{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:death-of-the-aged",
  "slug": "death-of-the-aged",
  "title": "Death of the Aged",
  "subtitle": "Letter of condolence.",
  "excerpt": "A short letter of condolence — on the death of the old as a serene and rightful thing.",
  "year": 1892,
  "volume": 12,
  "category": "Tribute",
  "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/death-of-the-aged/",
  "wordCount": 9280,
  "body": "• From a letter of condolence written to a friend on the\n    death of his mother.\n\nAfter all, there is something tenderly appropriate in the serene death\nof the old. Nothing is more touching than the death of the young, the\nstrong. But when the duties of life have all been nobly done; when the\nsun touches the horizon; when the purple twilight falls upon the past,\nthe present, and the future; when memory, with dim eyes, can scarcely\nspell the blurred and faded records of the vanished days—then,\nsurrounded by kindred and by friends, death comes like a strain of\nmusic. The day has been long, the road weary, and the traveler gladly\nstops at the welcome inn.\n\nNearly forty-eight years ago, under the snow, in the little town\nof Cazenovia, my poor mother was buried. I was but two years old. I\nremember her as she looked in death. That sweet, cold face has kept my\nheart warm through all the changing years.\n\n*****\n    There is no cunning art to trace\n    In any feature, form or face,\n    Or wrinkled palm, with criss-cross lines\n    The good or bad in peoples' minds.\n    Nor can we guess men's thoughts or aims\n    By seeing how they write their names.\n    We could as well foretell their acts\n    By getting outlines of their tracks.\n    Ourselves we do not know—how then\n    Can we find out our fellow-men?\n    And yet—although the reason laughs—\n    We like to look at autographs—\n    And almost think that we can guess\n    What lines and dots of ink express.\n  • From the autograph collection of Miss Eva Ingersoll\n    Farrell.\n    August 11, 1892. R. G. Ingersoll.\n\n***\n\nThe World is Growing Poor.—Darwin the naturalist, the observer,\nthe philosopher, is dead. Wagner the greatest composer the world has\nproduced, is silent. Hugo the poet, patriot and philanthropist, is at\nrest. Three mighty rivers have ceased to flow. The smallest insect was\nmade interesting by Darwin's glance; the poor blind worm became the\nfarmer's friend—the maker of the farm,—and even weeds began to dream\nand hope.\n  • But if we live beyond life's day and reach the dusk, and slowly travel\nin the shadows of the night, the way seems long, and being weary we ask\nfor rest, and then, as in our youth, we chide the loitering hours. When\neyes are dim and memory fails to keep a record of events; when ears are\ndull and muscles fail to obey the will; when the pulse is low and the\ntired heart is weak, and the poor brain has hardly power to think,\nthen comes the dream, the hope of rest, the longing for the peace of\ndreamless sleep.\n  • SAINTS.—The saints have poisoned life with piety. They have soured the\nmother's milk. They have insisted that joy is crime—that beauty is a\nbait with which the Devil captures the souls of men—that laughter leads\nto sin—that pleasure, in its every form, degrades, and that love itself\nis but the loathsome serpent of unclean desire. They have tried to\ncompel men to love shadows rather than women—phantoms rather than\npeople.\n\nThe saints have been the assassins of sunshine,—the skeletons at\nfeasts. They have been the enemies of happiness. They have hated the\nsinging birds, the blossoming plants. They have loved the barren and\nthe desolate—the croaking raven and the hooting owl—tombstones, rather\nthan statues.\n\nAnd yet, with a strange inconsistency, happiness was to be enjoyed\nforever, in another world. There, pleasure, with all its corrupting\ninfluences, was to be eternal. No one pretended that heaven was to be\nfilled with self-denial, with fastings and scourgings, with weepings and\nregrets, with solemn and emaciated angels, with sad-eyed seraphim, with\nlonely parsons, with mumbling monks, with shriveled nuns, with days of\npenance and with nights of prayer.\n\nYet all this self-denial on the part of the saints was founded in the\npurest selfishness. They were to be paid for all their sufferings in\nanother world. They were \"laying up treasures in heaven.\" They had made\na bargain with God. He had offered eternal joy to those who would make\nthemselves miserable here. The saints gladly and cheerfully accepted the\nterms. They expected pay for every pang of hunger, for every groan,\nfor every tear, for every temptation resisted; and this pay was to bean\neternity of joy. The selfishness of the saints was equaled only by the\nstupidity of the saints.\n\nIt is not true that character is the aim of life. Happiness should be\nthe aim—and as a matter of fact is and always has been the aim,\nnot only of sinners, but of saints. The saints seemed to think that\nhappiness was better in another world than here, and they expected this\nhappiness beyond the clouds. They looked upon the sinner as foolish to\nenjoy himself for the moment here, and in consequence thereof to suffer\nforever. Character is not an end, it is a means to an end. The object of\nthe saint is happiness hereafter—the means, to make himself miserable\nhere. The object of the philosopher is happiness here and now, and\nhereafter,—if there be another world.\n\nIf struggle and temptation, misery and misfortune, are essential to\nthe formation of what you call character, how do you account for the\nperfection of your angels, or for the goodness of your God? Were the\nangels perfected through misfortune? If happiness is the only good in\nheaven, why should it not be considered the only good here?\n\nIn order to be happy, we must be in harmony with the conditions of\nhappiness. It cannot be obtained by prayer,—it does not come from\nheaven—it must be found here, and nothing should be done, or left\nundone, for the sake of any supernatural being, but for the sake of\nourselves and other natural beings.\n\nThe early Christians were preparing for the end of the world. In their\nview, life was of no importance except as it gave them time to prepare\nfor \"The Second Coming.\" They were crazed by fear. Since that time, the\nworld not coming to the expected end, they have been preparing for \"The\nDay of Judgment,\" and have, to the extent of their ability, filled the\nworld with horror. For centuries, it was, and still is, their business\nto destroy the pleasures of this life. In the midst of prosperity they\nhave prophesied disaster. At every feast they have spoken of famine, and\nover the cradle they have talked of death. They have held skulls before\nthe faces of terrified babes. On the cheeks of health they see the worms\nof the grave, and in their eyes the white breasts of love are naught but\ncorruption and decay.\n  • THE WASTE FORCES OF NATURE.—For countless years the great cataracts, as\nfor instance, Niagara, have been singing their solemn songs, filling the\nsavage with terror, the civilized with awe; recording its achievements\nin books of stone—useless and sublime; inspiring beholders with the\nmajesty of purposeless force and the wastefulness of nature.\n\nForce great enough to turn the wheels of the world, lost, useless.\n\nSo with the great tides that rise and fall on all the shores of the\nworld—lost forces. And yet man is compelled to use to exhaustion's\npoint the little strength he has.\n\nThis will be changed.\n\nThe great cataracts and the great tides will submit to the genius of\nman. They are to be for use. Niagara will not be allowed to remain a\nbarren roar. It must become the servant of man. It will weave robes\nfor men and women. It will fashion implements for the farmer and the\nmechanic. It will propel coaches for rich and poor. It will fill streets\nand homes with light, and the old barren roar will be changed to songs\nof success, to the voices of love and content and joy.\n\nScience at last has found that all forces are convertible into each\nother, and that all are only different aspects of one fact.\n\nSo the flood is still a terror, but, in my judgment, the time will\ncome when the floods will be controlled by the genius of man, when the\ntributaries of the great rivers and their tributaries will be dammed\nin such a way as to collect the waters of every flood and give them\nout gradually through all the year, maintaining an equal current at all\ntimes in the great rivers.\n\nWe have at last found that force occupies a circle, that Niagara is a\nchild of the Sun—that the sun shines, the mist rises, clouds form, the\nrain falls, the rivers flow to the lakes, and Niagara fills the heavens\nwith its song. Man will arrest the falling flood; he will change its\nforce to electricity; that is to say, to light, and then force will have\nmade the circuit from light to light.\n  • ARE Men's characters fully determined at the age of thirty?\n\nIt depends, first, on what their opportunities have been—that is to\nsay, on their surroundings, their education, their advantages; second,\non the shape, quality and quantity of brain they happen to possess;\nthird, on their mental and moral courage; and, fourth, on the character\nof the people among whom they live.\n\nThe natural man continues to grow. The longer he lives, the more he\nought to know, and the more he knows, the more he changes the views and\nopinions held by him in his youth. Every new fact results in a change of\nviews more or less radical. This growth of the mind may be hindered\nby the \"tyrannous north wind\" of public opinion; by the bigotry of\nhis associates; by the fear that he cannot make a living if he becomes\nunpopular; and it is to some extent affected by the ambition of the\nperson; that is to say, if he wishes to hold office the tendency is to\nagree with his neighbor, or at least to round off and smooth the corners\nand angles of difference. If a man wishes to ascertain the truth,\nregardless of the opinions of his fellow-citizens, the probability is\nthat he will change from day to day and from year to year—that is, his\nintellectual horizon will widen—and that what he once deemed of great\nimportance will be regarded as an exceedingly small segment of a greater\ncircle.\n\nGrowth means change. If a man grows after thirty years he must\nnecessarily change. Many men probably reach their intellectual height\nlong before they have lived thirty years, and spend the balance of their\nlives in defending the mistakes of their youth. A great man continues to\ngrow until his death, and growth—as I said before—means change. Darwin\nwas continually finding new facts, and kept his mind as open to a new\ntruth as the East is to the rising of another sun. Humboldt at the age\nof ninety maintained the attitude of a pupil, and was, until the moment\nof his death, willing to learn.\n\nThe more a man knows, the more willing he is to learn. The less a man\nknows, the more positive, a? is that he knows everything.\n\nThe smallest minds mature the earliest. The less there is to a man the\nquicker he attains his growth. I have known many people who reached\ntheir intellectual height while in their mother's arms. I have known\npeople who were exceedingly smart babies to become excessively stupid\npeople. It is with men as with other things. The mullein needs only a\nyear, but the oak a century, and the greatest men are those who have\ncontinued to grow as long as they have lived. Small people delight in\nwhat they call consistency—that is, it gives them immense pleasure to\nsay that they believe now exactly as they did ten years ago. This simply\namounts to a certificate that they have not grown—that they have not\ndeveloped—and that they know just as little now as they ever did.\nThe highest possible conception of consistency is to be true to the\nknowledge of to-day, without the slightest reference to what your\nopinion was years ago.\n\nThere is another view of this subject. Few men have settled opinions\nbefore or at thirty. Of course, I do not include persons of genius. At\nthirty the passions have, as a rule, too much influence; the intellect\nis not the pilot. At thirty most men have prejudices rather than\nopinions—that is to say, rather than judgments—and few men have lived\nto be sixty without materially modifying the opinions they held at\nthirty.\n\nAs I said in the first place, much depends on the shape, quality and\nquantity of brain; much depends on mental and moral courage. There are\nmany people with great physical courage who are afraid to express their\nopinions; men who will meet death without a tremor and will yet hesitate\nto express their views.\n\nSo, much depends on the character of the people among whom we live. A\nman in the old times living in New England thought several times before\nhe expressed any opinion contrary to the views of the majority. But\nif the people have intellectual hospitality, then men express their\nviews—and it may be that we change somewhat in proportion to the\ndecency of our neighbors. In the old times it was thought that God was\nopposed to any change of opinion, and that nothing so excited the auger\nof the deity as the expression of a new thought. That idea is fading\naway.\n\nThe real truth is that men change their opinions as long as they grow,\nand only those remain of the same opinion still who have reached the\nintellectual autumn of their lives; who have gone to seed, and who are\nsimply waiting for the winter of death. Now and then there is a brain\nin which there is the climate of perpetual spring—men who never grow\nold—and when such a one is found we say, \"Here is a genius.\"\n\nTalent has the four seasons: spring, that is to say, the sowing of the\nseeds; summer, growth; autumn, the harvest; winter, intellectual death.\nBut there is now and then a genius who has no winter, and, no matter\nhow many years he may live, on the blossom of his thought no snow falls.\nGenius has the climate of perpetual growth.\n  • THE MOIETY SYSTEM.—The Secretary of the Treasury recommends a revival\nof the moiety system. Against this infamous step every honest citizen\nought to protest.\n\nIn this country, taxes cannot be collected through such\ninstrumentalities. An informer is not indigenous to our soil. He\nalways has been and always will be held in merited contempt.\n\nEvery inducement, by this system, is held out to the informer to become\na liar. The spy becomes an officer of the Government. He soon becomes\nthe terror of his superior. He is a sword without a hilt and without a\nscabbard. Every taxpayer becomes the lawful prey of a detective whose\nproperty depends upon the destruction of his prey.\n\nThese informers and spies are corrupters of public morals. They resort\nto all known dishonest means for the accomplishment of what they pretend\nto be an honest object. With them perjury becomes a fine art. Their\nwords are a commodity bought and sold in courts of justice.\n\nThis is the first phase. In a little while juries will refuse to believe\nthem, and every suit in which they are introduced will be lost by the\nGovernment. Of this the real thieves will be quick to take advantage. So\nmany honest men will have been falsely charged by perjured informers and\nmoiety miscreants, that to convict the guilty will become impossible.\nIf the Government wishes to collect the taxes it must set an honorable\nexample. It must deal kindly and honestly with the people. It must\nnot inaugurate a vampire system of espionage. It must not take it for\ngranted that every manufacturer and importer is a thief, and that all\nspies and informers are honest men.\n\nThe revenues of this country are as honestly paid as they are expended.\nThere has been as much fair dealing outside as inside of the Treasury\nDepartment.\n\nBut, however that may be, the informer system will not make them honest\nmen, but will in all probability produce exactly the opposite result.\nIf our system of taxation is so unpopular that the revenues cannot be\ncollected without bribing men to tell the truth; if our officers must\nbe offered rewards beyond their salaries to state the facts; if it is\nimpossible to employ men to discharge their duties honestly, then let\nus change the system. The moiety system makes the Treasury Department\na vast vampire sucking the blood of the people upon shares. Americans\ndetest informers, spies, detectives, turners of State's evidence,\neavesdroppers, paid listeners, hypocrites, public smellers, trackers,\nhuman hounds and ferrets. They despise men who \"suspect\" for a living;\nthey hate legal lyers-in-wait and the highwaymen of the law. They abhor\nthe betrayers of friends and those who lead and tempt others to commit\na crime in order that they may detect it. In a monarchy, the detective\nsystem is a necessity. The great thief has to be sustained by smaller\nones.—December 4,1877.\n  • LANGUAGE.—Most people imagine that men have always talked; that\nlanguage is as old as the race; and it is supposed that some language\nwas taught by some mythological god to the first pair. But we now know,\nif we know anything, that language is a growth; that every word had to\nbe created by man, and that back of every word is some want, some wish,\nsome necessity of the body or mind, and also a genius to embody that\nwant or that wish, to express that thought in some sound that we call a\nword.\n\nAt first, the probability is that men uttered sounds of fear, of\ncontent, of anger, or happiness. And the probability is that the first\nsounds or cries expressed such feelings, and these sounds were nouns,\nadjectives, and verbs.\n\nAfter a time, man began to give his ideas to others by rude pictures,\ndrawings of animals and trees and the various other things with which he\ncould give rude thoughts. At first he would make a picture of the whole\nanimal. Afterward some part of the animal would stand for the whole, and\nin some of the old picture-writings the curve of the nostril of a horse\nstands for the animal. This was the shorthand of picture-writing. But it\nwas a long journey to where marks would stand, not for pictures, but for\nsounds. And then think of the distance still to the alphabet. Then to\nwriting, so that marks took entirely the place of pictures. Then the\ninvention of movable type, and then the press, making it possible to\nsave the wealth of the brain; making it possible for a man to leave not\nsimply his property to his fellow-man, not houses and lands and dollars,\nbut his ideas, his thoughts, his theories, his dreams, the poetry and\npathos of his soul. Now each generation is heir to all the past.\n\nIf we had free thought, then we could collect the wealth of the\nintellectual world. In the physical world, springs make the creeks and\nbrooks, and they the rivers, and the rivers empty into the great sea. So\neach brain should add to the sum of human knowledge. If we deny freedom\nof thought, the springs cease to gurgle, the rivers to run, and the\ngreat ocean of knowledge becomes a desert of barren, ignorant sand.\n  • THIS IS AN AGE OF MONEY-GETTING, of materialism, of cold, unfeeling\nscience. The question arises, Is the world growing less generous, less\nheroic, less chivalric?\n\nLet us answer this. The experience of the individual is much like the\nexperience of a generation, or of a race. An old man imagines that\neverything was better when he was young; that the weather could then be\ndepended on; that sudden changes are recent inventions. So he will tell\nyou that people used to be honest; that the grocers gave full weight and\nthe merchants full measure, and that the bank cashier did not spend the\nevening of his days in Canada.\n\nHe will also tell you that the women were handsome and virtuous. There\nwere no scandals then, no divorces, and that in religion all were\northodox—no Infidels. Before he gets through, he will probably tell you\nthat the art of cooking has been lost—that nobody can make biscuit now,\nand that he never expects to eat another slice of good bread.\n\nHe mistakes the twilight of his own life for the coming of the night\nof universal decay and death. He imagines that that has happened to the\nworld, which has only happened to him. It does not occur to him that\nmillions at the moment he is talking are undergoing the experience of\nhis youth, and that when they become old they will praise the very days\nthat he denounces.\n\nThe Garden of Eden has always been behind us. The Golden Age, after all,\nis the memory of youth—it is the result of remembered pleasure in the\nmidst of present pain.\n\nTo old age youth is divine, and the morning of life cloudless.\n\nSo now thousands and millions of people suppose that the age of true\nchivalry has gone by and that honesty has about concluded to leave the\nworld. As a matter of fact, the age known as the age of chivalry was the\nage of tyranny, of arrogance and cowardice. Men clad in complete armor\ncut down the peasants that were covered with leather, and these soldiers\nof the chivalric age armored themselves to that degree that if they fell\nin battle they could not rise, held to the earth by the weight of\niron that their bravery had got itself entrenched within. Compare the\ndifference in courage between going to war in coats of mail against\nsword and spear, and charging a battery of Krupp guns!\n\nThe ideas of justice have grown larger and nobler. Charity now does,\nwithout a thought, what the average man a few centuries ago was\nincapable of imagining. In the old times slavery was upheld, and\nimprisonment for debt. Hundreds of crimes—or rather misdemeanors—were\npunishable by death. Prisons were loathsome beyond description.\nThousands and thousands died in chains. The insane were treated like\nwild beasts; no respect was paid to sex or age. Women were burned and\nbeheaded and torn asunder as though they had been hyenas, and children\nwere butchered with the greatest possible cheerfulness.\n\nSo it seems to me that the world is more chivalric, more generous,\nnearer just and fair, more charitable, than ever before.\n  • THE COLORED MAN is doing well. He is hungry for knowledge. Their\nchildren are going to school. Colored boys are taking prizes in the\ncolleges. A colored man was the orator of Harvard. They are industrious,\nand in the South many are becoming rich. As the people, black and white,\nbecome educated they become better friends. The old prejudice is the\nchild of ignorance. The colored man will succeed if the South succeeds.\nThe South is richer to-day than ever before, more prosperous, and both\nraces are really improving. The greatest danger in the South, and for\nthat matter all over the country, is the mob. It is the duty of every\ngood citizen to denounce the mob. Down with the mob.\n  • FREEDOM OF RELIGION is the destruction of religion. In Rome, after\npeople were allowed to worship their own gods, all gods fell into\ndisrepute. It will be so in America. Here is freedom of religion, and\nall devotees find that the gods of other devotees are just as good as\ntheirs. They find that the prayers of others are answered precisely as\ntheir prayers are answered.\n\nThe Protestant God is no better than the Catholic, and the Catholic is\nno better than the Mormon, and the Mormon is no better than Nature for\nanswering prayers. In other words, all prayers die in the air which they\nuselessly agitate. There is undoubtedly a tendency among the Protestant\ndenominations to unite. This tendency is born of weakness, not of\nstrength. In a few years, if all should unite, they would hardly have\npower enough to obstruct, for any considerable time, the march of the\nintellectual host destined to conquer the world. But let us all be\ngood natured; let us give to others all the rights that we claim for\nourselves. The future, I believe, has both hands full of blessings for\nthe human race.\n  • THE DEISTS AND NATURE.—We who deny the supernatural origin of the\nBible, must admit not only that it exists, but that it was naturally\nproduced. If it is not supernatural, it is natural. It will hardly\ndo for the worshipers of Nature to hold the Bible in contempt, simply\nbecause it is not a supernatural book.\n\nThe Deists of the last century made a mistake. They proceeded to show\nthat the Bible is immoral, untrue, cruel and absurd, and therefore came\nto the conclusion that it could not have been written by a being of\ninfinite wisdom and goodness,—the being whom they believed to be the\nauthor of Nature. Could not infinite wisdom and goodness just as easily\ncommand crime as to permit it? Is it really any worse to order the\nstrong to slay the weak, than to stand by and refuse to protect the\nweak?\n\nAfter all, is Nature, taken together, any better than the Bible? If God\ndid not command the Jews to murder the Canaanites, Nature, to say\nthe least, did not prevent it. If God did not uphold the practice of\npolygamy, Nature did. The moment we deny the supernatural origin of the\nBible, we declare that Nature wrote its every word, commanded all its\ncruelties, told all its falsehoods. The Bible is, like Nature, a mixture\nof what we call \"good\" and \"bad,\"—of what appears, and of what in\nreality is.\n\nThe Bible must have been a perfectly natural production not only, but\na necessary one. There was, and is, no power in the universe that could\nhave changed one word. All the mistakes in translation were necessarily\nmade, and not one, by any possibility, could have been avoided. That\nbook, like all other facts in Nature, could not have been otherwise than\nit is. The fact being that Nature has produced all superstitions, all\npersecution, all slavery, and every crime, ought to be sufficient to\ndeter the average man from imagining that this power, whatever it may\nbe, is worthy of worship.\n\nThere is good in Nature. It is the nature in us that perceives the evil,\nthat pursues the right. In man, Nature not only contemplates herself,\nbut approves or condemns her actions. Of course, \"good\" and \"bad\" are\nrelative terms, and things are \"good\" or \"bad\" as they affect man well\nor ill.\n\nInfidels, skeptics,—that is to say, Freethinkers, have opposed the\nBible on account of the bad things in it, and Christians have upheld it,\nnot on account of the bad, but on account of the good. Throw away the\ndoctrine of inspiration, and the Bible will be more powerful for good\nand far less for evil. Only a few years ago, Christians looked upon the\nBible as the bulwark of human slavery. It was the word of God, and for\nthat reason was superior to the reason of uninspired man. Had it been\nconsidered simply as the work of man, it would not have been quoted to\nestablish that which the man of this age condemns. Throw away the idea\nof inspiration, and all passages in conflict with liberty, with science,\nwith the experience of the intelligent part of the human race, instantly\nbecome harmless. They are no longer guides for man. They are simply\nthe opinions of dead barbarians. The good passages not only remain, but\ntheir influence is increased, because they are relieved of a burden.\n\nNo one cares whether the truth is inspired or not. The truth is\nindependent of man, not only, but of God. And by truth I do not mean\nthe absolute, I mean this: Truth is the relation between things and\nthoughts, and between thoughts and thoughts. The perception of this\nrelation bears the same relation to the logical faculty in man, that\nmusic does to some portion of the brain—that is to say, it is a\nmental melody. This sublime strain has been heard by a few, and I am\nenthusiastic enough to believe that it will be the music of the future.\n\nFor the good and for the true in the Old and New Testaments I have the\nsame regard that I have for the good and true, no matter where they may\nbe found. We who know how false the history of to-day is; we who know\nthe almost numberless mistakes that men make who are endeavoring to tell\nthe truth; we who know how hard it is, with all the facilities we now\nhave—with the daily press, the telegraph, the fact that nearly all can\nread and write—to get a truthful report of the simplest occurrence,\nmust see that nothing short of inspiration (admitting for the moment the\npossibility of such a thing,) could have prevented the Scriptures from\nbeing filled with error.\n  • AT LAST, THE SCHOOLHOUSE is larger than the church. The common people\nhave, through education, become uncommon. They now know how little is\nreally known by kings, presidents, legislators, and professors. At last,\nthey are capable of not only understanding a few questions, but they\nhave acquired the art of discussing those that no one understands. With\nthe facility of the cultured, they can now hide behind phrases and make\nbarricades of statistics. They understand the sophistries of the upper\nclasses; and while the cultured have been turning their attention to\nthe classics, to the dead languages, and the dead ideas that they\ncontain,—while they have been giving their attention to ceramics,\nartistic decorations, and compulsory prayers, the common people have\nbeen compelled to learn the practical things. They are acquainted with\nfacts, because they have done the work of the world.\n  • CRUELTY.—Sometimes it has seemed to me that cruelty is the climate of\ncrime, and that generosity is the Spring, Summer and Autumn of virtue.\nEvery form of wickedness, of meanness, springs from selfishness, that is\nto say, from cruelty. Every good man hates and despises the wretch who\nabuses wife and child—who rules by curses and blows and makes his home\na kind of hell. So, no generous man wishes to associate with one who\noverworks his horse and feeds the lean and fainting beast with blows.\n\nThe barbarian delights in inflicting pain. He loves to see his victim\nbleed,—but the civilized man staunches blood, binds up wounds and\ndecreases pain. He pities the suffering animal as well as the suffering\nman.\n\nHe would no more inflict wanton wounds upon a dog than on a man. The\nheart of the civilized man speaks for the dumb and helpless.\n\nA good man would no more think of flaying a living animal than of\nmurdering his mother. The man who cuts a hoof from the leg of a horse is\ncapable of committing any crime that does not require courage. Such an\nexperiment can be of no use. Under no circumstances are hoofs taken from\nhorses for the good of the horses any more than their heads would be cut\noff.\n\nThink of the pain inflicted by separating the hoof of a living horse\nfrom the flesh! If the poor beast could speak what would he say? The\nsame knowledge could be obtained by cutting away the hoof of a dead\nhorse. Knowledge of every bone, ligament, artery and vein, of every\ncartilage and joint can be obtained by the dissection of the dead.\n\"But,\" says the biologist, \"we must dissect the living.\"\n\nWell, millions of living animals have been cut in pieces; millions of\nexperiments have been tried; all the nerves have been touched; every\npossible agony has been inflicted that ingenuity could invent and\ncruelty accomplish. Many volumes have been published filled with\naccounts of these experiments, giving all the details and the results.\nPeople who are curious about such things can read these reports. There\nis no need of repeating these savage experiments. It is now known how\nlong a dog can live with all the pores of his skin closed, how long he\ncan survive the loss of his skin, or one lobe of his brain, or both of\nhis kidneys, or part of his intestines, or without his liver, and there\nis no necessity of mutilating and mangling thousands of other dogs to\nsubstantiate what is already known.\n\nOf what possible use is it to know just how long an animal can live\nwithout water—at what time he becomes insane from thirst, or blind or\ndeaf?\n  • THE WORLD'S FAIR will do great good. A great many thousand people of the\nOld World will for the first time understand the new; will for the first\ntime appreciate what a free people can do. For the first time they will\nknow the value of free institutions, of individual independence, of\na country where people express their thoughts, are not afraid of\neach other, not afraid to try—a people so accustomed to success\nthat disaster is not taken into calculation. Of course, we have great\nadvantages. We have a new half of the world. We have soil better than is\nfound in other countries, and the soil is new and generous and anxious\nto be cultivated. So we have everything in hill and mountain that\nman can need—silver, and gold, and iron beyond computation—and, in\naddition to all that, our people are the most inventive. We sustain\nabout the same relation to invention that Italy in her palmy days did to\nart, or that Spain did to superstition.\n\nAnd right here it may be well enough to say that I think it was\nexceedingly unfortunate that this country was discovered under the\nauspices of Spain. Ferdinand and Isabella were a couple of wretches. The\nsame year that Columbus discovered America, these sovereigns expelled\nthe Jews from Spain, and the expulsion was accompanied by every outrage,\nby every atrocity to which man—that is to say, savage man—that is to\nsay, the superstitious savage—is capable of inflicting.\n\nThe Spaniards came to America and destroyed two civilizations far better\nthan their own. They were natural robbers, buccaneers, and thought\nnothing of murdering thousands for gold. I am perfectly willing to\ncelebrate the fact of discovery, but for the sovereigns of Spain I am\nnot willing to celebrate, except, perhaps their deaths. There is at\nleast some joy to be extracted from that.\n\nIn spite of the untoward circumstances under which the continent was\ndiscovered and settled, there is one thing that counteracted to a\ncertain degree the influence of the Old World in the New. Possibly we\nowe our liberty to the Indians. If there had been no hostile savages on\nthis continent, the kings and princes of the Old World would have taken\npossession and would have divided it out among their favorites. They\ntried to do that, but their favorites could not take possession. They\nhad to fight for the soil and in the conflict of centuries they found\nthat a good fighter was a good citizen, and the ideas of caste were\nslowly lost.\n\nThen another thing was of benefit to us. The settlers felt that they\nhad earned the soil; that they had fought for it, gained it by their\nsufferings, their courage, their selfdenial, and their labor; and the\nidea crept into their heads that the kings in Europe, who had done\nnothing, had no right to dictate to them.\n\nThus at first the spirit of caste was destroyed by respectability\nresting on usefulness. The spirit of subserviency to the Old World also\ndied, and the people who had rescued the land made up their minds not\nonly to own it, but to control it. They were also firmly convinced that\nthe profits belonged to them. In this way manhood was recognized in the\nNew World. In this way grew up the feeling of nationality here.\n\nWhat I wish to see celebrated in this great exposition are the triumphs\nthat have been achieved in this New World. These I wish to see above\nall. At the same time I want the best that labor and thought have\nproduced in all countries. It seems to me that in the presence of the\nwonderful machines, of those marvelous mechanical contrivances by which\nwe take advantage of the forces of nature, by which we make servants of\nthe elemental powers—in the presence, I say, of these, it seems to me\nrespect for labor must be born. We shall begin to appreciate the men of\nuse instead of those who have posed as decorations. All the beautiful\nthings, all the useful things, come from labor, and it is labor that has\nmade the world a fit habitation for the human race.\n\nTake from the World's Fair what labor has produced—the work of the\ngreat artists—and nothing will be left. What have the great conquerors\nto show in this great exhibition? What shall we get from the Caesars and\nthe Napoleons? What shall we get from popes and cardinals? What shall\nwe get from the nobility? From princes and lords and dukes? What excuse\nhave they for having existence and for having lived on the bread earned\nby honest men? They stand in the show-windows of history, lay figures,\non which fine goods are shown, but inside the raiment there is nothing,\nand never was. This exposition will be the apotheosis of labor. No man\ncan attend it without losing, if he has any sense at all, the spirit\nof caste; or, if he still maintains it, he will put the useful in the\nhighest class, and the useless, whether carrying sceptres or dishes for\nalms, in the lowest.—October, 1892.\n  • THE SAVAGE made of the river, the tree, the mountain, a fetich. He put\nwithin, or behind these things, a spirit—according to Mr. Spencer, the\nspirit of a dead ancestor. This is considered by the modern Christian,\nand in fact by the modern philosopher, as the lowest possible phase of\nthe religious idea. To put behind the river or the tree, or within them,\na spirit, a something, is considered the religion of savagery; but\nto put behind the universe, or within it, the same kind of fetich, is\nconsidered the height of philosophy.\n\nFor my part, I see no possible distinction in these systems, except that\nthe view of the savage is altogether the more poetic. The fetich of\nthe savage is the noumenon of the Greek, the God of the theologian,\nthe First Cause of the metaphysician, the Unknowable of Spencer.\n  • THE UNTHINKABLE.—It is admitted by all who have thought upon the\nquestion that a First Cause is unthinkable—that a creative power\nis beyond the reach of human thought. It therefore follows that the\nmiraculous is unthinkable. There is no possible way in which the human\nmind can even think of a miracle. It is infinitely beyond our power of\nconception. We can conceive of the statement, but not of the thing. It\nis impossible for the intellect to conceive of a clay pot producing oil.\nIt is impossible to conceive even, of human life being perpetuated in\nthe midst of fire. This is just as unthinkable as that twice two are\ntwenty-seven. A man can say that three times three are two, but it\nis impossible to think of any such thing—that is, to think of such a\nstatement as true. A man may say that he heard a stone sing a song and\nheard it afterward repeat a part of Milton's \"Paradise Lost.\" Now, I can\nconceive of a man telling such a falsehood, but I cannot conceive of the\nthing having happened.\n  • CAN HUMAN TESTIMONY Overcome the Apparently Impossible Without\nExplanation?—It can only be believed by a philosophic mind when\nexplained—that is to say, by being destroyed as a miracle, and\npersisting simply as a fact.\n\nNow, I say that a miracle is unthinkable because a power above Nature,\na power that created Nature, is unthinkable. And if a power above\nNature be unthinkable, the miracles claiming to be supernatural are\nunthinkable. In other words, all consequences flowing from a belief in\nan infinite Creator are necessarily unthinkable.\n  • EDOUARD REMENYI.—This week the great violinist, Edouard Remenyi, as my\nguest, visited the Bass Rocks House, Cape Ann, Mass., and for three days\ndelighted and entranced the fortunate idlers of the beach. He played\nnearly all the time, night and day, seemingly carried away with his own\nmusic. Among the many selections given, were the andante from the Tenth\nSonata in E flat, also from the Twelfth Sonata in G minor, by Mozart.\nNothing could exceed the wonderful playing of the selections from the\nTwelfth Sonata. A hush as of death fell upon the audience, and when he\nceased, tears fell upon applauding hands. Then followed the Elegie from\nErnst; then \"The Ideal Dance\" composed by himself—a fairy piece, full\nof wings and glancing feet, moonlight and melody, where fountains fall\nin showers of pearl, and waves of music die on sands of gold—then came\nthe \"Barcarole\" by Schubert, and he played this with infinite spirit,\nin a kind of inspired frenzy, as though music itself were mad with joy;\nthen the grand Sonata in G, in three movements, by Beethoven.—August,\n1880.\n\nRemenyi's Playing.—In my mind the old tones are still rising and\nfalling—still throbbing, pleading, beseeching, imploring, wailing like\nthe lost—rising winged and triumphant, superb and victorious—then\ncaressing, whispering every thought of love—intoxicated, delirious with\njoy—panting with passion—fading to silence as softly and imperceptibly\nas consciousness is lost in sleep.\n  • THE KINDERGARTEN is perfectly adapted to the natural needs and desires\nof children. Most children dislike the old system and go \"unwillingly\nto school.\" They feel imprisoned and wait impatiently for their liberty.\nThey learn without understanding and take no interest in their lessons.\nIn the Kindergarten there is perfect liberty, and study is transformed\ninto play. To learn is a pleasure. There are no wearisome tasks—no\nmental drudgery—nothing but enjoyment,—the enjoyment of natural\ndevelopment in natural ways. Children do not have to be driven to the\nKindergarten. To be kept away is a punishment.\n\nThe experience in many towns and cities justifies our belief that the\nKindergarten is the only valuable school for little children. They are\nbrought in contact with actual things—with forms and colors—things\nthat can be seen and touched, and they are taught to use their hands and\nsenses—to understand qualities and relations, and all is done under\nthe guise of play. We agree with Froebel who said: \"Let us live for our\nchildren.\"\n  • THE METHODIST CHURCH STATISTICS.—First. In 1800, a resolution in favor\nof gradual emancipation was defeated.\n\nSecond. In 1804, resolutions passed requiring ministers to exhort slaves\nto be obedient to their masters.\n\nThird. In 1808, everything about laymen owning slaves Stricken out.\n\nFourth. In 1820, a resolution that ministers should not hold slaves was\ndefeated.\n\nFifth. In 1836, a resolution passed that the Methodist Church opposed,\nabolition of slavery—one hundred and twenty to fourteen.\n\nSixth. In 1845-1846, the Methodist Church divided—Bishop Andrews owned\nslaves.\n\nSeventh. As late as 1860 there were over ten thousand Methodists who\nwere slaveholders in the M. E. Church, North.\n\n***\n\n117 East 21st Str., N. Y.\n  • Response to an invitation to a dinner and a billiard\n    tournament at the Manhattan Athletic Club, New York City.\n\nFeby. 18, 1899.\n\nMy Dear Dr. Ranney:\n\nI go to Boston to-morrow. So, you see it is impossible for me to be with\nyou on the 22d inst. I would like to make a few remarks on \"orthodox\nbilliards.\" The fact is that the whole world is a table, we are the\nballs and Fate plays the game. We are knocked and whacked against each\nother,—followed and drawn—whirled and twisted, pocketed and spotted,\nand all the time we think that we are doing the playing. But no matter,\nwe feel that we are in the game, and a real good illusion is, after all,\nit may be, the only reality that we know. At the same time, I feel\nthat Fate is a careless player—that he is always a little nervous and\ngenerally forgets to chalk his cue. I know that he has made lots of\nmistakes with me—lots of misses.\n\nWith many thanks, I remain, yours always.\n\nR. G. Ingersoll.\n\n***\n\nTHOUGHTS ON CHRISTMAS, 1891.—It is beautiful to give one day to the\nideal—to have one day apart; one day for generous deeds, for good will,\nfor gladness; one day to forget the shadows, the rains, the storms of\nlife; to remember the sunshine, the happiness of youth and health; one\nday to forget the briers and thorns of the winding path, to remember the\nfruits and flowers; one day in which to feed the hungry, to salute\nthe poor and lowly; one day to feel the brotherhood of man; one day\nto remember the heroic and loving deeds of the dead; one day to get\nacquainted with children, to remember the old, the unfortunate and the\nimprisoned; one day in which to forget yourself and think lovingly of\nothers; one day for the family, for the fireside, for wife and children,\nfor the love and laughter, the joy and rapture, of home; one day in\nwhich bonds and stocks and deeds and notes and interest and mortgages\nand all kinds of business and trade are forgotten, and all stores and\nshops and factories and offices and banks and ledgers and accounts and\nlawsuits are cast aside, put away and locked up, and the weary heart and\nbrain are given a voyage to fairyland.\n\nLet us hope that such a day is a prophecy of what all days will be.\n  • THE ORTHODOX PREACHERS are several centuries in the rear. They all love\nthe absurd, and glory in believing the impossible. They are also as\nconservative as though they were dead—good people—the leaders of those\nwho are going backward.\n  • The Man who builds a home erects a temple.\n    The flame upon the hearth is the sacred fire.\n    He who loves wife and children is the true worshiper.\n    Forms and ceremonies, kneelings and fastings are born of selfish fear.\n    A good deed is the best prayer.\n    A loving life is the best religion.\n    No one knows whether the Unknown is worthy of worship or not.\n  • WE TWO, THE DOUBTING BRAIN AND HOPING HEART, with somber thought and\nradiant wish, in dusk and dawn, in light and shade 'neath star and\nsun, together journeying toward the night. And then the end, sighs the\ndoubting brain—but there is no end, says the hoping heart. O Brain! if\nyou knew, you would not doubt. O Heart! if you knew, you would not hope.\n  • RIGHTS AND DUTIES spring from the same source. He who has no rights\nhas no duties. Without liberty there can be no responsibility and no\nconscience. Man calls himself to an account for the use of his power,\nand passes judgment upon himself. The standard of such judgment we call\nconscience. In the proportion that man uses his liberty, his power, for\nthe good of all, he advances, becomes civilized. Civilization does not\nconsist merely in invention, discovery, material advancement, but\nin doing justice. By civilization is meant all discoveries, facts,\ntheories, agencies, that add to the happiness of man.\n  • AT BAY.—Sometimes in the darkness of night I feel as though surrounded\nby the great armies of effacement—that the horizon is growing\nsmaller every moment—that the final surrender is only postponed—that\neverything is taking something from me—that Nature robs me with her\ncountless hands—that my heart grows weaker with every beat—that even\nkisses wear me away, and that every thought takes toll of my brief life.\n\n***\n\nTHE FIRST ANNIVERSARY.*—One year of perfect health—of countless\nsmiles—of wonder and surprise—of growing thought and love—was duly\ncelebrated on this day, and all paid tribute to the infant queen. There\nwere whirling things that scattered music as they turned—and boxes\nfilled with tunes—and curious animals of whittled wood—and ivory rings\nwith tinkling bells—and little dishes for a fairy-feast—horses that\nrocked, and bleating sheep and monstrous elephants of painted tin. A\nbaby-tender, for a tender babe, garments of silk and cushions wrought\nwith flowers, and pictures of her mother when a babe—and silver dishes\nfor another year—and coach and four and train of cars—and bric-a-brac\nfor a baby's house—and last of all, a pearl, to mark her first round\nyear of life and love.\n  • Written on the first anniversary of his grandchild, Eva\n    Ingersoll-Brown, August 27, 1892.\n\n***\n\nSHELLEY.—The light of morn beyond the purple hills—a palm that lifts\nits coronet of leaves above the desert's sands—an isle of green in some\nfar sea—a spring that waits for lips of thirst—a strain of music heard\nwithin some palace wrought of dreams—a cloud of gold above a setting\nsun—a fragrance wafted from some unseen shore.\n  • FATE.—Never hurried, never delayed, passionless, pitiless, patient,\nkeeping the tryst—neither early nor late—there, on the very stroke and\ncenter of the instant fixed.\n  • QUIET, and introspective calm come with the afternoon. Toward evening\nthe mind grows satisfied and still. The flare and flicker of youth are\ngone, and the soul is like the flame of a lamp where the air is at rest.\nAge discards the superfluous, the immaterial, the straw and chaff, and\nhoards the golden grain. The highway is known, and the paths no longer\nmislead. Clouds are not mistaken for mountains.\n  • THE OLD MAN has been long at the fair. He is acquainted with the\njugglers at the booths. His curiosity has been satisfied. He no longer\ncares for the exceptional, the monstrous, the marvelous and deformed. He\nlooks through and beyond the gilding, the glitter and gloss, not only\nof things, but of conduct, of manners, theories, religions and\nphilosophies. He sees clearer. The light no longer shines in his eyes.\n  • The time will come when even selfishness will be charitable for its own\nsake, because at that time the man will have grown and developed to that\ndegree that selfishness demands generosity and kindness and justice. The\nself becomes so noble that selfishness is a virtue. The lowest form of\nselfishness is when one is willing to be happy, or wishes to be happy,\nat the expense or the misery of another. The highest form of selfishness\nis when a man becomes so noble that he finds his happiness in making\nothers so. This is the nobility of selfishness.\n  • CUBA fell upon her knees—stretched her thin hands toward the great\nRepublic. We saw her tear-filled eyes—her withered breasts—her dead\nbabes—her dying—her buried and unburied dead. We heard her voice, and\npity, roused to action by her grief, became as stern as justice, and\nthe great Republic cried to Spain: \"Sheathe the dagger of assassination;\ntake your bloody hand from the throat of the helpless; and take your\nflag from the heaven of the Western World.\"\n  • Perhaps I have reached the years of discretion. But it may be that\ndiscretion is the enemy of happiness. If the buds had discretion there\nmight be no fruit. So it may be that the follies committed in the spring\ngive autumn the harvest.—August 11,1892.\n  • Dickens wrote for homes—Thackeray for clubs. Byron did not care for the\nfireside—for the prattle of babes—for the smiles and tears of humble\nlife. He was touched by grandeur rather than goodness,—loved storm and\ncrag and the wild sea. But Burns lived in the valley, touched by the\njoys and griefs of lowly lives.\n\nImagine amethysts, rubies, diamonds, emeralds and opals mingled as\nliquids—then imagine these marvelous glories of light and color changed\nto a tone, and you have the wondrous, the incomparable voice of Scalchi.\n  • THE ORGAN.—The beginnings—the timidities—the half\nthoughts—blushes—suggestions—a phrase of grace and feeling—a\nsustained note—the wing on the wind—confidence—the flight—rising\nwith many harmonies that unite in the voluptuous swell—in the\npassionate tremor—rising still higher—flooding the great dome with the\nsoul of enraptured sound.\n  • NEW MEXICO is a most wonderful country. It is a ragged miser with\nbillions of buried treasure. It looks as if Nature had guarded her\nsilver and gold with enough desolation to deter all but the brave.\n  • WHY SHOULD THE INDIAN SUMMER of a life be lost—the long, serene, and\ntender days when earth and sky are friends? The falling leaves disclose\nthe ripened fruit—and so the flight of youth with dreams and fancies\nshould show the wealth of bending bough.\n  • Give milk to babes, and wine to youth. But for old age, when ghosts\nof more than two-score years are wandering on the traveled road, the\nfragrant tea, that loosens gossip's tongue, is best.—December 25,1892.\n    [From a letter thanking a friend for a Christmas present of\n    a chest of tea.]\n  • ON MEMORIAL DAY our hearts blossom in gratitude as we lovingly remember\nthe brave men upon whose brows Death, with fleshless hands, placed the\nlaurel wreath of fame.\n  • THE SOUL IS AN ARCHITECt—it builds a habitation for itself—and as the\nsoul is, is the habitation. Some live in dens and caves, and some in\nlowly homes made rich with love, and overrun with vine and flower.\n  • SCIENCE at last holds with honest hand the scales wherein are weighed\nthe facts and fictions of the world. She neither kneels nor prays, she\nstands erect and thinks. Her tongue is not a traitor to her brain. Her\nthought and speech agree.\n  • THE NEGRO who can pass me in the race of life will receive my\nadmiration, and he can count on my friendship. No man ever lived who\nproved his superiority by trampling on the weak.\n  • RELIGION is like a palm tree—it grows at the top. The dead leaves are\nall orthodox, while the new ones and the buds are all heretics.\n  • MEMORY is the miser of the mind; forgetfulness the spendthrift.\n  • HOPE is the only bee that makes honey without flowers.\n  • THE FIRES OF THE NEXT WORLD sustain the same relation to churches that\nthose in this world sustain to insurance companies.\n  • Now and then there arises a man who on peril's edge draws from the\nscabbard of despair the sword of victory.\n  • The falling leaf that tells of autumn's death is, in a subtler sense, a\nprophecy of spring.\n  • Vice lives either before Love is born, or after Love is dead.\n  • Intellectual freedom is only the right to be honest.\n  • I believe that finally man will go through the phase of religion before\nbirth.\n  • When shrill chanticleer pierces the dull ear of morn.\n  • Orthodoxy is the refuge of mediocrity.\n  • The ocean is the womb of all that will be, the tomb of all that has\nbeen.\n  • Jealousy never knows the value of a fact.\n\nEnvy cannot reason, malice cannot prophesy.\n  • Love has a kind of second sight.\n\n***\n\nI have never given to any one a sketch of my life. According to my idea\na life should not be written until it has been lived.—July 1, 1888.\n"
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