Every one who has turned over old volumes of sermons, adorned with
the authors' portraits, must have been struck with the length of their
faces. They seem to say--parodying the famous line of Dante--"Abandon
jokes all ye who enter here." Those men preached a solemnly absurd
creed, and they looked absurdly solemn. Their faces seemed as devoid of
merriment as the faces of jackasses, and the heads above them were often
as stupid. Justice forbid that I should run down a Hooker, a Barrow, a
Taylor, or a South. They were men of _genius_, and all genius is of the
blood royal. I read their writings with pleasure and profit, which
is more than nine-tenths of the clergy can say with any approach to
honesty. But a single swallow does not make a summer, and a few men of
genius do not elevate a profession. I am perfectly convinced that
the great bulk of the preaching fraternity have cultivated a solemn
aspect--not perhaps deliberately, but at least instinctively--in order
to impose on the ignorant and credulous multitude. The very tone of
voice in which they pray, give out hymns, and preach, is _artificial_;
in keeping with their artificial ideas and artificial sentiments; which,
if they were expressed in natural tones, would excite universal contempt
and derision.
Now this solemnity is the best trick in the priest's game. Gravity is
always mistaken by the multitude for wisdom. A round-faced merry fellow
shall make a bright, sensible speech, and he will be voted frivolous;
but a long-faced, saturnine fellow shall utter a string of dull
platitudes, and he will be voted a Solon. This is well known to the
clergy, who have developed a perfect art of dullness. They talk an
infinite deal of nothing, use a multitude of solemn words to hide an
absurdity or no meaning at all, and utter the inherited shibboleths of
their craft like the august oracles of a recent revelation.
Concede them the advantage of solemnity, or reverence, or whatever else
it is called, and you give them the victory at the beginning of the
battle. If _you_ pull a long face over their nonsense, the spectators,
after all your arguments, will say, "There _must_ be something in it,
though, for see how _serious_ he is." Whereas a light jest and a merry
smile will show you are heart-free, and beyond the range of clerical
artillery.
I do not pretend, however, that the efforts of Free-thought critics
should have no background of seriousness. Wit without reason, says
Heine, is but a sneeze of the intelligence. But has not wit ever been
the keenest weapon of the great emancipators of the human mind? Not
the mere plaything of an idle mind in an idle hour, but the coruscating
blade to pierce the weak places of folly and imposture. Aristophanes,
Lucian, Rabelais, Erasmus, and Voltaire--to take a few great
instances--were all serious in aim and intention. They valued truth,
goodness, and beauty, as much as the dreariest preachers. But they felt,
because of their temperament, that while the dry light of the intellect
is suited to the study of science, it is inadequate in the realm of
political, social, and religious debate, where everything is steeped in
feeling, and hopes and fears strive together, and imagination kindles
the very senses into keener play.
After all, perhaps, this word _temperament_ is a solution in itself.
When Bishop South was taken to task by a brother bishop for his
witticisms, he replied, "Do you mean to say that if God had given you
any wit you would not have used it?" Thus is wisdom justified of her
children.
My friendly though severe critic, Dr. Coit, who recently discoursed at
South-place Institute (or is it Chapel?) on the National Secular Society
in general and myself in particular, could hardly deny that Voltaire
was a master of wit, sarcasm, irony, and ridicule. Well, now, let us
see what some serious writers have said of this nimble spirit. Robert
Browning, in _The Two Poets of Croisic_ thus salutes him:
Ay, sharpest shrewdest steel that ever stabbed
To death Imposture through the armor-joints!
Carlyle says "He gave the death-stab to modern superstition," and "it
was a most weighty service." Buckle says he "used ridicule, not as the
test of truth, but as the scourge of folly," and thus "produced more
effect than the gravest arguments could have done." "Nor can any one
since the days of Luther be named," says Brougham, "to whom the spirit
of free inquiry, nay, the emancipation of the human mind from spiritual
tyranny, owes a more lasting debt of gratitude."
There is a story of the manuscript of Harrington's _Oceana_ being
filched and given to Cromwell, and the sagacious "usurper" returned it
saying, "My government is not to be overturned with paper pellets." But
the ironical pamphlet, _Killing no Murder_, produced a different effect.
Nor did the royal and imperial despots, and their priestly abettors,
in the eighteenth century, dread the solemn lovers of freedom. But the
winged pen of Voltaire was a different matter. "Bigots and tyrants,"
says Macaulay, "who had never been moved by the wailing and cursing of
millions, turned pale at his name."
If Dr. Coit imagines that Voltaire has lost his influence in France, I
venture to say he is mistaken. The hand of Voltaire is on Renan, and on
dozens of living soldiers in the French army of progress. And what man
of letters in England--a country abounding in "the oxen of the gods,"
strong, slow, and stupid--is free from his influence? Carlyle's early
essay on Voltaire is a mixture of hatred and admiration. But read the
Life of Frederick, and see how the French snake fascinates the Scotch
Puritan, until at last he flings every reservation aside, and hails with
glowing panegyric the Savior of Calas.
Let me refer Dr. Coit to the delightful preface of a delightful
book--Leland's introduction to his fine translation of Heine's
_Reisebilder_. "Woe to those who are standing near," says Leland,
"when a humorist of this stamp is turned loose upon the world. He
knows nothing of your old laws,--like an Azrael-Napoleon he advances
conscienceless, feeling nothing but an overpowering impulse, as of some
higher power which bids him strike and spare not." But, after all, the
main cause of progress is _agitation_, and though the agitation may be
"eminently disagreeable to many, even friends, who are brought within
its immediate action, it will be eminently beneficial in the end."
Yes, the hard-bound human mind, like the hardbound soil, has to be
ploughed up. Let it shriek as it will, the work must be done, or the
light and air will never penetrate, and an ocean of seeds will lie
barren on the surface.
Dr. Coit need not fear that ridicule will excite apprehensions about the
multiplication table. Ridicule has a fine scent for its proper prey.
It must detect the _ridiculous_ before it couches and springs. Truth,
honor, consistency, disinterestedness, are invulnerable. What ridicule
can kill deserves to die.
Mr. George Meredith writes of "that first-born of common-sense, the
vigilant Comic, which is the genius of thoughtful laughter." Folly is
the natural prey of this hunter, and Folly is found in the churches
as well as in the streets. Some men, however, are non-laughers by
birthright, and as men are apt to make a virtue of their deficiencies,
it is not surprising if, as Mr. Meredith observes, the "laughter-hater
soon learns to dignify this dislike as an objection in morality."
Persons who have read the _Freethinker_ from the first do not need to
be assured of the earnest spirit of its conductors. They fight no less
sternly for the iridescent jewels in their swords. But Dr. Coit appears
to object to fighting altogether. He seems to bid us rest content with
what we have won. That is, he bids us leave superstition, with all
its brood of lies and wrongs, in possession of the schools, the
universities, the churches, the hospitals, the workhouses, and every
other institution. He bids us leave it with its large grasp on
the private and public life of the community, and go on with our
constructive work in face of all this overwhelming frustration. No doubt
he means well, but we are not foolish enough to take his advice. We tell
Dr. Coit that he does not understand the obstructive power of theology,
and that he is thus unable to appreciate the work of the National
Secular Society.
But let us return to the point of ridicule, and the point of
"blasphemy." Dr. Coit found two "lessons for the day" in my _Philosophy
of Secularism_, and he spoke of my _Shadow of the Sword_ as "a noble
plea for peace." But he complained of my exposing the absurdities and
immoralities of the Bible--a book which is thrust into the hands of
little children in our public schools. He also complained of my dragging
to light the Crimes of Christianity. But his anger was most excited by
one of my "Bible Romances"--_A Virgin Mother_. Some fastidious persons
even object to the title, thus showing their abysmal ignorance of
Christian literature. The phrase is common in Catholic books of
devotion, like the Mother of God. It occurs in Milton's Ode on the
Nativity and in _Paradise Lost_. I have marked it a dozen times in
Professor Palgrave's collection of Sacred Songs. But Dr. Coit objects
to my comparison of the Holy Ghost's "overshadowing" of the Virgin Mary
with the divine impregnations of earthly women by the gods of the Greek
pantheon. He regards the one as a "mystery" and the others as vulgar
amours. But this depends on your point of view. Lord Bacon found a
mine of hidden wisdom in some of these "amours," and Mr. Morris makes
beautiful poetry of the loves of Zeus and Danae, which is more than
any one has ever succeeded in doing with the relations between the Holy
Ghost and Mary. I admit, however, that taste is not disputable; and
I refer Dr. Coit to the passage of my _Virgin Mother_ in which I cite
Justin Martyr as appealing to the Pagan not to mock at the Incarnation,
on the express ground that they also taught the same doctrine in their
stories-of the demi-gods who were born of women after the embraces of
deities. Surely, then, it is idle to complain of _my_ disrespect of this
Christian dogma. Nor is it just to say that my criticism of it cannot be
read to a mixed audience. That is the fault of the _doctrine_. So far
as my _words_ go, there is not a syllable to shock any but a prurient
modesty.
With respect to Dr. Coit's plea for bringing the kindness of social
intercourse into the war of ideas, I have this to say--It is impossible.
Timid persons have always sighed for this policy, but when the fight
began they have found themselves "between the fell incensed points
of mighty opposites." Religion should be treated as freely as other
subjects. That is all I claim, and I will not be satisfied with less.
I cannot consent to relinquish any weapon that is legitimate in other
warfare. Nor for the sake of temporary _feeling_ will I be false to
the permanent _interests_ of my species. I will laugh at folly, scorn
hypocrisy, expose falsehood, and bathe my sword in the heart's blood of
imposture. But I will not descend to personalities. I do not war with
_persons_, but with _principles_.
My object is to destroy the Christian superstition and prepare the
way for a more rational and humane condition of society. I shall adapt
myself, as well as I can, to the shifting conditions of the struggle. My
aim is to _succeed_. My policy, therefore, will never be determined by a
personal preference. I shall follow the path that promises victory.
But I do not, and will not, dictate to others. Within the scope of
our principles there is room for many policies. Let each do his best,
according to his light and opportunity. Let Dr. Coit, too, go his way as
I go mine. We travel by different routes, but perhaps we shall meet at
the goal.