* A newspaper dispatch from Lawrence, Kansas, publishedyesterday, stated that Col. Robert O. Ingersoll had beeninvited by the law students of the Kansas State Universityto address them at the commencement exercises, and that thefaculty council had objected and had invited Chauncey M.Depew instead.The dispatch also stared that the council had notifiedrepresentatives of the law school that if they insisted onthe great Agnostic speaking before the school, the facultywould take heroic measures to thwart their design.It was also stated that the law students had made it clearlyunderstood that the lecture Ingersoll had been invited todeliver was to be on the subject of law, and that his viewson religion, the Bible and the Deity were not to be alludedto, and they considered that the faculty council had"subjected them to an insult," and had gone out of its way,also, to affront Colonel Ingersoll without cause.Colonel Ingersoll, when seen yesterday and questioned aboutthe matter, took it, as he does all things of that nature,philosophically and in a true manly spirit.Chauncey M. Depew was seen at his residence, No. 43 WestFifty-fourth Street, last night and asked if he had beeninvited to address the students of the Kansas University inthe place of Colonel Ingersoll. He said he had not."Would you go if you were invited?" he was asked."No; I would not," he answered. "You see, I am so busy here;besides, my social and semi-political engagements are suchthat I would not have time to go to such a distant point,anyhow."No, I do not care to express any opinion regarding theaction of the faculty council of the Kansas University, butI consider Colonel Ingersoll one of the greatest intellectsof the century, from whose teaching all can profit."—TheJournal, New York, January 24, im.
UNIVERSITIES are naturally conservative. They know that if suspected of being really scientific, orthodox Christians will keep their sons away, so they pander to the superstitions of the times.
Most of the universities are exceedingly poor, and poverty is the enemy of independence. Universities, like people, have the instinct of self-preservation. The University of Kansas is like the rest.
The faculty of Cornell, upon precisely the same question, took exactly the same action, and the faculty of the University of Missouri did the same. These institutions must be the friends and defenders of superstition.
The Vanderbilt College, or University of Tennessee, discharged Professor Winchell because he differed with the author of Genesis on geology.
These colleges act as they must, and we should blame nobody. If Humboldt and Darwin were now alive they would not be allowed to teach in these institutions of "learning."
We need not find fault with the president and professors. They want to keep their places. The probability is that they would like to do better—that they desire to be free, and, if free, would, with all their hearts, welcome the truth. Still, these universities seem to do good. The minds of their students are developed to that degree, that they naturally turn to me as the defender of their thoughts.
This gives me great hope for the future. The young, the growing, the enthusiastic, are on my side. All the students who have selected me are my friends, and I thank them with all my heart.
* Col. Robert G. Ingersoll represents what is intellectuallyhighest among the whole world's opponents of religion. Hecounts theology as the science of a superstition. He decriesreligion as it exists, and holds that the broadest thing aman, or all human nature, can do is to acknowledge ignorancewhen it cannot know. He accepts nothing on faith. He is theAmerican who is forever asking, "Why?"—who demands a reasonand material proof before believing.As Christianity's corner-stone is faith, he rejectsChristianity, and argues that all men who are broad enoughto know when to narrow their ideas down to fact ordemonstrable theory must reject it. Believe as he does ornot, all Americans must be interested in him. His mind ismarvelous, his tongue is silvern, his logic is invincible—as logic.Col. Ingersoll is a shining example of the oft-quoted factthat, given mental ability, health and industry, a young manmay make for himself whatever place in life he desires andis fitted to fill. His early advantages were limited, forhis father, a Congregational minister whose field of laboroften changed, was a man of far too small an income to sendhis sons to college. Whatever of mental training the youngman had he was obliged to get by reason of his own exertion,and his splendid triumphs as an orator, and his solidachievements as a lawyer are all the result of his ownefforts. The only help he had was that which is the commonheritage of all American young men—the chance to fight evenhanded for success. It is not surprising, therefore, thatCol. Ingersoll feels a deep interest in every bright youngman of his acquaintance who is struggling manfully for theglittering prize so brilliantly won by the great Agnostichimself. He does not believe, however, that the young manwho goes out mto the world nowadays to seek his fortune hasso easy a battle to fight as had the young men of thirtyyears ago. In conversation with the writer Col. Ingersollspoke earnestly upon this subject.Col. Ingersoll's views regarding the Bible and Christianitywere not generally understood by the public for some timeafter he had become famous as an orator, although he beganto diverge from orthodoxy when quite young, and was aspronounced an Agnostic when he went into the army, as he isnow.Col. Ingersoll is an inch less than six feet tall, andweighs ten more than two hundred pounds. He will be sixty-one next August, and his hair is snowy. His shoulders arebroad and as straight as they were eighteen years ago whenhe electrified a people and place! his own name upon thelist of a nation's greatest orators with his matchless"Plumed Knight" speech in nominatingJames G. Blaine for the presidency. His blue eyes lookstraight into yours when he speaks to you, and his sentencesare punctuated by engaging little tricks of facialexpression—now the brow is criss-crossed with the lines ofa frown, sometimes quizzical and sometimes indignant—next,the smooth-shaven lips break into a curving smile, which maygrow into a broad grin if the point just made were ahumorous one, and this is quite likely to be followed by alook of sueh intense earnestness that you wonder if he willever smile again. And all the time his eyes flash,illuminating, sometimes anticipatory, glances that addimmensely to the clearness with which the thought he isexpressing is set before you. He delights to tell a story,and he never tells any but good ones, but—and in this he islike Lincoln—he is apt to use his stories to drive someproposition home. This is almost invariably true, even whenhe sets out to spin a yarn for the story's simple sake. Hismentality seems to be duplex, quadruplex, multiplex, if youplease—and while his lips and tongue are effectivelydelivering the story, his wonderful brain is, seemingly,unconsciously applying the point of the story to the provingof a pet theory, and when the tale has been told the verbalapplication follows.His birthplace was Dresden, N. Y. His early boyhood waspassed in New York State and his youth and young manhood inIllinois, Ohio and Wisconsin.His handgrasp is hearty and his manner and words are thevery essence of straightforward directness. I called at hisoffice once when the Colonel was closeted with a person whowished to retain him in a law case involving a good deal ofmoney. After a bit I was told that I could see him, and as Ientered he was saying: "The case can't be won, for you arein the wrong. I don't want it.""But," pleaded the would-be client, "It seems to me that agood deal can be done in such a case by the way it ishandled before the jury, and I thought if you were to be theman I might get a verdict.""No, sir," was the reply, and the words fell like the leadof a plumb line; "I won't take it. Good morning, sir."It has been sometimes said, indulgently, of Col. Ingersollthat he is indolent, but no one can hold that view who is atall familiar with him or his work. As a matter of fact, hisindustry is phenomenal, though, indeed, it is not carried onafter the fashion of less brainy men. When he has animportant case ahead of him his devotion to the mastery ofits details absorbs him at once and completely. It sometimesbecomes necessary for him to take up a line of chemicalinquiry entirely new to him; again, to elaborategenealogical researches are necessary; still again, it maybe essential for him to thoroughly inform himself concerninghitherto uninvestigated local historical records. Butwhatever is needful to be studied he studies, and sothoroughly that his mind becomes saturated with theknowledge required. And once acquired no sort of informationever leaves him, for he has a memory quite as marvelous asany other of his altogether marvelous characteristics.It is the same when he has an address to prepare. Everyauthority that can be consulted upon the subject to betreated in the address, is consulted, and often the materialthat suggests some of the most telling points is one whichno one but Ingersoll himself would think of referring to.Here again his wonderful memory stands him in good stead forhe has packed away within the convolutions of his brain alot of facts that bear upon almost every conceivable branchof human thought or investigation.His memory is quite as retentive of the features of a man hehas seen as of other matters; it retains voices also, as awar time friend of his discovered last summer. It was a busyday with the Colonel, who had given instructions to hisoffice boy that under no circumstances was he to bedisturbed; so when his old friend called he was told thatCol. Ingersoll could not see him "But," said the visitor: "Imust see him. I haven't seen him for twenty years; I amgoing out of town this afternoon, and I wouldn't misstalking with him for a few minutes for a good deal ofmoney.""Well," said the boy, "he wasn't to be disturbed byanybody."At this moment the door of the Colonel's private officeopened, and the Colonel's portly form appeared upon thescene."Why, Maj. Blank," he said, "come in. I did tell the boy Iwouldn't see anybody, but you are more important than thebiggest law case in the world."The Colonel's memory had retained the sound of the major'svoice, and because of that, the latter was not obliged toleave New York without seeing and renewing his oldacquaintance.Col. Ingersoll's retorts are as quick as a flash-light andas searching. One of them was so startling and so effectiveas to give a certain famous long drawn out railroad suit thenickname. "The Ananias and Sapphira ease." Ingersoll wasspeaking and had made certain statements highly damaging tothe other side, in such a way as to thoroughly anger amember of the opposing counsel, who suddenly interrupted thespeaker with the abrupt and sarcastic remark:"I suppose the Colonel, in the nature of things, never heardof the story of Ananias ana Sapphira."There were those present who expected to witness an angryoutburst on the part of Ingersoll in response to this plainimplication that his statement had not the quality ofveracity, but they were disappointed. Ingersoll didn't evenget angry. He turned slightly, fixed his limpid blue eyesupon the speaker, and looked cherubically. Then he gentlydrawled out."Oh, yes, I have, yes, I have. And I've watched thegentleman who has just spoken all through this case with acurious Interest. I've been expecting every once in a whileto see him drop dead, but he seems to be all right down tothe present moment."Ingersoll never gets angry when he is interrupted, even ifit is in the middle of an address or a lecture. A maninterrupted him in Cincinnati once, cutting right into oneof the lecturer's most resonant periods with a yell:"That's a lie. Bob lngersoll, and you know it."The audience was in an uproar in an instant, and cries of"Put him out!" "Throw him down stairs!" and the like wereheard from all parts of the house. Ingersoll stopped talkingfor a moment, and held up his hands, smiling."Don't hurt the man," he said. "He thinks he is right. Butlet me explain this thing for his especial benefit."Then he reasoned the matter out in language so simple andplain that no one of any intelligence whatever could fail tocomprehend. The man was not ejected, but sat through theentire address, and at the close asked the privilege ofbegging the lecturer's pardon.Like most men of genius, Colonel lngersoll is a passionatelover of music, and the harmonies of Wagner seem to him tobe the very acme of musical expression....Notwithstanding his thoroughly heretical beliefs or lack ofbeliefs, or, as he would say, because of them, Colonellngersoll is a very tender-hearted man. No one has ever madeso strong an argument against vivisection in the allegedinterests of science as lngersoll did in a speech a fewyears ago. To the presentation of his views against therefinements of scientific cruelty he brought his most vividimagination, his most careful thought and his mostimpassioned oratory.Colonel Ingersoll's popularity with those who know him isproverbial. The clerks in his offices not only admire himfor his ability and his achievements, but they esteem himfor his kindliness of heart and his invariable courtesy inhis intercourse with them. His offices are located in one ofthe buildings devoted to corporations and professional menon the lower part of Nassau street and consist of threerooms. The one used by the head of the firm is farthest fromthe entrance. All are furnished in solid black walnut. Inthe Colonel's room there is a picture of his loved brotherEbon, and hanging below the frame thereof is the tin signthat the two brothers hung out for a shingle when they wentinto the law business in Peoria. There are also pictures ofa judge or two. The desks in all the rooms are littered withpapers. Books are piled to the ceiling. Everywhere there isan air of personal freedom. There is no servility either toclients or the head of the business, but there is everywherean informal courtesy somewhat akin to that which is born ofa fueling of great comradeship.Of the Colonel's ideal home life the world has often beentold. He lives during the winter at his town house in FifthAvenue; in the summer at Dobbs Ferry, a charming place a fewmiles up the Hudson from New York.—Boston Herald, July,1894.
A FEW years ago there were many thousand miles of railroads to be built, a great many towns and cities to be located, constructed and filled; vast areas of uncultivated land were waiting for the plow, vast forests the axe, and thousands of mines were longing to be opened. In those days every young man of energy and industry had a future. The professions were not overcrowded; there were more patients than doctors, more litigants than lawyers, more buyers of goods than merchants. The young man of that time who was raised on a farm got a little education, taught school, read law or medicine—some of the weaker ones read theology—and there seemed to be plenty of room, plenty of avenues to success and distinction.
So, too, a few years ago a political life was considered honorable, and so in politics there were many great careers. So, hundreds of towns wanted newspapers, and in each of those towns there was an opening for some energetic young man. At that time the plant cost but little; a few dollars purchased the press—the young publisher could get the paper stock on credit.
Now the railroads have all been built; the canals are finished; the cities have been located; the outside property has been cut into lots, and sold and mortgaged many times over. Now it requires great capital to go into business. The individual is counting for less and less; the corporation, the trust, for more and more. Now a great merchant employs hundreds of clerks; a few years ago most of those now clerks would have been merchants. And so it seems to be in nearly every department of life. Of course, I do not know what inventions may leap from the brains of the future; there may be millions and millions of fortunes yet to be made in that direction, but of that I am not speaking.
So, I think that a few years ago the chances were far more numerous and favorable to young men who wished to make a name for themselves, and to succeed in some department of human energy than now.
In savage life a living is very easy to get. Most any savage can hunt or fish; consequently there are few failures. But in civilized life competition becomes stronger and sharper; consequently, the percentage of failures increases, and this seems to be the law. The individual is constantly counting for less. It may be that, on the average, people live better than they did formerly, that they have more to eat, drink and wear; but the individual horizon has lessened; it is not so wide and cloudless as formerly. So I say that the chances for great fortunes, for great success, are growing less and less.
I think a young man should do that which is easiest for him to do, provided there is an opportunity; if there is none, then he should take the next. The first object of every young man should be to be self-supporting, no matter in what direction—be independent. He should avoid being a clerk and he should avoid giving his future into the hands of any one person. He should endeavor to get a business in which the community will be his patron, and whether he is to be a lawyer, a doctor or a day-laborer depends on how much he has mixed mind with muscle.
If a young man imagines that he has an aptitude for public speaking—that is, if he has a great desire to make his ideas known to the world—the probability is that the desire will choose the way, time and place for him to make the effort.
If he really has something to say, there will be plenty to listen. If he is so carried away with his subject, is so in earnest that he becomes an instrumentality of his thought—so that he is forgotten by himself; so that he cares neither for applause nor censure—simply caring to present his thoughts in the highest and best and most comprehensive way, the probability is that he will be an orator.
I think oratory is something that cannot be taught. Undoubtedly a man can learn to be a fair talker. He can by practice learn to present his ideas consecutively, clearly and in what you may call "form," but there is as much difference between this and an oration as there is between a skeleton and a living human being clad in sensitive, throbbing flesh.
There are millions of skeleton makers, millions of people who can express what may be called "the bones" of a discourse, but not one in a million who can clothe these bones.
You can no more teach a man to be an orator than you can teach him to be an artist or a poet of the first class. When you teach him, there is the same difference between the man who is taught, and the man who is what he is by virtue of a natural aptitude, that there is between a pump and a spring—between a canal and a river—between April rain and water-works. It is a question of capacity and feeling—not of education. There are some things that you can tell an orator not to do. For instance, he should never drink water while talking, because the interest is broken, and for the moment he loses control of his audience. He should never look at his watch for the same reason. He should never talk about himself. He should never deal in personalities. He should never tell long stories, and if he tells any story he should never say that it is a true story, and that he knew the parties. This makes it a question of veracity instead of a question of art. He should never clog his discourse with details. He should never dwell upon particulars—he should touch universals, because the great truths are for all time.
If he wants to know something, if he wishes to feel something, let him read Shakespeare. Let him listen to the music of Wagner, of Beethoven, or Schubert. If he wishes to express himself in the highest and most perfect form, let him become familiar with the great paintings of the world—with the great statues—all these will lend grace, will give movement and passion and rhythm to his words. A great orator puts into his speech the perfume, the feelings, the intensity of all the great and beautiful and marvelous things that he has seen and heard and felt. An orator must be a poet, a metaphysician, a logician—and above all, must have sympathy with all.
IT was thought at one time by many that science would do away with poetry—that it was the enemy of the imagination. We know now that is not true. We know that science goes hand in hand with imagination. We know that it is in the highest degree poetic and that the old ideas once considered so beautiful are flat and stale. Compare Kepler's laws with the old Greek idea that the planets were boosted or pushed by angels. The more we know, the more beauty, the more poetry we find. Ignorance is not the mother of the poetic or artistic.
So, some people imagine that science will do away with sentiment. In my judgment, science will not only increase sentiment but sense.
A person will be attracted to another for a thousand reasons, and why a person is attracted to another, may, and in some degree will, depend upon the intellectual, artistic and ethical development of each.
The handsomest girl in Zululand might not be attractive to Herbert Spencer, and the fairest girl in England might not be able to hasten the pulse of a Choctaw brave. This does not prove that there is any lack of sentiment. Men are influenced according to their capacity, their temperament, their knowledge.
Some men fall in love with a small waist, an arched instep or curly hair, without the slightest regard to mind or muscle. This we call sentiment.
Now, educate such men, develop their brains, enlarge their intellectual horizon, teach them something of the laws of health, and then they may fall in love with women because they are developed grandly in body and mind. The sentiment is still there—still controls—but back of the sentiment is science.
Sentiment can never be destroyed, and love will forever rule the human race.
Thousands, millions of people fear that science will destroy not only poetry, not only sentiment, but religion. This fear is idiotic. Science will destroy superstition, but it will not injure true religion. Science is the foundation of real religion. Science teaches us the consequences of actions, the rights and duties of all. Without science there can be no real religion.
Only those who live on the labor of the ignorant are the enemies of science. Real love and real religion are in no danger from science. The more we know the safer all good things are.
Do I think that the marriage of the sickly and diseased ought to be prevented by law?
I have not much confidence in law—in law that I know cannot be carried out. The poor, the sickly, the diseased, as long as they are ignorant, will marry and help fill the world with wretchedness and want.
We must rely on education instead of legislation.
We must teach the consequences of actions. We must show the sickly and diseased what their children will be. We must preach the gospel of the body. I believe the time will come when the public thought will be so great and grand that it will be looked upon as infamous to perpetuate disease—to leave a legacy of agony.
I believe the time will come when men will refuse to fill the future with consumption and insanity. Yes, we shall study ourselves. We shall understand the conditions of health and then we shall say: We are under obligation to put the flags of health in the cheeks of our children.
Even if I should get to heaven and have a harp, I know that I could not bear to see my descendants still on the earth, diseased, deformed, crazed—all suffering the penalties of my ignorance. Let us have more science and more sentiment—more knowledge and more conscience—more liberty and more love.
I HAVE read the sermon on "Sowing and Reaping," and I now understand Mr. Moody better than I did before. The other day, in New York, Mr. Moody said that he implicitly believed the story of Jonah and really thought that he was in the fish for three days.
When I read it I was surprised that a man living in the century of Humboldt, Darwin, Huxley, Spencer and Haeckel, should believe such an absurd and idiotic story.
Now I understand the whole thing. I can account for the amazing credulity of this man. Mr. Moody never read one of my lectures. That accounts for it all, and no wonder that he is a hundred years behind the times. He never read one of my lectures; that is a perfect explanation.
Poor man! He has no idea of what he has lost. He has been living on miracles and mistakes, on falsehood and foolishness, stuffing his mind with absurdities when he could have had truth, facts and good, sound sense.
Poor man!
Probably Mr. Moody has never read one word of Darwin and so he still believes in the Garden of Eden and the talking snake and really thinks that Jehovah took some mud, moulded the form of a man, breathed in its nostrils, stood it up and called it Adam, and that he then took one of Adam's ribs and some more mud and manufactured Eve. Probably he has never read a word written by any great geologist and consequently still believes in the story of the flood. Knowing nothing of astronomy, he still thinks that Joshua stopped the sun.
Poor man! He has neglected Spencer and has no idea of evolution. He thinks that man has, through all the ages, degenerated, the first pair having been perfect. He does not believe that man came from lower forms and has gradually journeyed upward.
He really thinks that the Devil outwitted God and vaccinated the human race with the virus of total depravity.
Poor man!
He knows nothing of the great scientists—of the great thinkers, of the emancipators of the human race; knows nothing of Spinoza, of Voltaire, of Draper, Buckle, of Paine or Renan.
Mr. Moody ought to read something besides the Bible—ought to find out what the really intelligent have thought. He ought to get some new ideas—a few facts—and I think that, after he did so, he would be astonished to find how ignorant and foolish he had been. He is a good man. His heart is fairly good, but his head is almost useless.
The trouble with this sermon, "Sowing and Reaping," is that he contradicts it. I believe that a man must reap what he sows, that every human being must bear the natural consequences of his acts. Actions are good or bad according to their consequences. That is my doctrine.
There is no forgiveness in nature. But Mr. Moody tells us that a man may sow thistles and gather figs, that having acted like a fiend tor seventy years, he can, between his last dose of medicine and his last breath, repent; that he can be washed clean by the blood of the lamb, and that myriads of angels will carry his soul to heaven—in other words, that this man will not reap what he sowed, but what Christ sowed, that this man's thistles will be changed to figs.
This doctrine, to my mind, is not only absurd, but dishonest and corrupting.
This is one of the absurdities in Mr. Moody's theology. The other is that a man can justly be damned for the sin of another.
Nothing can exceed the foolishness of these two ideas—first: "Man can be justly punished forever for the sin of Adam." Second: "Man can be justly rewarded with eternal joy for the goodness of Christ."
Yet the man who believes this, preaches a sermon in which he says that a man must reap what he sows. Orthodox Christians teach exactly the opposite. They teach that no matter what a man sows, no matter how wicked his life has been, that he can by repentance change the crop. That all his sins shall be forgotten and that only the goodness of Christ will be remembered.
Let us see how this works:
Mr. A. has lived a good and useful life, kept his contracts, paid his debts, educated his children, loved his wife and made his home a heaven, but he did not believe in the inspiration of Mr. Moody's Bible. He died and his soul was sent to hell. Mr. Moody says that as a man sows so shall he reap.
Mr. B. lived a useless and wicked life. By his cruelty he drove his wife to insanity, his children became vagrants and beggars, his home was a perfect hell, he committed many crimes, he was a thief, a burglar, a murderer. A few minutes before he was hanged he got religion and his soul went from the scaffold to heaven. And yet Mr. Moody says that as a man sows so shall he reap.
Mr. Moody ought to have a little philosophy—a little good sense.
So Mr. Moody says that only in this life can a man secure the reward of repentance.
Just before a man dies, God loves him—loves him as a mother loves her babe—but a moment after he dies, he sends his soul to hell. In the other world nothing can be done to reform him. The society of God and the angels can have no good effect. Nobody can be made better in heaven. This world is the only place where reform is possible. Here, surrounded by the wicked in the midst of temptations, in the darkness of ignorance, a human being may reform if he is fortunate enough to hear the words of some revival preacher, but when he goes before his maker—before the Trinity—he has no chance. God can do nothing for his soul except to send it to hell.
This shows that the power for good is confined to people in this world and that in the next world God can do nothing to reform his children. This is theology. This is what they call "Tidings of great joy."
Every orthodox creed is savage, ignorant and idiotic.
In the orthodox heaven there is no mercy, no pity. In the orthodox hell there is no hope, no reform. God is an eternal jailer, an everlasting turnkey.
And yet Christians now say that while there may be no fire in hell—no actual flames—yet the lost souls will feel forever the tortures of conscience.
What will conscience trouble the people in hell about? They tell us that they will remember their sins.
Well, what about the souls in heaven? They committed awful sins, they made their fellow-men unhappy. They took the lives of others—sent many to eternal torment. Will they have no conscience? Is hell the only place where souls regret the evil they have done? Have the angels no regret, no remorse, no conscience?
If this be so, heaven must be somewhat worse than hell.
In old times, if people wanted to know anything they asked the preacher. Now they do if they don't.
The Bible has, with intelligent men, lost its authority.
The miracles are now regarded by sensible people as the spawn of ignorance and credulity. On every hand people are looking for facts—for truth—and all religions are taking their places in the museum of myths.
Yes, the people are becoming civilized, and so they are putting out the fires of hell. They are ceasing to believe in a God who seeks eternal revenge.
The people are becoming sensible. They are asking for evidence. They care but little for the winged phantoms of the air—for the ghosts and devils and supposed gods. The people are anxious to be happy here and they want a little heaven in this life.
Theology is a curse. Science is a blessing. We do not need preachers, but teachers; not priests, but thinkers; not churches, but schools; not steeples, but observatories. We want knowledge.
Let us hope that Mr. Moody will read some really useful books.
SHOULD parents, who are Infidels, unbelievers or Atheists, send their children to Sunday schools and churches to give them the benefit of Christian education?
Parents who do not believe the Bible to be an inspired book should not teach their children that it is. They should be absolutely honest. Hypocrisy is not a virtue, and, as a rule, lies are less valuable than facts.
An unbeliever should not allow the mind of his child to be deformed, stunted and shriveled by superstition. He should not allow the child's imagination to be polluted. Nothing is more outrageous than to take advantage of the helplessness of childhood to sow in the brain the seeds of falsehoods, to imprison the soul in the dungeon of Fear, to teach dimpled infancy the infamous dogma of eternal pain—filling life with the glow and glare of hell.
No unbeliever should allow his child to be tortured in the orthodox inquisitions. He should defend the mind from attack as he would the body. He should recognize the rights of the soul. In the orthodox Sunday schools, children are taught that it is a duty to believe—that evidence is not essential—that faith is independent of facts and that religion is superior to reason. They are taught not to use their natural sense—not to tell what they really think—not to entertain a doubt—not to ask wicked questions, but to accept and believe what their teachers say. In this way the minds of the children are invaded, corrupted and conquered. Would an educated man send his child to a school in which Newton's statement in regard to the attraction of gravitation was denied—in which the law of falling bodies, as given by Galileo, was ridiculed—Kepler's three laws declared to be idiotic, and the rotary motion of the earth held to be utterly absurd?
Why then should an intelligent man allow his child to be taught the geology and astronomy of the Bible? Children should be taught to seek for the truth—to be honest, kind, generous, merciful and just. They should be taught to love liberty and to live to the ideal.
Why then should an unbeliever, an Infidel, send his child to an orthodox Sunday school where he is taught that he has no right to seek for the truth—no right to be mentally honest, and that he will be damned for an honest doubt—where he is taught that God was ferocious, revengeful, heartless as a wild beast—that he drowned millions of his children—that he ordered wars of extermination and told his soldiers to kill gray-haired and trembling age, mothers and children, and to assassinate with the sword of war the babes unborn?
Why should an unbeliever in the Bible send his child to an orthodox Sunday school where he is taught that God was in favor of slavery and told the Jews to buy of the heathen and that they should be their bondmen and bondwomen forever; where he is taught that God upheld polygamy and the degradation of women?
Why should an unbeliever, who believes in the uniformity of Nature, in the unbroken and unbreakable chain of cause and effect, allow his child to be taught that miracles have been performed; that men have gone bodily to heaven; that millions have been miraculously fed with manna and quails; that fire has refused to burn clothes and flesh of men; that iron has been made to float; that the earth and moon have been stopped and that the earth has not only been stopped, but made to turn the other way; that devils inhabit the bodies of men and women; that diseases have been cured with words, and that the dead, with a touch, have been made to live again?
The thoughtful man knows that there is not the slightest evidence that these miracles ever were performed. Why should he allow his children to be stuffed with these foolish and impossible falsehoods? Why should he give his lambs to the care and keeping of the wolves and hyenas of superstition?
Children should be taught only what somebody knows. Guesses should not be palmed off on them as demonstrated facts. If a Christian lived in Constantinople he would not send his children to the mosque to be taught that Mohammed was a prophet of God and that the Koran is an inspired book. Why? Because he does not believe in Mohammed or the Koran. That is reason enough. So, an Agnostic, living in New York, should not allow his children to be taught that the Bible is an inspired book. I use the word "Agnostic" because I prefer it to the word Atheist. As a matter of fact, no one knows that God exists and no one knows that God does not exist. To my mind there is no evidence that God exists—that this world is governed by a being of infinite goodness, wisdom and power, but I do not pretend to know. What I insist upon is that children should not be poisoned—should not be taken advantage of—that they should be treated fairly, honestly—that they should be allowed to develop from the inside instead of being crammed from the outside—that they should be taught to reason, not to believe—to think, to investigate and to use their senses, their minds.
Would a Catholic send his children to a school to be taught that Catholicism is superstition and that Science is the only savior of mankind?
Why then should a free and sensible believer in Science, in the naturalness of the universe, send his child to a Catholic school?
Nothing could be more irrational, foolish and absurd.
My advice to all Agnostics is to keep their children from the orthodox Sunday schools, from the orthodox churches, from the poison of the pulpits.
Teach your children the facts you know. If you do not know, say so. Be as honest as you are ignorant. Do all you can to develop their minds, to the end that they may live useful and happy lives.
Strangle the serpent of superstition that crawls and hisses about the cradle. Keep your children from the augurs, the soothsayers, the medicine-men, the priests of the supernatural. Tell them that all religions have been made by folks and that all the "sacred books" were written by ignorant men.
Teach them that the world is natural. Teach them to be absolutely honest. Do not send them where they will contract diseases of the mind—the leprosy of the soul. Let us do all we can to make them intelligent.
* Written for The Boston Investigator.
YOU ask me what I would "substitute for the Bible as a moral guide.".
I know that many people regard the Bible as the only moral guide and believe that in that book only can be found the true and perfect standard of morality.
There are many good precepts, many wise sayings and many good regulations and laws in the Bible, and these are mingled with bad precepts, with foolish sayings, with absurd rules and cruel laws.
But we must remember that the Bible is a collection of many books written centuries apart, and that it in part represents the growth and tells in part the history of a people. We must also remember that the writers treat of many subjects. Many of these writers have nothing to say about right or wrong, about vice or virtue.
The book of Genesis has nothing about morality. There is not a line in it calculated to shed light on the path of conduct. No one can call that book a moral guide. It is made up of myth and miracle, of tradition and legend.
In Exodus we have an account of the manner in which Jehovah delivered the Jews from Egyptian bondage.
We now know that the Jews were never enslaved by the Egyptians; that the entire story is a fiction. We know this, because there is not found in Hebrew a word of Egyptian origin, and there is not found in the language of the Egyptians a word of Hebrew origin. This being so, we know that the Hebrews and Egyptians could not have lived together for hundreds of years.
Certainly Exodus was not written to teach morality. In that book you cannot find one word against human slavery. As a matter of fact, Jehovah was a believer in that institution.
The killing of cattle with disease and hail, the murder of the first-born, so that in every house was death, because the king refused to let the Hebrews go, certainly was not moral; it was fiendish. The writer of that book regarded all the people of Egypt, their children, their flocks and herds, as the property of Pharaoh, and these people and these cattle were killed, not because they had done anything wrong, but simply for the purpose of punishing the king. Is it possible to get any morality out of this history?
All the laws found in Exodus, including the Ten Commandments, so far as they are really good and sensible, were at that time in force among all the peoples of the world.
Murder is, and always was, a crime, and always will be, as long as a majority of people object to being murdered.
Industry always has been and always will be the enemy of larceny.
The nature of man is such that he admires the teller of truth and despises the liar. Among all tribes, among all people, truth-telling has been considered a virtue and false swearing or false speaking a vice.
The love of parents for children is natural, and this love is found among all the animals that live. So the love of children for parents is natural, and was not and cannot be created by law. Love does not spring from a sense of duty, nor does it bow in obedience to commands.
So men and women are not virtuous because of anything in books or creeds.
All the Ten Commandments that are good were old, were the result of experience. The commandments that were original with Jehovah were foolish.
The worship of "any other God" could not have been worse than the worship of Jehovah, and nothing could have been more absurd than the sacredness of the Sabbath.
If commandments had been given against slavery and polygamy, against wars of invasion and extermination, against religious persecution in all its forms, so that the world could be free, so that the brain might be developed and the heart civilized, then we might, with propriety, call such commandments a moral guide.
Before we can truthfully say that the Ten Commandments constitute a moral guide, we must add and subtract. We must throw away some, and write others in their places.
The commandments that have a known application here, in this world, and treat of human obligations are good, the others have no basis in fact, or experience.
Many of the regulations found in Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy, are good. Many are absurd and cruel.
The entire ceremonial of worship is insane.
Most of the punishment for violations of laws are un-philosophic and brutal.... The fact is that the Pentateuch upholds nearly all crimes, and to call it a moral guide is as absurd as to say that it is merciful or true.
Nothing of a moral nature can be found in Joshua or Judges. These books are filled with crimes, with massacres and murders. They are about the same as the real history of the Apache Indians.
The story of Ruth is not particularly moral.
In first and second Samuel there is not one word calculated to develop the brain or conscience.
Jehovah murdered seventy thousand Jews because David took a census of the people. David, according to the account, was the guilty one, but only the innocent were killed.
In first and second Kings can be found nothing of ethical value. All the kings who refused to obey the priests were denounced, and all the crowned wretches who assisted the priests, were declared to be the favorites of Jehovah. In these books there cannot be found one word in favor of liberty.
There are some good Psalms, and there are some that are infamous. Most of these Psalms are selfish. Many of them, are passionate appeals for revenge.
The story of Job shocks the heart of every good man. In this book there is some poetry, some pathos, and some philosophy, but the story of this drama called Job, is heartless to the last degree. The children of Job are murdered to settle a little wager between God and the Devil. Afterward, Job having remained firm, other children are given in the place of the murdered ones. Nothing, however, is done for the children who were murdered.
The book of Esther is utterly absurd, and the only redeeming feature in the book is that the name of Jehovah is not mentioned.
I like the Song of Solomon because it tells of human love, and that is something I can understand. That book in my judgment, is worth all the ones that go before it, and is a far better moral guide.
There are some wise and merciful Proverbs. Some are selfish and some are flat and commonplace.
I like the book of Ecclesiastes because there you find some sense, some poetry, and some philosophy. Take away the interpolations and it is a good book.
Of course there is nothing in Nehemiah or Ezra to make men better, nothing in Jeremiah or Lamentations calculated to lessen vice, and only a few passages in Isaiah that can be used in a good cause.
In Ezekiel and Daniel we find only ravings of the insane.
In some of the minor prophets there is now and then a good verse, now and then an elevated thought.
You can, by selecting passages from different books, make a very good creed, and by selecting passages from different books, you can make a very bad creed.
The trouble is that the spirit of the Old Testament, its disposition, its temperament, is bad, selfish and cruel. The most fiendish things are commanded, commended and applauded.
The stories that are told of Joseph, of Elisha, of Daniel and Gideon, and of many others, are hideous; hellish.
On the whole, the Old Testament cannot be considered a moral guide.
Jehovah was not a moral God. He had all the vices, and he lacked all the virtues. He generally carried out his threats, but he never faithfully kept a promise.
At the same time, we must remember that the Old Testament is a natural production, that it was written by savages who were slowly crawling toward the light. We must give them credit for the noble things they said, and we must be charitable enough to excuse their faults and even their crimes.
I know that many Christians regard the Old Testament as the foundation and the New as the superstructure, and while many admit that there are faults and mistakes in the Old Testament, they insist that the New is the flower and perfect fruit.
I admit that there are many good things in the New Testament, and if we take from that book the dogmas of eternal pain, of infinite revenge, of the atonement, of human sacrifice, of the necessity of shedding blood; if we throw away the doctrine of non-resistance, of loving enemies, the idea that prosperity is the result of wickedness, that poverty is a preparation for Paradise, if we throw all these away and take the good, sensible passages, applicable to conduct, then we can make a fairly good moral guide,—narrow, but moral.
Of course, many important things would be left out. You would have nothing about human rights, nothing in favor of the family, nothing for education, nothing for investigation, for thought and reason, but still you would have a fairly good moral guide.
On the other hand, if you would take the foolish passages, the extreme ones, you could make a creed that would satisfy an insane asylum.
If you take the cruel passages, the verses that inculcate eternal hatred, verses that writhe and hiss like serpents, you can make a creed that would shock the heart of a hyena.
It may be that no book contains better passages than the New Testament, but certainly no book contains worse.
Below the blossom of love you find the thorn of hatred; on the lips that kiss, you find the poison of the cobra.
The Bible is not a moral guide.
Any man who follows faithfully all its teachings is an enemy of society and will probably end his days in a prison or an asylum.
What is morality?
In this world we need certain things. We have many wants. We are exposed to many dangers. We need food, fuel, raiment and shelter, and besides these wants, there is, what may be called, the hunger of the mind.
We are conditioned beings, and our happiness depends upon conditions. There are certain things that diminish, certain things that increase, well-being. There are certain things that destroy and there are others that preserve.
Happiness, including its highest forms, is after all the only good, and everything, the result of which is to produce or secure happiness, is good, that is to say, moral. Everything that destroys or diminishes well-being is bad, that is to say, immoral. In other words, all that is good is moral, and all that is bad is immoral.
What then is, or can be called, a moral guide? The shortest possible answer is one word: Intelligence.
We want the experience of mankind, the true history of the race. We want the history of intellectual development, of the growth of the ethical, of the idea of justice, of conscience, of charity, of self-denial. We want to know the paths and roads that have been traveled by the human mind.
These facts in general, these histories in outline, the results reached, the conclusions formed, the principles evolved, taken together, would form the best conceivable moral guide.
We cannot depend on what are called "inspired books," or the religions of the world. These religions are based on the supernatural, and according to them we are under obligation to worship and obey some supernatural being, or beings. All these religions are inconsistent with intellectual liberty. They are the enemies of thought, of investigation, of mental honesty. They destroy the manliness of man. They promise eternal rewards for belief, for credulity, for what they call faith.
This is not only absurd, but it is immoral.
These religions teach the slave virtues. They make inanimate things holy, and falsehoods sacred. They create artificial crimes. To eat meat on Friday, to enjoy yourself on Sunday, to eat on fast-days, to be happy in Lent, to dispute a priest, to ask for evidence, to deny a creed, to express your sincere thought, all these acts are sins, crimes against some god. To give your honest opinion about Jehovah, Mohammed or Christ, is far worse than to maliciously slander your neighbor. To question or doubt miracles, is far worse than to deny known facts. Only the obedient, the credulous, the cringers, the kneelers, the meek, the unquestioning, the true believers, are regarded as moral, as virtuous. It is not enough to be honest, generous and useful; not enough to be governed by evidence, by facts. In addition to this, you must believe. These things are the foes of morality. They subvert all natural conceptions of virtue.
All "inspired books," teaching that what the supernatural commands is right, and right because commanded, and that what the supernatural prohibits is wrong, and wrong because prohibited, are absurdly unphilosophic.
And all "inspired books," teaching that only those who obey the commands of the supernatural are, or can be, truly virtuous, and that unquestioning faith will be rewarded with eternal joy, are grossly immoral.
Again I say: Intelligence is the only moral guide.