THE NATURAL HISTORY OF RELIGION
1757
As every enquiry which regards religion is of the utmost
importance, there are two questions in particular which challenge our
principal attention, to wit, that concerning its foundation in reason,
and that concerning its origin in human nature. Happily, the first
question, which is the most important, admits of the most obvious, at
least the clearest solution. The whole frame of nature bespeaks an
intelligent author; and no rational enquirer can, after serious
reflexion, suspend his belief a moment with regard to the primary
principles of genuine Theism and Religion. But the other question,
concerning the origin of religion in human nature, is exposed to some
more difficulty. The belief of invisible, intelligent power has been
very generally diffused over the human race, in all places and in all
ages; but it has neither perhaps been so universal as to admit of no
exceptions, nor has it been, in any degree, uniform in the ideas which
it has suggested. Some nations have been discovered, who entertained no
sentiments of Religion, if travellers and historians may be credited;
and no two nations, and scarce any two men, have ever agreed precisely
in the same sentiments. It would appear, therefore, that this
preconception springs not from an original instinct or primary
impression of nature, such as gives rise to self-love, affection between
the sexes, love of progeny, gratitude, resentment; since every instinct
of this kind has been found absolutely universal in all nations and
ages, and has always a precise determinate object, which it inflexibly
pursues. The first religious principles must be secondary; such as may
easily be perverted by various accidents and causes, and whose operation
too, in some cases, may by an extraordinary concurrence of circumstances
be altogether prevented. What those principles are, which give rise to
the original belief, and what those accidents and causes are, which
direct its operation, is the subject of our present enquiry.
Section I.
That Polytheism was the primary Religion of Men.
It appears to me, that if we consider the improvement of human society,
from rude beginnings to a state of greater perfection, polytheism or
idolatry was, and necessarily must have been, the first and most ancient
religion of mankind. This opinion I shall endeavor to confirm by the
following arguments.
It is a matter of fact incontestable, that about 1,700 years ago all
mankind were polytheists. The doubtful and sceptical principles of a few
philosophers, or the theism, and that too not entirely pure, of one or
two nations, form no objection worth regarding. Behold then the clear
testimony of history. The farther we mount up into antiquity, the more
do we find mankind plunged into polytheism. No marks, no symptoms of any
more perfect religion. The most ancient records of the human race still
present us with that system as the popular and established creed. The
north, the south, the east, the west, give their unanimous testimony to
the same fact. What can be opposed to so full an evidence?
As far as writing or history reaches, mankind, in ancient times,
appear universally to have been polytheists. Shall we assert, that in
more ancient times, before the knowledge of letters, or the discovery of
any art or science, men entertained the principles of pure theism? That
is, while they were ignorant and barbarous, they discovered truth; but
fell into error, as soon as they acquired learn- and politeness.
But in this assertion you not only contradict all appearance of
probability, but also our present experience concerning the principles
and opinions of barbarous nations. The savage tribes of America, Africa,
and Asia, are all idolaters. Not a single exception to this rule.
Insomuch that, were a traveller to transport himself into any unknown
region; if he found inhabitants cultivated with arts and sciences,
though even upon that supposition there are odds against their being
theists, yet could he not safely, till farther inquiry, pronounce any
thing on that head: but if he found them ignorant and barbarous, he
might beforehand declare them idolaters; and there scarcely is a
possibility of his being mistaken.
It seems certain that, according to the natural progress of human
thought, the ignorant multitude must first entertain some grovelling and
familiar notion of superior powers, before they stretch their conception
to that perfect Being who bestowed order on the whole frame of nature.
We may as resonably imagine that men inhabited palaces before huts and
cottages, or studied geometry before agriculture; as assert that the
Deity appeared to them a pure spirit, omniscient, omnipotent, and
omnipresent, before he was apprehended to be a powerful, though limited
being, with human passions and appetites, limbs and organs. The mind
rises gradually, from inferior to superior: by abstracting from what is
imperfect, it forms an idea of perfection: and slowly distinguishing the
nobler parts of its own frame from the grosser, it learns to transfer
only the former, much elevated and refined, to its divinity. Nothing
could disturb this natural progress of thought, but some obvious and
invincible argument, which might immediately lead the mind into the pure
principles of theism, and make it overleap, at one bound, the vast
interval which is interposed between the human and the divine nature.
But though I allow that the order and frame of the universe, when
accurately examined, affords such an argument; yet I can never think
that this consideration could have an influence on mankind, when they
formed their first rude notions of religion.
The causes of such objects as are quite familiar to us, never strike
our attention or curiosity; and however extraordinary or surprising
these objects in themselves, they are passed over, by the raw and
ignorant multitude, without much examination or enquiry. Adam, rising at
once in Paradise, and in the full perfection of his faculties, would
naturally, as represented by Milton, be astonished at the glorious
appearances of nature, the heavens, the air, the earth, his own organs
and members; and would be led to ask, whence this wonderful scene arose.
But a barbarous, necessitous animal (such as man is on the first origin
of society), pressed by such numerous wants and passions, has no leisure
to admire the regular face of nature, or make enquiries concerning the
cause of objects to which, from his infancy, he has been gradually
accustomed. On the contrary, the more regular and uniform, that is, the
more perfect nature appears, the more is he familiarised to it, and the
less inclined to scrutinise and examine it. A monstrous birth excites
his curiosity, and is deemed a prodigy. It alarms him from its novelty;
and immediately sets him a-trembling, and sacrificing, and praying. But
an animal complete in all its limbs and organs, is to him an ordinary
spectacle, and produces no religious opinion or affection. Ask him,
whence that animal arose; he will tell you, from the copulation of its
parents. And these, whence? From the copulation of theirs. A few removes
satisfy his curiosity, and set the objects at such a distance, that he
entirely loses sight of them. Imagine not that he will so much as start
the question, whence the first animal; much less, whence the whole
system or united fabric of the universe arose. Or, if you start such a
question to him, expect not that he will employ his mind with any
anxiety about a subject so remote, so uninteresting, and which so much
exceeds the bounds of his capacity.
But farther, if men were at first led into the belief of one superior
Being, by reasoning from the frame of nature, they could never possibly
leave that belief, in order to embrace polytheism; but the same
principles of reason which at first produced and diffused over mankind
so magnificent an opinion, must be able, with greater facility, to
preserve it. The first invention and proof of any doctrine is much more
difficult than the supporting and retaining of it.
There is a great difference between historical facts and speculative
opinions; nor is the knowledge of the one propagated in the same manner
with that of the other. An historical fact, while it passes by oral
tradition from eye-witnesses and contemporaries, is disguised in every
successive narration, and may at last retain but very small, if any,
resemblance of the original truth on which it was founded. The frail
memories of men, their love of exaggeration, their supine carelessness;
these principles, if not corrected by books and writing, soon pervert
the account of historical events, where argument or reasoning has little
or no place, nor can ever recal the truth which has once escaped those
narrations. It is thus the fables of Hercules, Theseus, Bacchus, are
supposed to have been originally founded in true history, corrupted by
tradition. But with regard to speculative opinions, the case is far
otherwise. If these opinions be founded in arguments so clear and
obvious as to carry conviction with the generality of mankind, the same
arguments which at first diffused the opinions will still preserve them
in their original purity. If the arguments be more abstruse, and more
remote from vulgar apprehension, the opinions will always be confined to
a few persons; and as soon as men leave the contemplation of the
arguments, the opinions will immediately be lost and be buried in
oblivion. Whichever side of this dilemma we take, it must appear
impossible that theism could, from reasoning, have been the primary
religion of human race, and have afterwards, by its corruption, given
birth to polytheism and to all the various superstitions of the heathen
world. Reason, when obvious, prevents these corruptions: when abstruse,
it keeps the principles entirely from the knowledge of the vulgar, who
are alone liable to corrupt any principle or opinion.
Section II.
Origin of Polytheism.
If we would, therefore, indulge our curiosity, in enquiring concerning
the origin of religion, we must turn our thoughts towards polytheism,
the primitive religion of uninstructed mankind.
Were men led into the apprehension of invisible, intelligent power,
by a contemplation of the works of nature, they could never possibly
entertain any conception but of one single being, who bestowed existence
and order on this vast machine, and adjusted all its parts, according to
one regular plan or connected system. For though, to persons of a
certain turn of mind, it may not appear altogether absurd that several
independent beings, endowed with superior wisdom, might conspire in the
contrivance and execution of one regular plan: yet is this a merely
arbitrary supposition, which, even if allowed possible, must be
confessed neither to be supported by probability nor necessity. All
things in the universe are evidently of a piece. Everything is adjusted
to everything. One design prevails throughout the whole. And this
uniformity leads the mind to acknowledge one author; because the
conception of different authors, without any distinction of attributes
or operations, serves only to give perplexity to the imagination,
without bestowing any satisfaction on the understanding. The statue of
Laocoon, as we learn from Pliny, was the work of three artists: but it
is certain that, were we not told so, we should never have imagined that
a group of figures, cut from one stone, and united in one plan, was not
the work and contrivance of one statuary. To ascribe any single effect
to the combination of several causes, is not surely a natural and
obvious supposition.
On the other hand, if, leaving the works of nature, we trace the
footsteps of invisible power in the various and contrary events of human
life, we are necessarily led into polytheism, and to the acknowledgment
of several limited and imperfect deities. Storms and tempests ruin what
is nourished by the sun. The sun destroys what is fostered by the
moisture of dews and rains. War may be favorable to a nation whom the
inclemency of the seasons afflicts with famine. Sickness and pestilence
may depopulate a kingdom, amidst the most profuse plenty. The same
nation is not, at the same time, equally successful by sea and land. And
a nation which now triumphs over its enemies, may anon submit to their
more prosperous arms. In short, the conduct of events, or what we call
the plan of a particular providence, is so full of variety and
uncertainty, that, if we suppose it immediately ordered by any
intelligent beings, we must acknowledge a contrariety in their designs
and intentions, a constant combat of opposite powers, and a repentance
or change of intention in the same power, from impotence or levity. Each
nation has its tutelar deity. Each element is subto its invisible power
or agent. The province of each god is separate from that of another. Nor
are the operations of the same god always certain and invariable. To-day
he protects: to-morrow he abandons us. Prayers and sacrifices, rites and
ceremonies, well or ill performed, are the sources of his favor or
enmity, and produce all the good or ill fortune which are to be found
amongst mankind.
We may conclude, therefore, that in all nations which have embraced
polytheism, the first ideas of religion arose, not from a contemplation
of the works of nature, but from a concern with regard to the events of
life, and from the incessant hopes and fears which actuate the human
mind. Accordingly we find that all idolaters, having separated the
provinces of their deities, have recourse to that invisible agent to
whose authority they are immediately subjected, and whose province it is
to superintend that course of actions in which they are at any time
engaged. Juno is invoked at marriages; Lucina at births. Neptune
receives the prayers of seamen; and Mars of warriors. The husbandman
cultivates his field under the protection of Ceres; and the merchant
acknowledges the authority of Mercury. Each natural event is supposed to
be governed by some intelligent agent; and nothing prosperous or adverse
can happen in life, which may not be the subject of peculiar prayers or
thanksgivings.1
It must necessarily, indeed, be allowed, that in order to carry men’s
attention beyond the present course of things, or lead them into any
inference concerning invisible intelligent power, they must be actuated
by some passion which prompts their thought and reflection; some motive
which urges their first inquiry. But what passion shall we here have
recourse to, for explaining an effect of such mighty consequence? Not
speculative curiosity surely, or the pure love of truth. That motive is
too refined for such gross apprehensions, and would lead men into
inquiries concerning the frame of nature; a subject too large and
comprehensive for their narrow capacities. No passions, therefore, can
be supposed to work upon such barbarians, but the ordinary affections of
human life; the anxious concern for happiness, the dread of future
misery, the terror of death, the thirst of revenge, the appetite for
food and other necessaries. Agitated by hopes and fears of this nature,
especially the latter, men scrutinise, with a trembling curiosity, the
course of future causes, and examine the various and contrary events of
human life. And in this disordered scene, with eyes still more
disordered and astonished, they see the first obscure traces of
divinity.
Section III.
The same subject continued.
We are placed in this world, as in a great theatre, where the true
springs and causes of every event are entirely unknown to us; nor have
we either sufficient wisdom to foresee, or power to prevent, those ills
with which we are continually threatened. We hang in perpetual suspense
between life and death, health and sickness, plenty and want, which are
distributed amongst the human species by secret and unknown causes,
whose operation is oft unexpected, and always unaccountable. These
unknown causes, then, become the constant object of our hope and fear;
and while the passions are kept in perpetual alarm by an anxious
expectation of the events, the imagination is equally employed in
forming ideas of those powers on which we have so entire a dependence.
Could men anatomise nature, according to the most probable, at least the
most intelligible philosophy, they would find that these causes are
nothing but the particular fabric and structure of the minute parts of
their own bodies and of external objects; and that, by a regular and
constant machinery, all the events are produced about which they are so
much concerned. But this philosophy exceeds the comprehension of the
ignorant multitude, who can only conceive the unknown causes in a
general and confused manner, though their imagination, perpetually
employed on the same subject, must labor to form some particular and
distinct idea of them. The more they consider these causes themselves,
and the uncertainty of their operation, the less satisfaction do they
meet with in their research; and, however unwilling, they must at last
have abandoned so arduous an attempt, were it not for a propensity in
human nature, which leads into a system that gives them some
satisfaction.
There is an universal tendency amongst mankind to conceive all beings
like themselves, and to transfer to every object those qualities with
which they are familiarly acquainted, and of which they are intimately
conscious. We find human faces in the moon, armies in the clouds; and by
a natural propensity, if not corrected by experience and reflection,
ascribe malice and good will to everything that hurts or pleases us.
Hence the frequency and beauty of the prosopopœia in poetry, where
trees, mountains, and streams are personified, and the inanimate parts
of nature acquire sentiment and passion. And though these poetical
figures and expressions gain not on the belief, they may serve, at
least, to prove a certain tendency in the imagination, without which
they could neither be beautiful nor natural. Nor is a river-god or
hamadryad always taken for a mere poetical or imaginary personage; but
may sometimes enter into the real creed of the ignorant vulgar; while
each grove or field is represented as possessed of a particular genius
or invisible power, which inhabits or protects it. Nay, philosophers
cannot entirely exempt themselves from this natural frailty; but have
oft ascribed to inanimate matter the horror of a vacuum, sympathies,
antipathies, and other affections of human nature. The absurdity is not
less, while we cast our eyes upwards; and transferring, as is too usual,
human passions and infirmities to the deity, represent him as jealous
and revengeful, capricious and partial, and, in short, a wicked and
foolish man, in every respect but his superior power and authority. No
wonder, then, that mankind, being placed in such an absolute ignorance
of causes, and being at the same time so anxious concerning their future
fortunes, should immediately acknowledge a dependence on invisible
powers possessed of sentiment and intelligence. The unknown causes,
which continually employ their thought, appearing always in the same
aspect, are all apprehended to be of the same kind or species. Nor is it
long before we ascribe to them thought, and reason, and passion, and
sometimes even the limbs and figures of men, in order to bring them
nearer to a resemblance with ourselves.
In proportion as any man’s course of life is governed by accident, we
always find that he increases in superstition, as may particularly be
observed of gamesters and sailors, who, though of all mankind the least
capable of serious consideration, abound most in frivolous and
superstitious apprehensions. The Gods, says Coriolanus in Dionysius,1
have an influence in every affair, but above all in war, where the event
is so uncertain. All human life, especially before the institution of
order and good government, being subject to fortuitous accidents, it is
natural that superstition should prevail everywhere in barbarous ages,
and put men on the most earnest inquiry concerning those invisible
powers who dispose of their happiness or misery. Ignorant of astronomy
and the anatomy of plants and animals, and too little curious to observe
the admirable adjustment of final causes, they remain still unacquainted
with a first and supreme creator, and with that infinitely perfect
spirit who alone by his almighty will bestowed order on the whole frame
of nature. Such a magnificent idea is too big for their narrow
conceptions, which can neither observe the beauty of the work, nor
comprehend the grandeur of its author. They suppose their deities,
however potent and invisible, to be nothing but a species of human
creatures, perhaps raised from among mankind, and retaining all human
passions and appetites, together with corporeal limbs and organs. Such
limited beings, though masters of human fate, being each of them
incapable of extending his influence everywhere, must be vastly
multiplied, in order to answer that variety of events which happen over
the whole face of nature. Thus every place is stored with a crowd of
local deities; and thus polytheism has prevailed, and still prevails,
among the greatest part of uninstructed mankind.1
Any of the human affections may lead us into the notion of invisible,
intelligent power, hope as well as fear, gratitude as well as
affliction; but if we examine our own hearts, or observe what passes
around us, we shall find that men are much oftener thrown on their knees
by the melancholy than by the agreeable passions. Prosperity is easily
received as our due, and few questions are asked concerning its cause or
author. It begets cheerfulness and activity and alacrity and a lively
enjoyment of every social and sensual pleasure; and during this state of
mind men have little leisure or inclination to think of the unknown
invisible regions. On the other hand, every disastrous accident alarms
us, and sets us on enquiries concerning the principles whence it arose;
apprehensions spring up with regard to futurity; and the mind, sunk into
diffidence, terror, and melancholy, has recourse to every method of
appeasing those sacred intelligent powers on whom our fortune is
supposed entirely to depend.
No topic is more usual with all popular divines than to display the
advantages of affliction in bringing men to a due sense of religion, by
subduing their confidence and sensuality, which in times of prosperity
make them forgetful of a divine providence. Nor is this topic confined
merely to modern religions. The ancients have also employed it. “Fortune
has never liberally, without envy,” says a Greek historian,1 “bestowed
an unmixed happiness on mankind; but with all her gifts has ever
conjoined some disastrous circumstance, in order to chastise men into a
reverence for the Gods, whom, in a continued course of prosperity, they
are apt to neglect and forget.”
What age or period of life is the most addicted to superstition? The
weakest and most timid. What sex? The same answer must be given. “The
leaders and examples of every kind of superstition”, says Strabo,1 “are
the women. These excite the men to devotion and supplications, and the
observance of religious days. It is rare to meet with one that lives
apart from the females, and yet is addicted to such practices. And
nothing can, for this reason, be more improbable than the account given
of an order of men amongst the Getes, who practised celibacy, and were
notwithstanding the most religious fanatics.” A method of reasoning
which would lead us to entertain a bad idea of the devotion of monks;
did we not know, by an experience not so common, perhaps, in Strabo’s
days, that one may practice celibacy, and profess chastity, and yet
maintain the closest connexions, and most entire sympathy, with that
timorous and pious sex.
Section IV.
Deities not considered as Creators or Formers of the World.
The only point of theology in which we shall find a consent of mankind
almost universal, is that there is invisible, intelligent power in the
world; but whether this power be supreme or subordinate; whether
confined to one being or distributed among several; what attributes,
qualities, connexions, or principles of action ought to be ascribed to
those beings—concerning all these points there is the widest difference
in the popular systems of theology. Our ancestors in Europe, before the
revival of letters, believed, as we do at present, that there was one
supreme God, the author of nature, whose power, though in itself
uncontrollable, was yet often exerted by the interposition of his angels
and subordinate ministers, who executed his sacred purposes. But they
also believed that all nature was full of other invisible
powers—fairies, goblins, elves, sprights, beings stronger and mightier
than men, but much inferior to the celestial natures who surround the
throne of God. Now, suppose that anyone in those ages had denied the
existence of God and his angels, would not his impiety justly have
deserved the appellation of Atheism, even though he had still allowed,
by some odd capricious reasoning, that the popular stories of elves and
fairies were just and well-grounded? The difference, on the one hand,
between such a person and a genuine Theist, is infinitely greater than
that, on the other, between him and one that absolutely excludes all
invisible intelligent power. And it is a fallacy, merely from the casual
resemblance of names, without any conformity of meaning, to rank such
opposite opinions under the same denomination.
To anyone who considers justly of the matter, it will appear that the
Gods of all polytheists are no better than the elves or fairies of our
ancestors, and merit as little any pious worship or veneration. These
pretended religionists are really a kind of superstitious Atheists, and
acknowledge no being that corresponds to our idea of a deity. No first
principle of mind or thought: No supreme government and administration:
No divine contrivance or intention in the fabric of the world.
The Chinese, when1 their prayers are not answered, beat their idols.
The deities of the Laplanders are any large stone which they meet with
of an extraordinary shape.2 The Egyptian mythologists, in order to
account for animal worship, said that the Gods, pursued by the violence
of earthborn men, who were their enemies, had formerly been obliged to
disguise themselves under the semblance of beasts.3 The Caunii, a nation
in the Lesser Asia, resolving to admit no strange Gods among them,
regularly, at certain seasons, assembled themselves completely armed,
beat the air with their lances, and proceeded in that manner to their
frontiers, in order, as they said, to expel the foreign deities.4 “Not
even the immortal Gods”, said some German nations to Cæsar, “are a match
for the Suevi”.5
Many ills, says Dione in Homer to Venus wounded by Diomede, many
ills, my daughter, have the Gods inflicted on men, and many ills, in
return, have men inflicted on the Gods.6 We need but open any classic
author to meet with these gross representations of the deities; and
Longinus,7 with reason, observes that such ideas of the divine nature,
if literally taken, contain a true Atheism.
Some writers1 have been surprised, that the impieties of Aristophanes
should have been tolerated, nay publicly acted and applauded by the
Athenians; a people so superstitious and so jealous of the public
religion, that at that very time they put Socrates to death for his
imagined incredulity. But these writers consider not that the ludicrous,
familiar images, under which the Gods are represented by that comic
poet, instead of appearing impious, were the genuine lights in which the
ancients conceived their divinities. What conduct can be more criminal
or mean, than that of Jupiter in Amphitrion? Yet that play, which
represented his gallant exploits, was supposed so agreeable to him that
it was always acted in Rome by public authority, when the state was
threatened with pestilence, famine, or any general calamity.2 The Romans
supposed, that, like all old letchers, he would be highly pleased with
the rehearsal of his former feats of prowess and vigor, and that no
topic was so proper, upon which to flatter his vanity.
The Lacedemonians, says Xenophon,3 always during war put up their
petitions very early in the morning, in order to be beforehand with
their enemies, and, by being the first solicitors, pre-engaged the Gods
in their favor. We may gather from Seneca4 that it was usual for the
votaries in the temple to make interest with the beadle or sexton that
they might have a seat near the image of the deity, in order to be the
best heard in their prayers and applications to him. The Tyrians, when
besieged by Alexander, threw chains on the statue of Hercules to prevent
that deity from deserting to the enemy.1 Augustus, having twice lost his
fleet by storms, forbad Neptune to be carried in procession along with
the other Gods, and fancied that he had sufficiently revenged himself by
that expedient.2 After Germanicus’s death the people were so enraged at
their Gods that they stoned them in their temples, and openly renounced
all allegiance to them.3
To ascribe the origin and fabric of the universe to these imperfect
beings never enters into the imagination of any Polytheist or idolater.
Hesiod, whose writings, with those of Homer, contained the canonical
system of the heathens4 —Hesiod, I say, supposes Gods and men to have
sprung equally from the unknown powers of nature.5 And throughout the
whole theogony of that author Pandora is the only instance of creation
or a voluntary production; and she, too, was formed by the Gods merely
from despite to Prometheus, who had furnished men with stolen fire from
the celestial regions.6 The ancient mythologists, indeed, seem
throughout to have rather embraced the idea of generation than that of
creation or formation, and to have thence accounted for the origin of
this universe.
Ovid, who lived in a learned age, and had been instructed by
philosophers in the principles of a divine creation or formation of the
world; finding that such an idea would not agree with the popular
mythology which he delivers, leaves it, in a manner, loose and detached
from his system. Quisquis fuit ille Deorum?1 Whichever of the Gods it
was, says he, that dissipated the chaos, and introduced order into the
universe, it could neither be Saturn, he knew, nor Jupiter, nor Neptune,
nor any of the received deities of paganism. His theological system had
taught him nothing upon that head; and he leaves the matter equally
undetermined.
Diodorus Sculus,2 beginning his work with an enumeration of the most
reasonable opinions concerning the origin of the world, makes no mention
of a deity or intelligent mind; though it is evident from his history,
that he had a much greater proneness to superstition than to irreligion.
And in another passage,3 talking of the Ichthyophages, a nation in
India, he says that, there being so great difficulty in accounting for
their descent, we must conclude them to be aborigines, without any
beginning of their generation, propagating their race from all eternity;
as some of the physiologers, in treating of the origin of nature, have
justly observed. “But in such subjects as these,” adds the historian,
“which exceed all human capacity, it may well happen, that those who
discourse the most, know the least; reaching a specious appearance of
truth in their reasonings, while extremely wide of the real truth and
matter of fact.”
A strange sentiment in our eyes, to be embraced by a professed and
zealous religionist!4 But it was merely by accident that the question
concerning the origin of the world did ever in ancient times enter into
religious systems, or was treated of by theologers. The philosophers
alone made profession of delivering systems of this kind; and it was
pretty late too before these bethought themselves of having recourse to
a mind or supreme intelligence, as the first cause of all. So far was it
from being esteemed profane in those days to account for the origin of
things without a deity, that Thales, Anaximenes, Heraclitus, and others,
who embraced that system of cosmogony, passed unquestioned; while
Anaxagoras, the first undoubted theist among the philosophers, was
perhaps the first that ever was accused of Atheism.1
We are told by Sextus Empiricus2 that Epicurus, when a boy, reading
with his preceptor these verses of Hesiod—
Eldest of beings, chaos first arose;
Next earth, wide-stretch’d, the seat of all—
the young scholar first betrayed his inquisitive genius by asking, “And
chaos whence?” But was told by his preceptor, that he must have recourse
to the philosophers for a solution of such questions. And from this hint
Epicurus left philology and all other studies, in order to betake
himself to that science, whence alone he expected satisfaction with
regard to these sublime subjects.
The common people were never likely to push their researches so far,
or derive from reasoning their systems of religion; when philologers and
mythologists, we see, scarcely ever discovered so much penetration. And
even the philosophers, who discoursed of such topics, readily assented
to the grossest theory, and admitted the joint origin of Gods and men
from night and chaos; from fire, water, air, or whatever they
established to be the ruling element.
Nor was it only on their first origin that the Gods were supposed
dependent on the powers of nature. Throughout the whole period of their
existence they were subjected to the dominion of fate or destiny. “Think
of the force of necessity,” says Agrippa to the Roman people; “that
force, to which even the Gods must submit.”1 And the Younger Pliny,2
agreeably to this way of reasoning, tells us that, amidst the darkness,
horror, and confusion which ensued upon the first eruption of Vesuvius,
several concluded that all nature was going to wreck, and that Gods and
men were perishing in one common ruin.
It is great complaisance, indeed, if we dignify with the name of
religion such an imperfect system of theology, and put it on a level
with latter systems, which are founded on principles more just and more
sublime. For my part, I can scarcely allow the principles even of Marcus
Aurelius, Plutarch, and some other Stoics and Academics, though much
more refined than the Pagan superstition, to be worthy of the honourable
denomination of theism. For if the mythology of the heathen resemble the
ancient European system of spiritual beings, excluding God and angels,
and leaving only fairies and sprites; the creed of these philosophers
may justly be said to exclude a deity, and to leave only angels and
fairies.
Section V.
Various Forms of Polytheism: Allegory, Hero-Worship.
But it is chiefly our present business to consider the gross polytheism
of the vulgar, and to trace all its various appearances in the
principles of human nature, whence they are derived.
Whoever learns, by argument, the existence of invisible intelligent
power, must reason from the admirable contrivance of natural objects,
and must suppose the world to be the workmanship of that Divine Being,
the original cause of all things. But the vulgar polytheist, so far from
admitting that idea, deifies every part of the universe, and conceives
all the conspicuous productions of nature to be themselves so many real
divinities. The sun, moon, and stars are all Gods according to his
system: fountains are inhabited by nymphs, and trees by hamadryads: even
monkeys, dogs, cats, and other animals often become sacred in his eyes,
and strike him with a religious veneration. And thus, however strong
men’s propensity to believe invisible, intelligent power in nature,
their propensity is equally strong to rest their attention on sensible,
visible objects; and, in order to reconcile these opposite inclinations,
they are led to unite the invisible power with some visible object.
The distribution also of distinct provinces to the several deities is
apt to cause some allegory, both physical and moral, to enter into the
vulgar systems of polytheism. The God of war will naturally be
represented as furious, cruel, and impetuous; the God of poetry as
elegant, polite, and amiable; the God of merchandise, especially in
early times, as thievish and deceitful. The allegories supposed in Homer
and other mythologists, I allow, have been often so strained that men of
sense are apt entirely to reject them, and to consider them as the
production merely of the fancy and conceit of critics and commentators.
But that allegory really has place in the heathen mythology is
undeniable even on the least reflexion. Cupid the son of Venus, the
Muses the daughters of Memory, Prometheus the wise brother, Epimetheus
the foolish; Hygieia, or the Goddess of health, descended from
Æsculapius, or the God of physic: who sees not in these, and in many
other instances, the plain traces of allegory? When a God is supposed to
preside over any passion, event, or system of actions, it is almost
unavoidable to give him a genealogy, attributes, and adventures,
suitable to his supposed powers and influence, and to carry on that
similitude and comparison which is naturally so agreeable to the mind of
man.
Allegories, indeed, entirely perfect, we ought not to expect as the
products of ignorance and superstition; there being no work of genius
that requires a nicer hand, or has been more rarely executed with
success. That Fear and Terror are the sons of Mars is just, but why by
Venus?1 That Harmony is the daughter of Venus is regular, but why by
Mars?2 That Sleep is the brother of Death is suitable, but why describe
him as enamored of the Graces?1 And since the ancient mythologists fall
into mistakes so gross and obvious, we have no reason surely to expect
such refined and long-spun allegories, as some have endeavored to deduce
from their fictions.
Lucretius was plainly seduced by the strong appearance of allegory
which is observable in the pagan fictions. He first addresses himself to
Venus as to that generating power which animates, renews, and beautifies
the universe; but is soon betrayed by the mythology into incoherencies,
while he prays to that allegorical personage to appease the furies of
her lover Mars—an idea not drawn from allegory, but from the popular
religion, and which Lucretius, as an Epicurean, could not consistently
admit of.
The deities of the vulgar are so little superior to human creatures
that, where men are affected with strong sentiments of veneration or
gratitude for any hero or public benefactor, nothing can be more natural
than to convert him into a God, and fill the heavens, after this manner,
with continual recruits from amongst mankind. Most of the divinities of
the ancient world are supposed to have once been men, and to have been
beholden for their apotheosis to the admiration and affection of the
people. The real history of their adventures, corrupted by tradition,
and elevated by the marvellous, became a plentiful source of fable,
especially in passing through the hands of poets, allegorists, and
priests, who successively improved upon the wonder and astonishment of
the ignorant multitude.
Painters too, and sculptors, came in for their share of profit in the
sacred mysteries, and furnishing men with sensible representations of
their divinities, whom they clothed in human figures, gave great
increase to the public devotion, and determined its object. It was
probably for want of these arts in rude and barbarous ages that men
deified plants, animals, and even brute, unorganised matter; and rather
than be without a sensible object of worship, affixed divinity to such
ungainly forms. Could any statuary of Syria, in early times, have formed
a just figure of Apollo, the conic stone, Heliogabalus, had never become
the object of such profound adoration, and been received as a
representation of the solar deity.1
Stilpo was banished by the council of Areopagus for affirming that
the Minerva in the citadel was no divinity, but the workmanship of
Phidias the sculptor.2 What degree of reason must we expect in the
religious belief of the vulgar in other nations, when Athenians and
Areopagites could entertain such gross conceptions?
These, then, are the general principles of polytheism, founded in
human nature, and little or nothing dependent on caprice and accident.
As the causes which bestow happiness or misery are, in general, very
little known and very uncertain, our anxious concern endeavors to attain
a determinate idea of them, and finds no better expedient than to
represent them as intelligent, voluntary agents, like ourselves; only
somewhat superior in power and wisdom. The limited influence of these
agents, and their great proximity to human weakness, introduce the
various distribution and division of their authority; and thereby give
rise to allegory. The same principles naturally deify mortals, superior
in power, courage, or understanding, and produce hero-worship, together
with fabulous history and mythological tradition, in all its wild and
unaccountable forms. And as an invisible spiritual intelligence is an
object too refined for vulgar apprehension, men naturally affix it to
some sensible representation; such as either the more conspicuous parts
of nature, or the statues, images, and pictures which a more refined age
forms of its divinities.
Almost all idolaters, of whatever age or country, concur in these
general principles and conceptions; and even the particular characters
and provinces which they assign to their deities are not extremely
different.1 The Greek and Roman travellers and conquerors, without much
difficulty, found their own deities everywhere; and said, “This is
Mercury, that Venus, this Mars, that Neptune,” by whatever title the
strange Gods might be denominated. The goddess Hertha, of our Saxon
ancestors, seems to be no other, according to Tacitus,2 than the Mater
Tellus of the Romans; and his conjecture was evidently just.
Section VI.
Origin of Theism from Polytheism.
The doctrine of one supreme deity, the author of nature, is very
ancient, has spread itself over great and populous nations, and among
them has been embraced by all ranks and conditions of persons. But
whoever thinks that it has owed its success to the prevalent force of
those invincible reasons, on which it is undoubtedly founded, would show
himself little acquainted with the ignorance and stupidity of the
people, and their incurable prejudices in favor of their particular
superstitions. Even at this day, and in Europe, ask any of the vulgar
why he believes in an Omnipotent Creator of the world: he will never
mention the beauty of final causes, of which he is wholly ignorant: he
will not hold out his hand, and bid you contemplate the suppleness and
variety of joints in his fingers, their bending all one way, the
counterpoise which they receive from the thumb, the softness and fleshy
parts of the inside of his hand, with all the other circumstances which
render that member fit for the use to which it was destined. To these he
has been long accustomed, and he beholds them with listlessness and
unconcern. He will tell you of the sudden and unexpected death of such a
one; the fall and bruise of such another; the excessive drought of this
season; the cold and rains of another. These he ascribes to the
immediate operation of Providence. And such events as, with good
reasoners, are the chief difficulties in admitting a Supreme
Intelligence, are with him the sole arguments for it.
Many theists, even the most zealous and refined, have denied a
particular providence, and have asserted that the Sovereign mind or
first principle of all things, having fixed general laws, by which
nature is governed, gives free and uninterrupted course to these laws,
and disturbs not, at every turn, the settled order of events by
particular volitions. From the beautiful connexion, say they, and rigid
observance of established rules, we draw the chief arguments for theism;
and from the same principles are enabled to answer the principal
objections against it. But so little is this understood by the
generality of mankind, that wherever they observe any one to ascribe all
events to natural causes, and to remove the particular interposition of
a deity, they are apt to suspect him of the grossest infidelity. “A
little philosophy,” says my Lord Bacon, “makes men Atheists; a great
deal reconciles them to religion.” For men, being taught by
superstitious prejudices to lay the stress on a wrong place, when that
fails them, and they discover, by a little reflexion, that this very
regularity and uniformity is the strongest proof of design and of a
supreme intelligence, they return to that belief which they had
deserted; and they are now able to establish it on a firmer and more
durable foundation.
Convulsions in nature, disorders, prodigies, miracles, though the
most opposite to the plan of a wise superintendent, impress mankind with
the strongest sentiments of religion, the causes of events seeming then
the most unknown and unaccountable. Madness, fury, rage, and an inflamed
imagination, though they sink men nearest the level of beasts, are, for
a like reason, often supposed to be the only dispositions in which we
can have any immediate communication with the deity.
We must conclude, therefore, on the whole, that since the vulgar, in
nations which have embraced the doctrine of theism, still build it upon
irrational and superstitious opinions, they are never led into that
opinion by any process of argument, but by a certain train of thinking
more suitable to their genius and capacity.
It may readily happen, in an idolatrous nation, that though men admit
the existence of several limited deities, yet is there some one God
whom, in a particular manner, they make the object of their worship and
adoration. They may either suppose that, in the distribution of power
and territory among the Gods, their nation was subjected to the
jurisdiction of that particular deity; or, reducing heavenly objects to
the model of things below, they might represent one God as the prince or
supreme magistrate of the rest, who, though of the same nature, rules
them with an authority like that which an earthly sovereign exercises
over his subjects and vassals. Whether this God, therefore, be
considered as their peculiar patron, or as the general sovereign of
heaven, his votaries will endeavor by every art to insinuate themselves
into his favor; and supposing him to be pleased, like themselves, with
praise and flattery, there is no eulogy or exaggeration which will be
spared in their addresses to him. In proportion as men’s fears or
distresses become more urgent, they still invent new strains of
adulation; and even he who outdoes his predecessors in swelling up the
titles of his divinity, is sure to be outdone by his successors in newer
and more pompous epithets of praise. Thus they proceed; till at last
they arrive at infinity itself, beyond which there is no farther
progress. And it is well if, in striving to get farther, and to
represent a magnificent simplicity, they run not into inexplicable
mystery, and destroy the intelligent nature of their deity, on which
alone any rational worship or adoration can be founded. While they
confine themselves to the notion of a perfect being, the creator of the
world, they coincide, by chance, with the principles of reason and true
philosophy; though they are guided to that notion, not by reason, of
which they are in a great measure incapable, but by the adulation and
fears of the most vulgar superstition.
We often find, amongst barbarous nations, and even sometimes amongst
civilized, that when every strain of flattery has been exhausted towards
arbitrary princes, when every human quality has been applauded to the
utmost, their servile courtiers represent them at last as real
divinities, and point them out to the people as objects of adoration.
How much more natural, therefore, is it that a limited deity, who is at
first supposed only the immediate author of the particular goods and
ills in life, should in the end be represented as sovereign maker and
modifier of the universe?
Even where this notion of a supreme deity is already established,
though it ought naturally to lessen every other worship, and abase every
object of reverence, yet if a nation has entertained the opinion of a
subordinate tutelar divinity, saint, or angel, their addresses to that
being gradually rise upon them, and encroach on the adoration due to
their supreme deity. The Virgin Mary, ere checked by the Reformation,
had proceeded from being merely a good woman, to usurp many attributes
of the Almighty. God and St. Nicholas go hand in hand in all the prayers
and petitions of the Muscovites.
Thus the deity who, from love, converted himself into a bull, in
order to carry off Europa, and who from ambition dethroned his father,
Saturn, became the Optimus Maximus of the heathens. Thus the God of
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, became the supreme deity or Jehovah of the
Jews.
The Jacobins, who denied the immaculate conception, have ever been
very unhappy in their doctrine, even though political reasons have kept
the Romish church from condemning it. The Cordeliers have run away with
all the popularity. But in the fifteenth century, as we learn from
Boulainvilliers,1 an Italian Cordelier maintained that during the three
days when Christ was interred, the hypostatic union was dissolved, and
that his human nature was not a proper object of adoration during that
period. Without the art of divination, one might foretell that so gross
and impious a blasphemy would not fail to be anathematized by the
people. It was the occasion of great insults on the part of the
Jacobins, who now got some recompense for their misfortunes in the war
about the immaculate conception.
Rather than relinquish this propensity to adulation, religionists in
all ages have involved themselves in the greatest absurdities and
contradictions.
Homer, in one passage, calls Oceanus and Tethys the original parents
of all things, conformably to the established mythology and traditions
of the Greeks. Yet, in other passages, he could not forbear
complimenting Jupiter, the reigning deity, with that magnificent
appellation; and accordingly denominates him the father of Gods and men.
He forgets that every temple, every street, was full of the ancestors,
uncles, brothers, and sisters of this Jupiter, who was, in reality,
nothing but an upstart parricide and usurper. A like contradiction is
observable in Hesiod, and is so much the less excusable as his professed
intention was to deliver a true genealogy of the Gods.
Were there a religion (and we may suspect Mahometanism of this
inconsistence) which sometimes painted the deity in the most sublime
colors, as the creator of heaven and earth; sometimes degraded him
nearly to a level with human creatures in his powers and faculties;
while at the same time it ascribed to him suitable infirmities,
passions, and partialities of the moral kind. That religion, after it
was extinct, would also be cited as an instance of those contradictions,
which arise from the gross, vulgar, natural conceptions of mankind,
opposed to their continual propensity towards flattery and exaggeration.
Nothing indeed would prove more strongly the divine origin of any
religion than to find (and happily this is the case with Christianity)
that it is free from a contradiction so incident to human nature.
Section VII.
Confirmation of this Doctrine.
It appears certain that, though the original notions of the vulgar
represent the Divinity as a limited being, and consider him only as the
particular cause of health or sickness, plenty or want, prosperity or
adversity; yet, when more magnificent ideas are urged upon them, they
esteem it dangerous to refuse their assent. Will you say that your deity
is finite and bounded in his perfections; may be overcome by a greater
force; is subject to human passions, pains, and infirmities; has a
beginning, and may have an end? This they dare not affirm; but, thinking
it safest to comply with the higher encomiums, they endeavor, by an
affected ravishment and devotion, to ingratiate themselves with him. As
a confirmation of this, we may observe that the assent of the vulgar is,
in this case, merely verbal, and that they are incapable of conceiving
those sublime qualities which they seemingly attribute to the deity.
Their real idea of him, notwithstanding their pompous language, is still
as poor and frivolous as ever.
That original intelligence, say the Magians, who is the first
principle of all things, discovers himself immediately to the mind and
understanding alone; but has placed the sun as his image in the visible
universe; and when that bright luminary diffuses its beams over the
earth and the firmament, it is a faint copy of the glory which resides
in the higher heavens. If you would escape the displeasure of this
divine being, you must be careful never to set your bare foot upon the
ground, nor spit into a fire, nor throw any water upon it, even though
it were consuming a whole city.1 Who can express the perfections of the
Almighty? say the Mahometans. Even the noblest of his works, if compared
to him, are but dust and rubbish. How much more must human conception
fall short of his infinite perfections? His smile and favor renders men
for ever happy; and to obtain it for your children, the best method is
to cut off from them, while infants, a little bit of skin, about half
the breadth of a farthing. Take two bits of cloth,2 say the Roman
Catholics, about an inch or an inch and a half square, join them by the
corners with two strings of pieces of tape about sixteen inches long,
throw this over your head, and make one of the bits of cloth lie upon
your breast, and the other upon your back, keeping them next your skin;
there is not a better secret for recommending yourself to that infinite
being, who exists from eternity to eternity.
The Getes, commonly called immortal, from their steady belief of the
soul’s immortality, were genuine theists and unitarians. They affirmed
Zamolxis, their deity, to be the only true God; and asserted the worship
of all other nations to be addressed to mere fictions and chimeras. But
were their religious principles any more refined, on account of these
magnificent pretensions? Every sixth year they sacrificed a human
victim, whom they sent as a messenger to their deity, in order to inform
him of their wants and necessities. And when it thundered, they were so
provoked, that, in order to return the defiance, they let fly arrows at
him, and declined not the combat as unequal. Such at least is the
account which Herodotus gives of the theism of the immortal Getes.1
Section VIII.
Flux and Reflux of Polytheism and Theism.
It is remarkable that the principles of religion have a kind of flux and
reflux in the human mind, and that men have a natural tendency to rise
from idolatry to theism, and to sink again from theism into idolatry.
The vulgar, that is, indeed, all mankind, a few excepted, being ignorant
and unstructed, never elevate their contemplation to the heavens, or
penetrate by their disquisitions into the secret structure of vegetable
or animal bodies; so as to discover a supreme mind or original
providence, which bestowed order on every part of nature. They consider
these admirable works in a more confined and selfish view; and finding
their own happiness and misery to depend on the secret influence and
unforeseen concurrence of external objects, they regard, with perpetual
attention, the unknown causes which govern all these natural events, and
distribute pleasure and pain, good and ill, by their powerful but silent
operation. The unknown causes are still appealed to on every emergency;
and in this general appearance or confused image are the perpetual
objects of human hopes and fears, wishes and apprehensions. By degrees,
the active imagination of men, uneasy in this abstract conception of
objects about which it is incessantly employed, begins to render them
more particular, and to clothe them in shapes more suitable to its
natural comprehension. It represents them to be sensible, intelligent
beings, like mankind; actuated by love and hatred, and flexible by gifts
and entreaties, by prayers and sacrifices. Hence the origin of religion:
And hence the origin of idolatry or polytheism.
But the same anxious concern for happiness which begets the idea of
these invisible, intelligent powers, allows not mankind to remain long
in the first simple conception of them as powerful but limited beings,
masters of human fate, but slaves to destiny and the course of nature.
Men’s exaggerated praises and compliments still swell their idea upon
them; and elevating their deities to the utmost bounds of perfection, at
last beget the attributes of unity and infinity, simplicity and
spirituality. Such refined ideas, being somewhat disproportioned to
vulgar comprehension, remain not long in their original purity; but
require to be supported by the notion of inferior mediators or
subordinate agents, which interpose between mankind and their supreme
deity. These demi-gods or middle beings, partaking more of human nature
and being more familiar to us, become the chief objects of devotion, and
gradually recall that idolatry which had been formerly banished by the
ardent prayers and panegyrics of timorous and indigent mortals. But as
these idolatrous religions fall every day into grosser and more vulgar
conceptions, they at last destroy themselves, and, by the vile
representations which they form of their deities, make the tide turn
again towards theism. But so great is the propensity, in this alternate
revolution of human sentiments, to return back to idolatry, that the
utmost precaution is not able effectually to prevent it. And of this,
some theists, particularly the Jews and Mahometans, have been sensible;
as appears by their banishing all the arts of statuary and painting, and
not allowing the representations even of human figures to be taken by
marble or colors, lest the common infirmity of mankind should thence
produce idolatry. The feeble apprehensions of men cannot be satisfied
with conceiving their deity as a pure spirit and perfect intelligence;
and yet their natural terrors keep them from imputing to him the least
shadow of limitation and imperfection. They fluctuate between these
opposite sentiments. The same infirmity still drags them downwards, from
an omnipotent and spiritual deity, to a limited and corporeal one, and
from a corporeal and limited deity to a statue or visible
representation. The same endeavor at elevation still pushes them
upwards, from the statue or material image to the invisible power; and
from the invisible power to an infinitely perfect deity, the creator and
sovereign of the universe.
Section IX.
Comparison of these Religions with regard to Persecution and
Toleration.
Polytheism or idolatrous worship, being founded entirely in vulgar
traditions, is liable to this great inconvenience, that any practice or
opinion, however barbarous or corrupted, may be authorized by it; and
full scope is left for knavery to impose on credulity till morals and
humanity be expelled from the religious systems of mankind. At the same
time, idolatry is attended with this evident advantage, that, by
limiting the powers and functions of its deities, it naturally admits
the Gods of other sects and nations to a share of divinity, and renders
all the various deities, as well as rites, ceremonies, or traditions,
compatible with each other.1 Theism is opposite both in its advantages
and disadvantages. As that system supposes one sole deity, the
perfection of reason and goodness, it should, if justly prosecuted,
banish everything frivolous, unreasonable, or inhuman from religious
worship, and set before men the most illustrious example, as well as the
most commanding motives of justice and benevolence. These mighty
advantages are not indeed over-balanced (for that is not possible), but
somewhat diminished, by inconveniences, which arise from the vices and
prejudices of mankind. While one sole object of devotion is acknowleged,
the worship of other deities is regarded as absurd and impious. Nay,
this unity of object seems naturally to require the unity of faith and
ceremonies, and furnishes designing men with a pretence for representing
their adversaries as profane, and the objects of divine as well as human
vengeance. For as each sect is positive that its own faith and worship
are entirely acceptable to the deity, and as no one can conceive that
the same being should be pleased with different and opposite rites and
principles, the several sects fall naturally into animosity, and
mutually discharge on each other that sacred zeal and rancour, the most
furious and implacable of all human passions.
The tolerating spirit of idolaters, both in ancient and modern times,
is very obvious to anyone who is the least conversant in the writings of
historians or travellers. When the oracle of Delphi was asked, what
rites or worship was most acceptable to the Gods? “Those legally
established in each city,” replied the oracle.1 Even priests, in those
ages, could, it seems, allow salvation to those of a different
communion. The Romans commonly adopted the Gods of the conquered people;
and never disputed the attributes of those local and national deities in
whose territories they resided. The religious wars and persecutions of
the Egyptian idolaters are indeed an exception to this rule; but are
accounted for by ancient authors from reasons singular and remarkable.
Different species of animals were the deities of the different sects
among the Egyptians; and the deities being in continual war, engaged
their votaries in the same contention. The worshippers of dogs could not
long remain in peace with the adorers of cats or wolves.1 But where that
reason took not place, the Egyptian superstition was not so incompatible
as is commonly imagined; since we learn from Herodotus,2 that very large
contributions were given by Amasis towards rebuilding the temple of
Delphi.
The intolerance of almost all religions which have maintained the
unity of God is as remarkable as the contrary principle of polytheists.
The implacable narrow spirit of the Jews is well known. Mahometanism set
out with still more bloody principles; and even to this day, deals out
damnation, though not fire and faggot, to all other sects. And if, among
Christians, the English and Dutch have embraced the principles of
toleration, this singularity has proceeded from the steady resolution of
the civil magistrate, in opposition to the continued efforts of priest
and bigots.
The disciples of Zoroaster shut the doors of heaven against all but
the Magians.3 Nothing could more obstruct the progress of the Persian
conquests than the furious zeal of that nation against the temples and
images of the Greeks. And after the overthrow of that empire, we find
Alexander, as a polytheist, immediately re-establishing the worship of
the Babylonians, which their former princes, as monotheists, had
carefully abolished.4 Even the blind and devoted attachment of that
conqueror to the Greek superstition hindered not but he himself
sacrificed according to the Babylonish rites and ceremonies.5
So sociable is polytheism, that the utmost fierceness and aversion
which it meets with in an opposite religion is scarcely able to disgust
it, and keep it at a distance. Augustus praised extremely the reserve of
his grandson, Caius Cæsar, when this latter prince, passing by
Jerusalem, deigned not to sacrifice according to the Jewish law. But for
what reason did Augustus so much approve of this conduct? Only because
that religion was by the Pagans esteemed ignoble and barbarous.1
I may venture to affirm that few corruptions of idolatry and
polytheism are more pernicious to political society than this corruption
of theism,2 when carried to the utmost height. The human sacrifices of
the Carthaginians, Mexicans, and many barbarous nations,3 scarcely
exceed the Inquisition and persecutions of Rome and Madrid. For besides
that the effusion of blood may not be so great in the former case as in
the latter; besides this, I say, the human victims, being chosen by lot,
or by some exterior signs, affect not in so considerable a degree the
rest of the society. Whereas virtue, knowledge, love of liberty, are the
qualities which call down the fatal vengeance of inquisitors; and when
expelled, leave the society in the most shameful ignorance, corruption,
and bondage. The illegal murder of one man by a tyrant is more
pernicious than the death of a thousand by pestilence, famine, or any
undistinguishing calamity.
In the temple of Diana at Aricia near Rome, whoever murdered the
present priest was legally entitled to be installed his successor.1 A
very singular institution! For, however barbarous and bloody the common
superstitions often are to the laity, they usually turn to the advantage
of the holy order.
Section X.
With regard to Courage or Abasement.
From the comparison of theism and idolatry, we may form some other
observations, which will also confirm the vulgar observation that the
corruption of the best things gives rise to the worst.
Where the deity is represented as infinitely superior to mankind,
this belief, though altogether just, is apt, when joined with
superstitious terrors, to sink the human mind into the lowest submission
and abasement, and to represent the monkish virtues of mortification,
penance, humility, and passive suffering, as the only qualities which
are acceptable to him. But where the Gods are conceived to be only a
little superior to mankind, and to have been, many of them, advanced
from that inferior rank, we are more at our ease in our addresses to
them, and may even, without profaneness, aspire sometimes to a rivalship
and emulation of them. Hence activity, spirit, courage, magnanimity,
love of liberty, and all the virtues which aggrandise a people.
The heroes in paganism correspond exactly to the saints in popery and
holy dervises in Mahometanism. The place of Hercules, Theseus, Hector,
Romulus, is now supplied by Dominic, Francis, Anthony, and Benedict.
Instead of the destruction of monsters, the subduing of tyrants, the
defence of our native country; whippings and fastings, cowardice and
humility, abject submission and slavish obedience, are become the means
of obtaining celestial honors among mankind.
One great incitement to the pious Alexander in his warlike
expeditions was his rivalship of Hercules and Bacchus, whom he justly
pretended to have excelled.1 Brasidas, that generous and noble Spartan,
after falling in battle, had heroic honors paid him by the inhabitants
of Amphipolis, whose defence he had embraced.2 And in general, all
founders of states and colonies amongst the Greeks were raised to this
inferior rank of divinity, by those who reaped the benefit of their
labors.
This gave rise to the observation of Machiavel,3 that the doctrines
of the Christian religion (meaning the Catholic; for he knew no other)
which recommend only passive courage and suffering, had subdued the
spirit of mankind, and had fitted them for slavery and subjection. An
observation which would certainly be just, were there not many other
circumstances in human society which control the genius and character of
a religion.
Brasidas seized a mouse, and being bit by it, let it go. “There is
nothing so contemptible,” says he, “but what may be safe, if it has but
courage to defend itself.”4 Bellarmine patiently and humbly allowed the
fleas and other odious vermin to prey upon him. “We shall have heaven,”
said he, “to reward us for our sufferings; but these poor creatures have
nothing but the enjoyment of the present life.”1 Such difference is
there between the maxims of a Greek hero and a Catholic saint.
Section XI.
With regard to Reason or Absurdity.
Here is another observation to the same purpose, and a new proof that
the corruption of the best things begets the worst. If we examine,
without prejudice, the ancient heathen mythology, as contained in the
poets, we shall not discover in it any such monstrous absurdity as we
may be apt at first to apprehend. Where is the difficulty of conceiving
that the same powers or principles, whatever they were, which formed
this visible world, men and animals, produced also a species of
intelligent creatures, of more refined substance and greater authority
than the rest? That these creatures may be capricious, revengeful,
passionate, voluptuous, is easily conceived; nor is any circumstance
more apt, among ourselves, to engender such vices, than the licence of
absolute authority. And in short, the whole mythological system is so
natural, that in the vast variety of planets and worlds, contained in
this universe, it seems more than probable that, somewhere or other, it
is really carried into execution.
The chief objection to it with regard to this planet, is that it is
not ascertained by any just reason or authority. The ancient tradition,
insisted on by heathen priests and theologers, is but a weak foundation;
and transmitted also such a number of contradictory reports, supported,
all of them, by equal authority, that it became absolutely impossible to
fix a preference amongst them. A few volumes, therefore, must contain
all the polemical writings of pagan priests. Their whole theology must
consist more of traditional stories and superstitious practices than of
philosophical argument and controversy.
But where theism forms the fundamental principle of any popular
religion, that tenet is so conformable to sound reason, that philosophy
is apt to incorporate itself with such a system of theology. And if the
other dogmas of that system be contained in a sacred book, such as the
Alcoran, or be determined by any visible authority, like that of the
Roman pontif, speculative reasoners naturally carry on their assent, and
embrace a theory which has been instilled into them by their earliest
education, and which also possesses some degree of consistence and
uniformity. But as these appearances are sure, all of them, to prove
deceitful, philosophy will soon find herself very unequally yoked with
her new associate; and instead of regulating each principle, as they
advance together, she is at every turn perverted to serve the purposes
of superstition. For besides the unavoidable incoherences which must be
reconciled and adjusted, one may safely affirm that all popular
theology, especially the scholastic, has a kind of appetite for
absurdity and contradiction. If that theology went not beyond reason and
common sense, her doctrines would appear too easy and familiar.
Amazement must of necessity be raised; mystery affected; darkness and
obscurity sought after; and a foundation of merit afforded the devout
votaries, who desire an opportunity of subduing their rebellious reason,
by the belief of the most unintelligible sophisms.
Ecclesiastical history sufficiently confirms these reflexions. When a
controversy is started, some people pretend always with certainty to
foretell the issue. Whichever opinion, say they, is most contrary to
plain sense is sure to prevail, even where the general interest of the
system requires not that decision. Though the reproach of heresy may for
some time be bandied about among the disputants, it always rests at last
on the side of reason. Any one, it is pretended, that has but learning
enough of this kind to know the definition of Arian, Pelagian, Erastian,
Socinian, Sabellian, Eutychian, Nestorian, Monothelite, etc., not to
mention Protestant, whose fate is yet uncertain, will be convinced of
the truth of this observation. It is thus a system becomes more absurd
in the end, merely from its being reasonable and philosophical in the
beginning.
To oppose the torrent of scholastic religion by such feeble maxims as
these: that “it is impossible for the same to be and not to be”, that
“the whole is greater than a part”, that “two and three make five”, is
pretending to stop the ocean with a bull-rush. Will you set up profane
reason against sacred mystery? No punishment is great enough for your
impiety. And the same fires which were kindled for heretics will serve
also for the destruction of philosophers.
Section XII.
With regard to Doubt or Conviction.
We meet every day with people so sceptical with regard to history, that
they assert it impossible for any nation ever to believe such absurd
principles as those of Greek and Egyptian paganism; and at the same time
so dogmatical with regard to religion, that they think the same
absurdities are to be found in no other communion. Cambyses entertained
like prejudices; and very impiously ridiculed, and even wounded, Apis,
the great God of the Egyptians, who appeared to his profane senses
nothing but a large spotted bull. But Herodotus1 judiciously ascribes
this sally of passion to a real madness or disorder of the brain.
Otherwise, says the historian, he never would have openly affronted any
established worship. For on that head, continues he, every nation are
best satisfied with their own, and think they have the advantage over
every other nation.
It must be allowed that the Roman Catholics are a very learned sect,
and that no one communion but that of the Church of England can dispute
their being the most learned of all the Christian Churches. Yet
Averroes, the famous Arabian, who, no doubt, has heard of the Egyptian
superstitions, declares that of all religions the most absurd and
nonsensical is that whose votaries eat, after having created, their
deity.
I believe, indeed, that there is no tenet in all paganism which would
give so fair a scope to ridicule as this of the real presence. For it is
so absurd, that it eludes the force of all argument. There are even some
pleasant stories of that kind, which, though somewhat profane, are
commonly told by the Catholics themselves. One day, a priest, it is
said, gave inadvertently, instead of the sacrament, a counter, which had
by accident fallen among the holy wafers. The communicant waited
patiently for some time, expecting it would dissolve on his tongue; but
finding that it still remained entire, he took it off. “I wish,” cried
he to the priest, “you have not committed some mistake. “I wish you have
not given me God the Father: He is so hard and tough there is no
swallowing him.”
A famous general, at that time in the Muscovite service, having come
to Paris for the recovery of his wounds, brought along with him a young
Turk, whom he had taken prisoner. Some of the doctors of the Sorbonne
(who are altogether as positive as the dervises of Constantinople),
thinking it a pity that the poor Turk should be damned for want of
instruction, solicited Mustapha very hard to turn Christian, and
promised him, for his encouragement, plenty of good wine in this world,
and paradise in the next. These allurements were too powerful to be
resisted; and therefore, having been well instructed and catechised, he
at last agreed to receive the sacraments of baptism and the Lord’s
supper. The priest, however, to make everything sure and solid, still
continued his instructions: and began the next day with the usual
question, “How many Gods are there?” “None at all,” replies Benedict;
for that was his new name. “How! None at all!” cries the priest. “To be
sure,” said the honest proselyte. “You have told me all along that there
is but one God: And yesterday I ate him.”
Such are the doctrines of our brethren the Catholics. But to these
doctrines we are so accustomed, that we never wonder at them, though, in
a future age, it will probably become difficult to persuade some nations
that any human, two-legged creature could ever embrace such principles.
And it is a thousand to one but these nations themselves shall have
something full as absurd in their own creed, to which they will give a
most implicit and most religious assent.
I lodged once at Paris in the same hotel with an ambassador from
Tunis, who, having passed some years at London, was returning home that
way. One day I observed his Moorish excellency diverting himself under
the porch with surveying the splendid equipages that drove along; when
there chanced to pass that way some Capucin friars, who had never seen a
Turk; as he, on his part, though accustomed to the European dresses, had
never seen the grotesque figure of a Capucin. And there is no expressing
the mutual admiration with which they inspired each other. Had the
chaplain of the embassy entered into a dispute with these Franciscans,
their reciprocal surprise had been of the same nature. Thus all mankind
stand staring at one another; and there is no beating it out of their
heads, that the turban of the African is not just as good or as bad a
fashion as the cowl of the European. “He is a very honest man”, said the
Prince of Sallee, speaking of de Ruyter: “It is a pity he were a
Christian.”
“How can you worship leeks and onions?” we shall suppose a Sorbonnist
to say to a priest of Sais. “If we worship them”, replies the latter,
“at least, we do not, at the same time, eat them.” “But what strange
objects of adoration are cats and monkeys?” says the learned doctor.
“They are at least as good as the relics or rotten bones of martyrs,”
answers his no less learned antagonist. “Are you not mad,” insists the
Catholic, “to cut one another’s throat about the preference of a cabbage
or a cucumber?” “Yes,” says the pagan; “I allow it, if you will confess
that those are still madder who fight about the preference among volumes
of sophistry, ten thousand of which are not equal in value to one
cabbage or cucumber.”1
Every bystander will easily judge (but unfortunately the bystanders
are few) that if nothing were requisite to establish any popular system
but exposing the absurdities of other systems, every votary of every
superstition could give a sufficient reason for his blind and bigotted
attachment to the principles in which he has been educated. But without
so extensive a knowledge on which to ground this assurance (and perhaps
better without it) there is not wanting a sufficient stock of religious
zeal and faith amongst mankind. Diodorus Siculus2 gives a remarkable
instance to this purpose, of which he was himself an eyewitness. While
Egypt lay under the greatest terror of the Roman name, a legionary
soldier having inadvertently been guilty of the sacriligious impiety of
killing a cat, the whole people rose upon him with the utmost fury, and
all the efforts of the prince were not able to save him. The senate and
people of Rome, I am persuaded, would not then have been so delicate
with regard to their national deities. They very frankly, a little after
that time, voted Augustus a place in the celestial mansions; and would
have dethroned every God in heaven for his sake, had he seemed to desire
it. “Presens divus habebitur Augustus,” says Horace. That is a very
important point; and in other nations and other ages, the same
circumstance has not been esteemed altogether indifferent.1
“Notwithstanding the sanctity of our holy religion,” says Tully,2 “no
crime is more common with us than sacrilege.” But was it ever heard of,
that an Egyptian violated the temple of a cat, an ibis, or a crocodile?
“There is no torture an Egyptian would not undergo”, says the same
author in another place,3 “rather than injure an ibis, an aspic, a cat,
a dog, or a crocodile.” Thus it is strictly true what Dryden observes:
“Of whatsoe’er descent their godhead be,
Stock, stone, or other homely pedigree,
In his defence his servants are as bold,
As if he had been born of beaten gold.”
Absalom and Achitophel.
Nay, the baser the materials are of which the divinity is composed,
the greater devotion is he likely to excite in the breasts of his
deluded votaries. They exult in their shame, and make a merit with their
deity, in braving for his sake all the ridicule and contumely of his
enemies. Ten thousand Crusaders enlist themselves under the holy
banners, and even openly triumph in those parts of their religion which
their adversaries regard as the most reproachful.
There occurs, I own, a difficulty in the Egyptian system of theology,
as indeed few systems are entirely free from difficulties. It is
evident, from their method of propagation, that a couple of cats, in
fifty years, would stock a whole kingdom; and if that religious
veneration were still paid them, it would, in twenty more, not only be
easier in Egypt to find a God than a man, which Petronius says was the
case in some parts of Italy, but the Gods must at last entirely starve
the men, and leave themselves neither priests nor votaries remaining. It
is probable, therefore, that this wise nation, the most celebrated in
antiquity for prudence and sound policy, foreseeing such dangerous
consequences, reserved all their worship for the full-grown divinities,
and used the freedom to drown the holy spawn or little sucking Gods,
without any scruple or remorse. And thus the practice of warping the
tenets of religion, in order to serve temporal interests, is not by any
means to be regarded as an invention of these latter ages.
The learned, philosophical Varro, discoursing of religion, pretends
not to deliver anything beyond probabilities and appearances. Such was
his good sense and moderation. But the passionate, the zealous Augustin,
insults the noble Roman on his scepticism and reserve, and professes the
most thorough belief and assurance.1 A heathen poet, however,
contemporary with the saint, absurdly esteems the religious system of
the latter so false, that even the credulity of children, he says, could
not engage them to believe it.1
Is it strange, when mistakes are so common, to find everyone positive
and dogmatical; and that the zeal often rises in proportion to the
error? “Moverunt,” says Spartian, “et ea tempestate Judæi bellum quod
vetabantur mutilare genitalia.”2
If ever there was a nation or a time in which the public religion
lost all authority over mankind, we might expect that infidelity in Rome
during the Ciceronian age would openly have erected its throne, and that
Cicero himself, in every speech and action, would have been its most
declared abettor. But it appears that whatever sceptical liberties that
great man might use in his writings or in philosophical conversation, he
yet avoided, in the common conduct of life, the imputation of deism and
profaneness. Even in his own family, and to his wife Terentia, whom he
highly trusted, he was willing to appear a devout religionist; and there
remains a letter, addressed to her, in which he seriously desires her to
offer sacrifice to Apollo and Æsculapius, in gratitude for the recovery
of his health.3
Pompey’s devotion was much more sincere. In all his conduct, during
the civil wars, he paid a great regard to auguries, dreams, and
prophesies.4 Augustus was tainted with superstition of every kind. As it
is reported of Milton, that his poetical genius never flowed with ease
and abundance in the spring; so Augustus observed that his own genius
for dreaming never was so perfect during that season, nor was so much to
be relied on, as during the rest of the year. That great and able
emperor was also extremely uneasy when he happened to change his shoes,
and put the right foot shoe on the left foot.1 In short, it cannot be
doubted but the votaries of the established superstition of antiquity
were as numerous in every state as those of the modern religion are at
present. Its influence was as universal, though it was not so great. As
many people gave their assent to it, though that assent was not
seemingly so strong, precise, and affirmative.
We may observe that, notwithstanding the dogmatical, imperious style
of all superstition, the convinction of the religionists, in all ages,
is more affected than real, and scarcely ever approaches in any degree
to that solid belief and persuasion which governs us in the common
affairs of life. Men dare not avow, even to their own hearts, the doubts
which they entertain on such subjects. They make a merit of implicit
faith, and disguise to themselves their real infidelity by the strongest
asseverations and most positive bigotry. But nature is too hard for all
their endeavors, and suffers not the obscure, glimmering light afforded
in those shadowy regions, to equal the strong impressions made by common
sense and by experience. The usual course of men’s conduct belies their
words, and shows that the assent in these matters is some unaccountable
operation of the mind between disbelief and conviction, but approaching
much nearer the former than the latter.
Since, therefore, the mind of man appears of so loose and unsteady a
contexture that, even at present, when so many persons find an interest
in continually employing on it the chisel and the hammer, yet are they
not able to engrave theological tenets with any lasting impression; how
much more must this have been the case in ancient times, when the
retainers to the holy function were so much fewer in comparison? No
wonder that the appearances were then very inconsistent, and that men,
on some occasions, might seem determined infidels, and enemies to the
established religion, without being so in reality; or, at least, without
knowing their own minds in that particular.
Another cause which rendered the ancient religions much looser than
the modern is that the former were traditional and the latter are
scriptural; and the tradition in the former was complex, contradictory,
and, on many occasions, doubtful; so that it could not possibly be
reduced to any standard and canon, or afford any determinate articles of
faith. The stories of the Gods were numberless, like the popish legends;
and though everyone, almost, believed a part of these stories, yet no
one could believe or know the whole; while, at the same time, all must
have acknowledged that no one part stood on a better foundation than the
rest. The traditions of different cities and nations were also, on many
occasions, directly opposite; and no reason could be assigned for
preferring one to the other. And as there was an infinite number of
stories, with regard to which tradition was nowise positive, the
gradation was insensible, from the most fundamental articles of faith,
to those loose and precarious fictions. The pagan religion, therefore,
seemed to vanish like a cloud, whenever one approached to it, and
examined it piecemeal. It could never be ascertained by any fixed dogmas
and principles. And though this did not convert the generality of
mankind from so absurd a faith; for when will the people be reasonable?
yet it made them falter and hesitate more in maintaining their
principles, and was even apt to produce, in certain dispositions of
mind, some practices and opinions which had the appearance of determined
infidelity.
To which we may add, that the fables of the pagan religion were, of
themselves, light, easy, and familiar; without devils, or seas of
brimstone, or any object that could much terrify the imagination. Who
could forbear smiling, when he thought of the loves of Mars and Venus,
or the amorous frolics of Jupiter and Pan? In this respect it was a true
poetical religion, if it had not rather too much levity for the graver
kinds of poetry. We find that it has been adopted by modern bards; nor
have these talked with greater freedom and irreverence of the Gods whom
they regarded as fictions, than the ancient did of the real objects of
their devotion.
The inference is by no means just, that because a system of religion
has made no deep impression on the minds of a people, it must therefore
have been positively rejected by all men of common sense, and that
opposite principles, in spite of the prejudices of education, were
generally established by argument and reasoning. I know not but a
contrary inference may be more probable. The less importunate and
assuming any species of superstition appears, the less will it provoke
men’s spleen and indignation, or engage them into enquiries concerning
its foundation and origin. This in the mean time is obvious, that the
empire of all religious faith over the understanding is wavering and
uncertain, subject to every variety of humour, and dependent on the
present incidents, which strike the imagination. The difference is only
in the degrees. An ancient will place a stroke of impiety and one of
superstition alternately, throughout a whole discourse.1 A modern often
thinks in the same way, though he may be more guarded in his
expressions.
Lucian tells us expressly,2 that whoever believed not the most
ridiculous fables of paganism was deemed by the people profane and
impious. To what purpose, indeed, would that agreeable author have
employed the whole force of his wit and satire against the national
religion, had not that religion been generally believed by his
countrymen and contemporaries?
Livy3 acknowledges, as frankly as any divine would at present, the
common incredulity of his age; but then he condemns it as severely. And
who can imagine that a national superstition, which could delude so
great a man, would not also impose on the generality of the people?
The Stoics bestowed many magnificent and even impious epithets on
their sage; that he alone was rich, free, a king, and equal to the
immortal Gods. They forgot to add that he was not superior in prudence
and understanding to an old woman. For surely nothing can be more
pitiful than the sentiments which that sect entertained with regard to
religious matters; while they seriously agree with the common augurs
that when a raven croaks from the left it is a good omen, but a bad one
when a rook makes a noise from the same quarter. Panætius was the only
Stoic among the Greeks who so much as doubted with regard to auguries
and divinations.1 Marcus Antoninus2 tells us that he himself had
received many admonitions from the Gods in his sleep. It is true,
Epictetus3 forbids us to regard the language of rooks and ravens, but it
is not that they do not speak truth: it is only because they can
foretell nothing but the breaking of our neck or the forfeiture of our
estate, which are circumstances, says he, that nowise concern us. Thus
the Stoics join a philosophical enthusiasm to a religious superstition.
The force of their mind, being all turned to the side of morals, unbent
itself in that of religion.4
Plato5 introduces Socrates affirming that the accusation of impiety
raised against him was owing entirely to his rejecting such fables as
those of Saturn’s castrating his father, Uranus, and Jupiter’s
dethroning Saturn. Yet, in a subsequent dialogue,6 Socrates confesses
that the doctrine of the mortality of the soul was the received opinion
of the people. Is there here any contradiction? Yes, surely. But the
contradiction is not in Plato; it is in the people, whose religious
principles in general are always composed of the most discordant parts,
especially in an age when superstition sat so easy and light upon them.1
The same Cicero who affected in his own family to appear a devout
religionist, makes no scruple, in a public court of judicature, of
treating the doctrine of a future state as a ridiculous fable to which
nobody could give any attention.1 Sallust2 represents Cæsar as speaking
the same language in the open senate.3
But that all these freedoms implied not a total and universal
infidelity and scepticism amongst the people is too apparent to be
denied. Though some parts of the national religion hung loose upon the
minds of men, other parts adhered more closely to them. And it was the
great business of the sceptical philosophers to show that there was no
more foundation for one than for the other. This is the artifice of
Cotta in the dialogues concerning the nature of the Gods. He refutes the
whole system of mythology by leading the orthodox, gradually, from the
more momentous stories, which were believed, to the more frivolous,
which everyone ridiculed. From the gods to the goddesses; from the
goddesses to the nymphs; from the nymphs to the fawns and satyrs. His
master, Carneades, had employed the same method of reasoning.4
Upon the whole, the greatest and most observable differences between
a traditional mythological religion and a systematical scholastical one,
are two. The former is often more reasonable, as consisting only of a
multitude of stories, which, however groundless, imply no express
absurdity and demonstrative contradiction; and sits also so easy and
light on men’s minds, that, though it may be as universally received, it
happily makes no such deep impression on the affections and
understanding.
Section XIII.
Impious conceptions of the divine nature in popular religions of
both kinds.
The primary religion of mankind arises chiefly from an anxious fear of
future events; and what ideas will naturally be entertained of
invisible, unknown powers, while men lie under dismal apprehensions of
any kind, may easily be conceived. Every image of vengeance, severity,
cruelty, and malice must occur, and must augment the ghastliness and
horror which oppresses the amazed religionist. A panic having once
seized the mind, the active fancy still farther multiplies the objects
of terror; while that profound darkness, or, what is worse, that
glimmering light, with which we are environed, represents the spectres
of divinity under the most dreadful appearances imaginable. And no idea
of perverse wickedness can be framed which those terrified devotees do
not readily, without scruple, apply to their deity.
This appears the natural state of religion, when surveyed in one
light. But if we consider, on the other hand, that spirit of praise and
eulogy which necessarily has place in all religions, and which is the
consequence of these very terrors, we must expect a quite contrary
system of theology to prevail. Every virtue, every excellence, must be
ascribed to the divinity, and no exaggeration will be deemed sufficient
to reach those perfections with which he is endowed. Whatever strains of
panegyric can be invented, are immediately embraced, without consulting
any arguments or phænemena. It is esteemed a sufficient confirmation of
them that they give us more magnificent ideas of the divine object of
our worship and adoration.
Here, therefore, is a kind of contradiction between the different
principles of human nature which enter into religion. Our natural
terrors present the notion of a devilish and malicious deity: our
propensity to praise leads us to acknowledge an excellent and divine.
And the influence of these opposite principles is various, according to
the different situation of the human understanding.
In very barbarous and ignorant nations, such as the Africans and
Indians, nay, even the Japanese, who can form no extensive ideas of
power and knowledge, worship may be paid to a being whom they confess to
be wicked and detestable; though they may be cautious, perhaps, of
pronouncing this judgment of him in public, or in his temple, where he
may be supposed to hear their reproaches.
Such rude, imperfect ideas of the divinity adhere long to all
idolaters; and it may safely be affirmed that the Greeks themselves
never got entirely rid of them. It is remarked by Xenophon,1 in praise
of Socrates, that this philosopher assented not to the vulgar opinion,
which supposed the gods to know some things and be ignorant of others.
He maintained that they knew everything; what was done, said, or even
thought. But as this was a strain of philosophy2 much above the
conception of his countrymen, we need not be surprised if very frankly,
in their books and conversation, they blamed the deities whom they
worshipped in their temples. It is observable that Herodotus in
particular scruples not, in many passages, to ascribe envy to the Gods;
a sentiment of all others the most suitable to a mean and devilish
nature. The pagan hymns, however, sung in public worship, contained
nothing but epithets of praise, even while the actions ascribed to the
Gods were the most barbarous and detestable. When Timotheus, the poet,
recited a hymn to Diana, where he enumerated, with the greatest
eulogies, all the actions and attributes of that cruel, capricious
goddess, “May your daughter,” said one present, “become such as the
deity whom you celebrate.”1
But as men farther exalt their idea of their divinity, it is their
notion of his power and knowledge only, not of his goodness, which is
improved. On the contrary, in proportion to the supposed extent of his
science and authority, their terrors naturally augment; while they
believe that no secrecy can conceal them from his scrutiny, and that
even the inmost recesses of their breast lie open before him. They must
then be careful not to form expressly any sentiment of blame and
disapprobation. All must be applause, ravishment, ecstacy. And while
their gloomy apprehensions make them ascribe to him measures of conduct
which, in human creatures, would be highly blamed, they must still
affect to praise and admire that conduct in the object of their
devotional addresses. Thus it may safely be affirmed that popular
religions are really, in the conception of their more vulgar votaries, a
species of dæmonism; and the higher the deity is exalted in power and
knowledge, the lower of course is he depressed in goodness and
benevolence, whatever epithets of praise may be bestowed on him by his
amazed adorers. Among idolaters, the words may be false, and belie the
secret opinion. But among more exalted religionists, the opinion itself
often contracts a kind of falsehood, and belies the inward sentiment.
The heart secretly detests such measures of cruel and implacable
vengeance, but the judgment dares not but pronounce them perfect and
adorable. And the additional misery of this inward struggle aggravates
all the other terrors by which these unhappy victims to superstition are
for ever haunted.
Lucian1 observes that a young man who reads the history of the gods
in Homer or Hesiod, and finds their factions, wars, injustice, incest,
adultery, and other immoralities so highly celebrated, is much surprised
afterwards, when he comes into the world, to observe that punishments
are by law inflicted on the same actions which he had been taught to
ascribe to superior beings. The contradiction is still perhaps stronger
between the representations given us by some later religions and our
natural ideas of generosity, lenity, impartiality, and justice; and in
proportion to the multiplied terrors of these religions, the barbarous
conceptions of the divinity are multiplied upon us.2 Nothing can
preserve untainted the genuine principles of morals in our judgment of
human conduct but the absolute necessity of these principles to the
existence of society. If common conception can indulge princes in a
system of ethics somewhat different from that which should regulate
private persons, how much more those superior beings whose attributes,
views, and nature are so totally unknown to us? Sunt superis sua jura.3
The gods have maxims of justice peculiar to themselves.
Section XIV.
Bad influence of popular religions on morality.
Here I cannot forbear observing a fact which may be worth the attention
of such as make human nature the object of their enquiry. It is certain
that in every religion, however sublime the verbal definition which it
gives of its divinity, many of the votaries, perhaps the greatest
number, will still seek the divine favor, not by virtue and good morals,
which alone can be acceptable to a perfect being, but either by
frivolous observances, by intemperate zeal, by rapturous ecstasies, or
by the belief of mysterious and absurd opinions. The least part of the
Sadder, as well as of the Pentateuch, consists in precepts of morality;
and we may be assured also that that part was always the least observed
and regarded. When the old Romans were attacked with a pestilence, they
never ascribed their sufferings to their vices, or dreamed of repentance
and amendment. They never thought that they were the general robbers of
the world, whose ambition and avarice made desolate the earth and
reduced opulent nations to want and beggary. They only created a
dictator,1 in order to drive a nail into a door, and by that means they
thought that they had sufficiently appeased their incensed deity.
In Ægina, one faction, forming a conspiracy, barbarously and
treacherously assassinated seven hundred of their fellow citizens; and
carried their fury so far that, one miserable fugitive having fled to
the temple, they cut off his hands, by which he clung to the gates, and
carrying him out of holy ground, immediately murdered him. “By this
impiety”, says Herodotus1 (not by the other many cruel assassinations),
“they offended the gods, and contracted an inexpiable guilt.”
Nay, if we should suppose, what seldom happens, that a popular
religion were found, in which it was expressly declared that nothing but
morality could gain the divine favor; if an order of priests were
instituted to inculcate this opinion in daily sermons and with all the
arts of persuasion; yet so inveterate are the people’s prejudices, that,
for want of some other superstition, they would make the very attendance
on these sermons the essentials of religion, rather than place them in
virtue and good morals. The sublime prologue of Zaleucus’s laws2
inspired not the Locrians, so far as we can learn, with any sounder
notions of the measures of acceptance with the deity than were familiar
to the other Greeks.
This observation, then, holds universally. But still one may be at
some loss to account for it. It is not sufficient to observe that the
people everywhere degrade their deities into a similitude with
themselves, and consider them merely as a species of human creatures,
somewhat more potent and intelligent. This will not remove the
difficulty. For there is no man so stupid, as that, judging by his
natural reason, he would not esteem virtue and honesty the most valuable
qualities which any person could possess. Why not ascribe the same
sentiment to his deity? Why not make all religion, or the chief part of
it, to consist in these attainments?
Nor is it satisfactory to say that the practice of morality is more
difficult than that of superstition, and is therefore rejected. For, not
to mention the excessive penances of the Brachmans and Talapoins, it is
certain that the Rhamadan of the Turks, during which the poor wretches,
for many days, often in the hottest months of the year, and in some of
the hottest climates of the world, remain without eating or drinking
from the rising to the setting sun. This Rhamadan, I say, must be more
severe than the practice of any moral duty, even to the most vicious and
depraved of mankind. The four lents of the Muscovites, and the
austerities of some Roman Catholics, appear more disagreeable than
meekness and benevolence. In short, all virtue, when men are reconciled
to it by ever so little practice, is agreeable. All superstition is for
ever odious and burdensome.
Perhaps the following account may be received as a true solution of
the difficulty. The duties which a man performs as a friend or parent
seem merely owing to his benefactor or children; nor can he be wanting
to these duties without breaking through all the ties of nature and
morality. A strong inclination may prompt him to the performance. A
sentiment of order and moral beauty joins its force to these natural
ties; and the whole man, if truly virtuous, is drawn to his duty without
any effort or endeavour. Even with regard to the virtues which are more
austere, and more founded on reflection, such as public spirit, filial
duty, temperance, or integrity, the moral obligation, in our
apprehension, removes all pretence to religious merit; and the virtuous
conduct is deemed no more than what we owe to society and to ourselves.
In all this a superstitious man finds nothing which he has properly
performed for the sake of his deity, or which can peculiarly recommend
him to the divine favor and protection. He considers not that the most
genuine method of serving the divinity is by promoting the happiness of
his creatures. He still looks out for some more immediate service of the
supreme being, in order to allay those terrors with which he is haunted.
And any practice recommended to him which either serves to no purpose in
life, or offers the strongest violence to his natural inclinations, that
practice he will the more readily embrace, on account of those very
circumstances which should make him absolutely reject it. It seems the
more purely religious because it proceeds from no mixture of any other
motive or consideration. And if, for its sake, he sacrifices much of his
ease and quiet, his claim of merit appears still to rise upon him in
proportion to the zeal and devotion which he discovers. In restoring a
loan or paying a debt his divinity is nowise beholden to him; because
these acts of justice are what he was bound to perform, and what many
would have performed were there no God in the universe. But if he fast a
day, or give himself a sound whipping, this has a direct reference, in
his opinion, to the service of God. No other motive could engage him to
such austerities. By these distinguished marks of devotion he has now
acquired the divine favor; and may expect, in recompense, protection and
safety in this world and eternal happiness in the next.
Hence the greatest crimes have been found, in many instances,
compatible with a superstitious piety and devotion. Hence it is justly
regarded as unsafe to draw any certain inference in favor of a man’s
morals from the fervor or strictness of his religious exercises, even
though he himself believe them sincere. Nay, it has been observed that
enormities of the blackest dye have been rather apt to produce
superstitious terrors, and increase the religious passion. Bomilcar,
having formed a conspiracy for assassinating at once the whole senate of
Carthage, and invading the liberties of his country, lost the
opportunity, from a continual regard to omens and prophecies. “Those who
undertake the most criminal and most dangerous enterprises are commonly
the most superstitious;” as an ancient historian1 remarks on this
occasion. Their devotion and spiritual faith rise with their fears.
Catiline was not contented with the established deities and received
rites of the national religion. His anxious terrors made him seek new
inventions of this kind,2 which he never probably had dreamed of, had he
remained a good citizen, and obedient to the laws of his country.
To which we may add that, even after the commission of crimes, there
arise remorses and secret horrors, which give no rest to the mind, but
make it have recourse to religious rites and ceremonies, as expiations
of its offences. Whatever weakens or disorders the internal frame
promotes the interests of superstition; and nothing is more destructive
to them than a manly steady virtue, which either preserves us from
disastrous, melancholy accidents, or teaches us to bear them. During
such calm sunshine of the mind, these spectres of false divinity never
make their appearance. On the other hand, while we abandon ourselves to
the natural undisciplined suggestions of our timid and anxious hearts,
every kind of barbarity is ascribed to the supreme Being, from the
terrors with which we are agitated; and every kind of caprice, from the
methods which we embrace in order to appease him. Barbarity, caprice;
these qualities, however nominally disguised, we may universally
observe, form the ruling character of the deity in popular religions.
Even priests, instead of correcting these depraved ideas of mankind,
have often been found ready to foster and encourage them. The more
tremendous the divinity is represented, the more tame and submissive do
men become to his ministers; and the more unaccountable the measures of
acceptance required by him, the more necessary does it become to abandon
our natural reason, and yield to their ghostly guidance and direction.
Thus it may be allowed that the artifices of men aggravate our natural
infirmities and follies of this kind, but never originally beget them.
Their root strikes deeper into the mind, and springs from the essential
and universal properties of human nature.
Section XV.
General Corollary.
Though the stupidity of men, barbarous and uninstructed, be so great
that they may not see a sovereign author in the more obvious works of
nature, to which they are so much familiarized; yet it scarcely seems
possible that any one of good understanding should reject that idea,
when once it is suggested to him. A purpose, an intention, a design, is
evident in everything; and when our comprehension is so far enlarged as
to contemplate the first rise of this visible system, we must adopt,
with the strongest conviction, the idea of some intelligent cause or
author. The uniform maxims, too, which prevail throughout the whole
frame of the universe, naturally, if not necessarily, lead us to
conceive this intelligence as single and undivided, where the prejudices
of education oppose not so reasonable a theory. Even the contrarieties
of nature, by discovering themselves everywhere, become proofs of some
consistent plan, and establish one single purpose or intention, however
inexplicable and incomprehensible.
Good and ill are universally intermingled and confounded; happiness
and misery, wisdom and folly, virtue and vice. Nothing is purely and
entirely of a piece. All advantages are attended with disadvantages. An
universal compensation prevails in all conditions of being and
existence. And it is not possible for us, by our most chimerical wishes,
to form the idea of a station or situation altogether desirable. The
draughts of life, according to the poet’s fiction, are always mixed from
the vessels on each hand of Jupiter; or if any cup be presented
altogether pure, it is drawn only, as the same poet tells us, from the
left-handed vessel.
The more exquisite any good is, of which a small specimen is afforded
us, the sharper is the evil allied to it; and few exceptions are found
to this uniform law of nature. The most sprightly wit borders on
madness; the highest effusions of joy produce the deepest melancholy;
the most ravishing pleasures are attended with the most cruel lassitude
and disgust; the most flattering hopes make way for the severest
disappointments. And in general, no course of life has such safety (for
happiness is not to be dreamed of) as the temperate and moderate, which
maintains, as far as possible, a mediocrity and a kind of insensibility
in everything.
As the good, the great, the sublime, the ravishing, are found
eminently in the genuine principles of theism; it may be expected, from
the analogy of nature, that the base, the absurd, the mean, the
terrifying, will be discovered equally in religious fictions and
chimeras.
The universal propensity to believe in invisible, intelligent power,
if not an original instinct, being at least a general attendant of human
nature, may be considered as a kind of mark or stamp, which the divine
workman has set upon his work; and nothing surely can more dignify
mankind than to be thus selected from all the other parts of the
creation, and to bear the image or impression of the universal Creator.
But consult this image, as it appears in the popular religions of the
world. How is the deity disfigured in our representations of him! What
caprice, absurdity, and immorality are attributed to him! How much is he
degraded even below the character which we should naturally, in common
life, ascribe to a man of sense and virtue!
What a noble privilege is it of human reason to attain the knowledge
of the supreme Being; and, from the visible works of nature, be enabled
to infer so sublime a principle as its supreme Creator? But turn the
reverse of the medal. Survey most nations and most ages. Examine the
religious principles which have, in fact, prevailed in the world. You
will scarcely be persuaded that they are other than sick men’s dreams;
or perhaps will regard them more as the playsome whimsies of monkeys in
human shape than the serious, positive, dogmatical asseverations of a
being who dignifies himself with the name of rational.
Hear the verbal protestations of all men. Nothing they are so certain
of as their religious tenets. Examine their lives. You will scarcely
think that they repose the smallest confidence in them.
The greatest and truest zeal gives us no security against hypocrisy.
The most open impiety is attended with a secret dread and compunction.
No theological absurdities so glaring as have not, sometimes, been
embraced by men of the greatest and most cultivated understanding. No
religious precepts so rigorous as have not been adopted by the most
voluptuous and most abandoned of men.
Ignorance is the mother of Devotion: a maxim that is proverbial, and
confirmed by general experience. Look out for a people entirely void of
religion: if you find them at all, be assured that they are but few
degrees removed from brutes.
What so pure as some of the morals included in some theological
systems? What so corrupt as some of the practices to which these systems
give rise?
The comfortable views exhibited by the belief of futurity are
ravishing and delightful. But how quickly they vanish on the appearance
of its terrors, which keep a more firm and durable possession of the
human mind!
The whole is a riddle, an enigma, an inexplicable mystery. Doubt,
uncertainty, suspense of judgment, appear the only result of our most
accurate scrutiny concerning this subject. But such is the frailty of
human reason, and such the irresistible contagion of opinion, that even
this deliberate doubt could scarcely be upheld, did we not enlarge our
view, and, opposing one species of superstition to another, set them a
quarrelling; while we ourselves, during their fury and contention,
happily make our escape into the calm, though obscure, regions of
philosophy.
