Reply to Archdeacon Farrar
\"A Few Words on Col. Ingersoll\" answered.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1890)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 6.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/reply-to-archdeacon-farrar/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

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• This fragment (found among Col. Ingersoll's papers) is a
    mere outline of a contemplated answer to Archdeacon Farrar's
    article in the North American Review, May, 1810, entitled:
    "A Few Words on Col. Ingersoll."

ARCHDEACON FARRAR, in the opening of his article, in a burst of
confidence, takes occasion to let the world know how perfectly angelic
he intends to be. He publicly proclaims that he can criticise the
arguments of one with whom he disagrees, without resorting to invective,
or becoming discourteous. Does he call attention to this because most
theologians are hateful and ungentlemanly? Is it a rare thing for the
pious to be candid? Why should an Archdeacon be cruel, or even ill-bred?
Yet, in the very beginning, the Archdeacon in effect says: Behold, I
show you a mystery—a Christian who can write about an infidel, without
invective and without brutality. Is it then so difficult for those who
love their enemies to keep within the bounds of decency when speaking of
unbelievers who have never injured them?

As a matter of fact, I was somewhat surprised when I read the
proclamation to the effect that the writer was not to use invective,
and was to be guilty of no discourtesy; but on reading the article, and
finding that he had failed to keep his promise, I was not surprised.

It is an old habit with theologians to beat the living with the bones of
the dead. The arguments that cannot be answered provoke epithet.

ARCHDEACON FARRAR criticises several of my statements: _The same rules
or laws of probability must govern in religious questions as in others_.

This apparently self-evident statement seems to excite almost the ire of
this Archdeacon, and for the purpose of showing that it is not true,
he states, first, that "the first postulate of revelation is that it
appeals to man's spirit;" second, that "the spirit is a sphere of being
which transcends the spheres of the senses and the understanding;"
third, that "if a man denies the existence of a spiritual intuition,
he is like a blind man criticising colors, or a deaf man criticising
harmonies;" fourth, that "revelation must be judged by its own
criteria;" and fifth, that "St. Paul draws a marked distinction between
the spirit of the world and the spirit which is of God," and that the
same Saint said that "the natural man receiveth not the things of the
spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him, and he cannot know
them, because they are spiritually discerned." Let us answer these
objections in their order.

1. "The first postulate of revelation is that it appeals to man's
spirit." What does the Archdeacon mean by "spirit"? A man says that he
has received a revelation from God, and he wishes to convince another
man that he has received a revelation—how does he proceed? Does he
appeal to the man's reason? Will he tell him the circumstances under
which he received the revelation? Will he tell him why he is convinced
that it was from God? Will the Archdeacon be kind enough to tell how the
spirit can be approached passing by the reason, the understanding,
the judgment and the intellect? If the Archdeacon replies that the
revelation itself will bear the evidence within itself, what then, I
ask, does he mean by the word "evidence"? Evidence about what? Is it
such evidence as satisfies the intelligence, convinces the reason, and
is it in conformity with the known facts of the mind?

It may be said by the Archdeacon that anything that satisfies what he
is pleased to call the spirit, that furnishes what it seems by nature to
require, is of supernatural origin. We hear music, and this music seems
to satisfy the desire for harmony—still, no one argues, from that
fact, that music is of supernatural origin. It may satisfy a want in the
brain—a want unknown until the music was heard—and yet we all agree
in saying that music has been naturally produced, and no one claims that
Beethoven, or Wagner, was inspired.

The same may be said of things that satisfy the palate—of statues, of
paintings, that reveal to him who looks, the existence of that of
which before that time he had not even dreamed. Why is it that we love
color—that we are pleased with harmonies, or with a succession of
sounds rising and falling at measured intervals? No one would answer
this question by saying that sculptors and painters and musicians were
inspired; neither would they say that the first postulate of art is that
it appeals to man's spirit, and for that reason the rules or laws of
probability have nothing to do with the question of art.

2. That "the spirit is a sphere of being which transcends the spheres of
the senses and the understanding." Let us imagine a man without senses.
He cannot feel, see, hear, taste, or smell. What is he? Would it be
possible for him to have an idea? Would such a man have a spirit to
which revelation could appeal, or would there be locked in the dungeon
of his brain a spirit, that is to say, a "sphere of being which
transcends the spheres of the senses and the understanding"? Admit that
in the person supposed, the machinery of life goes on—what is he more
than an inanimate machine?

3. That "if a man denies the very existence of a spiritual intuition,
he is like a blind man criticising colors, or a deaf man criticising
harmonies." What do you mean by "spiritual intuition"? When did this
"spiritual intuition" become the property of man—before, or after,
birth? Is it of supernatural, or miraculous, origin, and is it possible
that this "spiritual intuition" is independent of the man? Is it based
upon experience? Was it in any way born of the senses, or of the effect
of nature upon the brain—that is to say, of things seen, or heard, or
touched? Is a "spiritual intuition" an entity? If man can exist without
the "spiritual intuition," do you insist that the "spiritual intuition"
can exist without the man?

You may remember that Mr. Locke frequently remarked: "Define your
terms." It is to be regretted that in the hurry of writing your article,
you forgot to give an explanation of "spiritual intuition."

I will also take the liberty of asking you how a blind man could
criticise colors, and how a deaf man could criticise harmonies. Possibly
you may imagine that "spiritual intuition" can take cognizance of
colors, as well as of harmonies. Let me ask: Why cannot a blind man
criticise colors? Let me answer: For the same reason that Archdeacon
Farrar can tell us nothing about an infinite personality.

4. That "revelation must be judged by its own criteria." Suppose the
Bible had taught that selfishness, larceny and murder were virtues;
would you deny its inspiration? Would not your denial be based upon
a conclusion that had been reached by your reason that no intelligent
being could have been its author—that no good being could, by any
possibility, uphold the commission of such crimes? In that case would
you be guided by "spiritual intuition," or by your reason?

When we examine the claims of a history—as, for instance, a history
of England, or of America, are we to decide according to "spiritual
intuition," or in accordance with the laws or rules of probability?
Is there a different standard for a history written in Hebrew, several
thousand years ago, and one written in English in the nineteenth
century? If a history should now be written in England, in which the
most miraculous and impossible things should be related as facts, and
if I should deny these alleged facts, would you consider that the author
had overcome my denial by saying, "history must be judged by its own
criteria"?

5. That "the natural man receiveth not the things of the spirit of God,
for they are foolishness unto him, and he cannot know them, because they
are spiritually discerned." The Archdeacon admits that the natural man
cannot know the things of the spirit, because they are not naturally,
but spiritually, discerned. On the next page we are told, that "the
truths which Agnostics repudiate have been, and are, acknowledged by
all except a fraction of the human race." It goes without saying that
a large majority of the human race are natural; consequently, the
statement of the Archdeacon contradicts the statement of St. Paul.
The Archdeacon insists that all except a fraction of the human race
acknowledge the truths which Agnostics repudiate, and they must
acknowledge them because they are by them spiritually discerned; and
yet, St. Paul says that this is impossible, and insists that "the
natural man cannot know the things of the spirit of God, because they
are spiritually discerned."

There is only one way to harmonize the statement of the Archdeacon and
the Saint, and that is, by saying that nearly all of the human race
are unnatural, and that only a small fraction are natural, and that the
small fraction of men who are natural, are Agnostics, and only those who
accept what the Archdeacon calls "truths" are unnatural to such a degree
that they can discern spiritual things.

Upon this subject, the last things to which the Archdeacon appeals, are
the very things that he, at first, utterly repudiated. He asks, "Are we
contemptuously to reject the witness of innumerable multitudes of the
good and wise, that—with a spiritual reality more convincing to them
than the material evidences which converted the apostles,"—they have
seen, and heard, and their hands have handled the "Word of Life"? Thus
at last the Archdeacon appeals to the evidences of the senses.

II.

THE Archdeacon then proceeds to attack the following statement: _There
is no subject, and can be none, concerning which any human being is
under any obligation to believe without evidence_.

One would suppose that it would be impossible to formulate an objection
to this statement. What is or is not evidence, depends upon the mind
to which it is presented. There is no possible "insinuation" in this
statement, one way or the other. There is nothing sinister in it, any
more than there would be in the statement that twice five are ten. How
did it happen to occur to the Archdeacon that when I spoke of believing
without evidence, I referred to all people who believe in the existence
of a God, and that I intended to say "that one-third of the world's
inhabitants had embraced the faith of Christians without evidence"?

Certain things may convince one mind and utterly fail to convince
others. Undoubtedly the persons who have believed in the dogmas of
Christianity have had what was sufficient evidence for them. All I said
was, that "there is no subject, and can be none, concerning which any
human being is under any obligation to believe without evidence." Does
the Archdeacon insist that there is an obligation resting on any human
mind to believe without evidence? Is he willing to go a step further and
say that there is an obligation resting upon the minds of men to believe
contrary to evidence? If one is under obligation to believe without
evidence, it is just as reasonable to say that he is under obligation to
believe in spite of evidence. What does the word "evidence" mean? A man
in whose honesty I have great confidence, tells me that he saw a dead
man raised to life. I do not believe him. Why? His statement is not
evidence to my mind. Why? Because it contradicts all of my experience,
and, as I believe, the experience of the intelligent world.

No one pretends that "one-third of the world's inhabitants have
embraced the faith of Christians without evidence"—that is, that all
Christians have embraced the faith without evidence. In the olden time,
when hundreds of thousands of men were given their choice between being
murdered and baptized, they generally accepted baptism—probably they
accepted Christianity without critically examining the evidence.

Is it historically absurd that millions of people have believed in
systems of religion without evidence? Thousands of millions have
believed that Mohammed was a prophet of God. And not only so, but have
believed in his miraculous power. Did they believe without evidence? Is
it historically absurd to say that Mohammedanism is based upon mistake?
What shall we say of the followers of Buddha, who far outnumber the
followers of Christ? Have they believed without evidence? And is it
historically absurd to say that our ancestors of a few hundred years ago
were as credulous as the disciples of Buddha? Is it not true that the
same gentlemen who believed thoroughly in all the miracles of the
New Testament also believed the world to be flat, and were perfectly
satisfied that the sun made its daily journey around the earth? Did they
have any evidence? Is it historically absurd to say that they believed
without evidence?

Iii

_Neither is there any intelligent being who can by any possibility be
flattered by the exercise of ignorant credulity._

THE Archdeacon asks what I "gain by stigmatizing as ignorant credulity
that inspired, inspiring, invincible conviction—the formative principle
of noble efforts and self-sacrificing lives, which at this moment, as
during all the long millenniums of the past, has been held not only
by the ignorant and the credulous, but by those whom all the ages have
regarded as the ablest, the wisest, the most learned and the most gifted
of mankind?"

Does the Archdeacon deny that credulity is ignorant? In this connection,
what does the word "credulity" mean? It means that condition or state of
the mind in which the impossible, or the absurd, is accepted as true.
Is not such credulity ignorant? Do we speak of wise credulity—of
intelligent credulity? We may say theological credulity, or Christian
credulity, but certainly not intelligent credulity. Is the flattery of
the ignorant and credulous—the flattery being based upon that which
ignorance and credulity have accepted—acceptable to any intelligent
being? Is it possible that we can flatter God by pretending to believe,
or by believing, that which is repugnant to reason, that which upon
examination is seen to be absurd? The Archdeacon admits that God cannot
possibly be so flattered. If, then, he agrees with my statement, why
endeavor to controvert it?

IV.

The man who without prejudice reads and understands the Old and New
Testaments will cease to be an orthodox Christian.

THE Archdeacon says that he cannot pretend to imagine what my definition
of an orthodox Christian is. I will use his own language to express my
definition. "By an orthodox Christian I mean one who believes what is
commonly called the Apostles' Creed. I also believe that the essential
doctrines of the church must be judged by her universal formulae, not by
the opinions of this or that theologian, however eminent, or even of
any number of theologians, unless the church has stamped them with the
sanction of her formal and distinct acceptance."

This is the language of the Archdeacon himself, and I accept it as a
definition of orthodoxy. With this definition in mind, I say that
the man who without prejudice reads and understands the Old and New
Testaments will cease to be an orthodox Christian. By "prejudice,"
I mean the tendencies and trends given to his mind by heredity, by
education, by the facts and circumstances entering into the life of man.
We know how children are poisoned in the cradle, how they are deformed
in the Sunday School, how they are misled by the pulpit. And we know how
numberless interests unite and conspire to prevent the individual soul
from examining for itself. We know that nearly all rewards are in the
hands of Superstition—that she holds the sweet wreath, and that her
hands lead the applause of what is called the civilized world. We know
how many men give up their mental independence for the sake of pelf
and power. We know the influence of mothers and fathers—of Church and
State—of Faith and Fashion. All these influences produce in honest
minds what may be known as prejudice,—in other minds, what may be known
as hypocrisy.

It is hardly worth my while to speak of the merits of students of Holy
Writ "who," the Archdeacon was polite enough to say, "know ten thousand
times more of the Scriptures" than I do. This, to say the least of
it, is a gratuitous assertion, and one that does not tend to throw the
slightest ray of light on any matter in controversy. Neither is it true
that it was my "point" to say that all people are prejudiced, merely
because they believe in God; it was my point to say that no man can read
the miracles of the Old Testament, without prejudice, and believe
them; it was my point to say that no man can read many of the cruel
and barbarous laws said to have been given by God himself, and yet
believe,—unless he was prejudiced,—that these laws were divinely
given.

Neither do I believe that there is now beneath the cope of heaven an
intelligent man, without prejudice, who believes in the inspiration of
the Bible.

V.

The intelligent man who investigates the religion of any country,
without fear and without prejudice, will not and cannot be a believer.

IN answering this statement the Archdeacon says: "Argal, every
believer in any religion is either an incompetent idiot, or coward—with
a dash of prejudice."

I hardly know what the gentleman means by an "incompetent idiot," as I
know of no competent ones. It was not my intention to say that believers
in religion are idiots or cowards. I did not mean, by using the word
"fear," to say that persons actuated by fear are cowards. That was not
in my mind. By "fear," I intended to convey that fear commonly called
awe, or superstition,—that is to say, fear of the supernatural,—fear
of the gods—fear of punishment in another world—fear of some Supreme
Being; not fear of some other man—not the fear that is branded with
cowardice. And, of course, the Archdeacon perfectly understood my
meaning; but it was necessary to give another meaning in order to make
the appearance of an answer possible.

By "prejudice," I mean that state of mind that accepts the false for the
true. All prejudice is honest. And the probability is, that all men are
more or less prejudiced on some subject. But on that account I do not
call them "incompetent idiots, or cowards, with a dash of prejudice." I
have no doubt that the Archdeacon himself believes that all Mahommedans
are prejudiced, and that they are actuated more or less by fear,
inculcated by their parents and by society at large. Neither have I any
doubt that he regards all Catholics as prejudiced, and believes that
they are governed more or less by fear. It is no answer to what I have
said for the Archdeacon to say that "others have studied every form
of religion with infinitely greater power than I have done." This is a
personality that has nothing to do with the subject in hand. It is
no argument to repeat a list of names. It is an old trick of the
theologians to use names instead of arguments—to appeal to persons
instead of principles—to rest their case upon the views of kings and
nobles and others who pretend eminence in some department of human
learning or ignorance, rather than on human knowledge.

This is the argument of the old against the new, and on this appeal the
old must of necessity have the advantage. When some man announces the
discovery of a new truth, or of some great fact contrary to the opinions
of the learned, it is easy to overwhelm him with names. There is but one
name on his side—that is to say, his own. All others who are living,
and the dead, are on the other side. And if this argument is good, it
ought to have ended all progress many thousands of years ago. If this
argument is conclusive, the first man would have had freedom of opinion;
the second man would have stood an equal chance; but if the third man
differed from the other two, he would have been gone. Yet this is the
argument of the church. They say to every man who advances something
new: Are you greater than the dead? The man who is right is generally
modest. Men in the wrong, as a rule, are arrogant; and arrogance is
generally in the majority.

The Archdeacon appeals to certain names to show that I am wrong. In
order for this argument to be good—that is to say, to be honest—he
should agree with all the opinions of the men whose names he gives. He
shows, or endeavors to show, that I am wrong, because I do not agree
with St. Augustine. Does the Archdeacon agree with St. Augustine? Does
he now believe that the bones of a saint were taken to Hippo—that being
in the diocese of St. Augustine—and that five corpses, having been
touched with these bones, were raised to life? Does he believe that a
demoniac, on being touched with one of these bones, was relieved of a
multitude of devils, and that these devils then and there testified to
the genuineness of the bones, not only, but told the hearers that the
doctrine of the Trinity was true? Does the Archdeacon agree with St.
Augustine that over seventy miracles were performed with these bones,
and that in a neighboring town many hundreds of miracles were performed?
Does he agree with St. Augustine in his estimate of women—placing them
on a par with beasts?

I admit that St. Augustine had great influence with the people of his
day—but what people? I admit also that he was the founder of the first
begging brotherhood—that he organized mendicancy—and that he most
cheerfully lived on the labor of others.

If St. Augustine lived now he would be the inmate of an asylum. This
same St. Augustine believed that the fire of hell was material—that the
body itself having influenced the soul to sin, would be burned forever,
and that God by a perpetual miracle would save the body from being
annihilated and devoured in those eternal flames.

Let me ask the Archdeacon a question: Do you agree with St. Augustine?
If you do not, do you claim to be a greater man? Is "your mole-hill
higher than his Dhawalagiri"? Are you looking down upon him from the
altitude of your own inferiority?

Precisely the same could be said of St. Jerome. The Archdeacon appeals
to Charlemagne, one of the great generals of the world—a man who in his
time shed rivers of blood, and who on one occasion massacred over four
thousand helpless prisoners—a Christian gentleman who had, I think,
about nine wives, and was the supposed father of some twenty children.
'This same Charlemagne had laws against polygamy, and yet practiced
it himself. Are we under the same obligation to share his vices as
his views? It is wonderful how the church has always appealed to the
so-called great—how it has endeavored to get certificates from kings
and queens, from successful soldiers and statesmen, to the truth of the
Bible and the moral character of Christ! How the saints have crawled in
the dust before the slayers of mankind! Think of proving the religion of
love and forgiveness by Charlemagne and Napoleon!

An appeal is also made to Roger Bacon. Yet this man attained all his
eminence by going contrary to the opinions and teachings of the church.
In his time, it was matter of congratulation that you knew nothing of
secular things. He was a student of Nature, an investigator, and by the
very construction of his mind was opposed to the methods of Catholicism.

Copernicus was an astronomer, but he certainly did not get his astronomy
from the church, nor from General Joshua, nor from the story of the
Jewish king for whose benefit the sun was turned back in heaven ten
degrees.

Neither did Kepler find his three laws in the Sermon on the Mount, nor
were they the utterances of Jehovah on Mount Sinai. He did not make his
discoveries because he was a Christian; but in spite of that fact.

As to Lord Bacon, let me ask, are you willing to accept his ideas? If
not, why do you quote his name? Am I bound by the opinions of Bacon in
matters of religion, and not in matters of science? Bacon denied the
Coperni-can system, and died a believer in the Ptolemaic—died believing
that the earth is stationary and that the sun and stars move around it
as a center. Do you agree with Bacon? If not, do you pretend that your
mind is greater? Would it be fair for a believer in Bacon to denounce
you as an egotist and charge you with "obstreperousness" because you
merely suggested that Mr. Bacon was a little off in his astronomical
opinions? Do you not see that you have furnished the cord for me to tie
your hands behind you?

I do not know how you ascertained that Shakespeare was what you call a
believer. Substantially all that we know of Shakespeare is found in what
we know as his "works" All else can be read in one minute. May I ask,
how you know that Shakespeare was a believer? Do you prove it by the
words he put in the mouths of his characters? If so, you can prove that
he was anything, nothing, and everything. Have you literary bread to eat
that I know not of? Whether Dante was, or was not, a Christian, I am
not prepared to say. I have always admired him for one thing: he had the
courage to see a pope in hell.

Probably you are not prepared to agree with Milton—especially in his
opinion that marriage had better be by contract, for a limited time. And
if you disagree with Milton on this point, do you thereby pretend to say
that you could have written a better poem than Paradise Lost?

So Newton is supposed to have been a Trinitarian. And yet it is said
that, after his death, there was found an article, which had been
published by him in Holland, against the dogma of the Trinity.

After all, it is quite difficult to find out what the great men have
believed. They have been actuated by so many unknown motives; they
have wished for place; they have desired to be Archdeacons, Bishops,
Cardinals, Popes; their material interests have sometimes interfered
with the expression of their thoughts. Most of the men to whom you have
alluded lived at a time when the world was controlled by what may be
called a Christian mob—when the expression of an honest thought would
have cost the life of the one who expressed it—when the followers of
Christ were ready with sword and fagot to exterminate philosophy and
liberty from the world.

Is it possible that we are under any obligation to believe the Mosaic
account of the Garden of Eden, or of the talking serpent, because
"Whewell had an encyclopaedic range of knowledge"? Must we believe that
Joshua stopped the sun, because Faraday was "the most eminent man of
science of his day"? Shall we believe the story of the fiery furnace,
because "Mr. Spottiswoode was president of the Royal Society"—had
"rare mathematical genius"—so rare that he was actually "buried in
Westminster Abbey"? Shall we believe that Jonah spent three days and
nights in the inside of a whale because "Professor Clark Maxwell's death
was mourned by all"?

Are we under any obligation to believe that an infinite God sent two she
bears to tear forty children in pieces because they laughed at a prophet
without hair? Must we believe this because "Sir Gabriel Stokes is the
living president of the Royal Society, and a Churchman" besides? Are we
bound to believe that Daniel spent one of the happiest evenings of his
life in the lion's den, because "Sir William Dawson of Canada, two years
ago, presided over the British Association"? And must we believe in the
ten plagues of Egypt, including the lice, because "Professor Max
Mueller made an eloquent plea in Westminster Abbey in favor of Christian
missions"? Possibly he wanted missionaries to visit heathen lands so
that they could see the difference for themselves between theory and
practice, in what is known as the Christian religion.

Must we believe the miracles of the New Testament—the casting out of
devils—because "Lord Tennyson and Mr. Browning stand far above all
other poets of this generation in England," or because "Longfellow,
Holmes, and Lowell and Whittier" occupy the same position in America?
Must we admit that devils entered into swine because "Bancroft and
Parkman are the leading prose writers of America"—which I take this
occasion to deny?

It is to be hoped that some time the Archdeacon will read that portion
of Mr. Bancroft's history in which he gives the account of how
the soldiers, commonly called Hessians, were raised by the British
Government during the American Revolution.

These poor wretches were sold at so much apiece. For every one that was
killed, so much was paid, and for every one that was wounded a certain
amount was given. Mr. Bancroft tells us that God was not satisfied with
this business, and although he did not interfere in any way to save the
poor soldiers, he did visit the petty tyrants who made the bargains with
his wrath. I remember that as a punishment to one of these, his wife was
induced to leave him; another one died a good many years afterwards; and
several of them had exceedingly bad luck.

After reading this philosophic dissertation on the dealings of
Providence, I doubt if the Archdeacon will still remain of the opinion
that Mr. Bancroft is one of the leading prose writers of America. If the
Archdeacon will read a few of the sermons of Theodore Parker, and essays
of Ralph Waldo Emerson, if he will read the life of Voltaire by James
Parton, he may change his opinion as to the great prose writers of
America.

My argument against miracles is answered by reference to "Dr. Lightfoot,
a man of such immense learning that he became the equal of his successor
Dr. Westcott." And when I say that there are errors and imperfections
in the Bible, I am told that Dr. Westcott "investigated the Christian
religion and its earliest documents au fond, and was an orthodox
believer." Of course the Archdeacon knows that no one now knows who
wrote one of the books of the Bible. He knows that no one now lives who
ever saw one of the original manuscripts, and that no one now lives
who ever saw anybody who had seen anybody who had seen an original
manuscript.

VI.

Is it possible for the human mind to conceive of an infinite
personality?

THE Archdeacon says that it is, and yet in the same article he quotes
the following from Job: "Canst thou by searching find out God?" "It is
as high as Heaven; what canst thou do? deeper than Hell; what canst thou
know?" And immediately after making these quotations, the Archdeacon
takes the ground of the agnostic, and says, "with the wise ancient
Rabbis, we learn to say, I do not know."

It is impossible for me to say what any other human being cannot
conceive; but I am absolutely certain that my mind cannot conceive of an
infinite personality—of an infinite Ego.

Man is conscious of his individuality. Man has wants. A multitude
of things in nature seems to work against him; and others seem to be
favorable to him. There is conflict between him and nature.

If man had no wants—if there were no conflict between him and any other
being, or any other thing, he could not say "I"—that is to say, he
could not be conscious of personality.

Now, it seems to me that an infinite personality is a contradiction in
terms, says "I."

Vii

THE same line of argument applies to the next statement that
is criticised by the Archdeacon: _Can the human mind conceive a
beginningless being?_

We know that there is such a thing as matter, but we do not know that
there is a beginningless being. We say, or some say, that matter is
eternal, because the human mind cannot conceive of its commencing. Now,
if we knew of the existence of an Infinite Being, we could not conceive
of his commencing. But we know of no such being. We do know of the
existence of matter; and my mind is so, that I cannot conceive of that
matter having been created by a beginningless being. I do not say that
there is not a beginningless being, but I do not believe there is, and
it is beyond my power to conceive of such a being.

The Archdeacon also says that "space is quite as impossible to conceive
as God." But nobody pretends to love space—no one gives intention and
will to space—no one, so far as I know, builds altars or temples to
space. Now, if God is as inconceivable as space, why should we pray to
God?

The Archdeacon, however, after quoting Sir William Hamilton as to the
inconceivability of space as absolute or infinite, takes occasion to say
that "space is an entity." May I be permitted to ask how he knows that
space is an entity? As a matter of fact, the conception of infinite
space is a necessity of the mind, the same as eternity is a necessity of
the mind.

Viii

THE next sentence or statement to which the Archdeacon objects is as
follows:

_He who cannot harmonize the cruelties of the Bible with the goodness of
Jehovah, cannot harmonize the cruelties of Nature with the goodness or
wisdom of a supposed Deity. He will find it impossible to account for
pestilence and famine, for earthquake and storm, for slavery, and for
the triumph of the strong over the weak._

One objection that he urges to this statement is that St. Paul had made
a stronger one in the same direction. The Archdeacon however insists
that "a world without a contingency, or an agony, could have had no hero
and no saint," and that "science enables us to demonstrate that much of
the apparent misery and anguish is transitory and even phantasmal;
that many of the seeming forces of destruction are overruled to ends of
beneficence; that most of man's disease and anguish is due to his own
sin and folly and wilfulness."

I will not say that these things have been said before, but I will say
that they have been answered before. The idea that the world is a school
in which character is formed and in which men are educated is very old.
If, however, the world is a school, and there is trouble and misfortune,
and the object is to create character—that is to say, to produce heroes
and saints—then the question arises, what becomes of those who die
in infancy? They are left without the means of education. Are they
to remain forever without character? Or is there some other world of
suffering and sorrow?

Is it possible to form character in heaven? How did the angels become
good? How do you account for the justice of God? Did he attain character
through struggle and suffering?

What would you say of a school teacher who should kill one-third of
the children on the morning of the first day? And what can you say of
God,—if this world is a school,—who allows a large per cent, of his
children to die in infancy—consequently without education—therefore,
without character?

If the world is the result of infinite wisdom and goodness, why is the
Christian Church engaged in endeavoring to make it better; or, rather,
in an effort to change it? Why not leave it as an infinite God made it?

Is it true that most of man's diseases are due to his own sin and folly
and wilfulness? Is it not true that no matter how good men are they must
die, and will they not die of diseases? Is it true that the wickedness
of man has created the microbe? Is it possible that the sinfulness of
man created the countless enemies of human life that lurk in air and
water and food? Certainly the wickedness of man has had very little
influence on tornadoes, earthquakes and floods. Is it true that "the
signature of beauty with which God has stamped the visible world—alike
in the sky and on the earth—alike in the majestic phenomena of
an intelligent creation and in its humblest and most microscopic
production—is a perpetual proof that God is a God of love"?

Let us see. The scientists tell us that there is a little microscopic
animal, one who is very particular about his food—so particular,
that he prefers to all other things the optic nerve, and after he has
succeeded in destroying that nerve and covering the eye with the mask of
blindness, he has intelligence enough to bore his way through the bones
of the nose in search of the other optic nerve. Is it not somewhat
difficult to discover "the signature of beauty with which God has
stamped" this animal? For my part, I see but little beauty in poisonous
serpents, in man-eating sharks, in crocodiles, in alligators. It would
be impossible for me to gaze with admiration upon a cancer. Think, for a
moment, of a God ingenious enough and good enough to feed a cancer with
the quivering flesh of a human being, and to give for the sustenance of
that cancer the life of a mother.

It is well enough to speak of "the myriad voices of nature in their
mirth and sweetness," and it is also well enough to think of the other
side. The singing birds have a few notes of love—the rest are all of
warning and of fear. Nature, apparently with infinite care, produces
a living thing, and at the same time is just as diligently at work
creating another living thing to devour the first, and at the same time
a third to devour the second, and so on around the great circle of life
and death, of agony and joy—tooth and claw, fang and tusk, hunger and
rapine, massacre and murder, violence and vengeance and vice everywhere
and through all time. [Here the manuscript ends, with the following
notes.]

Sayings from the Indian

"The rain seems hardest when the wigwam leaks."

"When the tracks get too large and too numerous, the wise Indian says
that he is hunting something else."

"A little crook in the arrow makes a great miss."

"A great chief counts scalps, not hairs."

"You cannot strengthen the bow by poisoning the arrows."

"No one saves water in a flood."

Origen

Origen considered that the punishment of the wicked consisted in
separation from God. There was too much pity in his heart to believe in
the flames of hell. But he was condemned as heretical by the Council of
Carthage, A. D., 398, and afterwards by other councils.

St. Augustine

St. Augustine censures Origen for his merciful view, and says: "The
church, not without reason, condemned him for this error." He also held
that hell was in the centre of the earth, and that God supplied the
centre with perpetual fire by a miracle.

Dante

Dante is a wonderful mixture of melancholy and malice, of religion and
revenge, and he represents himself as so pitiless that when he found his
political opponents in hell, he struck their faces and pulled the hair
of the tormented.

Aquinas

Aquinas believed the same. He was the loving gentleman who believed in
the undying worm.

Is Corporal Punishment Degrading
  • This unfinished and unrevised article was found among Col.
    Ingersoll's papers, and is here reproduced without change.—
    It is a reply to the Dean of St Paul's Contribution to the
    North American Review for Dec., 1891, entitled: "Is Corporal
    Punishment Degrading?"

THE Dean of St. Paul protests against the kindness of parents, guardians
and teachers toward children, wards and pupils. He believes in the
gospel of ferule and whips, and has perfect faith in the efficacy of
flogging in homes and schools. He longs for the return of the good old
days when fathers were severe, and children affectionate and obedient.

In America, for many years, even wife-beating has been somewhat
unpopular, and the flogging of children has been considered cruel
and unmanly. Wives with bruised and swollen faces, and children with
lacerated backs, have excited pity for themselves rather than admiration
for savage husbands and brutal fathers. It is also true that the church
has far less power here than in England, and it may be that those who
wander from the orthodox fold grow merciful and respect the rights even
of the weakest.

But whatever the cause may be, the fact is that we, citizens of the
Republic, feel that certain domestic brutalities are the children of
monarchies and despotisms; that they were produced by superstition,
ignorance, and savagery; and that they are not in accord with the free
and superb spirit that founded and preserves the Great Republic.

Of late years, confidence in the power of kindness has greatly
increased, and there is a wide-spread suspicion that cruelty and
violence are not the instrumentalities of civilization.

Physicians no longer regard corporal punishment as a sure cure even for
insanity—and it is generally admitted that the lash irritates rather
than soothes the victim of melancholia.

Civilized men now insist that criminals cannot always be reformed even
by the most ingenious instruments of torture. It is known that some
convicts repay the smallest acts of kindness with the sincerest
gratitude. Some of the best people go so far as to say that kindness
is the sunshine in which the virtues grow. We know that for many ages
governments tried to make men virtuous with dungeon and fagot and
scaffold; that they tried to cure even disease of the mind with
brandings and maimings and lashes on the naked flesh of men and
women—and that kings endeavored to sow the seeds of patriotism—to
plant and nurture them in the hearts of their subjects—with whip and
chain.

In England, only a few years ago, there were hundreds of brave
soldiers and daring sailors whose breasts were covered with honorable
scars—witnesses of wounds received at Trafalgar and Balaklava—while on
the backs of these same soldiers and sailors were the marks of
English whips. These shameless cruelties were committed in the name of
discipline, and were upheld by officers, statesmen and clergymen. The
same is true of nearly all civilized nations. These crimes have been
excused for the reason that our ancestors were, at that time, in fact,
barbarians—that they had no idea of justice, no comprehension of
liberty, no conception of the rights of men, women, and children.

At that time the church was, in most countries, equal to, or superior
to, the state, and was a firm believer in the civilizing influences of
cruelty and torture.

According to the creeds of that day, God intended to torture the wicked
forever, and the church, according to its power, did all that it could
in the same direction. Learning their rights and duties from priests,
fathers not only beat their children, but their wives. In those days
most homes were penitentiaries, in which wives and children were
the convicts and of which husbands and fathers were the wardens and
turnkeys. The king imitated his supposed God, and imprisoned, flogged,
branded, beheaded and burned his enemies, and the husbands and fathers
imitated the king, and guardians and teachers imitated them.

Yet in spite of all the beatings and burnings, the whippings and
hangings, the world was not reformed. Crimes increased, the cheeks
of wives were furrowed with tears, the faces of children white with
fear—fear of their own fathers; pity was almost driven from the heart
of man and found refuge, for the most part, in the breasts of women,
children, and dogs.

In those days, misfortunes were punished as crimes. Honest debtors were
locked in loathsome dungeons, and trivial offences were punished with
death. Worse than all that, thousands of men and women were destroyed,
not because they were vicious, but because they were virtuous, honest
and noble. Extremes beget obstructions. The victims at last became too
numerous, and the result did not seem to justify the means. The good,
the few, protested against the savagery of kings and fathers.

Nothing seems clearer to me than that the world has been gradually
growing better for many years. Men have a clearer conception of rights
and obligations—a higher philosophy—a far nobler ideal. Even kings
admit that they should have some regard for the well-being of their
subjects. Nations and individuals are slowly outgrowing the savagery of
revenge, the desire to kill, and it is generally admitted that criminals
should neither be imprisoned nor tortured for the gratification of the
public. At last we are beginning to know that revenge is a mistake—that
cruelty not only hardens the victim, but makes a criminal of him who
inflicts it, and that mercy guided by intelligence is the highest form
of justice.

The tendency of the world is toward kindness. The religious creeds
are being changed or questioned, because they shock the heart of the
present. All civilized churches, all humane Christians, have given up
the dogma of eternal pain. This infamous doctrine has for many centuries
polluted the imagination and hardened the heart. This coiled viper no
longer inhabits the breast of a civilized man.

In all civilized countries slavery has been abolished, the honest debtor
released, and all are allowed the liberty of speech.

Long ago flogging was abolished in our army and navy and all cruel and
unusual punishments prohibited by law. In many parts of the Republic the
whip has been banished from the public schools, the flogger of children
is held in abhorrence, and the wife-beater is regarded as a cowardly
criminal. The gospel of kindness is not only preached, but practiced.
Such has been the result of this advance of civilization—of this growth
of kindness—of this bursting into blossom of the flower called pity, in
the heart—that we treat our horses (thanks to Henry Bergh) better than
our ancestors did their slaves, their servants or their tenants. The
gentlemen of to-day show more affection for their dogs than most of the
kings of England exhibited toward their wives. The great tide is toward
mercy; the savage creeds are being changed; heartless laws have been
repealed; shackles have been broken; torture abolished, and the keepers
of prisons are no longer allowed to bruise and scar the flesh of
convicts. The insane are treated with kindness—asylums are in the
midst of beautiful grounds, the rooms are filled with flowers, and the
wandering mind is called back by the golden voice of music.

In the midst of these tendencies—of these accomplishments—in the
general harmony between the minds of men, acting together, to the end
that the world may be governed by kindness through education and the
blessed agencies of reformation and prevention, the Dean of St. Paul
raises his voice in favor of the methods and brutalities of the past.

The reverend gentleman takes the ground that the effect of flogging on
the flogged is not degrading; that the effect of corporal punishment is
ennobling; that it tends to make boys manly by ennobling and teaching
them to bear bodily pain with fortitude. To be flogged develops
character, self-reliance, courage, contempt of pain and the highest
heroism. The Dean therefore takes the ground that parents should flog
their children, guardians their wards, and teachers their pupils.

If the Dean is wrong he goes too far, and if he is right he does not go
far enough. He does not advocate the flogging of children who obey their
parents, or of pupils who violate no rule. It follows then that such
children are in great danger of growing up unmanly, without the courage
and fortitude to bear bodily pain. If flogging is really a blessing it
should not be withheld from the good and lavished on the unworthy. The
Dean should have the courage of his convictions. The teacher should not
make a pretext of the misconduct of the pupil to do him a great service.
He should not be guilty of calling a benefit a punishment He should not
deceive the children under his care and develop their better natures
under false pretences. But what is to become of the boys and girls who
"behave themselves," who attend to their studies, and comply with the
rules? They lose the benefits conferred on those who defy their parents
and teachers, reach maturity without character, and so remain withered
and worthless.

The Dean not only defends his position by an appeal to the Bible, the
history of nations, but to his personal experience. In order to show the
good effects of brutality and the bad consequences of kindness, he gives
two instances that came under his observation. The first is that of
an intelligent father who treated his sons with great kindness and
yet these sons neglected their affectionate father in his old age. The
second instance is that of a mother who beat her daughter. The wretched
child, it seems, was sent out to gather sticks from the hedges, and
when she brought home a large stick, the mother suspected that she had
obtained it wrongfully and thereupon proceeded to beat the child. And
yet the Dean tells us that this abused daughter treated the hyena mother
with the greatest kindness, and loved her as no other daughter ever
loved a mother. In order to make this case strong and convincing the
Dean states that this mother was a most excellent Christian.

From these two instances the Dean infers, and by these two instances
proves, that kindness breeds bad sons, and that flogging makes
affectionate daughters. The Dean says to the Christian mother: "If
you wish to be loved by your daughter, you must beat her." And to the
Christian father he says: "If you want to be neglected in your old age
by your sons, you will treat them with kindness." The Dean does not
follow his logic to the end. Let me give him two instances that support
his theory.

A good man married a handsome woman. He was old, rich, kind and
indulgent. He allowed his wife to have her own way. He never uttered a
cross or cruel word. He never thought of beating her. And yet, as the
Dean would say, in consequence of his kindness, she poisoned him, got
his money and married another man.

In this city, not long ago, a man, a foreigner, beat his wife according
to his habit. On this particular occasion the punishment was excessive.
He beat her until she became unconscious; she was taken to a hospital
and the physician said that she could not live. The husband was brought
to the hospital and preparations were made to take her dying statement.
After being told that she was dying, she was asked if her husband had
beaten her. Her face was so bruised and swollen that the lids of her
eyes had to be lifted in order that she might see the wretch who had
killed her. She beckoned him to her side—threw her arms about his
neck—drew his face to hers—kissed him, and said: "He is not the man.
He did not do it"—then—died.

According to the philosophy of the Dean, these instances show that
kindness causes crime, and that wife-beating cultivates in the highest
degree the affectional nature of woman.

The Dean, if consistent, is a believer in slavery, because the lash
judiciously applied brings out the finer feelings of the heart.
Slaves have been known to die for their masters, while under similar
circumstances hired men have sought safety in flight.

We all know of many instances where the abused, the maligned, and the
tortured have returned good for evil—and many instances where
the loved, the honored, and the trusted have turned against their
benefactors, and yet we know that cruelty and torture are not superior
to love and kindness. Yet, the Dean tries to show that severity is the
real mother of affection, and that kindness breeds monsters. If kindness
and affection on the part of parents demoralize children, will not
kindness and affection on the part of children demoralize the parents?

When the children are young and weak, the parents who are strong beat
the children in order that they may be affectionate. Now, when the
children get strong and the parents are old and weak, ought not the
children to beat them, so that they too may become kind and loving?

If you want an affectionate son, beat him. If you desire a loving wife,
beat her.

This is really the advice of the Dean of St Paul. To me it is one of the
most pathetic facts in nature that wives and children love husbands and
fathers who are utterly unworthy. It is enough to sadden a life to
think of the affection that has been lavished upon the brutal, of the
countless pearls that Love has thrown to swine.

The Dean, quoting from Hooker, insists that "the voice of man is as
the sentence of God himself,"—in other words, that the general voice,
practice and opinion of the human race are true.

And yet, cannibalism, slavery, polygamy, the worship of snakes and
stones, the sacrifice of babes, have during vast periods of time been
practiced and upheld by an overwhelming majority of mankind. Whether the
"general voice" can be depended on depends much on the time, the epoch,
during which the "general voice" was uttered. There was a time when the
"general voice" was in accord with the appetite of man; when all nations
were cannibals and lived on each other, and yet it can hardly be said
that this voice and appetite were in exact accord with divine goodness.
It is hardly safe to depend on the "general voice" of savages, no matter
how numerous they may have been. Like most people who defend the cruel
and absurd, the Dean appeals to the Bible as the supreme authority in
the moral world,—and yet if the English Parliament should re-enact the
Mosaic Code every member voting in the affirmative would be subjected
to personal violence, and an effort to enforce that code would produce a
revolution that could end only in the destruction of the government.

The morality of the Old Testament is not always of the purest; when
Jehovah tried to induce Pharaoh to let the Hebrews go, he never took the
ground that slavery was wrong. He did not seek to convince by argument,
to soften by pity, or to persuade by kindness. He depended on miracles
and plagues. He killed helpless babes and the innocent beasts of the
fields. No wonder the Dean appeals to the Bible to justify the beating
of children. So, too, we are told that "all sensible persons, Christian
and otherwise, will admit that there are in every child born into the
world tendencies to evil that need rooting out."

The Dean undoubtedly believes in the creed of the established church,
and yet he does not hesitate to say that a God of infinite goodness and
intelligence never created a child—never allowed one to be born into
the world without planting in its little heart "tendencies to evil that
need rooting out."

So, Solomon is quoted to the effect "that he that spareth his rod hateth
his son." To me it has always been a matter of amazement why civilized
people, living in the century of Darwin and Humboldt, should quote as
authority the words of Solomon, a murderer, an ingrate, an idolater, and
a polygamist—a man so steeped and sodden in ignorance that he really
believed he could be happy with seven hundred wives and three hundred
concubines. The Dean seems to regret that flogging is no longer
practiced in the British navy, and quotes with great cheerfulness a
passage from Deuteronomy to prove that forty lashes on the naked back
will meet with the approval of God. He insists that St. Paul endured
corporal punishment without the feeling of degradation not only, but
that he remembered his sufferings with a sense of satisfaction. Does the
Dean think that the satisfaction of St. Paul justified the wretches who
beat and stoned him? Leaving the Hebrews, the Dean calls the Greeks as
witnesses to establish the beneficence of flogging. They resorted to
corporal punishment in their schools, says the Dean and then naively
remarks "that Plutarch was opposed to this."

The Dean admits that in Rome it was found necessary to limit by law the
punishment that a father might inflict upon his children, and yet he
seems to regret that the legislature interfered. The Dean observes that
"Quintillian severely censured corporal punishment" and then accounts
for the weakness and folly of the censure, by saying that "Quintillian
wrote in the days when the glories of Rome were departed." And then adds
these curiously savage words: "It is worthy of remark that no children
treated their parents with greater tenderness and reverence than did
those of Rome in the days when the father possessed the unlimited power
of punishment."

Not quite satisfied with the strength of his case although sustained by
Moses and Solomon, St. Paul and several schoolmasters, he proceeds
to show that God is thoroughly on his side, not only in theory, but in
practice; "whom the Lord loveth lie chasteneth, and scourgeth every sou
whom he receiveth.".

The Dean asks this question: "Which custom, kindness or severity, does
experience show to be the less dangerous?" And he answers from a new
heart: "I fear that I must unhesitatingly give the palm to severity."

"I have found that there have been more reverence and affection,
more willingness to make sacrifices for parents, more pleasure in
contributing to their pleasure or happiness in that life where the
tendency has been to a severe method of treatment."

Is it possible that any good mail exists who is willing to gain the
affection of his children in that way? How could such a man beat and
bruise the flesh of his babes, knowing that they would give him in
return obedience and love; that they would fill the evening of his
days—the leafless winter of his life—with perfect peace?

Think of being fed and clothed by children you had whipped—whose
flesh you had scarred! Think of feeling in the hour of death upon your
withered lips, your withered cheeks, the kisses and the tears of one
whom, you had beaten—upon whose flesh were still the marks of your
lash!

The whip degrades; a severe father teaches his children to dissemble;
their love is pretence, and their obedience a species of self-defence.
Fear is the father of lies.
