At a crowded meeting held at the Hall Of Science early in the following year Mr Bradlaugh was still denouncing the war in unmeasured terms. "There never was a war," said he, "more unjustifiable, more wicked, more insane, than this which France, as misrepresented by her Emperor, had declared against Germany." This the Echo condemned as "Whitechapel style," and loftily asserted that the English people would decline to accept "Iconoclast" as the representative of France and her sufferings. But after other immense gatherings at the Beaumont Institute, the Eastern Hall, Poplar, and the St James's Hall, there was a notable alteration in its tone. An extract from its report of the St James's Hall meeting held five days later makes a rather amusing contrast to its former unqualified condemnation. Said the Echo on this occasion of my father:—

Amongst those who stood on the St James's Hall platform that night were George Odger, Lloyd Jones, George Howell, and Captain Maxse, who, together with Professor Beesly and Frederic Harrison, joined their voices to my father's to plead for the recognition of the French Republican Government and against the dismemberment of France. This series, of meetings was held in consequence of the announcement that the European powers were to assemble in conference in London, and it was anxiously desired to impress upon the English Government the duty of making the question of peace between France and Prussia a matter for the consideration of the Plenipotentiaries. It had been hoped and expected that Jules Favre would come to London to take part in the conference, and Mr Bradlaugh was invited to meet him at the Embassy. A demonstration had been agreed upon to honour his arrival, and it was characteristic of my father that he urged those of his friends who prepared to take part in it not to make it a mere party demonstration; he begged them to avoid, and to try to persuade others to avoid, the use of flags calculated to insult Prussia or to cause bitterness of feeling in the minds of Germans. A great assembly of earnest, orderly men and women to greet the representative of Republican France would have weight; "bands and banners," he said, "are needless." Jules Favre, however, was unable to get to London; and in the absence of any appointed French representative to the Conference, Lord Granville conferred with Monsieur Charles Tissot both before and after the meeting of the Plenipotentiaries. A letter which my father received from Monsieur Tissot just at this time will once more show with what warmth his efforts to serve Republican France were received by foremost Frenchmen:—

When the French elections took place in February 1871, Mr Bradlaugh was one of the candidates nominated by the city of Paris. I am under the impression that this was done without his wishes being in any way consulted, but the very proposal of his name—testifying, as it to some extent did, the honour in which he was held in Paris—roused scorn and anger at home. The editor of a Scotch paper,[147] in writing a leader on the elections, relieved his feelings by saying: "'Bradlaugh, English Republican,' figures in the list among the motley crew; but what number of votes were polled for this cosmopolitan patriot, who would have been a dumb dog in a French Parliament, has not transpired." As the "motley crew" included such honoured names as those of Garibaldi, Louis Blanc, Ledru Rollin, and Victor Schœlcher, it was a distinction to be placed beside them; but why, asked my father, should it be assumed that he would be dumb? "Thomas Paine," he added, "who did not speak French, was not a 'dumb dog' when he pleaded for the life of Louis XVI."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE COMMUNE, AND AFTER.

During the Commune my father found himself in a position of extreme difficulty. His heart was with the men who had been driven by most frightful suffering to wild words and still wilder deeds. Some of the oldest and the best amongst his French friends were playing their parts in the tragedies daily enacted in Paris; some, like the amiable Gustavo Flourens—who has been described by Mr Washburne, then United States minister, as a "young scholar," and one of "the most accomplished of the agitators and revolutionists"—were laying down their lives; others, like those kindly and learned brothers, Elie and Elysée Reclus, were sacrificing their liberties. My father's whole being throbbed in sympathy with these men; but sympathise as he might, his reason could not commend, and he remained sadly silent, unable to approve, but refusing to condemn.

This feeling of standing aside whilst so many old and dear friends were risking life and liberty was torture to a man of his temperament, and when an opportunity occurred for active help on his part he welcomed it with joy. This opportunity came in the form of a request from some of the French leaders that he should act as intermediary between the Government of M. Thiers and the Commune. As a foreigner and a known friend of France, it was hoped that his intervention might be possible, and might lead to good results.

The terms of peace which he was empowered to propose to M. Thiers were:—

(1.) Acceptance of the principle of Republican Government. A condition rendered absolutely necessary by the intrigues of the Legitimists and the Orleanists, who were striving to place the crown on the head of the Comte de Chambord, with succession to the Comte de Paris.

(2.) Absolute and unconditional amnesty for all political offences.

(3.) Election by the people of the Chief Executive power of the Republic. Hostilities were to be suspended during the election, and disarmament to follow directly the result was known.

When this commission reached Mr Bradlaugh, he had just set out on a course of lectures in Scotland; but with his heart full of hope that this might perhaps be the means of staying the terrible bloodshed, and the tragedies then taking place in France, he determined to allow nothing to delay him, and, neglecting his engagements, immediately left Edinburgh for London. In the columns of the National Reformer he himself told how his errand was frustrated and his journey prevented.

On reaching Calais, after a somewhat rough passage, his ears were greeted with the "very old cry" of "Passeports, Messieurs!" His passport was produced and his features examined by means of a lantern. The result of this examination was that a few minutes later he was ushered into the grim presence of the Chief of Police, at the station passport office. "At first," related Mr Bradlaugh, "this gentleman was slightly brusque, but concluded with a great display of courtesy. The following discussion, after the Socratic method, took place, all rights of questioning being reserved by the police:—

Chief of the Police: What is your name?

Charles Bradlaugh.

What is your business?

Editor of the National Reformer, to report for my journal.

But you are something else besides editor?

A little.

You are one of the members of the International?

I have not that honour.

You make great speeches?

I try.

You presided at a meeting in Hyde Park the other day?

I did not.

I cannot permit you to go to Paris; your presence there would be too dangerous.

You do me too much honour to attribute to me so much influence.

The Chief of the Police then took down a book in which 'Charles Bradlaugh' appeared in good bold characters, with about twenty lines opposite in writing, which, being very small, I could not read. He then said: 'I have orders to arrest you. I must send you to the Sub-Prefect at Boulogne.'"

After being permitted to send a telegram to Versailles, he was sent off to Boulogne in charge of an officer and two men.

When they arrived there at three in the morning, Boulogne was in total darkness, and then they had about a mile to walk through the driving rain before they reached the Sub-Prefecture. Here, except one man on duty, all appeared to be fast asleep, and M. le Sous-Préfet, apprised of Mr Bradlaugh's arrival, telegraphed to the Government for instructions, refusing to take the case until the morning. My father made up a "bed" of all the chairs he could find, and, still in the close custody of his three guardians, he attempted to pass the time in sleep.

"In the morning," he said, "another and more severe interrogation took place, the Sub-Prefect declaring that I had presided at the Sunday Hyde Park meeting in favour of the Commune; that I had lately been on some revolutionary mission in Prussia; and that I had too much influence to be allowed to go to Paris, where I should be a rallying-point for all dangerous men." Mr Bradlaugh telegraphed to M. Favre, at Versailles, asking in what respect his position had altered since ten weeks earlier, when the Charge d'Affaires of France, acting under his orders, had tendered him the formal thanks of the French Government for the services he had rendered France. The only answer from the Government was an urgent and imperative order to quit France by the next packet, and a notice that his description had been sent to every railway station in France, with an order for his arrest in the event of his return.

Some months later, after the fall of the Commune, Mr Bradlaugh once more set out for Paris; he was again arrested at Calais, and this time kept prisoner for nearly three days, but was then released and allowed to proceed on his journey. The Commissaire at Calais showed him the order signed by Jules Favre in the previous April. It was emphatic and unequivocal, and ran thus: "Empechez à M. Bradlaugh d'entrer à Paris à tout prix."[148] This document had apparently never been cancelled, hence Mr Bradlaugh's second arrest. He was never afterwards hindered on his way to the French capital, although, during the Presidency of Monsieur Thiers, his movements while in Paris were carefully watched. At one time the French authorities assumed that he was masquerading under the name of "Lord Campbell," and the late Lord Campbell and Stratheden, who used to visit at the house of one of my father's friends in Paris, was made quite unhappy by having his movements watched by detectives intended for Mr Bradlaugh. The situation was not without its amusing side, for the particular business upon which Lord Campbell was engaged just then was connected with a marriage he wished to contract with a young French lady.

After the fall of the Commune, London was full of French refugees, many of whom were in poverty and distress. My father did his utmost to help them; he never had money to give away, but he did then what he always did in cases needing pecuniary help—he gave a lecture on their behalf. As his views upon the Commune and the French situation were stated in some detail, I quote a few of the more important passages from a report of his lecture which appeared in his own paper.[149] He had taken for his subject "French Republicanism;" and after he had dealt with the proclamations of the Republic in 1792 and 1848, and the declaration of the 4th of September, he said:—

"Coming now to the 18th March, and the Commune, the audience would remember that he had in that hall, within a few hours of that date, guarded himself from any expression for or against a movement which appeared then to have but slight confidence in its own leaders, and which had at that date issued no programme. In judging it now, he should judge it more favourably than he did then, trying to avoid alike the exaggeration of its foes, and the indiscriminating endorsement of its friends. It was charged against the men of Paris that they commenced with the assassinations of Generals Lecomte and Clement Thomas—no one could justify these assassinations—but if this were to form ground for the condemnation of the Commune, which disclaimed all participation in the act, with how much more force would other forms of government fall under the same condemnation. Napoleon I. shot the Duc d'Enghien in a ditch; Louis XVIII. shot Marshal Ney; and although, according to the laws of France, capital punishment for political offences had been abolished, the present Government shot Cremieux, Rossel, Ferri, and Bourgeois. He did not justify or excuse the shooting of the Generals; but those who condemned it should see whether their own hands were clean. Of the latest shootings he hardly dared trust himself to speak. M. Thiers had sheltered himself behind a Committee of Pardons, although he feared that it would not be an incorrect guess to hazard that M. Thiers' own influence had hindered any commutation. He considered the 18th March a fatal mistake, a sad blow to the prospects of Republicanism. The Commune asked for the recognition and consolidation of the Republic. But he denied their right to do that by force of arms. They had great provocation, for they had seen Republicanism and Garibaldi insulted at Bordeaux; they knew that the majority of the Chamber were Legitimist and Orleanist, that M. Thiers was Republican only in name, and that Prussia even had been intriguing to put Henry V. on the throne.... But did the Commune initiate the struggle of force? The people of Paris had arms: they had these under the Constitution; they took other arms, to which also they claimed a Constitutional right. It was due to Thiers' weakness and want of capacity that there was any struggle for the cannon on Montmartre, or perhaps at all. He treated the men of Paris as rebels, ignoring that he was the chief of the executive power of a government of rebellion, unendorsed by any vote of the country. He refused all overtures of peace in a manner unworthy a man in his position, and availed himself of iron, steel, famine, and a worse than Prussian bombardment, to drive to frenzy men whom it might have been possible to win at an earlier stage by judicious negotiation.... It was not wonderful that the Commune fell. There was a demon of suspicion, division, and even treachery amongst prominent men, and the terrible demoralisation of the masses, resulting from their position and the long continuance of the previous siege. The wonder was that it stood so long. It was remarkable how free the city was from common crime. There were, in all the Avenue Montaigne, only some two or three concierges left in charge, and all the property was as safe at the end of the siege as at the beginning. The rent of a first floor in one of those houses was £1000 a year, the furniture in proportion. Yet there was no pillage, as there would have been under almost any other Government, with houses left deserted by their owners. But it was said that the hostages were shot and the buildings were burnt. Now he would be the last to utter one word of justification or defence. He trusted that he might never have to take part in an armed revolution. He believed that if in such a case it was proposed that the public buildings of our city should be destroyed, as those of Paris had been, he would kill without mercy the man who would attempt it. The only thing that could be said was that the men of Paris were ringed round with fire and steel, and all hope of mercy was shut out. To keep them in, Papal Zouaves on the one side, Prussian bayonets on the other. No quarter offered, no generous word of pardon spoken. It could not be wondered if in madness they committed those crimes. It was cruel and cowardly to kill the hostages, but was it for the Versailles troops to reproach the Commune with that? The madness of cruelty had been great on both sides, and the criminality was the greater on the part of the stronger.... The cry of vengeance raised [against the bourgeoisie] was criminal, it was also a blunder; for if nothing was to be done until the middle class was exterminated, then hope was impossible; it never could be exterminated. There should be no question of war in any political movement between the working and the middle classes.... A policy of conciliation as recommended by Talandier was the true one. Each must, if they could not forget the wrongs of yesterday, at any rate remember that fresh blood will not wash out these wrongs. Nations were not to be made up of one class or of another class, but of the people which included all classes. Here [in England] he desired a Republic, and would work for it; but if he could picture, as the only possibility, the walking to its achievement with bloody hands, fire and smoke, and grim visage, he would turn away now, ere it was too late. Republicanism in France would have enough difficulty without class war. Her suddenly increased national debt made a burden not to be borne with impunity. Self-restraint was needed to conquer hate. Generosity on both sides, to forgive alike errors and crimes. Amnesty for yesterday, peace for to-morrow, and then a true Republic might grow in the fair land of France."

A malicious paragraph subsequently went the round of the press stating that the French refugees, on whose behalf this lecture had been delivered, had unanimously refused the proceeds. Of course this statement was utterly devoid of truth; the refugees, far from refusing the help of their friend, accepted it gratefully, and sent to Mr Bradlaugh a formal vote of thanks and an official receipt signed by the secretary and the treasurer of "La Fraternelle," the Society of French Refugees.

The acquaintance between Madame de Brimont and Mr Bradlaugh, commencing in her visit to his lodgings on the 17th of September 1870, ripened into a friendship which lasted for the rest of my father's life. From that September day these two never ceased to be friends; through good report and ill report Madame de Brimont stood by him. While my father lay upon what proved to be his deathbed, I received a letter from her in which, writing in French, she sent him a message from "sa meilleure amie," "and that," she said, "I think I may claim to be, for during the twenty years I have known him I have never once swerved in my friendship for him—no, not for a single moment." My father, very weak and ill, was deeply moved when I read the letter to him. "It is true," he said brokenly, "it is true."

In visiting at Madame de Brimont's in London and in Paris Mr Bradlaugh became acquainted with many of the best known men in France. The Prince Napoléon he met in London at Madame de Brimont's apartments at the Grosvenor Hotel. He met him, and had fully an hour's talk with him before he knew to whom he had been chatting so freely; the title "Monseigneur" given to his companion by another visitor fell upon his ear; his mind immediately ran over the "monseigneurs" likely to be present, and by a process of elimination he arrived at the right one. These two men, so markedly dissimilar on most points, so similar on one or two, were at once mutually attracted. The name of Napoléon was a hateful one to Mr Bradlaugh; the idea of a reputed "professional demagogue" was hardly likely to be pleasing to a Napoléon; yet despite all the probabilities in favour of a determined antipathy on both sides, they were the best of friends. Prince Jerome, who was a Freethinker, went to hear Mr Bradlaugh's speeches at the Hall of Science, at the Dialectical Society, and elsewhere, and was delighted with them. My father told me an amusing little anecdote concerning the first time he dined with Prince Jerome. He (Mr Bradlaugh) did not at that time own the luxury of a "dress suit," and therefore was obliged to wear his ordinary frock coat and black tie. His host met him, dressed of course in the regulation fashion; a few minutes later, as others came into the room, he disappeared, returning after a moment or two dressed also in a frock coat and black tie. My father's eye was quick to note this courtesy, and within a few days he regretfully spent money he could ill spare on a dress suit, determined never to put any one to that trouble for him again.

Very many letters passed between the two, covering a period from 1871 to 1889. Mr Bradlaugh often greatly disapproved of the projects of the Prince, and this after some years had the effect of lessening their intimacy, although it did not lessen their friendship. When in Paris Mr Bradlaugh was always a welcome visitor at 86 Boulevart Malesherbes, or later at the house in the Avenue d'Antin, and once he visited the Prince at the Villa de Pranzins. During the last ten years, however, they saw each other but little, although an occasional letter passed, always on Prince Napoléon's side of a warm, friendly character, like the one I now give:—

The last occasion on which these two met was in 1889, when the Prince in crossing the Channel met with that terrible disaster in which his old valet lost his life. He wished my father to help him about his will; he told him quite tranquilly that he was suffering from Bright's disease, that he could not possibly live much longer; he had property in England as well as in France, and he wished to bequeath to his younger son, Prince Louis, of whom he was very fond, every penny that the law did not compel him to leave to the elder son, Prince Victor. Over the dinner-table they had a long chat upon this and other matters, and my father promised to draft a will. After this they never met again. On his return my father told me how aged, shrunken, and ill the Prince looked; in commiserating his condition we had not the remotest idea that he was himself stricken with that identical complaint, and would be the first to die! The suggestions, or draft, for a will were sent according to promise, and Mr Bradlaugh received the following acknowledgment:—

At Madame de Brimont's Mr Bradlaugh also met Monsieur Emile de Girardin, then of course well on in years, but remarkable for his keen wit and clear-headedness—although I must confess that I did not, at that time at least, admire his keen wit. One evening, while we were in Paris for our schooling, my sister and I were introduced to him; he looked at us both critically, then again at my sister, and, not knowing that we understood French, turned to Madame de Brimont and said: "J'aime mieux celle-ci." I was quite conscious that my sister was better liked than I, and deservedly so, but to hear such a preference stated thus coolly before one's face is rather a shock to any girl. Then there was Monsieur Emanuel Arago, a tremendous talker, who had been one of the Government of the 4th of September, and with Jules Favre stood at the window of the Hotel de Ville with Gambetta when he proclaimed the Republic of France; there were also M. Dupont-Whyte, the economist; M. Massé, a judge of appeal; M. Edouard Pourtalés, a journalist of great pertinacity and even greater notoriety, and many others whose names now escape my memory. Léon Gambetta,[152] Mr Bradlaugh first met, not, I think, at Madame de Brimont's, but elsewhere. Yves Guyot, too, had long been a fast friend.

For his intimacy with such people as Prince Napoléon and M. de Girardin, Mr Bradlaugh was much attacked by a certain section of the French Republicans, as well as by Dr Karl Marx, who held him up to public obloquy for having committed the terrible crime of dining with such people. Mr Bradlaugh's answer to this was: "As to where I may or may not have dined, it is too ridiculous for serious reply. I have dined with a bishop, without giving allegiance to the Church of England; with a Jewish Rabbi, without adopting the faith of Abraham; I broke bread more than once with good old Father Spratt of Dublin, without inclining to Roman Catholicism." Such attacks as these troubled him little, but, although it made no difference to his conduct, he felt deeply hurt when some two or three French friends for and with whom he had worked did not understand that he could know a Prince and yet remain a Republican.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A DOZEN DEBATES, 1870-1873.

In 1870 Mr Bradlaugh held five oral debates: one with Mr G. J. Holyoake, in London, in the month of March; the next with Alexander Robertson of Dundonnochie, at Edinburgh, in June; the third and fifth with the Rev. A. J. Harrison, at Newcastle, in September, and at Bristol, in December; while the fourth debate was held with David King,[153] at Bury, in December. Besides these there was a written debate upon Exodus xxi. 7-11, with Mr B. H. Cowper.

The discussion with Mr George Jacob Holyoake occupied two successive nights, the 10th and 11th of March, and was by far the most important of the five. It represents different schools of Freethought, and was for many years—is, perhaps, at the present day—copiously quoted, especially by persons opposed to every view of Freethought, who would confound representatives of one school by quoting opinions taken from the other. The full wording of the subjects discussed was: for the first night "The Principles of Secularism do not include Atheism;" for the second "Secular Criticism does not involve Scepticism." Mr Holyoake maintained the affirmative of these propositions, and each disputant occupied two half-hours on each evening. Mr Austin Holyoake took the chair on both occasions. The difference between Mr Bradlaugh and Mr Holyoake was not so much a difference of opinion as a difference of the methods of advocacy of their opinion. Both were Freethinkers of the most convinced kind; but while Mr Bradlaugh called himself an Atheist, Mr Holyoake chose rather to describe himself as a Secularist, and the whole difference between them is indicated in these two names. The word "Atheist" had been—and is still, to some extent—used as a term of opprobrium; it has been perverted from its natural meaning to imply everything that is vile; Mr Bradlaugh wore the name defiantly, and held to it the closer for the sake of the slandered Atheists of the past. He was an Atheist, i.e. "without God," in the simple meaning of the word; if others chose to attach to it an odious significance, the discredit lay in the narrowness of their minds and not in the Atheist, compelled to endure the baseless calumnies heaped upon him. Mr Bradlaugh was no "Infidel:" he least of any could be branded as unfaithful; but since Atheist and Infidel were often used as synonymous terms, he did not even flinch from sharing the name of "Infidel" with those brave workers for religious and political liberty, such as Paine or Richard Carlile. Nevertheless, Infidel he was not, although Atheist he was.

Now, Mr Holyoake was equally an Atheist, but he did not see that there was anything to be gained by the use of a name which had so undeservedly become a term of reproach; he preferred to find a new name and make a fresh start under new colours. In a debate held seventeen years before with the Rev. Brewin Grant, Mr Holyoake had said that opprobrium was associated with the word "Atheist," and that this would be got rid of by the use of the word "Secularist," which would also bring before the mind the moral objects in view. Moved probably by the idea of making the path easy to the faint-hearted who were frightened by the bogey conjured up by the word "Atheist," Mr Holyoake was anxious to disassociate his new name altogether from Atheism, and went so far as to say that Secularism did not involve Atheism or Scepticism. Thus the new Secularism looked askance at the old Atheism, and seemed anxious to have it known, that the two had "no connection." Mr Holyoake regarded the "imputation" that Secularism involved Atheism and Scepticism as "the greatest impediment in the way of" national Secular education. He claimed for his Secularism that it was a "new form of Freethought," perfectly independent of Atheism or Theism. Secularism proposed "to set up principles of nature in the place of principles of theology, and found, if possible, a kingdom of reason for those who found the kingdom of faith inadequate or unreliable." Secularism, Mr Holyoake contended, should assert its own principles, but not assail others, neither needing to assail nor condescending to assail theological systems. These ideas will doubtless commend themselves to many, especially to those who do not look under the surface of the words; but we know that before we can put nature "in the place of" theology, we must depose theology, and we also know that when geology points out the secular truth of the numberless ages it has taken to form the earth's crust, by the mere assertion of such a truth it assails the theological dogma of the creation of the world in seven days. Mr Bradlaugh in his speech put it in this way: "The Secularist finds the kingdom of faith impossible, he finds belief in God impossible, he finds belief in religion impossible. What is the difference between finding belief in God impossible and an Atheist?" He said further: "Although at present it may be perfectly true that all men who are Secularists are not Atheists, I put it that in my opinion the logical consequence of the acceptance of Secularism must be that the man gets to Atheism if he has brains enough to comprehend." Mr Holyoake spoke of various bodies all over the kingdom occupied with a negative form of Freethought; he met with many orators who were mere negationists. The stock-in-trade of a negationist, he said, is the simplest possible; he has only to deny what some one else holds, and he is set up in the art of warfare. But these societies and these orators were entirely unknown to Mr Bradlaugh; those he had worked with for ten years or more had done positive work, and of this he gave many instances. This attack and reply are of importance because the terms "negationist" and "destructive freethought" have grown into cant phrases, used as terms of reproach by persons who do not trouble to consider either exactly what they mean, or whether there is anyone to whom they are really applicable. Mr Holyoake asserted that Atheism does not embody a system of morals, while Mr Bradlaugh replied that "You cannot have a scheme of morality without Atheism. The Utilitarian scheme is an Atheistical scheme. The Utilitarian scheme is a defiance of the doctrine of Providence, and a protest against God." Referring to Mr Holyoake's objection to the words "Infidelity" and "Atheism" because of the opprobrium which has gathered round them, Mr Bradlaugh said:—

"I maintain that the opprobrium cast upon the word Atheism is a lie. I believe Atheists as a body to be men deserving respect—I know the leading men among them who have made themselves prominent, and I do not care what kind of character religious men may put round the word Atheist, I would fight until men respect it. I do not quarrel with the word 'Secular' if it is taken to include this body of men, but I do object to it if we are told Atheism has nothing to do with it. I object when we are told that Atheism is not its province, because I say that the moment you tell me that you have to deal with the affairs of this life, to the exclusion of the rest, you must in effect deny the rest. If you do not deny the rest, you leave your Secularism in doubt, you partially paralyse the efforts on your own side. If you tell our people, 'You must not impugn the sincerity of your opponents, that you must not impute bad motives to them,' when they read the foul lies heaped on the graves of the great dead, and hear the base calumnies used against the hard-working living, I say you are teaching to them that which I do not consider their duty. You should never lightly impute, never rashly urge against any opponent motives, you should never do it without full proof to justify your imputation."

The proposition for the second night's debate, as worded by Mr Holyoake, was, "Secular Criticism does not involve Scepticism." Mr Bradlaugh opened in a very careful speech. Dealing first with the word Scepticism, he went on to say, "Criticism is, I presume, the art of judging upon the merits of any given proposition; and I put it, that you cannot have criticism at all without doubt. Doubt is, in fact, the beginning of knowledge, and I put it expressly, that it is utterly impossible to have Secular Criticism without having scepticism; as to the dogmas of Theology in general, and scepticism as to the Bible and Christianity in particular." He then proceeded to state in detail and at considerable length the points of Scepticism involved by Secular Criticism. Mr Holyoake, so far from traversing this position, really endorsed it when he said (in his first speech on the second night): "The secular method is to criticise the Scriptures so as to adopt that which is useful, leaving alone that which is mischievous or disagreeable." A criticism of the Scriptures, undertaken with the view of accepting some points as worthy and rejecting others as unworthy, cannot by any possibility exclude scepticism. We examine a set of precepts, we judge them, we distinguish between the false and the true, the beauties and the blemishes. To do this, we must begin by doubting their truth and beauty as a whole, and before we can leave any alone, we must be sceptical whether a belief in them is necessary to our salvation and a disbelief in them a sure road to eternal damnation. Mr Holyoake also spoke favourably of ignoring Christianity, apparently failing to see that in a country, Christian by law, with a State-supported Christian religion and Christianity taught in our schools, to ignore is impossible. Much of Mr Holyoake's speech had no bearing upon the subject under discussion, but was simply an attack upon persons and the more transitory aspects of the Atheistic position. To this Mr Bradlaugh replied, and of course his reply was as irrelevant as the attack, but putting this aside, he asked in his last speech: "Has Mr Holyoake shown that Secular Criticism does not involve Scepticism? Not at all. What secular principles has he advanced which are inconsistent with the position I take? None." I think with this everyone who carefully reads the debate will agree. Mr Holyoake in his final speech, which also wound up the debate, indulged in considerable sarcasm at his opponent's expense, and made his memorable and oft-quoted sneer at the Hall of Science; speaking of it as "this kind of place in which we now meet, opposite a lunatic asylum, where people, so the enemy says, naturally expect to find us." Before sitting down, Mr Holyoake quoted statements he had made elsewhere as to Secularism, from one of which I will take a few lines, in order to put his position fairly in his own words:—

"Secularism," he said, "is not an argument against Christianity, it is one independent of it. It does not question the pretensions of Christianity, it advances others. Secularism does not say there is no light and guidance elsewhere, but maintains that there is light and guidance in secular truth, whose conditions and sanctions exist independently, act independently, and act for ever. Secular knowledge is manifestly that kind of knowledge which is founded in this life, which relates to the conduct of this life, conduces to the welfare of this life, and is capable of being tested by the experience of this life."

Mr Austin Holyoake, who, as I have said, occupied the chair on both evenings, was specially invited by his brother to express his opinion. This he objected to do at the debate, but he afterwards wrote a short criticism, in the course of which he asked the pertinent question: "How can any one not an Atheist be a Secularist?" and the answer to this would, I think, be hard to find.

On the 22nd and 23rd of June Mr Bradlaugh met Alexander Robertson, Esq., of Dundonnochie, to discuss with him the Existence of Deity. The meetings were held in the New Waverley Hall, Edinburgh, and there was a large attendance on each evening. Mr Robertson, however, proved utterly incompetent; and the affair, regarded as a debate, was a complete fiasco.[154] On the second evening, indeed, a number of Christians left the room as a protest against Mr Robertson's method of advocacy. All that I need note here is that Mr Bradlaugh once more stated his position as an Atheist. I repeat it, as he himself put it at different times in his life, because even to this day his views are often misapprehended.

In his opening speech Mr Robertson had conjured up several absurd theories of Atheism (amongst which the inevitable "chance"—made world figured), and had triumphantly disposed of them. Mr Bradlaugh in his reply said:—

On the next evening he referred to this, and enlarged upon it thus:—

The first debate with the Rev. A.J. Harrison was held for two nights in September, at the Newcastle Town Hall; and 3000 persons, at least, were present on each night. For each speaker there was a partisan chairman, and over these an impartial umpire—an arrangement particularly disliked by Mr Bradlaugh, who thought one chairman quite sufficient, and who was always willing that that one should be unconnected with the Freethought party. The umpire—that is to say, the real chairman—was on this occasion Lieut.-Col. Perkins, and he won golden opinions for his tact, unfailing good humour, and courtesy, qualities which the uproarious spirit of the audience rendered very necessary. Mr Harrison has a certain reputation, so that I can hardly pass this first debate with my father without some notice, as I might otherwise have been tempted to do; for, in truth, I do not think there is very much to be learned from it. Mr Harrison worded the subjects to be discussed, and Mr Bradlaugh accepted every condition which was proposed. The propositions which the reverend gentleman chose to affirm were: (1.) That Secularism, distinctively considered, is not a system of truth, and therefore cannot justify its existence to the reason; and (2.) That Secularism, distinctively considered, is not a system of morality, and is therefore unworthy of trust as a guide. Mr Harrison opened the debate by examining the proposition he himself had worded, declaring at the outset that Secularism could not be a system of truth, "first, because it has no truth to offer; and second, because it is not a system at all." Mr Bradlaugh, in reply, thought it was hardly necessary to discuss "what is needed to constitute a system, or whether Secularism is a system or not, because," he said, "I think I have made it clear enough all my life through that the great merit of the thought of which I am permitted to be the advocate is that it does not pretend that any one man, or any dozen of men, have a right to lay down a number of propositions, and say, 'These make a system which shall bind the world.'" Mr Harrison contended that there were three kinds of Atheism—the Atheism of doubt, the Atheism of ignorance, and a compound of doubt and ignorance, which last, said the reverend disputant politely, was "Mr Bradlaugh's own Atheism."

This version of his views my father repudiated as "monstrously unfair as well as utterly untrue," and then went on to deal with such other allegations as: