NOTHING gives me more pleasure, nothing gives greater promise for the
future, than the fact that woman is achieving intellectual and physical
liberty.
It is refreshing to know that here, in our country, there are thousands
of women who think, and express their thoughts--who are thoroughly
free and thoroughly conscientious--who have neither been narrowed nor
corrupted by a heartless creed--who do not worship a being in heaven
whom they would shudderingly loathe on earth--women who do not stand
before the altar of a cruel faith, with downcast eyes of timid
acquiescence, and pay to impudent authority the tribute of a thoughtless
yes. They are no longer satisfied with being told. They examine for
themselves. They have ceased to be the prisoners of society--the
satisfied serfs of husbands, or the echoes of priests. They demand the
rights that naturally belong to intelligent human beings. If wives, they
wish to be the equals of husbands. If mothers, they wish to rear their
children in the atmosphere of love, liberty and philosophy. They believe
that woman can discharge all her duties without the aid of superstition,
and preserve all that is true, pure, and tender, without sacrificing in
the temple of absurdity the convictions of the soul.
Woman is not the intellectual inferior of man. She has lacked, not mind,
but opportunity. In the long night of barbarism, physical strength and
the cruelty to use it, were the badges of superiority. Muscle was more
than mind. In the ignorant age of Faith, the loving nature of woman was
abused. Her conscience was rendered morbid and diseased. It might almost
be said that she was betrayed by her own virtues. At best she secured,
not opportunity, but flattery--the preface to degradation. She was
deprived of liberty, and without that, nothing is worth the having. She
was taught to obey without question, and to believe without thought.
There were universities for men before the alphabet had been taught to
women. At the intellectual feast, there were no places for wives and
mothers. Even now they sit at the second table and eat the crusts and
crumbs. The schools for women, at the present time, are just far enough
behind those for men, to fall heirs to the discarded; on the same
principle that when a doctrine becomes too absurd for the pulpit, it is
given to the Sunday-school.
The ages of muscle and miracle--of fists and faith--are passing away.
Minerva occupies at last a higher niche than Hercules. Now a word
is stronger than a blow. At last we see women who depend upon
themselves--who stand, self poised, the shocks of this sad world,
without leaning for support against a church--who do not go to the
literature of barbarism for consolation, or use the falsehoods and
mistakes of the past for the foundation of their hope--women brave
enough and tender enough to meet and bear the facts and fortunes of this
world.
The men who declare that woman is the intellectual inferior of man, do
not, and cannot, by offering themselves in evidence, substantiate their
declaration.
Yet, I must admit that there are thousands of wives who still have
faith in the saving power of superstition--who still insist on attending
church while husbands prefer the shores, the woods, or the fields. In
this way, families are divided. Parents grow apart, and unconsciously
the pearl of greatest price is thrown away. The wife ceases to be
the intellectual companion of the husband. She reads _The Christian
Register_, sermons in the Monday papers, and a little gossip about
folks and fashions, while he studies the works of Darwin, Haeckel, and
Humboldt. Their sympathies become estranged. They are no longer mental
friends. The husband smiles at the follies of the wife, and she weeps
for the supposed sins of the husband. Such wives should read this book.
They should not be satisfied to remain forever in the cradle of thought,
amused with the toys of superstition.
The parasite of woman is the priest.
It must also be admitted that there are thousands of men who believe
that superstition is good for women and children--who regard falsehood
as the fortress of virtue, and feel indebted to ignorance for the purity
of daughters and the fidelity of wives. These men think of priests
as detectives in disguise, and regard God as a policeman who prevents
elopements. Their opinions about religion are as correct as their
estimate of woman.
The church furnishes but little food for the mind. People of
intelligence are growing tired of the platitudes of the pulpit--the
iterations of the itinerants. The average sermon is "as tedious as a
twice told tale vexing the ears of a drowsy man."
One Sunday a gentleman, who is a great inventor, called at my house.
Only a few words had passed between us, when he arose, saying that he
must go as it was time for church. Wondering that a man of his mental
wealth could enjoy the intellectual poverty of the pulpit, I asked for
an explanation, and he gave me the following: "You know that I am an
inventor. Well, the moment my mind becomes absorbed in some difficult
problem, I am afraid that something may happen to distract my attention.
Now, I know that I can sit in church for an hour without the slightest
danger of having the current of my thought disturbed."
Most women cling to the Bible because they have been taught that to give
up that book is to give up all hope of another life--of ever meeting
again the loved and lost. They have also been taught that the Bible is
their friend, their defender, and the real civilizer of man.
Now, if they will only read this book--these three lectures, without
fear, and then read the Bible, they will see that the truth or falsity
of the dogma of inspiration has nothing to do with the question of
immortality. Certainly the Old Testament does not teach us that there is
another life, and upon that question even the New is obscure and vague.
The hunger of the heart finds only a few small and scattered crumbs.
There is nothing definite, solid, and satisfying. United with the idea
of immortality we find the absurdity of the resurrection. A prophecy
that depends for its fulfillment upon an impossibility, cannot satisfy
the brain or heart.
There are but few who do not long for a dawn beyond the night. And
this longing is born of and nourished by the heart. Love wrapped in
shadow--bending with tear-filled eyes above its dead, convulsively
clasps the outstretched hand of hope.
I had the pleasure of introducing Miss Gardener to her first audience,
and in that introduction said a few words that I will repeat.
"We do not know, we cannot say, whether death is a wall or a door; the
beginning or end of a day; the spreading of pinions to soar, or the
folding forever of wings; the rise or the set of a sun, or an endless
life that brings the rapture of love to every one.
"Under the seven-hued arch of hope let the dead sleep."
They will also discover, as they read the "Sacred Volume," that it is
not the friend of woman. They will find that the writers of that book,
for the most part, speak of woman as a poor beast of burden, a serf, a
drudge, a kind of necessary evil--as mere property. Surely, a book that
upholds polygamy is not the friend of wife and mother.
Even Christ did not place woman on an equality with man. He said not
one word about the sacredness of home, the duties of the husband to the
wife--nothing calculated to lighten the hearts of those who bear the
saddest burdens of this life.
They will also find that the Bible has not civilized mankind. A book
that establishes and defends slavery and wanton war is not calculated to
soften the hearts of those who believe implicitly that it is the work of
God. A book that not only permits, but commands, religious persecution,
has not, in my judgment, developed the affectional nature of man.
Its influence has been bad and bad only. It has filled the world with
bitterness, revenge and crime, and retarded in countless ways the
progress of our race.
The writer of this volume has read the Bible with open eyes. The mist
of sentimentality has not clouded her vision. She has had the courage
to tell the result of her investigations. She has been quick to discover
contradictions. She appreciates the humorous side of the stupidly
solemn. Her heart protests against the cruel, and her brain rejects the
childish, the unnatural and absurd. There is no misunderstanding between
her head and heart. She says what she thinks, and feels what she says.
No human being can answer her arguments. There is no answer. All the
priests in the world cannot explain away her objections. There is no
explanation. They should remain dumb, unless they can show that the
impossible is the probable--that slavery is better than freedom--that
polygamy is the friend of woman--that the innocent can justly suffer for
the guilty, and that to persecute for opinion's sake is an act of love
and worship.
Wives who cease to learn--who simply forget and believe--will fill the
evening of their lives with barren sighs and bitter tears.
The mind should outlast youth. If when beauty fades, Thought, the deft
and unseen sculptor, hath not left his subtle lines upon the face,
then all is lost. No charm is left. The light is out. There is no flame
within to glorify the wrinkled clay.
Hoffman House, New York, July, 22, 1885.