I have said, and still say, that you have no right to endeavor by force
to compel another to think your way--that man has no right to compel his
fellow-man to adopt his creed, by torture or social ostracism. I have
said, and still say, that even an infinite God has and can have no right
to compel by force or threats even the meanest of mankind to accept
a dogma abhorrent to his mind. As a matter of fact such a power is
incapable of being exercised. You may compel a man to say that he has
changed his mind. You may force him to say that he agrees with you. In
this way, however, you make hypocrites, not converts. Is it possible
that a god wishes the worship of a slave? Does a god desire the homage
of a coward? Does he really long for the adoration of a hypocrite? Is
it possible that he requires the worship of one who dare not think? If I
were a god it seems to me that I had rather have the esteem and love of
one grand, brave man, with plenty of heart and plenty of brain, than
the blind worship, the ignorant adoration, the trembling homage of a
universe of men afraid to reason. And yet I am warned by the orthodox
guardians of this great city not to think. I am told that I am in danger
of hell; that for me to express my honest convictions is to excite the
wrath of God. They inform me that unless I believe in a certain way,
meaning their way, I am in danger of everlasting fire.
There was a time when these threats whitened the faces of men with fear.
That time has substantially passed away. For a hundred years hell has
been gradually growing cool, the flames have been slowly dying out, the
brimstone is nearly exhausted, the fires have been burning lower and
lower, and the climate gradually changing. To such an extent has the
change already been effected that if I were going there to-night I would
take an overcoat and a box of matches.
They say that the eternal future of man depends upon his belief. I deny
it. A conclusion honestly arrived at by the brain cannot possibly be
a crime; and the man who says it is, does not think so. The god who
punishes it as a crime is simply an infamous tyrant. As for me, I would
a thousand times rather go to perdition and suffer its torments with
the brave, grand thinkers of the world, than go to heaven and keep the
company of a god who would damn his children for an honest belief.
The next thing I have said is, that woman is the equal of man; that she
has every right that man has, and one more--the right to be protected,
because she is the weaker. I have said that marriage should be an
absolutely perfect partnership of body and soul; that a man should treat
his wife like a splendid flower, and that she should fill his life with
perfume and with joy. I have said that a husband had no right to be
morose; that he had no right to assassinate the sunshine and murder the
joy of life.
I have said that when he went home he should go like a ray of light, and
fill his house so full of joy that it would burst out of the doors and
windows and illumine even the darkness of night. I said that marriage
was the holiest, highest, the most sacred institution among men; that
it took millions of years for woman to advance from the condition of
absolute servitude, from the absolute slavery where the Bible found her
and left her, up to the position she occupies at present. I have pleaded
for the rights of woman, for the rights of wives, and what is more, for
the rights of little children. I have said that they could be governed
by affection, by love, and that my heart went out to all the children
of poverty and of crime; to the children that live in the narrow streets
and in the sub-cellars; to the children that run and hide when they hear
the footsteps of a brutal father, the children that grow pale when
they hear their names pronounced even by a mother; to all the little
children, the flotsam and jetsam upon the wide, rude sea of life. I have
said that my heart goes out to them one and all; I have asked fathers
and mothers to cease beating their own flesh and blood. I have said to
them, When your child does wrong, put your arms around him; let him feel
your heart beat against his. It is easier to control your child with a
kiss than with a club.
For expressing these sentiments, I have been denounced by the religious
press and by ministers in their pulpits as a demon, as an enemy of
order, as a fiend, as an infamous man. Of this, however, I make no
complaint. A few years ago they would have burned me at the stake and I
should have been compelled to look upon their hypocritical faces through
flame and smoke. They cannot do it now or they would. One hundred years
ago I would have been burned, simply for pleading for the rights of men.
Fifty years ago I would have been imprisoned. Fifty years ago my wife
and my children would have been torn from my arms in the name of the
most merciful God. Twenty-five years ago I could not have made a living
in the United States at the practice of law; but I can now. I would not
then have been allowed to express my thought; but I can now, and I will.
And when I think about the liberty I now enjoy, the whole horizon is
illuminated with glory and the air is filled with wings.
I then delivered another lecture entitled "Ghosts," in which I sought to
show that man had been controlled by phantoms of his own imagination;
in which I sought to show these imps of darkness, these devils, had all
been produced by superstition; in which I endeavored to prove that man
had groveled in the dust before monsters of his own creation; in which I
endeavored to demonstrate that the many had delved in the soil that the
few might live in idleness, that the many had lived in caves and dens
that the few might dwell in palaces of gold; in which I endeavored to
show that man had received nothing from these ghosts except hatred,
except ignorance, except unhappiness, and that in the name of phantoms
man had covered the face of the world with tears. And for this, I have
been assailed, in the name, I presume, of universal forgiveness. So far
as any argument I have produced is concerned, it cannot in any way make
the slightest difference whether I am a good or a bad man. It cannot in
any way make the slightest difference whether my personal character is
good or bad. That is not the question, though, so far as I am concerned,
I am willing to stake the whole question upon that issue. That is not,
however, the thing to be discussed, nor the thing to be decided. The
question is, whether what I said is true.
I did say that from ghosts we had obtained certain things--among other
things a book known as the Bible. From the ghosts we received that
book; and the believers in ghosts pretend that upon that book rests the
doctrine of the immortality of the human soul. This I deny.
Whether or not the soul is immortal is a fact in nature and cannot be
changed by any book whatever. If I am immortal, I am. If am not, no book
can render me so. It is no mure wonderful that I should live again than
that I do live.
The doctrine of immortality is not based upon any book. The foundation
of that idea is not a creed. The idea of immortality, which, like a
sea, has ebbed and flowed in the human heart, beating with its countless
waves of hope and fear against the shores and rocks of fate and time,
was not born of any book, was not born of a creed. It is not the child
of any religion. It was born of human affection; and it will continue to
ebb and flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness as long
as love kisses the lips of death. It is the eternal bow--Hope shining
upon the tears of Grief.
I did say that these ghosts taught that human slavery was right. If
there is a crime beneath the shining stars it is the crime of enslaving
a human being. Slavery enslaves not only the slave, but the master as
well. When you put a chain upon the limbs of another, you put a fetter
also upon your own brain. I had rather be a slave than a slaveholder.
The slave can at least be just--the slaveholder cannot. I had rather be
robbed than be a robber. I had rather be stolen from than to be a
thief. I have said, and I do say, that the Bible upheld, sustained and
sanctioned the institution of human slavery; and before I get through I
will prove it.
I said that to the same book we are indebted, to a great degree, for the
doctrine of witchcraft. Relying upon its supposed sacred texts, people
were hanged and their bodies burned for getting up storms at sea with
the intent of drowning royal vermin. Every possible offence was punished
under the name of witchcraft, from souring beer to high treason.
I also said, and I still say, that the book we obtained from the ghosts,
for the guidance of man, upheld the infamy of infamies, called polygamy;
and I will also prove that. And the same book teaches, not political
liberty, but political tyranny.
I also said that the author of the book given us by the ghosts knew
nothing about astronomy, still less about geology, still less, if
possible, about medicine, and still less about legislation.
This is what I have said concerning the aristocracy of the air. I am
well aware that having said it I ought to be able to prove the truth
of my words. I have said these things. No one ever said them in better
nature than I have. I have not the slightest malice--a victor never
felt malice. As soon as I had said these things, various gentlemen felt
called upon to answer me. I want to say that if there is anything I like
in the world it is fairness. And one reason I like it so well is that
I have had so little of it. I can say, if I wish, extremely mean
and hateful things. I have read a great many religious papers and
discussions and think that I now know all the infamous words in our
language. I know how to account for every noble action by a mean and
wretched motive, and that, in my judgment, embraces nearly the entire
science of modern theology. The moment I delivered a lecture upon "The
Liberty of Man, Woman and Child," I was charged with having said that
there is nothing back of nature, and that nature with its infinite arms
embraces everything; and thereupon I was informed that I believed in
nothing but matter and force, that I believed only in earth, that I did
not believe in spirit. If by spirit you mean that which thinks, then I
am a believer in spirit. If you mean by spirit the something that says
"I," the something that reasons, hopes, loves and aspires, then I am a
believer in spirit. Whatever spirit there is in the universe must be a
natural thing, and not superimposed upon nature. All that I can say
is, that whatever is, is natural. And there is as much goodness, in my
judgment, as much spirit in this world as in any other; and you are just
as near the heart of the universe here as you can be anywhere. One of
your clergymen says in answer, as he supposes, to me, that there is
matter and force and spirit. Well, can matter exist without force? What
would keep it together? What would keep the finest possible conceivable
atom together unless there was force? Can you imagine such a thing as
matter without force? Can you conceive of force without matter? Can you
conceive of force floating about attached to nothing? Can you possibly
conceive of this? No human being can conceive of force without matter.
"You cannot conceive of force being harnessed or hitched to matter as
you would hitch horses to a carriage." You cannot. Now, what is spirit?
They say spirit is the first thing that was. It seems to me, however, as
though spirit was the blossom, the fruit of all, not the commencement.
They say it was first. Very well. Spirit without force, a spirit without
any matter--what would that spirit do? No force, no matter!--a spirit
living in an infinite vacuum. What would such a spirit turn its
particular attention to? This spirit, according to these theologians,
created the world, the universe; and if it did, there must have been a
time when it commenced to create; and back of that there must have
been an eternity spent in absolute idleness. Now, is it possible that
a spirit existed during an eternity without any force and without any
matter? Is it possible that force could exist without matter or spirit?
Is it possible that matter could exist alone, if by matter you mean
something without force? The only answer I can give to all these
questions is, I do not know. For my part, I do not know what spirit is,
if there is any. I do not know what matter is, neither am I acquainted
with the elements of force. If you mean by matter that which I can
touch, that which occupies space, then I believe in matter. If you mean
by force anything that can overcome weight, that can overcome what
we call gravity or inertia; if you mean by force that which moves the
molecules of matter, or the movement itself, then I believe in force.
If you mean by spirit that which thinks and loves, then I believe in
spirit. There is, however, no propriety in wasting any time about the
science of metaphysics. I will give you my definition of metaphysics:
Two fools get together; each admits what neither can prove, and
thereupon both of them say, "hence we infer." That is all there is of
metaphysics.
These gentlemen, however, say to me that all my doctrine about the
treatment of wives and children, all my ideas of the rights of man, all
these are wrong, because I am not exactly correct as to my notion 01
spirit. They say that spirit existed first, at least an eternity before
there was any force or any matter. Exactly how spirit could act without
force we do not understand. That we must take upon credit. How spirit
could create matter without force is a serious question, and we are
too reverent to press such an inquiry. We are bound to be satisfied,
however, that spirit is entirely independent of force and matter, and
any man who denies this must be "a malevolent and infamous wretch."
Another reverend gentleman proceeds to denounce all I have said as the
doctrine of negation. And we are informed by him--speaking I presume
from experience--that negation is a poor thing to die by. He tells us
that the last hours are the grand testing hours. They are the hours when
atheists disown their principles and infidels bewail their folly--"that
Voltaire and Thomas Paine wrote sharply against Christianity, but their
death-bed scenes are too harrowing for recital"--He also states that
"another French infidel philosopher tried in vain to fortify Voltaire,
but that a stronger man than Voltaire had taken possession of him,
and he cried 'Retire! it is you that have brought me to my present
state--Begone! what a rich glory you have brought me.'" This, my
friends, is the same old, old falsehood that has been repeated again and
again by the lips of hatred and hypocrisy. There is not in one of these
stories a solitary word of truth; and every intelligent man knows all
these death-bed accounts to be entirely and utterly false. They
are taken, however, by the mass of the church as evidence that all
opposition to Christianity, so-called, fills the bed of the dying
infidel and scoffer with serpents and scorpions. So far as my experience
goes, the bad die in many instances as placidly as the good. I have
sometimes thought that a hardened wretch, upon whose memory is engraved
the record of nearly every possible crime, dies without a shudder,
without a tremor, while some grand, good man, remembering during his
last moments an unkind word spoken to a stranger, it may be in the
heat of anger, dies with remorseful words upon his lips. Nearly every
murderer who is hanged, dies with an immensity of nerve, but I never
thought it proved that he had lived a good and useful life. Neither have
I imagined that it sanctified the crime for which he suffered death.
The fact is, that when man approaches natural death, his powers, his
intellectual faculties fail and grow dim. He becomes a child. He has
less and less sense. And just in proportion as he loses his reasoning
powers, he goes back to the superstitions of his childhood. The scenes
of youth cluster about him and he is again in the lap of his mother.
Of this very fact, there is not a more beautiful description than that
given by Shakespeare when he takes that old mass of wit and filth, Jack
Falstaff, in his arms, and Mrs Quickly says: "A' made a finer end, and
went away, an it had been my christom child; a' parted ev'n just between
twelve and one, ev'n at the turning o' the tide; for after I saw him
fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his
fingers' end, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp
as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields." As the genius of Shakespeare
makes Falstaff a child again upon sunny slopes, decked with daisies, so
death takes the dying back to the scenes of their childhood, and they
are clasped once more to the breasts of mothers. They go back, for the
reason that nearly every superstition in the world has been sanctified
by some sweet and placid mother. Remember, the superstition has never
sanctified the mother, but the mother has sanctified the superstition.
The young Mohammedan, who now lies dying upon some field of battle,
thinks sweet and tender thoughts of home and mother, and will, as the
blood oozes from his veins, repeat some holy verse from the blessed
Koran. Every superstition in the world that is now held sacred has been
made so by mothers, by fathers, by the recollections of home. I know
what it has cost the noble, the brave, the tender, to throw away every
superstition, although sanctified by the memory of those they loved.
Whoever has thrown away these superstitions has been pursued by his
fellow-men, From the day of the death of Voltaire the church has pursued
him as though he had been the vilest criminal. A little over one hundred
years ago, Catholicism, the inventor of instruments of torture, red with
the innocent blood of millions, felt in its heartless breast the dagger
of Voltaire. From that blow the Catholic Church never can recover. Livid
with hatred she launched at her assassin the curse of Rome, and ignorant
Protestants have echoed that curse. For myself, I like Voltaire, and
whenever I think of that name, it is to me as a plume floating above
some grand knight--a knight who rides to a walled city and demands
an unconditional surrender. I like him. He was once imprisoned in the
Bastile, and while in that frightful fortress--and I like to tell it--he
changed his name. His name was Francois Marie Arouet. In his gloomy cell
he changed this name to Voltaire, and when some sixty years afterward
the Bastile was torn down to the very dust, "Voltaire" was the battle
cry of the destroyers who did it. I like him because he did more for
religious toleration than any other man who ever lived or died. I admire
him because he did more to do away with torture in civil proceedings
than any other man. I like him because he was always upon the side of
justice, upon the side of progress. I like him in spite of his faults,
because he had many and splendid virtues. I like him because his
doctrines have never brought unhappiness to any country. I like him
because he hated tyranny; and when he died he died as serenely as ever
mortal died; he spoke to his servant recognizing him as a man. He said
to him, calling him by name: "My friend, farewell." These were the last
words of Voltaire. And this was the only frightful scene enacted at his
bed of death. I like Voltaire, because for half a century he was the
intellectual emperor of Europe. I like him, because from his throne at
the foot of the Alps he pointed the finger of scorn at every hypocrite
in Christendom.
I will give to any clergyman in the city of San Francisco a thousand
dollars in gold to substantiate the story that the death of Voltaire was
not as peaceful as the coming of the dawn. The same absurd story is told
of Thomas Paine. Thomas Paine was a patriot--he was the first man in
the world to write these words: "The Free and Independent States of
America." He was the first man to convince the American people that they
ought to separate themselves from Great Britain. "His pen did as
much, to say the least, for the liberty of America, as the sword of
Washington." The men who have enjoyed the benefit of his heroic services
repay them with slander and calumny. If there is in this world a crime,
ingratitude is a crime. And as for myself, I am not willing to receive
anything from any man without making at least an acknowledgment of my
obligation. Y et these clergymen, whose very right to stand in their
pulpits and preach, was secured to them by such men as Thomas Paine,
delight in slandering the reputation of that great man. They tell their
hearers that he died in fear,--that he died in agony, hearing devils
rattle chains, and that the infinite God condescended to frighten a
dying man. I will give one thousand dollars in gold to any clergyman
in San Francisco who will substantiate the truth of the absurd stories
concerning the death of Thomas Paine. There is not one word of truth in
these accounts; not one word.
Let me ask one thing, and let me ask it, if you please, in what is
called a reverent spirit. Suppose that Voltaire and Thomas Paine, and
Volney and Hume and Hobbes had cried out when dying "My God, My God, why
hast thou forsaken me?" what would the clergymen of this city then have
said?
To resort to these foolish calumnies about the great men who have
opposed the superstitions of the world, is in my judgment, unbecoming
any intelligent man. The real question is not, who is afraid to die? The
question is, who is right? The great question is not, who died right,
but who lived right? There is infinitely more responsibility in living
than in dying. The moment of death is the most unimportant moment of
life. Nothing can be done then. You cannot even do a favor for a friend,
except to remember him in your will. It is a moment when life ceases to
be of value. While living, while you have health and strength, you
can augment the happiness of your fellow-men; and the man who has made
others happy need not be afraid to die. Yet these believers, as they
call themselves, these believers who hope for immortality--thousands
of them, will rob their neighbors, thousands of them will do numberless
acts of injustice, when, according to their belief, the witnesses of
their infamy will live forever; and the men whom they have injured and
outraged, will meet them in every glittering star through all the ages
yet to be.
As for me, I would rather do a generous action, and read the record in
the grateful faces of my fellow-men.
These gentlemen who attack me are orthodox now, but the men who started
their churches were heretics.
The first Presbyterian was a heretic. The first Baptist was a heretic.
The first Congregationalist was a heretic. The first Christian was
denounced as a blasphemer. And yet these heretics, the moment they get
numerous enough to be in the majority in some locality, begin to call
themselves orthodox. Can there be any impudence beyond this?
The first Baptist, as I said before, was a heretic; and he was the best
Baptist that I have ever heard anything about. I always liked him. He
was a good man--Roger Williams. He was the first man, so far as I know,
in this country, who publicly said that the soul of man should be free.
And it was a wonder to me that a man who had sense enough to say
that, could think that any particular form of baptism was necessary to
salvation. It does strike me that a man of great brain and thought could
not possibly think the eternal welfare of a human being, the question
whether he should dwell with angels, or be tossed upon eternal waves
of fire, should be settled by the manner in which he had been baptized.
That seems, to me so utterly destitute of thought and heart, that it is
a matter of amazement to me that any man ever looked upon the ordinance
of baptism as of any importance whatever. If we were at the judgment
seat to-night, and the Supreme Being, in our hearing, should ask a man:
"Have you been a good man?" and the man replied:
"Tolerably good."
"Did you love your wife and children?"
"Yes."
"Did you try and make them happy?"
"Yes."
"Did you try and make your neighbors happy?" "Yes, I paid my debts: I
gave heaping measure, and I never cared whether I was thanked for it or
not."
Suppose the Supreme Being then should say:
"Were you ever baptized?" and the man should reply:
"I am sorry to say I never was."
Could a solitary person of sense hear that question asked, by the
Supreme Being, without laughing, even if he knew that his own case was
to be called next?
I happened to be in the company of six or seven Baptist elders--how I
ever got into such bad company, I don't know,--and one of them asked
what I thought about baptism. Well, I never thought much about it; did
not know much about it; didn't want to say anything, but they insisted
upon it. I said, "Well, I'll give you my opinion--with soap, baptism is
a good thing."
The Reverend Mr. Guard has answered me, as I am informed, upon several
occasions. I have read the reports of his remarks, and have boiled them
down. He said some things about me not entirely pleasant, which I do not
wish to repeat. In his reply he takes the ground:
_First_. That the Bible is not an immoral book, because he swore upon it
or by it when he joined the Masons.
_Second_. He excuses Solomon for all his crimes upon the supposition
that he had softening of the brain, or a fatty degeneration of the
heart.
_Third._ That the Hebrews had the right to slay all the inhabitants of
Canaan, according to the doctrine of the "survival of the fittest." He
takes the ground that the destruction of these Canaanites, the ripping
open of women with child by the sword of war, was an act of sublime
mercy. He justifies a war of extermination; he applauds every act of
cruelty and murder. He says that the Canaanites ought to have been
turned from their homes; that men guilty of no crime except fighting for
their country, old men with gray hairs, old mothers and little, dimpled,
prattling children, ought to have been sacrificed upon the altar of war;
that it was an act of sublime mercy to plunge the sword of religious
persecution into the bodies of all, old and young. This is what the
reverend gentleman is pleased to call mercy. If this is mercy let us
have injustice. If there is in the heavens such a God I am sorry that
man exists. All this, however, is justified upon the ground that God
has the right to do as he pleases with the being he has created. This I
deny. Such a doctrine is infamously false. Suppose I could take a stone
and in one moment change it into a sentient, hoping, loving human being,
would I have the right to torture it? Would I have the right to give it
pain? No one but a fiend would either exercise or justify such a right.
Even if there is a God who created us all he has no such right. Above
any God that can exist, in the infinite serenity forever sits the figure
of justice; and this God, no matter how great and infinite he may be, is
bound to do justice.
_Fourth._ That God chose the Jews and governed them personally for
thousands of years, and drove out the Canaanites in order that his
peculiar people might not be corrupted by the example of idolaters; that
he wished to make of the Hebrews a great nation, and that, consequently,
he was justified in destroying the original inhabitants of that country.
It seems to me that the end hardly justified the means. According to the
account, God governed the Jews personally for many ages and succeeded
in civilizing them to that degree, that they crucified him the first
opportunity they had. Such an administration can hardly be called a
success.
_Fifth._ The reverend gentleman seems to think that the practice of
polygamy after all is not a bad thing when compared with the crime
of exhibiting a picture of Antony and Cleopatra. Upon the corrupting
influence of such pictures he descants at great length, and attacks with
all the bitterness of the narrow theologian the masterpieces of art.
Allow me to say one word about art. That is one of the most beautiful
words in our language--Art. And it never seemed to me necessary for
art to go in partnership with a rag. I like the paintings of Angelo, of
Raffaelle. I like the productions of those splendid souls that put their
ideas of beauty upon the canvas uncovered.
"There are brave souls in every land
Who worship nature, grand and nude,
And who with swift indignant hand
Tear off the fig leaves of the prude."
_Sixth_. That it may be true that the Bible sanctions slavery, but that
it is not an immoral book even if it does.
I can account for these statements, for these arguments, only as
the reverend gentleman has accounted for the sins of Solomon--"by a
softening of the brain, or a fatty degeneration of the heart."
It does seem to me that if I were a Christian, and really thought my
fellow-man was going down to the bottomless pit; that he was going to
misery and agony forever, it does seem to me that I would try and save
him. It does seem to me, that instead of having my mouth filled with
epithets and invectives; instead of drawing the lips of malice back from
the teeth of hatred, it seems to me that my eyes would be filled with
tears. It seems to me that I would do what little I could to reclaim
him. I would talk to him and of him, in kindness. I would put the arms
of affection about him. I would not speak of him as though he were a
wild beast. I would not speak to him as though he were a brute. I would
think of him as a man, as a man liable to eternal torture among the
damned, and my heart would be filled with sympathy, not hatred--my eyes
with tears, not scorn.
If there is anything pitiable, it is to see a man so narrowed and
withered by the blight and breath of superstition, as cheerfully to
defend the most frightful crimes of which we have a record--a man so
hardened and petrified by creed and dogma that he hesitates not to
defend even the institution of human slavery--so lost to all sense of
pity that he applauds murder and rapine as though they were acts of the
loftiest self-denial.
The next gentleman who has endeavored to answer what I have said, is the
Rev. Samuel Robinson. This he has done in his sermon entitled "Ghosts
against God or Ingersoll against Honesty." I presume he imagines himself
to be the defendant in both cases.
This gentleman apologized for attending an infidel lecture, upon the
ground that he had to contribute to the support of a "materialistic
demon." To say the least, this is not charitable. But I am satisfied.
I am willing to exchange facts for epithets. I fare so much better than
did the infidels in the olden time that I am more than satisfied. It is
a little thing that I bear.
The brave men of the past endured the instruments of torture. They were
stretched upon racks; their feet were crushed in iron boots; they stood
upon the shores of exile and gazed with tearful eyes toward home and
native land. They were taken from their firesides, from their wives,
from their children; they were taken to the public square; they were
chained to stakes, and their ashes were scattered by the countless hands
of hatred. I am satisfied. The disciples of fear cannot touch me.
This gentlemen hated to contribute a cent to the support of a
"materialistic demon." When I saw that statement I will tell you what I
did. I knew the man's conscience must be writhing in his bosom to think
that he had contributed a dollar toward my support, toward the support
of a "materialistic demon." I wrote him a letter and I said:
"My Dear Sir: In order to relieve your conscience of the crime of having
contributed to the support of an unbeliever in ghosts, I hereby enclose
the amount you paid to attend my lecture." I then gave him a little
good advice. I advised him to be charitable, to be kind, and regretted
exceedingly that any man could listen to one of my talks for an hour
and a half and not go away satisfied that all men had the same right to
think.
This man denied having received the money, but it was traced to him
through a blot on the envelope.
This gentleman avers that everything that I said about persecution
is applicable to the Catholic Church only. That is what he says. The
Catholics have probably persecuted more than any other church, simply
because that church has had more power, simply because it has been more
of a church. It has to-day a better organization, and as a rule, the
Catholics come nearer believing what they say about their church than
other Christians do. Was it a Catholic persecution that drove the
Puritan fathers from England? Was it not the storm of Episcopal
persecution that filled the sails of the Mayflower? Was it not a
Protestant persecution that drove the Ark and Dove to America? Let us be
honest. Who went to Scotland and persecuted the Presbyterians? Who was
it that chained to the stake that splendid girl by the sands of the
sea for not saying "God save the king"? She was worthy to have been the
mother of Caesar. She would not say "God save the king," but she would
say "God save the king, if it be God's will." Protestants ordered her to
say "God save the king," and no more. She said, "I will not," and they
chained her to a stake in the sand and allowed her to be drowned by
the rising of the inexorable tide. Who did this? Protestants. Who drove
Roger Williams from Massachusetts? Protestants. Who sold white Quaker
children into slavery? Protestants. Who cut out the tongues of Quakers?
Who burned and destroyed men and women and children charged with
impossible crimes? Protestants. The Protestants have persecuted exactly
to the extent of their power. The Catholics have done the same.
I want, however, to be just. The first people to pass an act of
religious toleration in the New World were the Catholics of Maryland.
The next were the Baptists of Rhode Island, led by Roger Williams.
The Catholics passed the act of religious toleration, and after the
Protestants got into power again in England, and also in the colony of
Maryland, they repealed the law of toleration and passed another law
declaring the Catholics from under the protection of all law.
Afterward, the Catholics again got into power and had the generosity and
magnanimity to re-enact the old law. And, so far as I know, it is the
only good record upon the subject of religious toleration the Catholics
have in this world, and I am always willing to give them credit for it.
This gentleman also says that infidelity has done nothing for the world
in the development of the arts and sciences. Does he not know that
nearly every man who took a forward step was denounced by the church as
a heretic and infidel? Does he not know that the church has in all ages
persecuted the astronomers, the geologists, the logicians? Does he not
know that even to-day the church slanders and maligns the foremost men?
Has he ever heard of Tyndall, of Huxley? Is he acquainted with John
W. Draper, one of the leading minds of the world? Did he ever hear of
Auguste Comte, the great Frenchman? Did he ever hear of Descartes, of
Laplace, of Spinoza? In short, has he ever heard of a man who took a
step in advance of his time?
Orthodoxy never advances. When it advances, it ceases to be orthodoxy
and becomes heresy. Orthodoxy is putrefaction. It is intellectual
cloaca; it cannot advance. What the church calls infidelity is simply
free thought. Every man who really owns his own brain is, in the
estimation of the church, an infidel.
There is a paper published in this city called _The Occident_. The
Editor has seen fit to speak of me, and of the people who have assembled
to hear me, in the lowest, vilest and most scurrilous terms possible.
I cannot afford to reply in the same spirit. He alleges that the people
who assemble to hear me are the low, the debauched and the infamous.
The man who reads that paper ought to read it with tongs. It is a
Presbyterian sheet; and would gladly treat me as John Calvin treated
Castalio. Castalio was the first minister in the history of Christendom
who acknowledged the innocence of honest error, and John Calvin followed
him like a sleuth-hound of perdition. He called him a "dog of Satan;"
said that he had crucified Christ afresh; and pursued him to the very
grave. The editor of this paper is still warming his hands at the fire
that burned Servetus. He has in his heart the same fierce hatred of
everything that is free. But what right have we to expect anything good
of a man who believes in the eternal damnation of infants?
There may have been sometime in the history of the world a worse
religion than Old School Presbyterianism, but if there ever was, from
cannibalism to civilization, I have never heard of it.
I make a distinction between the members and the creed of that church. I
know many who are a thousand times better than the creed--good, warm and
splendid friends of mine. I would do anything in the world for them. And
I have said to them a hundred times, "You are a thousand times better
than your creed." But when you come down to the doctrine of the
damnation of infants, it is the deformity of deformities. The editor
of this paper is engaged in giving the world the cheerful doctrines of
fore-ordination and damnation--those twin comforts of the Presbyterian
creed, and warning them against the frightful effects of reasoning in
any manner for themselves. He regards the intellectually free as the
lowest, the vilest and the meanest, as men who wish to sin, as men
who are longing to commit crime, men who are anxious to throw off all
restraint.
My friends, every chain thrown from the body puts an additional
obligation upon the soul. Every man who is free, puts a responsibility
upon his brain and upon his heart. You, who never want responsibility,
give your souls to some church. You, who never want the feeling that you
are under obligation to yourselves, give your souls away. But if you are
willing to feel and meet responsibility; if you feel that you must give
an account not only to yourselves but to every human being whom you
injure, then you must be free. Where there is no freedom, there can be
no responsibility.
It is a mystery to me why the editors of religious papers are so
malicious, why they endeavor to answer argument with calumny. Is it
because they feel the sceptre slowly slipping from their hands? Is it
the result of impotent rage? Is it because there is being written upon
every orthodox brain a certificate of intellectual inferiority?
This same editor assures his readers that what I say is not worth
answering, and yet he devotes column after column of his journal to that
very purpose. He states that I am no speaker, no orator; and upon the
same page admits that he did not hear me, giving as a reason that he
does not think it right to pay money for such a purpose. Recollect, that
in a religious paper, a man who professes honesty, criticises a statue
or a painting, condemns it, and at the end of the criticism says that he
never saw it. He criticises what he calls the oratory of a man, and at
the end says, "I never heard him, and I never saw him."
As a matter of fact, I have never heard of any of these gentlemen who
thought it necessary to hear what any man said in order to answer him.
The next gentleman who answered me is the Rev. Mr. Ijams. And I must
say, so far as I can see, in his argument, or in his mode of treatment,
he is a kind and considerate gentleman. He makes several mistakes as
to what I really said, but the fault I suppose must have been in the
report. I am made to say in the report of his sermon, "There is no
sacred place in all the universe." What I did say was, "There is no
sacred place in all the universe of thought. There is nothing too holy
to be investigated, nothing too divine to be understood. The fields of
thought are fenceless, and without a wall." I say this to-night.
Mr. Ijams also says that I had declared that man had not only the right
to do right, but also the right to do wrong. What I really said was, man
has the right to do right, and the right to think right, and the right
to think wrong. Thought is a means of ascertaining truth, a mode by
which we arrive at conclusions. And if no one has a right to think,
unless he thinks right, he would only have the right to think upon
self-evident propositions. In all respects, with the exception of these
misstatements to which I have called your attention, so far as I can
see, Mr. Ijams was perfectly fair, and treated me as though I had the
ordinary rights of a human being. I take this occasion to thank him.
A great many papers, a great many people, a good many ministers and a
multitude of men, have had their say, and have expressed themselves
with the utmost freedom. I cannot reply to them all. I can only reply to
those who have made a parade of answering me. Many have said it is not
worth answering, and then proceeded to answer. They have said, he has
produced no argument, and then have endeavored to refute it. They have
said it is simply the old straw that has been thrashed over and over
again for years and years. If all I have said is nothing, if it is
all idle and foolish, why do they take up the time of their fellow-men
replying to me? Why do they fill their religious papers with criticisms,
if all I have said and done reminds them, according to the Rev. Mr.
Guard, of "some little dog barking at a railway train"? Why stop the
train, why send for the directors, why hold a consultation and finally
say, we must settle with that dog or stop running these cars?
Probably the best way to answer them all, is to prove beyond cavil the
truth of what I have said.