Goldsmith said there are two classes of people who dread
ridicule--priests and fools. They cry out that it is no argument, but
they know it is. It has been found the most potent form of argument.
Euclid used it in his immortal Geometry; for what else is the _reductio
ad absurdum_ which he sometimes employs? Elijah used it against the
priests of Baal. The Christian fathers found it effective against the
Pagan superstitions, and in turn it was adopted as the best weapon of
attack on _them_ by Lucian and Celsus. Ridicule has been used by Bruno,
Erasmus, Luther, Rabelais, Swift, and Voltaire, by nearly all the great
emancipators of the human mind.
All these men used it for a serious purpose. They were not comedians
who amused the public for pence. They wielded ridicule as a keen rapier,
more swift and fatal than the heaviest battle-axe. Terrible as was the
levin-brand of their denunciation, it was less dreaded than the Greek
fire of their sarcasm. I repeat that they were men of serious aims, and
indeed how could they have been otherwise? All true and lasting wit is
founded on a basis of seriousness; or else, as Heine said, it is nothing
but a sneeze of the reason. Hood felt the same thing when he proposed
for his epitaph: "Here lies one who made more puns, and spat more blood,
than any other man of his time."
Buckle well says, in his fine vindication of Voltaire, that he "used
ridicule, not as the test of truth, but as the scourge of folly." And he
adds--
"His irony, his wit, his pungent and telling sarcasms, produced more
effect than the gravest arguments could have done; and there can be no
doubt that he was fully justified in using those great resources
with which nature had endowed him, since by their aid he advanced the
interests of truth, and relieved men from some of their most inveterate
prejudices."
Victor Hugo puts it much better in his grandiose way, when he says of
Voltaire that "he was irony incarnate for the salvation of mankind."
Voltaire's opponents, as Buckle points out, had a foolish reverence for
antiquity, and they were impervious to reason. To compare great things
with small, our opponents are of the same character. Grave argument
is lost upon them; it runs off them like water from a duck. When we
approach the mysteries of their faith in a spirit of reverence, we
yield them half the battle. We must concede them nothing. What they call
reverence is only conventional prejudice. It must be stripped away from
the subject, and if argument will not remove the veil, ridicule will.
Away with the insane notion that absurdity is reverend because it is
ancient! If it is thousands of years old, treat it exactly as if it were
told the first time to-day. Science recognises nothing in space and time
to invalidate the laws of nature. They prevailed in the past as well as
in the present, in Jerusalem as well as in London. That is how Science
regards everything; and at bottom Science and common-sense are one and
the same.
Professor Huxley, in his admirable little book on Hume, after pointing
out the improbability of centaurs, says that judged by the canons of
science all "miracles" are centaurs. He also considers what would happen
if he were told by the greatest anatomist of the age that he had seen a
centaur. He admits that the weight of such authority would stagger him,
but it would scarcely make him believe. "I could get no further," says
Huxley, "than a suspension of judgment."
Now I venture to say that if Johannes Müller had told Huxley any such
thing, he would have at once concluded that the great anatomist was
joking or suffering from hallucination. As a matter of fact trained
investigators do not see these incredible monstrosities, and Huxley's
hypothetical case goes far beyond every attested miracle. But I do say
that if Johannes Muller, or anyone else, alleged that he had seen a
centaur, Huxley would never think of investigating the absurdity.
Yet the allegation of, a great anatomist on such a matter is infinitely
more plausible than any miraculous story of the Christian religion. The
"centaurs" of faith were seen centuries ago by superstitious people; and
what is more, the relation of them was never made by the witnesses, but
always by other people, who generally lived a few generations at least
after the time.
What on earth are we to do with people who believe in "centaurs" on
such evidence, who make laws to protect their superstition, and appoint
priests at the public cost to teach the "centaur" science? The way to
answer this question is to ask another. How should we treat people who
believed that centaurs could be seen now? Why, of course, we should
laugh at them.
And that is how we should treat people who believe that men-horses ever
existed at all.
Does anybody ask that I shall seriously discuss whether an old woman
with a divining-rod can detect hidden treasures; whether Mr. Home
floated in the air or Mrs. Guppy sailed from house to house; whether
cripples are cured at Lourdes or all manner of diseases at Winifred's
Well? Must I patiently reason with a man who tells me that he saw water
turned into wine, or a few loaves and fishes turned into a feast for
multitudes, or dead men rise up from their graves? Surely not. I do what
every sensible man does. I recognise no obligation to reason with such
hallucinate mortals; I simply treat them with ridicule.
So with the past. Its delusions are no more entitled to respect than
those of to-day. Jesus Christ as a miracle-worker is just as absurd
as any modern pretender. Whether in the Bible, the Koran, the Arabian
Nights, Monte Christo, or Baron Munchausen, a tremendous "walker" is the
fit subject of a good laugh. And Freethinkers mean to enjoy their laugh,
as some consolation for the wickedness of superstition. The Christian
faith is such that it makes us laugh or cry. Are we wrong in preferring
to laugh?
There is an old story of a man who was plagued by the Devil. The fiend
was always dropping in at inconvenient times, and making the poor
fellow's life a hell on earth. He sprinkled holy water on the floor, but
by-and-bye the "old 'un" hopped about successfully on the dry spots. He
flung things at him, but all in vain. At last he resolved on desperate
measures. He plucked up his courage, looked the Devil straight in the
face, and laughed at him. That ended the battle. The Devil could not
stand laughter. He fled that moment and never returned.
Superstition is the Devil. Treat him to a hearty wholesome laugh. It is
the surest exorcism, and you will find laughter medicinal for mind and
body too. Ridicule, and again ridicule, and ever ridicule!