ejudice, to fear, to miracle, to slavery, to the unknown,
and to misery hereafter. The few have said, "Think!" The many have
said, "Believe!"

The first doubt was the womb and cradle of progress, and from the first
doubt, man has continued to advance. Men began to investigate, and the
church began to oppose. The astronomer scanned the heavens, while the
church branded his grand forehead with the word, "Infidel"; and now,
not a glittering star in all the vast expanse bears a Christian name.
In spite of all religion, the geologist penetrated the earth, read her
history in books of stone, and found hidden within her bosom, souvenirs
of all the ages. Old ideas perished in the retort of the chemist,
useful truths took their places. One by one religious conceptions have
been placed in the crucible of science, and thus far, nothing but dross
has been found. A new world has been discovered by the microscope;
everywhere has been found the infinite; in every direction man has
investigated and explored, and nowhere, in earth or stars, has been
found the footstep of any being superior to or independent of nature.
Nowhere has been discovered the slightest evidence of any interference
from without. These are the sublime truths that enable man to throw
off the yoke of superstition. These are the splendid facts that
snatched the sceptre of authority from the hands of priests.

In the vast cemetery called the past are most of the religions of men,
and there, too, are nearly all their gods. The sacred temples of India
were ruins long ago. Over column and cornice; over the painted and
pictured walls, cling and creep the trailing vines. Brahma, the golden,
with four heads and four arms; Vishnu, the sombre, the punisher of the
wicked, with his three eyes, his crescent, and his necklace of skulls;
Siva, the destroyer, red with seas of blood; Kali, the goddess;
Draupadi, the white-armed, and Chrishna, the Christ, all passed away
and left the thrones of heaven desolate. Along the banks of the sacred
Nile, Isis no longer wandering weeps, searching for the dead Osiris.
The shadow of Typhon's scowl falls no more upon the waves. The sun
rises as of yore, and his golden beams still smite the lips of Memnon,
but Memnon is as voiceless as the Sphinx. The sacred fanes are lost in
desert sands; the dusty mummies are still waiting for the resurrection
promised by their priests, and the old beliefs, wrought in curiously
sculptured stone, sl