{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:address-to-the-actors-fund",
  "slug": "address-to-the-actors-fund",
  "title": "Address to the Actors' Fund of America",
  "subtitle": "New York, June 5, 1888.",
  "excerpt": "Address to the Actors' Fund of America — a tribute to the stage and to the artists whose profession the Church had for so long refused to bury in consecrated ground.",
  "year": 1888,
  "volume": 12,
  "category": "Address",
  "author": {
    "name": "Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "wikidata": "Q360326",
    "viaf": "44331023"
  },
  "isPartOf": {
    "title": "The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "edition": "Dresden Edition",
    "publisher": "C. P. Farrell",
    "year": 1900
  },
  "license": "https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/",
  "url": "https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/address-to-the-actors-fund/",
  "wordCount": 2340,
  "body": "New York, June 5, 1888.\n\nMR. PRESIDENT, Ladies and Gentlemen: I have addressed, or annoyed, a\ngreat many audiences in my life and I have not the slightest doubt that\nI stand now before more ability, a greater variety of talent, and more\nreal genius than I ever addressed in my life.\n\nI know all about respectable stupidity, and I am perfectly acquainted\nwith the brainless wealth and success of this life, and I know, after\nall, how poor the world would be without that divine thing that we call\ngenius—what a worthless habitation, if you take from it all that genius\nhas given.\n\nI know also that all joy springs from a love of nature. I know that all\njoy is what I call Pagan. The natural man takes delight in everything\nthat grows, in everything that shines, in everything that enjoys—he has\nan immense sympathy with the whole human race.\n\nOf that feeling, of that spirit, the drama is born. People must first be\nin love with life before they can think it worth representing. They\nmust have sympathy with their fellows before they can enter into their\nfeelings and know what their heart throbs about. So, I say, back of the\ndrama is this love of life, this love of nature. And whenever a country\nbecomes prosperous—and this has been pointed cut many times—when a\nwave of wealth runs over a land,—behind it you will see all the sons\nand daughters of genius. When a man becomes of some account he is worth\npainting. When by success and prosperity he gets the pose of a victor,\nthe sculptor is inspired; and when love is really in his heart, words\nburst into blossom and the poet is born. When great virtues appear, when\nmagnificent things are done by heroines and heroes, then the stage is\nbuilt, and the life of a nation is compressed into a few hours, or—to\nuse the language of the greatest—\"turning the accomplishment of many\nyears into an hour-glass\"; the stage is born, and we love it because we\nlove life—and he who loves the stage has a kind of double life.\n\nThe drama is a crystallization of history, an epitome of the human\nheart. The past is lived again and again, and we see upon the stage,\nlove, sacrifice, fidelity, courage—all the virtues mingled with all the\nfollies.\n\nAnd what is the great thing that the stage does? It cultivates the\nimagination. And let me say now, that the imagination constitutes the\ngreat difference between human beings.\n\nThe imagination is the mother of pity, the mother of generosity, the\nmother of every possible virtue. It is by the imagination that you are\nenabled to put yourself in the place of another. Every dollar that has\nbeen paid into your treasury came from an imagination vivid enough\nto imagine himself or herself lying upon the lonely bed of pain, or\nas having fallen by the wayside of life, dying alone. It is this\nimagination that makes the difference in men.\n\nDo you believe that a man would plunge the dagger into the heart of\nanother if he had imagination enough to see him dead—imagination enough\nto see his widow throw her arms about the corpse and cover his face with\nsacred tears—imagination enough to see them digging his grave, and to\nsee the funeral and to hear the clods fall upon the coffin and the sobs\nof those who stood about—do you believe he would commit the crime?\nWould any man be false who had imagination enough to see the woman that\nhe once loved, in the darkness of night, when the black clouds were\nfloating through the sky hurried by the blast as thoughts and memories\nwere hurrying through her poor brain—if he could see the white flutter\nof her garment as she leaped to the eternal, blessed sleep of death—do\nyou believe that he would be false to her? I tell you that he would be\ntrue.\n\nSo that, in my judgment, the great mission of the stage is to cultivate\nthe human imagination. That is the reason fiction has done so much good.\nCompared with the stupid lies-called history, how beautiful are the\nimagined things with painted wings. Everybody detests a thing that\npretends to be true and is not; but when it says, \"I am about to\ncreate,\" then it is beautiful in the proportion that it is artistic, in\nthe proportion that it is a success.\n\nImagination is the mother of enthusiasm. Imagination fans the little\nspark into a flame great enough to warm the human race; and enthusiasm\nis to the mind what spring is to the world. .\n\nNow I am going to say a few words because I want to, and because I have\nthe chance.\n\nWhat is known as \"orthodox religion\" has always been the enemy of the\ntheatre. It has been the enemy of every possible comfort, of every\nrational joy—that is to say, of amusement. And there is a reason for\nthis. Because, if that religion be true, there should be no amusement.\nIf you believe that in every moment is the peril of eternal pain—do\nnot amuse yourself. Stop the orchestra, ring down the curtain, and be as\nmiserable as you can. That idea puts an infinite responsibility upon the\nsoul—an infinite responsibility—and how can there be any art, how can\nthere be any joy, after that? You might as well pile all the Alps on one\nunfortunate ant, and then say, \"Why don't you play? Enjoy yourself.\"\n\nIf that doctrine be true, every one should regard time as a kind of\ndock, a pier running out into the ocean of eternity, on which you sit\non your trunk and wait for the ship of death—solemn, lugubrious,\nmelancholy to the last degree.\n\nAnd that is why I have said joy is Pagan. It comes from a love of\nnature, from a love of this world, from a love of this life. According\nto the idea of some good people, life is a kind of green-room, where you\nare getting ready for a \"play\" in some other country.\n\nYou all remember the story of \"Great Expectations,\" and I presume you\nhave all had them. That is another thing about this profession of acting\nthat I like—you do not know how it is coming out—and there is this\ndelightful uncertainty.\n\nYou have all read the book called \"Great Expectations,\" written, in\nmy judgment, by the greatest novelist that ever wrote the English\nlanguage—the man who created a vast realm of joy. I love the\njoy-makers—not the solemn, mournful wretches. And when I think of the\nchurch asking something of the theatre, I remember that story of \"Great\nExpectations.\" You remember Miss Haversham—she was to have been\nmarried some fifty or sixty years before that time—sitting there in the\ndarkness, in all of her wedding finery, the laces having turned yellow\nby time, the old wedding cake crumbled, various insects having made\nit their palatial residence—you remember that she sent for that poor\nlittle boy Pip, and when he got there in the midst of all these horrors,\nshe looked at him and said, \"Pip, play!\" And if their doctrine be true,\nevery actor is in that situation.\n\nI have always loved the theatre—loved the stage, simply because it has\nadded to the happiness of this life. \"Oh, but,\" they say, \"is it moral?\"\nA superstitious man suspects everything that is pleasant. It seems\ninbred in his nature, and in the nature of most people. You let such a\nman pull up a little weed and taste it, and if it is sweet and good, he\nsays, \"I'll bet it is poison.\" But if it tastes awful, so that his\nface becomes a mask of disgust, he says, \"I'll bet you that it is good\nmedicine.\"\n\nNow, I believe that everything in the world that tends to make man\nhappy, is moral. That is my definition of morality. Anything that bursts\ninto bud and blossom, and bears the fruit of joy, is moral.\n\nSome people expect to make the world good by destroying desire—by a\nkind of pious petrifaction, feeling that if you do not want anything,\nyou will not want anything bad. In other words, you will be good\nand moral if you will only stop growing, stop wishing, turn all your\nenergies in the direction of repression, and if from the tree of life\nyou pull every leaf, and then every bud—and if an apple happens to get\nripe in spite of you, don't touch it—snakes!\n\nI insist that happiness is the end—virtue the means—and anything\nthat wipes a tear from the face of man is good. Everything that gives\nlaughter to the world—laughter springing from good nature, that is the\nmost wonderful music that has ever enriched the ears of man. And let me\nsay that nothing can be more immoral than to waste your own life, and\nsour that of others.\n\nIs the theatre moral? I suppose you have had an election to-day. They\nhad an election at the Metropolitan Opera House for bishops, and they\nvoted forged tickets; and after the election was over, I suppose they\nasked the old question in the same solemn tone: \"Is the theatre moral?\"\n\nAt last, all the intelligence of the world admits that the theatre is a\ngreat, a splendid instrumentality for increasing the well-being of man.\nBut only a few years ago our fathers were poor barbarians. They only\nwanted the essentials of life, and through nearly all the centuries\nGenius was a vagabond—Art was a servant. He was the companion of the\nclown. Writers, poets, actors, either sat \"below the salt\" or devoured\nthe \"remainder biscuit,\" and drank what drunkenness happened to leave,\nor lived on crumbs, and they had less than the crumbs of respect. The\npainter had to have a patron, and then in order to pay the patron, he\ntook the patron's wife for Venus—and the man, he was the Apollo! So the\nwriter had to have a patron, and he endeavored to immortalize him in a\npreface of obsequious lies. The writer had no courage. The painter,\nthe sculptor—poor wretches—had \"patrons.\" Some of the greatest of the\nworld were treated as servants, and yet they were the real kings of the\nhuman race.\n\nNow the public is the patron. The public has the intelligence to see\nwhat it wants. The stage does not have to flatter any man. The actor now\ndoes not enroll himself as the servant of duke or lord. He has the great\npublic, and if he is a great actor, he stands as high in the public\nestimation as any other man in any other walk of life.\n\nAnd these men of genius, these \"vagabonds,\" these \"sturdy vagrants\" of\nthe old law—and let me say one thing right here: I do not believe\nthat there ever was a man of genius that had not a little touch of the\nvagabond in him somewhere—just a little touch of chaos—that is to\nsay, he must have generosity enough now and then absolutely to forget\nhimself—he must be generous to that degree that he starts out without\nthinking of the shore and without caring for the sea—and that is that\ntouch of chaos. And yet, through all those years the poets and the\nactors lacked bread. Imagine the number of respectable dolts who felt\nabove them. The men of genius lived on the bounty of the few, grudgingly\ngiven.\n\nNow, just think what would happen, what we would be, if you could blot\nfrom this world what these men have done. If you could take from the\nwalls the pictures; from the niches the statues; from the memory of man\nthe songs that have been sung by \"The Plowman\"—take from the memory of\nthe world what has been done by the actors and play-writers, and this\ngreat globe would be like a vast skull emptied of all thought.\n\nAnd let me say one word more, and that is as to the dignity of your\nprofession.\n\nThe greatest genius of this world has produced your literature. I am not\nnow alluding simply to one—but there has been more genius lavished upon\nthe stage—more real genius, more creative talent, than upon any\nother department of human effort. And when men and women belong to a\nprofession that can count Shakespeare in its number, they should feel\nnothing but pride.\n\nNothing gives me more pleasure than to speak of\nShakespeare—Shakespeare, in whose brain were the fruits of all thoughts\npast, the seeds of all to be—Shakespeare, an intellectual ocean toward\nwhich all rivers ran, and from which now the isles and continents of\nthought receive their dew and rain.\n\nA profession that can boast that Shakespeare was one of its members, and\nthat from his brain poured out that mighty intellectual cataract—that\nMississippi that will enrich all coming generations—the man that\nbelongs to that profession—should feel that no other man by reason of\nbelonging to some other, can be his superior.\n\nAnd such a man, when he dies—or the friend of such a man, when that man\ndies—should not imagine that it is a very generous and liberal thing\nfor some minister to say a few words above the corpse—and I do not want\nto see this profession cringe before any other.\n\nOne word more. I hope that you will sustain this splendid charity. I do\nnot believe that more generous people exist than actors. I hope you will\nsustain this charity. And yet, there was one little thing I saw in\nyour report of last year, that I want to call attention to. You had\n\"benefits\" all over this country, and of the amount raised, one hundred\nand twenty-five thousand dollars were given to religious societies and\ntwelve thousand dollars to the Actors' Fund—and yet they say actors are\nnot Christians! Do you not love your enemies? After this, I hope that\nyou will also love your friends.\n"
}