{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-1:liberty-of-man-woman-and-child",
  "slug": "liberty-of-man-woman-and-child",
  "title": "The Liberty of Man, Woman, and Child",
  "subtitle": "Liberty sustains the same Relation to Mind that Space does to Matter.",
  "excerpt": "Ingersoll's celebrated argument for the equal liberty of men, women, and children within the family and before the law — the charter of a humane home.",
  "year": 1877,
  "volume": 1,
  "category": "Lecture",
  "author": {
    "name": "Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "wikidata": "Q360326",
    "viaf": "44331023"
  },
  "isPartOf": {
    "title": "The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "edition": "Dresden Edition",
    "publisher": "C. P. Farrell",
    "year": 1900
  },
  "license": "https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/",
  "url": "https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/liberty-of-man-woman-and-child/",
  "wordCount": 14666,
  "body": "THERE is no slavery but ignorance. Liberty is the child of intelligence.\n\nThe history of man is simply the history of slavery, of injustice and\nbrutality, together with the means by which he has, through the dead and\ndesolate years, slowly and painfully advanced. He has been the sport\nand prey of priest and king, the food of superstition and cruel might.\nCrowned force has governed ignorance through fear. Hypocrisy and\ntyranny—two vultures—have fed upon the liberties of man. From all\nthese there has been, and is, but one means of escape—intellectual\ndevelopment. Upon the back of industry has been the whip. Upon the brain\nhave been the fetters of superstition. Nothing has been left undone\nby the enemies of freedom. Every art and artifice, every cruelty and\noutrage has been practiced and perpetrated to destroy the rights of man.\nIn this great struggle every crime has been rewarded and every virtue\nhas been punished. Reading, writing, thinking and investigating have all\nbeen crimes.\n\nEvery science has been an outcast.\n\nAll the altars and all the thrones united to arrest the forward march of\nthe human race. The king said that mankind must not work for themselves.\nThe priest said that mankind must not think for themselves. One forged\nchains for the hands, the other for the soul. Under this infamous\nregime the eagle of the human intellect was for ages a slimy serpent\nof hypocrisy.\n\nThe human race was imprisoned. Through some of the prison bars came a\nfew struggling rays of light. Against these bars Science pressed its\npale and thoughtful face, wooed by the holy dawn of human advancement.\nBar after bar was broken away. A few grand men escaped and devoted their\nlives to the liberation of their fellows.\n\nOnly a few years ago there was a great awakening of the human mind. Men\nbegan to inquire by what right a crowned robber made them work for him?\nThe man who asked this question was called a traitor. Others asked by\nwhat right does a robed hypocrite rule my thought? Such men were called\ninfidels. The priest said, and the king said, where is this spirit\nof investigation to stop? They said then and they say now, that it is\ndangerous for man to be free. I deny it. Out on the intellectual sea\nthere is room enough for every sail. In the intellectual air there is\nspace enough for every wing.\n\nThe man who does not do his own thinking is a slave, and is a traitor to\nhimself and to his fellow-men.\n\nEvery man should stand under the blue and stars, under the infinite flag\nof nature, the peer of every other man.\n\nStanding in the presence of the Unknown, all have the same right to\nthink, and all are equally interested in the great questions of origin\nand destiny. All I claim, all I plead for, is liberty of thought and\nexpression. That is all. I do not pretend to tell what is absolutely\ntrue, but what I think is true. I do not pretend to tell all the truth.\n\nI do not claim that I have floated level with the heights of thought, or\nthat I have descended to the very depths of things. I simply claim\nthat what ideas I have, I have a right to express; and that any man who\ndenies that right to me is an intellectual thief and robber. That is\nall.\n\nTake those chains from the human soul. Break those fetters. If I have no\nright to think, why have I a brain? If I have no such right, have three\nor four men, or any number, who may get together, and sign a creed, and\nbuild a house, and put a steeple upon it, and a bell in it—have they\nthe right to think? The good men, the good women are tired of the whip\nand lash in the realm of thought. They remember the chain and fagot\nwith a shudder. They are free, and they give liberty to others. Whoever\nclaims any right that he is unwilling to accord to his fellow-men is\ndishonest and infamous.\n\nIn the good old times, our fathers had the idea that they could make\npeople believe to suit them. Our ancestors, in the ages that are gone,\nreally believed that by force you could convince a man. You cannot\nchange the conclusion of the brain by torture; nor by social ostracism.\nBut I will tell you what you can do by these, and what you have done.\nYou can make hypocrites by the million. You can make a man say that\nhe has changed his mind; but he remains of the same opinion still. Put\nfetters all over him; crush his feet in iron boots; stretch him to the\nlast gasp upon the holy rack; burn him, if you please, but his ashes\nwill be of the same opinion still.\n\nOur fathers in the good old times—and the best thing I can say about\nthem is, that they have passed away—had an idea that they could force\nmen to think their way. That idea is still prevalent in many parts, even\nof this country. Even in our day some extremely religious people say,\n\"We will not trade with that man; we will not vote for him; we will not\nhire him if he is a lawyer; we will die before we will take his medicine\nif he is a doctor; we will not invite him to dinner; we will socially\nostracise him; he must come to our church; he must believe our\ndoctrines; he must worship our god or we will not in any way contribute\nto his support.\"\n\nIn the old times of which I have spoken, they desired to make all men\nthink exactly alike. All the mechanical ingenuity of the world cannot\nmake two clocks run exactly alike, and how are you going to make\nhundreds of millions of people, differing in brain and disposition, in\neducation and aspiration, in conditions and surroundings, each clad in\na living robe of passionate flesh—how are you going to make them think\nand feel alike? If there is an infinite god, one who made us, and wishes\nus to think alike, why did he give a spoonful of brains to one, and a\nmagnificent intellectual development to another? Why is it that we\nhave all degrees of intelligence, from orthodoxy to genius, if it was\nintended that all should think and feel alike?\n\nI used to read in books how our fathers persecuted mankind. But I never\nappreciated it. I read it, but it did not burn itself into my soul. I\ndid not really appreciate the infamies that have been committed in the\nname of religion, until I saw the iron arguments that Christians used.\nI saw the Thumbscrew—two little pieces of iron, armed on the inner\nsurfaces with protuberances, to prevent their slipping; through each end\na screw uniting the two pieces. And when some man denied the efficacy of\nbaptism, or may be said, \"I do not believe that a fish ever swallowed\na man to keep him from drowning,\" then they put his thumb between these\npieces of iron and in the name of love and universal forgiveness, began\nto screw these pieces together. When this was done most men said, \"I\nwill recant.\" Probably I should have done the same. Probably I would\nhave said: \"Stop; I will admit anything that you wish; I will admit that\nthere is one god or a million, one hell or a billion; suit yourselves;\nbut stop.\"\n\nBut there was now and then a man who would not swerve the breadth of a\nhair. There was now and then some sublime heart, willing to die for\nan intellectual conviction. Had it not been for such men, we would be\nsavages to-night. Had it not been for a few brave, heroic souls in every\nage, we would have been cannibals, with pictures of wild beasts tattooed\nupon our flesh, dancing around some dried snake fetich.\n\nLet us thank every good and noble man who stood so grandly, so proudly,\nin spite of opposition, of hatred and death, for what he believed to be\nthe truth.\n\nHeroism did not excite the respect of our fathers. The man who would not\nrecant was not forgiven. They screwed the thumbscrews down to the last\npang, and then threw their victim into some dungeon, where, in the\nthrobbing silence and darkness, he might suffer the agonies of the\nfabled damned. This was done in the name of love—in the name of\nmercy—in the name of the compassionate Christ.\n\nI saw, too, what they called the Collar of Torture. Imagine a circle\nof iron, and on the inside a hundred points almost as sharp as needles.\nThis argument was fastened about the throat of the sufferer. Then he\ncould not walk, nor sit down, nor stir without the neck being punctured,\nby these points. In a little while the throat would begin to swell, and\nsuffocation would end the agonies of that man. This man, it may be, had\ncommitted the crime of saying, with tears upon his cheeks, \"I do not\nbelieve that God, the father of us all, will damn to eternal perdition\nany of the children of men.\"\n\nI saw another instrument, called the Scavenger's Daughter. Think of a\npair of shears with handles, not only where they now are, but at the\npoints as well, and just above the pivot that unites the blades, a\ncircle of iron. In the upper handles the hands would be placed; in the\nlower, the feet; and through the iron ring, at the centre, the head of\nthe victim would be forced. In this condition, he would be thrown prone\nupon the earth, and the strain upon the muscles produced such agony that\ninsanity would in pity end his pain.\n\nThis was done by gentlemen who said: \"Whosoever smiteth thee upon one\ncheek turn to him the other also.\"\n\nI saw the Rack. This was a box like the bed of a wagon, with a windlass\nat each end, with levers, and ratchets to prevent slipping; over each\nwindlass went chains; some were fastened to the ankles of the sufferer;\nothers to his wrists. And then priests, clergymen, divines, saints,\nbegan turning these windlasses, and kept turning, until the ankles, the\nknees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists of the victim\nwere all dislocated, and the sufferer was wet with the sweat of agony.\nAnd they had standing by a physician to feel his pulse. What for? To\nsave his life? Yes. In mercy? No; simply that they might rack him once\nagain.\n\nThis was done, remember, in the name of civilization; in the name of law\nand order; in the name of mercy; in the name of religion; in the name of\nthe most merciful Christ.\n\nSometimes, when I read and think about these frightful things, it seems\nto me that I have suffered all these horrors myself. It seems sometimes,\nas though I had stood upon the shore of exile and gazed with tearful\neyes toward home and native land; as though my nails had been torn from\nmy hands, and into the bleeding quick needles had been thrust; as though\nmy feet had been crushed in iron boots; as though I had been chained in\nthe cell of the Inquisition and listened with dying ears for the coming\nfootsteps of release; as though I had stood upon the scaffold and had\nseen the glittering axe fall upon me; as though I had been upon the rack\nand had seen, bending above me, the white faces of hypocrite priests;\nas though I had been taken from my fireside, from my wife and children,\ntaken to the public square, chained; as though fagots had been piled\nabout me; as though the flames had climbed around my limbs and scorched\nmy eyes to blindness, and as though my ashes had been scattered to the\nfour winds, by all the countless hands of hate. And when I so feel, I\nswear that while I live I will do what little I can to preserve and to\naugment the liberties of man, woman, and child.\n\nIt is a question of justice, of mercy, of honesty, of intellectual\ndevelopment. If there is a man in the world who is not willing to give\nto every human being every right he claims for himself, he is just so\nmuch nearer a barbarian than I am. It is a question of honesty. The man\nwho is not willing to give to every other the same intellectual rights\nhe claims for himself, is dishonest, selfish, and brutal.\n\nIt is a question of intellectual development. Whoever holds another man\nresponsible for his honest thought, has a deformed and distorted brain.\nIt is a question of intellectual development.\n\nA little while ago I saw models of nearly everything that man has made.\nI saw models of all the water craft, from the rude dug-out in which\nfloated a naked savage—one of our ancestors—a naked savage, with\nteeth two inches in length, with a spoonful of brains in the back of\nhis head—I saw models of all the water craft of the world, from that\ndug-out up to a man-of-war, that carries a hundred guns and miles of\ncanvas—from that dug-out to the steamship that turns its brave prow\nfrom the port of New York, with a compass like a conscience, crossing\nthree thousand miles of billows without missing a throb or beat of its\nmighty iron heart.\n\nI saw at the same time the weapons that man has made, from a club, such\nas was grasped by that same savage, when he crawled from his den in\nthe ground and hunted a snake for his dinner; from that club to the\nboomerang, to the sword, to the cross-bow, to the blunderbuss, to the\nflint-lock, to the cap-lock, to the needle-gun, up to a cannon cast by\nKrupp, capable of hurling a ball weighing two thousand pounds through\neighteen inches of solid steel.\n\nI saw, too, the armor from the shell of a turtle, that one of our brave\nancestors lashed upon his breast when he went to fight for his country;\nthe skin of a porcupine, dried with the quills on, which this same\nsavage pulled over his orthodox head, up to the shirts of mail, that\nwere worn in the Middle Ages, that laughed at the edge of the sword and\ndefied the point of the spear; up to a monitor clad in complete steel.\n\nI saw at the same time, their musical instruments, from the\ntom-tom—that is, a hoop with a couple of strings of raw hide drawn\nacross it—from that tom-tom, up to the instruments we have to-day, that\nmake the common air blossom with melody.\n\nI saw, too, their paintings, from a daub of yellow mud, to the great\nworks which now adorn the galleries of the world. I saw also their\nsculpture, from the rude god with four legs, a half dozen arms, several\nnoses, and two or three rows of ears, and one little, contemptible,\nbrainless head, up to the figures of to-day—to the marbles that genius\nhas clad in such a personality that it seems almost impudent to touch\nthem without an introduction.\n\nI saw their books—books written upon skins of wild beasts—upon\nshoulder-blades of sheep—books written upon leaves, upon bark, up to\nthe splendid volumes that enrich the libraries of our day. When I\nspeak of libraries, I think of the remark of Plato: \"A house that has a\nlibrary in it has a soul.\"\n\nI saw their implements of agriculture, from a crooked stick that was\nattached to the horn of an ox by some twisted straw, to the agricultural\nimplements of this generation, that make it possible for a man to\ncultivate the soil without being an ignoramus.\n\nWhile looking upon these things I was forced to say that man advanced\nonly as he mingled his thought with his labor,—only as he got into\npartnership with the forces of nature,—only as he learned to take\nadvantage of his surroundings—only as he freed himself from the bondage\nof fear,—only as he depended upon himself—only as he lost confidence\nin the gods.\n\nI saw at the same time a row of human skulls, from the lowest skull\nthat has been found, the Neanderthal skull—skulls from Central Africa,\nskulls from the Bushmen of Australia—skulls from the farthest isles of\nthe Pacific sea—up to the best skulls of the last generation;—and I\nnoticed that there was the same difference between those skulls that\nthere was between the products of those skulls, and I said to myself,\n\"After all, it is a simple question of intellectual development.\" There\nwas the same difference between those skulls, the lowest and highest\nskulls, that there was between the dug-out and the man-of-war and the\nsteamship, between the club and the Krupp gun, between the yellow daub\nand the landscape, between the tom-tom and an opera by Verdi.\n\nThe first and lowest skull in this row was the den in which crawled the\nbase and meaner instincts of mankind, and the last was a temple in which\ndwelt joy, liberty, and love.\n\nIt is all a question of brain, of intellectual development.\n\nIf we are nearer free than were our fathers, it is because we have\nbetter heads upon the average, and more brains in them.\n\nNow, I ask you to be honest with me. It makes no difference to you what\nI believe, nor what I wish to prove. I simply ask you to be honest.\nDivest your minds, for a moment at least, of all religious prejudice.\nAct, for a few moments, as though you were men and women.\n\nSuppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was one,\nat the time this gentleman floated in the dug-out, and charmed his ears\nwith the music of the tom-tom, had said: \"That dug-out is the best boat\nthat ever can be built by man; the pattern of that came from on high,\nfrom the great god of storm and flood, and any man who says that he can\nimprove it by putting a mast in it, with a sail upon it, is an infidel,\nand shall be burned at the stake;\" what, in your judgment—honor\nbright—would have been the effect upon the circumnavigation of the\nglobe?\n\nSuppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was\none—and I presume there was a priest, because it was a very ignorant\nage—suppose this king and priest had said: \"That tom-tom is the most\nbeautiful instrument of music of which any man can conceive; that is the\nkind of music they have in heaven; an angel sitting upon the edge of\na fleecy cloud, golden in the setting sun, playing upon that tom-tom,\nbecame so enraptured, so entranced with her own music, that in a kind of\necstasy she dropped it—that is how we obtained it; and any man who\nsays that it can be improved by putting a back and front to it, and\nfour strings, and a bridge, and getting a bow of hair with rosin, is a\nblaspheming wretch, and shall die the death,\"—I ask you, what effect\nwould that have had upon music? If that course had been pursued, would\nthe human ears, in your judgment, ever have been enriched with the\ndivine symphonies of Beethoven?\n\nSuppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, had said: \"That\ncrooked stick is the best plow that can be invented: the pattern of that\nplow was given to a pious farmer in a holy dream, and that twisted straw\nis the ne plus ultra of all twisted things, and any man who says he\ncan make an improvement upon that plow, is an atheist;\" what, in your\njudgment, would have been the effect upon the science of agriculture?\n\nBut the people said, and the king and priest said: \"We want better\nweapons with which to kill our fellow-Christians; we want better plows,\nbetter music, better paintings, and whoever will give us better weapons,\nand better music, better houses to live in, better clothes, we will robe\nhim in wealth, and crown him with honor.\" Every incentive was held out\nto every human being to improve these things. That is the reason the\nclub has been changed to a cannon, the dug-out to a steamship, the daub\nto a painting; that is the reason that the piece of rough and broken\nstone finally became a glorified statue.\n\nYou must not, however, forget that the gentleman in the dug-out,\nthe gentleman who was enraptured with the music of the tom-tom, and\ncultivated his land with a crooked stick, had a religion of his own.\nThat gentlemen in the dug-out was orthodox. He was never troubled with\ndoubts. He lived and died settled in his mind. He believed in hell; and\nhe thought he would be far happier in heaven, if he could just lean\nover and see certain people who expressed doubts as to the truth of his\ncreed, gently but everlastingly broiled and burned.\n\nIt is a very sad and unhappy fact that this man has had a great many\nintellectual descendants. It is also an unhappy fact in nature, that the\nignorant multiply much faster than the intellectual. This fellow in the\ndug-out believed in a personal devil. His devil had a cloven hoof, a\nlong tail, armed with a fiery dart; and his devil breathed brimstone.\nThis devil was at least the equal of God; not quite so stout but\na little shrewder. And do you know there has not been a patentable\nimprovement made upon that devil for six thousand years.\n\nThis gentleman in the dug-out believed that God was a tyrant; that he\nwould eternally damn the man who lived in accordance with his highest\nand grandest ideal. He believed that the earth was flat. He believed in\na literal, burning, seething hell of fire and sulphur. He had also his\nidea of politics; and his doctrine was, might makes right. And it will\ntake thousands of years before the world will reverse this doctrine, and\nbelievingly say, \"Right makes might.\"\n\nAll I ask is the same privilege to improve upon that gentleman's\ntheology as upon his musical instrument; the same right to improve upon\nhis politics as upon his dug-out. That is all. I ask for the human soul\nthe same liberty in every direction. That is the only crime I have\ncommitted. I say, let us think. Let each one express his thought. Let us\nbecome investigators, not followers, not cringers and crawlers. If there\nis in heaven an infinite being, he never will be satisfied with the\nworship of cowards and hypocrites. Honest unbelief, honest infidelity,\nhonest atheism, will be a perfume in heaven when pious hypocrisy, no\nmatter how religious it may be outwardly, will be a stench.\n\nThis is my doctrine: Give every other human being every right you claim\nfor yourself. Keep your mind open to the influences of nature. Receive\nnew thoughts with hospitality. Let us advance.\n\nThe religionist of to-day wants the ship of his soul to lie at the wharf\nof orthodoxy and rot in the sun. He delights to hear the sails of old\nopinions flap against the masts of old creeds. He loves to see the\njoints and the sides open and gape in the sun, and it is a kind of bliss\nfor him to repeat again and again: \"Do not disturb my opinions. Do not\nunsettle my mind; I have it all made up, and I want no infidelity. Let\nme go backward rather than forward.\"\n\nAs far as I am concerned I wish to be out on the high seas. I wish to\ntake my chances with wind, and wave, and star. And I had rather go down\nin the glory and grandeur of the storm, than to rot in any orthodox\nharbor whatever.\n\nAfter all, we are improving from age to age. The most orthodox people in\nthis country two hundred years ago would have been burned for the crime\nof heresy. The ministers who denounce me for expressing my thought would\nhave been in the Inquisition themselves. Where once burned and blazed\nthe bivouac fires of the army of progress, now glow the altars of the\nchurch. The religionists of our time are occupying about the same ground\noccupied by heretics and infidels of one hundred years ago. The church\nhas advanced in spite, as it were, of itself. It has followed the army\nof progress protesting and denouncing, and had to keep within protesting\nand denouncing distance. If the church had not made great progress I\ncould not express my thoughts.\n\nMan, however, has advanced just exactly in the proportion with which he\nhas mingled his thought with his labor. The sailor, without control\nof the wind and wave, knowing nothing or very little of the mysterious\ncurrents and pulses of the sea, is superstitious. So also is the\nagriculturist, whose prosperity depends upon something he cannot\ncontrol. But the mechanic, when a wheel refuses to turn, never thinks of\ndropping on his knees and asking the assistance of some divine power.\nHe knows there is a reason. He knows that something is too large or too\nsmall; that there is something wrong with his machine; and he goes to\nwork and he makes it larger or smaller, here or there, until the wheel\nwill turn. Now, just in proportion as man gets away from being, as it\nwere, the slave of his surroundings, the serf of the elements,—of the\nheat, the frost, the snow, and the lightning,—just to the extent that\nhe has gotten control of his own destiny, just to the extent that he has\ntriumphed over the obstacles of nature, he has advanced physically and\nintellectually. As man develops, he places a greater value upon his own\nrights. Liberty becomes a grander and diviner thing. As he values his\nown rights, he begins to value the rights of others. And when all men\ngive to all others all the rights they claim for themselves, this world\nwill be civilized.\n\nA few years ago the people were afraid to question the king, afraid to\nquestion the priest, afraid to investigate a creed, afraid to deny a\nbook, afraid to denounce a dogma, afraid to reason, afraid to think.\nBefore wealth they bowed to the very earth, and in the presence of\ntitles they became abject. All this is slowly but surely changing. We\nno longer bow to men simply because they are rich. Our fathers worshiped\nthe golden calf. The worst you can say of an American now is, he\nworships the gold of the calf. Even the calf is beginning to see this\ndistinction.\n\nIt no longer satisfies the ambition of a great man to be king or\nemperor. The last Napoleon was not satisfied with being the emperor of\nthe French. He was not satisfied with having a circlet of gold about his\nhead. He wanted some evidence that he had something of value within\nhis head. So he wrote the life of Julius Cæsar, that he might become\na member of the French Academy. The emperors, the kings, the popes,\nno longer tower above their fellows. Compare King William with the\nphilosopher Haeckel. The king is one of the anointed by the most high,\nas they claim—one upon whose head has been poured the divine petroleum\nof authority. Compare this king with Haeckel, who towers an intellectual\ncolossus above the crowned mediocrity. Compare George Eliot with Queen\nVictoria. The Queen is clothed in garments given her by blind fortune\nand unreasoning chance, while George Eliot wears robes of glory woven in\nthe loom of her own genius.\n\nThe world is beginning to pay homage to intellect, to genius, to heart.\n\nWe have advanced. We have reaped the benefit of every sublime and heroic\nself-sacrifice, of every divine and brave act; and we should endeavor\nto hand the torch to the next generation, having added a little to the\nintensity and glory of the flame.\n\nWhen I think of how much this world has suffered; when I think of how\nlong our fathers were slaves, of how they cringed and crawled at the\nfoot of the throne, and in the dust of the altar, of how they abased\nthemselves, of how abjectly they stood in the presence of superstition\nrobed and crowned, I am amazed.\n\nThis world has not been fit for a man to live in fifty years. It was not\nuntil the year 1808 that Great Britain abolished the slave trade. Up to\nthat time her judges, sitting upon the bench in the name of justice,\nher priests, occupying her pulpits, in the name of universal love, owned\nstock in the slave ships, and luxuriated upon the profits of piracy and\nmurder. It was not until the same year that the United States of\nAmerica abolished the slave trade between this and other countries, but\ncarefully preserved it as between the States. It was not until the 28th\nday of August, 1833, that Great Britain abolished human slavery in\nher colonies; and it was not until the 1st day of January, 1863, that\nAbraham Lincoln, sustained by the sublime and heroic North, rendered our\nflag pure as the sky in which it floats.\n\nAbraham Lincoln was, in my judgment, in many respects, the grandest\nman ever President of the United States. Upon his monument these words\nshould be written: \"Here sleeps the only man in the history of the\nworld, who, having been clothed with almost absolute power, never abused\nit, except upon the side of mercy.\"\n\nThink how long we clung to the institution of human slavery, how long\nlashes upon the naked back were a legal tender for labor performed.\nThink of it. The pulpit of this country deliberately and willingly, for\na hundred years, turned the cross of Christ into a whipping post.\n\nWith every drop of my blood I hate and execrate every form of tyranny,\nevery form of slavery. I hate dictation. I love liberty.\n\nWhat do I mean by liberty? By physical liberty I mean the right to do\nanything which does not interfere with the happiness of another. By\nintellectual liberty I mean the right to think right and the right to\nthink wrong. Thought is the means by which we endeavor to arrive at\ntruth. If we know the truth already, we need not think. All that can\nbe required is honesty of purpose. You ask my opinion about anything;\nI examine it honestly, and when my mind is made up, what should I tell\nyou? Should I tell you my real thought? What should I do? There is a\nbook put in my hands. I am told this is the Koran; it was written by\ninspiration. I read it, and when I get through, suppose that I think in\nmy heart and in my brain, that it is utterly untrue, and you then ask\nme, what do you think? Now, admitting that I live in Turkey, and have\nno chance to get any office unless I am on the side of the Koran, what\nshould I say? Should I make a clean breast and say, that upon my honor\nI do not believe it? What would you think then of my fellow-citizens if\nthey said: \"That man is dangerous, he is dishonest.\"\n\nSuppose I read the book called the Bible, and when I get through I make\nup my mind that it was written by men. A minister asks me, \"Did you read\nthe Bible?\" I answer, that I did. \"Do you think it divinely inspired?\"\nWhat should I reply? Should I say to myself, \"If I deny the inspiration\nof the Scriptures, the people will never clothe me with power.\" What\nought I to answer? Ought I not to say like a man: \"I have read it; I do\nnot believe it.\" Should I not give the real transcript of my mind? Or\nshould I turn hypocrite and pretend what I do not feel, and hate myself\nforever after for being a cringing coward. For my part I would rather\na man would tell me what he honestly thinks. I would rather he\nwould preserve his manhood. I had a thousand times rather be a manly\nunbeliever than an unmanly believer. And if there is a judgment day,\na time when all will stand before some supreme being, I believe I will\nstand higher, and stand a better chance of getting my case decided in my\nfavor, than any man sneaking through life pretending to believe what he\ndoes not.\n\nI have made up my mind to say my say. I shall do it kindly, distinctly;\nbut I am going to do it. I know there are thousands of men who\nsubstantially agree with me, but who are not in a condition to express\ntheir thoughts. They are poor; they are in business; and they know that\nshould they tell their honest thought, persons will refuse to patronize\nthem—to trade with them; they wish to get bread for their little\nchildren; they wish to take care of their wives; they wish to have homes\nand the comforts of life. Every such person is a certificate of the\nmeanness of the community in which he resides. And yet I do not blame\nthese people for not expressing their thought. I say to them: \"Keep your\nideas to yourselves; feed and clothe the ones you love; I will do\nyour talking for you. The church can not touch, can not crush, can not\nstarve, cannot stop or stay me; I will express your thoughts.\"\n\nAs an excuse for tyranny, as a justification of slavery, the church has\ntaught that man is totally depraved. Of the truth of that doctrine, the\nchurch has furnished the only evidence there is. The truth is, we are\nboth good and bad. The worst are capable of some good deeds, and the\nbest are capable of bad. The lowest can rise, and the highest may fall.\nThat mankind can be divided into two great classes, sinners and saints,\nis an utter falsehood. In times of great disaster, called it may be, by\nthe despairing voices of women, men, denounced by the church as totally\ndepraved, rush to death as to a festival. By such men, deeds are done\nso filled with self-sacrifice and generous daring, that millions pay\nto them the tribute, not only of admiration, but of tears. Above all\ncreeds, above all religions, after all, is that divine thing,—Humanity;\nand now and then in shipwreck on the wide, wild sea, or 'mid the rocks\nand breakers of some cruel shore, or where the serpents of flame writhe\nand hiss, some glorious heart, some chivalric soul does a deed\nthat glitters like a star, and gives the lie to all the dogmas of\nsuperstition. All these frightful doctrines have been used to degrade\nand to enslave mankind.\n\nAway, forever away with the creeds and books and forms and laws and\nreligions that take from the soul liberty and reason. Down with the idea\nthat thought is dangerous! Perish the infamous doctrine that man can\nhave property in man. Let us resent with indignation every effort to put\na chain upon our minds. If there is no God, certainly we should not bow\nand cringe and crawl. If there is a God, there should be no slaves.\n\nLiberty of Woman\n\nWomen have been the slaves of slaves; and in my judgment it took\nmillions of ages for woman to come from the condition of abject slavery\nup to the institution of marriage. Let me say right here, that I regard\nmarriage as the holiest institution among men. Without the fireside\nthere is no human advancement; without the family relation there is no\nlife worth living. Every good government is made up of good families.\nThe unit of good government is the family, and anything that tends to\ndestroy the family is perfectly devilish and infamous. I believe in\nmarriage, and I hold in utter contempt the opinions of those long-haired\nmen and short-haired women who denounce the institution of marriage.\n\nThe grandest ambition that any man can possibly have, is to so live, and\nso improve himself in heart and brain, as to be worthy of the love of\nsome splendid woman; and the grandest ambition of any girl is to make\nherself worthy of the love and adoration of some magnificent man. That\nis my idea. There is no success in life without love and marriage. You\nhad better be the emperor of one loving and tender heart, and she the\nempress of yours, than to be king of the world. The man who has really\nwon the love of one good woman in this world, I do not care if he dies\nin the ditch a beggar, his life has been a success.\n\nI say it took millions of years to come from the condition of abject\nslavery up to the condition of marriage. Ladies, the ornaments you\nwear upon your persons to-night are but the souvenirs of your mother's\nbondage. The chains around your necks, and the bracelets clasped upon\nyour white arms by the thrilled hand of love, have been changed by the\nwand of civilization from iron to shining, glittering gold.\n\nBut nearly every religion has accounted for all the devilment in this\nworld by the crime of woman. What a gallant thing that is! And if it\nis true, I had rather live with the woman I love in a world full of\ntrouble, than to live in heaven with nobody but men.\n\nI read in a book—and I will say now that I cannot give the exact\nlanguage, as my memory does not retain the words, but I can give the\nsubstance—I read in a book that the Supreme Being concluded to make a\nworld and one man; that he took some nothing and made a world and one\nman, and put this man in a garden. In a little while he noticed that\nthe man got lonesome; that he wandered around as if he was waiting for\na train. There was nothing to interest him; no news; no papers; no\npolitics; no policy; and, as the devil had not yet made his appearance,\nthere was no chance for reconciliation; not even for civil service\nreform. Well, he wandered about the garden in this condition, until\nfinally the Supreme Being made up his mind to make him a companion.\n\nHaving used up all the nothing he originally took in making the world\nand one man, he had to take a part of the man to start a woman with. So\nhe caused a sleep to fall on this man—now understand me, I do not say\nthis story is true. After the sleep fell upon this man, the Supreme\nBeing took a rib, or as the French would call it, a cutlet, out of this\nman, and from that he made a woman. And considering the amount of raw\nmaterial used, I look upon it as the most successful job ever performed.\nWell, after he got the woman done, she was brought to the man; not to\nsee how she liked him, but to see how he liked her. He liked her, and\nthey started housekeeping; and they were told of certain things they\nmight do and of one thing they could not do—and of course they did it.\nI would have done it in fifteen minutes, and I know it. There wouldn't\nhave been an apple on that tree half an hour from date, and the limbs\nwould have been full of clubs. And then they were turned out of the park\nand extra policemen were put on to keep them from getting back.\n\nDevilment commenced. The mumps, and the measles, and the whooping-cough,\nand the scarlet fever started in their race for man. They began to have\nthe toothache, roses began to have thorns, snakes began to have poisoned\nteeth, and people began to divide about religion and politics, and the\nworld has been full of trouble from that day to this.\n\nNearly all of the religions of this world account for the existence of\nevil by such a story as that!\n\nI read in another book what appeared to be an account of the same\ntransaction. It was written about four thousand years before the other.\nAll commentators agree that the one that was written last was the\noriginal, and that the one that was written first was copied from the\none that was written last. But I would advise you all not to allow your\ncreed to be disturbed by a little matter of four or five thousand years.\nIn this other story, Brahma made up his mind to make the world and a man\nand woman. He made the world, and he made the man and then the woman,\nand put them on the island of Ceylon. According to the account it was\nthe most beautiful island of which man can conceive. Such birds, such\nsongs, such flowers and such verdure! And the branches of the trees\nwere so arranged that when the wind swept through them every tree was a\nthousand Æolian harps.\n\nBrahma, when he put them there, said: \"Let them have a period of\ncourtship, for it is my desire and will that true love should forever\nprecede marriage.\" When I read that, it was so much more beautiful and\nlofty than the other, that I said to myself, \"If either one of these\nstories ever turns out to be true, I hope it will be this one.\"\n\nThen they had their courtship, with the nightingale singing, and the\nstars shining, and the flowers blooming, and they fell in love. Imagine\nthat courtship! No prospective fathers or mothers-in-law; no prying and\ngossiping neighbors; nobody to say, \"Young man, how do you expect to\nsupport her?\" Nothing of that kind. They were married by the Supreme\nBrahma, and he said to them: \"Remain here; you must never leave this\nisland.\" Well, after a little while the man—and his name was Adami, and\nthe woman's name was Heva—said to Heva: \"I believe I'll look about a\nlittle.\" He went to the northern extremity of the island where there was\na little narrow neck of land connecting it with the mainland, and the\ndevil, who is always playing pranks with us, produced a mirage, and when\nhe looked over to the mainland, such hills and vales, such dells and\ndales, such mountains crowned with snow, such cataracts clad in bows of\nglory did he see there, that he went back and told Heva: \"The country\nover there is a thousand times better than this; let us migrate.\" She,\nlike every other woman that ever lived, said: \"Let well enough alone; we\nhave all we want; let us stay here.\" But he said \"No, let us go;\" so she\nfollowed him, and when they came to this narrow neck of land, he took\nher on his back like a gentleman, and carried her over. But the moment\nthey got over they heard a crash, and looking back, discovered that this\nnarrow neck of land had fallen into the sea. The mirage had disappeared,\nand there were naught but rocks and sand; and then the Supreme Brahma\ncursed them both to the lowest hell.\n\nThen it was that the man spoke,—and I have liked him ever since for\nit—\"Curse me, but curse not her, it was not her fault, it was mine.\"\n\nThat's the kind of man to start a world with.\n\nThe Supreme Brahma said: \"I will save her, but not thee.\" And then she\nspoke out of her fullness of love, out of a heart in which there was\nlove enough to make all her daughters rich in holy affection, and said:\n\"If thou wilt not spare him, spare neither me; I do not wish to live\nwithout him; I love him.\" Then the Supreme Brahma said—and I have liked\nhim ever since I read it—\"I will spare you both and watch over you and\nyour children forever.\"\n\nHonor bright, is not that the better and grander story?\n\nAnd from that same book I want to show you what ideas some of these\nmiserable heathen had; the heathen we are trying to convert. We send\nmissionaries over yonder to convert heathen there, and we send soldiers\nout on the plains to kill heathen here. If we can convert the heathen,\nwhy not convert those nearest home? Why not convert those we can get at?\nWhy not convert those who have the immense advantage of the example of\nthe average pioneer? But to show you the men we are trying to convert:\nIn this book it says: \"Man is strength, woman is beauty; man is courage,\nwoman is love. When the one man loves the one woman and the one woman\nloves the one man, the very angels leave heaven and come and sit in that\nhouse and sing for joy.\"\n\nThey are the men we are converting. Think of it! I tell you, when I read\nthese things, I say that love is not of any country; nobility does not\nbelong exclusively to any race, and through all the ages, there have\nbeen a few great and tender souls blossoming in love and pity.\n\nIn my judgment, the woman is the equal of the man. She has all the\nrights I have and one more, and that is the right to be protected. That\nis my doctrine. You are married; try and make the woman you love happy.\nWhoever marries simply for himself will make a mistake; but whoever\nloves a woman so well that he says \"I will make her happy,\" makes no\nmistake. And so with the woman who says, \"I will make him happy.\" There\nis only one way to be happy, and that is to make somebody else so, and\nyou cannot be happy by going cross lots; you have got to go the regular\nturnpike road.\n\nIf there is any man I detest, it is the man who thinks he is the head\nof a family—the man who thinks he is \"boss!\" The fellow in the dug-out\nused that word \"boss;\" that was one of his favorite expressions.\n\nImagine a young man and a young woman courting, walking out in the\nmoonlight, and the nightingale singing a song of pain and love, as\nthough the thorn touched her heart—imagine them stopping there in the\nmoonlight and starlight and song, and saying, \"Now, here, let us settle\nwho is 'boss!'\" I tell you it is an infamous word and an infamous\nfeeling—I abhor a man who is \"boss,\" who is going to govern in his\nfamily, and when he speaks orders all the rest to be still as some\nmighty idea is about to be launched from his mouth. Do you know I\ndislike this man unspeakably?\n\nI hate above all things a cross man. What right has he to murder the\nsunshine of a day? What right has he to assassinate the joy of life?\n\nWhen you go home you ought to go like a ray of light—so that it will,\neven in the night, burst out of the doors and windows and illuminate\nthe darkness. Some men think their mighty brains have been in a turmoil;\nthey have been thinking about who will be alderman from the fifth ward;\nthey have been thinking about politics; great and mighty questions have\nbeen engaging their minds; they have bought calico at five cents or six,\nand want to sell it for seven. Think of the intellectual strain that\nmust have been upon that man, and when he gets home everybody else in\nthe house must look out for his comfort. A woman who has only taken care\nof five or six children, and one or two of them sick, has been nursing\nthem and singing to them, and trying to make one yard of cloth do the\nwork of two, she, of course, is fresh and fine and ready to wait upon\nthis gentleman—the head of the family—the boss!\n\nDo you know another thing? I despise a stingy man. I do not see how\nit is possible for a man to die worth fifty million of dollars, or ten\nmillion of dollars, in a city full of want, when he meets almost every\nday the withered hand of beggary and the white lips of famine. How a man\ncan withstand all that, and hold in the clutch of his greed twenty or\nthirty million of dollars, is past my comprehension. I do not see how he\ncan do it. I should not think he could do it any more than he could keep\na pile of lumber on the beach, where hundreds and thousands of men were\ndrowning in the sea.\n\nDo you know that I have known men who would trust their wives with their\nhearts and their honor but not with their pocketbook; not with a dollar.\nWhen I see a man of that kind, I always think he knows which of these\narticles is the most valuable. Think of making your wife a beggar! Think\nof her having to ask you every day for a dollar, or for two dollars or\nfifty cents! \"What did you do with that dollar I gave you last week?\"\nThink of having a wife that is afraid of you! What kind of children do\nyou expect to have with a beggar and a coward for their mother? Oh,\nI tell you if you have but a dollar in the world, and you have got to\nspend it, spend it like a king; spend it as though it were a dry leaf\nand you the owner of unbounded forests! That's the way to spend it! I\nhad rather be a beggar and spend my last dollar like a king, than be a\nking and spend my money like a beggar! If it has got to go, let it go!\n\nGet the best you can for your family—try to look as well as you can\nyourself. When you used to go courting, how elegantly you looked! Ah,\nyour eye was bright, your step was light, and you looked like a prince.\nDo you know that it is insufferable egotism in you to suppose a woman\nis going to love you always looking as slovenly as you can! Think of\nit! Any good woman on earth will be true to you forever when you do your\nlevel best.\n\nSome people tell me, \"Your doctrine about loving, and wives, and all\nthat, is splendid for the rich, but it won't do for the poor.\" I tell\nyou to-night there is more love in the homes of the poor than in the\npalaces of the rich. The meanest hut with love in it is a palace fit for\nthe gods, and a palace without love is a den only fit for wild beasts.\nThat is my doctrine! You cannot be so poor that you cannot help\nsomebody. Good nature is the cheapest commodity in the world; and love\nis the only thing that will pay ten per cent, to borrower and lender\nboth. Do not tell me that you have got to be rich! We have a false\nstandard of greatness in the United States. We think here that a man\nmust be great, that he must be notorious; that he must be extremely\nwealthy, or that his name must be upon the putrid lips of rumor. It is\nall a mistake. It is not necessary to be rich or to be great, or to be\npowerful, to be happy. The happy man is the successful man.\n\nHappiness is the legal tender of the soul.\n\nJoy is wealth.\n\nA little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon—a\nmagnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity—and\ngazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at\nlast the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and\nthought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.\n\nI saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide.\nI saw him at Toulon—I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of\nParis—I saw him at the head of the army of Italy—I saw him crossing\nthe bridge of Lodi with the tri-color in his hand—I saw him in Egypt in\nthe shadows of the pyramids—I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the\neagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo—at\nUlm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow\nand the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's\nwithered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster—driven by\na million bayonets back upon Paris—clutched like a wild beast—banished\nto Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his\ngenius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and\nFate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him\nat St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the\nsad and solemn sea.\n\nI thought of the orphans and widows he had made—of the tears that\nhad been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him,\npushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would\nrather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather\nhave lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes\ngrowing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been\nthat poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day\ndied out of the sky—with my children upon my knees and their arms about\nme—I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless\nsilence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial\nimpersonation of force and murder, known as \"Napoleon the Great.\"\n\nIt is not necessary to be great to be happy; it is not necessary to\nbe rich to be just and generous and to have a heart filled with divine\naffection. No matter whether you are rich or poor, treat your wife as\nthough she were a splendid flower, and she will fill your life with\nperfume and with joy.\n\nAnd do you know, it is a splendid thing to think that the woman you\nreally love will never grow old to you. Through the wrinkles of time,\nthrough the mask of years, if you really love her, you will always see\nthe face you loved and won. And a woman who really loves a man does not\nsee that he grows old; he is not decrepit to her; he does not tremble;\nhe is not old; she always sees the same gallant gentleman who won her\nhand and heart. I like to think of it in that way; I like to think that\nlove is eternal. And to love in that way and then go down the hill\nof life together, and as you go down, hear, perhaps, the laughter of\ngrandchildren, while the birds of joy and love sing once more in the\nleafless branches of the tree of age.\n\nI believe in the fireside. I believe in the democracy of home. I believe\nin the republicanism of the family. I believe in liberty, equality and\nlove.\n\nThe Liberty of Children\n\nIf women have been slaves, what shall I say of children; of the little\nchildren in alleys and sub-cellars; the little children who turn pale\nwhen they hear their fathers' footsteps; little children who run away\nwhen they only hear their names called by the lips of a mother; little\nchildren—the children of poverty, the children of crime, the children\nof brutality, wherever they are—flotsam and jetsam upon the wild, mad\nsea of life—my heart goes out to them, one and all.\n\nI tell you the children have the same rights that we have, and we ought\nto treat them as though they were human beings. They should be reared\nwith love, with kindness, with tenderness, and not with brutality. That\nis my idea of children.\n\nWhen your little child tells a lie, do not rush at him as though the\nworld were about to go into bankruptcy. Be honest with him. A tyrant\nfather will have liars for his children; do you know that?\n\nA lie is born of tyranny upon the one hand and weakness upon the other,\nand when you rush at a poor little boy with a club in your hand, of\ncourse he lies.\n\nI thank thee, Mother Nature, that thou hast put ingenuity enough in the\nbrain of a child, when attacked by a brutal parent, to throw up a little\nbreastwork in the shape of a lie.\n\nWhen one of your children tells a lie, be honest with him; tell him that\nyou have told hundreds of them yourself. Tell him it is not the best\nway; that you have tried it. Tell him as the man did in Maine when his\nboy left home: \"John, honesty is the best policy; I have tried both.\" Be\nhonest with him. Suppose a man as much larger than you as you are larger\nthan a child five years old, should come at you with a liberty pole in\nhis hand, and in a voice of thunder shout, \"Who broke that plate?\" There\nis not a solitary one of you who would not swear you never saw it,\nor that it was cracked when you got it. Why not be honest with these\nchildren? Just imagine a man who deals in stocks whipping his boy for\nputting false rumors afloat! Think of a lawyer beating his own flesh and\nblood for evading the truth when he makes half of his own living that\nway! Think of a minister punishing his child for not telling all he\nthinks! Just think of it!\n\nWhen your child commits a wrong, take it in your arms; let it feel your\nheart beat against its heart; let the child know that you really and\ntruly and sincerely love it. Yet some Christians, good Christians, when\na child commits a fault, drive it from the door and say: \"Never do you\ndarken this house again.\" Think of that! And then these same people will\nget down on their knees and ask God to take care of the child they\nhave driven from home. I will never ask God to take care of my children\nunless I am doing my level best in that same direction.\n\nBut I will tell you what I say to my children: \"Go where you will;\ncommit what crime you may; fall to what depth of degradation you may;\nyou can never commit any crime that will shut my door, my arms, or my\nheart to you. As long as I live you shall have one sincere friend.\"\n\nDo you know that I have seen some people who acted as though they\nthought that when the Savior said \"Suffer little children to come unto\nme, for of such is the kingdom of heaven,\" he had a raw-hide under his\nmande, and made that remark simply to get the children within striking\ndistance?\n\nI do not believe in the government of the lash, if any one of you ever\nexpects to whip your children again, I want you to have a photograph\ntaken of yourself when you are in the act, with your face red with\nvulgar anger, and the face of the little child, with eyes swimming\nin tears and the little chin dimpled with fear, like a piece of water\nstruck by a sudden cold wind. Have the picture taken. If that little\nchild should die, I cannot think of a sweeter way to spend an autumn\nafternoon than to go out to the cemetery, when the maples are clad\nin tender gold, and little scarlet runners are coming, like poems of\nregret, from the sad heart of the earth—and sit down upon the grave and\nlook at that photograph, and think of the flesh now dust that you beat.\nI tell you it is wrong; it is no way to raise children! Make your home\nhappy. Be honest with them. Divide fairly with them in everything.\n\nGive them a little liberty and love, and you can not drive them out of\nyour house. They will want to stay there. Make home pleasant. Let them\nplay any game they wish. Do not be so foolish as to say: \"You may roll\nballs on the ground, but you must not roll them on a green cloth. You\nmay knock them with a mallet, but you must not push them with a cue.\nYou may play with little pieces of paper which have 'authors' written\non them, but you must not have 'cards.'\" Think of it! \"You may go to a\nminstrel show where people blacken themselves and imitate humanity below\nthem, but you must not go to a theatre and see the characters created\nby immortal genius put upon the stage.\" Why? Well, I can't think of any\nreason in the world except \"minstrel\" is a word of two syllables, and\n\"theatre\" has three.\n\nLet children have some daylight at home if you want to keep them there,\nand do not commence at the cradle and shout \"Don't!\" \"Don't!\" \"Stop!\"\nThat is nearly all that is said to a child from the cradle until he is\ntwenty-one years old, and when he comes of age other people begin saying\n\"Don't!\" And the church says \"Don't!\" and the party he belongs to says\n\"Don't!\"\n\nI despise that way of going through this world. Let us have\nliberty—just a little. Call me infidel, call me atheist, call me what\nyou will, I intend so to treat my children, that they can come to my\ngrave and truthfully say: \"He who sleeps here never gave us a moment of\npain. From his lips, now dust, never came to us an unkind word.\"\n\nPeople justify all kinds of tyranny toward children upon the ground that\nthey are totally depraved. At the bottom of ages of cruelty lies this\ninfamous doctrine of total depravity. Religion contemplates a child as a\nliving crime—heir to an infinite curse—doomed to eternal fire.\n\nIn the olden time, they thought some days were too good for a child to\nenjoy himself. When I was a boy Sunday was considered altogether too\nholy to be happy in. Sunday used to commence then when the sun went down\non Saturday night. We commenced at that time for the purpose of getting\na good ready, and when the sun fell below the horizon on Saturday\nevening, there was a darkness fell upon the house ten thousand times\ndeeper than that of night. Nobody said a pleasant word; nobody laughed;\nnobody smiled; the child that looked the sickest was regarded as the\nmost pious. That night you could not even crack hickory nuts. If you\nwere caught chewing gum it was only another evidence of the total\ndepravity of the human heart. It was an exceedingly solemn night.\n\nDyspepsia was in the very air you breathed. Everybody looked sad and\nmournful. I have noticed all my life that many people think they have\nreligion when they are troubled with dyspepsia. If there could be found\nan absolute specific for that disease, it would be the hardest blow the\nchurch has ever received.\n\nOn Sunday morning the solemnity had simply increased. Then we went to\nchurch. The minister was in a pulpit about twenty feet high, with a\nlittle sounding-board above him, and he commenced at \"firstly\" and went\non and on and on to about \"twenty-thirdly.\" Then he made a few remarks\nby way of application; and then took a general view of the subject, and\nin about two hours reached the last chapter in Revelation.\n\nIn those days, no matter how cold the weather was, there was no fire in\nthe church. It was thought to be a kind of sin to be comfortable while\nyou were thanking God. The first church that ever had a stove in it in\nNew England, divided on that account. So the first church in which they\nsang by note, was torn in fragments.\n\nAfter the sermon we had an intermission. Then came the catechism with\nthe chief end of man. We went through with that. We sat in a row with\nour feet coming in about six inches of the floor. The minister asked\nus if we knew that we all deserved to go to hell, and we all answered\n\"Yes.\" Then we were asked if we would be willing to go to hell if it was\nGod's will, and every little liar shouted \"Yes.\" Then the same sermon\nwas preached once more, commencing at the other end and going back.\nAfter that, we started for home, sad and solemn—overpowered with the\nwisdom displayed in the scheme of the atonement. When we got home, if we\nhad been good boys, and the weather was warm, sometimes they would take\nus out to the graveyard to cheer us up a little. It did cheer me. When\nI looked at the sunken tombs and the leaning stones, and read the\nhalf-effaced inscriptions through the moss of silence and forgetfulness,\nit was a great comfort. The reflection came to my mind that the\nobservance of the Sabbath could not last always. Sometimes they would\nsing that beautiful hymn in which occurs these cheerful lines:\n    \"Where congregations ne'er break up,\n    And Sabbaths never end.\"\n\nThese lines, I think, prejudiced me a little against even heaven. Then\nwe had good books that we read on Sundays by way of keeping us happy\nand contented. There were Milners' \"History of the Waldenses,\" Baxter's\n\"Call to the Unconverted,\" Yahn's \"Archaeology of the Jews,\" and\nJenkyns' \"On the Atonement.\" I used to read Jenkyns' \"On the Atonement.\"\nI have often thought that an atonement would have to be exceedingly\nbroad in its provisions to cover the case of a man who would write a\nbook like that for a boy.\n\nBut at last the Sunday wore away, and the moment the sun went down we\nwere free. Between three and four o'clock we would go out to see how the\nsun was coming on. Sometimes it seemed to me that it was stopping from\npure meanness. But finally it went down. It had to. And when the last\nrim of light sank below the horizon, off would go our caps, and we would\ngive three cheers for liberty once more.\n\nSabbaths used to be prisons. Every Sunday was a Bastile. Every Christian\nwas a kind of turnkey, and every child was a prisoner,—a convict. In\nthat dungeon, a smile was a crime.\n\nIt was thought wrong for a child to laugh upon this holy day. Think of\nthat!\n\nA little child would go out into the garden, and there would be a tree\nladen with blossoms, and the little fellow would lean against it, and\nthere would be a bird on one of the boughs, singing and swinging, and\nthinking about four little speckled eggs, warmed by the breast of its\nmate,—singing and swinging, and the music in happy waves rippling out\nof its tiny throat, and the flowers blossoming, the air filled with\nperfume and the great white clouds floating in the sky, and the little\nboy would lean up against that tree and think about hell and the worm\nthat never dies.\n\nI have heard them preach, when I sat in the pew and my feet did not\ntouch the floor, about the final home of the unconverted. In order to\nimpress upon the children the length of time they would probably stay if\nthey settled in that country, the preacher would frequently give us the\nfollowing illustration: \"Suppose that once in a billion years a bird\nshould come from some far-distant planet, and carry off in its little\nbill a grain of sand, a time would finally come when the last atom\ncomposing this earth would be carried away; and when this last atom was\ntaken, it would not even be sun up in hell.\" Think of such an infamous\ndoctrine being taught to children!\n\nThe laugh of a child will make the holiest day more sacred still.\nStrike, with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with\nApollo's golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies\nsweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until\nthy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonlit waves, and charm the\nlovers wandering 'mid the vine-clad hills. But know, your sweetest\nstrains are discords all, compared with childhood's happy laugh—the\nlaugh that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. O\nrippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundary line between\nthe beasts and men; and every wayward wave of thine doth drown some\nfretful fiend of care. O Laughter, rose-lipped daughter of Joy, there\nare dimples enough in thy cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the\ntears of grief.\n\nAnd yet the minds of children have been polluted by this infamous\ndoctrine of eternal punishment. I denounce it to-day as a doctrine, the\ninfamy of which no language is sufficient to express.\n\nWhere did that doctrine of eternal punishment for men and women and\nchildren come from? It came from the low and beastly skull of that\nwretch in the dug-out. Where did he get it? It was a souvenir from the\nanimals. The doctrine of eternal punishment was born in the glittering\neyes of snakes—snakes that hung in fearful coils watching for their\nprey. It was born of the howl and bark and growl of wild beasts. It\nwas born of the grin of hyenas and of the depraved chatter of unclean\nbaboons. I despise it with every drop of my blood. Tell me there is a\nGod in the serene heavens that will damn his children for the expression\nof an honest belief! More men have died in their sins, judged by your\northodox creeds, than there are leaves on all the forests in the wide\nworld ten thousand times over. Tell me these men are in hell; that these\nmen are in torment; that these children are in eternal pain, and that\nthey are to be punished forever and forever! I denounce this doctrine as\nthe most infamous of lies.\n\nWhen the great ship containing the hopes and aspirations of the world,\nwhen the great ship freighted with mankind goes down in the night of\ndeath, chaos and disaster, I am willing to go down with the ship. I\nwill not be guilty of the ineffable meanness of paddling away in some\northodox canoe. I will go down with the ship, with those who love me,\nand with those whom I have loved. If there is a God who will damn his\nchildren forever, I would rather go to hell than to go to heaven and\nkeep the society of such an infamous tyrant. I make my choice now. I\ndespise that doctrine. It has covered the cheeks of this world with\ntears. It has polluted the hearts of children, and poisoned the\nimaginations of men. It has been a constant pain, a perpetual terror to\nevery good man and woman and child. It has filled the good with horror\nand with fear; but it has had no effect upon the infamous and base. It\nhas wrung the hearts of the tender; it has furrowed the cheeks of the\ngood. This doctrine never should be preached again. What right have you,\nsir, Mr. clergyman, you, minister of the gospel, to stand at the portals\nof the tomb, at the vestibule of eternity, and fill the future with\nhorror and with fear? I do not believe this doctrine: neither do you.\nIf you did, you could not sleep one moment. Any man who believes it, and\nhas within his breast a decent, throbbing heart, will go insane. A man\nwho believes that doctrine and does not go insane has the heart of a\nsnake and the conscience of a hyena.\n\nJonathan Edwards, the dear old soul, who, if his doctrine is true, is\nnow in heaven rubbing his holy hands with glee, as he hears the cries\nof the damned, preached this doctrine; and he said: \"Can the believing\nhusband in heaven be happy with his unbelieving wife in hell? Can the\nbelieving father in heaven be happy with his unbelieving children\nin hell? Can the loving wife in heaven be happy with her unbelieving\nhusband in hell?\" And he replies: \"I tell you, yea. Such will be their\nsense of justice, that it will increase rather than diminish their\nbliss.\" There is no wild beast in the jungles of Africa whose reputation\nwould not be tarnished by the expression of such a doctrine.\n\nThese doctrines have been taught in the name of religion, in the name of\nuniversal forgiveness, in the name of infinite love and charity. Do not,\nI pray you, soil the minds of your children with this dogma. Let them\nread for themselves; let them think for themselves.\n\nDo not treat your children like orthodox posts to be set in a row. Treat\nthem like trees that need light and sun and air. Be fair and honest\nwith them; give them a chance. Recollect that their rights are equal to\nyours. Do not have it in your mind that you must govern them; that they\nmust obey. Throw away forever the idea of master and slave.\n\nIn old times they used to make the children go to bed when they were not\nsleepy, and get up when they were sleepy. I say let them go to bed when\nthey are sleepy, and get up when they are not sleepy.\n\nBut you say, this doctrine will do for the rich but not for the poor.\nWell, if the poor have to waken their children early in the morning it\nis as easy to wake them with a kiss as with a blow. Give your children\nfreedom; let them preserve their individuality. Let your children eat\nwhat they desire, and commence at the end of a dinner they like. That is\ntheir business and not yours. They know what they wish to eat. If they\nare given their liberty from the first, they know what they want better\nthan any doctor in the world can prescribe. Do you know that all the\nimprovement that has ever been made in the practice of medicine has\nbeen made by the recklessness of patients and not by the doctors?\nFor thousands and thousands of years the doctors would not let a man\nsuffering from fever have a drop of water. Water they looked upon as\npoison. But every now and then some man got reckless and said, \"I had\nrather die than not to slake my thirst.\" Then he would drink two or\nthree quarts of water and get well. And when the doctor was told of\nwhat the patient had done, he expressed great surprise that he was still\nalive, and complimented his constitution upon being able to bear such a\nfrightful strain. The reckless men, however, kept on drinking the water,\nand persisted in getting well. And finally the doctors said: \"In a\nfever, water is the very best thing you can take.\" So, I have more\nconfidence in the voice of nature about such things than I have in the\nconclusions of the medical schools.\n\nLet your children have freedom and they will fall into your ways; they\nwill do substantially as you do; but if you try to make them, there is\nsome magnificent, splendid thing in the human heart that refuses to be\ndriven. And do you know that it is the luckiest thing that ever happened\nfor this world, that people are that way. What would have become of the\npeople five hundred years ago if they had followed strictly the advice\nof the doctors? They would have all been dead. What would the people\nhave been, if at any age of the world they had followed implicitly\nthe direction of the church? They would have all been idiots. It is a\nsplendid thing that there is always some grand man who will not mind,\nand who will think for himself.\n\nI believe in allowing the children to think for themselves. I believe\nin the democracy of the family. If in this world there is anything\nsplendid, it is a home where all are equals.\n\nYou will remember that only a few years ago parents would tell their\nchildren to \"let their victuals stop their mouths.\" They used to eat as\nthough it were a religious ceremony—a very solemn thing. Life should\nnot be treated as a solemn matter. I like to see the children at table,\nand hear each one telling of the wonderful things he has seen and heard.\nI like to hear the clatter of knives and forks and spoons mingling with\ntheir happy voices. I had rather hear it than any opera that was ever\nput upon the boards. Let the children have liberty. Be honest and fair\nwith them; be just; be tender, and they will make you rich in love and\njoy.\n\nMen are oaks, women are vines, children are flowers.\n\nThe human race has been guilty of almost countless crimes; but I have\nsome excuse for mankind. This world, after all, is not very well adapted\nto raising good people. In the first place, nearly all of it is water.\nIt is much better adapted to fish culture than to the production of\nfolks. Of that portion which is land not one-eighth has suitable soil\nand climate to produce great men and women. You cannot raise men and\nwomen of genius, without the proper soil and climate, any more than you\ncan raise corn and wheat upon the ice fields of the Arctic sea. You must\nhave the necessary conditions and surroundings. Man is a product; you\nmust have the soil and food. The obstacles presented by nature must\nnot be so great that man cannot, by reasonable industry and courage,\novercome them. There is upon this world only a narrow belt of land,\ncircling zigzag the globe, upon which you can produce men and women of\ntalent. In the Southern Hemisphere the real climate that man needs falls\nmostly upon the sea, and the result is, that the southern half of our\nworld has never produced a man or woman of great genius. In the far\nnorth there is no genius—it is too cold. In the far south there is no\ngenius—it is too warm. There must be winter, and there must be summer.\nIn a country where man needs no coverlet but a cloud, revolution is his\nnormal condition. Winter is the mother of industry and prudence. Above\nall, it is the mother of the family relation. Winter holds in its icy\narms the husband and wife and the sweet children. If upon this earth we\never have a glimpse of heaven, it is when we pass a home in winter, at\nnight, and through the windows, the curtains drawn aside, we see the\nfamily about the pleasant hearth; the old lady knitting; the cat playing\nwith the yarn; the children wishing they had as many dolls or dollars or\nknives or somethings, as there are sparks going out to join the roaring\nblast; the father reading and smoking, and the clouds rising like\nincense from the altar of domestic joy. I never passed such a house\nwithout feeling that I had received a benediction.\n\nCivilization, liberty, justice, charity, intellectual advancement, are\nall flowers that blossom in the drifted snow.\n\nI have still another excuse. I believe that man came up from the lower\nanimals. I do not say this as a fact. I simply say I believe it to be\na fact. Upon that question I stand about eight to seven, which, for all\npractical purposes, is very near a certainty. When I first heard of that\ndoctrine I did not like it. My heart was filled with sympathy for those\npeople who have nothing to be proud of except ancestors. I thought, how\nterrible this will be upon the nobility of the Old World. Think of their\nbeing forced to trace their ancestry back to the duke Orang Outang, or\nto the princess Chimpanzee. After thinking it all over, I came to the\nconclusion that I liked that doctrine. I became convinced in spite of\nmyself. I read about rudimentary bones and muscles. I was told that\neverybody had rudimentary muscles extending from the ear into the cheek.\nI asked \"What are they?\" I was told: \"They are the remains of\nmuscles; that they became rudimentary from lack of use; they went into\nbankruptcy. They are the muscles with which your ancestors used to flap\ntheir ears.\" I do not now so much wonder that we once had them as that\nwe have outgrown them.\n\nAfter all I had rather belong to a race that started from the skull-less\nvertebrates in the dim Laurentian seas, vertebrates wiggling without\nknowing why they wiggled, swimming without knowing where they were\ngoing, but that in some way began to develop, and began to get a little\nhigher and a little higher in the scale of existence; that came up by\ndegrees through millions of ages through all the animal world, through\nall that crawls and swims and floats and climbs and walks, and finally\nproduced the gentleman in the dug-out; and then from this man, getting\na little grander, and each one below calling every one above him a\nheretic, calling every one who had made a little advance an infidel or\nan atheist—for in the history of this world the man who is ahead has\nalways been called a heretic—I would rather come from a race that\nstarted from that skull-less vertebrate, and came up and up and up and\nfinally produced Shakespeare, the man who found the human intellect\ndwelling in a hut, touched it with the wand of his genius and it became\na palace domed and pinnacled; Shakespeare, who harvested all the fields\nof dramatic thought, and from whose day to this, there have been only\ngleaners of straw and chaff—I would rather belong to that race that\ncommenced a skull-less vertebrate and produced Shakespeare, a race that\nhas before it an infinite future, with the angel of progress leaning\nfrom the far horizon, beckoning men forward, upward and onward\nforever—I had rather belong to such a race, commencing there, producing\nthis, and with that hope, than to have sprung from a perfect pair upon\nwhich the Lord has lost money every moment from that day to this.\n\nConclusion\n\nI have given you my honest thought. Surely investigation is better than\nunthinking faith. Surely reason is a better guide than fear. This world\nshould be controlled by the living, not by the dead. The grave is not a\nthrone, and a corpse is not a king. Man should not try to live on ashes.\n\nThe theologians dead, knew no more than the theologians now living.\nMore than this cannot be said. About this world little is known,—about\nanother world, nothing.\n\nOur fathers were intellectual serfs, and their fathers were slaves. The\nmakers of our creeds were ignorant and brutal. Every dogma that we have,\nhas upon it the mark of whip, the rust of chain, and the ashes of fagot.\n\nOur fathers reasoned with instruments of torture. They believed in the\nlogic of fire and sword. They hated reason. They despised thought. They\nabhorred liberty.\n\nSuperstition is the child of slavery. Free thought will give us truth.\nWhen all have the right to think and to express their thoughts, every\nbrain will give to all the best it has. The world will then be filled\nwith intellectual wealth.\n\nAs long as men and women are afraid of the church, as long as a minister\ninspires fear, as long as people reverence a thing simply because\nthey do not understand it, as long as it is respectable to lose your\nself-respect, as long as the church has power, as long as mankind\nworship a book, just so long will the world be filled with intellectual\npaupers and vagrants, covered with the soiled and faded rags of\nsuperstition.\n\nAs long as woman regards the Bible as the charter of her rights, she\nwill be the slave of man. The Bible was not written by a woman. Within\nits lids there is nothing but humiliation and shame for her. She is\nregarded as the property of man. She is made to ask forgiveness for\nbecoming a mother. She is as much below her husband, as her husband is\nbelow Christ. She is not allowed to speak. The gospel is too pure to be\nspoken by her polluted lips. Woman should learn in silence.\n\nIn the Bible will be found no description of a civilized home. The free\nmother surrounded by free and loving children, adored by a free man, her\nhusband, was unknown to the inspired writers of the Bible. They did not\nbelieve in the democracy of home—in the republicanism of the fireside.\n\nThese inspired gentlemen knew nothing of the rights of children. They\nwere the advocates of brute force—the disciples of the lash. They knew\nnothing of human rights. Their doctrines have brutalized the homes of\nmillions, and filled the eyes of infancy with tears.\n\nLet us free ourselves from the tyranny of a book, from the slavery of\ndead ignorance, from the aristocracy of the air.\n\nThere has never been upon the earth a generation of free men and\nwomen. It is not yet time to write a creed. Wait until the chains are\nbroken—until dungeons are not regarded as temples. Wait until solemnity\nis not mistaken for wisdom—until mental cowardice ceases to be known\nas reverence. Wait until the living are considered the equals of the\ndead—until the cradle takes precedence of the coffin. Wait until what\nwe know can be spoken without regard to what others may believe. Wait\nuntil teachers take the place of preachers—until followers become\ninvestigators. Wait until the world is free before you write a creed.\n\nIn this creed there will be but one word—Liberty.\n\nOh Liberty, float not forever in the far horizon—remain not forever in\nthe dream of the enthusiast, the philanthropist and poet, but come and\nmake thy home among the children of men!\n\nI know not what discoveries, what inventions, what thoughts may leap\nfrom the brain of the world. I know not what garments of glory may be\nwoven by the years to come. I cannot dream of the victories to be won\nupon the fields of thought; but I do know, that coming from the infinite\nsea of the future, there will never touch this \"bank and shoal of time\"\na richer gift, a rarer blessing than liberty for man, for woman, and for\nchild.\n"
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