man, commence with the lowest possible forms of life; with the simplest
organism that can be imagined, and during immeasurable periods of time,
slowly and almost imperceptibly improve upon the rude beginning, until
man was evolved? Would countless ages thus be wasted in the production
of awkward forms, afterwards abandoned? Can the intelligence of man
discover the least wisdom in covering the earth with crawling, creeping
horrors, that live only upon the agonies and pangs of others? Can we see
the propriety of so constructing the earth, that only an insignificant
portion of its surface is capable of producing an intelligent man? Who
can appreciate the mercy of so making the world that all animals devour
animals; so that every mouth is a slaughterhouse, and every stomach
a tomb? Is it possible to discover infinite intelligence and love in
universal and eternal carnage?
What would we think of a father, who should give a farm to his children,
and before giving them possession should plant upon it thousands of
deadly shrubs and vines; should stock it with ferocious beasts, and
poisonous reptiles; should take pains to put a few swamps in the
neighborhood to breed malaria; should so arrange matters, that the
ground would occasionally open and swallow a few of his darlings, and
besides all this, should establish a few volcanoes in the immediate
vicinity, that might at any moment overwhelm his children with rivers of
fire? Suppose that this father neglected to tell his children which of
the plants were deadly; that the reptiles were poisonous; failed to say
anything about the earthquakes, and kept the volcano business a profound
secret; would we pronounce him angel or fiend?
And yet this is exactly what the orthodox God has done.
According to the theologians, God prepared this globe expressly for the
habitation of his loved children, and yet he filled the forests with
ferocious beasts; placed serpents in every path; stuffed the world with
earthquakes, and adorned its surface with mountains of flame.
Notwithstanding all this, we are told that the world is perfect; that
it was created by a perfect being, and is therefore necessarily perfect.
The next moment, these same persons will tell us that the world was
cursed; covered with brambles, thistles and thorns, and that man was
doomed to disease and death, simply because our poor, dear mother ate an
apple contrary to the command of an arbitrary God.
A very pious friend of mine, having heard that I had said the world
was full of imperfections, asked me if the report was true. Upon being
informed that it was, he expressed great surprise that any one could
be guilty of such presumption. He said that, in his judgment, it was
impossible to point out an imperfection. "Be kind enough," said he, "to
name even one improvement that you could make, if you had the power."
"Well," said I, "I would make good health catching, instead of disease."
The truth is, it is impossible to harmonize all the ills, and pains,
and agonies of this world with the idea that we were created by, and
are watched over and protected by an infinitely wise, powerful and
beneficent God, who is superior to and independent of nature.
The clergy, however, balance all the real ills of this life with the
expected joys of the next We are assured that all is perfection in
heaven--there the skies are cloudless--there all is serenity and
peace. Here empires may be overthrown; dynasties may be extinguished in
blood; millions of slaves may toil 'neath the fierce rays of the sun,
and the cruel strokes of the lash; yet all is happiness in heaven.
Pestilences may strew the earth with corpses of the loved; the survivors
may bend above them in agony--yet the placid bosom of heaven is
unruffled. Children may expire vainly asking for bread; babes may be
devoured by serpents, while the gods sit smiling in the clouds. The
innocent may languish unto death in the obscurity of dungeons; brave
men and heroic women may be changed to ashes at the bigot's stake, while
heaven is filled with song and joy. Out on the wide sea, in darkness and
in storm, the shipwrecked struggle with the cruel waves while the angels
play upon their golden harps. The streets of the world are filled with
the diseased, the deformed and the helpless; the chambers of pain are
crowded with the pale forms of the suffering, while the angels float
and fly in the happy realms of day. In heaven they are too happy to have
sympathy; too busy singing to aid the imploring and distressed. Their
eyes are blinded; their ears are stopped and their hearts are turned to
stone by the infinite selfishness of joy. The saved mariner is too happy
when he touches the shore to give a moment's thought to his drowning
brothers. With the indifference of happiness, with the contempt of
bliss, heaven barely glances at the miseries of earth. Cities are
devoured by the rushing lava; the earth opens and thousands perish;
women raise their clasped hands towards heaven, but the gods are too
happy to aid their children. The smiles of the deities are unacquainted
with the tears of men. The shouts of heaven drown the sobs of earth.
Having shown how man created gods, and how he became the trembling slave
of his own creation, the questions naturally arise: How did he free
himself even a little, from these monarchs of the sky, from these
despots of the clouds, from this aristocracy of the air? How did he,
even to the extent that he has, outgrow his ignorant, abject terror, and
throw off the yoke of superstition?
Probably, the first thing that tended to disabuse his mind was the
discovery of order, of regularity, of periodicity in the universe. From
this he began to suspect that everything did not happen purely with
reference to him. He noticed, that whatever he might do, the motions
of the planets were always the same; that eclipses were periodical,
and that even comets came at certain intervals. This convinced him that
eclipses and comets had nothing to do with him, and that his conduct had
nothing to do with them. He perceived that they were not caused for
his benefit or injury. He thus learned to regard them with admiration
instead of fear. He began to suspect that famine was not sent by some
enraged and revengeful deity, but resulted often from the neglect and
ignorance of man. He learned that diseases were not produced by evil
spirits. He found that sickness was occasioned by natural causes,
and could be cured by natural means. He demonstrated, to his own
satisfaction at least, that prayer is not a medicine. He found by
sad experience that his gods were of no practical use, as they never
assisted him, except when he was perfectly able to help himself. At
last, he began to discover that his individual action had nothing
whatever to do with strange appearances in the heavens; that it was
impossible for him to be bad enough to cause a whirlwind, or good enough
to stop one. After many centuries of thought, he about half concluded
that making mouths at a priest would not necessarily cause an
earthquake. He noticed, and no doubt with considerable astonishment,
that very good men were occasionally struck by lightning, while very bad
ones escaped. He was frequently forced to the painful conclusion (and it
is the most painful to which any human being ever was forced) that the
right did not always prevail. He noticed that the gods did not interfere
in behalf of the weak and innocent. He was now and then astonished
by seeing an unbeliever in the enjoyment of most excellent health. He
finally ascertained that, there could be no possible connection between
an unusually severe winter and his failure to give a sheep to a priest.
He began to suspect that the order of the universe was not constantly
being changed to assist him because he repeated a creed. He observed
that some children would steal after having been regularly baptized.
He noticed a vast difference between religion and justice, and that
the worshipers of the same God, took delight in cutting each other's
throats. He saw that these religious disputes filled the world with
hatred and slavery. At last he had the courage to suspect, that no God
at any time interferes with the order of events. He learned a few
facts, and these facts positively refused to harmonize with the ignorant
superstitions of his fathers. Finding his sacred books incorrect and
false in some particulars, his faith in their authenticity began to be
shaken; finding his priests ignorant upon some points, he began to
lose respect for the cloth. This was the commencement of intellectual
freedom.
The civilization of man has increased just to the same extent that
religious power has decreased. The intellectual advancement of man
depends upon how often he can exchange an old superstition for a new
truth. The Church never enabled a human being to make even one of these
exchanges; on the contrary, all her power has been used to prevent them.
In spite, however, of the Church, man found that some of his religious
conceptions were wrong. By reading his bible, he found that the ideas
of his God were more cruel and brutal than those of the most depraved
savage. He also discovered that this holy book was filled with
ignorance, and that it must have been written by persons wholly
unacquainted with the nature of the phenomena by which we are
surrounded; and now and then, some man had the goodness and courage to
speak his honest thoughts. In every age some thinker, some doubter, some
investigator, some hater of hypocrisy, some despiser of sham, some
brave lover of the right, has gladly, proudly and heroically braved
the ignorant fury of superstition for the sake of man and truth. These
divine men were generally torn in pieces by the worshipers of the
gods. Socrates was poisoned because he lacked reverence for some of the
deities. Christ was crucified by a religious rabble for the crime of
blasphemy. Nothing is more gratifying to a religionist than to destroy
his enemies at the command of God. Religious persecution springs from a
due admixture of love towards God and hatred towards man.
The terrible religious wars that inundated the world with blood tended
at least to bring all religion into disgrace and hatred. Thoughtful
people began to question the divine origin of a religion that made its
believers hold the rights of others in absolute contempt. A few began
to compare Christianity with the religions of heathen people, and were
forced to admit that the difference was hardly worth dying for. They
also found that other nations were even happier and more prosperous than
their own. They began to suspect that their religion, after all, was not
of much real value.
For three hundred years the Christian world endeavored to rescue from
the "Infidel" the empty sepulchre of Christ For three hundred years the
armies of the cross were baffled and beaten by the victorious hosts
of an impudent impostor. This immense fact sowed the seeds of distrust
throughout all Christendom, and millions began to lose confidence in
a God who had been vanquished by-Mohammed. The people also found that
commerce made friends where religion made enemies, and that religious
zeal was utterly incompatible with peace between nations or individuals.
They discovered that those who loved the gods most were apt to love men
least; that the arrogance of universal forgiveness was amazing; that the
most malicious had the effrontery to pray for their enemies, and that
humility and tyranny were the fruit of the same tree. For ages, a deadly
conflict has been waged between a few brave men and women of thought and
genius upon the one side, and the great ignorant religious mass on the
other. This is the war between Science and Faith. The few have appealed
to reason, to honor, to law, to freedom to the known, and to happiness
here in this world. The many have appealed to prejudice, to fear, to
miracle, to slavery, to the unknown, and to misery hereafter. The few
have said, "Think!" The many have said, "Believe!"
The first doubt was the womb and cradle of progress, and from the first
doubt, man has continued to advance. Men began to investigate, and the
church began to oppose. The astronomer scanned the heavens, while the
church branded his grand forehead with the word, "Infidel;" and now,
not a glittering star in all the vast expanse bears a Christian name.
In spite of all religion, the geologist penetrated the earth, read her
history in books of stone, and found, hidden within her bosom, souvenirs
of all the ages. Old ideas perished in the retort of the chemist, and
useful truths took their places. One by one religious conceptions have
been placed in the crucible of science, and thus far, nothing but dross
has been found. A new world has been discovered by the microscope;
everywhere has been found the infinite; in every direction man has
investigated and explored, and nowhere, in earth or stars, has been
found the footstep of any being superior to or independent of nature.
Nowhere has been discovered the slightest evidence of any interference
from without.
These are the sublime truths that enabled man to throw off the yoke of
superstition. These are the splendid facts that snatched the sceptre of
authority from the hands of priests.
In that vast cemetery, called the past, are most of the religions of
men, and there, too, are nearly all their gods. The sacred temples of
India were ruins long ago. Over column and cornice; over the painted and
pictured walls, cling and creep the trailing vines. Brahma, the golden,
with four heads and four arms; Vishnu, the sombre, the punisher of the
wicked, with his three eyes, his crescent, and his necklace of skulls;
Siva, the destroyer, red with seas of blood; Kali, the goddess;
Draupadi, the white-armed, and Chrishna, the Christ, all passed away and
left the thrones of heaven desolate. Along the banks of the sacred
Nile, Isis no longer wandering weeps, searching for the dead Osiris. The
shadow of Typhon's scowl falls no more upon the waves. The sun rises
as of yore, and his golden beams still smite the lips of Memnon, but
Mem-non is as voiceless as the Sphinx. The sacred fanes are lost in
desert sands; the dusty mummies are still waiting for the resurrection
promised by their priests, and the old beliefs, wrought in curiously
sculptured stone, sleep in the mystery of a language lost and dead.
Odin, the author of life and soul, Vili and Ve, and the mighty giant
Ymir, strode long ago from the icy halls of the North; and Thor, with
iron glove and glittering hammer, dashes mountains to the earth no more.
Broken are the circles and cromlechs of the ancient Druids; fallen upon
the summits of the hills, and covered with the centuries' moss, are the
sacred cairns. The divine fires of Persia and of the Aztecs, have died
out in the ashes of the past, and there is none to rekindle, and none to
feed the holy flames. The harp of Orpheus is still; the drained cup of
Bacchus has been thrown aside; Venus lies dead in stone, and her white
bosom heaves no more with love. The streams still murmur, but no naiads
bathe; the trees still wave, but in the forest aisles no dryads dance.
The gods have flown from high Olympus. Not even the beautiful women can
lure them back, and Danse lies unnoticed, naked to the stars. Hushed
forever are the thunders of Sinai; lost are the voices of the prophets,
and the land once flowing with milk and honey, is but a desert waste.
One by one, the myths have faded from the clouds; one by one, the
phantom host has disappeared, and one by one, facts, truths and
realities have taken their places. The supernatural has almost gone, but
the natural remains. The gods have fled, but man is here.
Nations, like individuals, have their periods of youth, of manhood and
decay. Religions are the same. The same inexorable destiny awaits them
all. The gods created by the nations must perish with their creators.
They were created by men, and like men, they must pass away. The deities
of one age are the by-words of the next. The religion of our day, and
country, is no more exempt from the sneer of the future than the others
have been. When India was supreme, Brahma sat upon the world's throne.
When the sceptre passed to Egypt, Isis and Osiris received the homage of
mankind. Greece, with her fierce valor, swept to empire, and Zeus put
on the purple of authority. The earth trembled with the tread of Rome's
intrepid sons, and Jove grasped with mailed hand the thunderbolts of
heaven. Rome fell, and Christians from her territory, with the red sword
of war, carved out the ruling nations of the world, and now Christ sits
upon the old throne. Who will be his successor?
Day by day, religious conceptions grow less and less intense. Day by
day, the old spirit dies out of book and creed. The burning enthusiasm,
the quenchless zeal of the early church have gone, never, never to
return. The ceremonies remain, but the ancient faith is fading out
of the human heart. The worn-out arguments fail to convince, and
denunciations that once blanched the faces of a race, excite in us
only derision and disgust. As time rolls on, the miracles grow mean and
small, and the evidences our fathers thought conclusive utterly fail to
satisfy us. There is an "irrepressible conflict" between religion and
science, and they cannot peaceably occupy the same brain nor the same
world.
While utterly discarding all creeds, and denying the truth of all
religions, there is neither in my heart nor upon my lips a sneer for the
hopeful, loving and tender souls who believe that from all this discord
will result a perfect harmony; that every evil will in some mysterious
way become a good, and that above and over all there is a being who, in
some way, will reclaim and glorify every one of the children of men;
but for those who heartlessly try to prove that salvation is almost
impossible; that damnation is almost certain; that the highway of the
universe leads to hell; who fill life with fear and death with horror;
who curse the cradle and mock the tomb, it is impossible to entertain
other than feelings of pity, contempt and scorn.
Reason, Observation and Experience--the Holy Trinity of
Science--have taught us that happiness is the only good; that the time
to be happy is now, and the way to be happy is to make others so. This
is enough for us. In this belief we are content to live and die. If by
any possibility the existence of a power superior to, and independent
of, nature shall be demonstrated, there will then be time enough to
kneel. Until then, let us stand erect.
Notwithstanding the fact that infidels in all ages have battled for
the rights of man, and have at all times been the fearless advocates
of liberty and justice, we are constantly charged by the Church with
tearing down without building again. The Church should by this time know
that it is utterly impossible to rob men of their opinions. The history
of religious persecution fully establishes the fact that the mind
necessarily resists and defies every attempt to control it by violence.
The mind necessarily clings to old ideas until prepared for the new.
The moment we comprehend the truth, all erroneous ideas are of necessity
cast aside.
A surgeon once called upon a poor cripple and kindly offered to render
him any assistance in his power. The surgeon began to discourse very
learnedly upon the nature and origin of disease; of the curative
properties of certain medicines; of the advantages of exercise, air and
light, and of the various ways in which health and strength could be
restored. These remarks were so full of good sense, and discovered so
much profound thought and accurate knowledge, that the cripple, becoming
thoroughly alarmed, cried out, "Do not, I pray you, take away my
crutches. They are my only support, and without them I should be
miserable indeed!" "I am not going," said the surgeon, "to take away
your crutches. I am going to cure you, and then you will throw the
crutches away yourself."
For the vagaries of the clouds the infidels propose to substitute the
realities of earth; for superstition, the splendid demonstrations and
achievements of science; and for theological tyranny, the chainless
liberty of thought.
We do not say that we have discovered all; that our doctrines are the
all in all of truth. We know of no end to the development of man. We
cannot unravel the infinite complications of matter and force. The
history of one monad is as unknown as that of the universe; one drop of
water is as wonderful as all the seas; one leaf, as all the forests; and
one grain of sand, as all the stars.
We are not endeavoring to chain the future, but to free the present. We
are not forging fetters for our children, but we are breaking those our
fathers made for us. We are the advocates of inquiry, of investigation
and thought. This of itself, is an admission that we are not perfectly
satisfied with all our conclusions. Philosophy has not the egotism of
faith. While superstition builds walls and creates obstructions,
science opens all the highways of thought. We do not pretend to have
circumnavigated everything, and to have solved all difficulties, but we
do believe that it is better to love men than to fear gods; that it is
grander and nobler to think and investigate for yourself than to repeat
a creed. We are satisfied that there can be but little liberty on earth
while men worship a tyrant in heaven. We do not expect to accomplish
everything in our day; but we want to do what good we can, and to render
all the service possible in the holy cause of human progress. We know
that doing away with gods and supernatural persons and powers is not an
end. It is a means to an end: the real end being the happiness of man.
Felling forests is not the end of agriculture. Driving pirates from the
sea is not all there is of commerce.
We are laying the foundations of the grand temple of the
future--not the temple of all the gods, but of all the people--wherein,
with appropriate rites, will be celebrated the religion of Humanity. We
are doing what little we can to hasten the coming of the day when
society shall cease producing millionaires and mendicants--gorged
indolence and famished industry--truth in rags, and superstition robed
and crowned. We are looking for the time when the useful shall be the
honorable; and when Reason, throned upon the world's brain, shall be the
King of Kings, and God of Gods.