Book: The Works of Robert Ingersoll - Part 3 of 3

SOCIETY AND ITS CRIMINALS*

     [* Col. Robert G. Ingersoll was greatly interested in
     securing for Chiara Cignarale a commutation of the death
     sentence to imprisonment for life.  In view of the fact that
     the great Agnostic has made a close study of capital
     punishment, a reporter for the World called upon him a day
     or two ago for an interview touching modern reformatory
     measures and the punishment of criminals.  Speaking
     generally on the subject Colonel Ingersoll said:]

I suppose that society—that is to say, a state or a nation—has the right of self-defence. It is impossible to maintain society— that is to say, to protect the rights of individuals in life, in property, in reputation, and in the various pursuits known as trades and professions, without in some way taking care of those who violate these rights. The principal object of all government should be to protect those in the right from those in the wrong. There are a vast number of people who need to be protected who are unable, by reason of the defects in their minds and by the countless circumstances that enter into the question of making a living, to protect themselves. Among the barbarians there was, comparatively speaking, but little difference. A living was made by fishing and hunting. These arts were simple and easily learned. The principal difference in barbarians consisted in physical strength and courage. As a consequence, there were comparatively few failures. Most men were on an equality. Now that we are somewhat civilized, life has become wonderfully complex. There are hundreds of arts, trades, and professions, and in every one of these there is great competition.
Besides all this, something is needed every moment. Civilized man has less credit than the barbarian. There is something by which everything can be paid for, including the smallest services. Everybody demands payment, and he who fails to pay is a failure. Owing to the competition, owing to the complexity of modern life, owing to the thousand things that must be known in order to succeed in any direction, on either side of the great highway that is called Progress, are innumerable wrecks. As a rule, failure in some honest direction, or at least in some useful employment, is the dawn of crime. People who are prosperous, people who by reasonable labor can make a reasonable living, who, having a little leisure can lay in a little for the winter that comes to all, are honest.
As a rule, reasonable prosperity is virtuous. I don't say great prosperity, because it is very hard for the average man to withstand extremes. When people fail under this law, or rather this fact, of the survival of the fittest, they endeavor to do by some illegal way that which they failed to do in accordance with law. Persons driven from the highway take to the fields, and endeavor to reach their end or object in some shorter way, by some quicker path, regardless of its being right or wrong.
I have said this much to show that I regard criminals as unfortunates. Most people regard those who violate the law with hatred. They do not take into consideration the circumstances. They do not believe that man is perpetually acted upon. They throw out of consideration the effect of poverty, of necessity, and above all, of opportunity. For these reasons they regard criminals with feelings of revenge. They wish to see them punished. They want them imprisoned or hanged. They do not think the law has been vindicated unless somebody has been outraged. I look at these things from an entirely different point of view. I regard these people who are in the clutches of the law not only as unfortunates, but, for the most part, as victims. You may call them victims of nature, or of nations, or of governments; it makes no difference, they are victims. Under the same circumstances the very persons who punish them would be punished. But whether the criminal is a victim or not, the honest man, the industrious man, has the right to defend the product of his labor. He who sows and plows should be allowed to reap, and he who endeavors to take from him his harvest is what we call a criminal; and it is the business of society to protect the honest from the dishonest.
Without taking into account whether the man is or is not responsible, still society has the right of self-defence. Whether that right of self-defence goes to the extent of taking life, depends, I imagine, upon the circumstances in which society finds itself placed. A thousand men on a ship form a society. If a few men should enter into a plot for the destruction of the ship, or for turning it over to pirates, or for poisoning and plundering the most of the passengers—if the passengers found this out certainly they would have the right of self-defence. They might not have the means to confine the conspirators with safety. Under such circumstances it might be perfectly proper for them to destroy their lives and to throw their worthless bodies into the sea. But what society has the right to do depends upon the circumstances. Now, in my judgment, society has the right to do two things—to protect itself and to do what it can to reform the individual. Society has no right to take revenge; no right to torture a convict; no right to do wrong because some individual has done wrong. I am opposed to all corporal punishment in penitentiaries. I am opposed to anything that degrades a criminal or leaves upon him an unnecessary stain, or puts upon him any stain that he did not put upon himself.
Most people defend capital punishment on the ground that the man ought to be killed because he has killed another. The only real ground for killing him, even if that be good, is not that he has killed, but that he may kill. What he has done simply gives evidence of what he may do, and to prevent what he may do, instead of to revenge what he has done, should be the reason given.
Now, there is another view. To what extent does it harden the community for the Government to take life? Don't people reason in this way: That man ought to be killed; the Government, under the same circumstances, would kill him, therefore I will kill him? Does not the Government feed the mob spirit—the lynch spirit? Does not the mob follow the example set by the Government? The Government certainly cannot say that it hangs a man for the purpose of reforming him. Its feelings toward that man are only feelings of revenge and hatred. These are the same feelings that animate the lowest and basest mob.
Let me give you an example. In the city of Bloomington, in the State of Illinois, a man confined in the jail, in his efforts to escape, shot and, I believe, killed the jailer. He was pursued, recaptured, brought back and hanged by a mob. The man who put the rope around his neck was then under indictment for an assault to kill and was out on bail, and after the poor wretch was hanged another man climbed the tree and, in a kind of derision, put a piece of cigar between the lips of the dead man. The man who did this had also been indicted for a penitentiary offence and was then out on bail.
I mention this simply to show the kind of people you find in mobs. Now, if the Government had a greater and nobler thought; if the Government said: "We will reform; we will not destroy; but if the man is beyond reformation we will simply put him where he can do no more harm," then, in my judgment, the effect would be far better. My own opinion is, that the effect of an execution is bad upon the community—degrading and debasing. The effect is to cheapen human life; and, although a man is hanged because he has taken human life, the very fact that his life is taken by the Government tends to do away with the idea that human life is sacred.
Let me give you an illustration. A man in the city of Washington went to Alexandria, Va., for the purpose of seeing a man hanged who had murdered an old man and a woman for the purpose of getting their money. On his return from that execution he came through what is called the Smithsonian grounds. This was on the same day, late in the evening. There he met a peddler, whom he proceeded to murder for his money. He was arrested in a few hours, in a little while was tried and convicted, and in a little while was hanged. And another man, present at this second execution, went home on that same day, and, in passing by a butcher-shop near his house, went in, took from the shop a cleaver, went into his house and chopped his wife's head off.
This, I say, throws a little light upon the effect of public executions. In the Cignarale case, of course the sentence should have been commuted. I think, however, that she ought not to be imprisoned for life. From what I read of the testimony I think she should have been pardoned.
It is hard, I suppose, for a man fully to understand and enter into the feelings of a wife who has been trampled upon, abused, bruised, and blackened by the man she loved—by the man who made to her the vows of eternal affection. The woman, as a rule, is so weak, so helpless. Of course, it does not all happen in a moment. It comes on as the night comes. She notices that he does not act quite as affectionately as he formerly did. Day after day, month after month, she feels that she is entering a twilight. But she hopes that she is mistaken, and that the light will come again. The gloom deepens, and at last she is in midnight—a midnight without a star. And this man, whom she once worshiped, is now her enemy— one who delights to trample upon every sentiment she has—who delights in humiliating her, and who is guilty of a thousand nameless tyrannies. Under these circumstances, it is hardly right to hold that woman accountable for what she does. It has always seemed to me strange that a woman so circumstanced—in such fear that she dare not even tell her trouble—in such fear that she dare not even run away—dare not tell a father or a mother, for fear that she will be killed—I say, that in view of all this, it has always seemed strange to me that so few husbands have been poisoned.
The probability is that society raises its own criminals. It plows the land, sows the seed, and harvests the crop. I believe that the shadow of the gibbet will not always fall upon the earth. I believe the time will come when we shall know too much to raise criminals—know too much to crowd those that labor into the dens and dungeons that we call tenements, while the idle live in palaces. The time will come when men will know that real progress means the enfranchisement of the whole human race, and that our interests are so united, so interwoven, that the few cannot be happy while the many suffer; so that the many cannot be happy while the few suffer; so that none can be happy while one suffers. In other words, it will be found that the human race is interested in each individual. When that time comes we will stop producing criminals; we will stop producing failures; we will not leave the next generation to chance; we will not regard the gutter as a proper nursery for posterity.
People imagine that if the thieves are sent to the penitentiary, that is the last of the thieves; that if those who kill others are hanged, society is on a safe and enduring basis. But the trouble is here: A man comes to your front door and you drive him away. You have an idea that that man's case is settled. You are mistaken. He goes to the back door. He is again driven away. But the case is not settled. The next thing you know he enters at night. He is a burglar. He is caught; he is convicted; he is sent to the penitentiary, and you imagine that the case is settled. But it is not. You must remember that you have to keep all the agencies alive for the purpose of taking care of these people. You have to build and maintain your penitentiaries, your courts of justice; you have to pay your judges, your district attorneys, your juries, you witnesses, your detectives, your police—all these people must be paid. So that, after all, it is a very expensive way of settling this question. You could have done it far more cheaply had you found this burglar when he was a child; had you taken his father and mother from the tenement house, or had you compelled the owners to keep the tenement clean; or if you had widened the streets, if you had planted a few trees, if you had had plenty of baths, if you had had a school in the neighborhood. If you had taken some interest in this family—some interest in this child—instead of breaking into houses, he might have been a builder of houses.
There is, and it cannot be said too often, no reforming influence in punishment; no reforming power in revenge. Only the best of men should be in charge of penitentiaries; only the noblest minds and the tenderest hearts should have the care of criminals. Criminals should see from the first moment that they enter a penitentiary that it is filled with the air of kindness, full of the light of hope. The object should be to convince every criminal that he has made a mistake; that he has taken the wrong way; that the right way is the easy way, and that the path of crime never did and never can lead to happiness; that that idea is a mistake, and that the Government wishes to convince him that he has made a mistake; wishes to open his intellectual eyes; wishes so to educate him, so to elevate him, that he will look back upon what he has done, only with horror. This is reformation. Punishment is not. When the convict is taken to Sing Sing or to Auburn, and when a striped suit of clothes is put upon him—that is to say, when he is made to feel the degradation of his position—no step has been taken toward reformation. You have simply filled his heart with hatred. Then, when he has been abused for several years, treated like a wild beast, and finally turned out again in the community, he has no thought, in a majority of cases, except to "get even" with those who have persecuted him. He feels that it is a persecution.
Question. Do you think that men are naturally criminals and naturally virtuous?
Answer. I think that man does all that he does naturally—that is to say, a certain man does a certain act under certain circumstances, and he does this naturally. For instance, a man sees a five dollar bill, and he knows that he can take it without being seen. Five dollars is no temptation to him. Under the circumstances it is not natural that he should take it. The same man sees five million dollars, and feels that he can get possession of it without detection. If he takes it, then under the circumstances, that was natural to him. And yet I believe there are men above all price, and that no amount of temptation or glory or fame could mislead them. Still, whatever man does, is or was natural to him.
Another view of the subject is this: I have read that out of fifty criminals who had been executed it was found, I believe, in nearly all the cases, that the shape of the skull was abnormal. Whether this is true or not, I don't know; but that some men have a tendency toward what we call crime, I believe. Where this has been ascertained, then, it seems to me, such men should be placed where they cannot multiply their kind. Women who have a criminal tendency should be placed where they cannot increase their kind. For hardened criminals —that is to say, for the people who make crime a business—it would probably be better to separate the sexes; to send the men to one island, the women to another. Let them be kept apart, to the end that people with criminal tendencies may fade from the earth. This is not prompted by revenge. This would not be done for the purpose of punishing these people, but for the protection of society —for the peace and happiness of the future.
My own belief is that the system in vogue now in regard to the treatment of criminals in many States produces more crime than it prevents. Take, for instance, the Southern States. There is hardly a chapter in the history of the world the reading of which could produce greater indignation than the history of the convict system in many of the Southern States. These convicts are hired out for the purpose of building railways, or plowing fields, or digging coal, and in some instances the death-rate has been over twelve per cent. a month. The evidence shows that no respect was paid to the sexes—men and women were chained together indiscriminately. The evidence also shows that for the slightest offences they were shot down like beasts. They were pursued by hounds, and their flesh was torn from their bones.
So in some of the Northern prisons they have what they call the weighing machine—an infamous thing, and he who uses it commits as great a crime as the convict he punishes could have committed. All these things are degrading, debasing, and demoralizing. There is no need of any such punishment in any penitentiary. Let the punishment be of such kind that the convict is responsible himself. For instance, if the convict refuses to obey a reasonable rule he can be put into a cell. He can be fed when he obeys the rule.
If he goes hungry it is his own fault. It depends upon himself to say when he shall eat. Or he may be placed in such a position that if he does not work—if he does not pump—the water will rise and drown him. If the water does rise it is his fault. Nobody pours it upon him. He takes his choice.
These are suggested as desperate cases, but I can imagine no case where what is called corporal punishment should be inflicted, and the reason I am against it is this: I am opposed to any punishment that cannot be inflicted by a gentleman. I am opposed to any punishment the infliction of which tends to harden and debase the man who inflicts it. I am for no laws that have to be carried out by human curs.
Take, for instance, the whipping-post. Nothing can be more degrading. The man who applies the lash is necessarily a cruel and vulgar man, and the oftener he applies it the more and more debased he will become. The whole thing can be stated in the one sentence: I am opposed to any punishment that cannot be inflicted by a gentleman, and by "gentleman" I mean a self-respecting, honest, generous man.
Question. What do you think of the efficacy or the propriety of punishing criminals by solitary confinement?
Answer. Solitary confinement is a species of torture. I am opposed to all torture. I think the criminal should not be punished. He should be reformed, if he is capable of reformation. But, whatever is done, it should not be done as a punishment. Society should be too noble, too generous, to harbor a thought of revenge. Society should not punish, it should protect itself only. It should endeavor to reform the individual. Now, solitary confinement does not, I imagine, tend to the reformation of the individual. Neither can the person in that position do good to any human being. The prisoner will be altogether happier when his mind is engaged, when his hands are busy, when he has something to do. This keeps alive what we call cheerfulness. And let me say a word on this point.
I don't believe that the State ought to steal the labor of a convict. Here is a man who has a family. He is sent to the penitentiary. He works from morning till night. Now, in my judgment, he ought to be paid for the labor over and above what it costs to keep him. That money should be sent to his family. That money should be subject, at least, to his direction. If he is a single man, when he comes out of the penitentiary he should be given his earnings, and all his earnings, so that he would not have the feeling that he had been robbed. A statement should be given to him to show what it had cost to keep him and how much his labor had brought and the balance remaining in his favor. With this little balance he could go out into the world with something like independence. This little balance would be a foundation for his honesty—a foundation for a resolution on his part to be a man. But now each one goes out with the feeling that he has not only been punished for the crime which he committed, but that he has been robbed of the results of his labor while there.
The idea is simply preposterous that the people sent to the penitentiary should live in idleness. They should have the benefit of their labor, and if you give them the benefit of their labor they will turn out as good work as if they were out of the penitentiary. They will have the same reason to do their best. Consequently, poor articles, poorly constructed things, would not come into competition with good articles made by free people outside of the walls.
Now many mechanics are complaining because work done in the penitentiaries is brought into competition with their work. But the only reason that convict work is cheaper is because the poor wretch who does it is robbed. The only reason that the work is poor is because the man who does it has no interest in its being good. If he had the profit of his own labor he would do the best that was in him, and the consequence would be that the wares manufactured in the prisons would be as good as those manufactured elsewhere. For instance, we will say here are three or four men working together. They are all free men. One commits a crime and he is sent to the penitentiary. Is it possible that his companions would object to his being paid for honest work in the penitentiary?
And let me say right here, all labor is honest. Whoever makes a useful thing, the labor is honest, no matter whether the work is done in a penitentiary or in a palace; in a hovel or the open field. Wherever work is done for the good of others, it is honest work. If the laboring men would stop and think, they would know that they support everybody. Labor pays all the taxes. Labor supports all the penitentiaries. Labor pays the warden. Labor pays everything, and if the convicts are allowed to live in idleness labor must pay their board. Every cent of tax is borne by the back of labor. No matter whether your tariff is put on champagne and diamonds, it has to be paid by the men and women who work—those who plow in the fields, who wash and iron, who stand by the forge, who run the cars and work in the mines, and by those who battle with the waves of the sea. Labor pays every bill.
There is one little thing to which I wish to call the attention of all who happen to read this interview, and that is this: Undoubtedly you think of all criminals with horror and when you hear about them you are, in all probability, filled with virtuous indignation. But, first of all, I want you to think of what you have in fact done. Secondly, I want you to think of what you have wanted to do. Thirdly, I want you to reflect whether you were prevented from doing what you wanted to do by fear or by lack of opportunity. Then perhaps you will have more charity.
Question. What do you think of the new legislation in the State changing the death penalty to death by electricity?
Answer. If death by electricity is less painful than hanging, then the law, so far as that goes, is good. There is not the slightest propriety in inflicting upon the person executed one single unnecessary pang, because that partakes of the nature of revenge—that is to say, of hatred—and, as a consequence, the State shows the same spirit that the criminal was animated by when he took the life of his neighbor. If the death penalty is to be inflicted, let it be done in the most humane way. For my part, I should like to see the criminal removed, if he must be removed, with the same care and with the same mercy that you would perform a surgical operation. Why inflict pain? Who wants it inflicted? What good can it, by any possibility, do? To inflict unnecessary pain hardens him who inflicts it, hardens each among those who witness it, and tends to demoralize the community.
Question. Is it not the fact that punishments have grown less and less severe for many years past?
Answer. In the old times punishment was the only means of reformation. If anybody did wrong, punish him. If people still continued to commit the same offence, increase the punishment; and that went on until in what they call "civilized countries" they hanged people, provided they stole the value of one shilling. But larceny kept right on. There was no diminution. So, for treason, barbarous punishments were inflicted. Those guilty of that offence were torn asunder by horses; their entrails were cut out of them while they were yet living and thrown into their faces; their bodies were quartered and their heads were set on pikes above the gates of the city. Yet there was a hundred times more treason then than now. Every time a man was executed and mutilated and tortured in this way the seeds of other treason were sown.
So in the church there was the same idea. No reformation but by punishment. Of course in this world the punishment stopped when the poor wretch was dead. It was found that that punishment did not reform, so the church said: "After death it will go right on, getting worse and worse, forever and forever." Finally it was found that this did not tend to the reformation of mankind. Slowly the fires of hell have been dying out. The climate has been changing from year to year. Men have lost confidence in the power of the thumbscrew, the fagot, and the rack here, and they are losing confidence in the flames of perdition hereafter. In other words, it is simply a question of civilization.
When men become civilized in matters of thought, they will know that every human being has the right to think for himself, and the right to express his honest thought. Then the world of thought will be free. At that time they will be intelligent enough to know that men have different thoughts, that their ways are not alike, because they have lived under different circumstances, and in that time they will also know that men act as they are acted upon. And it is my belief that the time will come when men will no more think of punishing a man because he has committed the crime of larceny than they will think of punishing a man because he has the consumption. In the first case they will endeavor to reform him, and in the second case they will endeavor to cure him.
The intelligent people of the world, many of them, are endeavoring to find out the great facts in Nature that control the dispositions of men. So other intelligent people are endeavoring to ascertain the facts and conditions that govern what we call health, and what we call disease, and the object of these people is finally to produce a race without disease of flesh and without disease of mind. These people look forward to the time when there need to be neither hospitals nor penitentiaries.
—New York World, August 5, 1888.

WOMAN'S RIGHT TO DIVORCE.

Question. Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, the great Agnostic, has always been an ardent defender of the sanctity of the home and of the marriage relation. Apropos of the horrible account of a man's tearing out the eyes of his wife at Far Rockaway last week, Colonel Ingersoll was asked what recourse a woman had under such circumstances?
Answer. I read the account, and I don't remember of ever having read anything more perfectly horrible and cruel. It is impossible for me to imagine such a monster, or to account for such an inhuman human being. How a man could deprive a human being of sight, except where some religious question is involved, is beyond my comprehension. We know that for many centuries frightful punishments were inflicted, and inflicted by the pious, by the theologians, by the spiritual minded, and by those who "loved their neighbors as themselves." We read the accounts of how the lids of men's eyes were cut off and then the poor victims tied where the sum would shine upon their lifeless orbs; of others who were buried alive; of others staked out on the sands of the sea, to be drowned by the rising tide; of others put in sacks filled with snakes. Yet these things appeared far away, and we flattered ourselves that, to a great degree, the world had outgrown these atrocities; and now, here, near the close of the nineteenth century, we find a man—a husband—cruel enough to put out the eyes of the woman he swore to love, protect and cherish. This man has probably been taught that there is forgiveness for every crime, and now imagines that when he repents there will be more joy in heaven over him than over ninety and nine good and loving husbands who have treated their wives in the best possible manner, and who, instead of tearing out their eyes, have filled their lives with content and covered their faces with kisses.
Question. You told me, last week, in a general way, what society should do with the husband in such a case as that. I would like to ask you to-day, what you think society ought to do with the wife in such a case, or what ought the wife to be permitted to do for herself?
Answer. When we take into consideration the crime of the man who blinded his wife, it is impossible not to think of the right of divorce. Many people insist that marriage is an indissoluble tie; that nothing can break it, and that nothing can release either party from the bond. Now, take this case at Far Rockaway. One year ago the husband tore out one of his wife's eyes. Had she then good cause for divorce? Is it possible that an infinitely wise and good God would insist on this poor, helpless woman remaining with the wild beast, her husband? Can anyone imagine that such a course would add to the joy of Paradise, or even tend to keep one harp in tune? Can the good of society require the woman to remain? She did remain, and the result is that the other eye has been torn from its socket by the hands of the husband. Is she entitled to a divorce now? And if she is granted one, is virtue in danger, and shall we lose the high ideal of home life? Can anything be more infamous than to endeavor to make a woman, under such circumstances, remain with such a man? It may be said that she should leave him—that they should live separate and apart. That is to say, that this woman should be deprived of a home; that she should not be entitled to the love of man; that she should remain, for the rest of her days, worse than a widow. That is to say, a wife, hiding, keeping out of the way, secreting herself from the hyena to whom she was married. Nothing, in my judgment, can exceed the heartlessness of a law or of a creed that would compel this woman to remain the wife of this monster. And it is not only cruel, but it is immoral, low, vulgar.
The ground has been taken that woman would lose her dignity if marriages were dissoluble. Is it necessary to lose your freedom in order to retain your character, in order to be womanly or manly? Must a woman in order to retain her womanhood become a slave, a serf, with a wild beast for a master, or with society for a master, or with a phantom for a master? Has not the married woman the right of self-defence? Is it not the duty of society to protect her from her husband? If she owes no duty to her husband; if it is impossible for her to feel toward him any thrill of affection, what is there of marriage left? What part of the contract remains in force? She is not to live with him, because she abhors him. She is not to remain in the same house with him, for fear he may kill her. What, then, are their relations? Do they sustain any relation except that of hunter and hunted—that is, of tyrant and victim? And is it desirable that this relation should be rendered sacred by a church? Is it desirable to have families raised under such circumstances? Are we really in need of the children born of such parents? If the woman is not in fault, does society insist that her life should be wrecked? Can the virtue of others be preserved only by the destruction of her happiness, and by what might be called her perpetual imprisonment? I hope the clergy who believe in the sacredness of marriage—in the indissolubility of the marriage tie—will give their opinions on this case. I believe that marriage is the most important contract that human beings can make. I always believe that a man will keep his contract; that a woman, in the highest sense, will keep hers, But suppose the man does not. Is the woman still bound?
Is there no mutuality? What is a contract? It is where one party promises to do something in consideration that the other party will do something. That is to say, there is a consideration on both sides, moving from one to the other. A contract without consideration is null and void; and a contract duly entered into, where the consideration of one party is withheld, is voidable, and can be voided by the party who has kept, or who is willing to keep, the contract. A marriage without love is bad enough. But what can we say of a marriage where the parties hate each other? Is there any morality in this—any virtue? Will any decent person say that a woman, true, good and loving, should be compelled to live with a man she detests, compelled to be the mother of his children? Is there a woman in the world who would not shrink from this herself? And is there a woman so heartless and so immoral that she would force another to bear what she would shudderingly avoid? Let us bring these questions home. In other words, let us have some sense, some feeling, some heart—and just a little brain. Marriages are made by men and women. They are not made by the State, and they are not made by the gods. By this time people should learn that human happiness is the foundation of virtue—the foundation of morality. Nothing is moral that does not tend to the well-being of sentient beings. Nothing is virtuous the result of which is not a human good. The world has always been living for phantoms, for ghosts, for monsters begotten by ignorance and fear. The world should learn to live for itself. Man should, by this time, be convinced that all the reasons for doing right, and all the reasons for doing wrong, are right here in this world—all within the horizon of this life. And besides, we should have imagination to put ourselves in the place of another. Let a man suppose himself a helpless wife, beaten by a brute who believes in the indissolubility of marriage. Would he want a divorce?
I suppose that very few people have any adequate idea of the sufferings of women and children; of the number of wives who tremble when they hear the footsteps of a returning husband; of the number of children who hide when they hear the voice of a father. Very few people know the number of blows that fall on the flesh of the helpless every day. Few know the nights of terror passed by mothers holding young children at their breasts. Compared with this, the hardships of poverty, borne by those who love each other, are nothing. Men and women, truly married, bear the sufferings of poverty. They console each other; their affection gives to the heart of each perpetual sunshine. But think of the others! I have said a thousand times that the home is the unit of good government. When we have kind fathers and loving mothers, then we shall have civilized nations, and not until then. Civilization commences at the hearthstone. When intelligence rocks the cradle—when the house is filled with philosophy and kindness—you will see a world a peace. Justice will sit in the courts, wisdom in the legislative halls, and over all, like the dome of heaven, will be the spirit of Liberty!
Question. What is your idea with regard to divorce?
Answer. My idea is this: As I said before, marriage is the most sacred contract—the most important contract—that human beings can make. As a rule, the woman dowers the husband with her youth—with all she has. From this contract the husband should never be released unless the wife has broken a condition; that is to say, has failed to fulfill the contract of marriage. On the other hand, the woman should be allowed a divorce for the asking. This should be granted in public, precisely as the marriage should be in public. Every marriage should be known. There should be witnesses, to the end that the character of the contract entered into should be understood; and as all marriage records should be kept, so the divorce should be open, public and known. The property should be divided by a court of equity, under certain regulations of law. If there are children, they should be provided for through the property and the parents. People should understand that men and women are not virtuous by law. They should comprehend the fact that law does not create virtue—that law is not the foundation, the fountain, of love. They should understand that love is in the human heart, and that real love is virtuous. People who love each other will be true to each other. The death of love is the commencement of vice. Besides this, there is a public opinion that has great weight. When that public opinion is right, it does a vast amount of good, and when wrong, a great amount of harm. People marry, or should marry, because it increases the happiness of each and all. But where the marriage turns out to have been a mistake, and where the result is misery, and not happiness, the quicker they are divorced the better, not only for themselves, but for the community at large. These arguments are generally answered by some donkey braying about free love, and by "free love" he means a condition of society in which there is no love. The persons who make this cry are, in all probability, incapable of the sentiment, of the feeling, known as love. They judge others by themselves, and they imagine that without law there would be no restraint.
What do they say of natural modesty? Do they forget that people have a choice? Do they not understand something of the human heart, and that true love has always been as pure as the morning star? Do they believe that by forcing people to remain together who despise each other they are adding to the purity of the marriage relation? Do they not know that all marriage is an outward act, testifying to that which has happened in the heart? Still, I always believe that words are wasted on such people. It is useless to talk to anybody about music who is unable to distinguish one tune from another. It is useless to argue with a man who regards his wife as his property, and it is hardly worth while to suggest anything to a gentleman who imagines that society is so constructed that it really requires, for the protection of itself, that the lives of good and noble women should be wrecked, I am a believer in the virtue of women, in the honesty of man. The average woman is virtuous; the average man is honest, and the history of the world shows it. If it were not so, society would be impossible. I don't mean by this that most men are perfect, but what I mean is this: That there is far more good than evil in the average human being, and that the natural tendency of most people is toward the good and toward the right. And I most passionately deny that the good of society demands that any good person should suffer. I do not regard government as a Juggernaut, the wheels of which must, of necessity, roll over and crush the virtuous, the self-denying and the good. My doctrine is the exact opposite of what is known as free love. I believe in the marriage of true minds and of true hearts. But I believe that thousands of people are married who do not love each other. That is the misfortune of our century. Other things are taken into consideration—position, wealth, title and the thousand things that have nothing to do with real affection. Where men and women truly love each other, that love, in my judgment, lasts as long as life. The greatest line that I know of in the poetry of the world is in the 116th sonnet of Shakespeare: "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds."
Question. Why do you make such a distinction between the rights of man and the rights of women?
Answer. The woman has, as her capital, her youth, her beauty. We will say that she is married at twenty or twenty-five. In a few years she has lost her beauty. During these years the man, so far as capacity to make money is concerned—to do something—has grown better and better. That is to say, his chances have improved; hers have diminished. She has dowered him with the Spring of her life, and as her life advances her chances decrease. Consequently, I would give her the advantage, and I would not compel her to remain with him against her will. It seems to me far worse to be a wife upon compulsion than to be a husband upon compulsion. Besides this, I have a feeling of infinite tenderness toward mothers. The woman that bears children certainly should not be compelled to live with a man whom she despises. The suffering is enough when the father of the child is to her the one man of all the world. Many people who have a mechanical apparatus in their breasts that assists in the circulation of what they call blood, regard these views as sentimental. But when you take sentiment out of the world nothing is left worth living for, and when you get sentiment out of the heart it is nothing more or less than a pump, an old piece of rubber that has acquired the habit of contracting and dilating. But I have this consolation: The people that do not agree with me are those that do not understand me.
—New York World, 1888.

SECULARISM.

Question. Colonel, what is your opinion of Secularism? Do you regard it as a religion?
Answer. I understand that the word Secularism embraces everything that is of any real interest or value to the human race. I take it for granted that everybody will admit that well-being is the only good; that is to say, that it is impossible to conceive of anything of real value that does not tend either to preserve or to increase the happiness of some sentient being. Secularism, therefore, covers the entire territory. It fills the circumference of human knowledge and of human effort. It is, you may say, the religion of this world; but if there is another world, it is necessarily the religion of that, as well.
Man finds himself in this world naked and hungry. He needs food, raiment, shelter. He finds himself filled with almost innumerable wants. To gratify these wants is the principal business of life. To gratify them without interfering with other people is the course pursued by all honest men.
Secularism teaches us to be good here and now. I know nothing better than goodness. Secularism teaches us to be just here and now. It is impossible to be juster than just.
Man can be as just in this world as in any other, and justice must be the same in all worlds. Secularism teaches a man to be generous, and generosity is certainly as good here as it can be anywhere else. Secularism teaches a man to be charitable, and certainly charity is as beautiful in this world and in this short life as it could be were man immortal.
But orthodox people insist that there is something higher than Secularism; but, as a matter of fact, the mind of man can conceive of nothing better, nothing higher, nothing more spiritual, than goodness, justice, generosity, charity. Neither has the mind of men been capable of finding a nobler incentive to action than human love. Secularism has to do with every possible relation. It says to the young man and to the young woman: "Don't marry unless you can take care of yourselves and your children." It says to the parents: "Live for your children; put forth every effort to the end that your children may know more than you—that they may be better and grander than you." It says: "You have no right to bring children into the world that you are not able to educate and feed and clothe." It says to those who have diseases that can be transmitted to children: "Do not marry; do not become parents; do not perpetuate suffering, deformity, agony, imbecility, insanity, poverty, wretchedness."
Secularism tells all children to do the best they can for their parents—to discharge every duty and every obligation. It defines the relation that should exist between husband and wife; between parent and child; between the citizen and the Nation. And not only that, but between nations.
Secularism is a religion that is to be used everywhere, and at all times—that is to be taught everywhere and practiced at all times. It is not a religion that is so dangerous that it must be kept out of the schools; it is not a religion that is so dangerous that it must be kept out of politics. It belongs in the schools; it belongs at the polls. It is the business of Secularism to teach every child; to teach every voter. It is its business to discuss all political problems, and to decide all questions that affect the rights or the happiness of a human being.
Orthodox religion is a firebrand; it must be kept out of the schools; it must be kept out of politics. All the churches unite in saying that orthodox religion is not for every day use. The Catholics object to any Protestant religion being taught to children. Protestants object to any Catholic religion being taught to children. But the Secularist wants his religion taught to all; and his religion can produce no feeling, for the reason that it consists of facts—of truths. And all of it is important; important for the child, important for the parent, important for the politician —for the President—for all in power; important to every legislator, to every professional man, to every laborer and every farmer—that is to say, to every human being.
The great benefit of Secularism is that is appeals to the reason of every man. It asks every man to think for himself. It does not threaten punishment if a man thinks, but it offers a reward, for fear that he will not think. It does not say, "You will be damned in another world if you think." But it says, "You will be damned in this world if you do not think."
Secularism preserves the manhood and the womanhood of all. It says to each human being: "Stand upon your own feet. Count one! Examine for yourself. Investigate, observe, think. Express your opinion. Stand by your judgment, unless you are convinced you are wrong, and when you are convinced, you can maintain and preserve your manhood or womanhood only by admitting that you were wrong."
It is impossible that the whole world should agree on one creed. It may be impossible that any two human beings can agree exactly in religious belief. Secularism teaches that each one must take care of himself, that the first duty of man is to himself, to the end that he may be not only useful to himself, but to others. He who fails to take care of himself becomes a burden; the first duty of man is not to be a burden.
Every Secularist can give a reason for his creed. First of all, he believes in work—taking care of himself. He believes in the cultivation of the intellect, to the end that he may take advantage of the forces of nature—to the end that he may be clothed and fed and sheltered.
He also believes in giving to every other human being every right that he claims for himself. He does not depend on prayer. He has no confidence in ghosts or phantoms. He knows nothing of another world, and knows just as little of a First Cause. But what little he does know, he endeavors to use, and to use for the benefit of himself and others.
He knows that he sustains certain relations to other sentient beings, and he endeavors to add to the aggregate of human joy. He is his own church, his own priest, his own clergyman and his own pope. He decides for himself; in other words, he is a free man.
He also has a Bible, and this Bible embraces all the good and true things that have been written, no matter by whom, or in what language, or in what time. He accepts everything that he believes to be true, and rejects all that he thinks is false. He knows that nothing is added to the probability of an event, because there has been an account of it written and printed.
All that has been said that is true is part of his Bible. Every splendid and noble thought, every good word, every kind action— all these you will find in his Bible. And, in addition to these, all that is absolutely known—that has been demonstrated—belongs to the Secularist. All the inventions, machines—everything that has been of assistance to the human race—belongs to his religion. The Secularist is in possession of everything that man has. He is deprived only of that which man never had. The orthodox world believes in ghosts and phantoms, in dreams and prayers, in miracles and monstrosities; that is to say, in modern theology. But these things do not exist, or if they do exist, it is impossible for a human being to ascertain the fact. Secularism has no "castles in Spain." It has no glorified fog. It depends upon realities, upon demonstrations; and its end and aim is to make this world better every day—to do away with poverty and crime, and to cover the world with happy and contended homes.
Let me say, right here, that a few years ago the Secular Hall at Leicester, England, was opened by a speech from George Jacob Holyoake, entitled, "Secularism as a Religion." I have never read anything better on the subject of Secularism than this address. It is so clear and so manly that I do not see how any human being can read it without becoming convinced, and almost enraptured.
Let me quote a few lies from this address:—
"The mind of man would die if it were not for Thought, and were Thought suppressed, God would rule over a world of idiots.
"Nature feeds Thought, day and night, with a million hands.
"To think is a duty, because it is a man's duty not to be a fool.
"If man does not think himself, he is an intellectual pauper, living upon the truth acquired by others, and making no contribution himself in return. He has no ideas but such as he obtains by 'out- door relief,' and he goes about the world with a charity mind.
"The more thinkers there are in the world, the more truth there is in the world.
"Progress can only walk in the footsteps of Conviction.
"Coercion in thought is not progress, it reduces to ignominious pulp the backbone of the mind.
"By Religion I mean the simple creed of deed and duty, by which a man seeks his own welfare in his own way, with an honest and fair regard to the welfare and ways of others.
"In these thinking and practical days, men demand a religion of daily life, which stands on a business footing."
I think nothing could be much better than the following, which shows the exact relation that orthodox religion sustains to the actual wants of human beings:
"The Churches administer a system of Foreign Affairs.
"Secularism dwells in a land of its own. It dwells in a land of Certitude.
"In the Kingdom of Thought there is no conquest over man, but over foolishness only."
I will not quote more, but hope all who read this will read the address of Mr. Holyoake, who has, in my judgment, defined Secularism with the greatest possible clearness.
Question. What, in your opinion, are the best possible means to spread this gospel or religion of Secularism?
Answer. This can only be done by the cultivation of the mind— only through intelligence—because we are fighting only the monsters of the mind. The phantoms whom we are endeavoring to destroy do not exist; they are all imaginary. They live in that undeveloped or unexplored part of the mind that belongs to barbarism.
I have sometimes thought that a certain portion of the mind is cultivated so that it rises above the surrounding faculties and is like some peak that has lifted itself above the clouds, while all the valleys below are dark or dim with mist and cloud. It is in this valley-region, amid these mists, beneath these clouds, that these monsters and phantoms are born. And there they will remain until the mind sheds light—until the brain is developed.
One exceedingly important thing is to teach man that his mind has limitations; that there are walls that he cannot scale—that he cannot pierce, that he cannot dig under. When a man finds the limitations of his own mind, he knows that other people's minds have limitations. He, instead of believing what the priest says, he asks the priest questions. In a few moments he finds that the priest has been drawing on his imagination for what is beyond the wall. Consequently he finds that the priest knows no more than he, and it is impossible that he should know more than he.
An ignorant man has not the slightest suspicion of what a superior man may do. Consequently, he is liable to become the victim of the intelligent and cunning. A man wholly unacquainted with chemistry, after having been shown a few wonders, is ready to believe anything. But a chemist who knows something of the limitations of that science—who knows what chemists have done and who knows the nature of things—cannot be imposed upon. When no one can be imposed upon, orthodox religion cannot exist. It is an imposture, and there must be impostors and there must be victims, or the religion cannot be a success.
Secularism cannot be a success, universally, as long as there is an impostor or a victim. This is the difference: The foundation of orthodox religion is imposture. The foundation of Secularism is demonstration. Just to the extent that a man knows, he becomes a Secularist.
Question. What do you think of the action of the Knights of Labor in Indiana in turning out one of their members because he was an Atheist, and because he objected to the reading of the Bible at lodge meetings?
Answer. In my judgment, the Knights of Labor have made a great mistake. They want liberty for themselves—they feel that, to a certain extent, they have been enslaved and robbed. If they want liberty, they should be willing to give liberty to others. Certainly one of their members has the same right to his opinion with regard to the existence of a God, that the other members have to theirs.
I do not blame this man for doubting the existence of a Supreme Being, provided he understands the history of liberty. When a man takes into consideration the fact that for many thousands of years labor was unpaid, nearly all of it being done by slaves, and that millions and hundreds of millions of human beings were bought and sold the same as cattle, and that during all that time the religions of the world upheld the practice, and the priests of the countless unknown gods insisted that the institution of slavery was divine— I do not wonder that he comes to the conclusion that, perhaps, after all, there is no Supreme Being—at least none who pays any particular attention to the affairs of this world.
If one will read the history of the slave-trade, of the cruelties practiced, of the lives sacrificed, of the tortures inflicted, he will at least wonder why "a God of infinite goodness and wisdom" did not interfere just a little; or, at least, why he did not deny that he was in favor of the trade. Here, in our own country, millions of men were enslaved, and hundreds and thousands of ministers stood up in their pulpits, with their Bibles in front of them, and proceeded to show that slavery was about the only institution that they were absolutely certain was divine. And they proved it by reading passages from this very Bible that the Knights of Labor in Indiana are anxious to have read in their meetings. For their benefit, let me call their attention to a few passages, and suggest that, hereafter, they read those passages at every meeting, for the purpose of convincing all the Knights that the Lord is on the side of those who work for a living:—
"Both thy bondsmen and thy bondsmaids which thou shalt have, shall be of the heathen round about you; of them shall ye buy bondsmen and bondmaids.
"Moreover, of the children of the strangers that do sojourn among you, of them shall ye buy, and of their families which are with you, which they begat in your land; and they shall be your possession.
"And ye shall take them as an inheritance, for your children after you to inherit them for a possession. They shall be your bondsmen forever."
Nothing seems more natural to me than that a man who believes that labor should be free, and that he who works should be free, should come to the conclusion that the passages above quoted are not entirely on his side. I don't see why people should be in favor of free bodies who are not also in favor of free minds. If the mind is to remain in imprisonment, it is hardly worth while to free the body. If the man has the right to labor, he certainly has the right to use his mind, because without mind he can do no labor. As a rule, the more mind he has, the more valuable his labor is, and the freer his mind is the more valuable he is.
If the Knights of Labor expect to accomplish anything in this world, they must do it by thinking. They must have reason on their side, and the only way they can do anything by thinking is to allow each other to think. Let all the men who do not believe in the inspiration of the Bible, leave the Knights of Labor and I do not know how many would be left. But I am perfectly certain that those left will accomplish very little, simply from their lack of sense.
Intelligent clergymen have abandoned the idea of plenary inspiration. The best ministers in the country admit that the Bible is full of mistakes, and while many of them are forced to say that slavery is upheld by the Old Testament they also insist that slavery was and is, and forever will be wrong. What had the Knights of Labor to do with a question of religion? What business is it of theirs who believes or disbelieves in the religion of the day? Nobody can defend the rights of labor without defending the right to think.
I hope that in time these Knights will become intelligent enough to read in their meetings something of importance; something that applies to this century; something that will throw a little light on questions under discussion at the present time. The idea of men engaged in a kind of revolution reading from Leviticus, Deuteronomy and Haggai, for the purpose of determining the rights of workingmen in the nineteenth century! No wonder such men have been swallowed by the whale of monopoly. And no wonder that, while that are in the belly of this fish, they insist on casting out a man with sense enough to understand the situation! The Knights of Labor have made a mistake and the sooner they reverse their action the better for all concerned. Nothing should be taught in this world that somebody does not know.
—Secular Thought, Toronto, Canada, August 25, 1888.

SUMMER RECREATION—MR. GLADSTONE.

Question. What is the best philosophy of summer recreation?

Answer. As a matter of fact, no one should be overworked. Recreation becomes necessary only when a man has abused himself or has been abused. Holidays grew out of slavery. An intelligent man ought not to work so hard to-day that he is compelled to rest to-morrow. Each day should have its labor and its rest. But in our civilization, if it can be called civilization, every man is expected to devote himself entirely to business for the most of the year and by that means to get into such a state of body and mind that he requires, for the purpose of recreation, the inconveniences, the poor diet, the horrible beds, the little towels, the warm water, the stale eggs and the tough beef of the average "resort." For the purpose of getting his mental and physical machinery in fine working order, he should live in a room for two or three months that is about eleven by thirteen; that is to say, he should live in a trunk, fight mosquitoes, quarrel with strangers, dispute bills, and generally enjoy himself; and this is supposed to be the philosophy of summer recreation. He can do this, or he can go to some extremely fashionable resort where his time is taken up in making himself and family presentable.
Seriously, there are few better summer resorts than New York City. If there were no city here it would be the greatest resort for the summer on the continent; with its rivers, its bay, with its wonderful scenery, with the winds from the sea, no better could be found. But we cannot in this age of the world live in accordance with philosophy. No particular theory can be carried out. We must live as we must; we must earn our bread and we must earn it as others do, and, as a rule, we must work when others work. Consequently, if we are to take any recreation we must follow the example of others; go when they go and come when they come. In other words, man is a social being, and if one endeavors to carry individuality to an extreme he must suffer the consequences. So I have made up my mind to work as little as I can and to rest as much as I can.
Question. What is your opinion of Mr. Gladstone as a controversialist?
Answer. Undoubtedly Mr. Gladstone is a man of great talent, of vast and varied information, and undoubtedly he is, politically speaking, at least, one of the greatest men in England—possibly the greatest. As a controversialist, and I suppose by that you mean on religious questions, he is certainly as good as his cause. Few men can better defend the indefensible than Mr. Gladstone. Few men can bring forward more probabilities in favor of the impossible, then Mr. Gladstone. He is, in my judgment, controlled in the realm of religion by sentiment; he was taught long ago certain things as absolute truths and he has never questioned them. He has had all he can do to defend them. It is of but little use to attack sentiment with argument, or to attack argument with sentiment. A question of sentiment can hardly be discussed; it is like a question of taste. A man is enraptured with a landscape by Corot; you cannot argue him out of his rapture; the sharper the criticism the greater his admiration, because he feels that it is incumbent upon him to defend the painter who has given him so much real pleasure. Some people imagine that what they think ought to exist must exist, and that what they really desire to be true is true. We must remember that Mr. Gladstone has been what is called a deeply religions man all his life. There was a time when he really believed it to be the duty of the government to see to it that the citizens were religious; when he really believed that no man should hold any office or any position under the government who was not a believer in the established religion; who was not a defender of the parliamentary faith. I do not know whether he has ever changed his opinions upon these subjects or not. There is not the slightest doubt as to his honesty, as to his candor. He says what he believes, and for his belief he gives the reasons that are satisfactory to him. To me it seems impossible that miracles can be defended. I do not see how it is possible to bring forward any evidence that any miracle was ever performed; and unless miracles have been performed, Christianity has no basis as a system. Mr. Hume took the ground that it was impossible to substantiate a miracle, for the reason that it is more probable that the witnesses are mistaken, or are dishonest, than that a fact in nature should be violated. For instance: A man says that a certain time, in a certain locality, the attraction of gravitation was suspended; that there were several moments during which a cannon ball weighed nothing, during which when dropped from the hand, or rather when released from the hand, it refused to fall and remained in the air. It is safe to say that no amount of evidence, no number of witnesses, could convince an intelligent man to-day that such a thing occurred. We believe too thoroughly in the constancy of nature. While men will not believe witnesses who testify to the happening of miracles now, they seem to have perfect confidence in men whom they never saw, who have been dead for two thousand years. Of course it is known that Mr. Gladstone has published a few remarks concerning my religious views and that I have answered him the best I could. I have no opinion to give as to that controversy; neither would it be proper for me to say what I think of the arguments advanced by Mr. Gladstone in addition to what I have already published. I am willing to leave the controversy where it is, or I am ready to answer any further objections that Mr. Gladstone may be pleased to urge.
In my judgment, the "Age of Faith" is passing away. We are living in a time of demonstration.
[NOTE: From an unfinished interview found among Colonel Ingersoll's papers.]

PROHIBITION.

It has been decided in many courts in various States that the traffic in liquor can be regulated—that it is a police question. It has been decided by the courts in Iowa that its manufacture and sale can be prohibited, and, not only so, but that a distillery or a brewery may be declared a nuisance and may legally be abated, and these decisions have been upheld by the Supreme Court of the United States. Consequently, it has been settled by the highest tribunal that States have the power either to regulate or to prohibit the sale of intoxicating liquors, and not only so, but that States have the power to destroy breweries and distilleries without making any compensation to owners.
So it has always been considered within the power of the State to license the selling of intoxicating liquors. In other words, this question is one that the States can decide for themselves. It is not, and it should not be, in my judgment, a Federal question. It is something with which the United States has nothing to do. It belongs to the States; and where a majority of the people are in favor of prohibition and pass laws to that effect, there is nothing in the Constitution of the United States that interferes with such action.
The remaining question, then, is not a question of power, but a question of policy, and at the threshold of this question is another: Can prohibitory laws be enforced? There are to-day in Kansas,—a prohibition State—more saloons, that is to say, more places in which liquor is sold, than there are in Georgia, a State without prohibition legislation. There are more in Nebraska, according to the population, more in Iowa, according to the population, than in many of the States in which there is the old license system. You will find that the United States has granted more licenses to wholesale and retail dealers in these prohibition States,—according to the population,—than in many others in which prohibition has not been adopted.
These facts tend to show that it is not enough for the Legislature to say: "Be it enacted." Behind every law there must be an intelligent and powerful public opinion. A law, to be enforced, must be the expression of such powerful and intelligent opinion; otherwise it becomes a dead letter; it is avoided; judges continue the cases, juries refuse to convict, and witnesses are not particular about telling the truth. Such laws demoralize the community, or, to put it in another way, demoralized communities pass such laws.
Question. What do you think of the prohibitory movement on general principles?
Answer. The trouble is that when a few zealous men, intending to reform the world, endeavor to enforce unpopular laws, they are compelled to resort to detectives, to a system of espionage. For the purpose of preventing the sale of liquors somebody has to watch. Eyes and ears must become acquainted with keyholes. Every neighbor suspects every other. A man with a bottle or demijohn is followed. Those who drink get behind doors, in cellars and garrets. Hypocrisy becomes substantially universal. Hundreds of people become suddenly afflicted with a variety of diseases, for the cure of which alcohol in some form is supposed to be indispensable. Malaria becomes general, and it is perfectly astonishing how long a few pieces of Peruvian bark will last, and how often the liquor can be renewed without absorbing the medicinal qualities of the bark. The State becomes a paradise for patent medicine—the medicine being poor whiskey with a scientific name.
Physicians become popular in proportion as liquor of some kind figures in their prescriptions. Then in the towns clubs are formed, the principal object being to establish a saloon, and in many instances the drug store becomes a favorite resort, especially on Sundays.
There is, however, another side to this question. It is this: Nothing in the world is more important than personal liberty. Many people are in favor of blotting out the sun to prevent the growth of weeds. This is the mistake of all prohibitory fanaticism.
Question. What is true temperance, Colonel Ingersoll?
Answer. Men have used stimulants for many thousand years, and as much is used to-day in various forms as in any other period of the world's history. They are used with more prudence now than ever before, for the reason that the average man is more intelligent now than ever before. Intelligence has much to do with temperance. The barbarian rushes to the extreme, for the reason that but little, comparatively, depends upon his personal conduct or personal habits. Now the struggle for life is so sharp, competition is so severe, that few men can succeed who carry a useless burden. The business men of our country are compelled to lead temperate lives, otherwise their credit is gone. Men of wealth, men of intelligence, do not wish to employ intemperate physicians. They are not willing to trust their health or their lives with a physician who is under the influence of liquor. The same is true of business men in regard to their legal interests. They insist upon having sober attorneys; they want the counsel of a sober man. So in every department. On the railways it is absolutely essential that the engineer, that the conductor, the train dispatcher and every other employee, in whose hands are the lives of men, should be temperate. The consequence is that under the law of the survival of the fittest, the intemperate are slowly but surely going to the wall; they are slowly but surely being driven out of employments of trust and importance. As we rise in the scale of civilization we continually demand better and better service. We are continually insisting upon better habits, upon a higher standard of integrity, of fidelity. These are the causes, in my judgment, that are working together in the direction of true temperance.
Question. Do you believe the people can be made to do without a stimulant?
Answer. The history of the world shows that all men who have advanced one step beyond utter barbarism have used some kind of stimulant. Man has sought for it in every direction. Every savage loves it. Everything has been tried. Opium has been used by many hundreds of millions. Hasheesh has filled countless brains with chaotic dreams, and everywhere that civilization has gone the blood of the grape has been used. Nothing is easier now to obtain than liquor. In one bushel of corn there are at least five gallons— four can easily be extracted. All starch, all sugars, can be changed almost instantly into alcohol. Every grain that grows has in it the intoxicating principle, and, as a matter of fact, nearly all of the corn, wheat, sugar and starch that man eats is changed into alcohol in his stomach. Whether man can be compelled to do without a stimulant is a question that I am unable to answer. Of one thing I am certain: He has never yet been compelled to do without one. The tendency, I think, of modern times is toward a milder stimulant than distilled liquors. Whisky and brandies are too strong; wine and beer occupy the middle ground. Wine is a fireside, whisky a conflagration.
It seems to me that it would be far better if the Prohibitionists would turn their attention toward distilled spirits. If they were willing to compromise, the probability is that they would have public opinion on their side. If they would say: "You may have all the beer and all the wine and cider you wish, and you can drink them when and where you desire, but the sale of distilled spirits shall be prohibited," it is possible that this could be carried out in good faith in many if not in most of the States—possibly in all. We all know the effect of wine, even when taken in excess, is nothing near as disastrous as the effect of distilled spirits. Why not take the middle ground? The wine drinkers of the old country are not drunkards. They have been drinking wine for generations. It is drunk by men, women and children. It adds to the sociability of the family. It does not separate the husband from the rest, it keeps them all together, and in that view is rather a benefit than an injury. Good wine can be raised as cheaply here as in any part of the world. In nearly every part of our country the grape grows and good wine can be made. If our people had a taste for wine they would lose the taste for stronger drink, and they would be disgusted with the surroundings of the stronger drink.
The same may be said in favor of beer. As long as the Prohibitionists make no distinction between wine and whisky, between beer and brandy, just so long they will be regarded by most people as fanatics.
The Prohibitionists cannot expect to make this question a Federal one. The United States has no jurisdiction of this subject. Congress can pass no laws affecting this question that could have any force except in such parts of our country as are not within the jurisdiction of States. It is a question for the States and not for the Federal Government. The Prohibitionists are simply throwing away their votes. Let us suppose that we had a Prohibition Congress and a Prohibition President—what steps could be taken to do away with drinking in the city of New York? What steps could be taken in any State of this Union? What could by any possibility be done?
A few years ago the Prohibitionists demanded above all things that the tax be taken from distilled spirits, claiming at that time that such a tax made the Government a partner in vice.
Now when the Republican party proposes under certain circumstances to remove that tax, the Prohibitionists denounce the movement as one in favor of intemperance. We have also been told that the tax on whisky should be kept for the reason that it increases the price, and that an increased price tends to make a temperate people; that if the tax is taken off, the price will fall and the whole country start on the downward road to destruction. Is it possible that human nature stands on such slippery ground? It is possible that our civilization to-day rests upon the price of alcohol, and that, should the price be reduced, we would all go down together? For one, I cannot entertain such a humiliating and disgraceful view of human nature. I believe that man is destined to grow greater, grander and nobler. I believe that no matter what the cost of alcohol may be, life will grow too valuable to be thrown away. Men hold life according to its value. Men, as a rule, only throw away their lives when they are not worth keeping. When life becomes worth living it will be carefully preserved and will be hoarded to the last grain of sand that falls through the glass of time.
Question. What is the reason for so much intemperance?
Answer. When many people are failures, when they are distanced in the race, when they fall behind, when they give up, when they lose ambition, when they finally become convinced that they are worthless, precisely as they are in danger of becoming dishonest. In other words, having failed in the race of life on the highway, they endeavor to reach to goal by going across lots, by crawling through the grass. Disguise this matter as we may, all people are not successes, all people have not the brain or the muscle or the moral stamina necessary to succeed. Some fall in one way, some in another; some in the net of strong drink, some in the web of circumstances and others in a thousand ways, and the world itself cannot grow better unless the unworthy fail. The law is the survival of the fittest, that is to say, the destruction of the unfit. There is no scheme of morals, no scheme of government, no scheme of charity, that can reverse this law. If it could be reversed, then the result would be the survival of the unfittest, the speedy end of which would be the extinction of the human race.
Temperance men say that it is wise, in so far as possible, to remove temptation from our fellow-men.
Let us look at this in regard to other matters. How do we do away with larceny? We cannot remove property. We cannot destroy the money of the world to keep people from stealing some of it. In other words, we cannot afford to make the world valueless to prevent larceny. All strength by which temptation is resisted must come from the inside. Virtue does not depend upon the obstacles to be overcome; virtue depends upon what is inside of the man. A man is not honest because the safe of the bank is perfectly secure. Upon the honest man the condition of the safe has no effect. We will never succeed in raising great and splendid people by keeping them out of temptation. Great people withstand temptation. Great people have what may be called moral muscle, moral force. They are poised within themselves. They understand their relations to the world. The best possible foundation for honesty is the intellectual perception that dishonesty can, under no circumstances, be a good investment—that larceny is not only wicked, but foolish—not only criminal, but stupid—that crimes are committed only by fools.
On every hand there is what is called temptation. Every man has the opportunity of doing wrong. Every man, in this country, has the opportunity of drinking too much, has the opportunity of acquiring the opium habit, has the opportunity of taking morphine every day—in other words, has the opportunity of destroying himself. How are they to be prevented? Most of them are prevented—at least in a reasonable degree—and they are prevented by their intelligence, by their surroundings, by their education, by their objects and aims in life, by the people they love, by the people who love them.
No one will deny the evils of intemperance, and it is hardly to be wondered at that people who regard only one side—who think of the impoverished and wretched, of wives and children in want, of desolate homes—become the advocates of absolute prohibition. At the same time, there is a philosophic side, and the question is whether more good cannot be done by moral influence, by example, by education, by the gradual civilization of our fellow-men, than in any other possible way. The greatest things are accomplished by indirection. In this way the idea of force, of slavery, is avoided. The person influenced does not feel that he has been trampled upon, does not regard himself as a victim—he feels rather as a pupil, as one who receives a benefit, whose mind has been enlarged, whose life has been enriched—whereas the direct way of "Thou shalt not" produces an antagonism—in other words, produces the natural result of "I will."
By removing one temptation you add strength to others. By depriving a man of one stimulant, as a rule, you drive him to another, and the other may be far worse than the one from which he has been driven. We have hundreds of laws making certain things misdemeanors, which are naturally right.
Thousands of people, honest in most directions, delight in outwitting the Government—derive absolute pleasure from getting in a few clothes and gloves and shawls without the payment of duty. Thousands of people buy things in Europe for which they pay more than they would for the same things in America, and then exercise their ingenuity in slipping them through the custom-house.
A law to have real force must spring from the nature of things, and the justice of this law must be generally perceived, otherwise it will be evaded.
The temperance people themselves are playing into the hands of the very party that would refuse to count their votes. Allow the Democrats to remain in power, allow the Democrats to be controlled by the South, and a large majority might be in favor of temperance legislation, and yet the votes would remain uncounted. The party of reform has a great interest in honest elections, and honest elections must first be obtained as the foundation of reform. The Prohibitionists can take their choice between these parties. Would it not be far better for the Prohibitionists to say: "We will vote for temperance men; we will stand with the party that is the nearest in favor of what we deem to be the right"? They should also take into consideration that other people are as honest as they; that others disbelieve in prohibition as honestly as they believe in it, and that other people cannot leave their principles to vote for prohibition; and they must remember, that these other people are in the majority.
Mr. Fisk knows that he cannot be elected President—knows that it is impossible for him to carry any State in the Union. He also knows that in nearly every State in the Union—probably in all—a majority of the people believe in stimulants. Why not work with the great and enlightened majority? Why rush to the extreme for the purpose not only of making yourself useless but hurtful?
No man in the world is more opposed to intemperance than I am. No man in the world feels more keenly the evils and the agony produced by the crime of drunkenness. And yet I would not be willing to sacrifice liberty, individuality, and the glory and greatness of individual freedom, to do away with all the evils of intemperance. In other words, I believe that slavery, oppression and suppression would crowd humanity into a thousand deformities, the result of which would be a thousand times more disastrous to the well-being of man. I do not believe in the slave virtues, in the monotony of tyranny, in the respectability produced by force. I admire the men who have grown in the atmosphere of liberty, who have the pose of independence, the virtues of strength, of heroism, and in whose hearts is the magnanimity, the tenderness, and the courage born of victory.
—New York World, October 21, 1888.

ROBERT ELSMERE.

Why do people read a book like "Robert Elsmere," and why do they take any interest in it? Simply because they are not satisfied with the religion of our day. The civilized world has outgrown the greater part of the Christian creed. Civilized people have lost their belief in the reforming power of punishment. They find that whips and imprisonment have but little influence for good. The truth has dawned upon their minds that eternal punishment is infinite cruelty—that it can serve no good purpose and that the eternity of hell makes heaven impossible. That there can be in this universe no perfectly happy place while there is a perfectly miserable place—that no infinite being can be good who knowingly and, as one may say, willfully created myriads of human beings, knowing that they would be eternally miserable. In other words, the civilized man is greater, tenderer, nobler, nearer just than the old idea of God. The ideal of a few thousand years ago is far below the real of to-day. No good man now would do what Jehovah is said to have done four thousand years ago, and no civilized human being would now do what, according to the Christian religion, Christ threatens to do at the day of judgment.
Question. Has the Christian religion changed in theory of late years, Colonel Ingersoll?
Answer. A few years ago the Deists denied the inspiration of the Bible on account of its cruelty. At the same time they worshiped what they were pleased to call the God of Nature. Now we are convinced that Nature is as cruel as the Bible; so that, if the God of Nature did not write the Bible, this God at least has caused earthquakes and pestilence and famine, and this God has allowed millions of his children to destroy one another. So that now we have arrived at the question—not as to whether the Bible is inspired and not as to whether Jehovah is the real God, but whether there is a God or not. The intelligence of Christendom to-day does not believe in an inspired art or an inspired literature. If there be an infinite God, inspiration in some particular regard would be a patch—it would be the puttying of a crack, the hiding of a defect —in other words, it would show that the general plan was defective.
Question. Do you consider any religion adequate?
Answer. A good man, living in England, drawing a certain salary for reading certain prayers on stated occasions, for making a few remarks on the subject of religion, putting on clothes of a certain cut, wearing a gown with certain frills and flounces starched in an orthodox manner, and then looking about him at the suffering and agony of the world, would not feel satisfied that he was doing anything of value for the human race. In the first place, he would deplore his own weakness, his own poverty, his inability to help his fellow-men. He would long every moment for wealth, that he might feed the hungry and clothe the naked—for knowledge, for miraculous power, that he might heal the sick and the lame and that he might give to the deformed the beauty of proportion. He would begin to wonder how a being of infinite goodness and infinite power could allow his children to die, to suffer, to be deformed by necessity, by poverty, to be tempted beyond resistance; how he could allow the few to live in luxury, and the many in poverty and want, and the more he wondered the more useless and ironical would seem to himself his sermons and his prayers. Such a man is driven to the conclusion that religion accomplishes but little—that it creates as much want as it alleviates, and that it burdens the world with parasites. Such a man would be forced to think of the millions wasted in superstition. In other words, the inadequacy, the uselessness of religion would be forced upon his mind. He would ask himself the question: "Is it possible that this is a divine institution? Is this all that man can do with the assistance of God? Is this the best?"
Question. That is a perfectly reasonable question, is it not, Colonel Ingersoll?
Answer. The moment a man reaches the point where he asks himself this question he has ceased to be an orthodox Christian. It will not do to say that in some other world justice will be done. If God allows injustice to triumph here, why not there?
Robert Elsmere stands in the dawn of philosophy. There is hardly light enough for him to see clearly; but there is so much light that the stars in the night of superstition are obscured.
Question. You do not deny that a religious belief is a comfort?
Answer. There is one thing that it is impossible for me to comprehend. Why should any one, when convinced that Christianity is a superstition, have or feel a sense of loss? Certainly a man acquainted with England, with London, having at the same time something like a heart, must feel overwhelmed by the failure of what is known as Christianity. Hundreds of thousands exist there without decent food, dwelling in tenements, clothed with rags, familiar with every form of vulgar vice, where the honest poor eat the crust that the vicious throw away. When this man of intelligence, of heart, visits the courts; when he finds human liberty a thing treated as of no value, and when he hears the judge sentencing girls and boys to the penitentiary—knowing that a stain is being put upon them that all the tears of all the coming years can never wash away—knowing, too, and feeling that this is done without the slightest regret, without the slightest sympathy, as a mere matter of form, and that the judge puts this brand of infamy upon the forehead of the convict just as cheerfully as a Mexican brands his cattle; and when this man of intelligence and heart knows that these poor people are simply the victims of society, the unfortunates who stumble and over whose bodies rolls the Juggernaut—he knows that there is, or at least appears to be, no power above or below working for righteousness—that from the heavens is stretched no protecting hand. And when a man of intelligence and heart in England visits the workhouse, the last resting place of honest labor; when he thinks that the young man, without any great intelligence, but with a good constitution, starts in the morning of his life for the workhouse, and that it is impossible for the laboring man, one who simply has his muscle, to save anything; that health is not able to lay anything by for the days of disease—when the man of intelligence and heart sees all this, he is compelled to say that the civilization of to-day, the religion of to-day, the charity of to-day—no matter how much of good there may be behind them or in them, are failures.
A few years ago people were satisfied when the minister said: "All this will be made even in another world; a crust-eater here will sit at the head of the banquet there, and the king here will beg for the crumbs that fall from the table there." When this was said, the poor man hoped and the king laughed. A few years ago the church said to the slave: "You will be free in another world, and your freedom will be made glorious by the perpetual spectacle of your master in hell." But the people—that is, many of the people—are no longer deceived by what once were considered fine phrases. They have suffered so much that they no longer wish to see others suffer and no longer think of the suffering of others as a source of joy to themselves. The poor see that the eternal starvation of kings and queens in another world will be no compensation for what they have suffered there. The old religions appear vulgar and the ideas of rewards and punishments are only such as would satisfy a cannibal chief or one of his favorites.
Question. Do you think the Christian religion has made the world better?
Answer. For many centuries there has been preached and taught in an almost infinite number of ways a supernatural religion. During all this time the world has been in the care of the Infinite, and yet every imaginable vice has flourished, every imaginable pang has been suffered, and every injustice has been done. During all these years the priests have enslaved the minds, and the kings the bodies, of men. The priests did what they did in the name of God, and the kings appeal to the same source of authority. Man suffered as long as he could. Revolution, reformation, was simply a re- action, a cry from the poor wretch that was between the upper and the nether millstone. The liberty of man has increased just in the proportion that the authority of the gods has decreased. In other words, the wants of man, instead of the wishes of God, have inaugurated what we call progress, and there is this difference: Theology is based upon the narrowest and intensest form of selfishness. Of course, the theologian knows, the Christian knows, that he can do nothing for God; consequently all that he does must be and is for himself, his object being to win the approbation of this God, to the end that he may become a favorite. On the other side, men touched not only by their own misfortunes, but by the misfortunes of others, are moved not simply by selfishness, but by a splendid sympathy with their fellow-men.
Question. Christianity certainly fosters charity?
Answer. Nothing is more cruel than orthodox theology, nothing more heartless than a charitable institution. For instance, in England, think for a moment of the manner in which charities are distributed, the way in which the crust is flung at Lazarus. If that parable could be now retold, the dogs would bite him. The same is true in this country. The institution has nothing but contempt for the one it relieves. The people in charge regard the pauper as one who has wrecked himself. They feel very much as a man would feel rescuing from the water some hare-brained wretch who had endeavored to swim the rapids of Niagara—the moment they reach him they begin to upbraid him for being such a fool. This course makes charity a hypocrite, with every pauper for its enemy.
Mrs. Ward compelled Robert Elsmere to perceive, in some slight degree, the failure of Christianity to do away with vice and suffering, with poverty and crime. We know that the rich care but little for the poor. No matter how religious the rich may be, the sufferings of their fellows have but little effect upon them. We are also beginning to see that what is called charity will never redeem this world.
The poor man willing to work, eager to maintain his independence, knows that there is something higher than charity—that is to say, justice. He finds that many years before he was born his country was divided out between certain successful robbers, flatterers, cringers and crawlers, and that in consequence of such division not only he himself, but a large majority of his fellow-men are tenants, renters, occupying the surface of the earth only at the pleasure of others. He finds, too, that these people who have done nothing and who do nothing, have everything, and that those who do everything have but little. He finds that idleness has the money and that the toilers are compelled to bow to the idlers. He finds also that the young men of genius are bribed by social distinctions —unconsciously it may be—but still bribed in a thousand ways. He finds that the church is a kind of waste-basket into which are thrown the younger sons of titled idleness.
Question. Do you consider that society in general has been made better by religious influences?
Answer. Society is corrupted because the laurels, the titles, are in the keeping and within the gift of the corrupters. Christianity is not an enemy of this system—it is in harmony with it. Christianity reveals to us a universe presided over by an infinite autocrat—a universe without republicanism, without democracy—a universe where all power comes from one and the same source, and where everyone using authority is accountable, not to the people, but to this supposed source of authority. Kings reign by divine right. Priests are ordained in a divinely appointed way—they do not get their office from man. Man is their servant, not their master.
In the story of Robert Elsmere all there is of Christianity is left except the miraculous. Theism remains, and the idea of a protecting Providence is left, together with a belief in the immeasurable superiority of Jesus Christ. That is to say, the miracles are discarded for lack of evidence, and only for lack of evidence; not on the ground that they are impossible, not on the ground that they impeach and deny the integrity of cause and effect, not on the ground that they contradict the self-evident proposition that an effect must have an efficient cause, but like the Scotch verdict, "not proven." It is an effort to save and keep in repair the dungeons of the Inquisition for the sake of the beauty of the vines that have overrun them. Many people imagine that falsehoods may become respectable on account of age, that a certain reverence goes with antiquity, and that if a mistake is covered with the moss of sentiment it is altogether more credible than a parvenu fact. They endeavor to introduce the idea of aristocracy into the world of thought, believing, and honestly believing, that a falsehood long believed is far superior to a truth that is generally denied.
Question. If Robert Elsmere's views were commonly adopted what would be the effect?
Answer. The new religion of Elsmere is, after all, only a system of outdoor relief, an effort to get successful piracy to give up a larger per cent. for the relief of its victims. The abolition of the system is not dreamed of. A civilized minority could not by any possibility be happy while a majority of the world were miserable. A civilized majority could not be happy while a minority were miserable. As a matter of fact, a civilized world could not be happy while one man was really miserable. At the foundation of civilization is justice—that is to say, the giving of an equal opportunity to all the children of men. Secondly, there can be no civilization in the highest sense until sympathy becomes universal. We must have a new definition for success. We must have new ideals. The man who succeeds in amassing wealth, who gathers money for himself, is not a success. It is an exceedingly low ambition to be rich to excite the envy of others, or for the sake of the vulgar power it gives to triumph over others. Such men are failures. So the man who wins fame, position, power, and wins these for the sake of himself, and wields this power not for the elevation of his fellow-men, but simply to control, is a miserable failure. He may dispense thousands of millions in charity, and his charity may be prompted by the meanest part of his nature—using it simply as a bait to catch more fish and to prevent the rising tide of indignation that might overwhelm him. Men who steal millions and then give a small percentage to the Lord to gain the praise of the clergy and to bring the salvation of their souls within the possibilities of imagination, are all failures.
Robert Elsmere gains our affection and our applause to the extent that he gives up what are known as orthodox views, and his wife Catherine retains our respect in the proportion that she lives the doctrine that Elsmere preaches. By doing what she believes to be right, she gains our forgiveness for her creed. One is astonished that she can be as good as she is, believing as she does. The utmost stretch of our intellectual charity is to allow the old wine to be put in a new bottle, and yet she regrets the absence of the old bottle—she really believes that the bottle is the important thing—that the wine is but a secondary consideration. She misses the label, and not having perfect confidence in her own taste, she does not feel quite sure that the wine is genuine.
Question. What, on the whole, is your judgment of the book?
Answer. I think the book conservative. It is an effort to save something—a few shreds and patches and ravelings—from the wreck. Theism is difficult to maintain. Why should we expect an infinite Being to do better in another world than he has done and is doing in this? If he allows the innocent to suffer here, why not there? If he allows rascality to succeed in this world, why not in the next? To believe in God and to deny his personality is an exceedingly vague foundation for a consolation. If you insist on his personality and power, then it is impossible to account for what happens. Why should an infinite God allow some of his children to enslave others? Why should he allow a child of his to burn another child of his, under the impression that such a sacrifice was pleasing to him?
Unitarianism lacks the motive power. Orthodox people who insist that nearly everybody is going to hell, and that it is their duty to do what little they can to save their souls, have what you might call a spur to action. We can imagine a philanthropic man engaged in the business of throwing ropes to persons about to go over the falls of Niagara, but we can hardly think of his carrying on the business after being convinced that there are no falls, or that people go over them in perfect safety. In this country the question has come up whether all the heathen are bound to be damned unless they believe in the gospel. Many admit that the heathen will be saved if they are good people, and that they will not be damned for not believing something that they never heard. The really orthodox people—that is to say, the missionaries—instantly see that this doctrine destroys their business. They take the ground that there is but one way to be saved—you must believe on the Lord Jesus Christ—and they are willing to admit, and cheerfully to admit, that the heathen for many generations have gone in an unbroken column down to eternal wrath. And they not only admit this, but insist upon it, to the end that subscriptions may not cease. With them salary and salvation are convertible terms.
The tone of this book is not of the highest. Too much stress is laid upon social advantages—too much respect for fashionable folly and for ancient absurdity. It is hard for me to appreciate the feelings of one who thinks it difficult to give up the consolations of the gospel. What are the consolations of the Church of England? It is a religion imposed upon the people by authority. It is the gospel at the mouth of a cannon, at the point of a bayonet, enforced by all authority, from the beadle to the Queen. It is a parasite living upon tithes—these tithes being collected by the army and navy. It produces nothing—is simply a beggar—or rather an aggregation of beggars. It teaches nothing of importance. It discovers nothing. It is under obligation not to investigate. It has agreed to remain stationary not only, but to resist all innovation. According to the creed of this church, a very large proportion of the human race is destined to suffer eternal pain. This does not interfere with the quiet, with the serenity and repose of the average clergyman. They put on their gowns, they read the service, they repeat the creed and feel that their duty has been done. How any one can feel that he is giving up something of value when he finds that the Episcopal creed is untrue is beyond my imagination. I should think that every good man and woman would overflow with joy, that every heart would burst into countless blossoms the moment the falsity of the Episcopal creed was established.
Christianity is the most heartless of all religions—the most unforgiving, the most revengeful. According to the Episcopalian belief, God becomes the eternal prosecutor of his own children. I know of no creed believed by any tribe, not excepting the tribes where cannibalism is practiced, that is more heartless, more inhuman than this. To find that the creed is false is like being roused from a frightful dream, in which hundreds of serpents are coiled about you, in which their eyes, gleaming with hatred, are fixed on you, and finding the world bathed in sunshine and the songs of birds in your ears and those you love about you.
—New York World, November 18, 1888.

WORKING GIRLS.

Question. What is your opinion of the work undertaken by the World in behalf of the city slave girl?
Answer. I know of nothing better for a great journal to do. The average girl is so helpless, and the greed of the employer is such, that unless some newspaper or some person of great influence comes to her assistance, she is liable not simply to be imposed upon, but to be made a slave. Girls, as a rule, are so anxious to please, so willing to work, that they bear almost every hardship without complaint. Nothing is more terrible than to see the rich living on the work of the poor. One can hardly imagine the utter heartlessness of a man who stands between the wholesale manufacturer and the wretched women who make their living—or rather retard their death—by the needle. How a human being can consent to live on this profit, stolen from poverty, is beyond my imagination. These men, when known, will be regarded as hyenas and jackals. They are like the wild beasts which follow herds of cattle for the purpose of devouring those that are injured or those that have fallen by the wayside from weakness.
Question. What effect has unlimited immigration on the wages of women?
Answer. If our country were overpopulated, the effect of immigration would be to lessen wages, for the reason that the working people of Europe are used to lower wages, and have been in the habit of practicing an economy unknown to us. But this country is not overpopulated. There is plenty of room for several hundred millions more. Wages, however, are too low in the United States. The general tendency is to leave the question of labor to what is called the law of supply and demand. My hope is that in time we shall become civilized enough to know that there is a higher law, or rather a higher meaning in the law of supply and demand, than is now perceived. Year after year what are called the necessaries of life increase. Many things now regarded as necessaries were formerly looked upon as luxuries. So, as man becomes civilized, he increases what may be called the necessities of his life. When perfectly civilized, one of the necessities of his life will be that the lives of others shall be of some value to them. A good man is not happy so long as he knows that other good men and women suffer for raiment and for food, and have no roof but the sky, no home but the highway. Consequently what is called the law of supply and demand will then have a much larger meaning.
In nature everything lives upon something else. Life feeds upon life. Something is lying in wait for something else, and even the victim is weaving a web or crouching for some other victim, and the other victim is in the same business—watching for something else. The same is true in the human world—people are living on each other; the cunning obtain the property of the simple; wealth picks the pockets of poverty; success is a highwayman leaping from the hedge. The rich combine, the poor are unorganized, without the means to act in concert, and for that reason become the prey of combinations and trusts. The great questions are: Will man ever be sufficiently civilized to be honest? Will the time ever come when it can truthfully be said that right is might? The lives of millions of people are not worth living, because of their ignorance and poverty, and the lives of millions of others are not worth living, on account of their wealth and selfishness. The palace without justice, without charity, is as terrible as the hovel without food.
Question. What effect has the woman's suffrage movement had on the breadwinners of the country?
Answer. I think the women who have been engaged in the struggle for equal rights have done good for women in the direction of obtaining equal wages for equal work. There has also been for many years a tendency among women in our country to become independent —a desire to make their own living—to win their own bread. So many husbands are utterly useless, or worse, that many women hardly feel justified in depending entirely on a husband for the future. They feel somewhat safer to know how to do something and earn a little money themselves. If men were what they ought to be, few women would be allowed to labor—that is to say, to toil. It should be the ambition of every healthy and intelligent man to take care of, to support, to make happy, some woman. As long as women bear the burdens of the world, the human race can never attain anything like a splendid civilization. There will be no great generation of men until there has been a great generation of women. For my part, I am glad to hear this question discussed—glad to know that thousands of women take some interest in the fortunes and in the misfortunes of their sisters.
The question of wages for women is a thousand times more important than sending missionaries to China or to India. There is plenty for missionaries to do here. And by missionaries I do not mean gentlemen and ladies who distribute tracts or quote Scripture to people out of work. If we are to better the condition of men and women we must change their surroundings. The tenement house breeds a moral pestilence. There can be in these houses no home, no fireside, no family, for the reason that there is no privacy, no walls between them and the rest of the world. There is no sacredness, no feeling, "this is ours."
Question. Might not the rich do much?
Answer. It would be hard to overestimate the good that might be done by the millionaires if they would turn their attention to sending thousands and thousands into the country or to building them homes miles from the city, where they could have something like privacy, where the family relations could be kept with some sacredness. Think of the "homes" in which thousands and thousands of young girls are reared in our large cities. Think of what they see and what they hear; of what they come in contact with. How is it possible for the virtues to grow in the damp and darkened basements? Can we expect that love and chastity and all that is sweet and gentle will be produced in these surroundings, in cellars and garrets, in poverty and dirt? The surroundings must be changed.
Question. Are the fathers and brothers blameless who allow young girls to make coats, cloaks and vests in an atmosphere poisoned by the ignorant and low-bred?
Answer. The same causes now brutalizing girls brutalize their fathers and brothers, and the same causes brutalize the ignorant and low-lived that poison the air in which these girls are made to work. It is hard to pick out one man and say that he is to blame, or one woman and say that the fault is hers. We must go back of all this. In my opinion, society raises its own failures, its own criminals, its own wretches of every sort and kind. Great pains are taken to raise these crops. The seeds, it may be, were sown thousands of years ago, but they were sown, and the present is the necessary child of all the past. If the future is to differ from the present, the seeds must now be sown. It is not simply a question of charity, or a question of good nature, or a question of what we call justice—it is a question of intelligence. In the first place, I suppose that it is the duty of every human being to support himself—first, that he may not become a burden upon others, and second, that he may help others. I think all people should be taught never, under any circumstances, if by any possibility they can avoid it, to become a burden. Every one should be taught the nobility of labor, the heroism and splendor of honest effort. As long as it is considered disgraceful to labor, or aristocratic not to labor, the world will be filled with idleness and crime, and with every possible moral deformity.
Question. Has the public school system anything to do with the army of pupils who, after six years of study, willingly accept the injustice and hardship imposed by capital?
Answer. The great trouble with the public school is that many things are taught that are of no immediate use. I believe in manual training schools. I believe in the kindergarten system. Every person ought to be taught how to do something—ought to be taught the use of their hands. They should endeavor to put in palpable form the ideas that they gain. Such an education gives them a confidence in themselves, a confidence in the future—gives them a spirit and feeling of independence that they do not now have. Men go through college studying for many years, and when graduated have not the slightest conception of how to make a living in any department of human effort. Thousands of them are to-day doing manual labor and doing it very poorly, whereas, if they had been taught the use of tools, the use of their hands, they would derive a certain pleasure from their work. It is splendid to do anything well. One can be just as poetic working with iron and wood as working with words and colors.
Question. What ought to be done, or what is to be the end?
Answer. The great thing is for the people to know the facts. There are thousands and millions of splendid and sympathetic people who would willingly help, if they only knew; but they go through the world in such a way that they know but little of it. They go to their place of business; they stay in their offices for a few hours; they go home; they spend the evening there or at a club; they come in contact with the well-to-do, with the successful, with the satisfied, and they know nothing of the thousands and millions on every side. They have not the least idea how the world lives, how it works, how it suffers. They read, of course, now and then, some paragraph in which the misfortune of some wretch is set forth, but the wretch is a kind of steel engraving, an unreal shadow, a something utterly unlike themselves. The real facts should be brought home, the sympathies of men awakened, and awakened to such a degree that they will go and see how these people live, see how they work, see how they suffer.
Question. Does exposure do any good?
Answer. I hope that The World will keep on. I hope that it will express every horror that it can, connected with the robbery of poor and helpless girls, and I hope that it will publish the names of all the robbers it can find, and the wretches who oppress the poor and who live upon the misfortunes of women.
The crosses of this world are mostly born by wives, by mothers and by daughters. Their brows are pierced by thorns. They shed the bitterest tears. They live and suffer and die for others. It is almost enough to make one insane to think of what woman, in the years of savagery and civilization, has suffered. Think of the anxiety and agony of motherhood. Maternity is the most pathetic fact in the universe. Think how helpless girls are. Think of the thorns in the paths they walk—of the trials, the temptations, the want, the misfortune, the dangers and anxieties that fill their days and nights. Every true man will sympathize with woman, and will do all in his power to lighten her burdens and increase the sunshine of her life.
Question. Is there any remedy?
Answer. I have always wondered that the great corporations have made no provisions for their old and worn out employees. It seems to me that not only great railway companies, but great manufacturing corporations, ought to provide for their workmen. Many of them are worn out, unable longer to work, and they are thrown aside like old clothes. They find their way to the poorhouses or die in tenements by the roadside. This seems almost infinitely heartless. Men of great wealth, engaged in manufacturing, instead of giving five hundred thousand dollars for a library, or a million dollars for a college, ought to put this money aside, invest it in bonds of the Government, and the interest ought to be used in taking care of the old, of the helpless, of those who meet with accidents in their work. Under our laws, if an employee is caught in a wheel or in a band, and his arm or leg is torn off, he is left to the charity of the community, whereas the profits of the business ought to support him in his old age. If employees had this feeling—that they were not simply working for that day, not simply working while they have health and strength, but laying aside a little sunshine for the winter of age—if they only felt that they, by their labor, were creating a fireside in front of which their age and helplessness could sit, the feeling between employed and employers would be a thousand times better. On the great railways very few people know the number of the injured, of those who lose their hands or feet, of those who contract diseases riding on the tops of freight trains in snow and sleet and storm; and yet, when these men become old and helpless through accident, they are left to shift for themselves. The company is immortal, but the employees become helpless. Now, it seems to me that a certain per cent. should be laid aside, so that every brakeman and conductor could feel that he was providing for himself, as well as for his fellow-workmen, so that when the dark days came there would be a little light.
The men of wealth, the men who control these great corporations— these great mills—give millions away in ostentatious charity. They send missionaries to foreign lands. They endow schools and universities and allow the men who earned the surplus to die in want. I believe in no charity that is founded on robbery. I have no admiration for generous highwaymen or extravagant pirates. At the foundation of charity should be justice. Let these men whom others have made wealthy give something to their workmen—something to those who created their fortunes. This would be one step in the right direction. Do not let it be regarded as charity—let it be regarded as justice.
—New York World, December 2, 1888.

PROTECTION FOR AMERICAN ACTORS.

Question. It is reported that you have been retained as counsel for the Actors' Order of Friendship—the Edwin Forrest Lodge of New York, and the Shakespeare Lodge of Philadelphia—for the purpose of securing the necessary legislation to protect American actors— is that so?
Answer. Yes, I have been retained for that purpose, and the object is simply that American actors may be put upon an equal footing with Americans engaged in other employments. There is a law now which prevents contractors going abroad and employing mechanics or skilled workmen, and bringing them to this country to take the places of our citizens.
No one objects to the English, German and French mechanics coming with their wives and children to this country and making their homes here. Our ports are open, and have been since the foundation of this Government. Wages are somewhat higher in this country than in any other, and the man who really settles here, who becomes, or intends to become an American citizen, will demand American wages. But if a manufacturer goes to Europe, he can make a contract there and bring hundreds and thousands of mechanics to this country who will work for less wages than the American, and a law was passed to prevent the American manufacturer, who was protected by a tariff, from burning the laborer's candle at both ends. That is to say, we do not wish to give him the American price, by means of a tariff, and then allow him to go to Europe and import his labor at the European price.
In the law, actors were excepted, and we now find the managers are bringing entire companies from the old county, making contracts with them there, and getting them at much lower prices than they would have had to pay for American actors.
No one objects to a foreign actor coming here for employment, but we do not want an American manager to go there, and employ him to act here. No one objects to the importation of a star. We wish to see and hear the best actors in the world. But the rest of the company—the support—should be engaged in the United States, if the star speaks English.
I see that it is contended over in England, that English actors are monopolizing the American stage because they speak English, while the average American actor does not. The real reason is that the English actor works for less money—he is the cheaper article. Certainly no one will accuse the average English actor of speaking English. The hemming and hawing, the aristocratic stutter, the dropping of h's and picking them up at the wrong time, have never been popular in the United States, except by way of caricature. Nothing is more absurd than to take the ground that the English actors are superior to the American. I know of no English actor who can for a moment be compared with Joseph Jefferson, or with Edwin Booth, or with Lawrence Barrett, or with Denman Thompson, and I could easily name others.
If English actors are so much better than American, how is it that an American star is supported by the English? Mary Anderson is certainly an American actress, and she is supported by English actors. Is it possible that the superior support the inferior? I do not believe that England has her equal as an actress. Her Hermione is wonderful, and the appeal to Apollo sublime. In Perdita she "takes the winds of March with beauty." Where is an actress on the English stage the superior of Julia Marlowe in genius, in originality, in naturalness?
Is there any better Mrs. Malaprop than Mrs. Drew, and better Sir Anthony than John Gilbert? No one denies that the English actors and actresses are great. No one will deny that the plays of Shakespeare are the greatest that have been produced, and no one wishes in any way to belittle the genius of the English people.
In this country the average person speaks fairly good English, and you will find substantially the same English spoken in most of the country; whereas in England there is a different dialect in almost every county, and most of the English people speak the language as if was not their native tongue. I think it will be admitted that the English write a good deal better than they speak, and that their pronunciation is not altogether perfect.
These things, however, are not worth speaking of. There is no absolute standard. They speak in the way that is natural to them, and we in the way that is natural to us. This difference furnishes no foundation for a claim of general superiority. The English actors are not brought here on account of their excellence, but on account of their cheapness. It requires no great ability to play the minor parts, or the leading roles in some plays, for that matter. And yet acting is a business, a profession, a means of getting bread.
We protect our mechanics and makers of locomotives and of all other articles. Why should we not protect, by the same means, the actor? You may say that we can get along without actors. So we can get along without painters, without sculptors and without poets. But a nation that gets along without these people of genius amounts to but little. We can do without music, without players and without composers; but when we take art and poetry and music and the theatre out of the world, it becomes an exceedingly dull place.
Actors are protected and cared for in proportion that people are civilized. If the people are intelligent, educated, and have imaginations, they enjoy the world of the stage, the creations of poets, and they are thrilled by great music, and, as a consequence, respect the dramatist, the actor and the musician.
Question. It is claimed that an amendment to the law, such as is desired, will interfere with the growth of art?
Answer. No one is endeavoring to keep stars from this country. If they have American support, and the stars really know anything, the American actors will get the benefit. If they bring their support with them, the American actor is not particularly benefitted, and the star, when the season is over, takes his art and his money with him.
Managers who insist on employing foreign support are not sacrificing anything for art. Their object is to make money. They care nothing for the American actor—nothing for the American drama. They look for the receipts. It is the sheerest cant to pretend that they are endeavoring to protect art.
On the 26th of February, 1885, a law was passed making it unlawful "for any person, company, partnership or corporation, in any manner whatsoever, to prepay the transportation, or in any way assist or encourage the importation or emigration of any alien or aliens into the United States, under contract or agreement, parol or special, previous to the importation or emigration of such aliens to perform labor or services of any kind the United States."
By this act it was provided that its provisions should not apply to professional actors, artists, lecturers or singers, in regard to persons employed strictly as personal or domestic servants. The object now in view is so to amend the law that its provision shall apply to all actors except stars.
Question. In this connection there has been so much said about the art of acting—what is your idea as to that art?
Answer. Above all things in acting, there must be proportion. There are no miracles in art or nature. All that is done—every inflection and gesture—must be in perfect harmony with the circumstances. Sensationalism is based on deformity, and bears the same relation to proportion that caricature does to likeness.
The stream that flows even with its banks, making the meadows green, delights us ever; the one that overflows surprises for a moment. But we do not want a succession of floods.
In acting there must be natural growth, not sudden climax. The atmosphere of the situation, the relation sustained to others, should produce the emotions. Nothing should be strained. Beneath domes there should be buildings, and buildings should have foundations. There must be growth. There should be the bud, the leaf, the flower, in natural sequence. There must be no leap from naked branches to the perfect fruit.
Most actors depend on climax—they save themselves for the supreme explosion. The scene opens with a slow match and ends when the spark reaches the dynamite. So, most authors fill the first act with contradictions and the last with explanations. Plots and counter-plots, violence and vehemence, perfect saints and perfect villains—that is to say, monsters, impelled by improbable motives, meet upon the stage, where they are pushed and pulled for the sake of the situation, and where everything is so managed that the fire reaches the powder and the explosion is the climax.
There is neither time, nor climate, nor soil, in which the emotions and intentions may grow. No land is plowed, no seed is sowed, no rain falls, no light glows—the events are all orphans.
No one would enjoy a sudden sunset—we want the clouds of gold that float in the azure sea. No one would enjoy a sudden sunrise—we are in love with the morning star, with the dawn that modestly heralds the day and draws aside, with timid hands, the curtains of the night. In other words, we want sequence, proportion, logic, beauty.
There are several actors in this country who are in perfect accord with nature—who appear to make no effort—whose acting seems to give them joy and rest. We do well what we do easily. It is a great mistake to exhaust yourself, instead of the subject. All great actors "fill the stage" because they hold the situation. You see them and nothing else.
Question. Speaking of American actors, Colonel, I believe you are greatly interested in the playing of Miss Marlowe, and have given your opinion of her as Parthenia; what do you think of her Julia and Viola?
Answer. A little while ago I saw Miss Marlowe as Julia, in "The Hunchback." We must remember the limitations of the play. Nothing can excel the simplicity, the joyous content of the first scene. Nothing could be more natural than the excitement produced by the idea of leaving what you feel to be simple and yet good, for what you think is magnificent, brilliant and intoxicating. It is only in youth that we are willing to make this exchange. One does not see so clearly in the morning of life when the sun shines in his eyes. In the afternoon, when the sun is behind him, he sees better —he is no longer dazzled. In old age we are not only willing, but anxious, to exchange wealth and fame and glory and magnificence, for simplicity. All the palaces are nothing compared with our little cabin, and all the flowers of the world are naught to the wild rose that climbs and blossoms by the lowly window of content.
Happiness dwells in the valleys with the shadows.
The moment Julia is brought in contact with wealth, she longs for the simple—for the true love of one true man. Wealth and station are mockeries. These feelings, these emotions, Miss Marlowe rendered not only with look and voice and gesture, but with every pose of her body; and when assured that her nuptials with the Earl could be avoided, the only question in her mind was as to the absolute preservation of her honor—not simply in fact, but in appearance, so that even hatred could not see a speck upon the shining shield of her perfect truth. In this scene she was perfect—everything was forgotten except the desire to be absolutely true.
So in the scene with Master Walter, when he upbraids her for forgetting that she is about to meet her father, when excusing her forgetfulness on the ground that he has been to her a father. Nothing could exceed the delicacy and tenderness of this passage. Every attitude expressed love, gentleness, and a devotion even unto death. One felt that there could be no love left for the father she expected to meet—Master Walter had it all.
A greater Julia was never on the stage—one in whom so much passion mingled with so much purity. Miss Marlowe never "o'ersteps the modesty of nature." She maintains proportion. The river of her art flows even with the banks.
In Viola, we must remember the character—a girl just rescued from the sea—disguised as a boy—employed by the Duke, whom she instantly loves—sent as his messenger to woo another for him—Olivia enamored of the messenger—forced to a duel—mistaken for her brother by the Captain, and her brother taken for herself by Olivia—and yet, in the midst of these complications and disguises, she remains a pure and perfect girl—these circumstances having no more real effect upon her passionate and subtle self than clouds on stars.
When Malvolio follows and returns the ring the whole truth flashes upon her. She is in love with Orsino—this she knows. Olivia, she believes, is in love with her. The edge of the situation, the dawn of this entanglement, excites her mirth. In this scene she becomes charming—an impersonation of Spring. Her laughter is as natural and musical as the song of a brook. So, in the scene with Olivia in which she cries, "Make me a willow cabin at your gate!" she is the embodiment of grace, and her voice is as musical as the words, and as rich in tone as they are in thought.
In the duel with Sir Andrew she shows the difference between the delicacy of woman and the cowardice of man. She does the little that she can, not for her own sake, but for the sake of her disguise —she feels that she owes something to her clothes.
But I have said enough about this actress to give you an idea of one who is destined to stand first in her profession.
We will now come back to the real question. I am in favor of protecting the American actor. I regard the theatre as the civilizer of man. All the arts united upon the stage, and the genius of the race has been lavished on this mimic world.
—New York Star, December 23, 1888.

LIBERALS AND LIBERALISM.

Question. What do you think of the prospects of Liberalism in this country?
Answer. The prospects of Liberalism are precisely the same as the prospects of civilization—that is to say, of progress. As the people become educated, they become liberal. Bigotry is the provincialism of the mind. Men are bigoted who are not acquainted with the thoughts of others. They have been taught one thing, and have been made to believe that their little mental horizon is the circumference of all knowledge. The bigot lives in an ignorant village, surrounded by ignorant neighbors. This is the honest bigot. The dishonest bigot may know better, but he remains a bigot because his salary depends upon it. A bigot is like a country that has had no commerce with any other. He imagines that in his little head there is everything of value. When a man becomes an intellectual explorer, an intellectual traveler, he begins to widen, to grow liberal. He finds that the ideas of others are as good as and often better than his own. The habits and customs of other people throw light on his own, and by this light he is enabled to discover at least some of his own mistakes. Now the world has become acquainted. A few years ago, a man knew something of the doctrines of his own church. Now he knows the creeds of others, and not only so, but he has examined to some extent the religions of other nations. He finds in other creeds all the excellencies that are in his own, and most of the mistakes. In this way he learns that all creeds have been produced by men, and that their differences have been accounted for by race, climate, heredity—that is to say, by a difference in circumstances. So we now know that the cause of Liberalism is the cause of civilization. Unless the race is to be a failure, the cause of Liberalism must succeed. Consequently, I have the same faith in that cause that I have in the human race.
Question. Where are the most Liberals, and in what section of the country is the best work for Liberalism being done?
Answer. The most Liberals are in the most intelligent section of the United States. Where people think the most, there you will find the most Liberals; where people think the least, you will find the most bigots. Bigotry is produced by feeling—Liberalism by thinking—that is to say, the one is a prejudice, the other a principle. Every geologist, every astronomer, every scientist, is doing a noble work for Liberalism. Every man who finds a fact, and demonstrates it, is doing work for the cause. All the literature of our time that is worth reading is on the liberal side. All the fiction that really interests the human mind is with us. No one cares to read the old theological works. Essays written by professors of theological colleges are regarded, even by Christians, with a kind of charitable contempt. When any demonstration of science is attacked by a creed, or a passage of Scripture, all the intelligent smile. For these reasons I think that the best work for Liberalism is being done where the best work for science is being done—where the best work for man is being accomplished. Every legislator that assists in the repeal of theological laws is doing a great work for Liberalism.
Question. In your opinion, what relation do Liberalism and Prohibition bear to each other?
Answer. I do not think they have anything to do with each other. They have nothing in common except this: The Prohibitionists, I presume, are endeavoring to do what they can for temperance; so all intelligent Liberals are doing what they can for the cause of temperance. The Prohibitionist endeavors to accomplish his object by legislation—the Liberalist by education, by civilization, by example, by persuasion. The method of the Liberalist is good, that of the Prohibitionist chimerical and fanatical.
Question. Do you think that Liberals should undertake a reform in the marriage and divorce laws and relations?
Answer. I think that Liberals should do all in their power to induce people to regard marriage and divorce in a sensible light, and without the slightest reference to any theological ideas. They should use their influence to the end that marriage shall be considered as a contract—the highest and holiest that men and women can make. And they should also use their influence to have the laws of divorce based on this fundamental idea,—that marriage is a contract. All should be done that can be done by law to uphold the sacredness of this relation. All should be done that can be done to impress upon the minds of all men and all women their duty to discharge all the obligations of the marriage contract faithfully and cheerfully. I do not believe that it is to the interest of the State or of the Nation, that people should be compelled to live together who hate each other, or that a woman should be bound to a man who has been false and who refuses to fulfill the contract of marriage. I do not believe that any man should call upon the police, or upon the creeds, or upon the church, to compel his wife to remain under his roof, or to compel a woman against her will to become the mother of his children. In other words, Liberals should endeavor to civilize mankind, and when men and women are civilized, the marriage question, and the divorce question, will be settled.
Question. Should Liberals vote on Liberal issues?
Answer. I think that, other things being anywhere near equal, Liberals should vote for men who believe in liberty, men who believe in giving to others the rights they claim for themselves—that is to say, for civilized men, for men of some breadth of mind. Liberals should do what they can to do away with all the theological absurdities.
Question. Can, or ought, the Liberals and Spiritualists to unite?
Answer. All people should unite where they have objects in common. They can vote together, and act together, without believing the same on all points. A Liberal is not necessarily a Spiritualist, and a Spiritualist is not necessarily a Liberal. If Spiritualists wish to liberalize the Government, certainly Liberals would be glad of their assistance, and if Spiritualists take any step in the direction of freedom, the Liberals should stand by them to that extent.
Question. Which is the more dangerous to American institutions —the National Reform Association (God-in-the-Constitution party) or the Roman Catholic Church?
Answer. The Association and the Catholic Church are dangerous according to their power. The Catholic Church has far more power than the Reform Association, and is consequently far more dangerous. The God-in-the-Constitution association is weak, fanatical, stupid, and absurd. What God are we to have in the Constitution? Whose God? If we should agree to-morrow to put God in the Constitution, the question would then be: Which God? On that question, the religious world would fall out. In that direction there is no danger. But the Roman Catholic Church is the enemy of intellectual liberty. It is the enemy of investigation. It is the enemy of free schools. That church always has been, always will be, the enemy of freedom. It works in the dark. When in a minority it is humility itself—when in power it is the impersonation of arrogance. In weakness it crawls—in power it stands erect, and compels its victims to fall upon their faces. The most dangerous institution in this world, so far as the intellectual liberty of man is concerned, is the Roman Catholic Church. Next to that is the Protestant Church.
Question. What is your opinion of the Christian religion and the Christian Church?
Answer. My opinion upon this subject is certainly well known. The Christian Church is founded upon miracles—that is to say, upon impossibilities. Of course, there is a great deal that is good in the creeds of the churches, and in the sermons delivered by its ministers; but mixed with this good is much that is evil. My principal objection to orthodox religion is the dogma of eternal pain. Nothing can be more infamously absurd. All civilized men should denounce it—all women should regard it with a kind of shuddering abhorrence.
—Secular Thought, Toronto, Canada, 1888.

POPE LEO XIII.

Question. Do you agree with the views of Pope Leo XIII. as expressed in The Herald of last week?
Answer. I am not personally acquainted with Leo XIII., but I have not the slightest idea that he loves Americans or their country. I regard him as an enemy of intellectual liberty. He tells us that where the church is free it will increase, and I say to him that where others are free it will not. The Catholic Church has increased in this country by immigration and in no other way. Possibly the Pope is willing to use his power for the good of the whole people, Protestants and Catholics, and to increase their prosperity and happiness, because by this he means that he will use his power to make Catholics out of Protestants.
It is impossible for the Catholic Church to be in favor of mental freedom. That church represents absolute authority. Its members have no right to reason—no right to ask questions—they are called upon simply to believe and to pay their subscriptions.
Question. Do you agree with the Pope when he says that the result of efforts which have been made to throw aside Christianity and live without it can be seen in the present condition of society— discontent, disorder, hatred and profound unhappiness?
Answer. Undoubtedly the people of Europe who wish to be free are discontented. Undoubtedly these efforts to have something like justice done will bring disorder. Those in power will hate those who are endeavoring to drive them from their thrones. If the people now, as formerly, would bear all burdens cheerfully placed upon their shoulders by church and state—that is to say, if they were so enslaved mentally that they would not even have sense enough to complain, then there would be what the Pope might call "peace and happiness"—that is to say, the peace of ignorance, and the happiness of those who are expecting pay in another world for their agonies endured in this.
Of course, the revolutionaries of Europe are not satisfied with the Catholic religion; neither are they satisfied with the Protestant. Both of these religions rest upon authority. Both discourage reason. Both say "Let him that hath ears to hear, hear," but neither say let him that hath brains to think, think.
Christianity has been thoroughly tried, and it is a failure. Nearly every church has upheld slavery, not only of the body, but of the mind. When Christian missionaries invade what they call a heathen country, they are followed in a little while by merchants and traders, and in a few days afterward by the army. The first real work is to kill the heathen or steal their lands, or else reduce them to something like slavery.
I have no confidence in the reformation of this world by churches. Churches for the most part exist, not for this world, but for another. They are founded upon the supernatural, and they say: "Take no thought for the morrow; put your trust in your Heavenly Father and he will take care of you." On the other hand, science says: "You must take care of yourself, live for the world in which you happen to be—if there is another, live for that when you get there."
Question. What do you think of the plan to better the condition of the workingmen, by committees headed by bishops of the Catholic Church, in discussing their duties?
Answer. If the bishops wish to discuss with anybody about duties they had better discuss with the employers, instead of the employed. This discussion had better take place between the clergy and the capitalist. There is no need of discussing this question with the poor wretches who cannot earn more than enough to keep their souls in their bodies. If the Catholic Church has so much power, and if it represents God on earth, let it turn its attention to softening the hearts of capitalists, and no longer waste its time in preaching patience to the poor slaves who are now bearing the burdens of the world.
Question. Do you agree with the Pope that: "Sound rules of life must be founded on religion"?
Answer. I do not. Sound rules of life must be founded on the experience of mankind. In other words, we must live for this world. Why should men throw away hundreds and thousands of millions of dollars in building cathedrals and churches, and paying the salaries of bishops and priests, and cardinals and popes, and get no possible return for all this money except a few guesses about another world —those guesses being stated as facts—when every pope and priest and bishop knows that no one knows the slightest thing on the subject. Superstition is the greatest burden borne by the industry of the world.
The nations of Europe to-day all pretend to be Christian, yet millions of men are drilled and armed for the purpose of killing other Christians. Each Christian nation is fortified to prevent other Christians from devastating their fields. There is already a debt of about twenty-five thousand millions of dollars which has been incurred by Christian nations, because each one is afraid of every other, and yet all say: "It is our duty to love our enemies."
This world, in my judgment, is to be reformed through intelligence —through development of the mind—not by credulity, but by investigation; not by faith in the supernatural, but by faith in the natural. The church has passed the zenith of her power. The clergy must stand aside. Scientists must take their places.
Question. Do you agree with the Pope in attacking the present governments of Europe and the memories of Mazzini and Saffi?
Answer. I do not. I think Mazzini was of more use to Italy than all the popes that ever occupied the chair of St. Peter—which, by the way, was not his chair. I have a thousand times more regard for Mazzini, for Garibaldi, for Cavour, than I have for any gentleman who pretends to be the representative of God.
There is another objection I have to the Pope, and that is that he was so scandalized when a monument was reared in Rome to the memory of Giordano Bruno. Bruno was murdered about two hundred and sixty years ago by the Catholic Church, and such has been the development of the human brain and heart that on the very spot where he was murdered a monument rises to his memory.
But the vicar of God has remained stationary, and he regards this mark of honor to one of the greatest and noblest of the human race as an act of blasphemy. The poor old man acts as if America had never been discovered—as if the world were still flat—and as if the stars had been made out of little pieces left over from the creation of the world and stuck in the sky simply to beautify the night.
But, after all, I do not blame this Pope. He is the victim of his surroundings. He was never married. His heart was never softened by wife or children. He was born that way, and, to tell you the truth, he has my sincere sympathy. Let him talk about America and stay in Italy.
—The Herald, New York, April 22, 1890.

THE SACREDNESS OF THE SABBATH.

Question. What do you think of the sacredness of the Sabbath?

Answer. I think all days, all times and all seasons are alike sacred. I think the best day in a man's life is the day that he is truly the happiest. Every day in which good is done to humanity is a holy day.
If I were to make a calendar of sacred days, I would put down the days in which the greatest inventions came to the mind of genius; the days when scattered tribes became nations; the days when good laws were passed; the days when bad ones were repealed; the days when kings were dethroned, and the people given their own; in other words, every day in which good has been done; in which men and women have truly fallen in love, days in which babes were born destined to change the civilization of the world. These are all sacred days; days in which men have fought for the right, suffered for the right, died for the right; all days in which there were heroic actions for good. The day when slavery was abolished in the United States is holier than any Sabbath by reason of "divine consecration."
Of course, I care nothing about the sacredness of the Sabbath because it was hallowed in the Old Testament, or because of that day Jehovah is said to have rested from his labors. A space of time cannot be sacred, any more than a vacuum can be sacred, and it is rendered sacred by deeds done in it, and not in and of itself.
If we should finally invent some means of traveling by which we could go a thousand miles a day, a man could escape Sunday all his life by traveling West. He could start Monday, and stay Monday all the time. Or, if he should some time get near the North Pole, he could walk faster than the earth turns and thus beat Sunday all the while.
Question. Should not the museums and art galleries be thrown open to the workingmen free on Sunday?
Answer. Undoubtedly. In all civilized countries this is done, and I believe it would be done in New York, only it is said that money has been given on condition that the museums should be kept closed on Sundays. I have always heard it said that large sums will be withheld by certain old people who have the prospect of dying in the near future if the museums are open on Sunday.
This, however, seems to me a very poor and shallow excuse. Money should not be received under such conditions. One of the curses of our country has been the giving of gifts to colleges on certain conditions. As, for instance, the money given to Andover by the original founder on the condition that a certain creed be taught, and other large amounts have been given on a like condition. Now, the result of this is that the theological professor must teach what these donors have indicated, or go out of the institution; or —and this last "or" is generally the trouble—teach what he does not believe, endeavoring to get around it by giving new meaning to old words.
I think the cause of intellectual progress has been much delayed by these conditions put in the wills of supposed benefactors, so that after they are dead they can rule people who have the habit of being alive. In my opinion, a corpse is a poor ruler, and after a man is dead he should keep quiet.
Of course all that he did will live, and should be allowed to have its natural effect. If he was a great inventor or discoverer, or if he uttered great truths, these became the property of the world; but he should not endeavor, after he is dead, to rule the living by conditions attached to his gifts.
All the museums and libraries should be opened, not only to workingmen, but to all others. If to see great paintings, great statues, wonderful works of art; if to read the thoughts of the greatest men—if these things tend to the civilization of the race, then they should be put as nearly as possible within the reach of all.
The man who works eight or ten or twelve hours a day has not time during the six days of labor to visit libraries or museums. Sunday is his day of leisure, his day of recreation, and on that day he should have the privilege, and he himself should deem it a right to visit all the public libraries and museums, parks and gardens.
In other words, I think the laboring man should have the same rights on Sundays, to say the least of it, that wealthy people have on other days. The man of wealth has leisure. He can attend these places on any day he may desire; but necessity being the master of the poor man, Sunday is his one day for such a purpose. For men of wealth to close the museums and libraries on that day, shows that they have either a mistaken idea as to the well-being of their fellow-men, or that they care nothing about the rights of any except the wealthy.
Personally, I have no sort of patience with the theological snivel and drivel about the sacredness of the Sabbath. I do not understand why they do not accept the words of their own Christ, namely, that "the Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath."
The hypocrites of Judea were great sticklers for the Sabbath, and the orthodox Christians of New York are exactly the same. My own opinion is that a man who has been at work all the week, in the dust and heat, can hardly afford to waste his Sunday in hearing an orthodox sermon—a sermon that gives him the cheerful intelligence that his chances for being damned are largely in the majority. I think it is far better for the workingman to go out with his family in the park, into the woods, to some German garden, where he can hear the music of Wagner, or even the waltzes of Strauss, or to take a boat and go down to the shore of the sea. I think than in summer a few waves of the ocean are far more refreshing then all the orthodox sermons of the world.
As a matter of fact, I believe the preachers leave the city in the summer and let the Devil do his worst. Whether it is believed that the Devil has less power in warm weather, I do not know. But I do know that, as the mercury rises, the anxiety about souls decreases, and the hotter New York becomes, the cooler hell seems to be.
I want the workingman, no matter what he works at—whether at doctoring people, or trying law suits, or running for office—to have a real good time on Sunday. He, of course, must be careful not to interfere with the rights of others. He ought not to play draw-poker on the steps of a church; neither should he stone a Chinese funeral, nor go to any excesses; but all the week long he should have it in his mind: Next Sunday I am going to have a good time. My wife and I and the children are going to have a happy time. I am going out with the girl I like; or my young man is going to take me to the picnic. And this thought, and this hope, of having a good time on Sunday—of seeing some great pictures at the Metropolitan Art Gallery—together with a good many bad ones— will make work easy and lighten the burden on the shoulders of toil.
I take a great interest, too, in the working women—particularly in the working woman. I think that every workingman should see to it that every working woman has a good time on Sunday. I am no preacher. All I want is that everybody should enjoy himself in a way that he will not and does not interfere with the enjoyment of others.
It will not do to say that we cannot trust the people. Our Government is based upon the idea that the people can be trusted, and those who say that the workingmen cannot be trusted, do not believe in Republican or Democratic institutions. For one, I am perfectly willing to trust the working people of the country. I do, every day. I trust the engineers on the cars and steamers. I trust the builders of houses. I trust all laboring men every day of my life, and if the laboring people of the country were not trustworthy—if they were malicious or dishonest—life would not be worth living.
—The Journal, New York, June 6, 1890.

THE WEST AND SOUTH.

Question. Do you think the South will ever equal or surpass the West in point of prosperity?
Answer. I do not. The West has better soil and more of the elements of wealth. It is not liable to yellow fever; its rivers have better banks; the people have more thrift, more enterprise, more political hospitality; education is more general; the people are more inventive; better traders, and besides all this, there is no race problem. The Southern people are what their surroundings made them, and the influence of slavery has not yet died out. In my judgment the climate of the West is superior to that of the South. The West has good, cold winters, and they make people a little more frugal, prudent and industrious. Winters make good homes, cheerful firesides, and, after all, civilization commences at the hearthstone. The South is growing, and will continue to grow, but it will never equal the West. The West is destined to dominate the Republic.
Question. Do you consider the new ballot-law adapted to the needs of our system of elections? If not, in what particulars does it require amendment?
Answer. Personally I like the brave and open way. The secret ballot lacks courage. I want people to know just how I vote. The old viva voce way was manly and looked well. Every American should be taught that he votes as a sovereign—an emperor—and he should exercise the right in a kingly way. But if we must have the secret ballot, then let it be secret indeed, and let the crowd stand back while the king votes.
Question. What do you think of the service pension movement?
Answer. I see that there is a great deal of talk here in Indiana about this service pension movement. It has always seemed to me that the pension fund has been frittered away. Of what use is it to give a man two or three dollars a month? If a man is rich why should he have any pension? I think it would be better to give pensions only to the needy, and then give them enough to support them. If the man was in the army a day or a month, and was uninjured, and can make his own living, or has enough, why should he have a pension? I believe in giving to the wounded and disabled and poor, with a liberal hand, but not to the rich. I know that the nation could not pay the men who fought and suffered. There is not money enough in the world to pay the heroes for what they did and endured —but there is money enough to keep every wounded and diseased soldier from want. There is money enough to fill the lives of those who gave limbs or health for the sake of the Republic, with comfort and happiness. I would also like to see the poor soldier taken care of whether he was wounded or not, but I see no propriety in giving to those who do not need.
—The Journal, Indianapolis, Indiana, June 21, 1890.

THE WESTMINSTER CREED AND OTHER SUBJECTS.

Question. What do you think of the revision of the Westminster creed?
Answer. I think that the intelligence and morality of the age demand the revision. The Westminster creed is infamous. It makes God an infinite monster, and men the most miserable of beings. That creed has made millions insane. It has furrowed countless cheeks with tears. Under its influence the sentiments and sympathies of the heart have withered. This creed was written by the worst of men. The civilized Presbyterians do not believe it. The intelligent clergyman will not preach it, and all good men who understand it, hold it in abhorrence. But the fact is that it is just as good as the creed of any orthodox church. All these creeds must be revised. Young America will not be consoled by the doctrine of eternal pain. Yes, the creeds must be revised or the churches will be closed.
Question. What do you think of the influence of the press on religion?
Answer. If you mean on orthodox religion, then I say the press is helping to destroy it. Just to the extent that the press is intelligent and fearless, it is and must be the enemy of superstition. Every fact in the universe is the enemy of every falsehood. The press furnishes food for, and excites thought. This tends to the destruction of the miraculous and absurd. I regard the press as the friend of progress and consequently the foe of orthodox religion. The old dogmas do not make the people happy. What is called religion is full of fear and grief. The clergy are always talking about dying, about the grave and eternal pain. They do not add to the sunshine of life. If they could have their way all the birds would stop singing, the flowers would lose their color and perfume, and all the owls would sit on dead trees and hoot, "Broad is the road that leads to death."
Question. If you should write your last sentence on religious topics what would be your closing?
Answer. I now in the presence of death affirm and reaffirm the truth of all that I have said against the superstitions of the world. I would say at least that much on the subject with my last breath.
Question. What, in your opinion, will be Browning's position in the literature of the future?
Answer. Lower than at present. Mrs. Browning was far greater than her husband. He never wrote anything comparable to "Mother and Poet." Browning lacked form, and that is as great a lack in poetry as it is in sculpture. He was the author of some great lines, some great thoughts, but he was obscure, uneven and was always mixing the poetic with the commonplace. To me he cannot be compared with Shelley or Keats, or with our own Walt Whitman. Of course poetry cannot be very well discussed. Each man knows what he likes, what touches his heart and what words burst into blossom, but he cannot judge for others. After one has read Shakespeare, Burns and Byron, and Shelley and Keats; after he has read the "Sonnets" and the "Daisy" and the "Prisoner of Chillon" and the "Skylark" and the "Ode to the Grecian Urn"—the "Flight of the Duchess" seems a little weak.
—The Post-Express, Rochester, New York, June 23, 1890.

SHAKESPEARE AND BACON.

Question. What is your opinion of Ignatius Donnelly as a literary man irrespective of his Baconian theory?
Answer. I know that Mr. Donnelly enjoys the reputation of being a man of decided ability and that he is regarded by many as a great orator. He is known to me through his Baconian theory, and in that of course I have no confidence. It is nearly as ingenious as absurd. He has spent great time, and has devoted much curious learning to the subject, and has at last succeeded in convincing himself that Shakespeare claimed that which he did not write, and that Bacon wrote that which he did not claim. But to me the theory is without the slightest foundation.
Question. Mr. Donnelly asks: "Can you imagine the author of such grand productions retiring to that mud house in Stratford to live without a single copy of the quarto that has made his name famous?" What do you say?
Answer. Yes; I can. Shakespeare died in 1616, and the quarto was published in 1623, seven years after he was dead. Under these circumstances I think Shakespeare ought to be excused, even by those who attack him with the greatest bitterness, for not having a copy of the book. There is, however, another side to his. Bacon did not die until long after the quarto was published. Did he have a copy? Did he mention the copy in his will? Did he ever mention the quarto in any letter, essay, or in any way? He left a library, was there a copy of the plays in it? Has there ever been found a line from any play or sonnet in his handwriting? Bacon left his writings, his papers, all in perfect order, but no plays, no sonnets, said nothing about plays—claimed nothing on their behalf. This is the other side. Now, there is still another thing. The edition of 1623 was published by Shakespeare's friends, Heminge and Condell. They knew him—had been with him for years, and they collected most of his plays and put them in book form.
Ben Jonson wrote a preface, in which he placed Shakespeare above all the other poets—declared that he was for all time.
The edition of 1623 was gotten up by actors, by the friends and associates of Shakespeare, vouched for by dramatic writers—by those who knew him. This is enough.
Question. How do you explain the figure: "His soul, like Mazeppa, was lashed naked to the wild horse of every fear and love and hate"? Mr. Donnelly does not understand you.
Answer. It hardly seems necessary to explain a thing as simple and plain as that. Men are carried away by some fierce passion— carried away in spite of themselves as Mazeppa was carried by the wild horse to which he was lashed. Whether the comparison is good or bad it is at least plain. Nothing could tempt me to call Mr. Donnelly's veracity in question. He says that he does not understand the sentence and I most cheerfully admit that he tells the exact truth.
Question. Mr. Donnelly says that you said: "Where there is genius, education seems almost unnecessary," and he denounces your doctrine as the most abominable doctrine ever taught. What have you to say to that?
Answer. In the first place, I never made the remark. In the next place, it may be well enough to ask what education is. Much is taught in colleges that is of no earthly use; much is taught that is hurtful. There are thousands of educated men who never graduated from any college or university. Every observant, thoughtful man is educating himself as long as he lives. Men are better then books. Observation is a great teacher. A man of talent learns slowly. He does not readily see the necessary relation that one fact bears to another. A man of genius, learning one fact, instantly sees hundreds of others. It is not necessary for such a man to attend college. The world is his university. Every man he meets is a book—every woman a volume every fact a torch—and so without the aid of the so-called schools he rises to the very top. Shakespeare was such a man.
Question. Mr. Donnelly says that: "The biggest myth ever on earth was Shakespeare, and that if Francis Bacon had said to the people, I, Francis Bacon, a gentleman of gentlemen, have been taking in secret my share of the coppers and shillings taken at the door of those low playhouses, he would have been ruined. If he had put the plays forth simply as poetry it would have ruined his legal reputation." What do you think of this?
Answer. I hardly think that Shakespeare was a myth. He was certainly born, married, lived in London, belonged to a company of actors; went back to Stratford, where he had a family, and died. All these things do not as a rule happen to myths. In addition to this, those who knew him believed him to be the author of the plays. Bacon's friends never suspected him. I do not think it would have hurt Bacon to have admitted that he wrote "Lear" and "Othello," and that he was getting "coppers and shillings" to which he was justly entitled. Certainly not as much as for him to have written this, which if fact, though not in exact form, he did write: "I, Francis Bacon, a gentleman of gentlemen, have been taking coppers and shillings to which I was not entitled—but which I received as bribes while sitting as a judge." He has been excused for two reasons. First, because his salary was small, and, second, because it was the custom for judges to receive presents.
Bacon was a lawyer. He was charged with corruption—with having taken bribes, with having sold his decisions. He knew what the custom was and knew how small his salary was. But he did not plead the custom in his defense. He did not mention the smallness of the salary. He confessed that he was guilty—as charged. His confession was deemed too general and he was called upon by the Lords to make a specific confession. This he did. He specified the cases in which he had received the money and told how much, and begged for mercy. He did not make his confession, as Mr. Donnelly is reported to have said, to get his fine remitted. The confession was made before the fine was imposed.
Neither do I think that the theatre in which the plays of Shakespeare were represented could or should be called a "low play house." The fact that "Othello," "Lear," "Hamlet," "Julius Cæsar," and the other great dramas were first played in that playhouse made it the greatest building in the world. The gods themselves should have occupied seats in that theatre, where for the first time the greatest productions of the human mind were put upon the stage.
—The Tribune, Minneapolis, Minn., May 31, 1891.

GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY, AND PRESBYTERIANISM.

Question. How have you acquired the art of growing old gracefully?
Answer. It is very hard to live a great while without getting old, and it is hardly worth while to die just to keep young. It is claimed that people with certain incomes live longer than those who have to earn their bread. But the income people have a stupid kind of life, and though they may hang on a good many years, they can hardly be said to do much real living. The best you can say is, not that they lived so many years, but that it took them so many years to die. Some people imagine that regular habits prolong life, but that depends somewhat on the habits. Only the other day I read an article written by a physician, in which regular habits —good ones, were declared to be quite dangerous.
Where life is perfectly regular, all the wear and tear comes on the same nerves—every blow falls on the same place. Variety, even in a bad direction, is a great relief. But living long has nothing to do with getting old gracefully. Good nature is a great enemy of wrinkles, and cheerfulness helps the complexion. If we could only keep from being annoyed at little things, it would add to the luxury of living. Great sorrows are few, and after all do not affect us as much as the many irritating, almost nothings that attack from every side. The traveler is bothered more with dust than mountains. It is a great thing to have an object in life— something to work for and think for. If a man thinks only about himself, his own comfort, his own importance, he will not grow old gracefully. More and more his spirit, small and mean, will leave its impress on his face, and especially in his eyes. You look at him and feel that there is no jewel in the casket; that a shriveled soul is living in a tumble-down house.
The body gets its grace from the mind. I suppose that we are all more or less responsible for our looks. Perhaps the thinker of great thoughts, the doer of noble deeds, moulds his features in harmony with his life.
Probably the best medicine, the greatest beautifier in the world, is to make somebody else happy. I have noticed that good mothers have faces as serene as a cloudless day in June, and the older the serener. It is a great thing to know the relative importance of things, and those who do, get the most out of life. Those who take an interest in what they see, and keep their minds busy are always young.
The other day I met a blacksmith who has given much attention to geology and fossil remains. He told me how happy he was in his excursions. He was nearly seventy years old, and yet he had the enthusiasm of a boy. He said he had some very fine specimens, "but," said he, "nearly every night I dream of finding perfect ones."
That man will keep young as long as he lives. As long as a man lives he should study. Death alone has the right to dismiss the school. No man can get too much knowledge. In that, he can have all the avarice he wants, but he can get too much property. If the business men would stop when they got enough, they might have a chance to grow old gracefully. But the most of them go on and on, until, like the old stage horse, stiff and lame, they drop dead in the road. The intelligent, the kind, the reasonably contented, the courageous, the self-poised, grow old gracefully.
Question. Are not the restraints to free religious thought being worn away, as the world grows older, and will not the recent attacks of the religious press and pulpit upon the unorthodoxy of Dr. Briggs, Rev. R. Heber Newton and the prospective Episcopal bishop of Massachusetts, Dr. Phillips Brooks, and others, have a tendency still further to extend this freedom?
Answer. Of course the world is growing somewhat wiser—getting more sense day by day. It is amazing to me that any human being or beings ever wrote the Presbyterian creed. Nothing can be more absurd—more barbaric than that creed. It makes man the sport of an infinite monster, and yet good people, men and women of ability, who have gained eminence in almost every department of human effort, stand by this creed as if it were filled with wisdom and goodness. They really think that a good God damns his poor ignorant children just for his own glory, and that he sends people to perdition, not for any evil in them, but to the praise of his glorious justice. Dr. Briggs has been wicked enough to doubt this phase of God's goodness, and Dr. Bridgman was heartless enough to drop a tear in hell. Of course they have no idea of what justice really is.
The Presbyterian General Assembly that has just adjourned stood by Calvinism. The "Five Points" are as sharp as ever. The members of that assembly—most of them—find all their happiness in the "creed." They need no other amusement. If they feel blue they read about total depravity—and cheer up. In moments of great sorrow they think of the tale of non-elect infants, and their hearts overflow with a kind of joy.
They cannot imagine why people wish to attend the theatre when they can read the "Confession of Faith," or why they should feel like dancing after they do read it.
It is very sad to think of the young men and women who have been eternally ruined by witnessing the plays of Shakespeare, and it is also sad to think of the young people, foolish enough to be happy, keeping time to the pulse of music, waltzing to hell in loving pairs—all for the glory of God, and to the praise of his glorious justice. I think, too, of the thousands of men and women who, while listening to the music of Wagner, have absolutely forgotten the Presbyterian creed, and who for a little while have been as happy as if the creed had never been written. Tear down the theatres, burn the opera houses, break all musical instruments, and then let us go to church.
I am not at all surprised that the General Assembly took up this progressive euchre matter. The word "progressive" is always obnoxious to the ministers. Euchre under another name might go. Of course, progressive euchre is a kind of gambling. I knew a young man, or rather heard of him, who won at progressive euchre a silver spoon. At first this looks like nothing, almost innocent, and yet that spoon, gotten for nothing, sowed the seed of gambling in that young man's brain. He became infatuated with euchre, then with cards in general, then with draw-poker in particular,—then into Wall Street. He is now a total wreck, and has the impudence to say that is was all "pre-ordained." Think of the thousands and millions that are being demoralized by games of chance, by marbles —when they play for keeps—by billiards and croquet, by fox and geese, authors, halma, tiddledywinks and pigs in clover. In all these miserable games, is the infamous element of chance—the raw material of gambling. Probably none of these games could be played exclusively for the glory of God. I agree with the Presbyterian General Assembly, if the creed is true, why should anyone try to amuse himself? If there is a hell, and all of us are going there, there should never be another smile on the human face. We should spend our days in sighs, our nights in tears. The world should go insane. We find strange combinations—good men with bad creeds, and bad men with good ones—and so the great world stumbles along.
—The Blade, Toledo, Ohio, June 4, 1891.

CREEDS.

There is a natural desire on the part of every intelligent human being to harmonize his information—to make his theories agree—in other words, to make what he knows, or thinks he knows, in one department, agree and harmonize with what he knows, or thinks he knows, in every other department of human knowledge.
The human race has not advanced in line, neither has it advanced in all departments with the same rapidity. It is with the race as it is with an individual. A man may turn his entire attention to some one subject—as, for instance, to geology—and neglect other sciences. He may be a good geologist, but an exceedingly poor astronomer; or he may know nothing of politics or of political economy. So he may be a successful statesman and know nothing of theology. But if a man, successful in one direction, takes up some other question, he is bound to use the knowledge he has on one subject as a kind of standard to measure what he is told on some other subject. If he is a chemist, it will be natural for him, when studying some other question, to use what he knows in chemistry; that is to say, he will expect to find cause and effect everywhere —succession and resemblance. He will say: It must be in all other sciences as in chemistry—there must be no chance. The elements have no caprice. Iron is always the same. Gold does not change. Prussic acid is always poison—it has no freaks. So he will reason as to all facts in nature. He will be a believer in the atomic integrity of all matter, in the persistence of gravitation. Being so trained, and so convinced, his tendency will be to weigh what is called new information in the same scales that he has been using.
Now, for the application of this. Progress in religion is the slowest, because man is kept back by sentimentality, by the efforts of parents, by old associations. A thousand unseen tendrils are twining about him that he must necessarily break if he advances. In other departments of knowledge inducements are held out and rewards are promised to the one who does succeed—to the one who really does advance—to the one who discovers new facts. But in religion, instead of rewards being promised, threats are made. The man is told that he must not advance; that if he takes a step forward, it is at the peril of his soul; that if he thinks and investigates, he is in danger of exciting the wrath of God. Consequently religion has been of the slowest growth. Now, in most departments of knowledge, man has advanced; and coming back to the original statement—a desire to harmonize all that we know—there is a growing desire on the part of intelligent men to have a religion fit to keep company with the other sciences.
Our creeds were made in times of ignorance. They suited very well a flat world, and a God who lived in the sky just above us and who used the lightning to destroy his enemies. This God was regarded much as a savage regarded the head of his tribe—as one having the right to reward and punish. And this God, being much greater than a chief of the tribe, could give greater rewards and inflict greater punishments. They knew that the ordinary chief, or the ordinary king, punished the slightest offence with death. They also knew that these chiefs and kings tortured their victims as long as the victims could bear the torture. So when they described their God, they gave this God power to keep the tortured victim alive forever —because they knew that the earthly chief, or the earthly king, would prolong the life of the tortured for the sake of increasing the agonies of the victim. In those savage days they regarded punishment as the only means of protecting society. In consequence of this they built heaven and hell on an earthly plan, and they put God—that is to say the chief, that is to say the king—on a throne like an earthly king.
Of course, these views were all ignorant and barbaric; but in that blessed day their geology and astronomy were on a par with their theology. There was a harmony in all departments of knowledge, or rather of ignorance. Since that time there has been a great advance made in the idea of government—the old idea being that the right to govern came from God to the king, and from the king to his people. Now intelligent people believe that the source of authority has been changed, and that all just powers of government are derived from the consent of the governed. So there has been a great advance in the philosophy of punishment—in the treatment of criminals. So, too, in all the sciences. The earth is no longer flat; heaven is not immediately above us; the universe has been infinitely enlarged, and we have at last found that our earth is but a grain of sand, a speck on the great shore of the infinite. Consequently there is a discrepancy, a discord, a contradiction between our theology and the other sciences. Men of intelligence feel this. Dr. Briggs concluded that a perfectly good and intelligent God could not have created billions of sentient beings, knowing that they were to be eternally miserable. No man could do such a thing, had he the power, without being infinitely malicious. Dr. Briggs began to have a little hope for the human race—began to think that maybe God is better than the creed describes him.
And right here it may be well enough to remark that no one has ever been declared a heretic for thinking God bad. Heresy has consisted in thinking God better than the church said he was. The man who said God will damn nearly everybody, was orthodox. The man who said God will save everybody, was denounced as a blaspheming wretch, as one who assailed and maligned the character of God. I can remember when the Universalists were denounced as vehemently and maliciously as the Atheists are to-day.
Now, Dr. Briggs is undoubtedly an intelligent man. He knows that nobody on earth knows who wrote the five books of Moses. He knows that they were not written until hundreds of years after Moses was dead. He knows that two or more persons were the authors of Isaiah. He knows that David did not write to exceed three or four of the Psalms. He knows that the Book of Job is not a Jewish book. He knows that the Songs of Solomon were not written by Solomon. He knows that the Book of Ecclesiastes was written by a Freethinker. He also knows that there is not in existence to-day—so far as anybody knows—any of the manuscripts of the Old or New Testaments.
So about the New Testament, Dr. Briggs knows that nobody lives who has ever seen an original manuscript, or who ever saw anybody that did see one, or that claims to have seen one. He knows that nobody knows who wrote Matthew or Mark or Luke or John. He knows that John did not write John, and that that gospel was not written until long after John was dead. He knows that no one knows who wrote the Hebrews. He also knows that the Book of Revelation is an insane production. Dr. Briggs also knows the way in which these books came to be canonical, and he knows that the way was no more binding than a resolution passed by a political convention. He also knows that many books were left out that had for centuries equal authority with those that were put in. He also knows that many passages— and the very passages upon which many churches are founded—are interpolations. He knows that the last chapter of Mark, beginning with the sixteenth verse to the end, is an interpolation; and he also knows that neither Matthew nor Mark nor Luke ever said one word about the necessity of believing on the Lord Jesus Christ, or of believing anything—not one word about believing the Bible or joining the church, or doing any particular thing in the way of ceremony to insure salvation. He knows that according to Matthew, God agreed to forgive us when we would forgive others. Consequently he knows that there is not one particle of what is called modern theology in Matthew, Mark, or Luke. He knows that the trouble commenced in John, and that John was not written until probably one hundred and fifty years—possibly two hundred years—after Christ was dead. So he also knows that the sin against the Holy Ghost is an interpolation; that "I came not to bring peace but a sword," if not an interpolation, is an absolute contradiction. So, too, he knows that the promise to forgive in heaven what the disciples should forgive on earth, is an interpolation; and that if its not an interpolation, it is without the slightest sense in fact.
Knowing these things, and knowing, in addition to what I have stated, that there are thirty thousand or forty thousand mistakes in the Old Testament, that there are a great many contradictions and absurdities, than many of the laws are cruel and infamous, and could have been made only by a barbarous people, Dr. Briggs has concluded that, after all, the torch that sheds the serenest and divinest light is the human reason, and that we must investigate the Bible as we do other books. At least, I suppose he has reached some such conclusion. He may imagine that the pure gold of inspiration still runs through the quartz and porphyry of ignorance and mistake, and that all we have to do is to extract the shining metal by some process that may be called theological smelting; and if so I have no fault to find. Dr. Briggs has taken a step in advance—that is to say, the tree is growing, and when the tree grows, the bark splits; when the new leaves come the old leaves are rotting on the ground.
The Presbyterian creed is a very bad creed. It has been the stumbling-block, not only of the head, but of the heart for many generations. I do not know that it is, in fact, worse than any other orthodox creed; but the bad features are stated with an explicitness and emphasized with a candor that render the creed absolutely appalling. It is amazing to me that any man ever wrote it, or that any set of men ever produced it. It is more amazing to me that any human being ever believed in it. It is still more amazing that any human being ever thought it wicked not to believe it. It is more amazing still, than all the others combined, that any human being ever wanted it to be true.
This creed is a relic of the Middle Ages. It has in it the malice, the malicious logic, the total depravity, the utter heartlessness of John Calvin, and it gives me great pleasure to say that no Presbyterian was ever as bad as his creed. And here let me say, as I have said many times, that I do not hate Presbyterians—because among them I count some of my best friends—but I hate Presbyterianism. And I cannot illustrate this any better than by saying, I do not hate a man because he has the rheumatism, but I hate the rheumatism because it has a man.
The Presbyterian Church is growing, and is growing because, as I said at first, there is a universal tendency in the mind of man to harmonize all that he knows or thinks he knows. This growth may be delayed. The buds of heresy may be kept back by the north wind of Princeton and by the early frost called Patton. In spite of these souvenirs of the Dark Ages, the church must continue to grow. The theologians who regard theology as something higher than a trade, tend toward Liberalism. Those who regard preaching as a business, and the inculcation of sentiment as a trade, will stand by the lowest possible views. They will cling to the letter and throw away the spirit. They prefer the dead limb to a new bud or to a new leaf. They want no more sap. They delight in the dead tree, in its unbending nature, and they mistake the stiffness of death for the vigor and resistance of life.
Now, as with Dr. Briggs, so with Dr. Bridgman, although it seems to me that he has simply jumped from the frying-pan into the fire; and why he should prefer the Episcopal creed to the Baptist, is more than I can imagine. The Episcopal creed is, in fact, just as bad as the Presbyterian. It calmly and with unruffled brow, utters the sentence of eternal punishment on the majority of the human race, and the Episcopalian expects to be happy in heaven, with his son or daughter or his mother or wife in hell.
Dr. Bridgman will find himself exactly in the position of the Rev. Mr. Newton, provided he expresses his thought. But I account for the Bridgmans and for the Newtons by the fact that there is still sympathy in the human heart, and that there is still intelligence in the human brain. For my part, I am glad to see this growth in the orthodox churches, and the quicker they revise their creeds the better.
I oppose nothing that is good in any creed—I attack only that which is ignorant, cruel and absurd, and I make the attack in the interest of human liberty, and for the sake of human happiness.
Question. What do you think of the action of the Presbyterian General Assembly at Detroit, and what effect do you think it will have on religious growth?
Answer. That General Assembly was controlled by the orthodox within the church, by the strict constructionists and by the Calvinists; by gentlemen who not only believe the creed, not only believe that a vast majority of people are going to hell, but are really glad of it; by gentlemen who, when they feel a little blue, read about total depravity to cheer up, and when they think of the mercy of God as exhibited in their salvation, and the justice of God as illustrated by the damnation of others, their hearts burst into a kind of efflorescence of joy.
These gentlemen are opposed to all kinds of amusements except reading the Bible, the Confession of Faith, and the creed, and listening to Presbyterian sermons and prayers. All these things they regard as the food of cheerfulness. They warn the elect against theatres and operas, dancing and games of chance.
Well, if their doctrine is true, there ought to be no theatres, except exhibitions of hell; there ought to be no operas, except where the music is a succession of wails for the misfortunes of man. If their doctrine is true, I do not see how any human being could ever smile again—I do not see how a mother could welcome her babe; everything in nature would become hateful; flowers and sunshine would simply tell us of our fate.
My doctrine is exactly the opposite of this. Let us enjoy ourselves every moment that we can. The love of the dramatic is universal. The stage has not simply amused, but it has elevated mankind. The greatest genius of our world poured the treasures of his soul into the drama. I do not believe that any girl can be corrupted, or that any man can be injured, by becoming acquainted with Isabella or Miranda or Juliet or Imogen, or any of the great heroines of Shakespeare.
So I regard the opera as one of the great civilizers. No one can listen to the symphonies of Beethoven, or the music of Schubert, without receiving a benefit. And no one can hear the operas of Wagner without feeling that he has been ennobled and refined.
Why is it the Presbyterians are so opposed to music in the world, and yet expect to have so much in heaven? Is not music just as demoralizing in the sky as on the earth, and does anybody believe that Abraham or Isaac or Jacob, ever played any music comparable to Wagner?
Why should we postpone our joy to another world? Thousands of people take great pleasure in dancing, and I say let them dance. Dancing is better than weeping and wailing over a theology born of ignorance and superstition.
And so with games of chance. There is a certain pleasure in playing games, and the pleasure is of the most innocent character. Let all these games be played at home and children will not prefer the saloon to the society of their parents. I believe in cards and billiards, and would believe in progressive euchre, were it more of a game—the great objection to it is its lack of complexity. My idea is to get what little happiness you can out of this life, and to enjoy all sunshine that breaks through the clouds of misfortune. Life is poor enough at best. No one should fail to pick up every jewel of joy that can be found in his path. Every one should be as happy as he can, provided he is not happy at the expense of another, and no person rightly constituted can be happy at the expense of another.
So let us get all we can of good between the cradle and the grave; all that we can of the truly dramatic; all that we can of music; all that we can of art; all that we can of enjoyment; and if, when death comes, that is the end, we have at least made the best of this life; and if there be another life, let us make the best of that.
I am doing what little I can to hasten the coming of the day when the human race will enjoy liberty—not simply of body, but liberty of mind. And by liberty of mind I mean freedom from superstition, and added to that, the intelligence to find out the conditions of happiness; and added to that, the wisdom to live in accordance with those conditions.
—The Morning Advertiser, New York, June 12, 1891.

THE TENDENCY OF MODERN THOUGHT.

Question. Do you regard the Briggs trial as any evidence of the growth of Liberalism in the church itself?
Answer. When men get together, and make what they call a creed, the supposition is that they then say as nearly as possible what they mean and what they believe. A written creed, of necessity, remains substantially the same. In a few years this creed ceases to give exactly the new shade of thought. Then begin two processes, one of destruction and the other of preservation. In every church, as in every party, and as you may say in every corporation, there are two wings—one progressive, the other conservative. In the church there will be a few, and they will represent the real intelligence of the church, who become dissatisfied with the creed, and who at first satisfy themselves by giving new meanings to old words. On the other hand, the conservative party appeals to emotions, to memories, and to the experiences of their fellow- members, for the purpose of upholding the old dogmas and the old ideas; so that each creed is like a crumbling castle. The conservatives plant ivy and other vines, hoping that their leaves will hide the cracks and erosions of time; but the thoughtful see beyond these leaves and are satisfied that the structure itself is in the process of decay, and that no amount of ivy can restore the crumbling stones.
The old Presbyterian creed, when it was first formulated, satisfied a certain religious intellect. At that time people were not very merciful. They had no clear conceptions of justice. Their lives were for the most part hard; most of them suffered the pains and pangs of poverty; nearly all lived in tyrannical governments and were the sport of nobles and kings. Their idea of God was born of their surroundings. God, to them, was an infinite king who delighted in exhibitions of power. At any rate, their minds were so constructed that they conceived of an infinite being who, billions of years before the world was, made up his mind as to whom he would save and whom he would damn. He not only made up his mind as to the number he would save, and the number that should be lost, but he saved and damned without the slightest reference to the character of the individual. They believed then, and some pretend to believe still, that God damns a man not because he is bad, and that he saves a man not because he is good, but simply for the purpose of self-glorification as an exhibition of his eternal justice. It would be impossible to conceive of any creed more horrible than that of the Presbyterians. Although I admit—and I not only admit but I assert—that the creeds of all orthodox Christians are substantially the same, the Presbyterian creed says plainly what it means. There is no hesitation, no evasion. The horrible truth, so-called, is stated in the clearest possible language. One would think after reading this creed, that the men who wrote it not only believed it, but were really glad it was true.
Ideas of justice, of the use of power, of the use of mercy, have greatly changed in the last century. We are beginning dimly to see that each man is the result of an infinite number of conditions, of an infinite number of facts, most of which existed before he was born. We are beginning dimly to see that while reason is a pilot, each soul navigates the mysterious sea filled with tides and unknown currents set in motion by ancestors long since dust. We are beginning to see that defects of mind are transmitted precisely the same as defects of body, and in my judgment the time is coming when we shall not more think of punishing a man for larceny than for having the consumption. We shall know that the thief is a necessary and natural result of conditions, preparing, you may say, the field of the world for the growth of man. We shall no longer depend upon accident and ignorance and providence. We shall depend upon intelligence and science.
The Presbyterian creed is no longer in harmony with the average sense of man. It shocks the average mind. It seems too monstrous to be true; too horrible to find a lodgment in the mind of the civilized man. The Presbyterian minister who thinks, is giving new meanings to the old words. The Presbyterian minister who feels, also gives new meanings to the old words. Only those who neither think nor feel remain orthodox.
For many years the Christian world has been engaged in examining the religions of other peoples, and the Christian scholars have had but little trouble in demonstrating the origin of Mohammedanism and Buddhism and all other isms except ours. After having examined other religions in the light of science, it occurred to some of our theologians to examine their own doctrine in the same way, and the result has been exactly the same in both cases. Dr. Briggs, as I believe, is a man of education. He is undoubtedly familiar with other religions, and has, to some extent at least, made himself familiar with the sacred books of other people. Dr. Briggs knows that no human being knows who wrote a line of the Old Testament. He knows as well as he can know anything, for instance, that Moses never wrote one word of the books attributed to him. He knows that the book of Genesis was made by putting two or three stories together. He also knows that it is not the oldest story, but was borrowed. He knows that in this book of Genesis there is not one word adapted to make a human being better, or to shed the slightest light on human conduct. He knows, if he knows anything, that the Mosaic Code, so-called, was, and is, exceedingly barbarous and not adapted to do justice between man and man, or between nation and nation. He knows that the Jewish people pursued a course adapted to destroy themselves; that they refused to make friends with their neighbors; that they had not the slightest idea of the rights of other people; that they really supposed that the earth was theirs, and that their God was the greatest God in the heavens. He also knows that there are many thousands of mistakes in the Old Testament as translated. He knows that the book of Isaiah is made up of several books. He knows the same thing in regard to the New Testament. He also knows that there were many other books that were once considered sacred that have been thrown away, and that nobody knows who wrote a solitary line of the New Testament.
Besides all this, Dr. Briggs knows that the Old and New Testaments are filled with interpolations, and he knows that the passages of Scripture which have been taken as the foundation stones for creeds, were written hundreds of years after the death of Christ. He knows well enough that Christ never said: "I came not to bring peace, but a sword." He knows that the same being never said: "Thou art Peter, and on this rock will I build my church." He knows, too, that Christ never said: "Whosoever believes shall be saved, and whosoever believes not shall be damned." He knows that these were interpolations. He knows that the sin against the Holy Ghost is another interpolation. He knows, if he knows anything, that the gospel according to John was written long after the rest, and that nearly all of the poison and superstition of orthodoxy is in that book. He knows also, if he knows anything, that St. Paul never read one of the four gospels.
Knowing all these things, Dr. Briggs has had the honesty to say that there was some trouble about taking the Bible as absolutely inspired in word and punctuation. I do not think, however, that he can maintain his own position and still remain a Presbyterian or anything like a Presbyterian. He takes the ground, I believe, that there are three sources of knowledge: First, the Bible; second, the church; third, reason. It seems to me that reason should come first, because if you say the Bible is a source of authority, why do you say it? Do you say this because your reason is convinced that it is? If so, then reason is the foundation of that belief. If, again, you say the church is a source of authority, why do you say so? It must be because its history convinces your reason that it is. Consequently, the foundation of that idea is reason. At the bottom of this pyramid must be reason, and no man is under any obligation to believe that which is unreasonable to him. He may believe things that he cannot prove, but he does not believe them because they are unreasonable. He believes them because he thinks they are not unreasonable, not impossible, not improbable. But, after all, reason is the crucible in which every fact must be placed, and the result fixes the belief of the intelligent man.
It seems to me that the whole Presbyterian creed must come down together. It is a scheme based upon certain facts, so-called. There is in it the fall of man. There is in it the scheme of the atonement, and there is the idea of hell, eternal punishment, and the idea of heaven, eternal reward; and yet, according to their creed, hell is not a punishment and heaven is not a reward. Now, if we do away with the fall of man we do away with the atonement; then we do away with all supernatural religion. Then we come back to human reason. Personally, I hope that the Presbyterian Church will be advanced enough and splendid enough to be honest, and if it is honest, all the gentlemen who amount to anything, who assist in the trial of Dr. Briggs, will in all probability agree with him, and he will be acquitted. But if they throw aside their reason, and remain blindly orthodox, then he will be convicted. To me it is simply miraculous that any man should imagine that the Bible is the source of truth. There was a time when all scientific facts were measured by the Bible. That time is past, and now the believers in the Bible are doing their best to convince us that it is in harmony with science. In other words, I have lived to see a change of standards. When I was a boy, science was measured by the Bible. Now the Bible is measured by science. This is an immense step. So it is impossible for me to conceive what kind of a mind a man has, who finds in the history of the church the fact that it has been a source of truth. How can any one come to the conclusion that the Catholic Church has been a source of truth, a source of intellectual light? How can anyone believe that the church of John Calvin has been a source of truth? If its creed is not true, if its doctrines are mistakes, if its dogmas are monstrous delusions, how can it be said to have been a source of truth?
My opinion is that Dr. Briggs will not be satisfied with the step he has taken. He has turned his face a little toward the light. The farther he walks the harder it will be for him to turn back. The probability is that the orthodox will turn him out, and the process of driving out men of thought and men of genius will go on until the remnant will be as orthodox as they are stupid.
Question. Do you think mankind is drifting away from the supernatural?
Answer. My belief is that the supernatural has had its day. The church must either change or abdicate. That is to say, it must keep step with the progress of the world or be trampled under foot. The church as a power has ceased to exist. To-day it is a matter of infinite indifference what the pulpit thinks unless there comes the voice of heresy from the sacred place. Every orthodox minister in the United States is listened to just in proportion that he preaches heresy. The real, simon-pure, orthodox clergyman delivers his homilies to empty benches, and to a few ancient people who know nothing of the tides and currents of modern thought. The orthodox pulpit to-day has no thought, and the pews are substantially in the same condition. There was a time when the curse of the church whitened the face of a race, but now its anathema is the food of laughter.
Question. What, in your judgment, is to be the outcome of the present agitation in religious circles?
Answer. My idea is that people more and more are declining the postponement of happiness to another world. The general tendency is to enjoy the present. All religions have taught men that the pleasures of this world are of no account; that they are nothing but husks and rags and chaff and disappointment; that whoever expects to be happy in this world makes a mistake; that there is nothing on the earth worth striving for; that the principal business of mankind should be to get ready to be happy in another world; that the great occupation is to save your soul, and when you get it saved, when you are satisfied that you are one of the elect, then pack up all your worldly things in a very small trunk, take it to the dock of time that runs out into the ocean of eternity, sit down on it, and wait for the ship of death. And of course each church is the only one that sells a through ticket which can be depended on. In all religions, as far as I know, is an admixture of asceticism, and the greater the quantity, the more beautiful the religion has been considered, The tendency of the world to- day is to enjoy life while you have it; it is to get something out of the present moment; and we have found that there are things worth living for even in this world. We have found that a man can enjoy himself with wife and children; that he can be happy in the acquisition of knowledge; that he can be very happy in assisting others; in helping those he loves; that there is some joy in poetry, in science and in the enlargement and development of the mind; that there is some delight in music and in the drama and in the arts. We are finding, poor as the world is, that it beats a promise the fulfillment of which is not to take place until after death. The world is also finding out another thing, and that is that the gentlemen who preach these various religions, and promise these rewards, and threaten the punishments, know nothing whatever of the subject; that they are as blindly ignorant as the people they pretend to teach, and the people are as blindly ignorant as the animals below them. We have finally concluded that no human being has the slightest conception of origin or of destiny, and that this life, not only in its commencement but in its end, is just as mysterious to-day as it was to the first man whose eyes greeted the rising sun. We are no nearer the solution of the problem than those who lived thousands of years before us, and we are just as near it as those who will live millions of years after we are dead. So many people having arrived at the conclusion that nobody knows and that nobody can know, like sensible folks they have made up their minds to enjoy life. I have often said, and I say again, that I feel as if I were on a ship not knowing the port from which it sailed, not knowing the harbor to which it was going, not having a speaking acquaintance with any of the officers, and I have made up my mind to have as good a time with the other passengers as possible under the circumstances. If this ship goes down in mid- sea I have at least made something, and if it reaches a harbor of perpetual delight I have lost nothing, and I have had a happy voyage. And I think millions and millions are agreeing with me.
Now, understand, I am not finding fault with any of these religions or with any of these ministers. These religions and these ministers are the necessary and natural products of sufficient causes. Mankind has traveled from barbarism to what we now call civilization, by many paths, all of which under the circumstances, were absolutely necessary; and while I think the individual does as he must, I think the same of the church, of the corporation, and of the nation, and not only of the nation, but of the whole human race. Consequently I have no malice and no prejudices. I have likes and dislikes. I do not blame a gourd for not being a cantaloupe, but I like cantaloupes. So I do not blame the old hard-shell Presbyterian for not being a philosopher, but I like philosophers. So to wind it all up with regard to the tendency of modern thought, or as to the outcome of what you call religion, my own belief is that what is known as religion will disappear from the human mind. And by "religion" I mean the supernatural. By "religion" I mean living in this world for another, or living in this world to gratify some supposed being, whom we never saw and about whom we know nothing, and of whose existence we know nothing. In other words, religion consists of the duties we are supposed to owe to the first great cause, and of certain things necessary for us to do here to insure happiness hereafter. These ideas, in my judgment, are destined to perish, and men will become convinced that all their duties are within their reach, and that obligations can exist only between them and other sentient beings. Another idea, I think, will force itself upon the mind, which is this: That he who lives the best for this world lives the best for another if there be one. In other words, humanity will take the place of what is called "religion." Science will displace superstition, and to do justice will be the ambition of man.
My creed is this: Happiness is the only good. The place to be happy is here. The time to be happy is now. The way to be happy is to make others so.
Question. What is going to take the place of the pulpit?
Answer. I have for a long time wondered why somebody didn't start a church on a sensible basis. My idea is this: There are, of course, in every community, lawyers, doctors, merchants, and people of all trades and professions who have not the time during the week to pay any particular attention to history, poetry, art, or song. Now, it seems to me that it would be a good thing to have a church and for these men to employ a man of ability, of talent, to preach to them Sundays, and let this man say to his congregation: "Now, I am going to preach to you for the first few Sundays—eight or ten or twenty, we will say—on the art, poetry, and intellectual achievements of the Greeks." Let this man study all the week and tell his congregation Sunday what he has ascertained. Let him give to his people the history of such men as Plato, as Socrates, what they did; of Aristotle, of his philosophy; of the great Greeks, their statesmen, their poets, actors, and sculptors, and let him show the debt that modern civilization owes to these people. Let him, too, give their religions, their mythology—a mythology that has sown the seed of beauty in every land. Then let him take up Rome. Let him show what a wonderful and practical people they were; let him give an idea of their statesmen, orators, poets, lawyers—because probably the Romans were the greatest lawyers. And so let him go through with nation after nation, biography after biography, and at the same time let there be a Sunday school connected with this church where the children shall be taught something of importance. For instance, teach them botany, and when a Sunday is fair, clear, and beautiful, let them go into the fields and woods with their teachers, and in a little while they will become acquainted with all kinds of tress and shrubs and flowering plants. They could also be taught entomology, so that every bug would be interesting, for they would see the facts in science— something of use to them. I believe that such a church and such a Sunday school would at the end of a few years be the most intelligent collection of people in the United States. To teach the children all of these things and to teach their parents, too, the outlines of every science, so that every listener would know something of geology, something of astronomy, so that every member could tell the manner in which they find the distance of a star— how much better that would be than the old talk about Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and quotations from Haggai and Zephaniah, and all this eternal talk about the fall of man and the Garden of Eden, and the flood, and the atonement, and the wonders of Revelation! Even if the religious scheme be true, it can be told and understood as well in one day as in a hundred years. The church says, "He that hath ears to hear let him hear." I say: "He that hath brains to think, let him think." So, too, the pulpit is being displaced by what we call places of amusement, which are really places where men go because they find there is something which satisfies in a greater or less degree the hunger of the brain. Never before was the theatre as popular as it is now. Never before was so much money lavished upon the stage as now. Very few men having their choice would go to hear a sermon, especially of the orthodox kind, when they had a chance to see a great actor.
The man must be a curious combination who would prefer an orthodox sermon, we will say, to a concert given by Theodore Thomas. And I may say in passing that I have great respect for Theodore Thomas, because it was he who first of all opened to the American people the golden gates of music. He made the American people acquainted with the great masters, and especially with Wagner, and it is a debt that we shall always owe him. In this day the opera—that is to say, music in every form—is tending to displace the pulpit. The pulpits have to go in partnership with music now. Hundreds of people have excused themselves to me for going to church, saying they have splendid music. Long ago the Catholic Church was forced to go into partnership not only with music, but with painting and with architecture. The Protestant Church for a long time thought it could do without these beggarly elements, and the Protestant Church was simply a dry-goods box with a small steeple on top of it, its walls as bleak and bare and unpromising as the creed. But even Protestants have been forced to hire a choir of ungodly people who happen to have beautiful voices, and they, too, have appealed to the organ. Music is taking the place of creed, and there is more real devotional feeling summoned from the temple of the mind by great music than by any sermon ever delivered. Music, of all other things, gives wings to thought and allows the soul to rise above all the pains and troubles of this life, and to feel for a moment as if it were absolutely free, above all clouds, destined to enjoy forever. So, too, science is beckoning with countless hands. Men of genius are everywhere beckoning men to discoveries, promising them fortunes compared with which Aladdin's lamp was weak and poor. All these things take men from the church; take men from the pulpit. In other words, prosperity is the enemy of the pulpit. When men enjoy life, when they are prosperous here, they are in love with the arts, with the sciences, with everything that gives joy, with everything that promises plenty, and they care nothing about the prophecies of evil that fall from the solemn faces of the parsons. They look in other directions. They are not thinking about the end of the world. They hate the lugubrious, and they enjoy the sunshine of to-day. And this, in my judgment, is the highest philosophy: First, do not regret having lost yesterday; second, do not fear that you will lose to-morrow; third, enjoy to- day.
Astrology was displaced by astronomy. Alchemy and the black art gave way to chemistry. Science is destined to take the place of superstition. In my judgment, the religion of the future will be Reason.
—The Tribune, Chicago, Illinois, November, 1891.

WOMAN SUFFRAGE, HORSE RACING, AND MONEY.

Question. What are your opinions on the woman's suffrage question?
Answer. I claim no right that I am not willing to give to my wife and daughters, and to the wives and daughters of other men. We shall never have a generation of great men until we have a generation of great women. I do not regard ignorance as the foundation of virtue, or uselessness as one of the requisites of a lady. I am a believer in equal rights. Those who are amenable to the laws should have a voice in making the laws. In every department where woman has had an equal opportunity with man, she has shown that she has equal capacity.
George Sand was a great writer, George Eliot one of the greatest, Mrs. Browning a marvelous poet—and the lyric beauty of her "Mother and Poet" is greater than anything her husband ever wrote—Harriet Martineau a wonderful woman, and Ouida is probably the greatest living novelist, man or woman. Give the women a chance.
[The Colonel's recent election as a life member of the Manhattan Athletic Club, due strangely enough to a speech of his denouncing certain forms of sport, was referred to, and this led him to express his contempt for prize-fighting, and then he said on the subject of horse-racing: ]
The only objection I have to horse racing is its cruelty. The whip and spur should be banished from the track. As long as these are used, the race track will breed a very low and heartless set of men. I hate to see a brute whip and spur a noble animal. The good people object to racing, because of the betting, but bad people, like myself, object to the cruelty. Men are not forced to bet. That is their own business, but the poor horse, straining every nerve, does not ask for the lash and iron. Abolish torture on the track and let the best horse win.
Question. What do you think of the Chilian insult to the United States flag?
Answer. In the first place, I think that our Government was wrong in taking the part of Balmaceda. In the next place, we made a mistake in seizing the Itata. America should always side with the right. We should care nothing for the pretender in power, and Balmaceda was a cruel, tyrannical scoundrel. We should be with the people everywhere. I do not blame Chili for feeling a little revengeful. We ought to remember that Chili is weak, and nations, like individuals, are sensitive in proportion that they are weak. Let us trust Chili just as we would England. We are too strong to be unjust.
Question. How do you stand on the money question?
Answer. I am with the Republican party on the question of money. I am for the use of gold and silver both, but I want a dollar's worth of silver in a silver dollar. I do not believe in light money, or in cheap money, or in poor money. These are all contradictions in terms. Congress cannot fix the value of money. The most it can do is to fix its debt paying power. It is beyond the power of any Congress to fix the purchasing value of what it may be pleased to call money. Nobody knows, so far as I know, why people want gold. I do not know why people want silver. I do not know how gold came to be money; neither do I understand the universal desire, but it exists, and we take things as we find them. Gold and silver make up, you may say, the money of the world, and I believe in using the two metals. I do not believe in depreciating any American product; but as value cannot be absolutely fixed by law, so far as the purchasing power is concerned, and as the values of gold and silver vary, neither being stable any more than the value of wheat or corn is stable, I believe that legislation should keep pace within a reasonable distance at least, of the varying values, and that the money should be kept as nearly equal as possible. Of course, there is one trouble with money to-day, and that is the use of the word "dollar." It has lost its meaning. So many governments have adulterated their own coin, and as many have changed weights, that the word "dollar" has not to-day an absolute, definite, specific meaning. Like individuals, nations have been dishonest. The only time the papal power had the right to coin money—I believe it was under Pius IX., when Antonelli was his minister—the coin of the papacy was so debased that even orthodox Catholics refused to take it, and it had to be called in and minted by the French Empire, before even the Italians recognized it as money. My own opinion is, that either the dollar must be absolutely defined—it must be the world over so many grains of pure gold, or so many grains of pure silver—or we must have other denominations for our money, as for instance, ounces, or parts of ounces, and the time will come, in my judgment, when there will be a money of the world, the same everywhere; because each coin will contain upon its face the certificate of a government that it contains such a weight—so many grains or so many ounces—of a certain metal. I, for one, want the money of the United States to be as good as that of any other country. I want its gold and silver exactly what they purport to be; and I want the paper issued by the Government to be the same as gold. I want its credit so perfectly established that it will be taken in every part of the habitable globe. I am with the Republican party on the question of money, also on the question of protection, and all I hope is that the people of this country will have sense enough to defend their own interests.
—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago, Illinois, October 27, 1891.

MISSIONARIES.

Question. What is your opinion of foreign missions?

Answer. In the first place, there seems to be a pretty good opening in this country for missionary work. We have a good many Indians who are not Methodists. I have never known one to be converted. A good many have been killed by Christians, but their souls have not been saved. Maybe the Methodists had better turn their attention to the heathen of our own country. Then we have a good many Mormons who rely on the truth of the Old Testament and follow the example of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. It seems to me that the Methodists better convert the Mormons before attacking the tribes of Central Africa. There is plenty of work to be done right here. A few good bishops might be employed for a time in converting Dr. Briggs and Professor Swing, to say nothing of other heretical Presbyterians.
There is no need of going to China to convert the Chinese. There are thousands of them here. In China our missionaries will tell the followers of Confucius about the love and forgiveness of Christians, and when the Chinese come here they are robbed, assaulted, and often murdered. Would it not be a good thing for the Methodists to civilize our own Christians to such a degree that they would not murder a man simply because he belongs to another race and worships other gods?
So, too, I think it would be a good thing for the Methodists to go South and persuade their brethren in that country to treat the colored people with kindness. A few efforts might be made to convert the "White-caps" in Ohio, Indiana and some other States.
My advice to the Methodists is to do what little good they can right here and now. It seems cruel to preach to the heathen a gospel that is dying out even here, and fill their poor minds with the absurd dogmas and cruel creeds that intelligent men have outgrown and thrown away.
Honest commerce will do a thousand times more good than all the missionaries on earth. I do not believe that an intelligent Chinaman or an intelligent Hindoo has ever been or ever will be converted into a Methodist. If Methodism is good we need it here, and if it is not good, do not fool the heathen with it.
—The Press, Cleveland, Ohio, November 12, 1891.

MY BELIEF AND UNBELIEF.*

     [* Col. Robert G. Ingersoll was in Toledo for a few hours
     yesterday afternoon on railroad business.  Whatever Mr.
     Ingersoll says is always read with interest, for besides the
     independence of his averments, his ideas are worded in a way
     that in itself is attractive.

     While in the court room talking with some of the officials
     and others, he was saying that in this world there is rather
     an unequal distribution of comforts, rewards, and
     punishments.  For himself, he had fared pretty well.  He
     stated that during the thirty years he has been married
     there have been fifteen to twenty of his relatives under the
     same roof, but never had there been in his family a death or
     a night's loss of sleep on account of sickness.

     "The Lord has been pretty good to you," suggested Marshall
     Wade.

     "Well, I've been pretty good to him," he answered.]

Question. I have heard people in discussing yourself and your views, express the belief that way down in the depths of your mind you are not altogether a "disbeliever." Are they in any sense correct?
Answer. I am an unbeliever, and I am a believer. I do not believe in the miraculous, the supernatural, or the impossible. I do not believe in the "Mosaic" account of the creation, or in the flood, or the Tower of Babel, or that General Joshua turned back the sun or stopped the earth. I do not believe in the Jonah story, or that God and the Devil troubled poor Job. Neither do I believe in the Mt. Sinai business, and I have my doubts about the broiled quails furnished in the wilderness. Neither do I believe that man is wholly depraved. I have not the least faith in the Eden, snake and apple story. Neither do I believe that God is an eternal jailer; that he is going to be the warden of an everlasting penitentiary in which the most of men are to be eternally tormented. I do not believe that any man can be justly punished or rewarded on account of his belief.
But I do believe in the nobility of human nature. I believe in love and home, and kindness and humanity. I believe in good fellowship and cheerfulness, in making wife and children happy. I believe in good nature, in giving to others all the rights that you claim for yourself. I believe in free thought, in reason, observation and experience. I believe in self-reliance and in expressing your honest thought. I have hope for the whole human race. What will happen to one, will, I hope, happen to all, and that, I hope, will be good. Above all, I believe in Liberty.
—The Blade, Toledo, Ohio, January 9, 1892.

MUST RELIGION GO?

Question. What is your idea as to the difference between honest belief, as held by honest religious thinkers, and heterodoxy?
Answer. Of course, I believe that there are thousands of men and women who honestly believe not only in the improbable, not only in the absurd, but in the impossible. Heterodoxy, so-called, occupies the half-way station between superstition and reason. A heretic is one who is still dominated by religion, but in the east of whose mind there is a dawn. He is one who has seen the morning star; he has not entire confidence in the day, and imagines in some way that even the light he sees was born of the night. In the mind of the heretic, darkness and light are mingled, the ties of intellectual kindred bind him to the night, and yet he has enough of the spirit of adventure to look toward the east. Of course, I admit that Christians and heretics are both honest; a real Christian must be honest and a real heretic must be the same. All men must be honest in what they think; but all men are not honest in what they say. In the invisible world of the mind every man is honest. The judgment never was bribed. Speech may be false, but conviction is always honest. So that the difference between honest belief, as shared by honest religious thinkers and heretics, is a difference of intelligence. It is the difference between a ship lashed to the dock, and on making a voyage; it is the difference between twilight and dawn—that is to say, the coming of the sight and the coming of the morning.
Question. Are women becoming freed from the bonds of sectarianism?
Answer. Women are less calculating than men. As a rule they do not occupy the territory of compromise. They are natural extremists. The woman who is not dominated by superstition is apt to be absolutely free, and when a woman has broken the shackles of superstition, she has no apprehension, no fears. She feels that she is on the open sea, and she cares neither for wind nor wave. An emancipated woman never can be re-enslaved. Her heart goes with her opinions, and goes first.
Question. Do you consider that the influence of religion is better than the influence of Liberalism upon society, that is to say, is society less or more moral, is vice more or less conspicuous?
Answer. Whenever a chain is broken an obligation takes its place. There is and there can be no responsibility without liberty. The freer a man is, the more responsible, the more accountable he feels; consequently the more liberty there is, the more morality there is. Believers in religion teach us that God will reward men for good actions, but men who are intellectually free, know that the reward of a good action cannot be given by any power, but that it is the natural result of the good action. The free man, guided by intelligence, knows that his reward is in the nature of things, and not in the caprice even of the Infinite. He is not a good and faithful servant, he is an intelligent free man.
The vicious are ignorant; real morality is the child of intelligence; the free and intelligent man knows that every action must be judged by its consequences; he knows that if he does good he reaps a good harvest; he knows that if he does evil he bears a burden, and he knows that these good and evil consequences are not determined by an infinite master, but that they live in and are produced by the actions themselves.
—Evening Advertiser, New York, February 6, 1892.

WORD PAINTING AND COLLEGE EDUCATION.

Question. What is the history of the speech delivered here in 1876? Was it extemporaneous?
Answer. It was not born entirely of the occasion. It took me several years to put the thoughts in form—to paint the pictures with words. No man can do his best on the instant. Iron to be beaten into perfect form has to be heated several times and turned upon the anvil many more, and hammered long and often.
You might as well try to paint a picture with one sweep of the brush, or chisel a statue with one stroke, as to paint many pictures with words, without great thought and care. Now and then, while a man is talking, heated with his subject, a great thought, sudden as a flash of lightning, illumines the intellectual sky, and a great sentence clothed in words of purple, falls, or rather rushes, from his lips—but a continuous flight is born, not only of enthusiasm, but of long and careful thought. A perfect picture requires more details, more lights and shadows, than the mind can grasp at once, or on the instant. Thoughts are not born of chance. They grow and bud and blossom, and bear the fruit of perfect form.
Genius is the soil and climate, but the soil must be cultivated, and the harvest is not instantly after the planting. It takes time and labor to raise and harvest a crop from that field called the brain.
Question. Do you think young men need a college education to get along?
Answer. Probably many useless things are taught in colleges. I think, as a rule, too much time is wasted learning the names of the cards without learning to play a game. I think a young man should be taught something that he can use—something he can sell. After coming from college he should be better equipped to battle with the world—to do something of use. A man may have his brain stuffed with Greek and Latin without being able to fill his stomach with anything of importance. Still, I am in favor of the highest education. I would like to see splendid schools in every State, and then a university, and all scholars passing a certain examination sent to the State university free, and then a United States university, the best in the world, and all graduates of the State universities passing a certain examination sent to the United States university free. We ought to have in this country the best library, the best university, the best school of design in the world; and so I say, more money for the mind.
Question. Was the peculiar conduct of the Rev. Dr. Parkhurst, of New York, justifiable, and do you think that it had a tendency to help morality?
Answer. If Christ had written a decoy letter to the woman to whom he said: "Go and sin no more," and if he had disguised himself and visited her house and had then lodged a complaint against her before the police and testified against her, taking one of his disciples with him, I do not think he would have added to his reputation.
—The News, Indianapolis, Indiana, February 18, 1892.

PERSONAL MAGNETISM AND THE SUNDAY QUESTION.

     [Colonel Ingersoll was a picturesque figure as he sat in his
     room at the Gibson House yesterday, while the balmy May
     breeze blew through the open windows, fluttered the lace
     curtains and tossed the great Infidel's snowy hair to and
     fro.  The Colonel had come in from New York during the
     morning and the keen white sunlight of a lovely May day
     filled his heart with gladness.  After breakfast, the man
     who preaches the doctrine of the Golden Rule and the Gospel
     of Humanity and the while chaffs the gentlemen of the
     clerical profession, was in a fine humor.  He was busy with
     cards and callers, but not too busy to admire the vase full
     of freshly-picked spring flowers that stood on the mantel,
     and wrestled with clouds of cigar smoke, to see which
     fragrance should dominate the atmosphere.

     To a reporter of The Commercial Gazette, the Colonel spoke
     freely and interestingly upon a variety of subjects, from
     personal magnetism in politics to mob rule in Tennessee.  He
     had been interested in Colonel Weir's statement about the
     lack of gas in Exposition Hall, at the 1876 convention, and
     when asked if he believed there was any truth in the stories
     that the gas supply had been manipulated so as to prevent
     the taking of a ballot after he had placed James G. Blaine
     in nomination, he replied:  ]

All I can say is, that I heard such a story the day after the convention, but I do not know whether or not it is true. I have always believed, that if a vote had been taken that evening, Blaine would have been nominated, possibly not as the effect of my speech, but the night gave time for trafficking, and that is always dangerous in a convention. I believed then that Blaine ought to have been nominated, and that it would have been a very wise thing for the party to have done. That he was not the candidate was due partly to accident and partly to political traffic, but that is one of the bygones, and I believe there is an old saying to the effect that even the gods have no mastery over the past.
Question. Do you think that eloquence is potent in a convention to set aside the practical work of politics and politicians?
Answer. I think that all the eloquence in the world cannot affect a trade if the parties to the contract stand firm, and when people have made a political trade they are not the kind of people to be affected by eloquence. The practical work of the world has very little to do with eloquence. There are a great many thousand stone masons to one sculptor, and houses and walls are not constructed by sculptors, but by masons. The daily wants of the world are supplied by the practical workers, by men of talent, not by men of genius, although in the world of invention, genius has done more, it may be, than the workers themselves. I fancy the machinery now in the world does the work of many hundreds of millions; that there is machinery enough now to do several times the work that could be done by all the men, women and children of the earth. The genius who invented the reaper did more work and will do more work in the harvest field than thousands of millions of men, and the same may be said of the great engines that drive the locomotives and the ships. All these marvelous machines were made by men of genius, but they are not the men who in fact do the work.
[This led the Colonel to pay a brilliant tribute to the great orators of ancient and modern times, the peer of all of them being Cicero. He dissected and defined oratory and eloquence, and explained with picturesque figures, wherein the difference between them lay. As he mentioned the magnetism of public speakers, he was asked as to his opinion of the value of personal magnetism in political life.]
It may be difficult to define what personal magnetism is, but I think it may be defined in this way: You don't always feel like asking a man whom you meet on the street what direction you should take to reach a certain point. You often allow three or four to pass, before you meet one who seems to invite the question. So, too, there are men by whose side you may sit for hours in the cars without venturing a remark as to the weather, and there are others to whom you will commence talking the moment you sit down. There are some men who look as if they would grant a favor, men toward whom you are unconsciously drawn, men who have a real human look, men with whom you seem to be acquainted almost before you speak, and that you really like before you know anything about them. It may be that we are all electric batteries; that we have our positive and our negative poles; it may be that we need some influence that certain others impart, and it may be that certain others have that which we do not need and which we do not want, and the moment you think that, you feel annoyed and hesitate, and uncomfortable, and possibly hateful.
I suppose there is a physical basis for everything. Possibly the best test of real affection between man and woman, or of real friendship between man and woman, is that they can sit side by side, for hours maybe, without speaking, and yet be having a really social time, each feeling that the other knows exactly what they are thinking about. Now, the man you meet and whom you would not hesitate a moment to ask a favor of, is what I call a magnetic man. This magnetism, or whatever it may be, assists in making friends, and of course is a great help to any one who deals with the public. Men like a magnetic man even without knowing him, perhaps simply having seen him. There are other men, whom the moment you shake hands with them, you feel you want no more; you have had enough. A sudden chill runs up the arm the moment your hand touches theirs, and finally reaches the heart; you feel, if you had held that hand a moment longer, an icicle would have formed in the brain. Such people lack personal magnetism. These people now and then thaw out when you get thoroughly acquainted with them, and you find that the ice is all on the outside, and then you come to like them very well, but as a rule first impressions are lasting. Magnetism is what you might call the climate of a man. Some men, and some women, look like a perfect June day, and there are others who, while the look quite smiling, yet you feel that the sky is becoming overcast, and the signs all point to an early storm. There are people who are autumnal—that is to say, generous. They have had their harvest, and have plenty to spare. Others look like the end of an exceedingly hard winter—between the hay and grass, the hay mostly gone and the grass not yet come up. So you will see that I think a great deal of this thing that is called magnetism. As I said, there are good people who are not magnetic, but I do not care to make an Arctic expedition for the purpose of discovering the north pole of their character. I would rather stay with those who make me feel comfortable at the first.
[From personal magnetism to the lynching Saturday morning down at Nashville, Tennessee, was a far cry, but when Colonel Ingersoll was asked what he thought of mob law, whether there was any extenuation, any propriety and moral effect resultant from it, he quickly answered: ]
I do not believe in mob law at any time, among any people. I believe in justice being meted out in accordance with the forms of law. If a community violates that law, why should not the individual? The example is bad. Besides all that, no punishment inflicted by a mob tends to prevent the commission of crime. Horrible punishment hardens the community, and that in itself produces more crime.
There seems to be a sort of fascination in frightful punishments, but, to say the least of it, all these things demoralize the community. In some countries, you know, they whip people for petty offences. The whipping, however, does no good, and on the other hand it does harm; it hardens those who administer the punishment and those who witness it, and it degrades those who receive it. There will be but little charity in the world, and but little progress until men see clearly that there is no chance in the world of conduct any more than in the physical world.
Back of every act and dream and thought and desire and virtue and crime is the efficient cause. If you wish to change mankind, you must change the conditions. There should be no such thing as punishment. We should endeavor to reform men, and those who cannot be reformed should be placed where they cannot injure their fellows. The State should never take revenge any more than the community should form itself into a mob and take revenge. This does harm, not good. The time will come when the world will no more think of sending men to the penitentiary for stealing, as a punishment, that it will for sending a man to the penitentiary because he has consumption. When that time comes, the object will be to reform men; to prevent crime instead of punishing it, and the object then will be to make the conditions such that honest people will be the result, but as long as hundreds of thousands of human beings live in tenements, as long as babes are raised in gutters, as long as competition is so sharp that hundreds of thousands must of necessity be failures, just so long as society gets down on its knees before the great and successful thieves, before the millionaire thieves, just so long will it have to fill the jails and prisons with the little thieves. When the "good time" comes, men will not be judged by the money they have accumulated, but by the uses they make of it. So men will be judged, not according to their intelligence, but by what they are endeavoring to accomplish with their intelligence. In other words, the time will come when character will rise above all. There is a great line in Shakespeare that I have often quoted, and that cannot be quoted too often: "There is no darkness but ignorance." Let the world set itself to work to dissipate this darkness; let us flood the world with intellectual light. This cannot be accomplished by mobs or lynchers. It must be done by the noblest, by the greatest, and by the best.
[The conversation shifting around to the Sunday question; the opening of the World's Fair on Sunday, the attacks of the pulpit upon the Sunday newspapers, the opening of parks and museums and libraries on Sunday, Colonel Ingersoll waxed eloquent, and in answer to many questions uttered these paragraphs: ]
Of course, people will think that I have some prejudice against the parsons, but really I think the newspaper press is of far more importance in the world than the pulpit. If I should admit in a kind of burst of generosity, and simply for the sake of making a point, that the pulpit can do some good, how much can it do without the aid of the press? Here is a parson preaching to a few ladies and enough men, it may be, to pass the contribution box, and all he says dies within the four walls of that church. How many ministers would it take to reform the world, provided I again admit in a burst of generosity, that there is any reforming power in what they preach, working along that line?
The Sunday newspaper, I think, is the best of any day in the week. That paper keeps hundreds and thousands at home. You can find in it information about almost everything in the world. One of the great Sunday papers will keep a family busy reading almost all day. Now, I do not wonder that the ministers are so opposed to the Sunday newspaper, and so they are opposed to anything calculated to decrease the attendance at church. Why, they want all the parks, all the museums, all the libraries closed on Sunday, and they want the World's Fair closed on Sunday.
Now, I am in favor of Sunday; in fact, I am perfectly willing to have two of them a week, but I want Sunday as a day of recreation and pleasure. The fact is we ought not to work hard enough during the week to require a day of rest. Every day ought to be so arranged that there would be time for rest from the labor of that day. Sunday is a good day to get business out of your mind, to forget the ledger and the docket and the ticker, to forget profits and losses, and enjoy yourself. It is a good day to go to the art museums, to look at pictures and statues and beautiful things, so that you may feel that there is something in this world besides money and mud. It is a good day, is Sunday, to go to the libraries and spend a little time with the great and splendid dead, and to go to the cemetery and think of those who are sleeping there, and to give a little thought to the time when you, too, like them, will fall asleep. I think it is a good day for almost anything except going to church. There is no need of that; everybody knows the story, and if a man has worked hard all the week, you can hardly call it recreation if he goes to church Sunday and hears that his chances are ninety-nine in a hundred in favor of being eternally damned.
So it is I am in favor of having the World's Fair open on Sunday. It will be a good day to look at the best the world has produced; a good day to leave the saloons and commune for a little while with the mighty spirits that have glorified this world. Sunday is a good day to leave the churches, where they teach that man has become totally depraved, and look at the glorious things that have been wrought by these depraved beings. Besides all this, it is the day of days for the working man and working woman, for those who have to work all the week. In New York an attempt was made to open the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Sunday, and the pious people opposed it. They thought it would interfere with the joy of heaven if people were seen in the park enjoying themselves on Sunday, and they also held that nobody would visit the Museum if it were opened on Sunday; that the "common people" had no love for pictures and statues and cared nothing about art. The doors were opened, and it was demonstrated that the poor people, the toilers and workers, did want to see such things on Sunday, and now more people visit the Museum on Sunday than on all the other days of the week put together. The same is true of the public libraries. There is something to me infinitely pharisaical, hypocritical and farcical in this Sunday nonsense. The rich people who favor keeping Sunday "holy," have their coachman drive them to church and wait outside until the services end. What do they care about the coachman's soul? While they are at church their cooks are busy at home getting dinner ready. What do they care for the souls of cooks? The whole thing is pretence, and nothing but pretence. It is the instinct of business. It is the competition of the gospel shop with other shops and places of resort.
The ministers, of course, are opposed to all shows except their own, for they know that very few will come to see or hear them and the choice must be the church or nothing.
I do not believe that one day can be more holy than another unless more joyous than another. The holiest day is the happiest day— the day on which wives and children and men are happiest. In that sense a day can be holy.
Our idea of the Sabbath is from the Puritans, and they imagined that a man has to be miserable in order to excite the love of God. We have outgrown the old New England Sabbath—the old Scotch horror. The Germans have helped us and have set a splendid example. I do not see how a poor workingman can go to church for recreation—I mean an orthodox church. A man who has hell here cannot be benefitted by being assured that he is likely to have hell hereafter. The whole business I hold in perfect abhorrence.
They tell us that God will not prosper us unless we observe the Sabbath. The Jews kept the Sabbath and yet Jehovah deserted them, and they are a people without a nation. The Scotch kept Sunday; they are not independent. The French never kept Sunday, and yet they are the most prosperous nation in Europe.
—Commercial Gazette, Cincinnati, Ohio, May 2, 1892.

AUTHORS.

Question. Who, in your opinion, is the greatest novelist who has written in the English language?
Answer. The greatest novelist, in my opinion, who has ever written in the English language, was Charles Dickens. He was the greatest observer since Shakespeare. He had the eyes that see, the ears that really hear. I place him above Thackeray. Dickens wrote for the home, for the great public. Thackeray wrote for the clubs. The greatest novel in our language—and it may be in any other—is, according to my ideas, "A Tale of Two Cities." In that, are philosophy, pathos, self-sacrifice, wit, humor, the grotesque and the tragic. I think it is the most artistic novel that I have read. The creations of Dickens' brain have become the citizens of the world.
Question. What is your opinion of American writers?
Answer. I think Emerson was a fine writer, and he did this world a great deal of good, but I do not class him with the first. Some of his poetry is wonderfully good and in it are some of the deepest and most beautiful lines. I think he was a poet rather than a philosopher. His doctrine of compensation would be delightful if it had the facts to support it.
Of course, Hawthorne was a great writer. His style is a little monotonous, but the matter is good. "The Marble Faun" is by far his best effort. I shall always regret that Hawthorne wrote the life of Franklin Pierce.
Walt Whitman will hold a high place among American writers. His poem on the death of Lincoln, entitled "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd," is the greatest ever written on this continent. He was a natural poet and wrote lines worthy of America. He was the poet of democracy and individuality, and of liberty. He was worthy of the great Republic.
Question. What about Henry George's books?
Answer. Henry George wrote a wonderful book and one that arrested the attention of the world—one of the greatest books of the century. While I do not believe in his destructive theories, I gladly pay a tribute to his sincerity and his genius.
Question. What do you think of Bellamy?
Answer. I do not think what is called nationalism of the Bellamy kind is making any particular progress in this country. We are believers in individual independence, and will be, I hope, forever.
Boston was at one time the literary center of the country, but the best writers are not living here now. The best novelists of our country are not far from Boston. Edgar Fawcett lives in New York. Howells was born, I believe, in Ohio, and Julian Hawthorne lives in New Jersey or in Long Island. Among the poets, James Whitcomb Riley is a native of Indiana, and he has written some of the daintiest and sweetest things in American literature. Edgar Fawcett is a great poet. His "Magic Flower" is as beautiful as anything Tennyson has ever written. Eugene Field of Chicago, has written some charming things, natural and touching.
Westward the star of literature takes its course.
—The Star, Kansas City, Mo., May 26, 1892.

INEBRIETY.*

     [* Published from notes found among Colonel Ingersoll's
     papers, evidently written soon after the discovery of the
     "Keeley Cure."]

Question. Do you consider inebriety a disease, or the result of diseased conditions?
Answer. I believe that by a long and continuous use of stimulants, the system gets in such a condition that it imperatively demands not only the usual, but an increased stimulant. After a time, every nerve becomes hungry, and there is in the body of the man a cry, coming from every nerve, for nourishment. There is a kind of famine, and unless the want is supplied, insanity is the result. This hunger of the nerves drowns the voice of reason—cares nothing for argument—nothing for experience—nothing for the sufferings of others—nothing for anything, except for the food it requires. Words are wasted, advice is of no possible use, argument is like reasoning with the dead. The man has lost the control of his will —it has been won over to the side of the nerves. He imagines that if the nerves are once satisfied he can then resume the control of himself. Of course, this is a mistake, and the more the nerves are satisfied, the more imperative is their demand. Arguments are not of the slightest force. The knowledge—the conviction—that the course pursued is wrong, has no effect. The man is in the grasp of appetite. He is like a ship at the mercy of wind and wave and tide. The fact that the needle of the compass points to the north has no effect—the compass is not a force—it cannot battle with the wind and tide—and so, in spite of the fact that the needle points to the north, the ship is stranded on the rocks.
So the fact that the man knows that he should not drink has not the slightest effect upon him. The sophistry of passion outweighs all that reason can urge. In other words, the man is the victim of disease, and until the disease is arrested, his will is not his own. He may wish to reform, but wish is not will. He knows all of the arguments in favor of temperance—he knows all about the distress of wife and child—all about the loss of reputation and character—all about the chasm toward which he is drifting—and yet, not being the master of himself, he goes with the tide.
For thousands of years society has sought to do away with inebriety by argument, by example, by law; and yet millions and millions have been carried away and countless thousands have become victims of alcohol. In this contest words have always been worthless, for the reason that no argument can benefit a man who has lost control of himself.
Question. As a lawyer, will you express an opinion as to the moral and legal responsibility of a victim of alcoholism?
Answer. Personally, I regard the moral and legal responsibility of all persons as being exactly the same. All persons do as they must. If you wish to change the conduct of an individual you must change his conditions—otherwise his actions will remain the same.
We are beginning to find that there is no effect without a cause, and that the conduct of individuals is not an exception to this law. Every hope, every fear, every dream, every virtue, every crime, has behind it an efficient cause. Men do neither right nor wrong by chance. In the world of fact and in the world of conduct, as well as in the world of imagination, there is no room, no place, for chance.
Question. In the case of an inebriate who has committed a crime, what do you think of the common judicial opinion that such a criminal is as deserving of punishment as a person not inebriated?
Answer. I see no difference. Believing as I do that all persons act as they must, it makes not the slightest difference whether the person so acting is what we call inebriated, or sane, or insane —he acts as he must.
There should be no such thing as punishment. Society should protect itself by such means as intelligence and humanity may suggest, but the idea of punishment is barbarous. No man ever was, no man ever will be, made better by punishment. Society should have two objects in view: First, the defence of itself, and second, the reformation of the so-called criminal.
The world has gone on fining, imprisoning, torturing and killing the victims of condition and circumstance, and condition and circumstance have gone on producing the same kind of men and women year after year and century after century—and all this is so completely within the control of cause and effect, within the scope and jurisdiction of universal law, that we can prophesy the number of criminals for the next year—the thieves and robbers and murderers —with almost absolute certainty.
There are just so many mistakes committed every year—so many crimes —so many heartless and foolish things done—and it does not seem to be—at least by the present methods—possible to increase or decrease the number.
We have thousands and thousands of pulpits, and thousands of moralists, and countless talkers and advisers, but all these sermons, and all the advice, and all the talk, seem utterly powerless in the presence of cause and effect. Mothers may pray, wives may weep, children may starve, but the great procession moves on.
For thousands of years the world endeavored to save itself from disease by ceremonies, by genuflections, by prayers, by an appeal to the charity and mercy of heaven—but the diseases flourished and the graveyards became populous, and all the ceremonies and all the prayers were without the slightest effect. We must at last recognize the fact, that not only life, but conduct, has a physical basis. We must at last recognize the fact that virtue and vice, genius and stupidity, are born of certain conditions.
Question. In which way do you think the reformation or reconstruction of the inebriate is to be effected—by punishment, by moral suasion, by seclusion, or by medical treatment?
Answer. In the first place, punishment simply increases the disease. The victim, without being able to give the reasons, feels that punishment is unjust, and thus feeling, the effect of the punishment cannot be good.
You might as well punish a man for having the consumption which he inherited from his parents, or for having a contagious disease which was given to him without his fault, as to punish him for drunkenness. No one wishes to be unhappy—no one wishes to destroy his own well-being. All persons prefer happiness to unhappiness, and success to failure, Consequently, you might as well punish a man for being unhappy, and thus increase his unhappiness, as to punish him for drunkenness. In neither case is he responsible for what he suffers.
Neither can you cure this man by what is called moral suasion. Moral suasion, if it amounts to anything, is the force of argument —that is to say, the result of presenting the facts to the victim. Now, of all persons in the world, the victim knows the facts. He knows not only the effect upon those who love him, but the effect upon himself. There are no words that can add to his vivid appreciation of the situation. There is no language so eloquent as the sufferings of his wife and children. All these things the drunkard knows, and knows perfectly, and knows as well as any other human being can know. At the same time, he feels that the tide and current of passion are beyond his power. He feels that he cannot row against the stream.
There is but one way, and that is, to treat the drunkard as the victim of a disease—treat him precisely as you would a man with a fever, as a man suffering from smallpox, or with some form of indigestion. It is impossible to talk a man out of consumption, or to reason him out of typhoid fever. You may tell him that he ought not to die, that he ought to take into consideration the condition in which he would leave his wife. You may talk to him about his children—the necessity of their being fed and educated —but all this will have nothing to do with the progress of the disease. The man does not wish to die—he wishes to live—and yet, there will come a time in his disease when even that wish to live loses its power to will, and the man drifts away on the tide, careless of life or death.
So it is with drink. Every nerve asks for a stimulant. Every drop of blood cries out for assistance, and in spite of all argument, in spite of all knowledge, in this famine of the nerves, a man loses the power of will. Reason abdicates the throne, and hunger takes its place.
Question. Will you state your reasons for your belief?
Answer. In the first place, I will give a reason for my unbelief in what is called moral suasion and in legislation.
As I said before, for thousands and thousands of years, fathers and mothers and daughters and sisters and brothers have been endeavoring to prevent the ones they love from drink, and yet, in spite of everything, millions have gone on and filled at last a drunkard's grave. So, societies have been formed all over the world. But the consumption of ardent spirits has steadily increased. Laws have been passed in nearly all the nations of the world upon the subject, and these laws, so far as I can see, have done but little, if any, good.
And the same old question is upon us now: What shall be done with the victims of drink? There have been probably many instances in which men have signed the pledge and have reformed. I do not say that it is not possible to reform many men, in certain stages, by moral suasion. Possibly, many men can be reformed in certain stages, by law; but the per cent. is so small that, in spite of that per cent., the average increases. For these reasons, I have lost confidence in legislation and in moral suasion. I do not say what legislation may do by way of prevention, or what moral suasion may do in the same direction, but I do say that after man have become the victims of alcohol, advice and law seem to have lost their force.
I believe that science is to become the savior of mankind. In other words, every appetite, every excess, has a physical basis, and if we only knew enough of the human system—of the tides and currents of thought and will and wish—enough of the storms of passion—if we only knew how the brain acts and operates—if we only knew the relation between blood and thought, between thought and act—if we only knew the conditions of conduct, then we could, through science, control the passions of the human race.
When I first heard of the cure of inebriety through scientific means, I felt that the morning star had risen in the east—I felt that at last we were finding solid ground. I did not accept—being of a skeptical turn of mind—all that I heard as true. I preferred to hope, and wait. I have waited, until I have seen men, the victims of alcohol, in the very gutter of disgrace and despair, lifted from the mire, rescued from the famine of desire, from the grasp of appetite. I have seen them suddenly become men—masters and monarchs of themselves.

MIRACLES, THEOSOPHY AND SPIRITUALISM.

Question. Do you believe that there is such a thing as a miracle, or that there has ever been?
Answer. Mr. Locke was in the habit of saying: "Define your terms." So the first question is, What is a miracle? If it is something wonderful, unusual, inexplicable, then there have been many miracles. If you mean simply that which is inexplicable, then the world is filled with miracles; but if you mean by a miracle, something contrary to the facts in nature, then it seems to me that the miracle must be admitted to be an impossibility. It is like twice two are eleven in mathematics.
If, again, we take the ground of some of the more advanced clergy, that a miracle is in accordance with the facts in nature, but with facts unknown to man, then we are compelled to say that a miracle is performed by a divine sleight-of-hand; as, for instance, that our senses are deceived; or, that it is perfectly simple to this higher intelligence, while inexplicable to us. If we give this explanation, then man has been imposed upon by a superior intelligence. It is as though one acquainted with the sciences—with the action of electricity—should excite the wonder of savages by sending messages to his partner. The savage would say, "A miracle;" but the one who sent the message would say, "There is no miracle; it is in accordance with facts in nature unknown to you." So that, after all, the word miracle grows in the soil of ignorance.
The question arises whether a superior intelligence ought to impose upon the inferior. I believe there was a French saint who had his head cut off by robbers, and this saint, after the robbers went away, got up, took his head under his arm and went on his way until he found friends to set it on right. A thing like this, if it really happened, was a miracle.
So it may be said that nothing is much more miraculous than the fact that intelligent men believe in miracles. If we read in the annals of China that several thousand years ago five thousand people were fed on one sandwich, and that several sandwiches were left over after the feast, there are few intelligent men—except, it may be, the editors of religious weeklies—who would credit the statement. But many intelligent people, reading a like story in the Hebrew, or in the Greek, or in a mistranslation from either of these languages, accept the story without a doubt.
So if we should find in the records of the Indians that a celebrated medicine-man of their tribe used to induce devils to leave crazy people and take up their abode in wild swine, very few people would believe the story.
I believe it is true that the priest of one religion has never had the slightest confidence in the priest of any other religion.
My own opinion is, that nature is just as wonderful one time as another; that that which occurs to-day is just as miraculous as anything that ever happened; that nothing is more wonderful than that we live—that we think—that we convey our thoughts by speech, by gestures, by pictures.
Nothing is more wonderful than the growth of grass—the production of seed—the bud, the blossom and the fruit. In other words, we are surrounded by the inexplicable.
All that happens in conformity with what we know, we call natural; and that which is said to have happened, not in conformity with what we know, we say is wonderful; and that which we believe to have happened contrary to what we know, we call the miraculous.
I think the truth is, that nothing ever happened except in a natural way; that behind every effect has been an efficient cause, and that this wondrous procession of causes and effects has never been, and never will be, broken. In other words, there is nothing superior to the universe—nothing that can interfere with this procession of causes and effects. I believe in no miracles in the theological sense. My opinion is that the universe is, forever has been, and forever will be, perfectly natural.
Whenever a religion has been founded among barbarians and ignorant people, the founder has appealed to miracle as a kind of credential —as an evidence that he is in partnership with some higher power. The credulity of savagery made this easy. But at last we have discovered that there is no necessary relation between the miraculous and the moral. Whenever a man's reason is developed to that point that he sees the reasonableness of a thing, he needs no miracle to convince him. It is only ignorance or cunning that appeals to the miraculous.
There is another thing, and that is this: Truth relies upon itself —that is to say, upon the perceived relation between itself and all other truths. If you tell the facts, you need not appeal to a miracle. It is only a mistake or a falsehood, that needs to be propped and buttressed by wonders and miracles.
Question. What is your explanation of the miracles referred to in the Old and New Testaments?
Answer. In the first place, a miracle cannot be explained. If it is a real miracle, there is no explanation. If it can be explained, then the miracle disappears, and the thing was done in accordance with the facts and forces of nature.
In a time when not one it may be in thousands could read or write, when language was rude, and when the signs by which thoughts were conveyed were few and inadequate, it was very easy to make mistakes, and nothing is more natural than for a mistake to grow into a miracle. In an ignorant age, history for the most part depended upon memory. It was handed down from the old in their dotage, to the young without judgment. The old always thought that the early days were wonderful—that the world was wearing out because they were. The past looked at through the haze of memory, became exaggerated, gigantic. Their fathers were stronger than they, and their grandfathers far superior to their fathers, and so on until they reached men who had the habit of living about a thousand years.
In my judgment, everything in the Old Testament contrary to the experience of the civilized world, is false. I do not say that those who told the stories knew that they were false, or that those who wrote them suspected that they were not true. Thousands and thousands of lies are told by honest stupidity and believed by innocent credulity. Then again, cunning takes advantage of ignorance, and so far as I know, though all the history of the world a good many people have endeavored to make a living without work.
I am perfectly convinced of the integrity of nature—that the elements are eternally the same—that the chemical affinities and hatreds know no shadow of turning—that just so many atoms of one kind combine with so many atoms of another, and that the relative numbers have never changed and never will change. I am satisfied that the attraction of gravitation is a permanent institution; that the laws of motion have been the same that they forever will be. There is no chance, there is no caprice. Behind every effect is a cause, and every effect must in its turn become a cause, and only that is produced which a cause of necessity produces.
Question. What do you think of Madame Blavatsky and her school of Theosophists? Do you believe Madame Blavatsky does or has done the wonderful things related of her? Have you seen or known of any Theosophical or esoteric marvels?
Answer. I think wonders are about the same in this country that they are in India, and nothing appears more likely to me simply because it is surrounded with the mist of antiquity. In my judgment, Madame Blavatsky has never done any wonderful things—that is to say, anything not in perfect accordance with the facts of nature.
I know nothing of esoteric marvels. In one sense, everything that exists is a marvel, and the probability is that if we knew the history of one grain of sand we would know the history of the universe. I regard the universe as a unit. Everything that happens is only a different aspect of that unit. There is no room for the marvelous—there is no space in which it can operate—there is no fulcrum for its lever. The universe is already occupied with the natural. The ground is all taken.
It may be that all these people are perfectly honest, and imagine that they have had wonderful experiences. I know but little of the Theosophists—but little of the Spiritualists. It has always seemed to me that the messages received by Spiritualists are remarkably unimportant—that they tell us but little about the other world, and just as little about this—that if all the messages supposed to have come from angelic lips, or spiritual lips, were destroyed, certainly the literature of the world would lose but little. Some of these people are exceedingly intelligent, and whenever they say any good thing, I imagine that it was produced in their brain, and that it came from no other world. I have no right to pass upon their honesty. Most of them may be sincere. It may be that all the founders of religions have really supposed themselves to be inspired—believed that they held conversations with angels and Gods. It seems to be easy for some people to get in such a frame of mind that their thoughts become realities, their dreams substances, and their very hopes palpable.
Personally, I have no sort of confidence in these messages from the other world. There may be mesmeric forces—there may be an odic force. It may be that some people can tell of what another is thinking. I have seen no such people—at least I am not acquainted with them—and my own opinion is that no such persons exist.
Question. Do you believe the spirits of the dead come back to earth?
Answer. I do not. I do not say that the spirits do not come back. I simply say that I know nothing on the subject. I do not believe in such spirits, simply for the reason that I have no evidence upon which to base such a belief. I do not say there are no such spirits, for the reason that my knowledge is limited, and I know of no way of demonstrating the non-existence of spirits.
It may be that man lives forever, and it may be that what we call life ends with what we call death. I have had no experience beyond the grave, and very little back of birth. Consequently, I cannot say that I have a belief on this subject. I can simply say that I have no knowledge on this subject, and know of no fact in nature that I would use as the corner-stone of a belief.
Question. Do you believe in the resurrection of the body?
Answer. My answer to that is about the same as to the other question. I do not believe in the resurrection of the body. It seems to me an exceedingly absurd belief—and yet I do not know. I am told, and I suppose I believe, that the atoms that are in me have been in many other people, and in many other forms of life, and I suppose at death the atoms forming my body go back to the earth and are used in countless forms. These facts, or what I suppose to be facts, render a belief in the resurrection of the body impossible to me.
We get atoms to support our body from what we eat. Now, if a cannibal should eat a missionary, and certain atoms belonging to the missionary should be used by the cannibal in his body, and the cannibal should then die while the atoms of the missionary formed part of his flesh, to whom would these atoms belong in the morning of the resurrection?
Then again, science teaches us that there is a kind of balance between animal and vegetable life, and that probably all men and all animals have been trees, and all trees have been animals; so that the probability is that the atoms that are now in us have been, as I said in the first place, in millions of other people. Now, if this be so, there cannot be atoms enough in the morning of the resurrection, because, if the atoms are given to the first men, that belonged to the first men when they died, there will certainly be no atoms for the last men.
Consequently, I am compelled to say that I do not believe in the resurrection of the body.*

     [* From notes found among Colonel Ingersoll's papers.]

TOLSTOY AND LITERATURE.

Question. What is your opinion of Count Leo Tolstoy?

Answer. I have read Tolstoy. He is a curious mixture of simplicity and philosophy. He seems to have been carried away by his conception of religion. He is a non-resistant to such a degree that he asserts that he would not, if attacked, use violence to preserve his own life or the life of a child. Upon this question he is undoubtedly insane.
So he is trying to live the life of a peasant and doing without the comforts of life! This is not progress. Civilization should not endeavor to bring about equality by making the rich poor or the comfortable miserable. This will not add to the pleasures of the rich, neither will it feed the hungry, not clothe the naked.
The civilized wealthy should endeavor to help the needy, and help them in a sensible way, not through charity, but through industry; through giving them opportunities to take care of themselves. I do not believe in the equality that is to be reached by pulling the successful down, but I do believe in civilization that tends to raise the fallen and assists those in need.
Should we all follow Tolstoy's example and live according to his philosophy the world would go back to barbarism; art would be lost; that which elevates and refines would be destroyed; the voice of music would become silent, and man would be satisfied with a rag, a hut, a crust. We do not want the equality of savages.
No, in civilization there must be differences, because there is a constant movement forward. The human race cannot advance in line. There will be pioneers, there will be the great army, and there will be countless stragglers. It is not necessary for the whole army to go back to the stragglers, it is better that the army should march forward toward the pioneers.
It may be that the sale of Tolstoy's works is on the increase in America, but certainly the principles of Tolstoy are gaining no foothold here. We are not a nation of non-resistants. We believe in defending our homes. Nothing can exceed the insanity of non- resistance. This doctrine leaves virtue naked and clothes vice in armor; it gives every weapon to the wrong and takes every shield from the right. I believe that goodness has the right of self- defence. As a matter of fact, vice should be left naked and virtue should have all the weapons. The good should not be a flock of sheep at the mercy of every wolf. So, I do not accept Tolstoy's theory of equality as a sensible solution of the labor problem.
The hope of this world is that men will become civilized to that degree that they cannot be happy while they know that thousands of their fellow-men are miserable.
The time will come when the man who dwells in a palace will not be happy if Want sits upon the steps at his door. No matter how well he is clothed himself he will not enjoy his robes if he sees others in rags, and the time will come when the intellect of this world will be directed by the heart of this world, and when men of genius and power will do what they can for the benefit of their fellow- men. All this is to come through civilization, through experience.
Men, after a time, will find the worthlessness of great wealth; they will find it is not splendid to excite envy in others. So, too, they will find that the happiness of the human race is so interdependent and so interwoven, that finally the interest of humanity will be the interest of the individual.
I know that at present the lives of many millions are practically without value, but in my judgment, the world is growing a little better every day. On the average, men have more comforts, better clothes, better food, more books and more of the luxuries of life than ever before.
Question. It is said that properly to appreciate Rousseau, Voltaire, Hugo and other French classics, a thorough knowledge of the French language is necessary. What is your opinion?
Answer. No; to say that a knowledge of French is necessary in order to appreciate Voltaire or Hugo is nonsensical. For a student anxious to study the works of these masters, to set to work to learn the language of the writers would be like my building a flight of stairs to go down to supper. The stairs are already there. Some other person built them for me and others who choose to use them.
Men have spent their lives in the study of the French and English, and have given us Voltaire, Hugo and all other works of French classics, perfect in sentiment and construction as the originals are. Macaulay was a great linguist, but he wrote no better than Shakespeare, and Burns wrote perfect English, though virtually uneducated. Good writing is a matter of genius and heart; reading is application and judgment.
I am of the opinion that Wilbur's English translation of "Les Miserables" is better than Hugo's original, as a literary masterpiece.
What a grand novel it is! What characters, Jean Valjean and Javert!
Question. Which in your opinion is the greatest English novel?
Answer. I think the greatest novel ever written in English is "A Tale of Two Cities," by Dickens. It is full of philosophy; its incidents are dramatically grouped. Sidney Carton, the hero, is a marvelous creation and a marvelous character. Lucie Manette is as delicate as the perfume of wild violets, and cell 105, North Tower, and scenes enacted there, almost touch the region occupied by "Lear." There, too, Mme. Defarge is the impersonation of the French Revolution, and the nobleman of the chateau with his fine features changed to stone, and the messenger at Tellson's Bank gnawing the rust from his nails; all there are the creations of genius, and these children of fiction will live as long as Imagination spreads her many-colored wings in the mind of man.
Question. What do you think of Pope?
Answer. Pope! Alexander Pope, the word-carpenter, a mechanical poet, or stay—rather a "digital poet;" that fits him best—one of those fellows who counts his fingers to see that his verse is in perfect rhythm. His "Essay on Man" strikes me as being particularly defective. For instance:

  "All discord, harmony not understood,
   All partial evil, universal good,"

from the first epistle of his "Essay on Man." Anything that is evil cannot by any means be good, and anything partial cannot be universal.
We see in libraries ponderous tomes labeled "Burke's Speeches." No person ever seems to read them, but he is now regarded as being in his day a great speaker, because now no one has pluck enough to read his speeches. Why, for thirty years Burke was known in Parliament as the "Dinner Bell"—whenever he rose to speak, everybody went to dinner.
—The Evening Express, Buffalo, New York, October 6, 1892.

WOMAN IN POLITICS.

Question. What do you think of the influence of women in politics?
Answer. I think the influence of women is always good in politics, as in everything else. I think it the duty of every woman to ascertain what she can in regard to her country, including its history, laws and customs. Woman above all others is a teacher. She, above all others, determines the character of children; that is to say, of men and women.
There is not the slightest danger of women becoming too intellectual or knowing too much. Neither is there any danger of men knowing too much. At least, I know of no men who are in immediate peril from that source. I am a firm believer in the equal rights of human beings, and no matter what I think as to what woman should or should not do, she has the same right to decide for herself that I have to decide for myself. If women wish to vote, if they wish to take part in political matters, if they wish to run for office, I shall do nothing to interfere with their rights. I most cheerfully admit that my political rights are only equal to theirs.
There was a time when physical force or brute strength gave pre- eminence. The savage chief occupied his position by virtue of his muscle, of his courage, on account of the facility with which he wielded a club. As long as nations depend simply upon brute force, the man, in time of war, is, of necessity, of more importance to the nation than woman, and as the dispute is to be settled by strength, by force, those who have the strength and force naturally settle it. As the world becomes civilized, intelligence slowly takes the place of force, conscience restrains muscle, reason enters the arena, and the gladiator retires.
A little while ago the literature of the world was produced by men, and men were not only the writers, but the readers. At that time the novels were coarse and vulgar. Now the readers of fiction are women, and they demand that which they can read, and the result is that women have become great writers. The women have changed our literature, and the change has been good.
In every field where woman has become a competitor of man she has either become, or given evidence that she is to become, his equal. My own opinion is that woman is naturally the equal of man and that in time, that is to say, when she has had the opportunity and the training, she will produce in the world of art as great pictures, as great statues, and in the world of literature as great books, dramas and poems as man has produced or will produce.
There is nothing very hard to understand in the politics of a country. The general principles are for the most part simple. It is only in the application that the complexity arises, and woman, I think, by nature, is as well fitted to understand these things as man. In short, I have no prejudice on this subject. At first, women will be more conservative than men; and this is natural. Women have, through many generations, acquired the habit of submission, of acquiescence. They have practiced what may be called the slave virtues—obedience, humility—so that some time will be required for them to become accustomed to the new order of things, to the exercise of greater freedom, acting in accordance with perceived obligation, independently of authority.
So I say equal rights, equal education, equal advantages. I hope that woman will not continue to be the serf of superstition; that she will not be the support of the church and priest; that she will not stand for the conservation of superstition, but that in the east of her mind the sun of progress will rise.
Question. In your lecture on Voltaire you made a remark about the government of ministers, and you stated that if the ministers of the city of New York had to power to make the laws most people would prefer to live in a well regulated penitentiary. What do you mean by this?
Answer. Well, as a rule, ministers are quite severe. They have little patience with human failures. They are taught, and they believe and they teach, that man is absolutely master of his own fate. Besides, they are believers in the inspiration of the Scriptures, and the laws of the Old Testament are exceedingly severe. Nearly every offence was punished by death. Every offence was regarded as treason against Jehovah.
In the Pentateuch there is no pity. If a man committed some offence justice was not satisfied with his punishment, but proceeded to destroy his wife and children. Jehovah seemed to think that crime was in the blood; that it was not sufficient to kill the criminal, but to prevent future crimes you should kill his wife and babes. The reading of the Old Testament is calculated to harden the heart, to drive the angel of pity from the breast, and to make man a religious savage. The clergy, as a rule, do not take a broad and liberal view of things. They judge every offence by what they consider would be the result if everybody committed the same offence. They do not understand that even vice creates obstructions for itself, and that there is something in the nature of crime the tendency of which is to defeat crime, and I might add in this place that the same seems to be true of excessive virtue. As a rule, the clergy clamor with great zeal for the execution of cruel laws.
Let me give an instance in point: In the time of George III., in England, there were two hundred and twenty-three offences punishable with death. From time to time this cruel code was changed by Act of Parliament, yet no bishop sitting in the House of Lords ever voted in favor of any one of these measures. The bishops always voted for death, for blood, against mercy and against the repeal of capital punishment. During all these years there were some twenty thousand or more of the established clergy, and yet, according to John Bright, no voice was ever raised in any English pulpit against the infamous criminal code.
Another thing: The orthodox clergy teach that man is totally depraved; that his inclination is evil; that his tendency is toward the Devil. Starting from this as a foundation, of course every clergyman believes every bad thing said of everybody else. So, when some man is charged with a crime, the clergyman taking into consideration the fact that the man is totally depraved, takes it for granted that he must be guilty. I am not saying this for the purpose of exciting prejudice against the clergy. I am simply showing what is the natural result of a certain creed, of a belief in universal depravity, or a belief in the power and influence of a personal Devil. If the clergy could have their own way they would endeavor to reform the world by law. They would re-enact the old statutes of the Puritans. Joy would be a crime. Love would be an offence. Every man with a smile on his face would be suspected, and a dimple in the cheek would be a demonstration of depravity.
In the trial of a cause it is natural for a clergyman to start with the proposition, "The defendant is guilty;" and then he says to himself, "Let him prove himself innocent." The man who has not been poisoned with the creed starts out with the proposition, "The defendant is innocent; let the State prove that he is guilty." Consequently, I say that if I were defending a man whom I knew to be innocent, I would not have a clergyman on the jury if I could help it.
—New York Advertiser, December 24, 1893.

SPIRITUALISM.

Question. Have you investigated Spiritualism, and what has been your experience?
Answer. A few years ago I paid some attention to what is called Spiritualism, and was present when quite mysterious things were supposed to have happened. The most notable seance that I attended was given by Slade, at which slate-writing was done. Two slates were fastened together, with a pencil between them, and on opening the slates certain writing was found. When the writing was done it was impossible to tell. So, I have been present when it was claimed that certain dead people had again clothed themselves in flesh and were again talking in the old way. In one instance, I think, George Washington claimed to be present. On the same evening Shakespeare put in an appearance. It was hard to recognize Shakespeare from what the spirit said, still I was assured by the medium that there was no mistake as to the identity.
Question. Can you offer any explanation of the extraordinary phenomena such as Henry J. Newton has had produced at his own house under his own supervision?
Answer. In the first place, I don't believe that anything such as you describe has ever happened. I do not believe that a medium ever passed into and out of a triple-locked iron cage. Neither do I believe that any spirits were able to throw shoes and wraps out of the cage; neither do I believe that any apparitions ever rose from the floor, or that anything you relate has ever happened. The best explanation I can give of these wonderful occurrences is the following: A little boy and girl were standing in a doorway holding hands. A gentleman passing, stopped for a moment and said to the little girl: "What relation is the little boy to you?" and she replied, "We had the same father and we had the same mother, but I am not his sister and he is not my brother." This at first seemed to be quite a puzzle, but it was exceedingly plain when the answer was known: The little girl lied.
Question. Have you had any experience with spirit photography, spirit physicians, or spirit lawyers?
Answer. I was shown at one time several pictures said to be the photographs of living persons surrounded by the photographs of spirits. I examined them very closely, and I found evidence in the photographs themselves that they were spurious. I took it for granted that light is the same everywhere, and that it obeys the angle of incidence in all worlds and at all times. In looking at the spirit photographs I found, for instance, that in the photograph of the living person the shadows fell to the right, and that in the photographs of the ghosts, or spirits, supposed to have been surrounding the living person at the time the picture was taken, the shadows did not fall in the same direction, sometimes in the opposite direction, never at the same angle even when the general direction was the same. This demonstrated that the photographs of the spirits and of the living persons were not taken at the same time. So much for photographs.
I have had no experience with spirit physicians. I was once told by a lawyer who came to employ me in a will case, that a certain person had made a will giving a large amount of money for the purpose of spreading the gospel of Spiritualism, but that the will had been lost and than an effort was then being made to find it, and they wished me to take certain action pending the search, and wanted my assistance. I said to him: "If Spiritualism be true, why not ask the man who made the will what it was and also what has become of it. If you can find that out from the departed, I will gladly take a retainer in the case; otherwise, I must decline." I have had no other experience with the lawyers.
Question. If you were to witness phenomena that seemed inexplicable by natural laws, would you be inclined to favor Spiritualism?
Answer. I would not. If I should witness phenomena that I could not explain, I would leave the phenomena unexplained. I would not explain them because I did not understand them, and say they were or are produced by spirits. That is no explanation, and, after admitting that we do not know and that we cannot explain, why should we proceed to explain? I have seen Mr. Kellar do things for which I cannot account. Why should I say that he has the assistance of spirits? All I have a right to say is that I know nothing about how he does them. So I am compelled to say with regard to many spiritualistic feats, that I am ignorant of the ways and means. At the same time, I do not believe that there is anything supernatural in the universe.
Question. What is your opinion of Spiritualism and Spiritualists?
Answer. I think the Spiritualism of the present day is certainly in advance of the Spiritualism of several centuries ago. Persons who now deny Spiritualism and hold it in utter contempt insist that some eighteen or nineteen centuries ago it had possession of the world; that miracles were of daily occurrence; that demons, devils, fiends, took possession of human beings, lived in their bodies, dominated their minds. They believe, too, that devils took possession of the bodies of animals. They also insist that a wish could multiply fish. And, curiously enough, the Spiritualists of our time have but little confidence in the phenomena of eighteen hundred years ago; and, curiously enough, those who believe in the Spiritualism of eighteen hundred years ago deny the Spiritualism of to-day. I think the Spiritualists of to-day have far more evidence of their phenomena than those who believe in the wonderful things of eighteen centuries ago. The Spiritualists of to-day have living witnesses, which is something. I know a great many Spiritualists that are exceedingly good people, and are doing what they can to make the world better. But I think they are mistaken.
Question. Do you believe in spirit entities, whether manifestible or not?
Answer. I believe there is such a thing as matter. I believe there is a something called force. The difference between force and matter I do not know. So there is something called consciousness. Whether we call consciousness an entity or not makes no difference as to what it really is. There is something that hears, sees and feels, a something that takes cognizance of what happens in what we call the outward world. No matter whether we call this something matter or spirit, it is something that we do not know, to say the least of it, all about. We cannot understand what matter is. It defies us, and defies definitions. So, with what we call spirit, we are in utter ignorance of what it is. We have some little conception of what we mean by it, and of what others mean, but as to what it really is no one knows. It makes no difference whether we call ourselves Materialists or Spiritualists, we believe in all there is, no matter what you call it. If we call it all matter, then we believe that matter can think and hope and dream. If we call it all spirit, then we believe that spirit has force, that it offers a resistance; in other words, that it is, in one of its aspects, what we call matter. I cannot believe that everything can be accounted for by motion or by what we call force, because there is something that recognizes force. There is something that compares, that thinks, that remembers; there is something that suffers and enjoys; there is something that each one calls himself or herself, that is inexplicable to himself or herself, and it makes no difference whether we call this something mind or soul, effect or entity, it still eludes us, and all the words we have coined for the purpose of expressing our knowledge of this something, after all, express only our desire to know, and our efforts to ascertain. It may be that if we would ask some minister, some one who has studied theology, he would give us a perfect definition. The scientists know nothing about it, and I know of no one who does, unless it be a theologian.
—The Globe-Democrat, St. Louis, Mo., 1893.

PLAYS AND PLAYERS.

Chatham Street Theater, New York City, N. Y., where Robert G. Ingersoll was baptized in 1836 by his father, the Rev. John Ingersoll, who temporarily preached at the theatre, his church having been destroyed by fire.
Question. What place does the theatre hold among the arts?
Answer. Nearly all the arts unite in the theatre, and it is the result of the best, the highest, the most artistic, that man can do.
In the first place, there must be the dramatic poet. Dramatic poetry is the subtlest, profoundest, the most intellectual, the most passionate and artistic of all. Then the stage must be prepared, and there is work for the architect, the painter and sculptor. Then the actors appear, and they must be gifted with imagination, with a high order of intelligence; they must have sympathies quick and deep, natures capable of the greatest emotion, dominated by passion. They must have impressive presence, and all that is manly should meet and unite in the actor; all that is womanly, tender, intense and admirable should be lavishly bestowed on the actress. In addition to all this, actors should have the art of being natural.
Let me explain what I mean by being natural. When I say that an actor is natural, I mean that he appears to act in accordance with his ideal, in accordance with his nature, and that he is not an imitator or a copyist—that he is not made up of shreds and patches taken from others, but that all he does flows from interior fountains and is consistent with his own nature, all having in a marked degree the highest characteristics of the man. That is what I mean by being natural.
The great actor must be acquainted with the heart, must know the motives, ends, objects and desires that control the thoughts and acts of men. He must be familiar with many people, including the lowest and the highest, so that he may give to others, clothed with flesh and blood, the characters born of the poet's brain. The great actor must know the relations that exist between passion and voice, gesture and emphasis, expression and pose. He must speak not only with his voice, but with his body. The great actor must be master of many arts.
Then comes the musician. The theatre has always been the home of music, and this music must be appropriate; must, or should, express or supplement what happens on the stage; should furnish rest and balm for minds overwrought with tragic deeds. To produce a great play, and put it worthily upon the stage, involves most arts, many sciences and nearly all that is artistic, poetic and dramatic in the mind of man.
Question. Should the drama teach lessons and discuss social problems, or should it give simply intellectual pleasure and furnish amusement?
Answer. Every great play teaches many lessons and touches nearly all social problems. But the great play does this by indirection. Every beautiful thought is a teacher; every noble line speaks to the brain and heart. Beauty, proportion, melody suggest moral beauty, proportion in conduct and melody in life. In a great play the relations of the various characters, their objects, the means adopted for their accomplishment, must suggest, and in a certain sense solve or throw light on many social problems, so that the drama teaches lessons, discusses social problems and gives intellectual pleasure.
The stage should not be dogmatic; neither should its object be directly to enforce a moral. The great thing for the drama to do, and the great thing it has done, and is doing, is to cultivate the imagination. This is of the utmost importance. The civilization of man depends upon the development, not only of the intellect, but of the imagination. Most crimes of violence are committed by people who are destitute of imagination. People without imagination make most of the cruel and infamous creeds. They were the persecutors and destroyers of their fellow-men. By cultivating the imagination, the stage becomes one of the greatest teachers. It produces the climate in which the better feelings grow; it is the home of the ideal. All beautiful things tend to the civilization of man. The great statues plead for proportion in life, the great symphonies suggest the melody of conduct, and the great plays cultivate the heart and brain.
Question. What do you think of the French drama as compared with the English, morally and artistically considered?
Answer. The modern French drama, so far as I am acquainted with it, is a disease. It deals with the abnormal. It is fashioned after Balzac. It exhibits moral tumors, mental cancers and all kinds of abnormal fungi,—excrescences. Everything is stood on its head; virtue lives in the brothel; the good are the really bad and the worst are, after all, the best. It portrays the exceptional, and mistakes the scum-covered bayou for the great river. The French dramatists seem to think that the ceremony of marriage sows the seed of vice. They are always conveying the idea that the virtuous are uninteresting, rather stupid, without sense and spirit enough to take advantage of their privilege. Between the greatest French plays and the greatest English plays of course there is no comparison. If a Frenchman had written the plays of Shakespeare, Desdemona would have been guilty, Isabella would have ransomed her brother at the Duke's price, Juliet would have married the County Paris, run away from him, and joined Romeo in Mantua, and Miranda would have listened coquettishly to the words of Caliban. The French are exceedingly artistic. They understand stage effects, love the climax, delight in surprises, especially in the improbable; but their dramatists lack sympathy and breadth of treatment. They are provincial. With them France is the world. They know little of other countries. Their plays do not touch the universal.
Question. What are your feelings in reference to idealism on the stage?
Answer. The stage ought to be the home of the ideal; in a word, the imagination should have full sway. The great dramatist is a creator; he is the sovereign, and governs his own world. The realist is only a copyist. He does not need genius. All he wants is industry and the trick of imitation. On the stage, the real should be idealized, the ordinary should be transfigured; that is, the deeper meaning of things should be given. As we make music of common air, and statues of stone, so the great dramatist should make life burst into blossom on the stage. A lot of words, facts, odds and ends divided into acts and scenes do not make a play. These things are like old pieces of broken iron that need the heat of the furnace so that they may be moulded into shape. Genius is that furnace, and in its heat and glow and flame these pieces, these fragments, become molten and are cast into noble and heroic forms. Realism degrades and impoverishes the stage.
Question. What attributes should an actor have to be really great?
Answer. Intelligence, imagination, presence; a mobile and impressive face; a body that lends itself to every mood in appropriate pose, one that is oak or willow, at will; self-possession; absolute ease; a voice capable of giving every shade of meaning and feeling, an intuitive knowledge or perception of proportion, and above all, the actor should be so sincere that he loses himself in the character he portrays. Such an actor will grow intellectually and morally. The great actor should strive to satisfy himself—to reach his own ideal.
Question. Do you enjoy Shakespeare more in the library than Shakespeare interpreted by actors now on the boards?
Answer. I enjoy Shakespeare everywhere. I think it would give me pleasure to hear those wonderful lines spoken even by phonographs. But Shakespeare is greatest and best when grandly put upon the stage. There you know the connection, the relation, the circumstances, and these bring out the appropriateness and the perfect meaning of the text. Nobody in this country now thinks of Hamlet without thinking of Booth. For this generation at least, Booth is Hamlet. It is impossible for me to read the words of Sir Toby without seeing the face of W. F. Owen. Brutus is Davenport, Cassius is Lawrence Barrett, and Lear will be associated always in my mind with Edwin Forrest. Lady Macbeth is to me Adelaide Ristori, the greatest actress I ever saw. If I understood music perfectly, I would much rather hear Seidl's orchestra play "Tristan," or hear Remenyi's matchless rendition of Schubert's "Ave Maria," than to read the notes.
Most people love the theatre. Everything about it from stage to gallery attracts and fascinates. The mysterious realm, behind the scenes, from which emerge kings and clowns, villains and fools, heroes and lovers, and in which they disappear, is still a fairyland. As long as man is man he will enjoy the love and laughter, the tears and rapture of the mimic world.
Question. Is it because we lack men of genius or because our life is too material that no truly great American plays have been written?
Answer. No great play has been written since Shakespeare; that is, no play has been written equal to his. But there is the same reason for that in all other countries, including England, that there is in this country, and that reason is that Shakespeare has had no equal.
America has not failed because life in the Republic is too material. Germany and France, and, in fact, all other nations, have failed in the same way. In the sense in which I am speaking, Germany has produced no great play.
In the dramatic world Shakespeare stands alone. Compared with him, even the classic is childish.
There is plenty of material for plays. The Republic has lived a great play—a great poem—a most marvelous drama. Here, on our soil, have happened some of the greatest events in the history of the world.
All human passions have been and are in full play here, and here as elsewhere, can be found the tragic, the comic, the beautiful, the poetic, the tears, the smiles, the lamentations and the laughter that are the necessary warp and woof with which to weave the living tapestries that we call plays.
We are beginning. We have found that American plays must be American in spirit. We are tired of imitations and adaptations. We want plays worthy of the great Republic. Some good work has recently been done, giving great hope for the future. Of course the realistic comes first; afterward the ideal. But here in America, as in all other lands, love is the eternal passion that will forever hold the stage. Around that everything else will move. It is the sun. All other passions are secondary. Their orbits are determined by the central force from which they receive their light and meaning.
Love, however, must be kept pure.
The great dramatist is, of necessity, a believer in virtue, in honesty, in courage and in the nobility of human nature. He must know that there are men and women that even a God could not corrupt; such knowledge, such feeling, is the foundation, and the only foundation, that can support the splendid structure, the many pillared stories and the swelling dome of the great drama.
—The New York Dramatic Mirror, December 26, 1891.

WOMAN.

It takes a hundred men to make an encampment, but one woman can make a home. I not only admire woman as the most beautiful object ever created, but I reverence her as the redeeming glory of humanity, the sanctuary of all the virtues, the pledge of all perfect qualities of heart and head. It is not just or right to lay the sins of men at the feet of women. It is because women are so much better than men that their faults are considered greater.
The one thing in this world that is constant, the one peak that rises above all clouds, the one window in which the light forever burns, the one star that darkness cannot quench, is woman's love. It rises to the greatest heights, it sinks to the lowest depths, it forgives the most cruel injuries. It is perennial of life, and grows in every climate. Neither coldness nor neglect, harshness nor cruelty, can extinguish it. A woman's love is the perfume of the heart.
This is the real love that subdues the earth; the love that has wrought all the miracles of art, that gives us music all the way from the cradle song to the grand closing symphony that bears the soul away on wings of fire. A love that is greater than power, sweeter than life and stronger than death.

STRIKES, EXPANSION AND OTHER SUBJECTS.

Question. What have you to say in regard to the decision of Judge Billings in New Orleans, that strikes which interfere with interstate commerce, are illegal?
Answer. As a rule, men have a right to quit work at any time unless there is some provision to the contrary in their contracts. They have not the right to prevent other men from taking their places. Of course I do not mean by this that strikers may not use persuasion and argument to prevent other men from filling their places. All blacklisting and refusing to work with other men is illegal and punishable. Of course men may conspire to quit work, but how is it to be proved? One man can quit, or five hundred men can quit together, and nothing can prevent them. The decisions of Judge Ricks and Judge Billings are an acknowledgment, at least, of the principle of public control or regulation of railroads and of commerce generally. The railroads, which run for private profit, are public carriers, and the public has a vested interest in them as such. The same principle applies to the commerce of the country and can be dealt with by the courts in the same way. It is unlikely, however, that Judge Billings' decision will have any lasting effect upon organized labor. Law cannot be enforced against such vast numbers of people, especially when they have the general sympathy. Nearly all strikes have been illegal, but the numbers involved have made the courts powerless.
Question. Are you in favor of the annexation of Canada?
Answer. Yes, if Canada is. We do not want that country unless that country wants us. I do not believe it to the interests of Canada to remain a province. Canada should either be an independent nation, or a part of a nation. Now Canada is only a province—with no career—with nothing to stimulate either patriotism or great effort. Yes, I hope that Canada will be annexed.
By all means annex the Sandwich Islands, too. I believe in territorial expansion. A prosperous farmer wants the land next him, and a prosperous nation ought to grow. I believe that we ought to hold the key to the Pacific and its commerce. We want to be prepared at all points to defend our interests from the greed and power of England.
We are going to have a navy, and we want that navy to be of use in protecting our interests the world over. And we want interests to protect.
It is a splendid feeling—this feeling of growth. By the annexation of these islands we open new avenues to American adventure, and the tendency is to make our country greater and stronger. The West Indian Islands ought to be ours, and some day our flag will float there. This country must not stop growing.
Question. Is the spirit of patriotism declining in America?
Answer. There has been no decline in the spirit of American patriotism; in fact, it has increased rather then otherwise as the nation has grown older, stronger, more prosperous, more glorious. If there were occasion to demonstrate the truth of this statement it would be quickly demonstrated. Let an attack be made upon the American flag, and you will very quickly find out how genuine is the patriotic spirit of Americans.
I do not think either that there has been a decline in the celebration of the Fourth of July. The day is probably not celebrated with as much burning of gunpowder and shooting of fire crackers in the large cities as formerly, but it is celebrated with as much enthusiasm as ever all through the West, and the feeling of rejoicing over the anniversary of the day is as great and strong as ever. The people are tired of celebrating with a great noise and I am glad of it.
Question. What do you think of the Congress of Religions, to be held in Chicago during the World's Fair?
Answer. It will do good, if they will honestly compare their creeds so that each one can see just how foolish all the rest are. They ought to compare their sacred books, and their miracles, and their mythologies, and if they do so they will probably see that ignorance is the mother of them all. Let them have a Congress, by all means, and let them show how priests live on the labor of those they deceive. It will do good.
Question. Do you think that Cleveland's course as to appointments has strengthened him with the people?
Answer. Patronage is a two-edged sword with very little handle. It takes an exceedingly clever President to strengthen himself by its exercise. When a man is running for President the twenty men in every town who expect to be made postmaster are for him heart and soul. Only one can get the office, and the nineteen who do not, feel outraged, and the lucky one is mad on account of the delay. So twenty friends are lost with one place.
Question. Is the Age of Chivalry dead?
Answer. The "Age of Chivalry" never existed except in the imagination. The Age of Chivalry was the age of cowardice and crime.
There is more chivalry to-day than ever. Men have a better, a clearer idea of justice, and pay their debts better, and treat their wives and children better than ever before. The higher and better qualities of the soul have more to do with the average life. To-day men have greater admiration and respect for women, greater regard for the social and domestic obligations than their fathers had.
Question. What led you to begin lecturing on your present subject, and what was your first lecture?
Answer. My first lecture was entitled "Progress." I began lecturing because I thought the creeds of the orthodox church false and horrible, and because I thought the Bible cruel and absurd, and because I like intellectual liberty.
—New York, May 5, 1893.

SUNDAY A DAY OF PLEASURE.

Question. What do you think of the religious spirit that seeks to regulate by legislation the manner in which the people of this country shall spend their Sundays?
Answer. The church is not willing to stand alone, not willing to base its influence on reason and on the character of its members. It seeks the aid of the State. The cross is in partnership with the sword. People should spend Sundays as they do other days; that is to say, as they please. No one has the right to do anything on Monday that interferes with the rights of his neighbors, and everyone has the right to do anything he pleases on Sunday that does not interfere with the rights of his neighbors. Sunday is a day of rest, not of religion. We are under obligation to do right on all days.
Nothing can be more absurd than the idea that any particular space of time is sacred. Everything in nature goes on the same on Sunday as on other days, and if beyond nature there be a God, then God works on Sunday as he does on all other days. There is no rest in nature. There is perpetual activity in every possible direction. The old idea that God made the world and then rested, is idiotic. There were two reasons given to the Hebrews for keeping the Sabbath —one because Jehovah rested on that day, the other because the Hebrews were brought out of Egypt. The first reason, we know, is false, and the second reason is good only for the Hebrews. According to the Bible, Sunday, or rather the Sabbath, was not for the world, but for the Hebrews, and the Hebrews alone. Our Sunday is pagan and is the day of the sun, as Monday is the day of the moon. All our day names are pagan. I am opposed to all Sunday legislation.
Question. Why should Sunday be observed otherwise than as a day of recreation?
Answer. Sunday is a day of recreation, or should be; a day for the laboring man to rest, a day to visit museums and libraries, a day to look at pictures, a day to get acquainted with your wife and children, a day for poetry and art, a day on which to read old letters and to meet friends, a day to cultivate the amenities of life, a day for those who live in tenements to feel the soft grass beneath their feet. In short, Sunday should be a day of joy. The church endeavors to fill it with gloom and sadness, with stupid sermons and dyspeptic theology.
Nothing could be more cowardly than the effort to compel the observance of the Sabbath by law. We of America have outgrown the childishness of the last century; we laugh at the superstitions of our fathers. We have made up our minds to be as happy as we can be, knowing that the way to be happy is to make others so, that the time to be happy is now, whether that now is Sunday or any other day in the week.
Question. Under a Federal Constitution guaranteeing civil and religious liberty, are the so-called "Blue Laws" constitutional?
Answer. No, they are not. But the probability is that the Supreme Courts of most of the States would decide the other way. And yet all these laws are clearly contrary to the spirit of the Federal Constitution and the constitutions of most of the States.
I hope to live until all these foolish laws are repealed and until we are in the highest and noblest sense a free people. And by free I mean each having the right to do anything that does not interfere with the rights or with the happiness of another. I want to see the time when we live for this world and when all shall endeavor to increase, by education, by reason, and by persuasion, the sum of human happiness.
—New York Times, July 21, 1893.

THE PARLIAMENT OF RELIGIONS.

Question. The Parliament of Religions was called with a view to discussing the great religions of the world on the broad platform of tolerance. Supposing this to have been accomplished, what effect is it likely to have on the future of creeds?
Answer. It was a good thing to get the representatives of all creeds to meet and tell their beliefs. The tendency, I think, is to do away with prejudice, with provincialism, with egotism. We know that the difference between the great religions, so far as belief is concerned, amounts to but little. Their gods have different names, but in other respects they differ but little. They are all cruel and ignorant.
Question. Do you think likely that the time is coming when all the religions of the world will be treated with the liberality that is now characterizing the attitude of one sect toward another in Christendom?
Answer. Yes, because I think that all religions will be found to be of equal authority, and because I believe that the supernatural will be discarded and that man will give up his vain and useless efforts to get back of nature—to answer the questions of whence and whither? As a matter of fact, the various sects do not love one another. The keenest hatred is religious hatred. The most malicious malice is found in the hearts of those who love their enemies.
Question. Bishop Newman, in replying to a learned Buddhist at the Parliament of Religions, said that Buddhism had given to the world no helpful literature, no social system, and no heroic virtues. Is this true?
Answer. Bishop Newman is a very prejudiced man. Probably he got his information from the missionaries. Buddha was undoubtedly a great teacher. Long before Christ lived Buddha taught the brotherhood of man. He said that intelligence was the only lever capable of raising mankind. His followers, to say the least of them, are as good as the followers of Christ. Bishop Newman is a Methodist—a follower of John Wesley—and he has the prejudices of the sect to which he belongs. We must remember that all prejudices are honest.
Question. Is Christian society, or rather society in Christian countries, cursed with fewer robbers, assassins, and thieves, proportionately, then countries where "heathen" religions predominate?
Answer. I think not. I do not believe that there are more lynchings, more mob murders in India or Turkey or Persia than in some Christian States of the great Republic. Neither will you find more train robbers, more forgers, more thieves in heathen lands than in Christian countries. Here the jails are full, the penitentiaries are crowded, and the hangman is busy. All over Christendom, as many assert, crime is on the increase, going hand in hand with poverty. The truth is, that some of the wisest and best men are filled with apprehension for the future, but I believe in the race and have confidence in man.
Question. How can society be so reconstructed that all this horrible suffering, resultant from poverty and its natural associate, crime, may be abolished, or at least reduced to a minimum?
Answer. In the first place we should stop supporting the useless. The burden of superstition should be taken from the shoulders of industry. In the next place men should stop bowing to wealth instead of worth. Men should be judged by what they do, by what they are, instead of by the property they have. Only those able to raise and educate children should have them. Children should be better born—better educated. The process of regeneration will be slow, but it will be sure. The religion of our day is supported by the worst, by the most dangerous people in society. I do not allude to murderers or burglars, or even to the little thieves. I mean those who debauch courts and legislatures and elections— those who make millions by legal fraud.
Question. What do you think of the Theosophists? Are they sincere—have they any real basis for their psychological theories?
Answer. The Theosophists may be sincere. I do not know. But I am perfectly satisfied that their theories are without any foundation in fact—that their doctrines are as unreal as their "astral bodies," and as absurd as a contradiction in mathematics. We have had vagaries and theories enough. We need the religion of the real, the faith that rests on fact. Let us turn our attention to this world—the world in which we live.
—New York Herald, September, 1893.

CLEVELAND'S HAWAIIAN POLICY.

Question. Colonel, what do you think about Mr. Cleveland's Hawaiian policy?
Answer. I think it exceedingly laughable and a little dishonest —with the further fault that it is wholly unconstitutional. This is not a one-man Government, and while Liliuokalani may be Queen, Cleveland is certainly not a king. The worst thing about the whole matter, as it appears to me, is the bad faith that was shown by Mr. Cleveland—the double-dealing. He sent Mr. Willis as Minister to the Provisional Government and by that act admitted the existence, and the rightful existence, of the Provisional Government of the Sandwich Islands.
When Mr. Willis started he gave him two letters. One was addressed to Dole, President of the Provisional Government, in which he addressed Dole as "Great and good friend," and at the close, being a devout Christian, he asked "God to take care of Dole." This was the first letter. The letter of one President to another; of one friend to another. The second letter was addressed to Mr. Willis, in which Mr. Willis was told to upset Dole at the first opportunity and put the deposed Queen back on her throne. This may be diplomacy, but it is no kin to honesty.
In my judgment, it is the worst thing connected with the Hawaiian affair. What must "the great and good" Dole think of our great and good President? What must other nations think when they read the two letters and mentally exclaim, "Look upon this and then upon that?" I think Mr. Cleveland has acted arrogantly, foolishly, and unfairly. I am in favor of obtaining the Sandwich Islands—of course by fair means. I favor this policy because I want my country to become a power in the Pacific. All my life I have wanted this country to own the West Indies, the Bermudas, the Bahamas and Barbadoes. They are our islands. They belong to this continent, and for any other nation to take them or claim them was, and is, a piece of impertinence and impudence.
So I would like to see the Sandwich Islands annexed to the United States. They are a good way from San Francisco and our Western shore, but they are nearer to us than they are to any other nation. I think they would be of great importance. They would tend to increase the Asiatic trade, and they certainly would be important in case of war. We should have fortifications on those islands that no naval power could take.
Some objection has been made on the ground that under our system the people of those islands would have to be represented in Congress. I say yes, represented by a delegate until the islands become a real part of the country, and by that time, there would be several hundred thousand Americans living there, capable of sending over respectable members of Congress.
Now, I think that Mr. Cleveland has made a very great mistake. First, I think he was mistaken as to the facts in the Sandwich Islands; second, as to the Constitution of the United States, and thirdly, as to the powers of the President of the United States.
Question. In your experience as a lawyer what was the most unique case in which you were ever engaged?
Answer. The Star Route trial. Every paper in the country, but one, was against the defence, and that one was a little sheet owned by one of the defendants. I received a note from a man living in a little town in Ohio criticizing me for defending the accused. In reply I wrote that I supposed he was a sensible man and that he, of course, knew what he was talking about when he said the accused were guilty; that the Government needed just such men as he, and that he should come to the trial at once and testify. The man wrote back: "Dear Colonel: I am a —— fool."
Question. Will the church and the stage ever work together for the betterment of the world, and what is the province of each?
Answer. The church and stage will never work together. The pulpit pretends that fiction is fact. The stage pretends that fiction is fact. The pulpit pretence is dishonest—that of the stage is sincere. The actor is true to art, and honestly pretends to be what he is not. The actor is natural, if he is great, and in this naturalness is his truth and his sincerity. The pulpit is unnatural, and for that reason untrue. The pulpit is for another world, the stage for this. The stage is good because it is natural, because it portrays real and actual life; because "it holds the mirror up to nature." The pulpit is weak because it too often belittles and demeans this life; because it slanders and calumniates the natural and is the enemy of joy.
—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago, February 2, 1894.

ORATORS AND ORATORY.*

     [* It was at his own law office in New York City that I had
     my talk with that very notable American, Col. Robert G.
     Ingersoll.  "Bob" Ingersoll, Americans call him
     affectionately; in a company of friends it is "The Colonel."

     A more interesting personality it would be hard to find, and
     those who know even a little of him will tell you that a
     bigger-hearted man probably does not live.  Suppose a well-
     knit frame, grown stouter than it once was, and a fine,
     strong face, with a vivid gleam in the eyes, a deep,
     uncommonly musical voice, clear cut, decisive, and a manner
     entirely delightful, yet tinged with a certain reserve.
     Introduce a smoking cigar, the smoke rising in little curls
     and billows, then imagine a rugged sort of picturesqueness
     in dress, and you get, not by any means the man, but, still,
     some notion of "Bob" Ingersoll.

     Colonel Ingersoll stands at the front of American orators.
     The natural thing, therefore, was that I should ask him—a
     master in the art—about oratory.  What he said I shall give
     in his own words precisely as I took them down from his
     lips, for in the case of such a good commander of the old
     English tongue that is of some importance.  But the
     wonderful limpidness, the charming pellucidness of Ingersoll
     can only be adequately understood when you also have the
     finishing touch of his facile voice.]

Question. I should be glad if you would tell me what you think the differences are between English and American oratory?
Answer. There is no difference between the real English and the real American orator. Oratory is the same the world over. The man who thinks on his feet, who has the pose of passion, the face that thought illumines, a voice in harmony with the ideals expressed, who has logic like a column and poetry like a vine, who transfigures the common, dresses the ideals of the people in purple and fine linen, who has the art of finding the best and noblest in his hearers, and who in a thousand ways creates the climate in which the best grows and flourishes and bursts into blossom—that man is an orator, no matter of what time, of what country.
Question. If you were to compare individual English and American orators—recent or living orators in particular—what would you say?
Answer. I have never heard any of the great English speakers, and consequently can pass no judgment as to their merits, except such as depends on reading. I think, however, the finest paragraph ever uttered in Great Britain was by Curran in his defence of Rowan. I have never read one of Mr. Gladstone's speeches, only fragments. I think he lacks logic. Bright was a great speaker, but he lacked imagination and the creative faculty. Disræli spoke for the clubs, and his speeches were artificial. We have had several fine speakers in America. I think that Thomas Corwin stands at the top of the natural orators. Sergeant S. Prentiss, the lawyer, was a very great talker; Henry Ward Beecher was the greatest orator that the pulpit has produced. Theodore Parker was a great orator. In this country, however, probably Daniel Webster occupies the highest place in general esteem.
Question. Which would you say are the better orators, speaking generally, the American people or the English people?
Answer. I think Americans are, on the average, better talkers than the English. I think England has produced the greatest literature of the world; but I do not think England has produced the greatest orators of the world. I know of no English orator equal to Webster or Corwin or Beecher.
Question. Would you mind telling me how it was you came to be a public speaker, a lecturer, an orator?
Answer. We call this America of ours free, and yet I found it was very far from free. Our writers and our speakers declared that here in America church and state were divorced. I found this to be untrue. I found that the church was supported by the state in many ways, that people who failed to believe certain portions of the creeds were not allowed to testify in courts or to hold office. It occurred to me that some one ought to do something toward making this country intellectually free, and after a while I thought that I might as well endeavor to do this as wait for another. This is the way in which I came to make speeches; it was an action in favor of liberty. I have said things because I wanted to say them, and because I thought they ought to be said.
Question. Perhaps you will tell me your methods as a speaker, for I'm sure it would be interesting to know them?
Answer. Sometimes, and frequently, I deliver a lecture several times before it is written. I have it taken by a shorthand writer, and afterward written out. At other times I have dictated a lecture, and delivered it from manuscript. The course pursued depends on how I happen to feel at the time. Sometimes I read a lecture, and sometimes I deliver lectures without any notes—this, again, depending much on how I happen to feel. So far as methods are concerned, everything should depend on feeling. Attitude, gestures, voice, emphasis, should all be in accord with and spring from feeling, from the inside.
Question. Is there any possibility of your coming to England, and, I need hardly add, of your coming to speak?
Answer. I have thought of going over to England, and I may do so. There is an England in England for which I have the highest possible admiration, the England of culture, of art, of principle.
—The Sketch, London, Eng., March 21, 1894.

CATHOLICISM AND PROTESTANTISM. THE POPE, THE A. P. A., AGNOSTICISM

AND THE CHURCH.
Question. Which do you regard as the better, Catholicism or Protestantism?
Answer. Protestantism is better than Catholicism because there is less of it. Protestantism does not teach that a monk is better than a husband and father, that a nun is holier than a mother. Protestants do not believe in the confessional. Neither do they pretend that priests can forgive sins. Protestantism has fewer ceremonies and less opera bouffe, clothes, caps, tiaras, mitres, crooks and holy toys. Catholics have an infallible man—an old Italian. Protestants have an infallible book, written by Hebrews before they were civilized. The infallible man is generally wrong, and the infallible book is filled with mistakes and contradictions. Catholics and Protestants are both enemies of intellectual freedom —of real education, but both are opposed to education enough to make free men and women.
Between the Catholics and Protestants there has been about as much difference as there is between crocodiles and alligators. Both have done the worst they could, both are as bad as they can be, and the world is getting tired of both. The world is not going to choose either—both are to be rejected.
Question. Are you willing to give your opinion of the Pope?
Answer. It may be that the Pope thinks he is infallible, but I doubt it. He may think that he is the agent of God, but I guess not. He may know more than other people, but if he does he has kept it to himself. He does not seem satisfied with standing in the place and stead of God in spiritual matters, but desires temporal power. He wishes to be Pope and King. He imagines that he has the right to control the belief of all the world; that he is the shepherd of all "sheep" and that the fleeces belong to him. He thinks that in his keeping is the conscience of mankind. So he imagines that his blessing is a great benefit to the faithful and that his prayers can change the course of natural events. He is a strange mixture of the serious and comical. He claims to represent God, and admits that he is almost a prisoner. There is something pathetic in the condition of this pontiff. When I think of him, I think of Lear on the heath, old, broken, touched with insanity, and yet, in his own opinion, "every inch a king."
The Pope is a fragment, a remnant, a shred, a patch of ancient power and glory. He is a survival of the unfittest, a souvenir of theocracy, a relic of the supernatural. Of course he will have a few successors, and they will become more and more comical, more and more helpless and impotent as the world grows wise and free. I am not blaming the Pope. He was poisoned at the breast of his mother. Superstition was mingled with her milk. He was poisoned at school—taught to distrust his reason and to live by faith. And so it may be that his mind was so twisted and tortured out of shape that he now really believes that he is the infallible agent of an infinite God.
Question. Are you in favor of the A. P. A.?
Answer. In this country I see no need of secret political societies. I think it better to fight in the open field. I am a believer in religious liberty, in allowing all sects to preach their doctrines and to make as many converts as they can. As long as we have free speech and a free press I think there is no danger of the country being ruled by any church. The Catholics are much better than their creed, and the same can be said of nearly all members of orthodox churches. A majority of American Catholics think a great deal more of this country than they do of their church. When they are in good health they are on our side. It is only when they are very sick that they turn their eyes toward Rome. If they were in the majority, of course, they would destroy all other churches and imprison, torture and kill all Infidels. But they will never be in the majority. They increase now only because Catholics come in from other countries. In a few years that supply will cease, and then the Catholic Church will grow weaker every day. The free secular school is the enemy of priestcraft and superstition, and the people of this country will never consent to the destruction of that institution. I want no man persecuted on account of his religion.
Question. If there is no beatitude, or heaven, how do you account for the continual struggle in every natural heart for its own betterment?
Answer. Man has many wants, and all his efforts are the children of wants. If he wanted nothing he would do nothing. We civilize the savage by increasing his wants, by cultivating his fancy, his appetites, his desires. He is then willing to work to satisfy these new wants. Man always tries to do things in the easiest way. His constant effort is to accomplish more with less work. He invents a machine; then he improves it, his idea being to make it perfect. He wishes to produce the best. So in every department of effort and knowledge he seeks the highest success, and he seeks it because it is for his own good here in this world. So he finds that there is a relation between happiness and conduct, and he tries to find out what he must do to produce the greatest enjoyment. This is the basis of morality, of law and ethics. We are so constituted that we love proportion, color, harmony. This is the artistic man. Morality is the harmony and proportion of conduct— the music of life. Man continually seeks to better his condition —not because he is immortal—but because he is capable of grief and pain, because he seeks for happiness. Man wishes to respect himself and to gain the respect of others. The brain wants light, the heart wants love. Growth is natural. The struggle to overcome temptation, to be good and noble, brave and sincere, to reach, if possible, the perfect, is no evidence of the immortality of the soul or of the existence of other worlds. Men live to excel, to become distinguished, to enjoy, and so they strive, each in his own way, to gain the ends desired.
Question. Do you believe that the race is growing moral or immoral?
Answer. The world is growing better. There is more real liberty, more thought, more intelligence than ever before. The world was never so charitable or generous as now. We do not put honest debtors in prison, we no longer believe in torture. Punishments are less severe. We place a higher value on human life. We are far kinder to animals. To this, however, there is one terrible exception. The vivisectors, those who cut, torture, and mutilate in the name of science, disgrace our age. They excite the horror and indignation of all good people. Leave out the actions of those wretches, and animals are better treated than ever before. So there is less beating of wives and whipping of children. The whip in no longer found in the civilized home. Intelligent parents now govern by kindness, love and reason. The standard of honor is higher than ever. Contracts are more sacred, and men do nearer as they agree. Man has more confidence in his fellow-man, and in the goodness of human nature. Yes, the world is getting better, nobler and grander every day. We are moving along the highway of progress on our way to the Eden of the future.
Question. Are the doctrines of Agnosticism gaining ground, and what, in your opinion, will be the future of the church?
Answer. The Agnostic is intellectually honest. He knows the limitations of his mind. He is convinced that the questions of origin and destiny cannot be answered by man. He knows that he cannot answer these questions, and he is candid enough to say so. The Agnostic has good mental manners. He does not call belief or hope or wish, a demonstration. He knows the difference between hope and belief—between belief and knowledge—and he keeps these distinctions in his mind. He does not say that a certain theory is true because he wishes it to be true. He tries to go according to evidence, in harmony with facts, without regard to his own desires or the wish of the public. He has the courage of his convictions and the modesty of his ignorance. The theologian is his opposite. He is certain and sure of the existence of things and beings and worlds of which there is, and can be, no evidence. He relies on assertion, and in all debate attacks the motive of his opponent instead of answering his arguments. All savages know the origin and destiny of man. About other things they know but little. The theologian is much the same. The Agnostic has given up the hope of ascertaining the nature of the "First Cause"—the hope of ascertaining whether or not there was a "First Cause." He admits that he does not know whether or not there is an infinite Being. He admits that these questions cannot be answered, and so he refuses to answer. He refuses also to pretend. He knows that the theologian does not know, and he has the courage to say so.
He knows that the religious creeds rest on assumption, supposition, assertion—on myth and legend, on ignorance and superstition, and that there is no evidence of their truth. The Agnostic bends his energies in the opposite direction. He occupies himself with this world, with things that can be ascertained and understood. He turns his attention to the sciences, to the solution of questions that touch the well-being of man. He wishes to prevent and cure diseases; to lengthen life; to provide homes and raiment and food for man; to supply the wants of the body.
He also cultivates the arts. He believes in painting and sculpture, in music and the drama—the needs of the soul. The Agnostic believes in developing the brain, in cultivating the affections, the tastes, the conscience, the judgment, to the end that man may be happy in this world. He seeks to find the relation of things, the condition of happiness. He wishes to enslave the forces of nature to the end that they may perform the work of the world. Back of all progress are the real thinkers; the finders of facts, those who turn their attention to the world in which we live. The theologian has never been a help, always a hindrance. He has always kept his back to the sunrise. With him all wisdom was in the past. He appealed to the dead. He was and is the enemy of reason, of investigation, of thought and progress. The church has never given "sanctuary" to a persecuted truth.
There can be no doubt that the ideas of the Agnostic are gaining ground. The scientific spirit has taken possession of the intellectual world. Theological methods are unpopular to-day, even in theological schools. The attention of men everywhere is being directed to the affairs of this world, this life. The gods are growing indistinct, and, like the shapes of clouds, they are changing as they fade. The idea of special providence has been substantially abandoned. People are losing, and intelligent people have lost, confidence in prayer. To-day no intelligent person believes in miracles—a violation of the facts in nature. They may believe that there used to be miracles a good while ago, but not now. The "supernatural" is losing its power, its influence, and the church is growing weaker every day.
The church is supported by the people, and in order to gain the support of the people it must reflect their ideas, their hopes and fears. As the people advance, the creeds will be changed, either by changing the words or giving new meanings to the old words. The church, in order to live, must agree substantially with those who support it, and consequently it will change to any extent that may be necessary. If the church remains true to the old standards then it will lose the support of progressive people, and if the people generally advance the church will die. But my opinion is that it will slowly change, that the minister will preach what the members want to hear, and that the creed will be controlled by the contribution box. One of these days the preachers may become teachers, and when that happens the church will be of use.
Question. What do you regard as the greatest of all themes in poetry and song?
Answer. Love and Death. The same is true of the greatest music. In "Tristan and Isolde" is the greatest music of love and death. In Shakespeare the greatest themes are love and death. In all real poetry, in all real music, the dominant, the triumphant tone, is love, and the minor, the sad refrain, the shadow, the background, the mystery, is death.
Question. What would be your advice to an intelligent young man just starting out in life?
Answer. I would say to him: "Be true to your ideal. Cultivate your heart and brain. Follow the light of your reason. Get all the happiness out of life that you possibly can. Do not care for power, but strive to be useful. First of all, support yourself so that you may not be a burden to others. If you are successful, if you gain a surplus, use it for the good of others. Own yourself and live and die a free man. Make your home a heaven, love your wife and govern your children by kindness. Be good natured, cheerful, forgiving and generous. Find out the conditions of happiness, and then be wise enough to live in accordance with them. Cultivate intellectual hospitality, express your honest thoughts, love your friends, and be just to your enemies."
—New York Herald, September 16, 1894.

WOMAN AND HER DOMAIN.

Question. What is your opinion of the effect of the multiplicity of women's clubs as regards the intellectual, moral and domestic status of their members?
Answer. I think that women should have clubs and societies, that they should get together and exchange ideas. Women, as a rule, are provincial and conservative. They keep alive all the sentimental mistakes and superstitions. Now, if they can only get away from these, and get abreast with the tide of the times, and think as well as feel, it will be better for them and their children. You know St. Paul tells women that if they want to know anything they must ask their husbands. For many centuries they have followed this orthodox advice, and of course they have not learned a great deal, because their husbands could not answer their questions. Husbands, as a rule, do not know a great deal, and it will not do for every wife to depend on the ignorance of her worst half. The women of to-day are the great readers, and no book is a great success unless it pleases the women.
As a result of this, all the literature of the world has changed, so that now in all departments the thoughts of women are taken into consideration, and women have thoughts, because they are the intellectual equals of men.
There are no statesmen in this country the equals of Harriet Martineau; probably no novelists the equals of George Eliot or George Sand, and I think Ouida the greatest living novelist. I think her "Ariadne" is one of the greatest novels in the English language. There are few novels better than "Consuelo," few poems better than "Mother and Poet."
So in all departments women are advancing; some of them have taken the highest honors at medical colleges; others are prominent in the sciences, some are great artists, and there are several very fine sculptors, &c., &c.
So you can readily see what my opinion is on that point.
I am in favor of giving woman all the domain she conquers, and as the world becomes civilized the domain that she can conquer will steadily increase.
Question. But, Colonel, is there no danger of greatly interfering with a woman's duties as wife and mother?
Answer. I do not think that it is dangerous to think, or that thought interferes with love or the duties of wife or mother. I think the contrary is the truth; the greater the brain the greater the power to love, the greater the power to discharge all duties and obligations, so I have no fear for the future. About women voting I don't care; whatever they want to do they have my consent.
—The Democrat, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 1894.

PROFESSOR SWING.

Question. Since you were last in this city, Colonel, a distinguished man has passed away in the person of Professor Swing. The public will be interested to have your opinion of him.
Answer. I think Professor Swing did a great amount of good. He helped to civilize the church and to humanize the people. His influence was in the right direction—toward the light. In his youth he was acquainted with toil, poverty, and hardship; his road was filled with thorns, and yet he lived and scattered flowers in the paths of many people. At first his soul was in the dungeon of a savage creed, where the windows were very small and closely grated, and though which struggled only a few rays of light. He longed for more light and for more liberty, and at last his fellow- prisoners drove him forth, and from that time until his death he did what he could to give light and liberty to the souls of men. He was a lover of nature, poetic in his temperament, charitable and merciful. As an orator he may have lacked presence, pose and voice, but he did not lack force of statement or beauty of expression. He was a man of wide learning, of great admiration of the heroic and tender. He did what he could to raise the standard of character, to make his fellow-men just and noble. He lost the provincialism of his youth and became in a very noble sense a citizen of the world. He understood that all the good is not in our race or in our religion—that in every land there are good and noble men, self- denying and lovely women, and that in most respects other religions are as good as ours, and in many respects better. This gave him breadth of intellectual horizon and enlarged his sympathy for the failures of the world. I regard his death as a great loss, and his life as a lesson and inspiration.
—Inter-Ocean, Chicago, October 13, 1894.

SENATOR SHERMAN AND HIS BOOK.*

     [* No one is better qualified than Robert G. Ingersoll to
     talk about Senator Sherman's book and the questions it
     raises in political history.  Mr. Ingersoll was for years a
     resident of Washington and a next-door neighbor to Mr.
     Sherman; he was for an even longer period the intimate
     personal friend of James G. Blaine; he knew Garfield from
     almost daily contact, and of the Republican National
     Conventions concerning which Senator Sherman has raised
     points of controversy Mr. Ingersoll can say, as the North
     Carolinian said of the Confederacy: "Part of whom I am
     which."

     He placed Blaine's name before the convention at Cincinnati
     in 1876.  He made the first of the three great nominating
     speeches in convention history, Conkling and Garfield making
     the others in 1880.

     The figure of the Plumed Knight which Mr. Ingersoll created
     to characterize Mr. Blaine is part of the latter's memory.
     At Chicago, four years later, when Garfield, dazed by the
     irresistible doubt of the convention, was on the point of
     refusing that in the acceptance of which he had no voluntary
     part, Ingersoll was the adviser who showed him that duty to
     Sherman required no such action.]

Question. What do you think of Senator Sherman's book—especially the part about Garfield?
Answer. Of course, I have only read a few extracts from Mr. Sherman's reminiscences, but I am perfectly satisfied that the Senator is mistaken about Garfield's course. The truth is that Garfield captured the convention by his course from day to day, and especially by the speech he made for Sherman. After that speech, and it was a good one, the best Garfield ever made, the convention said, "Speak for yourself, John."
It was perfectly apparent that if the Blaine and Sherman forces should try to unite, Grant would be nominated. It had to be Grant or a new man, and that man was Garfield. It all came about without Garfield's help, except in the way I have said. Garfield even went so far as to declare that under no circumstances could he accept, because he was for Sherman, and honestly for him. He told me that he would not allow his name to go before the convention. Just before he was nominated I wrote him a note in which I said he was about to be nominated, and that he must not decline. I am perfectly satisfied that he acted with perfect honor, and that he did his best for Sherman.
Question. Mr. Sherman expresses the opinion that if he had had the "moral strength" of the Ohio delegation in his support he would have been nominated?
Answer. We all know that while Senator Sherman had many friends, and that while many thought he would make an excellent President, still there was but little enthusiasm among his followers. Sherman had the respect of the party, but hardly the love.
Question. In his book the Senator expresses the opinion that he was quite close to the nomination in 1888, when Mr. Quay was for him. Do you think that is so, Mr. Ingersoll?
Answer. I think Mr. Sherman had a much better chance in 1888 than in 1880, but as a matter of fact, he never came within hailing distance of success at any time. He is not of the nature to sway great bodies of men. He lacks the power to impress himself upon others to such an extent as to make friends of enemies and devotees of friends. Mr. Sherman has had a remarkable career, and I think that he ought to be satisfied with what he has achieved.
Question. Mr. Ingersoll, what do you think defeated Blaine for the nomination in 1876?
Answer. On the first day of the convention at Cincinnati it was known that Blaine was the leading candidate. All of the enthusiasm was for him. It was soon known that Conkling, Bristow or Morton could not be nominated, and that in all probability Blaine would succeed. The fact that Blaine had been attacked by vertigo, or had suffered from a stroke of apoplexy, gave an argument to those who opposed him, and this was used with great effect. After Blaine was put in nomination, and before any vote was taken, the convention adjourned, and during the night a great deal of work was done. The Michigan delegation was turned inside out and the Blaine forces raided in several States. Hayes, the dark horse, suddenly developed speed, and the scattered forces rallied to his support. I have always thought that if a ballot could have been taken on the day Blaine was put in nomination he would have succeeded, and yet he might have been defeated for the nomination anyway.
Blaine had the warmest friends and the bitterest enemies of any man in the party. People either loved or hated him. He had no milk-and-water friends and no milk-and-water enemies.
Question. If Blaine had been nominated at Cincinnati in 1876 would he have made a stronger candidate than Hayes did?
Answer. If he had been nominated then, I believe that he would have been triumphantly elected. Mr. Blaine's worst enemies would not have supported Tilden, and thousands of moderate Democrats would have given their votes to Blaine.
Question. Mr. Ingersoll, do you think that Mr. Blaine wanted the nomination in 1884, when he got it?
Answer. In 1883, Mr. Blaine told me that he did not want the nomination. I said to him: "Is that honest?" He replied that he did not want it, that he was tired of the whole business. I said: "If you do not want it; if you have really reached that conclusion, then I think you will get it." He laughed, and again said: "I do not want it." I believe that he spoke exactly as he then felt.
Question. What do you think defeated Mr. Blaine at the polls in 1884?
Answer. Blaine was a splendid manager for another man, a great natural organizer, and when acting for others made no mistake; but he did not manage his own campaign with ability. He made a succession of mistakes. His suit against the Indianapolis editor; his letter about the ownership of certain stocks; his reply to Burchard and the preachers, in which he said that history showed the church could get along without the state, but the state could not get along without the church, and this in reply to the "Rum, Romanism and Rebellion" nonsense; and last, but not least, his speech to the millionaires in New York—all of these things weakened him. As a matter of fact many Catholics were going to support Blaine, but when they saw him fooling with the Protestant clergy, and accepting the speech of Burchard, they instantly turned against him. If he had never met Burchard, I think he would have been elected. His career was something like that of Mr. Clay; he was the most popular man of his party and yet——
Question. How do you account for Mr. Blaine's action in allowing his name to go before the convention at Minneapolis in 1892?
Answer. In 1892, Mr. Blaine was a sick man, almost worn out; he was not his former self, and he was influenced by others. He seemed to have lost his intuition; he was misled, yet in spite of all defeats, no name will create among Republicans greater enthusiasm than that of James G. Blaine. Millions are still his devoted, unselfish and enthusiastic friends and defenders.
—The Globe-Democrat, St. Louis, October 27, 1895.

REPLY TO THE CHRISTIAN ENDEAVORERS.

Question. How were you affected by the announcement that the united prayers of the Salvationists and Christian Endeavorers were to be offered for your conversion?
Answer. The announcement did not affect me to any great extent. I take it for granted that the people praying for me are sincere and that they have a real interest in my welfare. Of course, I thank them one and all. At the same time I can hardly account for what they did. Certainly they would not ask God to convert me unless they thought the prayer could be answered. And if their God can convert me of course he can convert everybody. Then the question arises why he does not do it. Why does he let millions go to hell when he can convert them all. Why did he not convert them all before the flood and take them all to heaven instead of drowning them and sending them all to hell. Of course these questions can be answered by saying that God's ways are not our ways. I am greatly obliged to these people. Still, I feel about the same, so that it would be impossible to get up a striking picture of "before and after." It was good-natured on their part to pray for me, and that act alone leads me to believe that there is still hope for them. The trouble with the Christian Endeavorers is that they don't give my arguments consideration. If they did they would agree with me. It seemed curious that they would advise divine wisdom what to do, or that they would ask infinite mercy to treat me with kindness. If there be a God, of course he knows what ought to be done, and will do it without any hints from ignorant human beings. Still, the Endeavorers and the Salvation people may know more about God than I do. For all I know, this God may need a little urging. He may be powerful but a little slow; intelligent but sometimes a little drowsy, and it may do good now and then to call his attention to the facts. The prayers did not, so far as I know, do me the least injury or the least good. I was glad to see that the Christians are getting civilized. A few years ago they would have burned me. Now they pray for me.
Suppose God should answer the prayers and convert me, how would he bring the conversion about? In the first place, he would have to change my brain and give me more credulity—that is, he would be obliged to lessen my reasoning power. Then I would believe not only without evidence, but in spite of evidence. All the miracles would appear perfectly natural. It would then seem as easy to raise the dead as to waken the sleeping. In addition to this, God would so change my mind that I would hold all reason in contempt and put entire confidence in faith. I would then regard science as the enemy of human happiness, and ignorance as the soil in which virtues grow. Then I would throw away Darwin and Humboldt, and rely on the sermons of orthodox preachers. In other words, I would become a little child and amuse myself with a religious rattle and a Gabriel horn. Then I would rely on a man who has been dead for nearly two thousand years to secure me a seat in Paradise.
After conversion, it is not pretended that I will be any better so far as my actions are concerned; no more charitable, no more honest, no more generous. The great difference will be that I will believe more and think less.
After all, the converted people do not seem to be better than the sinners. I never heard of a poor wretch clad in rags, limping into a town and asking for the house of a Christian.
I think that I had better remain as I am. I had better follow the light of my reason, be true to myself, express my honest thoughts, and do the little I can for the destruction of superstition, the little I can for the development of the brain, for the increase of intellectual hospitality and the happiness of my fellow-beings. One world at a time.
—New York Journal, December 15, 1895.

SPIRITUALISM.

There are several good things about Spiritualism. First, they are not bigoted; second, they do not believe in salvation by faith; third, they don't expect to be happy in another world because Christ was good in this; fourth, they do not preach the consolation of hell; fifth, they do not believe in God as an infinite monster; sixth, the Spiritualists believe in intellectual hospitality. In these respects they differ from our Christian brethren, and in these respects they are far superior to the saints.
I think that the Spiritualists have done good. They believe in enjoying themselves—in having a little pleasure in this world. They are social, cheerful and good-natured. They are not the slaves of a book. Their hands and feet are not tied with passages of Scripture. They are not troubling themselves about getting forgiveness and settling their heavenly debts for a cent on the dollar. Their belief does not make then mean or miserable.
They do not persecute their neighbors. They ask no one to have faith or to believe without evidence. They ask all to investigate, and then to make up their minds from the evidence. Hundreds and thousands of well-educated, intelligent people are satisfied with the evidence and firmly believe in the existence of spirits. For all I know, they may be right—but——
Question. The Spiritualists have indirectly claimed, that you were in many respects almost one of them. Have you given them reason to believe so?
Answer. I am not a Spiritualist, and have never pretended to be. The Spiritualists believe in free thought, in freedom of speech, and they are willing to hear the other side—willing to hear me. The best thing about the Spiritualists is that they believe in intellectual hospitality.
Question. Is Spiritualism a religion or a truth?
Answer. I think that Spiritualism may properly be called a religion. It deals with two worlds—teaches the duty of man to his fellows—the relation that this life bears to the next. It claims to be founded on facts. It insists that the "dead" converse with the living, and that information is received from those who once lived in this world. Of the truth of these claims I have no sufficient evidence.
Question. Are all mediums impostors?
Answer. I will not say that all mediums are impostors, because I do not know. I do not believe that these mediums get any information or help from "spirits." I know that for thousands of years people have believed in mediums—in Spiritualism. A spirit in the form of a man appeared to Samson's mother, and afterward to his father.
Spirits, or angels, called on Abraham. The witch of Endor raised the ghost of Samuel. An angel appeared with three men in the furnace. The handwriting on the wall was done by a spirit. A spirit appeared to Joseph in a dream, to the wise men and to Joseph again.
So a spirit, an angel or a god, spoke to Saul, and the same happened to Mary Magdalene.
The religious literature of the world is filled with such things. Take Spiritualism from Christianity and the whole edifice crumbles. All religions, so far as I know, are based on Spiritualism—on communications received from angels, from spirits.
I do not say that all the mediums, ancient and modern, were, and are, impostors—but I do think that all the honest ones were, and are, mistaken. I do not believe that man has ever received any communication from angels, spirits or gods. No whisper, as I believe, has ever come from any other world. The lips of the dead are always closed. From the grave there has come no voice. For thousands of years people have been questioning the dead. They have tried to catch the whisper of a vanished voice. Many say that they have succeeded. I do not know.
Question. What is the explanation of the startling knowledge displayed by some so-called "mediums" of the history and personal affairs of people who consult them? Is there any such thing as mind-reading or thought-transference?
Answer. In a very general way, I suppose that one person may read the thought of another—not definitely, but by the expression of the face, by the attitude of the body, some idea may be obtained as to what a person thinks, what he intends. So thought may be transferred by look or language, but not simply by will. Everything that is, is natural. Our ignorance is the soil in which mystery grows. I do not believe that thoughts are things that can been seen or touched. Each mind lives in a world of its own, a world that no other mind can enter. Minds, like ships at sea, give signs and signals to each other, but they do not exchange captains.
Question. Is there any such thing as telepathy? What is the explanation of the stories of mental impressions received at long distances?
Answer. There are curious coincidences. People sometimes happen to think of something that is taking place at a great distance. The stories about these happenings are not very well authenticated, and seem never to have been of the least use to anyone.
Question. Can these phenomena be considered aside from any connection with, or form of, superstition?
Answer. I think that mistake, emotion, nervousness, hysteria, dreams, love of the wonderful, dishonesty, ignorance, grief and the longing for immortality—the desire to meet the loved and lost, the horror of endless death—account for these phenomena. People often mistake their dreams for realities—often think their thoughts have "happened." They live in a mental mist, a mirage. The boundary between the actual and the imagined becomes faint, wavering and obscure. They mistake clouds for mountains. The real and the unreal mix and mingle until the impossible becomes common, and the natural absurd.
Question. Do you believe that any sane man ever had a vision?
Answer. Of course, the sane and insane have visions, dreams. I do not believe that any man, sane or insane, was ever visited by an angel or spirit, or ever received any information from the dead.
Question. Setting aside from consideration the so-called physical manifestations of the mediums, has Spiritualism offered any proof of the immortality of the soul?
Answer. Of course Spiritualism offers what it calls proof of immortality. That is its principal business. Thousands and thousands of good, honest, intelligent people think the proof sufficient. They receive what they believe to be messages from the departed, and now and then the spirits assume their old forms —including garments—and pass through walls and doors as light passes through glass. Do these things really happen? If the spirits of the dead do return, then the fact of another life is established. It all depends on the evidence. Our senses are easily deceived, and some people have more confidence in their reason than in their senses.
Question. Do you not believe that such a man as Robert Dale Owen was sincere? What was the real state of mind of the author of "Footfalls on the Boundaries of Another World"?
Answer. Without the slightest doubt, Robert Dale Owen was sincere. He was one of the best of men. His father labored all his life for the good of others. Robert Owen, the father, had a debate, in Cincinnati, with the Rev. Alexander Campbell, the founder of the Campbellite Church. Campbell was no match for Owen, and yet the audience was almost unanimously against Owen.
Robert Dale Owen was an intelligent, thoughtful, honest man. He was deceived by several mediums, but remained a believer. He wanted Spiritualism to be true. He hungered and thirsted for another life. He explained everything that was mysterious or curious by assuming the interference of spirits. He was a good man, but a poor investigator. He thought that people were all honest.
Question. What do you understand the Spiritualist means when he claims that the soul goes to the "Summer land," and there continues to work and evolute to higher planes?
Answer. No one pretends to know where "heaven" is. The celestial realm is the blessed somewhere in the unknown nowhere. So far as I know, the "Summer land" has no metes and bounds, and no one pretends to know exactly or inexactly where it is. After all, the "Summer land" is a hope—a wish. Spiritualists believe that a soul leaving this world passes into another, or into another state, and continues to grow in intelligence and virtue, if it so desires.
Spiritualists claim to prove that there is another life. Christians believe this, but their witnesses have been dead for many centuries. They take the "hearsay" of legend and ancient gossip; but Spiritualists claim to have living witnesses; witnesses that can talk, make music; that can take to themselves bodies and shake hands with the people they knew before they passed to the "other shore."
Question. Has Spiritualism, through its mediums, ever told the world anything useful, or added to the store of the world's knowledge, or relieved its burdens?
Answer. I do not know that any medium has added to the useful knowledge of the world, unless mediums have given evidence of another life. Mediums have told us nothing about astronomy, geology or history, have made no discoveries, no inventions, and have enriched no art. The same may be said of every religion.
All the orthodox churches believe in Spiritualism. Every now and then the Virgin appears to some peasant, and in the old days the darkness was filled with evil spirits. Christ was a Spiritualist, and his principal business was the casting out of devils. All of his disciples, all of the church fathers, all of the saints were believers in Spiritualism of the lowest and most ignorant type. During the Middle Ages people changed themselves, with the aid of spirits, into animals. They became wolves, dogs, cats and donkeys. In those day all the witches and wizards were mediums. So animals were sometimes taken possession of by spirits, the same as Balaam's donkey and Christ's swine. Nothing was too absurd for the Christians.
Question. Has not Spiritualism added to the world's stock of hope? And in what way has not Spiritualism done good?
Answer. The mother holding in her arms her dead child, believing that the babe has simply passed to another life, does not weep as bitterly as though she thought that death was the eternal end. A belief in Spiritualism must be a consolation. You see, the Spiritualists do not believe in eternal pain, and consequently a belief in immortality does not fill their hearts with fear.
Christianity makes eternal life an infinite horror, and casts the glare of hell on almost every grave.
The Spiritualists appear to be happy in their belief. I have never known a happy orthodox Christian.
It is natural to shun death, natural to desire eternal life. With all my heart I hope for everlasting life and joy—a life without failures, without crimes and tears.
If immortality could be established, the river of life would overflow with happiness. The faces of prisoners, of slaves, of the deserted, of the diseased and starving would be radiant with smiles, and the dull eyes of despair would glow with light.
If it could be established.
Let us hope.
—The Journal, New York, July 26, 1896.

A LITTLE OF EVERYTHING.

Question. What is your opinion of the position taken by the United States in the Venezuelan dispute? How should the dispute be settled?
Answer. I do not think that we have any interest in the dispute between Venezuela and England. It was and is none of our business. The Monroe doctrine was not and is not in any way involved. Mr. Cleveland made a mistake and so did Congress.
Question. What should be the attitude of the church toward the stage?
Answer. It should be, what it always has been, against it. If the orthodox churches are right, then the stage is wrong. The stage makes people forget hell; and this puts their souls in peril. There will be forever a conflict between Shakespeare and the Bible.
Question. What do you think of the new woman?
Answer. I like her.
Question. Where rests the responsibility for the Armenian atrocities?
Answer. Religion is the cause of the hatred and bloodshed.
Question. What do you think of international marriages, as between titled foreigners and American heiresses?
Answer. My opinion is the same as is entertained by the American girl after the marriages. It is a great mistake.
Question. What do you think of England's Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin?
Answer. I have only read a few of his lines and they were not poetic. The office of Poet Laureate should be abolished. Men cannot write poems to order as they could deliver cabbages or beer. By poems I do not mean jingles of words. I mean great thoughts clothed in splendor.
Question. What is your estimate of Susan B. Anthony?
Answer. Miss Anthony is one of the most remarkable women in the world. She has the enthusiasm of youth and spring, the courage and sincerity of a martyr. She is as reliable as the attraction of gravitation. She is absolutely true to her conviction, intellectually honest, logical, candid and infinitely persistent. No human being has done more for women than Miss Anthony. She has won the respect and admiration of the best people on the earth. And so I say: Good luck and long life to Susan B. Anthony.
Question. Which did more for his country, George Washington or Abraham Lincoln?
Answer. In my judgment, Lincoln was the greatest man ever President. I put him above Washington and Jefferson. He had the genius of goodness; and he was one of the wisest and shrewdest of men. Lincoln towers above them all.
Question. What gave rise to the report that you had been converted —did you go to church somewhere?
Answer. I visited the "People's Church" in Kalamazoo, Michigan. This church has no creed. The object is to make people happy in this world. Miss Bartlett is the pastor. She is a remarkable woman and is devoting her life to good work. I liked her church and said so. This is all.
Question. Are there not some human natures so morally weak or diseased that they cannot keep from sin without the aid of some sort of religion?
Answer. I do not believe that the orthodox religion helps anybody to be just, generous or honest. Superstition is not the soil in which goodness grows. Falsehood is poor medicine.
Question. Would you consent to live in any but a Christian community? If you would, please name one.
Answer. I would not live in a community where all were orthodox Christians. I would rather dwell in Central Africa. If I could have my choice I would rather live among people who were free, who sought for truth and lived according to reason. Sometime there will be such a community.
Question. Is the noun "United States" singular or plural, as you use English?
Answer. I use it in the singular.
Question. Have you read Nordau's "Degeneracy"? If so, what do you think of it?
Answer. I think it is substantially insane.
Question. What do you think of Bishop Doane's advocacy of free rum as a solution of the liquor problem?
Answer. I am a believer in liberty. All the temperance legislation, all the temperance societies, all the agitation, all these things have done no good.
Question. Do you agree with Mr. Carnegie that a college education is of little or no practical value to a man?
Answer. A man must have education. It makes no difference where or how he gets it. To study the dead languages is time wasted so far as success in business is concerned. Most of the colleges in this country are poor because controlled by theologians.
Question. What suggestion would you make for the improvement of the newspapers of this country?
Answer. Every article in a newspaper should be signed by the writer. And all writers should do their best to tell the exact facts.
Question. What do you think of Niagara Falls?
Answer. It is a dangerous place. Those great rushing waters— there is nothing attractive to me in them. There is so much noise; so much tumult. It is simply a mighty force of nature—one of those tremendous powers that is to be feared for its danger. What I like in nature is a cultivated field, where men can work in the free open air, where there is quiet and repose—no turmoil, no strife, no tumult, no fearful roar or struggle for mastery. I do not like the crowded, stuffy workshop, where life is slavery and drudgery. Give me the calm, cultivated land of waving grain, of flowers, of happiness.
Question. What is worse than death?
Answer. Oh, a great many things. To be dishonored. To be worthless. To feel that you are a failure. To be insane. To be constantly afraid of the future. To lose the ones you love.
—The Herald, Rochester, New York, February 25, 1896.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING—CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND POLITICS.

Question. With all your experiences, the trials, the responsibilities, the disappointments, the heartburnings, Colonel, is life worth living?
Answer. Well, I can only answer for myself. I like to be alive, to breathe the air, to look at the landscape, the clouds and stars, to repeat old poems, to look at pictures and statues, to hear music, the voices of the ones I love. I like to talk with my wife, my girls, my grandchildren. I like to sleep and to dream. Yes, you can say that life, to me, is worth living.
Question. Colonel, did you ever kill any game?
Answer. When I was a boy I killed two ducks, and it hurt me as much as anything I ever did. No, I would not kill any living creature. I am sometimes tempted to kill a mosquito on my hand, but I stop and think what a wonderful construction it has, and shoo it away.
Question. What do you think of political parties, Colonel?
Answer. In a country where the sovereignty is divided among the people, that is to say, among the men, in order to accomplish anything, many must unite, and I believe in joining the party that is going the nearest your way. I do not believe in being the slave or serf or servant of a party. Go with it if it is going your road, and when the road forks, take the one that leads to the place you wish to visit, no matter whether the party goes that way or not. I do not believe in belonging to a party or being the property of any organization. I do not believe in giving a mortgage on yourself or a deed of trust for any purpose whatever. It is better to be free and vote wrong than to be a slave and vote right. I believe in taking the chances. At the same time, as long as a party is going my way, I believe in placing that party above particular persons, and if that party nominates a man that I despise, I will vote for him if he is going my way. I would rather have a bad man belonging to my party in place, than a good man belonging to the other, provided my man believes in my principles, and to that extent I believe in party loyalty.
Neither do I join in the general hue and cry against bosses. There has always got to be a leader, even in a flock of wild geese. If anything is to be accomplished, no matter what, somebody takes the lead and the others allow him to go on. In that way political bosses are made, and when you hear a man howling against bosses at the top of his lungs, distending his cheeks to the bursting point, you may know that he has ambition to become a boss.
I do not belong to the Republican party, but I have been going with it, and when it goes wrong I shall quit, unless the other is worse. There is no office, no place, that I want, and as it does not cost anything to be right, I think it better to be that way.
Question. What is your idea of Christian Science?
Answer. I think it is superstition, pure and unadulterated. I think that soda will cure a sour stomach better than thinking. In my judgment, quinine is a better tonic than meditation. Of course cheerfulness is good and depression bad, but if you can absolutely control the body and all its functions by thought, what is the use of buying coal? Let the mercury go down and keep yourself hot by thinking. What is the use of wasting money for food? Fill your stomach with think. According to these Christian Science people all that really exists is an illusion, and the only realities are the things that do not exist. They are like the old fellow in India who said that all things were illusions. One day he was speaking to a crowd on his favorite hobby. Just as he said "all is illusion" a fellow on an elephant rode toward him. The elephant raised his trunk as though to strike, thereupon the speaker ran away. Then the crowd laughed. In a few moments the speaker returned. The people shouted: "If all is illusion, what made you run away?" The speaker replied: "My poor friends, I said all is illusion. I say so still. There was no elephant. I did not run away. You did not laugh, and I am not explaining now. All is illusion."
That man must have been a Christian Scientist.
—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago, November, 1897.

VIVISECTION.

Question. Why are you so utterly opposed to vivisection?

Answer. Because, as it is generally practiced, it is an unspeakable cruelty. Because it hardens the hearts and demoralizes those who inflict useless and terrible pains on the bound and helpless. If these vivisectionists would give chloroform or ether to the animals they dissect; if they would render them insensible to pain, and if, by cutting up these animals, they could learn anything worth knowing, no one would seriously object.
The trouble is that these doctors, these students, these professors, these amateurs, do not give anesthetics. They insist that to render the animal insensible does away with the value of the experiment. They care nothing for the pain they inflict. They are so eager to find some fact that will be of benefit to the human race, that they are utterly careless of the agony endured.
Now, what I say is that no decent man, no gentleman, no civilized person, would vivisect an animal without first having rendered that animal insensible to pain. The doctor, the scientist, who puts his knives, forceps, chisels and saws into the flesh, bones and nerves of an animal without having used an anesthetic, is a savage, a pitiless, heartless monster. When he says he does this for the good of man, because he wishes to do good, he says what is not true. No such man wants to do good; he commits the crime for his own benefit and because he wishes to gratify an insane cruelty or to gain a reputation among like savages.
These scientists now insist that they have done some good. They do not tell exactly what they have done. The claim is general in its character—not specific. If they have done good, could they not have done just as much if they had used anesthetics? Good is not the child of cruelty.
Question. Do you think that the vivisectionists do their work without anesthetics? Do they not, as a rule, give something to deaden pain?
Answer. Here is what the trouble is. Now and then one uses chloroform, but the great majority do not. They claim that it interferes with the value of the experiment, and, as I said before, they object to the expense. Why should they care for what the animals suffer? They inflict the most horrible and useless pain, and they try the silliest experiments—experiments of no possible use or advantage.
For instance: They flay a dog to see how long he can live without his skin. Is this trifling experiment of any importance? Suppose the dog can live a week or a month or a year, what then? What must the real character of the scientific wretch be who would try an experiment like this? Is such a man seeking the good of his fellow- men?
So, these scientists starve animals until they slowly die; watch them from day to day as life recedes from the extremities, and watch them until the final surrender, to see how long the heart will flutter without food; without water. They keep a diary of their sufferings, of their whinings and moanings, of their insanity. And this diary is published and read with joy and eagerness by other scientists in like experiments. Of what possible use is it to know how long a dog or horse can live without food?
So, they take animals, dogs and horses, cut through the flesh with the knife, remove some of the back bone with the chisel, then divide the spinal marrow, then touch it with red hot wires for the purpose of finding, as they say, the connection of nerves; and the animal, thus vivisected, is left to die.
A good man will not voluntarily inflict pain. He will see that his horse has food, if he can procure it, and if he cannot procure the food, he will end the sufferings of the animal in the best and easiest way. So, the good man would rather remain in ignorance as to how pain is transmitted than to cut open the body of a living animal, divide the marrow and torture the nerves with red hot iron. Of what use can it be to take a dog, tie him down and cut out one of his kidneys to see if he can live with the other?
These horrors are perpetrated only by the cruel and the heartless —so cruel and so heartless that they are utterly unfit to be trusted with a human life. They inoculate animals with a virus of disease; they put poison in their eyes until rottenness destroys the sight; until the poor brutes become insane. They given them a disease that resembles hydrophobia, that is accompanied by the most frightful convulsions and spasms. They put them in ovens to see what degree of heat it is that kills. They also try the effect of cold; they slowly drown them; they poison them with the venom of snakes; they force foreign substances into their blood, and, by inoculation, into their eyes; and then watch and record their agonies; their sufferings.
Question. Don't you think that some good has been accomplished, some valuable information obtained, by vivisection?
Answer. I don't think any valuable information has been obtained by the vivisection of animals without chloroform that could not have been obtained with chloroform. And to answer the question broadly as to whether any good has been accomplished by vivisection, I say no.
According to the best information that I can obtain, the vivisectors have hindered instead of helped. Lawson Tait, who stands at the head of his profession in England, the best surgeon in Great Britain, says that all this cutting and roasting and freezing and torturing of animals has done harm instead of good. He says publicly that the vivisectors have hindered the progress of surgery. He declares that they have not only done no good, but asserts that they have done only harm. The same views according to Doctor Tait, are entertained by Bell, Syme and Fergusson.
Many have spoken of Darwin as though he were a vivisector. This is not true. All that has been accomplished by these torturers of dumb and helpless animals amounts to nothing. We have obtained from these gentlemen Koch's cure for consumption, Pasteur's factory of hydrophobia and Brown-Sequard's elixir of life. These three failures, gigantic, absurd, ludicrous, are the great accomplishment of vivisection.
Surgery has advanced, not by the heartless tormentors of animals, but by the use of anesthetics—that is to say, chloroform, ether and cocaine. The cruel wretches, the scientific assassins, have accomplished nothing. Hundreds of thousands of animals have suffered every pain that nerves can feel, and all for nothing—nothing except to harden the heart and to make criminals of men.
They have not given anesthetics to these animals, but they have been guilty of the last step in cruelty. They have given curare, a drug that attacks the centers of motion, that makes it impossible for the animal to move, so that when under its influence, no matter what the pain may be, the animal lies still. This curare not only destroys the power of motion, but increases the sensitiveness of the nerves. To give this drug and then to dissect the living animal is the extreme of cruelty. Beyond this, heartlessness cannot go.
Question. Do you know that you have been greatly criticized for what you have said on this subject?
Answer. Yes; I have read many criticisms; but what of that. It is impossible for the ingenuity of man to say anything in defence of cruelty—of heartlessness. So, it is impossible for the defenders of vivisection to show any good that has been accomplished without the use of anesthetics. The chemist ought to be able to determine what is and what is not poison. There is no need of torturing the animals. So, this giving to animals diseases is of no importance to man—not the slightest; and nothing has been discovered in bacteriology so far that has been of use or that is of benefit.
Personally, I admit that all have the right to criticise; and my answer to the critics is, that they do not know the facts; or, knowing them, they are interested in preventing a knowledge of these facts coming to the public. Vivisection should be controlled by law. No animal should be allowed to be tortured. And to cut up a living animal not under the influence of chloroform or ether, should be a penitentiary offence.
A perfect reply to all the critics who insist that great good has been done is to repeat the three names—Koch, Pasteur and Brown- Sequard.
The foundation of civilization is not cruelty; it is justice, generosity, mercy.
—Evening Telegram, New York, September 30, 1893.

DIVORCE.

Question. The Herald would like to have you give your ideas on divorce. On last Sunday in your lecture you said a few words on the subject, but only a few. Do you think the laws governing divorce ought to be changed?
Answer. We obtained our ideas about divorce from the Hebrews— from the New Testament and the church. In the Old Testament woman is not considered of much importance. The wife was the property of the husband.
"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ox or his wife." In this commandment the wife is put on an equality with other property, so under certain conditions the husband could put away his wife, but the wife could not put away her husband.
In the New Testament there is little in favor of marriage, and really nothing as to the rights of wives. Christ said nothing in favor of marriage, and never married. So far as I know, none of the apostles had families. St. Paul was opposed to marriage, and allowed it only as a choice of evils. In those days it was imagined by the Christians that the world was about to be purified by fire, and that they would be changed into angels.
The early Christians were opposed to marriage, and the "fathers" looked upon woman as the source of all evil. They did not believe in divorces. They thought that if people loved each other better than they did God, and got married, they ought to be held to the bargain, no matter what happened.
These "fathers" were, for the most part, ignorant and hateful savages, and had no more idea of right and wrong than wild beasts.
The church insisted that marriage was a sacrament, and that God, in some mysterious way, joined husband and wife in marriage—that he was one of the parties to the contract, and that only death could end it.
Of course, this supernatural view of marriage is perfectly absurd. If there be a God, there certainly have been marriages he did not approve, and certain it is that God can have no interest in keeping husbands and wives together who never should have married.
Some of the preachers insist that God instituted marriage in the Garden of Eden. We now know that there was no Garden of Eden, and that woman was not made from the first man's rib. Nobody with any real sense believes this now. The institution of marriage was not established by Jehovah. Neither was it established by Christ, not any of his apostles.
In considering the question of divorce, the supernatural should be discarded. We should take into consideration only the effect upon human beings. The gods should be allowed to take care of themselves.
Is it to the interest of a husband and wife to live together after love has perished and when they hate each other? Will this add to their happiness? Should a woman be compelled to remain the wife of a man who hates and abuses her, and whom she loathes? Has society any interest in forcing women to live with men they hate?
There is no real marriage without love, and in the marriage state there is no morality without love. A woman who remains the wife of a man whom she despises, or does not love, corrupts her soul. She becomes degraded, polluted, and feels that her flesh has been soiled. Under such circumstances a good woman suffers the agonies of moral death. It may be said that the woman can leave her husband; that she is not compelled to live in the same house or to occupy the same room. If she has the right to leave, has she the right to get a new house? Should a woman be punished for having married? Women do not marry the wrong men on purpose. Thousands of mistakes are made—are these mistakes sacred? Must they be preserved to please God?
What good can it do God to keep people married who hate each other? What good can it do the community to keep such people together?
Question. Do you consider marriage a contract or a sacrament?
Answer. Marriage is the most important contract that human beings can make. No matter whether it is called a contract or a sacrament, it remains the same. A true marriage is a natural concord or agreement of souls—a harmony in which discord is not even imagined. It is a mingling so perfect that only one seems to exist. All other considerations are lost. The present seems eternal. In this supreme moment there is no shadow, or the shadow is as luminous as light.
When two beings thus love, thus united, this is the true marriage of soul and soul. The idea of contract is lost. Duty and obligation are instantly changed into desire and joy, and two lives, like uniting streams, flow on as one.
This is real marriage.
Now, if the man turns out to be a wild beast, if he destroys the happiness of the wife, why should she remain his victim?
If she wants a divorce, she should have it. The divorce will not hurt God or the community. As a matter of fact, it will save a life.
No man not poisoned by superstition will object to the release of an abused wife. In such a case only savages can object to divorce. The man who wants courts and legislatures to force a woman to live with him is a monster.
Question. Do you believe that the divorced should be allowed to marry again?
Answer. Certainly. Has the woman whose rights have been outraged no right to build another home? Must this woman, full of kindness, affection and health, be chained until death releases her? Is there no future for her? Must she be an outcast forever? Can she never sit by her own hearth, with the arms of her children about her neck, and by her side a husband who loves and protects her?
There are no two sides to this question.
All human beings should be allowed to correct their mistakes. If the wife has flagrantly violated the contract of marriage, the husband should be given a divorce. If the wife wants a divorce, if she loathes her husband, if she no longer loves him, then the divorce should be granted.
It is immoral for a woman to live as the wife of a man whom she abhors. The home should be pure. Children should be well-born. Their parents should love one another.
Marriages are made by men and women, not by society, not by the state, not by the church, not by the gods. Nothing is moral, that does not tend to the well-being of sentient beings.
The good home is the unit of good government. The hearthstone is the corner-stone of civilization. Society is not interested in the preservation of hateful homes. It is not to the interest of society that good women should be enslaved or that they should become mothers by husbands whom they hate.
Most of the laws about divorce are absurd or cruel, and ought to be repealed.
—The Herald, New York, February, 1897.

MUSIC, NEWSPAPERS, LYNCHING AND ARBITRATION.

Question. How do you enjoy staying in Chicago?

Answer. Well, I am about as happy as a man can be when he is away from home. I was at the opera last night. I am always happy when I hear the music of Wagner interpreted by such a genius as Seidl. I do not believe there is a man in the world who has in his brain and heart more of the real spirit of Wagner than Anton Seidl. He knows how to lead, how to phrase and shade, how to rush and how to linger, and to express every passion and every mood. So I was happy last night to hear him. Then I heard Edouard de Reszke, the best of bass singers, with tones of a great organ, and others soft and liquid, and Jean de Reszke, a great tenor, who sings the "Swan Song" as though inspired; and I liked Bispham, but hated his part. He is a great singer; so is Mme. Litvinne.
So, I can say that I am enjoying Chicago. In fact, I always did. I was here when the town was small, not much more than huts and hogs, lumber and mud; and now it is one of the greatest of cities. It makes me happy just to think of the difference. I was born the year Chicago was incorporated. In my time matches were invented. Steam navigation became really useful. The telegraph was invented. Gas was discovered and applied to practical uses, and electricity was made known in its practical workings to mankind. Thus, it is seen the world is progressing; men are becoming civilized. But the process of civilization even now is slow. In one or two thousand years we may hope to see a vast improvement in man's condition. We may expect to have the employer so far civilized that he will not try to make money for money's sake, but in order that he may apply it to good uses, to the amelioration of his fellow-man's condition. We may also expect the see the workingman, the employee, so far civilized that he will know it is impossible and undesirable for him to attempt to fix the wages paid by his employer. We may in a thousand or more years reasonably expect that the employee will be so far civilized and become sufficiently sensible to know that strikes and threats and mob violence can never improve his condition. Altruism is nonsense, craziness.
Question. Is Chicago as liberal, intellectually, as New York?
Answer. I think so. Of course you will find thousands of free, thoughtful people in New York—people who think and want others to do the same. So, there are thousands of respectable people who are centuries behind the age. In other words, you will find all kinds. I presume the same is true of Chicago. I find many liberal people here, and some not quite so liberal.
Some of the papers here seem to be edited by real pious men. On last Tuesday the Times-Herald asked pardon of its readers for having given a report of my lecture. That editor must be pious. In the same paper, columns were given to the prospective prize- fight at Carson City. All the news about the good Corbett and the orthodox Fitzsimmons—about the training of the gentlemen who are going to attack each others' jugulars and noses; who are expected to break jaws, blacken eyes, and peel foreheads in a few days, to settle the question of which can bear the most pounding. In this great contest and in all its vulgar details, the readers of the Times-Herald are believed by the editor of that religious daily to take great interest.
The editor did not ask the pardon of his readers for giving so much space to the nose-smashing sport. No! He knew that would fill their souls with delight, and, so knowing, he reached the correct conclusion that such people would not enjoy anything I had said. The editor did a wise thing and catered to a large majority of his readers. I do not think that we have as religious a daily paper in New York as the Times-Herald. So the editor of the Times- Herald took the ground that men with little learning, in youth, might be agnostic, but as they grew sensible they would become orthodox. When he wrote that he was probably thinking of Humboldt and Darwin, of Huxley and Haeckel. May be Herbert Spencer was in his mind, but I think that he must have been thinking of a few boys in his native village.
Question. What do you think about prize-fighting anyway?
Answer. Well, I think that prize-fighting is worse, if possible, than revival meetings. Next to fighting to kill, as they did in the old Roman days, I think the modern prize-fight is the most disgusting and degrading of exhibitions. All fights, whether cock- fights, bull-fights or pugilistic encounters, are practiced and enjoyed only by savages. No matter what office they hold, what wealth or education they have, they are simply savages. Under no possible circumstances would I witness a prize-fight or a bull- fight or a dog-fight. The Marquis of Queensbury was once at my house, and I found his opinions were the same as mine. Everyone thinks that he had something to do with the sport of prize-fighting, but he did not, except to make some rules once for a college boxing contest. He told me that he never saw but one prize-fight in his life, and that it made him sick.
Question. How are you on the arbitration treaty?
Answer. I am for it with all my heart. I have read it, and read it with care, and to me it seems absolutely fair. England and America should set an example to the world. The English-speaking people have reason enough and sense enough, I hope, to settle their differences by argument—by reason. Let us get the wild beast out of us. Two great nations like England and America appealing to force, arguing with shot and shell! What is education worth? Is what we call civilization a sham? Yes, I believe in peace, in arbitration, in settling disputes like reasonable, human beings. All that war can do is to determine who is the stronger. It throws no light on any question, addresses no argument. There is a point to a bayonet, but no logic. After the war is over the victory does not tell which nation was right. Civilized men take their differences to courts or arbitrators. Civilized nations should do the same. There ought to be an international court.
Let every man do all he can to prevent war—to prevent the waste, the cruelties, the horrors that follow every flag on every field of battle. It is time that man was human—time that the beast was out of his heart.
Question. What do you think of McKinley's inaugural?
Answer. It is good, honest, clear, patriotic and sensible. There is one thing in it that touched me; I agree with him that lynching has to be stopped. You see that now we are citizens of the United States, not simply of the State in which we happen to live. I take the ground that it is the business of the United States to protect its citizens, not only when they are in some other country, but when they are at home. The United States cannot discharge this obligation by allowing the States to do as they please. Where citizens are being lynched the Government should interfere. If the Governor of some barbarian State says that he cannot protect the lives of citizens, then the United States should, if it took the entire Army and Navy.
Question. What is your opinion of charity organizations?
Answer. I think that the people who support them are good and generous—splendid—but I have a poor opinion of the people in charge. As a rule, I think they are cold, impudent and heartless. There is too much circumlocution, or too many details and too little humanity. The Jews are exceedingly charitable. I think that in New York the men who are doing the most for their fellow-men are Jews. Nathan Strauss is trying to feed the hungry, warm the cold, and clothe the naked. For the most part, organized charities are, I think, failures. A real charity has to be in the control of a good man, a real sympathetic, a sensible man, one who helps others to help themselves. Let a hungry man go to an organized society and it requires several days to satisfy the officers that the man is hungry. Meanwhile he will probably starve to death.
Question. Do you believe in free text-books in the public schools?
Answer. I do not care about the text-book question. But I am in favor of the public school. Nothing should be taught that somebody does not know. No superstitions—nothing but science.
Question. There has been a good deal said lately about your suicide theology, Colonel. Do you still believe that suicide is justifiable?
Answer. Certainly. When a man is useless to himself and to others he has a right to determine what he will do about living. The only thing to be considered is a man's obligation to his fellow- beings and to himself. I don't take into consideration any supernatural nonsense. If God wants a man to stay here he ought to make it more comfortable for him.
Question. Since you expounded your justification of suicide, Colonel, I believe you have had some cases of suicide laid at your door?
Answer. Oh, yes. Every suicide that has happened since that time has been charged to me. I don't know how the people account for the suicides before my time. I have not yet heard of my being charged with the death of Cato, but that may yet come to pass. I was reading the other day that the rate of suicide in Germany is increasing. I suppose my article has been translated into German.
Question. How about lying, Colonel? Is it ever right to lie?
Answer. Of course, sometimes. In war when a man is captured by the enemy he ought to lie to them to mislead them. What we call strategy is nothing more than lies. For the accomplishment of a good end, for instance, the saving of a woman's reputation, it is many times perfectly right to lie. As a rule, people ought to tell the truth. If it is right to kill a man to save your own life it certainly ought to be right to fool him for the same purpose. I would rather be deceived than killed, wouldn't you?
—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago, Illinois, March, 1897.

A VISIT TO SHAW'S GARDEN.

Question. I was told that you came to St. Louis on your wedding trip some thirty years ago and went to Shaw's Garden?
Answer. Yes; we were married on the 13th of February, 1862. We were here in St. Louis, and we did visit Shaw's Garden, and we thought it perfectly beautiful. Afterward we visited the Kew Gardens in London, but our remembrance of Shaw's left Kew in the shade.
Of course, I have been in St. Louis many times, my first visit being, I think, in 1854. I have always liked the town. I was acquainted at one time with a great many of your old citizens. Most of them have died, and I know but few of the present generation. I used to stop at the old Planter's House, and I was there quite often during the war. In those days I saw Hackett as Falstaff, the best Falstaff that ever lived. Ben de Bar was here then, and the Maddern sisters, and now the daughter of one of the sisters, Minnie Maddern Fiske, is one of the greatest actresses in the world. She has made a wonderful hit in New York this season. And so the ebb and flow of life goes on—the old pass and the young arrive.
"Death and progress!" It may be that death is, after all, a great blessing. Maybe it gives zest and flavor to life, ardor and flame to love. At the same time I say, "long life" to all my friends.
I want to live—I get great happiness out of life. I enjoy the company of my friends. I enjoy seeing the faces of the ones I love. I enjoy art and music. I love Shakespeare and Burns; love to hear the music of Wagner; love to see a good play. I take pleasure in eating and sleeping. The fact is, I like to breathe.
I want to get all the happiness out of life that I can. I want to suck the orange dry, so that when death comes nothing but the peelings will be left, and so I say: "Long life!"
—The Republic, St. Louis, April 11, 1897.

THE VENEZUELAN BOUNDARY DISCUSSION AND THE WHIPPING-POST.

Question. What is your opinion as to the action of the President on the Venezuelan matter?
Answer. In my judgment, the President acted in haste and without thought. It may be said that it would have been well enough for him to have laid the correspondence before Congress and asked for an appropriation for a commission to ascertain the facts, to the end that our Government might intelligently act. There was no propriety in going further than that. To almost declare war before the facts were known was a blunder—almost a crime. For my part, I do not think the Monroe doctrine has anything to do with the case. Mr. Olney reasons badly, and it is only by a perversion of facts, and an exaggeration of facts, and by calling in question the motives of England that it is possible to conclude that the Monroe doctrine has or can have anything to do with the controversy. The President went out of his way to find a cause of quarrel. Nobody doubts the courage of the American people, and we for that reason can afford to be sensible and prudent. Valor and discretion should go together. Nobody doubts the courage of England.
America and England are the leading nations, and in their keeping, to a great extent, is the glory of the future. They should be at peace. Should a difference arise it should be settled without recourse to war.
Fighting settles nothing but the relative strength. No light is thrown on the cause of the conflict—on the question or fact that caused the war.
Question. Do you think that there is any danger of war?
Answer. If the members of Congress really represent the people, then there is danger. But I do not believe the people will really want to fight about a few square miles of malarial territory in Venezuela—something in which they have no earthly or heavenly interest. The people do not wish to fight for fight's sake. When they understand the question they will regard the administration as almost insane.
The message has already cost us more than the War of 1812 or the Mexican war, or both. Stocks and bonds have decreased in value several hundred millions, and the end is not yet. It may be that it will, on account of the panic, be impossible for the Government to maintain the gold standard—the reserve. Then gold would command a premium, the Government would be unable to redeem the greenbacks, and the result would be financial chaos, and all this the result of Mr. Cleveland's curiosity about a boundary line between two countries, in neither of which we have any interest, and this curiosity has already cost us more than both countries, including the boundary line, are worth.
The President made a great mistake. So did the House and Senate, and the poor people have paid a part of the cost.
Question. What is your opinion of the Gerry Whipping Post bill?
Answer. I see that it has passed the Senate, and yet I think it is a disgrace to the State. How the Senators can go back to torture, to the Dark Ages, to the custom of savagery, is beyond belief. I hope that the House is nearer civilized, and that the infamous bill will be defeated. If, however, the bill should pass, then I hope Governor Morton will veto it.
Nothing is more disgusting, more degrading, than the whipping-post. It degrades the whipped and the whipper. It degrades all who witness the flogging. What kind of a person will do the whipping? Men who would apply the lash to the naked backs of criminals would have to be as low as the criminals, and probably a little lower.
The shadow of the whipping-post does not fall on any civilized country, and never will. The next thing we know Mr. Gerry will probably introduce some bill to brand criminals on the forehead or cut off their ears and slit their noses. This is in the same line, and is born of the same hellish spirit. There is no reforming power in torture, in bruising and mangling the flesh.
If the bill becomes a law, I hope it will provide that the lash shall be applied by Mr. Gerry and his successors in office. Let these pretended enemies of cruelty enjoy themselves. If the bill passes, I presume Mr. Gerry could get a supply of knouts from Russia, as that country has just abolished the whipping-post.
—The Journal, New York, December 24, 1895.

COLONEL SHEPARD'S STAGE HORSES.*

     [* One of Colonel Shepard's equine wrecks was picked up on
     Fifth avenue yesterday by the Prevention of Cruelty Society,
     and was laid up for repairs.  The horse was about twenty-
     eight years old, badly foundered, and its leg was cut and
     bleeding.  It was the leader of three that had been hauling
     a Fifth avenue stage, and, according to the Society's
     agents, was in about as bad a condition as a horse could be
     and keep on his feet.  The other two horses were little
     better, neither of them being fit to drive.

     Colonel Shepard's scrawny nags have long been an eyesore to
     Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll, who is compelled to see them
     from his windows at number 400 Fifth avenue.  He said last
     night:]

It might not be in good taste for me to say anything about Colonel Shepard's horses. He might think me prejudiced. But I am satisfied horses cannot live on faith or on the substance of things hoped for. It is far better for the horse, to feed him without praying, than to pray without feeding him. It is better to be kind even to animals, than to quote Scripture in small capitals. Now, I am not saying anything against Colonel Shepard. I do not know how he feeds his horses. If he is as good and kind as he is pious, then I have nothing to say. Maybe he does not allow the horses to break the Sabbath by eating. They are so slow that they make one think of a fast. They put me in mind of the Garden of Eden—the rib story. When I watch them on the avenue I, too, fall to quoting Scripture, and say, "Can these dry bones live?" Still, I have a delicacy on this subject; I hate to think about it, and I think the horses feel the same way.
—Morning Advertiser, New York, January 21, 1892.

A REPLY TO THE REV. L. A. BANKS.

Question. Have you read the remarks made about you by the Rev. Mr. Banks, and what do you think of what he said?
Answer. The reverend gentleman pays me a great compliment by comparing me to a circus. Everybody enjoys the circus. They love to see the acrobats, the walkers on the tight rope, the beautiful girls on the horses, and they laugh at the wit of the clowns. They are delighted with the jugglers, with the music of the band. They drink the lemonade, eat the colored popcorn and laugh until they nearly roll off their seats. Now the circus has a few animals so that Christians can have an excuse for going. Think of the joy the circus gives to the boys and girls. They look at the show bills, see the men and women flying through the air, bursting through paper hoops, the elephants standing on their heads, and the clowns, in curious clothes, with hands on their knees and open mouths, supposed to be filled with laughter.
All the boys and girls for many miles around know the blessed day. They save their money, obey their parents, and when the circus comes they are on hand. They see the procession and then they see the show. They are all happy. No sermon ever pleased them as much, and in comparison even the Sunday school is tame and dull.
To feel that I have given as much joy as the circus fills me with pleasure. What chance would the Rev. Dr. Banks stand against a circus?
The reverend gentleman has done me a great honor, and I tender him my sincere thanks.
Question. Dr. Banks says that you write only one lecture a year, while preachers write a brand new one every week—that if you did that people would tire of you. What have you to say to that?
Answer. It may be that great artists paint only one picture a year, and it may be that sign painters can do several jobs a day. Still, I would not say that the sign painters were superior to the artists. There is quite a difference between a sculptor and a stone-cutter.
There are thousands of preachers and thousands and thousands of sermons preached every year. Has any orthodox minister in the year 1898 given just one paragraph to literature? Has any orthodox preacher uttered one great thought, clothed in perfect English that thrilled the hearers like music—one great strophe that became one of the treasures of memory?
I will make the question a little clearer. Has any orthodox preacher, or any preacher in an orthodox pulpit uttered a paragraph of what may be called sculptured speech since Henry Ward Beecher died? I do not wonder that the sermons are poor. Their doctrines have been discussed for centuries. There is little chance for originality; they not only thresh old straw, but the thresh straw that has been threshed a million times—straw in which there has not been a grain of wheat for hundreds of years. No wonder that they have nervous prostration. No wonder that they need vacations, and no wonder that their congregations enjoy the vacations as keenly as the ministers themselves. Better deliver a real good address fifty-two times than fifty-two poor ones—just for the sake of variety.
Question. Dr. Banks says that the tendency at present is not toward Agnosticism, but toward Christianity. What is your opinion?
Answer. When I was a boy "Infidels" were very rare. A man who denied the inspiration of the Bible was regarded as a monster. Now there are in this country millions who regard the Bible as the work of ignorant and superstitious men. A few years ago the Bible was the standard. All scientific theories were tested by the Bible. Now science is the standard and the Bible is tested by that.
Dr. Banks did not mention the names of the great scientists who are or were Christians, but he probably thought of Laplace, Humboldt, Haeckel, Huxley, Spencer, Tyndall, Darwin, Helmholtz and Draper. When he spoke of Christian statesmen he likely thought of Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Paine and Lincoln—or he may have thought of Pierce, Fillmore and Buchanan.
But, after all, there is no argument in names. A man is not necessarily great because he holds office or wears a crown or talks in a pulpit. Facts, reasons, are better than names. But it seems to me that nothing can be plainer than that the church is losing ground—that the people are discarding the creeds and that superstition has passed the zenith of its power.
Question. Dr. Banks says that Christ did not mention the Western Hemisphere because God does nothing for men that they can do for themselves. What have you to say?
Answer. Christ said nothing about the Western Hemisphere because he did not know that it existed. He did not know the shape of the earth. He was not a scientist—never even hinted at any science— never told anybody to investigate—to think. His idea was that this life should be spent in preparing for the next. For all the evils of this life, and the next, faith was his remedy.
I see from the report in the paper that Dr. Banks, after making the remarks about me preached a sermon on "Herod the Villain in the Drama of Christ." Who made Herod? Dr. Banks will answer that God made him. Did God know what Herod would do? Yes. Did he know that he would cause the children to be slaughtered in his vain efforts to kill the infant Christ? Yes. Dr. Banks will say that God is not responsible for Herod because he gave Herod freedom. Did God know how Herod would use his freedom? Did he know that he would become the villain in the drama of Christ? Yes. Who, then, is really responsible for the acts of Herod?
If I could change a stone into a human being, and if I could give this being freedom of will, and if I knew that if I made him he would murder a man, and if with that knowledge I made him, and he did commit a murder, who would be the real murderer?
Will Dr. Banks in his fifty-two sermons of next year show that his God is not responsible for the crimes of Herod?
No doubt Dr. Banks is a good man, and no doubt he thinks that liberty of thought leads to hell, and honestly believes that all doubt comes from the Devil. I do not blame him. He thinks as he must. He is a product of conditions.
He ought to be my friend because I am doing the best I can to civilize his congregation.
—The Plain Dealer, Cleveland, Ohio, 1898.

CUBA—ZOLA AND THEOSOPHY.

Question. What do you think, Colonel, of the Cuban question?

Answer. What I know about this question is known by all. I suppose that the President has information that I know nothing about. Of course, all my sympathies are with the Cubans. They are making a desperate—an heroic struggle for their freedom. For many years they have been robbed and trampled under foot. Spain is, and always has been, a terrible master—heartless and infamous. There is no language with which to tell what Cuba has suffered. In my judgment, this country should assist the Cubans. We ought to acknowledge the independence of that island, and we ought to feed the starving victims of Spain. For years we have been helping Spain. Cleveland did all he could to prevent the Cubans from getting arms and men. This was a criminal mistake—a mistake that even Spain did not appreciate. All this should instantly be reversed, and we should give aid to Cuba. The war that Spain is waging shocks every civilized man. Spain has always been the same. In Holland, in Peru, in Mexico, she was infinitely cruel, and she is the same to-day. She loves to torture, to imprison, to degrade, to kill. Her idea of perfect happiness is to shed blood. Spain is a legacy of the Dark Ages. She belongs to the den, the cave period. She has no business to exist. She is a blot, a stain on the map of the world. Of course there are some good Spaniards, but they are not in control.
I want Cuba to be free. I want Spain driven from the Western World. She has already starved five hundred thousand Cubans—poor, helpless non-combatants. Among the helpless she is like a hyena—a tiger among lambs. This country ought to stop this gigantic crime. We should do this in the name of humanity—for the sake of the starving, the dying.
Question. Do you think we are going to have war with Spain?
Answer. I do not think there will be war. Unless Spain is insane, she will not attack the United States. She is bankrupt. No nation will assist her. A civilized nation would be ashamed to take her hand, to be her friend. She has not the power to put down the rebellion in Cuba. How then can she hope to conquer this country? She is full of brag and bluster. Of course she will play her hand for all it is worth, so far as talk goes. She will double her fists and make motions. She will assume the attitude of war, but she will never fight. Should she commence hostilities, the war would be short. She would lose her navy. The little commerce she has would be driven from the sea. She would drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation and disgrace. I do not believe that Spain is insane enough to fire upon our flag. I know that there is nothing too mean, too cruel for her to do, but still she must have sense enough to try and save her own life. No, I think there will be no war, but I believe that Cuba will be free. My opinion is that the Maine was blown up from the outside—blown up by Spanish officers, and I think the report of the Board will be to that effect. Such a crime ought to redden even the cheeks of Spain. As soon as this fact is known, other nations will regard Spain with hatred and horror. If the Maine was destroyed by Spain we will ask for indemnity. The people insist that the account be settled and at once. Possibly we may attack Spain. There is the only danger of war. We must avenge that crime. The destruction of two hundred and fifty-nine Americans must be avenged. Free Cuba must be their monument. I hope for the sake of human nature that the Spanish did not destroy the Maine. I hope it was the result of an accident. I hope there is to be no war, but Spain must be driven from the New World.
Question. What about Zola's trial and conviction?
Answer. It was one of the most infamous trials in the history of the world. Zola is a great man, a genius, the best man in France. His trial was a travesty on justice. The judge acted like a bandit. The proceedings were a disgrace to human nature. The jurors must have been ignorant beasts. The French have disgraced themselves. Long live Zola.
Question. Having expressed yourself less upon the subject of Theosophy than upon other religious beliefs, and as Theosophy denies the existence of a God as worshiped by Christianity, what is your idea of the creed?
Answer. Insanity. I think it is a mild form of delusion and illusion; vague, misty, obscure, half dream, mixed with other mistakes and fragments of facts—a little philosophy, absurdity— a few impossibilities—some improbabilities—some accounts of events that never happened—some prophecies that will not come to pass— a structure without foundation. But the Theosophists are good people; kind and honest. Theosophy is based on the supernatural and is just as absurd as the orthodox creeds.
—The Courier-Journal, Louisville, Ky., February, 1898.

HOW TO BECOME AN ORATOR.

Question. What advice would you give to a young man who was ambitious to become a successful public speaker or orator?
Answer. In the first place, I would advise him to have something to say—something worth saying—something that people would be glad to hear. This is the important thing. Back of the art of speaking must be the power to think. Without thoughts words are empty purses. Most people imagine that almost any words uttered in a loud voice and accompanied by appropriate gestures, constitute an oration. I would advise the young man to study his subject, to find what others had thought, to look at it from all sides. Then I would tell him to write out his thoughts or to arrange them in his mind, so that he would know exactly what he was going to say. Waste no time on the how until you are satisfied with the what. After you know what you are to say, then you can think of how it should be said. Then you can think about tone, emphasis, and gesture; but if you really understand what you say, emphasis, tone, and gesture will take care of themselves. All these should come from the inside. They should be in perfect harmony with the feelings. Voice and gesture should be governed by the emotions. They should unconsciously be in perfect agreement with the sentiments. The orator should be true to his subject, should avoid any reference to himself.
The great column of his argument should be unbroken. He can adorn it with vines and flowers, but they should not be in such profusion as to hide the column. He should give variety of episode by illustrations, but they should be used only for the purpose of adding strength to the argument. The man who wishes to become an orator should study language. He should know the deeper meaning of words. He should understand the vigor and velocity of verbs and the color of adjectives. He should know how to sketch a scene, to paint a picture, to give life and action. He should be a poet and a dramatist, a painter and an actor. He should cultivate his imagination. He should become familiar with the great poetry and fiction, with splendid and heroic deeds. He should be a student of Shakespeare. He should read and devour the great plays. From Shakespeare he could learn the art of expression, of compression, and all the secrets of the head and heart.
The great orator is full of variety—of surprises. Like a juggler, he keeps the colored balls in the air. He expresses himself in pictures. His speech is a panorama. By continued change he holds the attention. The interest does not flag. He does not allow himself to be anticipated. A picture is shown but once. So, an orator should avoid the commonplace. There should be no stuffing, no filling. He should put no cotton with his silk, no common metals with his gold. He should remember that "gilded dust is not as good as dusted gold." The great orator is honest, sincere. He does not pretend. His brain and heart go together. Every drop of his blood is convinced. Nothing is forced. He knows exactly what he wishes to do—knows when he has finished it, and stops.
Only a great orator knows when and how to close. Most speakers go on after they are through. They are satisfied only with a "lame and impotent conclusion." Most speakers lack variety. They travel a straight and dusty road. The great orator is full of episode. He convinces and charms by indirection. He leaves the road, visits the fields, wanders in the woods, listens to the murmurs of springs, the songs of birds. He gathers flowers, scales the crags and comes back to the highway refreshed, invigorated. He does not move in a straight line. He wanders and winds like a stream.
Of course, no one can tell a man what to do to become an orator. The great orator has that wonderful thing called presence. He has that strange something known as magnetism. He must have a flexible, musical voice, capable of expressing the pathetic, the humorous, the heroic. His body must move in unison with his thought. He must be a reasoner, a logician. He must have a keen sense of humor —of the laughable. He must have wit, sharp and quick. He must have sympathy. His smiles should be the neighbors of his tears. He must have imagination. He should give eagles to the air, and painted moths should flutter in the sunlight.
While I cannot tell a man what to do to become an orator, I can tell him a few things not to do. There should be no introduction to an oration. The orator should commence with his subject. There should be no prelude, no flourish, no apology, no explanation. He should say nothing about himself. Like a sculptor, he stands by his block of stone. Every stroke is for a purpose. As he works the form begins to appear. When the statue is finished the workman stops. Nothing is more difficult than a perfect close. Few poems, few pieces of music, few novels end well. A good story, a great speech, a perfect poem should end just at the proper point. The bud, the blossom, the fruit. No delay. A great speech is a crystallization in its logic, an efflorescence in its poetry.
I have not heard many speeches. Most of the great speakers in our country were before my time. I heard Beecher, and he was an orator. He had imagination, humor and intensity. His brain was as fertile as the valleys of the tropics. He was too broad, too philosophic, too poetic for the pulpit. Now and then, he broke the fetters of his creed, escaped from his orthodox prison, and became sublime.
Theodore Parker was an orator. He preached great sermons. His sermons on "Old Age" and "Webster," and his address on "Liberty" were filled with great thoughts, marvelously expressed. When he dealt with human events, with realities, with things he knew, he was superb. When he spoke of freedom, of duty, of living to the ideal, of mental integrity, he seemed inspired.
Webster I never heard. He had great qualities; force, dignity, clearness, grandeur; but, after all, he worshiped the past. He kept his back to the sunrise. There was no dawn in his brain. He was not creative. He had no spirit of prophecy. He lighted no torch. He was not true to his ideal. He talked sometimes as though his head was among the stars, but he stood in the gutter. In the name of religion he tried to break the will of Stephen Girard—to destroy the greatest charity in all the world; and in the name of the same religion he defended the Fugitive Slave Law. His purpose was the same in both cases. He wanted office. Yet he uttered a few very great paragraphs, rich with thought, perfectly expressed.
Clay I never heard, but he must have had a commanding presence, a chivalric bearing, an heroic voice. He cared little for the past. He was a natural leader, a wonderful talker—forcible, persuasive, convincing. He was not a poet, not a master of metaphor, but he was practical. He kept in view the end to be accomplished. He was the opposite of Webster. Clay was the morning, Webster the evening. Clay had large views, a wide horizon. He was ample, vigorous, and a little tyrannical.
Benton was thoroughly commonplace. He never uttered an inspired word. He was an intense egoist. No subject was great enough to make him forget himself. Calhoun was a political Calvinist—narrow, logical, dogmatic. He was not an orator. He delivered essays, not orations. I think it was in 1851 that Kossuth visited this country. He was an orator. There was no man, at that time, under our flag, who could speak English as well as he. In the first speech I read of Kossuth's was this line: "Russia is the rock against which the sigh for freedom breaks." In this you see the poet, the painter, the orator.
S. S. Prentiss was an orator, but, with the recklessness of a gamester, he threw his life away. He said profound and beautiful things, but he lacked application. He was uneven, disproportioned, saying ordinary things on great occasions, and now and then, without the slightest provocation, uttering the sublimest and most beautiful thoughts.
In my judgment, Corwin was the greatest orator of them all. He had more arrows in his quiver. He had genius. He was full of humor, pathos, wit, and logic. He was an actor. His body talked. His meaning was in his eyes and lips. Gov. O. P. Morton of Indiana had the greatest power of statement of any man I ever heard. All the argument was in his statement. The facts were perfectly grouped. The conclusion was a necessity.
The best political speech I ever heard was made by Gov. Richard J. Oglesby of Illinois. It had every element of greatness—reason, humor, wit, pathos, imagination, and perfect naturalness. That was in the grand years, long ago. Lincoln had reason, wonderful humor, and wit, but his presence was not good. His voice was poor, his gestures awkward—but his thoughts were profound. His speech at Gettysburg is one of the masterpieces of the world. The word "here" is used four or five times too often. Leave the "heres" out, and the speech is perfect.
Of course, I have heard a great many talkers, but orators are few and far between. They are produced by victorious nations—born in the midst of great events, of marvelous achievements. They utter the thoughts, the aspirations of their age. They clothe the children of the people in the gorgeous robes of giants. The interpret the dreams. With the poets, they prophesy. They fill the future with heroic forms, with lofty deeds. They keep their faces toward the dawn—toward the ever-coming day.
—New York Sun, April, 1898.

JOHN RUSSELL YOUNG AND EXPANSION.

Question. You knew John Russell Young, Colonel?

Answer. Yes, I knew him well and we were friends for many years. He was a wonderfully intelligent man—knew something about everything, had read most books worth reading. He was one of the truest friends. He had a genius for friendship. He never failed to do a favor when he could, and he never forgot a favor. He had the genius of gratitude. His mind was keen, smooth, clear, and he really loved to think. I had the greatest admiration for his character and I was shocked when I read of his death. I did not know that he had been ill. All my heart goes out to his wife—a lovely woman, now left alone with her boy. After all, life is a fearful thing at best. The brighter the sunshine the deeper the shadow.
Question. Are you in favor of expansion?
Answer. Yes, I have always wanted more—I love to see the Republic grow. I wanted the Sandwich Islands, wanted Porto Rico, and I want Cuba if the Cubans want us. I want the Philippines if the Filipinos want us—I do not want to conquer and enslave those people. The war on the Filipinos is a great mistake—a blunder—almost a crime.
If the President had declared his policy, then, if his policy was right, there was no need of war. The President should have told the Filipinos just exactly what he wanted. It is a small business, after Dewey covered Manila Bay with glory, to murder a lot of half- armed savages. We had no right to buy, because Spain had no right to sell the Philippines. We acquired no rights on those islands by whipping Spain.
Question. Do you think the President should have stated his policy in Boston the other day?
Answer. Yes, I think it would be better if he would unpack his little budget—I like McKinley, but I liked him just as well before he was President. He is a good man, not because he is President, but because he is a man—you know that real honor must be earned— people cannot give honor—honor is not alms—it is wages. So, when a man is elected President the best thing he can do is to remain a natural man. Yes, I wish McKinley would brush all his advisers to one side and say his say; I believe his say would be right.
Now, don't change this interview and make me say something mean about McKinley, because I like him. The other day, in Chicago, I had an interview and I wrote it out. In that "interview" I said a few things about the position of Senator Hoar. I tried to show that he was wrong—but I took pains to express by admiration for Senator Hoar. When the interview was published I was made to say that Senator Hoar was a mud-head. I never said or thought anything of the kind. Don't treat me as that Chicago reporter did.
Question. What do you think of Atkinson's speech?
Answer. Well, some of it is good—but I never want to see the soldiers of the Republic whipped. I am always on our side.
—The Press, Philadelphia, February 20, 1899.

PSYCHICAL RESEARCH AND THE BIBLE.*

     [* As an incident in the life of any one favored with the
     privilege, a visit to the home of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll
     is certain to be recalled as a most pleasant and profitable
     experience.  Although not a sympathizer with the great
     Agnostic's religious views, yet I have long admired his
     ability, his humor, his intellectual honesty and courage.
     And it was with gratification that I accepted the good
     offices of a common friend who recently offered to introduce
     me to the Ingersoll domestic circle in Gramercy Park.  Here
     I found the genial Colonel, surrounded by his children, his
     grandchildren, and his amiable wife, whose smiling greeting
     dispelled formality and breathed "Welcome" in every
     syllable.  The family relationship seemed absolutely ideal—
     the very walls emitting an atmosphere of art and music, of
     contentment and companionship, of mutual trust, happiness
     and generosity.

     But my chief desire was to elicit Colonel Ingersoll's
     personal views on questions related to the New Thought and
     its attitude on matters on which he is known to have very
     decided opinions.  My request for a private chat was
     cordially granted. During the conversation that ensued—(the
     substance of which is presented to the readers of Mind in
     the following paragraphs, with the Colonel's consent)—I was
     impressed most deeply, not by the force of his arguments,
     but by the sincerity of his convictions.  Among some of his
     more violent opponents, who presumably lack other
     opportunities of becoming known, it is the fashion to accuse
     Ingersoll of having really no belief in his own opinions.
     But, if he convinced me of little else, he certainly,
     without effort, satisfied my mind that this accusation is a
     slander. Utterly mistaken in his views he may be; but if so,
     his errors are more honest than many of those he points out
     in the King James version of the Bible.  If his pulpit
     enemies could talk with this man by his own fireside, they
     would pay less attention to Ingersoll himself and more to
     what he says. They would consider his meaning, rather than
     his motive.

     As the Colonel is the most conspicuous denunciator of
     intolerance and bigotry in America, he has been inevitably
     the greatest victim of these obstacles to mental freedom.
     "To answer Ingersoll" is the pet ambition of many a young
     clergyman—the older ones have either acquired prudence or
     are broad enough to concede the utility of even Agnostics in
     the economy of evolution.  It was with the very subject that
     we began our talk—the uncharitableness of men, otherwise
     good, in their treatment of those whose religious views
     differ from their own.]

Question. What is your conception of true intellectual hospitality? As Truth can brook no compromises, has it not the same limitations that surround social and domestic hospitality?
Answer. In the republic of mind we are all equals. Each one is sceptered and crowned. Each one is the monarch of his own realm. By "intellectual hospitality" I mean the right of every one to think and to express his thought. It makes no difference whether his thought is right or wrong. If you are intellectually hospitable you will admit the right of every human being to see for himself; to hear with his own ears, see with his own eyes, and think with his own brain. You will not try to change his thought by force, by persecution, or by slander. You will not threaten him with punishment—here or hereafter. You will give him your thought, your reasons, your facts; and there you will stop. This is intellectual hospitality. You do not give up what you believe to be the truth; you do not compromise. You simply give him the liberty you claim for yourself. The truth is not affected by your opinion or by his. Both may be wrong. For many years the church has claimed to have the "truth," and has also insisted that it is the duty of every man to believe it, whether it is reasonable to him or not. This is bigotry in its basest form. Every man should be guided by his reason; should be true to himself; should preserve the veracity of his soul. Each human being should judge for himself. The man that believes that all men have this right is intellectually hospitable.
Question. In the sharp distinction between theology and religion that is now recognized by many theologians, and in the liberalizing of the church that has marked the last two decades, are not most of your contentions already granted? Is not the "lake of fire and brimstone" an obsolete issue?
Answer. There has been in the last few years a great advance. The orthodox creeds have been growing vulgar and cruel. Civilized people are shocked at the dogma of eternal pain, and the belief in hell has mostly faded away. The churches have not changed their creeds. They still pretend to believe as they always have—but they have changed their tone. God is now a father—a friend. He is no longer the monster, the savage, described in the Bible. He has become somewhat civilized. He no longer claims the right to damn us because he made us. But in spite of all the errors and contradictions, in spite of the cruelties and absurdities found in the Scriptures, the churches still insist that the Bible is inspired. The educated ministers admit that the Pentateuch was not written by Moses; that the Psalms were not written by David; that Isaiah was the work of at least three; that Daniel was not written until after the prophecies mentioned in that book had been fulfilled; that Ecclesiastes was not written until the second century after Christ; that Solomon's Song was not written by Solomon; that the book of Esther is of no importance; and that no one knows, or pretends to know, who were the authors of Kings, Samuel, Chronicles, or Job. And yet these same gentlemen still cling to the dogma of inspiration! It is no longer claimed that the Bible is true—but inspired.
Question. Yet the sacred volume, no matter who wrote it, is a mine of wealth to the student and the philosopher, is it not? Would you have us discard it altogether?
Answer. Inspiration must be abandoned, and the Bible must take its place among the books of the world. It contains some good passages, a little poetry, some good sense, and some kindness; but its philosophy is frightful. In fact, if the book had never existed I think it would have been far better for mankind. It is not enough to give up the Bible; that is only the beginning. The supernatural must be given up. It must be admitted that Nature has no master; that there never has been any interference from without; that man has received no help from heaven; and that all the prayers that have ever been uttered have died unanswered in the heedless air. The religion of the supernatural has been a curse. We want the religion of usefulness.
Question. But have you no use whatever for prayer—even in the sense of aspiration—or for faith, in the sense of confidence in the ultimate triumph of the right?
Answer. There is a difference between wishing, hoping, believing, and—knowing. We can wish without evidence or probability, and we can wish for the impossible—for what we believe can never be. We cannot hope unless there is in the mind a possibility that the thing hoped for can happen. We can believe only in accordance with evidence, and we know only that which has been demonstrated. I have no use for prayer; but I do a good deal of wishing and hoping. I hope that some time the right will triumph—that Truth will gain the victory; but I have no faith in gaining the assistance of any god, or of any supernatural power. I never pray.
Question. However fully materialism, as a philosophy, may accord with the merely human reason, is it not wholly antagonistic to the instinctive faculties of the mind?
Answer. Human reason is the final arbiter. Any system that does not commend itself to the reason must fall. I do not know exactly what you mean by materialism. I do not know what matter is. I am satisfied, however, that without matter there can be no force, no life, no thought, no reason. It seems to me that mind is a form of force, and force cannot exist apart from matter. If it is said that God created the universe, then there must have been a time when he commenced to create. If at that time there was nothing in existence but himself, how could he have exerted any force? Force cannot be exerted except in opposition to force. If God was the only existence, force could not have been exerted.
Question. But don't you think, Colonel, that the materialistic philosophy, even in the light of your own interpretation, is essentially pessimistic?
Answer. I do not consider it so. I believe that the pessimists and the optimists are both right. This is the worst possible world, and this is the best possible world—because it is as it must be. The present is the child, and the necessary child, of all the past.
Question. What have you to say concerning the operations of the Society for Psychical Research? Do not its facts and conclusions prove, if not immortality, at least the continuity of life beyond the grave? Are the millions of Spiritualists deluded?
Answer. Of course I have heard and read a great deal about the doings of the Society; so, I have some knowledge as to what is claimed by Spiritualists, by Theosophists, and by all other believers in what are called "spiritual manifestations." Thousands of wonderful tings have been established by what is called "evidence" —the testimony of good men and women. I have seen things done that I could not explain, both by mediums and magicians. I also know that it is easy to deceive the senses, and that the old saying "that seeing is believing" is subject to many exceptions. I am perfectly satisfied that there is, and can be, no force without matter; that everything that is—all phenomena—all actions and thoughts, all exhibitions of force, have a material basis—that nothing exists,—ever did, or ever will exist, apart from matter. So I am satisfied that no matter ever existed, or ever will, apart from force.
We think with the same force with which we walk. For every action and for every thought, we draw upon the store of force that we have gained from air and food. We create no force; we borrow it all. As force cannot exist apart from matter, it must be used with matter. It travels only on material roads. It is impossible to convey a thought to another without the assistance of matter. No one can conceive of the use of one of our senses without substance. No one can conceive of a thought in the absence of the senses. With these conclusions in my mind—in my brain—I have not the slightest confidence in "spiritual manifestations," and do not believe that any message has ever been received from the dead. The testimony that I have heard—that I have read—coming even from men of science—has not the slightest weight with me. I do not pretend to see beyond the grave. I do not say that man is, or is not, immortal. All I say is that there is no evidence that we live again, and no demonstration that we do not. It is better ignorantly to hope than dishonestly to affirm.
Question. And what do you think of the modern development of metaphysics—as expressed outside of the emotional and semi- ecclesiastical schools? I refer especially to the power of mind in the curing of disease—as demonstrated by scores of drugless healers.
Answer. I have no doubt that the condition of the mind has some effect upon the health. The blood, the heart, the lungs answer— respond to—emotion. There is no mind without body, and the body is affected by thought—by passion, by cheerfulness, by depression. Still, I have not the slightest confidence in what is called "mind cure." I do not believe that thought, or any set of ideas, can cure a cancer, or prevent the hair from falling out, or remove a tumor, or even freckles. At the same time, I admit that cheerfulness is good and depression bad. But I have no confidence in what you call "drugless healers." If the stomach is sour, soda is better than thinking. If one is in great pain, opium will beat meditation. I am a believer in what you call "drugs," and when I am sick I send for a physician. I have no confidence in the supernatural. Magic is not medicine.
Question. One great object of this movement, is to make religion scientific—an aid to intellectual as well as spiritual progress. Is it not thus to be encouraged, and destined to succeed—even though it prove the reality and supremacy of the spirit and the secondary importance of the flesh?
Answer. When religion becomes scientific, it ceases to be religion and becomes science. Religion is not intellectual—it is emotional. It does not appeal to the reason. The founder of a religion has always said: "Let him that hath ears to hear, hear!" No founder has said: "Let him that hath brains to think, think!" Besides, we need not trouble ourselves about "spirit" and "flesh." We know that we know of no spirit—without flesh. We have no evidence that spirit ever did or ever will exist apart from flesh. Such existence is absolutely inconceivable. If we are going to construct what you call a "religion," it must be founded on observed and known facts. Theories, to be of value, must be in accord with all the facts that are known; otherwise they are worthless. We need not try to get back of facts or behind the truth. The why will forever elude us. You cannot move your hand quickly enough to grasp your image back of the mirror.
—Mind, New York, March, 1899.

THIS CENTURY'S GLORIES.

The laurel of the nineteenth century is on Darwin's brow. This century has been the greatest of all. The inventions, the discoveries, the victories on the fields of thought, the advances in nearly every direction of human effort are without parallel in human history. In only two directions have the achievements of this century been excelled. The marbles of Greece have not been equalled. They still occupy the niches dedicated to perfection. They sculptors of our century stand before the miracles of the Greeks in impotent wonder. They cannot even copy. They cannot give the breath of life to stone and make the marble feel and think. The plays of Shakespeare have never been approached. He reached the summit, filled the horizon. In the direction of the dramatic, the poetic, the human mind, in my judgment, in Shakespeare's plays reached its limit. The field was harvested, all the secrets of the heart were told. The buds of all hopes blossomed, all seas were crossed and all the shores were touched.
With these two exceptions, the Grecian marbles and the Shakespeare plays, the nineteenth century has produced more for the benefit of man than all the centuries of the past. In this century, in one direction, I think the mind has reached the limit. I do not believe the music of Wagner will ever be excelled. He changed all passions, longing, memories and aspirations into tones, and with subtle harmonies wove tapestries of sound, whereon were pictured the past and future, the history and prophecy of the human heart. Of course Copernicus, Galileo, Newton and Kepler laid the foundations of astronomy. It may be that the three laws of Kepler mark the highest point in that direction that the mind has reached.
In the other centuries there is now and then a peak, but through ours there runs a mountain range with Alp on Alp—the steamship that has conquered all the seas; the railway, with its steeds of steel with breath of flame, covers the land; the cables and telegraphs, along which lightning is the carrier of thought, have made the nations neighbors and brought the world to every home; the making of paper from wood, the printing presses that made it possible to give the history of the human race each day; the reapers, mowers and threshers that superseded the cradles, scythes and flails; the lighting of streets and houses with gas and incandescent lamps, changing night into day; the invention of matches that made fire the companion of man; the process of making steel, invented by Bessemer, saving for the world hundreds of millions a year; the discovery of anesthetics, changing pain to happy dreams and making surgery a science; the spectrum analysis, that told us the secrets of the suns; the telephone, that transports speech, uniting lips and ears; the phonograph, that holds in dots and marks the echoes of our words; the marvelous machines that spin and weave, that manufacture the countless things of use, the marvelous machines, whose wheels and levers seem to think; the discoveries in chemistry, the wave theory of light, the indestructibility of matter and force; the discovery of microbes and bacilli, so that now the plague can be stayed without the assistance of priests.
The art of photography became known, the sun became an artist, gave us the faces of our friends, copies of the great paintings and statues, pictures of the world's wonders, and enriched the eyes of poverty with the spoil of travel, the wealth of art. The cell theory was advanced, embryology was studied and science entered the secret house of life. The biologists, guided by fossil forms, followed the paths of life from protoplasm up to man. Then came Darwin with the "Origin of Species," "Natural Selection," and the "Survival of the Fittest." From his brain there came a flood of light. The old theories grew foolish and absurd. The temple of every science was rebuilt. That which had been called philosophy became childish superstition. The prison doors were opened and millions of convicts, of unconscious slaves, roved with joy over the fenceless fields of freedom. Darwin and Haeckel and Huxley and their fellow-workers filled the night of ignorance with the glittering stars of truth. This is Darwin's victory. He gained the greatest victory, the grandest triumph. The laurel of the nineteenth century is on his brow.
Question. How does the literature of to-day compare with that of the first half of the century, in your opinion?
Answer. There is now no poet of laughter and tears, of comedy and pathos, the equal of Hood. There is none with the subtle delicacy, the aerial footstep, the flame-like motion of Shelley; none with the amplitude, sweep and passion, with the strength and beauty, the courage and royal recklessness of Byron. The novelists of our day are not the equals of Dickens. In my judgment, Dickens wrote the greatest of all novels. "The Tale of Two Cities" is the supreme work of fiction. Its philosophy is perfect. The characters stand out like living statues. In its pages you find the blood and flame, the ferocity and self-sacrifice of the French Revolution. In the bosom of the Vengeance is the heart of the horror. In 105, North Tower, sits one whom sorrow drove beyond the verge, rescued from death by insanity, and we see the spirit of Dr. Manette tremblingly cross the great gulf that lies between the night of dreams and the blessed day, where things are as they seem, as a tress of golden hair, while on his hands and cheeks fall Lucie's blessed tears. The story is filled with lights and shadows, with the tragic and grotesque. While the woman knits, while the heads fall, Jerry Cruncher gnaws his rusty nails and his poor wife "flops" against his business, and prim Miss Pross, who in the desperation and terror of love held Mme. Defarge in her arms and who in the flash and crash found that her burden was dead, is drawn by the hand of a master. And what shall I say of Sidney Carton? Of his last walk? Of his last ride, holding the poor girl by the hand? Is there a more wonderful character in all the realm of fiction? Sidney Carton, the perfect lover, going to his death for the love of one who loves another. To me the three greatest novels are "The Tale of Two Cities," by Dickens, "Les Miserables," by Hugo, and "Ariadne," by Ouida.
"Les Miserables" is full of faults and perfections. The tragic is sometimes pushed to the grotesque, but from the depths it brings the pearls of truth. A convict becomes holier than the saint, a prostitute purer than the nun. This book fills the gutter with the glory of heaven, while the waters of the sewer reflect the stars.
In "Ariadne" you find the aroma of all art. It is a classic dream. And there, too, you find the hot blood of full and ample life. Ouida is the greatest living writer of fiction. Some of her books I do not like. If you wish to know what Ouida really is, read "Wanda," "The Dog of Flanders," "The Leaf in a Storm." In these you will hear the beating of her heart.
Most of the novelists of our time write good stories. They are ingenious, the characters are well drawn, but they lack life, energy. They do not appear to act for themselves, impelled by inner force. They seem to be pushed and pulled. The same may be said of the poets. Tennyson belongs to the latter half of our century. He was undoubtedly a great writer. He had no flame or storm, no tidal wave, nothing volcanic. He never overflowed the banks. He wrote nothing as intense, as noble and pathetic as the "Prisoner of Chillon;" nothing as purely poetic as "The Skylark;" nothing as perfect as the "Grecian Urn," and yet he was one of the greatest of poets. Viewed from all sides he was far greater than Shelley, far nobler than Keats. In a few poems Shelley reached almost the perfect, but many are weak, feeble, fragmentary, almost meaningless. So Keats in three poems reached a great height—in "St. Agnes' Eve," "The Grecian Urn," and "The Nightingale"—but most of his poetry is insipid, without thought, beauty or sincerity.
We have had some poets ourselves. Emerson wrote many poetic and philosophic lines. He never violated any rule. He kept his passions under control and generally "kept off the grass." But he uttered some great and splendid truths and sowed countless seeds of suggestion. When we remember that he came of a line of New England preachers we are amazed at the breadth, the depth and the freedom of his thought.
Walt Whitman wrote a few great poems, elemental, natural—poems that seem to be a part of nature, ample as the sky, having the rhythm of the tides, the swing of a planet.
Whitcomb Riley has written poems of hearth and home, of love and labor worthy of Robert Burns. He is the sweetest, strongest singer in our country and I do not know his equal in any land.
But when we compare the literature of the first half of this century with that of the last, we are compelled to say that the last, taken as a whole, is best. Think of the volumes that science has given to the world. In the first half of this century, sermons, orthodox sermons, were published and read. Now reading sermons is one of the lost habits. Taken as a whole, the literature of the latter half of our century is better than the first. I like the essays of Prof. Clifford. They are so clear, so logical that they are poetic. Herbert Spencer is not simply instructive, he is charming. He is full of true imagination. He is not the slave of imagination. Imagination is his servant. Huxley wrote like a trained swordsman. His thrusts were never parried. He had superb courage. He never apologized for having an opinion. There was never on his soul the stain of evasion. He was as candid as the truth. Haeckel is a great writer because he reveres a fact, and would not for his life deny or misinterpret one. He tells what he knows with the candor of a child and defends his conclusions like a scientist, a philosopher. He stands next to Darwin.
Coming back to fiction and poetry, I have great admiration for Edgar Fawcett. There is in his poetry thought, beauty and philosophy. He has the courage of his thought. He knows our language, the energy of verbs, the color of adjectives. He is in the highest sense an artist.
Question. What do you think of Hall Caine's recent efforts to bring about a closer union between the stage and pulpit?
Answer. Of course, I am not certain as to the intentions of Mr. Caine. I saw "The Christian," and it did not seem to me that the author was trying to catch the clergy.
There is certainly nothing in the play calculated to please the pulpit. There is a clergyman who is pious and heartless. John Storm is the only Christian, and he is crazy. When Glory accepts him at last, you not only feel, but you know she has acted the fool. The lord in the piece is a dog, and the real gentleman is the chap that runs the music hall. How the play can please the pulpit I do not see. Storm's whole career is a failure. His followers turn on him like wild beasts. His religion is a divine and diabolical dream. With him murder is one of the means of salvation. Mr. Caine has struck Christianity a stinging blow between the eyes. He has put two preachers on the stage, one a heartless hypocrite and the other a madman. Certainly I am not prejudiced in favor of Christianity, and yet I enjoyed the play. If Mr. Caine says he is trying to bring the stage and the pulpit together, then he is a humorist, with the humor of Rabelais.
Question. What do recent exhibitions in this city, of scenes from the life of Christ, indicate with regard to the tendencies of modern art?
Answer. Nothing. Some artists love the sombre, the melancholy, the hopeless. They enjoy painting the bowed form, the tear-filled eyes. To them grief is a festival. There are people who find pleasure in funerals. They love to watch the mourners. The falling clods make music. They love the silence, the heavy odors, the sorrowful hymns and the preacher's remarks. The feelings of such people do not indicate the general trend of the human mind. Even a poor artist may hope for success if he represents something in which many millions are deeply interested, around which their emotions cling like vines. A man need not be an orator to make a patriotic speech, a speech that flatters his audience. So, an artist need not be great in order to satisfy, if his subject appeals to the prejudice of those who look at his pictures.
I have never seen a good painting of Christ. All the Christs that I have seen lack strength and character. They look weak and despairing. They are all unhealthy. They have the attitude of apology, the sickly smile of non-resistance. I have never seen an heroic, serene and triumphant Christ. To tell the truth, I never saw a great religious picture. They lack sincerity. All the angels look almost idiotic. In their eyes is no thought, only the innocence of ignorance.
I think that art is leaving the celestial, the angelic, and is getting in love with the natural, the human. Troyon put more genius in the representation of cattle than Angelo and Raphael did in angels. No picture has been painted of heaven that is as beautiful as a landscape by Corot. The aim of art is to represent the realities, the highest and noblest, the most beautiful. The Greeks did not try to make men like gods, but they made gods like men. So that great artists of our day go to nature.
Question. Is it not strange that, with one exception, the most notable operas written since Wagner are by Italian composers instead of German?
Answer. For many years German musicians insisted that Wagner was not a composer. They declared that he produced only a succession of discordant noises. I account for this by the fact that the music of Wagner was not German. His countrymen could not understand it. They had to be educated. There was no orchestra in Germany that could really play "Tristan and Isolde." Its eloquence, its pathos, its shoreless passion was beyond them. There is no reason to suppose that Germany is to produce another Wagner. Is England expected to give us another Shakespeare?
—The Sun, New York, March 19, 1899.

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT AND THE WHIPPING-POST.

Question. What do you think of Governor Roosevelt's decision in the case of Mrs. Place?
Answer. I think the refusal of Governor Roosevelt to commute the sentence of Mrs. Place is a disgrace to the State. What a spectacle of man killing a woman—taking a poor, pallid, frightened woman, strapping her to a chair and then arranging the apparatus so she can be shocked to death. Many call this a Christian country. A good many people who believe in hell would naturally feel it their duty to kill a wretched, insane woman.
Society has a right to protect itself, but this can be done by imprisonment, and it is more humane to put a criminal in a cell than in a grave. Capital punishment degrades and hardens a community and it is a work of savagery. It is savagery. Capital punishment does not prevent murder, but sets an example—an example by the State—that is followed by its citizens. The State murders its enemies and the citizen murders his. Any punishment that degrades the punished, must necessarily degrade the one inflicting the punishment. No punishment should be inflicted by a human being that could not be inflicted by a gentleman.
For instance, take the whipping-post. Some people are in favor of flogging because they say that some offences are of such a frightful nature that flogging is the only punishment. They forget that the punishment must be inflicted by somebody, and that somebody is a low and contemptible cur. I understand that John G. Shortall, president of the Humane Society of Illinois, has had a bill introduced into the Legislature of the State for the establishment of the whipping-post.
The shadow of that post would disgrace and darken the whole State. Nothing could be more infamous, and yet this man is president of the Humane Society. Now, the question arises, what is humane about this society? Certainly not its president. Undoubtedly he is sincere. Certainly no man would take that position unless he was sincere. Nobody deliberately pretends to be bad, but the idea of his being president of the Humane Society is simply preposterous. With his idea about the whipping-post he might join a society of hyenas for the cultivation of ferocity, for certainly nothing short of that would do justice to his bill. I have too much confidence in the legislators of that State, and maybe my confidence rests in the fact that I do not know them, to think that the passage of such a bill is possible. If it were passed I think I would be justified in using the language of the old Marylander, who said, "I have lived in Maryland fifty years, but I have never counted them, and my hope is, that God won't."
Question. What did you think of the late Joseph Medill?
Answer. I was not very well acquainted with Mr. Medill. I had a good many conversations with him, and I was quite familiar with his work. I regard him as the greatest editor of the Northwestern States and I am not sure that there was a greater one in the country. He was one of the builders of the Republican party. He was on the right side of the great question of Liberty. He was a man of strong likes and I may say dislikes. He never surrendered his personality. The atom called Joseph Medill was never lost in the aggregation known as the Republican party. He was true to that party when it was true to him. As a rule he traveled a road of his own and he never seemed to have any doubt about where the road led. I think that he was an exceedingly useful man. I think the only true religion is usefulness. He was a very strong writer, and when touched by friendship for a man, or a cause, he occasionally wrote very great paragraphs, and paragraphs full of force and most admirably expressed.
—The Tribune, Chicago, March 19, 1899.

EXPANSION AND TRUSTS.*

     [* This was Colonel Ingersoll's last interview.]

I am an expansionist. The country has the land hunger and expansion is popular. I want all we can honestly get.
But I do not want the Philippines unless the Filipinos want us, and I feel exactly the same about the Cubans.
We paid twenty millions of dollars to Spain for the Philippine Islands, and we knew that Spain had no title to them.
The question with me is not one of trade or convenience; it is a question of right or wrong. I think the best patriot is the man who wants his country to do right.
The Philippines would be a very valuable possession to us, in view of their proximity to China. But, however desirable they may be, that cuts no figure. We must do right. We must act nobly toward the Filipinos, whether we get the islands or not.
I would like to see peace between us and the Filipinos; peace honorable to both; peace based on reason instead of force.
If control had been given to Dewey, if Miles had been sent to Manila, I do not believe that a shot would have been fired at the Filipinos, and that they would have welcomed the American flag.
Question. Although you are not in favor of taking the Philippines by force, how do you regard the administration in its conduct of the war?
Answer. They have made many mistakes at Washington, and they are still making many. If it has been decided to conquer the Filipinos, then conquer them at once. Let the struggle not be drawn out and the drops of blood multiplied. The Republican party is being weakened by inaction at the Capital. If the war is not ended shortly, the party in power will feel the evil effects at the presidential election.
Question. In what light do you regard the Philippines as an addition to the territory of the United States?
Answer. Probably in the future, and possibly in the near future, the value of the islands to this country could hardly be calculated. The division of China which is bound to come, will open a market of four hundred millions of people. Naturally a possession close to the open doors of the East would be of an almost incalculable value to this country.
It might perhaps take a long time to teach the Chinese that they need our products. But suppose that the Chinese came to look upon wheat in the same light that other people look upon wheat and its product, bread? What an immense amount of grain it would take to feed four hundred million hungry Chinamen!
The same would be the case with the rest of our products. So you will perhaps agree with me in my view of the immense value of the islands if they could but be obtained by honorable means.
Question. If the Democratic party makes anti-imperialism the prominent plank in its platform, what effect will it have on the party's chance for success?
Answer. Anti-imperialism, as the Democratic battle-cry, would greatly weaken a party already very weak. It is the most unpopular issue of the day. The people want expansion. The country is infected with patriotic enthusiasm. The party that tries to resist the tidal wave will be swept away. Anybody who looks can see.
Let a band at any of the summer resorts or at the suburban breathing spots play a patriotic air. The listeners are electrified, and they rise and off go their hats when "The Star-Spangled Banner" is struck up. Imperialism cannot be fought with success.
Question. Will the Democratic party have a strong issue in its anti-trust cry?
Answer. In my opinion, both parties will nail anti-trust planks in their platforms. But this talk is all bosh with both parties. Neither one is honest in its cry against trusts. The one making the more noise in this direction may get the votes of some unthinking persons, but every one who is capable of reading and digesting what he reads, knows full well that the leaders of neither party are sincere and honest in their demonstrations against the trusts.
Why should the Democratic party lay claim to any anti-trust glory? Is it not a Republican administration that is at present investigating the alleged evils of trusts?
—The North American, Philadelphia, June 22, 1899.

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Robert G. Ingersoll





Born
Robert Green Ingersoll

August 11, 1833

Dresden, New York, U.S.


Died
July 21, 1899 (aged 65)

Dobbs Ferry, New York, U.S.


Resting place
Arlington National Cemetery


Occupation
Politician, orator, lecturer


Nationality
American


Period
19th century


Genre
Satire, essay, social commentary, political commentary, philosophical literature, biblical criticism


Subject
Freethought, agnosticism, humanism, abolitionism, women's rights


Spouse
Eva Parker Ingersoll


Children
Eva Ingersoll Wakefield

Maud Ingersoll Probasco


Relatives
Ebon Clarke Ingersoll






Signature






Works[edit]





RobertGreenIngersoll.org
The gods and other lectures (New York : D. M. Bennett, 1876)
Some mistakes of Moses (Washington, D.C. : C. P. Farrell, 1879)
Walt Whitman (New York, The Truth Seeker Co, 1890)
Col. Ingersoll's reply to his critics in the N.Y. "Evening Telegram." (Toronto : J. Spencer Ellis, 1892)
Shakespeare, a lecture (New York, Farrell, 1895)
Abraham Lincoln, a lecture (New York, Farrell, 1895)
Voltaire, a lecture (New York, Farrell, 1895)
Great speeches of Col. R. G. Ingersoll; complete (Chicago : Rhodes & McClure, 1895)
"Why I am an agnostic" (1896)
The works of Robert G. Ingersoll vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12 (New York : The Dresden pub. co., C. P. Farrell, 1902)














Note:  Robert Ingersoll is the attorney, orator who documented that U.S. President Cleveland Gave Hawaii Back to Queen Liliuokalani in 1894.



aloha.