> than as a talker; he is a man of deeds rather than of words.
> The same might be said of General Sherman, though, as
> presiding officer and toast-master of the occasion, his
> impromptu remarks were always pertinent and keen. His advice
> to speakers not to talk longer than they could hold their
> audience, and to the auditors not to drag out their applause
> or to drawl out their laughter, would serve as a good
> standing rule for all similar occasions Colonel Ingersoll
> responded to the twelfth toast, "The Volunteer Soldiers of
> the Union Army, whose Valor and Patriotism saved to the
> world a Government of the People, by the People, and for the
> people."

> Colonel Ingersoll's position was a difficult one. His
> reputation as the first orator in America caused the
> distinguished audience to expect a wonderful display of
> oratory from him. He proved fully equal to the occasion and
> delivered a speech of wonderful eloquence, brilliancy and
> power. To say it was one of the best he ever delivered is
> equivalent to saying it was one of the best ever delivered
> by any man, for few greater orators have ever lived than
> Colonel Ingersoll. The speech is both an oration and a poem.
> It bristles with ideas and sparkles with epigrammatic
> expressions. It is full of thoughts that breathe and words
> that burn. The closing sentences read like blank verse. It
> is wonderful oratory, marvelous eloquence. Colonel
> Ingersoll fully sustained his reputation as the finest
> orator In America.

> Editorial from The Journal Indianapolis, Ind., November
> 17,1879.

> The Inter-Ocean remarked yesterday that the gathering and
> exercises at the Palmer House banquet on Thursday evening
> constituted one of the most remarkable occasions known in
> the history of this country. This was not alone because of
> the distinguished men who lent their presence to the scone;
> they were indeed illustrious; but they only formed a part of
> the grand picture that must endure while the memory of our
> great conflict survives. To the eminent men assembled may be
> traced the signal success of the affair, for they gave
> inspiration to the minds and the tongues of others; but it
> was the fruit of that inspiration that rolled like a glad
> surprise across the banqueting sky, and made the 13th of
> November renowned in the calendar of days... When Robert G.
> Ingersoll rose after the speech of General Pope, to respond
> to the toast, "The Volunteer Soldiers," a large part of the
> audience rose with him, and the cheering was long and loud.
> Colonel Ingersoll may fairly be regarded as the foremost
> orator of America, and there was the keenest interest to
> hear him after all the brilliant speeches that had preceded;
> and this interest was not unnmixed with a fear that he would
> not be able to successfully strive against both his own
> great reputation and the fresh competitors who had leaped
> suddenly into the oratorical arena like mighty gladiators
> and astonished the audience by their unexpected eloquence.
> But Ingersoll had not proceeded far when the old fire broke
> out, and flashing metaphor, bold denunciation, and all the
> rich imagery and poetical beauty which mark his great
> efforts stood revealed before the delighted listeners: Long
> before the last word was uttered, all doubt as to the
> ability of the great orator to sustain himself had departed,
> and rising to their feet, the audience cheered till the hall
> rang with shouts. Like Henry, "The forest-born Demosthenes,
> whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas," Ingersoll still
> held the crown within his grasp.

> Editorial from The Inter-Ocean, Chicago, November 15, 1879.

The Volunteer Soldiers of the Union Army, whose Valor and Patriotism
saved to the world "a Government of the People, by the People, and for
the People."

WHEN the savagery of the lash, the barbarism of the chain, and the
insanity of secession confronted the civilization of our country, the
question "Will the great Republic defend itself?" trembled on the lips
of every lover of mankind.

The North, filled with intelligence and wealth—children of
liberty—marshaled her hosts and asked only for a leader. From civil
life a man, silent, thoughtful, poised and calm, stepped forth, and
with the lips of victory voiced the Nation's first and last demand:
"Unconditional and immediate surrender." From that 'moment' the end was
known. That utterance was the first real declaration of real war, and,
in accordance with the dramatic unities of mighty events, the great
soldier who made it, received the final sword of the Rebellion.

The soldiers of the Republic were not seekers after vulgar glory. They
were not animated by the hope of plunder or the love of conquest. They
fought to preserve the homestead of liberty and that their children
might have peace. They were the defenders of humanity, the destroyers
of prejudice, the breakers of chains, and in the name of the future
they slew the monster of their time. They finished what the soldiers of
the Revolution commenced. They re-lighted the torch that fell from their
august hands and filled the world again with light. They blotted
from the statute-book laws that had been passed by hypocrites at
the instigation of robbers, and tore with indignant hands from the
Constitution that infamous clause that made men the catchers of their
fellow-men. They made it possible for judges to be just, for statesmen
to be humane, and for politicians to be honest. They broke the shackles
from the limbs of slaves, from the souls of masters, and from the
Northern brain. They kept our country on the map of the world, and our
flag in heaven. They rolled the stone from the sepulchre of progress,
and found therein two angels clad in shining garments—Nationality and
Liberty.

The soldiers were the saviors of the Nation; they were the liberators of
men. In writing the Proclamation of Emancipation, Lincoln, greatest
of our mighty dead, whose memory is as gentle as the summer air when
reapers, sing amid the gathered sheaves, copied with the pen what Grant
and his brave comrades wrote with swords.

Grander than the Greek, nobler than the Roman, the soldiers of the
Republic, with patriotism as shoreless as the air, battled for the
rights of others, for the nobility of labor; fought that mothers might
own their babes, that arrogant idleness should not scar the back of
patient toil, and that our country should not be a many-headed monster
made of warring States, but a Nation, sovereign, great, and free.

Blood was water, money was leaves, and life, was only common air until
one flag floated over a Republic without a master and without a slave.

And then was asked the question: "Will a free, people tax themselves to
pay a Nation's debt?"

The soldiers went home to their waiting wives, to their glad children,
and to the girls they loved—they went back-to the fields, the shops,
and mines. They had not been demoralized. They had been ennobled.
They were as honest in peace as they had been brave in war. Mocking at
poverty, laughing at reverses, they made a friend of toil. They said:
"We saved the Nation's life, and what is life without honor?" They
worked and wrought with all of labor's royal sons that every pledge
the Nation gave might be redeemed. And their great leader, having put a
shining band of friendship—a girdle of clasped and happy hands—around
the globe, comes home and finds that every promise made in war has now
the ring and gleam of gold.

There is another question still:—Will all the wounds of war be healed?
I answer, Yes. The Southern people must submit,—not to the dictation of
the North, but to the Nation's will and to the verdict of mankind. They
were wrong, and the time will come when they will say that they are
victors who have been vanquished by the right. Freedom conquered them,
and freedom will cultivate their fields, educate their children, weave
for them the robes of wealth, execute their laws, and fill their land
with happy homes.

The soldiers of the Union saved the South as well as the North. They
made us a Nation. Their victory made us free and rendered tyranny in
every other land as insecure as snow upon volcanoes' lips.

And now let us drink to the volunteers—to those who sleep in unknown,
sunken graves, whose names are only in the hearts of those they loved
and left—of those who only hear in happy dreams the footsteps of
return. Let us drink to those who died where lipless famine mocked at
want; to all the maimed whose scars give modesty a tongue; to all who
dared and gave to chance the care and keeping of their lives; to all the
living and to all the dead,—to Sherman, to Sheridan, and to Grant, the
laureled soldier of the world, and last, to Lincoln, whose loving life,
like a bow of peace, spans and arches all the clouds of war.
---
# The Liederkranz Club Seidl-Stanton Banquet
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1891_
## The Liederkranz Club, Seidl-stanton Banquet

New York, April 2, 1891

TOAST: MUSIC, NOBLEST OF THE ARTS.

IT is probable that I was selected to speak about music, because, not
knowing one note from another, I have no prejudice on the subject.

All I can say is, that I know what I like, and, to tell the truth, I
like every kind, enjoy it all, from the hand organ to the orchestra.

Knowing nothing of the science of music, I am not always looking for
defects, or listening for discords. As the young robin cheerfully
swallows whatever comes, I hear with gladness all that is played.

Music has been, I suppose, a gradual growth, subject to the law
of evolution; as nearly everything, with the possible exception of
theology, has been and is under this law.

Music may be divided into three kinds: First, the music of simple time,
without any particular emphasis—and this may be called the music of
the heels; second, music in which time is varied, in which there is
the eager haste and the delicious delay, that is, the fast and slow, in
accordance with our feelings, with our emotions—and this may be
called the music of the heart; third, the music that includes time and
emphasis, the hastening and the delay, and something in addition, that
produces not only states of feeling, but states of thought. This may be
called the music of the head,—the music of the brain.

Music expresses feeling and thought, without language. It was below and
before speech, and it is above and beyond all words. Beneath the waves
is the sea—above the clouds is the sky.

Before man found a name for any thought, or thing, he had hopes and
fears and passions, and these were rudely expressed in tones.

Of one thing, however, I am certain, and that is, that Music was born of
Love. Had there never been any human affection, there never could have
been uttered a strain of music. Possibly some mother, looking in the
eyes of her babe, gave the first melody to the enraptured air.

Language is not subtle enough, tender enough, to express all that we
feel; and when language fails, the highest and deepest longings are
translated into music. Music is the sunshine—the climate—of the soul,
and it floods the heart with a perfect June.

I am also satisfied that the greatest music is the most marvelous
mingling of Love and Death. Love is the greatest of all passions, and
Death is its shadow. Death gets all its terror from Love, and Love
gets its intensity, its radiance, its glory and its rapture, from the
darkness of Death. Love is a flower that grows on the edge of the grave.

The old music, for the most part, expresses emotion, or feeling-,
through time and emphasis, and what is known as melody. Most of the
old operas consist of a few melodies connected by unmeaning recitative.
There should be no unmeaning music. It is as though a writer should
suddenly leave his subject and write a paragraph consisting of nothing
but a repetition of one word like "the," "the," "the," or "if," "if."
"if," varying the repetition of these words, but without meaning,—and
then resume the subject of his article.

I am not saying that great music was not produced before Wagner, but
I am simply endeavoring to show-the steps that have been taken. It was
necessary that all the music should have been written, in order that the
greatest might be produced. The same is true of the drama, Thousands
and thousands prepared the way for the supreme dramatist, as millions
prepared the way for the supreme composer.

When I read Shakespeare, I am astonished that he has expressed so much
with common words, to which he gives new meaning; and so when I hear
Wagner, I exclaim: Is it possible that all this is done with common air?

In Wagner's music there is a touch of chaos that suggests the infinite.
The melodies seem strange and changing forms, like summer clouds, and
weird harmonies come like sounds from the sea brought by fitful winds,
and others moan like waves on desolate shores, and mingled with these,
are shouts of joy, with sighs and sobs and ripples of laughter, and the
wondrous voices of eternal love.

Wagner is the Shakespeare of Music.

The funeral march for Siegfried is the funeral music for all the dead;
Should all the gods die, this music would be perfectly appropriate. It
is elemental, universal, eternal.

The love-music in Tristan and Isolde is, like Romeo and Juliet, an
expression of the human heart for all time. So the love-duet in The
Flying Dutchman has in it the consecration, the infinite self-denial,
of love. The whole heart is given; every note has wings, and rises and
poises like an eagle in the heaven of sound.

When I listen to the music of Wagner, I see pictures, forms, glimpses of
the perfect, the swell of a hip, the wave of a breast, the glance of
an eye. I am in the midst of great galleries. Before me are passing,
the endless panoramas. I see vast landscapes with valleys of verdure
and vine, with soaring crags, snow-crowned. I am on the wide seas, where
countless billows burst into the white caps of joy. I am in the depths
of caverns roofed with mighty crags, while through some rent I see the
eternal stars. In a moment the music, becomes a river of melody, flowing
through some wondrous land; suddenly it falls in strange chasms, and the
mighty cataract is changed to seven-hued foam. .

Great music is always sad, because it tells us of the perfect; and such
is the difference between what we are and that which music suggests,
that even in the vase of joy we find some tears.

The music of Wagner has color, and when I hear the violins, the morning
seems to slowly come. A horn puts a star above the horizon. The night,
in the purple hum of the bass, wanders away like some enormous bee
across wide fields of dead clover. The light grows whiter as the
violins increase. Colors come from other instruments, and then the full
orchestra floods the world with day.

Wagner seems not only to have given us new tones, new combinations, but
the moment the orchestra begins to play his music, all the instruments
are transfigured. They seem to utter the sounds that they have been
longing to utter. The horns run riot; the drums and cymbals join in
the general joy; the old bass viols are alive with passion; the 'cellos
throb with love; the violins are seized with a divine fury, and the
notes rush out as eager for the air as pardoned prisoners for the roads
and fields.

The music of Wagner is filled with landscapes. There are some strains,
like midnight, thick with constellations, and there are harmonies like
islands in the far seas, and others like palms on the desert's edge. His
music satisfies the heart and brain. It is not only for memory; not only
for the present, but for prophecy.

Wagner was a sculptor, a painter, in sound. When he died, the greatest
fountain of melody that ever enchanted the world, ceased. His music will
instruct and refine forever.

All that I know about the operas of Wagner I have learned from Anton
Seidl. I believe that he is the noblest, tenderest and the most artistic
interpreter of the great composer that has ever lived.
---
# The Police Captains' Dinner
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1890_
## The Police Captains' Dinner

New York, January 24, 1888.

TOAST: DUTIES AND PRIVILEGES OF THE PRESS.

ONLY a little while ago, the nations of the world were ignorant and
provincial. Between these nations there were the walls and barriers of
language, of prejudice, of custom, of race and of religion. Each
little nation had the only perfect form of government—the only genuine
religion—all others being adulterations or counterfeits.

These nations met only as enemies. They had nothing to exchange but
blows—nothing to give and take but wounds.

Movable type was invented, and "civilization was thrust into the brain
of Europe on the point of a Moorish lance." The Moors gave to our
ancestors paper, and nearly all valuable inventions that were made for a
thousand years.

In a little while, books began to be printed—the nations began to
exchange thoughts instead of blows. The classics were translated. These
were read, and those who read them began to imitate them—began to write
themselves; and in this way there was produced in each nation a local
literature. There came to be an exchange of facts, of theories, of
ideas.

For many years this was accomplished by books, but after a time the
newspaper was invented, and the exchange increased.

Before this, every peasant thought his king the greatest being in the
world. He compared this king—his splendor, his palace—with the
peasant neighbor, with his rags and with his hut. All his thoughts were
provincial, all his knowledge confined to his own neighborhood—the
great world was to him an unknown land.

Long after papers were published, the circulation was small, the means
of intercommunication slow, painful, few and costly.

The same was true in our own country, and here, too, was in a great
degree, the provincialism of the Old World.

Finally, the means of intercommunication increased, and they became
plentiful and cheap.

Then the peasant found that he must compare his king with the kings
of other nations—the statesmen of his country with the statesmen of
others—and these comparisons were not always favorable to the men of
his own country.

This enlarged his knowledge and his vision, and the tendency of this was
to make him a citizen of the world.

Here in our own country, a little while ago, the citizen of each State
regarded his State as the best of all. To love that State more than all
others, was considered the highest evidence of patriotism.

The Press finally informed him of the condition of other States. He
found that other States were superior to his in many ways—in climate,
in production, in men, in invention, in commerce and in influence.
Slowly he transferred the love of State, the prejudice of locality—what
I call mud patriotism—to the Nation, and he became an American in the
best and highest sense.

This, then, is one of the greatest things to be accomplished by
the Press in America—namely, the unification of the country—the
destruction of provincialism, and the creation of a patriotism broad as
the territory covered by our flag.

The same ideas, the same events, the same news, are carried to millions
of homes every day. The result of this is to fix the attention of
all upon the same things, the same thoughts and theories, the same
facts—and the result is to get the best judgment of a nation.

This is a great and splendid object, but not the greatest.

In Europe the same thing is taking place. The nations are becoming
acquainted with each other. The old prejudices are dying out. The people
cf each nation are beginning to find that they are not the enemies of
any other. They are also beginning to suspect that where they have no
cause of quarrel, they should neither be called upon to fight, nor to
pay the expenses of war.

Another thing: The kings and statesmen no longer act as they
formerly did. Once they were responsible only to their poor and
wretched-subjects, whose obedience they compelled at the point of the
bayonet. Now a king knows, and his minister knows, that they must give
account for what they do to the civilized world. They know that kings
and rulers must be tried before the great bar of public opinion—a
public opinion that has been formed by the facts given to them in the
Press of the world. They do not wish to be condemned at that great bar.
They seek not only not to be condemned—not only to be acquitted—but
they seek to be crowned. They seek the applause, not simply of their own
nation, but of the civilized world.

There was for uncounted centuries a conflict between civilization and
barbarism. Barbarism was almost universal, civilization local. The torch
of progress was then held by feeble hands, and barbarism extinguished it
in the blood of its founders. But civilizations arose, and kept rising,
one after another, until now the great Republic holds and is able to
hold that torch against a hostile world.

By its invention, by its weapons of war, by its intelligence,
civilization became capable of protecting itself, and there came a time
when in the struggle between civilization and barbarism the world passed
midnight.

Then came another struggle,—the struggle between the people and their
rulers.

Most peoples sacrificed their liberty through gratitude to some great
soldier who rescued them from the arms of the barbarian. But there came
a time when the people said: "We have a right to govern ourselves." And
that conflict has been waged for centuries.

And I say, protected and corroborated by the flag of the greatest of all
Republics, that in that conflict the world has passed midnight.

Despotisms were softened by parliaments, by congresses—but at last the
world is beginning to say: "The right to govern rests upon the consent
of the governed. The power comes from the people—not from kings. It
belongs to man, and should be exercised by man."

In this conflict we have passed midnight. The world is destined to be
republican. Those who obey the laws will make the laws.

Our country—the United States—the great Republic—owns the fairest
portion of half the world. We have now sixty millions of free people.
Look upon the map of our country. Look upon the great valley of the
Mississippi—stretching from the Alleghenies to the Rockies. See the
great basin drained by that mighty river. There you will see a territory
large enough to feed and clothe and educate five hundred millions of
human beings.

This country is destined to remain as one. The Mississippi River is
Nature's protest against secession and against division.

We call that nation civilized when its subjects submit their differences
of opinion, in accordance with the forms of law, to fellow-citizens who
are disinterested and who accept the decision as final.

The nations, however, sustain no such relation to each other. Each
nation concludes for itself. Each nation defines its rights and its
obligations; and nations will not be civilized in respect of their
relations to each other, until there shall have been established a
National Court to decide differences between nations, to the judgment of
which all shall bow.

It is for the Press—the Press that photographs the human activities
of every day—the Press that gives the news of the world to each
individual—to bend its mighty energies to the unification and the
civilization of mankind; to the destruction of provincialism, of
prejudice—to the extirpation of ignorance and to the creation of a
great and splendid patriotism that embraces the human race.

The Press presents the daily thoughts of men. It marks the progress
of each hour, and renders a relapse into ignorance and barbarism
impossible. No catastrophe can be great enough, no ruin wide-spread
enough, to engulf or blot out the wisdom of the world.

Feeling that it is called to this high destiny, the Press should appeal
only to the highest and to the noblest in the human heart.

It should not be the bat of suspicion, a raven, hoarse with croaking
disaster, a chattering jay of gossip, or a vampire fattening on the
reputations of men.

It should remain the eagle, rising and soaring high in the cloudless
blue, above all mean and sordid things, and grasping only the bolts and
arrows of justice.

Let the Press have the courage always to defend the right, always
to defend the people—and let it always have the power to clutch and
strangle any combination of men, however intellectual or cunning or
rich, that feeds and fattens on the flesh and blood of honest men.

In a little while, under our flag there will be five hundred millions
of people. The great Republic will then dictate to the world—that is to
say, it will succor the oppressed—it will see that justice is done—it
will say to the great nations that wish to trample upon the weak: "You
must not—you shall not—strike." It will be obeyed.

All I ask is—all I hope is—that the Press will always be worthy of the
great Republic.
---
# The Religious Belief of Abraham Lincoln
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1896_
New York, May 28, 1896.

MY DEAR MR. SEIP: I have carefully read your article on the religious
belief of Abraham Lincoln, and in accordance with your request I will
not only give you my opinion of the evidence upon which you rely, as set
out in your article, but my belief as to the religious opinions of Mr.
Lincoln, and the facts on which my belief rests.

You speak of a controversy between myself and General Collis upon this
subject. A few years ago I delivered a lecture on Mr. Lincoln, in this
city, and in that lecture said that Lincoln, so far as his religious
opinions were concerned, substantially agreed with Franklin,
Jefferson, Paine and Voltaire. Thereupon General Collis wrote me a note
contradicting what I had said and asserting that "Lincoln invoked the
power of Almighty God, not the Deist God, but the God whom he worshiped
under the forms of the Christian church of which he was a member." To
this I replied saying that Voltaire and Paine both believed in God, and
that Lincoln was never a member of any Christian church.

General Collis wrote another letter to which, I think, I made no reply,
for the reason that the General had demonstrated that he knew nothing
whatever on the subject. It was evident that he had never read the life
of Lincoln, because if he had, he would not have said that he was a
member of a church. It was also evident that he knew nothing about the
religious opinions of Franklin, Voltaire or Paine, or he would have
known that they were believers in the existence of a Supreme Being. It
did not seem to me that his letter was worthy of a reply.

Now as to your article: I find in what you have written very little that
is new. I do not remember ever to have seen anything about the statement
of the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Gurley in regard to Lincoln's letters.
The daughter, however, does not pretend to know the contents of the
letters and says that they were destroyed by fire; consequently these
letters, so far as this question is concerned, are of no possible
importance. The only thing in your article tending to show that Lincoln
was a Christian is the following: "I think I can say with sincerity that
I hope I am a Christian. I had lived until my Willie died without
fully realizing these things. That blow overwhelmed me. It showed me
my weakness as I had never felt it before, and I think I can safely say
that I know something of a change of heart, and I will further add that
it has been my intention for some time, at a suitable opportunity, to
make a public religious profession."

Now, if you had given the name of the person to whom this was said, and
if that person had told you that Lincoln did utter these words, then the
evidence would have been good; but you are forced to say that this was
said to an eminent Christian lady. You do not give this lady's name. I
take it for granted that her name is unknown, and that the name of the
person to whom she told the story is also unknown, and that the name
of the man who gave the story to the world is unknown. This falsehood,
according to your own showing, is an orphan, a lonely lie without
father or mother. Such testimony cannot be accepted. It is not even good
hearsay.

In the next point you make, you also bring forward the remarks claimed
to have been made by Mr. Lincoln when some colored people of Baltimore
presented him with a Bible. You say that he said that the Bible was
God's best gift to man, and but for the Bible we could not know right
from wrong. It is impossible that Lincoln should have uttered these
words. He certainly would not have said to some colored people that the
book that instituted human slavery was God's best gift to man; neither
could he have said that but for this book we could not know right from
wrong. If he said these things he was temporarily insane. Mr. Lincoln
was familiar with the lives of Socrates, Epictetus, Epicurus, Zeno,
Confucius, Zoroaster and Buddha, not one of whom ever heard of the
Bible. Certainly these men knew right from wrong. In my judgment they
would compare favorably with Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David and the Jews
that crucified Christ. These pretended remarks must be thrown away; they
could have been uttered only by an ignorant and thoughtless zealot, not
by a sensible, thoughtful man. Neither can we rely on any new evidence
given by the Rev. Mr. Gurley. If Mr. Gurley at any time claimed that
Lincoln was a Christian, such claim was born of an afterthought. Mr.
Gurley preached a funeral sermon over the body of Lincoln at the White
House, and in that sermon he did not claim that Mr. Lincoln was in any
sense a Christian. He said nothing about Christ. So, the testimony of
the Rev. Mr. Sunderland amounts to nothing. Lincoln did not tell him
that he was a Christian or that he believed in Christ. Not one of the
ministers that claim that Lincoln was a Christian, not one, testifies
that Lincoln so said in his hearing. So, the lives that have been
written of Lincoln by Holland and Arnold are of no possible authority.
Holland knew nothing about Lincoln; he relied on gossip, and was
exceedingly anxious to make Lincoln a Christian so that his Life would
sell. As a matter of fact, Mr. Arnold knew little of Lincoln, and knew
no more of his religious opinions than he seems to have known about the
opinions of Washington.

I find also in your article a claim that Lincoln said to somebody that
under certain conditions, that is to say, if a church had the Golden
Rule for its creed, he would join that church; but you do not give the
name of the friend to whom Lincoln made this declaration. Still, if
he made it, it does not tend to show that he was a Christian. A church
founded on the Golden Rule, "Do unto others as you would that others
should do unto you," would not in any sense be a Christian church.
It would be an ethical society. The testimony of Mr. Bateman has been
changed by himself, he having admitted that it was colored, that he
was not properly reported; so the night-walking scene given by James
E. Murdoch, does not even tend to show that Lincoln was a Christian.
According to Mr. Murdoch he was praying to the God of Solomon and he
never mentioned the name of Christ. I think, however, Mr. Murdoch's
story is too theatrical, and my own opinion is that it was a waking
dream. I think Lincoln was a man of too much sense, too much tact, to
have said anything to God about Solomon. Lincoln knew that what God did
for Solomon ended in failure, and if he wanted God to do something for
him (Lincoln) he would not have called attention to the other case. So
Bishop Simpson, in his oration or funeral sermon, said nothing about
Lincoln's having been a Christian.

Now, what is the testimony that you present that Lincoln was a
Christian?

First, Several of your witnesses say that he believed in God.

Second, Some say that he believed in the efficacy of prayer.

Third, Some say that he was a believer in Providence.

Fourth, An unknown person says that he said to another unknown person
that he was a Christian.

Fifth, You also claim that he said the Bible was the best gift of God to
man, and that without it we could not have known right from wrong.

The anonymous testimony has to be thrown away, so nothing is left except
the remarks claimed to have been made when the Bible was presented
by the colored people, and these remarks destroy themselves. It
is absolutely impossible that Lincoln could have uttered the words
attributed to him on that occasion. I know of no one who heard the
words, I know of no witness who says he heard them or that he knows
anybody who did. These remarks were not even heard by an "eminent
Christian lady," and we are driven to say that if Lincoln was a
Christian he took great pains to keep it a secret.

I believe that I am familiar with the material facts bearing upon the
religious belief of Mr. Lincoln, and that I know what he thought of
orthodox Christianity. I was somewhat acquainted with him and well
acquainted with many of his associates and friends, and I am familiar
with Mr. Lincoln's public utterances. Orthodox Christians have the habit
of claiming all great men, all men who have held important positions,
men of reputation, men of wealth. As soon as the funeral is over
clergymen begin to relate imaginary conversations with the deceased, and
in a very little while the great man is changed to a Christian—possibly
to a saint.

All this happened in Mr. Lincoln's case. Many pious falsehoods were
told, conversations were manufactured, and suddenly the church claimed
that the great President was an orthodox Christian. The truth is that
Lincoln in his religious views agreed with Franklin, Jefferson, and
Voltaire. He did not believe in the inspiration of the Bible or the
divinity of Christ or the scheme of salvation, and he utterly repudiated
the dogma of eternal pain.

In making up my mind as to what Mr. Lincoln really believed, I do not
take into consideration the evidence of unnamed persons or the contents
of anonymous letters; I take the testimony of those who knew and loved
him, of those to whom he opened his heart and to whom he spoke in the
freedom of perfect confidence.

Mr. Herndon was his friend and partner for many years. I knew Mr.
Herndon well. I know that Lincoln never had a better, warmer, truer
friend. Herndon was an honest, thoughtful, able, studious man, respected
by all who knew him. He was as natural and sincere as Lincoln himself.
On several occasions Mr. Herndon told me what Lincoln believed and what
he rejected in the realm of religion. He told me again and again
that Mr. Lincoln did not believe in the inspiration of the Bible, the
divinity of Christ, or in the existence of a personal God. There was no
possible reason for Mr. Herndon to make a mistake or to color the facts.

Justice David Davis was a life-long friend and associate of Mr. Lincoln,
and Judge Davis knew Lincoln's religious opinions and knew Lincoln as
well as anybody did. Judge Davis told me that Lincoln was a Freethinker,
that he denied the inspiration of the Bible, the divinity of Christ,
and all miracles. Davis also told me that he had talked with Lincoln on
these subjects hundreds of times.

I was well acquainted with Col. Ward H. Lamon and had many conversations
with him about Mr. Lincoln's religious belief, before and after he wrote
his life of Lincoln. He told me that he had told the exact truth in his
life of Lincoln, that Lincoln never did believe in the Bible, or in the
divinity of Christ, or in the dogma of eternal pain; that Lincoln was a
Freethinker.

For many years I was well acquainted with the Hon. Jesse W. Fell, one
of Lincoln's warmest friends. Mr. Fell often came to my house and we had
many talks about the religious belief of Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Fell told me
that Lincoln did not believe in the inspiration of the Scriptures, and
that he denied the divinity of Jesus Christ. Mr. Fell was very liberal
in his own ideas, a great admirer of Theodore Parker and a perfectly
sincere and honorable man.

For several years I was well acquainted with William G. Green, who was
a clerk with Lincoln at New Salem in the early days, and who admired and
loved Lincoln with all his heart. Green told me that Lincoln was always
an Infidel, and that he had heard him argue against the Bible hundreds
of times. Mr. Green knew Lincoln, and knew him well, up to the time of
Lincoln's death.

The Hon. James Tuttle of Illinois was a great friend of Lincoln, and
he is, if living, a friend of mine, and I am a friend of his. He knew
Lincoln well for many years, and he told me again and again that Lincoln
was an Infidel. Mr. Tuttle is a Freethinker himself and has always
enjoyed the respect of his neighbors. A man with purer motives does not
live.

So I place great reliance on the testimony of Col. John G. Nicolay. Six
weeks after Mr. Lincoln's death Colonel Nicolay said that he did not in
any way change his religious ideas, opinions or belief from the time he
left Springfield until the day of his death.

In addition to all said by the persons I have mentioned, Mrs. Lincoln
said that her husband _was not a Christian_. There are many other
witnesses upon this question whose testimony can be found in a book
entitled "Abraham Lincoln, was he a Christian?" written by John E.
Remsburg, and published in 1893. In that book will be found all
the evidence on both sides. Mr. Remsburg states the case with great
clearness and demonstrates that Lincoln was not a Christian.

Now, what is a Christian?

First. He is a believer in the existence of God, the Creator and
Governor of the Universe.

Second. He believes in the inspiration of the Old and New Testaments.

Third. He believes in the miraculous birth of Jesus Christ; that the
Holy Ghost was his father.

Fourth. He believes that this Christ was offered as a sacrifice for the
sins of men, that he was crucified, dead and buried, that he arose from
the dead and that he ascended into heaven.

Fifth. He believes in the "fall of man," in the scheme of redemption
through the atonement.

Sixth. He believes in salvation by faith, that the few are to be
eternally happy, and that the many are to be eternally damned.

Seventh. He believes in the Trinity, in God the Father, God the Son and
God the Holy Ghost.

Now, is there the slightest evidence to show that Lincoln believed in
the inspiration of the Old and New Testaments?

Has anybody said that he was heard to say that he so believed?

Does anybody testify that Lincoln believed in the miraculous birth of
Jesus Christ, that the Holy Ghost was the father or that Christ was or
is God?

Has anybody testified that Lincoln believed that Christ was raised from
the dead?

Did anyone ever hear him say that he believed in the ascension of
Jesus Christ? Did anyone ever hear him assert that he believed in the
forgiveness of sins, or in salvation by faith, or that belief was a
virtue and investigation a crime?

Where, then, is the evidence that he was a Christian?

There is another reason for thinking that Lincoln never became a
Christian.

All will admit that he was an honest man, that he discharged all
obligations perceived, and did what he believed to be his duty. If
he had become a Christian it was his duty publicly to say so. He was
President; he had the ear of the nation; every citizen, had he spoken,
would have listened. It was his duty to make a clear, explicit statement
of his conversion, and it was his duty to join some orthodox church, and
he should have given his reasons. He should have endeavored to reach
the heart and brain of the Republic. It was unmanly for him to keep his
"second birth" a secret and sneak into heaven leaving his old friends to
travel the road to hell.

Great pains have been taken to show that Mr. Lincoln believed in,
and worshiped the one true God. This by many is held to have been his
greatest virtue, the foundation of his character, and yet, the God he
worshiped, the God to whom he prayed, allowed him to be assassinated.

Is it possible that God will not protect his friends?
---
# Thirteen Club Dinner
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1887_
## Thirteen Club Dinner

> * Response of Col. R. G. Ingersoll to the sentiment "The
> Superstitions of Public Men," at the regular monthly dinner
> of the Thirteen Club. Monday evening, December 18, 1886.

New York, December 13, 1886,

## The Superstitions of Public Men

MR. CHIEF RULER-AND GENTLEMEN: I suppose that the superstition most
prevalent with public men, is the idea that they are of great importance
to the public. As a matter of fact, public men,—that is to say, men in
office,—reflect the average intelligence of the people, and no more.
A public man, to be successful, must not assert anything unless it is
exceedingly popular. And he need not deny anything unless everybody is
against it. Usually he has to be like the center of the earth,—draw all
things his way, without weighing anything himself.

One of the difficulties, or rather, one of the objections, to a
government republican in form, is this: Everybody imagines that he is
everybody's: master. And the result has been to make most of our public
men exceedingly conservative in the expression of their real opinions.
A man, wishing to be elected to an office, generally agrees with 'most
everybody he meets. If he meets a Prohibitionist, he says: "Of course I
am a temperance man. I am opposed to all excesses; my dear friend,
and no one knows better than myself the evils that have been caused by
intemperance." The next man happens to keep a saloon, and happens to
be quite influential in that part of the district, and the candidate
immediately says to him:—"The idea that these Prohibitionists can take
away the personal liberty of the citizen is simply monstrous!" In a
moment after, he is greeted by a Methodist, and he hastens to say, that
while he does not belong to that church himself, his wife does; that he
would gladly be a member, but does not feel that he is good enough. He
tells a Presbyterian that his grandfather was of that faith, and that he
was a most excellent man, and laments from the bottom of his heart that
he himself is not within that fold. A few moments after, on meeting a
skeptic, he declares, with the greatest fervor, that reason is the only
guide, and that he looks forward to the time when superstition will be
dethroned. In other words, the greatest superstition now entertained by
public men is, that hypocrisy is the royal road to success.

Of course, there are many other superstitions, and one is, that the
Democratic party has not outlived its usefulness. Another is, that the
Republican party should have power for what it has done, instead of what
it proposes to do.

In my judgment, these statesmen are mistaken. The people of the United
States, after all, admire intellectual honesty and have respect for
moral courage. The time has come for the old ideas and superstitions in
politics to be thrown away—not in phrase, not in pretence, but in fact;
and the time has come when a man can safely rely on the intelligence and
courage of the American people.

The most significant fact in this world to-day, is, that in nearly every
village under the American flag the school-house is larger than the
church. People are beginning to have a little confidence in intelligence
and in facts. Every public man and every private man, who is actuated
in his life by a belief in something that no one can prove,—that no one
can demonstrate,—is, to that extent, a superstitious man.

It may be that I go further than most of you, because if I have any
superstition, it is a superstition against superstition. It seems to
me that the first things for every man, whether in or out of office, to
believe in,—the first things to rely on, are demonstrated facts.
These are the corner stones,—these are the columns that nothing can
move,—these are the stars that no darkness can hide,—these are the
true and only foundations of belief.

Beyond the truths that have been demonstrated is the horizon of the
Probable, and in the world of the Probable every man has the right to
guess for himself. Beyond the region of the Probable is the Possible,
and beyond the Possible is the Impossible, and beyond the Impossible are
the religions of this world. My idea is this: Any man who acts in
view of the Improbable or of the Impossible—that is to say of the
Supernatural—is a superstitious man. Any man who believes that he can
add to the happiness of the Infinite, by depriving himself of innocent
pleasure, is superstitious. Any man who imagines that he can make some
God happy, by making himself miserable, is superstitious. Any one who
thinks he can gain happiness in another world, by raising hell with his
fellow-men in this, is simply superstitious. Any man who believes in a
Being of infinite wisdom and goodness, and yet belives that that
Being has peopled a world with failures, is superstitious. Any man who
believes that an infinitely wise and good God would take pains to make
a man, intending at the time that the man should be eternally damned, is
absurdly superstitious. In other words, he who believes that there is,
or that there can be, any other religious duty than to increase the
happiness of mankind, in this world, now and here, is superstitious.

I have known a great many private men who were not men of genius. I
have known some men of genius about whom it was kept private, and I have
known many public men, and my wonder increased the better I knew them,
that they occupied positions of trust and honor.

But, after all, it is the people's fault. They who demand hypocrisy
must be satisfied with mediocrity... Our public men will be better and
greater, and less superstitious, when the people become greater and
better and less superstitious. There is an old story, that we have all
heard, about Senator Nesmith. He was elected a Senator from Oregon. When
he had been in Washington a little while, one of the other Senators said
to him: "How did you feel when you found yourself sitting here in the
United States Senate?" He replied: "For the first two months, I just
sat and wondered how a damned fool like me ever, broke into the Senate.
Since that, I have done nothing but wonder how the other fools got
here."

To-day the need of our civilization is public men who have the courage
to speak as they think. We need a man for President who will not
publicly thank God for earthquakes. We need somebody with the courage to
say that all that happens in nature happens without design, and without
reference to man; somebody who will say that the men and women killed
are not murdered by supernatural beings, and that everything that
happens in nature, happens without malice and without mercy. We want
somebody who will have courage enough not to charge, an infinitely good
and wise Being with all the cruelties and agonies and sufferings of this
world. We want such men in public places,—men who will appeal to the
reason of their fellows, to the highest intelligence of the people; men
who will have courage enough, in this the nineteenth century, to agree
with the conclusions of science. We want some man who will not
pretend to believe, and who does not in fact believe, the stories that
Superstition has told to Credulity.

The most important thing in this world is the destruction of
superstition. Superstition interferes with the happiness of mankind.
Superstition is a terrible serpent, reaching in frightful coils from
heaven to earth and thrusting its poisoned fangs into the hearts of men.
While I live, I am going to do what little I can for the destruction of
this monster. Whatever may happen in another world—and I will take my
chances there,—I am opposed to superstition in this. And if, when I
reach that other world, it needs reforming, I shall do what little I can
there for the destruction of the false.

Let me tell you one thing more, and I am done. The only way to have
brave, honest, intelligent, conscientious public men, men without
superstition, is to do what we can to make the average citizen brave,
conscientious and intelligent. If you wish to see courage in the
presidential chair, conscience upon the bench, intelligence of the
highest order in Congress; if you expect public men to be great enough
to reflect honor upon the Republic, private citizens must have the
courage and the intelligence to elect, and to sustain, such men. I have
said, and I say it again, that never while I live will I vote for any
man to be President of the United States, no matter if he does belong
to my party, who has not won his spurs on some field of intellectual
conflict. We have had enough mediocrity, enough policy, enough
superstition, enough prejudice, enough provincialism, and the time has
come for the American citizen to say: "Hereafter I will be represented
by men who are worthy, not only of the great Republic, but of the
Nineteenth Century."
---
# Unitarian Club Dinner
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1891_
## Unitarian Club Dinner

New York, January 15,1892.

TOAST: THE IDEAL.

MR. PRESIDENT, Ladies and Gentlemen: In the first place, I wish to
tender my thanks to this club for having generosity and sense enough to
invite me to speak this evening. It is probably the best thing the club
has ever done. You have shown that you are not afraid of a man simply
because he does not happen to agree entirely with you, although in a
very general way it may be said that I come within one of you.

So I think, not only that you have honored me—that, I most cheerfully
and gratefully admit—but, upon my word, I think that you have honored
yourselves. And imagine the distance the religious world has traveled
in the last few years to make a thing of this kind possible! You know—I
presume every one of you knows—that I have no religion—not enough to
last a minute—none whatever—that is, in the ordinary sense of that
word. And yet you have become so nearly civilized that you are willing
to hear what I have to say; and I have become so nearly civilized that I
am willing to say what I think.

And, in the second place, let me say that I have great respect for
the Unitarian Church. I have great respect for the memory of Theodore
Parker. I have great respect for every man who has assisted in reaving
the heavens of an infinite monster. I have great respect for every man
who has helped to put out the fires of hell. In other words, I have
great respect for every man who has tried to civilize my race.

The Unitarian Church has done more than any other church—and may be
more than all other churches—to substitute character for creed, and
to say that a man should be judged by his spirit; by the climate of his
heart; by the autumn of his generosity; by the spring of his hope; that
he should be judged by what he does; by the influence that he exerts,
rather than by the mythology he may believe. And whether there be one
God or a million, I am perfectly satisfied that every duty that devolves
upon me is within my reach; it is something that I can do myself,
without the help of anybody else, either in this world or any other.

Now, in order to make myself plain on this subject—I think I was to
speak about the Ideal—I want to thank the Unitarian Church for what
it has done; and I want to thank the Universalist Church, too. They at
least believe in a God who is a gentleman; and that is much more than
was ever done by an orthodox church. They believe, at least, in a
heavenly father who will leave the latch string out until the last
child gets home; and as that lets me in—especially in reference to the
"last"—I have great respect for that church.

But now I am coming to the Ideal; and in what I may say you may not all
agree. I hope you won't, because that would be to me evidence that I am
wrong. You cannot expect everybody to agree in the right, and I cannot
expect to be always in the right myself. I have to judge with the
standard called my reason, and I do not know whether it is right or
not; I will admit that. But as opposed to any other man's, I will bet
on mine. That is to say, for home use. In the first place, I think it
is said in some book—and if I am wrong there are plenty here to correct
me—that "the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom." I think
a knowledge of the limitations of the human mind is the beginning of
wisdom, and, I may almost say, the end of it—really to understand
yourself.

Now, let me lay down this proposition. The imagination of man has the
horizon of experience; and beyond experience or nature man cannot
go, even in imagination. Man is not a creator. He combines; he adds
together; he divides; he subtracts; he does not create, even in the
world of imagination. Let me make myself a little plainer: Not one
here—not one in the wide, wide world can think of a color that he never
saw. No human being can imagine a sound that he has not heard, and
no one can think of a taste that he has not experienced. He can add
to—that is add together—combine; but he cannot, by any possibility,
create.

Man originally, we will say—go back to the age of barbarism, and you
will not have to go far; our own childhood, probably, is as far as is
necessary—but go back to what is called the age of savagery; every man
was an idealist, as every man is to-day an idealist. Every man in savage
or civilized time, commencing with the first that ever crawled out of
a cave and pushed the hair back from his forehead to look at the
sun—commence with him and end with Judge Wright—the last expression
on the God question—and from that cave to the soul that lives in this
temple, everyone has been an idealist and has endeavored to account in
some way for what he saw and for what he felt; in other words, for the
phenomena of nature. The easiest way to account for it by the rudest
savage, is the way it has been accounted for to-night. What makes the
river run? There's a god in it. What makes the tree grow? There's a god
in it. What makes the star shine? There's a god in it. What makes the
sun rise? Why, he is a god himself. And what makes the nightingale sing
until the air is faint with melody? There's a god in it.

They commenced making gods to account for everything that happens; gods
of dreams and gods of love and friendship, and heroism and courage.
Splendid! They kept making more and more. The more they found out in
nature, up to a certain point, the more gods they needed; and they kept
on making gods until almost every wave of the sea bore a god. Gods on
every mountain, and in every vale and field, and by every stream! Gods
in flowers, gods in grass; gods everywhere! All accounting for this
world and for what happened in this world.

Then, when they had got about to the top, when their ingenuity had been
exhausted, they had not produced anything, and they did not produce
anything beyond their own experience. We are told that they were
idolaters. That is a mistake, except in the sense that we are all
idolaters. They said, "Here is a god; let us express our idea of him.
He is stronger than a man; let us give him the body of a lion. He is
swifter than a man; let us give him the wings of an eagle. He is wiser
than a man"—and when a man was very savage he said, "let us give
him the head of a serpent;" a serpent is wonderfully wise; he travels
without feet; he climbs without claws; he lives without food, and he is
of the simplest conceivable form.

And that was simply to represent their idea of power, of swiftness, of
wisdom. And yet this impossible monster was simply made of what man had
seen in nature, and he put the various attributes or parts together
by his imagination. He created nothing. He simply took these parts of
certain beasts, when beasts were supposed to be superior to man in some
particulars, and in that way expressed his thought.

You go into the territory of Arizona to-day, and you will find there
pictures of God. He was clothed in stone, through which no arrow could
pierce, and so they called God the Stone-Shirted whom no Indian could
kill. That was for the simple and only reason that it was impossible to
get an arrow through his armor. They got the idea from the armadillo.

Now, I am simply saying this to show that they were making gods for all
these centuries, and making them out of something they found in nature.
Then, after they got through with the beast business, they made gods
after the image of man; and they are the best gods, so far as I know,
that have been made.

The gods that were first made after the image of man were not made after
the pattern of very good men; but they were good men according to the
standard of that time, because, as I will show you in a moment, all
these things are relative. The qualities or things that we call mercy,
justice, charity and religion are all relative. There was a time when
the victor on the field of battle was exceedingly merciful if he failed
to eat his prisoner; he was regarded as a very charitable gentleman if
he refused to eat the man he had captured in battle. Afterward he
was regarded as an exceedingly benevolent person if he would spare a
prisoner's life and make him a slave.

So that—but you all know it as well as I do or you would not be
Unitarians—all this has been simply a growth from year to year, from
generation to generation, from age to age. And let me tell you the first
thing about these gods that they made after the image of men. After
a time there were men on the earth who were better than these gods in
heaven.

Then those gods began to die, one after another, and dropped from their
thrones. The time will probably come in the history of this world when
an insurance company can calculate the average life of gods as well as
they do now of men; because all these gods have been made by folks. And,
let me say right here, the folks did the best they could. I do not blame
them. Everybody in the business has always done his best. I admit it. I
admit that man has traveled from the first conception up to Unitarianism
by a necessary road. Under the conditions he could have come up in no
other way. I admit all that. I blame nobody. But I am simply trying to
tell, in a very feeble manner, how it is.

Now, in a little while, I say, men got better than their gods. Then the
gods began to die. Then we began to find out a few things in nature, and
we found out that we were supporting more gods than were necessary—that
fewer gods could do the business—and that, from an economical point of
view, expenses ought to be cut down. There were too many temples, too
many priests, and you always had to give tithes of something to each
one, and these gods were about to eat up the substance of the world.

And there came a time when it got to that point that either the gods
would eat up the people or the people must destroy some gods, and of
course they destroyed the gods—one by one and in their places they put
forces of nature to do the business—forces of nature that needed no
church, that needed no theologians; forces of nature that you are under
no obligation to; that you do not have to pay anything to keep working.
We found that the attraction of gravitation would attend to its
business, night and day, at its own expense. There was a great saving.
I wish it were the same with all kinds of law, so that we could all go
into some useful business, including myself.

So day by day, they dispensed with this expense of deities; and the
world got along just as well—a good deal better. They used to think—a
community thought—that if a man was allowed to say a word against a
deity, the god would visit his vengeance upon the entire nation. But
they found out, after a while, that no harm came of it; so they went on
destroying the gods. Now, all these things are relative; and they made
gods a little better all the time—I admit that—till we struck the
Presbyterian, which is probably the worst ever made. The Presbyterians
seem to have bred back.

But no matter. As man became more just, or nearer just, as he became
more charitable, or nearer charitable, his god grew to be a little
better and a little better. He was very bad in Geneva—the three that
we then had. They were very bad in Scotland—horrible! Very bad in New
England—infamous! I might as well tell the truth about it—very bad!
And then men went to work, finally, to civilize their gods, to civilize
heaven, to give heaven the benefit of the freedom of this brave world.
That's what we did. We wanted to civilize religion—civilize what is
known as Christianity. And nothing on earth needed civilization more;
and nothing needs it more than that to-night. Civilization! I am not so
much for the freedom of religion as I am for the religion of freedom.

Now, there was a time when our ancestors—good people, away back, all
dead, no great regret expressed at this meeting on that account—there
was a time when our ancestors were happy in their belief that nearly
everybody was to be lost, and that a few, including themselves, were
to be saved. That religion, I say, fitted that time. It fitted their
geology. It was a very good running mate for their astronomy. It was a
good match for their chemistry. In other words, they were about equal in
every department of human ignorance.

And they insisted that there lived up there somewhere—generally
up—exactly where nobody has, I believe, yet said—a being, an infinite
person "without body, parts, or passions," and yet without passions he
was angry at the wicked every day; without body he inhabited a certain
place; and without parts he was, after all, in some strange and
miraculous manner, organized so that he thought.

And I don't know that it is possible for anyone here—I don't know that
anyone here is gifted with imagination enough—to conceive of such a
being. Our fathers had not imagination enough to do so, at least, and
so they said of this God, that he loves and he hates; he punishes and he
rewards; and that religion has been described perfectly tonight by Judge
Wright as really making God a monster, and men poor, helpless victims.
And the highest possible conception of the orthodox man was, finally,
to be a good servant—just lucky enough to get in—feathers somewhat
singed, but enough left to fly. That was the idea of our fathers. And
then came these divisions, simply because men began to think.

And why did they begin to think? Because in every direction, in all
departments, they were getting more and more information. And then the
religion did not fit. When they found out something of the history of
this globe they found out that the Scriptures were not true. I will not
say not inspired, because I do not know whether they are inspired or
not. It is a question, to me, of no possible importance, whether they
are inspired or not. The question is: Are they true? If they are true,
they do not need inspiration; and if they are not true, inspiration will
not help them. So that is a matter that I care nothing about.

On every hand, I say, they studied and thought. They began to grow—to
have new ideas of mercy, kindness, justice; new ideas of duty—new ideas
of life. The old gods, after we got past the civilization of the Greeks,
past their mythology—and it is the best mythology that man has ever
made—after we got past that, I say, the gods cared very little about
women. Women occupied no place in the state—no place by the hearth,
except one of subordination, and almost of slavery. So the early
churches made God after that image who held women in contempt. It was
only natural—I am not blaming anybody—they had to do it, it was part
of the _must!_

Now, I say that we have advanced up to the point that we demand not only
intelligence, but justice and mercy, in the sky; we demand that—that
idea of God. Then comes my trouble. I want to be honest about it. Here
is my trouble—and I want it also understood that if I should see a man
praying to a stone image or to a stuffed serpent, with that man's wife
or daughter or son lying at the point of death, and that poor savage on
his knees imploring that image or that stuffed serpent to save his
child or his wife, there is nothing in my heart that could suggest the
slightest scorn, or any other feeling than that of sympathy; any other
feeling than that of grief that the stuffed serpent could not answer the
prayer and that the stone image did not feel; I want that understood.
And wherever man prays for the right—no matter to whom or to what he
prays; where he prays for strength to conquer the wrong, I hope his
prayer may be heard; and if I think there is no one else to hear it I
will hear it, and I am willing to help answer it to the extent of my
power.

So I want it distinctly understood that that is my feeling. But here is
my trouble: I find this world made on a very cruel plan. I do not say it
is wrong—I just say that that is the way it seems to me. I may be wrong
myself, because this is the only world I was ever in; I am provincial.
This grain of sand and tear they call the earth is the only world I have
ever lived in. And you have no idea how little I know about the rest of
this universe; you never will know how little I know about it until you
examine your own minds on the same subject.

The plan is this: Life feeds on life. Justice does not always triumph:
Innocence is not a perfect shield. There is my trouble. No matter now,
whether you agree with me or not; I beg of you to be honest and fair
with me in your thought, as I am toward you in mine.

I hope, as devoutly as you, that there is a power somewhere in this
universe that will finally bring everything as it should be. I take a
little consolation in the "perhaps"—in the guess that this is only one
scene of a great drama, and that when the curtain rises on the fifth
act, if I live that long, I may see the coherence and the relation of
things. But up to the present writing—or speaking—I do not. I do not
understand it—a God that has life feed on life; every joy in the world
born of some agony! I do not understand why in this world, over the
Niagara of cruelty, should run this ocean of blood. I do not understand
it. And, then, why does not justice always triumph? Why is not innocence
a perfect shield? These are my troubles.

Suppose a man had control of the atmosphere, knew enough of the secrets
of nature, had read enough in "nature's infinite book of secrecy" so
that he could control the wind and rain; suppose a man had that power,
and suppose that last year he kept the rain from Russia and did not
allow the crops to ripen when hundreds of thousands were famishing and
when little babes were found with their lips on the breasts of dead
mothers! What would you think of such a man? Now, there is my trouble.
If there be a God he understood this. He knew when he withheld his rain
that the famine would come. He saw the dead mothers, he saw the empty
breasts of death, and he saw the helpless babes. There is my trouble. I
am perfectly frank with you and honest. That is my trouble.

Now, understand me! I do not say there is no God. I do not know. As I
told you before, I have traveled but very little—only in this world.

I want it understood that I do not pretend to know. I say I think.
And in my mind the idea expressed by Judge Wright so eloquently and
so beautifully is not exactly true. I cannot conceive of the God he
endeavors to describe, because he gives to that God will, purpose,
achievement, benevolence, love, and no form—no organization—no wants.
There's the trouble. No wants. And let me say why that is a trouble. Man
acts only because he wants. You civilize man by increasing his wants,
or, as his wants increase he becomes civilized. You find a lazy savage
who would not hunt an elephant tusk to save your life. But let him have
a few tastes of whiskey and tobacco, and he will run his legs off for
tusks. You have given him another want and he is willing to work. And
they nearly all started on the road toward Unitarianism—that is to say,
toward civilization—in that way. You must increase their wants.

The question arises: Can an infinite being want anything? If he does and
cannot get it, he is not happy. If he does not want anything, I cannot
help him. I am under no obligation to do anything for anybody who does
not need anything and who does not want anything. Now, there is my
trouble. I may be wrong, and I may get paid for it some time, but that
is my trouble.

I do not see—admitting that all is true that has been said about the
existence of God—I do not see what I can do for him; and I do not see
either what he can do for me, judging by what he has done for others.

And then I come to the other point, that religion so-called, explains
our duties to this supposed being, when we do not even know that he
exists; and no human being has got imagination enough to describe him,
or to use such words that you understand what he is trying to say. I
have listened with great pleasure to Judge Wright this evening, and I
have heard a great many other beautiful things on the same subject—none
better than his. But I never understood them—never.

Now, then, what is religion? I say, religion is all here in this
world—right here—and that all our duties are right here to our
fellow-men; that the man that builds a home; marries the girl that he
loves; takes good care of her; likes the family; stays home nights, as
a general thing; pays his debts; tries to find out what he can; gets all
the ideas and beautiful things that his mind will hold; turns a part
of his brain into a gallery of fine arts; has a host of paintings and
statues there; then has another niche devoted to music—a magnificent
dome, filled with winged notes that rise to glory—now, the man who does
that gets all he can from the great ones dead; swaps all the thoughts he
can with the ones that are alive; true to the ideal that he has here in
his brain—he is what I call a religious man, because he makes the world
better, happier; he puts the dimples of joy in the cheeks of the ones he
loves, and he lets the gods run heaven to suit themselves. And I am not
saying that he is right; I do not know.

This is all the religion that I have; to make somebody else happier if I
can.

I divide this world into two classes—the cruel and the kind; and I
think a thousand times more of a kind man than I do of an intelligent
man. I think more of kindness than I do of genius, I think more of real,
good, human nature in that way—of one who is willing to lend a helping
hand and who goes through the world with a face that looks as if its
owner were willing to answer a decent question—I think a thousand times
more of that than I do of being theologically right; because I do not
care whether I am theologically right or not. It is something that is
not worth talking about, because it is something that I never, never,
never shall understand; and every one of you will die and you won't
understand it either—until after you die at any rate. I do not know
what will happen then.

I am not denying anything. There is another ideal, and it is a beautiful
ideal. It is the greatest dream that ever entered the heart or brain of
man—the Dream of Immortality. It was born of human affection. It did
not come to us from heaven. It was born of the human heart. And when
he who loved, kissed the lips of her who was dead, there came into his
heart the dream: We may meet again.

And, let me tell you, that hope of immortality never came from any
religion. That hope of immortality has helped make religion. It has
been the great oak around which have climbed the poisonous vines of
superstition—that hope of immortality is the great oak.

And yet the moment a man expresses a doubt about the truth of Joshua or
Jonah or the other three fellows in a furnace, up hops some poor little
wretch and says, "Why, he doesn't want to live any more; he wants to
die and go down like a dog, and that is the end of him and his wife and
children." They really seem to think that the moment a man is what
they call an Infidel he has no affections, no heart, no feeling, no
hope—nothing—nothing. Just anxious to be annihilated! But, if the
orthodox creed be true, I make my choice to-night. I take hell. And if
it is between hell and annihilation, I take annihilation.

I will tell you why I take hell in making the first choice. We have
heard from both of those places—heaven and hell. According to the New
Testament there was a rich man in hell, and a poor man, Lazarus, in
heaven. And there was another gentleman by the name of Abraham. The rich
man in hell was in flames, and he called for water, and they told him
they couldn't give him any. No bridge! But they did not express the
slightest regret that they could not give him any water. Mr. Abraham was
not decent enough to say he would if he could; no, sir; nothing. It
did not make any difference to him. But this rich man in hell—in
torment—his heart was all right, for he remembered his brothers; and
he said to this Abraham, "If you cannot go, why, send a man to my five
brethren, so that they will not come to this place!" Good fellow, to
think of his five brothers when he was burning up. Good fellow. Best
fellow we ever heard from on the other side—in either world.

So, I say there is my place. And, incidentally, Abraham at that time
gave his judgment as to the value of miracles. He said, "Though one
should arise from the dead he wouldn't help your five brethren!" "There
are Moses and the prophets." No need of raising people from the dead.

That is my idea, in a general way, about religion; and I want the
imagination to go to work upon it, taking the perfections of one church,
of one school, of one system, and putting them together, just as the
sculptor makes a great statue by taking the eyes from one, the nose from
another, the limbs from another, and so on; just as they make a great
painting from a landscape by putting a river in this place, instead of
over there, changing the location of a tree and improving on what they
call nature—that is to say, simply by adding to, taking from; that is
all we can do. But let us go on doing that until there shall be a church
in sympathy with the best human heart and in harmony with the best human
brain.

And, what is more, let us have that religion for the world we live in.
Right here! Let us have that religion until it cannot be said that they
who do the most work have the least to eat. Let us have that religion
here until hundreds and thousands of women are not compelled to make a
living with the needle that has been called "the asp for the breast
of the poor," and to live in tenements, in filth, where modesty is
impossible.

I say, let us preach that religion here until men will be ashamed to
have forty or fifty millions, or any more than they need, while their
brethren lack bread—while their sisters die from want. Let us preach
that religion here until man will have more ambition to become wise and
good than to become rich and powerful. Let us preach that religion
here among ourselves until there are no abused and beaten wives. Let us
preach that religion until children are no longer afraid of their own
parents and until there is no back of a child bearing the scars of a
father's lash. Let us preach it, I say, until we understand and know
that every man does as he must, and that, if we want better men and
women, we must have better conditions.

Let us preach this grand religion until everywhere, the world over, men
are just and kind to each other. And then, if there be another world,
we shall be prepared for it. And if I come into the presence of an
infinite, good, and wise being, he will say, "Well, you did the best you
could. You did very well, indeed. There is plenty of work for you to do
here. Try and get a little higher than you were before." Let us preach
that one drop of restitution is worth an ocean of repentance.

And if there is a life of eternal progress before us, I shall be as glad
as any other angel to find that out.

But I will not sacrifice the world I have for one I know not of. I will
not live here in fear, when I do not know that that which I fear lives.

I am going to live a perfectly free man. I am going to reap the harvest
of my mind, no matter how poor it is, whether it is wheat or corn or
worthless weeds. And I am going to scatter it. Some may "fall on stony
ground." But I think I have struck good soil to-night.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you a thousand times for your
attention. I beg that you will forgive the time that I have taken, and
allow me to say, once more, that this event marks an epoch in Religious
Liberty in the United States.
---
# Western Society of the Army of the Potomac Banquet
_Dresden Edition, Volume 12, 1892_
## Western Society of the Army of the Potomac Banquet

Chicago, January 31, 1894.

> * Every soldier of the Army of the Potomac: remembers, the
> colors that for two years floated over the headquarters of
> Gen. Meade. Last night when one hundred and fifty men who
> fought in that army gathered around the banquet board at the
> Grand Pacific hotel a fac-simile of that flag floated over
> them. It was a handsome guidon, on one side a field of
> solferino red bearing a life-sized golden eagle surrounded
> by a silver wreath of laurel; on the other were the national
> colors with the names of the corps of the army.

> The fifth annual banquet of the Western Society of the Army
> of the Potomac will be remembered on account of the presence
> of many distinguished men. The cigars had not been lighted
> when Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, escorted by Gen. Newberry and
> Col. Burbanks, came in. The bald head and sparse gray hair
> of the famous orator were recognized by all, and he was
> given a mighty welcome.

> Save for the emblems of the Union and the fac-simile of Gen.
> Meade's flag the decorations were simple. There were no
> flowers, but the soldiers could read on little signs stuck
> up around the tables such names as "Petersburg," "White
> Oak," "Mine Run," "Cold Harbor," "Fair Oaks" and "South
> Mountain." The exercises began and ended with bugle call and
> military song, and the heroes of the Potomac showed that
> they still remembered the words of the songs sung in camp.

> Col. Freeman Connor, the retiring president, acted as
> toastmaster. Seated near him were Maj.-Gen. Nelson Miles,
> United States army; Gen. Newberry, Col. Ingersoll, Thomas B.
> Bryan, Col. James A.. Sexton, Maj. E. A. Blodgett, Fred W.
> Spink, Col. Williston and Maj. Heyle.

> The exercises began with the singing of "America" by all
> Col. Conner made a few remarks and then Col. C. S. McEntee
> presented the new-comer to the society. When Colonel
> Ingersoll was introduced, the veterans jumped up on chairs,
> waved their handkerchiefs and greeted him with a mighty
> shout. The Colonel spoke only fifteen minutes.

> At the conclusion of Colonel Ingersoll's speech he was again
> cheered for several minutes. A motion was made to make him
> an honorary member of the Western Society of the Army of the
> Potomac. The toastmaster in putting the question said: "All
> who are in favor will rise and yell," and every comrade
> yelled.

> —Chicago Record, February 1, 1894.

FIRST of all, I wish to thank you for allowing me to be present. Next, I
wish to congratulate you that you are all alive. I congratulate you
that you were born in this century, the greatest century in the world's
history, the greatest century of intellectual genius and of physical,
mental and moral progress that the world ever knew. I congratulate you
all that you are members of the Army of the Potomac. I believe that
no better army ever marched under the flag of any nation. There was no
difficulty that discouraged you; no defeat that disheartened you. For
years you bore the heat and burden of battle; for years you saw your
comrades torn by shot and shell, but wiping the tears, from your cheeks
you marched on with greater determination than ever to fight to the end.

To the Army of the Potomac belongs the eternal honor of having obtained
finally the sword of Rebellion. I congratulate you because you fought
for the Republic, and I thank you for your courage. For by you the
United States was kept on the map of the world, and our flag was kept
floating. If not for your work, neither would have been there. You
removed from it the only stain that was ever on it. You fought not only
the battle of the Union, but of the whole world.

I congratulate you that you live in a period when the North has attained
a higher moral altitude than was ever attained by any nation. You now
live in a country which believes in absolute freedom for all. In this
country any man may reap what he sows and may give his honest thought to
his fellow-men. It is wonderful to think what this Nation was before the
Army of the Potomac came into existence. It believed in liberty as the
convict believes in liberty. It was a country where men that had honest
thoughts were ostracized. I thank you and your courage for what we are.
Nothing ennobles a man so much as fighting for the right. Whoever fights
for the wrong wounds himself. I believe that every man who fought in the
Union army came out a stronger and a better and a nobler man.

I believe in this country. I am so young and so full of enthusiasm
that I am a believer in National growth. I want this country to be
territorial and to become larger than it is. I want a country worthy of
Chicago. I want to pick up the West Indies, take in the Bermudas,
the Bahamas and Barbadoes. They are our islands. They belong to this
continent and it is a piece of impudence for any other nation to think
of owning them. We want to grow. Such is the extravagance of my ambition
that I even want the Sandwich Islands. They say that these islands are
too far away from us; that they are two thousand miles from our shores.
But they are nearer to our shores than to any other. I want them. I want
a naval station there. I want America to be mistress of the Pacific.
Then there is another thing in my mind. I want to grow North and South.
I want Canada—good people—good land. I want that country. I do not
want to steal it, but I want it. I want to go South with this Nation. My
idea is this: There is only air enough between the Isthmus of Panama and
the North Pole for one flag. A country that guarantees liberty to
all cannot be too large. If any of these people are ignorant, we
will educate them; give them the benefit of our free schools. Another
thing—I might as well sow a few seeds for next fall. I have heard many
reasons why the South failed in the Rebellion, and why with the help of
Northern dissensions and a European hatred the South did not succeed. I
will tell you. In my judgment, the South failed, not on account of its
army, but from other conditions. Luckily for us, the South had always
been in favor of free trade.

Secondly—The South raised and sold raw material, and when the war came
it had no foundries, no factories, and no looms to weave the cloth for
uniforms; no shops to make munitions of war, and it had to get what
supplies it could by running the blockade. We of the North had the
cloth to clothe our soldiers, shops to make our bayonets; we had all the
curious wheels that invention had produced, and had labor and genius,
the power of steam, and the water to make what we needed, and we did
not require anything from any other country. Suppose this whole country
raised raw material and shipped it out, we would be in the condition
that the South was. We want this Nation to be independent of the whole
world. A nation to be ready to settle questions of dispute by war should
be in a condition of absolute independence. For that reason I want all
the wheels turning in this country, all the chimneys full of fire,
all the looms running, the iron red hot everywhere. I want to see all
mechanics having plenty of work with good wages and good homes for their
families, good food, schools for their children, plenty of clothes, and
enough to take care of a child if it happens to take sick. I am for the
independence of America, the growth of America physically, mentally,
and every other way. The time will come when all nations combined cannot
take that flag out of the sky. I want to see this country so that if
a deluge sweeps every other nation from the face of the globe we would
have all we want made right here by our factories, by American brain and
hand.

I thank you that the Republic still lives. I thank you that we are all
lovers of freedom. I thank you for having helped establish a Government
where every child has an opportunity, and where every avenue of
advancement if open to all.
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