It is a problem whether, by any available contrivance short of that which was adopted by the Incas of Peru, man can uniformly develope upwards. The physiologist can readily see how the matter might be effected, but in republican or constitutional kingdoms, the means will never be adopted.
We have now come to a point when it is necessary for me, as an individual, to express an opinion as to the selection which a philosopher, living in a comparatively civilized community, should make between a promulgation of the so-called laws of God—an instruction respecting the laws of nature—or an utterance of the laws of society, with the enforcement of them. Ere forming a decision, let us endeavour to ascertain what each alternative involves.
If a state, acting through its executive government, decides to make what are called the laws of God the basis of legislation, it must first decide what those laws are. In the endeavour to do so, every thoughtful man will recognize the impossibility of verifying a single one. The whole must, therefore, be promulgated on assumption; and if so, the legislators will be conscious that they have no valid authority. If, on the other hand, they assume the laws of nature to be a safe guide, they must allow proceedings which are opposed to the feelings of the majority of civilized mortals. Being, then, averse to elect either of these codes as a sole basis, the statesman will endeavour, as far as in him lies, to make or adapt laws for the society in which he lives.
When the well-being of the community becomes the basis of its legislation, the idea of sin vanishes from the statute book, and the stern realities of life have to be envisaged with firmness and decision. So also when religion has merged into common sense, and facts are appealed to rather than fancies, policy takes the place of dogma, and the voice of a majority overcomes that of any priesthood.
Into political economy, however, it is not my desire to enter, further than may be necessary to illustrate my own opinions upon religion.
Having emancipated myself from the thraldom of bibliolatry and priestcraft generally, it is my aim to examine what seems to be my duty as a man and an integer of society. I conceive that, although I have no certain knowledge thereof, I am one of the myriads of instruments by which the Almighty works out His designs. My appreciation may be imperfect, but still it seems to me a duty, always to be a good husband, father, friend, and citizen—to act ever towards others as I should desire myself to be treated under the same circumstances—to improve such talents as I am conscious of possessing; and, in a general way, to do as much good as I can during my lifetime—taking care, if possible, to leave after my death no mischievous agency set on foot by me. In few words, I believe that the only true religion consists in a constant steady performance of duty—a duty discovered and determined by the individual, and not one prescribed by any set of men.
The conclusion thus arrived at, appears at first sight, to be meagre in the extreme, but when it is fully examined, it is found to involve important consequences. The faithful, for example, or, as they style themselves, "the orthodox," live, when they pay any attention to such matters, in a state of perpetual fear of God and eternity; some, indeed we may say many, go mad from the oppression which they feel from having committed an unpardonable sin; some pass through life weighted by the dread of not being finally "saved"; all, with rare exceptions, have a horror of death and of the results of "the judgment." Feeling assured that few will be saved, and the many will be damned, they have a dreadful feeling of certainty that either they or some of their dearest relatives or friends will be amongst the majority. Some go through life sinning and repenting—"in dust and ashes," as the technical phrase runs—until they are ashamed of their own vacillation, or go on sinning, without any qualms of conscience, until it is too late to mend; and they recognize before them "a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation." These fantastic terrors are far more deeply rooted in the Protestants than in the Papists, who have so completely become imbued with the belief that their priests have almost unlimited power in the unseen world, that the dying folk become easy in their minds, by a full assurance of hope that friends, hierarchs, and "masses" will make purgatory bearable and heaven certain. Of fear about eternity I know nothing; feeling confident that the God who made me—directly or indirectly it would be a waste of time to discuss—had some work for me to do here. I am quite content with whatever may be assigned to me hereafter by the same Power. Of a future state I am wholly ignorant. As an integer, I feel a sort of instinct that death is not absolute annihilation; but beyond that I do not now seek to know, for every source of intelligence is absent.
To some inconsiderate enthusiasts this may seem a cold belief, but in reality it is anything but that, for my days and nights are freed from that wet blanket of vague dread which makes so many mentally shiver; and my time is passed pleasantly in the alternate labour required by duty, and the repose necessary to recruit one's energies.
Let us, for a moment, consider what would be the condition of the world, if each individual conducted himself according to the dictates of a pure and enlightened morality, instead of according to the direction of a body of Ecclesiastics.
We may, I think, fearlessly assert that there would be no wars, no murders, thefts, adulteries, libels, violations of female purity; in short, every one would do as he wished to be done by. In such a people persecution would find no place, ignorance would not be permitted, and law would be unnecessary. Other desirable things would also take place, to which it is unnecessary to refer at large.