Myth and Miracle
Happiness is the true end and aim of life.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1885)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 2.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/myth-and-miracle/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

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HAPPINESS is the true end and aim of life. It is the task of
intelligence to ascertain the conditions of happiness, and when found
the truly wise will live in accordance with them. By happiness is meant
not simply the joy of eating and drinking—the gratification of the
appetite—but good, wellbeing, in the highest and noblest forms. The joy
that springs from obligation discharged, from duty done, from generous
acts, from being true to the ideal, from a perception of the beautiful
in nature, art and conduct. The happiness that is born of and gives
birth to poetry and music, that follows the gratification of the highest
wants.

Happiness is the result of all that is really right and sane.

But there are many people who regard the desire to be happy as a very
low and degrading ambition. These people call themselves spiritual. They
pretend to care nothing for the pleasures of "sense." They hold this
world, this life, in contempt. They do not want happiness in this
world—but in another. Here, happiness degrades—there, it purifies and
ennobles.

These spiritual people have been known as prophets, apostles, augurs,
hermits, monks, priests, popes, bishops and parsons. They are devout and
useless. They do not cultivate the soil. They produce nothing. They
live on the labor of others. They are pious and parasitic. They pray
for others, if the others will work for them. They claim to have been
selected by the Infinite to instruct and govern mankind. They are "meek"
and arrogant, "long-suffering" and revengeful.

They ever have been, now are, and always will be the enemies of liberty,
of investigation and science. They are believers in the supernatural,
the miraculous and the absurd. They have filled the world with hatred,
bigotry and fear. In defence of their creeds they have committed every
crime and practiced every cruelty.

They denounce as worldly and sensual those who are gross enough to love
wives and children, to build homes, to fell the forests, to navigate the
seas, to cultivate the earth, to chisel statues, to paint pictures and
fill the world with love and art.

They have denounced and maligned the thinkers, the poets, the
dramatists, the composers, the actors, the orators, the workers—those
who have conquered the world for man.

According to them this world is only the vestibule of the next, a kind
of school, an ordeal, a place of probation. They have always insisted
that this life should be spent in preparing for the next; that those
who supported and obeyed the "spiritual guides"—the shepherds, would
be rewarded with an eternity of joy, and that all others would suffer
eternal pain.

These spiritual people have always hated labor. They have added nothing
to the wealth of the world. They have always lived on alms—on the labor
of others. They have always been the enemies of innocent pleasure, and
of human love.

These spiritual people have produced a literature. The books they have
written are called sacred. Our sacred books are called the Bible.
The Hindoos have the Vedas and many others, the Persians the Zend
Avesta—the Egyptians had the Book of the Dead—the Aztecs the Popol
Vuh, and the Mohammedans have the Koran.

These books, for the most part, treat of the unknowable. They describe
gods and winged phantoms of the air. They give accounts of the origin
of the universe, the creation of man and the worlds beyond this. They
contain nothing of value. Millions and millions of people have wasted
their lives studying these absurd and ignorant books.

The "spiritual people" in each country claimed that their books had been
written by inspired men—that God was the real author, and that all men
and women who denied this would be, after death, tormented forever.

And yet, the worldly people, the uninspired, the wicked, have produced a
far greater literature than the spiritual and the inspired.

Not all the sacred books of the world equal Shakespeare's "volume of
the brain." A purer philosophy, grander, nobler, fell from the lips of
Shakespeare's clowns than the Old Testament, or the New, contains.

The Declaration of Independence is nobler far than all the utterances
from Sinai's cloud and flame. "A Man's a Man for a' That," by Robert
Burns, is better than anything the sacred books contain. For my part, I
would rather hear Beethoven's Sixth Symphony than to read the five books
of Moses. Give me the Sixth Symphony—this sound-wrought picture of
the fields and woods, of flowering hedge and happy home, where thrushes
build and swallows fly, and mothers sing to babes; this echo of the
babbled lullaby of brooks that, dallying, wind and fall where meadows
bare their daisied bosoms to the sun; this joyous mimicry of summer
rain, the laugh of children, and the rhythmic rustle of the whispering
leaves; this strophe of peasant life; this perfect poem of content and
love.

I would rather listen to Tristan and Isolde—that Mississippi of
melody—where the great notes, winged like eagles, lift the soul above
the cares and griefs of this weary world—than to all the orthodox
sermons ever preached. I would rather look at the Venus de Milo than to
read the Presbyterian creed.

The spiritual have endeavored to civilize the world through fear and
faith—by the promise of reward and the threat of pain in other worlds.
They taught men to hate and persecute their fellow-men. In all ages they
have appealed to force. During all the years they have practiced fraud.
They have pretended to have influence with the gods—that their prayers
gave rain, sunshine and harvest—that their curses brought pestilence
and famine, and that their blessings filled the world with plenty. They
have subsisted on the fears their falsehoods created. Like poisonous
vines, they have lived on the oak of labor. They have praised charity,
but they never gave. They have denounced revenge, but they never
forgave.

Whenever the spiritual have had power, art has died, learning has
languished, science has been despised, liberty destroyed, the thinkers
have been imprisoned, the intelligent and honest have been outcasts, and
the brave have been murdered.

The "spiritual" have been, are, and always will be the enemies of the
human race.

For all the blessings that we now enjoy—for progress in every form, for
science and art—for all that has lengthened life, that has conquered
disease, that has lessened pain, for raiment, roof and food, for music
in its highest forms—for the poetry that has ennobled and enriched our
lives—for the marvellous machines now working for the world—for all
this we are indebted to the worldly—to those who turned their attention
to the affairs of this life. They have been the only benefactors of our
race.

II.

AND yet all of these religions—these "sacred books," these priests,
have been naturally produced. From the dens and caves of savagery to
the palaces of civilization men have traveled by the necessary paths and
roads. Back of every step has been the efficient cause. In the history
of the world there has been no chance, no interference from without,
nothing miraculous. Everything in accordance with and produced by the
facts in nature.

We need not blame the hypocritical and cruel. They thought and acted as
they were compelled to think and act.

In all ages man has tried to account for himself and his surroundings.
He did the best he could. He wondered why the water ran, why the trees
grew, why the clouds floated, why the stars shone, why the sun and moon
journeyed through the heavens. He was troubled about life and death,
about darkness and dreams. The seas, the volcanoes, the lightning and
thunder, the earthquake and cyclone, filled him with fear. Behind all
life and growth and motion, and even inanimate things, he placed
a spirit—an intelligent being—a fetich, a person, something like
himself—a god, controlled by love and hate. To him causes and effects
became gods—supernatural beings. The Dawn was a maiden, wondrously
fair, the Sun, a warrior and lover; the Night, a serpent, a wolf—the
Wind, a musician; Winter, a wild beast; Autumn, Proserpine gathering
flowers.

Poets were the makers of these myths. They were the first to account for
what they saw and felt. The great multitude mistook these fancies
for facts. Myths strangely alike, were produced by most nations, and
gradually took possession of the world.

The Sleeping Beauty, a myth of the year, has been found among most
peoples. In this myth, the Earth was a maiden—the Sun was her lover,
She had fallen asleep in winter. Her blood was still and her breath had
gone. In the Spring the lover came, clasped her in his arms, covered her
lips and cheeks with kisses. She was thrilled, her heart began to beat,
she breathed, her blood flowed, and she awoke to love and joy. This myth
has made the circuit of the globe.

So, Red Riding-Hood is the history of a day. Little Red Riding-Hood—the
morning, touched with red, goes to visit her kindred, a day that is
past. She is attacked by the wolf of night and is rescued by the hunter,
Apollo, who pierces the heart of the beast with an arrow of light.

The beautiful myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is the story of the year.
Eurydice has been captured and carried to the infernal world. Orpheus,
playing upon his harp, goes after her. Such is the effect of his music
when he reaches the realm of Pluto, the laughterless, that Tantalus
ceases his efforts to slake his thirst. He listens and forgets his
withered lips, the daughters of the Danaides cease their vain efforts
to fill the sieve with water, Sisyphus sits down on the stone that he
so often had heaved against the mountain's misty side, Ixion pauses
upon his wheel of fire, even Pluto smiles, and for the first time in the
history of hell the cheeks of the Furies are wet with tears.

"Give me back Eurydice," cried Orpheus, and Pluto said: "Take her, but
look not back." Orpheus led the way and Eurydice followed. Just as he
reached the upper world, he missed her footsteps, turned, looked, and
she vanished.

And thus the summer comes, is lost, and comes again through all the
years.

So, our ancestors believed in the Garden of Eden, in the Golden Age, in
the blessed time when all were good and pure—when nature satisfied the
wants of all. The race, like the old man, has golden dreams of youth.
The morning was filled with light and life and joy, and the evening is
always sad. When the old man was young, girls were beautiful and men
were honest. He remembers his Eden. And so the whole world has had its
age of gold.

Our fathers were believers in the Elysian Fields. They were in the far,
far West. They saw them at the setting of the sun. They saw the floating
isles of gold in sapphire seas; the templed mist with spires and domes
of emerald and amethyst; the magic caverns of the clouds, resplendent
with the rays of every gem. And as they looked, they thought the curtain
had been drawn aside and that their eyes had for a moment feasted on the
glories of another world.

The myth of the Flood has also been universal. Finding shells of the
seas on plain and mountain, and everywhere some traces of the waves,
they thought the world had been submerged—that God in wrath had drowned
the race, except a few his mercy saved.

The Hindus say that Menu, a holy man, dipped from the Ganges some water,
and in the basin saw a little fish. The fish begged him to throw him
back into the river, and Menu, having pity, cast him back. The fish then
told Menu that there was to be a flood—told him to build an ark, to
take on board, people, animals and food, and that when the flood came,
he, the fish, would save him. The saint did as he was told, the flood
came, the fish returned. By that time he had grown to be a whale with
a horn in his head. About this horn Menu fastened a rope, attached the
other end to the ark, and the fish towed the boat across the raging
waves to a mountain's top, where it rested until the waters subsided.
The name of this wonderful fish was Matsaya.

Many other nations told similar stories of floods and arks and the
sending forth of doves.

In all these myths and legends of the past we find philosophies and
dreams and efforts, stained with tears, of great and tender souls who
tried to pierce the mysteries of life and death, to answer the questions
of the whence and whither, and who vainly sought with bits of shattered
glass to make a mirror that would in very truth reflect the face and
form of Nature's perfect self. These myths were born of hopes and fears,
of tears and smiles, and they were touched and colored by all there is
of joy and grief between the rosy dawn of birth and death's sad night.
They clothed even the stars with passion, and gave to gods the faults
and frailties of the sons of men. In them the winds and waves were
music, and all the springs, the mountains, woods and perfumed dells were
haunted by a thousand fairy forms. They thrilled the veins of Spring
with tremulous desire, made tawny Summer's billowy breast the throne and
home of love, filled Autumn's arms with sun-kissed grapes and gathered
sheaves, and pictured Winter as a weak old king, who felt, like Lear,
upon his withered face, Cordelia's tears.

These myths, though false in fact, are beautiful and true in thought,
and have for many ages and in countless ways enriched the heart and
kindled thought.

Iii

IN all probability the first religion was Sun-worship. Nothing could
have been more natural. Light was life and warmth and love. The sun
was the fireside of the world. The sun was the "all-seeing"—the "Sky
Father." Darkness was grief and death, and in the shadows crawled the
serpents of despair and fear.

The sun was a great warrior, fighting the hosts of Night. Apollo was
the sun, and he fought and conquered the serpent of Night. Agni, the
generous, who loved the lowliest and visited the humblest, was the sun.
He was the god of fire, and the crossed sticks that by friction leaped
into flame were his emblem. It was said that, in spite of his goodness,
he devoured his father and mother, the two pieces of wood being his
parents. Baldur was the sun. He was in love with the Dawn—a maiden—he
deserted her and traveled through the heavens alone. At the twilight
they met, were reconciled, and the drops of dew were the tears of joy
they shed.

Chrishna was the sun. At his birth the Ganges thrilled from its source
to the sea. All the trees, the dead as well as the living, burst into
leaf and bud and flower.

Hercules was a sun-god.

Jonah the same, rescued from the fiends of Night and carried by the fish
through the under world. Samson was a sun-god. His strength was in
his hair—in his beams. He was shorn of his strength by Delilah, the
shadow—the darkness. So, Osiris, Bacchus, Mithra, Hermes, Buddha,
Quelzalcoatle, Prometheus, Zoroaster, Perseus, Codom Lao-tsze Fo-hi,
Horus and Rameses were all sun-gods.

All these gods had gods for fathers and all their mothers were virgins.

The births of nearly all were announced by stars.

When they were born there was celestial music—voices declared that a
blessing had come upon the earth.

When Buddha was born, the celestial choir sang: "This day is born
for the good of men Buddha, and to dispel the darkness of their
ignorance—to give joy and peace to the world."

Chrishna was born in a cave, and protected by shepherds. Bacchus,
Apollo, Mithra and Hermes were all born in caves. Buddha was born in an
inn—according to some, under a tree.

Tyrants sought to kill all of these gods when they were babes.

When Chrishna was born, a tyrant killed the babes of the neighborhood.

Buddha was the child of Maya, a virgin, in the kingdom of Madura. The
king arrested Maya before the child was born, imprisoned her in a tower.
During the night when the child was born, a great wind wrecked the
tower, and carried mother and child to a place of safety. The next
morning the king sent his soldiers to kill the babes, and when they came
to Buddha and his mother, the babe appeared to be about twelve years of
age, and the soldiers passed on.

So Typhon sought in many ways to destroy the babe Horus. The king
pursued the infant Zoroaster. Cadmus tried to kill the infant Bacchus.

All of these gods were born on the 25th of December.

Nearly all were worshiped by "wise men."

All of them fasted for forty days.

All met with a violent death.

All rose from the dead.

The history of these gods is the history of our Christ. He had a god for
a father, a virgin for a mother. He was born in a manger, or a cave—on
the 2 5th of December. His birth was announced by angels. He was
worshiped by wise men, guided by a star. Herod, seeking his life, caused
the death of many babes. Christ fasted for forty days. So, it rained for
forty days before the flood—Moses was on Mt. Sinai for forty days. The
temple had forty pillars and the Jews wandered in the wilderness for
forty years. Christ met with a violent death, and rose from the dead.

These things are not accidents—not coincidences. Christ was a sun-god.
All religions have been born of sun-worship. To-day, when priests
pray, they shut their eyes. This is a survival of sun-worship. When men
worshiped the sun, they had to shut their eyes. Afterwards, to flatter
idols, they pretended that the glory of their faces was more than the
eyes could bear.

In the religion of our day there is nothing original. All of its
doctrines, its symbols and ceremonies are but the survivals of creeds
that perished long ago. Baptism is far older than Christianity—than
Judaism. The Hindus, the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans had holy
water. The eucharist was borrowed from the Pagans. Ceres was the goddess
of the fields, Bacchus the god of the vine. At the harvest festival they
made cakes of wheat and said: "These are the flesh of the goddess." They
drank wine and cried: "This is the blood of our god."

The cross has been a symbol for many thousands of years. It was a symbol
of immortality—of life, of the god Agni, the form of the grave of a
man. An ancient people of Italy, who lived long before the Romans, long
before the Etruscans, so long that not one word of their language is
known, used the cross, and beneath that emblem, carved on stone, their
dead still rest. In the forests of Central America, ruined temples have
been found, and on the walls the cross with the bleeding victim. On
Babylonian cylinders is the impression of the cross. The Trinity came
from Egypt. Osiris, Isis and Horus were worshiped thousands of years
before our Father, Son and Holy Ghost were thought of. So the Tree of
Life grew in India, China and among the Aztecs long before the Garden
of Eden was planted. Long before our Bible was known, other nations
had their sacred books, temples and altars, sacrifices, ceremonies and
priests. The "Fall of Man" is far older than our religion, and so are
the "Atonement" and the Scheme of Redemption.

In our blessed religion there is nothing new, nothing original.

Among the Egyptians the cross was a symbol of the life to come. And
yet the first religion was, and all religions growing out of that, were
naturally produced. Every brain was a field in which Nature sowed the
seeds of thought. The rise and set of sun, the birth and death of day,
the dawns of silver and the dusks of gold, the wonders of the rain and
snow, the shroud of Winter and the many colored robe of Spring, the
lonely moon with nightly loss or gain, the serpent lightning and the
thunder's voice, the tempest's fury and the zephyr's sigh, the threat
of storm and promise of the bow, cathedral clouds with dome and spire,
earthquake and strange eclipse, frost and fire, the snow-crowned
mountains with their tongues of flame, the fields of space sown thick
with stars, the wandering comets hurrying past the fixed and sleepless
sentinels of night, the marvels of the earth and air, the perfumed
flower, the painted wing, the waveless pool that held within its magic
breast the image of the startled face, the mimic echo that made a record
in the viewless air, the pathless forests and the boundless seas,
the ebb and flow of tides—the slow, deep breathing of some vague and
monstrous life—the miracle of birth, the mystery of dream and death,
and over all the silent and immeasurable dome. These were the warp and
woof, and at the loom sat Love and Fancy, Hope and Fear, and wove the
wondrous tapestries whereon we find pictures of gods and fairy lands
and all the legends that were told when Nature rocked the cradle of the
infant world.

IV.

WE must remember that there is a great difference. Myth is the
idealization of a fact. A miracle is the counterfeit of a fact. There is
the same difference between a myth and a miracle that there is between
fiction and falsehood—between poetry and perjury. Miracles belong to
the far past and the far future. The little line of sand, called the
present, between the seas, belongs to common sense, to the natural.

If you should tell a man that the dead were raised two thousand years
ago, he would probably say: "Yes, I know that." If you should say that
a hundred thousand years from now all the dead will be raised, he might
say: "Probably they will." But if you should tell him that you saw a
dead man raised and given life that day, he would likely ask the name of
the insane asylum from which you had escaped.

Our Bible is filled with accounts of miracles and yet they always fail
to convince.

Jehovah, according to the Scriptures, wrought hundreds of miracles for
the benefit of the Jews. With many miracles he rescued them from
slavery, guided them on their journey with a miraculous cloud by day and
a miraculous pillar of fire by night—divided the sea that they might
escape from the Egyptians, fed them with miraculous manna and
supernatural quails, raised up hornets to attack their enemies, caused
water to follow them wherever they wandered and in countless ways
manifested his power, and yet the Jews cared nothing for these wonders.
Not one of them seems to have been convinced that Jehovah had done
anything for the people.

In spite of all these miracles, the Jews had more confidence in a golden
calf, made by themselves, than in Jehovah. The reason of this is, that
the miracles were never performed, and never invented until hundreds of
years after those, who had wandered over the desert of Sinai, were dust.

The miracles attributed to Christ had no effect. No human being seems to
have been convinced by them. Those whom he raised from the dead, cured
of leprosy, or blindness, failed to become his followers. Not one of
them appeared at his trial. Not one offered to bear witness of his
miraculous power.

To this there is but one explanation: The miracles were never performed.
These stories were the growth of centuries. The casting out of devils,
the changing of water into wine, feeding the multitude with a few loaves
and fishes, resisting the devil, using a fish for a pocketbook, curing
the blind with clay and saliva, stilling the tempest, walking on the
water, the resurrection and ascension, happened and only happened, in
the imaginations of men, who were not born until several generations
after Christ was dead.

In those days the world was filled with ignorance and fear. Miracles
happened every day. The supernatural was expected. Gods were continually
interfering with the affairs of this world. Everything was told
except the truth, everything believed except the facts. History was a
circumstantial account of occurrences that never occurred. Devils and
goblins and ghosts were as plentiful as saints. The bones of the dead
were used to cure the living. Cemeteries were hospitals and corpses were
physicians. The saints practiced magic, the pious communed with God in
dreams, and the course of events was changed by prayer. The credulous
demanded the marvelous, the miraculous, and the priests supplied the
demand. The sky was full of signs, omens of death and disaster, and the
darkness thick with devils endeavoring to mislead and enslave the souls
of men.

Our fathers thought that everything had been made for man, and that
demons and gods gave their entire attention to this world. The people
believed that they were the sport and prey, the favorites or victims, of
these phantoms. And they also believed that the Creator, the God, could
be influenced by sacrifice, by prayers and ceremonies.

This has been the mistake of the world. All the temples have been
reared, all the altars erected, all the sacrifices offered, all the
prayers uttered in vain. No god has interfered, no prayer has been
answered, no help received from heaven. Nothing was created, nothing has
happened for, or with reference to man. If not a human being lived,—if
all Were in' their graves, the sun would continue to shine, the wheeling
world would still pursue its flight, violets would spread their velvet
bosoms to the day, the spendthrift roses give their perfume to the air,
the climbing vines would hide with leaf and flower the fallen and the
dead, the changing seasons would come-and go,-time would repeat the poem
of the year, storms would wreck and whispering rains repair, Spring
with deft and unseen hands would weave her robes of green, life with
countless lips would seek fair Summer's swelling breasts, Autumn would
reap the wealth of leaf and fruit and seed, Winter, the artist, would
etch in frost the pines and ferns, while Wind and Wave and Fire, old
architects, with ceaseless toil would still destroy and build, still
wreck and change, and from the dust of death produce again the throb and
breath of life.

V.

A FEW years ago a few men began to think, to investigate, to reason.
They began to doubt the legends of the church, the miracles of the past.
They began to notice what happened. They found that eclipses came at
certain intervals and that their coming could be foretold. They became
satisfied that the conduct of men had nothing to do with eclipses—and
that the stars moved in their orbits unconscious of the sons of men.
Galileo, Copernicus, and Kepler' destroyed the astronomy of the Bible,
and demonstrated that the "inspired" story of creation could not be
true, and that the church was as ignorant as the priests were dishonest.

They found that the myth-makers were mistaken, that the sun and stars
did not revolve about the earth, that the firmament was not solid,
that the earth was not flat, and that the so-called philosophy of the
theologians was absurd and idiotic.

The stars became witnesses against the creeds of superstition.

With the telescope the heavens were explored. The New Jerusalem could
not be found.

It had faded away.

The church persecuted the astronomers and denied the facts. In
February, in the year of grace sixteen hundred, the Catholic Church, the
"Triumphant Beast," having in her hands, her paws, the keys of heaven
and hell, accused Giordano Bruno of having declared that there were
other worlds than this. He was tried, convicted, imprisoned in a dungeon
for seven years. He was offered his liberty if he would recant. Bruno,
the atheist, the philosopher, refused to stain his soul by denying what
he believed to be true. He was taken from his cell by the priests, by
those who loved their enemies, led to the place of execution. He was
clad in a robe on which representations of devils had been painted—the
devils that were soon to claim his soul. He was chained to a stake and
about his body the wood was piled. Then priests, followers of Christ,
lighted the fagots and flames consumed the greatest, the most perfect
martyr, that ever suffered death.

And yet the Italian agent of God, the infallible Leo XIII., only a few
years ago, denounced Bruno, the "bravest of the brave," as a coward.

The church murdered him, and the pope maligned his memory. Fagot and
falsehood—two weapons of the church.

A little while ago a few men began to examine rocks and soils,
mountains, islands, reefs and seas. They noticed the valleys and deltas
that had been formed by rivers, the many strata of lava that had been
changed to soil, the vast deposits of metals and coal, the immense reefs
that the coral had formed, the work of glaciers in the far past, the
production of soil by the disintegration of rock, by the growth and
decay of vegetation and the countless evidences of the countless ages
through which the Earth has passed. The geologists read the history
of the world written by wave and flame, attested by fossils, by the
formation of rocks, by mountain ranges, by volcanoes, by rivers,
islands, continents and seas.

The geology of the Bible—of the "divinely inspired" church, of the
"infallible" pope, was found to be utterly false and foolish.

The Earth became a witness against the creeds of superstition.

Then came Watt and Galvani with the miracles of steam and electricity,
while countless inventors created the wonderful machines that do the
work of the world. Investigation took the place of credulity. Men became
dissatisfied with huts and rags, with crusts and creeds. They longed for
the comforts, the luxuries of life. The intellectual horizon enlarged,
new truths were discovered, old ideas were thrown aside, the brain was
developed, the heart civilized and science was born. Humboldt, Laplace
and hundreds of others explained the phenomena of nature, called
attention to the ancient and venerable mistakes of sanctified ignorance
and added to the sum of knowledge. Darwin and Haeckel gave their
conclusions to the world. Men began to really think, the myths began
to fade, the miracles to grow mean and small, and the great structure,
known as theology, fell with a crash.

Science denies the truth of myth and miracle, denies that human
testimony can substantiate the miraculous, denies the existence of the
supernatural. Science asserts the absolute, the unvarying uniformity
of nature. Science insists that the present is the child of all the
past,—that no power can change the past, and that nature is forever the
same.

The chemist has found that just so many atoms of one kind unite with
just so many of another—no more, no less, always the same. No caprice
in chemistry; no interference from without.

The astronomers know that the planets remain in their orbits—that their
forces are constant. They know that light is forever the same,
always obeying the angle of incidence, traveling with the same
rapidity,—casting the same shadow, under the same circumstances in
all worlds. They know that the eclipses will occur at the times
foretold—neither hastening nor delaying. They know that the attraction
of gravitation is always the same, always in perfect proportion to mass
and distance, neither weaker nor stronger, unvarying forever. They know
that the facts in nature cannot be changed or destroyed, and that the
qualities of all things are eternal.

The men of science know that the atomic integrity of the metals is
always the same, that each metal is true to its nature and that the
particles cling to each other with the same tenacity,—the same force.
They have demonstrated the persistence of force, that it is forever
active, forever the same, and that it cannot be destroyed.

These great truths have revolutionized the thought of the world.

Every art, every employment, all study, all experiment, the value of
experience, of judgment, of hope, all rest on a belief in the uniformity
of nature, on the eternal persistence and indestructibility of force.

Break one link in the infinite chain of cause and effect, and the Master
of Nature appears. The broken link would become the throne of a god.

The uniformity of Nature denies the supernatural and demonstrates that
there is no interference from without. There is no place, no office left
for gods. Ghosts fade from the brain and the shrivelled deities fall
palsied from their thrones.

The uniformity of Nature renders a belief in "special providence"
impossible. Prayer becomes a useless agitation of the air, and religious
ceremonies are but motions, pantomimes, mindless and meaningless.

The naked savage, worshiping a wooden god, is the religious equal of the
robed pope kneeling before an image of the Virgin. The poor African who
carries roots and bark to protect himself from evil spirits is on the
same intellectual plane of one who sprinkles his body with "holy water."

All the creeds of Christendom, all the religions of the heathen world
are equally absurd. The cathedral, the mosque and the joss house have
the same foundation. Their builders do not believe in the uniformity
of Nature, and the business of all priests is to induce a so-called
infinite being to change the order of events, to make causes barren of
effects and to produce effects without, and in spite of, natural causes.
They all believe in the unthinkable and pray for the impossible.

Science teaches us that there was no creation and that there can be no
destruction. The infinite denies creation and defies destruction. An
infinite person, an "infinite being" is an infinite impossibility.
To conceive of such a being is beyond the power of the mind. Yet all
religions rest upon the supposed existence of the unthinkable, the
inconceivable. And the priests of these religions pretend to be
perfectly familiar with the designs, will, and wishes of this
unthinkable, this inconceivable.

Science teaches that that which really is has always been, that behind
every effect is the efficient and necessary cause, that there is in the
universe neither chance nor interference, and that energy is eternal.
Day by day the authority of the theologian grows weaker and weaker. As
the people become intelligent they care less for preachers and more for
teachers. Their confidence in knowledge, in thought and investigation
increases. They are eager to know the discoveries, the useful truths,
the important facts made, ascertained and demonstrated by the explorers
in the domain of the natural. They are no longer satisfied with the
platitudes of the pulpit, and the assertions of theologians. They are
losing confidence in the "sacred Scriptures" and in the protecting power
and goodness of the supernatural. They are satisfied that credulity is
not a virtue and that investigation is not a crime.

Science is the providence of man, the worker of true miracles, of
real wonders. Science has "read a little in Nature's infinite book of
secrecy." Science knows the circuits of the winds, the courses of the
stars. Fire is his servant, and lightning his messenger. Science freed
the slaves and gave liberty to their masters. Science taught man to
enchain, not his fellows, but the forces of nature, forces that have no
backs to be scarred, no limbs for chains to chill and eat, forces that
have no hearts to break, forces that never know fatigue, forces that
shed no tears. Science is the great physician. His touch has given
sight. He has made the lame to leap, the deaf to hear, the dumb to
speak, and in the pallid face his hand has set the rose of health.
Science has given his beloved sleep and wrapped in happy dreams the
throbbing nerves of pain. Science is the destroyer of disease, builder
of happy homes, the preserver of life and love. Science is the teacher
of every virtue, the enemy of every vice. Science has given the true
basis of morals, the origin and office of conscience, revealed the
nature of obligation, of duty, of virtue in its highest, noblest forms,
and has demonstrated that true happiness is the only possible good.
Science has slain the monsters of superstition, and destroyed the
authority of inspired books. Science has read the records of the rocks,
records that priestcraft cannot change, and on his wondrous scales has
weighed the atom and the star.

Science has founded the only true religion. Science is the only Savior
of this world.

VI.

FOR many ages religion has been tried. For countless centuries man
has sought for help from heaven. To soften the heart of God, mothers
sacrificed their babes! but the God did not hear, did not see, and did
not help. Naked savages were devoured by beasts, bitten by serpents,
killed by flood and frost. They prayed for help, but their God was
deaf. They built temples and altars, employed priests and gave of their
substance, but the volcano destroyed and the famine came. For the sake
of God millions murdered their fellow-men, but the God was silent.
Millions of martyrs died for the honor of God, but the God was blind. He
did not see the flames, the scaffolds. He did not hear the prayers,
the groans. Thousands of priests in the name of God tortured their
fellow-men, stretched them on racks, crushed their feet in iron boots,
tore out their tongues, extinguished their eyes. The victims implored
the protection of God, but their god did not hear, did not see. He
was deaf and blind. He was willing that his enemies should torture his
friends.

Nations tried to destroy each other for the sake of God, and the banner
of the cross dripping with blood floated over a thousand fields—but the
god was silent. He neither knew nor cared. Pestilence covered the earth
with dead, the priests prayed, the altars were heaped with sacrifices,
but the god did not see, did not hear. The miseries of the world did
not lessen the joys of heaven. The clouds gave no rain, the famine came,
withered babes with pallid lips sought the breasts of dead mothers,
while starving fathers knelt and prayed, but the god did not hear.
Through many centuries millions were enslaved, babes were sold from
mothers, husbands from wives, backs were scarred with the lash. The
poor wretches lifted their clasped hands toward heaven and prayed for
justice, for liberty—but their god did not hear. He cared nothing for
the sufferings of slaves, nothing for the tears of wives and mothers,
nothing for the agony of men. He answered no prayers. He broke no
chains. He freed no slaves.

The miserable wretches appealed to the priests of God, but they were on
the other side. They defended the masters. The slaves had nothing to
give.

During all these years it was claimed by the theologians that their
God was governing the world, that he was infinitely powerful, wise and
good—and that the "powers" of the earth were "ordained" by him. During
all these years the church was the enemy of progress. It hated all
physicians and told the people to rely on prayer, amulets and relics.
It persecuted the astronomers and geologists, denounced them as infidels
and atheists, as enemies of the human race. It poisoned the fountains of
learning and insisted that teachers should distort the facts in nature
to the end that they might harmonize with the "inspired" book. During
all these years the church misdirected the energies of man, and when it
reached the zenith of its power, darkness fell upon the world.

In all nations and in all ages, religion has failed. The gods have never
interfered. Nature has produced and destroyed without mercy and without
hatred. She has cared no more for man than for the leaves of the forest,
no more for nations than for hills of ants, nothing for right or wrong,
for life or death, for pain or joy.

Man through his intelligence must protect himself. He gets no help from
any other world. The church has always claimed and still claims that
it is the only reforming power, that it makes men honest, virtuous
and merciful, that it prevents violence and war, and that without its
influence the race would return to barbarism.

Nothing can exceed the absurdity of these claims.

If we wish to improve the condition of mankind—if we wish for nobler
men and women we must develop the brain, we must encourage thought
and investigation. We must convince the world that credulity is
a vice,—that there is no virtue in believing without, or against
evidence, and that the really honest man is true to himself. We must
fill the world with intellectual light. We must applaud mental courage.
We must educate the children, rescue them from ignorance and crime.
School-houses are the real temples, and teachers are the true priests.
We must supply the wants of the mind, satisfy the hunger of the brain.
The people should be familiar with the great poets, with the tragedies
of AEschylus, the dramas of Shakespeare, with the poetry of Homer and
Virgil. Shakespeare should be taught in every school, found in every
house.

Through photography the whole world may become acquainted with the great
statues, the great paintings, the victories of art. In this way the mind
is enlarged, the sympathies quickened, the appreciation of the beautiful
intensified, the taste refined and the character ennobled.

The great novels should be read by all. All should be acquainted with
the men and women of fiction, with the ideal world. The imagination
should be developed, trained and strengthened. Superstition has degraded
art and literature. It gave us winged monsters, scenes from heaven and
hell, representations of gods and devils, sculptured the absurd and
painted the impossible in the name of Art. It gave us the dreams of the
insane, the lives of fanatical saints, accounts of miracles and wonders,
of cures wrought by the bones of the dead, descriptions of Paradise,
purgatory and the eternal dungeon, discourses on baptism, on changing
wine and wafers into the the blood and flesh of God, on the
forgiveness of sins by priests, on fore-ordination and accountability,
predestination and free will, on devils, ghosts and goblins, the
ministrations of guardian angels, the virtue of belief and the
wickedness of doubt. And this was called "sacred literature."

The church taught that those who believed, counted beads, mumbled
prayers, and gave their time or property for the support of the gospel
were the good and that all others were traveling the "broad road" to
eternal pain. According to the theologians, the best people, the
saints, were dead, and real beauty was to be found only in heaven. They
denounced the joys of life as husks and filthy rags, declared that the
world had been cursed, and that it brought forth thistles and thorns
because of the sins of man. They regarded the earth as a kind of dock,
running out into the sea of eternity,—on which the pious waited for the
ship on which they were to be transported to another world.

But the real poets and the real artists clung to this world, to this
life. They described and represented things that exist. They expressed
thoughts of the brain, emotions of the heart, the griefs and joys, the
hope and despair of men and women. They found strength and beauty
on every hand. They found their angels here. They were true to human
experience and they touched the brain and heart of the world. In
the tragedies and comedies of life, in the smiles and tears, in the
ecstasies of love, in the darkness of death, in the dawn of hope, they
found their materials for statue and song, for poem and painting. Poetry
and art are the children of this world, born and nourished here. They
are human. They have left the winged monsters of heaven, the malicious
deformities of hell, and have turned their attention to men and women,
to the things of this life.

There is a poem called "The Skylark," by Shelley, graceful as the
motions of flames. Another by Robert Burns, called "The Daisy,"
exquisite, perfect as the pearl of virtue in the beautiful breast of a
loving girl. Between this lark and this daisy, neither above nor below,
you will find all the poetry of the world. Eloquence, sublimity, poetry
and art must have the foundation of fact, of reality. Imaginary worlds
and beings are nothing to us.

At last the old creeds are becoming cruel and vulgar. We now have
imagination enough to put ourselves in the place of others. Believers
in hell, in eternal pain, like murderers, lack imagination. The murderer
has not imagination enough to see his victim dead. He does not see the
sightless and pathetic eyes. He does not see the widow's arms about the
corpse, her lips upon the dead. He does not hear the sobs of children.
He does not see the funeral. He does not hear the clods as they fall on
the coffin. He does not feel the hand of arrest, the scene of the trial
is not before him. He does not hear the awful verdict, the sentence of
the court, the last words. He does not see the scaffold, nor feel about
his throat the deadly noose.

Let us develop the brain, civilize the heart, and give wings to the
imagination.

Vii

IF we abandon myth and miracle, if we discard the supernatural and the
scheme of redemption, how are we to civilize the world?

Is falsehood a reforming power? Is credulity the mother of virtue? Is
there any saving grace in the impossible and absurd? Did wisdom perish
with the dead? Must the civilized accept the religion of savages?

If we wish to reform the world we must rely on truth, on fact, on
reason. We must teach men that they are good or bad for themselves, that
others cannot be good or bad for them, that they cannot be charged with
the crimes, or credited with the virtues of others. We must discard the
doctrine of the atonement, because it is absurd and immoral. We are not
accountable for the sins of "Adam" and the virtues of Christ cannot be
transferred to us. There can be no vicarious virtue, no vicarious vice.
Why should the sufferings of the innocent atone for the crimes of the
guilty. According to the doctrine of the atonement right and wrong do
not exist in the nature of things, but in the arbitrary will of the
Infinite. This is a subversion of all ideas of justice and mercy.

An act is good, bad, or indifferent, according to its consequences. No
power can step between an act and its natural consequences. A governor
may pardon the criminal, but the natural consequences of the crime
remain untouched. A god may forgive, but the consequences of the
act forgiven, are still the same. We must teach the world that the
consequences of a bad action cannot be avoided, that they are the
invisible police, the unseen avengers, that accept no gifts, that hear
no prayers, that no cunning can deceive.

We do not need the forgiveness of gods, but of ourselves and the ones
we injure. Restitution without repentance is far better than repentance
without restitution.

We know nothing of any god who rewards, punishes or forgives.

We must teach our fellow-men that honor comes from within, not from
without, that honor must be earned, that it is not alms, that even an
infinite God could not enrich the beggar's palm with the gem of honor.

Teach them also that happiness is the bud, the blossom and the fruit of
good and noble actions, that it is not the gift of any god; that it must
be earned by man—must be deserved.

In this world of ours there is no magic, no sleight-of-hand, by which
consequences can be made to punish the good and reward the bad.

Teach men not to sacrifice this world for some other, but to turn their
attention to the natural, to the affairs of this life. Teach them that
theology has no known foundation, that it was born of ignorance and
fear, that it has hardened the heart, polluted the imagination and made
fiends of men.

Theology is not for this world. It is no part of real religion. It has
nothing to do with goodness or virtue. Religion does not consist in
worshiping gods, but in adding to the well-being, the happiness of man.
No human being knows whether any god exists or not, and all that has
been said and written about "our god," or the gods of other people, has
no known fact for a foundation. Words without thoughts, clouds without
rain.

Let us put theology out of religion.

Church and state should be absolutely divorced. Priests pretend that
they have been selected by, and that they get their power from God.
Kings occupy their thrones in accordance with the will of God. The pope
declares that he is the agent, the deputy of God and that by right
he should rule the world. All these pretentions and assertions are
perfectly absurd and yet they are acknowledged and believed by millions.
Get theology out of government and kings will descend from their
thrones. All will admit that governments get their powers from the
consent of the governed, and that all persons in office are the servants
of the people. Get theology out of government and chaplains will be
dismissed from Legislatures, from Congress, from the army and navy. Get
theology out of government and people will be allowed to express their
honest thoughts about "inspired books" and superstitious creeds. Get
theology out of government and priests will no longer steal a seventh of
our time. Get theology out of government and the clergy will soon
take their places with augurs and soothsayers, with necromancers and
medicine-men.

Get theology out of education. Nothing should be taught in a school that
somebody does not know.

There are plenty of things to be learned about this world, about this
life. Every child should be taught to think, and that it is dangerous
not to think. Children should not be taught the absurdities, the
cruelties and imbecilities of superstition. No church should be allowed
to control the common school, and public money should not be divided
between the hateful and warring sects. The public school should be
secular, and only the useful should be taught. Many of our colleges
are under the control of churches. Presidents and professors are mostly
ministers of the gospel and the result is that all facts inconsistent
with the creeds are either suppressed or denied. Only those professors
who are naturally stupid or mentally dishonest can retain their places.
Those who tell the truth, who teach the facts, are discharged.

In every college truth should be a welcome guest. Every professor
should be a finder, and every student a learner, of facts. Theology and
intellectual dishonesty go together. The teacher of children should be
intelligent and perfectly sincere.

Let us get theology out of education.

The pious denounce the secular schools as godless. They should be. The
sciences are all secular, all godless. Theology bears the same relation
to science that the black art does to chemistry, that magic does to
mathematics. It is something that cannot be taught, because it cannot
be known. It has no foundation in fact. It neither produces, nor accords
with, any image in the mind. It is not only unknowable but unthinkable.
Through hundreds and thousands of generations men have been discussing,
wrangling and fighting about theology. No advance has been made. The
robed priest has only reached the point from which the savage tried to
start.

We know that theology always has and always will make enemies. It sows
the seeds of hatred in families and nations. It is selfish, cruel,
revengeful and malicious. It has heaven for the few and perdition
for the many. We now know that credulity is not a virtue and that
intellectual courage is. We must stop rewarding hypocrisy and bigotry.
We must stop persecuting the thinkers, the investigators, the creators
of light, the civilizers of the world.

Viii

WILL the unknown, the mysteries of life and itiations of the mind,
forever furnish food for superstition? Will the gods and ghosts perish
or simply retreat before the advancing hosts of science, and continue to
crouch and lurk just beyond the horizon of the known? Will darkness
forever be the womb and mother of the supernatural?

A little while ago priests told peasants that the New Jerusalem, the
celestial city was just above the clouds. They said that its walls
and domes and spires were just beyond the reach of human sight. The
telescope was invented and those who looked at the wilderness of stars,
saw no city, no throne. They said to the priests: "Where is your New
Jerusalem?" The priests cheerfully and confidently replied. "It is just
beyond where you see."

At one time it was believed that a race of men existed "with their heads
beneath their shoulders." Returning travelers from distant lands were
asked about these wonderful people and all replied that they had not
seen them. "Oh," said the believers in the monsters, "the men with heads
beneath their shoulders live in a country that you did not visit." And
so the monsters lived and flourished until all the world was known. We
cannot know the universe. We cannot travel infinite distances, and so,
somewhere in shoreless space there will always be room for gods and
ghosts, for heavens and hells. And so it may be that superstition will
live and linger until the world becomes intelligent enough to build upon
the foundation of the known, to keep the imagination within the domain
of the probable, and to believe in the natural—_until the supernatural
shall have been demonstrated_.

Savages knew all about gods, about heavens and hells before they knew
anything about the world in which they lived. They were perfectly
familiar with evil spirits, with the invisible phantoms of the air, long
before they had any true conception of themselves. So, they knew all
about the origin and destiny of the human race. They were absolutely
certain about the problems, the solution of which, philosophers know, is
beyond the limitations of the mind. They understood astrology, but not
astronomy, knew something of magic, but nothing about chemistry. They
were wise only as to those things about which nothing can be known.

The poor Indian believed in the "Great Spirit" and saw "design" on every
hand.—Trees were made that he might have bows and arrows, wood for his
fire and bark for his wigwam—rivers and lakes to give him fish, wild
beasts and corn that he might have food, and the animals had skins that
he might have clothes.

Primitive peoples all reasoned in the same way, and modern Christians
follow their example. They knew but little of the world and thought that
it had been made expressly for the use of man. They did not know that it
was mostly water, that vast regions were locked in eternal ice and that
in most countries the conditions were unfavorable to human life. They
knew nothing of the countless enemies of man that live unseen in water,
food and air. Back of the little good they knew they put gods and back
of the evil, devils. They thought it of the greatest importance to gain
the good will of the gods, who alone could protect them from the devils.
Those who worshiped these gods, offered sacrifices, and obeyed priests,
were considered loyal members of the tribe or community, and those who
refused to worship were regarded as enemies and traitors. The believers,
in order to protect themselves from the anger of the gods, exiled or
destroyed the infidels.

Believing as they did, the course they pursued was natural. They
not only wished to protect themselves from disease and death, from
pestilence and famine in this world but the souls of their children from
eternal pain in the next. Their gods were savages who demanded flattery
and worship not only, but the acceptance of a certain creed. As long
as Christians believe in eternal punishment they will be the enemies of
those who investigate and contend for the authority of reason, of those
who demand evidence, who care nothing for the unsupported assertions of
the dead or the illogical inferences of the living.

Science always has been, is, and always will be modest, thoughtful,
truthful. It has but one object: The ascertainment of truth. It has no
prejudice, no hatred. It is in the realm of the intellect and cannot
be swayed or changed by passion. It does not try to please God, to gain
heaven or avoid hell. It is for this world, for the use of man. It is
perfectly candid. It does not try to conceal, but to reveal. It is the
enemy of mystery, of pretence and canc. It does not ask people to be
solemn, but sensible. It calls for and insists on the use of all the
senses, of all the faculties of the mind. It does not pretend to be
"holy" or "inspired." It courts investigation, criticism and even
denial. It asks for the application of every test, for trial by every
standard. It knows nothing of blasphemy and does not ask for the
imprisonment of those who ignorantly or knowingly deny the truth. The
good that springs from a knowledge of the truth is the only reward it
offers, and the evil resulting from ignorance is the only punishment it
threatens. Its effort is to reform the world through intelligence.

On the other hand theology is, always has been, and always will be,
ignorant, arrogant, puerile and cruel. When the church had power,
hypocrisy was crowned and honesty imprisoned. Fraud wore the tiara and
truth was a convict, Liberty was in chains, Theology has always sent the
worst to heaven, the best to hell.

Let me give you a scene from the day of judgment. Christ is upon
his throne, his secretary by his side. A soul appears. This is what
happens—

"What is your name?"

Torquemada.

"Were you a Christian?"

I was.

"Did you endeavor to convert your fellow-men?"

I did. I tried to convert them by persuasion, by preaching and praying
and even by force.

"What did you do?"

I put the heretics in prison, in chains. I tore out their tongues, put
out their eyes, crushed their bones, stretched them upon racks, roasted
their feet, and if they remained obdurate I flayed them alive or burned
them at the stake.

"And did you do all this for my glory?"

Yes, all for you. I wanted to save some, I wanted to protect the young
and the weak minded.

"Did you believe the Bible, the miracles—that I was God, that I was
born of a virgin and kept money in the mouth of a fish?"

Yes, I believed it all. My reason was the slave of faith.

"Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joys of thy
Lord. I was hungry and you gave me meat, naked and you clothed me.."
Another soul arises.

"What is your name?"

Giordano Bruno.

"Were you a Christian?"

At one time I was, but for many years I was a philosopher, a seeker
after truth.

"Did you seek to convert your fellow-men?"

Not to Christianity, but to the religion of reason. I tried to
develop their minds, to free them from the slavery of ignorance and
superstition. In my day the church taught the holiness of credulity—the
virtue of unquestioning obedience, and in your name tortured and
destroyed the intelligent and courageous. I did what I could to civilize
the world, to make men tolerant and merciful, to soften the hearts
of priests, and banish torture from the world. I expressed my honest
thoughts and walked in the light of reason.

"Did you believe the Bible, the miracles? Did you believe that I was
God, that I was born of a virgin and that I suffered myself to be killed
by the Jews to appease the wrath of God—that is, of myself—so that God
could save the souls of a few?"

"No, I did not. I did not believe that God was ever born into my world,
or that God learned the trade of a carpenter, or that he 'increased
in knowledge,' or that he cast devils out of men, or that his garments
could cure diseases, or that he allowed himself to be murdered, and in
the hour of death "forsook" himself. These things I did not and could
not believe. But I did all the good I could. I enlightened the ignorant,
comforted the afflicted, defended the innocent, divided even my poverty
with the poor, and did the best I could to increase the happiness of my
fellow-men. I was a soldier in the army of progress.—I was arrested,
imprisoned, tried and convicted by the church—by the 'Triumphant
Beast.' I was burned at the stake by ignorant and heartless priests and
my ashes given to the winds."

Then Christ, his face growing dark, his brows contracted with wrath,
with uplifted hands, with half averted face, cries or rather shrieks:
"Depart from me ye cursed into everlasting fire prepared for the devil
and his angels."

This is the justice of God—the mercy of the compassionate Christ.
This is the belief, the dream and hope of the orthodox theologian—"the
consummation devoutly to be wished."

Theology makes God a monster, a tyrant, a savage; makes man a servant,
a serf, a slave; promises heaven to the obedient, the meek, the
frightened, and threatens the self-reliant with the tortures of hell.

It denounces reason and appeals to the passions—to hope and fear.
It does not answer the arguments of those who attack, but resorts to
sophistry, falsehood and slander. It is incapable of advancement. It
keeps its back to the sunrise, lives on myth and miracle, and guards
with a misers care the "sacred" superstitions of the past.

In the great struggle between the supernatural and the natural, between
gods and men, we have passed midnight. All the forces of civilization,
all the facts that have been found, all the truths that have been
discovered are the allies of science—the enemies of the supernatural.

We need no myths, no miracles, no gods, no devils.

IX.

FOR thousands of generations the myths have been taught and the miracles
believed. Every mother was a missionary and told with loving care the
falsehoods of "faith" to her babe. The poison of superstition was in the
mother's milk. She was honest and affectionate and her character, her
goodness, her smiles and kisses, entered into, mingled with, and became
a part of the superstition that she taught. Fathers, friends and priests
united with the mothers, and the children thus taught, became the
teachers of their children and so the creeds were kept alive.

Childhood loves the romantic, the mysterious, the monstrous. It lives in
a world where cause has nothing to do with effect, where the fairy waves
her hand and the prince appears. Where wish creates the thing desired
and facts become the slaves of amulet and charm. The individual lives
the life of the race, and the child is charmed with what the race in its
infancy produced.

There seems to be the same difference between mistakes and facts
that there is between weeds and corn. Mistakes seem to take care of
themselves, while the facts have to be guarded with all possible care.
Falsehoods like weeds flourish without care. Weeds care nothing for soil
or rain. They not only ask no help but they almost defy destruction. In
the minds of children, superstitions, legends, myths and miracles find a
natural, and in most instances a lasting home. Thrown aside in manhood,
forgotten or denied, in old age they oft return and linger to the end.

This in part accounts for the longevity of religious lies. Ministers
with clasped hands and uplifted eyes ask the man who is thinking for
himself how he can be wicked and heartless enough to attack the religion
of his mother. This question is regarded by the clergy as unanswerable.
Of course it is not to be asked by the missionaries, of the Hindus and
the Chinese. The heathen are expected to desert the religion of their
mothers as Christ and his apostles deserted the religion of their
mothers. It is right for Jews and heathen, but not for thinkers and
philosophers.

A cannibal was about to kill a missionary for food.

The missionary objected and asked the cannibal how he could be so cruel
and wicked.

The cannibal replied that he followed the example of his mother. "My
mother," said he, "was good enough for me. Her religion is my religion.
The last time I saw her she was sitting, propped up against a tree,
eating cold missionary."

But now the mother argument has mostly lost its force, and men of mind
are satisfied with nothing less than truth.

The phenomena of nature have been investigated and the supernatural has
not been found. The myths have faded from the imagination, and of them
nothing remains but the poetic. The miraculous has become the absurd,
the impossible. Gods and phantoms have been driven from the earth and
sky. We are living in a natural world.

Our fathers, some of them, demanded the freedom of religion. We have
taken another step. We demand the Religion of Freedom.

O Liberty, thou art the god of my idolatry! Thou art the only deity
that hateth bended knees. In thy vast and unwalled temple, beneath the
roofless dome, star-gemmed and luminous with suns, thy worshipers stand
erect! They do not cringe, or crawl, or bend their foreheads to the
earth. The dust has never borne the impress of their lips. Upon thy
altars mothers do not sacrifice their babes, nor men their rights. Thou
askest naught from man except the things that good men hate—the whip,
the chain, the dungeon key. Thou hast no popes, no priests, who stand
between their fellow-men and thee. Thou carest not for foolish forms,
or selfish prayers. At thy sacred shrine hypocrisy does not bow, virtue
does not tremble, superstition's feeble tapers do not burn, but Reason
holds aloft her inextinguishable torch whose holy light will one day
flood the world.
