The Children of the Stage
On the stage and its people.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1888)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 12.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/the-children-of-the-stage/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

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The Children of the Stage

New York, March 23, 1899.
  • Col. Robert G. Ingersoll was the special star among stars
    at the benefit given yesterday afternoon at the Fifth Avenue
    Theatre for the Actors' Fund. There were a great many other
    stars and a very long programme. The consequence was that
    the performance began before one o'clock and was not over
    until almost dinner time.
    Usually in such cases the least important performers are
    placed at the beginning and the audience straggles in
    leisurely without worrying a great deal over what it has
    missed. Yesterday, however, it had been announced in advance
    that Col. Ingersoll would start the ball a-rolling and the
    result was that before the overture was finished the house
    was packed to the doors.
    Col. Ingersoll's contribution was a short address delivered
    in his characteristic style of florid eloquence.—The World,
    New York, March 24, 1899.

Disguise it as we may, we live in a frightful world, with evils, with
enemies, on every side. From the hedges along the path of life, leap the
bandits that murder and destroy; and every human being, no matter how
often he escapes, at last will fall beneath the assassin's knife.

To change the figure: We are all passengers on the train of life. The
tickets give the names of the stations where we boarded the car, but
the destination is unknown. At every station some passengers, pallid,
breathless, dead, are put away, and some with the light of morning in
their eyes, get on.

To change the figure again: On the wide sea of life we are all on ships
or rafts or spars, and some by friendly winds are borne to the fortunate
isles, and some by storms are wrecked on the cruel rocks. And yet upon
the isles the same as upon the rocks, death waits for all. And death
alone can truly say, "All things come to him who waits."

And yet, strangely enough, there is in this world of misery, of
misfortune and of death, the blessed spirit of mirth. The travelers on
the path, on the train, on the ships, the rafts and spars, sometimes
forget their perils and their doom.

All blessings on the man whose face was first illuminated by a smile!

All blessings on the man who first gave to the common air the music
of laughter—the music that for the moment drove fears from the heart,
tears from the eyes, and dimpled cheeks with joy!

All blessings on the man who sowed with merry hands the seeds of humor,
and at the lipless skull of death snapped the reckless fingers of
disdain! Laughter is the blessed boundary line between the brute and
man.

Who are the friends of the human race? They who hide with vine and
flower the cruel rocks of fate—the children of genius, the sons and
daughters of mirth and laughter, of imagination, those whose thoughts,
like moths with painted wings, fill the heaven of the mind.

Among these sons and daughters are the children of the stage, the
citizens of the mimic world—the world enriched by all the wealth of
genius—enriched by painter, orator, composer and poet. The world
of which Shakespeare, the greatest of human beings, is still the
unchallenged emperor. These children of the stage have delighted the
weary travelers on the thorny path, amused the passengers on the fated
train, and filled with joy the hearts of the clingers to spars, and the
floaters on rafts.

These, children of the stage, with fancy's wand rebuild the past. The
dead are brought to life and made to act again the parts they played.
The hearts and lips that long ago were dust, are made to beat and speak
again. The dead kings are crowned once more, and from the shadows of the
past emerge the queens, jeweled and sceptred as of yore. Lovers leave
their graves and breathe again their burning vows; and again the white
breasts rise and fall in passion's storm. The laughter that died away
beneath the touch of death is heard again and lips that fell to ashes
long ago are curved once more with mirth. Again the hero bares his
breast to death; again the patriot falls, and again the scaffold,
stained with noble blood, becomes a shrine.

The citizens of the real world gain joy and comfort from the stage.
The broker, the speculator ruined by rumor, the lawyer baffled by the
intelligence of a jury or the stupidity of a judge, the doctor who lost
his patience because he lost his patients, the merchant in the dark days
of depression, and all the children of misfortune, the victims of hope
deferred, forget their troubles for a little while when looking on
the mimic world. When the shaft of wit flies like the arrow of Ulysses
through all the rings and strikes the centre; when words of wisdom
mingle with the clown's conceits; when folly laughing shows her pearls,
and mirth holds carnival; when the villain fails and the right triumphs,
the trials and the griefs of life for the moment fade away.

And so the maiden longing to be loved, the young man waiting for
the "Yes" deferred; the unloved wife, hear the old, old story told
again,—and again within their hearts is the ecstasy of requited love.

The stage brings solace to the wounded, peace to the troubled, and with
the wizard's wand touches the tears of grief and they are changed to the
smiles of joy.

The stage has ever been the altar, the pulpit, the cathedral of the
heart. There the enslaved and the oppressed, the erring, the fallen,
even the outcast, find sympathy, and pity gives them all her tears—and
there, in spite of wealth and power, in spite of caste and cruel pride,
true love has ever triumphed over all.

The stage has taught the noblest lesson, the highest truth, and that is
this: It is better to deserve without receiving than to receive without
deserving. As a matter of fact, it is better to be the victim of
villainy than to be a villain. Better to be stolen from than to be
a thief, and in the last analysis the oppressed, the slave, is less
unfortunate than the oppressor, the master.

The children of the stage, these citizens of the mimic world, are
not the grasping, shrewd and prudent people of the mart; they are
improvident enough to enjoy the present and credulous enough to believe
the promises of the universal liar known as Hope. Their hearts and hands
are open. As a rule genius is generous, luxurious, lavish, reckless and
royal. And so, when they have reached the ladder's topmost round, they
think the world is theirs and that the heaven of the future can have
no cloud. But from the ranks of youth the rival steps. Upon the veteran
brows the wreaths begin to fade, the leaves to fall; and failure sadly
sups on memory. They tread the stage no more. They leave the mimic
world, fair fancy's realm; they leave their palaces and thrones; their
crowns are gone, and from their hands the sceptres fall. At last, in age
and want, in lodgings small and bare, they wait the prompter's call;
and when the end is reached, maybe a vision glorifies the closing scene.
Again they are on the stage; again their hearts throb high; again they
utter perfect words; again the flowers fall about their feet; and as the
curtain falls, the last sound that greets their ears, is the music of
applause, the "bravos" for an encore.

And then the silence falls on darkness.

Some loving hands should close their eyes, some loving lips should leave
upon their pallid brows a kiss; some friends should lay the breathless
forms away, and on the graves drop blossoms jeweled with the tears of
love.

This is the work of the generous men and women who contribute to the
Actors' Fund. This is charity; and these generous men and women have
taught, and are teaching, a lesson that all the world should learn, and
that is this: The hands that help are holier than the lips that pray.
