Part 7 (1/2)
That is nearly all that is said to a young one from the cradle until he is twenty one years old, and when he comes of age other people begin saying ”Don't!” And the church says ”Don't!” And the party that he belongs to says ”Don't!” I despise that way of going through this world. Let us have a little liberty--just a little bit. There is another thing. In old times, you know, they thought some days were too good for a child to enjoy himself in. When I was a boy Sunday was considered altogether too good to be happy in; and Sunday used to commence then when the sun went down Sat.u.r.day night. That was to get good ready--a kind of running jump; and when the sun went down, a darkness ten thousand times deeper than that of night fell on that house. n.o.body said a word then; n.o.body laughed; and the child that looked the sickest was regarded the most pious. You couldn't crack hickory nuts; you couldn't chew gum; and if you laughed, it was only another evidence of the total depravity of man. That was a solemn night; and the next morning everybody looked sad, mournful, dyspeptic--and thousands of people think they have religion when they have only got dyspepsia--thousands! But there is nothing in this world that would break up the old orthodox churches as quick as some specific for dyspepsia--some sure cure.
Then we went to church, and the minister was up in a pulpit about twenty feet high, with a little sounding-board over him, and he commenced with Firstly and went on to about twenty-thirdly, and then around by way of application, and then divided it off again once or twice, and after having put in about two hours, he got to Revelations.
We were not allowed to have any fire, even if it was in the winter. It was thought to be outrageous to be comfortable while you are thanking the Lord, and the first church that ever had a stove put in it in New England was broken up on that account. Then we went a-nooning, and then came the catechism, the chief end of man. We went through that; and then this same sermon was preached, commencing at the other end, and going back. After that was over we started for home, solemn and sad--”not a soldier discharged his farewell shot;” not a word was said--and when we got home, if we had been good boys, they would take us up to the graveyard to cheer us up a little.
It did cheer me! When I looked at those tombs the comforting reflection came to my mind that this kind of thing couldn't last always. Then we had some certain books that we read just by way of cheerfulness. There was Milner's ”History of the Wilderness,” Baxter's ”Call to the Unconverted,” and Jenkins' ”On the Atonement.” I used to read Jenkins' ”On the Atonement;” and I have often thought the atonement would have to be very broad in its provisions to cover the case of a man who would write a book like that for a boy to read.
Well, you know, the Sunday had to go at last; and the moment the sun went down Sunday night we were free. About 4 or 5 o'clock we would go to see how the sun was coming out. Sometimes it seemed to me that it was just stopping from pure cussedness; but finally it had to go down, and when the last rim of light sank below the horizon, out would come our traps, and we would give three cheers for liberty once more. In those times it was thought wrong for a child to laugh on Sunday. Think of that! A little child--a little boy--could go out in the garden, and there would be a tree laden with blossoms, and this little fellow would lean up against the tree, and there would be a bird singing and swinging, and thinking about four little speckled eggs, warmed by the breast of its mate--singing and swinging, and the music coming rippling out of its throat, and the flowers blossoming and the air full of perfume, and the great white clouds floating in the sky; and that little boy would lean up against that trunk, and think of h.e.l.l.
That's true! I have heard them preach when I sat in the pew, and my feet didn't come within eighteen inches of the floor, about that h.e.l.l.
And they said, ”Suppose that once in a million years a bird would come from some far distant planet, and carry in its bill a grain of sand, the time would finally come when the last atom composing this earth would be carried away;” and the old preacher said, in order to impress upon the boys the length of time they would have to stay, ”it wouldn't be sun-up in h.e.l.l yet.”
Think of that to preach to children! I tell you, my friends, no day can be so sacred but that the laugh of a little child will make it holier still--no day! And yet, at that time, the minds of children were polluted by this infamous doctrine of eternal punishment; and I denounce it today as an infamous doctrine beyond the power of language to express. Where did that doctrine of eternal punishment for the children of men come from? It came from that wretch in the dug-out.
Where did he get it? It was a souvenir from the animals, and the doctrine of eternal punishment was born in the eyes of snakes when they hung in fearful coils watching for their prey. It was a doctrine born of the howling and barking and growling of wild beasts; it was born in the grin of the hyenas, and of the depraved chatter of the baboons; and I despise it with every drop of my blood. Tell me there is a G.o.d in the serene heaven that will d.a.m.n his children for the expression of an honest belief!
There have been more men who died in their sins, according to your orthodox religion, than there are leaves on all the forests of this world ten thousand times over. Tell me they are in h.e.l.l! Tell me they are to be punished for ever and ever! I denounce it as an infamous lie!
And when the great s.h.i.+p containing the hope and aspiration of the world, when the great s.h.i.+p freighted with mankind goes down in the night of death and disaster, I will go down with the s.h.i.+p. I don't want to paddle off in any orthodox canoe. I will go down with the s.h.i.+p; and if there is a G.o.d who will d.a.m.n his children forever I had rather go to h.e.l.l than to go to heaven and keep the society of such an infamous Deity. I make my choice now. I despise that doctrine, and I'll tell you why. It has covered the cheeks of this world with tears.
It has polluted the heart of children. It has been a pain and terror to every man that ever believed it. It has filled the good with horror and fear, but it has had no effect upon the infamous and base. I tell you it is a bad doctrine. I read in the papers today what Henry Ward Beecher, whom I regard as the most intellectual preacher in the pulpit of the United States--I will read from the paper what he said yesterday, and you will see an abstract of it in the New York Times of today. He has had the courage, and he has had the magnificent manhood, to say:
”I say to you, and I swear to you, by the wounds in the hands of Christ--I swear to you by the wounds in the body and feet of Christ, that this doctrine of eternal h.e.l.l is a most infamous nightmare of theology! It never should be preached again.”
What right have you, sir; you, minister, as you are, to stand at the portal of eternity, or the portal of the tomb, and fill the future with horror and with fear? You have no right to do it. I don't believe it, and neither do you. You would not sleep one night. Any man who believes it, who has got a decent heart in his bosom, will go insane.
Yes, sir, a man that really believes that doctrine and does not go insane, has got the conscience of a snake and the intellect of a hyena.
O! I thank my stars that you do not believe it. You cannot believe it, and you never will believe it. Old Jonathan Edwards, the dear old soul, he is in heaven I suppose, said: ”Can the believing husband in heaven be happy with his unbelieving wife in h.e.l.l? Can the believing father in heaven be happy with his unbelieving children in h.e.l.l? Can the loving wife in heaven be happy with her unbelieving husband in h.e.l.l? I tell you yea. Such will be their sense of justice that it will increase rather than diminish their happiness.”
Think of these infamous doctrines that have been taught in the name of religion! Do not stuff these things into the minds of your children.
Give them a chance. Let them read. Let them think. Do not treat your children like posts, to be set in the orthodox road, but like trees, that need light and sun and air. Be honest with them. Be fair with them. In old times they used to make all children go to bed when they were not sleepy, and all of them got up when they were sleepy. I say let them go to bed--when they are sleepy and get up when they are not.
But they say that will do for the rich, but not for the poor. Well, if the poor have to wake their children early in the morning, it is as easy to wake them with a kiss as with a club. I believe in letting children commence at which end of the dinner they want to.
Let them eat what they want. It is their business. They know what they want to eat. And if they have had their liberty from the first, they can beat any doctor in the world. All the improvement that has ever been made in medicine has been made by the recklessness of patients. Yes, sir. Thousands and thousands of years the doctors wouldn't let a man have water in fever. Every now and then some fellow got reckless and said: ”I will die, I am so thirsty,” and drank two or three quarts of water and got well. And they kept that up until finally the doctors said, ”that is the best thing for a fever you can do.”
I have more confidence to agree with nature about these things than any of the conclusions of the schools. Just let your children have freedom, and they will fall right into your ways and do just as you do.
But you try to make them, and there is some magnificent, splendid thing in the human heart that will not be driven. And do you know it is the luckiest thing for this world that ever happened that people are so.
What would we have been if the people in any age of the world had done just as the doctors told them? They would have been all dead. What would we have done if, at any age of the world, we had followed implicitly the direction of the church? We would have been all idiots, every one.
It is a splendid thing that there is always some fellow who won't mind, and will think for himself. And I believe in letting children think for themselves. I believe in having a family like a democracy. If there is anything splendid in this world it is a home of that kind.
They used to tell us, ”Let your victuals close your mouth.” We used to eat as though it was a religious performance. I like to see the children about, and every one telling what he has seen and heard. I like to hear the clatter of the knives and spoons mingling with the laughter of their voices. I had rather hear it than any opera that has ever been put upon the boards. Let them have liberty; let them have freedom, and I tell you your children will love you to death.
Now, I have some excuses to offer for the race to which I belong. I have two. My first excuse is that this is not a very good world to raise folks in anyway. It is not very well adapted to raising magnificent people. There's only a quarter of it land to start with.
It is three times better fitted for raising fish than folks, and in that one quarter of land there is not a tenth part fit to raise people on. You can't raise people without a good climate. You have got to have the right kind of climate, and you have got to have certain elements in the soil, or you can't raise good people. Do you know that there is only a little zig-zag strip around the world within which have been produced all men of genius?
The southern hemisphere has never produced a man of genius, never; and never will until civilization, fighting the heat that way and the cold this, widens this portion of the earth until it is capable of producing great men and great women. It is the same with men that it is with vegetation; you go into a garden, and find there flowers growing. And as you go up the mountain, the birch and the hemlock and the spruce are to be found. And as you go toward the top, you find little, stunted trees getting a miserable subsistence out of the crevices of the rocks, and you go on up and up and up, until finally you find at the top little moss-like freckles. You might as well try to raise flowers where those freckles grow as to raise great men and women where you haven't got the soil.
I don't believe man ever came to any high station without woman. There has got to be some restraint, something to make you prudent, something to make you industrious. And in a country where you don't need any bed quilt but a cloud, revolution is the normal condition of the people.
You have got to have the fireside; you have got to have the home, and there by the fireside will grow and bloom the fruits of the human race.
I recollect a while ago I was in Was.h.i.+ngton when they were trying to annex Santo Domingo. They said: ”We want to take in Santo Domingo.”
Said I: ”We don't want it.” ”Why,” said they, ”it is the best climate the earth can produce. There is everything you want.” ”Yes,”