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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 53

[The Religion of the Future a discourse delivered by Colonel Ingersoll]

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In the republic of mind, one is a majority. There, all are monarchs and all are equals. The tyranny of a majority even is unknown Each one is crowned, sceptered, and throned. Upon every brow is the tiara, and around every form is the imperial purple. Only those are good citizens who express their honest thoughts, and those who persecute for opinion's sake are the only traitors. There, nothing is considered infamous except an appeal to brute force, and nothing sacred but love, liberty, and joy. The church contemplates this republic with a sneer. From the teeth of hatred she draws back the lips of scorn. She is filled with the spite and spleen born of intellectual weakness. Once she was egotistic; now she is envious. Once she wore upon her hollow breast false gems, supposing them to be real. They have been shown to be false, but she wears them still. She has the malice of the caught, the hatred of the exposed.

We are told to investigate the bible for ourselves, and at the same time informed that if we come to the conclusion that it is not the word of God, we will most assuredly be damned. Under such circumstances, if we believe this, investigation is impossible. Whoever is held responsible for his conclusions cannot weigh the evidence with impartial scales. Fear stands at the balance, and gives to falshood the weight or its trembling hand.

It seems almost impossible for religious people to really grasp the idea of intellectual freedom. They seem to think that man is responsible for his honest thoughts; that unbelief is a crime; that investigation is sinful; that credulity is a virtue, and that reason is a dangerous guide. They cannot divest themselves of the idea that obedience—laws and penalties—rewards and punishments, and that somewhere in the universe there is a penitentiary for the soul.

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In the history of our poor world, no horror has been omitted, no infamy has been left undone by the believers in the supernatural, by the worshippers of these fleshly phantoms. And yet these shadows were born of cowardice and malignity. They were painted by the pencil of fear upon the canvas of ignorance by that artist called superstition.

Fear paralyzes the brain. Progress is born of courage. Fear believes—courage doubts. Fear fall a upon the earth and prays—courage stands erect and thinks. Fear retreats—courage advances. Fear is barbarism—courage is civilization. Fear believes in witchcraft, in devils and in ghosts. Fear is religion—courage is science.

For ages these ghosts were supposed to be the only source of real knowledge. They inspired men to write books, and the books were considered sacred. If facts were found to be inconsistent with these books, so much the worse for the facts, and especially for their discoverers. It was then, and still is, believed that these books are the basis of the idea of immortality; that to give up these volumes, or rather the idea that they are inspired, is to renounce the idea of immortality. This I deny.

The idea of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human breast with its countless waves of hope and fear, beating against the shores and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book, nor of any creed, nor 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 rainbow—Hope shining upon the tears of grief.

From the books written by the priests we have at last ascertained that they knew nothing about the world in which we live. Did they know anything about the next? Upon every point where contradiction is possible, they have been contradicted.

Slowly but surely man is freeing his imagination of these sexless phantoms, of these cruel ghosts. Slowly but surely he is rising above the superstition of the past. He is learning to rely upon himself. He is begining to find that labor is the only prayer that ought to be answered, and that hoping, toiling, aspiring, suffering men and women are of more importance than all the ghosts that ever wandered through the fenceless fields of space.

Our fathers in the good old times—and the best thing I can say of them is that they have passed away—had an idea that they could force men to think their way. Even in our day some extremely religious people say, "We will not trade with that man; we will not vote for him; we will not hire him if he is a lawyer; we will die before we will take his medicine if he is a doctor; we will not invite him to dinner; we will socially ostracise him; he must come to our church; he must believe in our doctrine; he must worship our god or we will not in any way contribute to his support.

In the old times of which I have spoken, they desired to make all men think exactly alike. All the mechanical ingenuity of the world cannot make two clocks run exactly alike, and how are you going to make hundreds of millions of people differing in brain and disposition, in education and aspiration, in conditions and surroundings, each clad in a living robe of passionate flesh—how are you going to make them page 5 think and feel alike? If there is an infinite God, one who made us, mid wishes us to think alike, why did he give a spoonful of brains to one, and a magnificent intellectual development to another? Why is it that we have all degrees of intelligence, from orthodoxy to genius, if it was intended that all should think and feel alike?

I used to read in books how our fathers persecuted mankind. But I never appreciated it. I read it, but it did not burn itself into my soul. I did not really appreciate the infamies that have been committed in the name of religion, until I saw the iron thumb-screw—two little pieces of iron, armed on the inner surfaces with protuberances, to prevent their slipping; through each end a screw uniting the two pieces. And when some man denied the efficacy of baptism, or maybe said, "I do not believe that a fish ever swallowed a man to keep him from drowning," then they put his thumb between these pieces of iron and in the name of love and universal forgiveness, began to screw these pieces together. When this was done most men said, "I will recant." Probably I should have done the same. Probably I would have said "Stop, 1 will admit anything that you wish, I will admit that there is one God or a million, one hell or a billion; suit yourselves, but stop that"

But there was now and then a man that would not swerve the breadth of a hair. There was now and then some sublime heart willing to die for an intellectual conviction, Had it not been for such men, we should be savages to night. Had it not been for a few brave heroic souls in every age, we would have been cannibals, with pictures of wild beasts tatooed upon our flesh, dancing around some dried snake fetish.

Let us thank every good and noble man who stood so grandly, so proudly, in spite of opposition, of hatred and death, for what he believed to be the truth.

Heroism did not excite the respect of our fathers. The man who would not recant was not forgiven. They screwed the thumb-screw down to the last pang, and then threw their victim into some dungeon, where, in the throbbing silence and darkness, he might suffer the agonies of the fabled damned. This was done in the name of love—in the name of mercy—in the name of the compassionate Christ.

I saw, too, what they called the Collar of Torture. Imagine a circle of iron, and on the inside a hundred points almost as sharp as needles. This argument was fastened about the throat of the sufferer. Then he could not walk, nor sit down, nor stir without the neck being punctured by these points. In a little while the throat would begin to swell, and suffocation would end the agonies of that man. This man, it may be, had committed the crime of saying, with tears upon his cheeks, "I do not believe that God, the father of us all, will damn to eternal perdition any of the children of men.

I saw another instrument called the Scavenger's Daughter. Think of a pair of shears with handles, not only where they now are but at the points as well, and just above the pivot that unites the blades, a circle of iron. In the upper handles the hands would be placed; in the lower the feet, and through the iron ring at the centre the head of the victim would be forced. In this condition he would be thrown prone upon the page 6 earth, and the strain upon the muscles produced such agony that insanity would in pity end his pain.

This was done by gentlemen who said, "Whosoever smiteth thee upon one cheek turn to him the other also."

I saw the Rack. This was a box like the bed of a wagon, with a windlass at each end, with, levers, and ratchets to prevent slipping; over each windlass went chains; some were fastened to the ankles of the sufferer; others to the wrists. And then priests, clergymen, divines, saints, began turning, until the ankles, the knees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists of the victim were all dislocated, and the sufferer was wet with the sweat of agony. And they had a physician standing by to feel his pulse. What for? To save his life? Yes! In mercy. No; simply that they might rack him once again.

This was done, remember, in the name of civilization; in the name of law and order; in the name of mercy; in the name of religion; in the name of the most merciful Christ.

Sometimes, when I read and think about these frightful things, it seems to me that I have suffered all these horrors myself. It seems sometimes, as though I had stood upon the shore of exile and gazed with tearful eyes towards home and native land; as though my nails had been torn from my hands, and into the bleeding quick needles had been thrust: as though my feet had been crushed by iron boots; as though I had been chained in the cell of the Inquisition and listened with dying ears for the coining footsteps of release; as though I had stood upon the scaffold and had seen the glittering axe fall upon me, as though I had been upon the rack and had seen, bending above me, the white faces of hypocrite priests; as though I had been taken from my fireside, from my wife and children, taken to the public square, chained; as though faggots had been piled about me; as though the flames had climbed around my limbs and scorched my eyes to blindness and as though my ashes had been scattered to the four winds, by all the countless hands of hate. And when I so feel, I swear that while I live I will do what little I can to preserve and augment the liberties of man woman, and child.

It is a question of justice, of mercy, of honesty, of intellectual development. If there is a man in the world who is not willing to give to every human being every right he claims for himself, he is just so much nearer a barbarian than I am. It is a question of honesty. The man who is not willing to give to every other the same intellectual rights he claims for himself, is dishonest, selfish, and brutal.

A little while ago I saw models of nearly everything that man has made. I saw models of all the water craft, from the rude dug-out in which floated a naked savage—one of our ancestors—a naked savage, with teeth two inches in length, with a spoonful of brains at the back of his head—I saw models of all the water craft of the world, from that dug-out up to a man-of-war, that carries a hundred guns and miles of canvas—from that dug-out to the steamship that turns its brave prow from the port of New York, with a compass like a conscience, crossing three thousand miles of billows without missing a throb or beat of its mighty iron heart.

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I saw at the same time the weapons that man had made, from in a club, such as was grasped by that same savage, when he crawled from his den in the ground and hunted a snake for his dinner; from that club to the boomerang, to the sword, to the crossbow, to the blunderbuss, to the flint-lock, to the cap-lock, to the needle gun, up to a cannon cast by Krupp, capable of hurling a ball weighing two thousand pounds through eighteen inches of solid steel.

I saw too, the armour from the shell of a turtle, that one of our brave ancestors lashed upon, his breast when he went to fight for his country; the skin of a porcupine, dried with the quills on, which this same savage pulled over his orthodox head, up to the shirts of mail, that were worn in the Middle Ages, that laughed at the edge of a sword and defied the point of a spear; up to a monitor clad in complete steel.

I saw at the same time, their musical instruments, from the tom-tom—that is, a hoop with a couple of strings of raw hide drawn across it—from that tom-tom, up to the instruments we have to-day, that make the common air blossom with melody.

I saw, two, their paintings, from a daub of yellow mud, to the great works which now adorn the galleries of the world. I saw also their sculpture, from the rude god with four legs, a half-dozen arms, several noses, and too or three rows of ears, and one little, contemptible, brainless head, up to the figures of to-day—to the marbles that genius has clad in such a personality that it seems almost impudent to touch them without an introduction.

I saw their books, books written upon skins of wild beasts—upon shoulder blades of sheep—books written upon leaves, upon bark, up to the splendid volumes that enrich the libraries of our day. When I speak of libraries I think of the remark of Plato: "A house that has a library in it has a soul."

I saw their implements of agriculture, from a crooked stick that was attached to the horn of an ox by some twisted straw, to the agricultural implements of this generation, that make it possible for a man to cultivate the soil without being an ignoramus.

While looking upon these things I was forced to say that man advanced only as he mingled his thoughts with his labor—only as he got into partnership with the forces of nature—only as he learned to take advantage of his surroundings—only as he freed himself from the bondage of fear—only as he depended upon himself—only as he lost confidence in the gods.

I saw at the same time a row of human skulls, from the lowest skull that has been found, the Neanderthal skull—skulls from Central Africa, skulls from the Bushmen of Australia—skulls from the farthest isles of the Pacific Sea—up to the best skulls of the last generation;—and I noticed that there was the same difference between those skulls that there was between the products of those skulls, and I said to myself, "After all, it is a simple question of intellectual development." There was the same difference between those skulls the lowest and highest skulls, that there was between the dug-out and the steamship, between the club and the Krupp gun, between the yellow daub and the landscape, between the tom-tom and an opera by Verdi.

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The first and lowest skull in this row was the den in which crawled the base and meaner instincts of mankind, and the last was a temple in which dwelt joy, liberty and love.

It is all a question of brain, of intellectual development. If we are nearer free than were our fathers, it is because we have better heads upon the average, and more brains in them.

Now, 1 ask you to be honest with me. It makes no difference to you what I believe, nor what I wish to prove. I simply ask you to be honest. Divest your minds for a moment at least of all religious prejudices. Act, for a moment as though you were men and women.

Suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was one, at the time this gentleman floated in his dug-out, and charmed his cars with the music of the tom-tom, had said: "That dug-out is the best boat that ever can be built by man; the pattern of that came from on high, from the great god of storm and flood, and any man who says that he can improve it by putting a mast in it, with a sail upon it, is an infidel, and shall be burned at the stake," what in your judgment—honor bright—would have been the effect upon the circumnavigation of the globe.

Suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, if there was one—and I presume there was a priest, for it was a very ignorant ape—suppose this king and priest had said, "That tom-tom is the most beautiful instrument of music of which any man can conceive; that is the kind of music they have in heaven; an angel sitting upon the edge of a fleecy cloud, golden in the setting sun, playing upon that tom-tom, became so enraptured, so entranced with her own music, that in a kind of ecstacy she dropped it—that is how we obtained it; and any man who says it can be improved by putting a back and front to [unclear: it,] and four strings, and a bridge, and getting a bow of hair with rosin, is a blaspheming wretch, and shall die the death,"—I ask you, what effect would that have had upon music? If that course had been pursued, would the human ears, in your judgment, ever have been enriched with the splendid symphonies of Beethoven?

Suppose the king, if there was one, and the priest, had said, "That crooked stick is the best plough that can be invented: the pattern of that plough was given to a pious farmer in a holy dream, and that twisted straw is the ne plus ultra of all twisted things, and any man who says he can make an improvement, upon that plough is an atheist," what in your judgment would have been the effect upon the science of agriculture?

But the people said, and the king and priest said: "We want better weapons with which to kill our fellow christians; we want better ploughs, better music, better paintings, and whosoever will give us better weapons, and better music, better houses to live in, better clothes, we will robe him in wealth, and crown him with honor." Every incentive was held out to every human being to improve these things. That is the reason the club has been changed to a cannon, the dug-out to a steamship, the daub to a painting, that is the reason that the piece of rough and broken stone finally became a glorified statue.

You must not, however, forget that the gentleman in the dug-out, who was enraptured with the music of the tom-tom and cultivated his page 9 land with a crooked stick, had a religion of his own. The gentleman in the dug-out was orthodox. He was never troubled with doubts. He lived and died settled in his mind. He believed in hell; and he thought he would be far happier in heaven, if he could just lean over and see certain people who expressed doubts as to the truth of his creed, gently but everlastingly broiled and burned.

It is a very sad and unhappy fact that this man has had a great many intellectual descendants. It is also an unhappy fact in nature, that the ignorant multiply much faster than the intellectual. This fellow in the dug-out believed in a personal devil. His devil had a cloven hoof, a long tail armed with a fiery dart, and his devil breathed brimstone. This devil was at least the equal of God; not quite so stout but a little shrewder. And do you know there has not been a patentable improvement made upon that devil for sis; thousand years.

This gentleman in the dug-out believed that God was a tyrant; that he would eternally damn the man who lived in accordance with his highest and grandest ideal. He believed that the earth was flat. He believed in a literal, burning, seething hell of fire and sulphur. He had also his idea of politics, and his doctrine was, might makes right. And it will take thousands of years before the world will reverse this doctrine, and believingly say, "Right makes might."

All I ask is the same privilege to improve upon that gentleman's theology as upon his musical instrument; the same right to improve upon his politics as upon his dug-out That is all. I ask for the human soul the same liberty in every direction. That is the only crime I have committed. I say, let us think. Let each one express his thought. Let us become investigators, not followers, not cringers and crawlers. If there is in heaven an infinite being, he never will be satisfied with the worship of cowards and hypocrites. Honest unbelief, honest infidelity, honest atheism, will be a perfume in heaven when pious hypocrisy; no matter how religious it may be outwardly, will be a stench.

This is my doctrine. Give every other human being every right you claim for yourself. Keep your mind open to the influence of nature. Receive new thoughts with hospitality. Let us advance.

The religionist of to-day wants the ship of his soul to lie at the wharf of orthodoxy and rot in the sun. He delights to hear the sails of old opinions flap against the masts of old creeds. He loves to see the joints and sides open, and gape in the sun, and it is a kind of bliss for him to repeat again and again: "Do not disturb my opinions. Do not unsettle my mind, I have it all made up, and I want no infidelity. Let me go backward rather than forward.

As far as I am concerned I wish to be out on the high sens. I wish to take my chances with wind, and wave, and star. And I had rather go down in the glory and grandeur of the storm, than to rot in any orthodox harbour whatever.

After all, we are improving from age to age. The most orthodox people in this country two hundred years ago would have been burned for the crime of heresy. The ministers who denounce me to day for expressing my thoughts would have been in the Inquisition themselves. Where once burned and blazed the bivouac fires of the army page 10 of progress, now glow the altars of the church, The religionists of our time are occupying about the same ground occupied by heretics and infidels of one hundred years ago. The church has advanced in spite, as it were, of itself. It has followed the army of progress protesting and denouncing, and had to keep within protesting and denouncing distance. If the church had not made great progress I could not express my thoughts.

Man, however, has advanced just exactly in the proportion with which he has mingled his thought with his labor. The sailor, without control of the wind and wave, knowing nothing or very little of the mysterious currents and pulses of the sea, is superstitious. So also is the agriculturist, whose prosperity depends upon something he cannot control, But the mechanic, when a wheel refuses to turn, never thinks of dropping on his knees and asking the assistance of some divine power. He knows there is a reason. He knows that something is too large or too small, that there is something wrong with his machine, and he goes to work, and he makes it larger or smaller, here or there, until the wheel will turn. Now, just in proportion as man gets away from being, as it were, the slave of his surroundings the serf of the elements—of the heat, the frost, the snow, and the lightning—just to the extent that he has gotten control of his own destiny, just to the extent that he has triumphed over the obstacles of nature, he has advanced physically and intellectually. As man develops he places a greater value upon his own rights. Liberty becomes a grander and diviner thing. As he values his own rights, he begins to value the rights of others. And when all men give to all others all the rights they claim for themselves, this world will be civilized.

This world is beginning to pay homage to intellect, to genius, to heart.

We have advanced. We have reaped the benefit of every sublime and heroic self-sacrifice, of every divine and brave act; and we should endeavour to hand the torch to the next generation, having added a little to the intensity and glory of the flame.

When I think of how much this world has suffered; when I think of how long our fathers were slaves, of how they cringed and crawled at the foot of the throne, and in the dust of the altar, and how they abased themselves, of how abjectly they stood in the presence of superstition robed and crowned. I am amazed.

Nearly every religion has accounted for all the wickedness in this world by the crime of woman. What a gallant thing that is! And if it be true, I had rather live with the woman I love in a world full of trouble, than to live in heaven with nobody but men.

I read in a book—and I will say now that I cannot give the exact language, as my memory does not retain the words, but I can give the substance—I read in a book that the Supreme Being concluded to make a world and one man: that he took some nothing and made a world and one man, and put this man in a garden. In a little while he noticed that the man got lonesome; that he wandered around as if he was waiting for a train. There was nothing to interest him; no news; no papers; no policy, and, as the devil had not made his appearance, there was no chance for reconciliation, not even for civil page 11 service reform. Well, he wandered about the garden in this condition, until finally the Supreme Being made up his mind to make him a companion.

Having used up all the nothing he originally took in making the world and one man, he bad to take a part of the man to start a woman with. So he caused a sleep to fall on this man—now understand me, I do not say this story is true. After the sleep fell upon this man, the Supreme Being took a rib, or as the French would call it, a cutlet out of this man, and from that he made a woman. And considering the amount of raw material used, I look upon it as the most successful job ever performed. Well, after he got the woman done, she was brought to the man; not to sec how she liked him, but to see how he liked her. Well, he liked her, and they started housekeeping; and were told of certain things they might do, and one thing they must not do—and of course they did it I would have done it in fifteen minutes, and I know it. There would'nt have been an apple left on that tree half an hour from date and the limbs would have been full of clubs. And then they were turned out of the park and extra policemen were put on to keep them from getting back.

Devilment soon commenced. The mumps, and the measles, and the whooping cough, and the scarlet fever started in their race for man. They began to have the toothache, roses began to have thorns, snakes began to have poisonous teeth, and people began to snarl and divide about religion and politics, and the world has been full of trouble from that day to this.

Nearly all of the religions of this world account for the existence of evil by such a story as that!

I read in another book what appeared to be an account of the same transaction. It was written about four thousand years before the other. All commentators agree that the one that was written last was the original, and that the one that was written first was copied from the one that was written last But I would advise you all not to allow your creed to be disturbed by a little matter of four or five thousand years. In this other story, Brahma made up his mind to make the world and a man and woman. He made the world, and he made the man and then the woman, and put them on the island of Ceylon. According to the account it was the most beautiful island of which man can conceive. Such birds, such songs, such flowers and such verdure. And the branches of the trees were so arranged that when the wind swept through them every tree was a thousand Ælian harps.

Brahma, when he put them there, said: "Let them have a period of courtship, for it is my desire and will that true love should for ever precede marriage." When I read that it was so much more beautiful and lofty than the other, that I said to myself, "If either one of these stories ever turns out to be true I hope it will be this one."

Then they had their courtship, with the nightingale singing, and the stars shining, and the flowers blooming, and they fell in love. Imagine that courtship! No prospective fathers or mothers-in-law; no prying and gossiping neighbours; nobody to say, "Young man how do you expect to support her." Nothing of that kind. They page 12 were married by the Supreme Brahma, and he said to them: "Remain here, you must never leave this island." Well, after a little white the man—and his name was Adami, and the woman's name was Heva—said to Heva: "I believe I'll look about a little." He went to the northern extremity of the island where there was a narrow little neck of land connecting it with, the mainland, and the devil, who is always playing pranks with us produced a mirage, and when he looked over to the mainland, such hills and vales, such dells and dales, such mountains crowned with snow, such cataracts clad in bows of glory did he see there, that he went back and told Heva: "The country over there is a thousand times better than this, let us migrate." She, like every other woman that ever lived, said, "Let well alone; we have all we want; let us stay here" But he said "No, let us go," so she followed him, and when they came to this narrow neck of land, he took her on his back like a gentleman and carried her over. But the moment they got over they heard a crash, and looking back, discovered that this narrow neck of land had fallen into the sea. The mirage had disappeared, and there were nought but rocks and sand; and then the Supreme Brahma cursed them both to the lowest depths of hell.

Then it was that the man spoke—and I have liked him ever since for it—"Curse me, but curse not her, it was not her fault, it was mine."

That's the kind of man to start a world with.

The Supreme Brahma said: "I will save her but not thee. And then she spoke out of her fullness of love, out of a heart in which there was love enough to make all her daughters rich in holy affection, and said: "If thou wilt not spare him, spare neither me; I do not wish to live without him; I love him." Then the Supreme Brahma said—and I have liked him ever since I read it—"I will spare you both and watch over you and your children for ever."

Honor bright, is not that the better and grander story?

In my judgement the woman is the equal of the man. She has all the rights I have and one more, and that is the right to be protected. That is my doctrine. You are married; try and make the woman you love happy. Whoever marries simply for himself will make a mistake, but whoever loves a woman so well that he says, "I will make her happy," makes no mistake. And so with the woman who says, "I will make him happy." There is only one way to be happy, and that is to make somebody else so, and you cannot be happy by going cross lots, you have got to go the regular turnpike road.

If there is any man I detest, it is the man who thinks he is the head of a family—the man who thinks he is boss."

Imagine a young man and a young woman courting, walking out in the moonlight, and the nightingale singing a song of pain and love, as though the thorn touched her heart—imagine them stopping there in the moonlight and starlight and song, and saying, "Now, here, let us settle who is 'boss!'" I tell you it is an infamous word and an infamous feeling, I abhor a man who is "boss" who is going to govern in his family, and when he speaks orders all the rest to be still as some mighty idea is about to be launched from his mouth. Do you know I dislike this man unspeakably!

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I hate above all things a cross man. What right has he to murder the sunshine of a day? What right has he to assassinate the joy of life? When you go home you ought to go like a ray of light—so that it will, even in the night burst out of the doors and windows and illuminate the darkness. Some men think their mighty brains have been in a turmoil; they have been thinking about who will be alderman from the fifth ward; they have been thinking about polities; great and mighty questions have been engaging their minds; they have bought calico at five cents or six, and want to sell it for seven. Think of the intellectual strain that must have been upon that man, and when he gets home everybody else in the house must look out for his comfort. A woman who has only taken care of five or six children, and one or two of them sick, has been nursing them and singing to them, and trying to make one yard of cloth do the work of two, she, of course, is fresh and fine to wait upon this gentleman—the head of the family—the boss!

Do you know another thing? I despise a stingy man. I have known men who would trust their wives with their hearts and their honor but not with their pocket book; not with a dollar, When I see a man of that kind I always think he knows which of these articles is the most valuable. Think of making your wife a beggar! Think of her having to ask you every day for a dollar, or for two dollars or fifty cents! "What did you do with that dollar I gave you last week?" Think of having a wife that is afraid of you! Oh, I tell you if you have but a dollar in the world, and you have got to spend it, spend it like a king, spend it as though it were a dry leaf and you the owner of unbounded forests! That's the way to spend it. If it has got to go, let it go.

Get the best you can for your family—try to look as well as you can yourself. When you used to go courting, how elegantly you looked! Ah, your eye was bright, your step was light, and you looked like a prince. Do you know that it is insufferable egotism in you to suppose a woman is going to love you always looking as slovenly as you can! Think of it! Any good woman on earth will be true to you for ever when you do your level best.

Some people tell me, "Your doctrine about loving and wives, and all that, is splendid for the rich, but it won't do for the poor," I tell you to-night there is more love in the houses of the poor than in the palace of the rich. The meanest hut with love in it is a palace fit for the gods, and a palace without love is a den only fit for wild beasts. You cannot be so poor that you cannot help somebody. Good nature is the cheapest commodity in the world: and love is the only thing that will pay ten per cent. to borrower and lender both. Do not tell me you have got to be rich! We have a false standard of greatness. We think that a man must be notorious; that he must be extremely wealthy; or that his name must be upon the putrid lips of rumour. It is all a mistake, It is not necessary to be rich, or to be great, or to be powerful, to be happy. The happy man is the successful man, Joy is wealth. No matter whether you are rich or poor; treat your wife as though she were a splendid flower, and she will fill your life with perfume and with joy.

And do you know, it is a splendid thing to think that the woman you love will never grow old to you. Through the wrinkles of time, page 14 through the mask of years, if you really love her you will always see the face you loved and won. And a woman who really loves a man does not see that he grows old; he is not decrepit to her; he does not tremble; she always sees the same gallant gentleman who won her hand and heart. I like to think of it in that way; 1 like to think that love is eternal. And to love in that way and then go down the hill of life together, and as you go down, hear, perhaps, the laugh of grandchildren, while the birds of joy and love sing once more in the leafless branches of the tree of age.

And I tell you that the children have the same rights that we have and we ought to treat them as though they were human beings. They should be reared with love, kindness, and tenderness, and not with brutality. That is my idea of children. What shall I say of the little children in alleys and cellars; little children who turn pale when they hear their fathers footsteps; little children who run away when they only hear their names called by the lips of a mother; little children—the children of poverty, the children of crime, the children of brutality, wherever they are—flotsam and jetsam upon the wild, mad, sea of life—my heart goes out to them one and all. When one of your children tells a lie be honest with him; tell him that you have told hundreds of them yourself. Tell him, it is not the best way; that you have tried it. Tell him, as the man did in Maine when his boy left home, "John, honesty is the best policy, I have tried both," Be honest with him. Suppose a man as much larger than you as you are larger than a child five years old, should come at you with a club in his hand, and in a voice like thunder shout, "Who broke that plate?" There is not a solitary one of you who would not swear you never saw it; or that it was cracked when you got it. Why not be honest with these children? Just imagine a man who deals in stocks whipping his boy for putting false rumours afloat! Think of a lawyer beating his own flesh and blood for evading the truth, when he makes half of his own living that way! Think of a minister punishing his child for not telling all he thinks! Just think of it!

I do not believe in the government of the lash. If any one of you expects ever to whip your children again, I want you to have a photograph taken of yourself when you are in the act, with your face red with vulgar auger, and the face of the little child with eyes swimming in tears and the little chin dimpled with fear, like a piece of cold water struck with a sudden cold wind. Have the picture taken. If that little child should die, I cannot think of a sweeter way to spend an autumn afternoon than to go out to the cemetery when the maples are clad in tender gold, and little scarlet runners are coming, like poems of regret, from the sad heart of the earth—and sit down upon the grave and look at the photograph, and think of the flesh now dust that you beat. I tell you it is wrong; it is no way to raise children! Make your home happy. Be honest with them. Divide fairly with them in everything.

People justify all kinds of tyranny towards children upon the ground that they are totally depraved. At the bottom of ages of cruelty lies this infamous doctrine of total depravity. Religion contemplates a child as a living crime—heir to an infinite curse—doomed to eternal fire.

page 15

In the olden time, they thought some days were too good for a child to enjoy himself. When I was a boy, Sunday was considered altogether too holy to be happy in. Sunday used to commence then when the sun went down on Saturday night. We commenced at that time getting a good ready, and when the sun fell below the horizon on Saturday evening, there was a darkness fell upon the house ten thousand times deeper than that of night. Nobody said a pleasant word; nobody laughed; nobody smiled; the child that looked the sickest was regarded as the most pious. That night you could not even crack hickory nuts, and if you were caught chewing gum it was only another sign of the total depravity of the human heart. It was an exceedingly solemn night. Dyspepsia was in the very air you breathed. Everybody looked end and mournful. I have noticed all my life that many people think they have religion when they are troubled with dyspepsia. If there could be found an absolute specific for that disease, it would be the hardest blow the church has ever received.

On Sunday morning the solemnity hail simply increased. Then we went to church. The minister was in a pulpit about twenty feet high, with a little sounding board above him, and he commenced at "firstly," and went on and on and on to about "twenty-thirdly." Then he made a few remarks by way of application; then he took a general view of the subject, and in about two hours he reached the last chapter in Revelations.

In those days no matter how cold the weather was, there was no fire in the church. It was thought to be a kind of sin to be comfortable while you were thanking God. The first church that ever had a stove in it in New England, divided on that account. So the first church in which they sang by note, was torn to fragments.

After the sermon we had an intermission. Then came the catechism with the chief end of man. We went through with that. We sat in a row with our feet coming in about six inches of the floor. The minister asked us if we all knew we deserved to go to hell, and we all answered "Yes."

Then the same sermon was preached once more, commencing at the end and going back. After that we started for home, sad and solemn—overpowered with the wisdom displayed in the scheme of the atonement. When we got home, if we had been good boys, and the weather was warm, sometimes they would take us out to the graveyard to cheer us up a little. It did cheer me. When I looked at the sunken tombs and the leaning stones, and red the half effaced inscriptions through the moss of silence and forgetfulness, it was a great comfort, The recollection came to my mind that the observance of the Sabbath could not last always, Sometimes they would sing that beautiful hymn in which occurs those cheerful lines:

"Where congregations ne'er break up,
And Sabbaths never end."

These lines, I think, prejudiced me a little against even heaven. Then we had good books that we read on Sundays by way of keeping us happy and contented. There were Baxters "Call to the unconverted," Milner's "History of the Waldenses," and Jenkyns "On the Atonement." I used to read Jenkyns and often thought that an atone- page 16 ment would have to be exceedingly broad in its provisions to cover the case of a man who would write a book like that for a boy.

But at last Sunday wore away, and the moment the sun went down we were tree. Between three and four o'clock we would go out to see how the sun was getting on. Sometimes it seemed to me that it was stopping from pure meanness. But finally it went down. It had to. And when the last rim of light sank below the horizon, off would go our caps, and we would give three cheers for liberty once more.

Sabbaths used to be prisons. Every Sunday was a Bastile. Every christian was a kind of turnkey, and every child was a prisoner—a convict. In that dungeon a smile was a crime.

It was thought wrong for a child to laugh upon this holy day. Think of that!

A little child would go out into the garden, and there would be a tree laden with blossoms, and the little fellow would lean against it, and there would be a bird on one of the boughs, singing and swinging and thinking about four little speckled eggs, warmed by the breast of Its mate—singing and swinging, and the music in happy waves rippling out of its tiny throat, and the flowers blossoming, the air filled with perfume and the great white clouds floating in the sky, and the little boy would lean up against that tree and think about hell and the worm that never dies.

The laugh of a child will make the holiest day more sacred still. Strike with the hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with Apollo's golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; but know, your sweetest strains are discords all, compared with childhood's happy laugh—the laugh that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. O rippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundry line between the beast and men, and every wayward wave of thine doth drown some fretful fiend of care. O Laughter, rose lipped daughter of Joy, there are dimples enough in thy cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the tears of grief.

And yet die minds of children have been polluted by this infamous doctrine of eternal punishment I despise it with every drop of my blood, and denounce it to day as a doctrine the infamy of which no language is sufficient to express.

When the great ship containing the hopes and aspirations of the world, and freighted with mankind goes down in the night of death, chaos and disaster, I am willing to go down with the ship. I will not be guilty of the ineffable meanness of paddling away in some orthodox canoe. I will go down with the ship with those who love me, and with those whom I have loved. If there is a God who will damn his children for ever, I would rather go to hell than go to heaven and keep the company of such an infamous tyrant. I make my choice now I despise the doctrine. It has covered the cheeks of this world with tears. It has polluted the hearts of children, and poisoned the imagination of men It has been a constant pain, a perpetual terror to every good man and woman and child. It has filled the good with horror and with fear; but it has bad no effect on the infamous and the base. It has wrung the hearts of the tender; it has furrowed the cheeks of the good. page 17 This doctrine never should be preached again. What right have you, Sir, Mr. Clergyman, you, minister of the gospel, to stand at the portals of the tomb, at the vestibule of eternity, and fill the future with horror and with fear? I do not believe this doctrine; neither do you. If you did you could not sleep one moment. Any man who believes it, and has within his breast a decent throbbing heart, will go insane. A man who believes that doctrine and does not go insane has the heart of a snake and the conscience of a hyena.

These doctrines have been taught in the name of religion, in the name of universal forgiveness, in the name of infinite love and charity. Do not, I pray you, soil the minds of your children with this dogma. Let them read for themselves; let them think for themselves.

I have given you my honest thought. Surely investigation is better than unthinking faith. Surely reason is a better guide than fear. This world should be governed by the living not be the dead. The grave is not a throne, and a corpse is not a king. Man should not try to live on ashes.

The theologians dead, knew no more than the theologians now living. More than this cannot be said. About this world little is known—about another world nothing.

Our fathers were intellectual serfs, and their fathers were slaves. The makers of our creeds were ignorant and brutal Every dogma that we have, has upon it the mark of whip, the rust of chain, and the ashes of faggot.

Our fathers reasoned with instruments of torture. They believed in the logic of fire and sword. They hated reason. They despised thought. They abhorred liberty.

I do not pretend to tell what all the truth is. I do not pretend to have fathomed the abyss, nor to have floated on outstretched wings level with the dim heights of thought. I simply plead for freedom, I ask for light and air for the souls of men. I say, take off those chains—break those manacles—free those limbs—release that brain! I plead for the right to think—to reason—to investigate. I ask that the future may be enriched with the honest thoughts of men, I implore every human being to be a soldier in the army of progress.

I will not invade the rights of others. You have no right to erect your toll gate upon the highways of thought. You have no right to leap from the hedges of superstition and strike down the pioneers of the human race. Believe what you may; preach what you desire; have all the forms and ceremonies you please; exercise your liberty in your own way but extend to all others the same right.

I attack the monsters, the phantoms of imagination that have ruled the whole world.

Why should we sacrifice a real world that we have, for one we know not of? Why should we forge fetters for our own hands? Why should we be the slaves of phantoms? The darkness of barbarism was the womb of these shadows. In the light of science they cannot cloud the sky for ever. They have reddened the hands of man with innocent blood. They made the cradle a curse and the grave a place of torment.

They filled the future with heavens and with hells, with the shining peaks of selfish joy and the lurid abysses of flame. For ages they have page 18 kept the world in ignorance and awe, in want and misery, in fear and chains.

Man is greater than the phantoms. Humanity is grander than all the creeds, than all the books. Humanity is the great sea, and these creeds, and books, and religions, are but the waves of a day. Humanity is the sky and these religions and dogmas and theories are but the mists and clouds changing continually, destined finally to melt away.

Superstition is the child of slavery. Free thought will give us truth. When all have the right to think and to express their thoughts, every brain will gave to all the best it has. The world will then be filled with intellectual wealth.

As long as men and women are afraid of the church, as long as a minister inspires fear, as long as people reverence a thing simply because they do not understand it, as long as it is respectable to lose your self respect, as long as the church has power, as long as mankind worship a book, just so long will the world be filled with intellectual paupers and vagrants, covered with the soiled and faded rages of superstition.

There has never been upon the earth a generation of free men and women. It is not yet time to write a creed. Wait until the chains are broken—until solemnity is not regarded as wisdom—until mental cowardice ceases to be known as reverence. Wait until the living are considered the equals of the dead—until the cradle takes the precedence of the coffin. Wait until what we know can be spoken without regard to what others may believe. Wait until teachers take the place of preachers—until followers become investigators. Wait until the world is free before you write a creed.

In this creed there will be but one word—Liberty.

Oh, Liberty, float not for ever in the far horizon—remain not for ever in the dream of the enthusiast, the philanthropist and poet, but come and make thy home among the children of men!

I know not what discoveries, what inventions, what thought may leap from the brain of the world. I know not what garments of glory may be woven by the years to come. I cannot dream of the victories to be won upon the fields of thought; but I do know, that coming from the infinite sea of the future, there will never touch this "bank and shoal of time" a richer gift, a rarer blessing than liberty for man, for woman, and for child.

A Collection of Colonel Ingersoll's Orations, including the "Oration on the Gods," "Thomas Paine," "Heretics and Heresies," "Humboldt," and "Arraignment of the Church," in neatly bound limp cloth volume, price 1/6, or mailed to any address for 1/7, can be had of W. H. Morrish, Bookseller, 18, Narrow Wine Street, Bristol.